Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  “It’s late,” she said. “You shouldn’t stay.” There might have been a question in her tone.

  Her musk laden perfume surrounded me, but I didn’t turn around. Instead, I walked into the living room and sat on the couch.

  Golden light illuminated Lindsay’s latest drawing, left on the coffee table. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  Jasia took a seat in the lounger opposite me. “Why did you stop?”

  Studying her, I couldn’t tell if she knew of my drive by earlier. “I don’t know what to do. Dixon’s mysterious death has got me tied to it. I can’t shake it loose.” I placed my left palm on the sore shoulder. “I’ve alienated my sister and mother both by accusing them.”

  “You accused them?”

  “Of killing my dad.”

  Jasia winced, and then attempted to hold back a laugh cracking the edge of her lips.

  “They didn’t like that much.” I found myself smiling. “It’s not funny.”

  She guffawed. “It is funny. I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Well....” The word hung in the air as a signal of my ignorance. “I need to find out who Dixon was seeing. I figured you would have the lowdown.”

  “Why would I know such a thing?” Her seductive eyes, turned lazy with the late hour, opened wide.

  “You always kept track,” I said. “If anyone knows what’s going on in this town, you do.”

  Jasia’s smile returned, warmer with obvious affection. “You are too kind, Connor Pierce. I’m flattered.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on my knee. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t with this one.”

  “You don’t know who he might have been seeing?” I asked. Jasia held the only hope I’d had on that particular point.

  “I’m good. But I’m not good enough to know what I don’t know.” She sat back in the chair.

  Her slouching form invited me. Gentle light emphasized the curves. My gaze roamed the shape of her. I squeezed my shoulder slightly to refocus, and let my head fall back. “My dad’s dead and I’ll never unravel the why,” I said to the ceiling.

  “Death is a transitory state, another form of consciousness,” Jasia said.

  “It sounds easy that way. No space for retribution. No peace for the dead.”

  “On the contrary,” she insisted. “All peace. No distress.”

  “I’m not sure, Jasia. Sounds fishy.” The lines in the ceiling above me made squares. A good design. Sound. Strong. Acoustically balanced.

  “I hope that you don’t think I’m callous about your feelings, Connor. But I’ve wanted to tell you that since the funeral.”

  Was she talking about God? “I’d like to agree with you.” I thought of God as more judicious. “I just wonder if he’s going to spend eternity burning in hell.”

  “I hope you don’t feel that way.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to resolve it. To find out what happened.” I noticed a hairline crack, barely visible in the shadowy illumination, running halfway across her ceiling. “So it doesn’t happen to me.”

  “Maybe Zachary had something to do with it,” she said. “Maybe that’s why he jumped in the river. Because he felt guilty or something.” Her voice lulled me closer to sleep.

  My eyes closed. “Renée told me that Zach and Dad had a fight about using some DDT.”

  Jasia moved in her chair. I expected to feel her slide next to me, but she didn’t. “Maybe Dixon threatened to fire Zachary. He might have taken that hard, his wife being pregnant and all.”

  I grinned, keeping my eyes closed and my head back. “That’s the Jasia I’m talking about. Knows all the happenings in the town.”

  “It could be enough of a motive, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, strengthening the yeah. “Judas Iscariot didn’t have that kind of motive.”

  “My, my, a Bible scholar and a detective.” Hearing her mirthful lilt brought back our high school romance. Again. That musky perfume teased my nostrils. “I’d better go. I’ll figure this out tomorrow,” I said, raising myself like a half-frozen lasso.

  “You should go,” she agreed, though she didn’t move.

  Keeping myself in motion, avoiding the desire to linger over her, I started for the door. “I’ll let myself out. Don’t forget to lock up.”

  She lifted a hand and let it fall back. It didn’t appear that she’d get up for awhile, but this was Miles City, significantly tamed from its beginnings. Even with all of the recent death, an unlocked door at night wasn’t a great danger.

  A cold brush of nighttime air swept away the sweetly seductive scent of Jasia. I hobbled to the car, hopeful that Mother had gone off to bed by now.

  Before climbing into the Chrysler, I stared for a minute at the massive expanse of clear sky, twinkling with promise beyond understanding. All clouds had pulled back to reveal incredible depth and breadth. How could I concern myself with such a small thing as one man’s death?

  Settling into the chilly leather defined this point in time for me. I had no choice but to concern myself with this small human crisis, despite its minuscule place in the immeasurable stretch of time.

  Mother slept in. I woke early. It allowed me the breathing space to shower and get out of the house without confrontation. I knew I’d get enough of that if I managed to catch up with Frieze this morning.

  The dispatcher let me into the Law Enforcement building.

  Frieze waited in the hallway with a file in his hands. “I hope this isn’t going to take long, Pierce.” Any hope for congeniality crashed onto the tile floor.

  “Okay. I’ll keep it short. Did Zachary’s death look like a suicide?”

  He hung his head.

  I let him have the full load of questions that had stolen a good bit of my sleep. “Were there connections to Dixon’s death? Did you find any DDT bottles at Zachary’s place?”

  Finally, he lifted his chin and held up a palm. “Pierce, this is an ongoing investigation. I can’t discuss it. Now,” he said, and turned enough to let me know he was finished. “If you don’t need anything else?”

  “You’re not going to answer anything I ask?”

  “I’m in the middle of a real FBI showdown with the Freeman.” His expression held exasperation, which was better than contempt. “We’ve got a man in the tank that we think they might try to break out. This is real crime, not the whimsy of some cowboy who traipses through town and thinks the world is against him.” The long scar on his cheek blazed. A contour of nearly the same shade trimmed his hairline.

  His anger only fueled mine. My arm burned from shoulder to fingertips. I’d let the pain pills go this morning to make sure I was lucid when speaking to Chief Frieze. To avoid Mother’s wrath, I’d skipped breakfast. My blood boiled. Before I could stop myself I was shouting.

  “My father was murdered right under your nose and you’re doing nothing! You haven’t made the smallest effort to investigate!” I wanted to go on, but a tendril of agony uncoiled from the center of my wound and wrapped itself downward around my bicep and into my elbow. At the same time, white heat filled my lungs. I couldn’t quite catch a full breath, which forced me to grab hold of the wall beside me.

  “There was no crime.” His tone was calm.

  “Then why are people getting shot and dying,” I said, forcing the words out with the tiny bit of energy left in me.

  “I’m checking things out concerning your shooting. If you want information on that, ask me. So far, it’s just a lunatic that thought you might know something about Zachary Polson’s death. That’s how were pursuing it.” He touched my arm and dropped his voice another decibel. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, but if you don’t leave this alone, I’ll arrest you for obstruction, interference, or lewd behavior on public property.”

  I hadn’t expected that one. I cringed. Emotional guilt mixed with physical pain.

  Frieze let go of my sleeve. “You need a hand getting out of here?”

  I gave a quick shake o
f my head. Then I staggered down the hall. Stumbling up the stairs, I realized I should have asked him to call for a gurney. A rim of darkness closed in on both sides. Using the handrail, I tromped arduously up the steps. Cold braced a shock of willpower into me as I started across the parking lot.

  I made it to the car and crashed into the seat.

  Tony jogged up. He was breathing hard from the run.

  My own lungs almost burst at the sound.

  “Frieze told me you were out here. You all right? You look like Ichabod Crane.”

  A weak smile bent my lips.

  “You want me to take you to the hospital?”

  I shook my head. Pressure in my frontal lobe slowed my thinking. It felt like a helium balloon filled with cactus skin. “I’m just a basket case. Take me to the basket farm,” I said.

  Tony grimaced. “That’s lame, dude. Keep up with those kinds of jokes and it’s the loony farm for you.”

  I slowly inhaled, letting the air cool some of the flames in my lungs. My chest was so pressurized, I thought I might be due for a heart attack. “I’ve accused everyone I know of killing my father. Except you, and the day is barely begun,” I said. Those thick dark lines on the edge of my vision were clearing.

  “Well, I was with the wife and kids at a family reunion down on the Rez in Ashland that day. I’ve got fifty drunken witnesses if you want a list.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  I tried to laugh with him, but the rapid expulsion of air hurt. And sobered me. “You shouldn’t make fun of your people, man. They’ll never get out of the hole they’re in if you put them down.”

  His dark eyes considered me and my condition. He let the argument pass. “You’ve got a good heart, Connor.”

  The hoot of laughter came of its own volition, burning like acid poured inside of my chest. I pictured Nansi stroking my hair, her remedy for a fever, and was swept with guilt.

  “Sorry,” Tony said. “You sure I can’t take you to the hospital? Doc Marcus would love to see you.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said after the fire cooled to melting level. “I need to go and close the door on a bad relationship.”

  Tony nodded and stepped back. “Need anything, call.”

  I pulled the door shut and waved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Discovering Truth

  Nicole answered the door again. “She’s not in,” she told me through the cracked opening.

  I scrunched my face and prepared to leave.

  Nicole pulled the door wide. “You can come in and wait for her. She should be back in a few minutes.”

  Stepping inside I asked, “The rules have changed?”

  Nicole went past me toward the kitchen. “She told me that rule was for Dixon.”

  My agonizing morning slowed me a little. I’d followed Nicole all the way to the kitchen sink before the words registered.

  “What?” I said, staring at the back of her head.

  She stopped. “Dillard. Dillard, her ex-husband.” She turned around holding a sopping dishrag that dripped onto the floor. Her smile beamed from nose to chin, but her eyes fluttered.

  “Dillard Weaver?” I asked. Whatever Lindsay’s father’s name, I doubted it was Weaver. That name belonged to Jasia’s father.

  Nicole’s eyes welled and a single tear broke free, joining the sudsy puddle made by the kitchen rag.

  I just watched her cry, unable to place this bizarre information.

  Her body shook with the sobs. She couldn’t cover her face for the wet hands and dishrag. I was just deciding to walk over and comfort her when Lindsay walked in.

  “What’s wrong, Nicole?”

  “It’s okay,” I said, after waiting a second for Nicole to answer. “She broke a cup. Thinks your mom will be mad.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Lindsay said, flippantly waving her hand. “I’ve broken lots of things. She won’t get mad.” Then she waltzed back out of the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Nicole said to me. “I can’t tell. I’m her friend. And besides, you were never going to come back.”

  “What was Dixon doing over here, Nicole?”

  “I don’t know.” She traded the rag for a towel and bent to mop up the water.

  “You’re not helping things. Keeping secrets is not helping.”

  “I don’t know anything.” She wiped and wiped, pushing the water around with the now soaked towel. She wouldn’t look up.

  Tormenting her crossed my mind. I walked into the living room instead, looking for something I’d seen.

  Lindsay had disappeared into the back of the house. The room seemed cleaner, less cluttered than the first day I’d stopped by.

  My perusal stopped on the record collection first. Jasia had old country albums. Dixon had old country albums. I walked over to the coffee table and moved a few of the magazines around. Bending down sent a stab into my shoulder. I opened the sliding doors. Nothing fit the empty puzzle space in my mind.

  I stood, giving up my search.

  As I opened the front door, it came to me. Horticulture. Jasia had a couple of horticulture books out. I’d questioned her use of them after seeing the overgrown yard.

  My heart physically ached. Nausea flustered my stomach. I ground my teeth and the disturbance eased a bit. Before I went hog wild, I needed to verify this crazy idea. A few horticulture books and a slip of the tongue didn’t make a murder. Such a thing was impossible, anyway. I’d planned to marry this girl.

  Putting insanity aside, I drove across town to the library. Maybe I’d seen a library card in one of the books, or a stamp, or something like that. I couldn’t say. I just felt that the library downtown held the answers I needed.

  My arm throbbed all the way there.

  As I searched the card catalog, heat radiated from my shoulder wound. Sweat lined the inside of my shirt and coated my forehead. Due to my lack of focus, it took several drawers before I finally located what I wanted.

  It wasn’t a large place, but it took me what seemed like days to dig out a couple of texts on pesticides and herbicides. Slapping open the covers on the nearest reading table, I scanned the names. In book number two I found her. A little more than a month ago, Jasia had checked out a book on DDT. I wasn’t a very quick mind, but I couldn’t think of any reason why a person might need a book like that in dead winter. Especially a person who didn’t even mow their lawn.

  I carried the books back and sat on the floor in the aisle. With my back against the shelving, I wondered at this stupefying discovery. My first great love and my father? Together?

  At the initial realization my stomach swirled into a muddy acid. As the news permeated my mind, shock broke off all physical sensation. My body went numb. Jasia and Dixon. Two ideas that I couldn’t slam together with all of my mental power. She’d told me she loved me just the other night. She didn’t eat meat. He couldn’t pass on a rare and bloody steak. Two ideas that didn’t fit.

  Even if it were true, that they’d been together, what could have happened? How do you go from a twisted affair to murder? And how could she just lie to me without flinching? This single item floored me. I don’t think I’d ever met a really refined liar. Or, maybe I’d known one all along.

  How about Zachary? Had she killed him, as well? Did he have anything to do with this? I could believe he’d been involved in something that might turn out badly for him, but sliding him up next to Jasia caused the same disconnect that a relationship with Dixon did. She might have gotten the DDT from him. If he knew about that, he might have put her together with Dixon’s sudden death. Especially after I started snooping. The thought didn’t sit well. The possibility that my actions had gotten Zachary Polson killed almost knocked me out of my reverie.

  I drifted in and out of awareness. At one point, I think a librarian looked down the aisle at me sitting there, stared for a few seconds, and then left me alone. It must have been a strange sight. Oddly, she never phoned the police.

  When the overhead lights began to snap o
ff, she came back around and asked if I was okay. She said they were closing.

  I checked my watch. I’d been sitting on the floor nearly ten hours. Standing required an act of God and the hand of the librarian. My buttocks were so numb they felt missing. At my first step, my right knee buckled. When I reached out to catch myself the shoulder lit up like someone had torched it. I gave a short scream.

  “Oh my! Do you need a doctor?” my friendly librarian asked. Her flatly colored eyes had widened to near hysteria.

  “I’m all right,” I said, clenching my teeth. “Just a few steps is all I need.” I tentatively applied weight to the left leg. When that worked, I shook the right one a little to get blood flowing. Flexing it a couple of times, I tried again. I winced as pressure came up my calf. No problem. I rocked the heel-toe before moving on.

  My meek custodian of books held me up. These things only happened in stories, I was sure.

  Stopping to face her directly, I said, “Thanks for letting me sit for a while.” I walked outside, easing into each step for the first twenty or so.

  The sun was coming up on Nansi and the kids, but it was long gone in Montana.

  In the white light of the street lamps my breath became little spirits racing off behind me. Even after I knew my legs had fully recovered, I stepped easy. In the ice laden air, every breath stung my slowly healing lungs. My disoriented mind steered me all the way around the block.

  A gentle snow began falling on the crazy Western that was my life as I shuffled along. A lonely story it was. Not another sole on the street. Me and my breath nymphs were the only ones without the sense to stay inside.

  I found the New Yorker sitting near the front door to the library. Right where I’d parked this morning.

  The circular journey allowed me time to process the information that had kept me in emotional shock for a day. My heart ached almost as much as my lungs and shoulder. I’d walked into an affair with a woman proficient in calculated murder. I’d trusted her implicitly. Like an alcoholic I’d stumbled back to the bar from a night in the drunk tank. My shamefulness equaled my ignorant compulsivity.