by Pill, Maggie
Once she made me repeat a segment. “The tech told Carson about his dad’s passwords?”
I scooted my chair closer to the desk. “Art Chalmers. He said Carson was concerned.”
“Would he have told Retta that if he’d been in on the theft?” Faye asked Barbara.
“Probably not.”
“But Art would know everyone’s log-on information.” I caught myself frowning, which I try not to do. It makes lines. “He didn’t seem like the type, but who knows?”
Faye leaned forward. “Whoever the partner was, he’d have been desperate to keep them from telling Stan.”
“But Carson didn’t know that many people in Allport.”
“What about Stan’s main man—? What’s his name?” Faye consulted her notes.
“Eric DuBois,” I supplied. “He’s had a position of trust for years. If he’d wanted to steal from Stan, he could easily have done it by now.”
She nodded reluctantly. “Who else is there?”
“The accountant, I suppose, Bonworth. He’s an ornery cuss who feels unappreciated.”
Barbara huffed in frustration. “Now we’re guessing by personality type. We need more to go on than the fact that you find him unpleasant.”
“Honestly,” I said flatly, “the most likely person is Mr. Brown. Carson was his brother-in-law. He was there. They fought.” I turned an onyx clock on Barbara’s desk a little so it didn’t line up with the edge like a soldier on watch. She reached out and put it back.
“We accept that possibility. We’re looking at alternate scenarios.”
That put me in my place. I wasn’t supposed to suggest Neil Brown was anything but lily white. It wasn’t productive, but I didn’t want to argue now that we were working as a team.
This is how it should be, I told myself. We all have strengths. We need each other. And Barbara Ann needs a plant or two to make this office less sterile-looking.
When Barbara finally rose, pushing back her chair, she seemed a little warmer, more like the big sister I remembered. “Thanks for the help, Retta. You’ve clarified several things for us.”
Things had gone so well that I ventured a suggestion. “You know, I could help you design your stationery. Something feminine but businesslike, you know?”
Faye’s face froze, and Barbara Ann’s flushed. “We have stationery.”
“But you’re going to want—”
“No, we’re not.”
I dropped it. I could always come back to it later.
Chapter Thirty-six
Faye
Once our consultant was gone, Barb said, “You keep telling her things.”
“You have to admit that Retta’s been helpful.”
She took three tissues from a box on her desk, put one in each pocket of her sweater, and wiped her nose with the third. “We agreed she wouldn’t be part of this agency.”
“Retta understands that. She just wants to help.”
Barb rolled her eyes.” She doesn’t know how to help. She only knows how to micromanage.”
“Barb, I can’t look her in the eye and tell her we don’t want her around.”
She huffed a breath of air toward her scalp, where a faint sheen signaled a hot flash. “Promise me you won’t let her worm her way into our business.”
“But she’s got contacts, and she’s smart as a whip.”
I got a stern look. “She does some things well, but she’ll drive us crazy.”
“I just want us to succeed with this, for you, me, Meredith, and Neil.” I added honestly, “She asks me stuff, and I tell her before I realize what I’m doing.”
“That’s your sister’s forte,” Barb responded with a grimace. “Swooping in at our weakest moments and using them to her advantage.”
That afternoon I got a call from the EMT who’d cared for Carina. Annamarie wasn’t nearly as hard to talk to as her mother had been, but she claimed she couldn’t tell me anything new. “Mrs. Brown was never conscious,” she told me. “No last words naming her killer or like that.”
“Can you picture the scene for me and tell me everything you saw and heard?”
She hummed a negative. “Chaos is the only word for it. My partner was working on the guy, swearing because he was beyond help. The radio dispatcher was squawking, asking what was going on. Wozniak was stomping around behind us, shouting and swearing he’d get Brown for killing his kids. I was trying to stabilize her so we could get her to the hospital.”
“A lot to handle.”
“It always is. I didn’t have time to notice what the room looked like, except it was messed up like there’d been a fight.”
“I see. Well--”
Apparently unaware that I’d spoken, Annamarie added one thing. “I did wonder afterward, though, about her jewelry.”
“Carina’s jewelry?”
“Yeah. I remember telling Harry it was funny she still wore her wedding ring, since Wozniak went on and on about her abusive husband. She had on a necklace, too, a string of those metal beads with letters on them. It said Carina and Neil, with a little heart bead at either end. It was kinda weird. Why was she wearing those things if her marriage was so awful?”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Barb
Local News Team
WDDD TV
543 Eaton Rd.
Gratiot, Michigan
Dear Marti, Jason, and Phil:
I applaud your efforts to present local news in an interesting way. Your enthusiasm is evident and most of the time, the features are worthwhile.
I feel compelled to write, however, to acquaint you with two facts of the English language. First, things that freeze in winter are thawed, not unthawed. There is no such word, and it is contrary to logic to say it.
Second, police do not bust down doors. They might burst in. They might break down a door. While it’s acceptable to use the word bust to describe a certain type of arrest, that has nothing to do with the door itself.
You all look very nice on television. Please try to speak well, too.
A Viewer
Following established practice, I prepared the letter and envelope, put it in the zipper bag, and headed out for my morning walk, the bag in my pants pocket. I planned to go all the way to the post office, skipping nearby mailboxes to further protect my anonymity.
The air was just cool enough to encourage a healthy pace. My nose felt chilled at first, but once I’d gone a few blocks, I warmed enough to unzip my jacket halfway.
After launching my latest Correction Event, I circled the block and headed for home. The streets were empty, and I relished the quiet. It was something I’d had to seek out in the city, hence the habit of walking early in the morning. I was never a runner, too much strain on the feet and knees, but a brisk walk with slow-downs and speed-ups works for me. I can eat pretty much anything and maintain a reasonable weight for my age and body style.
That hasn’t done much good. Fearing I’d said it aloud, I looked around to see if anyone was nearby. There was no point in dwelling on the fact that Retta had staked out the new police chief for herself. I really didn’t want a relationship anyway, having had my share over the years and finding each one unsatisfactory in the end. It didn’t matter if Rory succumbed to Retta’s considerable charms. At least that’s what I told myself.
At one of Allport’s major streets, Biscayne, I quickened my pace and crossed, though traffic was not a concern. Five blocks from home. I continued down Mallett, passing a closed print shop and a run-down café. It wasn’t a bad part of town, but there weren’t as many good parts since the recession. Lots of businesses had closed in financial distress, and many that were left had no money to spend on cosmetic repairs.
A rumbly sound caught my attention. Turning, I saw an old, noi
sy pickup truck behind me. I was well out of the driver’s way, but he slowed, craning his neck as if I were about to jump out in front of him. I turned down the side street that would take me home.
Soon I heard the truck behind me again. When it didn’t pass, I got an odd feeling at the back of my neck. The feeling persisted until the truck turned into an alley behind me. Rolling my shoulders, I relaxed my tense neck. Probably the owner of one of the stores had come in early to get a head start on work.
Failure to trust my instincts cost me. As I passed the alley, someone grabbed me from behind. It was a man, not much taller than I but strong, with an arm as hard as the pump handle in Neil’s faraway cabin. After the first moment of shock, I tried to remember my training. Use his weight against him. Stomp his instep. Kick his groin. Gouge his eyes. None of it seemed likely to happen. I was too busy trying to breathe.
The arm pressed against my windpipe was unrelenting. I clawed at it, but thick fabric protected the attacker’s skin. I kicked backward, but my running shoes had no hard edges. It might have hurt him, but not nearly as much as he was hurting me. As I fought for air, bits of thought floated by. Why? was foremost, but there were others. Who wants me dead? How can I stop this? and What made me think I could be a detective?
Despite the futility of it, a primal, defensive spirit rose from my subconscious. I could not let my life end in an alley, at least not without a fight. Drawing on reserves I didn’t know I had, I forced myself to think. Pull at the arm. Get a tiny breath. Gather strength. Pull again. Breathe again. Think. Think! It isn’t easy when you’re fighting to stay conscious.
Every enemy has a weakness. I had to find his. With one hand I pulled desperately on the arm that pressed against my throat, trying to suck in a breath of air. With the other I followed the fabric of the canvas jacket to where it ended. A glove covered the hand, but there was a gap between. I stabbed all five nails into it, pressing my thumb into the soft underside of his wrist, between the chords. He yelped and loosened his grip just a hair, allowing me a breath of air that was almost enough. The blackness that had begun to close across my vision like stage curtains receded momentarily. Too soon, the arm tightened again. In the fraction of a second before my thoughts clouded again, I went for his eyes. Upward and behind, I told myself. Jab hard!
I missed one eye completely, but the other I hit spot on. Air rushed into my lungs as my attacker screamed in pain and released me. I staggered a step forward then spun around, foolishly turning to look at him instead of running away. He wore a ragged Carhartt coverall and had a ski mask over his face. He’d put both hands over his left eye, and the right was closed in sympathy. I moved in to do the groin kick that would put him on the ground and render him helpless.
He wasn’t as defenseless as I thought, because he turned sideways, and my foot connected with his leg instead. Still covering the injured eye with one hand, he caught my left foot with the other and pushed hard on my outstretched leg. I had to fight to keep the other one under me. Luckily, or maybe not so much, the building at my back kept me upright, but my head slammed into it hard enough to stun me for a few seconds.
When I recovered, my attacker was limping away, body bent forward as he nursed the damaged eye. He reached his vehicle, threw himself inside, and started the engine. I suppose I should have given chase, but I slumped against the cool bricks, head spinning. At the last second, I recovered enough to think about getting the license plate number. Pushing myself forward, I staggered toward the truck as the driver jammed it into gear and pulled away. The plate was illegible, covered in smeared-on mud.
Faye was making coffee when I got home. One look and she knew I was in trouble. Helping me to a chair, she put her hands on my upper arms, steadying me as post-traumatic shakes took over my body. I told her in gasping phrases what had happened, and her face went white. Once I finished, she knelt beside the chair, hugging me tightly until I gained control of my muscles again. When I stopped shaking she moved to the counter, poured a cup of coffee from the carafe, and set it in front of me. “Drink.” Obediently, I gulped the fresh brew, not caring that it was too hot and lacking my usual two spoons of sugar.
“When they taught us the eye-gouging thing in self-defense class,” I told her, “I recall thinking I could never do it. But when you’re going to die, you can do anything.”
Tears came then. Faye cried a little too. We faced something we’d acknowledged intellectually but not internalized emotionally. You don’t poke around in crimes and people’s lives without arousing anger. Someone wanted me dead.
“You have to go see your friend the chief,” Faye said finally.
I felt my face go blank. “He isn’t my friend.”
“But you said—”
“We ate in the same restaurant one night and shared a table. He was polite, that’s all.”
Faye supplied us both with fresh tissues from a nearby box, and we mopped up. “Friend or not, you need to tell him what’s happened.”
“He’ll probably say I deserved what I got for sticking my nose into police matters.” She was right, though. I had to report this. I pushed fear away. Yes, I’d been terrified. But did I want to quit? Hell, no. Anger began replacing fear. I’d get better. I’d be smarter, more careful. I’d win.
Half an hour later I was escorted into the chief’s office, which had changed drastically since yesterday. Unopened paint cans were stacked in one corner, there was blue tape around the windows and doors, and plastic tarps covered the floor. The plan, my guide informed me, was to paint over the weekend. “We waited till he got here so he could pick the color he wanted.”
When Rory arrived, apologetic for being elsewhere in the building when I showed up, he escorted me down the hall to a meeting room with a long, scarred table and ten chairs. He pulled out a chair for me at one end and took the one next to it, so that our shoulders were almost touching. To my great joy, he didn’t even hint I’d got what I deserved. Instead, listening carefully to my story, he wrote points down on a legal pad he’d grabbed from his desk. Seeing my glance, he grinned briefly. “I can’t think without a pen in my hand, so I take lots of notes.”
“I’m the same way.” That sounded too personal somehow, like I was trying to make us seem simpatico. I returned to the facts of my experience. “Anyway, the guy took off in a beat-up black pickup. The license plate was muddy, which I think was intentional rather than natural.”
“Any idea of the make or model?”
“Dodge, I think. Had to be from the ’90s. Rust around the fenders, a piece of trim missing on the side. Dent in the tailgate, like someone dropped a tree on it.”
“That’s good.” Rory’s eyes slid to the open door and back to me. “You all right, Barb?”
“I’m fine. I was shaken, of course, and my throat is bruised. But overall, I was lucky.”
“Smart,” he corrected. “You didn’t panic. You took your shot and stayed alive.”
I had to work to conceal the pride I felt at his words. I’d expected censure, blame, and maybe even orders to cease and desist. I’d gotten praise. From a cop, and not just a small-town guardian of the peace, but a professional with experience in dealing with the real thing.
“I appreciate your saying so.”
He tapped his chin with a finger. “Any idea why you were attacked?”
“We only have one case right now. Neil Brown.”
“Tom Stevens thinks we’ve got our man.”
I gave him a look. “And Tom doesn’t think girls should worry their pretty little heads with things like murder.” Hearing the disdain in my own voice, I added, “The attack might have been random. I mean, how could anyone have known I’d be out there this morning?”
Rory didn’t look like he believed it. “Seems planned, with the plate obscured and all.”
“Wozniak might be afraid we’ll get Neil released.”
“I shouldn’t have taken you out there,” he said regretfully. “It focused his anger on you.”
“My attacker wasn’t Stan—too stocky. Would he hire someone to keep me from helping Neil?”
“Someone paid those guys to follow you to the U.P.” Rory clicked his pen point away and stood. “Whatever the reason, the danger is real. I’ll have officers check your home several times a day. And when you go to work—”
“I work from home.” I took out a business card and laid it on the table. Rory took it up, read it, as it is polite to do, and nodded, passing a thumb over the embossed logo.
“We’ll find this guy, Barb.”
Again I had to hide my emotions when he said “we.”
“Hello!” The voice from the hallway was all too familiar. “Rory, are you back here? Your office is a—” Retta stuck her head into the doorway, her eyes widening as she recognized me. “I didn’t know you were busy. It’s just that the grant is due in--”
She took one look at me and knew, as sisters must, I suppose. “Barbara, what’s wrong?”
I stood, bending to pick up my jacket. “Nothing,” I said, shooting Rory a look. “Just checking in.” He looked at me, then at Retta, then back at me. “I appreciate your time, Chief.”
“I’ll call when I’ve done some preliminary work, Ms. Evans.”
“You have my card.”
“Yes. Well, um, take care.”
“I will.”
At home, I told Faye most of it. I said I was impressed by the chief’s manner, I said I trusted him to do what he could to help, and I said Retta had come along. I didn’t say that she and the chief would probably lunch together at noon. I didn’t want to say it out loud.
