Pieces of Ivy

by Dean Covin

  The doctor appeared quite taken with the long-ago victims.

  “A year after that monster was killed, rumors started that he did covet Tanya Kilroy—a ninth—but that he couldn’t bring himself to kill her too. He had his eight and wanted Tanya … for life.”

  Hank nodded, remembering the same rumors.

  “Thankfully he was robbed of that life. I can’t imagine the terror. My cousin Jane had been abducted once, by a madman—her neighbor no less. The ordeal was devastating.”

  “So Sky is Tanya Kilroy?” Vicki asked.

  “No. I know Sky Veil—and knew plenty about Tanya—it’s not her. Besides, the ages don’t add up. To say otherwise is outrageous.” She leaned toward them. “Listen. It’s a small town—I love it here—but it has its quirks. The ever-grinding rumor mill is one—especially regarding either the Pieces of Eight murders or Sky. And believe me those are only two of a multitude of rumorous delights that churn around this town.”

  “Nice wordplay,” Vicki offered.

  “I read a lot.”

  Hank couldn’t resist. “Do you also like the pic—”

  Vicki elbowed him in the ribs.

  Allison looked on, confused, as Vicki chose a more acceptable question. “What about friends?”

  “Ivy’s best friend was Kyla—Kyla More. I believe a few people from work—the school. And she played ball.”

  † † †

  “Let’s check out that girl Tasha who Allison mentioned,” Hank said as he got into Vicki’s car. “The ballplayer.”

  “She works at a place called Scooper’s, right?”

  “Yes, that’s what she said.”

  Vicki caught his salacious grin. “Scooper’s?” She envisioned the strip club behind his smile.

  “Best ice cream in town,” he confirmed.

  She looked at him, shaking her head in surprise, before drawing her attention back to the road.

  Sixteen

  “Hello, handsome. What’ll it be?” The young woman behind the counter, who playfully jiggled the blond ponytail pulled to the top of her head, mischievously turned her chest side to side as she stood beaming up at the much-older stranger.

  Vicki interrupted, “I’ll have a single scoop of mint chocolate chip—in a cup.”

  Smiling, Hank stole a quick glance at the server’s swaying bosom. “I’ll have a double scoop of tiger.”

  “Raarrr,” she growled and then spied Vicki’s expression. “Relax, lady—you’re not his wife.”

  “How so?”

  Hank grinned at Vicki’s reaction.

  “You’re too old for him.” She shot Hank an inviting wink.

  “Too—” Vicki bit her lip, loathing the satisfaction painted across Hank’s face. The girl was maybe twenty. Technically Dashel could be her father. “He’s not my husband.” She flashed her badge, raising an eyebrow. “He’s my partner.”

  The ice cream girl looked from the badge to Hank. “That is so hot.”

  Vicki rolled her eyes. “Can we get our ice cream?”

  “And a few minutes of your time?” Hank added.

  “Totally,” she said, delighted—her topknot ponytail bobbing happily.

  The sprite girl brought their ice cream, licking one of her own—tiger of course—and joined them at their table. She was smiling at Hank when suddenly her face changed. She looked at Vicki. “Is this about Ivy?”

  Vicki nodded.

  “Oh.” Anguish erased all the play from the young woman’s face.

  “We understand you played ball with Ivy,” Hank said, selfishly wishing for another glimpse of her flirtatious energy. Gone.

  She nodded her head and wept.

  Vicki felt a sudden sorrow for the girl who had slighted Vicki. Like a burst balloon, the bright young woman’s flirty-kitten shell—shallow though it may be—was crushed by her insides.

  Vicki placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Tasha seized it, holding it in place as she wept.

  Vicki whispered, “Have you spoken to anyone about this?”

  Her ponytail bobbed. “Sheriff Roscoe—and his wife, Rose.” Sucking back her tears, she looked at them both, pleading stretched across her face. “Why would anyone do this? She never hurt anybody.”

  Ignoring the gawking patrons, Vicki squeezed her hand. “You’ve played together since last year, correct?”

  She nodded.

  “Did she seem any different lately? Worried?”

  “No, that’s the strange part—even when Sheriff Roscoe asked the same question, I honestly couldn’t come up with anything. We weren’t superclose, but, on the field, we were so in sync. Saturday’s game was the last time—” She broke.

  “We can request his notes,” Vicki offered. “But is there anything that came to you after you spoke to Sheriff Roscoe?”

  “Well, I mean, I don’t know how many notes he took—his hands were kind of busy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sheriff Roscoe was just being Sheriff Roscoe—but still it was kind of creepy.”

  Vicki motioned to continue.

  “We stepped outside for a smoke—Rose doesn’t smoke—and he was totally hitting on me, as usual. I’m used to it—everybody is. It just felt awkward because Rose was in the building and—” Tasha struggled but continued with a whisper, “Ivy had just been murdered by a sexual sadist.” She looked up. “Time and place, right?”

  Vicki couldn’t agree more. “How far did he take it?”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he was harmless—if inappropriate. It’s just … you know, the situation and all … I’m all for play, but sometimes you gotta park it.”

  “Can you tell us who else was on your team?”

  “I can do you one better—they’re all at Lee-Lee’s Pub. I was supposed to go but had to pull this shift.”

  † † †

  The dark lounge was riddled with plush chairs and sofas among scattered tables seating only the solitary, sullen types you’d expect to be drinking alone in the middle of a weekday afternoon. However, a group of young adults lounged in the far corner around a square table littered with empty glasses and spent chicken wings. Two slouched in soft chairs while the other five spread themselves across two large sofas.

  A young man glanced up with a half-sauced grin. “Hey, you look like obvious fans.” He pointed his beer bottle at the agents as they approached their table. “Let me ask you, would it be in poor taste to rename our league Ivy’s League? In honor of Ivy Turner?”

  Another man piped up, slurring—his eyelids too heavy for the midafternoon. “I think it’s clever.”

  “Actually Miss Turner’s the reason we’re here,” Vicki said. “I’m Agent Starr, and this is Agent Dashel.”

  This struck dumb silence around the table.

  “Move yer fat butt over!” the spokesman blurted, shoving another and then thumping the open space beside him. “Have a seat. I’m Todd. This is Max, Paul, Ugly Pete, Nick and Chuck. The one with the nice boobs is Sam.”

  “Pig.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who married me,” he countered.

  Sam rolled her eyes.

  “How can we help you?” Todd asked.

  “Is this your entire team?”

  “Yeah—’cept for Ivy.” He paused. “Some of our better-halves sub in from time to time. Oh, and Tasha.”

  “We met her,” Vicki said.

  All eyes shifted to Hank, expecting the grin that forced its way onto his face.

  Vicki posed the question to the group. “Was there anything you can think of that might have been considered strange behavior for Ivy in the past few weeks?”

  There was bewildered consideration among the silent faces.

  Hank watched an unsettled look gro
w across Nick’s face. “You have something to say?”

  Nick hesitated, disliking this sudden barrage of eyes turned on him. He swallowed hard. “I saw her going into Cherrybrook Forest sometimes”—his eyes shifted between the agents and his crew—“over the past few weeks.”

  “Someone said she liked to read in the quiet of Old Burnt Church,” Max offered. “Readin’ Stephen King, huddled against the warm gravestones.”

  “As if,” Sam countered. “I heard she was seeing the witch.”

  Hank and Vicki exchanged glances.

  Max shuddered. “That’s just as creepy.”

  “You’re both nuts.” This time it was Paul who spoke. “Ivy was too straight in the head to do either one of those.” He turned sideways, squaring up with the agents. “Ivy was as cool as they come—the girl had no issues.” He paused. “She was flawless.”

  Pete raised a wavering hand in agreement and slurred, “Man, can she wear a pair of shorts.”

  “You’re a tool,” Todd said. “Don’t let lowlifes like Pete fool you. Yeah, maybe initial reactions are … were, to her looks, but she honestly had a heart of gold—and she was smart.”

  Paul nodded. “She was the full package. Trifecta. Beauty, brains and funny as hell.”

  Everyone agreed and Max added, “He’s right, and she could play with the best of us. She was a true athlete.”

  Sam spoke up again. “Subbed as a coach or something. Even got us school field access on weeknights—which was sweet.”

  Pete stirred, his left eyelid drooping to the floor. “Hey, will we lose that?”

  Todd punched him in the tit. “You really are an asshole, aren’t you?” He scowled at him. “Like it even matters—Ivy’s dead … idiot.”

  Pete looked only half wounded, speaking to the space between Todd and Sam. “Hate me if you all want, but she should never have gone into that dead forest. Told her—didn’t I tell her?” he asked, as he focused just past Todd’s shoulder.

  Todd snapped back, “This again? Why would Ivy go into the forest? Tell me, Pete, why? She may be new, but she heard the stories.”

  “Let it be,” Max said. “Pete’s drunk, and he knows damn well she didn’t—”

  Pete insisted on interrupting. “Seriously, I heard”—he caught a burp—“Ol’ Jack say he saw her go into the woods alone a few times—just like Nicky said.” A salacious grin spread across his lips. “Once she didn’t come out till mornin’.”

  He overdid his knowing double-wink—everyone but him aware that the side of his absentminded fist was kneading his crotch. “The witch, right?” He caught the reproachful look from his friends. “What? Evil witch sex—that’s fucking hot!” He realized he was being made a fool of in front of the sexy agent sitting across from him. Blushing, he came to his own drunken defense. “Yeah, like you didn’t think it, you fuckin’ fags.”

  The group ignored his unfixed glares.

  “What stories?” Vicki asked.

  Sam answered, “Rumors about Cherrybrook being haunted—that the witch raised the corpses. There’s an abandoned graveyard next to Old Burnt Church.” She looked to her team for consensus. “It’s why everyone calls it the Dead Forest, right?”

  While others nodded, Todd turned to his wife and said, “Not everyone calls it that.”

  “You do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  It was his turn to roll his eyes.

  Paul agreed with Todd. “It doesn’t matter what people call it—I don’t see what it has to do with Ivy’s murder. She was found in a barn, not the woods.”

  “Maybe she did it,” Chuck offered. “The witch.”

  “Please,” Todd and Paul said in unison.

  Chuck shut up, taking a long, distracting pull off his Coors Light.

  Hank spoke up. “Can any of you account for your whereabouts between Sunday night and Tuesday morning?”

  “Gotta pee!” Pete announced as he launched to his wavering feet. He walked his shins straight into the low table in front of him and crashed down hard, scattering bottles, glasses and tiny chicken bones.

  † † †

  “Even Stinky Pete has an alibi.”

  “Ugly Pete,” Hank corrected.

  Vicki steered the Corvette, rounded the corner. “And his is the most solid. But I’ll follow up with Roscoe to be sure Pete was in the tank on both Sunday and Monday night.”

  “I’d be more surprised if he wasn’t.”

  Seventeen

  Vicki savored the penetrating sunshine on her face as they walked toward the smell of the diner.

  “Out for another cigarette?” she asked as the sheriff stepped into the late-afternoon sun.

  “I don’t smoke—it’s bad for you,” he said, lighting the Marlboro.

  “Funny,” Vicki said, waving off the noxious fumes. “I’d have pegged you for a smoker—easy way to hit on young girls.”

  He drew in a deep drag against her blatant insinuation, as he narrowed his eyes on hers and then released another offensive cloud. “Hitting on her, was I?”

  “Yeah, hitting on her,” she confirmed with disgust as she winced against the sharp glint off his gold star. Vicki was fine with her double standards.

  “Hitting on who?” the sheriff’s wife asked from behind them. “And get that thing outta your mouth,” she snapped.

  He looked at Hank. “Funny, I usually say the opposite.” He ditched the cancer stick, replacing it with two sticks of gum.

  “Hitting on who?” Rose repeated.

  Vicki had no problem calling him out in front of his wife. She liked Rose Roscoe. If this got him in trouble, so be it—Don’t do the crime…

  “Tasha,” he admitted, taking Vicki off guard.

  “Leave that poor girl alone. There’s no way you’re gonna talk that pretty little gal into a threesome.”

  Vicki’s jaw went slack.

  “Besides, I’d be chasin’ her ass outta my bed before you could drop your socks and grab your cock.”

  By the easy flow, this was a frequent conversation.

  “I love it when you talk nasty.”

  She ignored her husband and turned to Vicki. “If he’s hit you up, I apologize. If he hasn’t—he will.” She shot him a warning glare, and then scanned Vicki up and down to legitimize her point. “You’re gorgeous—and he’s an asshole.”

  “Love you, too, precious.”

  There was a tiny smile behind her extended middle finger.

  Hank wore an amused smirk.

  “Well,” the sheriff announced with a stretch and heavy swing of his arms, “this has been wonderful, folks—the highlight of my fuckin’ day—but if I can’t smoke, I’m gonna go fight some crime.” He leaned over and kissed the cheek his wife had already tilted at him.

  “Don’t forget your tights,” she said.

  He snatched a second kiss, from her lips this time. “See you at home, babe.”

  “There goes a class act,” Rose offered as she watched her man strut toward his squad car, waving a smile at every passerby—all happily returned.

  Vicki didn’t feel the need to edit herself around Rose. “How the hell is that man the sheriff?”

  “He’s a bit of a prick,” Rose admitted. “And one might assume he must know where bodies are buried, who has a favorite hooker or which drug is too much of a habit—but I think it’s because he’s so adorable.”

  Both agents knew she was kidding, but Vicki remained unimpressed.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Rose continued. “But I can’t help but love the big lug. God knows why—must be the Helsinki syndrome.”

  “You mean Stockholm,” Hank corrected but immediately knew that Mrs. Roscoe was making further light of the situation by playing du
mb. Instead, he felt stupid.

  “Yeah, whatever, smart guy. Point is”—she turned to Vicki—“he’s a better man than most think. He’s a better man than he lets on. It’s like he gets some twisted joy out of people hating his ass.” Rose looked Vicki over again. “You’ll probably wanna slap him on a daily basis—but if you ever get in trouble, that man will lay down his life for you.”

  Hard as she tried, Vicki could only detect sincerity.

  Rose smiled and took Vicki’s hand, giving it a gentle double pump. “Don’t worry. I like your honesty—means I can trust you.”

  Rose glanced slyly at Hank. “But I hope I’m not able to trust you completely, Mr. Dashel,” insinuating her playful preference for bad boys. She winked and nodded toward the ice cream shop. “I’m gonna swing by and apologize to that poor girl—again.”

  Vicki stopped her. “Shouldn’t your husband be the one apologizing?”

  “Nah, no good—he’d just ask her for makeup sex.” Behind her resounding sigh was the confidence of a woman who knew her man better than any and was comfortable with her measure of control.

  “I hope to see you two later.” She smiled and tootled, “Bub-bye.”

  They watched the shapely woman own her path as she jaywalked across the street toward Scooper’s.

  “I don’t buy it,” Vicki complained, crossing her arms as Rose entered the ice cream shop. “His wife’s nuts. He’s a complete ass. How can such a brilliant, honorable woman be so insane?”

  Hank shrugged. “Love.”

  Vicki gave him a quizzical stare.

  Then he added with a suspicious grin, “Or maybe she’s a robot.”

  † † †

  While paying the check at the diner, the agents had agreed to revisit the crime scene. The place had left something unsettled in both of them, beyond the obvious horror.

  Hank offered to drive. Vicki didn’t protest, even though Hank’s dusty Buick was the antithesis of her fiery wheels—certain she could park her Corvette in the trunk of his grumbling behemoth. Having played nice as the passenger while she drove, Hank probably wanted to slip on the pants and drive for a while.