See Also Murder

by Larry D. Sweazy

  All these years later, Guy still walked with a limp—a hindrance that hadn’t prevented Hilo from giving him a job when nobody else would. Other than the limp, Guy was whole, but those who knew him when he was young, at his best, could see a faraway look forever pinned in his sky-blue eyes.

  It was like Guy had been forever cursed with the wondering, the curiosity of the past, the constant questioning of himself—if life would have been different had he made a different decision so long ago. We all had our regrets. I imagined Hank thought the same thing, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to flick a fly off his nose.

  Being a deputy was a far cry from being a pro basketball player, traveling the world, money not a worry, rather than sitting behind the wheel of a police car, spending most days alone—while everyone who knew your story looked at you with a bit of pity, looked at you like you were a loser, an idiot for throwing away all of your God-given promise.

  Guy Reinhardt and I shared in that. Shared in the looks of pity. As I sat there, still wondering if Guy Reinhardt was the deputy on duty, I realized again that Peter and Jaeger had joined our club. We were survivors of life’s harshest moments, moments that had forced us to get on with our lives even though our hearts were torn to tatters. We were all actors hiding the pain; some of us were just better at it than others. It was no wonder actors were called tragedians.

  “I thought I’d heard somebody pull up.”

  I stood up out of the Studebaker, a little surprised that my questioning had been on point: It was Guy Reinhardt whose task it was to look after Erik and Lida’s land.

  Guy had come out of Erik and Lida’s house. He stood on the front porch and eyed me carefully. The tightness in his face relaxed when he saw the pies. I stopped at the fence post that separated the yard and the drive. The wind circled around my ankles and threatened to ruffle my dress, but I pressed the pies down to keep it from flying up.

  “Good to see you, Marjorie,” he said.

  “Same to you, Guy.”

  “How’s Hank?”

  “No better, no worse.” On this day, I didn’t feel compelled to lie to Guy Reinhardt, but I let my woes stop there.

  He nodded and looked at me knowingly. “That’s a good thing, I suppose.”

  The late-afternoon sun caught Guy’s blonde hair, highlighting a tinge of gray in his sideburns. His face was angular, tanned, and he still had the look of a man whose determined face could have perfectly graced a Wheaties box. He was as tall as a cornstalk, and age had been kind to him; his body was still lean and fit. Only his sad blue eyes and limp belied any past history that would have given a stranger any hint that Guy Reinhardt was less than fulfilled, standing in the doorway of a murder victim’s home, dressed in a uniform that required a gun, instead of sneakers, gym shorts, and a crowd to cheer him on.

  Guy stepped off the porch. “Probably be best if you let me take those pies there, Marjorie. Hilo doesn’t want anybody to step inside until he’s certain there’s nothing else we need to look at. I been runnin’ folks off all day.”

  “They were just doing what folks do,” I said.

  “This is different,” Guy answered. His voice was hard and direct. I suppose I needed that reminder as much as anyone else.

  I hadn’t noticed the yellow tape that surrounded the front of the house, crisscrossing the front door, until that moment. I didn’t think I could confront the idea that Erik and Lida were really dead, not home . . . that their farm was a crime scene.

  “I was hoping to speak with Peter and Jaeger, if only for a moment,” I said, balancing the pies in my hands and warding off the threat of the wind at the same time.

  “They’re supposed to be talking with Hilo down at the station.”

  “I just came from there. They weren’t there. Neither was Hilo. At least his truck wasn’t there.”

  “Then he wasn’t there, either.”

  I nodded and was tempted to tell Guy about the green Chevy, but there was nothing to point to that was malicious or criminal. Just a pattern that I’d noticed that probably didn’t mean a thing, that was probably just my imagination playing tricks on me.

  “Well, my guess is they had some business to tend to at McClandon’s Funeral Home,” Guy said. “They’ll be along shortly. It’s got to be hard going through something like this. Hard to say where Hilo was. Seems a mite busy today, as you can imagine.”

  “I suppose so.”

  I realized I had mimicked Guy’s earlier response when he flashed a quick smile to break the tension and sadness in the air.

  Unconsciously, I glanced to his left hand, and realized it was minus a ring. I hesitated, but only briefly, before I asked how his wife, Ruth, was doing, if only to change the subject.

  Guy’s face tightened, and he looked away from me, out toward the barn, freshly painted red so it was easy to find in the winter. The profile of Guy’s face was hard as stone and my question about Ruth affected his professional expression like a cloud crossing in front of the sun.

  “Ruth’s back with her family,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you would.”

  Ruth Reinhardt was Guy’s second wife. His first divorce caused the normal whispers, his second, if it came to that, would be downright scandalous. North Dakota women stayed true to their husbands through good and bad. I was no exception. But I was also not one to judge another marriage . . . or another man’s pain, no matter how hard he was to live with.

  Rumor had it that Guy had a hateful relationship with whiskey that had followed him from his university days to the present. But to me, it was just a rumor. I had never seen him drunk, nor had I ever smelled whiskey on his breath. I doubted Hilo would put up with behavior unbecoming an officer of the law no matter who he was, so I’d always put little credence in those rumors.

  I knew little of Ruth, a short brunette with two children from a previous marriage, just enough to know that she came from a family with more than a fair share of drinkers, fighters, and secrets. Trouble and angst seem to be a magnet for some people. Maybe it was that that broke them apart. Either way, Guy Reinhardt’s misfortune was none of my business.

  There was just something about him that I couldn’t shake, and finally, I realized what it was once the breeze kicked up again. The air was filled with his odor, with the sweetness of his masculinity. It totally overtook any evidence of the previous rain.

  Guy’s skin glistened, tanned from the sun, from hanging his arm out of the window of the police car. It was the smell of life, of a walking, healthy man that I was responding to like a giddy schoolgirl. It made no difference that he might be just as disabled on the inside as Hank was on the outside, Guy Reinhardt was an attractive man.

  I blushed at the sudden realization that I was betraying my husband by responding to another man whose only intent was his duty and nothing more.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Guy said.

  I pushed the pies toward him. “Make sure Peter and Jaeger get these.”

  Guy almost dropped one of the pies. By the time he regained his balance, I was in the Studebaker sliding the key into the ignition.

  The truck’s engine roared to life and I backed up as quick as I could, spun the tires, and kicked up a dust storm that rained pellets of gravel thirty feet behind me. I could barely see Guy shaking his head in dismay as I pulled out onto the lane and sped toward home.

  CHAPTER 11

  I had never been so glad to pull onto my own land in my entire life.

  The midafternoon light was bright, intense as the sun beat down from the sky like a spotlight directed at the rooftop of our simple wind-beaten house. It needed a fresh coat of paint, but like the maintenance on the truck, I hadn’t had the heart to ask Peter and Jaeger for any more of their time. Maybe next summer, once things settled down . . .

  My stomach growled with hunger, and I realized that I’d passed up lunch while I was in Dickinson; I rarely missed a t
rip to the Ivanhoe for some of the best sandwich bread to be found anywhere in North Dakota, or beyond I guess. I wouldn’t know for sure since I’d never crossed the state line outside of a couple of quick trips west, into Montana.

  The Salems had staved off any real hunger, which I guess was one of the reasons why some women smoked them in the first place. It kept them thin and attractive and replaced the habit of eating the hearty meals we cooked for our husbands before sending them out the door to do a hard day’s work. I suppose that had been a reason for me, too, but since Hank didn’t like me smoking, especially since the accident, I’d taken to hiding from him when I did.

  I hoped Ardith would join me for a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee before she left. Her car, a ten-year-old black Ford sedan, sat right where she had parked it.

  I was halfway down the drive when Shep suddenly appeared, running out from behind the first barn, a streak of black and white, head and body low to the ground, barking at the Studebaker like he’d never seen the truck in his life. It wasn’t a hello bark, or at least the normal bark that the diligent border collie usually offered me when I returned home from town.

  The dog ran straight at the truck like he was going to nip the tires. I couldn’t recall a time when Shep had tried to herd me while driving the truck. It was like he was trying to drive me away, force me to turn around and leave. I’d seen him attempt the same thing on Wally Howard, on occasion, when Wally’d had to deliver a box to the door; usually page proofs from New York.

  At the very least, I had expected Shep to be happy to see me. It was rare that I was away from the house, from Hank, for so long.

  “Silly dog,” I said out the window. “Go on, get out of the way before I run you over.” The thought of hurting Shep caused a tremor of fear to ripple all the way from my heart to the tips of my fingers.

  My tone was obviously too light. It didn’t deter Shep at all. My words just seemed to infuriate him. He barked his fool head off even louder, then lunged at the front tire, biting at it so close that it truly scared me. I stopped the truck right then and there.

  As soon as the tires quit rolling, Shep circled around the truck, barking continually, ears back, an unusually aggressive snarl on his upturned lip. Something had set him off, and I didn’t like it.

  There had never been any question that one of Shep’s jobs was to keep a lookout, be a guard dog of sorts, but his quarry was mostly foxes and coyote. His real job was to keep the chickens safe since we’d long ago given up on sheep, even though he thought his job was to keep the chickens in order. If I wasn’t paying any attention, he’d keep them trapped in the corner of the pen for half a day. Shep would have made a great indexer if he were a human being.

  Up until a day ago, there had been no reason to hold onto any fear at all about strangers coming onto the land. Most farm folks, or those in town as far as that went, had never locked their doors in their entire life.

  I shut the engine off and sat in the truck for a long second, eyeing everything in sight. Nothing seemed out of place except Shep’s behavior. But even that could be explained away. Border collies were an overprotective, obsessive breed, and sometimes it didn’t take much to set them off. Timing was everything; a move, a look, a word spoken the wrong way could trigger a sort of madness that required a stern but gentle hand to quell. I had seen Shep act like this before, but it had been a long time ago—back before Hank stepped into that damned gopher hole. It was usually only Hank who could calm the dog down, but I knew it would be up to me this time around.

  The rain and gloom of the morning was just a memory; the only remnant was the softness of the ground, but the wind would dry it out pretty quickly unless it rained again real soon. I had no idea what the forecast was; I’d been preoccupied with the task Hilo had straddled me with and everything that had happened since.

  I knew that I’d been distracted, but I couldn’t see a thing that wasn’t where it was supposed to be, a reason for Shep’s uncertain fit—except a repetitive banging that slowly drew my attention to it. I could barely hear the sound underneath Shep’s constant barking.

  I looked over to the house.

  The screen door was banging in the wind. Open. Closed. Hit the jamb. Back again. The wind wasn’t fierce, not by North Dakota standards by any means, but it was strong. Strong enough to push a storm to the east, then come through an open window, snake through the house, and rattle a door so it banged consistently like the echo of a heartbeat.

  I froze for a second, looked at the swinging door, then back down to Shep. He was trying to keep me from going inside the house.

  Hank . . . my mouth went dry.

  Without thinking through my options, I jumped out of the truck and my heel instantly sank about a quarter of an inch into the soft dirt drive, enough to cause my balance to waver.

  I wasn’t used to wearing heels—especially when I wasn’t thinking. The pitiful fear that had bubbled up in the pit of my stomach replaced any hunger I thought I might’ve had. I lurched sideways and caught myself against the Studebaker’s door.

  Shep dropped into a crouch, barked one last time, and gave me that long amber-eyed border collie stare. He was trying his best to stop me, but nothing could. My heart raced and matched the bang of the screen door.

  “Stop it!” I shouted at Shep, then offered a hard glare of my own in return.

  He ignored me and barked again. Stubborn dog.

  I pushed off from the door, pulled my foot out of the shoe, and left it behind as I hurried to the house with a one-shoed limp.

  The wind met me head on. It seemed to want to keep me out of the house, too. I must have looked drunk, but as far as I could tell there wasn’t another human being around for miles.

  I didn’t care if there was.

  “Hank!” I yelled out as I made my way to the door.

  No answer. Just Shep’s bark riding on the wind like an alarm that wouldn’t shut off. He was behind me, and I expected to feel a pinch of canine teeth on the back of my heel any second.

  “Ardith!”

  Again, no answer. Crap. Shit. Damn. Panic. She should have come to the door as soon as Shep started barking, as soon as I pulled into the drive. Where was she?

  I didn’t hesitate when I reached the stoop. I burst through the door, not afraid, at least for my own wellbeing, but determined to find both Hank and Ardith and numbed by adrenaline since neither one of them had answered me.

  My eyes searched the path to the bedroom and saw nothing out of place. Nothing but the black receiver dangling from the cord, down the wall.

  It was silent inside the house. There was no busy signal on the party line. Most likely someone, probably Burlene Standish, was yelling at us to hang up so they could make a call—or listening in to see if she could tell what was going on in my house.

  “Ardith? Hank?” I yelled out again as I pushed through the kitchen, praying the whole time. Please let them be all right. Please . . .

  “In here.” It was Hank’s voice. I was so relieved to hear him that I nearly broke into tears.

  I stumbled into the bedroom, kicking the other shoe off. It hit the wall with a boom “Are you all right?” I asked, in between panting breaths.

  “No.”

  I blinked, cleared my eyes, and saw that Hank’s face was pale, his forehead dotted with perspiration. He was covered up to the neck with a thin white sheet, but that wasn’t unusual; I usually always covered him when he napped. Pneumonia was one of our biggest fears, which was another reason why I was opposed to leaving the window open. I glanced over and saw that Ardith had compromised with Hank. The window was only open about six inches—enough, though, for the wind to make its way in and bring a hint of after-rain-coolness on its push.

  I nodded as I took in Hank’s condition. There was a wet spot just below his waist. He’d soiled himself, something he hated more than living this way itself.

  “Where’s Ardith?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Shep
had stopped just outside the bedroom door. The dog didn’t relax. He crouched and stared at me—or Hank, I really couldn’t tell which—still trying to pen us in.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” I said. “What’s happened, Hank?”

  He looked stricken, his eyes hardened by the strain of trying to get out of bed. I knew he wanted to be up, in charge, taking care of things, but that was impossible. It never stopped him from trying, though. He had been trying to move since the day he had taken the fall.

  “Breathe easy,” I offered. His throat dried out when he was upset and made it difficult to swallow.

  Hank blinked hard, and I knew that to be a nod. “The phone rang. I heard Ardith pick it up. First thing she did was yell at Burlene to get off the line and mind her own gall-darned business.” His voice was scratchy, like sandpaper.

  I moved to the nightstand and put a glass of water with a straw in it to his lips. He drank right away, wetting his throat, and blinked again when he was done.

  “Oh my,” I said.

  “Ardith has never had any patience with busybodies.”

  “I know, but . . .” I’ll have to talk to her, I finished thinking. I didn’t care to be on bad terms with the neighbors, even though I agreed with Ardith. Burlene Standish was a tongue-wagger with no regard to who she hurt with her repeated—and most often embellished—tales of other peoples’ woes.

  “I think it was New York,” Hank said. He stared at me, knowing I’d be on edge right away at the news that my editor had called and I hadn’t been there to answer.

  He was right. I could hardly bear the thought of missing a call from Richard Rothstein. It was either a request for more work, or there was a problem with Sir Nigel’s headhunter book. Either way, it was a call that I didn’t want to miss.

  “What happened to Ardith?” I said, not lingering on the call.

  “I don’t know,” Hank said. “I heard her ask the person on the other end of the line to hang on, then Shep barked and she padded out the door. She never came back. After a few long minutes, I called after her, but she never answered me, Marjorie. She just disappeared and never came back.”