Jude Devine Mystery Series

by Rose Beecham

  The lovely doctor didn’t move. Debbie’s head spun. Not only was Dr. Westmoreland on TV, she was half of the Four Corners’ most famous lesbian couple. She’d married a British actress. They were the ones whose soirée Agatha and Tulley were losing their minds over. How could Debbie have been so dumb she didn’t know all this immediately?

  Dr. Westmoreland seemed to be weighing something in her mind, then she stepped past Debbie and marched into the house like she owned it. Glancing around the living room, she asked, “When are you expecting Jude?”

  “Not tonight. She’s tied up with a big murder investigation. The one on the news.”

  Debbie took in the doctor’s appearance. Some women were born to wear narrow-fit cream pants with a white shirt tucked in. Mercy Westmoreland had completed her casual chic with a light sweater slung loosely around her shoulders. Debbie had the strange impression that under the sensible outer layer, she wore sexy French lingerie.

  “How long have you known her?” Dr. Westmoreland asked bluntly.

  Debbie supposed it was only reasonable that a professional colleague of Jude’s would want to make sure the person answering the door had a right to be in the house. “For a year. I’m her hairdresser.”

  “Really?”

  Debbie wasn’t sure how to read her guest’s expression, or lack thereof. Feeling uncomfortable, she offered, “Would you like something to drink, Dr. Westmoreland?”

  “It’s Mercy, and no thank you.” With a long, hard look that felt like an inspection for flaws, she asked, “Are you involved with Jude?”

  Debbie wasn’t sure how to answer that. Did Mercy know Jude was a lesbian? Very few people did, and Jude obviously had her reasons for keeping it that way. As for herself, Debbie couldn’t afford gossip. If her born-again boss discovered her sexual orientation, she would be out of a job.

  Sidestepping a direct answer, she said, “Jude’s letting me stay here while the exterminators are in my house. I love Yiska.”

  To illustrate her point, she stroked the adorable black cat curled on the burgundy leather recliner near the window. Mercy strolled over and they stood in silence for a few minutes, taking in the crimson-rimmed Uncompahgre Plateau. The view was wonderful, but Debbie wouldn’t swap it for hers. She loved being nestled in the red sandstone cliffs that rose up around Paradox Valley. That was another reason she didn’t like the thought of moving to Canada—all those trees and lakes, far from the desert and the big blue Colorado sky.

  She didn’t want to be hidden away in a forest somewhere in the cold north. She was used to stepping out each morning into the still of the canyons. She was used to the faded silver cottonwoods and the roll of pebbles beneath her feet. The whisper of the dry wind. The cries of coyotes on moonlit nights. On her days off she wandered familiar paths along the canyon walls, leaving her fingerprints where others had left theirs, tracing the faint stick figures carved into the sandstone. The archaeologists called them petroglyphs, the graffiti of the people whose land she now called home.

  “I’m surprised Jude’s still living out here,” Mercy remarked. “I told her she should move to Grand Junction. There are so few places in this region that are remotely civilized. Santa Fe is a long drive. So is Denver.”

  “I guess you travel a lot,” Debbie said. “With your TV career and everything. Do you go to the movie sets when your…when—”

  “Elspeth prefers not to have me around. It cramps her style.” Mercy ran her hand over a multicolored glass vase on the window ledge. “And I must admit, I find the filmmaking process excruciating. So much wasted time.”

  “Well, it must be nice when you can just be at home together like normal people.”

  “We manage domestic bliss for a few weeks. After that, I want my house back and she wants a director telling her how to breathe.”

  Debbie didn’t know whether to laugh or not. She tried for an intelligent comment. “I suppose she’s going to be busy with the Telluride Festival coming up.”

  With a slight edge, Mercy said, “She’s counting the days. And she’ll be leaving for another shoot as soon as the festival’s over.”

  What a life that must be, Debbie marveled, jetting around the world to exotic locations to act in movies. Being recognized by waiters in restaurants and having people want your autograph. It would also be pretty bizarre to watch a movie with your partner in it.

  “What’s it like?” she asked impulsively. “I mean seeing her on the big screen being someone else.”

  Mercy moved her attention from the evening sky. Regarding Debbie with a mix of amusement and patience, she said, “Actors aren’t the gods and heroes they play. The words they speak are not their own. Their gift is in illusion, in making us believe they’re not just faking it.”

  “I haven’t seen any of Elspeth’s movies, but I’ve heard she’s a wonderful actress.”

  “Oh, she is,” Mercy said mildly. “She’s so good, I can’t tell when she’s for real or just acting.”

  “That must be really weird.” Fearing she’d put her foot in her mouth, Debbie fell silent.

  “Yes.” Mercy moved away from the window. She glanced along the hallway to Jude’s bedroom before returning her gaze to Debbie. “I should get going.”

  “Is there a message I can pass on?”

  “Yes, tell Jude I’m sorry I missed her.”

  There was an undercurrent in her tone. Anger? Bitterness? Debbie should have shut up while she was ahead. They walked to the door. It was dark outside and the trees around Jude’s small house rustled. The air felt heavy, like it might rain overnight. But that probably meant they’d get one of those desert storms, all thunder and lightning but not a single drop of water. Debbie picked Yiska up and the little cat clung to one shoulder as if she was afraid of the open doorway and all that lay beyond.

  “I didn’t know Jude had a pet,” Mercy said.

  “She saved Yiska’s life.” Debbie loved the story of Yiska’s brush with death. She and Jude often talked about their cats. “I don’t know if you remember the search for that little boy last year, Corban Foley.”

  “Yes, I performed the autopsy.”

  Debbie winced at the thought. She and Lone had volunteered for the search-and-rescue operation. Everyone in the Four Corners seemed to be involved, hoping for a miracle. Debbie would never forget the day they pulled that poor little baby from the reservoir.

  Avoiding the digression into a subject that still upset her terribly, she continued the happier story of Yiska’s rescue. “Jude found her one night during the blizzards back then. She was almost dead and Jude had to drive to Grand Junction in a snowstorm because the Montrose vet clinic wasn’t open. They said Yiska wouldn’t have made it if she didn’t. The weather was so bad she couldn’t drive back home so she spent the night on a couch in the vet’s office.”

  “In Grand Junction?” Mercy echoed.

  “That’s how Yiska got her name,” Debbie concluded with the detail she found most fascinating. “It’s Navajo for ‘the night has passed.’ Jude says it was apt because for a while, she didn’t think either of them would make it back alive.”

  “Remarkable.” Mercy seemed restless. She stepped onto the porch. The bright lamp overhead bled the color from her face.

  Despite a sense that Mercy didn’t approve of her, Debbie had enjoyed the unexpected visit and the interesting conversation, and wanted to show her appreciation without sounding gushy. “Thank you for spending a few minutes talking to me. It’s lonely out here.”

  “Have you been staying long?”

  “No, just today.”

  Mercy brushed a speck from her crisp white shirt. “Elspeth and I are having a soirée next Saturday. You’re welcome to come if you’re free.”

  Debbie couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to a social event on a Saturday night. She never got invited to anything except potlucks and barbecues. Agatha and Tulley had said she could go with them to the soirée, but it was a different matter to be invited by the hostess
herself.

  Suppressing giggles of pleasure and nerves, she said, “I’d love to come. Thank you.”

  “See if you can talk Jude into it.” Mercy gave her a smile that belonged in Vogue magazine. “Heroes who save small animals deserve time out occasionally.”

  “I’ll try.” It crossed Debbie’s mind to ask if she could bring her partner, but Lone would never go to a soirée. Getting her to Agatha’s Fourth of July barbecue took a solid week of tears and pleading.

  Mercy said good night and Debbie waited on the front porch until she got in her big SUV and backed around. The whole time they were talking, she’d felt nervous. Her imagination often ran away with her when she was with sophisticated people. She always had the feeling they looked down on her. For a few minutes she’d even had the impression Mercy might slap her. It was hard to tell what she was really thinking. She seemed arrogant, but Debbie decided that was just her manner. Doctors could be like that, and Mercy had warmed up in the end. Anyway, she’d invited Debbie to her home. She wouldn’t do that with someone she took a dislike to.

  As she locked the front door, Debbie wondered what she could say to make Jude change her mind about the party so she didn’t have to go alone. She wondered what Lone would think if she went with Jude. Probably not much.

  Her partner must have picked up her thoughts by telepathy, because the cell phone rang and Debbie knew it was her. For a few seconds, she stared at the phone on the coffee table like it was a grenade, then she rushed over and grabbed it. The caller ID showed no name and a number she didn’t recognize, which always meant it was Lone. This was the call she wasn’t supposed to answer. Her heart jammed her throat.

  “Hello.” Her voice came out in a squeak. She took a deep breath and sagged down on the sofa.

  “I was expecting a machine.”

  “No, it’s me. How are you?”

  “I’m standing on your doorstep feeling kind of stupid,” Lone said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it looks like I’ll be eating this pizza and ice cream by myself.” There was no anger in her tone, just disappointment.

  Debbie felt terrible. Maybe she’d been unfair. Jude was probably right. Lone was suffering from some kind of trauma and that’s what made her so detached and secretive. She was probably afraid to open up. “I said I wouldn’t be there.”

  “I was hoping you’d changed your mind. I don’t want to fight with you, Debbie doll.”

  “I don’t want to fight, either.”

  In fact, all she wanted was to be in Lone’s arms again and for everything to be the way it was in their first few months together. Nowadays, she only experienced that magical bliss when they were making love. The rest of the time, no matter how hard she tried, she didn’t feel close to Lone. Tears started to form as she realized Jude was right. Unless she made changes, her relationship was doomed.

  “I’ll come get you,” Lone said. “I see you left your car behind.”

  Disconcerted to think of Lone walking around behind the house to peer in the shed where the car was locked out of sight, Debbie wondered how to answer. She couldn’t possibly admit she was at Jude’s house. Awkwardly, she said, “That’s not necessary.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Yes, but I’m tired tonight. Let’s see each other tomorrow.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Lone sounded completely calm.

  Normally, when things didn’t go her way, she got tense and her voice altered just enough to warn Debbie that she was crossing a line. At those times she always backed down. Relieved that this conversation was going better than she’d expected, she said in a rush, “Lone, I’d really like if we could meet at your place.”

  In the long silence that followed, Debbie’s mouth went dry and she broke into a cold sweat. Needing to do something other than clutch the phone, she got up to find a drink. As she opened the fridge, Yiska slithered around her legs in a happy feline dance. Debbie poured some special cat milk from the box on the pet food shelf and set the bowl on the floor.

  She had cracked up when Tulley first showed her the contents of Jude’s fridge. All kinds of fancy food for Yiska. Organic beef. Sliced chicken breast in gravy. Whole sardines. And for Jude: milk, spring water, ginger ale, and a series of plastic containers with heating instructions taped to them. Agatha made home-cooked dinners for her. Twice a week she showed up at the station with a box full of Jude’s favorites. The plan was a win/win. Jude didn’t have to live on take-out and Agatha earned extra cash, which was a big help.

  Debbie took a bottle of spring water from the door and went back into the living room. Balancing the phone, she removed the bottle cap. Lone still wasn’t talking. Debbie knew what was going on. Lone would simply wait for her to change the subject, then they would both pretend she’d never suggested meeting at Lone’s house in the first place.

  Angry with her for refusing to make this one small compromise to improve their relationship, Debbie said, “Well, I guess you’re not willing to meet me halfway. Enjoy your pizza.”

  Before Lone could answer, if she was even going to, Debbie hit End and placed the cell phone back on the coffee table. Lone wouldn’t be expecting that. She was used to Debbie apologizing, crying, and blaming herself. Well, new rule: If Lone didn’t want to talk, fine—she could have all the peace and quiet in the world.

  Debbie turned on the TV and rubbed her tears away so she could focus on the screen. She was hurt. She thought their relationship mattered as much to Lone as it did to her. Apparently not. She turned up the volume and tried to figure out what was going on. The movie was an older one, the colors kind of hazy. Debbie wanted to switch the channel but the TV wouldn’t let her. Tulley had warned her about that. Jude had TiVo. When the little red light came on that meant she was taping a program.

  Debbie resigned herself to watching and was pleasantly surprised that she started to get involved in the story once she came to grips with the plot. An assassin was hired to kill the president of France for reasons to do with the Algerians. The film wasn’t exciting, but it was nerve-racking and Debbie wasn’t sure how it would end. She didn’t know if it was based on fact and whether Charles De Gaulle was a real man who actually did get assassinated. The security around him was tight, but the Europeans allowed De Gaulle to do risky things so they could avoid arguing with him. Debbie thought an American president would know better.

  Sill, the detective trying to track down the assassin was very clever and the cat-and-mouse contest between the two men had her hooked. In the end, she was shocked to find herself half hoping the Jackal would succeed, he’d gone to such elaborate lengths to plan the killing. Of course she was relieved when the plot failed, but she found herself wondering what happened later, who the Jackal really was, and how he ever became such a cold-blooded killer. That was the mystery, she supposed: why people do terrible things.

  *

  “Sheriff Pratt says you were with the Bureau before you moved out here.”

  Special Agent in Charge Aidan Hill moved forward a couple of steps. They were waiting in line for a table at one of the better Mexican restaurants in town.

  “Yes, the CACU,” Jude said.

  “Quite a change of pace.”

  Jude shrugged. “I was ready to get out.”

  Hill stared like Jude had just thrown up a hairball on a valuable rug.

  A waitress summoned them. “You want a table by the mariachi band or a window booth?”

  “The window.” Jude glanced sideways at Aidan Hill. They’d given the same reply in unison.

  As the SAC strode after the waitress, Jude took full advantage of the view. The agent’s butt was firm and toned, even if Hill moved like she had something prickly up there. The walk was familiar. Female agents made an effort to lose their natural hip sway, along with other signs of their gender, in the drive to avoid the “nutty or slutty” label applied routinely to Bureau women. And fraternization was tantamount to career suicide, so no one wanted to be seen as a fl
irt.

  Jude decided no agent who wanted to keep his manhood intact would attempt to grope Hill in an elevator. Her vibe was all work and no play, and she backed up that first impression with a communication style that could only be described as libido-numbing. Pity. Jude could have been tempted regardless of butt tautness. Lately she’d been looking twice at any female under ninety who smiled at her. Not that she would act on her primal urges. For all she cared, Hill could be a half-dressed hottie who only packed a 9mm for the kink factor, and Jude still wouldn’t go there. The part of her that wanted to get laid was diametrically at odds with another part that felt physically sick at the thought of any woman getting under her skin again.

  Besides, the zone under her skin already had a tenant. Mercy Westmoreland lived there, causing an itchy awareness that Jude could not escape. What would it take to end her fixation? She imagined driving past Mercy and Elspeth’s house and seeing Mercy in the yard screaming at a bunch of kids, a cigarette hanging off her lip, saggy breasts, lank hair, and jeans that didn’t fit anymore.

  Dream on.

  Jude ran her eyes over Hill as she slid into the opposite side of the booth. If the brunette was sending any covert sexual cues, she would spot them, and just in case she’d misread her as a sexless drone, Jude sent a subtle signal herself, letting her gaze linger on Hill’s shirtfront. She waited for the nipples to react. Nada. Perhaps Hill was wearing those silicone gel nipple covers some of Jude’s colleagues in the CACU used. Breast petals. The name made her smile.

  Hill gave her a quizzical look. Like everything else about her, the coffee brown eyes transmitted a “hands off” signal. And there was something else, too. Jude’s downhill career path didn’t sit well with this over-achiever. That she could have traded the Bureau for a two-bit gig in a sheriff’s office in Bumfuck, Colorado, was incomprehensible to a straight arrow like this woman. Jude resisted an immediate urge to invite Hill to the shooting range so she could show her how a loser handles a 1,000 yard benchrest in shifting winds. A five-shot group in less than three inches—would that earn a little respect? Or maybe, to even up the odds, they could face off at 600 yards. See who came closest to a sub-inch. Or there was always hand-to-hand combat. Hill had a nice body, very fuckable. But she looked soft. Jude could take her. Ten seconds, maybe twenty if Hill managed a couple of moves.