2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “A motorhome? I can’t afford to rent a motorhome.”

  “Uh huh. I know. I’ll let you borrow my baby. There’s a spare key in the drawer of my office. Maybe Fischer’ll let you park it at his house or something. Or behind the Sheriff’s Office. Don’t mess it up. Don’t scratch it. Don’t slop your coffee on the carpet. And—”

  “Okay, okay. I get it.” Russell thought a minute, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Wow. You don’t let anyone borrow that. Are you sure?” Arvid polished and pampered his motorhome like a teenager with his first car. He’d won a horse trailer in a contest the year before and used it as the down payment for the fancy motorhome he and Esther took on numerous fishing trips and jaunts to music festivals.

  Arvid was silent. Then he said. “Ya. I’m sure. Because it’s for Jessie, Russ. She won’t admit it, but she’s scared. I think it will help that we traded rooms, but we just don’t know that yet. And she’s stewing about the Hawk. I’ll take her out tomorrow to rent a reliable vehicle. Something with four-wheel-drive.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Maybe you and I can find some clues Fischer hasn’t run across yet. It worries me that nobody has been able to solve the girl’s murder. Fischer seems like a decent sort. Smart. Tough. But he’s discovered nada. And now here’s this new murder, with the body crammed into Jessie’s Hawk. There’s also something he hasn’t told me yet about the girl’s family.” He sighed audibly. “Something in the way he talked makes me suspect there isn’t a family left.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Yeah.” Arvid heaved another audible sigh. “Well. I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “I will. Let me know when you hit town.”

  Russell ended the call and sat staring into space. Arvid was right on every level. He kicked himself in the behind five times a day for not following Jessie when she left town the previous summer. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d said no. But looking back on it, he guessed it was a pretty piss poor proposal. One he knew blew like a balloon with a hole in it.

  Nah. Like the Hindenburg. It was that bad.

  He’d been heading out the door to follow Jessie and get down on one knee—do it right—when a bad accident call came in.

  By the time the wreckage of the Taurus and the Honda were cleared up, people toted off to the hospital and the accident reports filled out, Jessie was miles and miles out of reach. And so was the impulse of heading off into the sunset after her. He didn’t even know which way she’d headed. His head knew it was for the best. But his heart was filled with sorrow. And now he felt the pressure of worry that she could be in trouble. Serious trouble.

  He looked at his watch. Baker was out on a call at Simpson’s place again. It was the last house considered city limits. Just another barking dog complaint. He couldn’t understand why people got dogs if they didn’t want to pay any attention to them. Dogs, cats, kids. A lot of folks shouldn’t have kids. You needed a license to drive a car, but you can have all these poor kids that don’t come with an instruction manual.

  He thought about K.D.. His buddy Kevin, K.D.’s biological dad, would have been a fabulous father.

  I hope I can measure up. He sighed. Well, no matter what, he’s my son, now.

  And his son was never going to feel neglected. Russell wanted a wife who planned to stay home and be a great mother to K.D.. He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin. Why, why, why does that maddening Jessie have to travel? He’d loved her ever since she was fifteen and she stopped seeming like a kid sister. But all she wanted to do was paint. When she didn’t have a brush in her hand, she was daydreaming about what to paint next. Or she was mesmerized by the view out the window. The color of the sky. The shape of someone’s head. The slant of light coming through window blinds.

  Aw, heck, Jessie. K.D. and I aren’t playing second string to your damn art. We just must not be suited for each other.

  A niggle of worry hit him. Then fear for her. He slammed his palm down on the desk. He buzzed the secretary. Instead of waiting until morning, he’d leave tonight.

  “Is Baker back yet, Nora?” He grimaced at her answer. “Not yet, huh? How about Lenny?”

  He drew a circle on a small open place on his desk blotter. The rest of the space was covered by small drawings and crayon renderings K.D. had created. Each one had a quirky style. They were elaborate and three-dimensional. The kid’s a genius like Jess. Russell colored in his circle. Then he gave it a small head and antennae. Pathetic, he thought. Then he heard Nora come back on the line to tell him Lenny just got in. Russell drew circular squiggles like penmanship practice.

  “Good. I can’t wait for Baker to get back. Something’s come up in Crooked Creek and we’re going to collaborate with their office. I’m packing and heading up there. Tell Lenny I’m out of here, and I’ll call him somewhere on the road when I stop to get gas. Send any calls to him until Baker returns. Change Arvid’s designation from ‘on leave’ to ‘on loan’.” Russell smirked. “Yeah, Nora … like a library book.”

  He called his babysitter and let her know he’d be swinging by to pick K.D. up soon. I’ll have to drop him at Dan O’Bourne’s for a few days. Dan’ll probably be thrilled.

  Then he looked up the number for the Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office and called to inform Fischer that he planned to attend the morning meeting with Arvid. As Russell spoke, he realized that the odd note he’d heard in Fischer’s voice was relief. And Fischer did indeed know where Russell could park a motorhome. He promised to pull in a favor from an R.V. dealer in town who would let Russell park free of charge near their sales office. He’d have an electrical hook up, water, wi-fi and T.V. The whole enchilada. Russell jotted down the address and asked Fischer if he’d have the owner of the dealership meet him there at 8:30. That allowed three hours to get organized, pack and drive to Crooked Creek.

  Russell pulled a ring of keys from his desk drawer, snagged his jacket from the coat rack, locked his door, and headed down to Arvid’s office. He grinned. He was going to borrow the big Norwegian’s baby. His grin widened. And he was going to see Jessie.

  Chapter Twenty

  Previous December - Nielson’s Farm

  “Freezing,” Dom muttered aloud. He was so cold, clammy, but his left side was hot. It was burning up. Waves of pain rippled through his body. He lay in the snow, light flakes dropping with feathery touches onto his face, and took stock. His memory swept back. “Bullet wound,” he whispered. The duffel probably saved his life. Then he remembered his dad screaming and Dom tried to rise. It was dark except off to the right, where he saw a beacon of yellow light, a flashlight on the ground beside his father. Berg was on his back in the snow, the man’s breath coming in rasps, his hand on his chest.

  “Dad!” Dom crawled to him, the numbing pain in his left thigh and forearm making it a spider-like sideways motion.

  “Son,” Berg gasped. “Sorry. So sorry.” In a quavering whisper he said. “My heart, I think. Thought you were—"

  “Don’t try to talk. I’ll get help.” Dom’s voice had a bubbling sound. “I’ll . . . I’ll call first. 911. Then I’ll get you into the house out of the cold.” Fumbling in the right pocket of his jacket, his fingers found his cell and he pulled it out and turned it on with stiff fingers. He punched in the numbers. When he heard the dispatcher’s voice Dom bellowed into the phone, his voice as authoritative as when he’d given orders to medics in Afghanistan.

  “Two men down at Nielson’s farm. One accidental gunshot. One heart attack. 209 South Wildcat Road. Need the ambulance. Stat.”

  The phone fell from his fingers, and as it dropped he began to feel disoriented. Light-headed.

  I’m going into shock, he thought, or dying. I’ve got to get Dad out of the cold, before I’m completely useless. With determination, he bent over Berg. With his right arm, he pulled his father into a sitting position. Then he positioned himself behind him.

  “God, give me strength,�
�� he muttered. Could he lift him? Berg was such a big man. Or had been before the cancer withered him from his healthy weight to nearly skin and bone. Please God. He positioned the flashlight so that the glow lit the side of the house. He circled his father’s torso with his right arm, pushed his own nearly useless left arm under his Dad’s armpit and clasped his hands together. In a superhuman effort, he lifted, grunting with the struggle, and pulled his dad to the side of the house. Heaving and swearing, he pushed Berg’s weight through the open window and dropped him, none too gently, to the floor of the dark bedroom.

  Then he turned, grabbed the flashlight and tossed it into the room toward where he remembered his childhood bed had stood. A soft thump was his reward. The flashlight had landed on the bed. He hadn’t broken it. As he struggled through the window and into the bedroom of his youth he felt the blood flowing down his leg, and inside his jacket. No time to worry about it now. I have to get dad into a warm area.

  Dom grabbed the flashlight from the bed and, with his stronger right arm, dragged Berg through the door into the hallway where it was warmer. He took the patchwork quilt from the bed, draped it over his father, tucked it snug to the man’s body and closed the bedroom door to shut out the cold. By the light of the flashlight, he staggered to the bathroom to find aspirin and a small cup, which he filled with water. Going back down the hall, he held Berg’s head while his father swallowed the pill.

  “I’ve got to leave you and fix myself up a bit, Dad…I …I love you.”

  His father made an unintelligible response.

  Dom made his way slowly down the hallway to the kitchen and was peering into the broom closet with the flashlight when the lights blazed. Power was restored.

  Hanging from a peg was the roll of duct tape he hoped would save his life. He unzipped his jeans, and pulled them off, grimacing at the gaping wounds. Yanking the beginning of the roll with his teeth, he unwound a long strip of duct tape and used it to secure a makeshift dressing comprised of kitchen towels around his thigh. Then he took off his jacket and shirt and did the same with his lower arm and the holes in his side.

  The room was beginning to swim. Willing himself to stay standing, he found the coveralls Berg always hung at the back door and slipped them on as best he could. Blessed be that his dad was such a big man. The coveralls slid right over the fat dressings. He was now in battle mode, and instinctively he knew it was going to be a close fight. Too close. Unless the ambulance could get into the yard, Berg would probably die. Perhaps he would, too. He could feel death looking down at him like a big hound, salivating. His legs felt weak. His vision swam. But the ambulance couldn’t get down the drive unless Dom plowed the way.

  “Battle mode,” he said aloud. He grabbed the keys to the big Ford from their usual place—a wooden rack shaped like a big key, hanging on the wall. Then he opened the back door and staggered out, slamming the door behind him. When he reached the garage, he steeled himself. If the big Ford didn’t have the plow blade attached, he was toast. And so was Berg. If the side door was locked, it was the end. He hadn’t thought to grab that key from the hook, and he didn’t have the strength to lift the big overhead door. Or to go back for the key. He wobbled his way to the side door, leaning heavily against the side of the building as he went. Turning the knob, he pushed weakly at the door and panicked when it didn’t open. It can’t be locked. He leaned his weight against it as he pushed, and he stumbled forward as the door opened. He flipped on the light, and almost wept with relief. The F150 sported the heavy-duty snow plow attachment and was ready to go.

  Thank you, God.

  Dom pushed the button to open the automatic door. He staggered to the pickup, his left leg nearly useless. He opened the door and reached in to grab the steering wheel, using his right arm to leverage his weight onto the seat. Fumbling, he shoved the key in the ignition, started the engine and stomped on the gas. The big pickup lurched out of the garage. He was in business.

  Ten minutes later half the long drive was plowed. He could feel the pickup pulling to the right, but he no longer had enough strength to swivel the wheel to correct it. Or to step on the gas pedal. The truck ground to a halt. Dom’s coveralls were sodden with blood. In his mind, the big dog advanced, jaws opening, snarling.

  We’re losing, Dad. We’re not going to make it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  Then, in the glare of the headlights, he saw the outline of a big man in a winter parka and boots, coming down the plowed side of the drive toward the pickup. The man held a gun and zigzagged from side to side as though making himself a difficult target. Red and blue lights flashed at the end of the lane. Two vehicles, Dom thought. And in the distance came the sound of more approaching sirens.

  The man had reached within fifteen feet of the truck. “This is the County Sheriff. Step out of the truck.” Dom registered that the man was screaming the command, but within the enclosure of the cab he heard a different sound.

  The deep guttural growl of a hound.

  The man came closer. Then the pickup door was wrenched open and Sheriff Fischer reached in to pull Dom from the cab as easily as if he were a child. Two EMTs appeared and lay Dom gently on a stretcher and began to cover him with blankets. They lifted the gurney as Dom whispered, “Hall of the house … Dad ... his heart.”

  Sheriff Fischer nodded. “We’ll get him, Dom. Don’t you worry. You did good, kid. Real good.” Fischer’s mouth was set in a grim line.

  Dom felt his eyes drifting shut, felt his heartbeat slow. Again, he heard the growl. The jaws clamped down.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Jessie was settled into a mirror image of her original hotel room. Jack was not pleased. After examining the new space from corner to corner, he now lay half under the bed, his large orange rump and twitching tail protruding. Jessie prodded the round behind with the toe of her stockinged foot and heard a healthy hiss.

  “You poor baby. You miss the Hawk with your own space, the toys, and the cat door, don’t you?”

  Jessie had a small hatch installed in the door of the Hawk for Jack, but she only unlocked it when they parked at one of her usual locations for plein-air painting. Several of her old friends, all who now lived in different states, owned property in picturesque rural areas of Wyoming, Colorado and Arizona. They made it a point to keep their friendship alive by inviting her to come at least once a year to paint. It was fun to take the Hawk—which served as a studio on wheels—and park next to a stream or small fishing pond, or right on site at one of their ranches.

  Glumly, she wondered how long it would take to erase the image of Benny’s face—especially the milky eyes—looking up at her from the storage area of the Hawk. She shuddered.

  Could the threatening notes have something to do with his murder? Sheriff Fischer isn’t telling all he knows.

  Deep in thought, she twisted a lock of red hair around her finger, wincing as she realized how much shorter that curl was than before the cut. Yes, Fischer is definitely hiding something. I’ll do some searching on good old Google…see if there was more to the story of Adele Nielson’s shooting on the tractor. But first I’d better get dressed.

  Pulling a sea-green silk shirt and a black velvet skirt from the closet, she dressed in a rush, adding an old Indian pawn squash blossom necklace, Navajo pearl earrings, and a long black vest of buttery suede to the ensemble. She loved the fun western cowboy chic style that was standard wear at western art shows. Giving Jack a little rub with her toe before pulling on black round-toed boots, she stepped to the full-length mirror and gave herself what her mother used to call the old once-over. She ran the brush through her hair once more and fastened a turquoise boot bracelet over each boot.

  Reaching into the box of Jack’s paraphernalia, she took out the bag of kibble, giving it a healthy shake. As the first few bits clattered noisily into Jack’s bowl, he quickly backed out from under the bed. Jessie ruffled his fur and told him what a wonderful, handsome fellow he was, then checked the clock. Twenty minutes to spar
e. She had time for a bit of quick research.

  Opening her laptop, Jessie put in the hotel wi-fi code and typed Adele Nielson’s name into the search bar. Immediately, news articles from three Montana papers popped up. She scanned the list. A headline caught her eye that screamed Double Tragedy at Crooked Creek. Jessie tensed. The article began:

  Only months after 19-year-old Adele Nielson was shot while seeding winter wheat in one of the family’s fields, death again visited the Nielson family. During the recent snowstorm, Dominic Nielson returned home unexpectedly in the middle of the night from Fort Stewart Army Base in Georgia. Berg Nielson did not answer his son’s knock on the door, so Dominic, rather than wake his father, attempted to climb in his old bedroom window and was shot by his father as an intruder. Sheriff Fischer of the Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office said that Berg had been receiving threatening notes since the death of his daughter, and those threats had recently escalated.

  “Omigod! Threatening notes!” The words burst from Jessie’s mouth. Then she looked at the screen and read on.

  Upon realizing he had shot his son, Berg went into cardiac arrest and Dominic, though gravely wounded, called 911. When Sheriff Fischer and the volunteer medical personnel arrived, they discovered Dominic slumped over the steering wheel of a truck. The truck had a wide affixed blade used to clear snow. Evidently, Dominic was trying to plow out the driveway, so that the emergency crew could get in to assist his father and himself. Berg had unfortunately succumbed. Dominic was transported to St. Vincent’s Hospital, but did not regain consciousness.

  Jessie gasped. How awful. And the poor old man began getting those threatening notes right after his daughter died. This has to be linked to the toy tractors and notes I was getting. But why me? It must be mistaken identity and they’re meant for someone else.

  She closed her laptop. Minutes ticked by as Jessie sat, thinking of the Nielson family. Gone. The entire family. She got up and looked out her window. In the lighted hotel entrance, she saw the enormous tractor. It was an innocuous looking machine until you thought about the back window—the bullet holes, the girl who died in the cab. Now, it looked malevolent. Beastly.