“Oh, Collin. You know how bad that sounds.” Felicia Bingham stood and reached for the coffee pot, stepping to the table and filling the men’s mugs. She opened the refrigerator, withdrew a carton of half and half and placed it by her husband’s hand. “He means because Berg shot his boy. Ain’t nobody’d want to live through that. The memory would be a living death.”
Collin nodded. He doctored his coffee, sent an inquiring glance around the table and when nobody else wanted cream, he got up and returned the carton to the refrigerator.
“It would plumb do me in,” he said gruffly. “Hard enough for old Berg to live through Addy’s death. He worried whoever shot her was after him instead. Thought it was a case of mistaken identity. I wondered if the guilt over Addy might kill him. Then it went from bad to worse when the boy came home, and Berg shot him by accident.” He stirred his coffee and looked down into the mocha brew. “God, what a horrible thing.”
“Do you think he was right? I mean, that the shooter didn’t expect it to be Adele?” Russell took a chocolate-chip cookie from the plate Felicia held out, murmuring his thanks. “Who might have wanted to shoot Berg Nielson?
“Been through all this with the Sheriff.” Collin shook his head. “Poor Fischer means well. He sure wants to figure it out.” He sighed. “Never heard of any hard feelings. And all the Nielson’s had was the acreage. The land. Nobody but Addy and Dom would have inherited it. And I don’t think the kids would sell. Not unless it was a desperate situation. Especially not that little Addy. That girl loved the farm. So, the killer still wouldn’t get the property.”
“It just makes no sense,” Felicia said. “Addy was a pretty little thing. She always had a boy or two hanging around. My guess is some teenaged boy shot her in a jealous rage. But then, neither situation covers the notes Berg started getting.” She wiped an eye. “And he hadn’t told us about them. We heard about them only after he died.”
“How about this new death, Felicia?” Arvid bit into a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt Benny Potter?”
“Hmmph.” Felicia pursed her mouth.
“He wasn’t one of our favorite people,” Collin Bingham said. He broke off half his cookie, reached down and fed it to Hank, who swallowed it in a gulp and looked expectantly up at his master hoping for another windfall. “He wasn’t allowed on our property. I don’t have any idea who killed him, but I’m not shedding tears.”
“He tried to shoot our Hank,” Felicia said. “I was making bread and had my hands full of flour. I washed my hands in a hurry, thinking maybe it was the UPS guy, but it took me so long to get to the door that Benny must have thought nobody was home. I was drying my hands when I heard the truck leave—you know, tires on gravel. So, I looked out the window to see who I’d missed. Benny’s truck was already by the mailbox.” She tapped her index finger on the table. “When he pulled out onto the highway, damned if he didn’t stop.” She tapped again. “I thought, ‘what the heck is Benny stopping at our mailbox for? Then I saw him roll down the window of that old truck, poke a rifle out and aim. I don’t know why I was so sure he was aiming at the dog, but I opened the door and screamed, and Hank ran toward the porch, or he’d have gotten him for sure. When he saw me, he hit the gas and barreled away helter-skelter. He was going so fast he fish-tailed.”
“Felicia is sure it was Benny.” He took a sip of coffee. “I wasn’t home, or I’d have hopped in the pickup and chased him down. I did catch him in town the next day and told him never to set foot on our property again unless he wanted a load of buckshot up his britches.”
“Interesting,” Arvid said. “What did he say?”
“Claimed it wasn’t him. Said he hadn’t even used his pickup that day and—”
Felicia jumped in. “But it was that rust bucket he drives. I recognized it.”
Hank laid his broad head on Felicia’s lap and looked at her with soulful deep-brown eyes.
“Yes, the nasty bastard tried to shoot my boy, didn’t he?” She baby-talked to the huge beast.
“Were other folks’ animals shot around here about that time, by any chance?” Russell directed the question to Collin.
“Not any that we know of, but Benny was always shooting at birds. Any birds. Songbirds, woodpeckers. Things you don’t eat. Hunting is one thing. People who hunt eat the meat. But Benny drove around in that truck and used about anything for target practice. I don’t hold with that. And lots of people had their grain bins, mailboxes, and outbuildings peppered with holes. Most likely teenagers with not enough to do, shooting holes in anything that looks easy to hit just out of boredom. But one of the neighbors said they thought it might be Benny.”
“Why had Benny stopped at your place that day?”
“Don’t know,” Collin said. “Don’t rightly care. Probably wanted to borrow something. I was so mad I forgot to ask. Just told him to stay the hell off our property.”
“Huh,” Arvid grunted. “Anything else you know that might be helpful?”
“Well.” Felicia stood and got Hank a dog treat from a cookie jar on the counter. “Can’t imagine it’s important but I heard at the beauty shop that he was trying to find homes for his dogs.”
“Do you know why?” Russell asked.
“Just heard he was finding homes for them. That’s all I know. It was odd, because even if he tried to shoot Hank, his own dogs were like his babies. He truly loved those animals.”
Arvid stood and nodded to Collin, then to Felicia. “Thanks so much for your time, and the coffee and cookies, Ma’am.” Halfway to the door, he turned. “Say, do you happen to know who wound up with the dogs?”
“Yeah,” Bingham replied. “The minister over at Crooked Creek Lutheran took them. Pastor Anderson. Not sure if she kept ‘em or found someone in the congregation who gave ‘em a home.”
“Glad someone’s taking care of them. Thank you again,” Arvid said. “If something else occurs to you, please give us a call.” He put a business card on the table.
Bingham picked up the card and read, “Piano lessons for reasonable rates? Tunes for tots?”
Arvid snatched it back and rummaged in his pocket. “Nup. That one’s my wife’s.” His hand came out empty. He patted his shirt pocket, finding nothing. “Russ?”
Russell placed a card on the table and grinned at the couple.
As the door to the pickup shut on Russell’s side, he burst out laughing. “Tunes for tots!”
“Hmmph.” Arvid growled. He pointed the pickup down the lane and stepped on the gas.
*.*.*
Halfway back to Crooked Creek, Arvid said, “You know how I feel about my dogs.”
“Yeah. You’d let ‘em gnaw off your right hand if they were hungry. And I know what you’re getting at.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“Benny was planning on going somewhere. Someplace where he couldn’t take his dogs. A plane trip or something,” Russell suggested.
“It’s what I think, too.” Arvid slowed for a pheasant rooster that ran across the road and disappeared into the ditch.”
“And if Benny was going somewhere, it might be because he was scared…thought he should get out of town.”
“Could be he thought he was on the killer’s list.” Russell rubbed the back of his neck.
“All speculation,” Arvid said. “Here’s a different scenario. It strikes me there might be a reason he stopped at the end of the lane to take a pot-shot at Hank. Bet it’s about the same distance from the road to a moving tractor in a field.”
Russell gave him his full attention. “Yeah, probably a similar distance.”
“Uh huh,” Arvid said, hands tightening on the wheel, “Maybe old Benny was practicing.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Previous January - Motel near Savannah, Georgia
Harris Freeman tucked his airline ticket home into his wallet. He’d hitched a ride to Savannah with a buddy, planning to take the bus to Atlanta and fl
y to Billings from there. Guess I’ll have to rent a car now, since Wheels says he can’t pick me up. He looked out the window at the empty parking lot.
Nobody yet.
He picked up the small notebook he’d been using since he’d heard about Dom’s death. It’s like I inherited Dom’s penchant for list writing. Hell, maybe I inherited all his saluting ducks, too, he thought, as well as the Nielson ranch. And what am I gonna do with that place until I get out of the Army? Then he thought about the Christofferson brothers. If he sold a few acres, he could afford to pay someone to keep the place up for the next eighteen months of his military commitment. Then, he’d go home and see if he had the stuffing to be a rancher. Maybe the Christofferson brothers. They were already doing most of the work at his mom’s place. Lately they’d said they’d prefer to have a contract for the work, since they were dealing with Harris and no longer with Althea, who they knew best. Probably because their lawyer brother thought they needed to do things more by the book.
He thumbed through his notebook, glancing at the meticulous scribblings until he found a blank page. Picking up the motel pen, he noted the cost of the bus ticket. Then he pulled his phone out and re-checked the next day’s flight schedule to make certain the bus would get him to the airport in plenty of time.
After that, he called Christofferson’s law office and made an appointment for the day after his expected arrival in Crooked Creek. He noted that in his small journal as well. He’d already faxed the law office copies of the wills he and Dom had written, dated and signed—the wills written almost in jest when both expected to be deployed to Afghanistan. Harris had already signed every paper he could possibly sign—even without stepping foot in Crooked Creek. Richard Christofferson was good that way, experienced and thorough. Berg Nielson’s ranch belonged to Harris now—lock, stock and barrel. He rubbed his chin, thinking. Becoming an unexpected landowner didn’t make him feel any happier. It had come at too high a price. The newspaper article Christofferson had sent him told a downright gruesome story.
Poor Dom.
Harris pulled another piece of paper out of his pocket and took a photo of it with his phone, texting that to Christofferson’s office with a brief explanation. It was better than sending an email, because his phone could send a handwritten signature with the note. He signed the phone screen. Then he opened his suitcase and pulled the threatening note he’d received in the mail—the one that had come with the art show flier—and photographed that with the intention of sending it to Christofferson as well. Strange how ominous just a few words could be. Stay away or die.
“Not that I plan on dying anytime soon,” he muttered aloud. “But going back to Crooked Creek feels like heading for a battle-zone and not knowing who the enemy is.”
He sat on the bed, the cheap mattress squeaking under his weight. Adele’s shooting, the harassing notes that made Berg so paranoid he’d shot Dom on his homecoming…both had to be tied to someone wanting the Nielson place, he reasoned. And now, with the receipt of the note in the mail, he knew he’d become the next target. When he got back to Crooked Creek he was going straight to the Sheriff’s Office. See if they could figure out what was going on.
Harris dropped the notebook into his suitcase and tossed the pen onto the rickety motel desk. Then he stuffed the threatening note and his phone back into his pocket without realizing he had neglected to hit send.
A horn beeped out in the parking lot and Harris opened the door, a chill breeze blasting in. He waved a hand at the black vehicle. Then he ducked back inside, grabbed a jacket and stepped out, locking the motel door behind him.
He hurried to the black SUV and wrenched open the door. “Oh, I didn’t expect you,” he exclaimed. “Good to see you though, man. It’s been a while.”
The driver gave him a wide smile. “Last minute change. Hop in. I’m just the delivery boy. Got a contract here for you …something about taking care of your ranch for Althea. What a great deal. I’m going to get paid for bringing it all the way here.”
“Really? A contract? And they paid your airfare to fly down? That’s really strange. I hope they don’t expect me to reimburse them. We’ve always done the agreement with just a handshake before.”
The driver just looked at him with a blank expression and gave a shrug.
“Well, let me put it in the room first, then.” He went back to the motel room and pitched it onto the bed. Then he returned to the SUV, stepped on the running board and jumped into the passenger seat. He yanked the seatbelt over his lap and spoke as he clicked it into place. “Colder than Montana out there, today. Just heard the weatherman say it was only thirty-one. Brr. So, where’s my brother? Where are we headed?”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office
“Jacob, take these keys, jog over to the lot and bring the O’Bourne woman’s motorhome back here. I told the fellows from Sage Bluff that I’d give her a call this morning. Too bad there isn’t anyone in the area that does crime scene clean up, but she strikes me as a pretty tough little gal. She may as well pick it up and get at it.”
“Will do, Sheriff.” A look of elation crossed the young man’s face.
“And be careful.” Fischer gave him a stern look. “You ever drive anything that big before? If you haven’t, I’ll go get it myself.”
“I can do it, Sheriff. Heck, they don’t get any bigger than my dad’s combine. It weighs seven and a half tons and has a 35-foot header. I’m an expert with that big sucker. I’ve been driving it since I was fifteen.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe since I was fourteen. No. No, I guess I was a bit older than that. I was a freshman. You’ve gotta remove the header before you can take it on the road, and over by Hansen’s there’s that narrow bridge. You can’t take the combine over that even with the header off. When we need to switch fields, I have to backtrack all the way over to—”
“Just go get it, will you?” Fischer said, rolling his eyes. “And since you’re such an expert, I expect you to get it here in one piece. To hear Jessie O’Bourne talk about that motorhome, you’d think it was her first-born kid.”
“Sure.” Jacob looked crestfallen. “I can do that.”
Fischer looked out the window as the young officer jogged past the building at a fast clip. His heart ached for the kid. He’d learned a hard lesson when Berg Nielson died. Jacob hadn’t taken the old man seriously when he’d come in with the first few threatening notes. It was a grave error. Now, the kid was trying so hard to make up for it that he made a lot of stupid mistakes. Fischer shook his head sadly. It was another lesson for the kid to learn that no matter how hard you try it's just human to make mistakes.
And guilt is the worst. You can cope with fear. You can get over loss. But guilt never seems to go away. Yeah, he thought, thinking of poor choices he'd made during his early years. Guilt saps a lot of the joy out of life.
*.*.*
Jacob unlocked the driver’s door of the Hawk and jumped into the seat, stretching out his long legs and flexing his fingers in anticipation as he put the key into the ignition. He put his hands on the wheel, and a big smile split his face.
He’d get it back in record time. In one piece. With no scratches. Perfecto. Who did Fischer think he was talking to, some amateur? He snorted, hit the gas and pulled out of the shelter and turned right onto the gravel road that cut through the rest stop parking lot and tied into Pump Station Road—the fast way back to the Sheriff’s Office.
“Oh yeah. Short cut,” he said aloud. Then he mimed talking into a microphone. “Here comes Jacob in the big fancy bomber. Give him some room, ladies and gentlemen.” Then he sniffed. “Man, someone must’ve hit a skunk. I got a big whiff.”
“Peeeyew,” he gagged. “Whooee, that's nasty!”
He rubbed his nose as he edged into the turn leading into the rest stop and passed the area for trucker's parking. Behind him he heard a sound like sliding pebbles and he glanced quickly over his shoulder. Crap. Spilled dog food or something wa
s rolling around on the kitchen hardwood floor. The place is a mess. And Fischer worried about ME messing it up. That’s rich.
An odd hissing sound seemed to emanate from the rear of the vehicle as Jacob drove slowly by several parked cars. He sniffed again. Then he spasmed in his seat. Quickly, he again glanced over his shoulder and his eyes bulged. A furry body eased out from under the dinette and flipped its black and white body so that its hindquarters faced Jacob. The fluffy tail stood up and waved like a beauty queen on a parade float. As the little animal backed in Jacob’s direction, swaying with the swerving of the vehicle, it squirted copious amounts of fluid to the left and right.
“Shit!” The motorhome swerved, glancing off the back fender of a Toyota and taking the tailgate off a beat-up blue pickup.
Jacob froze at the steering wheel. He couldn’t take his eyes off the business end of the skunk, now atomizing the entire interior of the motorhome. His throat burned. His eyes stung like he’d been pepper sprayed. Gagging, he jerked his foot off the gas and covered his mouth with his hands. The Hawk swerved into the grassy area of the rest stop, digging its tires into the moist sod, scattering screaming visitors. Jacob clawed frantically at his eyes. The tail of the motorhome caromed off the concrete corner of the tourist information sign touting local dinosaur digs, mashing the back end of the vehicle. Then it lurched to a stop with the nose of the Hawk butted against the women’s restroom door.
Jacob exploded from the cab in a dive and rolled onto the grassy lot. Behind him, a furry body scrambled out of the open door and ambled fluidly off, the black and white fur rippling like waves on a lake as it scurried away, accompanied by wave after wave of putrid scent.
“Oh, man.” The voice was a twangy whine. A burly trucker stood over Jacob, slapping his cap against his thigh. “I been drivin’ long haul a lot of years, and I seen a lot of accidents. But I ain’t seen nothing like that flippin’ beauty. Whoooeee. Deputy, from the stink of it and the mashed-up back end, I think your insurance company is just gonna total that baby out.”
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