by Jean Rabe
Paul pondered the coffee. “Zach is…was—” He let that thought hang.
“What?”
“Check the department records, arrests. You’ll have to go back some years. Zach was a troublemaker when he lived in Fulda. Nothing like his squeaky-clean older brother. A few drug charges here and there. Zach had a fondness for pot from an early age, practically a kid when he started smoking it. I caught him with enough once to send him away for a year and a half. Now pot is a slap on the wrist. Wrong to decriminalize marijuana like they’ve done.”
Paul Blackwell had been with the Spencer County Sheriff’s Department for three decades, and received the Sheriff of the Year award from the Indiana Sheriff’s Association a few years back for his community work. All those years…he likely knew most of the people in Spencer County, including Zachary Delaney, Piper mused.
“You going to chat with Zach?”
Piper shook her head. “I’m taking the autopsy and giving Zachary to Oren and Randy.”
“You’ll like working with Randy, he’s a solid detective.”
She ran her finger around the edge of the coffee cup. “I hope so. I don’t like working with Oren.”
“Oren’s a good man.”
“Well, he did take Mr. Delaney’s cats, said he has some sort of a forest cat—”
“That would be Freya, a purebred Norwegian Forest Cat—”
“—and said he didn’t want Mr. Delaney’s cats to go to the shelter, as it’s crowded. Said he’d been thinking about getting another cat anyway.”
“See? Oren’s a good man.”
“I suppose.” She shrugged. “I’ve never worked a murder before, you know. Seen plenty of dead men, pieces of dead men. Some nights that’s all I see in my dreams, the pieces. But an outright murder—” Piper had been an MP out of Fort Campbell and had witnessed a lot of death from tours in Iraq. She took a few more sips of the coffee and held the flavor on her tongue. “I told Oren I didn’t want the State called, said we’d handle it.”
“That’s my Piper.” Paul smiled, and she saw how parchment-like the skin around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes had become. “You can handle it.” He gave her a wink. “Might want to look into the to-do a few years back when Conrad sold his gas station. A couple different families from the county wanted to buy it, the only station in Fulda, and Conrad sold it to a Vietnamese man living in Owensboro who met his asking price. Bad feelings still lingering. And it wasn’t so much about the man’s nationality, as that he wasn’t local.”
“Huh. I’ll look into that tomorrow.” She fixed her dad with a stern look. “And speaking of tomorrow, what time is your appointment? If it’s early enough I’ll drop you off, go to the autopsy, come back and—”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking myself. If that poison crap makes me too sick, I’ll just pull over and puke.” His expression hardened. “I want to show you something. Be right back.”
Piper drained the second cup while she listened to him shuffling around. She was in Spencer County because of his dire diagnosis. She’d been all set to re-up at Fort Campbell when her dad called her. Non-Hodgkin’s, he’d said, advanced. Spots on his liver complicated things.
She’d moved into the apartment over her dad’s garage, the one he used to rent out years ago, complete with orange shag carpet and avocado colored appliances. Dear God, when did they make refrigerators and stoves in that godawful green? Piper had been back two weeks when he’d suggested she take a run at the sheriff job, that she’d been working as an MP and so had the “law enforcement chops.” It paid sixty-two thousand a year, which made his suggestion more interesting—and certainly more appealing than working at the Rockport Power Plant. She figured the campaign would be a good distraction for her dad.
She won the primary on the Republican ticket; Oren won the Democratic primary. Then she clinched it on the final fall ballot…shortly before the doctors told Paul Blackwell that his first round of treatments hadn’t knocked out the cancer after all; it was spreading.
Piper knew she had traded on her last name, that her father was well-loved in the county, and that it was the Blackwell moniker that people voted for. She had downplayed her age, touted her military record and MP experience, and had made sure the campaign signs said: Vote for Blackwood.
He returned with a newspaper. “I remembered reading this, Punkin. Good thing I hadn’t taken the stack to recycling yet.” He spread the paper on the table between them, the headline facing Piper. It was dated December 15. He opened the paper to the middle and pointed.
The picture at the top of the section caught her eye: the sleigh. The reporter quoted Conrad.
“I built that twenty-seven years ago, out of oak, planks from a tree I’d cut down in the side yard. Tree’d been hit by lightning and I put it out of its misery. Painted her Boston Brick Red first, then Merlot Red, and some years after that Million Dollar Red, a little too bright, but the color was on sale at the hardware store. Always bought my paint on sale. About five years ago I painted her Lady Bug Red, which was the best red she had been, but the paint was poor quality, and the next couple of winters were a little harder. She got all chipped and faded, sad looking. I was almost ashamed of her. But right before Thanksgiving I repainted her Midnight Gloss Black and added a little gold trim to dress her up. I thought she’d never looked classier. Should’ve gone with black years ago. Then I added a row of fist-sized antique bells that my grandfather ‘back in the day’ I guess you’d call it, used to put on the team when riding into town in the winter. Horse bells. Sleigh bells. I’d saved them too long.”
The article went on to say that Conrad had kept the bells carefully packed away in the attic for decades because he feared that if he put them out, the snow and ice would ruin the already heavily-cracked leather straps and diminish their value. He said he put them out this year because he’d turned sixty-five the first of December.
“I thought I shouldn’t be saving things anymore,” Conrad was quoted.
“Why save anything?” Paul mused sadly. “Why collect anything? It’s just stuff your kids will have to throw away.”
She looked closer at the photograph, her fingernail tapping against the line of bells.
“Curious,” she said. “Those sleigh bells? I looked over every inch of that sleigh. It might not mean anything, but I didn’t see any antique bells.”
Four
Tuesday, January 2nd
“You know how it goes. Fell in with the wrong crowd in junior high…not that there was much of a crowd, the school being so small. Hell, everything here is tinier than a flea’s fart. But whatever was wrong, whatever was a bad influence…back then I managed to find it.” Zachary Delaney sat in his father’s living room, in a high-backed chair upholstered in a blue floral fabric. “Drugs, alcohol, you name it, I was into it.”
Zachary didn’t fit the room, which was done in pastels, the woodwork a creamy birch. But then Oren thought Zachary wouldn’t fit much of anywhere, a hippie crossed with a biker wannabe, with a dash of St. Vincent DePaul’s Center sprinkled in the mix. Greasy long hair, stubble. He was dressed in navy sweatpants that grazed the tops of his raggedy fringed moccasins darkened from melting snow. His long-sleeved green paisley shirt was complemented with an unbuttoned black leather Harley vest that had seen better years. His winter coat, a hunter’s orange nylon parka, was draped over the back of the chair. The coat looked new.
Oren had scheduled the meeting for 9 a.m., but Zachary showed up an hour late and shrugged when given the customary, “Sorry for your loss.”
Randy stood in the living room doorway and watched.
“You know, I just saw my old man at Christmas,” Zachary continued. “I dunno, guess that was five, six days ago.”
“Eight,” Oren said.
“Yeah, eight. I came up for just the day.” He chuckled. “Hell, I only stayed a few hours. Didn’t want to put my old man out. He’d wash sheets, towels, everything after someone used ’em just once, just breathe
d on ’em. He asked me to stay, though, twice asked me. I should’ve maybe. Hell yeah, I should’ve. One more thing in my life I messed up, right? Not spending the night, not watching old Christmas movies with him. Shit.”
“If he asked you to stay,” Oren posed, “then the two of you must have—”
“Been getting along better? Yeah, well, we’d been getting along a lot better since I cleaned up my act, stopped with the drugs.”
Oren fought the eyebrow that wanted to rise. From Zachary’s outward appearance, it didn’t look like he’d cleaned up anything.
“He was doing okay, my old man. Said he’d just been to the doctor, blood pressure was better, had repainted his sleigh, had found a new radio controlled airplane kit at a half-price sale and was gonna put it together after the holidays, fly it in the spring. He asked me if I’d come back some weekend and work on it with him. I was gonna. Shit. I should’ve stayed Christmas night and started on the kit then. Maybe I’ll take the plane back to my place and—”
“Not yet.” This from Randy. “We’ll let you know when the house is clear and you can take some things.”
“Yeah, okay, I guess. Doesn’t seem right, though. It’s my house, not the sheriff’s property.” Zach chewed on his lower lip. “I should be able to take that plane kit.”
Oren had a notebook ready in his back pocket, but he waited. It was clear the boy—he mentally corrected that to man, as Zachary was twenty-six—was going to talk. Bringing out a notebook sometimes caused people to shut down.
“When did you leave home?” Randy asked. “Go out on your own?”
“Fourteen. I started smoking pot when I was fourteen, did some poppers then too, blotter once, maybe twice. Dad caught me with some pot and there was a big blowout. Fourteen. I left when I was fourteen, late one night. Crashed with friends. It was stupid, I know. But I was stupid back then.”
Randy stepped all the way into the room. The detective was two decades younger than Oren and had the silhouette of a dagger—broad shoulders that cut down to a narrow waist and hips, long thin legs. “We haven’t met before, Zachary—”
“Zach’ll do.”
“Zach, then. I should have introduced myself right away. I’m Detective Randy Gerald. I understand—”
“Randy Gerald. A man with two first names. Ha! No, I ‘spect we haven’t met. Don’t remember you, anyway. I remember Oren here. He arrested me once, speeding. Helluva ticket at the time ’cause I wasn’t working and had to borrow the money to pay it. Then the week after that the sheriff got me. I did a year and a half for possession—pot. Christ, it was only pot. Fuckin’ sheriff, he—”
“That would have been Sheriff Paul Blackwell,” Randy said.
“Yeah, fuckin’ Sheriff Paul Blackwell. I did a year and some change, and now that little bit of pot in my pocket would be maybe a fifty dollar fine. Maybe. Dad was pissed at me—again, and embarrassed. I didn’t want him holding the pot thing over my head, so after I got out, I moved out of the county, the state, to Henderson. Figured me and Indiana hadn’t worked out so well. I got a job out on the strip right after you roll off the bridge from Evansville. Wasn’t full time, so I got a second job, delivering The Gleaner on some rural routes, ratcheted up the miles on the Batmobile.”
Oren cocked his head.
“My little black Civic. Made enough money to buy a mobile home at a little trailer park in the sticks. I didn’t come back for mom’s funeral. I should’ve. But I should’ve done a lot of things back then. Anthony didn’t come back either. I should’ve stayed Christmas night.”
“You live in Owensboro now,” Oren put in.
“Because of a girl.” Zach closed his eyes. “To get away from a girl.”
“Broken heart?” Randy cut in.
“Broken in a helluva lot of pieces. I met her in Henderson. God, she was a looker, that girl, thought about marrying her, let her move in with me in that trailer. She was bad for me though, into meth and crack, sometimes heroin, always had something on her, and always willing to share. I was trying to get clean, but I caved. And then she up and said we were done.” Zachary opened his eyes and shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles. Oren could see he was on the verge of tears. “I gave her the mobile home…yeah, I was an idiot, right? I gave it to her and just moved out. I go back and check on her every once in a while, though, to see if she’s still there. So, yeah, I left Henderson for Owensboro because of a girl.”
“Is she? Still there?” Oren just wanted to keep him talking, hoping there was something useful in his ramble.
“She looks like hell now, the years not kind. Or maybe it was the drugs. I should’ve stayed with Dad Christmas night. I should’ve watched those stupid movies.”
“Why Owensboro?” Oren pressed.
“I knew some guys there, crashed with them until about a year or so back when I got a job with Plank Manor out on Heartland and had money again. It’s like a Menards. I work in shipping and receiving, manager trainee right now. A guy in rehab helped me get it. Dad was finally proud of me.”
No one said anything for almost a minute. The furnace made a popping sound, and then Zach started up again. “I gotta know. I stopped at Arnie’s down the road before I came here. He said my old man was murdered. Didn’t just up and die. I was blaming myself that he was dead, thought maybe me turning him down on Christmas night had messed with his heart. I figured I was to blame, at least part to blame. But I stopped at Chris Hagee’s across the road, had to ’cause you’ve got the end of the driveway here blocked with your big-ass cars. Chris, he said my dad was murdered.”
“About that—” Randy started.
“Some lady in your department called me last night and said my old man was dead. But she didn’t tell me he was fuckin’ murdered. She could’ve told me, you know. She could’ve fuckin’ told me. I wouldn’t’ve sat home last night drinking and blaming myself. She should’ve told me.”
“Yeah, she should have told you,” Oren agreed. That would have been Piper—and her lack of experience showing.
“Got a clue who did it? Why they did it? Arnie didn’t know nothing, and Chris didn’t know much. Was it about the gas station? It was about the gas station, wasn’t it? He’d gotten threats back when he sold it. Fuckin’ gas station.”
Oren eased off the couch and walked behind it. Randy took the vacated cushion. “Sheriff Blackwell is with the coroner right now,” Randy said.
“Fuckin’ Sheriff Blackwell. Put me away for a year and a half. Fuck Sheriff Blackwell.”
Neither told Zachary that it was a different Sheriff Blackwell.
Randy cleared his throat. “We won’t know anything until the autopsy’s over. Maybe it’ll be a few weeks to determine the cause of death. Test results take a while. When was the last time you saw your father?”
“Told you already. Christmas. Plank Manor was closed, so I drove up.”
Randy’s voice was even. “Just trying to find out who saw him last. Where were you yesterday?”
“Work. Eight to five. I punch in. We only close for Christmas.”
“And the day before that? New Year’s Eve?”
“Work, then a party.”
Randy twirled his thumbs. “Anyone vouch for you at that party?”
Vouch for me? Zachary mouthed. “Listen…me and my old man, we were finally getting along. I was here Christmas. I should’ve stayed, he wanted me to stay, but I didn’t, had to get back to work the next day, didn’t want him washing sheets just ’cause I’d slept on ’em. And now I’m feeling real bad about that. I fuckin’ should’ve let him wash sheets. I should’ve watched those old movies. Shit.”
“This party on New Year’s Eve. Where was it?”
Zachary glared. “Mickey’s. It’s a bar in downtown Owensboro.”
“Were you there all night?”
“What is it with you, man? Just ’til midnight. Got a ride home with Buzz, our designated driver.” Dez-ig-nay-ted was loud and drawn out. “Buzz. Hah! I
t was Buzz’s night not to get buzzed. He was cool with it. His turn. Though I could’ve drove myself. I wasn’t that bad off. Had to be at work the next day, so I didn’t go too overboard. I can give you Buzz’s phone number if you need to check on me.”
“Buzz have a last name?”
“Sharper.”
“We’ll need that phone number.”
Zach thought a moment then rattled off a phone number for Buzz and one for Sydney Nicholson, another friend he’d been drinking with.
“Your father…do you know anyone who wasn’t getting along with him?”
Zachary snorted. “No. But somebody wasn’t. Obviously. Somebody didn’t get along so much they killed him. Maybe some idiot is still pissed off about the gas station. Maybe somebody got tired of the sleigh, pissed because he painted it black this time. You know that Stones song…Paint it Black? Maybe my old man shouldn’t’ve painted it black. Can’t take the plane kit, huh? Can I take a picture?” He pointed to the array of framed photographs on the mantel. “Can I take one of those?”
“Did your father—” Randy stopped when Zachary held up a hand.
“Saw him at Christmas, I said. Talked to him on the phone at Thanksgiving. Bumped into him last July at the thing in the park.” The tears started in earnest now, edging out slow, and Zachary blinked and ran his shirt sleeve across his eyes, not looking as tough as he had minutes ago. “That’s all I got. The neighbors know him better than me. Knew him better. You should be talking to them, Chris and Joan Hagee across the street. Listen, I gotta be back to work tomorrow. I’m gonna put him at the funeral home in Rockport, the one on Main. Gotta go over there and make some arrangements, pick out a casket. Something nice that I can’t afford. Order lots of flowers that I can’t afford.”
He rubbed at his eyes, composed himself, and looked from Randy to Oren and then to the floor. “I never figured I’d be burying my old man, you know. I figured as much drugs and shit as I was into that I’d OD in some vacant lot in Kentucky and he’d be the one planting me.” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Listen, I don’t have the kind of money to pay for this, a funeral and all, the casket. The cemetery’s gonna cost, too, opening a grave. Do you know how much all of this is gonna run? Shit. I should’ve stayed Christmas night. Shit.”
