Mind Over Monsters

by Jennifer Harlow

  A grin hits me, one that goes from cheek to cheek. I even blush a little. “Thank you. You have no idea what that means to me.”

  “You’re welcome. Good night, Beatrice.”

  “Sleep tight, Will.”

  He steps into the night and out of sight. If this were an old movie, right now would be where I swoon or break into song with waitresses dancing behind me. But seeing as this is real life, I smile and blush some more. Maybe there is a light at the end of the tunnel after all. Or at least a gorgeous man with crinkly eyes. I sip my super sweet coffee and hope the tunnel isn’t too terribly long.

  SIX

  BEATRICE ALEXANDER ON THE CASE

  At nine thirty, without a wink of sleep under my belt, Will, Agents Chandler and Rushmore, and I pile into our Suburban and head into Bridge Stone, Colorado, which is now shy two of its residents. The rest of the team gets to sleep in until the mobile command unit arrives at the nearest military base and is hauled to an undisclosed location. What it is, what it does, I have no idea. I’ll find out later.

  Bridge Stone has approximately three thousand residents, and whoever decided to put a town here clearly did not want outsiders to invade. The snowy mountains that surround the valley are unskiable, with jagged rocks everywhere, so no ski lodges have sprouted among the faded white, weather-damaged buildings that comprise the town. There is only one road in and out, an offshoot of the interstate, so the town is basically a dead end. On that road is the town proper with an honest-to-goodness “General Store,” among other anachronisms. In chipped gold letters on its window, the store boasts the best milkshakes in all of Colorado. As we drive through the town toward the sheriff’s station, we pass Sarah’s Beauty Parlor, the Apache Theater showing Strangers on a Train, a small grocery store, the bank where Valerie Wayland worked, a hardware store, a diner, a bakery, Wynn’s butcher shop, and a dress shop with the ugliest hats ever created on display. That’s it. That’s the whole town. The few people coming in and out of the stores actually stop to say hello to each other and chat. The only thing my neighbor in San Diego ever said to me was “Move your car.” I feel like I’ve entered a time warp back to the fifties.

  The sheriff’s station is off the main road down a narrow two-lane street between the bakery and the butcher shop. The short road dead ends at another road where the police station and fire department sit next to each other. Unlike the white wooden buildings on the main drag, both these buildings are made of stone and concrete, giving them an appropriately rugged look. We passed a few houses on the way with the same design. A fireman, a fat man with thinning hair, washing either a fluffy dog or a big rat, smiles and nods at me as I walk into the station. Friendly town.

  I’m surprised to find that the inside of the station is a lot like the one my ex, Steven, worked out of, only smaller. We walk through a small beige hallway with a bulletin board filled with community information on one wall and pictures of smiling officers on the other. The hall ends at a plastic partition where an elderly woman in a pastel flowered suit sits. On either side of her are doors with key pads that lead into the offices. Will shows his badge to the woman, who presses a button. The door to our right opens. I follow behind Agent Rushmore past about five men and women, some in light-brown uniforms, and others in work casual clothes, who all sit in cubicles filling out paperwork. Another man in uniform gestures us toward a back room.

  When we walk in, the men give their names and titles to the officers but my eyes immediately go to the bulletin board covered with pictures of Valerie Wayland, both alive and dead. On the table taking up most of the room sit baggies of evidence and a file with “Bridge Stone Sheriff’s Department” printed on it. After the formalities, Will takes the file off the table and begins reading. A second later, Sheriff Graham and his five o’clock shadow and bloodshot eyes step in. I see I’m not the only one who pulled an all-nighter.

  “Good morning,” Sheriff Graham says.

  “Is this everything from the Wayland case?” Will asks, not looking up from the file. He looks delectable today in a dark-blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie.

  “Everything we have,” Graham replies. “Pictures we took, Dr. Harper’s autopsy report, statements, what have you. The doctor is examining Davis right now, so he’ll have that report done later today.”

  “Is that the same doctor who claimed Valerie Wayland was killed by an undetermined animal?” Will asks.

  “At the time it was—”

  Will’s eyes whip up to the sheriff. “With all due respect to Dr. Harper, who in here it says is a family practitioner and not a pathologist, we’ll have our own medical examiner take a look at both bodies.”

  “That’s going to be a little hard,” Graham says, “considering Val’s body was cremated. Walter is off in California spreading the ashes right now.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Agent Chandler asks.

  “I didn’t get on the plane with him, but he said that’s where he was going and nobody’s seen him since. And I don’t appreciate your tone. I still haven’t seen a lick of proof that these weren’t animal attacks. Bears and mountain lions come down all the time.”

  “No doubt, but that’s not what killed them. These people were murdered.”

  “By who? Jack the Ripper?”

  Will just looks back down at the file. “You only interviewed four people, three from the bank and her husband. Why only four?”

  “Because it was an animal attack! And I really do not appreciate your tone, Agent Price. I investigated this case to the fullest extent. If you’re implying—” Okay, way too much testosterone in this room. Fist fight any second. I clear my throat theatrically as if I’m about to cough up a hairball. The men look at me. “You okay?” Graham asks. “Do you need some water?”

  I smile. “I’m okay now. Thank you.” The men glance at each other with confusion. Better to be a weirdo than collateral damage. “Uh, Sheriff Graham, do you know if Valerie Wayland and Davis Wynn knew each other?”

  “I’m sure Valerie and Davis knew each other, we all know each other, but beyond a casual acquaintance … I haven’t heard anything. Val and Walter seemed solid from what I can gather. I never really had any dealings with them. They were quiet, mostly kept to themselves, especially him. If they fought, I never got wind of it.”

  “Did Walter have an alibi for that night?” Agent Rushmore asks.

  “Left the store at seven, went home—a neighbor confirmed his car was in the driveway all night—and about eleven, he called us to report Val missing. He had no idea why she’d be out at the cemetery that night except to visit their daughter. The man went into shock when I told him what happened. Doctor Harper had to swing by.”

  “Did you search the house?” This from Agent Chandler.

  “He let us in without a warrant, and we did a cursory eyeball search. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “You didn’t go back?” Agent Rushmore asks.

  “It was ruled an animal attack the next day, so no, we had no reason to return. He cooperated fully.”

  “What did her friends say?” I ask.

  “The night she was killed, she stayed late to count out the drawers. Their names are in the file.”

  “What’d they say about the marriage?” I ask.

  “Like I said, it was ruled an animal attack. I didn’t ask them or him about the state of their marriage. There was no way I was going to grill a man who just lost his wife—and had lost his child not too long ago—if I didn’t have to.”

  “Do you know when her husband is expected back?” Agent Chandler asks.

  “No idea. He said he was going to spread her ashes in Sacramento, where they met. That was not quite a week ago.”

  “What about Davis Wynn? Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt him?” I ask.

  His lips say no, but this question raises his anxiety level enough that I feel his emotion in my stomach. He also starts playing with his wedding ring.

  “Is the name Carrie at all familia
r to you?” Will asks.

  The anxiety raises another notch. “Carrie Ellison works at the butcher shop. She has for about a year.”

  “Did she know both Valerie and Davis?” I ask.

  “Yes. She worked at the bank with Val till she quit.”

  “So, she worked with both victims?” Will asks.

  “Yeah, but Carrie doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. And besides, she weighs all of ninety pounds; she couldn’t do that to a person even if she wanted to.”

  Will closes the file. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff Graham. We’ll keep you posted on our progress.”

  Before Graham can protest, Will steps out of the room, Agents Chandler and Rushmore at his heels. Graham’s jaw clenches. I leave before he can tear into me. The men wait right outside the hall.

  “Agent Rushmore, stay here and collect all, and I mean all, they have on the two vics. Then run it over to mobile command when Wolfe calls to tell you it’s arrived. Have everyone get started sorting through it. Make sure Carl touches something of each of the victims. See what he can find out about them. When you’re done with that, get on the phone dumps for both vics: home, work, cell, whatever they have. Have Irie check Walter Wayland’s alibi. Credit run, airport security feed, she knows the drill.”

  Agent Rushmore nods and walks away.

  “Agent Chandler, stop by Walter Wayland’s work and interview his co-workers. And call Konrad. Have him start at Wynn’s house. When you’re done with Wayland, help Konrad go through everything. Find his appointment books, financials, whatever. And keep me posted.”

  “What about the Wayland house?” Agent Chandler asks.

  “We’ll have to go through proper channels since the husband’s still alive,” Will says. “We need a warrant, and we don’t have probable cause yet. We’ll start with Wynn first.”

  Agent Chandler goes the way of Agent Rushmore.

  “Alexander,” Will says, “you’re coming with me.”

  ——

  I’ve been in small shops before, but this bank is little more than a closet. How did Valerie Wayland stand this place day after day? The two tellers inside Bridge Stone Bank stand behind a counter. One is in her twenties with a mismatched suit/shirt combo, and the other is a very tall middle-aged woman with black and gray hair cut to her shoulders. A man in an outdated brown suit stands from behind his desk.

  “May I help you?” the man asks as we walk in.

  Will displays his badge for the man. “Special Agent William Price, FBI.”

  The man glances at me. Shoot, where is my badge? I reach into my purse but don’t feel it. I’m a bad agent. “I’m with him.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We’re investigating the deaths of Valerie Wayland and Davis Wynn. Would you mind if I asked the staff a few questions?” Will asks.

  “Let me ask my boss,” the man says. He walks through a door and reappears on the other side of the counter. He says something to the tall woman, who just nods. She hands money to her customer, who promptly walks away. The customer smiles and nods as she passes us. We nod back. On the walk over here, almost every person who passed us nodded. I followed Will’s example and nodded back. At this rate, I’ll have whiplash by the end of the day.

  The manager waves us over. Will flashes his badge and I flash a smile before we reach the woman. I do retrieve my Hello Kitty notepad from my purse—a present from a student—to take notes. I don’t have the best memory when it comes to details.

  “I’m Theresa Petrie, the manager,” the tall woman says, eyeing my pink notepad. I cover Kitty with my palm. “Is this about Val?”

  “Yes. We’d like to interview you and your staff,” Will says.

  “Well, I’m sorry, but we told everything we knew to Sheriff Graham.”

  “Please, Ms. Petrie,” Will says.

  “I thought this was an animal attack.”

  “That’s what we’re looking into. There was another death last night, so we’re just erring on the side of caution.”

  She sighs. “Of course, I’m sorry. Take as much time as you need.”

  “Thank you,” Will says. “We’ll be as quick as possible. Did Mrs. Wayland have anyone she was particularly close to here?”

  “Not really. Val was never very forthcoming when it came to her personal life. She listened more than she talked, especially after … ” She looks down at the counter.

  “Did she change much after the accident?” I ask.

  “You would think so, but not really. Like I said, she was never that talkative, and I guess even less after Emma died.”

  “Well, from what you can tell, how were things with her husband?” I ask.

  “They seemed fine. They were never what you’d call affectionate, but she never complained. Walter would come in sometimes to take her to lunch, but he never even acknowledged us. I never saw them hug or kiss in the fifteen years I’ve known them. It was a bit surprising, though.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, when my sister and her husband lost their son, their marriage completely changed. Everything changed. For Val and Walter, it was as if nothing happened, especially on his part.”

  “What do you mean?” Will asks.

  “When it first happened, she asked for extra hours. I even found her crying in the bathroom once. She refused to talk about it and never showed emotion again. Walter was the same, but in my opinion worse. A few weeks ago, Val mentioned he’d never been to visit Emma’s grave. Not once since they buried her. I couldn’t believe it when she told me that.”

  “There is no one way to deal with loss,” Will points out.

  “I suppose, but it just bothered me. Though I never liked Walter to begin with.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Have you ever just met someone and instantly disliked them? There’s just something you can’t quite put your finger on?” Theresa shrugs. “The few times we spoke, he was perfectly pleasant, if a bit standoffish. He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. He just rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “What about Davis Wynn? Did you know him?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. He and my husband played poker together for years until Dave quit. He was a great guy. I hadn’t really seen him in a while though.”

  “When did he quit the game?” I ask.

  “Three, four months ago, out of the blue.”

  “Any idea why?”

  She shrugs. “Said he was tired of getting wiped clean.”

  “You believe him?”

  “He is a really bad player.” She bites her lower lip and shakes her head. “Shit, sorry. He was. Was.” She shakes her head again. “Sorry. First Val then Davis. It’s just so sad. My husband found out this morning. He was near tears.”

  “Do you think he’d mind if we interviewed him?” Will asks.

  “Not at all. He’ll be at work until four. He’s the principal at Bridge Stone Elementary.”

  I jot that down. “Did Davis come into the bank a lot?”

  “About the same as everyone.”

  “Was he overly friendly with Valerie when he was here?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “So there was no relationship between them beyond the professional one?”

  “I doubt it. The only time I know they met outside the bank was at a dinner party I threw about five months ago. They did spend a lot of time talking that night. Oh, and Emma’s funeral, but everyone in town was there that day.”

  “Who were the guests at this party?” Will asks.

  “My husband, Val and Walter, Davis and Carrie, Donna over there and her husband, two other couples.”

  “Carrie Ellison was there?” Will asks.

  “Yes. That was uncomfortable.”

  “She used to work here, correct?”Will asks.

  “Until about a year ago.”

  “Was she fired?” I ask.

  “No, she quit. When our old assistant manager retired, both Val and Carrie were up for the job. No
w, Val had been here a lot longer, but Carrie thought she was the best candidate because she had some management experience. When I gave the job to Val, Carrie just up and quit. Few days later I went into the butcher shop and there she was.”

  “If Davis knew about the animosity between all of you, why did he bring Carrie to your party?” I ask.

  “When Stan, my husband, asked Davis, he said Carrie overheard him talking about it and asked to come. Of course, she spent half the night chewing my ear off about how much better her new job was and how wonderful Davis was to work for. The other half she spent sulking on the couch.”

  “So she minded that Davis spent the whole night talking to Valerie?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. She’d slip over to them occasionally and try to get into the conversation, but Dave ignored her.”

  “Was it possible that Davis and Carrie were seeing each other?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. Half the men in this town have had something going on with Carrie at some time or another. Of course there were rumors, them being found in parked cars and such, but Davis never admitted it to Stan or me.”

  Will reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Mrs. Petrie, if you think of anything else, please call me. You’ve been very helpful,” he says, giving her a grateful smile.

  “I just wish I could tell you more.”

  “Do you mind if we speak to your employees now? I promise we’ll be brief.”

  “Of course. I’ll send Donna right over.”

  An hour later, we leave the bank having learned nothing new from the others. Valerie rarely spoke about her home life, at least to her colleagues. Valerie and Walter had a decent relationship, at least on the outside, and her co-workers knew nothing about an affair. I walk out of the bank feeling more than a little frustrated. No smoking gun, only more unanswered questions. We start down the street passing more nodding people.

  “Did you find anything in there a bit odd?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, the fact that she barely mentioned the death of her only child to anyone?”