Mind Over Monsters

by Jennifer Harlow

  I sit in a plastic chair in the waiting area and pull out a magazine just as the door opens. Will steps in, and all eyes zoom to him. Beauty pageant smiles form on every woman’s face. The streaked stylist eyes him from head to toe. “Well, hello,” she purrs. Will flashes a smile back and joins me. The women exchange glances before going back to doing hair. Silence fills the Truth Palace. Guess what they were discussing isn’t fit for strangers’ ears. Will’s phone cuts the silence after a few seconds. He smiles apologetically at the women and steps back outside. The old woman’s eyes follow Will, focusing south of the equator. When he’s gone, she looks up at her stylist.

  “Not bad, huh? If I was thirty years younger … ”

  Everyone giggles. “Damn, Maxine,” her stylist says.

  “Excuse me,” I say, standing up. “I’m sorry to disturb your work, but we’re here investigating the deaths of Valerie Wayland and Davis Wynn. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Us?” Streaks asks.

  “Cool,” the teen says.

  “How can we help?” the older stylist asks.

  “Did any of you personally know either of them? Or Carrie Ellison?”

  The old woman, Maxine, scoffs. “Don’t get me started on that Carrie. That child’s screwier than those women who inject botulism into their faces.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She was having an affair with my Louie, may he rest in peace, who just happened to be thirty years older than her. Schmuck even left me for her but came crawling back a week later. She got tired of having to wash his shorts and cook his meals.”

  “I still can’t believe you took him back,” the older stylist says.

  “Sarah, after forty years of marriage, you tend to forgive a little thing like your husband sleeping with the town tramp.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So Carrie sleeps around?”

  “If he’s over forty, he’s undoubtedly been under Carrie,” Maxine quips.

  “Maxine!” Turning back to me, the older stylist, Sarah, says, “It’s sort of a rite of passage—if your marriage can survive Carrie, it can survive anything.”

  “How long do most affairs last?”

  “Until she tires of them. A month or two?”

  “She ends the relationships?”

  “Hon, what fifty-year-old man would give up a twenty-something girl?” Maxine asks.

  “What about Davis Wynn? Did you hear anything about them?”

  Streaks chuckles. “Oh yeah. I remember a couple of months ago I was doing her highlights, and she wouldn’t shut up about him. ‘He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, blah blah blah.’”

  “Do you know who broke up with whom?”

  “From what I hear, Davis did the breaking up,” Sarah says. “Joan Pulaski said she saw Carrie have a total breakdown in the produce section, and when Moira at the hardware store asked about Davis, Carrie blew up at her.”

  “Good for Davis,” Maxine says. “Finally got some sense.”

  “Is Carrie violent, as far as you know?”

  “I heard once she got in a fight with Mitch Connelly’s wife and came at her with a broken beer bottle,” Sarah says. “Ellie had to get stitches.”

  Jeez, men fall all over themselves for this woman? No accounting for taste.

  Sarah gasps. “Oh, I almost forgot! Lily Goodwin over at the police station told me Carrie keeps comin’ round to talk to the sheriff. You think they—”

  “Oh, totally,” the teenager says. “My friend Josie was walking home one night with her boyfriend and saw them parked on the street totally going at it.”

  “Poor Claire,” Maxine says. “Her time at bat finally came up. I should bring her a pie.”

  “Yeah, starve a cold, feed an affair,” Sarah says.

  Okay, this is getting off track. “Does anyone know why Davis broke up with her?”

  Everyone exchanges glances and shrugs. “No idea. Could be a number of things.”

  “He just finally wised up,” Maxine says.

  “So he wasn’t seeing anybody else?” The ladies shrug again, all except Sarah. Her lips purse and she looks at the floor. “Sarah?”

  “I wanted to keep it a secret,” Sarah says with a sigh. “She’d been through so much and that husband of hers is such a cold fish. I’ve never liked him.” All the women nod in agreement. Walter Wayland is not a popular man. “I figured the affair would run its course and the fewer people who knew, the better.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Streaks asks.

  “Valerie Wayland, duh!” the teenager says. “Those are the deaths she’s here to investigate, right?”

  I nod.

  “Val and Dave?” Maxine asks.

  “Where did you hear about it?” I ask.

  “Brooke Sanderson, one of my regulars, was driving past the Ramada in Lakeland and saw them. I told her to keep it to herself.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Streaks says, dismayed enough to pause cutting the teenager’s hair.

  “I didn’t tell anyone, that was the point. I didn’t want her marriage to end, not after everything.”

  “When you heard about Davis’s death, why didn’t you come forward with this information?” I ask.

  “I did! The second I heard about Davis, I called Sheriff Graham. He said he’d look into it.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About eight this morning.”

  Oh, that lying jerk! Looks like we’re in need of another chat. “Just one more question. Has anything … strange ever happened around here?”

  “What do you mean, dear?” Maxine asks.

  “I don’t know, like graves being disturbed or people seeing animals they thought were dead getting up and walking around?” Okay, in hindsight not the best question to ask. All the women look at me like I’m a crackpot.

  “Like in a Stephen King novel or something?” the teenager asks.

  “Never mind. Thank you all for your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” the women say as I walk out the door. “Good luck.”

  Will sits hunched over with his hands folded on a bench outside, just watching the people pass by. He stands as I walk toward him. “So, guess what?” I ask. “Davis did dump Carrie, and she took it really badly.” The verbal diarrhea starts. “Then, get this—Davis and Valerie were spotted outside a motel. Guess who found out this morning? Carrie Ellison’s latest conquest: Sheriff Graham.”

  “He lied to us.”

  “Oh yeah, big time. I think we should pay him a visit at the station and then check out Carrie’s police record. She seems to like attacking people with beer bottles.”

  A smile creeps across Will’s face. “You found out all of that in there?”

  “Yep. Never underestimate a woman’s need to gossip.”

  “Very good, Agent Alexander.”

  “Why thank you, Agent Price. So where to next? We gonna sweat the sheriff?” I ask gleefully.

  “Later. First, we need to go to Wynn’s house. The men found some interesting things.”

  Ugh, my buzz just disappeared. More walking. But wait, is that our black Suburban pulling up? The SUV stops right in front of Will, who opens the back door. What a gentleman. We both get in and Agent Chandler puts the SUV in gear, presumably headed toward Davis Wynn’s house.

  The town proper soon disappears and immediately the residential section starts. The houses on either side of us vary in architecture, some are one story and made of stone, others are two stories of aluminum siding or whatever they make houses out of. It’s a far cry from the houses in San Diego, all of which look like they’re made of mud and imported from Mexico. The homes here do have one thing in common: a front lawn of beautiful green grass. I’ll bet if we came round here on Saturday, there would be someone in every front yard pushing a lawnmower.

  We make a few turns onto other residential streets before stopping in front of the last house on the block. Another SUV is in the
driveway and a police cruiser sits on the street. We pull up behind the SUV and get out. The house is a ranch-style one story with wood siding, sort of log cabin meets trailer. As with the rest of the houses, a beautiful lush lawn complete with holly bushes brightens the otherwise dark house. There must be a lawn law or something. We take the brick path up to the open door.

  Agent Konrad, meeting us at the door, leads Will and Agent Chandler off to the right, but I turn left into the living room so I can snoop on my own. The living room has only a couch, a well-loved green recliner, a coffee table, and a huge TV, none of it matching. I go into the kitchen next. It’s as big a disgrace as the living room. The one card table with two chairs must serve as the dining room. There’s nothing in the cupboards but cereal, condiments, and peanut butter. This is why men marry—if they don’t, they’ll starve. Just as I close the fridge door, a young police officer I remember from the station steps in. “Excuse me, ma’am. They want you.”

  “Will you please keep searching the kitchen and living room for me? Thanks.” The officer doesn’t balk at my busywork assignment. Now he can’t report anything back to Graham except that Davis hasn’t been to the grocery store in a while.

  The master bedroom where everyone waits resembles a disaster area with clothes strewn everywhere, drawers pulled out and hanging, and the bed half on and off its frame. The closet’s been gutted and only empty hangers remain. All the contents—shoeboxes, golf clubs, suits— rest in a pile on the floor. It looks like my room when I was growing up.

  Will sits on the bed with a shoebox on his lap looking through some papers. He picks out another from the box and starts reading. Just as I step into the room, Agents Konrad and Chandler come from behind, each with a box, and push me out of the way with the corners. “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” Agent Chandler says halfheartedly. “Sir, here are all the files from the cabinet in the garage.”

  “Good. Take them into the living room and start leafing through them. Look for the most recent credit card statements and put the rest in the trunk.”

  “Yes, sir,” says Agent Konrad. This time I’m able to move out of the way before getting pushed.

  “Look at this,” Will says holding up a piece of paper. “Agent Chandler found them in the desk. ‘My beloved Valerie, if only we could have found each other sooner, if only we were the only two people left in the world. Seeing you and not being able to touch you is beyond torture. I think of you every second of every day. Last night when I saw you with him, playing the role of wife to a man who knows nothing about your beautiful soul, I wanted to scream. You have bewitched me, I think of nothing but you.’ It goes on from there.”

  “Cheesy, but sweet. Is there a whole box of them?”

  “Only a couple to Valerie, some from Valerie. The rest are to a woman named Charlotte.”

  “That must have been his wife.” I pick up the box and flip through the letters. The top five are to Valerie, all dated within the last four months. The affair was going on longer than I thought. In the first one, Davis apologizes for the kiss and for “what happened after,” which I’m guessing wasn’t just a firm handshake. He goes on to say he understands if she never wants to see him again but hopes she does. Her strength and sadness touch him. Then it gets really mushy. “I wonder why he has them,” I say. “Do you think he gave them to her?”

  “See how worn they are? She must have given them back so her husband couldn’t find them.”

  “Smart.”

  “They also found this,” he says, reaching under the bed. Out comes a tan cardigan, which is tossed to me. It’s a little bland for my taste, but it might be just what a middle-aged woman in small-town Colorado would wear.

  “So either Mr. Wynn’s a cross-dresser, or he’s had female company. And I have the distinct feeling Carrie Ellison doesn’t wear anything without tassels on it,” I say.

  “I agree.”

  “Well, we have proof of motive now. Is it enough to bring her in or whatever? What do we do? Do we arrest her? Do we need a warrant?”

  “One thing at a time. We need more proof before we confront her.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “That depends on her,” Will says, standing up. “If she goes peacefully, we take her to our underground detention facility in Montana. But they never go peacefully.”

  “Of course.”

  Footsteps come from the hall. Agent Konrad pops his head in a second later. “Sir, the sheriff just arrived.”

  “Good. Saves us a trip.”

  Sheriff Graham waits in the living room, talking quietly to his deputy. Their conversation stops short when we come into view. The deputy gives a final nod to Graham and goes back to the kitchen, no doubt to eavesdrop. I would.

  “How is the investigation going?” Graham asks.

  “Very well,” Will answers. “We have several promising leads.”

  “Yeah, my deputy tells me you’ve found love letters between the victims.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wynn and Mrs. Wayland appeared to be having an affair. But then you knew that.”

  His nervousness hits me. “I beg your pardon?”

  “This morning, over an hour before we came to the station,” I say in my best condescending teacher voice, “Sarah from the Beauty Palace called you and gave you the name of a woman who saw the victims together. Did you forget that little piece of information when we spoke?” Oh yeah, I’m bad.

  I can see his body tense up. “Sarah Wilson didn’t call until after you left, Agent Alexander.”

  “We can check your phone logs to see the exact time of the call,” Will says.

  “You would take her word over that of a fellow officer of the law?” His tone is angry, but I still get nervousness in waves.

  “Sarah Wilson doesn’t have a reason to lie,” I point out. “You do. You and Carrie Ellison are having an affair.” I swear I hear a gasp from the kitchen. “She told us. You’re her alibi for last night. Was she with you from six to eight last night?”

  Graham doesn’t answer right away. He knows we’ve caught him, and the wheels in his mind must be spinning like crazy trying to figure a way to minimize the damage. Good luck, two-timer. “Yes,” he finally says, “she was.”

  “And the night Valerie was killed? The tenth?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “We will check. On both of you,” Will says.

  “Why? Am I a suspect?” he asks, shocked.

  “Two people who hurt the woman you’re involved with are dead, and you’ve hidden evidence,” Will says. “Of course you are.”

  “This is fucking ridiculous!” Graham shouts. “There was no murder! A wild animal killed Val Wayland and Davis Wynn, and the last time I checked, I wasn’t Doctor Dolittle. Don’t you people have terrorists to catch? Is this what my tax dollars are paying for? Investigations where no crimes have occurred?”

  “Are you done?” Will asks. “Because if you are, I would like you and your deputy to leave. This is our case, and I don’t want you messing it up anymore than you already have.”

  Sheriff Graham does not move. His anger is so hot I think I can see it all around him. “I’m calling Washington,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “You do that. Now please leave.”

  “Carmichael!” The deputy immediately steps out of the kitchen. “We’re leaving.” Graham gets right in Will’s face. “This isn’t over. I am going to do everything in my power to get you the hell out of my town.” He gives the rest of us a sweeping glance and storms out of the room, deputy in tow.

  “Can he do that?” I ask.

  “He can try,” Agent Konrad answers. “Sir, I think it might be in our best interest to have Oliver talk to him, if you know what I mean.”

  “Only if he continues to make noise.” He looks at the boxes. “We need to get out of here before he comes back. Has mobile command arrived?”

  “Yes,” Agent Chandler says. “About two hours ago. Dr. Neill is performing the autopsy as we speak,
and Irie and Wolfe are sifting through the evidence the police gathered. The phone records from the butcher shop, bank, both vics’ houses and cell phones should be faxed in soon.”

  “Good. Let’s go see if they’ve found anything.”

  —

  Wow! The American government rocks! I was expecting a trailer or something, but this … it’s bigger than Nana’s house. No wonder they put it in an empty field well away from town. It would be conspicuous anywhere else.

  From the outside, mobile command looks like a silver refrigerator with wheels, turned on its side. It has one large window right next to the door. Agent Rushmore walks past it, scowl affixed to his face. As I get closer, I notice things not common to a typical trailer, like a satellite dish on the roof and steam rising from the rear where a huge refrigeration unit is attached and humming. I can’t wait to get inside.

  We enter into a hallway with one door directly across from the entrance. To the left and right are two more doors like the metal ones at the butcher shop, except these doors each have an electronic keypad next to their frames. Will goes to the door directly in front of us and punches in a code. “Put those boxes in the conference room and start sifting through them,” Will says to agents Chandler and Konrad. Once again, I’m pushed to the side by pointy corners. The men enter a much smaller version of the conference room at the mansion. The door shuts automatically behind them.

  “I’d better give you a tour,” Will says. He turns to the door on the right, punching numbers in, and the door opens. It’s a white lab barely big enough to fit four people. Irie and Agent Wolfe sit at microscopes, both looking up as we enter. Some spinning instrument is working furiously on a counter off to the side. Right above it is a glass cabinet full of bottles containing different colored liquids. Must be chemicals for tests. The only non-medical piece of equipment is a computer with a scanner. It’s about the only thing I know how to use in here.

  “This is our lab, where we perform preliminary tests. Blood, fingerprints, things like that. Everything else is sent to Kansas for intensive analysis. But the lab here has DNA-testing capabilities as well as electron microscopes. Very useful. When we get back to Kansas, someone will train you on it all. It’s easier for us to operate the equipment rather than involve more personnel on the team. How’s it going, guys?”