With tremendous relief, I welcomed the appearance of two deputies trudging into the clearing. They were followed by another man in a rumpled suit carrying what looked like a doctor's bag. The coroner, I guessed. They nodded to Rusty and the others and eyed me with curiosity.
Rusty joined them, issuing instructions while the rest of us stayed in our spots like well-trained puppies. After a brief consultation, one of the deputies began to string yellow tape around the perimeter of the clearing. Rusty gave the other deputy the camera and duffel then directed him and the coroner, or whatever he was, to the room where Opal lay.
Rusty walked over to Clyde and gave him a hand up from the log. Clyde looked more alert now. Tired, his face a rather sickly gray, but with the program at least, aware of what was going on around him.
"Look, Clyde," the sheriff said, "I know this is hard on you, but these men have work to do here. We've got to go through all the Hog Heaven buildings, so your house won't be available to you for at least a couple of hours, if then, or the store either," he added. "You, too, Dan," he called over his shoulder.
Rusty motioned Dan to join him, and then, rather as an afterthought, did the same for me. I took a different path from Dan, still wanting to keep my distance, still uncertain about the group as a whole.
"I want you all to come to town with me. I'll take your statements at the office. Clyde, you can ride in with Twila. Someone will bring you back out here later if that's what you want. Or would you rather stay in town?"
Rusty's consistent concern for Clyde's welfare seemed as natural to him as his calm, deliberate way of speaking, and I liked him for it. At least I felt a shade happier that my fate rested in his hands.
"Do you have someone you can stay with?" he went on. "If not, you can always bunk in with Charlotte and me. You're welcome to the guest room for as long as you want it." Then he pointed to Dan and me. His voice turned grim and official. "You two," he said, "are coming with me."
Clyde eyed us doubtfully. "But what about that truck I saw?" he asked the sheriff, puzzlement clouding his face again.
"What truck?" Rusty asked, stopping in his tracks.
"The truck I saw on the road when I came home. You find out anything about it yet?"
"You didn't say anything about a truck before."
"I didn't?" Clyde scratched his head. "Well, I shoulda, and it's no wonder I didn't," he said with a snort, his voice energized by a shot of righteous indignation. "I barely got the pickup parked when these two show up. One's a'waving a gun around, like to blow somebody's head off, and her screamin' about somebody wantin' to kill her. Put a guy right off his mind, I tell ya."
"Tell me about the truck," Rusty said patiently, and took out his notebook.
A truck! This could be my salvation, I thought. Thank God for Clyde Bodie. But even as the fear weighing my stomach seemed to lighten a bit, doubt niggled away at hope. Could it be possible? Wouldn't I have heard a truck revving at that speed?
"Well, like I said," Clyde began. "I was on my way home, 'bout a mile out, I suppose, maybe two, and all's a sudden I just see this truck up ahead of me, careening around the road, then it straightens up and shoots off. It appeared so sudden like, you know, I figured it must of come from the store here, so I looked for strange tire tracks when I drove in, and sure enough I saw some didn't belong to any of my vehicles. I was going to check 'em out soon as I got the truck unloaded. Then these two showed up." He made a limp gesture with his arm, his eyes glazing a bit as they sought out the tumbledown room where his wife lay.
"What color was the truck?"
"Color?" With an effort, the old man dragged his thoughts back to the moment. "I don't know." He wiped his arm across his face, and shrugged. "I remember seeing the sun sparking off it, but not any color. I was too far away. But I know there was strange tire tracks down there. Come on," he said, as if he'd detected doubt in the sheriff's demeanor. "Just come on, I'll show you."
I tried to read the sheriff's face, too, but without any luck. What a whiz at poker he must be.
Not so Dan Lorenzo. His thoughts were obvious. "This is crazy," he sputtered, "no way could—" Then he snapped his mouth shut, maybe thinking about his own neck.
"You find that truck, that's the bastard what killed Opal," Clyde said, already heading down the path, Twila at his elbow.
Vague sounds of commotion drifted up from the vicinity of the store as we trailed after them. Twila cocked her head. "Sugar!" she said, alarmed, and sprinted ahead of us.
The racket increased and we quickened our pace. Twila disappeared around the side of the store, but her voice came back loud and clear.
"Oscar Fairhorn, you son of a bitch! Don't you dare touch a hair on her head! Here, Sugar. Come here, baby."
We rounded the corner of the store and saw a tall, rail-thin man in blue jeans and a sweat-soaked deputy's shirt take a flying lunge at Sugar. The chicken eluded his grasp, jumped in the air with a resonating squawk and raced off with all the moves of a million dollar running-back around the gas pumps and in and out through the vehicles. The deputy's slick-bottomed cowboy boots sent him into windmilling skids at every change of direction and gave Twila, who charged after him, another chance to grab him. She snatched at his shirt, one arm pulled back, ready to land a roundhouse punch if she could just hold him still.
I covered my mouth, trying to hold back a burst of laughter that I feared would escalate into full-blown hysteria if turned loose.
"What in hell are you doing, Fairhorn?" the sheriff yelled.
Oscar recovered from another skid, dodged Twila's grasp again, and faced the sheriff with a look of injured innocence. "You said to put that damned chicken in the truck," he said between gasps for breath, "and by golly, that's what I been trying to do." He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and looked around for the chicken, which had escaped under one of the trucks. "If I don't wring its neck first," he muttered.
Twila peered under the truck. "Come to mama, Sugar," she cooed like a besotted parent, but instead of capturing the bird, she just managed to shoo it off on another run. Recouped and ready for more fun, the miscreant tore off toward the road.
"Not the road, baby," Twila squealed, puffing in pursuit.
"Hey," Clyde hollered at them, waving his arms, "you're ruining the tracks!"
But Twila either didn't hear, or didn't care.
"Enough," roared the sheriff. "Stop where you are!" Not even Twila Pettigrew dared ignore the voice of infuriated authority. She halted, breathing heavily. In the silence that followed, Sugar, sensing that the day's fun was over, stalked to her master with great dignity and sat on her shoes.
It seemed to me Twila should have known that if she had just stood still the chicken would have come to her without coaxing. At any rate, she reached down and gathered the bird to her heaving chest before she turned to face the sheriff's wrath. Her attempt at a sheepish expression was more comical than successful.
"Everyone just stay where you are," Rusty ordered again. "All right, Clyde. Show me your tracks." He glanced around the site and shook his head in disgust.
I followed his gaze. The place looked like a parking lot. Clyde's old rattletrap truck was nose up to the store, Twila's hurriedly parked by the gas pumps. The sheriff's Bronco sat on the other side of the pumps parallel to the store front. Two other trucks had pulled up neatly side-by-side in front of the listing garage, and an old Chrysler had settled by them at a more careless angle. Evidently car-pooling was a foreign concept around here. My own car still sat apart from the others, parked by the fence that separated Clyde and Opal's home from the rest of the Hog Heaven compound.
So what did that make? Six different vehicles that had driven over any tracks that Clyde's mysterious truck might have left. Any traces they had missed surely had been taken care of by Twila and her chicken.
Clyde led Rusty to the left side of the entrance drive. They hunkered down on the weedy edge and peered at the hard-packed dirt. Not a good element for tracks in the firs
t place.
"You're sure it was a truck you saw?" Rusty asked. They both stood and walked the length of the drive to the road.
"Well, yes."
"And tell me again why you think the vehicle came from Hog Heaven?"
"Like I said, it just appeared out of the blue. If it had been there all along, I'd have seen it, wouldn't I?"
"How good are your eyes, Clyde?"
"They're dad-blamed fine."
Someone made a derisive snort. I couldn't tell if it was Dan or Twila.
"And how far out were you?"
"Hell, I don't know, but you can see for yourself that the road's a straight shot. You can see for miles."
Rusty stared up and down the road for a moment. Turning back, he gave Clyde a consoling pat on the shoulder, and walked him toward the store. "We'll check it out," he said soothingly. "Don't worry, we'll find out what happened here." But for the first time there was a note of condescension in the sheriff's voice, and I knew he didn't put much faith in Clyde's story.
Any euphoria I'd felt for being saved from the hangman's noose was short-lived.
"All right, let's get going," the sheriff said, herding us toward the Bronco. Then he stepped aside, spoke again to the put-upon Oscar, and into his radio, giving last-minute instructions to his men. The rest of us stood silent in an uneasy cluster, eyeing each other warily.
"Clyde," Rusty said when he returned. "I've changed my mind. I want you to ride with me. Twila, you're to follow. No detours, stay in sight of my rearview mirror."
I wondered if he too was having second thoughts about how easily Twila Pettigrew had messed up his crime scene.
He motioned me into the front seat, Dan and Clyde in the back.
"What about my car?" I asked.
"It stays here until we're finished with it. Don't worry, nothing will happen to it."
"Can I take my purse?"
He gave me a long considering look, then said with a weary sigh, "Let's take a look at it," and walked with me to the Camry. Dan Lorenzo fell in beside him.
"I need to get some stuff from my house, too, if I've got to go into town."
"I don't think so, Dan."
"But—"
"You need something, we'll get it later."
I'd left the car unlocked and the windows down a crack. Rusty reached around in front of me and opened the passenger door.
"Oh, great," I said, feeling like I'd been kicked in the stomach. "I guess your men have already had a look at it. Thanks a lot." My purse was on the floor, the contents scattered all over the seats. A glance in back showed the same kind of devastation done to my briefcase, papers everywhere.
I reached in to gather up some of the mess, but Rusty pulled me back. "Hold on," he said, taking in the mess. "You didn't leave it this way?"
"Hardly." Again he stopped me as I reached for my billfold.
"Don't touch anything. Oscar," he called to the deputy inspecting the tire patterns on one of the vehicles, "did you guys check out this car yet?"
"No. You didn't say anything about the car. Just the damned chicken, and now these tires, and that's what I'm doing."
"Where's Harl?"
"He's been doing the buildings since we got here, just like you told him." Obviously, Oscar was one of those people who did exactly as he was told, and not one iota more.
"Well, add this to your list," Rusty snapped. "I want everything checked for prints. Talk to Harl before you start."
Fear pushed away anger as I realized this wasn't slipshod work on the part of the deputies, but an act of violence aimed at me. Someone had deliberately trashed my car. No attempt had been made to make it appear like petty thievery. Just the opposite. Bills and credit cards from my wallet were strewn around the seats and floor along with change from the coin purse. Nothing of any value had been taken. Not the money, or the camera, or the rich leather briefcase, a gift from Max.
An opened tube of lipstick had been rolled up and thrown on the dashboard where it melted in the hot sun, dripping over the edge in a viscous mass like clotting blood.
"Why?" I asked weakly, unable to take my eyes from the malicious mess. "Why would anyone do that?"
"She could have done it herself," Dan said excitedly, bouncing around behind the sheriff, peering over his shoulders into the car. "Wanted to make it look like someone else was here."
Rusty took off his sheriff's hat and placed it on the roof of the car. Bracing his legs, he leaned far into the Camry, scrutinizing the floor and under the seats, barely supporting himself with the tip of a finger on the leather seat. Twila and Oscar were on the other side of the car, heads close to the windows, hands cupped beside their eyes so they could see in. Only Clyde hung back.
Dan continued talking to the sheriff's back. "Don't let her fool you, Rusty. If you'd seen her like I did, standing over poor Opal, shaking that knife at me. I tell you she's a crazy woman."
Rusty ignored him, and pulled back out of the car. "It appears as if someone was looking for something in your car, Ms. Barlow," Rusty said, snugging the official Stetson back on his head. "Why do you suppose that is?"
Ms. Barlow again. Not a good sign. Everything soft, pleasant, or compassionate had disappeared from his round, freckled face. The hard flinty eyes took over.
"I don't know," I protested. "Why would anyone think I'd have something they were looking for? I only got here yesterday."
"I'm aware of that," he said, and for the first time his words weighed heavily with unconcealed suspicion.
I tried to lick my lips, glancing from one hostile face to another, but found my mouth as desiccated as the weeds that had tried to find sustenance in the hard-packed dirt under my feet.
Chapter 9
The ride to Garnet Pass was fast and silent. There were so many things to worry about I couldn't focus on anything. My mind kept flitting from one question to another. Who had rifled my car? Did Dan kill Opal? Was I going to be arrested? Where was Max? Had Clyde really seen a truck coming out of Hog Heaven? Did I need a lawyer? Was Twila Pettigrew as ingenuous as she seemed, or had she purposely messed up every bit of evidence she could? On and on it went, but at least it kept me from thinking about Opal, the knife.
"I need to call Max," I said as soon as we drove into town.
"I already have," Rusty said. "He hasn't answered his beeper yet."
We drove up Main Street and behind the City Hall. The Sheriff's Department was in the basement with its own separate entrance. A woman wearing a beige uniform shirt with an insignia patch above the pocket, and a large name tag that said Rhonda, stood up from her desk when we entered. Behind her were several small offices and a unisex bathroom. To the side, at the end of a short dark corridor, I saw an ominous holding cell.
"You two come with me," Rusty said. Dan and I followed him into a small back room where he took a couple swabs of the blood off my arm and scraped under the fingernails of both my hands with a dull knife, carefully collecting the scrapings into a small envelope. He labeled and sealed the envelope, then turned to Dan. Taking one of his hands, he began the same procedure.
"Hey," Dan yelped, trying to pull his hand away. "What are you doing? She's the one who had the knife in her hand."
"Let's just say you're both part of the crime scene. This is procedure, and I'd like consent from both of you to secure your clothes and shoes."
I looked up in alarm. "What does 'secure your clothes' mean?"
"It means," he said gently enough, "take your clothes. Send them to the lab to be examined for evidence. Of course, we can always get a search warrant and obtain them that way."
Search warrants, clothes seizures. The enormity of what I'd become involved in struck me with terror. My feelings must have shown on my face. Dan sneered.
"I've got nothing to hide," he told Rusty with a swagger.
"Nor do I," I snapped back. And I didn't, I told myself. They could look through my clothes all they wanted and they'd find nothing incriminating.
Rusty c
alled for Rhonda. "I'll need your help with this." She bustled off and returned with consent forms, then went off and returned again with a stack of folded clothes and a huge roll of white butcher paper. She tore off a large sheet and gave it and some of the clothes to Rusty who took them and Dan down the hall to another room.
Rhonda closed the door and set the remaining clothes on the table beside me. I jammed my hands in my pockets and watched as she measured off another piece of butcher paper and tore it off. The room was dreadfully hot, or maybe it was just nerves. While Rhonda carefully spread the piece of paper on the floor, I emptied my pockets onto the table and used one of the worn tissues to wipe the perspiration from my neck and face.
"Okay," Rhonda said, smoothing out the paper. "Come stand on this. Take your shoes off first, then the clothes. Just let them drop on the paper."
"When will I get them back?" I pulled off the shoes. The shorts and T-shirt would be no great loss, but the blue canvas slip-ons were old favorites.
"About a week or so, depends," she said briskly.
Beyond embarrassment by now, I shed my clothes quickly, then stepped off the paper back to where I'd been and grabbed the folded clothes. They were too big, of course, but the beige twill slacks had an elastic waist that helped, and when I tucked in the large, drab T-shirt that said Jesus Saves on the back, everything felt secure enough.
Rhonda bundled the clothes in the paper, making a neat package of it. She looked at me and shook her head. "I don't know where they got that outfit. At least you're a sport. I'd have raised holy hell if I had to wear that." Right, I thought bitterly. I didn't feel I had that choice.
The flip-flops included with the clothes were enormous. "I can't keep these on my feet," I said.
"Well, come on. I'll find you something else." She opened the door and bustled out. I readjusted my baggy clothes, wiped my hairline again, then put the little pile of tissues, change and stuff into my pockets, and followed her.
From somewhere she produced a very worn pair of Reeboks that fit surprisingly well. Finally allowed to use the bathroom, I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands, splashing water up my arms, not wanting the tiniest trace of Opal's blood left on me. I removed the ugly shirt and splashed more water on my chest, neck, and face. Using sheet after sheet of paper towels, I scoured away the gritty residue of dust and perspiration that clung to my skin, until Rhonda hammered at the door, telling me to hurry up.
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 7
