The Winter Widow

by Charlene Weir

  She waited.

  Minutes crept by. Wind whistled at the crack in the window. The heater droned. Warmth slowly seeped over her. The gas gauge stayed just above empty. She waited. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and let her thoughts ramble over what she’d found out in the last two days.

  Helen wanted to sell Daniel’s farm. She desperately wanted money to get out of here, and there was Daniel in her way, recently married and hoping for a child. If he got his child, he might never agree to sell. She had shot and killed a man years ago.

  The man’s son, Floyd Kimmell, was pleased with himself, smugly felt he had gotten away with something. Susan was certain of it. She had seen that smirking expression too many times to be mistaken, but she wasn’t so certain it meant he had killed Daniel. She couldn’t believe, if he had, that the motive was related to his father’s death, but he might have killed Daniel because Daniel discovered what he was up to.

  Lucille. Lucille. On the trail of cattle rustlers. Evidence of cattle rustling was the bait used to lure Daniel into a trap. Lucille, last seen about ten o’clock Monday night. Missing now for almost two days.

  The motor coughed, sputtered and died.

  Coming alert with a jerk, she squinted at the gas gauge. Empty. So much for Osey’s rescue. How long does it take to freeze to death? She had a vague memory victims felt cozy warm just before expiring. If that were true, she had nothing to worry about; she’d never been so cold in her life.

  She heard Daniel’s voice saying, “Now, Susan, don’t get dramatic. You’ll be okay.” She smiled to herself.

  He’d said those words to her the day he went back to work and left her alone for the first time. The day had been a long one and by midafternoon panicky thoughts of “Oh my God, what have I done?” scrabbled in her head like wailing demons.

  She’d opened the bottle of white wine chilling in the refrigerator and sat at the kitchen table. When Daniel came in, she raised her glass. “Hail, wedded love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples.”

  He grinned. “I don’t think you got that quite right.”

  “Whatever.” She poured him a glass.

  “Susan, have you already had a little of this?”

  “Only a little. I’m saving the other bottle for dinner. I didn’t want to be tipsy when you got home.”

  “Uh-huh. Moderation.” He touched her glass with his and sat beside her.

  “Did you marry me for my moderation?”

  “I did. And to discourage single ladies from bringing me casseroles.”

  “Your casserole days are over, buster. I slaved over a roasted chicken from Dilly’s Deli.”

  “You mean Dilman’s Delicatessen?”

  “Is that what I mean?”

  “Nah, probably not.” He ran the back of one finger lightly down her cheek. “You probably mean to ask if you love me.”

  “Do I love you?”

  “Yes, you do. I’ll prove it.”

  “How?”

  He kissed her neck, softly, just below the jaw. “Come with me. We’ll see about the chicken later.”

  A horn blared. She opened her eyes and blinked. A patrol car sat on the road above. Osey got out and shouted. She rolled down the window.

  “You all right?” he called anxiously.

  “A lot better now.”

  Grinning, he turned back for a gas can and slithered down the side of the ditch. He poured gas into the tank, then tromped around to the window. “I tried to get Dad’s tow truck, but it’s on a run and I didn’t know how long it’d be gone. People stuck everywhere. I hoped maybe I could get it out for you. No chance.”

  “Can you pull it out with the squad car?”

  He shook his head. “Transmission’s not too good. Better not try. If you’ll come with me, we’ll get help.”

  He scrambled up the side of the ditch, then turned, held out a hand to help her and tugged her up and out with ease.

  “How did you find me?” she asked after they had gotten into the patrol car.

  “Goats. Only one place you could be. Nobody keeps goats except the Henningers. They got a baby allergic to cow’s milk.”

  Ah. Like a magic trick, simple when you knew the answer.

  He drove with more speed than she was comfortable with given the weather; it had her clutching the door handle and stomping imaginary brakes. “Did George ask you to see Floyd Kimmell?”

  “Yep, but Floyd wasn’t working today. I went out looking and he wasn’t home either.”

  She wished she’d insisted on Parkhurst. He would have poked around for whatever he could find. “Did you think to take a look around?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Went through the barn, walked around the house, peered in all the windows. Didn’t spot any blood or any bodies. And nothing else either, like Lucille tied up in the kitchen.”

  She shot a quick look at him with a sneaking suspicion he knew her opinion of him and was deliberately playing the country bumpkin. His face was deadpan. Immediately, she looked back at the road; not watching what they might slide into was more than she could bear.

  The headlights gleamed on a mailbox and she glimpsed the name Pollock as it flashed by. “You didn’t stop there.”

  “No, ma’am. Vic Pollock isn’t somebody you ask for help unless there’s no other way. There’s been Pollocks around here just about forever and they’ve never been very friendly. They usually don’t bother anybody as long as they’re left alone, but you never know what they’re apt to do.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “Just lately, a new black Caddy.”

  So it probably had been Vic Pollock she’d been following.

  “Vic’s mean as a snake. Meaner since Emma Lou’s been gone,” Osey said.

  “Emma Lou’s his wife?”

  Osey nodded. “She’s a pretty little thing, kind of timid. I saw a movie once about a lost little dog. Emma Lou always reminds me of that little dog.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Visiting her family is what Vic said when folks started asking.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Two months or more maybe,” Osey said. “It was a while before anybody noticed they hadn’t seen her for a spell. We’ll go to Henningers’.”

  They drove another mile before Osey slowed and turned in to a farmyard. A small black-and-tan dog rushed at the car, barking and trotting alongside. Osey stopped at the rear of the house and the dog backed off, but continued to bark. An outside light went on and a man, pulling on a yellow slicker, came out the back door.

  “Gene Henninger,” Osey said, and got out of the squad car, leaving the motor running and the windshield wipers going. The two men spoke briefly; then Gene bent to look at her through the window. She rolled it down.

  “Evening,” he said. “Understand you left the road a ways back.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “No trouble. We’ll get ’er right in no time.” He straightened, slapped Osey on the shoulder and went back into the house.

  Osey slid behind the wheel and in a few minutes Gene came out carrying a lantern. Osey shoved the car in gear, made a wide circle and headed for the road. He paused until he heard the clatter of a tractor behind them, then drove back to the pickup with Gene following on the tractor and the lantern swaying like a beacon in the falling snow.

  When they reached the truck Susan stood on the road while Gene slid into the ditch and attached chains to the axle.

  “Okay,” he shouted to Osey over the noise of the tractor. “Get in, keep a hand light-like on the wheel.”

  Osey did as he was told. Gene climbed on the tractor. The motor roared, the tractor strained. The truck balked, then with a lurch was pulled, lumbering, up and onto the road. Osey stuck his head out the window and waved. Gene collected the chains. Susan thanked him.

  “Glad to help. Had to pull Lucille out pert near the same place not long ago.”

  “When?”

  “Believe it was th
e same night Dan was killed. Sorry about your husband.”

  “Thank you. What was Lucille doing out here?”

  “Don’t know. Saw her one other time. Got the idea she was keeping on eye on Vic Pollock for some reason.” Gene touched his hat, got back on the tractor and disappeared into the snow.

  Osey jumped down from the pickup and helped her in. He told her to go right at the first crossroad, left at the next, then another right and straight into town. “Will you be okay?”

  “Yes. Thanks for the help.”

  He grinned, stepped back, and she drove off.

  * * *

  WHEN Susan clumped into the police station, Hazel jumped up and rushed toward her. “Hazel, it’s after seven. Why are you still here?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “I’m just nifty peachy, except for a large dose of humility.” Susan shrugged off her trench coat, trudged into Daniel’s office and flung it at the coatrack. She blew her nose.

  “Hoo, because you slid off the road? Listen kiddo, that happens. Who are you trying to be, Superwoman?”

  “Yes,” Susan hissed. “How’m I doing?” She flopped in the chair, tugged off her boots and massaged her wet, cold feet.

  “Hey, not to worry. Even God made mistakes. Look how many bones he put in catfish.”

  “Oh, right. That makes me feel better.”

  Hazel grinned. “Well, to take your mind off it, would you be interested to know we got a call about a stolen cat?”

  “Oh, Lord. A white cat, I suppose.”

  “Yep. Marley and Koontz went out to see about it.”

  Susan exhaled with a sharp sigh. Obviously, Brenner hadn’t gotten to Sophie in time, and she’d managed to get her hands on that cat again.

  Tucking one foot under her, she leaned back in the chair. Brenner hadn’t been here in years; why had he come now? A reason more specific than visiting his elderly aunt?

  “Hazel, do you know anything about Sophie’s financial situation?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “I assumed she was poor, sort of a bag lady. Instead of collecting trash, she collects cats.”

  “Oh heavens, Sophie isn’t poor. When she sold out her land, she got some money. Who knows what she did with it though. Maybe buried it in Mason jars in her backyard. Why?”

  “I wonder about Brenner. He’s her only relative. Does he expect to inherit?”

  “I imagine so. Unless she spends it all before she dies. Anyway, she’s the kind that lives forever.”

  “How well do you know Brenner?” Susan stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes.

  “Not at all now. When he was a kid I knew him as well as the others. He was one always in trouble.”

  “What trouble?”

  “Kid stuff. Cutting school, fighting, reckless driving. Like that. Nothing real serious. If he gets anything from Sophie, it’ll be his second inheritance.”

  “Second?”

  “Well, not exactly, I guess. There was some insurance money after his parents died.”

  Maybe Brenner had squandered all the insurance money and come back to check on the state of Sophie’s health. So what might that have to do with Daniel? Nothing that Susan could see.

  “You’d better go home, Hazel. You should have gone hours ago.”

  “I’ll get you some coffee first.”

  Susan padded to the window in her stocking feet and looked out. On the street a car drove by and the headlights turned a zillion snowflakes into tiny silver stars. This had been another long day. Her head ached and she gently rubbed the tender knot on her forehead.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  She turned with a start. Parkhurst in gray pants, newspaper folded under the arm of his blue sport coat, came in with a mug of coffee.

  “Invigorating,” he said. “Makes you want to take off cross-country. Explore winter wonders. Throw caution to the winds and drive a truck in the ditch.”

  “Ha ha,” she said and leaned back against the window ledge. His dark eyes flicked over her and rested on her stocking feet. Without her boots, she was two inches shorter than he was.

  “Hazel said you could use this.” He handed her the mug. “It’s been cooking all day, should be just about done.”

  She took a sip: sludge, worse than what her father used to make.

  “You’re probably used to hot buttered rum after a frolic in the snow, but we do what we can.” He rested one haunch on the edge of the desk. “Far be it from me to question the actions of the chief, but would you mind telling me what you were doing out there?”

  She gave him an icy look and wrapped both hands around the mug. Undrinkable the coffee might be, but at least the container warmed her hands. She told him about Bess Greeley, her broken leg and her spotting of Lucille’s car. “According to Bess, that road only leads to Vic Pollock’s place. I wanted to ask him if he had seen Lucille, knew what she was doing out there. Osey said Vic has a wife nobody’s seen for over two months and Vic claims she’s away visiting her family.”

  Parkhurst smiled. She was so startled she took another sip of sludge. She’d never seen him smile and was astounded at the change; it took away the flat, hard look and made him seem almost human.

  “You think Vic killed Emma Lou and buried her out there somewhere?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I think it’s possible.”

  Parkhurst rolled the newspaper and tapped it against his knee. “Emma Lou’s not too bright. She’s young and pretty and not very happy with Vic. The Pollocks are hard on their women. If she’s not back with her relatives, then somebody interesting wandered across her path and she took off with him.”

  “Wouldn’t Vic go after her?”

  “He might be glad to see her gone.”

  Even so, Susan thought, he’d probably do something. Males seldom felt indifferent when a wife or lover walked out.

  “Find out if Emma Lou is with her family.”

  Parkhurst raised the rolled newspaper and touched it lightly to his temple. “Anything you say.” He stood up.

  “How is Sam Rivers?”

  “Still alive, still critical.”

  “Parkhurst, why is that bull so valuable?”

  “He’ll be valuable long after he’s dead.”

  “That’s a good trick.”

  “Frozen semen,” he said. “It’s shipped all over the world.”

  “Oh, to improve the quality of beef.”

  “Well, that, but more important is the quantity of milk from superior dairy cows. Otto’s bull has a proven record of siring daughters who produce five or six times more gallons of milk per year than other dairy cows.”

  “I see.”

  “This is Money we’re talking about here,” Parkhurst said. “Bull semen is big business, on a multibillion-dollar scale for Otto and others like him. Speculators can buy so many hundred units of semen and sell months later when the price goes up, or buy percentages in specific bulls.”

  “Like the stock market.”

  “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

  Money, she thought, always a potential for murder.

  Parkhurst unrolled the newspaper and dropped it on her desk. “You might want to take a look at this,” he said as he walked out.

  Shoving herself away from the window ledge, she padded to the desk and stared at her picture on the front page. Oh Lord. Great picture. She lay face down, arms clutched around her head, with her posterior pinned down by a gigantic sow whose snout was lifted victoriously. Headline: NEW POLICE CHIEF ROLLS INTO ACTION—REARGUARD ATTACK ON UNDERBELLY OF CRIME.

  Ah, another perfect end to another perfect day in paradise.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SUSAN blew her nose and started pulling open desk drawers. She found a bottle of aspirin, swallowed two with a minimal amount of coffee and then found the phone book she was looking for. She slapped it on the desk, paged through, ran a finger down the R’s and then punched the number.

  “Royce
,” the editor answered in his soft Southern drawl.

  “Good evening, Henry.”

  “Ah, Chief Wren.” His voice faded as though he’d changed the receiver to his other ear, and in the background the voices and canned laughter of a television program were cut off.

  “You must have seen the paper,” he said. “Wasn’t that some pic?”

  “Splendid. I’ll put it in my scrapbook. I just wanted to let you know I owe you one. If I’m ever in a position to respond in kind, you can count on it.”

  He gave a wheezy chuckle. When he got over his mirth, he asked, “Any trace of Lucille?”

  “Not yet.”

  He growled irritably, which she interpreted as uneasy concern. His little theory about a lover must be wearing thin. “Jack Guthman called a little earlier, wanting to know if I’d heard from her,” he said.

  “I assume that means he hasn’t.”

  “Yeah, I guess you can assume that.”

  “Are they very close, Jack and Lucille?”

  Henry grunted. “I don’t know how close they are, but Lucille has a big dose of hero worship for brother Jack. From listening to her, you might think he was the next thing to God.”

  “Um. Well, if you do hear from her, let me know.” She hung up and stared at the picture. Three or four names leaped to mind, of former colleagues in San Francisco who would have howled with delight at it. What had crossed the mayor’s mind when he saw it? Damn, damn. She blew her nose again and then called the hospital to ask about Sam Rivers. No change.

  Snow was still falling heavily when she slithered off for home, and the street lights glistened through the frenzied swirls. She put her mind to Jack Guthman, wondered if Lucille had confided in him about her suspicions of cattle rustling or toxic waste, mentioned Floyd Kimmell or Vic Pollock. Or Doug.

  Pulling over to the curb, she snapped on the interior light and scrounged in her shoulder bag for her notebook to find Jack’s address. Sixteen twenty-nine Hawthorne. Near the campus, she thought. She made a left, cut across town and did some zigzagging, squinting in the darkness for street names, before she ran into Hawthorne, a wide tree-lined street in the oldest section of town. This was Hampstead’s swanky area. Many of the homes were large and some looked out of place under the falling snow, as if they’d have been more comfortable on a plantation in the Deep South.