Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  Mike nodded toward the monitors that blipped above his head. “And my blood pressure’s good, my heart beat is strong, and my oxygen level’s hunky-dory. That’s about all you need for your report, right?”

  “How about your memory, Pastor? Are all your little gray cells waking up? A head injury can cause a lot of cracks in the old timeline, can’t it.”

  Mike kept his gaze steady. As an undercover cop, he’d learned how to fake it and sound absolutely sincere. Especially when dealing with criminals. “I remember you, Frank,” he said. “And Iowa. And Miami. And my family. And the skunk I think you’re working for.”

  “Now is that any way to talk about Uncle Sam?” Frank smirked.

  “Don’t get comfortable, Frank.” Mike put a hand to his head as if a pain had suddenly come on. “I’m afraid I’m getting a headache.”

  Apparently Angie took that as her cue. “It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Ballard.”

  “That’s Deputy Ballard, missy,” Frank hissed.

  “You’ve seen what you need to see. Make your report to—” She looked him up and down. “—Whoever it is you report to.”

  Frank looked back at Mike. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “I bet you’ll try,” Mike said.

  The deputy shot Mike a final sneer. “Good luck with your health.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bo Gets His Say

  Bo sat dutifully in the booth farthest from the bar. He watched in disbelief as the crime investigators measured blood splatters, dusted door knobs and took photographs. And beyond, he could see the crooked, bloody leg of his co-worker, Chelsea.

  James W. pushed through the swinging doors and headed straight for Bo. “I need to ask you some questions.” The sheriff wedged himself into the booth across from Bo and took a notepad from his breast pocket. “When was the last time you saw Chelsea alive?”

  Bo knew the drill. He’d been questioned about murders before. And this time would be no different. He didn’t have much of an alibi. “I left about 12:30, I’d say. The place was emptied out, and we decided to close down early.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Chelsea and me. Angie lets us make the call after midnight. We don’t get a lot of latecomers after eleven or so.” Bo blew out a breath. “I’d come in early, so Chelsea offered to close up, which was fine with me. I wanted to get home to Pearl.” His head came up. “Did she tell you about her plans for New York?”

  James W. glared. “Stick to the subject. So you left the bar around 12:30 but Chelsea was still here.”

  “Yeah. Chelsea and Tom Gibbons,” Bo said. “Angie’s paying him extra to clean up Dorothy Jo’s cooking stuff, so he’s here ‘til we lock up pretty much.”

  James W. scribbled notes in his little book. “Was there anyone else in the bar when you left?”

  Bo shrugged. “Not that I saw. I replaced a couple of kegs before I left. Chelsea tabbed out the last customers. I will say I headed home as soon as she gave me the heads up to leave.”

  “Did you go out the front door?”

  “No. I park my truck out back.” Bo nodded toward the kitchen’s screen door.

  “Did you see anyone hanging around out there? Hear anything?”

  “No.”

  “Were there any cars or trucks parked around?”

  “Chelsea’s.” Bo scratched his chin. “I don’t know how Tom gets to work. Walks probably.”

  Again, James W. wrote something down, then sat back. “Okay. So give me a picture of what happened on your shift last night.”

  Bo nodded. “It was pretty quiet after nine.”

  “Before nine?”

  “The trivia team won their regional competition. A lot of hooting and hollering there, but they cleared out by eighty-thirty, I’d say.”

  “What was Chelsea’s mood last night?”

  Bo cocked his head. “Hard to say. She wasn’t herself, that’s for sure. Quiet. Pale.” He rested his hands on the table. “You know I went up in the morning to talk with the preacher.”

  James W. nodded. Rudy had filled him in on Bo’s visit.

  “I had to make my visit short, though, ‘cuz Angie called and asked me to come in early. Chelsea had gotten sick.”

  “Sick?” James W. repeated.

  “Fainted actually. So I had Aaron drive me back to Wilks. She must not’ve been too sick. She came back in for the dinner rush. That mighta been why she was so quiet. Maybe she was still feelin’ poorly.”

  James W. pushed. “Was she flushed? Shaky?”

  “No. It was more like she had something on her mind.”

  “Yet she volunteered to close up. Told you it was all right for you to leave.”

  Bo nodded. “And I went straight home. Got there before one o’clock. You can check that with Pearl.”

  James took a deep breath, and Bo knew what was coming. “Is there any way you can prove Chelsea was still alive when you left the Ice House?”

  Bo understood the sheriff had to ask that, but it still it felt like a slap in the face coming from a man he considered a friend. “Tom Gibbons saw me leave. He was still here when I left.”

  He looked James W. in the eye when he said it, and James W. was staring back at him, just as hard.

  Both of them knew that Tom Gibbons was a bald-faced liar.

  ***

  I guide my car up the ramp to State Highway 71. It’s time to finish this job. I’ve got the TB infused syringe in a thermos at my side. My cover is good. Thank God for the trivia team. Everything’s going as planned.

  Well, except for that hiccup with Chelsea last night.

  The sheriff left church pretty quick this morning, and it didn’t take long for the news of Chelsea’s death to get around.

  I can’t let myself think about it too much. It’s Chelsea’s own fault, after all. Damn her for following me. I didn’t want to kill her. That’s the fact. There’s a tightness in the pit of my stomach. I don’t remember ever feeling this way, but I suspect I know what it is. Regret.

  I rub at my shoulder, trying to ease the tension that’s haunting me, or maybe it’s only a sore muscle from hoisting that cast iron skillet over my head a few times. I totally freaked out when I took my shower last night and found some of her blood had dripped into my hair.

  When I got home Kodak, the SOB, was already asleep. In my bed, I might add. I wasn’t too pleased about that, but at least I could take my shower and enjoy a sip of Jameson’s to settle my nerves, which was a good thing. It gave me a chance to think things through. Was there any way I could be connected with Chelsea’s death?

  That’s when I realized that my fingerprints, and possibly some bodily fluids, would be all over Chelsea’s apartment. In my cover life, Chelsea and I barely knew each other. I had to erase any evidence of my ever being there.

  I went over to her place and wiped it down. I grabbed the things that were mine. I threw the sheets in the washer and poured extra bleach into the hot water.

  When I got home, it was after two in the morning.

  I downed two more Jameson’s before crawling into the sleeping bag I’d placed on the couch. Call me heartless, but I slept like a baby.

  As I wake up, I’m surprised at how rested I feel. Maybe it’s because all of this Mike Hogan business is coming to an end. The Chief will go free, I’ll be his second in command and Kodak—well, I’ll take care of Kodak one way or another. He was watching me like a hawk this morning, but I made sure he saw nothing in my eyes but commitment and hate, which isn’t difficult to pull off. Michael Hogan has been the bane of my existence for four years.

  Today Michael Hogan is going to die.

  ***

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Richard Dube walked up to the booth where James W. was interviewing Bo. “You said you wanted me to tell you when Tom Gibbons showed up?”

  “I’ll be right back, Bo.” James W. swung his leg out of the booth, preparing to stand.

  “Hold on,” the skinny deputy said. “Tom saw the crime
tape around the Ice House, pulled a U-turn, and gunned it back down Mason Street.”

  “You didn’t chase him?”

  “The squad car’s parked in the back.” Richard shrugged. “He was out of sight before I could even get up.”

  James W. wanted to ask, ‘get up from what,’ but he let the comment slide. “Put out an all-points bulletin on the truck. You got the license plate, right?”

  Richard’s face reddened. “He never got closer than a block away.”

  “We can look that up easy enough, I guess.” James W. rubbed his forehead. “Got anything else?”

  “The blood splatter guys said they’ll be ready to talk to you in about ten minutes.”

  James W. nodded. “I’ll finish up here, then.” He turned his attention back to Bo. The bartender didn’t look happy, but he didn’t seem worried, either. James W. wasn’t getting any signals of guilt. “When I was in here the other morning asking you to call Tom Gibbons, Chelsea came in and borrowed your truck, right?”

  Bo nodded.

  “As I recall, she said something about someone taking her car and that she was gonna do some—” he paused to remember the word.

  “Stalking,” Bo supplied.

  “That’s right.” James W. turned a page on his notebook. “Tell me about that.”

  “Chelsea’s been in a pretty bad mood for the last two weeks,” Bo said. “Whoever she was dating kept standing her up. We finally talked about it a few nights ago after work.”

  “Relationship troubles, huh?”

  “Yep. Pretty rocky, too. Even the customers noticed. I could hardly get her to wait on her tables.”

  James W. cocked his head. “I’m surprised Angie would put up with that.”

  “Angie wasn’t around. And when she was—” He blew out his cheeks. “It was no fun the two of ‘em having a mood at the same time.”

  “So who was Chelsea’s boyfriend?”

  Bo shook his head. “No idea.”

  “She wouldn’t tell you?”

  “I never asked.”

  James W. considered. “You never heard her talk about anyone? Maybe catch a snip of conversation about a date or something?”

  Bo’s eyes narrowed. “Some folks don’t like talking about their personal relationships.”

  James W. couldn’t miss the undertone in Bo’s statement. “I guess you’d know all about that.”

  Bo shrugged.

  James W. put his notebook down. “I woulda thought maybe you should’ve talked with me before you asked Pearl to marry you.”

  “She asked me.”

  “Still, I’m her kin and—”

  Bo’s lips flattened. “Don’t start playing the family card now.”

  James W. bristled at what sounded like a threat. “Why’s that?”

  Bo glared. “Cuz you threw that privilege away when you let Ernie Masterson abuse her.” He nodded towards the notebook. “We done here?”

  James W. blinked. “For now.”

  Bo nodded, and got up from the booth. James W. watched him go. Well, I guess I just got told.

  And I deserved every word.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Too Many Visitors

  By mid-afternoon, Mike realized Bo had been right. Since lunch, a steady stream of well-wishers had come to Brackenridge to see Mike. He’d been prayed over, hand-pumped, told bad jokes and heard gossip from people young and old. Some guy wearing a collar who looked like a short version of Abraham Lincoln had even given him communion.

  When he’d left, Mike had arched his eyebrow in Angie’s direction. “I don’t wear one of those, do I?”

  She kept her expression blank, but he could see by the twinkle in her eyes she was enjoying this. “Every day,” she informed him.

  When a lull in the stream of visitors finally came, Angie looked him over closely. “You holding up okay?”

  “I’m hoping we’re getting to the end of all this,” he admitted. “It’s overwhelming.”

  “You mean a lot to folks in Wilks.” She picked up the cookie platter on the window sill and brought it to him. “The lady who made these? Her name is Sherylene Seegler.” Angie handed him the chocolate chunk cookie loaded with nuts. “Her husband died three weeks ago. You were there for her and her family.”

  Mike took a bite, and his lips curled in delight. “Maybe this isn’t such a bad gig, after all.”

  The sound of a commotion in the hall caught their attention, and Angie and Mike came instantly alert.

  “What do you mean I need to show you my driver’s license?”

  Mike didn’t recognize the booming voice, but the female’s contralto indignation suggested the woman was used to privileges.

  “Oh, God,” Angie whispered. Mike looked her way and saw that she had turned white as a ghost.

  “Who is it?” Mike hissed.

  “I’m Sheriff Novak’s wife, that’s who I am,” came the answer from beyond the door. “And this is his sister, Pearl!”

  Mike swallowed hard. The dreaded Elsbeth Novak. Both Bo and Angie had warned him about the overbearing woman. Even James W. had hinted she was a force to be reckoned with.

  “Now are you going to let us in,” the abrasive voice continued, “or do I need to call my husband?”

  Mike watched Angie’s gaze dart around the room. Was she looking for a place to hide?

  She lost her opportunity, however, when Elsbeth came bursting through the door with the shadow of a minion in her wake. Mike’s cop eyes took in the sight. The two women were as different as Mutt and Jeff. There was no mistaking which one was Elsbeth. She was a juggernaut of bursting-at-the-seams proportions, and her presence consumed the room as if she called up every surrounding molecule to pay her homage. In Elsbeth’s wake, Pearl looked barely to be a wisp of grass blowing in the wind.

  “Oh,” Elsbeth said upon seeing Angie. “You’re here?”

  No hello, no niceties of any kind, Mike noted. And the woman’s dark eyes were hurling daggers Angie’s way.

  Angie’s smile was strained. “Hello, Elsbeth,” she said, then nodded towards Pearl. “Pearl, I’m so sorry about your sister.”

  Pearl’s voice was as gentle as the soft, wrinkled skin on her chinless face. She looked to be a woman at peace. “Thanks, Angie.”

  Elsbeth sniffed, and headed for the only comfortable chair in the room. “Well, Pastor,” she said to Mike. “You’ve certainly caused quite a stir around Wilks.”

  Mike was taken aback. What would Matt say to a thing like that? Probably the obvious. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you should be. Getting yourself shot like that. My husband’s been spending more time working on your case than he has with me.”

  Mike opened his mouth, but found he had no words to say.

  “Now, Elsbeth,” Pearl came to stand by her sister-in-law. “The preacher didn’t want to get shot.”

  “I suppose not,” the bombastic woman huffed. “Still you would make James W.’s life a lot easier if you could simply remember who shot you.”

  “Each day I’m getting better,” Mike offered, torn between being put off and laughing at her pomposity.

  “See that you do.” Elsbeth turned her attention to Angie, who had done her best to disappear into the curtain by the window. “I suppose you heard about the ruckus at your place last night.”

  “You mean Chelsea’s murder.” Angie’s eyes filled with tears. “Of course I heard.”

  Elsbeth sniffed. “The news came right before Sunday School. James W. didn’t even get to go to church.”

  Mike blinked, not sure he understood. Elsbeth was angry with Angie because James W. got called to a murder scene? “I’m sure you prayed enough for the both of you,” he said, wondering if she heard faith or sarcasm in his remark. He wasn’t sure himself.

  “I pray for my husband all the time. Every day he has to work with the worst kind of people. And her place—” Elsbeth jabbed a finger Angie’s way, “—right across the river? It’s hard to come to church
knowing that her cesspool of sin is producing Satan’s prodigies at every turn.”

  Mike’s jaw dropped open. This woman considered herself a Christian?

  “Now, Elsbeth,” Pearl said calmly. “That’s a little too far, don’t you think? The Fire and Ice House has good food. Our church trivia team plays there. I even heard Warren Yeck works there part-time.”

  “So does that murderer who dared to show up at your sister’s funeral on Friday.” Elsbeth’s face was red with indignation. “What a scene that was.”

  Mike saw tears well up in Pearl’s eyes, and felt a knot of anger forming in his stomach.

  “And now that I think about it,” Elsbeth barreled on, “I bet it was that ex-con who took out that bar maid last night. They say once you kill a person, the urge comes on you again.”

  He wouldn’t, couldn’t, stand to watch this Pharisaical Phyllis—that’s what his dad had called religious hypocrites like this loud-mouthed matriarch—spew her bile any longer. “I believe the Bible says something about ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,’ if I recall correctly.”

  Angie’s eyes almost bulged out of her face, and Pearl sucked in her breath. Well, he’d done it, he thought. Pastor Hayden would probably never have challenged Elsbeth like that. Little by little Mike was blowing his cover.

  He watched as Elsbeth’s eyes narrowed, and she sat up straighter than a board. “Well,” she said finally. “I see you’re getting back to your ornery ways. The Bible also says, ‘Thou shalt not commit murder.’ That’s in the Ten Commandments.”

  Ornery? Hayden didn’t put up with this bullshit either? Good. After all the crap of getting shot, being afraid, and frustrated as hell that he couldn’t remember anything, Mike was ready for a fight. “Funny you remember the fifth commandment,” he said, “but have forgotten the eighth. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor’.”

  Angie smothered a chuckle, and Pearl looked at the pastor as if he was a knight in shining armor. Elsbeth, on the other hand, stood abruptly. He could almost see steam coming from her ears.

  “We came here to see how you were doing,” Elsbeth huffed. “Not to be insulted.”