A Killing Secret

by Robert E. Dunn

  “What’s the story here?” I asked Landis.

  “The story?”

  I looked around the room, then spread my hands to include the entirety of the house. “The girl. The Fisher family.”

  “Your boyfriend, the sheriff?” He tried to soften the question with a smile. I could tell it didn’t work by the way he looked at the floor when his question hit me.

  “He’s not…We’re not…” I shook my head. The gesture served both to say no and to keep from saying it. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

  “You can’t honestly think this girl was killed as part of a family squabble?”

  “Are they family?”

  “By blood, no. But Rose lived with the Fishers since the death of her mother five years ago. She was part of the family music show.”

  “Money is a big motivator.”

  “Everyone knows the girl was breaking out. She was going to be a star. If it was about money they would have done everything to keep her safe.”

  “Maybe stardom was going to leave the family behind.”

  “Sissy Fisher was the girl’s manager. If money is your motive, the family’s not your target. Any way you look at it, they wanted her safe.”

  “We’ll see.”

  We both looked up at the ceiling at the same time. Someone had come into the house upstairs. There were multiple voices and footsteps.

  “I guess we will,” Landis said. He pointed at the ceiling. “Because, speak of the devil.”

  He walked to the stairs at the far end of the room. I didn’t object.

  Once alone, I felt like an intruder. The feeling intensified when I wandered back to the bedroom. Even when I was her age, my room had never been so girly. I went to college on a basketball scholarship. That was a given for a girl who had reached six feet tall by her sophomore year of high school. And I went straight from my college ROTC program into the family business. We were a military family. My father was army, his brother, a marine. There was a lot more olive drab in my life than pink.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if that kind of femininity was something that attracted Billy. Maybe it was simply youth and talent. Billy was one of those men who seemed to be good at everything. He had an aura of competence. But more than anything, when you heard him, you knew he was a musician at heart. He could have made a career of it.

  The glass patio door slid open and I heard boots stomping snow off on the concrete pad outside. Deputy Bobbi Rantz had arrived.

  Taney is a big county, but rural. The only city of consequence is Branson and they have a municipal police force. The sheriff’s department handles pretty much everything else. Because of the economies of population density, most rural sheriff’s departments are make-do operations. Bobbi was our make-do crime scene unit, a deputy with some extra training and a willingness to do the dirtiest jobs for a little extra pay. I couldn’t function without her.

  When I didn’t hear the patio door slide closed I went out to the main room. Bob was at the open door removing her boots.

  “It’s not a crime scene,” I said. “Contamination isn’t an issue.”

  “It’s a good habit to be in,” she said, looking at my boots. Bobbi stepped in on stocking feet, then closed the door behind her. “What are we looking for?” She pulled house shoes from her pocket and slipped them on.

  “Anything,” I answered. “I had a quick look around.”

  “And?”

  I turned and went to stand by the bedroom door. I looked in rather than at Bob. “There is a laptop in there. Take it. Look for social media threats, anyone too close or pushy. She’s a girl. Look for a diary or journal. There are scraps of paper all around. Most of it’s music, but take and check it all.”

  “What else?”

  I didn’t mention the photos tucked inside my pocket. I did step into the bedroom. Bob followed as I pulled back the comforter and top sheet from the bed.

  “Got it,” Bob said. She set her case down and started unpacking.

  When she was ready I turned off the room light and stepped out. Her UV lights flickered on as I closed the door. Bob was looking for evidence of sexual contact on the sheets. I wasn’t exactly afraid of what was there to be found. Still, as she worked, I dropped Billy’s guitar into a large evidence bag and took it out to my truck.

  Chapter 4

  The Fisher family was still as mad as a cat in a bubble bath. Landis did his best to smooth out the meeting when I came to the front door. I would have been fine if it weren’t for the matriarch, Sissy Fisher. She was a spray-tanned, country music stage mother. She dressed the part with a weird mix of hillbilly and southwest Native American appropriation. Her feet were bare, but she wore a tattered and patched denim jacket over a white skirt with a factory-shredded hem. Overlaying everything was silver and turquoise jewelry. At her neck were squash blossoms and beads. Her waist was draped with a concha belt inlaid with sky-blue crosses. Six of her fingers and two of her toes were ringed. Each ear shimmered with silver, stones, and feathers. Sissy Fisher was one of those people who put on a display of love for a culture but showed it no respect. I disliked her instantly.

  “You’re the one rummaging around my basement,” she said when Landis introduced me.

  “I’m the detective investigating the murder of Rose Sharon. The victim’s home is a good place to start.” I kept my voice even and my gaze straight. She was almost as tall as me.

  “Start?” She chirped the word like a bird poked with a stick. “The start was with my son and that bullying sheriff. It won’t be the end. I can promise you that.”

  I looked at the young man standing a few paces behind Sissy and trying not to look embarrassed. “You’re Donny?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered.

  “Why did Sheriff Blevins want to arrest you?”

  “You know better than to ask that, Hurricane,” Landis warned. “And I hope you know better than to answer it, Donny.”

  “I’m asking his opinion.”

  “You’re fishing for self-incrimination,” the lawyer countered. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “You’re all the same,” Sissy chimed in. “Pointing fingers at innocent young men. You should be looking at drug dealers. Real criminals.”

  “Are there a lot of real criminals in your life?”

  “Katrina,” Landis cautioned, with both my name and his tone.

  Sissy’s eyes hardened and she leaned forward. “Look at the sheriff. He knew Rose. He knew her well. Arresting my son was just a cover-up for his own guilt.”

  I leaned forward too. If we were cats, we would have already been spitting and scratching. “I’m going to find the truth here.” I turned and looked at Donny Fisher. It was a good, hard look. Then I looked back at his mother. “You should be careful when you talk about guilt.”

  “He was here, you know.” Sissy’s voice narrowed and quieted. Her lips curled into a smirk with her words. “So many nights. The floor lets a lot of sound through. We could hear the music and the laughing. Was he supposed to be with you?”

  Both of us were angry but neither one was stupid enough to take the other’s bait.

  I kept staring at the mother as I asked, “When was the last time you saw Rose, Donny?” Then I turned to look at him.

  Donny opened his mouth. He never got the chance to speak.

  “I don’t think we’ll be answering these questions here,” Landis jumped in. “You can call me and we’ll make an appointment for a formal interview. But you should probably go now, Detective Williams.”

  I nodded and stepped back. Landis was right. I was only stirring already muddy waters.

  “You’re the one they call Hurricane,” Sissy said, with venom in her eyes and her tone. “Is it true what they say? You have millions. You own that big bar and an art store in Branson—but you stay a cop
so you can beat people down?”

  “Part of it’s true.” Once I spoke I realized that my hand was clenched.

  “Which part?”

  I focused on opening my hand while I honestly thought about an answer. But if the answer was honest, I might have said—it depended on the day. So I said nothing.

  Sissy wasn’t interested in letting me disengage. When I turned to leave she said, “It’s not very ladylike, is it?”

  “Let’s let Detective Williams go do her job, Sissy,” Landis said.

  I told myself not to turn around. I kept repeating it in my head as my body turned. “Ladylike?” I asked when my eyes were again set on hers. “What’s not ladylike?”

  “Look at you. You dress like a man. You do a man’s job. What does that say about you?”

  “That I earn my living on my feet and not on my back,” I answered. Walking out, I didn’t pay any attention to the noise and profanity thrown at my back.

  The gray sky had slammed shut, leaving night behind at 6:00 p.m. Snow still spit through the beams of my headlights as I drove. Cops often don’t have the luxury of regular hours. In any other case, that wouldn’t bother me. I would go back to HQ and start on my paperwork. I would put my feet up and talk things over with my boss. But that was too screwed up to even consider. I called dispatch and logged myself off duty but available. I told Doreen I would be at Moonshines.

  Sissy Fisher was right. I was a rich woman. And my snarky comeback to her was not entirely accurate. I didn’t earn any of it. I married Nelson Solomon, a man with surprising talents. One of them was investing the money he made as a star artist. Everyone who doesn’t know me focuses on the bank account. Those people are as ignorant of money as I was when it was dumped on me. When he died, Nelson left me more responsibility than riches.

  Moonshines, a distillery bar and restaurant, was one of my burdens. The last thing an alcoholic needs is ownership of a bar that makes an unending supply of her favorite poison. But the best thing she can have is a friend behind the counter who knows her.

  I came in through the kitchen entrance. A couple of people said hello. Even more grabbed me to ask about Rose Sharon. By the time I got into the bar, a mug of hot chocolate with little marshmallows was waiting for me on the counter.

  “That’s a nice surprise,” I said to the man behind the bar.

  “Too cold a day for soda or iced tea,” he said. “I know you won’t drink hot tea and it’s too ugly a day for coffee. So…” Clare extended his hands toward the steaming mug in a kind of presentation. “There you go.”

  That Clarence Bolin had become such a close friend was one of the great surprises of my life. He was a man the age my father would have been, who looked like a hillbilly poster boy with long silver hair and beard. Overalls that barely contained his round gut didn’t help the cliché appearance. But appearances only go so far. Clare was a retired history teacher, an ordained Assembly of God minister, a semireformed bootlegger and closet Democrat. Moonshines couldn’t remain in business without him.

  I put my hands around the mug. The liquid inside was way too hot to put to my lips. “It is an ugly day,” I confessed. “I think they are going to stay that way for a while.”

  “No kidding. I heard there are news trucks parked around the sheriff’s office.”

  “I don’t get it.” I leaned over the cocoa and let the heat rise to warm my face.

  “What?”

  “Was Rose Sharon that much of a celebrity?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it takes too much celebrity to be a celebrity these days.”

  “Maybe.” I kept my head down and eyes closed as the hot drink warmed me.

  “But she was a real-deal kind of girl. This whole town, and all the country music business outside of Nashville, was watching her do it. She was making it and showing you didn’t need to do it the big-business way. America loves a maverick. Especially if she’s a pretty young girl.”

  “I guess.”

  “Put all the national stuff to the side, and she’s still a Branson big deal. This town is going to react like we just lost Dolly Parton.”

  “They didn’t know her. I bet nine out of ten of the anguished crowd have never even heard her sing.”

  “Maybe not. But people around here are used to music stars moving from the big stage to Branson. It always seemed like a step down. Rose Sharon was the first to be making the move up. She was taking the dreams of a lot of people with her.”

  I raised my head and watched Clare work behind the counter until he turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he caught the look in my eyes.

  “Billy was involved with the girl.”

  “Involved? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. They knew each other. They spent time together.”

  “Is that all?”

  “They sang together.”

  “The bastard.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What are you worried about? That you’re going to lose something you don’t want?”

  “You think you know what I want?” I put the cocoa to my lips without drinking. It was still too hot but I wanted to focus on another kind of pain.

  “I can’t claim to. But I can see what you don’t want.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “And there’s the problem.”

  “I already have a therapist,” I said before finally sipping a bit of the cocoa. It scalded my tongue.

  “You want some food?” Clare could always be counted on to drop things that needed dropping.

  “Yes. I haven’t had a bite all day.”

  “So I bit her.” Clare walked out of the bar laughing at the old punch line. He came back a moment later still chuckling. “Dinner will be just a minute.”

  “You could have waited for me to tell you what I wanted.”

  “Do you even know?” He laughed again.

  “Funny man.”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  I pushed the hot chocolate away. “Yes. You tried to boil me from the inside out with this cocoa.”

  Clare reached into the special ice bin. He kept two ice bins. One with regular machine ice, and one with ice he made in spherical molds from distilled water. They were crystal clear and he usually served them only with the best whisky. He dropped one of the glistening spheres into my mug. “Anything else?”

  “Do you know anything about stealing trees?”

  “First you get a chain saw—”

  “Who.” I poked the dwindling ice sphere with my finger. “Who does that? Until today I’d never heard of stealing trees.”

  “Maybe you’ve led too sheltered a life. The lands around here are full of thousand-dollar walnut trees. Good cherry goes for the same.”

  “I don’t need a lesson, I need a person.”

  “Well…” Clare held on to the words.

  I could tell it wasn’t because he was thinking what to say next. “What?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Since when has liking it had anything to do with my job?”

  With that, Clare left. One of the waitresses brought me dinner. She wanted to talk about Rose Sharon, but I told her I couldn’t talk about an investigation. Truth was I was too hungry when I saw the plate. Clare had ordered me our new Delmonico steak seared in cast iron. It was still sizzling from the hot skillet with a dollop of herb butter melting over it. The sides were roasted red potatoes and a mix of slightly blackened broccoli and carrots.

  After my first bite I pulled out the two photos I had taken from Rose’s mirror and set them on the bar. I ate everything on my plate with my gaze fixed to the pictures.

  The food went quickly and it was a good thin
g. The man who walked into the bar and sat beside me would have killed my appetite.

  “Katrina,” Clare said, “meet E.”

  “E?” I asked.

  “Evens Edward Lawson,” the man said.

  “That’s a mouthful of a name.”

  “Those that use it call me Double E, some Big E or just E. Most just call me Lawson, and a few E Lawson. I ain’t particular.” He offered his huge hand. It was hard and callused. Like shaking hands with a shedding snake.

  It was the cologne that was the appetite-killer. Not that the rest of him was pretty. Lawson looked like he had dressed and doused himself for a meeting with the law. He wore boots with two-inch heels that kicked him up past six feet eight. His snap-front Western shirt barely contained him. It was covered, not by a coat, but a sheepskin vest. His long hair draped over wide shoulders to the middle of his back. And in all that was still something more striking than anything else. His right eye was a color somewhere between green and brown. His left was blind and mottled in shades of white, as if filled with a terrible storm.

  When he released my hand, he waved two fingers at Clare, who already had a glass waiting. As the whiskey was being poured Lawson said, “So you’re the big girl cop everyone talks about.”

  “Well…” I grabbed my cocoa mug and suddenly felt silly about it. I took a drink and let the cooled chocolate slide down slow. When I set it down I didn’t feel foolish at all. “I’m a cop and I’m a woman. I’m no little girl.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ down. Don’t mean to, anyway.”

  That caught me completely off guard. So much for assumptions. “Thank you,” I said.

  “You took down Johnson Rath.”

  He was talking about a white separatist who dealt in drugs and guns to finance his dream of a racially pure enclave in the Ozarks. He had been murdered in prison.

  “Yeah,” I answered. His face gave me no clue to his feelings. I rested my hand on the telescoping baton clipped to my belt. “I did. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me. He was a son of a bitch.”