“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but Marsha Parsons was murdered last night. And the medical examiner puts the time of death between ten and midnight.”
Daria's right hand flew to her veil. Her dark eyes widened and filled with tears.
Ahmed stood. “You cannot believe I or Daria had anything to do with Marsha dying.”
“At this point in my investigation, I’m talking to everyone who knew her, trying to get a feel for who she was. And her relationships with others. Do either of you know if she had any enemies? Or people who might have been envious of her for some reason?”
“You should talk to her husband. He is no kind man.” Ahmed returned to his seat, but wouldn’t meet Radhauser’s gaze.
Was it guilt? Or fear of saying something bad about his boss? “Why do you say that?”
“Sherman Parsons is a bully. And racist.”
“Has he threatened you?”
Ahmed drew in a deep breath and studied Radhauser as if assessing whether or not he could trust him. "Almost every day. And he makes many remarks about Muslims and how we don't belong in his country. He says we are all terrorists, sand niggers, and ragheads. Sometimes at work, he calls me bin Laden. This angers me very much. What is America, I ask him? Is it not made up of all who come here from other countries for better life?"
Again, Radhauser thought about the red paint on Parsons’ index finger and under his thumbnail. The kind of stain you’d get from repeatedly pressing down on the nozzle on a can of spray paint. If Radhauser was a betting man, he’d place one on Sherman Parsons being one of the people who’d terrorized the Azamis.
Could mild-mannered Ahmed have taken enough ridicule and abuse from Sherman Parsons? Could he have murdered Marsha Parsons in retaliation?
Radhauser turned to Ahmed. “Do you own a hatchet?”
His brow furrowed. “I do not know word. What is hatchet?”
"It's a tool for chopping wood. Like a small ax. People sometimes use them to split logs for their fireplaces."
“I have no fireplace. And I have no such tool.”
“How about a meat cleaver?”
“Sometimes I must use this tool at work, but since we come to America, we become vegetarian. We eat no meat. I own no such tool. Why are you asking me questions? I hurt no one.”
Daria dabbed at her eyes and moved a little closer to Ahmed.
“It’s routine,” Radhauser said. “Part of my job. And I’m almost finished. But before I leave, I’d like you to tell me about your relationship with Sherman Parsons.”
Ahmed took a sip of his tea, then stared at Radhauser. “I have no relationship. I do not like him. But he is a boss at my work. So, when I am there, I try hard to say nothing. Just do what he asks when he threatens to fire me.” He lifted his hands, palm-side up, in a helpless gesture. “But when he try to shove pork from pig in my face and ridicule my faith, I get angry. And sometimes, he deny prayer time, when law entitles me to break, I get more angry and report him to bigger boss.”
“Does your religion say you can’t handle any pork products?” Radhauser could understand a restriction like that might cause a problem in a butcher shop as busy as Costco.
“No, Quran say, we not eat from pig. But we may touch, so long as we wash hands after finished. At Costco we always wear gloves.”
"I appreciate your being candid with me." Radhauser picked up his Stetson, stood, then handed Ahmed his card. "Please call me if you or Daria think of anything else. I'll let you get back to your evening. I appreciate your help. I may have to question you again, so call me if you have any plans to leave town in the next couple of weeks." Again, he thought about the graffiti. "I'm sorry about your front door. And the harassment you've had to endure here."
Daria shot a glance at her husband, then tugged on Radhauser's sleeve as he started to leave. "What about Marsha's children? Where are Junior and Jill? Do they know about their mother? They are okay, yes?"
He told her the children were turned over to Services to Children and Families. “I’m hoping they will be placed together in an area foster home for the time being.”
She bowed her head. “I fear they will be frightened in this stranger home.”
Though Radhauser couldn't see them, he heard the tears in her voice. He bid them goodnight, then hurried out to the parking lot. He sat in the car for a few minutes, making notes on the interview before he headed toward home. His intuition said the Azamis were telling the truth. But he wasn't the type of detective to allow anything to get in the way of a thorough investigation. One thing was certain. If Ahmed Azami studied medicine in Kabul, he'd know how to amputate a hand.
Chapter Ten
It was almost ten o’clock when Radhauser turned into the gravel drive of his small ranch. It was a good thing he’d phoned Gracie around noon and let her know it would likely be a very long day. She, like most cops’ wives, was a worrier.
As was his evening custom, he parked the Crown Vic under the barn overhang. He'd come to love this thirty-five-acre parcel of both wooded and pasture land in the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains. And he never wanted to get to a place in life where he took it for granted. The moon was in its last quarter but still shed enough light to cast an eerie glow over the barn roof.
He was haunted by the image of that red crescent moon dripping down the Azamis’ apartment door. What kind of person could be so cruel? Was it Sherman Parsons? And could a man who appeared as honest, soft-spoken, and gentle as Ahmed have taken revenge by killing Marsha Parsons?
Radhauser had experienced hatred first hand only two years ago when a racist club had tried to burn down his barn. They’d set a cross on fire in front of the wooden structure. The fire spread to the entire barn. If he hadn’t awakened to the fear in the horses’ squeals and the sound of hoofs pounding the stall doors, they would have lost them. With the help of an FBI agent from Portland, they’d gotten that racist hate club shut down—he hoped for good. But now another form of prejudice was cropping up in his beloved town—hatred for all Muslims. A hatred that may have already resulted in murder.
He shook his head, then opened the big sliding door and stepped inside the barn to check the horses and try to clear his mind of what was going on at work before seeing his wife. The combined scents of cedar shavings, alfalfa, leather, and horse greeted him. They were smells he never tired of.
Ameer, always able to sense Radhauser’s presence, whinnied, then stretched his long, chestnut neck over the stall gate. The stallion blew softly on Radhauser’s neck.
“You want a treat, don’t you, boy?” He stepped away from the stall, opened a feed bin and grabbed a scoop full of sweet feed laced with molasses. As he walked through the aisle, he greeted each of their six horses by name. After scratching their necks, he held out his hand and let them nibble a little sweet feed from his open palm.
When he finished, he closed the barn, then walked up the gravel drive to their house under a clear sky, littered with stars. Again, he thought about the weeping Islamic symbol on the Azamis’ apartment door.
Except for the porch light Gracie always left on for him, the house was quiet and dark. He unlocked the back door and stepped into the mudroom. He locked his gun in the cabinet, hung his Stetson on one of the horseshoe hooks beside the door, then tiptoed through the house and down the hallway toward his and Gracie’s bedroom, stopping to check on Lizzie and Jonathan on his way.
He touched the toddler's forehead. It was cool. His fever was gone. Radhauser breathed a sigh of relief. He'd already lost one son, and whenever Lizzie or Jonathan was ill, Radhauser couldn't help but worry.
As soon as he entered the master bedroom, Gracie flipped the light on her bedside table. She wore a white nightgown with lace around the neck and sleeves. With her long, dark hair loose and falling over her shoulders, she looked almost angelic. “You’ve put in a long day,” she said. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“I’m fine.”
She smiled then, the all-knowin
g one that said I can read you like a poem. “What have you eaten today?”
“Three cookies. And I drank a cup of tea.”
"I'm glad you're including all the major food groups for healthy living." She climbed out of bed. "Come on." She kissed him on the cheek. "I'll warm up some leftovers. I need to talk to you about something anyway."
He sat at the kitchen table, sipping a Sam Adams while she heated meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans in the microwave. Less than five minutes later she set the steaming plate in front of him and pulled out the chair across the table.
Radhauser hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he started to eat. While he shoveled the food into his mouth, Gracie talked.
“How do you feel about Cooper Drake?”
“He seems like a nice enough young man.” He didn’t want to tell Gracie he’d run him through the system to see if he had a record. “I like the gentle and respectful way he deals with the kids. How he quietly explains the rules to them rather than shouts and demeans.” Radhauser told Gracie what had happened with Lizzie’s safe slide and the umpire calling her out at third. About Cooper’s kindness to Lizzie. And the scene he’d observed behind the snack bar with the coach reprimanding a young player. “Was Lizzie still upset when she got home?”
“She didn’t say a word. I guess having lunch and getting a ride in that cute little convertible with her handsome coach made her forget all about it.” Gracie was silent for a moment, but Radhauser had always been able to read her face. She was transparent in a way that delighted him—a man who spent so much time dealing with the hidden and darker side of people. He knew his wife was about to ask him for something—something related to Cooper Drake.
“When he brought Lizzie home from the game, I invited him inside. We drank iced-tea, chatted for a while, and then he asked for a favor.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “A favor? Isn’t he a little young for you?”
She slapped him on the arm. “Not that kind of favor. He’d like to stay in our barn office for the next two months and work off his rent by cleaning stalls. And, you know, doing odd jobs around the ranch.”
Radhauser couldn’t hide his surprise. “He asked you that, out of the blue?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “Well…I might have mentioned I could use some help with the barn.”
“He could have volunteered to help out without asking to sleep here. If you ask me, that was pretty brazen.” Radhauser took another bite of meatloaf and potatoes. “Why would a young, single man, who drives a BMW, need or even want to live in our barn?”
“Because, at the moment, he needs a place to stay.”
“Where is he staying now?”
"With his mother, but it isn't working out. From what he told me, she sounds like a pretty domineering person. And if you ask me, Cooper might benefit from some time away from her. It'll help him grow up and be a man."
Radhauser’s fork stopped in midair. “At age twenty, technically, he already is a man. And since when did you open a family counseling practice?”
"Come on, it's only for a little while. And I could use the help. Why not give it a try?"
“Does he plan to get rich in the next two months and buy a mansion on the hillside?”
She laughed. "He does—at least the rich part. He told me his father, who lived somewhere back east, set up a trust fund for him before he passed away. It kicks in on Cooper's twenty-first birthday."
“Sounds like a poor little rich boy. Does he know anything about horses? Or did he grow up with stable hands who cleaned his tack and saddled his mount before the fox hunts and polo games?”
She cocked her head slightly, her dark eyes holding steadily with his own. “No, but he can learn.”
Radhauser wasn’t sure he wanted a stranger, even if he was Lizzie’s baseball coach, living in their barn. “I don’t know, Gracie. Horses can be dangerous. And there’ll be liability issues.”
"We have insurance. My business is picking up. And with Jonathan in daycare part-time now, having someone clean the barn and feed the horses will give me more time to train and give riding lessons. If I'm the one who takes the horses out into the pastures first thing in the morning, Cooper can shovel and re-bed the stalls, and clean tack without much risk. And he can save me a lot of time by setting out the feed before I bring them back into the barn at night.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” It was hard to close the door on the enthusiastic expectations of someone he loved as much as Gracie.
“I like him,” she said. “And I feel more than a little sorry for him.”
“My Gracie, the Good Samaritan. Lover of all handsome and soon-to-be rich, young men.”
“I fell for you, didn’t I?”
He grinned. "Except for the rich part, I fit the bill. And you do know how to sweet talk a man. But what's so special about Cooper except for the fact that he's tall, dark and handsome, and our little girl is enamored with him?"
She threw her head back and laughed, a sound Radhauser loved. “Oh, I get it now, you’re jealous.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “I kind of wanted to be Lizzie’s hero for as long as it lasted.”
Gracie reached across the table and put her hand on his. “You’ll always be her hero. You’re a fabulous dad. A real superstar. Every kid on the planet should have a father like you.”
"More sweet talk. It's great that Cooper volunteers. He's a talented coach. But I wonder why he hasn't gotten a paying job and his own apartment."
Gracie sucked in her cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
“Okay, then. Unravel it for me, Dr. Radhauser.”
“He claims he doesn’t have any marketable skills. But he does have a long-term plan. And there’s another thing I forgot to tell you. He’s willing to give Lizzie piano lessons. I’d call that a marketable skill.”
Radhauser flashed on Cooper’s delicate, long-fingered hands. “Can he even play the piano?”
“I’ve never heard or seen anything like it. He sat down at your old upright and played Moonlight Sonata. Even Jonathan listened, with his mouth wide open. That little guy was mesmerized. I swear he didn’t move until the last note was played. Cooper plans to set up a studio and give piano lessons from his home. He says he’s studied the piano his entire life. And during his last year at Julliard, he gave concerts all over the world. It’s the one thing he excels at. And he doesn’t want to sign a year-long lease when he’ll only need an apartment for two months.”
“Are things so bad between him and his mother that he can’t stand to be with her for that short period of time?”
Gracie shrugged. "That's a good question. He's only been home from college in New York for a few weeks. He must be some kind of prodigy to graduate from Julliard in only three years. But his mother nags him constantly to practice. He told me from the time he was two years old, she pushed him, forced him to sit at the piano and play. He never had any friends or even went to a regular school. She home-schooled him. According to Cooper, his grandparents sent him a baby grand piano for his fifth birthday. And his mother demanded he practice at least six hours a day. I'd call that child abuse, wouldn't you? I'm surprised he doesn't hate the piano."
“Sounds like one of those mothers who lives through her kid. But I don’t know. His mother will be pretty pissed off at us, I suspect. I’m not sure we should get mixed up in this family feud.”
"Cooper is just a little bit younger than Lucas would have been, had he lived. If he were in a bind and needed help or a place to live for a couple of months, wouldn't you want someone like us to provide it?"
A hole opened up in his chest. Gracie had hit his soft spot, the place he was most vulnerable—that wound that never quite healed over. Radhauser swallowed, remembering how Lucas’ smile could spread through the whole house, lighting everything around him. That’s the way it went with your children. You held every version of them, concurrently, in your heart.
“Yes, I would. But
from what you tell me, I doubt very much Cooper’s mother feels the same way.”
She covered her face and peeked at him through splayed fingers. “Please. Come on. We can do it on a trial basis and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll tell him to leave.”
Radhauser stood, took his plate and silverware to the sink, rinsed them off and stuck them in the dishwasher. If Lucas had needed a safe place to stay, he sure hoped someone generous and kind as Gracie would have provided it for him. “Okay, fine. Let’s give it a try.”
Chapter Eleven
Radhauser awakened, long before sunrise. Night still filled the room, as dark and fluid as a river. He slipped out of bed, trying hard not to wake Gracie, then tiptoed into the bathroom to shower.
Before leaving his house, he stepped into his home office and closed the door. He typed a warning and printed it on the official police department letterhead, using a large font and bold lettering. Defacing Personal Property is a Crime. Hidden Cameras Have Been Installed. Anyone Caught Will be Prosecuted to the Full Extent of the Law. He’d have someone come by the Azamis’ apartment later to install a camera.
He checked his garage for paint. Discovering an unopened half-gallon of white enamel, he loaded it, along with some rags, turpentine and a paintbrush into his car, then headed into town. In some small way, he could at least attempt to right one of the wrongs that had been perpetrated against them.
After driving the short distance to the apartment complex, he parked, grabbed his paint and supplies, then hurried to the apartment door. Silence surrounded him with only the occasional bird call and the chattering of a blue jay beneath the finch feeder in the courtyard.
Radhauser used turpentine and rags to clean as much of the red paint off as possible, then covered the entire door with a fresh coat of white enamel. The sun was just beginning to rise over the eastern horizon and, with any luck, would dry the paint before the Azami family awakened. As a precaution, he wrote a note. Careful, wet paint on outside of door. He didn’t want to sign his name, didn’t need credit or thanks, but he didn’t want the Azamis to be frightened by what he’d done. Please don’t be alarmed. I did this out of respect and friendship. He slipped the note under the front door.
Red Hatchet Falls Page 8
