A Killing at the Creek (23 page)

 

Chapter 42

E
LSIE L
AY IN
a narrow hospital bed, garbed in a backless cotton gown loosely tied at the back. Her throat was bandaged, with rings of gauze circling her neck.

She held her cell phone to her ear with her free hand; the other was still hooked to an IV.

Marge's voice was warm in Elsie's ear. “Honey, I've packed a bag, but I can't find any clean pj's in your apartment.”

“There probably aren't any, Mom. I was buried before the trial, didn't ever get to the laundromat. Just throw in a T-­shirt.”

“Should I bring something of mine for you?”

Elsie cracked a smile. “That's nice, Mom, but I don't know—­there's something a little weird about lounging around in one of your nylon nighties.”

“I want you to be comfy. I'll run to the mall in Springfield.”

“Mom, no! You don't need to do that. That's ridiculous.”

“Lord, yes I do. You'll be receiving visitors, at the hospital and when we get you home. I'll be damned if I'll let my baby be seen in rags. I'll pick something up. Florals. Florals are nice for summer.”

A vision of a pink flowered nightgown and robe set, suitable for menopause, appeared before Elsie; but she knew there was no stopping Marge. “That's sweet of you, Mom. Florals are nice.” She couldn't stop from adding, “Not pink.”

“It'll just take me a little while. Try to sleep. Do you think you can sleep?”

Elsie heard the note of worry in her mother's voice. She answered, “Sure thing. I'll sleep, Mom.”

There was a pause; the silence lasted so long, Elsie wondered whether the call had been dropped. “Mom? You there?”

“I'm here.” Marge's voice cracked as she said, “Baby, something I want to tell you—­I should have said it earlier today. But I didn't. Because I don't want to make you think about this case anymore.”

“Hard to avoid.” Gingerly, Elsie touched the bandage swathing her neck. “What?”

“You were right. About that boy. I can't get over it—­him holding that woman down while her throat was cut. And I let a difference of opinion come between us—­between you and me. And I could have lost you-­-­” Marge stopped, and Elsie could hear her make a shuddering breath into the phone.

“Mom, that's so funny,” Elsie said softly. “Because you were right, your instincts were spot on. You never thought he held the knife.”

In a firm voice, Marge said, “We mustn't fuss about your cases. Dad and I, we support you. We love you more than anything on earth.”

It was the fifth time that day that Marge had expressed the same sentiment, but Elsie wasn't tired of hearing it. She swiped at her nose with the IV hand; the tape scratched her face. “I love you, Mom. You and Dad are the best. Don't know what I'd do without you.”

Marge sniffled. “Well. I better get moving. I'll get your bag all set for you. Take a little nap, and I'll be back before you know it.”

“Bye, Mom,” Elsie said, setting the phone aside. With her other hand, she struggled to operate the remote control for the overhead television set, searching in vain for a local news channel. She doggedly punched the buttons, brows drawing together in growing frustration, until a knock sounded at the door.

“Come on in-­-­I'm decent,” she called, pushing the mute button.

When the door opened and she saw Ashlock standing in the doorway, holding a handful of pink lilies, Elsie tried to stifle the pleasure that welled up in her chest. She tossed the remote onto the bedside table, saying, “Lordlordlord. It's my damned hero.”

Elsie shifted her legs in an effort to get off the bed, but Ashlock stepped quickly to her side to prevent it.

“You stay right there,” he said. “You're the patient. Have they got you all fixed up?” He quietly inspected her, looking at her bandaged neck with a sober face.

“Oh, I'm going to be all right. She slit a wide cut, but not deep; that was lucky, they said. I'm going to have a scar. My mom said she'd go stock up on scarves and turtle necks, but I said hell no. Battle scar. Mark of pride.”

“That's the spirit.” He smiled. “I brought some flowers for you.” Looking around the room, he said, “I should've put them in a vase. Guess I wasn't thinking.”

The stems were wrapped in a damp paper towel. She smiled; she knew Ashlock wasn't a hothouse bouquet kind of guy. “Did you get those from your yard?”

“My neighbor's yard, actually. I thought they smelled nice.”

“They're naked ladies. My mom has them at her house, too; pretty, and such a sweet fragrance.” A little too sweet, actually; a vase full of naked ladies could have her hospital room smelling like a French whorehouse. But she didn't really mind. “Hey, Ash, I've got to tell you,” she said, her voice shaking a little, to her dismay, “you really did rescue me.”

“Elsie, I don't want to hear it. It never should've happened. I was right there, in the damned hallway. If I hadn't had my head up my ass, you wouldn't be in the hospital right now.” He eyed her bandaged neck again, and looked away.

“Oh, come on. I saw you. You came busting in there like,” she gasped a little in agitation, searching for the right comparison. “Like Prince Valiant. Like fucking Prince Valiant in the funny papers.”

Ashlock grimaced with mock dismay at the metaphor, and Elsie laughed, but tears jumped into her eyes.

Her voice dropped to a near whisper as she asked, “Has she been charged?”

Ashlock nodded. “First degree assault, but her background is a sight. In and out of mental facilities in the past five years; they'd boot her when the Medicaid money dried up. She should never have been in the foster parents program. Can't imagine that she passed muster. But maybe her mental history hadn't surfaced before she applied.”

“Bree filled me in: Cleo was Monroe's foster mother. I guess that explains her obsession with the case.”

“She had him in foster care when he was just a kid, for about six months, when his mother was in rehab. I guess she formed an attachment to him, back then.” Ashlock paused, then said, “Madeleine told me she'll probably accept the NG—­MD or D plea.” He shook his head. “Crazy bitch.”

“Which one do you mean? Madeleine or Cleo?”

He laughed, but it had a forced sound. Elsie picked at the bed sheet, trying keep her composure.

She said, “I heard the kid pled to manslaughter.”

Ashlock looked up. “That's right. Madeleine and Billy knocked it out. You okay with that?”

“Well, it's not like anybody asked my opinion,” she said, a shade miffed. But she relented. “It wasn't a bad resolution. The murder conviction was never a sure thing; the jury might have cut him loose. And if it went down like Monroe said, with the guy threatening him: well, a jury would have been sympathetic to his situation, a young kid like that.”

“I think you're right.”

“I don't suppose the kid confessed to forcing intercourse on Glenda Fielder.”

“Nope; just to manslaughter. Madeleine didn't press the sex issue. Seems like she just wanted to wrap it up.”

“Are you opening up the case, to look for the other perpetrator? If Monroe's story is true, he's still out there.”

“Already on it.” Ashlock scrubbed at his face with his hand, a gesture she recalled; it meant he was wiped out. She took in his wrinkled suit coat and the shadows beneath his eyes.

“Ashlock? Have you been up all night?”

“Pretty much.” He offered a rueful grin. “Probably look like hell.”

“What are you up to?”

“Finding the other dude.”

“How?”

“Well, I spent last night going up and down I-­44. Hitting the gas stations, hunting video from June that showed the bus. In case we get a shot of another passenger.”

“Oh, lord, Ash—­that's like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Not exactly. I know what I'm looking for. I got a hit on a print.”

“How?”

“From the interior of the bus. When we ran the prints from the bus before, there wasn't a match in the system. Something messed up; maybe we didn't run them all through, I don't know. But I did it again. Matches up with a guy in custody, picked up a ­couple weeks back, in Texas.”

He paused and looked away, frowning. Elsie said, “And?”

He looked up. “And he's a big guy. Scar on his face. Tats on his hands. Priors.”

“Then why are you looking blue about it? You may have found the other guy. The one who wielded the knife.”

He expelled a sigh, and shook his head. “Because I should've uncovered it earlier. Seems like I was just seeing what I wanted to find. I'm feeling like a fool, I tell you.”

“No more than anybody else on this damn case,” Elsie said. “If it's any comfort to you. What was that old movie—­‘Ship of Fools'? Could've been sailing down Muddy Creek.” She waited for him to comment; but he didn't respond.

After a moment's silence, she said, “I'm sure glad you've got a solid lead. It's creepy to think that the other dude could still be out there, on some road. A hitchhiker.”

Ashlock glanced at the door; she interpreted it as a desire to make a quick getaway. The thought stung; tears pricked behind her eyelids, and she blinked.

“I don't want to wear you out,” he began.

The tears rolled, and she turned her head away, mortified.

“Go ahead and go,” she said, her voice breaking. “I know you're busy.”

“Elsie,” he said, his voice gentle. “That's not what I meant.”

“Oh shit,” she moaned, tears falling in tracks down her face. “You'll think I'm a nutcase, crying like a baby. Not even hurt that bad.”

Ashlock reached for her hand, and held it in both of his for a quiet moment.

“Do you see any Kleenex?” she sniffled, looking around. He reached for the box and handed it to her. He watched while she self-­consciously rubbed her nose with the tissue.

“Will your parents be taking you home later, Elsie? Because if they've gone on, I can stick around, go get you anything you need.”

“Oh, yeah, they're taking me to their house, after I'm released. They're making me sleep in the old twin bed, under my Mary Kate and Ashley poster.” She shuddered. “Scary.”

“Huh,” he said, clearly unacquainted with the Olsen twins. “Well, I guess you're all set, then.” Before he turned to go, he said, “I came to ask you a favor. Not now, I mean; just whenever you're feeling better.”

Curious, she swiped at her eyes and looked at him. “What?”

“I've got the kids for a ­couple more weeks. They've been at me to take them over to Silver Dollar City before they go back to their mom. I haven't done it yet; don't know why.”

Because Caroline Applegate is a buzzkill
, Elsie thought, but she held her tongue, waiting.

“I wondered, if you felt like you were up to it, if you'd come along. When I take them.” He gazed at the bandages again. “I wouldn't want you to do anything to hurt yourself.”

“No roller coasters,” she said.

He said, “I'm not saying I expect you to go back to last June, to act like it never happened. Just wondered if you might join us.” After a pause, he added, “No pressure.”

She started to tip her head back to think about it, but the stitches gave a quick reprimand. She placed her hand at her neck, gingerly. “I sure do like a funnel cake,” she said.

He smiled, like a light switch had been flipped on. “All right, then.” Before he headed out, he said in a low voice, “Madeleine is out there. You've got a ‘no visitors' status, so they didn't let her in. I slipped by on the pretext of police business. But she's hanging around. I'll let the desk know if you'd like to see her.”

A flash of the old Elsie fired her expression. “Send her home. Please. I'd rather have a cob up my ass. Just like she does.”

He winked. “Okay. I'll tell her to hit the road.”

“You do that. A dose of Madeleine Thompson is the last thing I need right now.”

Ashlock gave her a look. “Want me to pump some bullets in her?”

“Hell yeah,” she declared. “ ‘Code of the hills.' ”

 

Acknowledgments

T
AKING THIS NOVEL
from the seed of an idea to publication has been a joy, and it's a pleasure to recognize some of the folks who assisted in the journey. I want to thank Trish Daly, the best editor in the whole damned world, for her vision as we crafted the story into its final form, and for liking Elsie's shortcomings as well as her strengths. My agent, Jill Marr of the Sandra Dijkstra Literary agency, is an angel with a halo; thanks go to her for taking on an Ozarks hillbilly. And I want to thank a trio of Harper­Collins stars for their help: Andrea Hackett with publicity, Dana Trombley with marketing, and Eleanor Mikucki with copyediting.

Showers of thanks go to old friends and new who have supported the launch of Elsie and the Ozarks mystery series. At Missouri State University, special thanks go to Dr. Patti Salinas, Kim Callahan, President Clif Smart, Dean Stephanie Bryant, Dr. Kent Ragan, and the wonderful students at Missouri State, especially my advisees in AKPsi (thank you Sarah D!).

My family has provided support in countless ways, from the legal expertise given by my brother John and sister Susie, to the editorial suggestions and encouragement from sisters Carol and Janice.

But above all, I must thank the three ­people who mean more to me than words can express: my beloved husband Randy, my precious Ben, my darling Martha. You are my rock and my salvation.

 

Also by Nancy Allen

The Code of the Hills

 

About the Author

NANCY ALLEN practiced law for fifteen years, serving as Assistant Missouri Attorney General and as Assistant Prosecutor in her native Ozarks (the second woman in southwest Missouri to serve in that capacity). During her years in prosecution, she tried over thirty jury trials, including murder and sexual offenses, and is now a law professor at Missouri State University.
A Killing at the Creek
is her second novel.

@TheNancyAllen

www.nancyallenauthor.com

www.witnessimpulse.com

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