Dark Coulee (6 page)

“When the time comes, you’ll want it out.”

“I’ll want it over, is what you mean.” Bridget stopped. “Before we go into the house, not to change the subject, but give me the lowdown on last night.”

“Wouldn’t you know, a guy got stabbed at the dance we went to.”

“No. Did you have to work? Did that ruin your evening?”

“Yes, I did have to work. He died a few hours later in the hospital.”

Bridget said, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Claire. I know how much you were looking forward to last night.”

“But it didn’t completely ruin my evening.” Claire smiled.

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Bridget studied her. “Sister of mine, you look like a satisfied woman.”

Claire simply nodded.

Lola was done with her shift at the Bluff Bar and Grill. All the customers were gone, and her area was all set for the evening shift. She had eaten a cheeseburger with fries and decided to have a beer with it. What the hell. She almost hadn’t come into work today. What with Jed killed and all, she would have had a good excuse, but she desperately needed the money.

She sniffed into a napkin when she thought of Jed. Things hadn’t been great between them recently, but for a while he had treated her so good. They had met at the bar about six months ago. Not that she didn’t know who he was—she had seen him around all her life, but he was quite a bit older than her.

But about six months ago, he sat in her section and she waited on him. He had been in a good mood, and she had flirted with him. Before he left, he asked her out for a drink. That started it all. He had taken her out a few times before he made any kind of moves on her. She had been surprised by how slow he was about it, especially considering it had been a few years since his wife died. Then, when they made love, he always wanted her to start by going down on him. It seemed to be the only way he could get aroused. She didn’t mind, but it surprised her. He wasn’t that old, but still getting close to fifty.

She wasn’t getting any younger either. In two years she’d be forty. She had hoped that they might marry. Brad would be moving out this year, and Jenny wouldn’t be far behind. That would leave her and Jed and Nora. A nice little family. Since she couldn’t have kids herself, she had really looked forward to raising Nora, dressing her up and taking care of her.

Now it would never happen. She would have to waitress the rest of her life. She lit a cigarette and looked around the bar. Maybe it was time to leave. Get out of this area. Everyone knew her and her business. And Leonard would never leave her alone.

Just as she thought of him, he walked in the door. The last person she wanted to see, Leonard. She would have known it was him just by the sound of his big boots on the floor. Leonard never picked his feet up, he dragged them. Him and his big stupid cowboy hat. Nobody wore a cowboy hat anymore. What did he think he was, some kind of Western hero?

He walked up to her and said, “Lola, I gotta talk to you.”

“Get out of here, Leonard!” she yelled at him.

Jim, her boss, came out from the kitchen. “You two take it outside. I don’t need your fighting in here.”

Leonard grabbed her wrist and started pulling her outside with him. She kicked him in the leg, and he kept pulling. She kicked again, and he yanked her so hard that she almost fell.

“Jim, stop him!” Lola yelled.

“I don’t want to hear about it, Lola. You get rid of him.”

She gave in and went outside with Leonard.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Let go of me. I’ll only listen if you let go.”

He dropped her wrist, and she thought of running back inside, but Jim was obviously going to be no help. She might as well get it over with. “What?”

“Lola, you need to get away from that guy. I’m worried about you. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Listen, Leonard. I told the police all about you last night. You were seen with Jed right after he was stabbed. I’m surprised they haven’t picked you up yet for killing him. Did you know he was dead? He died in the hospital. Now are you happy? You killed him.”

Leonard stared at her as he let her words sink in. Surprisingly, he did not get riled up. He pushed his hat back on his head and said, “Spitzler got what he deserved. You’re the blind woman around here. Jed Spitzler was no good, and I don’t mean to speak poorly of the dead, but it’s the truth. You’ll just have to get over him.”

“Get over it. The man I loved is dead.”

“You said you loved me once. Doesn’t seem to mean much to you.”

Lola decided to tell him her big news, even if she was pushing the truth a little. He thought he knew everything. “We were going to get married.”

Leonard stopped at this. “Married?”

“Yes. We were talking about it. Probably sometime this year.”

Leonard took a step back from her, looking her over. “You would have married that creep?”

“Hey, I would’ve been able to quit work, stay at home, and raise his little girl. He would have taken care of me.”

“Right. Just like he took care of his first wife.” Leonard turned to walk away. Lola was surprised. Usually he didn’t give up so easily. Then he turned back and said, “I think you are one lucky woman.”

M
Y favorite ghoul.” Dr. Lord smiled and nodded as Claire walked in the door to the morgue, which was in the basement of a deconsecrated church. He was sitting at his Mission-style desk, a small laptop open in front of him. The two objects looked so incongruous that Claire chuckled. That typified Dr. Lord. He seemed able to live in many worlds at the same time.

“My favorite necrotomist,” she replied.

“What an apt term.” He stood up from his desk and walked toward her. “I bet you’ve come about Mr. Spitzler. Jed. Am I right?”

“As always.”

“Looks like someone killed him.” He ran his fingers through his hair, but there wasn’t much there. Dr. Lord was in his sixties, and his hair was thin and white, but his demeanor was robust.

“You’re not beating around the bush today.”

“A knife in the guts isn’t usually an accident. Although”—he stopped and thought for a moment, his index finger touching his lip—“I do recall a very strange incident where a man fell on his knife as he was gelding a horse. But I don’t think he died.”

“Thank you for that little tidbit. Well, as you’ve probably heard, the stabbing happened at a street dance.”

“Yes, I had heard.” Dr. Lord waved toward the back room, where Claire could see a body lying in state under a sheet. “I’m sorry you missed my big performance, but I got to him sooner than I thought I would. No surprises with him. He was stabbed in the guts, right under the rib cage. The person either knew what they were doing, or they were lucky in their placement of the knife, or they were shorter than him.”

“So they would naturally jab him in the right spot?”

“Might be something like that. But the blade of the knife cut right up into his lungs and under his heart. He bled out pretty fast. I’m surprised he even made it to the hospital alive.”

“His daughter said he sounded very odd. She was at the scene. She described him as sounding like a stuck pig.”

“Yes, that would be about right. Trying to get his breath while the air is leaking out of him on the inside. Must be a horrible feeling.” He bowed slightly and said, “Would you like to have a look-see?”

Claire thought about it. “No, thanks. I don’t think that will be necessary. I saw quite enough of him last night. I located the wound, although it was gushing blood, as you surmised.”

He motioned to his desk. “The blade of the knife was probably about six inches long. Pretty standard for any kind of long-bladed knife. So that’s not much help. I was just writing up my notes. I’ll get you a copy of them as soon as I’m done. But I think it’s time for my midafternoon break. Can I persuade you to join me for a piece of pie?”

“I planned it that way.”

They walked across the street to the small café that Dr. Lord frequented. Claire had had dealings with the doctor several times since she had joined the sheriff’s office. He treated her with respect and was a delight to be around, but he also had several weaknesses, and one of them was any sort of pie.

They settled into a booth by the window, and the dyed blond waitress automatically brought over two coffee cups and a pot of coffee. “What’ll it be today, Doc?”

“What do you recommend, Doris?”

“The apple streusel looks good, and I know you always like the double chocolate fudge pie.”

“I think I’ll go with the chocolate and a dollop or two of whipped cream.”

“I’ll have the coconut cream,” Claire announced. She hadn’t had a piece of coconut cream pie in twenty years. But once she saw it on the menu, it sounded perfect.

Dr. Lord poured them both cups of coffee, and Claire poured some milk into hers. She needed to get her calcium.

“How are the Spitzler children doing?” Dr. Lord asked.

“I’m not sure. They were in deep shock last night. I’m going out there next to check on them. The boy is nearly eighteen, so we’ve left them on their own, which makes me feel uncomfortable. Maybe a relative will come out and stay with them.”

“No one came when their mother died. It was a good thing Jed worked at home, or I don’t know what he would have done.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that. I keep hearing references to her death, but what exactly happened to Mrs. Spitzler?”

“Her first name was Rainey. She was a pretty woman. Fine, slim figure, golden hair, light complected.” Dr. Lord rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I hate to remember that day they brought her in to the morgue. Unlike her husband, she did die on her way to the hospital. I heard the kids were hysterical. I think they had to sedate the older girl. Jenny? Is that her name?”

Claire nodded. “Yes—I think she’s been sedating herself ever since.”

“Both of Rainey’s hands were smashed. Total trauma. Every bone in her hands and her arms up to her elbows was broken, nearly pulverized. Several fingers were pulled right off her hands. She had been working with the two oldest kids and her husband and had fallen into the machine that squeezes juice out of sorghum. Have you ever seen a sorghum press?”

“No, I don’t even know what sorghum is,” Claire said. “I haven’t spent much time on farms.”

“Dangerous places. I could tell you stories.” He shook his head. “Well, sorghum is a tall grass. Its stems are crushed to extract juice, which is then boiled to make a syrup. A sorghum press is made up of three metal rollers—two on top and one on the bottom. You feed the sorghum through it, and the juice drips out the bottom. Rather simple. Very effective. And like much farm machinery, if used incorrectly, quite dangerous.”

“How did that kill her?”

“Well, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Everything was mangled and mashed. It was as if she had slit her wrists from the inside. Once they released her from the machine, she started to bleed. From what I’ve heard, Jed carried her to the car, had the children manage her while he drove into town. He didn’t call an ambulance. I don’t think it would have made any difference. I heard the children blamed him for her death. Said if he would have acted faster, called for help, they might have saved her. I tried to talk to them once. I told them I didn’t think she could have been saved. She was in very bad shape. And there was certainly no saving those hands—they were smashed beyond repair. What kind of life would she have had? I have to wonder. But that’s beside the point.”

The waitress brought their pie, and Claire was glad to eat something sweet and not think of farm accidents. Her coconut cream pie was light and tasty, the coconut flakes caramelized on top of the meringue. Dr. Lord ate his chocolate pie with a certain amount of reverence, and Claire let the silence settle on the table. She found him such a comfortable man to be around.

When he was done, he pushed his plate back, poured them both a little more coffee, and said, “Now I can finish my day. I always seem to need a little boost in the late afternoon. With my impending old age, I indulge myself.”

“Anything more you can tell me about the knife used on Jed Spitzler?”

“Sometimes I forget you’re a policewoman, and then you rudely remind me.” He smiled at her. “The knife? Nothing special about the knife. An ordinary long-bladed knife that everyone has at least one of at home. I’ll be more specific in my report.”

“Something used around the farm?”

“Possibly. Are you suggesting this might be, in another form, a farm accident?”

The daylight hurt her eyes. Her body ached as if every bone were being pulled on. Jenny sat in the living room with the shades drawn and slowly drank a cup of coffee. Halfway through the second day with no Darvocet, and her mind felt like a balloon about to burst. Withdrawal was no fun.

Nora sat on the floor, drawing a picture of their farm. Brad and Jenny had decided to let Nora stay home from school today with them. Jenny noticed that Nora was drawing all the animals lined up, like in a parade.

“What’s that one?” Jenny pointed to a small brown animal that looked like a cross between a beaver and a pig.

“That’s the groundhog that lives in the culvert.”

“You’re even putting the wild animals in.”

“I consider him a pet. He’s pretty friendly.”

“Not to the dogs.”

Nora continued to draw, humming a little tuneless tune under her breath. She had cried a few times yesterday, but so far today she didn’t seem too upset. Jenny looked down at the small head of tousled blond curls and didn’t know if she was up to taking care of her sister.

“Where’s Brad?” Jenny asked.

“He’s out doing chores.”

Brad had been very quiet yesterday. He went to bed early and got up early this morning. Being the good boy, taking care of everything. Jenny often found him very hard to talk to, even though in many ways they were quite close. If they were going to keep the farm together, they would need to learn how to talk to each other.

“Oh, the police are coming over,” Nora announced. “This woman called while you were in the shower. She said they’d be over before suppertime.”

Suppertime. Jenny wondered what they’d eat tonight. She really should try to take care of that. She wasn’t a good cook, but maybe it was time she learned how to do it right. They still had all Mom’s old cookbooks.

“What do you want for supper?” she asked Nora.

“Pancakes.”

Pancakes sounded good. Mom used to make pancakes and eggs for supper sometimes, for a treat. Eating breakfast for supper was kind of fun. Jenny felt like they hadn’t had pancakes since her mother died. That couldn’t be true, but she couldn’t remember eating them in the last four years. So many things had died with their mother.

Jenny went into the kitchen and got out the Betty Crocker cookbook. She propped it open on the kitchen counter and then cleared off the rest of the counter.

“I’m going to make pancakes. Can you do the dishes?”

They had never gotten a dishwasher. Mom had wanted one so bad, but Dad said they were a waste of energy and water. He never did anything to make Mom’s life easier. Nora ran a sink full of hot water, piled all the dirty dishes into it, and washed away.

Jenny lined up all the ingredients like the animals in Nora’s picture: salt, flour, oil, egg, milk. She found the measuring cup and the measuring spoons. Then she got out a big blue bowl, the one Mom had always used when she made pancakes.

Slowly and carefully, Jenny put everything she needed in the bowl. Nora pulled up a stool and watched her. Then she stirred it all together. Just as she was done, a knock came at the door.

“I’ll get it,” Nora sang out, jumping off the stool and running for the door.

Jenny covered the pancake batter with a towel. She remembered her mother doing that. Her mother said that pancake batter was always better if it sat for a while. Jenny looked around the kitchen. It was a pigsty. Her mother would be so ashamed if she could see her kitchen. Maybe, after the police left, Jenny would try to clean it up.

Jenny walked out into the hallway and saw the woman deputy that had been at the hospital when Dad died. She had been nice to them. She was dressed in a uniform with her dark hair pulled back and no lipstick on, but she was easy to recognize because she had a big, full smile.

“Hi,” Jenny said.

“Hi, Jenny. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Claire Watkins.”

“I remember you. You went with us to see Dad.”

“How are you doing?”

For some reason, the woman’s question drew tears to Jenny’s eyes. It was the concern in her voice that did it. The understanding. It made Jenny think for a second of getting down on the floor, on her hands and knees, and telling everything. But then she saw the gun the woman carried and the badge she wore. There was no way this woman would understand. It was her job not to.

“Okay, I guess.”

“I know it’s hard. The first few days you feel like you’ve been run over by a bulldozer, but you’re still numb. Then it gets worse.”

Jenny nodded. She remembered how it had been when her mom died. She had wanted to shut her brain down. She wanted the world to stop. She hated everybody. Absolutely everybody.

“Jenny, I need to ask you and Brad some more questions. I’m afraid, as you’ve probably figured out, that someone killed your dad. We’re going to try as hard as we can to find out who did it. We need your help.”

“Nora, go get Brad.” Jenny watched Nora scamper away. Then she turned to the woman deputy. “Can I get you something? Coffee? I just reheated a pot. It doesn’t taste very good, though. Never does when you reheat it.”

“You know, I just had a couple cups with a big piece of pie. I think I’m fine for the time being.”

Jenny turned on the tap and filled a glass full of water for herself. She seemed to be craving water today, as if she needed to flush her system clean. Then she led the way to the living room and offered Claire a seat.

“Is that your mother?” Claire asked, pointing to a family picture sitting on the fireplace mantel.

Jenny said yes. The photograph had been taken right before Labor Day, the last picture anyone had taken of Mom. Her mother looked thin and a little worn, but still beautiful. Jenny hated the way her own hair looked in that picture, thin and flat to her head. Her eyes looked enormous, and her teeth were huge. A normal ugly twelve-year-old. Nora was a lot cuter than Jenny had ever been.

“She’s very pretty,” Claire continued.

Jenny knew her mom was pretty, but it seemed like such a lame thing to say. The picture didn’t show how gentle her mother could be, or how scared. Just a one-dimensional, smiling woman with her hand on Jenny’s shoulder.

Brad walked in and took his boots off right by the door. Their mother had taught them to do that. He walked up and said hi and shook Claire’s hand.

“Thanks for helping us last night,” he said. He always knew how to act. Especially around adults.

“You’re welcome. As I’ve already told Jenny, I’d like to ask you two more questions. Anything you can think of that might shed some light on what happened to your dad—who might have stabbed him—please tell me.”

Claire took them through the night, step by step. How Dad had seemed, when they had gone to the dance, when they had last seen him. Then she asked them about Lola. “Were your father and Lola getting along?”

Brad shrugged. Jenny decided to say something. “I think they weren’t getting along as well as they had at first.”