Dead Man Falls (10 page)

And since I had outsmarted an addle-brained English teacher and a perverted principal while in my teens, I should certainly be wily enough to outwit a killer as an adult. Yes, I know things hadn’t worked out that great a few months ago, but I was older and wiser now, not to mention experienced with bullets.

I flipped back to the beginning and started on page one, looking for anything and everything, studying every candid shot for a clue, someone in the background scowling, holding up rabbit ears, crossing their eyes, whatever.

In about three minutes I was sound asleep.

* * * *

"Oh, my God!"

I came wide awake with those words echoing in my head and sat bolt upright in bed. The yearbook. I was dreaming about the pages in the yearbook, the people, Rhonda, Russell, Jerry, me...Calvin...Yes! Calvin! In a group picture. Small group, something around his neck. Yes! The photography club.

Calvin Holt was not on the yearbook staff--I would have remembered that right away--but he was in the photography club. He always carried his camera around with him, snapping pictures of this and that. Only they weren’t snapshots. His hero had been Ansel Adams so yearbook candid shots were beneath him. How did I know this?

I reached to the nightstand and switched on the lamp, only then realizing that my heart was pounding and my breathing was erratic. There was something else. Something more I’d remembered in the dream. Why couldn’t I remember it now?

The yearbook was still on the bed so I grabbed it and turned to the photography club page. It wasn’t much of a club, and considering the school, it was kind of weird that such a thing even existed. Three students and one sponsor posed in front of a black chalkboard, only two holding cameras--Calvin and the teacher, good ol’ Sharon Addleman. A younger boy, maybe a junior if my vague memory held, in a plaid shirt and crew cut, stood beside Calvin. Next to him, her big fat butt--okay, her hip--perched on the edge of a desk, was my dear friend Rhonda Davenport.

Now that was one I didn’t remember. When did she get into photography? And why? The slut probably joined the club so she could learn the best angles for porn shots.

Bad, Jolene. Bad!

Damn that voice. It was becoming highly annoying. And in this case, the good fairy ought not be too hasty chanting at me for being bad. The evil fairy might just have a point this time. Rhonda could have darn well been plotting some kind of scheme with photos. Nothing concrete came to me, but I was three-quarters asleep and not up to my usual idea-generating best.

In the photo, the underclassman, one Bud Hinkle, just looked mighty pleased to be having his picture taken. Calvin, however, was positively glowing, probably because his elbow was only inches from the cleavage bulging out of Rhonda’s white peasant blouse. Calvin clutched his camera for dear life and Rhonda looked smug. Sharon Addleman, the supposed sponsor of the group, looked green around the gills even in black and white. Couldn’t blame her. Rhonda had the same effect on me.

I fumbled around on the nightstand and found my cell phone. I enthusiastically punched in Jerry’s number before I realized that the illuminated hands on the clock pointed somewhere in the vicinity of four a.m. I was debating whether I should hang up or not when Jerry’s very official--if a little graveled--voice came on the line.

"Sheriff Parker."

"Jerry, uh, sorry to wake you..."

"Jolene? What’s wrong? Are you okay?"

Well, now, this was a bit disconcerting on several levels. "Yes, I’m fine." I’d had a really good reason for calling, now what was it? "Oh, yeah, you see I had this dream..."
Lame, Jolene, really lame
. "Okay, never mind about that. Jerry, listen, Calvin Holt was in the photography club!" I couldn’t keep the excitement from my voice. "The photography club, Jerry."

He did not yip with glee over my pronouncement so I tried another angle. "Calvin took pictures."

"Okay."

Yeah, okay, what? My mind that had been so jazzed on the dream thing was now turning to fuzz, and it sounded as stupid to me as it probably did to him. Calvin was into photography. So what? "This photo thing is important. I know it is. It woke me up, for Pete’s sake."

"Did he take pictures for the yearbook?"

"He wasn’t on the staff, no, but sometimes people just brought things in. He never gave me anything directly, I don’t think, but he could have. Geez, Jerry, I just don’t remember. But this is important, right?"

He sighed--or maybe it was a yawn. "It could be. How about we talk about it tomorrow, uh, actually later this morning. I’ll call when I can."

Yeah, fine, swell. We said our good-byes, which didn’t take long, and I slammed the phone down.

I couldn’t blame Jerry for not seeing the light about the photography thing. I couldn’t even see it myself now, but it still felt important. Sure, I didn’t need much of an excuse to be petty about Rhonda, but that wasn’t what was nagging at me. It was Calvin and his camera. It meant something, I just knew it.

Chapter 6

I awoke the next morning to the unpleasantly familiar voice of my mother screeching unpleasantly familiar words: Jolene Janette Jackson, I can
not
believe this!

She hadn’t said, "Look what you’ve done," but it was implied nevertheless. Of course, I hadn’t done much of anything since I’d been here except drive her to the falls and drive home, so I couldn’t readily pinpoint the specific heinous crime I’d committed. Then again, maybe it was a crime of omission, an oversight. Oops, that rang a bell. A big loud one.

Today was The Big Day and I hadn’t bought the party cake, as was my responsibility. I hadn’t even ordered it. This was very bad. Forget about witnessing an old classmate take the plunge at the falls or the matter of a pesky personal death threat, this was worse, much worse.

I don’t buy Lucille an actual birthday gift any more, I just take care of the party, meaning I buy the cake, balloons, table decorations, party favors, extra St. Johns wort, that sort of thing. Lest you think I’m getting off cheaply, let me correct your thinking. Once Lucille and her pals finish adding their drinks and frozen dairy products to the DQ tab, I’ll be kissing one hundred and fifty little Georges goodbye in addition to the required paper goods and party favors, which I had not yet purchased either.

Okay, had to think fast. If I hurried I could still make things work. Lucille’s annual birthday bash was scheduled for three this afternoon, so theoretically I could haul myself into Redwater Falls and beg at some bakery for something instantly personalized that looked like it could have been planned ahead of time. Failing that, I’d throw money at them. It would work. Yes, everything would be just fine.

I dragged myself out of bed, the yellow yearbook coming with me and directly down on my big toe. I cursed it silently and kicked it aside. And just where was Mr. Jerry Don Parker? Had he called this morning to see if my random--but highly clever and important--thoughts of the wee hours had coalesced? No, he had not. I kicked the book again. Fine, I had party problems to deal with anyway.

After a quick stop in the bathroom, I sauntered into the kitchen to tell Mother dear not to worry, that all would be well. But when I stepped into the doorway I saw her sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of her. The acrylic nails of her left hand clickety-clacked on the Formica tabletop and her huffing sighs ruffled the pages of the paper, except where an inch-long talon of her right hand held it in place. Kimberlee Fletcher, ace reporter, had struck again.

I tried not to over-think the situation. I’d never guess right anyway as the actualities are always more ridiculous than what I can imagine. "So what did she write this time?"

Lucille took a deep ragged breath and let it out in a long steady sigh. "I wish I weren’t so terribly opposed to that lawsuit business," she said rather calmly. "For if I were of a mind to, I’d have Little Miss Fletcher hauled into court and sued for every Barbie doll she owns."

Oh, boy. A personal slander was my best guess. I did not spring forth with an "I told you so" speech, but I was kind of curious how Kimberlee had written up the latest Lucille performance. I would have gone with the piston image myself.

"Since I don’t believe in such things, however," Mother went on, "I suppose I shall just have to go right down there to the newspaper myself and shake some sense into her."

"Mother, you did give her the finger--"

"Oh, that’s not the problem, Jolene." She tapped the paper again. "Look right here what she did. Why, the very nerve."

The picture on the front page of the daily morning paper had a pretty decent and artistic photo of the new waterfall. It also had a very large and highly un-clever headline that read: DEAD MAN FALLS.

Tsk, tsk. This was serious business. Lucille did not like aspersions cast upon her home by anybody, even the local paper, and re-naming the brand new national landmark was pretty darned aspersionous.

I started to mention that Kimberlee Fletcher probably hadn’t had a thing to do with the header, or at least she wouldn’t in the normal scheme of things, but I had the feeling the headline was only part of the problem. Being very brave, I began reading the article.

Paragraph one did a fair job of relaying the required whos, whats and wheres--a big improvement since July--but it was paragraph two that stopped me cold. Kimberlee had seen fit to provide elaborate details of Calvin Holt’s bullet hole in the forehead, his rope-wrapped body, tied hands, and worst of all, the fact that he held Kickapoo High School yearbook pages--and the various marks on the pages. How on earth had she found out about that?

Fully expecting that it would get worse before it got better, I read on. Paragraph three began with the words "Jolene Jackson," and went on to rehash the last little killing spree that I got dragged into. The facts weren’t particularly correct or coherent, but the implication was clear: Nothing bad ever happened around here unless I showed up, and then people started dying left and right. Apparently, Miss Fletcher felt this whole thing was my fault.

"You’re the one who flipped her off," I groused. "Why is she picking on me?"

Lucille just shrugged. "Maybe because you’re from out of town."

"And maybe I should keep it that way. Clearly, if I’m never here nothing bad will ever happen again. I’m going to pack."

"You’re not going anywhere," Lucille snapped. "You came down here to celebrate my birthday and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. I’m tired of these murdering crazies disrupting my life and I’m tired of that little snot writing about it. I just wish one of them had the guts to face me himself. I’d put an end to this nonsense, I’ll tell you for sure."

Yes, she certainly would. Even an idiot knew better than to cross Lucille, most idiots anyway. Kimberlee was a little behind the curve on that one.

"Tell you what, Mother, we better get busy on the party. I need to run on into town and pick up the cake," I said, cleverly, as if it were all pre-arranged. I usually do order the cake before I get here, but I hadn’t gotten it done this time. And the little fiasco at the falls had nixed my backup plan as well. "You want to stay here and get ready, or do you want to go with me?"

A man in a Bowman County Sheriff’s Department uniform stepped into the kitchen. Of medium height and robust build, he had a thick mustache and thinning dark hair.

"I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies," the on-duty deputy said, politely.

I squinted at his name tag so I’d have half a chance of calling him by his real name: Deputy Maxonmeiner. Yeah, that just rolled off the tongue. Since I didn’t have to call him anything just yet, I opted out of trying my luck with the pronunciation. "Yes?"

"I’m not one to eavesdrop, ma’am, but I have orders that neither of you can leave the house right now. Safety precaution."

What did he say? Can’t leave? Oh, please.

Lucille snorted and folded the paper over--with more force than necessary.

I smiled sweetly. Deputy Maximum-Meanerminer just needed a little education on the finer points of guarding the Jackson Gang.

* * * *

Within twenty minutes we were all loaded up in the deputy’s Bowman County patrol car and headed to Redwater Falls to get the non-ordered cake and assorted party goods.

"So, Deputy Max," I said, rather chummily since we’d progressed to a first-name basis during our chat about how we were--and were not--going to spend the next few hours. Picking up a birthday cake and party favors didn’t rate real high on his list of things to do, but it did rank well above listening to the two of us explain and complain until his shift was over. I leaned up toward the cage separating me from the deputy and my mother, who was riding shotgun. Yes, she’s become rather fond of both the seating arrangement and the terminology. "Do you know where that cake place is, the one with the big sign out front? I think it’s on a road that starts with a K or a C. ‘Cakes by Carlene’ or something like that. You know the one?"

Deputy Max nodded perceptively. "It’s called ‘Pastries and Parties’ now. Got a cake for my little granddaughter there just last week."

Oops.

"They make real good cakes, but I don’t think they’re open on Sundays."

"They’re not," Lucille said, sending me a quick "Oh, give it up" glance over her shoulder. "We’ll just go to the United out on the highway, they’ll have something that will work."

"Great idea," I muttered, fooling no one. Mother knew I hadn’t ordered a cake or taken care of any party details. In my defense, I hadn’t wanted to go to the grand opening of the falls; my mother had made me go to. I figured she was regretting that decision almost as much as I was at the moment.

We all piled out of the white Chevy Caprice with the word "SHERIFF" emblazoned on its sides and scurried into the super-sized United grocery store. Deputy Max kept his hand on his gun as we marched toward the entrance and it was kind of a show-stopper. People stopped in their tracks and stared. It’s pretty hard to speak with your mouth hanging open, but "Why is an armed deputy herding two smirking women into the grocery store?" seemed a good guess at their thoughts.