Dead Man Falls (13 page)
Authors: Paula Boyd
"You need a new tire," he said very matter-of-factly. "That one’s ruined. Don’t know about the wheel, but I doubt the bullet did it any good either."
Bullet? Did he say bullet?
"Well, hell."
Did every single trip to this place mean I had to buy a new set of tires and wheels for my car? My insurance company finally gave in and paid for the last mess, but I had a feeling asking them to foot the bill on this one would be pushing my luck, not to mention my premiums.
Now that we were back in the house, Jerry had calmed down a little--and taken off his reflective eyewear. He’d also called his friends at the Redwater Falls Police Department, whose sterling staff members flocked around the place like nosy pigeons. No one had been spouting off any theories about who put the bullet in my tire, so I shared mine: Rhonda did it.
An official type made a few notes to humor me, but he kept belaboring the murder threat thing until I finally told him Rhonda probably did that too. I also suggested they find her immediately and haul her butt to jail. I had some other fine suggestions as well, but Jerry had herded me inside the house before I could expound upon them.
It was just as well, I suppose, because Mother had graciously popped a few little party pizzas in the oven and they were just about ready when we wandered into the kitchen. Being scared to death can really work up an appetite.
I probably oohed and aahed over the pizzas a bit much, but escaping pimento-cheese-sandwich hell made me a little giddy. We three had ourselves a nice little early lunch, snacking away in relative silence while the investigator types went about their official business outside.
When we finished, Mother quickly excused herself and hid out in her bedroom. With only three hours until the designated party time, she was probably hoping that if she stayed out of Jerry’s way he’d relent and let her go to the DQ, especially since she’d fed him some cheap pizza.
I doubted that she would stay silent very long so I decided to take advantage of the situation and have a private talk with Jerry. My room was about as private as it got in this house, so we headed there.
I propped myself in my usual position against the scratchy blue headboard and Jerry seated himself in a straight-backed chair that went with a small desk. Figuring we were at a stalemate on the bullet-in-the-tire situation, I went for the more immediate issue looming before me. "You do realize that my mother believes that the world will come to an immediate and unhappy end if she doesn’t have her party at the Dairy Queen on her birthday--today."
He crossed his arms, leaned the little chair back on two legs and rocked. "You’re not going."
I tried a different approach. "Now, Jerry, you know how she is. You’re going to find yourself badgered and berated for the next three hours, so you might as well just give in and save us all the grief. Besides, what can it hurt? You and Max will be right there. Nobody’s going to do anything stupid at the Dairy Queen." Yes, I realized the folly of my statement even before I finished it. "Well, any more than usual."
Jerry just shook his head and rubbed his chest in memory of his own bullet wound. "Stupid stunts I can deal with. Murder attempts are a little more complicated."
My arm was throbbing in memory too, but Lucille not getting her way would be almost as painful. "Nobody’s going to shoot us at the Dairy Queen, Jerry. What are they going to do, walk in, order a Blizzard then stop by the table and fire off a few rounds before they leave?"
"Maybe, but why go to all that trouble? It’d be easier to just pull up to the big plate glass windows, hang a deer rifle out of the truck. Fifteen seconds at most."
"Nah," I said with a large burst of bravado. "Won’t happen. The killer wouldn’t have a body to dump in the falls and that would mess up everything."
"Oh, really? How do you figure that?"
I shrugged. "The killer wants attention and he got it. Why not try it again?"
"Because the place will be under surveillance."
"Maybe, but it’s a big area. I’d look at it as a challenge. The killer is having fun jerking a lot of chains. He--or she or it or they--will do it again and they’ll need a body."
Jerry didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he might as well have. "Don’t tell me, you have a minor in psychology."
No, I barely, and I mean barely, got a B in the one and only psych class I took. Most of the stuff seemed like self-serving crap made up to excuse bad behavior and eliminate individual responsibility from our collective psyches and I didn’t think it was right. I passed my opinions along, of course, and about mid-semester--and the posting of grades--I figured out it didn’t much matter what I thought, I had to pass the damn tests. Needless to say, I didn’t remember much in the way of theories or manifestations or whatever.
"No, Jerry, I’m just guessing. It does make sense that the killer would want to use the body, don’t you think? "
"I’m not ready to make any firm decisions one way or another. Redwater has a profiler out of Dallas working on it. I’ll wait to hear what she says."
Profiler? Now that sounded mighty high-tech for these parts. Then again, it didn’t sound much like Jerry. "Since when did you start waiting for somebody else to tell you what to think?"
"Since my life started depending on it. If I know what kind of individual we’re up against, that narrows the focus, making my job easier. There’s no point chasing butterflies when we really need to be looking for grasshoppers."
Oh. Good point. But how long did this profiling business take, and what were the odds that I’d be privy to any of their magic cheat sheets anyway? Not good all the way around. The idea was intriguing, however, and I just bet the library in town had a book on it. I could read up on the technique and be several steps ahead of the game. After all, I had a history with these people that some stranger in Dallas couldn’t begin to know about. And what about the Kickapoo factor? Did anybody tell the big city people that this area is, um, kind of special? Not likely.
"I still don’t see why we can’t do that ourselves," I said. "How complicated can it be? The killer has a thing for ropes and publicity and he’s hung up on people he knew twenty-five years ago."
"How do you know the killer is a man?"
"Physics." I didn’t do real hot in that class either, but we weren’t talking quantum theories, just common sense. "Calvin was a pretty good-sized guy. I sure couldn’t have lifted him."
"There are some big women around. Or maybe she had help."
"You think it’s a woman?"
"I don’t think anything, Jolene, I’m just humoring you, playing out the scenarios." He grinned a little. "Thinking of moving back and applying for a deputy position?"
Very funny. "Uh, no, I don’t have a death wish, thanks." And I sure wished he didn’t either. "But now that you mention it, I might have a few career suggestions for you as well, something that doesn’t involve dodging bullets for example. You know, I’ve had a little time to think on this high-hazard occupation of yours and frankly, I don’t much like it."
He thumped the legs of the chair to the floor and smirked. "Be careful, Jolene," he said in that rumbling Texas drawl. "You’re starting to sound like a wife."
That was a low blow, and the smug twinkle in his dark eyes said he was proud of his wit.
"What I’m sounding like, is somebody who cares about you," I sniped back, although his barb had certainly made a nice prick. "You’re right about one thing though, your job is your business. Still, until a few months ago I didn’t really know the specifics of what you do for a living, but I surely didn’t think of it as a daily suicide mission."
He smiled and his face softened a little. "Until a few months ago I hadn’t done much of anything but sit behind a desk and shuffle papers."
I didn’t completely believe him, but if it was true--or even partly true--the only reason he’d been out on that previous particular murder case himself was because of me. I didn’t like the way that sounded--or the responsibility it implied.
"Now quit frowning, Jolene. It’s not your fault I was shot. Things just happen."
Yeah, but things, especially bad ones, seemed to happen a lot more frequently when I was around--witness the current situation. I hadn’t been in town forty-eight hours and already we had not only one corpse to contend with, but a nice list of potential new ones, present company included.
I didn’t bother inquiring how many homicide cases he’d worked during my absence because I already knew the answer: none. Murder and mayhem were reserved solely for me. My mere physical presence in this place caused all hell to break loose. Speaking of which, if I didn’t fix things for my mother’s party, hell would be a pleasant alternative to what she might create for us.
"Here’s the deal, Jerry, I’m willing to bargain for an escort to the Dairy Queen. Hour and a half, max."
He rocked the chair back again and stared at me, unblinking and unreadable, then reached around on the desk, picked up a romance novel from the stack, opened it midway and began flipping through the pages. "Exactly what kind of bargain are we talking about?"
Before I could answer, he stopped turning pages and began reading in earnest.
My face ignited into a hot--and presumably red--inferno. "That’s my mother’s book," I said, defensively. "I haven’t read it."
"I had no idea," he mumbled, sounding rather stunned, or maybe embarrassed. Probably both. "You really haven’t read this?"
I shook my head, deliberately neglecting to mention that I’d read plenty others of a similar nature. "That book really isn’t mine and I have no idea what’s in it." That was technically not a lie. Knowing there are steamy sex scenes in a book and knowing the specifics thereof are two entirely different things. "Really."
He offered me an appealing crooked smile. "Don’t spoil the moment, Jolene."
I sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. "Well, now, since you’ve been put in a suitable mood to negotiate, here’s the deal: a trip to the Dairy Queen to get me out of trouble, and a trip to the Hilton to get you into it." Oops. Had I really said that?
He set the book aside and raised a thick dark brow. "Getting a little bold in your old age, aren’t you, Jolene?"
Yeah, well, maybe, but the words had sort of slipped out before I realized what I was saying. "First of all, I’m not that old. And second of all, I did get your attention, which was the point. Besides, I was just kidding around and you know it."
He reached across and pulled me over onto his lap then looped his arms around my waist. With his lips almost touching mine, he said, "I think you meant every word."
No, not every word. I didn’t care if I never set foot in another Dairy Queen in my entire life. Before I could tell him so, however, he was kissing me.
I’ll spare you the indelicate details, but suffice it to say that Jerry Don Parker is quite good at any task he puts his mind to. I’m not sure exactly what I contributed to the event because I was riding a roller coaster of emotions and sensations that I hadn’t felt in years and years--about twenty-five of them.
After a little more of this, and a little more of that--that which was fast approaching something you did not do in your mother’s house--he leaned back and smiled. "You’ve got twenty minutes, Jolene."
Twenty minutes? I looked him in the eye. "At the Hilton?"
"At the Dairy Queen."
Damn.
Once the tables were aligned, the balloons blown, the party goods distributed, the guests seated, and the DQ awash in merriment, I was pretty much off the hook. Queen Lucille and her attendants, Lady Agnes and Lady Merline, had the affair quite under control.
There were about twenty-five men and women in attendance, the "no co-mingling" rule having been suspended for the occasion, which meant that both sexes could sit at the same table without the gossip mill kicking into overdrive.
The three cakes I’d bought during our earlier illicit outing were being dispatched at a rapid rate, and the counter clerk--a young lady named Shanna with a long dark ponytail and a look that said she didn’t have a clue who I was--was making Blizzards and sundaes at a frenzied pace. I couldn’t help but see dollar signs every time her red smock whizzed past with another loaded tray.
Mother sat at the head of the party table, flanked on each side by Merline and Agnes. It looked like Merline was graciously playing second banana to Lucille today, although she was dressed to the hilt in fashions very similar to that of the birthday girl.
They both sported enough sparkles and spangles to decorate a dozen cocktail dresses. Of course the glittery doo-dads were not attached to some black slinky thing, but to leather-fringed blue denim jackets, each custom made so as not be exactly like anyone else’s. Merline’s was only slightly less flashy than the one my mother wore, not that there is the least bit of competition between the two women. I sometimes wonder if they don’t pal around just so they have an inside line on trying to outdo one another.
Agnes--the only sane one of the three--wore navy dress slacks and jacket, red blouse and a coordinating striped scarf. She looked very nice and very normal. She had also eagerly taken charge of the ongoing technical details of party management and food distribution, leaving me free to do as I pleased. I love Agnes.
With Deputy Max sitting guard near the main table, Jerry and I slipped away to a windowless back booth. The corner was semi-private and fairly sniper-proof. It was also reasonably quiet, considering.
I had myself an extra-large glass of iced tea with the softest crushed ice in the whole world and I had Jerry Don Parker with me. Things were looking pretty darn good.
No sooner had the comfy glow of that thought settled in my chest than I caught a flash of red and blue lights out of the corner of my eye. I snapped my head around to see for sure, but I knew without looking that my moment of pleasure would be coming to a rapid and unpleasant end. Happens every time. I let down my guard and get all warm and fuzzy about things being good, and poof, somebody somewhere sends a big old straight pin to burst my little bubble of happiness.
