High Country Fall (26 page)
The lawmen looked at each other apprehensively. They knew about kids with attitude. What was this particular Tanser-Mac student doing on that road, the same road Judge Knott had taken? It was miles out of his way back to the college.
“Shit!” said Fletcher. “He followed her.”
“No sign of Judge Knott’s car?” Underwood asked Elkins.
“Negative, sir, but Alpha Unit just arrived and one of us will keep looking.”
By the time Underwood and his team arrived, the third patrol unit had been there long enough for the three deputies to form a working theory. They were aided by a second body, that of a deer that lay mangled and torn a few feet down the slope from Barringer. Scraps of bloody fur were caught in the Ford Ranger’s grille, and blood spattered the windshield.
“Elkins found a mirror that could’ve come off the judge’s Firebird,” said Deputy Carter. “About eight-tenths of a mile further on, down toward the bottom of the hill. If Barringer was trying to force her off the road, it probably happened somewhere past where the mirror was. We haven’t yet found the spot where she actually went over, but from the skid marks, we can tell she was going west toward Eagle Rest. We figure he runs her off the road, then he turns around and is heading back toward Cedar Gap and Howards Ford when he comes around the curve too fast here, sees the buck right there in front of him, and just automatically swerves to miss it.”
“Sniffing for a doe in heat,” Sheriff Horton grunted. “Damn things are all over the roads. Be glad when hunting season opens.”
Officers walked the shoulder of the desolate road from the point where Elkins had picked up the mirror all the way to where the road teed into another two miles beyond. Three houses stood at that intersection and none of the residents had seen or heard anything unusual.
“If she got this far, she’d’ve driven right into one of them yards with her horn blaring,” said Horton.
Underwood nodded. “Too bad the state won’t give us guardrails. Cars could go over anywhere and we’d never know.”
By the time the sun had fully set, the moon was rising fat and orange in the east, and they came to the reluctant conclusion that finding Deborah Knott and her car was going to be a lot harder than they’d hoped.
Sheriff Horton, who’d been through many of these searches over the years, called for a helicopter and had the dispatcher notify the various fire stations that they needed all the volunteer help they could get.
“Temperature’s supposed to go down into the mid-thirties tonight.” Even as he spoke, Underwood’s breath made little puffs of steam in the chill night air. “Maybe that’ll help the heat sensors,” he said, reaching for all the silver he could find on this black cloud.
“Damn deers are gonna screw ’em up anyhow,” Horton said pessimistically.
Underwood’s cell phone rang and he pulled it from his jacket pocket.
“Captain Underwood? This is Sunny Osborne.”
Her voice sounded drained to him, but then picking out caskets can do that, he thought.
“You left a message for me to call you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Could you hold for just one minute?”
He held a broad finger over the mike. “It’s Mrs. Osborne.”
“Ain’t nothing more you can do out here right now till the chopper comes,” Horton told him. “Might as well run on over there and get her story.”
Reluctant as he was to abandon the search even for an hour, Underwood knew that Horton was right. He moved his finger and put the phone back to his ear. “Mrs. Osborne? I was wondering if I could come by for a few minutes?”
“Has something happened?” Her listless voice quickened in sudden hope. “You’ve found who killed Norman?”
“I’d rather discuss things with you in person,” he hedged. “I can be there in about twenty minutes, if that’s all right with you?”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Let me know how it goes,” said the sheriff.
Underwood nodded and walked back to his car. Before switching on the ignition, though, he gave Judge Knott’s cell phone one final try. It rang twice, then a pleasant digital voice said, “We’re sorry. The customer you have called is currently unavailable. Please try your call again later.”
As long as I kept sawing at the seat belt with that key, I generated enough heat to stay warm, but whenever I paused to rest, the chill burrowed a little deeper into my bones. I had a couple of layers on my upper body, and my guardian angel must have cast an eye in my direction this morning when I chose to wear slacks today instead of the short skirt I’d contemplated. Too bad it hadn’t nudged me toward wool socks instead of knee-highs and two-inch heels. Fortunately I wouldn’t have to hike out of here in those heels. Assuming I ever got out of this seat belt, I do keep a pair of sneakers in my trunk for brisk walks at lunchtime.
But jeez! Who knew seat belts were so damn sturdy? It took me a full five minutes just to fray past the edge, and even then the material didn’t want to cut. It merely fuzzed up. I had to make my aching left hand hold the tiny gap apart so that the jagged edges of my key kept in contact with new threads instead of futilely rasping against old fuzz. Over an hour later, I was barely halfway through, and a blister had formed at the second joint of my index finger where I grasped the head of the key.
Dumb of me not to have realized it sooner. I groped for those napkins in my console and wrapped one around my finger like a bandage. It helped my blister, but slowed the sawing.
By now I was tired and hungry and I’d been sparing of my sips of water for obvious reasons. I can go hours without a bathroom break, but there was no point in pushing it till I was free from this seat belt.
As I mechanically sawed the key back and forth, my mind jumped on and off a dozen trains of thought—
the Barringer kid for starters. I wished I could be there to see his smartass face when he learned I wasn’t dead.
—Dwight. Who didn’t call and didn’t E, and was it going to mess up our friendship, not to mention the marriage we’d arranged, if he heard I’d kissed Lucius Burke?
—Lucius Burke. A no-fly zone.
—The twins and what Beverly and Fred were going to say or do when they realized what was going on.
—Tina Ledwig’s collapsing alibi. Her lack of grief over her husband’s death.
—The tears in Sunny Osborne’s eyes when she’d sung,
“You’ll never know, dear/How much I love you.”
—My name on Osborne’s notepad and a question mark beside “Judge.”
—His short-lived partnership with the Ashes.
—The Ashes. Bobby and Joyce’s worthless son. Legal bills. Medical bills. And that crack Tina had made about shrinks for their daughters. Shrinks don’t come cheaply either. The insurance on Norman.
—Sunny. How almost overnight she’d gone from strength to utter dependence. How she’d followed Norman out to the terrace when he was talking to me. How she panicked when she realized he wasn’t in the room. Menopause, said Lucius, yet she’d sat there playing all evening and I never saw a single hot flash.
—Ledwig’s abrupt call to Norman Osborne the night before he was killed even though Trish thought the two men had been estranged since the end of summer.
I thought about the timing of that call. Ledwig tells his former pal, “It may be legal, but it’s not ethical” and “I can’t stand by and let you do this to them.”
And the very next day, he’s dead.
Could Osborne have been the killer?
But then who killed Osborne?
Cui bono?
All the things I’d heard or seen swirled around like shifting patterns in a kaleidoscope.
I’d never met Ledwig, but I had met Osborne and something he’d said or done that night must have triggered his death. He’d been pleasant, genial, hail-fellow-well-met. Expansive and pleased about his new partnership with the Ashes. As defensive of Ledwig’s bigotry as if there’d never been a rift in their friendship. He’d cited Ledwig’s continuing gifts to Cedar Gap—oh, wait. No. That was Sunny who thought Ledwig had left a bequest to the new senior center. Mistakenly thought, according to what Tina told me Tuesday.
Nevertheless, something about that conversation . . .
I replayed the scene in my head, trying to remember every word. Liz Peters, one of the attorneys, and that guy who owned several gem mines—Tysinger? Yeah, Sam Tysinger. They had criticized Ledwig’s position on race, until Osborne had said, “You’re bad-mouthing a good man who’s not here tonight to defend himself.” Then he’d talked about all the good Ledwig had done for Cedar Gap, ending with that comment about building a new senior center. Tysinger had sounded surprised by that, and Sunny had said, no, not another new center but a bequest to build onto the one so recently built. “Or so we heard.”
Now, who would have told her that? Not Tina and certainly not their attorney since it wasn’t true. So why would Sunny say it?
And why would Osborne agree with her?
Unless . . . ?
And if that phone call made them afraid that Ledwig would tell . . . ?
And if that was true, then Sunny could have been the woman the UPS deliveryman saw. Both were blond and athletic with similar hairstyles and—
A loud roar almost rocked the car. If I hadn’t been strapped in so tightly, I’d’ve jumped three feet.
I strained to see through the leaves jammed up against my cracked windows. A helicopter hovered off to my left, about a half mile away, further down the mountain. Slowly, deliberately, it began to move back and forth, up and down, casting a beam of bright light through the trees.
The cavalry had arrived!
I waited for them to come back my way and prayed that the leaves around me would let them see my car.
My black car.
Damn!
I swore right then that my next car was going to be white. Black might be cool, but cool don’t cut it, baby. Not when you’re stranded on the side of a mountain.
As I watched, the helicopter moved further away.
Huh?
How come they were working down there and not up here?
Patience, I told myself, and my mother’s voice came singsonging through my head: “
Patience is a virtue. / Have it if you can. / Seldom in a woman, / Never in a man
.”
I kept sawing with the key. More than half an inch to go, yet the helicopter was even further away now, sweeping the area with its cone of light. Desperately, I paused and flashed the light on my keychain. Pitiful. The tiny bulb was meant to give just enough light to see a keyhole, not to signal rescuers. There was a flashlight in the glove compartment, though, and if I ever got out of this seat belt—
I sawed frantically. Oh glory! Here came the helicopter back up the slope again. I urged it on. Come to mama, baby. A little more, a little more—shit! Nowhere near me and now it was turning to hover over the same area.
My fingers were cramping. I felt the blister pop and I didn’t care, just pushed aside the fuzz and kept sawing.
Suddenly the last few threads parted with a jolt and I was free!
All my bangs and bruises protested as I lunged for the glove compartment and found the flashlight. The brightness almost blinded me when I flashed it off and on toward the helicopter.
I almost howled in frustration as it flew slowly back down the mountain.
Belatedly, I remembered my phone. Yes!
I had to wriggle over the console to the passenger seat and then fumble around on the floor before I found it.
As soon as I flipped it open and pressed the menu button, the dial lit up. Lit up, but no little service symbol appeared on the screen.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d heard it ring before the car rolled again, and surely I hadn’t rolled very far. All that effort, only to find I was in a dead zone?
I slid back over to the driver’s seat and pushed on the door handle. The car had landed at an angle that would require me to push the door’s entire weight up and away. Even bracing my back against the console and pushing with my feet, I couldn’t get enough leverage to open the door more than a crack. I knew this model had heavy doors, but this was ridiculous.
At this rate, I could flat die here.
And then, miraculously, the phone chirped and I looked down to see the service icon. Just moving from one side of the car to another had been enough.
Carefully, gingerly, keeping all the stars in alignment, I dialed 911 and held my breath.
THURSDAY EVENING
“Captain Underwood?”
The blond who got up from the piano and came forward when the housekeeper showed him into the music room was a younger, plumper version of Sunny Osborne.
“I’m Laura Osborne. My mother will be down in a minute.”
She was not as attractive as her mother. Her sweater was too tight to flatter her overly generous curves, her hair was cut too short and tufts of it stuck out as if she’d slept on it wrong, but her voice was bewitching when she asked if she could get him something to drink.
He shook his head, waiting for her to speak again, and when she merely stood there with a quizzical look on her broad face, he blurted, “I’ll bet you sing like an angel.”
She laughed, a rich chord of descending notes.
“Thank you. Some people have said so.” Her voice softened. “My father thought so.”
He looked at the sheets of music on the piano and remembered what the housekeeper had said when he called this afternoon.
“You’re choosing music for him?”
She nodded. “And it’s harder than I thought it would be. He was bluegrass and gospel, I’m Purcell and Bach. He’s definitely not Bach, but bluegrass sounds really dumb when it’s sung by a trained contralto.”
“Please don’t let me interrupt you, then,” he said, half hoping that she would sing a few lines as she sorted through the music.
“That’s all right. I— Ah! Here’s Mother.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Captain,” Sunny Osborne said. She crossed the room briskly to take his hand. “What can you tell me?”
“Is there some place we could speak privately?” he asked, with an apologetic look at Laura Osborne.
“No problem,” said the younger woman. “I’ll be upstairs if you want me, Mother.”
