The Winter Widow (24 page)

Maybe she shouldn't have called Parkhurst; this was her private vendetta. Her heart banged against her ribs. Maybe the killer was just a few yards ahead, the bastard who shot Daniel. Her senses seemed overly sharp. She was acutely aware of the acrid smell of wood smoke, the snap and crackle of the fire, the shadows moving like live things through the trees.

I'll get him, Daniel.
She crept closer. Where was Parkhurst? By now, he should have had time to get in position on the other side of the fire. He couldn't have been shot; she'd have heard the sound. His throat slit with one silent slash? Captured, with the rifle pointed at his head?

Carefully, slowly, she kept moving, then froze behind a tree. Her breath caught; hair rose on the back of her neck as she stared at a nightmare vision.

On the creek bank, the fire danced. A large bulk with steam rising from it hung from a tree limb. A man, huge and menacing, slashed out with a long knife that glinted with each stroke. Eerie, evil shadows capered around the darkness like spectators at some satanic ritual.

On the ground, a slick black pool of blood glistened. The fire shimmered and fluttered, throwing wavering light over the grisly relics of carnage; severed cow head, hooves and scattered entrails. Above it all hung that big cold moon. She leaned against the tree, feeling sick.

Directly across from her, on the other side of the fire, Parkhurst stepped into view. “Nice night for slaughter,” he said.

The man spun, knife raised.

Parkhurst thumbed on a flashlight.

Floyd Kimmell, mouth open, stood spotlighted beside the hanging carcass. His red hair looked the color of blood; a sheen of sweat covered his face.

“Drop the knife.”

Floyd lowered his arm, knife blade pointed up for attack, and took a threatening step.

“Now!”

He waggled the knife and began to circle around Parkhurst. Parkhurst moved only enough to keep the other man blinded by the flashlight. Floyd raised an elbow to shield his eyes and kept circling, moving nearer.

She stepped out from the tree with her gun gripped in both hands and shouted, “Floyd!”

He turned. Parkhurst closed in, made a chop at Floyd's arm, and the knife fell.

“Doggone it,” Floyd said. “How'd you find me?”

Parkhurst's teeth flashed in a grin.

*   *   *

SINCE they were outside city limits, the sheriff's department held jurisdiction and Susan contacted Sheriff Holmes. Within thirty minutes, he arrived with two deputies, loaded Floyd Kimmell in a patrol car and carted him away. The deputies stayed behind to collect the bloody evidence, a job she was happy to let someone else handle. Parkhurst stayed with them; she trailed after the sheriff to the Frederick County jail.

Under the harsh glare of fluorescent ceiling lights in the interrogation room, she sat next to Sheriff Holmes in a straight-backed chair on one side of a wooden table scratched with initials and scarred with myriad rings from coffee mugs. Technically, it was the sheriff's arrest and he would do the questioning; out of courtesy she was permitted to sit in.

Floyd, his jeans and black sweatshirt reeking of wood smoke and slaughter, slumped in a chair on the other side of the table with one arm hooked over the back and shot her an aggrieved look. With his bushy red hair, muttonchop whiskers and reddish-brown eyes, he resembled a bungling fox.

She stared at him. Are you the one? Did you shoot Daniel?

“Well, Floyd,” Holmes said with a soft-spoken, unhurried manner, “you seem to have gotten yourself in a heap of trouble.”

The sheriff, with his close-cut gray hair and lined face, didn't look at all like Daniel, but that unhurried manner reminded her of him. Floyd glowered, pulled his hands from the table, let them drop in his lap and cracked his knuckles.

Holmes scraped his chair back a little, took a pipe from the pocket of his blue uniform jacket and began tamping in tobacco. “Just how many steers have you slaughtered?”

Floyd shrugged. “Don't know, I lost count.”

The sheriff, pipe stem clamped between his teeth, struck a match and held it above the bowl; his sleepy-lidded eyes watched Floyd over the flame. He shook out the match and puffed on the pipe, producing clouds of gray smoke. “What did you do with the beef?”

Floyd let his gaze roam over the pale green walls as though he might find inspiration in the dirty smudges. “I sold it.”

Holmes nodded encouragingly.

“I'd get a phone call, that's all. And I'd slaughter the beef and meet a guy somewhere and turn it over and he'd give me the money.”

“What's his name?”

“There was no need for names.”

“Who is he?” Susan asked, impatient with the sheriff's slow way of handling things.

Floyd slid a glance at her, then back to Holmes. “Don't know who he is,” he said peevishly.

Holmes gave her a bland look that said, Back off. I know what I'm doing.

Get on with it then, she thought. He puffed on the pipe and eyed Floyd through the smoke, which combined with the stench of wood smoke and the too-warm temperature of the room, made her slightly queasy.

“Well now, maybe you could tell me how this whole thing got started.”

Floyd shifted in the chair like a schoolboy and cracked his knuckles. The sheriff's thin, lined face held the concern of a parent waiting for a delinquent child to own up. Tell me everything, his attitude indicated, and I'll help you all I can.

“I was asked, is all. Guy from Kansas City asked if I was interested in making some money.”

“Who?” Susan asked.

Floyd cracked his knuckles.

“Stupid, Floyd,” she said. “You're being stupid. The whole setup was stupid, and whoever's paying you must be even stupider than you are.”

Floyd shot forward and planted clenched fists on the table. “He's smart. He's always been smart. He said—” Floyd clamped his mouth shut and his face turned purple.

“You're going to end up in jail,” she said, “while the man who set this up is going to go free.”

Floyd threw himself back in the chair and stared sullenly.

Always been smart,
she thought. He knew the man. A local person?

Holmes leaned comfortably back and propped one ankle on the opposite knee. “I knew your momma. Nice woman. How do you think she'd feel about all this, her son stealing from the neighbors?”

“You leave my momma out of this. Maybe she'd like it just fine, huh? Maybe if she was alive to know, she'd think, Yeah, about time. About time I got some of what I was owed.”

The sheriff slowly shook his head. “What are you owed?”

“We shoulda had a decent place. They shoulda helped. I never got anything as a kid. None of these good neighbors did anything about that. Wasn't fair.” He darted a glance of malice at her.

Had he killed Daniel because of some twisted idea of what was fair?

“Cattle rustling's against the law, Floyd,” Holmes said with heavy disappointment.

“Yeah? What has the law ever done for me? Shriveled-up old bitch Helen Wren shot my father. The law do anything to her?”

“Circumstances—”

“Circumstances, shit! Just because she was big hotshot important around here.”

“What did you think of Daniel?” she asked. “How'd you feel about him?”

Floyd crossed his arms, hands in his armpits, and shrugged. The sheriff cleared his throat. She ignored him. “You own a rifle, Floyd?”

“'Course I do.”

“Did you use it to kill Daniel?”

Alarm flooded his face. “I never killed anybody.”

The sheriff gave her one brief shake of his head and said to Floyd, “Well now, somebody's responsible. If you didn't do it, you better tell me what you know, so we can sort this all out.”

Floyd cracked his knuckles.

“Serious trouble, Floyd,” Susan said. “We're talking about murder.”

Floyd glowered. “I don't have to say nothing.”

Sheriff Holmes worked at him for several minutes, but Floyd refused to answer. Holmes, sighing with heavy regret, called a uniformed deputy to escort him to a cell.

After they'd gone, the sheriff took the pipe from his mouth, tipped his head and looked at her with mild reproach. “Ms. Susan, you're in too much of an all-fired hurry.”

“Sheriff—”

He held up a hand, palm out. “Now I know you have a personal stake in this, but you ought to consider the individual you're dealing with and proceed along the most appropriate path.”

“I simply—”

“Floyd is not exceptionally bright, but he's bright enough to realize a murder charge is real serious. And by throwing that possibility at him, you sent his mind into a shutdown. If you'd kept quiet and let me work around in circles and ease up on it, we'd have gotten more from him.” Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Um?”

A swarm of defensive thoughts buzzed through her mind, but she didn't say anything.

“Now we'll let Floyd simmer for a day or so and then I'll talk with him again. I'll let you know what I get out of him.”

“Thanks,” she said with as much deference as she could muster.

*   *   *

THE cold night air sent tired muscles into shuddering spasms and she had to make a conscious effort to lift one leaden foot and then the other, push and cajole her body to the pickup. For a while she slumped over the steering wheel. The adrenaline-fired energy from the phone call, the eerie tramp across fields and the bizarre scene of slaughter had worn off. Driving twenty-five miles through the dark seemed a chore beyond her ability. Lethargy closed over her and all she wanted to do was go to bed. Finally, sluggishly, she turned the ignition and shoved the truck in gear.

As she drove away, a memory surfaced from the bottom of her mind: her father driving through dark night with her beside him. She had been eight, awakened by bad dreams and terrified to go back to sleep. He had taken her to the wharf to watch the fishermen prepare nets and ropes and set out to sea. Why that particular memory? she wondered. If her subconscious was trying to tell her something, she wasn't getting it. Unless it was saying she was driving around in the dark with this investigation. That she already knew.

She rubbed the heel of her hand against one burning eye and then the other. From the remote cocoon of fatigue, she thought about Floyd Kimmell. Who paid him to slaughter beef?
A guy from Kansas City. He was always smart.
From Kansas City. City fella. No, Floyd hadn't said that. Who then? Vic. City fellow. Blond hair.

She stopped at the side of the road and frowned out at the path cut by the headlights. She knew of one man who fit that description. Brenner Niemen. Well, am I getting somewhere at last? She picked up the mike and got the night dispatcher. “I'm headed for Sophie's. Tell Parkhurst to get out there. And this time don't be late.” Taking off again, she turned east at the crossroad.

The sky was just taking on a grayish tinge when she pulled up at Sophie's. Parkhurst had already arrived. A kitchen light was on, but the rest of the house was in darkness. Sophie's elderly white Chevy sat near the barn, and inside the barn old Buttermilk was making a commotion.

Parkhurst crunched across the gravel toward her. “What are we doing here?” He looked about as tired as she felt.

“Brenner Niemen.” She told him what Floyd had let drop and her conclusion.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow and followed her to the kitchen door. She knocked. No answer. She felt uneasy.

“Don't start imagining things,” he said. “Sophie could be anywhere.”

“Her car's here.”

“She probably used a broomstick.”

“Where's Brenner?”

“Still asleep,” he said. “Nobody's up this time of day except cops and Sophie.”

“Where's Brenner's car?”

“Maybe Sophie's driving it.”

“A bronze Mercedes?” The thought was farcical. She rotated her shoulders, trying to unkink the knots, then twisted the doorknob. It turned easily. She looked at Parkhurst and he shrugged.

Stepping inside, she squinted in the light. “Sophie?”

Somewhere a grandfather clock ticked ponderously. Three black cats blinked at them from the basket by the stove, untangled themselves, stretched with thorough satisfaction and trotted toward them, nattering about breakfast.

“Cats haven't been fed.” No signs of breakfast for people either, unless they'd had cherry pie. The pie, with two pieces missing, sat in the center of the table along with two coffee mugs and two dirty plates. That didn't seem like Sophie; she'd have washed up and put away the pie.

Susan drifted to the hallway and stuck her head in the living room; it was empty and tidy. The clock ticked. Farther along off the hallway was Sophie's bedroom, bed made, room neat. “Satisfied?” Parkhurst asked.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister. “Sophie?” The silence had a creepy feeling. Switching on the light, she trudged up the stairs. The cats followed and watched, sitting patiently in doorways while she and Parkhurst glanced into each room. Everything was neat and tidy except for the dirty dishes in the kitchen.

Come on, Susan. Fatigue sozzles the brain, makes the synapses misfire. Just because they're not here doesn't mean anything is wrong. She was aware of Buttermilk still clattering in the barn as she slowly plodded down the stairs with cats swirling around her feet. Halfway down, she thought of Sophie's rifle.

“What?” he asked.

She took the rest of the steps in a quick trot, alarming the cats, who fled. In the hall closet, she searched through the raincoats, rubber boots, hats and odd items of clothing.

The rifle was gone.

“Sophie might have it,” Parkhurst said, but his voice had sharpened.

“Why?”

“Maybe she went out to shoot varmints.”

“Does Sophie shoot things?” People. Daniel. When had Sophie stopped being a suspect? She couldn't see Sophie strangling Lucille. Lucille was younger and stronger, but it was possible, if Lucille had been taken by surprise.