Watching Eagles Soar (29 page)

“Would you be willing to talk to me?”

The woman sank into the front seat and peered through the windshield. A line of vehicles waited to turn into the street. The hearse that had been parked in front of the church was pulling away. A black limousine followed, three heads bobbing in the backseat. “I shouldn't be talking to you,” she said after a moment. “I must get back to school.”

Vicky gripped the edge of the door to keep it from shutting. “Miss Shubert, Leland faces a first-degree murder charge. He's innocent.” She hesitated. All she had was an instinct that this woman knew something. She plunged on. “Is there anything you can tell me, anything at all, that might help him?”

Elizabeth Shubert was quiet. She reached up and tucked a strand of gray hair into place, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the windshield. “Come to my house at four thirty.” She gave the address. “White house on the corner. You can't miss it.”

* * *

V
icky leaned into the bell next to the blue-painted door. From inside came a muffled sound, like the tingling of a xylophone, followed by hurried footsteps. The door flung open. Elizabeth Shubert stood back in the shadow of the front hallway, allowing her gaze to roam up and down the street. “Come in, come in,” she said, in a hushed tone.

When they were seated in the living room, Vicky said, “I couldn't help but notice the way the family reacted as you extended your condolences.”

Elizabeth Shubert picked up the flower-printed teapot on the table between them and poured the steaming brown liquid into two china cups. Handing a cup and saucer to Vicky, she said, “I'm sure they must blame me for . . . well, for what happened.”

“For Jess Miller's murder?”

“Oh, no.” The woman sat up straighter. One hand flew to her throat, and unadorned fingers began crinkling the collar of her white blouse. “For what happened before. You see, I was worried about Buddy and Julie. Whenever there's a precipitous drop in grades and a change in personality, well, naturally, you wish to inquire as to the reason.”

Vicky shifted forward. She held the other woman's gaze. “When did this occur?”

“Well, it's not as if they were brilliant students, you understand.” Elizabeth Shubert made a little clicking noise with her tongue. “Average, I would say. But they were going along as usual until recently. Several teachers reported they were both flunking classes.”

“What about the personality change?”

“Well, not so much the boy.” The woman rested her eyes on a corner of the living room for a moment. “Buddy's always been a loner. Tends to his own business. Perhaps he seemed a little more withdrawn and morose lately, but, frankly, I attributed that to the poor report. The change was in Julie. Such a quiet, nice girl until . . .”

Vicky waited, one hand wrapped around the china cup in her lap.

“It's hard to explain,” the woman went on. “Julie became very outgoing, I would say. Yes, very aggressive and pushy. You could hear her shouting in the halls. She was distracting in class, giggling and cutting up and generally making a nuisance of herself. She was sent to my office four times in the last two weeks. Well, I thought it was just an adolescent phase.” The woman leaned forward and set her cup and saucer on the table. The china made a little rattling noise. “It was more than that.”

“How so?”

“The way she flaunted herself. Deliberately provocative, I would say. The tightest, shortest skirts, the lowest-cut tops, that sort of thing.” The woman looked away again, and then brought her gaze back. “Believe me, girls can be very brazen these days, but this was not like Julie Miller. It was as if suddenly she had become someone else.”

Vicky set her own cup and saucer on the table. “What did you do?”

“I'm not certain I did the right thing.” The woman spoke slowly, remembering. “I called Mr. and Mrs. Miller last week and asked for a meeting. I was terribly concerned about the children, you see.”

“Yes, of course. What did the parents say?”

“The parents? Well, Mrs. Miller said nothing. She remained silent through the entire meeting. She just sat there, never taking her eyes from her husband. He did all the talking. He was very upset. Accused me of violating their privacy. Said he would tend to his own children. If they were having problems, he would straighten them out, and I should stay out of their business. And that's not all.” Elizabeth Shubert looked away again, pulling the memory out of a shadowed corner. “He threatened to bring a lawsuit against me.”

“A lawsuit!” Vicky felt a jolt of surprise. “On what possible grounds? That you were concerned about his children?”

“That I had defamed his family.” The woman gave a little shudder. “It was ridiculous, of course. But I don't mind telling you, it frightened me. I don't want any trouble with the school district. You see, I'm due to retire next year, and I'm a woman of modest means.” She glanced around the living room: the worn sofa and chairs, the faded doilies on the armrests, the gold carpet crisscrossed with gray pathways. “Mr. Miller was a well-respected man, and he was very angry. Unfortunately, he must have thought Buddy had told me something because . . .”

She stopped. Her hands were now clasped into a tight ball in her lap. “Oh, dear.” A tremor had come into her voice. “I shouldn't be telling you this. It's exactly what Mr. Miller warned me against. I have no proof of anything.” She gripped the armrests and started to lift herself out of the chair, a motion of dismissal.

“Please, Elizabeth.” Vicky moved to the edge of her own chair. “What happened to Buddy after the meeting?”

The woman sat back into the cushions. A muscle twitched along the rim of her jawline. Finally, she said: “Mr. Miller punished the boy.”

“You mean, he beat him?” A coldness rippled along Vicky's spine. In her mind, she saw the widow and mother, head lowered under a black lace veil. A silent woman. Had she finally had enough? Had she finally decided to protect her children?

“I have no proof,” Elizabeth Shubert was saying. “But the boy was absent for two days after the meeting. When he came back, he had a note from his mother saying he'd been home with a cold. But I didn't believe it, not for a minute.”

“Did you report this to social services?”

Elizabeth Shubert was rubbing her hands together now. “I took the steps I believed necessary. I called Buddy into my office. I told him of my suspicions. He said his father was a fine man, that I shouldn't say bad things about him, that his father would sue me for defaming the family. He used almost the same words his father had used, and I remember thinking, this poor boy has been brainwashed. But I had no proof. Nothing. Nothing.” The woman shook her head; moisture pooled at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, I know I should have reported my suspicions, but what good would it have done? Jess Miller was an upstanding citizen from a very old family. No one would have believed me.”

Vicky didn't say anything. She was wondering if Donna Miller had reached the same conclusion: no one could stop her husband.

The woman was crying softly now. “Excuse me,” she said, half stumbling to her feet. She disappeared through an alcove. In a moment she was back, blowing her nose into a white handkerchief.

Vicky got to her feet. “You must tell the sheriff what you've told me,” she said.

“Oh, I did.” An aggrieved note came into the woman's voice. “I called the sheriff the minute I heard about the murder. Not that it did any good.” She gave a little shiver.

“What do you mean?”

“I'm sure Mrs. Miller and the children denied everything. They probably said I was a meddling old lady. That's why they rebuffed me today at the church.”

“What if . . .” Vicky began, slowly giving voice to the shadowy idea at the back of her mind, “Donna Miller shot her husband to protect her children.”

Elizabeth Shubert nodded. “That thought has been tormenting me.”

* * *

O
utside Vicky sat behind the wheel of her Bronco trying to arrange the pieces into a picture that made sense: well-respected man, perfect family with a cancer eating at its heart, mother who knew when Leland Iron Wolf would pick up his pay and who must have known he had recently used the shotgun. She could have waited until Leland drove off, and then gone to the barn, shot her husband—in the heart, Albert had said. She wore gloves, so Leland's prints were the only prints on the gun. After she had hidden the cash box, she had called the police. But who would believe it? Certainly not Mark Albert.

Vicky slammed one fist against the edge of the steering wheel. Leland Iron Wolf was about to spend the rest of his life in prison for a murder he didn't commit. He trusted her, and she had come up with nothing. Nothing but a sense of what could have happened, a vague and unprovable theory. She rammed the key into the ignition. The engine growled into life, and she pulled into the street, turned right, and headed west. She intended to pay a condolence call on the grieving family.

* * *

V
icky drove under the wooden gate with the letter M carved overhead. She passed the cars and trucks parked in front of the redbrick ranch house and stopped in the driveway that ran from the house to the barn. As she let herself out, she glanced about, then made her way to the front door.

“What do you want?” Donna Miller stood in the doorway, a small woman with sloped shoulders and sunken chest. She looked at Vicky out of red-rimmed eyes, the most notable feature in a narrow, plain face. Her hair was streaked with gray and brushed to one side, as if it had simply been put out of the way. She was still in the black dress she had worn to the church earlier. A hum of voices came from inside the house.

“I'd like to talk to you,” Vicky said. She told the woman that she represented Leland Iron Wolf.

“I have nothing to say to you. I have guests.” Donna Miller glanced over one shoulder at the knots of people floating past the entry. Vicky glimpsed Buddy and Julie standing together in the shadows near the staircase.

“I've spoken to Elizabeth Shubert,” Vicky persisted.

“Elizabeth Shu . . .” The thin lips tightened on the name. “That woman has no right to . . .” Suddenly she moved backward. “Come in.” As Vicky stepped inside, the woman nodded toward the door on the other side of the staircase. “We'll talk in there,” she said. The boy and girl had disappeared.

The room was small, with a desk against one wall and two upholstered chairs pushed against the opposite wall. Thick, gauzy curtains at the window gave the air a grayish cast. Donna Miller closed the door and sank back against it. “I know the ugly rumors that woman has spread. The sheriff looked into them and found them completely false.”

“Mrs. Miller,” Vicky began, struggling against the sense of hopelessness rising inside her. What did she expect? That this woman would incriminate herself? She pushed on: “Leland Iron Wolf has been charged with a murder we both know he did not commit.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” There was a rigid calmness to the woman. She stared at Vicky out of gray, blank eyes. “The sheriff has conducted a thorough investigation. He has arrested my husband's murderer.”

“What kind of man was your husband?” Vicky asked, trying a different tack.

The woman blinked, as if she were trying to register the meaning of the question. “He was a very fine man. Ask anyone in the area. He was well respected.” She tilted her head toward the closed door and the muffled sound of conversations coming from the main part of the house.

“What about your children?”

“My children? They're very well adjusted, ask anyone.” Another tilt of the head toward the door. “They were fortunate to grow up on the ranch. They're very close. They never needed other friends. They had each other.”

“How did your husband treat them?”

“What right do you have to ask these questions?” Donna Miller said, a shrillness in the tone that seemed to surprise her. She straightened herself against the door. “He was wonderful to the children, of course. He protected them. He protected all of us in our kingdom.” One hand fluttered into the room. “He always called the ranch our kingdom where we could do things our own way.” A waviness had come into her voice, a hint of tears. “We could live the way we wanted, with no outsiders telling us what we could do.”

Vicky waited for the woman to go on, but Donna Miller had sunk into silence. At any moment, Vicky knew, the woman would tell her to leave. She took a chance. “He abused the children, didn't he? He beat your son. And your daughter?” Vicky caught her breath, a sharp lump in her chest.
Such a nice quiet girl. A complete change in personality.
“What did he do to your daughter, Mrs. Miller?”

“That woman has no right to speak such filth.”

“You decided it had to end,” Vicky said. “You wanted to protect your children.”

“No!” The word came like a cry of agony from a lonely, faraway place. “Go away. Go away and leave us alone.”

Suddenly the door swung open against the woman. She stumbled, off-balance, and Vicky grabbed her elbow, steadying her. Buddy stood in the doorway, a tall, gangly boy with light hair flopping over his forehead. Behind him was Julie in a tight, black dress with a neckline that dipped into the cleft of round, firm breasts. The boy reached back, grabbed his sister's hand, and pulled her into the room. Then he closed the door.

Turning to his mother, he said, “What's going on? I seen this lady talking to Miss Shubert in the church parking lot. Is she a cop?”

The mother shook her head. “This is Leland's lawyer. She's just getting ready to leave. You and Julie go on out and talk to people.”

“Don't you worry, Mother. I'll take care of this. I'll protect you now, just like I told ya.” The boy stepped forward, shielding both women. His eyes fixed on Vicky's. “That Indian killed my father and he's gonna get what's coming to him. You best be goin' now.”