Chapter Eight
The doctor at the clinic was the suspicious sort. I was certain he didn't believe my story, although I told him the truth. And if his stern lecture was any indication, he didn't believe I was on my way to the sheriff's office either. Battered women, he told me, have a habit of keeping their mouths shut.
I had no intention of keeping silent.
I pulled into the parking lot at the Snohomish County Sheriff's Office just as a white Chevy pickup truck backed rapidly out of a parking place. I slammed on my breaks, narrowly avoiding a collision. The driver didn't even give me a courtesy shrug. How could she, unless she had eyes in the back of her head. She hadn't even bothered to look before throwing her truck into gear and didn't spare me a glance as she zipped past. But I saw her.
Melanie Rucker. Randy's wife. Alone.
"Ditsy woman," I growled.
Once inside, I checked in with a deputy at the sliding window, then looked around the sparsely furnished lobby. Just as I was about to lay claim on the solitary chair, an interior door flew open and crashed into the wall. I recoiled and tripped over the chair. Randy Rucker caught the door on its ricochet and shoved it again.
I turned to flee, tangled with the chair, and collided with the wall. It was all wasted effort. Randy galloped past me like one of his roping horses in pursuit of a frightened calf and flung open the exterior glass door before the interior one had time to slam. Miraculously, no glass shattered.
Randy hauled to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, snatched the cowboy hat off his head, slapped it against his thigh, and yelled, red-faced, before striding back into the building, flinging the door out of his way again. This time he made a bee-line for the sliding window, and pounded on the glass.
"Phone. I need a phone!"
The window slid open and one was set on the counter. Randy picked it up and hammered the buttons. He kept an eye on the door -- my escape route -- trying to pace, but the cord wouldn't let him.
"Hey," he said. "Get your goddamn ass in to the sheriff's office now … I don't care what you got going on … No, she was -- No she thought I might enjoy the walk. Yes, she left me here. What do you think? ... No, you moron, she's got the truck. We've got a car -- Christ Almighty, you're an idiot … it probably is the one with the big H on it … just get your ass in here!" Randy slammed the receiver back in the cradle.
That's when he caught sight of me. His eyes narrowed.
"You."
I gulped and backed against the wall. "Hi, Randy."
He took his time walking across the lobby, crushing and re-crushing the brim of his hat with one hand. "You," he repeated. "Are you happy now? Feel like you've gotten even?"
I froze, wide-eyed, gape-mouthed terrified. A little "eep" was all I had for an answer.
"Is there a problem here?" The deputy who'd been at the window was now halfway across the lobby.
Randy turned good-old-boy friendly. "None at all. Just having a neighborly chat." He smoothed the brim of his hat. "Isn't that right, Ms. Campbell?" His slow smile missed "neighborly" by a wide margin if the anger flashing in his eyes was any indication. He nodded to the deputy and ambled out the door.
I slid onto the chair I'd been standing next to.
"You okay?" the deputy asked.
I nodded.
"It'll just be a few more minutes before you can sign your statement."
I nodded again.
What the heck was going on? Although any fool could see Randy and Melanie weren't experiencing a moment of marital bliss, I couldn't imagine how it was my fault -- if indeed that's what Randy was so mad about. As alarming as his behavior was, it occurred to me (as my pulse returned to normal) that his tantrum wasn't too far out of character with the rough-around-the-edges, cowboy image he like to project. That image was probably one reason his stable in Marysville, where he trained reiners and cutting horses, was so successful. People thought they were getting the "real deal." Cowboys cuss and yell, right?
Melanie, despite her rapid departure from the parking lot, was the perfect foil for her husband. Her soft, Southern accent and genteel manners have the odd effect of lending a degree of romanticism to Randy. There had to be something noble somewhere beneath the crudeness if Melanie was attracted to him. Or so one would think.
A little over a year ago I had spoken with them, hoping to sign them on as clients for my accounting business. They decided they didn't need to pay someone for something Melanie could do for free -- in her spare time -- along with raising their daughter, cooking, cleaning and working a full-time job. Jeez.
After today I was glad they weren't my clients.
Ten minutes after Randy stressed the hinges on the inner door it opened again, this time with far more restraint. A portly, balding man stood in the doorway. Instead of a uniform, he wore a rumpled, light brown suit. Hardly a fashion statement, though I doubted he cared. The downward tug of the lines on his face made him look weary rather than angry. His eyes found mine.
"Theodora Campbell?" Hi lack of interest exceeded that of the preoccupied nurse who'd called me in to the doctor's exam room less than an hour ago.
"Here -- uh, yes." I jumped up. How was I supposed to act? I felt like a fifth grader being called in to the principal's office.
Mr. Could-Care-Less waved a file folder, motioning me toward the hallway, and introduced himself as Detective Thurman. He didn't return my tentative smile and he didn't bother to shake my hand. He did direct me to a small office and handed me the folder.
"Read this and make sure it's accurate before you sign it. You can sit there." He waved his hand in the direction of the only chair in the room besides the padded one he claimed.
I moved a couple of Field & Stream magazines off the molded, orange plastic seat before perching to read my typed statement.
Thurman didn't speak until I handed the signed paper back to him. "You know the guy who just blew out of here?"
"Only slightly. He's Randy Rucker. Trains western horses, so we don't really cross paths."
Thurman nodded. "Seems to know you. In fact, he said you were a 'lying little mother-of-a-dog' -- more or less -- and were 'just looking to cause trouble.' Also said I shouldn't believe anything you have to say about how he can afford the improvements on his property. But he wasn't that concise."
My mouth hung open. I snapped it shut and rubbed my forehead. Randy'd been talking to Detective Thurman about me? "What?"
"I take it you disagree with him." He watched me with cool, unblinking brown eyes.
Duh. "Detective, I haven't spoken with or seen the man in over a year, and then it was only when he told me he and his wife didn't feel they needed to hire my accounting services. I haven't even driven past their place since them. I don't know what he's doing business-wise or anyway else."
"Apparently, I'm not supposed to believe that."
"I don't know what to say." Nothing that he'd believe, anyway.
Thurman shrugged and rolled a pen between his fingers. "Have you had any contact with either of them since then?"
"No. I told you."
Then he changed the subject with the same professional ease as every female member of my family. "That's quite a bruise on your jaw. Mind telling me how you got it?"
"Valerie's grieving boyfriend, excuse me, fiancé, was having a hard time distinguishing me from my horse this morning."
"Greg Marshall?" The detective's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Yes."
"What happened exactly?"
I gave him an accurate account of Greg's visit, including what he said to me, and finished with Paul's efficient handling of Greg's departure. "I expect I should tell someone official." I felt my face heat up, remembering Paul's insistence.
Thurman's mouth stretched into a long-suffering smile. "You just did."
Oh. Whoops.
"Do you want to file a complaint?"
"Because Greg went crazy for a while with grief? I don't think it's necessary. I just wanted to make sure you knew." I
nodded quickly, my hands pressed together in my lap.
"Been to the doctor?"
"Yes, before I came here."
"Good. So, Greg Marshall was Miss Parsons's fiancé?"
"Yes."
He drummed his pen on the edge of his desk and studied me through narrowed eyes. I held my breath. Whatever was coming next wasn't going to be good.
The drumming stopped. "We determined your horse didn't kill Miss Parsons."
My exhale came like a sudden release of air from a balloon, and the knots in my shoulders untied.
"How do you know?"
"We got a partial autopsy report back." He pointed with his pen to a file in the basket on his desk.
"Isn't that kind of fast?" I didn't actually know, but I assumed it would take days.
He grimaced slightly, as though he'd tasted something disagreeable, and shrugged. "Money and power grease the skids, sometimes, and her father has plenty of both. Besides, I don't think the Medical Examiner has been too busy lately." Thurman tossed the pen onto his desk, shoved the pad to the side, and leaned back in his chair. It gave an alarming creak, but he took no notice. Instead, he continued to watch me, fingers laced over his belly. "You should be glad the autopsy report had extra incentive behind it."
Well, of course I was since it vindicated Blackie, but I had the uneasy feeling I wasn't going to like the reason. Maybe I'd be wrong again. I cleared my throat. "Why is that?"
He glanced at some paperwork on his desk before settling his gaze on me. "Seems the deceased's parents have been busy all morning trying to get a court order to destroy your horse."
A knee-weakening sick feeling dropped on me. Blackie had literally been snatched from under the executioner's blade. There would have been less time than I'd anticipated to protect him. I'd heard about Frederick Parsons, Valerie's father. Nothing official, of course. Not even close enough to official to print in the local gossip rag -- not without expecting the building that housed the newspaper's offices to have a tragic fire on some dark, moonless night. I'd never want to get on the man's bad side, and I'm not sure being on his good side was such a great idea, either. Off the radar entirely was best, but no longer an option. It hadn't occurred to me that her grief-stricken parents would be bent on revenge. Greg's temporary loss of control was nothing compared to the wreckage Valerie's family was capable of making of my life, if they so chose.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm just shocked they would go after my horse so aggressively, and relieved you finally agree with me."
"Agree with you?"
I waved toward the file folder containing my statement. "Agree that Blackie didn't kill her."
"You realize this means she was murdered, don't you?"
"Of course. I picked up on that a while ago."
"Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill her?"
"Detective, I believe you will find that, among the people who considered Valerie their friend, she was more envied than liked." I straightened in my chair. "There were plenty of people who didn't like her, but I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill her." You don't have to tell him how suicidal it would be if that person had any inkling who her father was. He probably knows, and doesn't have to know you do, too.
"Even if, oh, I don't know, she stole someone's horse?"
"Delores said you'd think I had a motive, but I didn't kill her." And I'm not stupid. But his question was simply standard procedure. No need to take offense.
"Why did she take your horse?"
"I have no idea -- well, I know she wanted him. She offered to buy him several times, but stealing him? It makes no sense."
"Why not?"
"It'd destroy any hopes she had to ride in the Olympics, and it's dumb even if she didn't care about that. Steal a horse and put him in your own backyard? What was she going to do with him? Everyone knows he's mine, and besides, he's microchipped. It'd be simple to prove who he belonged to." One question niggled at me. "When was she killed?"
"That's something we're unsure of at the moment." Detective Thurman sat up and slid the yellow legal pad in front of him. "How about you tell me where you've been since, oh, Saturday morning."
"Saturday morning?"
He nodded, pen poised.
"Oh, well, um … I rode my horse at Copper Creek."
"Witnesses?"
"Uncle Henry. That's Henry Fairchild. He came over and gave me a lesson at nine. Eric Fuentes and Delores Salatini were there. I talked to them both. I was home for lunch and Jonathan came by -- oh, Jonathan Woods, my, uh, boyfriend -- and he went over to my aunt and uncle's with me around one, but he didn't stay. We argued."
"What about?"
This was going to sound stupid. "What I was going to wear to dinner with his parents."
Amusement flickered across the detective's face. I sat a little taller.
"Witnesses?"
"To my argument with Jonathan? Well, Paul Hudson, and my aunt and uncle. Then I left for home a little after five. At seven I met Jonathan at Harvey Air Field and we flew to Seattle to dinner."
"Flew?"
"Yes." I knew what Thurman was thinking. Some people even said it out loud. I used my stock response without waiting for the inevitable. "Jonathan has his own plane, a small Cessna, and he uses any excuse he can to fly."
Thurman snorted. "Witnesses -- to your dinner, that is."
"Jonathan, his parents Walter and Marsha Woods, and everyone else in the damn restaurant. Then I went to McMurphy's about ten. I know. Greg Marshall and Paul Hudson both saw me there. Sarah Fuller, too, but she was sitting at a different table. Well, not at first. Greg was sitting with her when I arrived and I didn't want to bother them, so I sat at a different table across the room. Then he came over and sat with me. But Sarah didn't join us. I'm not sure she knew I was there. We didn't speak. We almost never do. She's kind of odd -- well, maybe just a little bit. Oh, and Paul got there about an hour later, because Aunt Vi asked him to pick me up, since …." Thurman had stopped writing and was regarding me steadily from under droopy lids. I swallowed. Perhaps I needed to get to the point. What my sister had been doing wasn't important. "I got home about eleven thirty. Paul drove me from McMurphy's to the airport in Snohomish to pick up my car. Should I go on?"
"Yes, by all means."
"I went to bed. No witnesses." I gave him a hard look when he glanced up from his note taking. "And Sunday morning I was out at Copper Creek again by a little after eight when I discovered my horse was gone. Witnesses? Delores, Miguel, Maria, and Jorge. I saw Greg, too. He was looking for Valerie."
Thurman finished writing. "You're quite a busy young woman. If my daughter had as many men buzzing around her as you do, I'd be a little nervous."
That was unnecessary and rude. "I do not have men 'buzzing around' me."
He got up from his chair. "We would appreciate it if you wouldn't make any travel plans for the near future, Miss Campbell. Expect to hear from us again, soon."
My pulse rate jumped several notches. I stood, but made no move for the door. "You can't seriously think I'm a suspect."
Thurman smiled. Barely. "We prefer 'person of interest.' Good-bye for now."
"No, no, no. Now wait just a minute. How can you think I'm a 'person of interest'?" I made the little quotes with my fingers.
"What are you going to tell me, that you're just a tiny thing and couldn't possibly have the strength to have killed Miss Parsons?" He shook his head as he stepped, casually, around his desk.
Sweat prickled in my arm pits. I set my jaw. "No, I'm going to wonder what kind of convoluted rationale you think I would have for doing such a thing. Sure I was mad when I found out she'd taken my horse, but I didn't even know he was gone until Sunday morning and from that point on there were people with me."
We squared off for a couple of beats before Thurman tapped his forehead like he'd just remembered something.
"Were you aware a 9-1-1 call was placed a few minutes prior to yours, also
regarding Miss Parsons?"
"That doesn't make any sense."
"No?"
"No." I frowned at him. "Jorge and I were the only ones at the estate -- until you people came." Uh, oh. Had I just implicated Jorge?"
"Miss Campbell, we'll be in touch."
Yeah, I'll just bet you will. I shot him an annoyed glance on my way out the door, which he closed immediately behind me. I pulled my purse onto my shoulder, clamped my arm around it, and raised my chin. Even if he did consider me a "person of interest" at least Blackie was safe. Valerie's parents wouldn't come after me. They'd let the police do their job and find the real killer. Wouldn't they? I mean, sure, they'd be upset, but they wouldn't jump to conclusions. Because, if they did they could do far more damage to my business, family, and friends than Greg ever could. Just having the detective considering me a quasi-suspect was going to cause disruption in my family.
Somehow I'd made it through the lobby and into the parking lot without taking note of my surroundings. I stopped and looked around for my car, located it, and dug my keys out from the bottom of my purse.
Mother's going to have a stroke when she finds out what's going on.
I got in my car, slammed the door, and jammed the key into the ignition.
All I needed was for my parents to wade into the middle of this. I'd never hear the end of it. First, I walk out on Jonathan's proposal, and now I'm a "person of interest" in a murder investigation. I'll be dropped from the Christmas card list for sure.
I turned the key, but all I got was a sick "errrrr" sound. Damn. I'd been holding down the gas pedal and flooded the engine. I rubbed my forehead. I couldn't protect myself from my parent's wrath. How was I going to protect myself from Valerie's parents? Perhaps taking Delores's advice and getting myself an attorney was sound. But I couldn't call Jonathan like she'd suggested. He didn't practice criminal law. And this was the last thing I needed for him to hold over my head … no, wait. Maybe this was just the ticket. I'd call and ask him to recommend an attorney. He'd be so scandalized he'd back out of his marriage proposal, and I wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. Sure it would be humiliating, but so what? He'd dump me and Mother would be sympathetic instead of critical of me for rejecting his proposal -- which she no doubt already heard about from Aunt Vi or Juliet.
I tried the ignition again. This time the engine turned over.
I needed to keep this quiet, though. I was not under the delusion the rest of my family would take such a sympathetic view of my involvement in a murder investigation, so it would be best if I didn't distress them with the "person of interest" news. I could handle this.
I stopped by Blackie's pasture to make sure he was fine before facing my aunt and uncle. He whinnied loudly and trotted over when I ducked through the fence, checked my pockets for treats, and sprayed me with a sneeze. Yeah, he was fine. I ruffled his forelock, then went to the house.
Aunt Vi clasped her hands to her face and peered in horror at mine. "Good Lord in Heaven, child! You never said a word about being injured."
Uncle Henry had been sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. He was on his feet in an instant, the newspaper spilling onto the floor. A vein throbbed in his temple.
"Greg did this, didn't he?" His question sounded more like a statement.
I couldn't believe I'd forgotten about my bruises. Without warning, a tremor took the warmth from my skin and turned my lips icy. Aunt Vi supported my arm and guided me to the table.
"Did he … did he …." Uncle Henry was stammering.
That, in itself, shocked me, never mind the color had drained from his face. With a jolt I realized my uncle feared I'd been raped.
"No! No. Just this." I pointed to my face. "Paul came before … before anything else … happened." Now I was having difficulty getting words out.
"You poor duck. Henry, get the ice out." She hurried to the drawer with the tea towels. "My word, that lad's gone two stops beyond Barking."
Uncle Henry grabbed his jacket from the peg by the back door. He turned to us, one arm in the sleeve.
"I'm going to have a word with that boy."
Aunt Vi glanced in his direction, stopped, looked again and frowned. "Henry Fairchild, you put your jacket up this instant and fetch me some ice. You'll do none of us any good sitting in the clink 'cuz you've gone spare and whacked the boy senseless."
They eyed each other. Aunt Vi was right. Having Uncle Henry lose his temper wouldn't help any. I was about to say so when he pursed his lips and hung the jacket back up. He got a plastic bag from the cabinet and opened the freezer.
"Have you been to the doctor? The police?" he asked.
"Yes to both," I said. "It's just bruising. I'm okay. Uncle Henry, Detective Thurman told me Blackie didn't kill Valerie." The words rushed out, and I thought he looked a little relieved when he nodded in acknowledgement.
He cleared his throat and handed the bag of ice to Aunt Vi. "You'll be glad to know the vet stopped by. He gave Blackie a good going over. Couldn't find anything wrong. I'll keep an eye on him just the same." He turned his chair to face me, while Aunt Vi folded the ice in the towel. "What else did the detective have to say?"
"Just asked some general questions -- seemed to think I'd know something about the improvements Randy Rucker's making at his place. I thought that was pretty bizarre."
"I heard he was doing something up there," my uncle said. "Business has been a bit slow for him. Maybe he thinks he'll pull in more clients if he puts a new coat of paint on the barns."
Wow, that was catty coming from Uncle Henry, and news to me.
Aunt Vi snorted. "Well, I can tell you, he's needed to do something. The place is practically falling down around his ears. I've never seen such neglect." She handed me the ice pack. "Thea, you tell us everything that happened this morning. Don't be so economical with the truth. You said this would have been worse but for Paul."
I rested the ice pack against my jaw and gave a brief sketch of Paul's rescue to an attentive audience. Aunt Vi tipped her head. Her eyes and mouth formed little "Os." Of course I left out the emotional stuff and the Paul-thing after Greg decamped, although I gave Paul credit for his suggestions. Neither did I mention my encounters with Randy. That couldn't be important. No point in adding needless worry.
"Have you called your parents yet?" my aunt asked.
"Please don't tell Mother and Dad. I swear I'll tell them after the police solve this. There's nothing they can do. They'll only worry. Please?"
"They're your parents, love, they have a right to know what's going on."
"I know, but since I'm not involved anymore wouldn't it be better if we tell them after the sheriff solves this? Then they won't worry over nothing. Please, Aunt Vi?" I turned an imploring gaze on Uncle Henry. "Please? It's not like you're not right here."
He ran a hand over his face then studied me for a long moment.
"All right." He flicked a quick glance at Aunt Vi, who shook her head and turned her attention to preparing the tea. "On the condition that, should anything change and you become involved again, they'll be called immediately."
He meant if I were arrested. Good thing I'd left out how close I was to that. I slouched in my chair.
"Thanks. I promise."
Aunt Vi only harrumphed and intently arranged the porcelain tea pot and cups on the table. It was the Spode set with the red rosebuds I bought for her when Jonathan and I flew to Victoria for a weekend last January. If it hadn't been for the shopping and sightseeing, the trip would have been a colossal waste of time.
"It was Blackie's doing, you know," Aunt Vi said pouring the first cup. She handed it to me.
"What was Blackie's doing?" I asked. Talk about a non sequitur.
"At the end of the day, you'll see. He knew." She fixed a cup of tea with milk and handed it to Uncle Henry.
"Blackie knew?" Uncle Henry asked.
"Yes." She passed him the sugar bowl and stirred her tea.
My uncle and I looked a
t each other. He shrugged minutely. We'd obviously switched subjects, but I wasn't sure what the new subject was. "What did he know?"
Aunt Vi took a deep breath and pursed her lips on the long, slow exhale. Oh. I knew where this was headed but went for the wide-eyed sincere look, anyway.
"What?"
"He knew you were in trouble, of course. He tried to tell us."
I knew it. She was creating a psychic connection out of a coincidence. I shifted around in my chair.
"You know how close you two are," she said. "Why, he always knows when you're on your way. I've seen him out there in the field stop all at once and gaze into the distance." She did a little impression of Blackie -- freezing as if on point, looking intently in the direction of my house, jaw slack. I had to smile. "See? Just like that. Then he whinnies and goes back to eating. Not five minutes later here you come rolling up the drive. I'm telling you, he knew you needed help today, Thea."
"Don't be ridiculous," I said, taking a swallow of tea. "The next thing you'll be telling me is Blackie can read your Tarot cards."
"You mark my words. I'm right." Up went her chin and a full dose of her we-are-not-amused glower cut off my unvoiced smart-ass remark and neutralized the accompanying smirk.
I cleared my throat, finished my tea with polite decorum, and got up from the table. "Thanks for the tea and everything. I need to get going. I've a ton of work to catch up on."
"If you must. Take that ice pack with you, too. In fact, why not come by for dinner?"
"I don't know if I can. Juliet is expecting me to help her practice her Tae Kwon Do this evening. She has a belt test coming up."
"I don't think that's a wise idea considering your injuries, do you?" Uncle Henry said.
"I'm fine. The doctor said it's just bruising, no blood --" I stopped abruptly. My mind had just made a brilliant connection. "No blood," I said. They looked confused. "There was no blood on the ground by Valerie's body."
"You're sure?" Uncle Henry asked.
"The ground was dry. It hasn't rained in a week. No puddles, and no mud. Surely, with a wound like her's she would have bled. In fact, there was a lot of blood in her hair. She must have been killed somewhere else."
"Why would she have been in the pasture then?" Aunt Vi asked.
"To make it look like an accident," I said, feeling rather smart. "That's the only reason it could be. You'd think whoever put her there should have realized what a pussycat Blackie is." I pushed my chair in, took my cup and saucer to the sink, and tossed my napkin in the trash, aware of the unhappy looks on my aunt and uncle's faces. I should have kept my mouth shut.
"And just where do you think you're going?" Aunt Vi said, her words sharpened to a dictatorial edge.