Authors: Charlene Weir
A mulish look settled over Ellen's face.
“When did you get here?”
“Seven-thirty. Maybe later. It wasn't dark yet.”
“Why didn't you notice Taylor's car?”
Ellen glanced around as if she might spot it. “His car is here?”
“It's parked behind the house. Did you see anyone on your way out? Cars?”
“I don't remember. Maybe.”
“Where were you earlier this afternoon?”
Ellen rubbed her face. Susan could see her mind still wasn't tracking too well, but in a shivery voice she gave a fairly coherent account of her day at the Barrington house and seeing her friend Nadine. She was sketchy about the conversation with her friend, whether by choice or from mental chaos, Susan couldn't tell.
“What reason would Taylor have for coming out here?”
“None. Why would he? He's never been here.”
“To talk about something?”
Ellen moved her head deliberately to one side and then to the other. “He doesn't have anything to talk to me about. Even if he did, he could have said it at home. I mean atâ What would he have to say? He never had anything to say to me.”
He was here. This was too much out of the way for just going by. He must have had a purpose. “When did you last see him?”
“When he left this morning.”
“Where was he going?”
“I don't know. I assumed to work.”
Susan made a note to have that checked. So far what she had amounted to damn all. Ellen had decided to come home and found Taylor with a knife in his chest. That was it.
“Have you had any trouble here? Other than the plumbing problem?”
Ellen shook her head, more tiredness than negative response. “Nadine lost her keys. She's always losing keys. Then she found them. There were times when I thought somebody had been in here, but I could never be sure.”
“Anything missing?”
“No.” Ellen came out with the word too fast and leaned forward as though she had a sudden pain.
Something was taken that Ellen didn't want to talk about. A second or two of silence crept past, and then Ellen said, “Harlen Dietz.”
“What about him?”
“He keeps trying to buy the place. No matter how many times I tell him I won't sell.”
“Chief Wren?” Sheriff's Deputy Meyer, hat in hand, came through the dining room.
She went over to him.
“Miss Barrington's brother and sister are here. The brother's getting insistent about seeing her.”
Once again, evidence of how news traveled. She was finished anywayâfor nowâwith Ellen. These two had just saved her the time of tracking them down. Let's see what they have to say. She gave a nod to the deputy.
Carl shot her a glance, went directly to Ellen on the hearth, and crouched in front of her.
Marlitta followed more slowly, plodding and awkward, and sat beside her. Ellen didn't seem reassured to see them.
Carl touched a finger to her hand and looked hard into her face. “You all right, darlin'?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
Leaving Meyer to keep an eye on Ellen and Carl, Susan questioned Marlitta in the room behind the kitchen that Ellen used as an office, then switched Marlitta with Carl. Neither had an alibi. Marlitta had been at the medical clinic until five, when she went home. Husband Brent had left at the same time and gone swimming. Carl had stayed, alone, at the clinic until seven-thirty, then gone home, later had dinner with Comach Meer, gallery owner.
Susan told all three Barringtons they were free to go and went to the kitchen, where Osey was crawling around on the floor. She jerked her head at Parkhurst and went on out the back door.
“You seem a tad irritated,” he said. “Ma'am.”
“Knock it off. Let's pay a call on the Dietzes.”
She climbed in the Bronco and snapped the seat belt. He started the motor and maneuvered around the other vehicles and they jounced and splashed down the rutted driveway. She rolled down the window. The night air was silky-soft after the rain, the sky clear and endless, the stars brilliant, the moon full.
“Got anything you need to say?” Susan asked.
The dash lights showed a bright flash of teeth as he smiled. “Only that I'm a mite surprised you didn't haul her ass in.”
“Why would she kill Taylor in her own house? With her own knife?”
“Not too bright?”
“Her family seems to think so. She seems bright enough to me. She's afraid.”
“Dead man in the kitchen will do that.”
“Yeah.” Susan stared out at the headlights making tunnels on the road. A jack rabbit tore across in front of them, and she stomped on imaginary brakes.
Parkhurst slowed and swerved. “I'm driving.”
“Yeah. And a good job you're doing. Just don't hit any bunnies.”
“Vermin.”
She leaned back. “We've had one person shot, one poisoned, one stabbed. Our killer certainly doesn't like repetition.”
“Versatile. Uses whatever means are at hand.”
“Mmm. Why was Taylor killed?”
Parkhurst snorted. “Because he knew something? We'd be further along here if we knew why Dorothy was killed.”
“You don't go along with my theory Taylor stole the painting and zapped Dorothy because she found out?”
“I was leaning that way until Taylor got iced. Harlen Dietz could have stabbed him, not needing him anymore now that he'd come up with the money for oil speculation. Wouldn't have to share any of the profits. Figured Taylor's death would be lumped in with Dorothy's and Vicky's.”
Parkhurst was silent for a moment. “Not likely Harlen, or Holly either, would kill him. Killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“Falling out among thieves?”
“At Ellen's house?”
“Yeah.”
At the Dietz farm, a start had been made on cutting up the fallen tree. The headlights swept over foot-long logs stacked at one side of the drive. Parkhurst knocked. An outside light came on.
Holly, clutching an ankle-length robe together at the throat, opened the door. The dogs crowded around her in joyous eagerness.
“Sorry to bother you so late,” Parkhurst said. “Mind if we come in?” He took a step forward without waiting for her response.
Automatically, she moved back.
“Hol, what's going on?” Harlen came into the kitchen, stuck a cigar in his mouth, and looked at Parkhurst, then at Susan.
“What can we do for you folks?” He displayed all his teeth, but the smile didn't reach past his cheekbones.
Late as it was, he was still dressed in denim pants, a western-style shirt, and cowboy boots. Didn't farmers go to bed with the chickens?
“A few questions, Mr. Dietz,” Susan said. “Can you tell us where you were this afternoon and early evening?”
Harlen took the cigar from his mouth. “Well, I reckon I could. You want to tell me any reason why I should?”
The look Holly flicked over him was a far way from loving.
“Obvious something's going on. All the vehicles, ambulance, out to Ellen's place. Something happened to her?” Harlen stuck the cigar in his mouth, puffed. “Maybe you good people would like to sit down.”
They moved into the living room, and he turned on lamps.
“Hol, how about some coffee?”
“No thank you, Mr. Dietz.” Susan sat on the couch.
The dogs milled around, darting from person to person, until Holly snapped a finger, then the collie and the Lab trotted to her chair and dropped to a crouch. The black, hairy mutt went straight to Parkhurst propped against the wall, and sat at his feet gazing up with adoring eyes.
“Just a few questions,” Susan said, “and then we'll get out of here and let you go to bed.”
“Before I answer any questions, I'd like to know what's going on. What happened to Ellen?” Harlen settled back in a chair and laid the cigar in an ashtray on the table by his elbow.
“Ellen is fine, Mr. Dietz. It's Taylor Talmidge we're concerned about.”
Holly sat straighter. “What happened to Taylor?”
“Did you see him today, Mrs. Dietz? What time was he here?”
“Here?”
“Holly, pull yourself together.” Harlen looked at Susan. “What makes you think he was here?”
“Was he?”
“Yes. Late this afternoon. About what?” He looked at his wife. “Five-thirty or so?”
“Why was he here?”
“We got a business deal going, that's why. Anything wrong with that?”
“A business deal involving speculation in oil wells?”
“Anything illegal about that?”
“No, Mr. Dietz. So far as I know there's nothing illegal in that.”
“Then what business is it of yours?”
“Taylor Talmidge is our business, Mr. Dietz. He was stabbed this evening.”
“Ellen stabbed him?”
He seemed genuinely startled. Holly was watching him. Susan caught an ugly glimmer in her eyes. She was the tough one, Susan realized. For all his bluster, Harlen Dietz was a basically weak man.
“How long was he here?”
“'Bout an hour, I'd say. That right, Hol?”
She reached down and ran her fingertips over the collie's silky ears.
“Where were you between five and eight?” Susan asked her.
“She was right here with me,” Harlen said firmly. “Ain't that right, Holly?”
The Lab, feeling slighted, pushed his nose under Holly's hand.
“Answer the woman, Hol,” Harlen said.
“Yes. Here.”
“Did Taylor say where he was going when he left here?”
Holly shook her head.
“Did he mention Ellen?”
“No.”
“Can you think of any reason why he'd go to Ellen's? No? Mr. Dietz, I understand you made an offer to buy Ellen's land.”
“Perfectly good offer. Good price. What's that got to do with Taylor?”
“Not much good for farming,” Parkhurst said. “Is it maybe what you think might be under it?”
“That's none of your business,” Harlen said.
Susan asked a few more questions, then thanked them for their time and told them that was all for now. The hairy mutt gave a mournful wail of desertion when Parkhurst left.
He started up the Bronco and turned toward her. “Where to?”
“Willis Barrington.”
Dr. Willis Barrington, bleary-eyed and unshaven, answered the door wearing rumpled pajamas and a robe. She got the impression he'd worn them all day. The living room no longer looked pristine; it looked neglected: cups and glasses, plates with uneaten food. The air smelled stale, felt still, as if it had been hanging in the same spot for days. He seemed barely coherent, said he hadn't left the house since Vicky's death.
It was midnight when they left Willis Barrington alone in his depression, the kind of depression that wrapped around the body like a great gray octopus and sucked away the spirit until life became unbearable. She made a note to talk with somebody about him, before the long jump suggested itself with brilliant focus as the only relief.
Parkhurst clicked in his seat belt and put the Bronco in gear. Her eyes felt gritty, her mind was slushing through fatigue, and she was mad. With the heels of her hands, she rubbed at her eyes and tried to remember when she had last eaten. Sometime before noon?
“Food?” Parkhurst asked, picking up her thought.
“Nothing is open.”
“Maybe.” He set a course toward the campus. The streets were dark and deserted, streetlights reflected in puddles of rainwater along the curbs. At Poppy's Pizza, he pulled up. A lone car was parked near the door. Neon lights flickered across the empty parking lot, bleeding reds and yellows and blues over the wet, oil-slicked pavement.
When he opened the door for her, noise hit her like a physical assault. This was a student hangout. Music blared from speakers mounted near the ceiling, video games beeped and flashed. Long wooden tables occupied the square room, but the only customers were five males clustered around one, arguing, laughing, and drinking beer. One of them was Ed Cole. She squinted at him, wondering how much alcohol he'd consumed and if he'd knock Debra around when he got home.
“Sorry,” the skinny kid behind the counter said. “We're closed.”
Parkhurst raised an eyebrow and turned to look at the group of students. They got to their feet, swigged down what was left in the glasses, and, with a good deal of jostling and shoulder-punching, got themselves moving toward the door.
“Hold it,” Parkhurst said, soft, courteous, menacing.
The bunch stopped.
“Who's driving?”
“Nobody, man. We're on foot.”
Parkhurst nodded, and they took their boisterous energy out the door. Parkhurst turned back to the kid behind the counter. “I'm in great need of a pizza.”
“Hey, I'm sorry. The ovens have been turned off. There's no way.”
Parkhurst looked at him long enough to make the kid jittery. “I've got one somebody ordered and didn't pick up. I can give you that if you want.”
“What kind?”
“Salami.”
“I'll take it.”
Susan pulled out some bills for her share and laid them on the counter.
In the Bronco, she got on the radio and told the dispatcher to have a squad car cruise by the Cole place periodically. Maybe its presence would help Ed keep his fists in his pockets.
Ten minutes later, she got out plates and uncapped two bottles of beer, which she set in front of Parkhurst at her kitchen table. Then she checked the messages on her machine: three from the mayor demanding she call him immediately and one from her father in San Francisco. Both could wait. She zapped the pizza in the microwave.
Parkhurst separated a slice, dripping cheese, dropped it on a plate, and handed it to her. The kitten, much interested, watched from the doorway. Parkhurst sailed a salami disk toward her. All her hair stood on end. She stalked it with ferocious growls, wrestled it to the mat, and kicked it to death.