Gone Crazy (15 page)

“Not that long,” I said quickly.

“Okay, DNA is out then. Well, I’ve got what I need down at the lab.” He carefully put on two sets of vinyl gloves, took out wooden chopsticks, and used them to delicately extract some mushrooms from the jar, and put them in some kind of paper and then in a cardboard box that he assured us was “very techno-forward.” He left a business card describing himself as a biologist specializing in mycology, promised to call when he could give us an identification, and bustled out. I stashed the Mason jar in our evidence locker, which is about the size of a mini-fridge, and took a moment to remind myself that patience is a virtue. It didn’t help.

Davis had watched the entire meeting from his cell. Once we’d settled down, and Tom had left to start patrolling, he cleared his throat.

I looked up from my paperwork. I was justifying the cost of having him in my jail instead of in county, and it was hard going from the arithmetic angle. “What?”

“I wanted to ask a question.”

It wasn’t like a Collier to be diffident. I didn’t like it. “Ask.”

“Who do you think killed Mama?”

Kim gasped into her coffee. For a minute, all we could hear was Boris washing between his toes.

“I don’t know,” I said at last.

“I asked who you
think
did it,” Davis retorted.

“I
think
,” I said with some malice, “that it wasn’t you or Jeff. Everyone’s too eager to make me think it is for me to trust them.”

His shoulders relaxed. So did his face. “Thank God. I was hoping someone else’d see I wouldn’t be damn fool enough to leave the mushrooms in my own filing cabinet. If I killed Mama, I mean.”

I poked Boris to get his attention. I wanted his input. I walked to the cell, glaring steadily at Davis. “So you’re saying it was planted evidence?”

His breath sped up, yet he said evenly, “Yes.”

“Who’s got that kind of access to your office?”

“Anyone. It’s not locked.”

I tapped a bar with a fingertip. “The café is.”

“During business hours, we’ve got both doors open,” said Davis. “Front and back. In summer especially. The kitchen’s an inferno. Anyone can walk in and out.”

I made a note to double-check that. Boris’s tail hadn’t so much as shivered. I decided to ask, and turned swiftly back to Davis. “Do you think Jeff did it?”

I’d caught him off-guard. He said blankly, “No.”

I smiled, with less malice. “So who do you
think
did it?”

Davis didn’t answer. Not for lack of opinion, either. It was Collier loyalty. To Colliers who’d happily thrown him to the wolves.

***^***

Nobody was willing to post bail for Davis, particularly when it was set at a quarter of a million dollars, so he continued to reside in my jail. Kim’s mother was delighted; she made money whenever she fed one of our prisoners. Kim was less thrilled. She was used to having the office to herself, and being able to sing under her breath or goof off on the internet for a few minutes here and there. Having Davis Collier there put a crimp in her style.

Davis’s incarceration meant I had to sleep at the office. Someone had to be there overnight to guard the prisoner. It wasn’t dignified to use the spare cell, so I wound up using the little sofa-bed we had for the purpose. Boris loved it. He got to scare Davis out of sleep every couple of hours by squeezing through the bars and jumping on Davis’s chest.

We’d had Davis as our guest for three days when Tanya Hartley arrived. It was noon, and I was eating salad with Kim and Davis, chatting about food. Davis was relating that his sister Honey was a real foodie, the kind who goes on wine-tasting tours and reads magazines about cheeses, with contempt. This from the man who served baby quiches with watercress salad.

“Sheriff,” said Tanya. She’s a nice enough girl. Okay, she’s near enough thirty to be no girl, but she’s got that bright blonde way that comes off as perpetually sixteen-ish. “Is Tom here?”

“Shift starts at three,” I said. “Can I help? Is it about the estate?”

“Oh no,” said Tanya. She primped with one hand, eyes darting around my office. It put me in mind of a hawk scanning for field mice. “We’re going to lunch. I said I’d meet him here.”

Kim made an odd noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. I gestured Tanya into a chair, while Boris sniffed her shoes with interest. “I know he’ll be sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Oh, I’m a few minutes early,” said Tanya and sat down with her legs primly crossed at the knee. “Hi, Mr. Collier, how’re you being treated?”

“I’m doing well, thank you,” said Davis with perfect composure. You’d never guess this woman was a regular at his café. “Mr. Warner’s doing a good job.”

She nodded with a smile that meant nothing, and hummed. We finished our salads in silence. Kim made a great show of being busy, but I caught her glaring at Tanya. I couldn’t imagine why until Tom had come and gone, and taken Tanya with him to the Old Mill. Kim waited till the door was closed, just barely, before she huffed. “Well! Did you see those hose? Who wears hose like that in daytime?”

I admitted that for Crazy, Tanya’s hose with the fancy seam down the back were a little fashion-forward.

Kim wasn’t done. “And she asked
him
out. Who does that?” She sniffed, sounding a lot like her mother, or Ruth Campbell. “Nice girls don’t do the asking.”

I had to grab Boris’s feather duster and entice him into play so I’d have a reason to turn my back and hide my grin. Looked like Kim had noticed Tom’s crush more than she’d let on, and didn’t like having competition. Well now. Wasn’t
that
interesting.

Kim ran down Tanya a few more minutes, then went sullenly back to doing her job. I thought I heard her mutter the word “hussy”, but I could be mistaken.

The telephone rang. I grabbed it and chirped, “Thank you for calling the Crazy Sheriff’s Department, how can I help you?”

I heard a little hiccup of uncertainty. “Um. Uh. Sheriff?”

“Oh. Hey, Punk,” I said. “Sorry about that. Long day. What can I do for you?”

“I’m down at Gilfoyle Medical,” he said. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Now I was confused. “Who?”

“Vera Collier’s niece.” Punk lowered his voice like a conspirator in a cheap movie. “She might know where the insulin came from.”

15.

G
ilfoyle Medical Center is not much of a hospital. There’s about ten beds and a staff, and an X-ray, but if you need CT or MRI scans or even an appendectomy, you’re not getting them there. They have an emergency care clinic that serves as an ER for walk-in cases, and ambulances that can drive very fast to bigger, better hospitals in Charlottesville or even Lynchburg. In fact, Gilfoyle Medical is really just a fancier version of Dr. Hartley’s Emergicare, without the bedside manner.

I walked into the reception area and asked if they could direct me to physical therapy, where Punk was supposed to be waiting for me. The receptionist looked down her nose at me, and said, “We don’t allow pets.”

“Boris is a working companion animal,” I said. “Like a seeing-eye dog. And I’m not leaving him out in that heat.”

“Leave the car running. No pets.”

I tried the Littlepage glare. It melted right off the woman. “He’s cleaner than half your patients.”

“No pets.”

“He’s not a pet,” I replied, “he’s a deputy.”

The receptionist didn’t even bother to look at me, just enunciated like she was talking to a really stupid child, “N-O P-E-T-S. No pets. And you can’t just go in and see people, you have to make an appointment.”

Things might have gotten ugly if Punk hadn’t stumped up. “Sheriff,” he said. “C’mon back. Missy’s got time after this appointment.”

The receptionist stood as I sauntered past with Boris. Before she could speak, Punk said smoothly, “Therapy animal,” and she had to sit down in confusion. She might argue with me, but not with a guy missing a leg.

“I am gonna ask Maury about getting you on part-time,” I told him as we made our way down a short hall to a small gym, about the size of the one Roger wanted to put in Aunt Marge’s garage. “I seriously am.”

“Really?” Punk’s face lit up. The smile made a big difference in the guy. I blinked, and then he was nodding toward a weight machine. “You mean it?” he asked as he started working his quads.

“I like how you think,” I told him, and watched as a thin woman around thirty led an old man through some stretches across the room. “That her?”

“Yep.”

I could see Craig in her, softened up by whatever else was in her DNA. A few minutes later, she’d seen the old man out, and came over to Punk with the smile that physical therapists save for those who are trying to meet their impossible standards of fitness. “Good work, Punk. You must be Sheriff Eller.”

We shook hands. Boris sneezed at her. She laughed. “Liniment,” she said lightly, and took a seat on a machine near us. I got my notebook out and my pen ready, and charged right in. “Punk tells me you might know where someone in your family would get insulin.”

Missy Craig nodded. “Sure. We’ve got diabetes. Runs in the family.”

Punk butted in at that point. “Emmaline’s only one carries Foster’s, I went in for a six-pack and I seen her pop the needle in just like that.” He smacked his thigh with a shudder. “I didn’t know she was Missy’s aunt, mind you, but then I saw Missy do it this morning.”

“Let my sugar get too out of whack,” said Missy with a shrug. “Anyway, Punk asked if we’d keep insulin like that. I mean, anyone with diabetes.”

I caught on. “Type 1 or Type 2?”

“Type 1,” said Missy grimly. “And let me tell you, I still can’t believe Aunt Emmaline’s not dead the way she treats herself. But anyway, thing is, it runs in the family. Grandpa Craig, Aunt Emmy, my daddy, Aunt Molly, couple of her kids…‌There’s probably ten-fifteen of us Craigs got it.”

Punk anticipated my question. “It’s a big family.”

I checked Boris’s reaction to Missy. He was keeping his distance. She smelled very strongly of wintergreen, even to me. But the tail wasn’t twitching.

“What about your Collier cousins?”

“Dunno, we don’t talk to them. I never met Aunt Vera even.” With irritating ease, Missy Craig dropped into a leg-knotting yoga pose I’d only ever seen Aunt Marge master with any comfort. “You can have the gene and not get it triggered, I think that’s what my doctor said. Anyway, it’s possible for them to have it.” She smiled curiously. “Why is this important?”

“If I told you,” I said as I rose, “I’d have to kill you.”

Once I’d thanked Missy and said my farewells, Punk trailed me out to my cruiser. “You serious about asking the mayor…”

“Soon as I get back,” I promised, then swore. “I can’t believe I was too damn stupid to ask about Marilee or Buck! Got so caught up in the mushrooms I didn’t think… Damn it!” I grinned at Punk without humor. “Mind if I borrow that cane to knock some brains into me?”

“You’d just end up with a headache,” replied Punk. “Thanks, Sheriff. For taking me seriously. Don’t many people do. Not anymore.”

“It was your leg you lost, not your brain,” I said without thinking how that sounded. For a second I could just hear Aunt Marge giving a sighing lecture about tact. Then Punk smiled like he appreciated my rudeness, and I headed back to Crazy.

***^***

Back at the office, I had to field half an hour of questions from Kim before I could call Buck and Marilee Collier. Buck I caught, by a small miracle, and learned very quickly he didn’t have diabetes, didn’t like civilian law enforcement, and didn’t care who had killed his mother so long as she was dead. After that, I dialed Marilee’s number like the phone might bite me. I got her voice-mail, and left her a message, then tried to sit patiently waiting for her to return the call. I drove Kim nuts with my pacing, and I decided to hang out in my speed trap to feel productive. I had gotten about as far as the liquor store when my radio beeped at me. “Lil, we got a problem on Spottswood.”

I pulled into the parking lot of Blue Quartz Pottery and got myself turned around. “Where’s Tom?”

“That’s the problem,” Kim complained. “Mr. Love called in a disturbance, and now he’s called back saying Tom’s in trouble.”

I hit my lights and siren. Boris, who’d been dozing, woke up with a breathy hiss of surprise. “Easy, sweetie,” I told him, and ruffled the fur on his back. “Tom needs us.”

Boris gave a happy meow and sat up, whiskers flickering with anticipation. There are days that cat’s blood-lust disturbs me.

I located the disturbance by finding Tom’s lights. He’d parked on the road between the Vogts at number 24 and their next door neighbors, Cam Shelhamer and Maeve Horner at number 20. It was pushing toward suppertime, the temperature still in the low nineties, and for us, that’s like 100 degrees anywhere else. The weather forecast had been for storms, but we hadn’t seen any yet, though the sun was nearly touching the mountains. I actually had to stop and catch my breath when I got out of the cruiser. Even Boris hesitated, and looked back at his cat seat like he might let me fly solo on this one.

I heard shrill yells, some muffled shouts, but at first I couldn’t see a thing. I trotted across the road, carrying Boris until we reached the relative shade of some sycamores in the Vogts’ yard. Then I saw a riding lawnmower on top of a stretch of toppled wooden privacy fence, the kind you can buy in pre-fab six-foot sections, and a wild tangle of greenery that looked like it had once been some honeysuckles. I also saw a brown glass bottle. From there, I followed the yelling.

Rachel Vogt was standing on her side of the fence, screaming encouragement at a writhing mass in the lily pond behind the Shelhamer house. It was a very nice lily pond, beautifully landscaped so you’d almost think it belonged in their yard. Whoever had done the job had used native stones and plants to create a shady arbor, complete with path to the patio. Too bad they hadn’t designed the pond for human occupation. No matter how he tried, Tom plainly couldn’t stand between Richard Vogt and Cam Shelhamer. He’d get upright, then slip and topple right back into the water. Which by this point was devoid of most of its lily pads, flung out by the slap-fest that was Richard Vogt and Cam Shelhamer. Maeve‌—‌Cam’s live-in girlfriend‌—‌was holding a water hose and trying to separate the men by squirting water in their faces, but the only real effect was to terrify Boris into flight, and keep the crud out of their eyes.