Husband and Wives

A Selection of Recent Titles by Susan Rogers Cooper

The Milt Kovak Series

THE MAN IN THE GREEN CHEVY

HOUSTON IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

OTHER PEOPLE’S HOUSES

CHASING AWAY THE DEVIL

DEAD MOON ON THE RISE

DOCTORS AND LAWYERS AND SUCH

LYING WONDERS

VEGAS NERVE

SHOTGUN WEDDING*

RUDE AWAKENING*

HUSBAND AND WIVES*

The E J Pugh Mysteries

ONE TWO WHAT DID DADDY DO?

HICKORY DICKORY STALK

HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

A CROOKED LITTLE HOUSE

NOT IN MY BACK YARD

DON’T DRINK THE WATER

ROMANCED TO DEATH*

FULL CIRCLE*

The Kimmey Kruse Series

FUNNY AS A DEAD COMIC

FUNNY AS A DEAD RELATIVE

*available from Severn House

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by Susan Rogers Cooper.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Cooper, Susan Rogers.

Husband and wives. – (A Milt Kovak mystery)

1. Kovak, Milton (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Sheriffs–Oklahoma–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

813.6-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-208-5 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8126-7 (cased)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

To my daughter, Evin, for her love and support, and without whom E.J.’s books would never have a plot. But mostly, I want to thank her sincerely for giving me grandchildren.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the usual suspects: my friend, writer, and reader, Jan Grape, for her critique; and my agent, Vicky Bijur, for her help and support.

ONE

Milt Kovak – Monday

Y
ou’d think my life would have gotten easier, what with me having a second-in-command and four deputies, and a new civilian aid answering the phones instead of Gladys who had finally, thank God, retired, and God bless her all to hell and back.

In case you’re not familiar with Prophesy County, Oklahoma, and the way the sheriff’s department does business, let me set you straight. I’m Milt Kovak, sheriff of Prophesy County, and my second-in-command is Emmett Hopkins who, besides being my BFF, used to be police chief of Longbranch, the county seat of Prophesy County, before some political mess screwed that up for him. And my four deputies are Jasmine Bodine Hopkins, my long-time deputy and Emmett’s new wife; Anthony Dobbins, Prophesy County’s first African-American deputy sheriff; Anthony’s cousin, Nita Dobbins Skitteridge, not only our second African-American deputy but our second female deputy as well (got a two-fer there!); and my long-time deputy (can’t get rid of him) Dalton Pettigrew, who is a really nice fella but stupid as a bag of rocks. Dalton’s mama is the former sheriff’s first cousin, so nepotism got him in, and guilt on my part keeps him here. But, like I said, he’s a real nice fella.

Our civilian aid mans the phones and the radios and acts as sort of a receptionist/secretary. Gladys had been doing that job since before my time, and my time started back in the late seventies, so God only knows how long she’d been there. All I know is once our old sheriff left she got the notion that she was boss of everything and treated me – duly appointed sheriff in charge and finally duly
elected
sheriff of Prophesy County – like I was the skinny one on her football team and she’d changed her name to Bob Stoops (in case you don’t know, that’s the coach of the finest football team in America – The University of Oklahoma Sooners). But finally she got so old that she’d be making more money with social security and her pension than she made working and her husband, bless him, begged her to retire. We gave her a big old party, and the next day I hired a young gal who’d gotten to Longbranch in a very strange way. Her name is Holly Humphries and for some reason she seems smitten with my deputy Dalton, which somehow makes him seem a little less stupid.

Now on this particular day, a Monday (isn’t that always when the shit hits the fan?), Holly came into my office and said, ‘Sheriff, we’ve got a problem.’ I don’t like little Miss Holly just because she’s not Gladys. There’s a lot to like. She’s pretty, she’s smart, and she calls me ‘Sheriff,’ unlike Gladys who just called me Milt.

The problem was that it was three thirty in the afternoon and Emmett was in Oklahoma City at a seminar, Jasmine was just finishing up giving a safety assembly at a high school in the far south side of the county, Anthony and his cousin Nita were both out in the north of the county at a tractor-trailer/four-car pile-up, and Dalton was off duty and taking his mother to a specialist in Tulsa. That’s why Holly said what she did, which was, ‘Sheriff, we’ve got a problem.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked, looking up from the paperwork on my desk.

‘I’ve got a girl on the phone and she sounds hysterical. I can’t make any sense of what she’s saying, and there’s nobody here to help me,’ Holly said. Then she got a stricken look on her face. ‘Except you, of course.’

I looked at my phone and saw the line that was blinking. ‘I’ll take it,’ I said, and heard Holly breathe a sigh of relief.

I picked up the phone and said, ‘This is Sheriff Kovak. To whom am I speaking?’

‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God . . .’

‘Calm down now, honey,’ I said in the soothing tones I’d learned at a seminar in Dallas. It was a child’s voice, and endearments are OK when talking to a child. ‘Take a deep breath, now breathe with me, honey . . .’ And I started doing deep breathing, finally hearing her copying me on the other end of the line. ‘Good girl,’ I said in that soothing tone. ‘You’re doing great. Take a couple more deep breaths, sweetheart.’ I listened. ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Real good. Now, can you tell me what happened? Start at the beginning, honey.’

‘I . . . I came home . . . with my brothers and sisters . . . I had Mama’s car, I picked everybody up . . . I came in and . . . oh my God . . . oh my God . . .’

‘Take another deep breath,’ I said, soothing-like. ‘In, one-two-three, out, one-two-three . . . Now, what happened when you came in?’

‘Mama . . . Mama’s on the floor in the kitchen . . . she’s here now, just lying here . . . And there’s blood . . .’

‘Now, sweetie, I need to get an ambulance over there. What’s your name, honey, and your address?’

I heard a sob over the phone. ‘She’s dead. Her eyes are open and she’s dead!’

‘I’m so sorry, darlin’. What’s your name and your address so we can get someone over there for you and your brothers and sisters?’

‘Lyn . . . Lynnie Hudson. 1803 Magnolia Way, in The Branches.’

Now, The Branches (and yes, that
is
a capital ‘T’ in ‘the’) is the newest and ritziest subdivision in the town of Bishop, which is Prophesy County’s answer to Beverly Hills.

‘OK, Lynnie, honey,’ I said, ‘you’ve done real good. I’m on my way over there right now, and I’m sending an ambulance too. Now I want you and your brothers and sisters to step outside the house and wait for us out front. OK, darlin’?’

‘Just . . . just leave her here?’

‘That way the crime scene . . .’ I heard her sob ‘. . . if it is a crime scene, won’t get messed up, you understand, honey?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is this a cell phone you’re on?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you take it out with you and stay on the line. I’m gonna have you talk to my friend Holly until I get there. OK, Lynnie?’

Another sob. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. Then she screamed.

‘What?’ I yelled. ‘What happened?’

‘Little Mark! I forgot all about him!’

‘Who’s Little Mark?’ I asked.

‘My baby brother! Where is he? Oh my God oh my God!’

‘Lynnie, now just hold on—’

‘I’ve got to go find him!’

‘No!’ I said emphatically. ‘Absolutely not! If you haven’t heard him by now, he’s probably asleep. Let him be and go outside like I said. Now, Lynnie, I hate to say it, but that’s an order, honey.’

Just the thought of her finding her baby brother dead was doing things to my head – none of ’em good.

Still talking to her on the phone, I grabbed up my paraphernalia and said, ‘I’m gonna hafta put you on hold, Lynnie, while I go get Holly. Just hold on a second, sweetie. We’ll be right back.’ I headed quickly to the front office and picked up Holly’s phone, pushing the button for Lynnie. ‘OK, honey, I’m back. You’re gonna talk to Holly now. You and the kids outside yet?’

‘Yes, sir, but Little Mark—’

‘I’m on my way, y’all just stay outside, honey. Now I’m giving the phone to my friend Holly. She’s real good people and I’ll be right there, OK?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, but I could hear the tears in her voice.

Putting my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, I said to Holly, ‘Her name’s Lynnie. Her mama’s dead in the kitchen. There’s a baby in the house someplace. Girl’s near hysterics. Talk to her in a calm voice, keep her and the other kids – don’t know how many – out of the house until we get there, got it?’

Holly said, ‘Yes, sir,’ took the phone from my hand and in a soft voice said, ‘Lynnie? Hi, it’s Holly . . .’

That’s all I heard as I radioed for an ambulance and headed out to my squad car.

Bishop’s like twenty minutes away from Longbranch in miles, but about $200,000 per annum away in terms of income. That’s where all the doctors, lawyers and accountants live. And probably a few drug dealers I’m not yet aware of. The little township itself has boutiques and natural food stores and a store that sells kitchen crap, where I found a potato peeler they were selling for $65. Hand to God. They’ve got massage parlors that women go to (not like the trailers outside of Longbranch with the Asian girls). And they’ve got children’s stores with baby dresses that cost more than my wife’s wedding dress. I kid you not. Needless to say, I don’t go to Bishop a lot, other than command performances at my sister’s mini-mansion. Her husband owns used-car parts stores. Ten of ’em.

Now, The Branches was new and totally concealed by a six-foot-high rock fence surrounding the entire subdivision and, if I was pushed, I’d say the place was at least a couple of hundred acres. There was a manned front gate (in this instance, womanned) and heavy iron gates that didn’t open without the permission of the uniformed and armed guard. (The armed part was on the up-and-up because they had to come to me to get their carry licenses and take shooting lessons at our range.) I showed the lady guard on duty my badge, told her the problem, and said, ‘Who’s your security chief out here?’

‘Maynard Ritchie, Sheriff. Want me to call him?’ she said.

‘Yeah, have him meet me at the house,’ I said, and squealed tires getting through the gate.

1803 Magnolia Way was the tip end of a cul-de-sac with only three houses, each of which appeared to sit upon at least a half acre. The house in question was pretty dang big, but looking at the crew of kids hanging out in front of the house, I figured any property that housed this bunch would have to be big. I counted seven kids as I walked up.

‘Lynnie?’ I asked, moving through the obviously upset children.

‘Sheriff?’ she cried, then ran up to me and grabbed my hand. ‘Mark! You’ve got to find Little Mark!’

She was a pretty girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, blonde hair that reached her butt, big blue eyes, on the short side, a little thick through the middle, wearing a long dress that looked like the material my mama used to make curtains out of, and thick-soled black shoes.