The Payback Man (15 page)

He followed her.

She spoke over her shoulder and just above a whisper. “She jumps around from one subject to the next. She’s very much on edge. Why on earth doesn’t she tell your dad to take a short leap off a tall building? Or at least move out of his house?”

Steve stopped with his hands on the cooler, then picked it up without a word and carried it to the shelter of the barn where the men pounced on it.

He took a soda and moved over closer to the pine trees. They were in full view of Selma, so the CO had to be content with giving them a sour look.

“She didn’t even know you’d been moved from Big Mountain,” Eleanor continued.

“I guess she wouldn’t.”

“She wants to come to see you, but she’s afraid to upset your father.”

“Did she tell you how the Colonel is doing? He’s not young.”

“Other than that he won’t allow your name to be spoken in his house or his presence, I have no idea.”

“Don’t be too hard on him. As far as he’s concerned, I let down the whole family.”

“Not if you’re innocent.”

“He doesn’t believe that.”

“Did you try to tell him?”

“Again and again before the trial. I haven’t spoken to him since.”

“You’re his son, Steve. Nothing you did can change that.”

“Drop it, please.”

“As you wish. It might help if I knew what areas of your life are taboo and which you want me to dig into.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll tell you about Mary Beth when we have more time.”

“Mary Beth also told me that your business partner is selling out to some big company and retiring to Phoenix.”

Steve spun around to stare at her. “What? When?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Damn right it matters.”

Eleanor glanced over his shoulder to where Selma stood looking at them. “Keep your voice down.”

“Okay, boys. Time for dinner,” Selma said. “Come on, let’s go, let’s go.” She approached Steve and unnecessarily prodded him with the barrel of her shotgun. He winced, and Eleanor realized that his bruises were not yet completely healed. She started to say something, then caught the slight shake of his head.

She watched them march off toward the inner compound as she sat in her truck. Darkness was beginning to fall. The cattle were all clustered around the feed troughs close to the fence.

No calves were expected to be born for at least two weeks, but if the size of the mamas was any indication, they might come sooner. She made a mental note to have Jack Renfro check the calf emergency equipment she carried in case she had to pull a breach calf.

A band of sullen gray clouds blotted out the last remaining rays of autumn sunshine on the horizon. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees in as many minutes, and a chill wind from the northwest had risen just as quickly. If there should be a bad storm in the next few of days, one of those cows would probably calve right in the middle of it.

“Please, Lord,” Eleanor said, “let her not need my help to do it.”

E
LEANOR CHECKED
for Mike Newman’s car before she got out of her truck in her driveway. She didn’t see his car or Precious’s. She microwaved a frozen dinner, pledged to have a decent meal in a decent restaurant this weekend,
even if she had to go alone, and settled down in front of the fireplace with the transcript of Steve’s trial.

She woke up at nine-thirty with a crick in her neck from the chair she’d fallen asleep in. She’d felt she had to read every word, but she’d found most of the legal preliminaries both confusing and mind-numbingly dull. Maybe she ought to skip straight to opening arguments and witnesses. She fixed herself a cup of tea with caffeine, and moved to the dining-room table, where the chairs were less comfortable.

The opening arguments simply stated that Steve had stabbed his wife to death because he was angry at her, tired of being beholden to her for money and wanted her million-dollar life-insurance policy of which he was the beneficiary. He was also sole beneficiary of her estate, which was large. And the life-insurance policy paid double indemnity because she had been murdered.

He thus had motive.

The knife came from a matched set of carving knives that were kept in a drawer in his own kitchen—not in plain sight. There were, however, other sharp knives that
had
been in plain sight and would have been closer at hand for a stranger.

He had means.

He and his wife had returned home together from a dinner party with his business partner and his wife. The business partner, Neil Waters, was married to Steve’s wife’s sister, so was not only his partner, but his brother-in-law. No forensic evidence was found to suggest the presence of a third party at the Chadwick house either before, during or after the murder.

Steve had opportunity.

Eleanor tried to think of “the defendant” as a nameless, faceless person, but she kept seeing Steve. The longer she read, the more damning the evidence seemed.

The defense stated in its opening argument that Steve Chadwick had loved his wife, that they had been happily
married, that he was making plenty of money from his company and did not need hers, and that if he had needed money she would have given it to him without strings.

They had come home together, but Steve had been tired, so had gone right to sleep upstairs, while his wife stayed downstairs to watch television. He said when he woke up in the morning and found she had still not come to bed, he thought she had fallen asleep in front of the television set and had stayed downstairs so as not to disturb him.

He had gone through his usual morning routine of shaving, bathing and dressing, and had even called downstairs to see whether she was making coffee. When he received no answer, he assumed she was in the kitchen and couldn’t hear him.

He had called police immediately upon finding her body, had been completely distraught at her death. He swore an intruder must have entered the house during the night to rob it, discovered Chelsea, killed her to keep her from being able to identify him, stolen the jewelry she was wearing and run away. The missing jewelry—necklace, bracelet and ring—had never been found. The knife could have been out on the drain board or the kitchen counter— Steve didn’t remember. He had heard nothing and slept deeply all night long.

Then came the evidence. The first witness was the medical examiner.

Chelsea Chadwick had been sitting upright in her recliner in the den, possibly dozing in front of the television set, when her killer had crept up behind her and stabbed downward with such force that the sternum was split and the heart punctured. There was been little blood because the knife had been left in the wound and death had been instantaneous. The killer probably did not have bloodstains on his person or his clothing.

There were no defense wounds. She died within seconds, and probably never realized what was happening to her.

Then came the detectives.

Steve, who said he was asleep upstairs, said he did not awaken. No one made any attempt to hurt him and no evidence was found on the stairs that anyone else had been to the second floor.

Although the expensive jewelry that Chelsea had been wearing had not been found, nor pawned, nothing else of value in the house had been taken.

Glass had been broken out of a pane in the French doors, but most of the glass had fallen outside on the deck rather than inside on the carpet. This showed that the door had been broken from inside. Since breaking glass would have made noise, if Chelsea had still been alive when it was broken, she’d have gotten up to go see what had happened. She did not. The latch had been lifted, but the door had been shut. There was no other evidence of a break-in, nor evidence that she had let anyone in the front or back doors.

No forensic evidence from a third party had been discovered—no shoe tracks, hair, bits of fabric or unknown fingerprints. No unusual cars had been seen in the secluded neighborhood, which had a roving neighborhood patrol.

The house had not had a burglar alarm, supposedly because Mrs. Chadwick did not want one in case she forgot the code to disarm it.

Eleanor laid down the transcript. She couldn’t take any more tonight. She was glad she was on a full day shift at the clinic tomorrow, because she didn’t think she could have looked Steve in the face.

Why had he asked her to read it? She’d never read anything so damning in her whole life. No wonder they’d convicted him.

E
LEANOR DREADED
running into Steve in the prison compound, but she managed to pick Big up for his interview at Creature Comfort on Saturday morning without meeting any of her team. Most of them were probably inside waiting for visitors.

She wondered whether Mary Beth Chadwick would get up enough courage to visit her brother.

Big had stuck two small pieces of toilet tissue on his chin where he had cut himself shaving, and his face shone from the scrubbing he had given it. He’d ironed his jeans so that the crease would cut butter, and his shirt was fresh, starched, the sleeves rolled down to a single cuff. Probably no prison shirt had sleeves that would reach his wrists, but he’d tried.

Big crammed himself into the front seat of her truck like Alice in the White Rabbit’s house, with one elbow out the window and his head scrunched against the roof.

On the way to the clinic she told him about the staff, the clients, what they did and what they expected from him.

At one point she looked over at him to see if he was listening. He was, avidly, but he was also staring wide-eyed at the passing suburban landscape, with its manicured lawns and immense houses.

“Here we are,” she said as she pulled around to the back of the clinic and parked.

“Ma’am,” he whispered, “a grown man oughtn’t to say
this. I’m scared. What if I break something or hurt somebody?”

“You won’t. Now, the man you’ll be working with most closely is Jack Renfro. He’s even smaller than Sweet Daddy, but much nicer. Even when he sounds grumpy, he’s only acting. Come on. It’s going to be all right. Remember you said you swing a great mop?”

Big smiled gently. “Yes’m.”

Big nearly filled the door into the large-animal area. Across the way, Jack Renfro knelt beside Megan Cormack’s foundered pony, which was securely cross-tied on the wash rack. He was carefully unwrapping the bandages that protected the pony’s sore front feet and ankles.

The four remaining pit bulls had been moved to the regular kennel area at the back of the small-animal portion of the clinic. Someone had removed their temporary quarters from the cow paddock.

“Morning, Jack,” Eleanor said brightly. “Awfully quiet around here without the dogs barking every time I open the door.”

Jack looked up, saw Big and gaped.

“This is Big Little. He’s going to be helping out here a couple of days a week.”

“Gawd” was Jack’s only comment.

Eleanor knocked on the door to Sarah’s office, leaned in and repeated her introduction. Sarah came out with her hand outstretched and barely missed a step or changed expression when she saw Big. He took her hand as though it were a hummingbird’s wing, dropped his eyes and gave her a flash of his angelic smile.

Sarah was captivated.

“You don’t look like you’re gonna have a baby,” Big said, then ducked his head and blushed furiously.

“Not for a while yet.”

“Dr. Eleanor says we have to take care of you.”

“Oh, she does, does she?” Sarah swung her gaze to
Eleanor. “I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job. Now, I have to get to work.”

“Any problems?” Eleanor asked.

“The farrier’s coming to trim and pad the pony’s hooves. If his temperature is normal, we can send him home this afternoon.”

“Good. He’s lucky they caught that laminitis as soon as they did.”

“Bill’s having some real problems with that Pere David deer. It’s getting too big to keep inside and badly needs exercise, but every time he and Jack try to move it out to one of the paddocks, it tries to kill them. They may have to sedate it, and you know how deer react to sedation.”

“How?” Big asked, too interested to be shy.

Sarah said, “They tend to go into shock and die. That’s why they want to move it without drugs if they can.”

Eleanor glanced at Big. “Come on, Big, let’s find Dr. Chumley and give him a hand.”

Tubby, balding Bill Chumley sat at his cluttered desk in the exotic-animal area with one hairy leg propped on the desk while he dabbed at it with a Betadine-soaked cloth. “Ow, Ow, Ow,” he whimpered as he wiped.

“Hey, Bill,” Eleanor said. “What got you?”

“I have never really approved of deer hunting before,” Bill said without looking up, “and I realize the Pere David is an endangered species, but if that little dickens keeps kicking the stew out of me with those pointed hooves, I may change my mind. He’s got to get out to exercise that shoulder, but…” He caught sight of Big in the doorway behind Eleanor. “My word.”

“This is Big Little. We’ve come to help. Big, can you handle a fawn?”

“Depends how old. I carried a couple of yearlings.”

“Yearlings?” Bill sounded strangled.

Big smiled sheepishly. “One of ’em caught me right in the crutch with one of them little hooves. Put him down right fast.”

“Let’s see how large he is.” Eleanor said. She was so used to Big now that she was surprised at her colleagues’ reaction to him.

She followed Bill and Big to the cages where the larger exotics were kept during treatment.

The fawn could barely turn around in his cage, which had been ideal while his wound was fresh, but now he obviously needed his own paddock and lots of exercise.

“We’ll have to get Jack to help us lash his legs. He’s got to weigh close to 150 pounds, and every bit of it flashing hooves.”

Big crouched in front of the cage. “Never saw no young deer this big. He’s got real funny eyes, too. Kind of tilt up at the ends.”

“Pere David deer all have eyes like that,” Eleanor said. “This one belongs to a farmer in Atoka who keeps his own menagerie. He got cut playing with a Scimitar-horned Oryx.”

“Nice little feller,” Big crooned. “Bet you’d like to go out and play, wouldn’t you?” He flattened his hand against the cage wire. After a moment the deer stretched out its velvet nose and touched the big fingers, then whuffled softly. Big started to undo the fastener on the door of the cage.

“Don’t do that!” Chumley snapped. “If he gets loose in here, he could destroy himself and half the clinic.”

“I won’t let him loose.” Big didn’t take his eyes from the fawn’s. He opened the cage, then spread his arms. The deer snorted, then stepped delicately over the lip of the cage. Even Bill froze.

Big gathered the ungainly body into his arms, pressed him against his chest and stood up as easily as though the fawn were a house cat. It struggled a moment, then laid its head against Big’s shoulder and relaxed.

“Now, Doc, where you want him?”

After Big let the fawn loose in its paddock, it began to nibble at the sere grass at Big’s feet.

Big walked to the gate of the paddock while the young deer limped along behind. At the gate Big looked down. “You go on, now. Doc says you got a shoulder needs exercise.”

A moment later the fawn limped away, and Big joined Bill and Eleanor.

“My word,” Bill said again. “Can he always do things like that?”

“He can answer your questions himself.”

“Big, or whatever your name is, can you always do that?”

“Mostly.”

“Would you like to meet Sweet Daddy?” Eleanor asked Big.

Bill stared at her. “Who?”

“That’s what I named that peregrine. He’s little but he’s mean.”

Big laughed. The instant the cover was removed, the little falcon launched itself at the wire of its cage and began to scream. “He’s a lot prettier than
our
Sweet Daddy.”

The peregrine stopped screaming and cocked his head. Big poked a finger through the wire and scratched the falcon’s head.

“Would you look at that,” Chumley whispered.

“Now that we’ve made a believer out of Dr. Chumley, how about we meet the other people at the clinic and see the other areas?”

Big was a hit with everyone. Even Mac Thorn liked him, and he never liked anybody.

Mabel Haliburton simpered and promised to bake him cookies.

Rick Hazard tried to be very businesslike, but then asked Big if he’d ever played football or baseball, and if not, why not. Then he whispered to Eleanor that he could hardly wait to field the Creature Comfort football team
next fall so he could run Big in on a couple of those self-styled tough guys from the animal shelter.

When Eleanor took him all the way back to Dr. Sol Weincroft’s new research wing off the end of the exotic-animal area, she found Sol moving boxes of loose-leaf notebooks from his SUV into the empty room that would be his research library.

“Sol, you shouldn’t be doing that all by yourself!” She took one of the boxes out of his hands, and Big immediately took it from hers.

“Want me to help?” he asked Eleanor.

“Sol,” she said, “this is Big Little. He’s going to be helping out here a couple of days a week. Big, Dr. Weincroft is moving his equine research facility into the new wing that’s just been finished.”

Sol Weincroft was older than Slow Rise, about the same size as Sweet Daddy and only about half as irascible as Mac Thorn when he was operating. He frowned at Eleanor. “Young woman, I am not in my dotage yet. I am perfectly capable of moving boxes.”

“But you shouldn’t have to, Sol. Don’t you have any research assistants to do this for you?”

He grimaced. “I am at the moment, um, between assistants.”

That meant he’d fired the last one.

“I do not intend to waste a research assistant on furniture moving. By the time he arrives, I shall be moved, organized and ready to begin work.”

“Or in the hospital with a slipped disk and a myocardial infarction,” Eleanor answered. “At least let Big move the boxes inside, Sol. Then you can spend the afternoon happily puttering around shoving everything onto shelves all by yourself.”

“I do not putter.” He looked up at Big. “However, I see your point. Young man, can you give me half an hour’s physical labor?”

Eleanor winked at Big, who smiled back.

When Big found Eleanor to report that the boxes were all moved, she took him to the kennels.

“You’ll probably be doing a lot of mopping, Big,” she told him on the way. “All the droppings have to be picked up every day, and the kennels and cages cleaned and sanitized.”

The dogs began to bark the minute the kennel door was opened.

Big dropped to his haunches in front of the brindle female’s cage. “Who done this to her?”

“Some people running a game for fighting dogs.”

“They catch ’em?”

“Not yet.”

“Huh. I’d like to catch ’em.”

The sound Big made deep in his throat reminded her of Mac Thorn’s growl when he’d first seen the wounded dogs. She put her hand on his shoulder. “We have to go back to the farm now, Big.”

“I’d like to stay some longer.”

“You’ll be back.”

On the drive to the farm, Eleanor said, “I’ll straighten out your schedule with Warden Portree. The prison van can deliver you and pick you up when I’m not going to the clinic at the same time as you.”

“I’ll try not to do nothing bad.”

“You won’t.”

“Just you be like my mama and keep telling me I don’t get mad.”

As Eleanor drove away from the compound after dropping Big, she prayed there would never be a situation that made Big angry, because nobody would be able to stop him once he was.

E
LEANOR DRAGGED OUT
Steve’s transcript after dinner, not because she wanted to finish it—she didn’t. But she’d promised Steve. Then she’d have to find some way to tell him that she, too, agreed with the jury that he was guilty.

The prosecution designated the next witness as hostile and asked for latitude in questioning him. Neil Waters, Steve’s business partner and brother-in-law, made it clear that he was testifying under duress, and that despite even his own wife’s opinion, he didn’t believe Steve could ever be guilty of murder.

The prosecutor needed all the latitude he could get, because Neil fought hard to show that his partner was innocent. Eleanor thought what a good friend he must be to go against his wife’s wishes.

She read through Neil’s testimony once. Then as she reread it, her scalp began to tingle and her palms began to sweat.

With every statement that was dragged out of him, every seemingly innocent answer, Neil Waters drove the nails deeper and deeper into Steve’s coffin. He was either extremely dull witted and had no idea how his answers sounded to the jury. Or he was extremely intelligent and knew exactly what impression he was leaving.

Eleanor didn’t think she’d have picked up on it if she had been sitting in the courtroom, had heard his voice. It was only when the written word was divorced from the person speaking that the subtle condemnation showed. Even Steve, who expected help from his friend, probably thought at the time he was getting it.

Once you overlooked Neil’s protestations that he was certain none of this meant anything damning, the “facts” he presented added to the impression of Steve’s guilt.

First, he mentioned that Steve and Chelsea had argued at the restaurant because Neil—not Steve—had wanted to expand the company once more. Steve had merely agreed that Neil’s plan was a good one. Neil swore
he
had brought up the subject of a loan from Chelsea—as the older sister, she had inherited the bulk of her father’s estate. Her sister, his wife, had a trust fund, but it was managed by lawyers and not liquid.

He swore that Steve and Chelsea “seemed” to have
made up before they left the restaurant, and said that the two couples parted “more or less” on good terms. He said Steve had told him not to worry about the money, that he had other ways of getting it.

Good Lord! Steve’s lawyers had asked that the jury be directed to disregard the comment. Oh, right. As if they could un-think something.

He said that Chelsea drove home because Steve said he was too drunk to drive, although he hadn’t drunk a great deal at dinner. Neil “thought he might” have been drinking earlier at home. At any rate, he seemed half-sloshed when he climbed into the passenger seat of their car. Neil said that Chelsea seemed a “bit put out” that she had to drive home, but it “didn’t amount to anything.”

He knew nothing else until Steve had called him the following morning to tell him that Chelsea had been stabbed to death by an intruder. He said he arrived at the same time as the homicide detectives and found Steve not so much upset as stunned.