Die Like an Eagle (19 page)

The chief frowned slightly, and pursed his lips. I dropped the subject.

“So after not finding Biff in either place, I began to suspect that fate was trying to tell me something,” I went on, “and decided to stop trying to badger Mr. Brown in his time of sorrow.”

“Thoughtful of you,” he said. “Although from what I've seen, Mr. Brown seems to be coping with his bereavement fairly well.”

“Suspiciously well? Not that it's any of my business,” I added hastily. “Anyway, I decided to talk to some other people who have worked with Brown Construction in the past. I wanted to find out if anyone else had had the same problems with him, or if anyone had any good advice for working successfully with him. Because I'm not having much luck getting him off the mark.”

“Sensible,” the chief said. “Am I correct in assuming that your presence here means you found some information you think I might find useful for my investigation?”

“You are.” I described my visits to the Entwhistle Farm and the deserted Yoder Farm and the quarrel I'd seen between Mr. Yoder and Biff. I even mentioned that I was siccing Festus on the Yoder Farm. The chief listened without any visible signs of impatience, and took down the names and addresses.

“Interesting,” he said when I'd finished. “I was aware that the Yoder Farm was vacant but hadn't heard why. I would be interested to hear anything else you and Festus learn. I'll have a talk with Mr. Brown and Mr. Yoder about the reason for their—would you call it a quarrel?”

“Heated discussion, at the very least. Though in Mr. Yoder's defense, that seems to be Biff's normal form of interaction with the rest of humanity.”

“Hmmm.” He scribbled in his notebook. “I gather from your tone that you don't consider Mr. Entwhistle a prime suspect.”

“He's a fellow baseball parent, a heritage animal fancier, and keeps his pig farm cleaner than most people's kitchens,” I said. “So maybe I'm predisposed to like him. No idea if he's a suspect or not. But he's a nice guy.”

“So are most of Mr. Brown's enemies,” the chief said, with a sigh. “Which is more than one can say for him. I do beg your pardon,” he added. “That was a very uncharitable thing to say. But this has been a trying day, and Mr. Brown has been a major factor in making it so.”

“I understand,” I said. “I was just going to ask—”

Just then both of us turned our heads toward the door. No doubt the chief was hearing the same thing I was—shouting, coming from the front desk.

“I should check on Kayla,” the chief said. As he stood up, he opened a desk drawer and pulled out his gun, still in its holster. He deftly attached the holster to his belt before heading for the door.

“I'm not getting in your way, but I'm coming, too,” I said.

“Chief?” It was Kayla's voice on the intercom. “Chief?”

But just as he was about to reach for the knob, the door slammed open.

“Where'sa chief?” A remarkably tall redheaded woman—easily as tall as Michael's six foot four—was standing in the doorway. Make that slumping against one side of the doorway. The chief took a step or two back before answering.

“Chief Burke at your service, Ms.…?”

It took the woman a few seconds to focus on him—time enough for me to realize that she wasn't quite as huge as she first seemed. At least four inches of her apparent height was due to her enormous hair, which was teased and upswept into a tousled mess that would have made Medusa look subdued. Another six inches came from the spike heels of her zebra-print sandals. Barefoot and with a normal hairdo, she'd probably be a couple of inches shorter than my five foot ten. And she was probably about my weight, too—a little heavier than optimal, but not fat. Someone should tell her that wearing skin-tight lime-green Lycra capris was not a good look for women with our shape. And either she'd forgotten to put on her blouse or fluorescent pink bras had somehow become outerwear.

“Callie Peebles,” she said. “Please'ta meetcha.”

She stumbled across the office toward the guest chair I'd just vacated. As she passed me I could smell way too much musk, with an undertone of rum. That explained the slumping, and also her slurred speech. She settled herself in the chair, hoisted her suitcase-sized leopard-print purse into her lap, and looked up at the chief expectantly. As if suddenly remembering something, she smiled and batted her eyes at him. I was suddenly struck by how enormous her lips were. Next to hers, Mick Jagger's mouth would look understated. And I found myself fascinated by her hair, which had to be the brightest red I'd ever seen not gracing the body of a fire engine. Mother would probably have described it as “exuberant, if improbable.”

The chief and I exchanged glances. I lifted one eyebrow and nodded slightly at the door. The chief shook his head vigorously and pointed to another guest chair—one that stood along the wall beside his desk rather than in front of it.

I deduced that the chief wanted a witness to his interview with his guest, and thought me more suitable than Kayla, so I took the chair and tried to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. The chief sat at his desk. Kayla's voice could still be heard over the intercom, repeating “Chief? Chief?”

The chief pressed the intercom button. “Yes, Kayla?” he said, all the while staring at Callie.

“There's a lay—um, a woman to see you. I told her to wait but she went back anyway.”

“That's okay, Kayla,” the chief said. “Thank you.” Then he turned to his guest. “What can I do for you, Ms. Peebles?”

“I want my papers,” she said. And then she sat there expectantly, as if that explained everything.

“Your papers,” the chief repeated. “I'm afraid I don't know what papers you're talking about.”

“Don't pretend you don't know who I am,” Callie snarled.

“Ms. Callie Peebles,” the chief said. “But I'm afraid I don't know what papers you're talking about.”

“Oh, come off it,” Callie said. “Or maybe you don't really know who I am—Mrs. Caligula Peebles Henson.”

I couldn't help it—I started to guffaw, and had to quickly pretend to be overcome with a coughing fit. The chief didn't say anything, and I could see his mouth twitching slightly. Evidently he, too, thought it was pretty funny that Callie's parents had decided to name her after one of the most infamously corrupt and perverse rulers in history.

“The late Mr. Shep Henson was your husband?” he asked, when he had recovered.

“Ex-husband,” she said. “But I should still be on the insurance. It's not as if he had anyone else to leave it to. And when I talked to our sheriff, he said you'd taken all Shep's papers. I want them.”

“I see,” the chief said. “Sheriff Whicker is correct—I have taken custody of Mr. Henson's papers as part of my investigation into his murder. I'm afraid I can't release them at present. But if you'll give me your contact information, I'll see what we can do to expedite release of any insurance documents we find.”

“I don't understand,” Callie said. “Why can't you just give me my papers?”

Clearly, from the chief's expression, he thought he had already explained why. I decided to chime in.

“Insurance companies never pay a claim on a murder victim until the police figure out who did it.” I had no idea if this was correct, but if I said it with conviction, maybe I could help the chief get rid of Callie. “So your best bet is to do everything you can to help the chief solve it. The faster he does, the sooner you get your money.”

“Really?” Callie looked astonished.

I nodded my head. She glanced over at the chief.

“Ms. Langslow is essentially correct. But I assure you, we'll do whatever we can to expedite—er, to get you what you need as soon as we can. We haven't actually found the papers in question—Mr. Henson's desk was rather disorganized.”

“Yeah, that's Shep,” Callie said. “Couldn't organize his way out of a wet tissue. But you'll get me the paperwork as soon as you can?”

She accompanied this request by simpering and batting her eyes at the chief. She was wearing false eyelashes so long and thick that it looked as if small black rodents were squirming on top of her cheeks.

“As soon as I can,” the chief said. “And where can I contact you?”

Callie rattled off her address and phone number. The chief scribbled in his notebook.

“And just for the record, where were you on Thursday night between ten p.m. and two a.m.,” the chief said. “Just a formality,” he added, seeing Callie shrink back at the question.

“I was down at the Pigeon,” Callie said.

“The Clay Pigeon?”

“That's right, dearie.” Callie clearly found the thought of her favorite watering hole reassuring. “You just ask them down at the Pigeon. They know me there. I was there all night—I'm there most nights. If you drop in, maybe I'll let you buy me a drink.” The rodents squirmed again, and Callie leaned over in a way that caused even more of her décolletage to spill out of the hot pink bra or swimsuit top or whatever it was. The chief nodded solemnly, staring pointedly at her face.

“Thank you,” he said. “I won't take any more of your time.”

“That's okay, dearie,” Callie said. “Any time.”

She rose and sashayed out, with a lot of unnecessary hip swaying. The chief watched her departure with a slight frown on his face. Probably not the reaction she was aiming for. When she closed the door, he turned to me.

“Would you mind following her to the entrance?” he asked. “Make sure she doesn't give Kayla any trouble?”

“Can do,” I said.

“And see if you can detain her for a little while by engaging her in conversation,” he went on. “If you can manage to take away her keys, that would be excellent.”

“You think she's too intoxicated to drive?”

“I would simply take her keys and administer a Breathalyzer, but I might need her cooperation for this investigation and I don't want to poison the well.”

“But it won't hurt anything if she gets mad at me,” I said. “Okay.”

I stood up and headed for the door.

“If I can't find an officer who can get here in the next few minutes, I'll come out and arrest her myself, no matter how hard it makes things later,” he said. “But if you can delay her…”

“Roger.”

I exited and headed down the hall, trying to look nonchalant. Callie either didn't notice me behind her or paid no attention. She had dropped the exaggerated swaying gait in favor of a comfortable saunter. I found myself staring with fascination at her hair, which actually seemed to glow slightly in the dimmer light of the corridor. Was this a natural phenomenon, or had she added some kind of fluorescent ingredient to her hair dye? Probably not tactful to ask, but I filed away the phenomenon as something that might be interesting to investigate next Halloween.

For now, my job was to delay her. I rummaged in my purse and came up with a pack of gum.

“Callie?” I called, holding up the gum. “Did you drop this?”

As she turned she caught one of the spike heels on something and stumbled, catching herself on the front desk.

“I'm so sorry!” I said, rushing over to help her upright again. “I shouldn't have startled you.”

“'Sno problem, dearie,” she said. “Not your fault, really. This slippery floor's a death trap.”

She frowned at Kayla as if she were responsible for the glossy, well-buffed linoleum.

“Isn't that the truth,” I said. “It's only safe for the officers in their heavy boots. Are you sure your ankle's okay? It looked as if you twisted it a little. Sit down for a second and let me check it out.”

I steered her toward the nearest plastic guest chair, a purple one that looked particularly festive next to her lime-green and fuchsia outfit.

“Are you a doctor?” Callie asked.

“No, but my father is,” I said. “And I've picked up a few things.”

I fussed over Callie's ankle for a few minutes, and she seemed to enjoy the attention.

“Maybe I should go down to the ER,” she said cheerfully. “Show my ankle to some nice young doctor and see what he thinks.”

“Oh, good,” Kayla said. “Vern's back.”

“I think you're good to go,” I told Callie. “Do you feel okay to drive?”

“I'm fine,” she said. “Though maybe I will drop by the ER, just in case.”

“Let me bring your car to the door,” I suggested, holding out my hand for her keys. “Save you a walk across that rough parking lot.”

“Not a problem,” she said. “I'm parked right outside.”

She pointed to a red truck parked in the handicapped spot just outside the front door—without benefit of handicapped plates or a sticker.

“Don't blame me when they throw you in the slammer,” I muttered, as she stumbled out toward her truck.

 

Chapter 15

“There's no way she should be driving,” Kayla exclaimed.

“That's why I was stalling her until Vern got here,” I said.

And then, just in case Vern wasn't quite in time to spot the parking violation, I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture, taking care to get in not only the truck's license plate but also the handicapped parking sign. I also got a nice shot of the driver's door, which had
CALLIE
written on it in purple and gold cursive letters festooned with stars and flowers and way too much glitter. Was that actually painted on or was it some kind of vinyl decal?

“I'm sorry,” Kayla was saying. “She just shoved her way past me.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “Turned out okay.”

I went back to the chief's office. He was on the phone with someone.

“That's good,” the chief said. “No, I don't know what she's driving, but there can't be that many other vehicles in the lot—”