Dear Crossing (13 page)

“Not yet.” He looked toward the closed office door. “Is Woody receiving visitors?”

“I imagine he’ll fit you in. Ask him yourself.”

He nodded hello to Cooper along the way without stopping. At the office, he rapped on the frosted window before opening the door and leaning in.

Woody hung up the phone. “What are you doing here?”

“We hit a snag in today’s game plan. I’m heading back later.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. This long-distance shit is a pain in the ass. Have a seat. What’s been happening?”

For nearly an hour, Ray and Woody tossed theories back and forth but, in the long run, the details uncovered since the murder contributed little to the overall picture.

“When do you and this Dick Waverly plan to interview Paul Davis again?”

“After we’ve talked with the Danforth woman. When I question Davis again, I want all my ammunition lined up ahead of time.”

“What turns my stomach is that if he killed his wife, it had to have been premeditated. The only prints on the axe are Ted Barton’s, and he’s in the clear. If Davis took the time to put gloves on before using that thing on his wife, he thought it out. My God…his wife.”

Ray’s lip curled. “This morning he couldn’t even tell me why she was using Vicodin. Couldn’t tell me the name of her doctor either. Any chance you remember seeing it in the reports? Should’ve been notes, pictures, something.”

Woody shrugged. “What they didn’t photograph, they cataloged. I didn’t see any mention or photographic records of the Vicodin, though. The only mention of it was in her blood workup. You went over all of that, right?”

“At least a half dozen times. I thought you might’ve noticed something I missed. I’m going to go back to the Davises’ place and look for it myself.” It was the last thing he wanted to do. The sights and smells were still fresh in his mind—every image all too clear, but he felt compelled to find it. “I’ll need Paul Davis’s permission to go through the house again.”

Woody shoved the phone across the desk. “Go ahead. Give him a call.”

18

The spare key to the Davises’ summer house had been exactly where Paul Davis told Ray he would find it—at the inner curve of the flagstone walk, in a metal key case tucked under a single loose slab of rock. Finding it posed no problem. Locating any trace of the Vicodin container, on the other hand, proved impossible.

Ray conducted his own protracted search of the home’s interior. Darkened, dried blood and the living room’s disarray remained, the testament to Valerie Davis’s struggle and death. Repulsed, Ray went about the job. He overlooked nothing, the pockets in the clothing hanging in the closets—Valerie’s
and
Paul’s—every drawer, every nook and cranny large enough to contain or conceal a prescription bottle.

Certain he couldn’t have overlooked the container, and frustrated by its absence, he returned the key to its dank niche beneath the flagstone. Ray looked at the home’s welcoming exterior.
What the hell happened here?

With any luck, he’d never have to set foot inside the house again. Not that it mattered, he realized. The bloody images, like so many others, were etched in his memory, waiting to ambush him in his most vulnerable moments.

His stomach rumbled. Thoughts of comfort food drew Ray back into town. Once inside the Copper Kettle Café, Ray glanced around the restaurant for Amy Dexter. The drone of voices didn’t include hers. She was markedly absent. He slung a leg over a counter stool, deciding he didn’t need smiles and pleasantries to go with his meal; salt and pepper were all the condiments he required.

Coming from the ladies’ room, Amy walked up behind him. “Ray, hi,” she said, startling him. “I almost didn’t recognize you in your civvies.”

“Hi.” Ray saw her appraising him in his jeans, denim shirt and gray, V-neck cable knit sweater. The sweater camouflaged a bleach blotch the size of a dinner plate on the shirt beneath it, the result of his first, but not last laundry fiasco since he and Gail separated.

“Lookin’ good.”

“Thanks.” He glanced at Amy’s feet. “You break in those new work shoes yet?”

“My feet will probably break in before the shoes do.” She went to the other side of the counter and set a placemat, napkin and utensils in front of him. “Are you back to stay?”

He shook his head. “There’s been a brief delay. I’m going back later. Can you get me a burger and Coke, Amy?”

She looked him over. “Looks like you could use something more substantial.”

Ray laughed. “Are you mothering me or trying to pad my bill?”

She thrust her chin forward. “Maybe both. Sue me.” Amy turned in his order, and set a glass of Coca-Cola in front of him.

“Where’s Neil? I half expected to find him here.”

She checked her watch. “He’s at Hank Kramer’s funeral. It should be wrapping up about now.”

The turnout was pitiful. Neil stood graveside, making up twenty percent of Hank Kramer’s mourners—if he included the minister.

Neil had taken up a spot beside Ben Abernathy, an old friend of Kramer’s—apparently his one and only. Two middle-aged men stood on the opposite side of the open grave. Kramer’s sons, he realized. The familial similarity didn’t end with the stocky builds or facial features. Kramer’s outlook was reflected in both faces—their lips, like their father’s, permanently drawn down at the corners, the world seen through narrowed, suspicious eyes.

While disagreeable, Neil’s encounters with Kramer intrigued him. “Couldn’t find your own ass with a map and two free hands,” Kramer had told him when he’d shown up to help locate the old man’s missing cow. That and a half-dozen other taunts followed. Neil had expected as much. What he
hadn’t
expected was the tear trickling through Kramer’s beard stubble when he learned his cow was dead. The show of emotion from the man reputed to be one solid callus through and through, deepened Neil’s curiosity.

Abernathy dabbed an eye and edged closer to Neil. He jerked his chin toward the men across the way. “Hank’s sons,” he whispered.

“I figured,” Neil said as Reverend Harris continued reciting the funeral prayers.

Eyes forward, Abernathy spoke to Neil out of the side of his mouth. Left him high and dry as soon as they got a chance, just like Hank’s sisters did from his drunken father.”

“What happened to
him
?”

“Died. Cirrhosis. Hank took over. Debt up to his eyebrows. Wife died young.” He cast a disparaging glance at Hank’s sons, spitting on the ground to punctuate his disgust.

Neil spoke in a voice so quiet it might have been meant for himself alone. “His cows…they were all he had.” A brisk breeze ruffled his hair. He angled his body to ward off another gust of fifty-degree air and caught sight of a young couple approaching the gravesite. The male wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the female, a green hoodie and holey jeans, showing nearly as much skin as fabric. They walked with an attitude—stride not stroll, him with both hands buried in his pockets, she with her arms crossed over her nearly flat chest. They pulled up short of the small gathering, leaned against the trunk of a century-old oak, and waited.

Neil squinted against the sun’s glare.
Greg Speltz and Katie Springfield?

Ben Abernathy edged closer to Neil, whispering, “What are
they
doing here?”

“Beats me.” Neil hoped they’d come to pay their respects, but it didn’t feel right.

Reverend Harris concluded the service minutes later. The only tears shed by Kramer’s sons came as they paused at the foot of their mother’s adjoining grave before walking away.

Greg Speltz and Katie Springfield headed the brothers off. No handshakes were exchanged. No apparent pleasantries passed between them, only visible anger and increasingly raised voices.

Concerned, Neil moved within hearing distance.

Greg Speltz poked a finger in one of the brother’s faces. “Your father owed me, and I want what I’ve got coming.”

“All you’ve got coming is a beating if you don’t get out of way, sonny.” The man motioned toward his sibling. “Besides, he’s the executor. Take it up with him.” He stomped away, leaving his brother to deal with the pair.

Katie got in the second brother’s face. “So, you gonna pay up or what?”

“I don’t do business out of a cemetery. Get the hell out of my way.” He brushed her aside.

She pushed the stringy blonde hair out of her face. “You lousy fucker. Pay up. We want the money now.”

Greg restrained her as she started after the man. “Chill out, Katie. We’ll get it.”

“Fuck. Let go of me.” She wrenched herself from Greg’s grip.

“Hey,” Neil shouted, closing the distance. “You two want to tell me what’s going on?”

19

Neil Lloyd drove from the cemetery straight to the Copper Kettle. He spotted Ray at the counter.

“Hey, Ray, good to see you.” Pumping his hand, Neil parked himself on the stool beside him, checking out his cheekbone. “Hey, no more bruise.”

Ray smiled. “And your lip’s healed.”

“Yup. Handsome as ever.”

“No comment. I hear you went to Kramer’s funeral.”

“Yeah. Nice service, but the turnout sucked.”

“Why am I not surprised? Who was there?”

“Kramer’s sons, one from Oregon, the other from Illinois, I think. Ben Abernathy was there, me, of course, and Reverend Harris officiated.” He looked for Amy. Finding her, he waved and continued. “Just before the service ended, Greg Speltz and his girlfriend showed up.”

“Greg Speltz from the Amoco station? What connection did he and his girlfriend have to Kramer?”

Amy brought Ray’s order. “Hi, Neil. Hungry?”

“Yeah. Ham and Swiss on rye and a chocolate shake. Make it to go, would you, Amy? I’ve gotta eat on the run.” He gave Ray a look of mock disapproval. “The rest of us are picking up Ray’s slack while he’s out freelancing. I had to sweet talk the Chief into letting me go to the funeral.”

“You poor thing,” Amy smiled and jotted his order down on her pad. “Refill on your soda, Ray?”

“No, thanks.” As she stepped away, Ray asked Neil, “Why were they there?”

Neil’s focus shifted off Amy. “Huh?”

“Greg Speltz and his girlfriend.”

“Oh. They turned up at the end of the service to talk to Kramer’s sons. You’re gonna love this. Remember Kramer’s truck—the new logos on the doors?”

“The Kramer’s Dairy with the cow on either side? Yeah, I remember.”

“Kramer refused to pay him for the job. Greg says he claimed one cow looked like a Shetland pony, the other like a Dalmatian.”

“Sounds like Kramer,” Ray said. “They looked good to me.”

“Same here. Anyway, Kramer refused to cough up the money. When Greg stood his ground, Kramer tried negotiating the price down. Really pissed Greg off. Kramer had his run-in with the bull before Greg got one red cent from him. He figured this might be his last chance to collect what he was owed.”

“But hitting up Kramer’s sons for the money at their father’s funeral…? That’s cheesy.”

“His girlfriend didn’t help. She’s got a nasty mouth on her.”

Ray took his first bite of burger, set it down and pushed it away. The taste was tainted by the smell of blood still lodged in his sinuses—a private misery. “Hell could freeze over before the kid collects if Kramer’s sons are anything like their father.”

“Yeah, and the chances of that are pretty good. They’re not exactly warm, fuzzy types. It’s got to be tough on Greg and Katie. They’ve moved in together and they’re probably having a rough time of it. They’re renting that old trailer out on Euclid.”

“That green-and-white piece of crap?”

“That’s the one.”

“Geezus. That thing looks like it’s ready to fall apart.”

“Prob’ly is. It sat vacant for the better part of two years. But he’s using that big garage as his detailing shop.”

Amy returned with Neil’s order. “Here you go.” She looked from him to Ray. “It sounds like I’m missing out on some interesting stuff.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just on time delay,” Ray told her. “Neil’s bound to fill you in later.”

“He’d better.” She took Neil’s money off the counter and went to the cash register.

Neil talked low and fast, focusing on Amy from the corner of his eye. “I finally got her to agree to a date—my cousin’s wedding a week from tomorrow.”

“About time.” Ray said as she returned with change.

Neil gathered his shake and Styrofoam sandwich box. “I’d better get moving. Are you planning to stop by the station to see the chief before you go, Ray?”

“Already did. Been out to the Davises’ too. I still can’t find any sign of her Vicodin.”

Neil set his food back on the counter. “Maybe what they found in her system was the last of it.”

“I considered that, but there’s no sign of an empty container. I’m starting to think she may have taken last of it while she was out shopping or something and tossed the empty container in a public trashcan.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“Even if that’s it, I’d still like to know why she was taking it.”

Neil drummed his fingers on the Formica counter. “You know, I got to thinking about that the other day.” He shook his head and started to get up. “Never mind. I’m probably wrong anyway. I’d better get back to work.”

Ray put a hand on his shoulder, lowering him back onto the stool. “You are working. Tell me what you were thinking.”

“All right, but if the chief asks what took me so long, I’m blaming
you
.” He took a deep breath. “Valerie Davis died dressed, but barefoot. They found her shoes under the couch in her living room. That got me thinking about my sister Erin. She had migraines for years. When they hit, she’d go straight to our family room, make the room as dark as possible, kick her shoes off, lie down on the couch and try to sleep—in her clothes and all. She’d stay put until the headache let up. Sometimes that meant until the next afternoon or even the following night. She always crashed down there because it was closer to a toilet than her bedroom was. And, trust me, that was vital because she’d just about puke her brains out.”

“Did she take Vicodin?”