Countdown (16 page)

Now I had one little old thing left on my plate: namely figuring out who the hell had killed Darrell Blanton. The state lab boys had to run extra blood tests, but finally found a poison akin to digitalis, which is a type of drug used for congestive heart failure. As far as his mama knew, Darrell Blanton didn’t have a heart condition of any kind.

The guy at the state lab said, ‘Brand names include Digoxin, Lantoxin, Crystodigin, Purodigin, and you can get it in either tablet or liquid form. There are also poisons from other natural sources such as the oleander which provide a similar effect and are easy to find. And Sheriff, if it relieves your mind, there was nothing much y’all coulda done to help this poor slob. The reaction time is immediate.’

I took notes, thanked him and hung up.

I sat at my desk at the station, which, like any other Tuesday, was filled with my deputies and Holly at the command center minding the phones, and all was right with my world. Except we had two dead bodies: Darrell Blanton and Paula Carmichael. Of course, we knew who killed Paula, so that was no biggie. Every woman in suite 214 that fateful night saw Earl Blanton shoot her, and Earl was more than happy to admit it – he kept saying it was an accident, like Darrell shooting Joynell. So the county prosecutor was as happy as a clam to take his statement – and those of all the women present – and offered him twenty-five years to life.

As for Darrell, well, not so much. I thought back to that day. Me and Holly and Anthony in the shop, Darrell and the drunk teenager in the cells. Darrell eating pizza and the teenager convulsing. Holly had called 9-1-1 and the EMTs had showed up.

An hour later Anthony had found Darrell dead in his cell.

So what the hell happened? Then a thought came to me. One of the EMTs – Drew Gleeson, the new guy from Tulsa – had said he’d left his bag in the cells and went back for it. An EMT, a bag full of medicine and Darrell – was that a sum that equaled guilt? After all, Drew and Jasper were the only ones present that night who’d have had access to those kind of drugs, and Drew was the one who retrieved his bag, which meant he’d have been alone with Darrell. But why would he want to kill him? It didn’t make any sense, but it at least meant a good talking to with Mr Gleeson. I sighed. Shit, I thought. I had me a suspect.

Jean found an ID card in Paula’s wallet with the name and phone number of her next of kin: her mother, Vivian Carmichael, with an area code for Kansas City, Kansas. She dialed the number and it was answered after two rings.

‘Mrs Carmichael?’ Jean asked.

‘No. May I tell her who’s calling?’ the female voice asked.

‘Jean McDonnell. In regards to Paula,’ she told her.

‘One moment, please,’ the woman said and put down the phone.

It was more like two minutes before Jean heard the voice of an elderly woman say, ‘Doctor McDonnell? This is Vivian Carmichael. What’s my daughter done now?’

‘Mrs Carmichael, I’m so sorry to do this by telephone, but I thought you should have this information immediately—’ Jean started, but Vivian Carmichael interrupted.

‘Whatever it is I’m not throwing any more money at it! The girl is fifty-five years old, for crying out loud! She needs to face the music for once!’

‘Ma’am, Paula didn’t do anything. She … ma’am, she’s dead. She was killed here—’

Jean stopped talking. She didn’t know where to go from there. All her training had flown out the window. This was too personal. This was Paula.

Finally the older woman said, ‘How was she killed?’

‘We were in a hostage situation—’

‘Excuse me?’ Vivian Carmichael demanded.

‘We were at a—’ Jean couldn’t bring herself to say bachelorette party, as that would somehow – in Paula’s mother’s mind – make it appear as if Paula was somehow to blame, so she said instead, ‘Wedding shower. And there was a home invasion. Paula was shot.’

Again, silence from the other end of the line. Finally Jean could hear a shuffle, then Vivian Carmichael said, ‘Oh my God. You’re serious.’

‘Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry.’

‘Did she suffer?’

‘No,’ Jean said. ‘It was instantaneous.’

‘Where is she – I mean, her body – where is it now?’ Paula’s mother asked.

‘It’s still at the morgue—’

With a stronger voice, Mrs Carmichael said, ‘Well, I want her home. Right away.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And Doctor McDonnell, I know you were my daughter’s only real friend all these years. Would you do me – and Paula – the honor of accompanying her home?’

Jean was silent for a moment, surprised by the request. Finally she said, ‘Of course. I’ll make arrangements right away.’

‘I’ll send you a check—’ Mrs Carmichael started, but Jean interrupted.

‘Please, don’t. I’d like to take care of it, if you don’t mind.’

‘Yes, of course. Please call me with the details.’

‘As soon as—’ Jean stopped when she realized she was talking to dead air.

The really unfortunate thing about my sister and her husband bunking with us was that, because I had to be at the sheriff’s department, Harmon had to be at his used-car part stores (one of which was hurt pretty bad by the tornado), and Jean had to be at the hospital, Jewel felt righteous about volunteering to cook dinner every night.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing righteous about my sister’s cooking. Unless you like your pasta mushy and your potatoes al dente, your chicken rare and your beef well done (otherwise known as burnt to shit). My sister never saw a vegetable that couldn’t be boiled within an inch of its life, or a fruit that wouldn’t be better coming from a can. How Harmon could stand it I’ll never know.

Wait, that’s a lie. I do know.

Jewel and Harmon met while she was still in high school. He was a dropout that hung around the burger joint where Jewel went to meet her friends. The two fell madly in love and my daddy took umbrage to that. Jewel was fifteen and Harmon Monk – the son of a drunken pig farmer – was twenty-two. So my daddy, with me by his side, went up to Harmon’s daddy’s pig farm and explained to Harmon that, what with me being a deputy and all, I was gonna throw him under the jail for statutory rape. He protested that he’d never touched my sister and I believed him, but we nevertheless put the fear of God into the boy. And with his father’s encouragement – at the end of a spiked belt – Harmon up and joined the army.

Jewel went to college, got knocked up by Henry Hotchkiss, and with Daddy barely in his grave it was my duty to force my sister into marrying the boy. Fifteen years later he was killed, so my sister and her kids came to live with me, and Harmon Monk – married with two daughters – came a-courting.

He’d loved my sister all those years, and now with six used-car part stores all across our end of Oklahoma and a big ol’ house in Bishop, he decided I might think he was now good enough for her.

There was the small matter of his marriage, but I guess you could say that Harmon’s wife left graciously enough, after she cleared all their accounts and got a lawyer to get her a God-awful amount in child support. Jewel and Harmon were married shortly after that. The kids loved him. Harmon’s two girls, who he only saw one weekend a month, tolerated Jewel and her kids, and all was well in their world. Except that my sister couldn’t cook worth a damn. But Harmon was a tall, skinny drink of water, and I doubted if food was very much a priority in his life.

Unfortunately, food
is
a priority in mine. After my heart attack this past summer, I’ve been on a strict diet – even though I had a quadruple bypass and should be good to go for another twenty years or so. Jean insists on it, and she and Loretta, our favorite waitress at the Longbranch Inn and one of the ladies held hostage with Jean, had conspired to see that I never got my favorite meal: chicken fried steak with cream gravy, French fries and fried okra. Now they even had a new menu item named The Milt. It was half a chicken breast, roasted and smothered with picante sauce, served with roasted new potatoes (two of ’em – which hardly seems worth the effort of cooking ’em
or
eating ’em), fresh green beans and a side of fresh fruit of the day. Needless to say, I hardly went there anymore. Anyway, Jean was in agreement with me that we needed to do something about my sister’s cooking. Killing her seemed a bit drastic, so I asked Jean if she knew of a drug that might put her in a coma until their house was rebuilt. She said no.

Jean compromised by telling Jewel that since I needed to be on a special diet she would need to take over the cooking. Jewel, of course, just asked her what she needed her to cook, and that she’d be as happy as a clam to do it.

Jean told her, and on day four that’s where we stood. Jewel had recipes from Jean’s heart healthy cookbook and fresh fruit and veggies from the supermarket. And I wasn’t looking forward to going home.

So I was sitting there on that fourth day after all the shit had gone down with Emmett in my office, telling him about my theory regarding Drew Gleeson.

‘Yeah, OK,’ Emmett said, ‘but why?’

I shrugged. ‘Motive schmotive,’ I said. ‘We got means and opportunity. That’s good enough for me.’

‘To arrest him?’ Emmett said, somewhat surprised.

‘Well, maybe not arrest him,’ I amended, ‘but, you know, have a nice long chat with him.’

Emmett nodded. ‘Works for me.’

So we called up the hospital and told ’em we needed to see Drew Gleeson at the sheriff’s department for details on the tornado victims. He obviously bought it, because he showed up.

In the eight years that Jean and Paula went to school together, Jean had never met Paula’s family or gone home with her for a weekend. Paula did accompany Jean to her home on occasion – three Thanksgivings, an Easter and two New Year’s Eves – but the invitations were never reciprocated. Paula rarely talked about her family – Jean knew her parents were still married and that she had an older sister, but that was about all. Except for Paula’s trips to Chicago with Jean she rarely left their dorm room as an undergraduate, at least, not for more than a sleepover with the boy
du jour –
and the same had applied to her own apartment in med school.

Again, Jean chided herself for ignoring another sign of something deeply wrong in Paula’s life – the obvious estrangement from her family on top her sexual acting out, even though she was probably too young and naive to be able to draw the conclusions she was reaching now at the time. In Jean’s adult and professional experience, this all suggested one thing – sexual abuse by a family member. Jean was accompanying Paula’s body to Kansas City and, once there, she hoped she’d finally be able to help her friend. She wanted to find out whether she had been abused and, if she had, bring that person or persons to some sort of justice. The statute of limitations was long passed but she would do something, even if that only meant outing them to their family and friends.

Drew Gleeson was a nice enough looking fella, with cropped blond hair, amber-colored eyes and dimples when he smiled, which I’m sure we all know makes for a definite chick-magnet. He was tall and well-built, and looked a hell of a lot better in his uniform than I ever did in mine. He came strutting into the station and Holly called me right up. I told her to send him through to my office, which she did.

He walked in, I introduced him to Emmett and we all shook hands. Well, Emmett and I didn’t, but I suppose you get the drift.

Drew took a seat in the extra visitors’ chair that comes with being the sheriff and asked, ‘What is it that I can do for you, Sheriff?’

‘First, I want to thank you for coming down, Drew. I understand you did a hell of a job up there in Bishop, and since my boy and my sister were caught up in that mess, all I can say is a heartfelt thanks.’

‘It’s the job, Sheriff. You know that,’ Drew said, aw-shucking it all over the place.

‘That was some hairy storm,’ Emmett said.

‘Yes, sir, it sure was,’ Drew said.

‘What happened with that teenaged boy y’all took out of here earlier in the day?’ I asked, eyebrows raised like I was interested.

‘They pumped his stomach and he went home the next day. Grounded for life, as I understand it,’ he said, and all three of us laughed like it was funny.

‘Did you notice anything while you were back there? You know that the other prisoner, Darrell Blanton, died soon after?’

‘Really? I knew he’d died, but I didn’t know it was right after that!’ He shook his head. ‘Damn. But no, sir, I don’t remember seeing anything out of the ordinary. That pizza boy was there but that was all.’

‘Yeah, Darrell ordered a pizza,’ I said. ‘How about when you went back for your bag?’ I asked, all innocent like.

‘Went back?’ Drew asked, puzzled. ‘Oh, yeah, wait! I did go back for the bag. We were in such an all-fired rush to get that kid to the bus that I almost left it.’ He grinned at me and Emmett.

‘Notice anything out of the ordinary when you went back?’ Emmett asked.

Drew shook his head. ‘No. I just grabbed the bag and ran out.’

‘Did you talk to Darrell?’ I asked.

Drew shook his head again then narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘How well did you know Darrell Blanton?’ Emmett asked.

Drew stood up. ‘I didn’t know him from Jack-shit! And if you wanna talk to me about this crap again you’ll need to talk to my lawyer!’ he said and walked out of the room. What’s that old line? I think he doth protest too much? I was thinking of it as Drew left the room.

That night, in the confines of our bedroom, Jean told me about Paula’s mother’s request that Jean accompany Paula’s body to Kansas City.

‘Would that be a problem for you?’ she asked.

‘Well, yeah,’ I had to admit. ‘I’d miss you. Johnny Mac would miss you. And I’d be stuck here all alone with my sister.’

Jean laughed. ‘No, you’ll just be stuck eating her food – and not alone. John and Harmon will be here as a buffer.’

‘Johnny Mac’s a kid and he’ll eat anything. And Harmon, well, he’s either got a cast-iron stomach or he’s just plain used to it,’ I said in a sulk. Then I brightened. ‘I know! Take Jewel with you! She’s got manners, she’s bored, you could use the company—’

Jean shook her head. ‘I have other plans, Milt.’