Still Waters (4 page)

“The crime lab is about to arrive,” she announced imperiously. “You'd better get out there, or there won't be anything left for you to do except sweep up the coffee cups.”

Ellstrom narrowed his eyes to slits and scowled at her without noticeable effect, then turned on his heel and stalked away as Lorraine snatched up the receiver of the ringing telephone to her right.

“Tyler County sheriff's office . . . No, the sheriff has no statement at this time . . . No arrests have been made that I'm aware of,” she said, turning an eagle eye on Elizabeth, taking in her appearance in one scathing glance, disapproval tightening her mouth into nothingness. “I wouldn't know anything about the woman and I don't spread gossip, at any rate. Now, I must ask you to hang up. This line has to be left open for emergencies.”

She ended the call herself, cradling the receiver with a resounding thump.

“I don't mind telling you, I dislike this business intensely,” she said sternly, her gaze still boring through Elizabeth as if she was more than ready to lay the blame at her feet. “There hasn't been a murder in Tyler County in thirty-three years. Not since Olie Grimsrud did in Wendel Svenson, the milk hauler, for having hanky-panky with Leda Grimsrud behind the bulk tank in their milk house. I don't like it a bit.”

“I'm not so crazy about it myself,” Elizabeth said as the phone at Lorraine's elbow rang again. She didn't like the woman's implication that it was somehow her fault the amazing streak of law and order had ended, but she had caught the glimmer of fear beneath the anger in Lorraine Worth's eyes, and she sighed. Still Creek had been a safe haven for its residents for a long time. Now the ugly reality of a brutal world had intruded. The woman had a right to her anger.

Elizabeth's own nerves were frazzled right down to the nub. She wasn't in the habit of finding dead bodies practically within sight of her own house. The reminder of just how near home she had been made her shiver. She thought of Trace wandering along the road, maybe trying to hitch a ride from wherever he'd gone for the evening, and the nerves in her stomach congealed into a gelid lump.

“Listen, is there a pay phone around here I could use? I need to call my son.”

The dispatcher gave her a long look that Elizabeth guessed was intended to communicate the woman's feelings about divorced mothers or women who stumbled across dead bodies, or both, then tilted her bouffant sharply to the left. Murmuring a thank-you, Elizabeth headed in the direction of the pay phone that hung on the far wall while Lorraine snatched up her receiver and singed some other poor curious fool's ear.

The phone at the other end of Elizabeth's call went unanswered for five rings before the answering machine switched on. She swore under her breath. It wasn't unusual for Trace to be late. In fact, it was the rule rather than the exception, one of his little ways of telling her he didn't like their new home, their new life-style, their new codes of conduct. The counselor in Atlanta had told her to give the boy structure; he had failed to mention how to get Trace to accept it.

Elizabeth left her message and hung up with a sigh. Her sweet little boy had been swallowed up by a sullen youth with troubled eyes and broad, tense shoulders; a defiant, belligerent teenager. But speaking with a defiant, belligerent teenager would have been much preferable to wondering where he was on the night of the first murder in Tyler County in thirty-three years.

She dug another quarter out of her purse, dropped it in the phone, and dialed again, then leaned a shoulder against the wall and stared across the room at Lorraine Worth. Frighteningly efficient, she sat at her station as alert as a Doberman on guard duty. On the sixth ring a muffled voice answered.

“Yeah, what? Who? Hmm?”

“Jolynn, it's me,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice to the pitch of conspiracy. “Did I wake you?”

“Stupid question. What are you, a reporter?”

“Wake up and listen. There's been a murder.”

“A what?”

“Murder. Somebody killed somebody. I reckon you've seen it happen on television once or twice.” She caught Lorraine Worth glaring over at her, her head tilting like a satellite dish tuning in for maximum reception. Elizabeth scowled and turned her back to the woman so she could speak with her editor privately.

It was Jolynn who had talked her into coming to Still Creek after the divorce, Jolynn who had talked her into buying the
Clarion
, Jolynn who was her one and only employee and nearly her only friend. Their friendship went back to El Paso and the University of Texas, a time that seemed a century in the past for all that had happened in between. Elizabeth thanked God it had endured the years of separation. After the divorce she had felt like one of those space-walking astronauts whose cord had been cut loose, just like in
2001: A Space Odyssey
. She had been adrift, in need of a place and something to anchor her to it. There had been Jolynn, telling her to come to Minnesota, where life was quiet and the people were friendly.

A considerable amount of creaking and shuffling in the background sounded from the other end of the line, and Elizabeth easily pictured Jolynn struggling to sit up in her secondhand bed, the old springs groaning and complaining as she heaved herself up against the headboard. Jo was no more than five foot four, but she was “generously proportioned,” as she put it, and her old mattress had long since given up any pretense of providing support.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Are you kidding?”

Elizabeth blew a sigh up into her bangs. “I wish I were, sugar, but I'm not. The man is dead as Kelsey's nuts, and I ought to know, 'cause I found him.”

“Jeez Louise,” Jo murmured reverently. “I had a migraine. I turned the scanner off and went to bed at nine o'clock. What happened?”

“Somebody killed Jarrold Jarvis out at Still Waters. Can you get out there right away?”

“Yeah, sure. Where are you?”

“At the courthouse. I'm liable to be tied up here awhile. It's a long story.”

“I'll bet. God, Jarrold Jarvis. Somebody finally got up the balls to do it.”

“The big question is who,” Elizabeth said, twisting the telephone cord around her finger. “Can you get out there pronto? The BCA just made the scene. Them and about nine thousand reporters.”

“Make it nine thousand and one, boss.”

JOLYNN DROPPED THE RECEIVER BACK ON THE TELEPHONE
and dragged a hand through the mop of chin-length brown curls falling in her eyes, trying to digest the information Elizabeth had given her, trying to make it seem real. Murder. She tugged the sheet up to base of her throat, wadding the fabric in her fist, as if it could somehow protect her from the ugliness of the word.

Dim amber light glowed through the shade of the lamp that squatted on the nightstand. The pale pool of illumination suddenly seemed less than adequate. Dark corners of the shabby, messy room loomed menacingly and she felt transported back to her childhood, when every night shadow had held some evil menace.

“You're not leaving, are you, sweetheart?”

She flinched as if she'd forgotten the man lying beside her. He rolled toward her lazily, caught the edge of the sheet in one hand, and tugged the fabric aside to reveal a plump breast.

Jolynn twisted away from her ex-husband, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She let go of the sheet and reached down for the pile of clothes that lay in rumpled drifts across the worn beige carpet.

“Yes, I'm leaving. Sorry, Richard. Duty calls.”

Behind her, Rich Cannon pushed himself up onto his knees on the sagging mattress. As Jo stepped into her panties he caught her around the waist from behind and pulled her back against him. “Come on, Jolynn. Dick's ready to play again.” His erection poked at her, punctuating his statement like a physical exclamation mark.

“Richard.” She groaned his name, disgusted with him and with herself.

She never failed to feel dirty and cheap after one of their little assignations. And she never failed to succumb to his charm the next time he came around. It was one of life's little cycles she couldn't seem to get out of. Like her period, she hated it but was always relieved when it arrived. That was about how she felt regarding Richard.

He had shown up on her back doorstep at eight-thirty, unannounced, unexpected, urgent. And she had taken him to her bed without so much as saying hello.

She grabbed his wrists now as his fingers slid into the tangle of dark curls at the apex of her thighs. He had broad hands with short, thick fingers and uncommonly well-kept fingernails. He hadn't bothered to remove either the wedding ring Susie Jarvis had put on his finger or the watch Jolynn had given him on their own fifth wedding anniversary.

“Now is not the time,” she said, trying to pry his hands off her body.

“Don't say that,” he grumbled, pouting. “Never say that to me when Susie's out of town.”

“I'm afraid your wife chose the wrong day to go on a shopping spree,” she said with venom. She couldn't help but resent Susie Jarvis Cannon. Susie had money. She had a nice house, a new car that more than likely ran on all cylinders. She had Jolynn's husband. Not that he was worth much out of bed. It was the principle of the thing that galled Jolynn. Susie had it all.

God, she really would have it all now that her father was dead. That Jarrold Jarvis was Susie's father hit Jolynn like an unpleasant surprise. She supposed she should have felt an ounce of sympathy toward the girl, but she didn't. She doubted Susie would grieve much on her way to the bank to pick up her inheritance.

Pushing herself away from the bed, out of Rich's reach, she grabbed up a wrinkled blue shirt from the Cedar Lanes bowling alley and thrust her arms into the sleeves. Giving up, Rich settled back against the metal headboard that was made to look like genuine walnut. It gave a hollow thump as his weight dented a curve into it. He lit a cigarette as he watched her dress, his eyes lingering on every curve she covered, his gaze disturbingly detached.

Jolynn told herself she imagined the coldness. Then she told herself she was used to it, that she expected it, that it didn't affect her. She had sex with him only because it was easy and habitual; it wasn't as though she were still in love with him or anything.

She pulled her jeans on and sucked in a breath so she could close the button and zipper. She had the kind of figure that had regrettably gone out of fashion with poodle skirts—full breasts, well-rounded hips that had rounded a little more in the five years since her divorce. She was thirty-three and her metabolism was slowing down in direct proportion to the increase in her appetite for junk food. The extra weight added a fullness to her rectangular face that had the benefit of making her look younger than she was. A person had to peer closely to see the tiny lines of stress that had begun to fan out beside her eyes and around her kewpie-doll mouth.

“So what's going on?” Rich asked, finally resigning himself to being something other than the center of attention for the moment.

Dragging a brush through her hair, Jolynn glanced at his reflection in the mirror above her dresser. Thirty-nine, a native son of Still Creek, he was handsome and he still radiated the arrogance he had cultivated as a high school jock—the high point of his life to date. He sat back in her bed as if he owned it, his straw-colored hair tousled, cigarette dangling beneath his mustache, one hand scratching absently through the thicket of rusty-gold curls on his chest. Elizabeth said he looked a little like Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid, only older and debauched. It was an apt description. There was a trace of meanness about his eyes and weakness in the line of his mouth that a person didn't see until the initial dazzle of golden good looks had worn off. He had told her he was going to run for the state representative's seat this fall. Jolynn wondered how many people would catch on to him before they cast their ballots.

Hate surged through her, as it always did when she looked at Rich and saw him for what he really was—the bastard who'd dumped her for a more advantageous marriage, then had the gall to come around expecting her to fall at his feet . . . which she did, again and again.

“Someone killed your dear old daddy-in-law tonight,” she said bluntly, reaching for a spray bottle of Charlie on the cluttered dresser top. She spritzed herself generously, hoping to camouflage the scent of sex that lingered on her. Her eyes never left the mirror.

“No,” Rich murmured, his face registering shock, but not much in the way of remorse. He set his cigarette aside in the overflowing ashtray on the nightstand, but didn't move from the bed. “Killed him? Huh. I'll be a son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, you are. I'd stay to console you,” Jo said dryly, grabbing her purse off the dresser, “but I've got a job to do.”

“I'd think your new boss would want to take this one,” he said. “She's the hotshot headliner from Atlanta, right? I'd think she'd be right out there to grab all the glory herself.”

Jo gave him the same look she gave meat that had overstayed its welcome in her refrigerator. “All that thinking could tax your brain, Rich. I don't want you to hurt yourself, but if you'd think again, you might figure out that nobody working on the
Clarion
is going to get any glory unless we're hit and killed by a news van from Minneapolis.”

“Then why go?” he said, holding his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and taking a deep drag off it. The smoke he exhaled briefly wreathed his head in gray, then drifted up to add another layer of grime to the ceiling.

Jolynn looked at him with utter disgust, shaking her head in disbelief at her own stupidity for staying tangled up with him. “You just don't get it, do you, Richard? Some of us don't have wealthy wives to mooch off. Some of us take pride in doing a job. I happen to be good at what I do.”

“Yeah,” he sneered. “Too bad nobody gives a damn.”

She flinched as if he'd struck her. He had always known just where to stick the barb to make it hurt the most; it was one of the few things he really excelled at. Pain bled through her. Her hazel eyes narrowed to slits. “You jerk.”