Whispers of the Heart (17 page)

She moved to waken her dad, but a pounding sounded at the front door halting her in her tracks.

Instinctively she knew that the sheriff had arrived. She looked over at her dad again, and then made her way back to the front door. It still stood wide open from when she’d barged in, so when she approached, she could see the sheriff standing on the porch, his fist lifted ready to
pound on the screen door jamb again.

The sheriff saw Marsha draw near and his brow quirked, “Didn’t take you long to race over here. Come to warn your dad?”

“Yeah,” Marsha said with a nod, and then pushed the screen door open to admit the sheriff. “He may be a drunken sod, but he’s still my dad, so I felt I owed him a heads up. In fact, I was just about to warn him when you showed up, and when you see what I did when I got here – just a minute ago, by the way – you’ll be marking him off of your suspect list.”

“You sound mighty confident about that.”

“I am.” Marsha turned and headed back down the hall toward her dad’s room. When she reached the door, she stepped aside and motioned for the sheriff to look inside. “He was like that when I got here. Drunk as a skunk and dead to the world. And from the smell of alcohol lingering in the air, he’s been binging for more than a day.”

“That a fact,” the sheriff asked, making his way across to the bed.

“I’d say so, yeah,” Marsha replied, following behind. “I’ve seen it too many times in the past to know he only gets this way when he’s on a binge. Look sheriff, I know you think you’ve got just cause to suspect my dad – hell, if it were me, I’d put him on my suspect list simply for being a grade A jackass – but I’m telling you right now, there’s no way he could’ve have done what you said happened. Not in this condition.”

“While I appreciate you going to bat for him, Marsha, I think I should ascertain for myself whether he’s a viable suspect. Fair enough?”

“I have a feeling that nothing about this investigation is likely to be fair,” Marsha muttered.

The sheriff chose to ignore her comment, and instead reached down and roughly shook Jethro Canton on the shoulder. Her dad didn’t
so much as moan at the intrusion. Jonathan tried again, this time calling Canton’s name loudly in the man’s ear. That elicited a small groan, but Jethro remained out cold, and unaware. The sheriff straightened and shook his head, releasing a loud sigh of frustration.

“Sorry it wasn’t him, aren’t you, Sheriff?” Marsha asked unable to keep the smugness out of her tone.

“Mighty sorry, yes, because that means there’s someone unknown to me that has a motive for doing away with Dalian – a motive other than his land,” Jonathan admitted, and then turned to face Canton’s daughter. “You are not to return to Dalian’s ranch . . . and don’t interrupt,” he said, when she started shaking her head and opened her mouth to speak. “You and your dad may not have been responsible for this latest attack on Dalian, but I am going to have a tough time convincing him of that. And another thing, get your daddy up and sober a.s.a.p. When you do, deliver a message. Tell him that I want to see him and you in my office first thing tomorrow morning. If you aren’t there, I’ll issue warrants for your arrests for obstruction. Understand?”

“But I thought we weren’t suspects anymore?” Marsha asked, eyes widening with renewed concern.

“You’ll be cleared of any wrongdoing as soon as I interview your dad formally about his whereabouts. Not a minute sooner. The same goes for you and your whereabouts.” The sheriff walked past Marsha and out of the Canton’s ranch house. When he settled behind the steering wheel of his Jeep Comanche, he gripped the wheel tightly and laid his head down on his whitening knuckles. He had to let Dalian know about what he discovered, and didn’t relish his reaction. Admittedly, he was as convinced as Dalian was about Jethro’s involvement; was certain as could be that he’d found justifiable cause to lock the man away for the rest of his life. Vindication for both this current act and the killing of Carolyn Rivers two years earlier. He’d hoped to give Dalian peace of mind, at last. Now, even his own peace and certainty was shattered because he now had to find another suspect, where there didn’t appear to be one.

After another moment, he lifted his head, and reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his cell phone. He dialed Dalian’s number and left a message when he got his voice mail.

Jethro Canton looked on the verge of demise, as if the Angel of Death was only minutes out from coming to claim his soul from this world. Marsha’s skin was so pale, that the sheriff was concerned she’d pass out any moment. Despite looking peaked and ill, both still carried a chip on their shoulder the size of a boulder and sat sullenly across from Sheriff Masters. Neither were pleased that the sheriff sat silently observing them – had been doing so since their arrival five minutes earlier.

As if suddenly weary of trying to maintain an affronted facade, Jethro slumped further into his chair, rubbing his temples, but the headache refused to subside. He finally gave up on his head and wrapped his arms about his midriff, hoping to contain what little contents remained in his stomach, as nausea welled and settled repeatedly. He opened his eyes and glared at the sheriff, suddenly filled with an overwhelming animosity at the man who’d made him drag his hide out of bed after visiting too long with alcohol.

After another minute of silence, he determined enough was enough and sprang back to a seated position. The sudden movement was too much for his recovering body and he doubled over, gripping his abdomen tighter, as the acid in his stomach shot up his throat and threaten
ed to fly out of his tightly clamped mouth. He didn’t much care whether he threw up all over the sheriff’s floor, but he did care about the mortification that would follow over being unable to handle his drink and the subsequent hangover.

When he felt steadier, he slowly righted himself, taking deep steadying breaths. If it were
possible, the sheriff thought, he looked even more peaked than before, but his bout with sickness did not prevent his spewing anger in the sheriff’s direction, albeit in a near whisper.

“My daughter filled me in
in the car on the way over here, so if you don’t think we had anything to do with what happened to Rivers, what are we doing here? And why are we just sitting here with you staring at us like we’re some sort of reprehensible rodents.”

“You sure you don’t need to pay a visit to the bathroom before we proceed. You’re looking mighty pasty.” The sheriff said, deliberately ignoring Canton’s questions. He wasn’t ready to start the interview, even though he’d determined Jethro was of sound mind to continue. He’d made that determination on the fact that Canton was sober enough to walk into the office this morning under his own impetus. So, despite his still slightly slurred speech and sickly visage, Jonathan judged him capable of giving a statement. An annoyed Canton was just about to reiterate his questions when the front door opened and the sheriff stood suddenly.

“I’ll be right back,” the sheriff said, “and then we’ll begin.”

Had Jethro the strength to turn to see who the new arrival was, he’d have sobered quickly and made a beeline for the back door. As it was, he slouched in his seat again and resumed rubbing his temples. Marsha, on the other hand, wasn’t ill – until she shifted in her seat and glanced over her shoulder. Immediately wishing she hadn’t. Dalian strolled in, his body stiffening when he spied the two people sitting in front of the sheriff’s desk. The sheriff made his way over, questioning the wisdom of putting these people in the same room together; however, the way he saw it, Dalian needed to hear the interview to believe Canton was innocent; needed to judge the man’s veracity for himself. He hadn’t told Dalian in his phone message the day before the purpose for coming into the office this morning because he’d wanted him to show up. Now he
only hoped he’d stay.

“Dalian, thanks for coming. I have a seat in the corner for you.”

“I don’t get it, Jonathan,” Dalian hissed, his gaze pinned to the back of Canton’s head. “What am I doing here? What are
they
doing here? Did he confess?”

“Easy, Dalian,” the sheriff said, leading Dalian to a chair next to his, behind the desk – away from Canton. When Dalian moved around the desk, into Jethro’s line of sight, the man visibly blanched. “I wanted you here during the interview so that there isn’t any doubt in your mind as to whether Jethro is innocent or guilty of what happened to you yesterday morning.”

“I
am
innocent,” Jethro exclaimed, looking anything but, “but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him and you railroad me because you think I killed his wife.”

“You
did
kill my wife, you son of a bitch,” Dalian hissed. “And if that judge had seen the truth of the matter, you’d be rotting in prison now instead of trying to kill me too.”

“I didn’t mean to, I tell ya,” Canton screeched. “I swear I didn’t see her.”

“Sheriff, you can’t have him in here. He’s just likely to kill my dad before you get around to interviewing us,” Marsha interjected.

“He’s here,” the sheriff said, addressing all three, “because I believe you both to be innocent of these current charges, and he needs to be certain of it too.”

Dalian sat down heavily in the chair when the sheriff made his announcement, his own tanned skin pale. “No,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry, Dalian,” the sheriff said, settling into his own chair, “but the evidence attesting to his innocence is too overwhelming to ignore. And to Marsha’s innocence.”

Dalian shook his head, as the sheriff started the video camera sitting on top of the tripod next to his desk. He turned on his laptop, and attached the USB cable from the camera to the side of the laptop, so that the recording would be automatically filed, and, with the press of a key, submitted into evidence at the county courthouse.

“We are here to question two individuals in the assault of Dalian Rivers and of a guest at his ranch, Kathryn McMurray, on April 22
nd
, 2061 at approximately 0430.” He began formally. “Here with me today are Jethro Canton, and his daughter, Marsha Canton, as well as one of the victims of the assault, Dalian Rivers. This interview is a formality in which the intent is to establish the whereabouts of Jethro Canton and Marsha Canton at the time of the incident. Mr. Canton, could you please tell us where you were in the early morning hours of April 22
nd
? And please remember that my computer is enhanced with the latest voice stress analyzer, which will automatically review your responses as being either truthful or suspect. Do you understand?”

“I understand, but hell, I can barely remember where I am now,” Canton muttered, wiping a hand across his unshaven face, “but I can definitely tell you where I wasn’t. I wasn’t at River’s house, or anywhere near his barn. I may not know specifically if I was in my house or not, but I had been visiting with a bottle of Jim Beam for two days straight and when Marsha woke me up late yesterday, I was in my bedroom.”

The sheriff looked at his laptop to read the voice analysis, and then over at Dalian, who was watching Canton carefully, murder in his gaze. When Jethro finished, the sheriff saw Dalian’s shoulders slump and knew he believed Canton’s story, though brief, although he hadn’t yet revealed the results of the stress analysis. He sighed heavily, sorry for having to put Dalian through yet another letdown. However, now was not the time to issue condolences or apologies, since he also needed to confirm Marsha’s whereabouts for the record.

“I know that you and I have already spoken, Miss Canton, but I need your testimony for the record also, or it won’t be official, and I won’t be able to mark you off as a person of interest. So, if you would, please repeat to me where you were at 4:30 a.m., on April 22
nd
.”

Marsha blanched and shook her head, her gaze widening in fear. The sheriff realized his mistake immediately. He’d callously asked the question without regard to how her father might react to his daughter whoring with one of Dalian’s ranch hands; especially, when it had been made apparent that she was supposed to be chasing after Dalian. He called to his deputy who quickly appeared from a side office, “Could you escort Mr. Canton into the waiting room, Harold?”

Canton stiffened in his seat, “I ain’t leaving here so that you can harass my daughter into confessing something she ain’t done.”

“Your daughter is eighteen, so I can legally question her without a parent present. And since I prefer to do so, you’ll wait outside.” The deputy tugged on Jethro’s arm until the man stood, albeit unsteadily. When he had a secure footing, the deputy guided him from the room, shutting the door behind them.

“Again, Marsha, I know we already went over this, but I need it for the record.”

“I was sleeping with Kenny Mitchell in my room. He was with me from about midnight until you started pounding on my door early in the morning.” She lifted her chin proudly and tried
to prevent the embarrassment seeping into her cheeks, but one look at Dalian and the facade cracked. She lowered her head in shame.

“Thank you, Marsha,” the sheriff whispered, sympathetic to her humiliation. He reached up and switched off the recorder, and then stood from behind his desk and went to retrieve Jethro.

“Damn it all to hell,” Canton snapped when the sheriff asked him to return to the office, “I just sat down.”