Head in a Haymow Page 6

  The two miles worth of tracks that they followed before reaching blacktop took the better part of the rest of the morning. Agent Wyatt spent the majority of his time talking to various law enforcement on Bernice's phone, since his phone still lacked any discernible reception in their neck of the woods.

  Bernice would have gladly just taken the shortcut back to her own property. Unfortunately, Agent Wyatt was insistent that the whole area around Herb's remains could be a potential crime scene. He didn't want her big clumsy feet trampling any more evidence. Not that he actually used that particular insult. Bernice's active imagination was simply filling in the chilly silence she was receiving from the man since they had started walking.

  When they were met at the blacktop by various squad cars, she thought she was free. Agent Wyatt revealed otherwise as he barked orders to the officers that approached him. “Follow these tracks on foot back to where they stop, then secure a hundred yard perimeter around that spot, going south into the woods. I got DNR coming to identify the various animal tracks in the crime scene, so tread very carefully. Also I want the entrance of this lumber road closed to any unauthorized vehicles.” He finished with a glance at Bernice over his shoulder, stating, “I'll be back after I drop off Ms. Hordstrom at her residence.”

  A deputy obediently tossed over Agent Wyatt's keys and pointed to his sedan on the shoulder. Bernice stalked off to the vehicle in question without another look back. She opened the passenger door and stepped inside, securing her seat belt and looking straight ahead. She listened to Agent Wyatt's footsteps on the gravel shoulder and stiffened as she heard the door open and the man climb in. He started the engine and made a u-turn to head the vehicle south.

  “You'll let me know when we need to turn,” he commanded gruffly, his eyes fixed to the road.

  “Okay,” Bernice grumbled with a nod. She let out a breath, frustrated with the whole situation. She tried carefully to change the subject. “So there's probably a dozen different tire places in the area. It wouldn't be that hard to make a few phone calls.”

  Agent Wyatt let out a breath on the steering wheel. “Ms. Hordstrom, I appreciate your willingness to help, but I'm afraid you are no longer needed. I can take it from here.” He looked back out at the road.

  “Turn up there,” Bernice ordered with more forcefulness than she intended. She paused to calm herself before continuing in a controlled voice, “My name is Bernice, Agent Wyatt, and I was only making a suggestion. I'm not trying to intrude-”

  “You've done nothing but intrude, and when I did need your help, you demanded a search warrant.” Agent Wyatt's tolerance was beginning to erode. The sedan screeched in response as he took the turn. He ignored it, adding, “You're not a reporter anymore, Bernice. Stay out of my investigation.”

  If there was anything that he could have said to piss her off more, Bernice couldn't think of it.

  “Well, thank you, Agent,” she spat, “for reminding me exactly why I am no longer a reporter.” The cauldron of forgotten resentment was boiling over. “So I can avoid pompous... dictating...bureaucratic assholes like you.” She unhooked her seat belt, demanding, “Let me out. I'll walk. We're done here.”

  To her surprise the automatic door latch locked. She quickly turned to find Agent Wyatt's face a fury of determined anger. He roughly turned the vehicle, braking onto the meager shoulder in a noisy pile of displaced gravel.

  “We're done,” he viciously ground out, shoving the gears into park, “when I say we're done.”

  Before Bernice could process what was happening, Agent Wyatt grabbed both her upper arms in a brutal embrace and pulled her painfully over the armrest, grinding his mouth against hers. Her involuntary gasp only gave him opportunity to deepen the kiss and squelch any chance of Bernice complaining.

  The more she resisted, the more he worked his mouth, sucking and tasting, negating any resistance with firm sensual measure.

  She pushed hard against his chest, her eyes wide with righteous indignation at the assault. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but notice, he was a great kisser. She slowly closed her eyes. Her hands relaxed. A plaintive sigh escaped from her throat as she gave in.

  And that was when he shoved her back into her own seat.

  “There!” he announced angrily. “Now shut up and let me drive you home like a God damn gentleman!”

  Bernice was too shocked to argue with him. She simply turned away, scrunched her body as close to the door as possible and watched out the window.

  She heard the transmission kick into drive and the car return to the road. She felt like a deflated balloon. All she wanted to do was go home and start over.

  As they pulled into the driveway, she realized with spiraling disappointment that God had other plans.

  Leaning on his old pickup and sharing an apparently amusing conversation with Cameron was Roger. He turned to look at the sedan. His features changed when he saw her. It wasn't pleasant.

  She sent rapid and urgent telepathic messages to Agent Wyatt. “Just stay in the car. Just let me out and drive away. Just stay in the car.”

  He pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, unlocked the doors, and got out of the car.

  “Shit,” her brain silently cursed in failure.

  Slowly getting out, Bernice made herself witness the interaction of the two men she had just sucked face with in the last 12 hours.

  Agent Wyatt put out his hand. “I'm Agent Wyatt from the Wisconsin Department of Criminal Investigation.”

  Cameron returned the gesture right away. Roger looked at the hand for a second before shaking it. He commented, “I know Agent Determyer from the Eau Claire office. He helped me with a meth lab that was found at one of my rental properties.” Roger let his accusatory statement hang in the air.

  “Determyer's helping the La Crosse office tackle a heroin problem that's cropping up in Veroqua,” Agent Wyatt responded with unnecessary defense.

  Bernice carefully approached. Roger and Cameron both began to notice that she and Agent Wyatt were filthy and bedraggled. The implication of their perusal was undeniable, but Bernice tried anyway. “I fell in a hole,” she lamely offered. “Agent Wyatt tried to pull me out, and I'm afraid I made a mess of him.” She pinched her lips in abject guilt. She gaged the hard set expression on Roger's face. He didn't completely buy what she was selling.

  “Bernice has really been a big help,” Agent Wyatt defended her.

  Bernice rubbernecked at him in complete disbelief. His face gave nothing away.

  “She found the original crime scene and possibly the tire tracks left by the suspect,” he continued.

  Cameron gave Bernice a big grin. “Yeah, she's quite the detective when she puts her mind to something.”

  Bernice smiled back at Cameron, her trepidation starting to wane.

  Not so fast.

  “I didn't catch your name, Mr...?”Agent Wyatt was addressing Roger.

  “Roger Bellamy,” Roger shook his hand again. “I own a bar down the road.”

  Agent Wyatt's demeanor grew somewhat hostile. “That wouldn't be the Den by chance?”

  “Yes it would,” Roger answered, erecting himself slightly taller against the fender of his truck. He waited.

  “Well, it's just that I've heard from certain people that unsanctioned gambling might be taking place on your premises.”

  Bernice sent a glare at Agent Wyatt that would have melted skin. Cameron carefully put a hand on her arm. She turned to him and caught a look of caution that kept her quiet.

  Roger shifted ever so casually on the fender. “If by certain people you are referring to the honorable Judge Conner, then I guess I'm not surprised. He seems to be under the false impression that if I lose my liquor license, I'm going to sell him my property so he can put up some stuffy golf course.” He leveled a steady and unnerving gaze at the agent.

  It was returned in kind. “Nevertheless,” Agent Wyatt continued undaunted, “if my investigation into the Abernathy murder should produce evide
nce that such activities are taking place, it will be my duty to uphold the law.”

  Roger simply shrugged. “Hey, I totally understand. If you can actually produce any witnesses who will corroborate these accusations, then I will gladly surrender myself to the great state of Wisconsin.”

  The two men stared each other down. Their indiscernible features said nothing and everything.

  Finally Agent Wyatt relented. “If you all will excuse me, I'm expected back.” He nodded good bye to them all, lingering on Bernice. “Ma'am,” was all he said. He returned to his car.

  They all looked everywhere but at each other while they waited for the car to leave.

  Then Bernice laid into Roger. “Seriously? Are you checking up on me?”

  “I was worried about you,” Roger shot back, “but apparently you were in capable hands.”

  “You know, I think I'll go see if Darlene needs anything.” Cameron excused himself with barely any acknowledgment from his companions.

  Roger looked out onto the empty driveway before acidly adding, “So that's my competition.”

  Bernice burned with embarrassment. “Not that I knew you were even competing, but I happen to find that man so infuriating he makes my skin crawl.”

  “Hmm,” Roger grunted with obvious skepticism.

  “What's that suppose to mean?” she questioned irritated.

  “I'm just recalling that first night in the parking lot.” Roger looked a defiant Bernice over. “What was it you called me again?”

  She clamped her jaw shut and crossed her arms remaining silent.

  “Oh yeah, I remember,” he answered himself. “You called me a perverted, self indulgent man-child.” Roger grinned despite himself. “See, the problem, Bernice, is when you're good and mad, you are downright irresistible.”

  Bernice's features changed from irritation to confusion at the backhanded compliment.

  Roger turned from her piercing gaze to contemplate the empty driveway. “I gotta tell you though; you sure know how to pick 'em.” Roger's smile was sad. It accompanied a nod of good bye. He climbed into his truck and backed out of the driveway.

  Chapter 6

  The pure violence and anger that Bernice unleashed on the poor dirty goat barn was a painful sight to behold. She cursed in spastic contempt as she mucked out the stinky stalls with her pitchfork. “Fucking men,” she hissed, bringing the fork down and out in harsh sequence.

  She looked up at the cat. He was watching her from the rafters in the thick hanging cobwebs. “You know, spiders have the right idea,” she told him. “They eat their mates.” She produced a maniacal grin at the thought. “Sex and dinner. Fuck 'em and eat 'em. No fuss. No muss.” She viciously kicked a stubborn pile of crap out of her way. “No depressing breakups that leave you bawling at Sandra Bullock movies while you inhale ice cream.”

  The cat blinked at her and closed his eyes.

  “What do you care? You're neutered.” She released an exasperated sigh and wiped the accumulating sweat from her forehead. She looked up to see Cameron watching her. “How come you're the only man in the whole world who's not an asshole?”

  Cameron smiled. “You give me too much credit, Kid. We all have our moments.”

  Bernice saw the duffel bag at his feet. She wiped her hands down on her shirt and approached him. “You taking off?” she asked.

  Cameron looked back at the house to answer her. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Bernice smiled through her confusion. “What is it?”

  Cameron shifted his feet, looking bashful. “I want to take Darlene back with me for the weekend.” He returned his attention to Bernice hopefully.

  Bernice grinned with genuine amusement and caring. “Are you asking my permission, Old Man?”

  Cameron chuckled at the reference. “Kinda,” he answered, “but more like Darlene wants me to ask your permission.”

  “Oh,” she realized. “Mother Hen's afraid the sky's gonna fall on me while she's gone.”

  “Well, she's worried about all this murder business.” Cameron met her gaze evenly.

  Bernice recognized the look and shook it off. “I did my duty to neighbor and state. I'm done. Unlike Darlene I've had enough excitement for one lifetime. I prefer quiet and predictable now.”

  If Cameron was skeptical about Bernice's life proclamation, he kept it to himself. Instead he admitted, “Your aunt's been such a good hostess to me, I just want to return the favor.”

  Bernice set the pitchfork aside, saving the snide, “I bet you do,” for her own thoughts. “I'll just head up and talk to her then.” They shared a quick hug, and she was off.

  Bernice found Darlene at the kitchen table. Her suitcase, a dark green Samsonite circa 1975, was waiting patiently at the door. Darlene was busy writing on a piece of paper.

  “I hope that's not my Dear John letter,” teased Bernice.

  “No, Smart Ass, it's your To Do list.” She concentrated on her writing. “Don't think, 'cause I'm not here to keep an eye on ya, you get to lay around and let the place fall apart.”

  Bernice glanced at the increasingly long list and groused, “Hey, you're only going away for the weekend. That's a lot of shit to get through in 72 hours.”

  “Then you better get started.” Darlene handed off the list, stating, “Farmer's Market deposits need to go in today.” She looked up at the wall clock. “You've got three hours to get to town before the bank closes.” In a rush of awkward sentiment Darlene suddenly threw her generous proportions upon the unsuspecting Bernice in a sloppy hug. “Stay out of trouble. I love you.”

  Bernice hugged her aunt back, teasing, “I love you too. Now go paint the town red, you big hussy.”

  Darlene smacked Bernice on the shoulder and grabbed her gorilla-proof suitcase, crabbing, “Leave it to you to spoil the moment.” She walked out the door.

  Bernice waved to them from the front porch as Cameron's rental car left the driveway. She returned to the kitchen after they left, looking around. The solitude should have been a relief. Instead it felt lonely. She snatched up the list as a handy distraction.

  “Mucked out goat barn, check,” she recited to herself. “Now a quick cleanup and off to the bank.” She sighed sadly despite herself. “Yep, quiet and predictable, just like I like it.” Bernice trudged upstairs.

  As was typical with Friday afternoon, the line to the solitary teller at the bank was long and slow. Similar to the DMV, it was a great equalizer for the different stations of the American social class system. You could observe the Goth teenager standing in front of the haggard soccer mom, standing in front of the small business owner. All were checking the clock. All were hoping they could get through the line before the lobby closed. Otherwise they would be forced out into the street to wait in drive through with the cars like animals.

  Bernice had all her cash and checks in her neat little pouch. She was truly minding her own business this time. She wasn't trying to get involved with anything.

  She didn't mean to make direct eye contact with the mousey woman carrying papers in the office area of the bank. She honestly was going to ignore the red-rimmed eyes, the lowered head, and the rest of the dejected body language.

  Soccer Mom finished scolding someone through clenched teeth before clicking her cell phone shut. She attempted to present the teller with a face that was almost normal. Bernice was right behind her.

  She watched the mousy woman leave the office again and start heading back to where she came from. She avoided Bernice's gaze this time, lowering her head like a beaten dog. It caused in Bernice a reaction that felt very much like the one she got when she accidentally watched an ASPCA ad on TV. Bernice's heart ached to fix whatever was making this pitiful stranger cry.

  “Fuck it,” Bernice proclaimed under her breath and left the line. The four people behind her watched her walk away from eminent freedom like she had just lost her mind.

  Bernice stood in the way of the mousy woman's path. “I'm sorry,” she a
pologized. “I'm just wondering... Are you all right?”

  The woman looked up at her in surprise, her red rimmed eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

  “I couldn't help but notice that you're upset and, well,” Bernice jabbered quickly, “is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No,” the woman answered, “there's nothing anybody can do.”

  “Oh come on now,” Bernice scolded softly, “even if you just need someone to talk to?”

  The woman was about to speak when a teller came up from behind and glared at Bernice. “I'm sorry Ma'am, but the lobby is closing,” she said with a politeness that was not conveyed in her face.

  “Thank you,” Bernice stiffly replied and pointedly stared down the teller until she huffed and walked away. She looked back at the woman who smiled slightly now, clearly amused with the exchange. “Well, at least I brightened your day a little bit.” Bernice looked out the window to the drive through outside. “As for me, I must walk the line of the damned and be waited on by a teller who really doesn't like me right now.”

  “Are you just making a deposit?” the mousy woman asked with a little more bravado than before.

  “Uh, yah,” Bernice answered.

  She held her hands out for Bernice's pouch. “Meet me out front in two minutes. I'll bring your deposit slip out with me when I leave.”

  Bernice warily handed over her hard earned money to a virtual stranger. “Well, okay. I'll meet you out front then. Thanks, Ms...”

  “Abernathy,” came her shy reply. She cradled the pouch in her arms. “My name is Margie.”

  While being sequestered like a virtual hermit on the farm for the last few years, Bernice forgot the cardinal rule: “There is no smaller world than a small town.” That rule hit home as she stood out in the parking lot and chatting with the widow of Herb's head.

  The weird thing about it was how normal it felt. Margie was a part time teller at the bank and also worked for the local insurance guy just down the street. She had three children, two grown and one a senior in high school. And her passion was gardening.