Head in a Haymow Read online

  There was Agent Wyatt, shining under her yard light like a bad penny.

  Bernice glared at him through the screen door. “I thought we were done,” she stated.

  After receiving his rude greeting, Agent Wyatt opened the door himself and stalked in, stating bluntly through his teeth, “You owe me an explanation.”

  “Well, come on in, why don't you?” Bernice waved her hand with flourish, her sarcasm adding to the tension in the country kitchen.

  Agent Wyatt turned abruptly and bore down on her. “I swear, Bernice, you ask me for another warrant, and I'm hauling your ass down to county lockup for obstruction.”

  Bernice's eyes went wide in confusion, but she held her ground. “I have no idea what's gotten your dander up, but I've in no way, shape, or form obstructed you from anything.” She caught the heated gaze in response to her unfortunate choice of words. She carefully corrected herself, “I have done as you asked and stayed out of your investigation.”

  “Bullshit,” he returned caustically. He began to pace the small space between the door and the table, looking more like he was having a fight with himself than with her.

  His bizarre behavior was almost funny. Bernice had to work her mouth to keep from smirking. “Just tell me why you're here,” she requested.

  Agent Wyatt stopped. He stared her down and enunciated with venom, “Margaret Abernathy.”

  Bernice's jaw fell open on its own. She just stood there. This caused Agent Wyatt to produce a rather ugly smile. “You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?” he ground out, satisfied and disappointed at the same time. “You just had to stick your nose in and make more work for me.”

  “All I did was console a grieving widow. I didn't even know who she was until we had already struck up a conversation.” Bernice crossed her arms defensively.

  “And yet you still went out to her house.” Agent Wyatt narrowed his eyes, suspicious of her good intentions.

  “What in the hell did you want me to do? Treat her like a pariah because she's part of your precious murder investigation?”

  “I want you to mind your own business,” he demanded. “Mrs. Abernathy is a stranger to you.”

  “Not anymore,” Bernice shot back. “She's my friend now, and frankly she needs someone to look after her interests for a change.”

  “I bet your so called friend wouldn't be so anxious to have you back if she knew you were using her,” Agent Wyatt countered wickedly.

  “You bastard,” Bernice hissed. “I did no such thing.”

  “Really?” His superior demeanor was infuriating her. “So you didn't check her tires before you left?”

  Bernice said nothing. She simply returned his gaze with blatant hostility.

  Now it was Agent Wyatt's turn to cross his arms. He leaned on a hip and assessed Bernice like a suspect. “Well?” he asked simply.

  Bernice's body literally vibrated with frustration. “Go to hell,” she spat and walked out of the room, leaving him to stew in the kitchen.

  “Just as soon as you answer my question!” he yelled after her.

  Bernice returned with her barely touched meal. She viciously beat her cold macaroni and cheese into the compost bin and dumped her milk down the sink.

  “Bernice,” Agent Wyatt demanded, refusing to be ignored.

  “No,” she denied him. “You're the one using me to find out what I learned from Margie, and she deserves better than that.” Bernice set her pan noisily in the sink and filled it up with water. “You can stomp all over this kitchen like some big sanctimonious bear, but that's why you're really here, and I'm saying, no.”

  That poor saucepan was quickly scrubbed within an inch of its life before Bernice mercilessly rinsed it out and tossed it into the dish drain. Then she dropped the milk glass into the dishwasher and slammed the door shut.

  With Agent Wyatt's silence she thought she had made her point. Instead he came up behind her. She stood her ground quietly, but her irritation did nothing to hide how his nearness affected her.

  “Damn you,” she whispered. His hands were on her shoulders. He held them there. The heat radiated off of his palms and into her skin.

  “I already am,” he whispered back. She heard him step closer. “Where's your aunt?” he asked. She could feel his hot breath in her hair.

  “Out,” she said then cursed to herself. He took the answer as an invitation. His fingers started moving, the firm pads massaging the tense muscles above her collarbones. It felt fantastic.

  Her thoughts were witnessing in awe that quick change from anger to lust. Roger's prophetic observation of Bernice when it came to men and attraction reared its ugly head. More importantly, she remembered the look on Roger's face when he said it. The memory replaced whatever pleasure she was gleaning from the stolen moment with guilt and betrayal.

  “What else are you saying 'no' to, Bernice?” His soft low growl had moved to her cheek. One hand worked up into her neck and rotated deliciously under her ear lobe.

  “I can't.” Her voice broke a little and she stepped away from his embrace. She leaned in the doorway facing the TV in the living room. She distractedly noticed the show was half over. Her favorite character was lying bleeding on the sidewalk, and she didn't know why. Her shame for not ending it sooner got the best of her. “Margie drives a 1990's minivan, and the tires are older than I am,” Bernice spoke over her shoulder.

  “Her father owns West Side Auto. She had access to a different vehicle at anytime,” Agent Wyatt countered. His official tone had returned.

  Bernice turned around. “So would anyone else there that worked with Herb,” She challenged but her body language showed defeat.

  Agent Wyatt's wasn't much better. He slumped in his stance. “I'm beginning to think that Herb's been on ice all this time. If that's the case, there's a good chance Mrs. Abernathy was the last one to see him alive.” He shoved his hands defensively in his pockets. “If you want to be her friend, Bernice, you would do her better justice by letting me eliminate her as a suspect.”

  Bernice watched him walk out.

  The sun bathed the little farmer's market pavilion in blinding brilliance. Bernice would usually look upon such a morning as a blessing. Instead, she buried her tired face in the mouth of her coffee mug and pretended she didn't exist.

  After Agent Wyatt had left, she tried re-watching her recorded show and taking meager comfort in her bag of jerky, but the moment had passed. Her thoughts refused to let her enjoy any amount of peace. Without Darlene's constant chatter as a distraction, Bernice was left thinking more than she had allowed herself to do in a long time.

  Knowing sleep was simply not going to happen without help, she gave in to a last resort. Out in the old milkhouse was a forgotten floor drain. It was the one place on the farm that Darlene did not frequent and a perfect hiding spot for Bernice's Grey Goose Vodka. A splash of cranberry juice and the Red Devil did its duty to dull her senses, but it took a while. Bernice was still left with plenty of conscious time for soul searching before the alcohol allowed her to drift off.

  Once again, the intellectual and emotional parts of her brain were at odds. Intellectually she knew she should avoid anything to do with Agent Wyatt and Herb's murder, including Margie Abernathy. Intellectually she knew she should decide to either shit or get off the pot when it came to Roger. And intellectually she understood her reason for even living on a farm was to get away from the drama she used to professionally perpetuate in her old life.

  However, emotionally she acknowledged the return of the old itch to find out the truth behind the tragedy. Emotionally she resented Roger's mid-life crisis being the catalyst that made him see her as more than a pleasant distraction. And deep down she felt emotions for Agent Wyatt that were dark, naughty, and undeniably tempting. It was that last admission that required the extra alcohol.

  In the morning she woke up in the recliner with a nasty case of cotton mouth and splitting headache. And, unlike her former life where she could spend a Saturda
y cocooned in a dark corner like some hibernating skunk, there on the farm shit still had to get done. Animals still had to be fed or milked or both. Eggs still had to be collected. And the very perishable produce still needed to be brought to market.

  To avoid actual public interaction that fine morning, Bernice placed all of her plastic baskets of goodies on the tailgate, clearly displayed and marked. Along with them she set out a handy self pay coffee can. The extra measures allowed her to retreat to the nook in the back of her pickup box. There she wallowed in her own misery mostly undisturbed.

  Not for long. Up from the side of her truck came a hand that held a neatly wrapped parcel. Then a familiar masculine voice said, “Here. Believe it or not, this will help.”

  Bernice lifted one eyeball from her precious coffee to glare at Bernardo Mescualez and the spicy smelling bundle he presented to her. “Smells like a burrito, Bernie,” she commented, not moving.

  “Best cure for a hangover, Bernie.” He flashed his signature smile, made so because his teeth shone a brilliant white against his caramel skin and constant black stubble.

  Bernice had her doubts but accepted the offering. “Thanks, Man.” She attempted a smile.

  He handed her a water bottle. “It's spicy,” he commented. “You'll need this.”

  Bernice breathed patiently and took the bottle too. Realizing that she had to be social, she set down her mug and popped open the water bottle. She took a swig and pointed with her head to his stand a couple of spaces down.

  “How's your salsa selling today?” she asked politely.

  “Slow,” Bernardo admitted. “That's why were handing out samples.” He gestured to wrapped burrito still in her lap. “Tell me what you think.”

  Bernice grimaced but recapped her water and did as she was told. The fresh tortilla steamed with fragrant goodness. She bit gingerly at first and then took a larger hunk once her salivary glands succumbed to the inevitable. She chewed carefully, letting some of the hot steam escape her mouth. “Mmm,” she mumbled genuinely through her chewing.

  “That's just shredded chicken and a little queso fresco with our salsa,” Bernardo commented loud enough to attract the attention of the few customers who dared to wander over to Bernice's stand.

  “It's milder than I would have expected,” she observed and nonchalantly wiped her mouth on the inside of her shirt collar. “Is this the batch from last fall?”

  “That was a cold and rainy growing season,” Bernardo nodded in agreement. “The peppers and chilies will be hotter this year.” He smiled broadly at the curious people meandering by. “Free samples at that minivan down there,” he chimed and pointed.

  As she watched her customers trot away like livestock late to the feeding trough, she frowned at Bernardo. “Gonna make me work today, aren't you?”

  Bernardo simply smirked. “Darlene'll be pissed if you come home with an empty coffee can.”

  Bernice relented and began to worm her butt toward the front of the truck box, carefully cradling her new gifts. “Tell you what,” she bargained as she went. “You don't let it slip to Darlene that I was hung over today, and I don't tell your lovely wife down there that you put Thai peppers in her heirloom salsa.”

  Bernardo lifted his bushy eyebrows in genuine surprise, but he grinned and relented to his fate. “Deal,” he agreed.

  Bernice smiled but quickly cringed when her movements caused a very nasty creak to emanate from the undercarriage of her truck.

  Bernardo immediately squatted down and looked for the origination of the noise. “Looks like you maybe got a strut going,” he remarked to her.

  “Yah, we've been meaning to get that looked at,” Bernice grumbled. “Just haven't gotten around to it.”

  “Why don't you bring it down to my work?” he offered upon rising. “It's slow right now. Boss might throw in a discount for a first time customer.”

  Bernice talked through another bite of burrito. “You fix cars too? Do wonders never cease?”

  Bernardo gestured to his gorgeous raven haired bride. “With a new baby on the way the wonders better keep on coming.” His face shined with obvious pride.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Mescualez!” Bernice yelled and waved to Bernardo's wife. She smiled and waved back then looked pointedly at her husband as people started lining up for free samples.

  “Better get back,” he said bashfully and started walking off.

  “Wait,” Bernice beckoned. “Where do you work?”

  “West Side Auto!” he yelled back before joining his wife.

  The recognition of that name chimed through her head with vengeance just as her headache was starting to subside. She made a very unflattering face and pulled the small bottle of aspirin from her pants pocket.

  “Figures.”

  Chapter 8

  Agent Wyatt was fit to be tied on that beautiful Saturday morning, but he didn't think so. DCI regulation required him to “dress appropriately when on official business.” He usually liked the propriety of his suit, but today it was feeling especially constricting.

  He yanked at his tie like an ornery dog with a bothersome leash and approached Dr. Hildigaard's office. He practically snarled at the “be right back” sign flourished with an obnoxious happy face and resigned himself to the metal folding chair that sat outside.

  There in the nondescript hallway he was left with nothing to do but think. He was damn tired of doing so because it always led to that insufferable blonde who had seeped into his brain like a poison.

  Problem was she was becoming addictive. Even with his investigation getting more complicated, Agent Wyatt caught himself fixating on the ex-reporter from Minneapolis. He just couldn't wrap his head around why she was trying to pass herself off as just another dumb hick and failing miserably. Against his better judgment he was using his security clearance to find out more about Bernice. He justified it as being pertinent to the murder, but he knew it wasn't.

  He secretly acknowledged that she was none of his business. If she wasn't officially taken, that Roger guy made it clear he wanted her to be. Yet whenever he held her, touched her, kissed her, there was an undeniable heat between them that wasn't just in his head. Despite every lick of sense he possessed, he really wanted to find out what that was all about.

  His thoughts were mercifully interrupted by the squeak of shoes on the shiny gray floor. He looked up to see Melonie Hildigaard carrying a bulging white bag and large paper cup.

  “I got a craving and popped over to the store,” she announced brightly. “Hope you like doughnuts.” She shook the bag as an invitation.

  “No thanks,” Agent Wyatt answered with attempted politeness. “I wouldn't turn down a coffee though,” he added with a glimmer of hope.

  Melonie's face became slightly possessive as she glanced at her coffee. “Sorry,” she cringed, “but there's a machine down the hall if you'd like.”

  Taking notice that the vending machine coffee was not good enough for the resident ME, Agent Wyatt chose not to point out the obvious and simply stated, “That's okay, I'm good.”

  Melonie nodded, jostled her precious packages and somehow managed to fish out her keys.

  “Sorry to drag you in on a Saturday,” he apologized as he watched her jimmy the lock and turn the knob.

  “That's all right,” she replied.

  They entered the office. It was brightly lit by the morning sun, but Melonie flipped on the overhead fluorescents anyway. “Although I won't have a whole lot more to tell you until Wausau gets back to me with Tox on the remains.” She plopped the bag on the desk and settled into her chair, inhaling the mountain fresh aroma from her cup with unabashed delight.

  Agent Wyatt swallowed his irritation. He smiled instead. “But you can tell me what you found.”

  Melonie looked up from her coffee. “Oh yah, no problem there.” She nodded to the generic manila folder sitting in at the edge of her desk. “Take a seat,” she requested.

  Ironically, the folding chair sitting opposi
te the ME's desk was identical to the one he had just vacated in the hallway. Agent Wyatt sat with a scrape of metal, scooted up and slouched over his side of the desk. He popped open the folder and silently perused as Melonie made a noisy display of removing a white frosted bismark from her goodie bag.

  He quickly skimmed through the first couple of pages, finding nothing new with them. He slowed down on the third page, going more carefully.

  Melonie took notice. She chewed too quickly to actually taste the bismark and gulped a sip of coffee. “Good work on finding more of the remains,” she complimented him.

  Agent Wyatt looked up with slight annoyance at being interrupted but acknowledged with a pert “thanks.” He turned to the last page, reading more carefully again. Melonie filled the silence in the room with chewing and slurping.

  He went through the meager contents of the folder one more time, then folded it up and turned his attention out the window directly behind Melonie's head. There was nothing to see except an almost empty parking lot and trees, but his brain was in a completely different time and place.

  Melonie simply chewed and watched him. She wiped sticky raspberry filling from her mouth and took another swig of coffee before noisily wadding the empty wax paper into a ball and tossing it in the trash can at her feet. She stashed the other roll in her file cabinet for later and reclined in her chair, waiting for further instructions.

  “The machine marks on the joint bones were definitely from a reciprocal saw?” he questioned, finally acknowledging her once again.

  Agent Wyatt found her amused smirk confusing until she confessed, “I had a couple of deputies try out different tools on some cow femurs from the butcher shop.” The overlooked dollop of red filling on her cheek lent a morbid air to her admission. “Reciprocating saw was the best match.”

  “And the ligature marks?”

  “Based on the meager patch of skin I had to work with,” Melonie stated, “he was strangled from behind with something thin but strong.”