A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

be too much longer,” I said, easing into the ladderback chairs in the small office. 

“Hard to say with the sheriff,” Lonnie said, making a face that told me more than he felt comfortable saying out loud. Lonnie had hoped for the sheriff’s position himself. He’d spent a decade or more as deputy and expected to move up when Sheriff Cunningham died from a heart attack while changing a flat tire a couple of years ago.

“I wish I had more to offer you, but the coffee is old and worse than usual. How about a glass of cool spring water?”

“Thanks, Lonnie. How’s your mother doing?”

“Just fine, though this hot spell’s made it too hot to bake.” 

I chuckled. “I wasn’t hinting. Honest.”

We sat silently for a good while, which meant we could hear the heated conversation rumbling behind Brower’s closed door. Lonnie kept his head down, working on a report while I picked at my nails. Bad habits die hard. I practically had to sit on my hands to stop the obsession. I looked around for something to distract me, and a photo of President Ronald Reagan did the trick. I fanaticized about moving it inside one of the jail cells and watching Brower fume when he discovered it there. But I chose instead to sit on my hands. 

The ladderback chairs were remarkably comfortable, handmade by Bobby Mason, whose family had been crafting furniture since Daniel Boone lived nearby. They took the time to carve the back of the chairs to conform to the human back, instead of making their slats from flat wood. Good thing these chairs were already in the office when Brower took over. With his rigid posture—and thinking—he’d never have appreciated such thoughtful detail and would have ordered standard-issue metal chairs.

Lonnie was stuck with a small desk chair, his girth spilling over the seat and straining the springs. He couldn’t have been more different from Brower, and I thought about how uncomfortable it must be for them to work together in such a small office. I’d seen that happen so many times—life bringing people together with an opposite to make them both whole. Worth it in the long run, but hell to pay getting there.

The door banged open and Brower dropped a couple of pounds of reports on Lonnie’s desk. His face was flushed, and I wondered what that phone call had been about. Brower glared at me. “What do you want?”

“I want to show you something.”

“Okay, show me.” 

I fumbled for the file in my backpack. Goddammit, you are one lousy elected official, I thought to myself. Don’t you show respect to anyone? I flashed on Kitt and hoped she’d just given him the boot.

“I know you’re busy. I won’t take long,” I said, holding out the notes. “It’s about the two notes written by the dead woman, Lucy—her so-called suicide note and the thank-you note to Cleva Hall. The handwriting doesn’t match. I had an expert in Washington check it for me, and he assures me the same person didn’t write both notes.”

“Oh, great. Thank you, Nancy Drew. And here are some things I’d like you to PAY ATTENTION TO,” he shouted. Using his fingers to tick off his edicts, he continued, “First, what do you mean so-called suicide note? It was deemed a suicide by people way more knowledgeable than you. The tox screen showed hemlock, for Christ’s sake. She meant business. And we found a book on wild edibles—and not-so-edible plants like, oh, let’s me see, HEMLOCK, in her pack. Two, who authorized you to go running back to D.C., that hellhole of so-called experts who anyone can pay off for whatever they want? Three, we don’t need you playing detective around here. Stick to your cheeses and cookies, okay? And finally, and I do mean finally, THE CASE IS CLOSED. That’s it. Fini. Complete. Finished. Done.”

“Please,” I added before he could shout again, “just take a look at the notes.”

“I’ve already seen them,” he said, grabbing the notes but not looking at them. “So who’s your expert? Somebody at the FBI?” Brower used the notes to brush a speck of dust from Lonnie’s clean desk.

“An expert I know who works with the Treasury Department.”

“I said, who?”

“Someone I worked with when I lived there. An expert on forgery.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. And what are his qualifications?”

“As I said, he’s working for the Treasury Department, and he’s worked with other agencies.” Brower just stared at me, and out of nervousness, I added, “He was a very successful forger, but now he’s been hired by various agencies to help them spot forgeries.”

“Oh, great,” he said again. “A criminal. And was he ever caught?”

I didn’t answer.

“Well, was he?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, so you want me to reopen a case based on the word of a convicted felon—who is so great at his job that he gets caught!”

“Just look at these notes. Please.”

Brower looked down at the two notes he was holding. “I’m looking, and they appear to be written by the same hand.”

“Look at the R’s and the upswing at the beginning and end of the words,” I explained, just as Nigel had for me.

“I’m looking, and as I just said, they were written by the same hand. How many times do I have to say it before you to get it? Hell, she was crazy with something—fear, depression, whatever—when she wrote that second note. She wasn’t exactly striving for an A in penmanship.”

“You don’t care, do you? You just want this case off your desk. You’re not even listening.”

“I’m listening, all right, and I’m hearing bullshit.” He leaned on Lonnie’s desk, stretching his face up until it was uncomfortably close to mine. “Why. Do. You. Care. So. Much?”

I stepped back from him and said, “How. Can. You. Not?”  

Brower flinched, but just for a moment. As I quickly packed up my things, grabbing the notes and hurrying toward the door, he growled at Lonnie, “And how the hell did she get a copy of that suicide note?” I caught a glimpse of Lonnie shrugging. As I closed the door, I heard Brower mumble, “Probably that reporter.”