CHAPTER 27

NOT THE blast of her truck’s horn, not an alarm clock, not the telephone she’d turned off. As Rosemary’s sleep-clogged brain finally identified the sound that had awakened her as the bell over her gate, it clanged again. And Tank barked again.

She was on the couch, fully clothed except for her shoes, and she’d been here for…a long time. She pushed aside the blanket covering her, rolled over, sat up. Lurched to her feet. Made her way through the dark room to the front door and pulled it open. “Stop that!”

“Lady, it’s a good thing I wasn’t a lunatic with a Molotov cocktail.”

“Gus?”

“You got it. You want to let me in, or shall I just climb over?”

“I think I’d like to see that,” she muttered as she went to open the gate. Parked in the road out front was the vehicle in which he’d brought her home from Coffee Creek.

He caught the direction of her gaze as he moved past. “That’s my own 4Runner. You weren’t answering your phone, so I decided to come make sure you were still breathing; but I didn’t want it to look like police business. Hi, Tank,” he added to the dog, who waved his tail politely.

“And there goes my local notoriety,” said Rosemary, pausing at the door to turn on an inside light. “Oh—how’s Steve Runyon? I tried Kim’s number right after you left, but there wasn’t any answer.”

“She was at the hospital. Don’t worry, Runyon’s gonna live,” he added, reading her expression of concern but not its real cause. “But he won’t be very happy for a while. The bullet hit him at an angle, tore up his chest muscles and raised hell with his shoulder. We talked some at the hospital this afternoon, until the pain got to be too much and his doctor sedated him. Can I set this down somewhere?”

“This” was a brown paper bag with handles. She brushed aside thoughts of Kim’s probable fate, which was after all none of her business, and said, “What is it?”

“Supper. Or a late snack. Or lunch tomorrow if you’re not hungry tonight.”

“Put it in the kitchen. I’ve been asleep for…” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “My god, it’s nine o’clock. For five hours. I need to go wash my face.”

She returned some minutes later to find Gus lighting the fire he’d laid. “Didn’t want to make free of your liquor cabinet,” he said, “but if you feel up to talking for a while, I’d sure appreciate a drink.”

“Gin?” she asked, and he said, “Yes ma’am.”

When they were seated in the fireside chairs, Rosemary picked up her glass for a taste, and sighed. “I have definitely been drinking too much lately, and I plan to cut back. Probably tomorrow.”

“Good idea. Me, too.” He had a sip of his drink. “So. you want to tell me how you’re feeling?”

She gave that several moments’ thought. “I’m very glad to be alive.”

“Oh yeah.” He lifted his glass in salute.

“And beyond that…I have a friend, Patience Mackellar, who’s a private investigator in Port Silva. She said to me once that a person doing her kind of work needed the ability to maintain a certain emotional distance from the people involved.”

“That’s good thinking,” Gus said.

“Well, I just don’t make that cut. Sammie Andre murdered that young woman. She stalked Brianna Conroy and shot her down in cold blood. So far as she’s concerned, I’m no longer an opponent of the death penalty.”

“Rosemary—”

“I know, that’s simplistic. But you asked what my feelings were,” she said, and swirled the ice and gin around in her glass for a moment before sipping.

“I did. And I can understand them, maybe even agree,” he said, and then fixed her with what her sons would have called a “straight” look. “But you’d made it clear you didn’t want to see or have anything further to do with Andre. So I’m wondering, what were you doing down at the courthouse?”

“Fair enough question,” she said, and told him about Steve Runyon’s furious early-morning visit. “So I called your office and left a message saying he was interested in the Andre case and would be coming to see you. And later that morning, i got—worried? Curious? And came to town to find out what might be happening.”

“Next time just try my cell phone, okay? From a safe distance.”

“I’m not planning on a next time,” she said. “But Steve’s only real interest in the whole mess was his cousin’s death, and apparently he blamed Andre for it. So who was the man he was, what, bringing to you?” When he hesitated, Rosemary sat straighter and met his gaze directly. “Gus, if you feel you shouldn’t talk to me about this, please say so.”

“Shit, Rosemary, no point in stopping now. I’ve talked to you so much already that I’d lose my job in the next election, or sooner, if anybody found out.”

She raised a hand high as if in oath. “Sheriff Angstrom, if there’s anything I’ve learned in the last thirty years, it’s how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Hey, last time you made me a promise, you went right out and broke it.”

“I think you can assume I learned my lesson from that.”

“I am really glad to hear it. According to Steve Runyon, the guy was a nephew of Andre’s named Tony Duarte. For the past couple of years, or at least as long as Runyon has been handling security for the Conroys, this Duarte’s been one of a group of three or four young guys working for her, mostly at the ranch, driving, running errands, like that.”

“Oh ho! The gofers!”

“You have a good memory.”

“I’ve had good reason.” What she remembered now was Andre saying coldly that Tony should have been smarter. “Did he live here?”

“He had friends up in Siskiyou, and maybe some scattered relatives; the Siskiyou Sheriff’s Department is looking into that for us. Turns out Duarte was a mean little bastard with a lengthy juvenile record for stuff like assault and robbery, and Andre had helped him out several times, most recently with a job.”

Rosemary remembered Kim’s description of Steve at her kitchen table with his cell phone and a beer or several. “And Steve Runyon knew who Duarte was, and tracked him down.”

“Right.” Gus had a thoughtful sip of gin. ”He says Duarte admitted that his aunt sent him to kill Eddie Runyon, and since he figured he owed her, he paid his debt—probably with pleasure. While she was officially and visibly in DC the first week in October.”

She was silent for a moment. “Um, did Duarte tell Steve why his aunt wanted Eddie dead?”

He shook his head. “Just that he was a danger to her. But it’s like we suspected—you suspected. On Eddie’s last visit to the ranch, he commented on a painting on the wall of the office, told Cousin Steve that it looked a lot like a woman who was living near here.”

“He ‘commented’ on it. And that was it? No further discussion between them?”

“Steve says it didn’t mean anything to him at the time. He also says he himself had never met the woman under either name, and didn’t know much about her history. But he figures that for what-ever reason, Eddie just thought her death was something his cousin should be told about.”

“Gus, do you believe all that?”

“I rarely believe all of anything I hear. We did talk to Eddie after Mike Morgan’s death, as well as to several other guys who’d had a public beef with her, so maybe he worried that he was a serious suspect and wanted advice from his big-shit cousin. Maybe he did just want to keep his cousin informed. or it’s possible he thought the two of them might be able to make a little hay on what he knew…whatever it really was.

“Anyhow,” he went on, “Steve is at the hospital scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning, so he’ll be available for further questions for at least a day or two.” He looked at the glass in his hand as if surprised to find it empty. “I’m going to have another drink. You ready?”

“No, thanks,” she said primly. “I’m trying to cut back.” As he raised a questioning eyebrow, she tasted the remains of her drink, to find it mostly icewater. “Well, maybe a half,” she said, and handed him the glass.

“Good for you.” He was back in short order, and paused to poke up the fire before sitting down again.

Rosemary settled back in her chair and had a restorative sip from the newly chilled glass. Next chapter: “Have you had a chance to talk with Rob Roberts? About the woman he saw?”

“Rob is pretty sure Andre was the woman. We got out his calendar, and he decided it must have been on September seventeenth, a Saturday—four days before Brianna’s body was found. Turns out Eddie Runyon did work that day, but if he had any interaction with the woman in the big Porsche, Rob didn’t see it.”

“But if he did, and she saw him, that would explain a lot.”

“That’s two big ifs, and not likely to get us far in court without corroboration, which we will of course look for.”

“So Andre is being charged with Brianna’s murder?”

He shook his head. “Not yet, only with the death of Duarte and the shooting of Runyon. And the at-gunpoint abduction of an innocent citizen who happened to be on the scene. We’re not going to have any trouble holding onto her.”

“Good. And where, specifically, is she at the moment?”

“She’s in a cell, under suicide watch. Saying nothing.”

“Her lawyer?”

“The original one is withdrawing from the case. He’s not a criminal lawyer and not used to finding himself in the line of fire; probably had to go home and change his underwear. The second one, brought in by Conroy, will apparently stay. All three of them are lucky that Andre’s third shot was just flipped in their direction, not aimed.”

“Conroy,” Rosemary said with a grimace of distaste.

“Young David is not a warm, fuzzy person, I agree. But when I got back to the office this afternoon, he was waiting there full of apologies for what had happened to you. He says that he’d believed Andre’s story of being nearly out of her mind from despair when she attacked you at home, and thought she deserved a defense. But her actions this afternoon cleared his mind of that delusion.”

“I understand that many a man has found religion in the breath of a passing bullet.”

“So they tell me. Then, after Debbie Grace came in with a tape recorder, I informed him that in addition to the other charges, Andre was a suspect in his sister’s death.”

“Oh my. Was he upset?”

“Hard to say,” said Gus, and told her of the exchange in his office. “Then he left to fly back to the ranch in Modoc to break the latest news to his father. He thought it should come from him rather than me, and I agreed. And we agreed that he’d be back here in a day or two, with his lawyer in tow.”

“Do you, as a longtime cop, believe he was involved in his sister’s death?”

“If he was, Andre will get around to saying so eventually. And I should add that I didn’t mention that, or anything else specific about the investigation, to Conroy, and he didn’t push.”

“So the machinery is in motion, and I at least can forget about all this. Gus, what will happen to the poor deputy who lost control of his weapon?”

He grimaced. “We had a little talk about that, and he’s taking a couple of days off. But the guilt’s partly mine. The lawyer Conroy brought in for Andre made a fuss about our cuffing her hands behind her, waving a doctor’s memo saying her shoulders and back were stiff and sore from crashing her car and being roughly handled Monday night, and we—I—decided the alternative would do. Dumb move.”

“I wondered about it.”

“You’re not the only one.” He looked at his watch. “How would you feel about having something to eat?”

She paused, as if listening to some inner voice. “My stomach is reminding me that I missed lunch again today.”

“Right. have you got a microwave?”

 ————

“MY, this is above and beyond,” said Rosemary half an hour later. “Did you make it?” It was a stew with big chunks of tender beef, carrots, onions, turnips (she thought), mushrooms, and wonderful seasonings she couldn’t begin to name.

“No ma’am,” he assured her. “This would be far beyond my limited skills. I have this little back-door arrangement with The Restaurant.”

The Restaurant, located in an old brick building on Main Street in the historic district, was Weaverville’s sole entry in the fine-cuisine stakes. Perhaps “fine” was too elevated a word, but Rosemary thought the place would certainly have been well regarded in Arcata, and maybe even in Berkeley. “Back-door?”

“They don’t as a rule do takeout, but Maggie Sullivan, the owner and main chef, has known me for years. She was a good friend of Emily’s. So if I go to the kitchen and plead starvation, she’ll sell me a big dish of whatever is featured that night. This is today’s main entrée.”

“Bless her, and you.” She finished the last bite of stew, and sighed. “I’m sated. But I think we deserved that after such a nasty day. Do you believe—unfair question, I know—do you believe you’re going to be able to charge Andre with Brianna’s murder?”

“I do.” He sat back in his chair. “You can testify to the things she said to you today, and Runyon to what Tony said to him. What’s needed now is evidence, like more people who saw her here, and people who can testify as to where she wasn’t at the time of the shooting. We’re not big-city cops, but we work hard, and people cooperate with us. And our district attorney is a smart guy who could get a job anywhere but works here because he loves the area. I should add that I don’t think he’ll ask you to testify about what initially convinced you that Andre was the killer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You won’t have to get up on the stand and say your dog told you she did it.”

She slapped the flat of one hand on the tabletop. “I didn’t say that! I won’t say that!”

“I know. But you believe it. Emily thought a house without a dog was not quite a home, so we always had dogs,” he added as she frowned at him. ”Big dogs, usually males. The last one died not long after she did, and I just never got around to getting another one.”

‘You should,” she said, looking across the room at the sleeping Tank.

“I’m away from home too much; this is a big county, and I’m responsible for all of it. Anyway, one thing I learned about dogs: they don’t forget, particularly an injury. So if that dog saw Andre shoot his owner…” he nodded in Tank’s direction “…I’m not at all surprised that he attacked her on sight. And probably saved your life.”

She was touched by a shiver, of fear or just the memory of it, and reached for her wineglass and the last sip of red wine. “I know he did. What I can’t understand is why Andre—anyone—would have killed that young woman. What kind of threat could she possibly have been?”

“Oh, lady,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Look at Sammie Andre’s situation for a moment. She was a smart girl from a trashy family that had too many kids and a serious dedication to avoiding work. her education ended with community college. And at something like forty-five, here she was, the main go-to person for an important, powerful man. Brian Conroy was smart and he worked hard, and people liked him, here and in DC. Two of our county com-missioners have known him for some time, and think highly of him. All those things that Andre told you about her present life were true.

“Then Brian Conroy had a stroke,” he went on before Rosemary could reply, “and had to retire, but by good luck or clever politics, his son was named to succeed him. A quiet, hard-working guy Andre had known since he was a teenager, but not a natural politician so he was going to need an experienced hand to keep him on the rising track.”

“Having met them both,” she said slowly, “I have to agree that David Conroy lacks his father’s, what’s the word, presence? Charisma? But with his father’s help, he might have learned the game.”

”True. But what would have happened when that big, strong, smart sister suddenly reappeared on the scene? I read the journal and e-mails, too,” he added, “and talked to some of the people who knew her, including her brother. Brianna’s father would have regarded her as the prodigal returning, and she’d have sucked up all the air and possibly the political limelight. David says that was always B.D.’s plan for her, he was just a reluctant fill-in. And guess what effect that would have had on Andre’s position and income?”

“That’s sick.”

“Rosemary, you don’t have much of a power drive, and I don’t, either. But I’ve known people who do, and they can be deadly. In fact, it was probably the habit of wielding power that got Conroy into trouble with his daughter in the first place.”

“Okay. But when he finds out about all this… Never mind, I don’t want to think about it.” She got up and began clearing the table. “I’ll put the rest of the stew back in its container and you can take it home with you.”

“Just put it in your fridge,” he said, and got to his feet to stretch, and yawn hugely. “Sorry, long day. Time to head for the barn.”

Turning from the refrigerator, she watched him walk into the living room and noted the weary angle of his shoulders. And remembered that after a long, hard day he’d drunk two gins and almost half a bottle of wine. “Gus?”

He turned with a questioning look. “Yes ma’am?”

“It’s late, and you look too weary to drive. Why don’t you stay? I can testify that my couch is very comfortable,” she added quickly. “I slept there for hours this afternoon.”

He tipped his head to one side, considering. “You sure?”

I think so. “Why not? I can even provide a nice new toothbrush, the way you did for me.”

“Sounds like a good deal.”

“ROSEMARY?”

“Hmm?”

“What I’m wondering, do you have any kind of, uh, commitment or something, to Gray Campbell?”

Suppressing a giggle, she rolled onto her back and looked down at the outlines of their bodies under the blue and green waves of her comforter. “Shouldn’t you have asked me that a while back?”

“A while back my mind was otherwise occupied.”

“True. Gus, I can assure you that now and for the foreseeable future I have no commitment to anyone but myself. And of course to my sons, but they’re all grown up and on their own.”

“And to your dog.”

Now she did giggle. “Well, there’s that.”

He came up on one elbow, pushed the comforter down a bit, and dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. “So, got that cleared up,” he said, and settled back under the comforter.

She remembered something. “Do you want to bring your cell phone in here? In case you’re needed tonight.”

“Nope. Somebody else’s turn to be on call tonight. Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

She slid lower on her pillow, wondering whether perhaps Gus had purposely set this whole situation up. Shoot, she wasn’t sure she hadn’t set it up herself. Who knew? Who cared?