Last Casualty

“I love this carefully crafted mystery with its horse farm setting, heavily flawed heroine, and an ending that has stayed with me for days. A great read.”

—HAN NOLAN, National Book Award Winning Author of Dancing on the Edge “Last Casualty will leave you with a lasting thirst for more from one of the best new mystery writers on the scene—Lee W. Doty. The second in her entertaining and engrossing Norma Bergen series, Last Casualty delivers a brilliant mix of horse-farm couture, history-slamming secrets from a bloody Civil War battlefield, and the consequences of dangerous pharmaceutical marketeering—all in and around a tony little college town in the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia.”

—PATRICIA A. DONOHOE, author of The Printer’s Kiss: The Life and Letters of a Civil War Newspaperman and His Family

N O R M A

B E R G E N

M U R D E R

M Y ST E RY

LAST CASUALTY

LEE W. DOTY

LEE W. DOTY received her MFA in Creative Writing from Rosemont College. Lee spent most of her professional life as a lawyer in Washington, DC and Philadelphia. Her first Norma Bergen novel, Tidal Kin, received a New England Book Festival Honorable Mention. She now divides her time between Cape Cod and West Virginia, where she teaches creative writing in the Shepherd University Lifelong Learning program.

A

LAST CASUALTY

Everyone thought those who died on the Antietam Battlefield did so more than 150 years ago, that is until Norma Bergen, a prickly, stubborn, but otherwise loveable lawyer-between-jobs, stumbles onto someone new. When her teenage daughter realizes the person who died was her close friend, she falls into an alarming depression, driving Norma to bring the killer to justice.

Norma’s husband wants to help, in between boarding, training, and instructing on their new horse farm, but no one can help Norma when she faces an unexpected, devastating loss. Last Casualty, the second murder mystery in the Norma Bergen series, delivers all the humor, heartache, and triumph of real life.

LEE W. DOTY

Lee W. Doty

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books, Inc.

Terra Alta, WV

Last Casualty

by Lee W. Doty copyright ©2021 Lee W. Doty All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com Tel: 304-789-3001 Email: mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books Cover photos by cascoly (Big Stock#48865589), Arnold Mécses (Unsplash) ISBN 13: 9781951556549

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021934928

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

For my grandchildren Kate, Amelia, and Emerson and for my husband, Ralph.

1 I swung my bag full of Antietam Battlefield brochures, my lunch, and a chilled bottle of chardonnay onto the backseat of the Prius. I’d intended to share the wine with my husband, Will Coigne. The day trip was supposed to be my reward for being a good sport. You see, it hadn’t been my idea to leave my home and general law practice on Cape Cod to move to a horse farm in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. It was Coigne’s.

I’d warned him well in advance I couldn’t train, instruct, ride, muck out, turn out, tack up, or anything else associated with horses. The fact that he and our sixteen-year-old daughter Laney, whom we’d adopted two years earlier, were having the time of their lives on the farm while I’d been sulking ever since we’d arrived six months ago convinced him I needed cheering up. Coigne had planned for all of us to take the day off from horsing around, as he put it, to tour Antietam and enjoy a picnic afterward. He wasn’t a history buff like I was, so I appreciated his willingness to make a day of it. What a sucker.

Earlier that morning, Coigne slipped into the kitchen after giving the horses a final check. Laney was tapping on her phone while she ate an English muffin and missed his shamefaced look, but not I. “Hey, you two,” I said, somewhat wary. “Let’s get a move on. The park’s been open for fifteen minutes already. Summer schedule.”

“I’m so sorry, Norma.”

“Oh, Coigne. Out with it.”

5

Last Casualty

“That new Rocky Mountain mare is having trouble settling in. Would you mind terribly if we delayed an hour or two, at most three?

I winced.

“Don’t look like that, babe.”

Truth is I might have considered postponing our departure until Laney said, “Great. Can I go to Dell’s? I’ll be back whenever you say.”

The person she really wanted to see was Dell’s brother, Owen, the grey-eyed heartthrob Laney had met volunteering at the animal shelter.

Part of me was so grateful to have Laney and Coigne in my life—rather late at forty-four for a new marriage and motherhood, but so what—that I was ready to be gracious about the delay.

The other part of me, the you-don’t-sucker-me-twice part, knew three hours would turn into a full day.

Alone and irked, I drove the short distance to the Visitor’s Center parking lot of Antietam. Named for a creek, it’s a battlefield once strewn with torn limbs and bloodied heads like the rest of them, but it’s also peaceful farmland—soft, undulating fields interrupted by the occasional farmhouse, crisscrossed by post and rail fencing, and shadowed by a somber blue ridge. Hard to imagine a hundred-thousand young men charging forth waving banners and shouting primeval war cries. If only they’d known the battle lines would barely shift, they could have skipped the whole bloodbath. But then how would Antietam get its place in history as our single deadliest day?

One step out of my car, a few across the parking lot, and my clothes were soaked in sweat. July in West Virginia was nothing like a crisp summer morn on the Cape, another grievance for the list. I found relief in the refrigerated lobby while rummaging for my wallet.

“Go on and catch the show,” the park guide said. “You haven’t missed much. Pay later.” Must have mistaken me for some VIP. He handed me a touring pamphlet that unfolded like a map and directed me to a small, pristine theater for a thirty-minute background film. When it was over, he guided the audience 6

Lee W. Doty

upstairs to a large open space with new-smelling carpet, rows of built-in benches, and glass walls that overlooked the vast, stunning battlefield.

I looked for a vacant seat and zeroed in on one next to a silverhaired man. Trim and muscular, he sat in an area cordoned off with rope, browsing through his pamphlet. His hair was matted in places, and his worn-out white polo shirt had a spot of fresh egg as its logo. I sat down beside him. “Excuse me, is this area roped off for some reason?”

“Yes. It’s reserved for special people. You’re in the right seat.”

I liked the guy.

We were soon joined by a writhing throng of young campers and their counselors. Everyone’s T-shirt said “Camp Keedy.” I didn’t mind them, if they didn’t mind me, and it was too late to move.

The lecturer reminded me of Santa Claus, with a full white beard and a belly that spilled over his belt, forcing its brass buckle to face the ground. He led us through the battles of that infamous day, and the guy was good. Cannons roared as the air filled with acrid smoke. When my eyes cleared, low piles of crumpled bodies lay beyond the glass walls as far as I could see. He was that good.

He’d started with the one-room Dunker Church, where the Confederates stationed their artillery and prepared for battle.

Robert E. Lee had an odd sense of humor, launching all that savagery from a pacifist church.

The silver-haired man next to me leaned over and whispered, “I need to own up to a treasonous thought. I’m a Yankee and I know how it all comes out, but I root for the Rebels.”

“Why’s that?”

A woman two rows ahead turned around and shushed me.

I’d noticed her earlier, but now I took a good look. About my age, she wore a long black skirt fringed at the hem in tiny “gold” coins, a purple off-the-shoulder blouse, and large hoop earrings beneath wavy black hair. In brief, she was dressed for telling fortunes, except for the hat. It was a sorry old broad-brimmed affair that would have suited our Rocky Mountain mare just fine.

Silver Hair answered The Shusher by raising the volume on 7

Last Casualty

his whisper. “You can’t help but root for them,” he said, “even though what they fought for was wrong. They were always outnumbered, out-fed, and out-equipped by the Yanks, yet they kept on coming and, more often than not, they won.”

“For a while, anyway.” I hoped my snide tone implied a profound knowledge of Civil War history.

“Shhh. Shhh.”

“Both sides had courage,” he continued, unfazed by The Shusher, “but the Confederate Army had General Lee and the Yanks had General McClellan, a master of leadership—except when it came time to fight.”

“No wonder Lincoln fired him.”

“Shhh!”

The Shusher’s reproof sounded much louder than our whispers, but I couldn’t help wishing I were seated next to Coigne, not Silver Hair. I don’t usually brag, which is a brag in and of itself, but my husband would never continue to speak once shushed. He was the most considerate person I’d ever met.

This trait surprised me at first since his dad was a founding father of Boston’s Irish Mafia, serving several consecutive life sentences at Florence ADX. Never assume.

I thought I might ask Silver Hair to join me after the lecture to walk the battlefield. Since my own family had cast me adrift, why not pick up some free historical perspective? But I blew it.

The guide clasped his hands behind his back and looked heavenward. “Folks,” he said, and then paused until he had our full attention. He wound himself up for a grand finale. “The casualties on that one day . . .” and here, an imaginary drum rolled. Then QUACK-QUACK. Out of nowhere, the room filled with quacking—my cell phone ring tone! The young campers next to me went berserk.

“I repeat, the casualties stand at twenty-three thousand!” the guide shouted, his eyes sewn shut with indignation.

The Shusher swung around, ready to swear out a criminal complaint. Silver Hair looked pained. I was only thankful Laney and Coigne weren’t there to witness my shame. The thought of Laney and all she’d been through before she came to us, reminded 8

Lee W. Doty

me to take nothing for granted. I retrieved my phone from my purse and made sure that call hadn’t come from Coigne or her.

It was spam.

While others stretched and lined up to ask the guide questions, I hightailed down the steps, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the front desk, and headed outside, hoping to avoid visitors who might want to instruct me on cell phone etiquette. It was still so hot, Death Valley didn’t come close. I wanted to go home, but that was out of the question. This outing was my reward. I had to rally.

My first stop would be the Sunken Road, a.k.a. Bloody Lane.

The site was a good half-mile from the Visitor’s Center and a ladies’ room, a fact I didn’t appreciate as I set out on foot.

Bloody Lane is a long rut formed years before the war by farmers hauling grain. I’d planned to hop down into the rut, as it would give me the best chance to imagine the battle just as it had been fought.

I reached the site and stood beneath a tree that cast shade the size of a doormat. It didn’t help that, at nearly six feet, I was almost as tall as the tree. Oddly, the tranquility of my surroundings soon overcame me, and I stopped fussing long enough to listen. I heard nothing other than the buzz of bees faintly in the distance. After all the carnage of battle, the same quiet would have descended over those embracing dead boys.

“You look like you could use this.”

I whirled around. Silver Hair. “How did you get here so fast?”

He handed me a cold bottle of water and nodded toward an old red Mazda Miata in a pull-off from the road.

I wondered how he’d overcome his disgust at my untimely quack noise enough to speak to me again. It sure wasn’t my gorgeous looks. I pushed the blond wisps sticking to my facesweat back under my fishing hat. Bottle in hand, I leaned back and poured a thin stream of water onto my face, then swigged mightily. “Thanks. And I need to explain about my ducks back there.”

“Don’t explain. It was funny. If we can’t laugh, we’ll cry.”

Silver Hair removed his baseball cap and fanned his flushed face.

“It was murder, you know.”

9

Last Casualty

“Murder? Soldiers aren’t—” “Not the soldiers. Those boys had no idea what they were getting into. Little to no training, just a lot of rhetoric. The generals and politicians sent them unarmed into lethal fire. I call that murder.”

I took a few more sips while he consulted a serious-looking paperback. This guy wasn’t your typical Civil War nut. “Are you a Vietnam veteran?”

He shrugged. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or no. I now saw his hair wasn’t matted from lack of a comb. Four cowlicks spiraled like miniature silver whirlpools atop his head. His jaw was slightly misaligned, which gave him a wise-guy smile. I could tell he was self-conscious about it, the way he suppressed a smile as soon as it got started. “I’m Norma. Who are you?”

“I’m Gene.”

We shook hands, stared down the long bloody lane and got lost in our own thoughts. We tried to lighten the mood by insulting one another about the other’s favorite Civil War historian. His was Shelby Foote, but I’d take James McPherson any day. Then he argued that the Emancipation Proclamation, made possible by the battle at Antietam, was the greatest American historical document.

“That’s nonsense. Everyone knows it was the United States Constitution.” Our dispute was so ludicrous, we fought over which Civil War battleground, hospital, statue, library, and general was the greatest.

I enjoyed this thrust and parry with Gene and was almost sorry when he said, “I’ll be on my way then. Headed to Pry House.

You know, McClellan’s Headquarters. The Medicine Museum.”

I might have joined him, but after that bottle of spring water, Mother Nature called, and I needed to answer fast. We said goodbye.

No way I’d make it all the way back to the Visitors Center. An overgrown pathway off Bloody Lane led me to a huge thicket that showed up in the nick of time. As I moved deeper toward the center of it, I stifled a laugh. Another woman must have gotten the same call. In a small clearing, a foot, or rather, an ugly shoe, 10

Lee W. Doty

stuck out from behind a wide tree trunk. The foot reminded me of something the guide had told us: “Every once in a while, after a long, hard rain, soldiers’ bones still poke through the ground.”

Gave me the willies.

The way the woman leaned with her back against the trunk seemed like an awkward position, but you do what you have to do.

What bothered me was her shoe. It never moved. I didn’t want to frighten her, especially under such embarrassing circumstances, so I stood and waited a second, and then called out, “Hello. Are you okay?”

Silence.

“If you need toilet paper, I have a softish pamphlet.”

Nothing. I was concerned, even a little spooked, but I tried to reassure myself. It was daytime. Not a cloud in the sky. A mild breeze wafted through the clearing. Leaves flickered cheerfully as their shadows dappled below. I could handle this.

In a sing-song voice, I said, “I’m approaching you now,” and narrowed the gap between us. Three feet away and that foot still didn’t move. By this time, the breeze had died. No sound from the owner of the shoe. Something was terribly wrong. I steeled myself to commit what would normally be an unforgivable intrusion. I rounded the tree.

A young woman sagged against the trunk, bound in place by rope. I staggered backward. This has to be a prank. Some asshole thinks it’s a big laugh to tie a dummy to a tree.

But she was real. Clothed in shorts and a tank top, her body was long and slender, her knees buckled, and her head pitched forward. Long blond hair hid her face, and a shaft of sunlight whitened the back of her neck. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move.

I knew I shouldn’t touch a thing, but what if she weren’t dead and needed help?

My hand shook, making it hard to move her hair from her face without touching her skin. God, I did not want to touch it but forced myself.

I bent over for a closer look. Her eyes were open and sightless, and they were grey—a familiar, navy blue-grey. “Oh, no. Not you.”

11

Last Casualty

I closed my eyes, prayed for the nerve to continue, and placed my finger beneath her nose. No air. I tried her wrist for a pulse.

Nothing. I stepped back on tiptoe, careful—belatedly—not to trample the area, and looked her over. Blood had left a rusty path from temple to lip. Otherwise, no marks marred her face.

I looked around without moving my feet and found no trace that anyone else had been there—no cigarette butt or beer can, no depressed area nearby. I reached for my cell phone and the service was good.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

The dispatcher kept asking me to breathe and speak slowly until I finally got it all out.

“My name is Norma Bergen. I’ve just found a body. She’s dead, and I know her. It’s Dell. Dell Spenser.”

12

2 “You say you’ve found a body, Ms. Bergen? That’s fine. You’re doing fine. Is the person breathing and conscious?”

The dispatcher continued to pull gently on my threads of information, but I felt disoriented, uncertain whether I was dreaming or hallucinating from the heat.

“You say you know the woman? What did you say her name was?”

“Her name is Dell. That’s for Adelaide. Adelaide Spenser. But she’s not a woman.” I struggled to get it out. “She’s just eighteen.”

“This is very helpful. Are you sure she is dead?”

“Yes.” She said police and an ambulance were on their way, and I was to do nothing but wait right where I was. Despite her warning, I answered nature’s call and then phoned Coigne. *** “I should never have stayed with the mare. I’m so sorry. We should have gone with you,” Coigne said.

“Like it wouldn’t have happened if you’d been here?” I sat on the stairs that led from the roadway down into Bloody Lane.

“You wouldn’t have had to deal with it alone. Besides, I have some experience in this area. It wasn’t that long ago I investigated dead bodies for a living, you know.”

“Ah yes, the good old days.” Coigne had been a state trooper on the Cape. “Hold on. I won’t be alone much longer. Here comes the cavalry. Actually, they’re park rangers. And an ambulance. I’ll have to call you back.”

13

Last Casualty

“At least you sound more like yourself now.” He said nothing for a moment. “Look. This is crazy. I’m five miles away. I’ll leave home right now.”

“Good God, no. I’ll be there before you know it and I’ll call when I’m on my way.” I started to hang up, but didn’t. Sometimes I needed to remind myself that, in Coigne’s case, kindness was genuine. I could trust it. “Thanks for offering to come. I love you.”

Those three words had always made my lips go numb. Even after two years of marriage, they were still hard to say. Before Coigne, no adult had seemed worthy of my love, and that included my parents. Especially my parents.

One of the visitors to the battlefield that day, by chance, was Deputy Sheriff Sean Hoag from Jefferson County, my home county and Dell’s. He broadcast his law enforcement status by barking at any visitors headed toward the crime scene. I was acquainted with our sheriff, Hoag’s boss, and he seemed all right, but I didn’t like the looks of Hoag.

An ambulance pulled up, and I could hear more sirens in the distance. The first responders raced to the body. Then the police arrived and began a search of the area, moving in concentric circles away from Dell. The fact that no one hurried to get her into the ambulance and off to the hospital confirmed what I already knew.

I wondered why the Maryland police allowed Deputy Hoag to question me. They, along with the park service rangers, probably had jurisdiction over the battlefield. But Hoag was first on the scene and maybe Maryland was just as happy to hand me off.

With that wide-brimmed hat worn low on his forehead, the cold, dead eyes, and the square, flat face, he might have intimidated me, but I was too shaken to be impressed.

“Quite a coincidence, you here in the middle of nowhere, only to find the body of someone you know. Can you explain that, ma’am?”

“Explain what? I’m the one who called nine-one-one and hung around to be questioned. If I’m somehow involved, how do you explain that, sir?”

14

Lee W. Doty

“We have a suspicious death here. Just answer my questions without all the attitude, ma’am.”

My response might have sounded a little sharp. I was embarrassed to tell him I’d been taking a pee. Maybe I should have had Coigne on hand to deal with Hoag, but did I need a man to protect me just because I’d married? Any other member of law enforcement would have questioned me with sensitivity— as though I’d just discovered a dead body. What was wrong with this guy?

After a couple of hours with Deputy Hoag, I was ready to hike over to the Antietam Cemetery, dig a big hole, and hop in.

But as it turns out, I had something in common with him. I, too, wanted to know what Dell was doing at Antietam. There was no one less likely to be mistaken for a Civil War enthusiast—not that I knew her well, but well enough.

While Hoag strutted about, I thought about Dell and her family. Death hadn’t changed my opinion of her in life. She’d been a spoiled young woman. Still, she was undoubtedly loved by her family, and they would suffer when they learned of her death.

And I thought of Dell’s brother Owen, just a year younger. He worshipped Dell. But my real worry was for Owen’s girlfriend, my daughter Laney. She also worshipped Dell.

15

3 I’d never before been so glad to get home to the farm as I was that day. The good thing about Laney and Coigne—they knew when to hover and mollycoddle and when to disappear.

They must have realized how upset I was, the way they fussed as they settled me in the living room and consulted each other like they were the parents and I was their sick child. Still, Laney’s movements were too rapid and jerky as she plumped up cushions for me on the sofa. Something was wrong.

“Come here, you.” I pulled her close. “I’m sorry about Dell. I know you thought so highly of her, and she was beautiful.”

She pulled back. “Owen called right before you came in. We didn’t talk long. He started to cry.” Her own voice broke and tears began to roll.

I hugged her tightly while she sobbed and shuddered and hiccupped.

“Give it a few days, kid, then try him again.” Coigne patted her shoulder.

Laney had to be confused. How could someone as young and carefree as Dell come to such a sudden, gruesome end? Laney should not have had to face another death until she was an old lady. If all people were meted out so many bad experiences per lifetime, Laney had already met her quota. In a single summer, she’d been kidnapped and her parents murdered, all as part of a criminal grab for valuable property on the Cape. That same summer, her grandmother, who’d been her guardian for years because of her parents’ drug problems, committed suicide.

16

Lee W. Doty

Coigne was finally able to make Laney smile with one of his horse jokes—who knew there was a horse pun for every occasion—and I left her in his hands while I went for a nice long soak. By the time I’d sunk into the bathtub, Coigne arrived with a frosted glass filled to the rim with chardonnay. He left me to it.

Hard to fathom how our family happened. There I was, a damn good lawyer, Laney lived with her grandmother, and Coigne contentedly fought bad guys on the Cape. It all started when Laney was kidnapped. If it hadn’t been for Coigne, I doubt she would have survived. I admit it was an unusual circumstance for falling in love.

Laney’s grandmother had been my neighbor for years and we were best friends. Just before she died, Anne asked that I take care of Laney, but I would have done so anyway.

Following Laney’s annus horribilus, Coigne and I didn’t think she would ever climb out of her well of despair. It had taken all the love and groundless optimism Coigne and I could muster, as well as professional counseling to manage the nightmares and flashbacks, just to keep her from saying her own permanent goodbye. Only when Coigne told her about the horse farm he’d inherited did she show any spark of interest in this world. The more she learned about the place, the more her depression lifted.

She and Coigne conspired to sell me on the idea of marriage and the move. With all that in the background, how could I nix their plan? I loved them and I had no intention of losing them, in any sense of the word. Laney still grew distant and unreachable now and again, still worried the new mailman might turn out to be a kidnapper, but the girl had guts. Her joyful immersion into life with her equine buddies almost made the sudden move to West Virginia seem sane.

I replenished the hot water for a rinse off and thanked heaven Laney and Coigne hadn’t come with me to Antietam earlier.

What if Laney had been the one to answer the call of nature and found Dell? The thought almost made me black out.

We sat down to burgers for dinner and didn’t say much, then wandered out to the porch. Coigne pointed out twelve deer leaping single file into the woods. Long-legged and synchronized, they reminded me of Radio City Rockettes.

17

Last Casualty

Laney absently picked at the loose wicker on the arm of her chair. “I bet you could find out how the investigation is going, Coigne. You know, its progress. That might help Owen, if you could find out things. Would you?”

“She’s right. They must have some professional courtesy for fellow law enforcement types.” If Laney could help Owen, even indirectly through Coigne, she would have some sense of control over her own life. “You could liaise or something.”

He leaned over and patted Laney’s hand, incidentally halting further deterioration of the wicker. “I don’t think they’ll say yes, but it can’t hurt to make the call, right?”

The sun was now a sliver of butterscotch, seconds from disappearing. A cricket chorus swelled to a deafening ring as the sliver sank from sight. Laney and Coigne left for a last look at the horses. Her silhouette as she looked up at Coigne looked just like that of her grandmother. Thoughts of death that evening brought back the pain of losing my friend Anne, but I forced myself to shake it off. The evening belonged to Dell. *** It had grown late, and we were all ready to turn in. I worried the day’s events might bring a return of Laney’s nightmares. We’d just have to see. Our bedroom, the color of a pasty complexion, needed attention, but for the foreseeable future, the horses came first. On the far side of our bed, Coigne turned down the blue comforter and sat, his back to me, and untied his shoes. We were both lost in thought, the only sound, the bathtub tap next door weeping to be turned off.

Coigne didn’t work out at a gym, but his shoulders bulged and his waistline tapered from all that hay pitching and manure shoveling. As he bent over to remove his socks, I felt an urge to cross the bed on my knees and wrap my arms around him. I gave in to it and nibbled a kiss on his ear.

He turned to face me. “You’ve had a rough day.”

18

Lee W. Doty

“Poor Laney, though. Here we go again. You think you’ll get anywhere with whoever’s assigned to investigate?”

“I don’t know. They have no reason to take the time to keep me posted.” He turned around to face me. “Besides, I’ve got my hands full with the farm.”

“I wish I could help you more, Coigne.”

“Oh, you can, my dear. You can.” With an acolyte’s solemnity, he removed my T-shirt.

19

4 The next morning, Coigne and I sat in my office, a small den with stacked boxes of books we had yet to unpack, while he phoned Deputy Hoag. He left a detailed voicemail message, explaining his background in law enforcement. When he finished he said, “All we can do now is wait.”

“Wait? I don’t think Laney can wait. She seems so low.”

“No choice. We’re not high on Deputy Hoag’s priority list.”

He stood and stretched. “Let’s get to work around here, and he’ll call back all the sooner.”

That made no sense, but I liked positive thinking.

With no word from Hoag by the next morning and no further word from Owen, Laney turned steadily inward. She stayed close to Coigne even more than usual, which, I admit, annoyed me, but my mature self knew to be grateful she drew strength from at least one of us when she was stressed.

Laney came inside to see me midmorning, armed with an agenda. “I’m sure the Spensers want to talk to you. They must have all these questions about Dell’s death, and you could tell them things—you know—things the authorities don’t know.

Could you go see them?”

“I don’t know. I’m worried it’s too soon.” I hated to flat out say no. “Most people want to grieve in private, just family at first.”

She didn’t plead or get angry and she didn’t cry. For the rest of the morning she didn’t do much of anything. It wasn’t emotional blackmail. She shut down the same way she had several years before. We’d feared for her mental stability then, and I couldn’t let that happen again.

20

Lee W. Doty

“All right, I’ll go, but it sure won’t surprise me if it’s awkward.”

Laney reached up for my hat—a long reach for someone fivetwo—and tossed it in the air. “You’re the best.”

But what could I say when I got there? I’d never met them, and even Laney had never been invited to Owen’s home. Odd, but it was always the other way around—he came to our house.

I was curious about them, and about why Dell was at Antietam.

Maybe the Spensers knew who’d had it in for her enough to kill her and strap her to a tree like a rag doll? I’d stay thirty minutes, but if they weren’t up for a talk, I’d get the hell out as fast as I could.

Even I knew the camo pants I had on wouldn’t do, so I donned a baggy black sundress, slipped on sandals, and almost got out the door before Laney caught up with me.

“Oh no. Please tell me you’re not wearing that trash bag to the Spensers’ house. You know you’d look great if you just made some effort.”

I had to laugh. “Your grandmother used to say if I didn’t slouch so much and walk like a duck, I’d be drop-dead gorgeous.”

“I’m sure she was kidding. About the slouch.”

“Very funny, wise guy.” Laney sounded almost playful. God, let it last.

“Owen says you remind him of Murphy Brown. I don’t know who she is, but I think it’s a compliment.”

“She’s a character in an old sitcom, a tough investigative reporter and quite attractive. I’ll take that as a strong endorsement, in which case I can keep the trash bag on.”

The Spensers’ driveway was a half-mile, tree-canopied lane that led to a Tuscan villa. I don’t make snap judgments based on people’s homes, but the Trevi Fountain set-up out front told me the Spensers were out to impress. Something didn’t fit. The new plant location of Phelps PLC, Mr. Spenser’s employer, was just a few miles over the Virginia line in horse-and-wine country, a perfect place to showcase wealth. Yet they’d chosen to build their villa in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. For most business executives, West Virginia is not the first state that comes to mind when one seeks to impress. On a good day, it’s full of purple 21

Last Casualty

mountains’ majesty and salt of the earth types. On a bad day, it’s a damn easy place to buy guns.

I was relieved to see no other cars parked in the driveway.

I didn’t want to intrude on a family gathering. When Owen answered the door, he no longer looked like the hunky hunk Laney had come to love—six-two, warm smile, and a spring in his step. He was a hunched over, glassy-eyed basset hound in a black suit. I couldn’t think of what to say and settled on a hug.

“My dad and mom are in the salon.”

Salon? Vinyl armchairs and dryer hoods? Surely not.

He led me by the elbow down a long hall filled with the aroma of dark roast coffee. It turned out the salon, graced from above by a coffered ceiling, ran the full length of the first floor and overlooked a small lake, rolling fields, and fenced pastures. To my horror, it was filled with well-dressed mourners, young and old, murmuring over fine bone china. They huddled around a table at the center of which was a silver epergne, I believe they call them, tiered with lit candles and dishes of little brunch pastries. It didn’t seem quite the thing to reach over and grab one. I also worried my sandals had tracked horse manure onto the silk threads of their Aubusson rug. These pricks of insecurity subsided as I wondered a) why I hadn’t seen any cars in the driveway, yet here was a room full of people, and b) with a number of teenagers in the room, why wasn’t Laney among them? Owen left my side to whisper to a woman I assumed was his mother.

Elegance was the word for Mrs. Spenser. Mid-fifties, her hair was a natural salt and pepper blend. No Nice N’ Easy root cover for her. She wore it shoulder-length, the ends slightly tipped up and the sides pulled back in a simple silver clip. She was petite and wore a black, well-tailored pants suit. For jewelry, she wore pearl teardrop earrings and left it at that. Despite swollen, red eyelids, the look in her light blue eyes wasn’t hard to read. It was anger.

She crossed the room. “You are Laney’s guardian, Norma Bergen?” Her low voice didn’t fit the delicate frame.

“I’m Laney’s mother. And may I say how sorry—” “You are not welcome here.”

22

Lee W. Doty

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. I tried to speak, but she cut me off.

“I don’t know how you can show your face, after the way you treated my daughter at your home. She was your dinner guest and just a child.” As her voice rose, the salon grew quiet. “The police say you were the one to find Dell, and you were not cooperative.

Our lawyer says you may be charged yourself.”

I opened my mouth, but no words followed. A man I assumed to be Mr. Spenser, as tall as Owen, trim, military bearing, walked over and placed his arm around Mrs. Spenser’s waist. “It would be best if you came another time. I’m sure you understand.” Like his son, he cupped my elbow and guided me toward the door.

I made it to the foyer sputtering nonsense, like I was about to black out, but managed to say, “I’m afraid I don’t understand what your wife meant.”

“My wife has taken Dell’s death hard, as we all have. We don’t understand who would want to hurt her.” He shook his head, studied his shoes a moment, then shook his head some more.

I felt sorry for him. While Mrs. Spenser had rage and apparently a target—me—Mr. Spenser had no such buffer from his pain. What he did have was the reputation as a sharp, successful businessman and lobbyist for Phelps. Owen had always spoken of him with such pride. The man before me bore no resemblance to that Phelps executive. This man was in shock.

“You’d better go,” he said. “We will receive the public another day.”

He opened the front door and turned his back.

23

5 Under other circumstances, I would have taken umbrage at being thrown out, certainly, but also at being lumped in with “the public.” Where did Mr. Spenser think he was, the Vatican? And by the way, what the hell did Mrs. Spenser mean? I had treated Dell like anyone else.

We’d last seen Dell the night Laney invited Owen to stay for dinner. It was a school night, but hearts were young, spring had sprung, etc., and Laney had already spent all afternoon on her history paper. A break was well-deserved.

Midway into the spaghetti and meatballs, Dell showed up. I found it strange a teenager would plop down at our dinner table, uninvited, but since neither Coigne nor I had raised children, what did we know?

Dell was tall like her brother and would have been a natural for the girls’ basketball team if she’d had any interest. With those unnatural blue-grey eyes and prominent cheekbones, lips full and pouty, she looked like any other goddess, unfriendly and aloof.

We were in the middle of a conversation about Sally Hemings.

Owen was explaining how he couldn’t believe his hero, Thomas Jefferson, had owned slaves, much less sired children by one of them.

“Even if he did get her pregnant,” Dell said, as Coigne handed her a glass of water, “so long as Sally never objected, what was the big deal? Maybe she even enjoyed herself.”

I dropped my fork onto my plate. “I’m not sure which is worse, the ignorance of that statement or the cruelty.”

24

Lee W. Doty

“Norma!” Laney looked scandalized. Dell appeared not to have heard me.

Coigne, bless his heart, waded into a lengthy explanation of how someone without any choice can’t give a meaningful consent.

“I hear you, Mr. Coigne,” Dell said, “but no one can make you do what you really don’t want to do.”

Oh? I don’t want to have dinner with you, Dell, and yet here I sit. For Laney’s sake, I kept that thought to myself.

Owen seemed unaware his year-older sister might come across as offensive. To him, her attributes must have been obvious to everyone, which made me wonder what he saw in Laney. Of course, Laney was superior to Dell in all respects, but she was not beautiful in the sense that you’d find her being photographed on a runway in Milan. No, you’d see Laney and sunrise in the same frame. She too was blonde, with a boyish slenderness, but there was nothing aloof about her. Those hazel eyes and her tendency to blush told you all you needed to know about how she felt.

The Jefferson/Hemings debate ebbed and Coigne transitioned from historian to host. “Go on and try some of Norma’s spaghetti, Dell. It’s unforgettable.”

“No thanks, Mr. Coigne. I have to watch my figure.” She cocked her head to the side. “I don’t know how you stay so trim, Laney, eating spaghetti.” She added a perfectly timed, “You too, Norma.”

I’m trim enough, but if you judged by Dell’s inward smile, you’d think otherwise. And something bugged me about her.

“I’m curious. You call Laney’s dad Mr. Coigne, yet you call me Norma. Why is that?”

Laney stopped spooling the pasta on her spoon. “Norma. Do you have to be so—” “So what?”

“Do you have to be so blunt?”

“Whoa, everybody!” Coigne chuckled and turned to Dell and Owen. “That’s what you say on a horse farm—whoa. And yes, Laney, Norma speaks her mind, and that’s why we love her.”

25

Last Casualty

Coigne’s jokes were consistent in two ways—they were never offensive and never funny, but he enjoyed them so much, you had to laugh.

“Thanks, Mr. Secretary of State. I’ll change the subject.” I tried for a pleasant smile. “So tell us, Dell. What brings you here tonight? I would have thought a second semester senior would be off studying or partying.”

No one said anything.

“Is it a mystery?” I asked.

Owen chased a meatball with his fork and Dell seemed to be waiting for someone else to speak.

“Dell is on her way to New York City,” Laney said. “She won a modeling contest, but the agency isn’t paying expenses for the week of shooting. She needs some help from friends and neighbors.” She stuffed pasta into her mouth.

“I can’t believe I won. I just sent in this photo Owen took last summer. Show them, Owen.”

Owen pulled up the photo on his phone. “Here, take a look, Ms. Bergen.”

“Yes, I see.” It was indeed the photo of a natural beauty. I thought how nice it would be if the real Dell, like the young woman in the photo, would be quiet for the rest of dinner.

“I tried GoFundMe, but it didn’t work. This is the sort of project that needs a personal touch.” Dell turned to Laney. “You know, you should have sent in your picture.” We all looked at Laney, her tongue licking tomato sauce off her cheek.

“Are you sure the contest is legit?” I looked around the table to see if anyone else was concerned. “Seems to me the sponsor of a contest should pay for the winner to travel.”

“I knew you would say that, Ms. Bergen. My parents worried at first about the sponsor not paying, but now they’re one hundred percent behind my career.”

“Well, maybe not one hundred percent.”

“Norma, Jeez!”

“Oh, come on, Laney. I just mean, if they were completely behind it, they’d pay for it. So maybe they’re still a little concerned.

That’s all.” I looked to Coigne for support, but something outside 26

Lee W. Doty

the window distracted him. Perhaps a well-timed problem at the stables? “Anyway, as for contributions for your trip, Coigne keeps track of our finances.” I cupped my hands and called out, “How about it, dear?”

Coigne’s uncle had left him plenty of money to go along with the horse farm. Still, Coigne was tight-fisted. Some might say his grip on household finances was crushing. He cleared his throat to respond, and he cleared for so long, I took pity on him and jumped back in.

“You really ought to get a job, Dell. It’s what grownups do.”

Laney practically swooned, but again, Dell was oblivious to the insult.

“I modeled this spring, but it wasn’t for pay. And any allowance from Daddy goes to buy new clothes and accessories.

I’m working on my branding.”

I nodded. “You absolutely should be branded.” I didn’t dare glance at Laney. “So, how much do you need to raise?”

“Just twenty-five hundred.” Dell turned to Coigne and let him have it, the sudden blush, the pooling eyes, everything to melt a man’s heart. But in law enforcement, they train you to evade traps, another trait I admired in the man.

“Why don’t you see what you can raise on your own?” he said. “If it’s a nice big chunk, we’ll see what we can do to give you a little help.”

“Oh, wow, Mr. Coigne. I never imagined you’d offer a match.”

“Not a match, Dell,” I said. “First things first. Get the job.

And I heard Mr. Coigne say ‘a little help.’”

Maybe Mrs. Spenser was right. I wasn’t particularly gracious or mature the night Dell came to dinner. And Dell had only asked for help. Would it have been so hard to encourage her modeling career? I was ashamed now that I’d preferred her silent photo to the real Dell seated at the table. I didn’t usually feel remorse for my behavior toward others because they deserved it, but this was different. Dell was young, just two years older than Laney. She would’ve had plenty of time to become a better person. When would I start?

27

6 I scooted down the Spensers’ front steps and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked around back to satisfy my curiosity about something. I hoped Mrs. Spenser wasn’t stationed by a window. As I followed the driveway around the side of the house, I couldn’t help but admire the enormous rhododendrons in bloom, that is until I arrived at the limousine farm. A good eight black luxury automobiles were lined up in a row with an equal number of chauffeurs. At least I knew how the elite had been ferried to the Spenser home. Just beyond the driveway, a halfdozen thoroughbreds roamed the Spensers’ fields. The picture was complete.

On the way home, I mulled over my visit; the Spenser villa, its guests, the whole scene. It was like I’d just interrupted a lavishly staged play, The Mean Matriarch, starring Mrs. Spenser.

As much as I wanted to stop for coffee and parse through what had just happened, I needed to get home and see if Coigne had heard from Deputy Hoag. Maybe they had a suspect in custody or at least a theory to explain what had brought Dell to Bloody Lane.

Coigne met me in the driveway, a big hose over his shoulder and a bucket in his hand, heading toward the barn. I hailed him, and he put down the equipment and came over, leaned in my open window, and gave me a kiss.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Not as I expected. What about Hoag?”

28

Lee W. Doty

“Dead end. I’m sorry. The professional courtesies of New England don’t extend this far south. Deputy Hoag doesn’t need anyone to liaise with. And you’re stuck with him. Sounds like Jefferson County’s law enforcement has stepped in and will lead the investigation. Maybe it’s just more convenient with her family and home right here. She may have been killed here, for all we know.”

I got out and slammed my door. “What, exactly, did that needle dick say about not needing to liaise?”

“Not much more than I’ve told you. He said he wasn’t at liberty to share information with the husband of a ‘person of interest’.” Coigne rolled his eyes.

“Are you kidding? If anything, he should curry my favor, warm me up, draw me out. Are things so different here in the ‘Mountaineers are always free’ state?” I paused, realizing what Coigne had just said. “What did he mean? Why would he refer to me as a person of interest?”

“Hoag suspects there’s more to your story than you’ve told him.” Under his breath he added, “Or me, for that matter.”

A chill rippled across my shoulders. “What is it with everybody? Why is it so hard to believe I visited Antietam— remember, you sent me there—toured the park, and stumbled upon Dell, who happened to be dead? Isn’t the real question why she was there?”

“Calm down, Norma. I don’t not believe you.”

“You’re pretty fluent with that double-negative double-talk.”

He threw his arms up in exasperation. “It’s just that one of the park guides said you were with a man. You haven’t mentioned any man, so people have questions.”

“People? You mean you?”

“Well, were you with a man?”

“No, I was not ‘with a man,’ with all the shady implications.”

He spoke, but his lips barely moved. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That park guide is a liar. As for why—” I remembered only then the silver-haired man named Gene.

29

Last Casualty

By now we were both headed for the barn. I’d grabbed the hose from him and hung it on my shoulder. It wasn’t light.

“The park guide who gave the talk remembered you. He said you and some guy were ‘blabbing’ throughout his lecture.”

“Blabbing is an exaggeration.”

“And you made fun of the battle’s death count.”

“Just stop.” I had my hand up like a traffic cop, six inches from his face. “I did not make fun of any death count.”

Coigne gently lowered my arm.

“My cell phone went off. This must be why I’m a person of interest. Who else but a murderer would quack at the Antietam death count?”

“You’ve missed the point, Norma. No one cares about chatter or quacking during a history lesson. It’s that you seemed to be with a man who later disappeared. In any case, they can’t find him. They want to know—” “And you want to know.”

“What’s going on?” Laney appeared out of nowhere—or maybe we’d been so engrossed we missed her arrival.

“Nothing much. How about with you?” Coigne swung his arm around her neck and switched to his sunny, casual tone.

“You heading in for Stoneybrook’s bath? Me too.”

Why couldn’t he just say we were arguing? Honesty trumps all else in my book, especially when it comes to child-rearing, a subject on which I have limited experience, but on which no one has enough experience until it’s too late. “Coigne and the officer investigating Dell’s murder think they’re about to crack the case wide open if I’ll only divulge the name of a mysterious stranger I was with and with whom I probably partnered—” “Stop, Norma. This is not a subject for sarcasm.”

Coigne was right. I couldn’t believe I’d said such a stupid thing. “I’m sorry.”

He turned to our unhappy audience. “I’m simply relating what Deputy Hoag said to explain why I can’t be privy to inside information on the murder investigation. I wish it were otherwise, Laney. And, he has some questions for Norma. That’s all.”

30

Lee W. Doty

“Do you know something about Dell’s death you haven’t told the police?” Laney looked as though the possibility were grotesque.

I’d intended to tell Laney and Coigne over the last couple of days how I’d met Gene that day, but something else always came up. Even now, I wanted to tell them about my miserable trip to see the Spensers, but how could I? Mrs. Spenser thought I was not only cruel to their daughter in life, but played a role in her death. I was so completely misunderstood, no wonder Laney rarely turned to me.

We all gravitated toward the barn and flopped down in the tack room. “All right, you guys. I’ll call Deputy Hoag and tell him I’ll meet him at the jail of his choice. He can grill me until there’s nothing left of me but ash and teeth.”

“Love the image.” Coigne blew me a kiss.

“Can I go?”

The intensity of Laney’s expression reminded me in a flash of my own pleas when my mother would leave home for unspecified periods. “I wish you could come, but I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get home.” I then told them all about how I met Gene at the battlefield. As for my trip to the Spensers, I said, “They just weren’t up for my visit.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Thanks anyway, Norma. You tried.” Laney rose, shoulders slumped. “It sure seems like sooner or later the people I love die on me.”

Coigne and I jumped up, flapped about like frightened chickens, and hugged and patted her on the back.

“Wait. I know, I know.” Laney fended us off. “You’ve explained all about what happened a few years ago. I know that wasn’t my fault, but then here’s Dell. It’s like this death thing follows me around.”

We tried to convince her otherwise, and while she let us think she bought our assurances, her face looked so young and hurt I knew she hadn’t bought anything. Until someone could explain Dell’s death, Laney would carry a trunk-load of guilt and selfdoubt on her back. That was not acceptable. She needed closure.

31

Last Casualty

Call me Nancy Drew, but I was determined to snoop and detect until I could find it for her.

I came back to the question of why Dell was at Antietam?

We’d read everything the local papers had to say about her death and came up with nothing. Laney didn’t know either and didn’t want to call Owen back yet.

I retreated to my office for a quiet think session. From the window in the winter, I could catch a glimpse of the Potomac River, but now, with summertime foliage in the way, all I could see was a rotten berry suspended from a branch under the close scrutiny of a cardinal. The way the bird jerked his head at odd angles made me think of another odd angle I’d studied so intently in the recent past. It was that of Dell’s foot sticking out from behind the tree. I recalled the shoe it wore. Something that hideous had to be part of a uniform—perhaps worn by an employee at the battlefield.

32

7 On my way out, I found Laney reading a book at the kitchen table. The girl had many special qualities, but the fact that she spent some of her time reading rather than tweeting was one I treasured. A new package of chocolate chip cookies lay open on the table, half of them gone. The specks of chocolate in Laney’s glass of milk told the story.

“What are you reading?”

With another cookie in her mouth, she mumbled something indecipherable. I sat down and peeked around her shoulder.

Middlemarch; summer reading for rising juniors. Atta girl. But pride in Laney’s reading habits soon gave way to concern. Her tic was back. It had been almost two years since I’d witnessed that speed blinking, like manic Morse code signals.

“Sorry if I’m weird today,” she said.

“Eighteen cookies in a sitting? What’s weird about that? I’ll take one.”

Laney slid the package over and returned to her book. I was ready to leave and pursue my hunch at Antietam and had only stopped in the kitchen to let someone know I was on my way.

Now, seeing how low Laney was, I hesitated to go.

“I like your hair, off your face like that,” I said. She’d drawn it back into a loose ball. “You look casually sophisticated.”

She crossed her eyes and poked out her tongue.

“And have I thanked you lately for not piercing your tongue?”

Her response this time was to grab another cookie. I sucked at this parenting thing and felt desperate. The plunge she’d take 33

Last Casualty

when she came down off those cookies would be enough to hospitalize anyone, let alone someone already depressed. She needed distraction.

“I have an idea why Dell was at the Antietam Battlefield.”

She dropped the cookie in her milk. “Why?” “I don’t want to say until I’m sure. I’m headed back there now.”

“Can I come? Please.”

I should have anticipated that.

“I’m driving myself crazy. I need to do something. Please, Norma.”

It was insane to take Laney to the scene of her friend’s death.

On the other hand, I’d recently read about a new PTSD treatment that encourages PTSD sufferers to visit places that remind them of their traumatic experience. Somehow, by confronting their fears in a controlled way, they’re better able to manage them.

This wasn’t exactly that situation, but the tranquil atmosphere of Antietam might actually help her deal with Dell’s death. Before I could decide one way or the other, she tossed her book aside, put the cookies away, and headed for the door. Rock of Resistance that I am, I gave in.

Seat belts secure, we passed Coigne walking toward the lower paddock, a brood mare in tow. I swerved to the far side of the driveway and called out, “Back soon.” No need to say more. We were technically still in fight mode.

To follow up on my idea, I didn’t need to return to Bloody Lane itself, just the Visitor’s Center, but I wanted to drive the perimeter of the battlefield before we parked because Laney had never seen it before. Stupid idea. When we neared the Bloody Lane turn off, Laney saw the crowd of people gathered next to the crime scene tape and pleaded for us to stop. In for a penny. I parked and we got out.

We studied the winding rut in silence, then wandered toward the thicket.

“It’s hard to believe anything bad happened here,” Laney said.

Not for me. With each hot breeze, my memory of events from the other day returned.

34

Lee W. Doty

Laney still looked forlorn, but her tic had disappeared for the moment. “You’re right, Norma. What was Dell doing here?”

“We’ll find out.”

“But even if we find out why she was at Antietam, that doesn’t mean we’ll know why she was way out here.”

We swatted gnats from our faces as we talked. “Do you suppose she met some boy out here? Isn’t that the usual thing teenagers do in the woods?”

“You don’t need the woods when you’ve got a car,” she said, as one seasoned in these matters. “Besides, Dell didn’t do anything just because of a boy. She was different.”

Quite different. She was dead.

We stayed quiet for some time before she said, “Bet you wish you hadn’t been the one to find her, huh?”

“Maybe.” Had I been able to return to the Visitor’s Center to use the restroom, Dell’s body would have stayed hidden a long time, decomposing quickly in the heat. And that whole time, her parents would have suffered, not knowing what had happened to her. Then again, all that time she remained hidden, her parents would’ve had hope, something I’d deprived them of by finding her so soon. “Maybe.”

We gave Dell her moment of silence and I realized I was glad I was there with Laney, and we were confronting our respective traumas together.

Coigne interrupted us with a text. I wasn’t that surprised.

Whenever one of us felt it was time to make up, we’d text or email our surrender rather than endure an in-person Appomattox. It read, “Whaa! So sorry. You sure were cute last night. Friends again?”

He was cute too, come to think of it. I answered, “Apology accepted. Later Gator.” I should have called him back, but I found a combination of silence, physical distance, and time improved most relationships.

When the gnats got so bad we had to pick them from the corners of our eyes, I said, “Let’s get back to the Visitor Center.

I’ll need your help in the gift shop.”

35

Last Casualty

*** The Visitor Center was packed. “News of murder sure gets around,” I said. “And the draw can’t be the history lecture. You saw the poster? It said, ‘Civil War Medicine: Hacking—in the traditional sense.’”

“Not funny.”

“Aw, lighten up.” I gently shoved her off balance.

We stood by the entranceway to the gift shop where I explained to Laney my hunch as to why Dell was at the battlefield.

“Those shoes she wore when I found her looked like they were intended for older people with bunions, or for people in uniform whose job requires standing for long periods, like in a Visitor Center gift shop.”

As I put it into words, my hunch sounded far-fetched, but Laney made an astute observation. “Dell wouldn’t have worn something gross unless she had to.”

We agreed Laney was the better person to approach the teenage girls behind the gift shop counter. They’d relate better to someone near their own age. Of course, Laney could just ask whether Dell had worked there, but if I knew anything about employers, theirs would have advised all employees to refer questions about the “incident” to Mr. Public Relations or Ms. Legal Counsel, and Laney would hit a dead end. Since there was nothing in the local papers about why Dell was at the battlefield, Public Relations and Legal Counsel must have done a damn good job.

While we huddled, I felt someone hovering too close behind me. It was that park guide I’d insulted with my ring tone during his lecture. I didn’t need to meet up with him again and steered Laney off to the side of the store where we finalized our little plan.

Laney waited in line at the register until one of the girls said, “Next,” without looking up. She had elfin features, soft brown eyes, and curly chestnut hair, messy at the moment, suggesting it had been a long day. She listened to Laney’s questions, disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the store, and 36

Lee W. Doty

reappeared moments later with a short step ladder. She used it to reach a book on Civil War military uniforms, but in the process caught the long key chain strung around her neck on a shelf bracket. Her delay in extricating herself gave me enough time to get a good look at her shoes. Yessiree, she wore the same brown “bread loaves” Dell had worn. And how clever Laney had been to lure the girl out from behind the counter. This wasn’t conclusive evidence that Dell had worked in the gift shop at the battlefield, but close enough for now.

By the time Laney left the shop and the young clerk returned to her station, I had positioned myself close to the register and pretended to examine souvenir shot glasses. The line of customers had lengthened during the clerk’s absence and she looked anxious. It didn’t help that her “customer,” Laney, had declined to make a purchase after all the trouble she’d gone to. I was close enough to hear her co-worker, an older girl, blond like Dell (but a poor man’s Dell, as her eyes were too far apart and chin recessed), say, “Not a great time for you to leave your post, Taffy. Look at the line.”

“What was I supposed to do, ignore my customer?”

“Why not?” the older girl whispered. “Dell always did.”

“God, Madison,” the girl whispered back. “Better if she hadn’t.”

37

8 I bought a shot glass as a sop to the girl named Taffy and left. Laney was waiting outside, and I threw an arm around her shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. We hit pay dirt.”

Back at the car I filled her in on the snatch of conversation between the young clerks.

“Great. But where does it get us?”

“We can be reasonably confident Dell worked at the gift shop and ignored some customer, which led to something bad. I’m not saying ignoring a customer led to her death, but it’s a theory. I wonder if these girls gave this information to the police.”

Laney’s cell phone rasped a hip-hop tune, and she took the call.

I bristle over such interruptions. You’re in a conversation with someone and in the middle of it she takes a call on her iPhone.

She’s telling you, “You’re not as important as the person who’s calling.” I would’ve taken this opportunity to set Laney straight, but she disconnected and spun around with such a dopey look, I couldn’t.

“It was Owen. He wants to come over to our house. He needs to tell me something. Can we get home fast?”

“What about our lead? We need to follow up.”

“Can you do it yourself? You’re so great at things like, well, follow-up.”

I’d only dragged Laney with me because she was drowning in cookie milk and I was worried. Now I’d discovered she was a darn good sleuth. I got ready to persuade her to stay when my own phone rang, and I took the call. It was Deputy Fearsome Ass 38

Lee W. Doty

calling to tell me I was late for the appointment I’d scheduled with him.

“You said 4:00, not 3:00, Deputy Hoag.” Pause. “All right, already. I’ll come now.” I glanced at Laney, who looked like she’d bite me if I didn’t take her home first. “I have to drop my daughter off for an appointment on the way, so I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.” I disconnected before he blew and said to Laney, “You owe me now, sweet thing.”

I was fairly satisfied we’d discovered why Dell was at the battlefield, but I also felt guilty she’d taken the job. I was the one who’d goaded her into getting a job. Left to her own devices, she would’ve continued flirt-funding with the men in the neighborhood. I didn’t know if the gift shop job somehow figured into her death, but if it did, I’d put her there.

The question of what Owen had to tell Laney occupied me for the rest of my drive. What was so important he had to rush over? It surprised me he was able to pull himself together enough for a visit with Laney. He must really care for her. I was even more surprised he’d escaped his mother’s grip. At least Laney would be able to confirm with Owen his sister’s employment at the battlefield. *** I announced myself to Sheila, the sheriff ’s receptionist, seated behind a glass window. She was a large, friendly woman whose cheeks flamed with rosacea and whose tight black curls looked glued to her head. She let Sheriff Law know I’d arrived.

The ten by ten outer office was furnished with two chairs, a Kleenex-sized suggestion box on a low table, and what looked like a mailbox, the kind that stands on a street corner, only this one was painted Kelly green. What most intrigued me was the huge bulletin board covered by the mugs of the state’s most wanted criminals. Their scowls were so scary, I wondered if they were paid actors.

I laughed out loud the day I learned the sheriff ’s surname, Law, but shouldn’t have been surprised. The governor’s name 39

Last Casualty

was Justice. I’d met Sheriff Law several months earlier at the local farmer’s market. The market was full of daffodils, baked goods, crafts, and a communal spirit of nostalgia. Sheriff Law was in the middle of his re-election campaign and was glad to shake my hand and introduce himself. He was the kind of sheriff who looked like a granddaddy, ready to dandle little Johnnie on his knee, and not the kind who’d shoot to kill. He was bald but for a forgotten strand or two, and his smile was the width of his shoulders.

Now he stepped across his office, a small area whose concrete block walls were painted a cheery buttercup yellow, and shook my hand. “Thanks for joining us, Ms. Bergen.”

Hoag leaned against the wall to the side of an L-shaped desk.

His arms were folded across his chest, his head lowered.

“Based on my deputy’s report of your first meeting on the battlefield, I’ve been really anxious to meet you. Please have a seat.” The sheriff nodded toward the chair facing the desk. He sat down too.

His desk was covered with computer screens and a radio emitting blasts of static. He lowered the volume. I noticed, as I settled in, two short scorecard pencils taped to his desk in the shape of a teepee. Maybe Coigne could enlighten me later on as to any symbolic meaning for law enforcement.

Hoag finally jerked his head up. “Nice of you to come, Ms. Bergen, although if we’d picked you up in the sheriff ’s jeep, as I’d suggested to Sheriff Law, it might have taught you something about the importance of being on time.” He removed his hat to reveal a close buzz cut. He’d let the top grow long and gelled it forward over his forehead à la Frankenstein.

I suppressed a giggle. “What can I do for you, Deputy Hoag?”

“You can start with an explanation of your real relationship with the deceased.”

“As I’ve already explained, Dell was my daughter’s friend, or more precisely, the sister of my daughter’s friend. Otherwise, I had no relationship with her. What else do you want to know?”

“And as I’ve already explained, you need to drop the attitude.

We know you got into an argument with her about money during 40

Lee W. Doty

dinner just a week ago. Do you argue with all your daughter’s friends about money?”

“Does dropping the attitude require answering rhetorical questions like that one?”

Hoag dropped his arms and pushed off from the wall. “Listen here—” “I didn’t have to come here today, you know.”

Sheriff Law tapped his desk loud enough to get our attention.

“Just tell him about the dinner in your own words, Ms. Bergen.”

“Dell had come to dinner, uninvited, to complain that her parents wouldn’t stake her in New York as she pursued a modeling career. She’d had her hand out for money. I suggested she get a job.” I turned to Deputy Hoag. “You may call that a fight, but if you call it a murder motive, you obviously don’t know what you’re doing.”

Hoag bared his teeth. “You better just—” “Ms. Bergen, we’ll finish a lot sooner if you stay on track,” Sheriff Law said. “No reason to get upset, but we heard you were a lot madder at the deceased than your story now implies. That’s all.”

“Who told you that?” I thought I knew.

“We can talk about that later,” Sheriff Law said. “We’re just trying to put the puzzle together.”

“Fine. You’d be better off with an eyewitness account of my dinner conversation with Dell. I assume you got your information from Mrs. Spenser, a grief-stricken mother who wasn’t at our dinner and has no idea about the tenor of the conversation.”

“Rest assured, Ms. Bergen,” Hoag said. “We do have an eyewitness account.”

Owen? For a second I was flummoxed. Owen wouldn’t have exaggerated the heat of that conversation. He’d have had no reason to. If Owen had been so foolish, it could only mean he’d been pushed, either by his parents or even Deputy Hoag, to mischaracterize the exchange as a fight.

Hoag took a moment to smooth out the line of his comb down. “Let’s put aside your advice on our investigative technique, shall we? You need to cooperate and help us locate your friend, 41

Last Casualty

the one you were with at the battlefield. Despite the stories in the news about Dell Spenser’s death, he hasn’t come forward.”

“What is it with this friend business? He’s not my friend. I met the man for the first time during the guide’s lecture at Antietam.

He sounded like he knew a lot about the Civil War, and I was interested in what he had to say. That’s all.”

“Do you expect me to believe you were willing to wander into an isolated area of the park with a stranger?” Hoag said. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Yes.” Hoag stepped forward and slammed his hand on Law’s desk, triggering a blast of static.

“Now, Ms. Bergen,” Sheriff Law said. “You know better than that.”

I stood to go. “I won’t answer questions that make no sense.

You should be asking–asking–for my help in finding the guy.”

They were both silent, so silent we could even hear, through the concrete, Sheila in reception explaining a form to someone.

I wished I hadn’t been surly, but these men, especially Hoag, infuriated me. As they merrily rolled along the wrong track, a killer was still on the loose. That thought reminded me I didn’t even know the cause of Dell’s death, and having antagonized both men, it could be a long time before I did.

“Look, Sheriff, Deputy Hoag. I don’t mean to sound hostile.

These insinuations about my behavior toward Dell and the man I met are plain mistaken. However, I have just thought of something that may help.”

Hoag barely nodded for me to go on.

“I’ll tell you, but first I’d like to know something from you.

How did Dell die?”

“Give me a break,” Hoag said. “How’s this? Her heart stopped.”

He looked to Sheriff Law for approval of the witty putdown.

“Have it your way.” I headed toward the door.

“Sit down, Ms. Bergen,” Hoag said.

“I don’t think I will. And unless you arrest me, I’m out of here.”

42

Lee W. Doty

Sheriff Law got his hand on the doorknob first, whether to block my way or open it, I wasn’t sure. He ducked his head, but his eyes looked up at me like he was a little amused at all the drama, damn him. “Come on, Ms. Bergen. No one wants to hassle you. Besides, the Medical Examiner report isn’t completed yet on cause of death.”

I looked over at Hoag, who’d closed his eyes at the sheriff ’s remark. He must have thought the sheriff said more than he should. Why did Sheriff Law volunteer the information? He didn’t need my vote that much. “Sorry, gentlemen. And so long.”

“Then may I have the privilege of accompanying you to your car? Deputy Hoag, I’d like you to follow up and see if we’ve found the guy yet.”

I knew it was beyond rude to walk ahead of Sheriff Law as he lumbered far behind me to my car. It served me right, when I arrived at my Prius, that my key fob didn’t open the door when I clicked it.

He arrived breathing heavily. “What’s the trouble, ma’am?”

“It’s this key fob. I can’t get it to open my door.”

He took the small black rectangle and clicked several times with no result. “No matter,” he said. “Don’t you know what this is?” He pointed to a section of the key fob where, it turned out, a spare manual key was kept.

He extracted a spring-loaded thin nail with a rough-edged side and had me practice popping it out of the casing. As I fumbled with it, he said, “You see, Ms. Bergen, there are only so many things that can go wrong to make a key fob seem dead when there’s no outward sign of it.”

“Come again?”

“Your key fob battery died, so you have to use a manual key.

Batteries die because of too much of something, generally too much use. It’s like they overdose. And funny thing, more batteries die from overdose in West Virginia than anywhere else in the country, based on my personal observation. So I’m not surprised there’s been another battery death by overdose right here.”

What the hell? I stared at him a moment, then I got it. Sly devil. I’d overlooked the intelligence in this man’s eyes. Seems 43

Last Casualty

I’d have to modify my efficient though apparently untrustworthy method for reading people—stereotyping. Sheriff Law had regretted his decision to let Hoag handle the questioning, so by way of apology he’d now given me a thinly veiled hint about the likely cause of Dell’s death—drug overdose. I was about to be more effusive with thanks when he cut me off. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re in my debt now, and I’d like you to get current right away.” He broke into his oversized smile.

He was sly all right. “I can tell you what I know. The guy I met at the battlefield might have been a Vietnam War veteran. Midto-late sixties, and definitely a Civil War buff, probably frequents the battlefield, and based on his soiled shirt, he lives alone. But is this even helpful? Surely you’ll get his name from his park pass or something?”

“It’s the when that’s the problem.” While Sheriff Law showed me how to start the car with the dead key fob by holding it close to the start button, the door to the building swung open and Deputy Hoag jogged our way, his hat back in position. In a low voice, Sheriff Law said, “We have a composite from descriptions and cameras and may need you to look at it.”

“You know how to find me. And by the way, the guy’s first name’s Gene.” I said good-bye, slid into my car, and sped away.

44

9 No news story about illegal drugs seemed to miss the chance to declare West Virginia number one in the country for opioid overdose deaths. Law told me, not in so many words, Dell likely died of an opioid overdose. I figured heroin. The bloody wound on her forehead must not have killed her.

I wouldn’t have pegged Dell for a drug addict, so whatever killed her might not have been taken voluntarily. The fact she was tied to a tree led me to believe she didn’t take her own life, though she might have been placed there after her overdose.

If someone had forcibly drugged Dell, where were the bruises from a struggle? I hadn’t seen any, and would have, in light of her scant attire.

If Dell had done the dirty deed herself and someone else tied her up, preventing her from getting help, I couldn’t figure out why. According to the teenage duo back at the gift shop, Dell routinely ignored shop customers but perhaps shouldn’t have ignored one of them in particular. Her supplier? But would you buy your supply at your workplace? Why run the risk when the stuff ’s everywhere?

I glanced at my watch—two hours before dinner and before Coigne would wonder where I was. I had time to check out one more idea.

I was confident I knew why Dell was at Antietam—she’d been employed there. And I knew how she’d probably died—an opioid overdose. Beyond that, I hadn’t a clue as to who killed her or why.

I put aside Dell’s mystery and focused instead on Gene. Who was he, and where was he? He hadn’t yet contacted the police, which 45

Last Casualty

was suspicious. And, for that matter, what the hell was he doing in Bloody Lane?

I’d given the sheriff the information I had on Gene, so with all Law’s resources, he’d have every chance to find the man quicker than I, except for one small, unimportant, easily dismissed fact I’d failed to mention. When we argued over favorite Civil War libraries, Gene had said something about the library in Shepherdstown. I figured he’d meant the library at Belton University, so that’s where I went to look for him.

My impression of the university was favorable. It fostered passionate students, ready to embrace their chosen fields but without all the cold calculation and naked ambition that flourished in more exalted halls of learning.

Stately and columned on the outside, the library’s interior surprised me, with clusters of upholstered armchairs for comfortable reading and plenty of light pouring in. A brochure convinced me of its sizeable collection, another surprise from such a small university supported by a dirt-poor state.

I worked out a script on my way to the information desk. A female student with big, round eyeglass frames and long dark hair flashed me an eager smile.

“I hope you can help me,” I said. “I recently met someone on the MARC train returning from D.C. His name is Gene, and wouldn’t you know it, he left his glasses on the seat. The only detail I remember, aside from his name, is that he spends a lot of time in the library reading about the Civil War.” I gave her a few details about his physical description. It was a long shot, but Coigne convinced me long shots paid off. Every few weeks he’d say, as if for the first time, “You know, I never thought you’d marry me, but I persevered, and voilà.” Despite our recent spat, I was glad he’d ignored the odds.

The girl left to consult a woman about my age seated in a glass office behind the information desk. She smiled and motioned me into her office. In addition to her age, her pale pink pantsuit and long scarf worn like a Parisian would have quickly convinced me she wasn’t a student. Her shiny brown hair was jaw length and her brown eyes, which protruded slightly, made her look eternally surprised. “I’m Marion. Yes, I’m Marion the Librarian.”

46

Lee W. Doty

She extended her hand. “But please, no cracks about The Music Man.” I liked her right away. Anyone who made a reference to that ancient Broadway musical was a kindred spirit.

“Are you looking for a silver-haired, handsome man of medium height named Gene?” she asked.

“Sure. You got one?” We both laughed. “Yes, you’ve described the man I’m looking for. And now that I think of it, he also smelled good—aftershave, maybe, but I don’t know what it was.”

“It’s Canoe—men’s cologne. My husband wore it.” She glanced over at a small, wood-carved figure on her desk.

I assumed her husband had died, the way she hovered over “wore it.” The carved figure might have been a gift from him.

“I’d like to return those glasses,” I said. “They looked expensive. I don’t suppose you know how I can get hold of this Gene?”

She looked confused. “If it’s my Gene, I’m surprised he lost his glasses. He rarely wears them. But anyway, it would be hard to meet the man as you’ve described him and not want to get hold of him.”

We tittered some more, and I gave Marion’s comment some thought. She was right. If it weren’t for Coigne, I too would have enjoyed sharing “morning after” coffee with Gene, about the highest compliment I could pay a man.

“I don’t think I can give you his full name and contact information.” Marion’s expression soured. “There’s bound to be a library policy against it. But he was here a while ago, hot on the trail of something. He rushed around from one source to another like a man possessed.”

“Sounds like he’s in research himself. A professor here?”

“Oh, no.” She took a moment to examine her manicured thumbnail. “Anyway, when he left, he was frustrated and emptyhanded.”

“Guess he couldn’t find what he was after.”

“I’d say not because he told me he was heading back to the Civil War Center.”

“Where’s that?” I was surprised I hadn’t heard about a civil war center in town.

47

Last Casualty

“Corner of Church and East German. It’s officially called the George Tyler Moore Center.”

“Tyler Moore? As in Mary Tyler Moore?”

“Yes, ma’am. She donated it to the university a few years back.

Big deal around here. Everyone came out for the dedication.”

Marion pulled a street map from her desk, grabbed a pen, and traced a black line from the university library to the Civil War Center. I could have found it myself and cut her off, but tried to stay in character as the very nice person returning glasses.

We chatted some more and agreed to meet for coffee soon. I needed to touch base with Coigne, but the Civil War Center was so close and I’d just be a few seconds with my inquiries.

I decided to walk. My long legs would get me there faster than driving and finding a place to park. And behold, there it was. Unadorned but for an elevated white front stairwell, the stately corner red brick house turned out to be a time machine. I stepped back into the eighteenth century and inhaled the smell of old books and polished wood. The student receptionist showed me into the reading room, where the ticking of a grandfather’s clock was all that broke the heavy silence. A man sat at a large, mahogany table, hunched over a fan of open volumes.

Well, what do you know? Gene.

48

10 Gene looked over his shoulder and his look of irritation transformed at once into one of delight. “Norma. How good to see you.” He stood and shook my hand. “I had no idea your interest in the Civil War went so deep.” He nodded toward the bookshelves.

Gene didn’t act like someone hiding from the police. He was friendly, nonchalant, and he’d changed his shirt—today, marinara sauce. “Where do you live that you haven’t heard the police have an APB out on you?”

He made a guilty-little-boy face. “I do read the papers. And I suppose I did recognize myself as the person who’d passed by the area where that poor girl’s … body was found.” He pulled out the chair beside him. “Here, have a seat.”

“You must not like to waste time any more than I do. Guess that’s why you haven’t introduced yourself to Deputy Hoag. He thinks he’s in charge of the investigation, not his boss, Sheriff Law.” He laughed. “Let’s just say I manage my time in a way consistent with my priorities.”

A rustle of papers from a nearby room reminded me I wasn’t in a private home. Others were doing serious research. I moved my chair closer and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Far be it from me to advise you, but you’d do well to kiss Hoag’s fat ass and be done with it.”

He feigned a look of shock.

49

Last Casualty

“He’s got me down for Dell’s killer, but he may just decide you’re a likelier suspect,” I said.

“And I wouldn’t disagree. When we met the other day, you didn’t strike me as a killer.”

“We’re both making jokes, but Dell was just out of high school. She deserves more from us.”

Gene turned thoughtful. “You said ‘Dell’ like you knew her.”

“I recognized her right away.”

“Recognized her? You mean you’re the “park visitor” who found her? My God!” He pushed aside his books, careful to place the attached, slender red ribbons to hold his place. “Is that why you’re a suspect?”

I gave him the background. “Classic case of wrong place, wrong time. Funny—that’s something I’ve always warned Laney about—my daughter.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Long story, but yes, I do.” Sometimes it still felt odd to say “my daughter.” Odd, but good.

“Lest we be shushed by that woman from the Antietam lecture, who, by the way, is just in the back room, let’s get some coffee down the block. They’re about to close here anyway,” he said.

We walked downhill past a row of one-of-a-kind shops and homes that had served as satellite hospital units during the Civil War. “That’s a helluva coincidence, that woman showing up at the Center back there,” I said.

“Well, you did, and I did.”

“Good point.” I nodded.

“You’ll find people interested in the Civil War follow the same route, especially if they’re on the Civil War Trail. Of course, you know about the Civil War Trail.”

“Of course.” Maybe one day I’d just be frank about my gaps in knowledge.

There was never any reason to ask directions to Cake and Coffee—its sweet doughy aromas lured you from blocks away. It was my favorite place in town, wedged between the one-room

50

Lee W. Doty

town library and a damn good bookstore. I’d generally grab a cup of coffee and a piece of its chocolate Coronation Cake, aka Coronary Cake, and huddle over a book in the corner. I was often joined by someone’s dog who found my feet more comfortable than its owner’s. It puzzled me, the way dogs—and not just seeing-eye dogs—were allowed in cafés these days. I liked them, but was concerned I’d somehow missed an entire grassroots movement to get dogs admitted to restaurants.

I checked the time and realized I’d be late for dinner. When we reached Cake and Coffee, I tapped out a text to Coigne to let him know where I was. I was surprised he hadn’t called me because we’d once had a big go-round about my failure to let him know I’d be late.

I needed to take my time with Gene. It wasn’t because he was charming, we shared interests, and he seemed to look me in the eye and stand closer than warranted. Gene’s explanation about his delay in contacting Hoag or the sheriff didn’t ring true.

Unlike John Q. Public, someone like Gene would love to meet with law enforcement and talk about his role at the scene of the crime, however small. It’s not that I suspected Gene of Dell’s murder. Hell, I might even be his alibi, having spent, off and on, a couple of hours with him before I found Dell. But it was strange that he’d taken a route to McClellan’s Headquarters via Bloody Lane. It wasn’t the shortest distance between two points. More like the longest.

Gene stirred his coffee and took a sip.

“Did you by any chance know the victim?” I asked.

“Me? No.” His light blue eyes looked shocked and guileless.

“I’d expect that question from that deputy you mentioned.”

“Just wondered. Actually, you should thank me for this rehearsal of your meeting with Hoag.”

Customers ambled in and surveyed the delicacies behind the glass display case. “The first time I knew her name was when I read it in the paper this morning,” he said. “It gave few details, just where she was found and that they were treating her death as suspicious. If you feel up to it, tell me how soon after I left did you find her?”

51

Last Casualty

I told him. “Did you see or hear anything before you found me in Bloody Lane? If you were coming from the Visitor’s Center, you would have passed the general area where she was found.”

“This really is a rehearsal. Should I call my lawyer?”

I said nothing. It’s the best way to elicit a true response.

“I did hear something,” he said. “Leaves rustling, twigs snapping. I figured someone was ambling down the lane. I thought nothing of it.”

“You better tell Sheriff Law all that. Someone else may have been at the scene besides us.

The business about leaves and twigs bothered me. I’d been startled when Gene popped up in Bloody Lane because I’d been listening intently to the silence, that rare and welcome sound.

Could be the wind had blown the other way for a while and he’d heard things I hadn’t. But for Dell’s sake, I wouldn’t assume the best about him or anyone.

Gene reached across the table and tapped my finger. “Did you come to the Civil War Center to consult the library’s resources?

Or did you come to find me?”

“I’ll never admit to stalking, but Marion the Librarian gave me a good hint where I might find you.”

“Marion? Ha! I’ll get her for that.”

“She’d appreciate that. By the way, she says you’re hot on the trail of something in your research.”

His look turned nasty, his whole face gnarled. “She ought to mind her own business.”

I held my hands up like I was under arrest.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m mad at myself, not Marion.”

His face relaxed. The transition from angry to contrite was quick if not convincing. “She’s a good kid. You see, I hope to find something new in my research. Do you have any idea how many historians have already combed the landscape for every possible new finding? That may be why I sounded frustrated just now.”

I shrugged off the awkward moment because I needed to ask him something else. “What brought you to Bloody Lane when you said you were headed to Pry House?”

52

Lee W. Doty

“I go there every time I visit Antietam. It’s my little pilgrimage.

You can just see them, all the Confederate soldiers, 2,000 of them, tucked in there waiting for the Union troops. Sounds crazy, but there’s something almost innocent about the scene, like they’re small boys hiding in the ditch, waiting, even hoping to be terrified.”

He spoke like he’d been tucked in there among the Confederates.

“When the Yanks finally appeared at the rim, the Rebels shot them at point-blank range. The more they slaughtered, the more soldiers the Union side sent over.”

He sounded like he was in a trance.

“It went on for three hours, and as the bodies piled up, the Confederates got caught in their own trap. Lore has it there were so many dead bodies you could walk the lane without ever touching the ground.”

I wished I had something worthy to respond, but I had to let my silence talk for me. The shop got ready to close and we exchanged contact information. I took a last swallow of coffee, wiped a napkin across my mouth, and said farewell, with a reminder to contact the sheriff. “Oh, and Gene. Don’t forget to clear your side.”

“What’s that?”

“Of the table. Your napkin, coffee cup.”

On the drive home, I thought about Gene’s brand of humor.

He had a strong grasp of the absurd, which made him edgy, something that distinguished him from Coigne. My husband so rarely made a negative comment about another person I sometimes wanted to pinch him. But I also sensed that one step over the line with Gene, and he’d make you pay with a tongue lashing—or something worse. And, of greater concern, I didn’t think he was honest, at least not about some things. Marion the Librarian had no reason to suggest Gene’s research back at the university was frenzied and determined unless it were true, so why should Gene deny he was on to something? It seemed silly.

And his explanation for his stop at Bloody Lane before going on to his real destination? I wasn’t sure about that either.

53

Last Casualty

I pushed the button on my car radio for classical music. I wanted to think about what I’d learned that shed light on Dell’s murder, but a more immediate question distracted me. Why hadn’t I heard from Coigne? He was conscientious to a fault about responding promptly. With the murder and investigation on my mind, I was unsettled. Even a lecture from Coigne about tardiness would have been preferable to silence.

54

11 “Where is everybody?” I slammed the car door. The sky had clouded over when I left Cake and Coffee, so I was surprised not to see lights on in the house. I made a detour.

Our stables, with lanterns and a vaulted ceiling, looked like a mountain lodge. I stood in its massive door frame and listened.

Coigne and a stranger were talking, their voices low. It was a woman’s voice that said, “Come a little closer and put your hand where mine is, Will.”

What the hell? Then I remembered. Coigne had an appointment with the new vet. He said he was dissatisfied with the old guy, who always made matters worse and then charged double for it. Coigne called a new vet in to look at the broodmare, Beauty. That horse was his pride and joy, a black Egyptian Arabian, almost fifteen hands. He never mentioned the new vet was a woman.

I rounded the corner and at the end of the long row reached Beauty’s stall. Coigne and the vet were so intent on getting their hands in position they didn’t hear me. Their absorption gave me a chance to assess the woman. Five-eight, shapely, midthirties, and shoulder-length, wavy black hair. Beyond these obvious features, there was something else about her. Something remarkable. There must have been because Coigne couldn’t stop staring at her. He was the same man I’d left that morning, the same shirt and jeans, the same line across the forehead from his Red Sox cap, and yet he was someone else. He was a man watching the sunrise for the first time.

55

Last Casualty

They stood next to Beauty’s head. The vet placed her hand on top of Coigne’s and said, “Now over here. Like that. That’s the spot. Perfect. Now apply a little pressure, Will, just a couple of minutes.”

The vet’s movements were deft as she replaced items in her bag. She had worked magic on Coigne. He usually got the jitters when anyone touched a boarder, especially one valued at thirty thousand. Not this time.

“That was good, the way you soothed Beauty during the injection. You understand her. She barely moved,” the vet said.

I too barely moved. My blood had frozen. If only I could have found my voice I would have yelled, “Stop! Get out!” If only I could have seen through the haze, I would have bolted.

All the doubt, fear, and humiliation I’d counted on never having to experience again tornadoed around me. Somehow I managed to get outside and lean against the side of the barn. My eyelids squeezed shut and almost dammed the tears. What was happening?

“Norma? Is that you?”

Coigne walked out of the barn and I sped toward the house.

“Hey. What are you up to there? Hold up, Norma.”

I couldn’t pretend I didn’t hear him, so I slowed down.

“I thought I heard something out here,” he said, catching his breath. “Come on and meet Misty.”

I wasn’t sure I could speak, but I’d be damned if I’d let him know what I saw or what I felt. I wiped my face on my arm and turned toward him. In the dim light, he looked like the same old Coigne, maybe a little flushed. “Misty?” I said. “That a horse?”

Coigne lowered his voice. “No, silly. She’s the vet. What are you doing out here anyway? You okay?” He put his arm around me.

“I’m not silly.” My tone was emphatic as if the point about silliness needed to be made. We walked back to the stables. I didn’t want to return to that scene, and yet I did. There was a chance I’d imagined something that wasn’t there.

“Misty thinks Beauty will be fine. Good news, huh?”

56

Lee W. Doty

Normally, I wouldn’t have been able to pick Beauty out of a line-up, but Coigne had talked about her incessantly during the last few months. His uncle had bought the mare shortly before his death. He’d spoken with Coigne about his plans for her and her offspring, and his excitement had rubbed off on his nephew.

When we reached Beauty’s stall, the vet rose from her squat position. Earlier, I’d been impressed enough with Misty’s backside and profile, but the full-on view made me desperate.

Everyone knows women like Misty, so striking they make all the other people in the room look ordinary, mass produced.

Feature by feature, the Mistys of the world are nothing special.

Her nose pointed south. When she smiled, as she did getting up, her cheekbones were too high. Her voice was low enough to be a man’s. Yet somehow, all together, she was exotic and irresistible.

Her figure didn’t disappoint either. In skinny jeans, scuffed boots, and a tight cowboy shirt with snap buttons that made her bust strain for freedom, she drew the eye.

She had something else I lacked at that moment—confidence.

Coigne made the introductions while Misty removed her latex gloves. You’d think she’d just separated conjoined twins. “So you’re Will’s new bride,” she said.

“There’s no old one.”

Misty laughed.

Coigne laughed too, but sounded uneasy.

“So what’s wrong with Beauty?”

“No need to worry, Mrs. Coigne. In a few days you’ll have a foal.”

“You remember, hon. I told you’d I’d have to call the vet about Beauty.”

When Coigne spoke to me about the business, he’d give me so much detail and go off on so many tangents, I’d lose the trail.

I regretted that now. “Anyway, I came to find out about dinner, and Laney. She around?”

Coigne glanced at his watch. “Laney’s still with Owen. I don’t expect her for dinner.” He finally looked directly at me. “I cut her some slack, under the circumstances.”

57

Last Casualty

“I’ll go see what I can pull together.” I knew the polite thing to do was to ask Misty to join us, but hell no. “Nice to meet you, Kristy.”

“It’s Misty, hon. Muh-Misty,” Coigne said.

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Coigne.” Misty dusted her knee caps and assembled vials to return to her vet bag.

“Would you like to stay for dinner, Misty?” Coigne said.

I could have decked him. He knew I was no cook. And couldn’t he tell I wanted her gone?

“Thanks, Will. I appreciate that, but I’m sure Mrs. Coigne wants you all to herself.”

I gave her my biggest smile. “The last woman who tried to come between us got acid thrown in her face.” Thank God. My voice was back.

Coigne looked miserable. He turned to Misty. “She’s kidding of course.”

As Misty left, I called out, “And it’s Ms. Bergen, not Mrs. Coigne.”

Coigne patted Beauty’s flank and whispered to her for a while. Then he put out more straw and hung up her halter. I leaned against the wall and watched. Usually after a new visitor left, we’d dissect the person organ by organ, cell by cell. This time we didn’t speak at all. Even more unusual was the tremor in my hands I had to hide while Coigne methodically tidied up.

Despite all my faults, sexual jealousy had never before made the list. The reason was simple enough. My trust in others had been non-existent, so I steered clear of attachments. And it’s not as though any man exposed to my charms for more than five minutes wanted to extend the time and call it a relationship.

When I met Coigne, he acknowledged my obnoxious personality traits and wasn’t put off. He said the upside of loving me overwhelmingly beat the downside. Every time I’d given him reason to leave, and I’d given him plenty, he never had. So I’d shed my defenses, went all in, and believed he’d never disappoint me. Why else would I live with him in this landlocked, double pan-handled, half a state?

58

Lee W. Doty

“Is something wrong, Norma? You mad at me?”

Maybe I was mistaken, dramatizing the situation. I hadn’t interrupted passionate love-making, though I felt I had done just that. They’d ministered to a pregnant horse, for God’s sake. On the other hand, what legitimate doctor of veterinary medicine calls herself Misty?

“Is it about our argument before?” He walked over and took my hand, and playfully milked my fingers like they were cow udders. “I’m sorry I got on your case about the man you met at the battlefield. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He was obviously trying to distract me from worries about Misty. He would be quite happy for me to be occupied with my Antietam buddy if it left him an open path to Misty.

I listened to my own thoughts and realized I’d gone batty. It was an innocent barn scene. Still, there was something off about that woman.

“Norma? Anyone home?”

“Just tired.”

Coigne flung his arm around me and guided me to the barn door, flipping the light switch. “I want to hear what happened during your meeting with Deputy Hoag.”

“It’s not like he water-boarded me or anything. I just told him what you already know. That was it.”

We reached the house. Since it was my night to make dinner, I decided on scrambled eggs, so compatible with my mental state.

Dinner proceeded like a tennis game with a bratty teen.

Coigne served up interesting conversational topics and I slammed them out of bounds.

59

12 Laney crept in the front door and tried to make it to the stairwell without waking anyone. I was wide awake in the study.

Wine glass in hand, I stared at an ash-filled fireplace that still emitted whiffs of a late spring fire. “I’m awake, Laney.”

“Jeez, Norma. You scared me to death. Why are you in the dark?” Even though she whispered, she sounded excited and looked disheveled, as though Owen might have given her quite a good night kiss. Her hair was messy and her shirt untucked.

“Where’s Coigne?”

“He’s in bed already. He had a tough afternoon watching the new vet, Misty, examine Beauty.”

“Misty? Sounds like a horse.”

I grunted and turned on a lamp. “You look flushed. Everything okay? Want to talk?”

“I’m just hot.”

She stood in front of the wall mirror and fussed her hair into place. Beneath the mirror Coigne and I had put our favorite piece of furniture, a pedestal table. It was originally intended for a printer, with drop-down sides, two drawers, and a scrollfoot pedestal base. Made of maple so rich and creamy, it looked coated in caramel. We called it our “toffee table.” In light of the scene in the barn, the sight of it now made me sick. I needed to push the reset button. “So what did Owen have to tell you that was so important you had to rush back from Antietam?”

Laney’s shoulders sagged. She avoided the chumminess of sitting on the couch with me, but at least sat down. She tossed the 60

Lee W. Doty

folded Indian blanket to the floor and wrapped her legs around a large throw pillow. “I don’t know if it’s even that big a deal. He said some business guy who works with his dad—” “Not some business guy—a colleague. Go on.”

“Some colleague called to say somebody at Phelps—that’s Mr. Spenser’s company—had been bothering Dell. A lot.”

This was wonderful news. Not that Dell had been harassed, of course, but that Hoag and Sheriff Law would have to branch out their investigation. “I assume Owen’s parents told the authorities about it?”

“Mrs. Spenser wanted to, but Owen’s dad said to wait. At least, that’s what Owen said.”

“I don’t understand. Did Owen say why his dad wanted to wait? It is, after all, his daughter who was murdered.”

“Calm down, Norma. Obviously, his dad doesn’t want to drag his office into the investigation unless there’s solid evidence.”

“Those don’t sound like your words, Laney. Is that Mr. Spenser’s view?”

“I don’t know. Owen didn’t say.”

“Well, did Owen say any more about this stalker? His name?

What he did for Phelps? How he knew Dell?”

“No. He just said the guy, the colleague, told Mr. Spenser he saw Dell with some man at a mall. And I don’t know which mall.

Can we talk about all this tomorrow? It’s midnight and you’re jumping all over me.” She got up and re-tucked her shirt.

“I hope I’m the only one ‘jumping’ all over you.” No one to blame but herself for that opening.

“Oh, please, Norma.” She gave me the classic teenage salute— one side of her upper lip lifted with a roll of the eyes.

“Shouldn’t we talk, Laney? You know, The Talk? You’re getting pretty close to Owen. I imagine he feels needy right now. That’s not a great time to make big decisions about intimacy.”

“We don’t need to go there. Coigne and I already had The Talk.”

Yet another reason to be angry with Coigne, although just yesterday I’d have thanked him for taking care of that. “Why did you go to him? Why not come to me?”

61

Last Casualty

“God, Norma. I didn’t go to anyone. And it’s not like he told me anything I didn’t know.”

We talked a little more around the subject of giving and needing love. I assured her I recognized she wasn’t a child, and she assured me she recognized “pity” sex wasn’t the way to go. I pulled her up by both hands, hugged her, and sent her upstairs, but not before I tossed her hair into a mess again. *** Coigne called down the stairs, “You coming up, Norm?”

Another hour had passed. I hadn’t meant to wake Coigne, especially since I wasn’t clear how I felt about the whole Misty thing. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be up in a minute. Just reading,” I said.

I reached for wine bottle number two and put it down again. I remembered something about Mr. Spenser’s company.

It manufactured SoRelease, a powerful opioid painkiller. It was pretty new to the market and controversial because of its strength.

Ridiculous to think it had anything to do with Dell’s death, although Sheriff Law had hinted she’d died of an opioid overdose.

But the more I considered Law’s remarks and demeanor, the more I questioned his willingness to give me good information. Why should he? He’d probably sent me down a blind alley, extracting truthful information from me in the meantime and having a good laugh. Hell. Was I really back to trusting no one?

Another hour passed before I thud-footed up the stairs, still puzzling over the Spensers’ peculiar attitudes. I’d do some research about SoRelease after a good night’s sleep. But for most of the night, sleep eluded me. I awoke from a dream about a man’s hand caressing a firm, round ass. The hand was Coigne’s.

The ass was not mine.

62

13 I shook off my forebodings from the night before. With a new day full of sunshine, Misty the Vet seemed more like a storybook character than an existential threat. Besides, I thought, mouth full of toothpaste, Coigne has too much character for that nonsense.

When I came down to breakfast, Laney greeted me with a sleepy wave of her cereal spoon. I’d hoped her visit with Owen and our talk the night before had helped her a bit, but judging by her wild winking—she didn’t look up, but it was obvious— nothing had taken hold. Coigne, by contrast, behaved with so much deference and energy, preparing my coffee, setting my place at the table, handing me the front section of the paper, he almost had me worried again.

He placed his cereal bowl in the sink. “Laney and I will get started soon. We’d love your company.”

“What are you working on?” I said.

“We’re going to mend fences.”

“Funny.”

“No, I’m serious, Norma,” he said. “We have to replace boards along the split rail by the road. And we could use a strong-arm.

Get it?”

“Another good one,” Laney said, deadpan.

He was awfully handsome that morning in his white T-shirt and low-slung jeans. Rugged. He even managed to look good with hat hair. “Oh, all right.” I got up. “Let me change my shoes.”

Coigne grabbed a sack of nails off the table and said over his shoulder, “Misty—you know, the vet, said she’d stop back this morning, give Beauty another look.”

63

Last Casualty

Silence.

“Norma?” he said.

“I didn’t hear her say that last night.”

“She texted this morning.” He pushed open the back door.

I dropped my bowl in the sink and my spoon rattled. “Sorry.

Anyway, I just remembered. I have some things to do.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Like get in touch with your buddy, Deputy Hoag. You know, there are some things in life more important than this damn farm.”

I forgave myself the little mood swing. Besides, I had intended to follow up on what Laney said about the Phelps employee stalking Dell. But I also knew my earlier resolve to put aside fears about Misty had vanished. There was something wrong with Misty the Vet. Texting in the morning? Coigne couldn’t see it because he always saw the good in people. She was trouble.

He and Laney went out to mend their fences, and I did what I always do when worried— got busy.

My plan was to follow up on Dell’s stalker. I could hardly ask the Spensers who the stalking Phelps’ colleague was, but I could at least get some background information on Phelps and go from there. That morning, the den smelled like cheap wine. I sat on the sofa with my laptop and got started.

The marketing puffery for Phelps was the same as for every company in America—“We are cutting edge thought leaders, way ahead of the curve, already in that space.” I dug deeper and learned the names of its top-selling drugs and its sidelines in cosmetics, pet food, medicine, medical supplies, and hygiene products.

I scrolled through the list of company officers and found Geoffrey Spenser, Sr., Executive Vice President for Public and Government Relations and Marketing. He probably raked in an annual minimum million dollars before stock rights and benefits. If Dell’s parents had only parted with a few bills to get Dell launched in New York, she never would’ve had to take the job at Antietam. Of course, if I hadn’t bullied her…. But maybe the murder had nothing to do with her place of work, and the murderer would have found her no matter where she was and what she was doing.

64

Lee W. Doty

Thirty minutes later and I was no wiser. I’d have to try yet another approach. If I couldn’t find the man, I’d focus on the means. Sheriff Law had hinted an opioid was the cause of death.

If Dell overdosed on SoRelease, and a Phelps employee with access to the drug had been stalking her, the drug that killed her might have come from him. And if toxicology reports were back, Sheriff Law could narrow my search.

When I phoned his office, the ever-diligent Sheila informed me her boss could be found on East German Street in Shepherdstown. I barely glanced Coigne’s way as I tore out of the driveway and headed into town.

Indeed the sheriff was on East German Street, sweating, smiling, and waving as he posed for the local press with the County’s beauty pageant teen queens. These girls were lovely, and I don’t mean they had beauty pageant good looks. Several wore glasses, one had braces, most had a few pimples, and one girl was at least thirty pounds overweight. But they were having fun. They laughed with their mouths wide open and their eyes crinkled at the corners as if to say, “Everybody loves me, and why shouldn’t they?”

I hailed Sheriff Law, hoping he’d be glad to get out of the sun.

When the photographer took a break, Law sidled my way. “More car key trouble, Ms. Bergen?” The photographer called after him and the sheriff gave him two fingers, meaning two minutes.

“I’m confused about something, Sheriff. And I think maybe you can help. I realize you don’t share information you’ve gathered in an investigation, especially if the person you’d be sharing with is a suspect, but I hope you can play hot or cold with me. And if you were to play, could I count on you to tell me the truth?”

“Why would I lie to you when you gave me such good leads?” he asked.

“You found the mysterious ‘Gene’?”

“And so did you, it seems. It’s Gene O’Hagan, by the way. You always seem to be several steps ahead of us. We may have to put you on our payroll.”

I couldn’t read his tone. Kidding? Annoyed? As for me, I could use a job. Sooner or later, I’d have to face the fact I wasn’t cut out for farm work. But if I went ahead and set up my law 65

Last Casualty

practice, attended bar meetings, and rounded up some clients, I’d have to admit West Virginia was our permanent home. I’d told Coigne I’d give the horse farm and West Virginia a try. I never said for how long.

“So, if I’m hot,” I said, getting back to business, “you’ll tell me.

Cold, you’ll tell me.”

He nodded. “Give it a go.”

I’d prepared what I’d say, so the statements rolled off my tongue. “Dell took or was administered the drug SoRelease, a drug that is manufactured by her dad’s company, by the way, and the drug led to her death.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Ms. Bergen. One that is not so easily addressed by hot or cold.”

“All right. Something about what I’ve said is true, or important, but I guess SoRelease wasn’t prescribed for her—or in any case, she didn’t take it.”

“Not that we know of, but it sure is warm today.” He wiped his brow, which was sweaty, and I wondered if he was still playing the game or stating a fact.

I ditched my prepared questions and improvised. “You’ve already said—that is, I’ve deduced that Dell overdosed, so some sort of substance was consumed. If it wasn’t SoRelease, it was something manufactured by the same company.”

“You know I can’t play games with you, Ms. Bergen. I’m engaged in a homicide investigation here.” He glanced over at “Miss Tractor Parts and Repairs” and waved. “Besides, what you’ve just said would make Deputy Hoag hot as hell’s fire, and I do mean hot.” He sauntered off. “See you around.”

I was right. And just as I’d been able to figure it out, the Spensers also had to know a Phelps product was involved in Dell’s death. How that must pain them. But it also highlighted how unnatural it was that Mr. Spenser hadn’t reported to the authorities that a Phelps employee had stalked Dell.

Before Sheriff Law got too far away, he turned back and raised a finger for one more word. “Your buddy Gene, or Mr. O’Hagan, said something about how—now what was the word he used?— ’rattled’ you seemed when he came upon you in Bloody Lane.

66

Lee W. Doty

Deputy Hoag thought that was odd since Mr. O’Hagan met up with you before you discovered Miss Spenser’s body. My deputy could understand if you were rattled after you found her body, but why were you rattled before you found Dell Spenser, Ms. Bergen?”

His tone was light, but he waited for an answer. When Gene said just yesterday he’d heard a noise around Bloody Lane before he bumped into me there, I’d doubted his recollection, but hadn’t held it against him. However, telling Hoag I’d seemed rattled, whatever that meant, wasn’t faulty recollection. It was fabrication.

“Do I strike you as someone who gets rattled, Sheriff?”

He chewed the inside of one cheek, then the other. “No.” Law sauntered back to his important business. *** Two cheese pastries later, I’d put aside the disturbing remark

by Gene O’Hagan and focused on finding the likely substance that had killed Dell. It was no good. I was out of leads. If only Owen had told Laney more about the Phelps stalker. I thought back to what he’d actually said to her—Dell and the Phelps guy had met at a mall. Which mall? Shepherdstown had no malls unless you counted strip malls, and I couldn’t imagine any other mall in the eastern panhandle that would attract someone like Dell. And had they both been shopping and run into each other, or were they there on business? What business?

While I puzzled through these questions, it occurred to me Coigne could use a call. I felt ashamed of my morning bout of insecurity and tire-squealing departure. At the same time, the fact that I wondered whether it was a good time to call— was Misty even now giving him a smoldering look—made me anxious again. I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

“Hey. I was about to call you,” Coigne said. “Hold on.” He must have put down his hammer. “Okay, I’m back.”

“Bad time to call?”

“No, not at all. I’ve got Laney and Misty to help me, so we’ve made tremendous progress. Pretty nice of Misty to help, huh?”

67

Last Casualty

Coigne’s insensitivity took my breath away. “Are you trying to rub it in because I didn’t stay and help?”

“No. Of course not.” He lowered his voice. “I just thought you’d be glad we had the help.”

“Is Laney there? I actually called to speak with her.”

“Norma? Is everything—?”

“I’m in kind of a rush.”

He didn’t answer right away. “I’ll get her.”

While I waited for Laney, I walked down the street toward the railroad track, blue mountains up ahead. Everyone thought of Shepherdstown as an oasis, wedged between the cesspool of dirty politics in the nation’s capital and the impoverished rest of the state of West Virginia. A canopy of old oaks and maples on side streets could now provide shade for homes built around the time those same trees were saplings. The gardens grew out front, bordered by short white fences and hinged gates. If you were lucky, the town run flowed through your backyard. Sidewalks were a challenge, not only because tree roots ruptured the surface, but because every so often you’d stumble over an old, short stone staircase positioned to assist you into your horse-drawn carriage.

I was grateful I wouldn’t have to rely on a carriage to travel all to the Ole Virginny Mall in Winchester, Virginia.

“Hey,” Laney said, finally.

“Hey yourself. Why do you sound out of breath?”

“You think I sound out of breath? Misty is amazing. I’ve never met a stronger woman who wasn’t a man.”

“I’m so impressed.”

“Don’t be snarky, Norma.”

“Sorry. I’m sure Misty could give Hercules some tips. Right now, I’ve got a question for you. Do you remember anything else Owen said about that Phelps stalker, what he worked on, anything?”

Laney let out a low growl, like a dog about to grab an ankle.

“I know I’m the one who begged you to get involved in all this, but, well, maybe you should back off. Owen told me how it was at the Spensers and how his mom practically kicked you out. And Misty said people will say you’re a busybody, just satisfying idle 68

Lee W. Doty

curiosity at the expense of—” “What? You guys talked about me? Never mind. I’ll deal with this myself. And for your information and that of your pet pervert, it’s not idle curiosity that’s driving me.” I was so wound up at the injustice of it all, I almost didn’t notice people had stopped to stare at me. “Dell was just a kid. Like you. If that’s interference... well, I call it plain old humanity.”

“I don’t feel that way. I promise. Hold on. Let me get some privacy.”

Talk about misdirected anger. Where was all my ire coming from? So what if my daughter shared the story of my ill-advised trip to see the Spensers with that woman? I had to pull myself together.

Laney got back on the phone. “I’m sorry about all that. I think I’m just really confused, but I want to help too.” She lowered her voice. I could hear voices and other sounds in the background. I trusted the grunts were from lifting heavy lumber. Maybe Misty would break her back.

“I can’t think of anything else Owen said. But there is something,” she said.

“Go on.”

“It’s Owen’s dad—the way Owen talks about his dad. I mean, I complain about Coigne and his stupid jokes, and you about, well, everything, but whenever the subject of Owen’s dad or his parents comes up, Owen changes the subject. You’ve probably wondered why I’m never invited to his house. I don’t think it’s me he’s worried about. I think it’s them. And it was like this before Dell died. It’s sad.”

“I’m not sure what that’s about, but I’ll stir it into the mix.

Anyway, if anyone misses me, I’m on my way to the Ole Virginny Mall in Winchester. And I’m sorry for blasting you and being such a—” “You’re not. But please . . . be careful.

Poor Laney. This wasn’t the first time she’d urged me to take care. The literature was full of kids who’d lost someone special and couldn’t bear for another loved one to leave even for a few hours, for fear they’d never return.

69

14 The internet had cut deeply into in-store shopping and that reduction practically guaranteed me a parking space close to the mall entrance.

The huge hallway was full of senior citizens in sweats getting their morning walk out of the way. I missed the old malls, with their mood lighting and lavish window displays. Now, I wonder at least once during each shopping expedition if I’ll wind up in a mass shooting.

I reached a major intersection and studied the directory. It listed some high-end shops that, according to the Wall Street Journal, were no longer in business. For those who didn’t read the paper, they were in for a long walk and a bad surprise. The mall was anchored by two department stores, one that carried clothes, appliances, and furnishings, the other, clothes only. In between, there were a few shops that had poor Dell written all over them, with names like Bold, Bod and Bad and JUST ME. But my talks with the young shop girls offered no good lines to pursue. I resigned myself to a nice hike all the way down the ChampsElysees, or so it seemed, to Harrington’s, the clothing department store. On the way, I ran into some good luck. It came in the form of a poster for Catey Cosmetics, with an arrow pointing in the direction of Harrington’s. I recognized the name Catey from my online research of Phelps’ cosmetics product line. The poster’s fine print confirmed Catey belonged to Phelps. It wasn’t much to go on, but it supported, or at least didn’t contradict, my theory that Dell had met her stalking Phelps employee at Ole Virginny Mall. Onward.

70

Lee W. Doty

About fifty women and teenage girls milled around in front of Harrington’s. Ice cream tables and chairs were arrayed along each side of an elevated model’s runway. To the right was a long, ruffle-skirted table with make-up stations and all the trimmings: movie-star lighted mirrors, cotton wads, eye make-up, and lipsticks. I plopped down at one of the ice cream tables and pondered the scene. The teen models wore jeans ripped across the thighs, T-shirts with glitter designs, and rawhide jackets with Davy Crocket fringe—boots to match. I wasn’t entirely sure if they hadn’t yet changed for the show or these were the backto-school fall fashions. The Catey cosmetics would help sell the Harrington clothes and vice versa. Good product-partnering.

How wonderful it would be if some stalker-type Catey/Phelps staff member mounted the runway and grabbed the mic.

A sign along the base of the runway read Winchester Collegiate Day Academy, the Prep School for Girls Who Ride Horses. A brochure at the center of my table explained the school was raising funds for a sister school in Nigeria, with a portion of profits on sales of Harrington’s clothes and Catey’s cosmetics. On a parallel track, Phelps PLC donated pharmaceuticals to Nigeria.

If I guessed right, the public relations, marketing, government affairs involved in this project all fell under the Executive VP’s purview—Mr. Spenser’s. This was a semi-annual fund drive, the previous one having occurred last spring. If Dell had gotten the modeling bug from her participation in a project Daddy had sponsored last spring, he’d had no business squelching her New York ambitions. But that was all irrelevant now. I flipped to the back side of the brochure and read the contact information for Phelps. Someone like Mr. Spenser, at the Mount Olympus level of the Phelps organization, might not have his name on the brochure, but could this Don Doggett, Regional Director of Public Relations, be the guy who’d harassed Dell?

I looked about for business types with name tags and spotted Don Doggett himself. I hesitated to approach him only because I hadn’t planned to attend a fashion show and wondered if my attire was suitable; baggy jeans—no rips, alas—and boots with no fringe, just manure with tiny wheat accents. I removed my 71

Last Casualty

fishing hat, ran three fingers through my hair, and tucked in my shirt—instant make-over.

Don Doggett talked and listened to someone’s mother whose outfit mirrored that of the teen next to her but with cleavage on display. I waited politely for the woman to finish, noting her occasional hip bumps against Doggett. He looked my way several times, an obvious social cue for the woman to stop monopolizing him, which she ignored. But the wait gave me a chance to study him—fiftyish, easy on the eyes, and an old scar from harelip repair, the one feature that made him look interesting. Someone tapped on a live mic by the runway, got everyone’s attention, and allowed Mr. Doggett to prod the mother toward a table.

I grabbed his sleeve. “I don’t want to hold you up, Don, but I need to talk with you about Dell Spenser.”

For a moment, he appeared confused. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to get to the runray— I mean runway.” He shook my hand and prodded me along as he had the busty mother. “Enjoy the show!”

“I’m sure I will.” I walked with him toward the mic, aware of the twitching of his shoulder as I crowded his space.

“I’m sorry, but I need to start the program—” He tried to veer away. I caught his sleeve again. “I understand you had a relationship with Miss Spenser.” A shot in the dark.

He faced me squarely. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but you’re going to have to sit down.”

We were now inches from the mic. “Just tell me whether Dell Spenser was in this show last spring. S’all I ask.”

“Yes, she was,” he said, and for the first time, he looked out of character, not the important executive he tried to portray but a thoughtful person, perhaps even a father. “I’m sorry about her death. All things considered, she was okay, unlike the rest of these girls, so upper crust and la-di-da, but underneath, soulless, drug-addled—no better than MS-13, you ask me. Some of them are probably members.” He was about to go on, but must have awakened to the fact he could be talking to a mother of one of “these girls.” He resumed his commander tone. “We’re ready for take-off. Please have a seat.”

72

Lee W. Doty

I let Mr. Doggett go and listened to him address those gathered. In three seconds flat, he’d undergone a make-over of his own. He was an earnest do-gooder, praising the generosity and dedication of all assembled at Harrington’s to participate in the fundraiser.

Was Doggett the predator? Would he jeopardize a well-paid position by harassing the boss’s daughter? I couldn’t rule him out. His horrified look at the mere mention of Dell’s name might mean something. A girl who looked like Dell might stave off a man’s fears about growing old a lot better than that mother with all the cleavage.

I headed back to the mall entrance and thought about a call to Sheriff Law. I hadn’t told him about the rumored harassing Phelps person. It was conceivable, though unlikely, Mr. Spenser had good reason to withhold the information from the sheriff.

Even if he didn’t have good reason, I decided to keep the information to myself for now. I wanted to keep the pipeline of information from Owen open. If I ratted on him, letting Sheriff Law know what the boy had said during an embrace beneath the moonlight with Laney, and Owen found out about it, he’d clam up. The ratting wouldn’t endear me to Laney either.

During the hour I’d been inside the mall, the parking lot had filled in close to the entrance. I dug in my bag for the Prius key fob, aimed, and clicked in random directions, unsure now if I’d come into the mall at a different entrance. I had hoped to see lights flash and hear that reassuring ding-ding of my car door unlocking. Instead, nothing.

I remained under the awning, sheltered from the intense sunlight, and again reached into my bag, this time for sunglasses.

Even with shades on, I couldn’t immediately spot the Prius. The reason wasn’t so much because it was buried among others just like it, though that was often the case. Rather, I’d gotten distracted thinking about Misty the Vet. Here was this cheap veterinarian after my husband. But what if I was making a fool of myself and Misty had no bad intentions? Wait a minute. What had she said?

I was a busybody, satisfying idle curiosity? Did Coigne stand up

73

Last Casualty

for me? If he had, Laney would have said so. Why was this so painful?

My car finally caught my eye.

What the hell was the point of all the worry, doubt, and bitter feelings? Enough already!

I aimed my key fob once more and stepped off the curb. The Prius headlights flashed once. A hot white light flared. What the hell? Cannons boomed and flames shot out from all sides of my car. Something heavy punched me back against the mall doors.

Blasts tore through the lot pavement. Shards of glass rained down everywhere. Black smoke billowed across the sky. Antietam? My God. Was I dying at Antietam? Would I be heaped among bodies of shoppers?

74

15 Later on I would wonder whether the scene in my hospital room actually took place. My visitors didn’t include me in their conversations despite the fact I was lying right there. Some things I couldn’t possibly have observed, yet I’m almost certain I did.

Coigne sat by my bed. His eyes sagged at the outer corners like they’d started to melt. Sometimes he rested his head against my leg and held my hand. Sometimes he glanced up to watch the monitor screens and follow their lines into the portals along my body. He’d reach for Laney’s hand now and again and search her face for reassurance. Then he’d close his eyes and go back to resting his head against my leg.

Laney got up from the other side of the bed and stretched.

She studied the man who’d done more for her in a few years than her own father ever had. “I’ll get you something to eat, Coigne.

You need food.”

“I can’t eat. Maybe later, though. You go.” He tried to smile.

She walked over and gently shifted his chin so he’d face her.

“The doctor says she’ll wake up. She says Norma will be fine.

Don’t you think so? I need you to think so.”

“Of course I do. It’s just that, how could this happen? If she’d been any closer to her car, we wouldn’t be …we could have lost her while I mended a goddam fence.”

“She’ll wake up. You know how I know? Because she’d never leave us without having the last word.”

A light flickered in his eyes. “You’re right, kid. And it’d be a zinger.”

75

Last Casualty

“We wouldn’t know whether to laugh out loud or throw a pillow at her.”

This time he managed a smile. “You win. Go get us some grub.”

The moment the door closed, Coigne’s eyes welled with tears.

He stared at the sand-colored wall and tried hard not to cry. “Oh hell.” He buried his head in his hands. His anguish was without sound—the only evidence was the vibration across his shoulders.

He got up for a tissue, blew his nose, and returned to his chair by the bed. “Okay, Norma. You think I’m a sissy. Think it all you want. Just don’t leave me.”

The day was overcast. Beyond the window, a giant Air Products tank towered over the hospital’s rear entrance and loading dock. The air conditioning hum in the room subsided and in the momentary quiet, Coigne said, “You remember back on the Cape, that time I took you to Fort Hill to see the sunrise over the ocean? It was cheesy of me, I know. I’d just caught Laney’s kidnapper and had him behind bars. That made me as much a hero as I’d ever been in your eyes.

“I wanted to tell you I loved you. I wanted to tell you, the seagulls, the waves, the marsh, everything, and everybody. But you chattered on about something fifty miles an hour. I knew what you were doing—fortifying yourself against me. A dirty cop, you’d called me. And then you had your own self-doubts to get over. I figured you wouldn’t hear me no matter how loud or how tender I said the words.” He stopped talking and squeezed my knee. “That’s when you said, ‘Can we get on with this, Coigne?’”

He laughed softly. “And we did. We made some sweet music that night, I’ll-tell-you-what.”

For a long time, it was quiet. Then the door opened and Laney backed into the room, arms filled with a cardboard coffee tray and a white paper bag. She glanced toward the bed.

I blinked and my bleary eyes met hers. “Am I dead?”

Laney and Coigne froze, but she found her voice first. “You’re awake!”

76

Lee W. Doty

“What’s going on, Coigne?” My voice sounded gravely.

I looked at the haggard man by my bed. “Oh, no. Please. Not waterworks.”

“Damnit, Norma. Don’t ever do that again,” he said, laughing and wiping his cheeks.

“Don’t do what? What happened, for God’s sake?”

“Your car blew up,” Laney said. She and Coigne hovered over me, each gripping a shoulder or ankle or kneecap, holding on to any spot with no tubing.

“We should go easy and call the doctor. Time enough to give Norma the picture.”

“Wait a sec. I remember now,” I said. “I was at the mall. There was this man with a repaired harelip. No, wait. I punched the key fob one last time.”

“Don’t think of it, Norma.” Coigne reached for the call button and pulled.

I grew thoughtful and plucked at my sheets. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes,” Laney said. “You.” “You know what I mean.” I turned to Coigne. “I won’t forgive myself if someone else was injured because of me.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. No one else was hurt, and no one even knows if the explosion had anything to do with you, except you got hurt as a result of it. Let’s wait for the authorities to explain what happened. You know the drill. It’s been less than a day. Give ‘em a chance.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Coigne.” I threw in his rank whenever he went official on me. The pillows swallowed my head when I sank back, but I didn’t care because I was overwhelmed with fatigue and my arm throbbed with pain. “I wonder if Deputy Hoag will be the one to investigate whatever happened in that parking lot.

Not his jurisdiction, I guess.” I thought about it and groaned. “If he does, they can cold case the matter right now.”

A nurse shoved open the door. Her floral smock and clover green scrub pants, bunched at the ankles and tight across the beam, were a far cry from the crisp, white uniform of yesteryear.

She never made eye contact. Instead, her eyes focused on my 77

Last Casualty

forehead. She said, “You’re awake. Doctor will be in soon.” She lifted my wrist for vital signs and turned her gaze toward the Air Products tank. In response to Coigne’s friendly chatter, she answered, “Hmmm,” and “Maybe,” and “You’ll have to ask the doctor.” She had the bedside manner of an accomplished ventriloquist—her lips never parted. It was as though to move them would require an effort we didn’t deserve.

On her way out, she entered a note in the computer and said to Coigne, “Don’t stay long. She needs rest more than she needs you.”

“And you need Spanx, in all senses of the word.”

“Norma.”

“Relax, Coigne. She didn’t hear me. But you know how I feel about people who can’t be bothered with courtesy. They deserve it.”

He wagged his head in exasperation, but I could tell by the lift of his one eyebrow he wasn’t really annoyed with me. He poured me a cup of water from the pitcher by my bed.

“Getting back to me,” I said, “who knew I was headed to the mall?”

“You’re probably the only woman in the world who’s been in an accident and doesn’t ask about the damage done to her body.

Or her face, which, by the way, is beautiful as ever.”

“Enough of that, Coigne.” I could just imagine what I really looked like, but I loved him for the thought. “Now don’t change the subject. Who knew?”

“Laney and I did. You told Laney, and she told me. Did you tell anyone else?”

I said no before he even got the full question out.

He nodded. “Like I said, there’s no reason to assume the explosion had anything to do—” Laney cleared her throat but kept her eyes on the floor.

“What?” I struggled to prop myself up.

Laney glanced at Coigne. “I guess, well, Misty knew. I mean, she was there when I told you, Coigne.”

“Of course. That’s right,” Coigne said. “But she was with us almost up until the time we were notified of the accident by the 78

Lee W. Doty

police. She’d hardly have had time to tell anyone else, although I can’t think of a reason why she would anyway.”

“Accident, Coigne? You keep saying accident. Now who’s jumping to conclusions?” I said.

“Misty did go to the bathroom, Coigne. She could have called or texted someone then,” Laney said.

“Has everyone gone crazy around here? Even if we assume someone intentionally set off an explosion, why would Misty, practically a stranger, have it in for Norma? And can we please stop talking about her?”

“You’re her defense lawyer now?” I rubbed my forehead and sank back.

Coigne shot a worried look at Laney. “I’m sorry, Norm. I didn’t mean to upset you. We’ll get it sorted out. I promise you.

We’re going to let you rest now like your friend Nurse Spanx told us to.” Before he even shut the door, my eyes closed. I could hear myself snore. How sweet the sound. I was still alive. *** “Ms. Bergen? I’m Dr. Schneider.” She pronounced it Docktah Schneidah. “Can you hear me, Ms. Bergen?” She lifted my wrist and took my pulse.

The elderly woman’s rough voice was that of an old New York stevedore, yet her frame was tiny and her touch light.

“When may I get out of here, doctor?”

She released my hand. “What’s the maddah? You think the food is lousy and service slow? That’s a good sign from a patient.

Show’s perception and judgment have returned.”

Her sense of humor cheered me up. I said, “Is there a mirror around here? My husband told me I look beautiful, so best to see if it’s as bad as all that.”

The thought of a beautiful face made me think of Dell, but I pushed the thought aside. One step at a time. When I returned to the present and realized what Dr. Schneider handed me to use as a mirror, I burst out laughing. “A bed pan?”

79

Last Casualty

“You will appreciate the softened image throughout your recovery.”

Dr. Schneider was right. My swollen left eye and the tape holding my face together made me look scary. “What about my arm? Broken?”

“Nope. You’re one helluva lucky woman. It was an itty-bitty explosion, really, as these things go. You were also far away. The theory is the blast tossed you back. The entrance door you banged into is what hurt your arm.” She paused and let her report sink in. “We still want to check auditory system injuries. And if we’re happy with your scans over the next day or two—no signs at this point of traumatic brain injury—we’ll let you go.”

“Are you happy so far?”

“Do I look like I’m crying?” She patted my shoulder and warned me of the perils of too much excitement and not enough rest.

“Is there anything I need to be on the lookout for?”

“Yes. In the future, avoid any and all explosions.”

I picked up the tissue packet next to my bed and aimed it at her. She ducked.

“We’ll talk closer to discharge about all the things you need to worry about, Ms. Bergen, but seriously now, something may trigger a reliving of the explosion experience, even something quite small like a firecracker.”

“Not good news. I don’t want to go through it again, even if it’s a pretend explosion.’

“Ack! You’re fine. Get some rest.”

“Does this mean I’m not strong enough to speak to the police?” I wanted desperately to find out where the police were in their investigation of the explosion. Of course, if I weren’t up to it just yet, and Deputy Hoag were involved, it would be some consolation knowing I’d irritated him.

Dr. Schneider cocked her head to the side and measured my fortitude. “There’s an officer who’s been asking for you. Hogg, yes?”

“Yes. Deputy Hogg.”

80

Lee W. Doty

“He wants to speak with you as soon as possible. There is also a handsome young man from the sheriff ’s office right outside, just in case you are lonely. Also, maybe for your security. And there’s an FBI agent hanging about. He didn’t give his name, just said FBI and flashed a card in my face. Self-important. Just for that, I will tell them all they must wait.”

I knew the sooner I provided them information, the better their chances of finding who tried to blast me. But the thought of reliving the explosion troubled me. Coigne’s openness to noncriminal explanations aside, I suspected I was the target of attempted murder, and the attempt was tied to Dell’s murder. I was glad someone from the sheriff ’s office was outside the door.

For someone who all her life had willed herself to ignore fear, I was scared.

A cart squeaked down the hall, stopping room to room.

Could be Dietary with a food cart. Laney had left some Mars bars behind, and I preferred chocolate to the mucosa sauce they poured over hospital entrées. Then again, it might not be a food cart. I closed one eye, placed my thumb on the call button, and pretended I was asleep. Whatever it was rolled by, thank God. I had to face it; I was frightened, more so than I’d ever been, but forced myself to remember the days preceding the blast.

There may have been precious few who knew in advance I was headed to the mall, but that was not the only group to be concerned about. Someone could have followed me. I drifted back to the scene in the parking lot outside Sheriff Law’s office, and the people there who knew I drove a red Prius. Then there was that nonsense when he played with my key fob. But that was ridiculous. Too ridiculous.

81

16 No one had to convince me to stay in the hospital for a full three days following the blast. I wasn’t one of those movie heroes who, moments after hospitalization, jumps out of bed and sprints down the corridor to save the day, IV pole trailing. But now it was time to leave, no matter what Coigne or Dr. Schneider said.

It didn’t matter that my face was still bruised the colors of sunset and all that medical adhesive tape hadn’t yet closed a single gash on my face. Until the explosion, my need to find Dell’s killer had been fueled by Laney’s need for a rational explanation of the murder and some closure. I now could add self-preservation to the fuel. But something else drove me as well. I felt doubted and diminished by that vet. She had portrayed me to Laney and Coigne as if I were a bored, nosey, busybody and a useless housewife. I was just “satisfying idle curiosity” at the expense of what? Something more important, like the horse farm? I’d be damned if I’d let Misty define who I was to the people I loved.

The meds they gave me kept me well-sedated, but even under the influence, with my eyes closed, I could tell someone had just entered the room. Could have been the muffled tick of someone flipping the light switch or the lights themselves, shining with such intensity it felt like a spaceship hovered over my bed. Or the creak of a wheel as someone knocked against the computer stool, or— “Ms. Bergen?”

I opened my eyes and elbowed up to a seated position, then reached for my grape juice and took a sip. I’d covered up with my 82

Lee W. Doty

favorite sweatshirt Coigne brought me from home. They weren’t kidding when they said the room temperature in hospitals was low enough to freeze germs. Probably didn’t even need a separate Cryogenics Lab. Now fully awake, I said, “Where’ve you been?

I’ve been expecting you.”

“Sorry to wake you.” Hoag toyed with his hat, his fist inside the head part, his other hand moving the brim around.

“You look a little contrite, Deputy Hoag. Is this how you say I’m sorry I thought you were Dell’s killer when obviously you were almost victim number two?”

Sheriff Law entered the room while I was talking and now peered around his deputy. “Hey, Ms. Bergen. Glad you’re all right.”

“We don’t need to take much of your time,” Hoag said. “Just like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Where’s the FBI?” I turned around to fluff up my pillows, then looked from one to the other. “Shouldn’t they be here? And a few state troopers? Aren’t they the bomb experts?”

“We’re in the lead here. We’ll contact them if they’re needed,” Hoag said.

“You were woozy when the FBI agent stopped by,” Sheriff Law said, “so he’s gone on back to the field office. We’ll fill him in—and the state too—and if they need more from you, they’ll come get it.”

Well, so much for the value of my observations about the explosion. I figured Hoag had a lot to say to the FBI about my attitude and scared them off.

He pulled out a notepad and flipped through some pages. I had resolved the night before to be as forthright as I could with law enforcement, but I could tell that would be a trial, starting with Hoag’s first question.

“Let’s hear about the trip to the mall. Why were you there?”

Sheriff Law cleared his throat. “That is, uh, what brought you to the mall, Ms. Bergen?”

I was still hesitant to tell them I was following up on the lead that Owen had provided about a Phelps staff member bothering Dell. On the other hand, with the explosion, things 83

Last Casualty

were getting out of hand—an understatement of the year—and my consideration for others had to give way to finding the killer.

I settled for half an answer to Hoag’s question.

“I learned through anonymous sources that someone from Phelps, Dell’s father’s employer, might have been harassing Dell, someone she’d met at a mall, no indication which one. I did the obvious thing—headed to the one I thought might interest a teenager most, the Ole Virginny Mall. It might have been a long shot, but there aren’t that many malls nearby.”

“So why did you go to the mall and didn’t notify me first?”

Give the man an inch. “Nearly got yourself killed, didn’t you?”

“Like I said, Deputy Hoag, it was a long shot. I thought if I’d come to you, you’d have told me not to waste your time.”

“From now on, everything comes to me.” Hoag paused to think up a new line of attack. “And one more thing. You don’t get to have anonymous sources. Who gave you this tip?”

What a putz! I silently thanked the good Dr. Schneider for teaching me that Yiddish expletive during her rounds. She had explained that by blowing the word “putz” into her fist, people never knew if she had coughed or, as they suspected, called them a nincompoop.

I considered terminating visiting hours right then, accompanying the men’s departure with violent retching and torso bucking to scare them away for good, but delayed since I had questions of my own.

“The ‘tip’ as you put it, Deputy Hoag, was a privileged communication I’m bound to protect.” I’d adopted a superior, professional tone, despite the fact I had no client whose privileged communication needed protection. For that matter, I had no client. “A more productive question you might ask is why the killer didn’t make sure I’d be in my car before any car bomb went off? Talk about a missed opportunity.”

Sheriff Law said, “Might have just wanted to scare you a little, Ms. Bergen. Might be why the key fob—” “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think we’re here to answer her questions,” Hoag said. “Anyway, who says she was the target?”

84

Lee W. Doty

“Come again?” I said. “I pressed my key fob and my car blew up. Who do you think was the target, Fred Flintstone?”

Sheriff Law jumped in before Hoag could react. “Three other Toyotas in the lot went up at the same—” “I’ve asked her a question; I’d like her to answer it, sir. Ms. Bergen, who was your source?”

Who lit his fuse? He needed to calm down. I admit I was stunned by what Sheriff Law had just revealed. Laney and Coigne had said nothing about more cars—specifically Toyotas—getting blown up. Then again, they hadn’t talked about the explosion at all since the first day, worried they’d prolong my recovery, I guess.

“Was it the Spenser kid?” Hoag asked.

I reached for my juice and sipped a long time until the straw made that krlshxxk noise. “Absolutely not.” I was telling the truth.

My source had been Laney, who’d gotten the information from Owen. “Anyway, you say I wasn’t the target, so you’ve got your own theory, one I can’t help you with.”

Hoag put his hat on and said to Sheriff Law. “We may as well go.”

Sheriff Law did something then that surprised me—he took the lead. “You might not have been the target, Ms. Bergen. Then again, the perpetrator could have been someone mad about faulty airbags and they were just trying to make a point. Could have been a deadly point. Wasn’t. We’ll look into all that, and so will the FBI. But if the explosion had anything to do with you, the important question is, who knew you were at the mall? And what do you know that might worry someone that much?”

“You’ve surely spoken to my husband about who knew. I only told my daughter, and she told my husband. Oh, yes, the vet was there, so she knew too. Don’t even remember her surname.” I briefly pondered the ethics of sprinkling some suspicion on Misty, but resisted the urge. “As for information I have that might worry someone, I have no idea.” And that was truly the truth.

I could have told them what I’d learned from Don Doggett, how Dell had worked at the Phelps/boarding school fundraiser at the mall last spring. That confirmation gave all sorts of support to the theory Dell had met a Phelps staffer on that occasion and 85

Last Casualty

he later stalked her. But these guys must have already gotten that mall modeling information from the Spensers or from their own tracking of her recent activities. And anyway, the things I learned at the mall could not have worried someone enough to blow up my car, and apparently others. There just wasn’t enough time between my learning things at the mall and the explosion.

To take the heat off me for a spell, I said, “It seems to me Gene O’Hagan has as much information as I do about what happened in Bloody Lane. You’ve spoken to him. What information did he give you?”

“I think I’ve told you before, Ms. Bergen. That’s not how it works. We ask, you tell.” Hoag snorted, proud of his play on “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

The painkillers had finally worn off. I felt a tantrum coming on, and while it wouldn’t help my recovery to give in to it, what the hell. I slammed down my Styrofoam cup and caused crushed ice to fly. “You owe me an apology, Deputy Hoag. You’ve treated me like a criminal from the beginning when you should have been asking for my help. Now someone has tried to kill me.

Okay, maybe not kill—” I glared at Sheriff Law. “Just put me in a wheelchair for life.” I sank back on my pillows. Judging by the stricken look on both men’s faces, my screed must have busted open my face again.

Sheriff Law eyed his deputy and tipped his head toward the computer stool. Hoag rolled it to the bedside and sat down.

“Sorry. Let’s start again.”

“Your apologies need some work,” I said.

“Come on, Ms. Bergen.” Sheriff Law made the peace sign with both hands. No one spoke.

“Look,” I said. “Every time I give you something, Deputy Hoag here twists it to make me seem guilty, or at least implicated in some wrongdoing, and it started when I told you about my discovery of Dell’s body. In answer to your question, what sent me to the mall was a little imagination and nothing more.”

As we all sat there wondering what to say, I asked myself what I did to make Deputy Hoag so mad at me every time we met. More often than I cared to admit, I had that effect on people. It couldn’t 86

Lee W. Doty

be that I looked like a disliked person recalled from their past— the negative reactions to me were just too universal. Maybe I had one of those maddening habits, like finishing people’s sentences ahead of them, but I didn’t think so. I preferred to think there were people in the world who were nasty, and because I didn’t take their crap and was nasty right back, in equal measure, they found me objectionable. Hoag was a case in point, and I’d be damned if I’d make nice with him just because he wore a big hat, had a big mouth, and acted like a big dick.

I decided I would tell Sheriff Law later on that, through Laney, Owen had been my source for the story about a stalker from Phelps. Call me petty, but I didn’t want Deputy Hoag to think he’d browbeaten the information out of me. I just hoped my confidence in Sheriff Law was not misplaced.

“Gentlemen, I’m not feeling very well. Maybe we could take this up after my nap. They just gave me a sedative and I …” My fatigue was a ruse to get rid of them, but the ploy was so effective, I fell into a deep sleep. I’m not sure how long I slept, but long enough to dream up a theory as to why a number of Toyotas blew up if I was the actual target. The perpetrator might have wanted to hide the fact I was the target. As to how he or she blew up all the Toyotas with a flick of my key fob, Dr. Schneider later produced a theory for that one. Maybe there was some sort of universal key to Toyota batteries or engines or other gismos, just as Apple had a universal key to unlock all cell phones. It might be possible someone had inserted such a key into my key fob so that when I clicked it, the key overheated something in all the nearby Toyotas, which caused them to explode at once. The theory sounded a little like something a kid would demonstrate with matchbox cars at the annual science fair, but I’d mention it to Sheriff Law.

87

17 I waited for Laney and Coigne to arrive and take me home. Dr. Schneider had signed the discharge orders, and I had successfully ducked Dietary for the last time. I canvassed the sterile cell that confined me. It’d only been a few days, but even the flowers had had enough and drooped in despair. Nothing to do but wait.

Since the explosion— I still refused to call it “the accident”—my eyes would grow tired whenever I read, so instead, I made notes on leads to follow once I got out of the hospital.

1) Dell modeled last spring at the Old Virginny Mall. She probably got the opportunity through Phelps and her father since, according to Laney, Dell had never attended that horsey boarding school. But Daddy Spenser disapproved of modeling as a profession for her, so maybe the subject of her modeling career and New York City hadn’t come up until after her mall gig. Dell probably met the Phelps stalker at the mall that spring.

The stalker could be Don Doggett, but if not, Doggett would have a good idea who he was. Looking forward to popping up at Doggett’s next event.

2) Gene had been close to the site where I found Dell. He’d outright lied in his report to Hoag about my “rattled” manner in Bloody Lane. Sure, he’d spooked me when he approached me from behind, but that was a natural, not rattled, response. He probably intended to deflect the sheriff ’s attention from himself, but why? And what else had he been untruthful about? Watch your backside, Gene. Here I come.

88

Lee W. Doty

3) Someone tried to kill me. It was bullshit to suggest I wasn’t the target, even though I had no idea who could have fiddled with my key fob. According to Coigne’s information, squeezed out of him after intensely applied pressure, my key fob had not been recovered from the explosion, which surprised me. Was it likely that— “Knock knock.” A woman, who sounded vaguely familiar, sang out as she pushed my door open a few inches. Some neighbors had stopped by in the last two days, bearing candy and flowers and drooling for the inside scoop on the explosion, but Coigne had always been there to play bouncer. Not this time. Now I recognized the voice. A chin wag with Marion the Librarian might fill the time nicely.

She must have heard about the explosion on the news and wanted the lowdown on what happened too. Maybe Gene even put her up to it. Two could play this game. There was plenty about Gene I’d like to know, and Marion would tell me. I motioned her to the computer stool and offered her some of Laney’s chocolate.

“I’m glad to hear you’re okay,” Marion said, removing the candy wrapper. “We were so worried.”

“We?” “Yes. Gene brought me the news. Frankly, I was surprised he told me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh…nothing. I don’t know why I said that.”

“C’mon. I need to get my mind on something other than my constipation.”

Marion laughed. “We had quite an argument about you after you and I spoke at the library. He seemed to feel I’d made him look like a fool in your eyes.”

“How’d he figure that?”

Marion didn’t answer me at once. Old Gene was turning out to be far more complicated than I’d thought.

“He’s a hard guy to explain. I’m not even sure I’ve got him figured out, and we’ve known each other a long time. He doesn’t talk about himself much and prefers no one else talk about him either.”

89

Last Casualty

I was surprised to learn Marion knew Gene well. Her manner had implied just the opposite when we first met, but then, if he didn’t want to be talked about, that was the reason she’d been a bit tentative with information. “A man of mystery, huh? What’s his problem—criminal record?”

Marion hooted. “Hardly. I don’t know anyone from around here who’s got as good a pedigree as Gene.”

“You interest me. Please go on.” I repositioned myself and handed her some more chocolate.

“All right,” she said, “but for God’s sakes, you didn’t hear it from me.” She rested her chin on her fist like Rodin’s famous statue and gathered her thoughts. “Gene is the last of the O’Hagan family. His father owned or advised, if you’d prefer, every powerful politician in the state for around twenty years.

According to gossip, he’d made a bundle in coal, which he put to good use in getting laws passed that worked in his favor. When he learned he had cancer, he made out this strange will, leaving his two sons everything he’d accumulated, which was substantial, on the condition that they made a name for themselves.”

“What does that mean, ‘made a name for themselves’? Jeffrey Dahmer made a name for himself.”

“Put it this way,” Marion said. “After his father died, Gene’s brother, Jack, who was then in his early twenties, started working at his father’s coal company, under an assumed name. Ten years later, he’d risen to the top of the company; president, no less, with no one knowing who he really was. The trustees of his father’s estate deemed his feat sufficient to meet the ‘making a name for himself ’ standard. He got his one-half share of the estate. He’s dead now. Cancer.”

“So what did Gene do for the rest of it? What was his feat?”

“The other half is still controlled by the trustees, and they await Gene’s feat. And they’ve a-waited since old man O’Hagan died forty years ago.”

Based on my limited acquaintance with the man, I suspected Gene could have accomplished something great too. I wanted to know what had stopped him, assuming he’d wanted his father’s money.

90

Lee W. Doty

“You might have guessed, from his interest in the Civil War, Gene taught history,” she said.

“But I thought he wasn’t at the university. Didn’t you say that?”

“I told the truth.” She chose her words carefully. “Gene doesn’t teach history at the university level and never did. He taught for years at Jefferson High School. He’s now retired.”

“Nothing wrong with that, but I don’t imagine even Teacher of the Year would have met the ‘name for himself ’ standard.”

“Right you are,” she said and got up to throw out her wrappers and returned to her seat.

“So what’s the mystery? Why doesn’t Gene want to be talked about?”

Her silence lasted so long, I worried I’d pushed Marion too far. Clearly, she was struggling between her loyalty to Gene and a good gossip with a new friend, me.

“He’s embarrassed,” she said. “That’s my guess, anyway. He doesn’t talk about it. I figure he has some confidence issues because he hasn’t measured up to his father’s expectations.”

I tossed the thought around. Gene could have measured up. What was the roadblock? “Did he try to succeed and just couldn’t, or what?”

“I can only speculate that he tried lots of things early in his career. He knows so much about music, theater, computers, physics, you name it. I used to tell him he was Stephen Hawking, Stephen Sondheim, and Steve Jobs all rolled into one. But in terms of employment, I don’t imagine he was the type to take orders very well.”

“And he doesn’t strike me as someone who schmoozes easily, a basic survival skill these days.”

“From personal experience, I can tell you he does not. I made the error of inviting him to a cocktail party. The university was giving an award to that author—you know the one who wrote the best seller on Civil War correspondence between soldiers and their wives. I thought Gene would enjoy a good chat with a fellow historian, but instead, he turned the poor man into putty with a rapid-fire list, complete with footnotes, of all the reasons 91

Last Casualty

why his topic as a biographical subject was not only redundant, but boring in the first place. You get the picture. It was dreadful all the way around, but Gene couldn’t stand the idea this author had achieved something that he himself could have.”

“Could have, if only he’d stuck with it?”

“You know, I’ve really said too much.” Marion put her hand across her mouth. “Gene’s a great guy, warts and all.”

We got off the topic of Gene and onto upcoming lectures at the university and the lack of parking spaces around town, that is until Nurse Spanx looked in. Coigne had warned me not to bait her anymore. Said she might inject me with air bubbles while I slept.

After Marion left, I puzzled over all she’d told me. Evidently, Gene wanted to remain inconspicuous, so no wonder he’d gotten so testy at Cake and Coffee when I mentioned meeting Marion.

But what exactly had I said that had gotten him so worked up?

My head was still fuzzy and the answer wouldn’t come.

Coigne arrived just then with a cardboard box to carry home my few items, like the keepsake from Dr. Schneider, the bedpan.

He said Laney was down in the truck, keeping the AC on high. I got up from the bed and loaded the box.

Coigne looked tired, but there was something more to it than fatigue. Normally, when we reunited after a night’s absence or more, he’d say something like, “Hi, Pal,” and I’d say something like, “Not you again,” and we’d know all was well. None of that this morning. He must have felt my eye on him because he shook himself and perked up. “Doctor Schneider says she went over your discharge orders with you. Says she wants you out of here.

You ready? Or shall I ask them to extend your stay?”

“Funny you should say that,” I said, half-kidding, “I’m ready, but how about you? You look like the prospect of having me around again is as bad as having your dad chaperone the prom.”

Coigne sat on the computer stool and used his heels to move close. He took my hand. “That was never a risk I worried about.

They don’t let you out of jail when you’re in for murder one.” He spun around on the stool.

92

Lee W. Doty

“Forgot about that. Sorry.”

“Anyway,” he said, “why would the thought of your returning home be a problem? Without you around, the house has been filled with peace, quiet, and harmony. Laney and I have agreed on everything, and we’ve gotten a lot done.” He grabbed my hand again. “Look into my eyes. Do you believe all that?”

I did as he asked and felt my face flush as my body remembered just how it felt to be wanted by this man. I blinked.

“What I believe is that you find me so bewitching, your lust for me is actually painful for you. You need me home.” At least it got a genuine smile. “But I also see that something’s wrong. Out with it, Coigne.” I punched his shoulder lightly.

“It is so annoying that nothing gets by you, Norma. Yes, there is something that’s come up, but not anything to worry about.”

I wondered what fascinated everyone about the Air Products tank, the way they wandered over to the window and sought its council, the way Coigne did then. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t.

“I’ll worry if you don’t tell me. Now turn around here.”

His back heaved as he evidently debated with himself whether or not to say what was on his mind. He turned around. “It’s that jackass, Geoff Spenser. He’s sent us a letter.”

“Jackass? Mr. Spenser?”

“Technically, the letter was from the Phelps General Counsel, warning us to cease and desist from any further harassment of Phelps employees, or they’ll pursue all legal remedies bark, bark, bark.”

“Good. This shows they’re hiding something, though I can’t imagine why Dell’s father would help them hide something that could lead to the discovery of his daughter’s—” “We don’t know what his motives are. We do know his company has the ability to bankrupt us in litigation.”

“You want me to do as they say?” I couldn’t believe Coigne would let someone intimidate him, especially someone pretentious enough to turn the name “Jeff ” into “Geoff.” “We can’t let those creeps bully us, right?”

93

Last Casualty

“Well, let’s see here. You’ve been blown up, and now we’ve got a Fortune 100 threatening to ruin us.” He left the window sill and sat on the bed again. There was no smile in his eyes. “Norma. I want you to do as they say.” He punctuated his statement with a clipped nod.

I wondered which concerned him more, the threat to my safety or preservation of his precious horse farm business, but I caught myself. Coigne deserved more credit than that. Besides, if the situation were reversed, I’d say the same thing to him. For a second, I wondered if I was experiencing a moment of maturity, a byproduct of marriage to a mature, sensible man.

Coigne got up to study Air Products some more, wrapping two fingers in the string of metal beads that worked the vertical blinds. Now I really was perplexed. A second ago he’d been worried about lawsuits. We’d covered that. Now, already, his attention had drifted to some other worry.

I left him to it while I went into the bathroom to collect the toiletries Laney had brought a few days before. Coigne was probably also worried about medical expenses we’d have to cover.

I thought about arguing we’d probably go bankrupt regardless of whether or not I “ceased and desisted,” but decided to keep that observation to myself.

When I came out of the bathroom, Coigne grabbed my toiletries bag and tossed it into the box, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and said he’d take it to the car, find a wheelchair, and come back for me.

“Here’s the thing, Coigne. I can see there’s more on your mind, and I don’t want to head home if something’s happened I don’t know about. Why don’t you tell me now? If it’s financial—” “Okay, okay.” He set the box down. “In the scheme of things, this is a small matter,” he said. He took a deep breath. He stood so long without saying a word I wondered if he was on the verge of tears. Finally, he said, “It’s Beauty. She’s gone, and so’s the foal.”

“Gone? I’m not sure—” “Dead.” His voice was no louder than a whisper. He balled his hands into fists.

“I still don’t—” 94

Lee W. Doty

“They’re both dead!” He looked horrified at having shouted.

“I’m sorry. There’s just a lot of—” “Take a minute,” I said. “Sit down next to me. Tell me what happened.” I took his hand, and we sat side by side on the bed.

“Technically, the foal wasn’t positioned well. Beauty suffered a ruptured uterus. Everything went wrong.” As he went into detail, he spoke like a clinician—monotone voice, multisyllabic terms, a little Latin here and there. He blocked out any emotion he’d felt as he’d watched his animals die.

“You needed to be there more, Coigne. Instead, you were here with me, or reading that damn lawyer’s letter, or—” I could kill myself for putting my blundering murder investigation first.

If only I hadn’t been off nosing around.

“No, Norma. It’s not because of something you did or didn’t do. It wasn’t because we weren’t paying attention to the horses.

Besides, I had plenty of medical coverage.”

I wouldn’t ask who provided that coverage. I didn’t want to hear about Misty’s heroic interventions. I flashed on a visual of Misty giving Beauty mouth-to-mouth. It wasn’t pretty. I put my arms around Coigne. “I’m so sorry.”

“I had hoped to bring you home without getting into all this.”

His cell phone rang. It was Laney, wondering where the heck we were.

Coigne took my belongings down and returned with the wheelchair. We left, far more soberly than I had expected. I spotted Nurse Spanx at the nurse’s station. She was getting a mouthful from some guy who wore scrubs and had a surgical mask around his neck. The scene explained a lot about her attitude.

Laney tried to sound cheerful as I climbed into Coigne’s truck, but there was no masking her swollen, red eyes. She might have felt the loss of Beauty and her foal as much as Coigne did.

The ride home seemed interminable, and as we passed by the stables on the way to the house, I could almost hear Chopin’s Funeral March. The only thing shocking enough to distract us from our sorrow was the identity of the visitor who waited at our front door.

95

18 I hardly expected to find Mrs. Spenser with her hand on our doorknocker in light of the letter from the Phelps attorney.

Once lawyers threaten to wage war, they scare their clients witless into saying nothing and steering clear of their adversary.

Notwithstanding any bullying from lawyers or, for that matter, her husband, Mrs. Spenser had probably decided the Phelps letter needed reinforcement. I braced and prepared for battle.

After all, it had been Mrs. Spenser who’d treated me so rudely, albeit under tough circumstances.

Elegant as before, she wore a duck-egg-blue linen suit over a featherweight white shell and carried a white straw clutch. Her open heel pumps, also white, must have been purchased on the way over. They were spotless. Even though I had an excuse for my grungy look, days without a shower, so far, Mrs. Spenser had the advantage.

Coigne was the first to overcome his surprise and invite Mrs. Spenser into our living room, which suddenly looked to me like the lobby of a seedy motel. “Please sit down, Mrs. Spenser,” Coigne said, worry seeping through his normally easy, courteous manner. “Laney, would you mind making us some iced tea?

Norma, do you need to go rest?”

“Forgive me, both of you,” Mrs. Spenser said. She took a seat.

“I know this is the wrong time for guests. I was sorry to hear about the accident, Ms. Bergen. I promise I won’t keep you long.”

Coigne and I sat down. “It wasn’t an accident, no matter what anyone may have told you.”

96

Lee W. Doty

“Norma,” Coigne smiled, his voice pitched higher than normal. It was obvious he didn’t want me to share my theory about the explosion. The noise from Laney’s cabinet banging and drawer slamming in the kitchen might have made it difficult to share anything anyway.

“I’m not here to challenge the characterization of the explosion, nor to challenge you, Ms. Bergen. I’ve come to apologize for my behavior when you came to my home last week. Since then, I’ve come to see things differently. I hope you’ll forgive me.” Mrs. Spenser smoothed her skirt over her knees, canting her shapely legs to the side.

She spoke of the hard time she’d had welcoming relatives into her home so soon after Dell’s death when she’d rather have sat in a dark room by herself. I saw another side to Mrs. Spenser and didn’t know what to think. It was decent of her to apologize, but why come all the way over when a brief note would do?

Laney was making progress, as heralded by her loud dredging of the ice maker bucket. What had Laney said about the Spensers?

Owen didn’t seem to want his own girlfriend to meet them. But based on this second visit with Mrs. Spenser, I would withhold judgment. I said, “Why don’t we just forget it and start over?”

A smile transformed Mrs. Spenser’s face from unapproachable royalty to friendly neighbor.

“What’s made you see things differently?” I asked.

Laney interrupted from the kitchen. “Do you guys want cookies or pound cake?”

Coigne got up. “Excuse me, ladies. I’ll give Laney a hand.”

“You would be surprised,” Mrs. Spenser said, “at how many Laws there are in West Virginia.” She allowed herself a short laugh.

“That surprises me. I think of less populous states as not having many laws at all.” And why were we talking about laws?

“Before I married Geoff, I was Eve Law. Evelyn Law.” I drew a blank, thinking Mrs. Spenser’s mind had wandered.

Grief, no doubt. Then I got it. “You’re related to Sheriff Law? And maybe he’s spoken to you about me—told you I wasn’t as dreadful as I …” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. I didn’t want to conjure up again that first visit to her house.

97

Last Casualty

“Yes, Buddy’s a distant cousin of mine. Our families used to gather for reunions and all the kids played together, but as Geoff started to rise through the Phelps hierarchy, we socialized at the country club rather than the local park. The Spensers have distanced themselves from the Laws, I regret to say.”

Her family ties to the state explained the Spenser villa’s location in West Virginia. I let her talk.

“I was surprised they let Buddy work on my daughter’s case, in light of his being related to her. I imagine the profusion of Laws in law enforcement in this state, coupled with manpower shortages in county government, allowed a cousin several times removed to handle the investigation, with support from other agencies. In any case, Buddy has told me about your activities since you found Dell. As he put it, ‘Ms. Bergen’s naughty, but nice, and committed.’”

I began to wonder what had become of Laney and Coigne.

How long did it take to throw cookies on a tray? Then again, I didn’t want the illuminating conversation with Mrs. Spenser interrupted again. “What else did the sheriff tell you?”

“He did some homework, said you had a good reputation as a lawyer on Cape Cod, and you’d played a key role in solving some murders. And, you helped save your daughter’s life. She was kidnapped, I understand.”

I nodded. “It was the most frightening ordeal of Laney’s life, surely, but mine too. This little explosion the other day doesn’t come close.”

“Buddy tells me you seem determined to find Dell’s killer.

Why is that, Ms. Bergen, if I may ask?”

Why indeed? I was beginning to like Mrs. Spenser; we were having a rapprochement of sorts, but we weren’t yet BFFs. I didn’t want to share with her Laney’s bout of emotional and psychological problems and that I’d seen them resurfacing with Dell’s death. She was, after all, the mother of Laney’s beau. Best to keep it light. “Coigne says I have PPD, Puzzle Perseveration Disorder. Once I get ahold of a problem, I stay on it until I’ve solved it, no matter the cost, to myself or others. I don’t think he sees this PPD as a positive trait. Hence the ‘disorder’ part.”

98

Lee W. Doty

“I would have thought your law practice would give you those kinds of puzzles to work on.”

“I’m not practicing now.” My professional hiatus was one more problem I wasn’t ready to share. “I’ll probably open a practice in a few months.”

Mrs. Spenser pulled her glasses from her purse and put them on. “Good. I’d like to hire you.”

I blinked. “Did you say hire?”

“Yes. I take it you’re free from other duties.” She lifted her chin. “Or are you helping your husband with the farm?”

“Hell, no. Not one iota. He’d pay you to keep me busy.” I inched my chair closer to hers. “But hire me to do what?”

“To find out who killed my daughter. Your ‘PPD’ gives you skills and courage, and I’d be surprised if there isn’t some heart involved too. I know Buddy will do his best, but he’s got a whole county to worry about. And I’m not confident this Deputy Hoag brings much talent to the endeavor. Based on what Buddy’s told me, Deputy Hoag can be a —well—I think on a farm like this it’s all right to call him a horse’s ass.”

Evelyn Law Spenser was full of surprises.

“Buddy says he’s trying to give his deputy experience when possible, so he’ll advance. I’m not sure why he’s so vested in the man, especially now.” Evelyn’s voice broke, but the way she turned it into a cough told me she didn’t want me to notice. “The main thing is Buddy’s authority has limits, and he respects those limits. I hope you’re not hemmed in like that.” Her statement was more of a question, one I would side-step for the moment.

“What about the letter from the Phelps’ lawyer? Are you aware I’ve been told to cease and desist my inquiries?”

“Those idiots. They’re afraid you’ll stir up bad press for Phelps. That means they’ll try to limit the murder investigation even further. They don’t care if my baby’s killer is found—just earnings and stock price.” Her voice shook and she pulled a pressed hankie from her bag. I gave her some time and then led us back to certain technicalities.

“You know, I’m not licensed as a private detective.”

99

Last Casualty

“Did that keep you from looking for Laney when her life was in danger?”

“No, but I was more or less assisting Coigne, a Massachusetts State Trooper investigating on behalf of the Massachusetts District Attorney.”

“Very well then.” Mrs. Spenser turned her gaze upward. A stink bug crossing the windowpane caught her eye. “Annoying buggers.” She shook her head as if plotting the extinction of stink bugs. “I’ll have a word with my niece Rhonda. Rhonda Law. She’s a prosecuting attorney here in the county. You’ll work on her behalf.”

I said nothing, unsure of how I felt about her proposition.

Mrs. Spenser was an unknown quantity. It still worried me that the Spensers hadn’t been forthcoming with law enforcement about the Phelps’ stalker.

She must have sensed my discomfort. “I need you to find Dell’s killer. Your legal fee was around four hundred dollars per hour, according to my research. We’ll stick with that. Here is my card. Please let me know of any other terms you need for me to include in our engagement letter.”

I took her card and examined it front and back. “And Phelps?

What if they come after me?”

“They’re only forbidding you to ‘harass’ their employees.

I’m sure you can investigate without harassing. If Phelps plays rough, we’ll play rough, and I’ll cover you. I believe the phrase is ‘indemnify and hold harmless’.”

Before I could respond, Laney entered the room bearing a tray with the goodies and napkins. Coigne followed with glasses and a pitcher of iced tea.

“How’s it going here?” Coigne smiled, but it looked more social than real.

“We brought pound cake and cookies. Would you like some, Mrs. Spenser?” Laney said, putting her tray down on the coffee table.

Mrs. Spenser glanced at her watch and stood. “Please, all of you, call me Evelyn. And Laney—I’m so glad to finally meet you.

I can see why my son is smitten.” She turned to Coigne. “Thank 100

Lee W. Doty

you so much for the offer of tea, Mr. Coigne. I’m afraid I must go.” She turned back to Laney, a comically fierce look on her face.

“Are those cookies from Cake and Coffee, Laney?”

She nodded, smiling.

“I thought so. Then I absolutely must take one for the road.”

She grabbed a napkin and cookie, gathered her bag, and tilted her head my way. “Ms. Bergen?”

“Call me Norma, and I—it’s a deal. I’ll see you out.

“No need.” She smiled a country cousin smile and turned on a thousand-dollar heel. *** “It’s a deal? Doesn’t sound like she gave you much of a hard time. Wish I hadn’t left the room,” Coigne said.

“Put down your trays, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They joined me at the coffee table, and we all dug in. I quickly weighed the option of telling them about my new job.

Telling would add to Coigne’s worries about the Phelps’ threat.

He also still suffered from Beauty’s death. Right now, he needed my support, not more hassle. There was time enough to fill him in. That annoying voice in my head said my support argument might be rather self-serving, but a lawyer should never argue both sides of a case.

I leaned back on the couch. Laney gave me a funny look, and her gesture with her fingers told me that a wreath of cake crumbs circled my mouth. I grabbed a napkin and wiped the crumbs off.

“That woman surprised me with her gracious apology.”

“What else did she say?” Coigne asked. “Any update on the investigation? Or was that off limits? And what deal were you and she talking about?”

I reached for two cookies and handed them out. “As for the investigation, she spoke frankly about her disappointment with the progress that’s been made and even commented on the bizarre attitude of her husband and his company with that cease and desist letter. Anyway, we agreed to stay in close touch.” That was not a lie. I hurried on to give highlights of the rest of the 101

Last Casualty

conversation and astounded my audience with the revelation of Evelyn’s local roots and her relationship to the sheriff. We finally got on to other topics.

Laney grabbed a pamphlet from the floor I must have dropped on the way in. “Says here if you experience stress symptoms, like PTSD things, you need to start an exercise routine, mindful breathing exercises, relaxation techniques. Are you feeling PTSD-ish?”

Coigne reached for the pamphlet. “You’ve got it wrong. Those instructions are for you and me after Norma’s been home a few days.”

“Very funny.” Things did seem normal and I realized how grateful I felt to be home.

Exhausted, I went upstairs for a nap and tuned into a cooking show on TV, guaranteed to put me out. I awoke just after 2:00 P.M. and hastily tapped out the terms of my engagement in an email to Evelyn, who responded promptly with her approval. I then changed my top, preparing to go out, and pondered some more Evelyn’s change of heart about me. Something or someone was dividing the Spenser household, and it was probably Geoff, Sr. He must have made it clear to his wife Phelps was not to become embroiled in the investigation of Dell’s death. The possibility that his position there meant more to him than finding his daughter’s killer must have infuriated Evelyn. I was on her side. I could understand the desire and even obligation to protect one’s employer from the toxic overflow of a murder investigation, but how could Geoff, Sr., be so sure Phelps had nothing to do with his daughter’s death? Unless, of course, he knew who the killer was? Something else to think about.

I mapped out next steps on my laptop. There were several avenues to explore: the explosion episode, the Phelps involvement in Dell’s life, and the battlefield where her body was found. I researched the mechanics of the explosion, but without some expert guidance, I didn’t learn much. I also deferred approaching Mr. Doggett again. I’d been warned about harassment, and even with Evelyn’s agreement to cover my losses, why court a lawsuit?

That left Antietam and perhaps another go at Gene O’Hagan.

102

Lee W. Doty

Marion had provided interesting background on Gene, who was her what? Friend or lover? He’d been a school teacher and, as such, hadn’t met his father’s testamentary challenge. Gene was probably jealous of his brother’s success in doing so. But so what?

Whatever I had learned from Marion, none of it seemed relevant to Dell’s death. How could urbane, well-read, mature-in-years Gene have even a loose connection to—let’s face it—flakey Dell Spenser, much less a motive to kill her? There was only one way to find out—research and legwork.

I played around on the Antietam Battlefield website, not sure what I was looking for, but when I followed a link to another nearby historical landmark, I got lucky and outlined a plan.

Much as I wanted to get started, my body said absolutely not. My “keepers” let me sleep all the way to midmorning the next day.

103

19 Laney and Coigne had tidied up the living room. They were saints. Another bright note—the green-eyed monster was just about dead. At the hospital, Coigne had been so attentive and caring. That went a long way toward healing my pain, and not just the pain caused by contusions. I could even hum a few bars of “Play Misty for Me” without suffering a myocardial infarction.

In the kitchen, a frozen ziti casserole sat out on the counter defrosting. I vaguely wondered which neighbor brought it over, but with more important things on my mind, I snuck around to the back porch and hoped to avoid Laney and Coigne. They wouldn’t approve of my venturing out so soon.

“Where ya headed?”

Busted. Laney was stretched out, her long, slender legs dangling over the arm of a rickety, oversized rocker. She put her book aside, her finger serving as a bookmark. “You’re supposed to be in bed, Norma. Instead, you’re in your ‘going downtown’ clothes.”

“Very funny.” I knew my faded, misshapen T-shirt wasn’t haute couture, but with my face still bruised and swollen, who would notice the clothes? “How’s Middlemarch coming?”

“Slow. But look.” She pinched the remaining pages between thumb and forefinger. “One inch to go.”

Laney was chewing gum, and I wanted to yank it out of her mouth. This habit irritated me. Gum chewers look like cows chewing cud. Laney was no exception. But that was a minor

104

Lee W. Doty

battle that could wait. She almost seemed perky, and I wouldn’t jeopardize her mood with a lecture.

“So, where are you going?” she asked.

In my best James Cagney voice, I said, “I’m gonna do some pryin’, see?”

“Prying? You mean you’re going to snoop?” She put her book down. “Are you planning something illegal?”

“Oh, no. Nothing illegal at all. Just prying.”

She gave me an appraising look. “The way you say that makes me think something’s up, like maybe there’s a play-on-words in there.”

Busted. Twice in five minutes. “I want to visit Pry House.

It’s not far from the Antietam Battlefield, and its barn was used back then as a hospital for injured soldiers. Nowadays, it houses the Pry House Field Hospital Museum. Anyway, I want to check something out and I don’t think Coigne needs me around here.

The fellow I met the day I found Dell will be there.”

“Coigne wants you to stay in bed. And so do I.” Laney rifled through her remaining pages, tossed the book aside, and got up.

“If you won’t stay here, I’ll go with you there.”

“No, Laney. After what’s happened, I better—.”

“What if your stitches tear open or you faint? And besides, what will you drive? Your car’s probably in a—a contractor bag somewhere.”

I couldn’t bring her with me this time. No one agreed that I was the target of that explosion, but I was sure of it. I wouldn’t put her in danger.

“I see you’re about to say no again, but I’ve got to be part of this, Norma. And I have to make sure you’re … I can’t explain it all. I just know we need to stay together.”

I didn’t have an answer for her—nothing that would satisfy her. “You can be a part of this by helping me with research. You’re much better than I am on the internet.”

“It’s no use. I’m just going to follow you to Pry House. I’ll get Owen to take me over.”

The debate went on for another twenty minutes. I could see I’d had too much influence over Laney. She’d become a wheedler.

105

Last Casualty

I didn’t like it one bit, but I gave in. I’m sure an experienced mother would have let her daughter down firmly but lovingly.

She wouldn’t have caved in on phrases like, “We need to stay together.” But I swore to myself it would be the last time she’d accompany me on a Dell-related trip. After all, the girl was murdered.

“Where’s Coigne? We’ll need to take his truck.”

“He’s cleaning out Beauty’s stall.” Laney stopped, her look no longer carefree. “Said he needed to be alone.”

I’d already forgotten about Beauty. What a terrible blow for him, for Laney too. “He’s broken up about her, isn’t he?”

Laney teared up. “I never thought an adult would be so attached to an animal, but Coigne loved Beauty. Really loved her.

Sometimes he acted like she was his kid, the way he’d admire her, you know, all her graceful moves. He always talked about how smart she was.”

Once more, I was struck by Laney’s sensitivity and wished I had more of it—especially when it came to Coigne.

“And did you know,” she went on, “about that foal? It wasn’t just that he wanted another horse for the farm. Coigne thought the little guy might be a racer. But I guess you knew that.”

I didn’t, but I should have. Coigne had probably told me.

“What happened, Laney? Why didn’t that vet see this coming?

Isn’t that why Coigne brought her in?”

“I don’t think we know yet exactly what happened. We were all there when her water broke, and the foal seemed to be in the right position, and Beauty was fine. But then she wouldn’t stay still. She rolled over and over. It was horrible.”

“Don’t think about it.” I pulled her to me and hugged her again while she had a good cry. When she reached the sniffles stage, I told her to go ahead and blow her nose on my shirt, which got a chuckle out of her. “Let’s give Coigne some space. We’ll call him from the road and let him know where we are. We’ll pick up some craft beer on the way back. That should cheer him up.”

Driving over, I still felt anxious about Laney but was also a tad worried for myself. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, wondering whether or not someone was following us. I’d turn 106

Lee W. Doty

the radio on, switch from classical to hip hop, to the news, then off. Then I’d start the cycle again.

Laney stopped texting. “You all right there?”

“That pamphlet you read from yesterday? Says a certain amount of apprehension is to be expected when you get blown up. Let’s talk about something else.” I switched off the radio and she pocketed her phone.

“So, have you made arrangements to meet this guy at Pry House?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, no. I saw on the website he’s hosting a Civil War lecture there.”

“What?” Laney slumped over as if someone had dropped a safe on her back. “That’s like school.”

“Now don’t be like that.” We pulled off Boonsboro Pike onto a long, graveled road. At the end where it forked, the lecture hall, a big old barn, stood in the foreground to the right. The mansion, a red brick block surrounded by oceans of fields, sat on a hilltop to the left. With its two chimneys, black shutters, white porch entrance, and sleeping porches, the mansion imposed authority over the landscape.

“One day, you’ll be glad someone took the trouble to teach you some history,” I said. How pathetic. I justified bringing her along, despite the danger, by highlighting an educational benefit.

We walked to the mansion, taking a winding road to the left, got a briefing from the young cashier, paid for tickets, and headed back the way we had come toward the barn.

When we reached the barn, Laney said, “Exactly what are we looking for here? What’s this lecture going to tell us?”

I pushed my sunglasses onto the top of my head. “If you’re wondering what Civil War history has to do with Dell’s death, I’m not sure. But as Coigne will tell you, when you’re investigating a crime and hit a dead-end—which is where I am, by the way— you have to explore every aspect of the known facts to detect even a speck of a new lead, and that’s what we’re doing, looking for that speck.”

“A speck, huh?”

“Yes, Laney, a speck.” I went on with my exegesis. “Our known facts are that a) Dell was employed at the battlefield.”

107

Last Casualty

“Right. Owen confirmed it.”

“And b) Dell died on the battlefield, a most unlikely location for Dell, dead or alive. And c) this guy Gene, a Civil War buff, is up to something. I can feel it. So this is where we need to be. We may wind up with nothing but for now, let’s just soldier on.”

“You’re worse than Coigne.”

We kept walking, breathing in the beauty of the open fields.

A hummingbird popped up out of the tall grass and disappeared as quickly.

“What makes you think this Gene is up to something?” she asked.

“For one thing, he tried to point the police inquiry in my direction by telling them I’d acted suspiciously right before I found Dell, or words to that effect. There’s no way he could’ve interpreted my meditative communing with nature as suspicious.”

“So he’s a liar,” Laney said.

“Right, and by the way, what was he doing at Bloody Lane?

He gave me a lame explanation, but I don’t buy it. And he’s weird, which is fine. Some of the most interesting people are weird.”

“Like you.”

“Like me. But the difference is that I can’t hide my idiosyncrasies, so I don’t try. It’d be too unnatural and painful, like wearing a bra backward. Okay. That was off-putting.”

“Just a little.”

“Gene O’Hagan, on the other hand, doesn’t come across as strange at all. He hides his weird side most of the time.”

We found the entrance door. No one could accuse the National Museum of Civil War Medicine of ruining the old barn with modern touches, as there were none. The enormous structure’s old wooden beams soared heavenward. Its thick floorboards were worn but solid, and the sunshine seeped in between wallboards and formed odd-shaped light puddles on objects and people.

Thirty folding chairs faced a podium, on which lay an oversized gavel. Behind the podium hung an enormous American flag.

Based on its trappings, the horse-drawn buggy off to the side had served as a Civil War ambulance. We grabbed programs, sat in the back row, and faced the podium.

108

20 Several rows ahead of us, I spotted a familiar purple blouse and long black skirt with gold coins dangling from the hem— The Shusher. I pointed her out to Laney. “That odd woman is everywhere. She was at the battlefield the day I found Dell and then several days later at the Civil War Center in town. Wonder if she’s my speck of a new lead.”

“Maybe she just has an interest in the Civil War. And maybe she’s not odd, just has idiosyncrasies, you know?”

“Do you have to remember everything I say?” Before I could go on, Gene O’Hagan took the podium. “That’s our man.”

“He doesn’t look so bad.”

Laney was right. Gene looked vital and refreshed, much younger than he’d looked the two times I’d met him before.

And more attractive. Maybe an appearance before an audience rejuvenated him.

Gene looked around the audience and saw me too. His smile was spontaneous as he gave a thumbs up.

“He doesn’t seem sinister at all, Norma.”

The very model of transparency. Had I done with Gene what Coigne accused me of doing with most new people I met? He said I attributed to them certain character traits, whether they had them or not, simply to make my own life easier. In effect, to dismiss them. It’s possible I had convinced myself Gene was sinister to avoid having a little crush on him.

Gene whispered something to the man beside him, got up, and headed my way. His jazz hands signaled his pleasure.

109

Last Casualty

“Read about you in the paper. Let me look at you.” He grabbed both my hands. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel a lot better than I look.”

“You look just fine,” he said, smiling. “And this must be your daughter.” He bowed from the waist, and I made the introductions.

After some small talk, Gene outlined the afternoon’s lecture. He explained that last month the same speaker, Dr. Lewis, had walked his audience through the Emancipation Proclamation’s drafting process, from Lincoln’s first attempt at it in the war telegraph office to the presentation of his final draft to his cabinet. Gene was in full lecture mode.

“Today, Dr. Lewis will talk about how the Emancipation Proclamation went over, or didn’t, with Union soldiers and their commanding officers.”

I remembered Gene had brought up the Emancipation Proclamation the day we’d first met, and here it was again.

Nothing odd about that—he was hosting a lecture by a renowned authority on the subject, so of course he’d bone up on it, obsess about it, and organize his thoughts by talking to others, like me, about it. Today’s lecture might also have been what he was working on at the time Marion the Librarian said, “He’s hot on the trail of something,” and he’d made that fuss at Cake and Coffee.

All the chairs were now filled, and the audience had grown quiet. It was time to begin. I encouraged Gene back to the podium by agreeing to stay after the lecture to meet Dr. Lewis.

This talk should have been just the kind I enjoyed, full of tidbits not found in official reports but in diaries and correspondence.

I tried hard to keep my mind on Gene’s introductory remarks, but the heat, my injuries, medication, and the fanny-punishing metal chair distracted me. I needed fresh air and a chaise lounge, neither of which were handy. I’d have to tough it out, and Gene wasn’t going to make it easy. He was the type who, once he had the floor, held onto it like Major Anderson at Fort Sumter: He’d eventually surrender the mic, but not without a lengthy siege. I lay back and stretched my legs and tried to remember exactly why I hadn’t just stayed in bed another day.

110

Lee W. Doty

“Lincoln visited Grove Farm, the home of his good friend Stephen Grove. As far as Abe was concerned, it sure beat hanging about with General McClellan.” Gene looked my way, probably recalling our discussion of McClellan the day we’d first met.

“What was so wrong with McClellan?” Laney whispered to me, pointing to the General’s photo in the program. “Looks cute.”

“He wouldn’t risk his soldiers in battle. Lincoln had a reason for referring to McClellan’s army as the man’s own personal bodyguard.”

“Shhh!” The Shusher twisted around to see who was whispering. Her eyes popped when she recognized me.

Good. Let her think I’m following her for a change.

Professor Lewis—short, white-haired, and wearing a bow tie—was finally able to begin. He personalized his talk, explaining that when he was a boy, he and his father would explore Civil War battlefields several times a month, just for the fun of it. He doubted there was a nook or cranny, story, rumor, or artifact he didn’t know about. Dr. Lewis was knowledgeable, no doubt about that, but as a public speaker, he was a dud. It wasn’t only the old men in the audience whose heads slowly tipped forward. Despite my best intentions, I drifted off. When Laney poked me in the side, I found I’d so lost track along the professor’s digression, I gave up on his and pursued my own.

I tuned back in as Dr. Lewis entertained the audience with another wisecrack from President Lincoln. McClellan had complained, as he had in the past, he couldn’t possibly pursue the Confederates to Richmond because his forces were outnumbered, two to one. Abe answered, “Sir, your objective is to defeat the soldiers of the Army of Northern Virginia, not just count them.”

The audience laughed, although I had a feeling many had heard the quip before.

Dr. Lewis picked up the remote-control device, and a white square appeared on the screen behind him.

Laney fell on my shoulder like she’d fainted. “Slides. We’ll be here forever.”

He pointed out the Grove Farm in the background of one slide. I stole a glance at Gene during the next well-known story 111

Last Casualty

about Lincoln’s visit to see wounded Confederate soldiers at their “hospital.” He’d bent over each bed and told its occupant he’d get good care. Sure, Lincoln had a withering sense of humor when it came to pompous folks like McClellan, but it was his nonselective humanity that always got to me.

During this discussion of the hospital and all that suffering, I expected Gene to look as he’d previously said he felt, sympathetic with the Confederacy and disgusted with the bloodshed. Instead, his eyes darted around the room. The Shusher turned her head slightly to face him. I got a good look at her profile. She wasn’t just a fruitcake who wanted everyone to be quiet. There was an intensity about her face and body that felt threatening. The Shusher stared at Gene until he stopped fidgeting and stared back. He gave her a nod, maybe a signal, but then his gaze shifted to me. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Was he just trying to say, “Look who’s shown up again—The Shusher?” or trying to cover that odd moment of contact between them?

The slides turned out to be a problem for those who’d drifted off. Each time the remote clicked to change the picture, a few sleepy heads popped up. Dr. Lewis ended his lecture with the well-known photo of Lincoln and McClellan, seated in a tent facing each other knee to knee but neither man looking at the other, and neither looking pleased. The lecture had lasted an hour, and after brief, hearty applause, the audience got ready to leave. Gene motioned me to the podium. Laney left for the ladies’ room, and I went to meet Dr. Orvil Lewis.

“Call me Orvie, Miss Bergen,” he said.

“Then call me Norm, Orvie.” We shook hands, and I thanked him for the lesson. I’d learned things I hadn’t read about before. I found it always paid to figure out what a person was most proud of, whether it was their good posture, perfect pitch, or new shoes, and praise it, but only if it was truly praiseworthy.

“You shouldn’t thank me. It was Gene here who practically drafted my outline for the lecture.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said, giving Gene his due. “Have you published much on the subject? I’m always looking for something good to read.”

112

Lee W. Doty

Gene shook his head. “His work on the actual battles can get quite technical.”

“I bet I can manage.”

“Why I’m delighted you’re interested, Norm. I’ll be happy to send you a list of my articles and books. I—” “That daughter of yours,” Gene said. “I watched her during Orvie’s presentation. Not only is she a little beauty, but she’s mature enough to sit through an hour’s lecture when she could be texting on her iPhone.”

“I don’t have children of my own,” Orvie said, “but my nephews have the quickest thumbs in all of Christendom. I worry when they drive.”

“You tell them to watch out for me,” I said. “I see someone texting while driving, I bear down on my horn and tailgate ‘em ‘til they stop. Quite effective.”

“I’ll try it.” Orvie’s eyes were merry. He looked like one of the seven dwarves.

I soon made my excuses and left to find Laney. I’d have to wait until I was alone to sort through what Gene was up to, as it did not escape my notice he’d tried to derail Orvie from sending me a list of his works. I hadn’t really been all that interested in his list, just making conversation. Now, I was interested.

The crowd had thinned, and I spotted Laney. She was talking with a couple of girls. What do you know? The gift shop girls.

Madison and Somebody. Something sticky. Taffy. Madison and Taffy.

“Norma. Hey!” Laney called. “Can you give me a few minutes?

Mad and Taf are going to give me a tour of the museum. It’s in the mansion. They work part-time here, too.”

The last thing that girl wanted was a personal tour of a museum. From what I’d read online, she was about to suffer through rooms of glass-covered exhibit cases full of learned articles, letters, medical drawings, and photographs. I hoped she was making the supreme sacrifice of taking the tour in order to chat up these girls about Dell.

“Sure,” I called out. “Half an hour.” I started to walk away, but turned back. “Come here a minute.” Laney made a long113

Last Casualty

suffering face, but came just the same. “To be on the safe side, just go straight to the mansion and back. Don’t go anywhere else.

I’ll be out in front here. Okay?”

No answer.

“If you don’t promise, I’ll come with you. Turnabout is fair play.” I said it lightly, but I was prepared to follow through.

No enthusiasm, but she agreed.

I made use of my free time to enjoy the scenery and if someone said they saw my eyes close, they wouldn’t be lying. There was just enough time before Laney returned to give Coigne a quick call.

He wasn’t happy I’d left with his truck without letting him know. He was even more unhappy I was out of bed in the first place. But his heart wasn’t in it. He must have gotten so used to my lack of consideration it barely registered anymore. Or maybe he had other things on his mind. He didn’t even ask why we were at Pry House. “How’s it going on your end?” I asked.

“Cleaned out Beauty’s stall. Other things in the barn. Just finished.” He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me.

“I know you’re miserable about Beauty. What can I do?”

“Come home. I’ve got this huge ziti casserole almost defrosted. I think I can get an ax through it now. I miss you. And I’m worried about you.”

“Nonsense. I feel good. And I want to tell you more about that visit from Evelyn Spenser.” My conscience bothered me. I needed to tell him she’d hired me to look into Dell’s death. “Pop the ziti in the microwave and I’ll tell you all about it. Where’d the casserole come from anyway?” Damn. I wanted to bite my tongue.

Probably from Misty the Vet. I could just see her preparing the ziti wearing nothing but a frilly French maid’s apron. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

“Sheriff Law. His wife made it, but he dropped it off while you were still in the hospital.”

“That dear man,” I said, grateful for more reasons than Coigne needed to know.

“See? There’s something to be said for West Virginia and country ways.”

114

Lee W. Doty

“Steady on.”

Laney appeared, rounding the corner. She was right on time.

“Laney’s just back,” I said to Coigne. “We’ll be home in a flash.”

“For Pete’s sake, Norm, drive caref—” Laney was out of breath from running. Her cheeks, bright pink, reminded me of her happy self.

115

21 “First of all, they’re really nice,” Laney said as we walked to the car. “I wouldn’t have thought so at first. I don’t know why.”

“I do. They look and talk like girls who attend that school in Winchester for girls who ride horses.”

“That is where they go to school. How’d you know that?

Anyway, they’re sisters. Taffy, which means Beloved, is a sophomore, and Madison, the one with blond hair—” “Yes, the poor man’s Dell.”

“Whatever. Madison’s a senior. But they aren’t what you’d expect. They’re not conceited.”

I was curious. “You wish you had a sister?”

“I’d like the company—you know, someone close to my age.

But those sisters sure fight a lot. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

“Mind language. What do they fight about?” A tourist group practically swarmed over us and we edged to the side of the walkway.

“Oh, everything. I think Madison must’ve had a bad time at school because when she acted bossy, telling Taf to ‘get the lights’ or ‘stop being a baby,’ Taf said, ‘Just because you were bullied doesn’t mean you have to bully me.’”

“Do you think Dell might have bullied Madison?”

“Nah. I think Taf would have used Dell’s name. It sounded like a school thing, like something long ago. Bullying really sucks.”

“You’re right. It does. Are you ever still bullied?” There’d been a lot of that when she first came to live with her grandmother on Cape Cod. 116

Lee W. Doty

“No. Not here.”

We’d stopped to let a woman and an elderly man with a cane cross in front of us. No wonder Laney loved it here. Her past didn’t follow her to West Virginia. “So tell me more about Mad and Taf.” “Like there’s this guy who does work for Pry House. I just now met him. He’s done jail time. Something about a bad check.

Anyway, he’s a war veteran. Mad and Taf knew he wasn’t going to get hired because of his record and they didn’t think that was right. He served his country and all that. They had their dad— he’s like Mr. Marriott, owns all these hotels—put in a good word for him. So, Norma, even though they go to private school, you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“I’ll write that down.”

We opened our doors to the truck and got in. “Seriously, good for you for giving the sisters a chance. But now that you mention it, of course they attend Winchester Collegiate. They must have been in the fashion show at the mall last spring.” Based on my brief glimpses at Madison and Taffy, they fit the mold: clear skin, straight teeth, glossy hair, and no visible tats or body piercings.

“Exactly. Anyway, they’ve been working in the Antietam gift shop for a couple of summers.”

It now made sense. Dell must’ve met them at the mall, and they mentioned to her where they worked. That’s how Dell found out about the gift shop and applied for a job when there was an opening.

“They said they liked Dell,” Laney went on, “but she was a little, well, I think they were trying to say she was too old for them.”

“What do you think they meant by that? I would’ve said she acted like a spoiled kid.”

Laney frowned, not liking how I described Dell, no doubt.

“Mad and Taf do regular stuff, obsess about guys and college. Dell wasn’t into any of that. Even before she decided to be a model, she’d already known college wasn’t for her, and high school boys weren’t either.”

117

Last Casualty

By now we were back on the road home. I glanced at my passenger. “You said Madison and Taffy told you something I won’t believe. So far, I believe everything you’ve told me.”

Laney’s eyes were full of mischief. She rocked from side to side like she was hatching a golden egg. “Here’s the real news.

You remember you told me you overheard them talk about how Dell shouldn’t have ignored a customer or something?”

“Yes, go on.”

“I didn’t want to sound too obvious, so as we were talking about how weird it was Dell was found on Bloody Lane, I said I wondered what was she doing there, and they said she used to meet some guy. They’d only just told me she wasn’t the type to obsess about guys, so I asked who she met.”

“Whom.”

“Right. They said they didn’t know whom’s name.”

“Hell.”

“Wait, Norma. I don’t think we need the name.” Laney was about ready for lift-off. “They gave me a description. Guess. ‘Not too tall, white hair, friendly’.”

My first thought was Gene O’Hagan because I’d just seen him at the lecture and the description fit. But how helpful was the information? “I’m sorry, Laney. That description fits most every guy who tours the battlefield and Pry House.” I tried to hide my disappointment.

“Do they all have those little swirls in their hair?” she asked.

I looked her way, stunned, and had to quickly turn the wheel to get back on the road. Cowlicks.

We didn’t speak for a quarter-mile. I sailed along the hilly highway, passing split-rail fencing and distant farmhouses. A Styrofoam take-home box flung alongside the road normally would have driven me crazy, but I kept my focus on Laney’s information. “If it was Gene, he’s got a lot of explaining to do.

Did these girls let the police know Dell used to meet some guy in Bloody Lane?”

“I didn’t ask that question. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’ve uncovered more valuable information in a few minutes than I have in days. Anyway, I don’t 118

Lee W. Doty

think the police have talked to the girls. They would have told you so, right?”

She nodded, her glory restored.

It was obvious law enforcement was operating with less than a full hand. Geoff, Sr., was sitting on information about a Phelps employee who’d been harassing Dell, and these sisters probably hadn’t had a chance to say that Gene had been involved in Dell’s life before her murder. Of course, maybe Gene had said something about it to the police, but that theory didn’t hold up. He acted surprised when I revealed I’d known Dell before her death. That would have been the natural time for him to acknowledge he’d known her too. I think I’d remember if he’d said, “Sure, I knew her. We used to meet at Antietam.”

Why the hell was he involved with her, whatever that meant, when he was old enough to be her grandfather? I didn’t jump to the conclusion it was a romantic attachment. Even a friendship was implausible.

To say that I felt let down by Gene didn’t begin to express my feelings. The silver lining? I had a lead to pursue, one that wouldn’t run afoul of the Phelps lawyer letter. I could also provide my new client with a concrete development, whether or not it delivered to us Dell’s killer.

There was something else that had bothered me from the beginning, but hadn’t risen to the top of my list of concerns until this moment. She’d died of a drug overdose, so why the gash on her forehead? And why was Dell trussed up like a roast? Horrible to contemplate, but why not just leave her body on the ground?

Was the killer trying to send a message to someone? Mentally I played the word game Coigne and I sometimes played, believing people often did things, not realizing their actions were suggested by word associations they’d made subconsciously. The person who’d trussed up Dell might have been betrayed by her: Dell had breached the killer’s trust. Or maybe Dell had tied the killer in knots, and he returned the favor. The game got me nowhere and I put it aside. At least I had new information about Gene, thanks to Laney. And the bonus? Her help had “given her heart a change

119

Last Casualty

of mood, and saved some part of a day she rued.” Robert Frost aside, I wouldn’t involve her again in solving Dell’s murder. Not worth the risk.

“You win the day, kiddo. The Pulitzer Private Eye Prize goes to you. After dinner, let’s head to Sweet Frog? Baskin Robbins?

What’ll it be?” I glanced at her and laughed. She was sound asleep, clearly a delayed reaction to the history lecture.

120

22 Solving the mystery of Gene’s interest in Dell, or vice versa, would have to wait. Coigne needed me at home, and I had to admit I was tired. I wouldn’t have even minded that ziti casserole served in bed. For that matter, I wouldn’t have minded having that Coigne served in bed. I made a stop for his craft beer and headed home with high hopes.

I envisioned a warm welcome from the man I loved accompanied by that universally acclaimed aphrodisiac—pasta smothered in bubbling cheese and marinara sauce, with a fullbodied cab to sip while the dish settled. Thus, seeing Misty in real life, seated in my place at the kitchen table, all exotic mystery with her low cut, rust-colored blouse, destroyed in a single lightning bolt two years of contentment and rising expectations.

Laney had been steps ahead of me and barreled into the kitchen. “Hey. What smells so good? I’m starved.”

“Have a seat then.” Coigne got up. “You look wiped out, babe. I’ve asked Misty to stay for dinner. All this casserole.” He hurried on. “She was kind enough to bring a journal article on stillborn—” “Hello, Norma. I was horrified to learn from Will about your mishap.”

Mishap?

Misty rose from her seat, my seat, her arm outstretched in greeting, her forehead creased with grave concern.

121

Last Casualty

In addition to frenzied rage at Coigne, I felt an alarming wariness about Misty. Her motives were not benign toward me, Coigne, or possibly Laney. Even to myself, my misgivings sounded borderline insane, but I had to get her out of my house for good.

“I don’t feel well, and I have to wonder at your inviting company, Coigne, when I’ve just been discharged from the hospital.” I looked at Misty. “And I wonder at any guest accepting such an invitation.” I didn’t hang around to see the result of my bomblet, but stormed upstairs to our bedroom. I thought about slamming the door, but even Laney had outgrown such childishness. I brushed my teeth vigorously, shed my clothes, grabbed headphones from my night table, turned out the light, and sank beneath the covers. Over forty and I still had tantrums.

Or had I lost my mind? If I didn’t behave like an adult, I’d cause the very outcome Misty appeared to be masterminding.

I removed my headphones and listened for voices downstairs.

The back door opened and closed. That was that. She was gone.

Now for the blowback.

Long, youthful legs bounded up the stairs, a couple at a time.

They were followed minutes later by the plodding of feet sunk in concrete. Coigne opened the bedroom door slowly.

“You awake?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

Coigne headed to the armchair in the corner of the room, the one where he dumped his clothes on evenings when he was too tired to walk to the bathroom hamper. Now he just sat and said nothing, which was the angriest remonstration I’d ever had from him. The gulf between his chair and our bed was vast. I vacillated between hating Coigne and hating myself. In between times I squirmed about losing my cool in front of Laney.

“We need to talk.”

We sure do, Bozzo. Are you so thick you don’t understand how I feel?

“All right,” Coigne said. “If you don’t want to say anything, just listen. I’ve observed a certain amount of… I guess discomfort is the word, on your part, whenever our vet is even mentioned.

122

Lee W. Doty

You don’t have to like the people I like—no reason you should.

But I would ask you not to be rude to them. It’s just unfair, and if we want to set an example for Laney, we want her to know there are people in the world she won’t like, but even they are entitled to our civility.”

So now we’re using the Laney card? I’m a bad role model and you’re the expert?

“Do you hear me?”

“And just when was it you became my parent as well as Laney’s?”

“I don’t mean to sound like a parent.” The throbbing base of Laney’s music in the background didn’t help matters. “I want to know what’s on your mind.”

I sat up, but didn’t turn on the light. “All right. You want to hear what I have to say? I don’t like Misty. She’s evil. And, furthermore, I think you’re under her spell. Okay, there it is. I think there’s something going on between you.” I paused to reign myself in, but the thought of the kitchen scene infuriated me all over again. “And why do I need to say anything about it? You already know how I feel. Only a baboon would be uncertain. Or is this just part of the penalty of being married to you—I have to spell it out for you to complete my humiliation?”

He said nothing. Instead, we both listened to the muffled thump-thump-thump down the hall. I couldn’t leave it alone.

“You say my discomfort is obvious, and yet you invite her here for dinner. How should I interpret that?”

“You’re making a big deal out of a simple courtesy,” he said.

“Misty brought over some journal articles she thought would be helpful to understand what happened to Beauty. Dinner was ready. On the table. There was plenty of it. Frankly, I hinted for her to leave, but she just—wasn’t ready. What would you have done? Now you’ve put me in the awkward position of having to go over to her office and apologize.”

“You’re going to her office? After what I’ve just said? Your Honor, I move for summary judgment.”

“She’s lonely, for Pete’s sake, Norma. Here we are, we’ve got each other and Laney. To her, we’ve got it all. She’s by herself.

123

Last Casualty

That’s the long and short of it. Nothing more. I think your accident has made you—” “What accident? Why do you keep saying that?”

We were interrupted by a knock at the door and I realized Laney’s music had stopped. “I thought I heard you talking in here. Should I be worried?” She sounded like she was about to cry. We both got up, full of remorse, and embraced her in a hug sandwich.

“The only time you should worry is if Norma and I see eyeto-eye for any prolonged period of time. Then you should worry, sweetheart.”

I forced a laugh to go along with Coigne’s joke.

We stood there for a long time. When we disentangled, she said, “In that case, I’m going downstairs to heat up my dinner and eat it.”

Coigne told her he’d join her soon. I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I imagined he was smiling. The fact that Laney had been our daughter only a short time in no way limited his love for her. He was right to try to allay her concerns. The last thing she needed was to witness serious marital discord, and this argument with Coigne felt serious. He had sounded disgusted, and so had I. When I got back in bed, Coigne came to the bedside, leaned over, and kissed my forehead, a gesture I stoically endured. “We’ll pick this up later,” he said. “And I’m bringing you dinner in bed, so don’t go to sleep yet. And furthermore, Mrs. Peevish, I love you, despite all.”

Peevish? Was that what he thought? Was it just a that-timeof-the-month problem a little dinner in bed would resolve? The thing was, I couldn’t swear on a bible my fears were justified.

I tried to figure it all out, but my head nearly split open. I needed to gnaw on some other problem. The Gene problem. I pushed the covers aside and reached for my laptop. I’d find his number, meet him, and find out what the hell he’d been up to with Dell.

124

23 I clung to the banister and inched down the stairs for breakfast. In the mornings, I could still feel the after-effects of my ordeal at the mall.

Laney and Coigne, already up and out, had eaten English muffins with apple butter. Smears on the blue and white tablecloth in the breakfast nook gave it away. Someone had placed an envelope addressed to me on the table. I made a fresh pot of coffee and sat down.

Rather than a solicitation, the envelope contained an actual letter signed, by hand, in ink. Its content made me laugh at first, then stew. It was a job offer from the law firm of Dunscombe and Dohan in Hyannis. I’d been instrumental in putting one of its partners, Derek Dohan, behind bars a few months before we’d moved to West Virginia. The other partner, Archie Dunscombe, was writing to tell me how impressed he’d been with my “tenacity and courage” at Dohan’s trial and hoped I’d join him in “picking up the pieces” left behind by his partner. It seems Dohan had not only committed the fraud that was the subject of the trial, but had, in Archie’s words, “looted the law firm.” Surprise, surprise, Dumbo.

Unlike his felonious partner, Archie wasn’t a criminal. He was well trained, with no ethical missteps I knew of, and with an interesting enough general practice. But could I work with such a dunce, someone so lacking in judgment as to have entered a partnership with a man who had SCUMBAG written all over him? What was I saying? I couldn’t join his firm. I’d moved to 125

Last Casualty

West Virginia. Hadn’t Archie heard? It strained even my fervid imagination to think a two-person Cape Cod general practice needed a branch office in West Virginia.

I read on. Indeed, he had heard of my move, but thought it might not be permanent. Maybe he was more perceptive than I thought. The way things were going with Coigne, Archie might actually be psychic. He suggested we get together and talk— perhaps meet halfway in New York.

I popped my own English muffin into the toaster and wondered why everyone was suddenly interested in hiring me?

First Evelyn Spenser, now Archie Dunscombe. It felt good to the old ego. I put the letter out of my mind when Laney walked in— or, rather, stood in the kitchen doorway, looking dazed.

I plucked out the toast and dropped it on my plate. “What’s up, doc?”

“Snapchat.”

“Speak English,” I said, slicing a half-inch chunk of butter.

“The App, Snapchat.”

“I still don’t get it. Oh, yes, I do. You can send a photo on your iPhone and then it disappears within seconds. Or is it now longer than that? What’s the big deal? You look funny.”

“The big deal, Norma, is our picture, yours and mine, taken at Pry House yesterday. There was no message with the picture.

And I don’t recognize the sender’s name.”

“It may not be a person. It all does seem a little odd. Let me see it.” I held out my hand and took a bite of my muffin.

“It’s not there anymore. That’s what I’m saying. The photo has disappeared.” Laney handed me her iPhone anyway, and she was right. There was nothing to see.

Laney had every right to be confused and even a little concerned. If a stranger had sent the message, how would he or she know how to address the photo to Laney? If it was a friend, why no message? “Did you ask Owen? Seems like something a boyfriend might do.”

“You mean like a weird boyfriend? I did call Owen, as a matter of fact. He had no idea what I was talking about. I don’t think he was kidding me, either. He’s not kidding about much these days.”

126

Lee W. Doty

“Did you tell Coigne?”

“He’s um….”

“Never mind. By the look on your face, I can guess he’s not here right now. Perhaps he’s on an errand, apologizing to his personal pet—I mean vet—for his mentally unstable wife.”

“Nor-ma.” Laney looked miserable.

“Never mind. I’ll make you some more toast.” I moved the envelope from Dunscombe and Dohan aside and got busy. “You ever miss the Cape?”

“Of course. Why?” She sank into her usual chair at the table.

“I miss it, but I don’t want to move. And I don’t want you to move.”

“Me move? I’d never move without you.” I put the butter knife down and came back to the table. “You’re mine. Permanently.”

“And you’d never move without Coigne?”

“Of course not, silly.” I sat down. “We’re man and wife. He’s a man, I’m a wife.”

“You just miss the Cape, right? But don’t you like it here a little?”

I searched for the right words. “I want to like it, and I see that you like it, and that makes me very happy.”

“You’ve had a real fucked up ride lately.”

“That’s pretty plain talk, Miss Laney.” I leaned over and pretend-slapped her hand.

“You’ve had a real challenging time, dearest Norma, shewho-never-ever-drops-the-f-bomb.”

The toaster finally popped, she buttered her muffin, and I munched on mine, my mood changing from amused to wary.

Coigne’s truck heaved up our long drive. It was a 1949 Chevy, manual transmission, and you could hear the growl from a great distance saying it was high time to shift gears. What could you expect? It ran on 92 horsepower. But I didn’t want to dwell on anything like horsepower because it made me think of horses, and that led me to vets, like Misty.

I scraped my crumbs off the table into my hand and dumped them in the sink. “I hear Coigne coming. I want you to tell him about the Snapchat photo and ask him to call Sheriff Law. That 127

Last Casualty

way, he can thank him for the casserole and mention the photo.

It’s probably nothing, but let’s be sure. I’ll follow up with the sheriff myself.”

“You think it means something bad, like someone’s really following us and wants to creep us out?” Laney blinked rapidly.

“Is it the same person who blew up your car?

“Let’s slam on the brakes right here. No, I don’t think it has anything whatsoever to do with the car. Who would plant explosives and nearly kill someone and then, to really scare the person, send a bizarre text? That would be silly. We should just make sure law enforcement has this information. And I thought of something else. Is it possible Madison or Taffy took that Snapchat picture and sent it to you? It’s a young person thing to do.”

“It’s possible, but how’d they get my contact information, and why not include a message?”

The only other possibility was Gene. He was there at the battlefield, somewhere. But he didn’t have Laney’s contact information either, and anyway, why would he send us a photo of ourselves? Was he even likely to know about Snapchat? I’d ask him face-to-face.

128

24 The tablecloths at the new Riverside Inn had a floral Provencal pattern on a white background. The centerpiece was a small bouquet of yellow roses with an ivory candle on either side.

Even at lunchtime, the candles were lit.

When I called Gene after breakfast to see if we could meet, he invited me to lunch at this “in-inn” in town. I dressed and was on my way out when Laney said, “You can’t go to the grocery store, much less the Riverside Inn, dressed like that.” I couldn’t see the problem. Admittedly, my tan flax slacks looked run over, but otherwise, I looked fine. Laney was trying to be helpful, though, and maybe I could yield on this point after what Coigne and I had put her through the night before.

According to Laney, I had nothing in my own closet suitable for an elegant luncheon, so she lent me a flowing, fuchsiacolored blouse. The white cotton pants she tossed me were far too short but almost passable as capris. I looked ridiculous with her dangling teenage accessories, but at least with my own sneakers—her low-heeled sandals were impossibly tiny—I’d be physically comfortable. I wished I could strike from my memory the image of Misty seated at our table the evening before in that rust-colored silk blouse cut low enough to air out her entire sternum.

I’d visited the Riverside Inn just once before to drop off Laney for a winter dance, her first sortie in West Virginia. She’d been apprehensive getting ready for the dance, but relaxed when greeted by a doorman with a Hercule Poirot mustache.

129

Last Casualty

Gene was nowhere in sight, so, despite the attentive maître d’s offer to seat me, I chose to look around. Even more than the stunning view of the Potomac River, I wanted to take a look at the much-advertised pool. I’d heard the deck was decorated to replicate a riverside café in France. I followed the stone walk heading in the direction of the pool, but my attention was caught by a now-familiar sight. “No way.”

My annoyance at using one of Laney’s lazy slang phrases was infinitesimal compared with my irritation at seeing The Shusher head for the pool. She still wore her gypsy clothes and seemed more bothered than usual. She scurried hither and thither and checked over her shoulder every other second. She might have been anxious to find shelter as it had just started to rain, but the last thing I needed was for her to see me and try to scold me for some infraction, especially in her current state.

“Ms. Bergen?”

I didn’t need to turn around to know who was calling out my name. Sheriff Law pronounced it “Muzz Buggin.”

“What brings you to the Riverside Inn, Sheriff? Me, perhaps?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your husband called about your daughter’s photograph, or what was a photograph, and as I was down the road, thought I’d pop up here and talk to you first. About your trip to Pry House yesterday—I understand that’s where the photo was taken. You got time?”

I was happy to chat with him, not only because he was turning out to be a friend, but because I feared I’d been stood up.

Gene was already late. We stepped into the restaurant vestibule, and I filled Sheriff Law in on the Snapchat mystery. His take on it surprised me. He figured a local paper had taken the picture and sent it to Laney. Obviously, the media was interested in me, he said, because I’d found Dell’s body. He said the Spensers had received many harassing calls from journalists. One of them even interviewed the Spensers’ electrician. Probably the same journalist had snapped a picture and sent it to Laney, though how he’d gotten her contact information Sheriff Law didn’t know.

Before we could pursue his theory, Gene arrived. He smiled and waved and excused himself— “pardon me, pardon”—as he 130

Lee W. Doty

weaved through a party of women bunched around the doorway, all wearing comical hats.

“Greetings, Norma.” He nodded to Sheriff Law. “Nice to see you again so soon, sir.” He turned back to me. “Please forgive me.

I stopped at the university and got hung up in traffic on the way here. It’s that damn intersection. I should know by now to avoid it at lunchtime.”

Sheriff Law stayed a minute longer to pass the time, a necessity when your livelihood depends on votes. Gene escorted me to his “favorite table” overlooking the river. “You look lovely, Norma. That bright pink brings out the blue of your eyes.”

Was he kidding? He looked sincere, but with Gene? “Thanks.

Let’s get something to drink. Waiter?”

We took a few sips of our Pouilly-Fuisse, and in the process, I got the answer to one of my questions. On the way over, I’d tried to come up with a subtle way to find out if Gene had taken that Snapchat photo, but decided to just ask him. But unless he was a terrific actor, he was even less au courant than I when it came to social media. He went on to remark on what a successful presentation Orvie had made the day before and how they’d left Pry House immediately afterward for an early dinner near Orvie’s hotel. I would double-check with Orvie if I could, but it didn’t seem Gene would’ve had much chance to snap the photo.

A few more sips and Gene said, “I’d like to think my good looks brought about your invitation to lunch, but something tells me it isn’t me you want.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Those cowlicks are attractive. They certainly attract attention.” I smiled. How fortunate it was those cowlicks had attracted the attention of Madison and Taffy. I turned serious. “I do want something of you, and I’m furious I have to ask for it.”

“What’s on your mind?” His fingers tapped lightly along the tablecloth like he was a little nervous.

Without disclosing my source, I said I knew he’d spent quite a bit of time with Dell throughout the past summer and wondered why he’d told me he’d never heard of her.

131

Last Casualty

Gene kept his eyes on me as he now moved his finger around the rim of his glass. “Whoever told you that is lying.”

I didn’t respond, hoping he’d fill the void with more information. When it was clear he wasn’t going to, I said, “I have to tell the police. I’d hoped you’d tell me you already had.”

“How could I, when it’s news to me? And by all means, you should report to the authorities any information you think is relevant to the girl’s death.”

I sat back and took stock. Foolishly, I’d figured Gene would be so surprised he’d been found out, he’d admit right away to knowing Dell and from there put an end to the mystery of her death. I could have at least had something to tell Mrs. Spenser, so she could understand why her daughter was taken from her. And all the better if Dell’s death had nothing to do with her husband’s business at Phelps and could be laid at Gene’s feet. Too bad Gene sounded like he was telling the truth. Then again, all con artists did. “All right. Why would anyone lie about you, especially if it meant incriminating you?”

“Shall we order?”

“Answer, please.” I was determined not to let him divert the conversation.

“Maybe the person was mistaken.” He raised a finger at a passing waitress. “Look here. Until we order, I won’t stop worrying they’re going to run out of the sole meunière. It’s ooh la la.”

I thought about leaving. Why press the matter? Then again, I had him for the next hour. Maybe he’d let something slip.

We gave our orders to the elderly waitress. How she must have hated to wear her lace-trimmed blouse with a skirt that matched the tablecloth. She wore a triangular headscarf in the same pattern, which must have come in handy if a guest needed an extra napkin. But she was pleasant and even complimented us on our order— “Excellent choice!”— as though we were more discriminating than the average diner.

132

Lee W. Doty

When she left, I could think of nothing to talk about. The situation proved awkward for him, too, as evidenced by his continuous rearranging of his flatware. “Excuse me, Gene.

I’m going to check out the ladies’ room.” Maybe by the time I returned, our salads would have arrived and our mouths would be too busy to talk.

I zigzagged around the other tables until I reached the window side of the room overlooking the pool. Something odd caught my eye. Because the weather was overcast—I’d even felt a few drops on the way in—no one was sitting out by the pool, but something made me do a double-take. A fool, fully clothed, was out there swimming. Her long black hair fanned out from the back of her head. How long I watched, I couldn’t say. She was suspended in the water doing the dead man’s float. What could make her drift like that? Oh my God. I spun around.

“Call an ambulance! Someone’s drowning!” I ran from the room, unsure if I’d been coherent. I wasn’t even sure what I’d seen. Still, through the vestibule and down the steps and around back toward the pool, I kept shouting, “Get an ambulance. Get the police. The pool!”

I forced myself to breathe normally. I knew the key to remembering the steps for saving a drowning victim required calm, not panic. I ran to the end of the pool, dove in, and pulled the woman to the shallow end. Still clutching the sodden mass, I climbed up the two steps, then dragged her out of the water.

In all that wet fabric, she was almost too heavy for me. I fell backward against an overturned table. Got up. Leaned over, placed my ear close to her face, hoping to feel air on my cheek, or see her chest move. Nothing. No pulse. Chest compressions.

Her body was limp, her eyes wide open, and her neck bruised along a deep groove. I fought back revulsion and kept up the compressions. Prepared to start CPR. Tried hard not to think about how you can’t breathe life back into someone who’s been strangled to death.

It couldn’t have been a minute before a crowd gathered.

Someone in a suit and tie told people to stand back. Gene pushed

133

Last Casualty

through the crowd and reached my side. Eventually, he pulled me away or tried to. “The police are almost here. Look, a security guard is coming. Don’t, Norma. It’s no use. The police need to see her just as she is. Don’t, dear. Stop.”

134

25 I told the police all I could remember, that I’d seen The Shusher a little more than an hour before and she’d been hurrying somewhere or from somewhere. Yes, I had seen her on prior occasions, at the Antietam Battlefield twice and once at the Civil War Center, but didn’t know her real name.

“Where’s Gene?” I kept asking. “He’ll back me up.”

“Right here,” someone answered. I was so woozy I didn’t know who it was. I couldn’t get the image of The Shusher out of mind, face down, arms outstretched, her head bumped up against the farthest edge of the pool.

Gene spoke softly to Sheriff Law. He asked whether my husband was on his way. Later I realized I was resting against Gene’s chest. He rocked me like I was his little girl and stroked my forehead. It felt so good, I could almost have gone to sleep.

They’d wrapped me in a blanket that said Riverside Inn on it, and I felt such gratitude I wanted to say something kind and supportive to the maître d’, but to my own ears, I sounded drunk.

My thoughts were muddled except for one that kept circling in my mind. I just wasn’t sure whom to ask about it. “Why were you late? Why were you late?” The maître d’ looked at me strangely and said, “I am always on time, Madame. I assure you.”

It was late afternoon by the time Coigne arrived and I was released to go home. Sheriff Law explained to him what had happened and introduced him to Gene. They spoke for a moment while I got into the dry clothes the Inn lent me. If I’d felt a little foolish in Laney’s clothes, that was nothing compared to 135

Last Casualty

the white lace blouse and floral skirt.

Coigne had come in the rental from the auto insurance company, which had finally arrived that afternoon, and, after he’d asked the Inn if he could pick up the truck the next day, we left.

I felt rational now and more in control of my thoughts. I said to him, “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course I came. I’m just sorry they had a hard time finding me.” He patted me on the knee and smiled. He sounded weary rather than his usual alert, concerned self. His skin was tinged grey, his eyes heavy-lidded. I’d exhausted him. I was continually getting into messes and having him collect and restore me before the next round. Of course, it could be his look, wounded and uncertain, had nothing to do with me. I wanted to ask him what he’d been up to all day and tell him how I’d happened to be at the Riverside Inn, but conversation seemed like too much work.

We arrived home and stood around in the kitchen while Coigne phoned our family practice, and I gave Laney the short version of the “elegant luncheon” at the Riverside Inn. “I am so sorry. That must have been awful for you.” Laney gave me a hug. “You know I was thinking. Twice when you’ve met up with that Gene guy, someone has been found dead. And we know he was fooling around with Dell.”

Coigne had just put his cell phone away. “What do you mean, fooling around with Dell? You didn’t mention that, Norma. Is it true?”

“Wait a minute, everybody.” I filled Coigne in on what Madison and Taffy had said. “The purpose of my lunch with Gene today was to find out how he knew Dell and why he hadn’t mentioned it before. He denied knowing her, and that’s as far as I got before I saw The Shush—the woman in the pool. But I think it’s a stretch to say they were fooling around, Laney. We don’t know that at all.”

“But we do know he was there, in both places where two people died, Dell and that lady today.” Laney opened the freezer.

“Let’s have pizza tonight. I’ll turn on the oven.”

“I was in both places, Laney. Am I a suspect too?” I

136

Lee W. Doty

immediately regretted my outburst.

“Of course not,” Coigne said. “We all need to simmer down.

Laney’s just pointing out the coincidence and wondering if there’s more to it.”

“It’s not like I’m defending Gene.” I dropped down into a chair.

Coigne’s voice softened. “It sounds like you are.”

“Why would I?” “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He sat down and scratched his head. “And why did you have to meet him at a hotel restaurant? You ever hear of a phone?”

“Sarcasm? And where were you today? Oh, had to go see Misty to make excuses for me? You ever hear of a phone?”

Laney cupped her hands like a megaphone. “Can everyone please shut up? This sounds like a really awful play.”

It was like a scene from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, only without the brilliant script. We were fighting for the second night in a row, this time in front of Laney. What was happening to us?

I needed to leave the room before things were said we couldn’t take back. But it was all so ridiculous. Coigne was acting like a different person. Nothing ever used to unnerve him. Now suddenly, he’d pounce without much provocation. He’d become a pouncer.

My cell phone rang and gave me an excuse to escape to the back porch to speak with Evelyn Spenser, who’d heard on the radio about the events at the Riverside Inn. “Do you think this death has anything to do with Dell’s?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet if there is a connection.” I filled her in on recent developments—I’d learned Gene O’Hagan knew Dell, though he denied it, and I’d run into the drowning victim several times when I was with Gene.

“At least these new developments mean Dell’s death is not tied to Phelps. Would you agree with that?” She sounded desperate for reassurance.

“Gene would be the common denominator between the two deaths, but I have my doubts about his association with Dell.”

137

Last Casualty

Since I couldn’t provide a reason for the doubts other than instinct, I wasn’t very persuasive when I said to Evelyn, “At this point, we need to still keep our minds open. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t feel sorry. At least your reasoning is solid—and consistent with something I need to tell you about, unfortunately.

But first, can you tell me any more about the drowning?”

“I can tell you she didn’t drown. Or, at least, it wasn’t her only problem. I’m no medical examiner, but I could see she’d been strangled. And as for who she is, I don’t know.”

“I can fill in that blank. Her name was Moira Zo-lo-tow.

Yes, that’s it.” She must have referred to notes. “She’s a retired government employee—Jefferson County Tax Assessor’s Office—a clerk there. Grew up in the Shepherdstown area and never left. No one seems to know what she was doing at the Riverside Inn. The rumor mill says she was about to lose her house because of medical bills. Cancer, I think.”

I wondered what a tax assessor’s clerk was doing at the battlefield, the Civil War Center, and the Inn. If she were following Gene or me, she’d taken no steps to hide the fact. Maybe she really was just a Civil War groupie. “What were you going to tell me a moment ago?”

“I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. The others could arrive home at any time now.” She paused, and for a moment, I couldn’t hear anything. Then she sniffled and I gave her time to get control.

“Sorry. I’ll remember something out of the blue, something trivial, and I fall apart. I thought about Dell’s delight when we gave her her first iPhone. Of course, she was as interested in the sleek pink phone cover as the functionality itself.” Evelyn laughed and cried some more. I took the time to gaze out at the sunset of dark blue and pink clouds layered above the mountains.

Evelyn finally recovered. “I’ve got a tight schedule tomorrow.

I’m trying to keep busy. How about this? I play the fiddle in a country band, and we’re rehearsing before store hours at Grubb’s tomorrow morning. Do you know where that is?”

“You what?” Evelyn Spenser playing the fiddle? I couldn’t

138

Lee W. Doty

imagine her porcelain chin twisted and stuck to her shoulder like that. “Yes, I know where Grubb’s is, but did you say you play with the group?”

She laughed. “I do considerably more than raise money for charities, my dear. We rehearse from 8:00 until 9:30. Why don’t you come by and we can talk during a break or argument. I’ll text you the lockbox combination so you can get in.”

“Argument?”

“You heard me. There’s constant squabbling about choice of music, inferior technique, tardiness—I sometimes think the arguing is just another voice in our harmony.”

In that sense, there’s a lot of harmony in my family right now.

I agreed to meet her, and we hung up.

The notion of returning to the battle zone for another strafing from Coigne discouraged me from heading to the kitchen. I needed time and space to sort things out, both in the investigation and at home. Something had happened to Coigne beyond my own orgy of death and mayhem. Strange, this business of a husband. Our alienation disrupted my equilibrium even more than the two murders put together. Coigne was troubled and though I wasn’t certain, I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only cause of it—or even the root cause.

It was conceivable that if Coigne had gone to see Misty that morning, then maybe she’d made him step over the line into real infidelity, not just the Jimmy Carter kind. Maybe up until this point, my suspicions had been merely predictive, but now, his bizarre behavior was caused by guilt.

And maybe I was behaving like a teenager and imagining the whole damn thing. I made my way back through the front hall to collect the letter I’d received from Dunscombe and Dohan.

It seemed ages ago I’d considered going to New York to hear in person about the job offer from Archie Dunscombe. I called out to Laney and Coigne, said I’d skip dinner and get a good night’s sleep. Later, that good night’s sleep eluded me. I felt rather than heard Coigne climb in beside me. Normally, one of us said to the other, “See you in the mornin’, Gawd willin’.” Not that night.

139

26 No one could enter Grubb’s without getting walloped by nostalgia. It wasn’t just the old wooden tops and tin spinning wheels and Chinese handcuffs made of colored straw, or the old candies like Mary Jane’s and Bit-O-Honey. The scene was straight out of The Walton’s, with floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves, glass display cases, and wide-planked, dusty floors. Merchandise was displayed everywhere, even hanging from the ceiling. The several rooms beyond the front room wandered any old way.

Musical instruments tuned up at the back of the store, and I followed the sounds to a large room with a vaulted ceiling. I knew from a trip to Grubb’s with Laney and Coigne that every Monday night local musicians jammed before a crowd of anywhere from five to thirty-five fans. Coigne had a blast that night, and even Laney enjoyed handling the store’s baubles and gewgaws. I chided myself now for not sharing in their enthusiasm. I’d give a lot to go back to that time.

The tuning up stopped, and a single voice as clear as a girl’s sang out—no vibrato, no slides up and down to reach notes, nothing hoarse or breathy, just pure tone backed by power. I moved quickly now, skirting around and bumping into shelves and tables, as the lights weren’t yet turned on in every room. I reached the music room and froze at the sight of Evelyn. Her hair had been liberated from its clip and her suit retired in favor of jeans torn at the knees and a “Mountain Mama” T-shirt. She sang sounds instead of words, like Lulululu. Lulaleyo. Leylo. Layla. It was a religious moment for me. The other band members picked 140

Lee W. Doty

up her melody, first a guitar, then a banjo. She’d join in briefly with her fiddle, then sing again, until all six of the band members were in concert with one another. They played for over half an hour, and when they stopped, I wasn’t ready to awaken from the musical dream. I applauded wildly. One band member bowed, another snickered, and Evelyn said something to the others and came toward me.

She wiped a hand towel across her brow. “Let’s go out front.

No one will bother us there.”

“You guys are fantastic. You are amazing. I’ve got plenty of time to wait if you don’t want to take a break now.” Even to myself, I sounded like a fool.

“Have a seat.” We’d arrived out front, and she pointed to a rocking chair for me. For herself, she went behind the cashier’s counter and brought out a stool.

“You sound professional, Evelyn, like you’ve been singing and fiddling all your life. Why aren’t you on tour?”

She laughed softly and put her hands over her face. “This is one of those dark secrets I’ve had to keep from the Phelps PLC crowd. It’s a British company. They’re rather stiff in the executive suite, and Geoff didn’t think my hobby would be appropriate.

Besides, it wasn’t like I could record and tour once we had children. So, I’ve limited my singing to the occasional Monday night at Grubb’s.”

“But what a waste! I know…I need to stop gushing.”

“I’d love to talk more about it, but for now, let’s get down to business. I wanted you to know what killed my daughter. The drug is called Phantanyl, at least that’s how Geoff refers to it. It’s a derivative of the infamous fentanyl, only it’s powerful enough to down a herd of elephants and leave only a phantom trace in the blood. Hence the name Phantanyl.”

“Dell did drugs? I wouldn’t have thought—” “Dell didn’t use drugs. She’d never needed to. Reality satisfied her just fine. Plenty of kids have that insecurity when they start going to parties and dances, but not Adelaide. Owen is the same way. It’s a blessing, that confidence. Or I always thought it was.”

141

Last Casualty

Her distress was obvious. I didn’t want her to crumble now because she’d be embarrassed. I fumbled through my bag for my notebook and gave her time to pull herself together.

She played with the frayed edges of a tear in her jeans, pausing now and again to swallow hard or close her eyes. “Dell wasn’t given an overdose by needle. It wasn’t necessary.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Was it administered by mouth?”

“She’d only needed to inhale it. That’s all it takes with this vile stuff. A grain the size of sea salt could be enough to kill you.”

I’d read about fentanyl and carfentanil, but this drug sounded even more dangerous, if that was possible.

“Why Phelps makes the stuff, I don’t know.” She yanked hard on a loose string hanging from her jeans. “But they’re sure having to answer questions now.” She looked up at me. “It must have been awful for you to stumble on her like that. I regret my behavior that first time we met. I should’ve been thanking you for doing what you could.”

“We’re beyond all that now.”

The ease with which Dell, a vibrant young woman, had slipped away shocked me. I hated to ask my next question. “I assume Sheriff Law gave you all this information about cause of death. Does he have any idea why she was bound to a tree and why on Bloody Lane?”

“I don’t have that information yet, and I’m not sure Buddy knows. But there’s something more I need to say, whether I like it or not.” She stood up and pulled a slim peppermint stick from a jar by the cash register, reached into her pocket, and placed two quarters on the counter. “Shall we split this?”

I nodded. She unwrapped the sticky candy. “I overheard Geoff on the phone with his boss, the CEO, Roger Fitzhugh. Geoff sounded angry, and that’s a first. Roger has been Geoff ’s mentor for years, and Geoff has followed Roger from one company to another as they’ve both risen through the ranks. For there to be an argument now means something. I don’t know what, except that this derivative is used in one of the medications manufactured by Phelps. I believe that’s what I heard Geoff arguing about.”

142

Lee W. Doty

I was about to tread into sensitive territory. As forthcoming as Evelyn was with me, her relationship with a husband of so many years had to be surrounded by a deep moat with a drawbridge.

If I weren’t careful, she’d draw that bridge for good. “Did you ask your husband about the call with this Roger Fitzhugh?”

“You met Geoff that day you came to our home. He probably impressed you as a kind and warmhearted family man. Yes?” “Sure.”

“My husband is just that—kind and warmhearted—much of the time,” she said. “But he didn’t rise to the top tier of a Fortune 100 without being savvy.” She gave me a sad smile. “Savvy and even savage.”

Savage? I had to ask. “You don’t mean physically savage, or do you?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Good heavens no. I doubt that would ever be necessary. I meant corporate savage, you know, where you get even by reporting someone to the SEC or something.”

In the distance, the banjo strummed a few measures and the harmonica hummed back. The band was starting up again.

I wanted to talk more, but the store would open soon and Evelyn had to return to her band.

“If I went into detail as to why I haven’t been able to question Geoff,” she said, “it wouldn’t help you with your investigation. I can only say that right now, I can’t ask him such a direct question about something I overheard him say.”

The band was playing a country favorite, “When You Say Nothing At All.” It was also a perfect theme to accompany Evelyn’s reticence.

“I’m sorry to be so mysterious. I hope I’ve given you something solid to work with. Obviously, you’ll run afoul of the infamous Phelps cease and desist letter. You can hardly follow the derivative lead without ‘harassing’ a few staff members.”

I could almost hear Coigne telling me to “back away from that ledge, now!” Fortunately or not, our recent arguments had kept me from telling him about my engagement with Evelyn.

“My husband is always reminding me not to jump to conclusions.

143

Last Casualty

Even if Phelps makes the drug that killed Dell, that doesn’t mean someone associated with Phelps killed her.”

She nodded, but whether in agreement with me or to the beat of the music, I didn’t know. She replaced her stool behind the counter. “It’d be quite a surprise if Phelps weren’t involved.”

It didn’t take a mind reader to know Evelyn despised her husband’s company.

I would have liked to stay right where I was, in that rocker, soaking up the sounds and atmosphere of a simpler time, but I had to forgo that pleasure. I used the few minutes before the store clerk arrived to organize my thoughts and plot out next steps. As much as Evelyn seemed ready, one might even say anxious, to thrust me headfirst into a lawsuit with Phelps, I had a few ends to tie up before I pursued the Phantanyl lead. I made a mental list: 1) Gene probably knew Dell. Should I give Sheriff Law the information Madison and Taffy had conveyed to Laney, even if I hadn’t gotten an admission from Gene that he knew her?

2) Did The Shusher’s death have anything to do with Dell?

The odd woman had been no stranger to the battlefield. And I could have sworn a conspiratorial look passed between The Shusher (I’d have to break the habit of referring to her as The Shusher) and Gene during Orvie’s lecture. What was that look about?

3) So far, my trips back to the battlefield had been productive.

Maybe Dell had confided something more to the sisters, told them something they may not even realize was important.

Unlikely. It would’ve been way out of character for Dell to confide in those two young things—unless Dell needed something from them. Money? But how could I draw them out more than Laney already had?

My best move, and one that avoided a harassment suit, was to locate Sheriff Law, tell him about the possible relationship between Gene and Dell, then bone up on the Civil War in general and the Battle at Antietam in particular because from now on, whatever interested Gene interested me.

144

27 While I’d been talking to Evelyn, Coigne had sent me an email, one of his let’s-make-up specials.

“I wish you weren’t insecure about my love for you. It’s so wide of the mark. Remember when we first met, and I, a mere state trooper, was doing my best to explain about the dead guy who’d just rolled up on your beach, and you interrupted me, saying, ‘Let me help you get to the point.’ You were rude and imperious, trying to protect Laney, and so very beautiful despite your efforts to hide the fact. I loved you right then. Nothing has changed. Not for me.”

I didn’t answer at first because I didn’t have an answer. He said nothing had changed, but plenty had changed. We had married, the chase was over, and I’d been caught, to put it in sociological terms. Was he chafing to get back to the hunt? I thought about the job offer from the Cape and wondered whether Coigne had read the letter I’d carelessly left lying around. Was that what had brought on this stroll down lover’s lane?

I wasn’t up for a broken heart. I answered, “Will take under advisement.”

I phoned Sheriff Law and learned from Sheila he’d meet me at his office. I was headed for the entrance to Route 9 when I spotted a familiar figure, Deputy Hoag. He stood next to a car in the parking lot of the Burning Bush Wheels of Love Church, a dull red brick building with a sign that invited passing traffic to come in and meet Jesus. I came to a stop at a red light and continued to watch. Hoag opened the car door for a woman and 145

Last Casualty

her little girl. The woman was tall, like Hoag, and had whiteblonde hair like the girl. Looked Scandinavian. She gave Hoag a familiar, light kiss on the cheek, and he took the girl’s hand. I hadn’t considered Hoag might be married. Were there women that desperate? The child was six or seven and chubby. When she turned, I got a full view and saw she had Down syndrome.

The woman got back in the car, and Hoag lifted the child into his arms. I didn’t need to see his face to know how he felt about the girl. He nuzzled her neck, making her head flop back as she laughed and laughed.

The change of the traffic light to green was, for once, a disappointment. Seeing Hoag with his family should not have altered my feelings about him. He still had treated me with disrespect, but I couldn’t help smiling. Well, shit. Now I’d have to tone down my venomous outrage around him and put up with ambivalent feelings. Maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t be so quick to blacklist people. Laney had said something similar to me. I didn’t like having to correct my behavior toward someone. On the bright side, a change in my behavior toward Hoag might just throw him off balance.

Sheriff Law was as affable as ever, chumming around with Sheila and a deputy in the reception area. “Good day to you, Ms. Bergen,” he said. “I thank you for coming to our neck of the woods. You saved me some trouble and the county some gas.”

“I’ll be off then,” the deputy said, picking up his hat from Sheila’s desk.

“And I’m getting back to work, so stop interrupting me, Sheriff, or I’ll never finish these reports.” Sheila winked at me.

“You see how it is? I have all the responsibility, but I’m not the boss around here. She calls the shots.” Law nodded at his receptionist, who dismissed the flattery with a wave for him to get going already.

“This way.” He led me back to his office, showed me to a chair in front of his desk, and sat down on the other side. He slid across to me a large bowl of Jolly Ranchers.

“You’re obviously trying to buy me off. Do I have a secret I don’t know about?” I pulled my chair closer and grabbed a sour candy.

146

Lee W. Doty

“Not a secret, unless you refuse to tell me what I want to know. I just need a little more timeline information. Trying to figure out who was where and when yesterday at the Riverside Inn.” “It’s going to cost you.” I had to keep it light, keep from focusing on what had happened to The Shusher—Ms. Zolotow.

At some point, all the trauma swirling around would hit. So it was just too bad if I seemed cold.

“Now, yesterday you said you got to the Inn at noon, saw Ms. Zolotow about fifteen minutes later, and you found her in the pool around one.”

“That’s right. I was waiting for Gene. He’d scheduled the lunch for twelve-thirty.”

He took notes. “Why’d you get there so early?

“Habit.”

He nodded like that made good sense. “You and I struck up a conversation about twelve-forty there in the lobby area, and Mr. O’Hagan arrived shortly after that. So, the two of you went into the dining room around twelve-forty-five. Either of you get up during your meal?”

“Am I under suspicion here?” I was smiling, but I wasn’t happy.

Before he could answer, his phone rang, and he took the call. When he hung up, he said, “No, ma’am. You aren’t under suspicion. You are an eyewitness to certain events surrounding the murder, and it was a murder, of Moira Zolotow. So, did either of you get up?”

“No, not before I got up to go to the ladies’ room and spotted her from the window. Do you think I was the last one to see her alive? So she was murdered between twelve-fifteenish and one?”

He put down his pen. “Can’t find anyone who admits to seeing her after you.”

The sheriff ’s computer beeped. He typed in a brief message, then shifted to face me again.

“Have you pinned down where Gene O’Hagan was between twelve-fifteen and twelve-forty-five?” My lips puckered from the sour candy. I reached for another anyway—something to do 147

Last Casualty

with my hands. “I wondered at the time what had held him up the fifteen minutes or so.” I felt a prick of conscience turning the spotlight on Gene. But forget that. He’d done the same to me.

“You know that’s the kind of question I can’t answer, Ms. Bergen. Of course, you can’t help but remember how hurried and flustered he was when he showed up in the waiting area, so I can see why you’d ask that question. He said he’d just come from the university. Wish I knew when he left there. On the other hand, why didn’t anyone find her until you did? A fully-dressed woman lying face down in a swimming pool generally attracts attention.

Makes you think she entered the pool shortly before you spotted her—or someone else would have seen her.”

“I suppose you’re right. Even though it was spitting rain and no one was sunbathing, someone would have looked at the pool and seen her if she’d been there long. Anyway, if the murder occurred between twelve-fifteen and one, that probably puts Gene in the clear. He wouldn’t have had much time, would he?

We saw him at twelve-forty-five. That would have just given him thirty minutes.”

Law said nothing.

“Well? Doesn’t that clear him?” I asked.

“You know how long it takes to strangle someone and toss them in a pool?”

“No.” “About three minutes. So he’s not clear, Ms. Bergen.” The computer beeped, and he went through the same routine as before, during which time I got to thinking.

“Three minutes,” I said when he turned around again. “You know, I’ve been wondering how no one noticed a woman being strangled, let alone drifting in the pool. She must have put up a fight. Now that I think about it, I remember falling against an overturned table just when I’d pulled her out of the water. You know what that means?”

“Tell me.”

“Could be that someone strangled her just inside the hotel.

I’m sure you’ve searched that hallway that leads from the hotel out to the pool. She lay there in the hall, unconscious, visible to 148

Lee W. Doty

no one, then struggled to her feet and stumbled out to the pool area, knocking over a table, and fell into the pool. Easy enough for your forensic guys to figure out if that’s what happened. They have, haven’t they?”

“If you say so.”

“So she could have been strangled by Gene before we met up, though God knows why.”

“Every possibility remains open until the case is closed. You may recall he said he was hung up in traffic.”

“If Gene were at the university before coming to the Riverside Inn, could be he stopped to see his friend at the library, Marion.

I think the nameplate on her desk said Marion Chatte. You could ask her what time he left.” I stuffed my candy wrappers in my pocket. “I’ve had a couple of conversations with her. I’d say they’re quite close.”

“Sounds like you two get along. I imagine she’ll be more forthcoming with you about his schedule that day than with me.

Is that what you’d say?”

I was surprised. It was one thing for him to give his cousin Evelyn the all-clear to hire me. It was another to invite me to participate in his investigation. He must’ve had confidence in me.

Or maybe something else was going on. I resolved the question in his favor. If nothing else, looking into the matter might put me one step closer to closure for Laney and get us both out of harm’s way, assuming the murders were somehow related. “I’m happy to give it a try, although if Marion wants to protect her buddy Gene, I’m not sure she’ll be any more open to my questions than yours. Still, it’s a lovely day, I can’t go home, so I might as well go see her.” I stood.

Sheriff Law also started to get up, then sat down. “Can’t go home? Why?” I didn’t mean to let that slip. “Is this part of the investigation or idle curiosity?”

“Nothing idle about it. My curiosity is at full throttle. Based on my observations, you have every reason to go home, and you should have no problem going home. Your statement to the contrary makes me wonder.”

149

Last Casualty

“Well, here’s your answer. Two murders and a bomb explosion place stress on a household.”

“Mrs. Law would agree with that.”

I walked over to his window overlooking the lot. With the blinds open, I watched a Ford Explorer pull in and gave the driver’s parking job an “F” while I considered whether to elaborate on my trouble at home. “My husband seems irritable about my involvement in the investigation of Dell’s murder. It’s not like I had some choice about finding her, did I?” Sheriff Law just sat, shoulders rounded, hands folded on his desk.

“The death of a friend has distressed my daughter a lot. A good mother does things to help her daughter, right?”

“I may be Law,” he said, “but I’m not your judge.”

I clutched my heart and keeled over like he’d slain me with his wit. I went on making my case. “As for meeting Gene O’Hagan at the Riverside Inn, he chose the location. Why my husband made a big deal out of that, I don’t know.”

Law closed his eyes. “Ah.” “Ah? What does that mean?”

“Mr. Coigne is jealous?” he asked.

“What the hell right does he have to be jealous when he’s the one—” “Ah.” “Oh, stop saying that.” I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping for a change in subject, but it was too late. The words just tumbled forth. “I was going to say when he’s the one who’s chosen this moment to go tomcatting. Isn’t that a term a West Virginian might use? Tomcatting?” I tried to sound disdainful, but the shaking quality in my voice undermined the effect.

Sheriff Law opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He poured liberally, handed me one, and said, “Go on. You need it. So do I,” and tossed his own way back.

I pride myself on my ability to consume large quantities of booze without slurred speech or pratfalls. But right then I felt so 150

Lee W. Doty

fragile, to say nothing of my being on medication, I figured once I took a sip, I’d never stop. So when the sheriff nodded toward my drink, I pushed my glass in his direction. He shrugged, picked it up, and downed it.

“You haven’t asked,” he said, “but here’s what I think. And if Mrs. Law were here right now, she’d tell me to pull back. You see, she has a way of reading my mind and knowing what I’m about to say. At least, she thinks she does, kind of like you. Maybe you’re not sure, you just think you know what your husband’s up to.

Now, who are we talking about here? I know almost everybody in this county and how they voted and who they’re cavorting with, and I can give you the lowdown on whether the female in question likes a tomcat or not.”

I hesitated. Personal matters were not something I shared.

Should I expose myself to a man I barely knew and one in a position of power? Something about Law made me unafraid. As he said, he wasn’t my judge, nor was he judgmental. Still, if I revealed my suspicions, I’d be disloyal to Coigne, and there was still the possibility I owed him loyalty. My bigger concern was that if I put my fears into words that might make them come true. I knew that was nonsense, but it’s how I felt. Oh, what the hell. “Misty Somebody. Dr. Misty Somebody. She’s a horse vet. At least she says she is.”

“Good old Misty. Misty Bubb. I might have guessed she was behind this domestic dust-up.”

“Exactly how well do you know ‘good old Misty’?”

“Quite well. Knew her when she was a little thing. I did service through the church. Got to know her that way. I’d pick her up to go visit her daddy.”

“And where was he? Let me guess. Jail?”

“Fraid so.” Sheriff Law sank back in his chair. It was hinged, and he tipped back to a forty-five-degree angle off the floor.

His toes tapped the pedestal base, first one foot, then the other.

Somehow the rhythmic tapping and his solid, folksy persona comforted me.

“You see, Misty’s daddy—” He turned toward the county wall map, maybe thinking about where they’d lived, then turned back 151

Last Casualty

again. “Come to think of it, she wasn’t Misty yet. She was called Miss Melissa as a child. Now, Misty’s daddy was nothing but a con artist. Old story. Took advantage of lonely, wealthy women.

Wasn’t always that way. Misty’s momma, Miss Lucille, rest in peace, kept old Eddie under her big fat thumb. Had to. Eddie was handsome. Misty favored him, not her momma. Only thing is, he wore his hair like that John Denver, which gave him a little boy look. Ladies liked that.”

I turned up my nose. “Little Dutch Boy. Keep going. I’m enjoying this.”

“After Miss Lucille passed, he started doing stupid things.

He’d go out of county and sweet talk a lady, invite her to a nice restaurant for steak and a bottle of wine. Then after dessert and more wine, he’d leave to visit the men’s room and never return.

She’d have to pay the bill.”

“He went to jail for that?” Seemed like rough justice to me.

“Oh, no. He got bolder. Waited for the lady to go to the restroom, and if she didn’t go on her own, he’d tell her she had something caught in her teeth. Anyway, one time, the woman left her purse behind. He grabbed it and took off. Seems she carried a great deal of cash in her purse—enough to constitute a felony if someone swiped it. Just plain bad luck for the both of them.”

I felt somewhat vindicated. Misty had a sorry background, and I’d have felt some pity if she’d stopped at stealing purses like her daddy. But stealing husbands was another thing entirely.

“When the law caught up with Daddy, what happened to Misty?”

“Went to live with Miss Lucille’s sister. Nice lady, but by then, Miss Melissa was already on her way to becoming Misty, a whole different gal. Despite her soft-sounding name, Misty was tough. She had no need of a new momma, and she took off.” He shook his head. “Then one way or another, probably another, she found the money for college and vet school and got her license to practice. It’s legit—I checked.” He opened his drawer and put away the booze. “They say she’s a good vet, and as smart as she always was, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Throughout our talk, the sun had been rising steadily, and the glare made me shade my eyes to see Law’s face. He stopped his 152

Lee W. Doty

toe-tapping and moved his chair over so I could see him better.

“Why isn’t Misty married?” I asked. “As you say, she’s smart, has a job, and is nice looking enough. Most men wouldn’t worry about her big nose. What’s her problem?”

Sheriff Law slapped his desktop and laughed. It was more of a bark. “Marriage is not on the table, dear heart. It would spoil her game.”

“Which is what?”

“Same as her dad’s. She’s higher class goods, of course, but then she aims higher too.”

It should have felt better, being right about Misty. I just wished Coigne had suspected something like this. He wasn’t stupid. He’d been around cheats all his life. Had his horses turned his brain to mash?

“Funny thing, though,” Law went on. “No one’s ever filed a complaint. Whether from shame or a sense he’d gotten good value, no man has cared to do more than whine.”

Law kept talking while I sorted through his story. I wondered if anything he’d told me would solve my problem at home, and the answer was no. Even if I convinced Coigne Misty was using him, I’d create a bigger problem. If I crushed his hopes for living out some erotic fantasy with Misty, something with bits, bridles, and stirrups, no doubt, he’d be forever wondering what could have been and wind up resenting me for depriving him of it. No, he needed to figure all this out for himself.

153

28 Each time I drove to or from Shepherdstown, I’d spot at least one old farmhouse tucked way back from the road, one I’d never seen before. It’d be painted white, but you’d hardly know because of flaking. Same with the front door’s red paint. A single wooden shutter would hang by a rusty bolt and the porch would sag in the middle. If I kept looking, I’d eventually spot the pickup somewhere in the yard. The looks of the nearby cornfield would be a different matter—its rows would be orderly and its crops, march straight toward the mountains. I kept an eye out for one such new find to avoid thinking about what I’d just learned from Sheriff Law. I stopped in at Spanky’s Snug for a Cobb salad, predictably fresh and delicious. The Snug was a campus hang-out, and I hoped to run into Marion there. Her answers might be more forthcoming if she thought our meeting was by chance. She wasn’t there.

Back on the road, a quick phone call assured me Laney was busy with Middlemarch before Owen picked her up to go hiking near Harper’s Ferry. She sounded low, but a date with Owen was a good sign. It surprised me when she asked if I’d join them later that afternoon. Something they wanted to talk with me about.

They’d let me know exactly where and when.

I felt better now about their friendship, now that I knew Evelyn Spenser. It’s not that I’d disliked Owen beforehand. It’s just that now I was less concerned he’d think his fat wallet and his BMW meant Laney owed him something. At the first sign of that 154

Lee W. Doty

nonsense, I’d know where to aim my slingshot, and it wouldn’t be where David nailed Goliath.

I considered my approach to Marion Chatte. I’d only seen her twice before and wasn’t even sure what she looked like. She was striking rather than pretty, as I remembered. Come to think of it, why wasn’t she married? In a flight of fancy, I imagined Marion employed in the same racket as Misty, even the possibility they might be a team, preying upon unsuspecting men of means. But I dismissed the notion. There was no way Misty would share the limelight, let alone the profits.

At the university library, Marion stood in her office doorway, arms outstretched in a warm welcome. “I can’t believe you’re out of bed and getting around!” Nearby students sleeping in the lobby awoke at the sound of a distraction. I barely knew the woman, yet for the second time, Marion seemed overly demonstrative and irrationally friendly. As we say in court, “Where’s the foundation, your Honor?” Yet, why wouldn’t she be glad to see me? I’d just come through a life-threatening event intact. It was about time someone gave full recognition to that fact and gave me my due.

Marion pitched forward into the center of the library and grabbed my hand. “Come into my office,” she said. “I don’t know what brings you here, but I’m delighted to see you’re doing so well.” She was shorter than I by a good six inches, so when she flung her arm over my shoulders, forward progress was awkward.

“Gene phoned to say you were up and about. He also told me about your luncheon and Moira Zolotow. Poor woman.”

We’d now arrived at Marion’s fishbowl office, and she motioned me to the chair opposite her own. I assured her I was fine. “You know how the local papers exaggerate things. Anything to sell their rag.” I told her I’d just stopped by to do some research on horse breeding. “But this woman, Moira Zolotow. You sound as if you knew her.”

Marion reached for the wooden figure on her desk. I’d noticed it the last time but now observed he was a laughing Buddha with his arms stretched overhead. She mindlessly rubbed his bulging tummy with her thumb. “Moira Zolotow was one of our town eccentrics. Harmless, but the way she dressed, you found yourself 155

Last Casualty

wondering where she kept her crystal ball.” She paused, a look of compunction spreading across her face.

“I know, de mortuis nil nisi bonum and all that. But sometimes we can’t help but speak ill of the dead. Was she a loner because she was up to something, or did she just like her own company?”

“I’m not sure I know.” She gave it some thought. “I see people from the perspective of a librarian. Moira read books about the Civil War.” I started to interrupt.

“I know. Everyone around here does, but she really knew her stuff, down to the type of stitch in Robert E. Lee’s drawers.”

“I can see how that would come in handy.”

Marion laughed but cut it short and resumed her somber tone. “It’s sad, what happened to her, and no one, so far as I know, to mourn her.” We both stewed on that. “But what about you? How awful for you to have been the one to find her, after all you’ve been through.”

I couldn’t have scripted a better segue into the subject Sheriff Law had asked me to probe. “I’ve had enough bad shocks for one summer, that’s for sure. I can’t help thinking if I’d stayed outside longer rather than waiting for Gene inside the restaurant. Or if Gene had been on time for our lunch at 12:30, he would’ve seen something—a fracas out by the pool or something—might have even interrupted the killer. What held him up?” I wasn’t even sure he’d been with Marion, much less what time he’d left her. I counted on her correcting me if I were wrong.

She cocked her head as if trying to hear me better, despite the fact I was only inches away. “It’s always that way. If only. If only I’d done this or that, right? But what I want to know is how you’re faring? Is your family spoiling you sufficiently? What have you been up to?”

She tap danced around and never answered my question, and all this time, Buddha was getting the tummy rub of a lifetime. If that wasn’t a “tell,” nothing was. Marion was nervous, but that didn’t change the fact that as many times as I tried to corner her, I got nowhere. Eventually, I cut my losses and got ready to go.

156

Lee W. Doty

Sheriff Law would be disappointed, but after I filled him in, he’d have to admit Marion’s evasions were suspicious.

Marion showed me how to search for horse sources on the library computer and left me to my own devices. I played the keys for fifteen minutes, then headed to Harper’s Ferry to meet up with Laney and Owen.

157

29 Laney, Owen, and I were in complete agreement on one thing: Nothing beat sitting under a shady maple tree on a hot day, tongue slowly rounding a cone filled with scoops of Moose Tracks ice cream. The gratifying snap of an unexpected chocolate “track” buried within fudge-laced ice cream allowed me to forget all personal problems, as well as those of the rest of the world for the moment. We concentrated on our immediate mission, silent enjoyment, until Laney said, “Did I tell you we’re going to a concert at the Casino? It’s the Avett Brothers—probably not your kind of music, Norma. Sorry. No boy bands.”

“I happen to like the Avett Brothers. Besides, they’re more my generation than yours.”

“My mom loves the craziest music,” Owen said. “She—” “Are you kidding? She’s got one helluva—” “What? One helluva what?” Laney leveled the last scoop on her cone, then nibbled at its rim like a chipmunk.

I almost slipped. I had yet to reveal I was working for Evelyn, let alone heard her great singing voice. If Owen’s mother hadn’t mentioned it, and I didn’t think she had, I’d delay too. “I mean, she’s got a helluva right to like whatever music she wants. Free country. And if it comforts her now, well, that’s good.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” Owen bit his lip and looked young and adorable. No wonder Laney had fallen for him.

“You’re fine, Owen.” I patted his hand. I’d made him feel guilty when I was the one in the wrong.

158

Lee W. Doty

“No, it isn’t all right. Nothing’s all right.” Owen wolfed down the rest of his cone and wiped his hands. Gone was the calm, wistful, dreaminess of the afternoon. Of course, it had ended for Owen and his parents days ago.

Laney put her hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead, Owen. Tell her.”

He was sitting on a secret and needed help to let it go, but a mother with two toddlers had settled into a table close by. The children were so engrossed in their blue Paw Patrol ice cream and their mom in keeping the ice cream in the cups, I doubted we’d be overheard. “What’s going on?” I said. “Come on. Spit it out.”

More silence. The poor boy literally wrung his hands. “I think my dad knows more than he’s told the police about how Dell died. There’s this guy, Don Doggett. He was at the mall the day you, well, you know, the explosion.”

“I think I can recall that day.”

“Norma, please, let Owen talk.”

“It’s okay.” Owen sat up taller. “What I mean is, I saw the news about that lady, Mawara Zolotow.”

Laney gave me a warning look as if to say, “Don’t correct his pronunciation.”

He closed his eyes, then tried again. “My dad knows Don Doggett. Nothing weird about that. They both work for Phelps.

But they both know that woman too, Myra.”

Again, the warning look from Laney.

“I know that doesn’t prove anything. It’s just weird the way my dad and his company seem to be tied in with people dying all over the place.”

I forgave the exaggeration. Just two deaths, hardly a murder spree. But I knew what he meant. I dipped my napkin in a paper cup of water and wiped some chocolate off my shirt. “What makes you think they know Moira Zolotow?”

“Dad was talking to Mr. Doggett. He calls Mr. Doggett ‘Rover.’ You know, dog-gett—Rover. Dumb.” Owen’s voice shook when he got to the next part. “Dad said they’d have to find a way to deal with the Zolotow woman. Something about how the ‘get159

Last Casualty

up’ didn’t fool him. She was trouble. They’d have to deal with her quietly.”

What a thing to hear from your father. I made eye contact with the boy. “Listen. That business about dealing with her quietly just means he doesn’t want the press involved, or a lawyer or something. It’s understandable being worried, but you’re letting your imagination frighten you.”

“But how can I be sure?

“Here’s how. You’ve known your dad a long time. Have you ever suspected him of some nefarious, criminal activity before?”

He took some time before answering. “No, of course not. It’s just that it sounds so bad.”

No ringing endorsement there. I tried again to reassure him, saying there were at least fifty other possible meanings for “dealing with her quietly.” But I knew the best person to console him was his girl. After he’d regained some of his high school swagger, I left them for home, making Laney promise to show up in time for dinner.

160

30 On the ride home, I thought about Owen’s news, poor kid.

He loses his sister, and then he’s convinced his dad is somehow involved in a woman’s murder. It was a good thing he was unaware his mother believed his dad’s employer had something to do with his sister’s death. He’d probably give up on his dad, or worse, on himself.

Coigne was walking out of the barn with his head down when I arrived. I pulled the truck into his usual parking spot in front of the old silo. He startled and walked over.

He seemed unsure of himself, so unlike the Coigne I knew, the one who, in any emergency, assumed command and gave the orders.

“Glad you’re back,” he said. After an awkward silence he said, “I’ll need the truck this evening.” I wasn’t going to ask what for.

He leaned against the truck door, his hands holding the roof edge and his head looking in through my window. “Feel like something to drink? I was just going in to get some iced tea.”

“Why not?” I pointed to my door so he’d move away and I could get out. I reached back into the truck for my hat, which made a convenient excuse to trail behind him rather than walk side by side to the house.

The kitchen, which I’d decorated myself—if you want to call it that—was tidy but not sterile. I’d hung blue gingham curtains and found an old upholstered armchair at a church thrift shop.

The yellow Fiesta ware was a wedding gift from the DA’s office on the Cape. But every time I entered the room, my eye was 161

Last Casualty

drawn to a bowl Coigne and I had picked up one Saturday afternoon jaunt. We’d just moved in, Laney had started classes, and we needed a break from unpacking. An hour down the road, we found a shop with local arts and crafts on display. That’s where I’d found the bowl, about eight inches in diameter, white background, and covered in bright oranges and small, delicate black leaves. It wasn’t my way to go wild over houseware and furnishings, but the sight of that bowl always lifted my spirits.

It proved that not everything about our move to West Virginia involved manure and hayseed. And, for once, Coigne’s tastes and mine had aligned. But now, the bowl served as a reminder of how far Coigne and I had drifted apart.

“Iced tea for you too?” he asked.

I nodded. “I’ll get the ice.”

We worked on the drinks, and Coigne asked, “How’s the murder investigation going?”

“Which one?”

“Either one. Both.”

I struggled to loosen the ice from the ice maker, then waited for him to finish stirring the drinks before I plunked in the cubes. “Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you about our progress—or lack thereof.”

We sat side by side on the porch bench rocker and sipped and rocked carefully.

I said, “Did you know Deputy Hoag has a kid with a disability?

Down’s syndrome.”

“No, I didn’t.” He frowned. “But I did wonder why Sheriff Law seemed protective about him, at least the way you described things. Figured there was a reason for it.”

“You think Law helps him because of his kid’s disability?”

“It seems pretty natural. There are a heap of extra expenses, to say nothing of the extra time involved in caring for his kid.

And worry.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that? And what else had I missed?

Coigne put his drink down and turned toward me, placing his arm behind me on the back of the rocker. “Does your question

162

Lee W. Doty

about Hoag have something to do with how the investigation is going?”

“Maybe. You’ve got me worried I miss things about people.

Could be why I can’t figure out who killed Dell Spenser or Moira Zolotow.” We rocked and I thought some more. “I should just focus on Dell’s murder. I never even knew Moira Zolotow. And, of course, there’s Evelyn Spenser to consider.”

“Evelyn Spenser? What about her?”

I had to tell Coigne about my work for Evelyn, even if it would end our momentary calm, and I did.

He grilled me about what the engagement involved, but stopped himself rather suddenly. “I figured something like that was going on when you two were alone in the living room. You don’t need me to tell you to be careful. The cause of that explosion at the mall hasn’t been determined yet.”

I was curious he didn’t bring up the cease and desist letter from Phelps and object to the engagement on that basis. He couldn’t have forgotten about it. I got off the subject of Evelyn before he had the chance. “So, would you agree I should focus on Dell’s murder and not try to figure out if the two are related?

“That’s a pretty fundamental question.”

“Yet that’s not a helpful answer.”

I was relieved when he laughed. We both could still handle a little poke in the ribs. For a while, we pursued our own thoughts, occasionally glancing at the paddock where two horses stood next to one another, their flanks appearing to be attached, their heads at one another’s rumps, grazed and swatted flies. I could almost believe the last couple of weeks hadn’t happened—no murders, no explosion, no horse deaths, not even a civil war— historical or marital. I got rid of my glass and drew my knee up toward my chest, relieving my back from some tension-inspired compression.

Coigne placed his hand on my knee. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

He took his hand away. “But I’m not sure I can hold your attention. You’re pretty caught up in other things.”

I stared at him in shock. “You think I can ignore them?”

163

Last Casualty

“I didn’t mean that. I guess I can’t say what I do mean.”

There he went, going all wobbly on me. What was it with men these days? I wasn’t used to so much self-doubt, in Coigne especially, and once again it made me worry I had missed something. “Look, if you’re so clever noticing things about people and their underlying motives, help me figure out if the two murders are related. I’ll admit, I’m stumped.”

“I’m glad to.” He put both feet down flat to stop our rocking.

“On one condition.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ll help you while we ride.”

“Ride what?”

“Did you happen to notice you’re living on a horse farm?”

Coigne pulled me off the rocker and led me to the tack room.

“You know I can’t ride worth a damn.”

“I’ve seen you do fine on trails,” he said. “We’ll just circle the property.”

“That’s two million acres, Coigne.”

“This isn’t exactly Yellowstone Park. Now come on.”

We lugged our saddles to the paddock and then led our horses out. I spied on Coigne’s tacking maneuvers, so swift and efficient compared to my fumbling and numerous do-overs, trying to buckle the saddle tight, not too tight, and the stirrups long, not too long. Laney and Coigne rode All-American quarter horses, supposedly ideal riding horses, but I preferred good old Daisy, a grey Connemara. Nothing but an elderly, slow, low-tothe-ground ride for me.

We followed the trail Laney used for instructing little kids, which led to a wide creek that flowed across the entire property.

It was running low this time of summer and was nothing but thick mud in some spots. Coigne led me off the trail to a place where we could cross over a culvert to the far side of the creek.

We plowed up a hillside full of black-eyed Susans. Despite my complaints about our new bumpkin lifestyle, I enjoyed the climb to the top of the hill. From that height, I could look back and see our farmhouse, barn, stables, silo, chicken coup, pump house, and all the rest from a more pleasing perspective. Gold164

Lee W. Doty

tipped hay waved in the late afternoon sun. I made a quarter turn where the stands of trees and brush grew so thick, they could’ve hidden small villages underneath.

In the same way we wandered along the trail, Coigne wandered through questions about the two murders, like who knew both murder victims and what the victims had in common.

I said, “Gene knew Dell and Moira. And as Laney pointed out, Gene had something going with Dell, the nature of which is unclear. Gene denies even knowing her.”

“He does seem to take a starring role when bad things happen.”

It was clear from his tone, Coigne didn’t think much of Gene.

My pace slowed. “Gene’s the one who suggested lunch at the Inn. Maybe he knew Moira would be there. But why would he kill Dell or Moira? There’s just no obvious motive, there’s not even a common thread, except…”

“Except what?” GoGo, Coigne’s horse, paused for a bio break, and Daisy stopped with him.

“Antietam. That’s their connection. Dell worked there, Gene practically lives there, and Moira Zolotow showed up there too.

For what it’s worth, Gene’s girlfriend, Marion Chatte, says Moira knows as much about the Civil War as anybody.”

We made kissing sounds to cue our horses to mount a steep hill single file. “What do you make of all that?”

Coigne didn’t answer for a long time. Talking to someone’s back had its disadvantages.

I was about to ask again when he spoke.

“I wonder if Gene is a member of the County League of the American Wars Society, CLAWS?” “What’s that? And by the way, let’s head back. I told Laney to be home in time for dinner, and that’s about now.”

Coigne pulled on his left rein, and we headed toward one of the walk-outs he’d built when we first arrived. It had been a worn-down pig sty under his uncle’s ownership, but Coigne was able to fortify and expand it so that at least four horses could fit comfortably during bad weather. “In answer to your question, CLAWS is a nonprofit. The members raise money to go around 165

Last Casualty

exploring battlefields looking for things left behind and then donate them to museums for the public’s pleasure. A lot of people around here belong.”

“I don’t know if either of them is a member,” I said. “How’d you find out about it?”

GoGo stumbled but quickly recovered. Coigne soothed him with a pat to his neck. “Misty mentioned it. She’s a member. Said it might be a way to find boarders for the farm. I’m not interested.”

Why did he have to bring up Misty? Just when we were getting along. The trail began to level off and we’d be re-crossing the creek again soon. I tensed for the crossing, but realized, to my surprise, I hadn’t physically tensed at the mention of Misty’s name. “I’ll find out if they’re members, but so what if they are?”

Coigne effortlessly steered across the soft, uneven waterbed of the creek and ignored, or simply didn’t experience, the challenge of getting across. “The ‘so what’ is that certain members are always fighting with one another over battlefield discoveries.

Some of the fights are pretty serious. Like about thirty years ago, at Antietam after a torrential downpour, some poor soldier’s bones peeped out from a shallow, unmarked grave.”

“I’ve heard something about that.”

“These members fought so hard over whether he was a Rebel or a Yank, it took another ten years to bury the bones in the right cemetery.”

“Are you kidding me?” I said.

“Afraid not. And those arguments were nothing compared to the battle over who’d been the one to discover the bones. Really, who would care? But they sure seemed to. There were fistfights.

And, a bit of irony here, even a few broken bones. Fresh ones.”

All wildly amusing, no doubt, but I was barely listening. I’d gotten halfway across the creek when Daisy stopped, her hooves lodged in muck. “Hey! Coigne, I’m stuck!” But he had forged up the hill at the same time a small plane flew overhead. It sounded like a flying weed whacker and drowned out my cry for help.

“Coigne!”

He finally turned around, laughed at the sight of me, and yelled, “She needs some encouragement. That’s all. I’m afraid 166

Lee W. Doty

you’ll have to get a little muddy yourself.” He waved his baseball cap and trotted off.

I gave Daisy a kick that was a little harder than necessary and quickly realized it was misdirected. Coigne deserved the kick.

I looked around and considered options. Something about my predicament, getting the damn horse hooves out of the mud, called up an image of those soldier bones jutting out of the dirt after so long. Maybe I was on to something, maybe something to do with the murders. I dismounted, and my boots sank into the depths. Holding tight to the reins, I slowly made my way to the other side, tugging and begging all the way and struggling not to lose my boots.

“It’s okay, Daisy. Maybe we can’t cross a stream without getting mired in muck, and maybe we can’t figure out if the two murders are connected, but I think we can figure out a motive for one of them.”

I was grateful the day was drawing to a normal close. Sure Coigne had teased me, leaving me in the mud, but he also made dinner and cleaned up afterward. And although he’d planned to go out that evening, he remained at home. The rough patch between us seemed to be at an end. And for once, after dinner, Laney followed me out to the porch rather than staying to talk with Coigne. All things considered, it was a banner evening.

I intended to give Professor Lewis—Orvie—a call that evening to follow my hunch about Gene, Antietam, and motive.

I’d need to use the landline, as the iPhone connection was sporadic at the farm. The study door was closed, so I knocked and stuck my head in. Coigne was in the middle of a call. If only he hadn’t disconnected so abruptly, the day would have ended well. He looked shaken so I asked who was on the phone.

“Nobody. Courtesy call.”

Coigne always directs courtesy callers to put him on the nocall list. It was no courtesy call.

167

31 I explained to the professor in a few words my need to pick his brain about Antietam. When he tried to schedule an appointment for a week later, I told him it was important I see him that day. I felt foolish saying it could be a matter of life and death, but during the night, obsessing alternately about Coigne’s furtive manner on his “courtesy” call and my new theory about old bones poking through dirt, I convinced myself it was just that.

If members of CLAWS could come to blows over an unknown soldier’s bones, was it so farfetched to think someone like Dell had found an artifact at Antietam that someone else wanted?

Would even kill for? All of Gene’s research, and his need to prove himself in order to benefit under his father’s will, put him in first place, in my mind, for coveting an artifact. Dell could have found something Gene wanted. If my theory was too fantastic, I needed someone like Orvie to tell me that.

The next morning, I didn’t confront Coigne any further about his mystery call. I couldn’t have handled the whipsaw effect of peace for a couple of hours, everything tickety-boo, followed by suspicion, obsession, then exhaustion. Besides, Laney’s tic was working overtime at breakfast. My priority had to be Laney, and that meant finding Dell’s killer.

Orvie’s office wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I’d pigeonholed him as an absentminded professor, his desk covered in papers with browned corners curling with age, and his shabby upholstered furniture discolored by undergrads’ perspiration and hair gel.

168

Lee W. Doty

His shelves were full, but not with books. Instead, they held framed news clippings, small prints of battle scenes, and a collection of miniature soldiers made of painted metal. The only items on his desk were a lamp, an iPad, and a photo of two teenage boys, most likely the nephews he’d mentioned after his lecture. The desk was mahogany, and the rug, a Farouk Antique, if I wasn’t mistaken. An Iranian client I’d defended against charges of fraud had taught me how to recognize the real thing.

To top it off, his office view of the quadrangle, an English village green with benches and flower beds, had to be the envy of the university president. Orvie might have more to him than met the eye.

I shook his hand. “Someone must be very impressed with you, or do all history professors have offices so well-appointed and positioned?”

He laughed and motioned me over to a wing-backed leather chair, the kind you find in a men’s club complete with brass upholstery tacks. “I guess I have earned some brownie points by outliving four university presidents.” He leaned against his bookshelf and toyed with an unlit pipe. “I’ll let you in on my secret. When our last president left office to meet his maker, I walked right on in and acted as though I’d been given the office by someone, somewhere, higher up. At the time, there was so much chaos no one worried about who got what office. Later on, everyone figured I’d always been here.”

“You are a sneak.”

“Thank you. May I get you some coffee or tea? You had a long drive, and you sounded a little anxious on the phone.”

I liked Orvie, the way he didn’t take himself too seriously and showed a gentlemanly kindness. I wanted to shoot the breeze with him, slow down a bit, and enjoy some noncontroversial bullshitting, but not yet. I pulled a pad and pen from my bag and said, “I’m here to find out if you’re as clever about civil war history as your buddy Gene says you are.”

He lay down his pipe and struck a comical biceps flexing pose. “I’ll try to measure up.” He looked like Mighty Mouse.

169

Last Casualty

“Are there any civil war memorabilia left to discover? I don’t mean your random bullet. Something of great value. Is anyone still looking for something?”

He grinned. “Young lady, I want to know right now exactly what you have in mind. And can I get in on it?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know what I have in mind. I would think everything that had been lost was found, or was lost forever. You know how it is with lost things.”

“You obviously don’t know the story of the well-wrapped cigars.”

It sounded vaguely familiar, but I would let him tell me all about it if it led to confirmation of my theory.

“You see, a short time before the Battle of Antietam, Robert E. Lee came up with a courageous plan to split his army into four parts and attack Harper’s Ferry from all sides.” The professor paused in his story and gazed off as if watching the soldiers get ready to march.

“Wasn’t that kind of risky, splitting up his army?”

“You’re darn right it was risky. McClellan could have elbowed in between the four and decimated them. But Lee had pulled this kind of maneuver before and gotten away with it. Figured he knew his man and would try again.” He stopped and laughed.

I laughed too, not at the story, which seemed somehow incomplete, but at Orvie’s merriment. “Not to interrupt, Orvie, but where do the cigar wrappers come in?”

“Glad you asked. Lee laid out his plan in a writing called Special Orders No. 191 and had it delivered to each of the four generals who’d lead the attacks. Meanwhile, here comes McClellan into Frederick with his army, and one of his corporals decided to stretch out on some farmer’s field for a break. He spotted a package nearby and picked it up. When he unwrapped it, lo, there were three cigars!” Orvie savored the moment as the corporal might have savored his cigars. “What do you think was used to wrap those cigars?”

“Special Orders No. 191? But that’s insane.”

170

Lee W. Doty

“Be that as it may, it was an extra copy of the order, which got passed along to McClellan as quick as you can say boo.” Orvie walked to his desk and reached behind it to a short bookcase. He pulled out a slim volume and handed it to me. “It’s all in here. All about how McClellan snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, ordering his men to move on Lee’s divided army the next day.

Guess he figured, why hurry? But that delay allowed Lee to fight more than another two years. Now just think of all those men killed, on both sides, during those two years.”

The story was remarkable and convinced me, as Orvie intended it would, that there were amazing civil war treasures to be found. Of course, the corporal had found his cigar wrapper only a few days after the order was written. I was looking for wrapped cigars more than 150 years old.

Orvie reached behind his desk and grabbed a worn, dogeared paperback. He flipped through it and found the page he wanted. He handed the book to me. “Start here and read.”

“Whatever you say.” I read aloud in a lecture voice, but by the time I reached the end of the page, my voice had softened to a whisper. “The first draft of the Emancipation Proclamation, the one drafted by President Lincoln in the telegraph office of the War Department, has never been found.” I looked up.

“You see, there were several iterations of the Emancipation Proclamation, but that first one has never been found.”

I was enthralled by Orvie’s story. More than that, I felt, for the first time since I’d started looking, I’d found something so big, so consequential, a person could “make a name for himself ” if he got his hands on it. It might also provide a “reasonable” motive for murder. “I need you to tell me if I’m off my rocker, or if it’s possible someone is still looking for that first draft?”

Orvie said nothing. The wavy lines across his forehead told me he was weighing whether or not to answer. But I knew the answer. He’d started out with his story about the discovery of Special Orders No. 191 so I’d be primed to believe something as unlikely as a quest to find that early Emancipation Proclamation draft. He wouldn’t have given me the history lesson unless he

171

Last Casualty

did think that first draft was out there and someone was looking for it. “And if it’s possible someone is looking for it, who’s that someone?”

He looked me in the eye, squinting a bit to show he was full of mischief. “I am.”

172

32 Of course Orvie was looking for that draft. Hadn’t he been lecturing about the Emancipation Proclamation at Pry House not three days earlier? And so was Gene. He’d worked hard on his research for his introduction of the professor. Maybe it was for more than that. I’d pressed Orvie to tell me who else might be after the draft, but he’d named no one but himself. He was willing to joke about only his own foolhardiness for hunting down something lost for more than 150 years, but then how foolish was it? It took three thousand years to find King Tut. I headed home, encouraged by the meeting with Orvie. As I pulled into the driveway, I recognized Misty’s van, emblazoned with a randy black stallion reared up on its hind legs. Coigne was nowhere to be seen, but Misty was heading my way. She wore riding gear; jodhpurs, the tightfitting kind, high riding boots, and a tight black T-shirt.

“Norma!” She halted a few feet away. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.” She then closed in on the truck door. The memory of Coigne standing at the truck’s window, less than twenty-four hours earlier, played with my brain. I pushed the door open, and it hit her in the chest. “Oops. Sorry. So where’s Coigne?”

“Coigne. So funny you use Will’s last name. Who would ever think you’re married? I was certainly confused.”

By now I was out of the truck, arms folded, gaze steady. “Let’s try it again. Where’s Coigne?”

“Have it your way then, Norma.” She gave some attention to her ponytail, petting it like it was a kitten. “Will is out in the field 173

Last Casualty

looking for Joy—the horse, that is. I brought a diet supplement for her, and I think Will is anxious to try it. You know how he can be. Impatient.”

My God. Did she actually wink? It took everything in my power to keep from mashing her face into the gravel driveway.

But even in my crazed condition, I kept my voice level. “You are to leave now and never set foot on this property again.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to get rid of me. For one thing, you don’t own this property. It belongs to Will in fee simple. And for other reasons, which I can see by your jealous reaction you’ve deduced, he won’t let you keep me away.” She waited a beat. “He’ll let nothing keep me away.”

Confirmation of my worst fears had a strange effect on me. I felt calm, relieved almost. I no longer had to worry about being shocked, undone, made a fool of. I no longer had to worry I wouldn’t survive the discovery. I knew the truth and yet was still standing. And rather than see myself as an irrationally jealous shrew, one might say I was a damn shrewd judge of character.

I ignored the fact my heart was broken by zeroing in on Misty’s knowledge that title to the farm was still in Coigne’s name only. In fee simple, no less. Her research was thorough.

Coigne had intended to retitle the property in both our names. I’d told him not to worry about it as he had other things to attend to and could get to it later. I’d never bothered to check how property got divvied up in West Virginia in the event of a divorce. Why would I? Now I saw how foolish I’d been, and I was supposed to be the lawyer. Joke’s on you, kid. But what did I care about the farm anyway? Nothing, except it infuriated me that Misty was going to try to get her hands on it. More importantly, Laney had a stake in it. “You can leave on your own, Melissa, or I’ll call the police.”

She barely paused at my use of her real name. “We’ll see how that call goes over. You’ve got the reputation of a weirdo, Norma.

You’ve already shown yourself to be paranoid, making wild accusations about an attempt to blow you up. Just try to throw me off your property. That will only make matters worse for you.”

174

Lee W. Doty

“Maybe, maybe not. But when I prove that your malpractice caused the deaths of Beauty and her foal, you may not be so quick to wag your very large tail.”

I knew my counterpunch was weak since I had no evidence of malpractice whatsoever, nor did Misty have a big ass. On the other hand, a pale hue swept over her face when I suggested her negligence had harmed the horses. Was her reputation as a vet vulnerable to a mere accusation of malpractice? Or maybe she had truly done something wrong in managing the foal’s delivery?

Like maybe her attention had been otherwise occupied.

Misty left, but not without hurling a few more verbal daggers.

I made my way to the house and wound up on the back porch in shock. The message from Misty had reached my core and burned it to cinders. Coigne had betrayed me. Worse, he’d made a fool of me.

I dropped down hard on the bench rocker. With disgust, I relived the schoolgirl declaration I’d made to Coigne one sunrise on the Cape, that even if everything rumored about him was true, that he was a dirty cop, worked for the Irish Mafia, a chip off the old block, more rotten than his rotten gangster father, it didn’t matter. I loved him anyway. Turns out I had been criminal.

Criminally stupid.

I didn’t cry—that is, as a rule, I did not cry—but my body shuddered every once in a while. I wasn’t sure which was worse, the profound humiliation of being duped or the fear of loneliness that awaited me now that my best buddy had become my worst enemy. My throat ached like a razor had sliced through my epiglottis. I’d never known or needed a mother’s hug for comfort, but I’d have taken one then.

“Norma?” Laney leaned against the doorframe, her bare foot tucked into a tree pose yoga position. “Are you okay?”

I gave her a weak smile. “I’ve been thinking about Bark. That day he died, poor dog. It just came back to me for some reason.”

It was as good a lie as any.

“What can I do?” She sat down next to me, rested her head against my shoulder and before long, she started to cry. I held her in my arms and told her everything would be all right, and the 175

Last Casualty

meds and the explosion were catching up with me, and we were all reeling from the murders. We kept the bench rocking until the sun finally set and we were both cried out.

I needed to be alone, but having brought Laney down so low, I didn’t feel I could just go to bed. But I also wasn’t up for a confrontation with Coigne. I’d lose control. Laney said he was at a meeting at our next-door neighbor’s house, something about a grassroots protest against another industrial plant determined to pollute the air and water in as many ways and as many counties as possible. In the end, we drove to Subway at the local shopping center and ordered twelve-inch meatball subs with cheese, chips, and soda. There were only three tables in the restaurant, but the place was empty, and we took a seat by the window. Between messy bites and loud finger-licking, we shared memories of Bark and Cape Cod, and I longed to spot a lighthouse out there in the parking lot to show me the way back home.

Laney wiped greasy fingers on her napkin. “At least you don’t look—well—suicidal anymore. You had me worried, Norma.”

“Never suicidal,” I said, popping a chip in my mouth. “Why give the world the satisfaction? But I am glad you came out on the porch when you did, kiddo. Oh, and the total wrongfulness of this meal has also cheered me up a little.”

“Then can I cheer you up a lot more by getting us chocolate chip cookies?”

“Just two. Apiece.”

176

33 When we arrived home, I pleaded a headache and told Coigne I’d sleep in the spare room to avoid being awakened when he came up. The headache excuse allowed me to place my hand across my forehead and avoid eye contact. I was frightened by my anger and wanted nothing to ignite it in front of Laney.

She would probably explain to Coigne the Bark memory as the reason for the headache, and that would maintain household calm overnight.

For the second night in a row, I spent every other hour wide awake, but by morning, I forced myself to swat away visions of Misty and Coigne by focusing on Orvie’s revelation: At least one person, Orvie, was still looking for the original draft of the Emancipation Proclamation scribbled by Lincoln in the War Department’s telegraph office. It wasn’t that farfetched to believe Gene O’Hagan might be looking for it too and had somehow learned Dell had her hands on it. If he’d tried to get it from her, and she’d said no, there was his motive for murder. Then again, maybe Orvie suggested to me the Emancipation Proclamation as something people were still looking for only because it was fresh on his mind. He’d prepared for his lecture and seen that passage about the undiscovered original draft and it had intrigued him.

Then I remembered. The day I met Gene, he’d “voted” for the Emancipation Proclamation as the greatest American historical document of all time, its issuance made possible by the battle at Antietam. Back and forth I went, and by dawn had resolved to stick with my theory that the Emancipation Proclamation was 177

Last Casualty

the motive for Dell’s murder. Now all I had to do was find some evidence to prove it.

At some point, I’d share my theory with Evelyn Spenser, but since I’d spoken to her within the last couple of days, I’d hold off for a day in hopes I’d find something concrete to support my theory and justify my compensation.

Marion the Librarian was one who might be able to confirm Gene’s research had something to do with the Emancipation Proclamation. I couldn’t forget Gene’s overreaction to Marion’s casual remark that he was hot on the trail of something in his research. That reaction suggested he was afraid she’d said something specific about his hunt, thereby letting the proverbial cat out of the bag. But if my recent conversation with her told me anything, it was that her allegiance was to Gene, and she would not be forthcoming with me.

That left Madison and Taffy, the gift shop sisters. They’d revealed the surprising relationship between Dell and Gene.

Maybe they knew more than they realized. If they gave me anything to advance my theory, I would be better equipped to question Marion.

I didn’t even know if the girls would be on duty, or at which location. A quick online search informed me Pry House was open all day, so I took a chance they’d be there.

They were manning the museum part of Pry House. I was surprised they recognized me without an introduction. It was my experience that kids Laney’s age didn’t notice anything about their elders, as they were no longer stars in their kids’ lives. More like the chorus.

“It’s your red hat,” the older one, Madison, said. “Laney says when she first met you, she thought you were bald under there since you never took off your hat.”

I was glad these girls were easy going. “I guess I’ll forgive Laney,” I said. “She was only eight at the time.”

That comment about a hat from Laney was a bit of the old pot calling the kettle black. She’d recently bought a bright blue Dale Evans cowgirl hat at a truck stop off I-81. At first, she wore it as

178

Lee W. Doty

a gag, but after Owen admired it, she wore it around the farm every single day.

“Are you here for another lecture? We have one that starts in thirty minutes.” Madison thumbed through her iPhone. “It’s about Nursing Care during the Civil War.” “Aha! Clara Barton. I wish I could sit in, but I’m here for a different reason.” I studied the girls more closely now that I had some time with them. Madison was blond and slender. Skinny, really. Taffy, just two or three years younger, was dark-haired and slightly plump, with a ready smile and the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. Despite these differences, no one would miss the fact they were related as they both had heart-shaped faces, more visible now that their hair was pulled back.

I sensed the girls, especially Madison, would respond well to being treated as adults. I’d ask direct questions, but without frightening them. I didn’t want to imply they’d been in the presence of Dell’s killer.

“I want to ask you about Dell and how she spent her time working here, especially what kinds of things interested her. Was there any landmark, you know, Dunker Church or the Burnside Bridge or, I hate to suggest it, Bloody Lane, that attracted her more than others?

Madison glanced at Taffy, then said, “So if you ask me, nothing interested her. She didn’t want to be here or over at the battlefield. She was all about modeling, getting to New York.”

“We did tell Laney about how Dell hung out with this older man with the cowlicks,” Taffy said.

“Right. Once when Taf and I walked in, they were sort of huddled together and they stopped whispering real fast and turned around, all smiles. You know, like they’d been up to something. It was weird.”

I wondered if the situation was as compromising as the girls suggested, or were they embellishing for my benefit? I’d known Laney to do the same when she was younger.

“But Dell wouldn’t talk about it. Just said it was nothing,” Madison added.

179

Last Casualty

A young couple entered the mansion and got in line for the register. I stepped aside and nodded for them to go ahead while I examined a display of old medical instruments. The man, bearded, carried a sleeping infant in a baby sling on his chest and played the baby’s bottom like a bongo drum. The woman asked Taffy about the nursing lecture. The girl perked up at getting to go through her routine and accepted the woman’s financial contribution with a look toward Madison for approval. Her sister responded with a lift of the shoulder, a “so what” gesture. The couple set off to examine exhibits in the next room.

Meanwhile, a workman dressed in paint-splattered overalls bumbled down the stairwell. Madison whispered, “Served in Afghanistan. He’s doing some work upstairs. Nice guy.”

He had to be the war veteran Laney talked about, the one who did time. High marks for Madison for not mentioning to me his jail time. It made me think about Hoag and how, as with these two sisters, I might have misjudged him.

I leaned across the counter and lowered my voice. “This is a long shot, based on what Madison just said about Dell’s obsession with modeling, but did she ever seem especially interested in any of these exhibits, like the medical implements, or letters, or tattered books over there in the display cases?” I tried to sound casual, but it didn’t seem to matter. The girls looked at each other, smirking, then shook their heads.

“The only kind of interest I ever saw was over something kind of stupid,” Madison said. “And I’m not even sure it was interest.”

“I’m all ears,” I said, stuffing a wad of dollar bills into the contribution box.

“It was last month when they were doing all these renovations upstairs. We thought they should have closed this place. There was dust everywhere from knocking through a wall. Taffy sneezed every two seconds. Disgusting.”

“I did not.”

Madison ignored the interruption. “It took them a couple of weeks. Sometime in the middle of it all, Dell said she had to run upstairs. She was up there awhile, and by the time she came down, she was all like quiet. It was funny, the way she moved 180

Lee W. Doty

around like she had something behind her back. I don’t know. I could be making that up. I didn’t really pay attention. But now that you ask—” “I remember now,” Taffy said. “Madison asked her if anything was wrong, and she just said no. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“I didn’t say I thought it was a big deal, did I?” Madison gave her sister a bug-eyed look of annoyance. “I’m just trying to answer her question.”

I leaned over the counter and put a hand on each girl’s shoulder.

“You’ve both done brilliantly. I think whatever motivated Dell’s killer most likely was unrelated to Antietam, but I had to ask, and I appreciate that you both gave it serious thought.”

I started to leave, but turned around. “By the way, did you tell the police about the man with the cowlicks?”

Again, Madison looked annoyed. “We did. We talked to the sheriff and that scary guy that hangs with him, but you know, I don’t think they listened to us. I mean, they didn’t even write it down.”

Where I come from, that’s called sloppy police work. I’d come to respect Sheriff Law and was disappointed to hear he might have dismissed what the girls had to say. I left, assuring them I’d say hey to Laney.

If, and it was a big if, Dell had found something when the Pry House was undergoing renovation, would she have even known what it was and that it had value? Maybe. No one ever said Dell was an idiot. During that fateful dinner when I nearly hurled my plate of spaghetti at her head for her casual regard of Sally Heming’s predicament, she’d been a veritable fount of information on the Civil War. Maybe she’d been too smart for her own good.

181

34 Marion Chatte had grown up on a farm outside Berkeley Springs. Her father was a self-ordained minister with a significant following. His was the church of “wholly abstinence” of all things enjoyable, like drink, dance, sex, laughter, and song. He died young, which must have confounded him. Marion learned all about him as a child through magazines and news clippings she’d uncovered at the library. Her early research probably led to her choice of profession as a librarian. I learned all of this later that same afternoon. When I contacted her, she invited me out to her cottage down on Opequon Creek. Until recently, I’d placed the emphasis on the first syllable, only to learn that locals placed it on the second. Of course, Coigne then had to call it the Old Pecker Creek. So appropriate for him, in retrospect.

Marion had a great situation. Her home was modest, with two small bedrooms and a bath, galley kitchen, and a twelve by twenty living room with a pitched ceiling, a so-called great room, decorated in bright reds, greens, and blues. It looked like she’d put most of her money and thought into her substantial deck at the creek’s edge, fitted out with red Adirondack chairs, red and white striped umbrellas, a well-stocked bar, and a large, complex gas grill that looked like it’d be handy in armored warfare.

We sat by the creek sipping Yago Sangria topped with orange slices. I would have preferred to skip the soft interrogation I’d planned and get tipsy instead and round out the afternoon with a bit of skinny dipping. But with all I had on my mind, especially in light of my talk with Misty the Vixen the day before, I was 182

Lee W. Doty

afraid of what a little Spanish wine might release into my psyche.

I opted for soft interrogation because Marion had no reason to feed me information about Gene and probably plenty of desire to protect him. And that’s what seemed to be behind her relationship with Gene—desire. For one thing, they had plenty in common—both single, educated, and native to the area. For another, I smelled a whiff of his cologne as I entered her Great Room. He must have been over recently. But finally, the picture on the mantle of a young boy facing the camera, Marion facing him, told an interesting story. She was crazy about the boy. I wondered what his name was. As for my interrogation, I’d have to dive in and improvise.

“It was awfully nice of you to invite me here when I called, Marion, but you have to know I had a reason for calling, and it may not be one you’ll approve of.”

Marion placed her wine on the arm of her chair. She looked at me, confused. “I thought you called because we hit it off.” She laughed a little. “I guess I flattered myself. Now you’ve got me worried.”

At that moment, I hated myself, but I had to put Laney’s interests first and, of course, my client’s. “All of that is true, we did hit it off and I could use a friend, but at the same time, you must know I’m caught in the middle of two murders, especially dreadful because one involved a mere girl. The only way I can think of to get beyond the murders is to figure out what’s happened.” I took another sip.

“I’m with you, but I don’t see how I can help.”

What to say? I sought inspiration in the gentle flow of the shaded creek. The breezes kept the willow trees busy and the bugs out of the way. “I need to ask some questions about Gene.

I know the two of you are close, and you may not want to hear what I suspect.”

Marion sat up straighter. “Just say it, Norma.”

“Right. I have witnesses who say Gene knew Dell, although he denies it. I also have reason to believe Dell may have gotten her hands on something Gene wanted a lot, enough to make him do something wrong.”

183

Last Casualty

“Hold it right there.” Marion stood up too quickly and jostled her wine glass, but managed to keep her hostess smile in place as she wiped drops of sangria from her wrist. “I think your imagination has run away with you. And who are these witnesses anyway? Did Sheriff Law tell you about them?” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t be kosher.”

“Please. Sit down, Marion.” As the guest, I felt silly telling her to sit. “Let’s back up. Maybe I should stick to the basics first.

Do you and Gene have a romantic relationship? I’m only asking because there’s no point in my sharing theories that will fall on deaf ears if you are, except that you may be—” “May be what?” She stared at me like I was mad. “What, Norma? You think I may be in danger?” She gulped down her wine. The smile was gone.

“Gene has his faults, but he would never hurt someone physically—or any other way, for that matter. Not intentionally.

You’re on the wrong track, Norma.”

I wanted to know about her true relationship with Gene because she couldn’t be relied on if she was in love with him. So I persisted. “But can you tell me, are you in a relationship?”

“How is that any of your business?”

Why all the secrecy about an affair? Had Gene demanded it of her? And if so, what a jerk.

“Whether we are or aren’t in a relationship, what I’ve said about Gene is the truth.” She looked me in the eye. “I swear on my son’s life.”

“What son is that?”

Marion stood again, this time more slowly, and poured more wine.

I placed my hand over my glass. “None for me. I’m driving.”

“All right, Norma. You’re so damn nosey. I have a son. He’s in college. His dad died years ago. Gene’s been like a father to him.

If I didn’t have total confidence in him, he’d never get near my son.”

The boy in the picture had a giant-sized cowlick. I’d be surprised if her son wasn’t Gene’s son too. Of course, none of it

184

Lee W. Doty

meant Gene was or wasn’t all Marion thought he was, and her belief in him seemed sincere.

I dared to wonder if there was any other grain of information relevant to Dell’s murder I could harvest. “If he’s so wonderful, are you willing to confirm his alibi for the time of Moira Zolotow’s death? You weren’t the other day. You side-stepped answering at all.”

Marion poured herself more wine, took a sip, then flung her glass at the grill. “I hope my dramatic gesture has finally got your attention. Gene left my office at about noon. And no, Gene is not a killer. I repeat, not a killer. Not Dell’s killer. Not Moira Zolotow’s killer. God, Norma. This is like if I were to accuse your husband of the same thing. Now you need to leave.” By way of showing me out, she played hitchhiker with her thumb and reached for a new glass.

185

35 I drove away befuddled. All the signs pointed to Gene as Dell’s killer, even if Dell only thought she’d found something significant like the early draft of the Emancipation Proclamation.

If The Shusher found out he’d killed Dell, and God knows she seemed to follow his tracks like a beagle, he had to kill her too.

And according to what Marion had just told me, he had a window within which to do it. Why he’d use a drug on Dell and strap her to a tree was a mystery. The other puzzle was how convincing Marion was about his innocence. He could have duped her for all these years into believing he was one of the good guys, but she was no dummy when it came to insights. Admittedly, my bias ran in favor of someone who read books and lots of them. As a librarian, Marion would have studied thousands of characters over the years and would have gained a sound understanding of who the good guys are and aren’t. On the other hand, there was no question in my mind that I, also a reader, had a few insights of my own. Marion’s romantic feelings for Gene were not reciprocated. What with the challenge posed by his wretched father’s will, he didn’t have room in his life for romance.

A short blast from a siren made me check my rearview. Cops.

I pulled over and turned into the parking lot of a nursery that was packed. The red, white, and blue bunting over the doorway proclaimed the upcoming Fourth of July holiday and a huge opportunity for sales. I tried hard to remember the speed limit along Route 480, as I’d undoubtedly be asked if I knew. But speed was not on law enforcement’s mind this time. A friendly hulk 186

Lee W. Doty

strolled my way, and I called out, “What do you know?” It was my favorite sheriff. I was less enchanted to see Deputy Hoag in the Jeep’s passenger seat.

Sheriff Law bent down so he was eye-to-eye with me at my window.

I said, “Did you miss me or something?”

“I’m going to remember this occasion. It’s the first time anyone I’ve pulled over has asked me that question, Ms. Bergen.”

He smiled, taking his time. “I guess it’s best if you step out of the car. Easier to talk that way.”

This didn’t sound good. He stepped back and I opened my door. “Aren’t I just getting a ticket? This is my first time I’m actually hoping for a mere ticket.”

“No ticket this time. Now listen.” He nodded his head at Hoag, who was approaching us. “I don’t want to steal Deputy Hoag’s thunder. He has something to say, and by gum, he’s gonna say it.” He looked away, trying to hide a smile.

When Hoag got close enough, I prepared to fire the first salvo, then remembered the look of delight on his daughter’s face. I settled on, “What’s up, Deputy Hoag?”

Several customers, large potted plants and flats in their arms, stared at us on the way to their cars. It struck me as unfair that I might look like I’d been pulled over for speeding or drunk driving.

“What’s up is that our partners at the FBI tell us—” “Please make this quick, Deputy Hoag. Standing here with you two isn’t helping my reputation.” I nodded at the customers.

Sheriff Law said, “Understood, ma’am.” He nodded to Hoag to continue.

“Our contacts in the FBI report that amidst all the debris they collected from the mall explosion site, a portion of a piece of paper was found with your license tag number on it, or enough of it. There was a lot of other information on the paper, which is helping the agents track down the bomber, but the fact your tag number was on a random piece of paper suggests, and I emphasize suggests, your car was targeted.”

187

Last Casualty

I quickly got beyond feeling vindicated to ask, “Were the tag numbers of the other cars that blew up also on the paper they found?”

Hoag answered. “No. That doesn’t mean—” “I know it doesn’t mean I was the only target, but I sure as hell was one of them.” I mulled over the information. “It’s incredible any legible piece of paper was found. Why would the bomber have been so stupid as to have it with him?”

“I’m afraid it’s because the bomber was so stupid, is why,” Sheriff Law said. “We already knew he wasn’t a very good bomb maker if he intended to kill anybody. An ANFO car bomb can do a lot more damage than these did. I imagine he scribbled your tag number down on whatever paper he had nearby, possibly while in the car. Before he planted the device in your car, he compared your tag to his paper and lost it.”

“Amazing the FBI spotted it,” I said.

“Not really,” Hoag said. “That’s what law enforcement does.

They keep looking until they find what they’re looking for. And there’s more.” He placed his fists on his hips and rose to full height, ready to address a jam-packed Colosseum. “We’ve got evidence leading us to believe there is a connection between Miss Spenser’s and Ms. Zolotow’s deaths. We’re telling you because, aside from discovering both deaths, you’ve been asking a lot of questions.

That may make you the target of someone who is obviously not afraid to kill people.”

“Haven’t I been saying that?”

“You’ve been spotted hanging around Antietam and lately, Pry House. Good thing it’s closing temporarily. At least your interference there will come to an end.”

He just had to get in a jab. But I wondered who’d “spotted” me and had a pretty good idea of which park guide might be the snitch. Still, I held my tongue.

I had suspected I was a target all along, but it was unnerving to find I was right. Everyone else had given too much weight to the fact that mine wasn’t the only car to explode. Even Coigne had been fooled. But I was right on that score too. The generalized

188

Lee W. Doty

targeting of Toyotas was a ploy to camouflage the identity of the true target, me.

I understood Hoag was telling me, in his own snarling way, to back off on my inquiries because this time the bomber might do a more effective job killing me. If I couldn’t get information from others, I’d have to get it from these two men. “What evidence do you have linking the two deaths?”

I addressed my question to Sheriff Law, but Deputy Hoag butted in. “We’re leaving it there. We’ve warned you. It’s up to you whether you take precautions or not.”

Sheriff Law said, “Now if you’re worried, we can send a patrol car around.”

Law was smooth, the way he covered for that boobie. He opened my car door for me. “Now enjoy the rest of your day. Call if you need us.”

Deputy Hoag returned to Law’s jeep, but Sheriff Law waited by my car while I fastened my seat belt and got ready to go. I wondered what evidence they’d found. To be so cocksure the murders were connected, they must have found something as conclusive as the same fingerprints in both locations. Of course, if they had fingerprints, they’d arrest their owner and we’d all go home happy. What else could tie the murders together? As I thought about the question, my eyes were drawn to the bunting over the nursery entrance. All that red, white, and blue. Could I tie the murders together with some rope?

“Sheriff, would you mind acting like you’re giving me directions?” I nodded toward a man and woman leaving the nursery, each wrapping their heads around their big sack of potting soil to stare at me.

He played along, pointing in this direction and that while I asked my real question. “Was the same type of rope that bound Dell Spenser used to strangle Moira Zolotow? And, by any chance, was it red, white, and blue?

“Best way, you go right, and right again.” He thrust his arm to the side, then again to the side.

I loved this guy. “That’s all I need to know. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction.”

189

Last Casualty

It had only just dawned on me I’d seen the type of rope used to tie Dell to the tree earlier that same day. It was used to cordon off the seating area at the Antietam Visitor’s Center where I first met Gene and my iPhone quacked. Details about the rope were the last thing on my mind when I found Dell. But now it seemed so obvious. It was not only something that linked the murders to Antietam, but also something used in both murders.

I studied Law’s face. He had that same faux-country bumpkin look, but the scrunched forehead was new like maybe he was concerned about something—me. He might be kicking himself for asking me to get involved, both with his cousin Evelyn and then on his own behalf, when he sent me to query Marion about Gene’s alibi. Now he had to tell me to back off for my own protection.

He returned to his jeep and waited for me to pull out.

I needed to figure out whether I should stick with my theory about the Emancipation Proclamation. I’d have to be able to connect both murders to the hunt for a lost document. If Dell had found the document and the killer—call him Mr. X—killed to get it, Mr. X could have killed again to keep it, if someone like Moira Zolotow knew he had it. Or killed again if someone saw him kill Dell, or had reason to believe he’d killed her.

Of course, Gene knew from the start I was poking my nose into the investigation. Hell, I’d asked him plenty of questions. If he was the killer, he should have murdered me too. Maybe he’d tried to at the mall. Or he’d hired some loser to do it.

I’d completely forgotten my theories about Phelps and Phantanyl and the stalker. I couldn’t just ignore Mr. Spenser’s overheard comments about getting Moira Zolotow, alias The Shusher, out of the way. Had that meant she needed to be killed?

If, as Deputy Hoag said, the two killings were connected, I had to believe it was revenge that connected them. I wouldn’t believe Mr. Spenser had a hand in killing his daughter or protecting anyone who had. Mr. Spenser would have sought revenge for the death of his daughter. But that wasn’t the tone Mr. Spenser had used, according to the re-enactment by Owen. Geoff Spenser had

190

Lee W. Doty

seemed concerned—if not downright scared—of something The Shusher might do, if Owen’s portrayal was accurate. I needed to question Mr. Spenser, despite Evelyn’s reservations about asking him anything.

I was close to home and decided to stop off, change, grab a bite, and head straight to Richville—the Spensers’ house.

What I hadn’t counted on was Coigne. What the hell was he doing in the driveway instead of out with the horses? I wasn’t ready to see him.

191

36 “Hey, wondered where you were,” Coigne said.

“Why was that? So you and Misty could enjoy some more alone time?” I jumped out of the truck and headed to the house.

“Are we back to that again? Honest to God, Norma.” He followed me, trying to catch up.

“Save it. Misty and I had some girl talk. She seemed quite proud of wrecking a family so early in its history. I have to agree, it’s probably a record.”

He got in front of me and blocked my way. His face was pale, but he didn’t seem embarrassed. He was going to brazen his way through it. “I can only imagine what she had to say. I need to explain something that’s been going on. I should have spoken up before now.”

At that moment I hated him. I uttered a mangled, “Don’t say another word. And get out of my way.”

“Please stop.” He moved to the side. “Please, be a grown-up for once and hear me out.”

“Piss off.” I stormed away, then had second thoughts. “And no goddam make-up emails. I won’t read them.”

Why had I said that? I wanted him to say the words that would make my pain disappear. But he would only make matters worse. Any play-by-play explanation of how the affair came about would only sear his betrayal into my heart. The rage I’d kept at bay all this time was now gaining cyclonic force. “You’ll need to tell Laney I’m going away for a while. I’ll let her know where I am as soon as I get there.”

192

Lee W. Doty

He grabbed my arm. “This is ridiculous. You need to listen.”

“Let go.” I yanked my arm away.

Did I really think I would wound him as deeply as he’d wounded me simply by leaving? That’s what I wanted to do, hurt him. I took the stairs two at a time and closed the bedroom door to pack. I wanted him to follow me, but how did that make sense when his very presence made me want to break valuable glass objects?

He didn’t follow. The house was quiet except for the single, half-hour chime of the clock. I swung my suitcase onto the bed.

“And why am I the one leaving? It’s just what Misty wants.” On the other hand, the property wasn’t mine, and I didn’t want it.

I couldn’t ask Laney to leave with me until I found something permanent, but would Laney even come? Unbelievable as it seemed to me, she loved the horse farm and West Virginia and Coigne. But leaving Laney behind was something I could never do. All this would have to be sorted, but not right now.

After a few moments of searching for essentials, I found them in the dirty clothes hamper, threw them in my suitcase, and slumped down onto the blanket trunk at the foot of our bed.

I didn’t see how I could leave Laney even for a few days. Coigne would just have to sleep in the barn. He loved those horses anyway. For that matter, Misty could stay with him. She was like a horse. Anyway, if Hoag and Law were to be believed, I could be in danger. Maybe Laney and I would have to move far away. How would that go over with her? Short term, long term, it all seemed impossible to work out.

I listened for Coigne’s return, but the house was remarkably quiet—almost. If we had a cat, I would have assumed the soft pounce I’d just heard was Old Puss. It was probably nothing.

I walked to the window overlooking our smallest paddock.

It made me think of Beauty and how I’d thought Coigne was grieving for the loss of such a thrilling animal, when in fact he’d been lusting for a different one. Perhaps Misty had done the better job of consoling him. It wasn’t my forte.

There it was again—that pounce. I opened the door. “Coigne?

If you’re coming to talk, don’t.” I waited for an answer. “Laney?

193

Last Casualty

That you?” Whoever it was had just hit the middle stair. I knew which one. Stepped on slowly, it sounded like the squeal when someone pinches air out of a balloon.

It could have been my imagination, but after the warning I’d just received from Law and Hoag, I’d take no chances. I flew down the back stairwell to the kitchen, shoved open the back door, and ran. Still within sight of the house, I was already out of breath. Damn. I’d left my car keys behind. Where to hide?

If I headed for the barn or one of the outbuildings, I could get trapped. If I kept running out in the open, I’d be spotted and maybe outrun. I circled around the house and dove behind a large rock. Not exactly Gibraltar, but large enough to give me cover while I called Coigne. The truck and rental car were both in the driveway, so he had to be on the property. But if I yelled for him, I’d give my location away. Backdoor slammed. Oh, God. My heartbeat drum rolled and my hands shook so much even pressing numbers was tough. Coigne’s voicemail kicked in with cheery encouragement to leave a message. “Someone’s in the house. Call the cops. Heading to the barn. Be careful.”

Footsteps put the intruder in the driveway. He’d spot me soon. I dialed nine-one-one and whispered my information, not bothering to respond to whatever the operator was asking me.

I had to make a run for it. The distance to the barn was about a hundred yards. It afforded hiding places, but was also the most likely place to hide. I hadn’t yet caught sight of anyone, just sounds. I tried to make out if the sounds were light-footed like a woman’s or heavy like a man’s. Couldn’t tell. Our neighbors were too far away for a yell to do much good.

I ran to the barn, praying I was invisible to the intruder.

My lungs burned and my side cramped. I pried open the two enormous wooden doors, closed them, and headed for the hay room. It was almost pitch black. I pulled on the drop-down stairwell to the storage room, climbed up, and prayed the pitchfork was still there. Finding it in the dark wasn’t going to be easy.

The storage room was the length of a bowling lane. Midway down one side, a panel opened into the barn where the hay was 194

Lee W. Doty

tossed down to feed the horses. I felt my way down to the far end where some farm tools were propped against the wall. I clutched the handle of a scythe, but it was too unwieldy. Next to it was a shovel. If the intruder found the drop-down stairwell, I’d clobber him as he ascended, then leap from the storage room opening onto the barn floor and head out, hoping like hell I’d wacked him hard enough to put him out.

The barn doors rumbled open. I perched over the drawn stairwell, armed. Someone grunted. Male or female? Still no idea. I heard a jingling sound. My hands gripped the shovel, choking it to death. A scream bubbled up inside me, ready to erupt. Time passed. A car door opened and closed. Was that a siren? No, they’d approach quietly. I waited, trying to slow my heart, aware that any sudden noise might cause it to burst. I waited. And waited.

A young man’s nasal twang filled the barn. “Ms. Bergen?”

“Identify yourself or I’ll blast you with this AR-15.”

“It’s Deputy Tweady, Ms. Bergen. We got your nine-one-one call.” He switched on a flashlight and aimed it at himself. He wore the black hat and uniform of county deputies. He walked over and stood beneath my perch. “Now, you take it easy and put the shovel down. I’ve got lots of help on its way, so please try to be calm.”

I’d been holding the shovel like a semi-automatic. I hoisted it back towards the wall, then let down the stairs and backed down.

“Nice and easy,” Tweady said. “You all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. What took you so long?”

“Norma!” Coigne rushed into the barn. His face, even in the gloom, looked wild with terror.

“Where were you?” Without remembering I hated him, I ran into his arms and cried out my fear, anger, and humiliation with the words, “Why didn’t you come back?”

He patted and rubbed my back and whispered, “shh shh,” sounds as if I were a child. Tweady moved away to make a call.

Coigne said, “When you can, tell me about it. Do you know if it was a man or a woman?”

195

Last Casualty

“How would I know?” I meant to sound tough, but failed. “I never caught sight of the person, just the sound from a distance.”

“Mr. Bergen, I’m Deputy Sheriff Tweady.”

Coigne shook Tweady’s hand and gave him his correct name.

“That’s our guys pulling up just in time,” Tweady said. Indeed, the driveway was flooded with Ford Explorers.

“Just in time, you say? I could have had my throat slit five times by now,” I said.

After checking the area, the officers searched the house. The crime scene tech guys dusted, and eventually we were given the all-clear to go inside. Coigne took my hand and led me to the living room, where I huddled in the corner of the couch. He got me a blanket and tucked in my legs. It wasn’t long before Deputy Hoag and Sheriff Law showed up. They conferred with the other deputies in the hallway and came into the living room.

My teeth chattered despite the blanket, and my mind raced over the past hour, hoping to remember details but also hoping to forget the whole thing. I barely heard Coigne giving a summary to Law and Hoag of what he knew. Then a thought occurred to me, one more terrifying than an intruder breaking into my bedroom. I could barely get the words out.

“Where’s Laney?”

196

37 “Where is she, Coigne?” My question sounded like an accusation, as if he were hiding her.

“She’s probably with Owen. Let’s not jump—” “Oh, shut up!” I turned to Sheriff Law. “She may be in danger.

She’s been asking questions too.” I was spouting gibberish. “And those girls at the Antietam gift shop. They could be in danger too.”

I shouldn’t have told Coigne to shut up. His eyes looked less reassuring now. Hell, Laney was my daughter. Couldn’t he cut me some slack for lashing out under the circumstances?

Deputy Hoag headed our way. All I needed now was for him to say something dumb and I’d collapse.

“In all probability whoever entered your house and chased you to the barn hasn’t gotten very far, so wherever your daughter is, she’s in all probability—“ “You can say probability all you want, Deputy Hoag, but it doesn’t make it any less likely that someone will go after her. It’s happened before.” My throat caught.

Coigne had his cell phone out and was punching in a number.

We all waited, Hoag in all probability nursing his offended pride, and the others waiting for Coigne to give them a thumbs up to say Laney had been found. All I knew was that whoever had been scouting around my home and barn that afternoon was the same person who’d been ruthless with Dell Spenser and The Shusher.

He or she would be even more so now that he’d been frustrated by me and the arrival of young Tweady.

197

Last Casualty

Sheriff Law wandered into the kitchen and up the back staircase. When he returned to the living room, he said, “Let me ask you something, Ms. Bergen. Did you hear a vehicle drive up?

Anything that might give us an idea was he in a truck or SUV? Anything?”

I tried to remember. It was only a while ago, but I wasn’t processing well. I could not recall.

“Think what you were doing when you first became aware of him or her. Something tipped you off somebody was out there.

What?” he asked.

“I just heard someone on the stairs. You get to know the sounds of your own family moving around, I guess, and this just sounded different to me. And when I called out, thinking it was Laney or Coigne, the guy wouldn’t say anything.”

Deputy Hoag jumped in. “You said ‘the guy.’ So you’re sure it was a man. Why?” “I’m saying ‘guy’ because it sounds less stupid than saying he/she/him/her every time I use a pronoun.” I interrupted my own temper tantrum, as I did just remember something, a muted jangling sound whenever the intruder moved. It was faint, and any sounds were muffled by my very loud will to live. Yet something about it sounded familiar like I’d heard it before. It was probably a false memory. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember anything that would be helpful. Normally, I’d hear gravel popping in the driveway when someone arrived, but I don’t have a distinct memory of it.”

I looked over at Coigne. He may have been listening to me, but he didn’t make eye contact. Now he said, “Laney didn’t answer her phone, but I got the Spenser residence, and their housekeeper said she and Owen left there for here about twenty minutes ago. She should be here any minute.”

It wouldn’t do to start bawling, but I wouldn’t move until I heard Owen’s BMW pop some gravel. Five minutes hadn’t passed before I heard exactly that. I bowed my head and closed my eyes in a rare moment of religious fervor.

We all went out to the driveway, only to find Laney and Owen still sitting in the car, no doubt staggered by the assortment of law enforcement vehicles. I walked toward them, trying not to 198

Lee W. Doty

show concern, but the dam holding back all my fear and agony broke. I ran and yanked open the car door. *** It was dark and the crime team had cleared off. There was nothing more to be done that couldn’t wait until the morning. I apologized to Coigne for telling him to shut up.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, his arms outstretched. I didn’t want his embrace. I just wanted—I didn’t know what I wanted, so I turned away.

“We’ll need to keep Laney with one of us at all times,” I said.

We were standing in the hallway by the stairs. I could hear Laney on the phone in her room.

“I don’t disagree. I’m just trying to understand why you think she could be in danger too.”

I knew what I had to do. It was going to be a bad scene, but I deserved it. Even though I could barely look at him, I motioned him into the living room. We avoided the couch and sat separately. I explained about my visit with the police earlier in the day, who confirmed I had been a target in the explosion.

I also told him about their warning that my asking questions had put me in danger. Then I made myself say the words. “I had Laney asking questions too.”

“You what?” He gripped the sides of his head as if he had a splitting headache. “I knew she went with you to the battlefield, but asking questions? She’s still a kid!”

“I shouldn’t have done it. I should’ve known there was a chance—” “How could you? After everything.” He stood up, his face enflamed.

I told him how I’d had Laney grill the sisters in the gift shop, and how she’d continued questioning at Pry House, and how I’d done my own probing with Madison and Taffy earlier that day.

I’d never felt so guilty before. It’s not that I’d thought my pursuit of Dell’s killer was more important than Laney’s or the sisters’ safety. So why had I let this happen?

199

Last Casualty

After his initial reaction, Coigne must’ve seen I’d already beaten myself black and blue. Further attacks weren’t necessary.

He opened the liquor cabinet. “You want something?”

If I started drinking, I might not stop. “Sure. Why not?

Whatever you’re making, put mine in a tumbler.”

He came back and sat down with the drinks. “I want to talk with you about Misty.”

“No. Not now. Not ever. Am I clear about that? Or do I have to brand a reminder on your forehead with a hot iron?”

“Would that cheer you up?” He raised his eyebrows.

I wouldn’t fight with him, but I wouldn’t act as though nothing had happened. I swallowed half my drink, stood, and looked him in the face. “Nothing you can do or say will cheer me up. Let’s leave it at that.” I started for the stairs. “Just answer me one question.”

“Of course. You know I want to work through this with you.”

“What’s an ANFO?” “You mean as in Ammonium Nitrate/Fuel Oil? As in the Oklahoma City bombing?”

“That’s it. Thanks.”

It wasn’t a half-hour before Laney stood at my door and whispered my name. She came in and curled up next to me. I slept deeply.

200

38 The next morning dawned sunny and humid. Stinkbugs exulted in their brazenness. One had landed on my forehead, a country wake-up call.

Before anything else that morning, Coigne and I called a truce to set some ground rules until the killer was locked up. We told Laney she would have to stay with Coigne or me at all times.

We were surprised she didn’t act more put upon, but since she was scheduled to work the farm and give riding lessons through the summer, she wouldn’t have to adjust her immediate plans much. Her only condition was that we reserve a place at meals for Owen.

Privately, we had a heated discussion about whether I should continue looking into the murders. There was no reason to think the killer would cease trying to harm one of us. I couldn’t sit around and wait for that to happen. I had more confidence in my ability to find the killer than I had in anyone else who was looking. What I lacked in training, I more than made up for in motivation. Coigne was opposed, but logic was on my side. And, he didn’t have a vote.

I hadn’t spoken to Evelyn Spenser since I’d met her at Grubb’s and heard her sing. A lot had happened since then, and I owed her a report. I phoned her, and she invited me over for coffee, although, she warned me, she would be dirty from gardening. I was to look for her around back.

Clothed in gloves, long pants, lavender smock, and a sombrero, Evelyn was as good as her word. No wonder her skin 201

Last Casualty

was smooth. No ray of sun could penetrate the gardening getup to leave a freckle. But her face was indeed smeared with dirt.

She must have enjoyed her task because, for the first time since we’d met, she smiled, and not just a frozen social smile but one of pleasure.

“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m hopeless with roses, but if I don’t hover and snip and spray and fret several times a week, I feel I haven’t sacrificed enough for them. Shall we have some coffee on the terrace?”

I thought, why not keep her smiling? “You got an extra pair of gloves? I can hover, snip, and spray with the best of them, and God knows I can fret. You mind?” I made my way down a short stone path, careful not to slip on the moss. I already had my hat, and Evelyn tossed over a pair of surgical gloves from a smock pocket. I crouched down beside her, ready to go.

“You may not believe this, Norma,” she said, handing me a clipper, “but there was a time when Dell and I would do just what we’re doing now. She was good with roses. She loved working in the garden with me, but later, the notion of spending time with old Mom wasn’t going to happen. I had hoped eventually she’d get back to it.” She snipped a damaged pink blossom and tossed it into a bucket. We both felt the poignancy of her cut.

Evelyn shook her head as if resigned to put aside the gardening dream and so many others she’d had for Dell. Reporting to Evelyn in her own home, where her daughter had grown up, was harder than I’d expected, yet it gave me a better understanding of Dell, or at least showed the girl to have more dimension than I had thought.

I told Evelyn it was confirmed the murders were connected, which she’d already learned from Sheriff Law, and about my theory Dell had discovered something valuable, which might have given someone a motive to kill her. “Did she say anything to you? Did you notice any sudden excitement on her part about going to work at the battlefield? Anything to suggest she’d made a discovery?”

Evelyn put aside her shears and got up off her knees. She gave my question serious thought. “The only thing she’d say about 202

Lee W. Doty

her job was that she wished she’d never met those girls from the fashion show. She sure found the job ‘borrring’.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who gave her the tip about summer jobs at Antietam. I take it Dell wasn’t used to the tedium of a regular job?”

Evelyn bent over a different rose bush and snipped away.

“Good Lord, no. And she had no tolerance for it once she decided on a modeling career. Modeling sounded so exciting to her. Any step along the way short of actually floating down a runway could only be torture. I tried to warn her that standing in painful positions for hours at a time would make her Antietam job seem like paradise. And I warned her about the alcohol and drugs associated with that profession. But nothing could distract her from her goal of being the next what’s her name? Kate Moss?

I’m so out of it, Kate Moss is probably out of it by now, too.”

What Evelyn said triggered a memory. At the mall fashion show, Don Doggett had said something like, “They all look so upper crust, but underneath, they’re drug addled.”

I didn’t want to interrupt Evelyn’s verbal meandering, an activity that might offer me important information, but I had to know. “You previously told me Dell wasn’t into drugs. How can you be so sure, kids being what they are? Ouch!” I pricked myself. Evelyn pulled a clean tissue from her well-stocked smock pocket and gave it to me.

“She’d never touch drugs. For all her faults, I never worried about that. She wouldn’t have risked marring her perfection.

My precious darling was vainer than the wicked stepmother in Sleeping Beauty—or whoever it was who had the mirror on the wall.”

“Evil Queen. Snow White. Don’t ask me where that came from. Normally, I can’t even remember Shakespeare’s last name.”

“Very funny. I’m fascinated by you, Norma. You’re ferociously self-confident to the point of arrogance, and yet you ridicule yourself with such conviction.”

“That’s me, all right.”

“You’re two people. Which one is the real you?”

“No idea.”

203

Last Casualty

We kept talking about Dell, and just as Evelyn was able to break from her grieving for a brief time, I was able to step away from my own problems and focus on this teenage girl who, despite my initial impression, might have actually made something of herself. Would have made something of herself with a mother like Evelyn. Dell could be “two people” too, and chances were she was more like the person Evelyn knew all her life than the one I knew for a few months.

Owen’s worried confession of eavesdropping on his father’s phone call was terrain I didn’t want to explore. Evelyn would veer away from discussing her husband and his work, despite her thinly concealed suspicions about both. But I couldn’t leave the Spenser home without making some effort to understand the household better. There was too much mystery there to ignore.

“I haven’t yet followed up on the argument your husband had with his boss—you know, about the Phelps opiate that also killed Dell. You said you didn’t want to ask Mr. Spenser about his phone conversation for your own reasons, and I had other matters to pursue. But at this point, I have additional information about Phelps and, well, about your husband. I think you’d better overcome whatever is holding you back and have a talk with him.

What I’ve learned involves Owen.”

Again with the shears. At this rate, Evelyn would soon have the rose bushes down to just thorns. She got to her feet. “Why don’t we go sit on the terrace? I’ve had about all the pricking I can manage.”

Once we were seated at a small table beneath an umbrella, Evelyn suggested refreshments and summoned the housekeeper.

After she went over what we’d like and the young woman left, Evelyn turned to me. “What’s this about Owen?” Her eyes, though troubled, were unflinching. Like the coffee she’d just ordered, she wanted “no cream, no sweetener” in my answer. I hoped I’d get answers from her the same way.

“It seems like there’s a fair amount of eavesdropping on your husband’s phone calls. Owen overheard your husband talking with Don Doggett.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said.

204

Lee W. Doty

“You know Rover?”

“Of course. He’s the office sycophant. Been with Phelps longer than Geoff or the big boss, Roger Fitzhugh, so I guess his survival strategy of kissing up actually works. He’s always in the know about something scandalous, which, along with his propensity to flatter, gives him staying power.” She shook her head and mumbled, as though to herself, “I suppose I should’ve known he’d have a bit part in all this.” Evelyn nodded for me to continue.

“Owen believes, based on the admittedly one-sided conversation he overheard, that your husband knew Moira Zolotow or knew something of her and wanted her ‘dealt with quietly.’ Owen didn’t know why the Zolotow woman needed dealing with, but assumed it had something to do with Phelps since Don Doggett was also on the line. So Phelps is unhappy with the Zolotow woman, Phelps has ties to the fentanyl derivative that killed Dell, a subject your husband and his boss fought about, and the sheriff confirms the two murders are connected. Sounds like Phelps is possibly implicated in both murders in some way.”

I stopped talking when the housekeeper returned with a tray that held not only bone china, the kind you hold up to the light and see through, but petit fours and chocolate cookies. The pastries looked homemade and were warm to the touch.

Evelyn said, “Thank you so much, Sarah. I know Ms. Bergen will swoon once she tries your sweets like everyone does.”

As she left, the housekeeper tried to retain her solemn demeanor, but a smile of pure pleasure broke forth.

Evelyn exhaled. “You want me to ask my husband what the hell is going on? I know. I should’ve done so when I told you about my eavesdropping. For Dell’s sake, I should have.”

“Is there a problem having that conversation now?” I asked.

She took a moment to answer. “You tell me.” She sipped her coffee and put it down gently. “Starting a few months before Dell died, I was made aware that Geoff was seeing someone. Not by Geoff. My husband didn’t say a word. The ‘other woman’ told me herself. Seemed awfully proud of it too.”

“Who was it?” Incredulous, I was afraid I already knew the answer.

205

Last Casualty

“That’s the maddening thing. She seemed to know me, and I never asked her name. I was too shocked to ask questions.

And I had too much pride to bring it up with Geoff. We’ve been married for almost thirty years, childhood sweethearts, even younger than Owen and Laney when we met, and I’d never worried about this sort of thing before.” She looked at me and must have realized how pathetic she sounded. She sat up tall and relaxed her features into smooth lines. “It all sounds tawdry. The same old story.”

The same old story was right. More so than she could imagine.

Of course, I thought of my own situation with Coigne, and for a moment wondered if the “other woman” in Mr. Spenser’s life was Misty. It was Misty’s M.O., but I rejected the idea. No doubt Spenser had the money Misty would covet, but he seemed too sophisticated to fall for her scam. Of course, I would have thought Coigne was too.

“I didn’t want to speak to Geoff,” Evelyn went on, stirring her coffee. “I couldn’t bring myself to, not on any subject, even our daughter’s death.” She stopped talking as if she’d just had a vision. Her eyes met mine. “I’ve just realized something, and I can hardly believe I’m saying it: Losing my husband to another woman hit me as hard as losing Dell. What does that say about the person I am?”

Whoever had brought Evelyn to this realization deserved to be bound to a torture rack because that’s effectively what this “other woman” had done to Evelyn. Every moment Evelyn spent with her husband, and every thought of her husband, caused the turning of the rollers and, with the gradual increase of tension, made her pain excruciating. No question. It had to be Misty.

“I don’t suppose this woman is in her mid-thirties, about five-eight, dark hair, disproportionate nose, lips in a perpetual sneer?”

Evelyn’s cup clattered onto its saucer. “How do you know?”

I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. The older woman had bared her soul, and I felt a reciprocal revelation was owed. But, despite my anger against Coigne, I held back. Coigne had stood by me often when he had every reason to leave me, or even arrest 206

Lee W. Doty

me. I’d protect his privacy and mine, this once. “She’s our vet, and I imagine she’s yours.” I nodded in the direction of the horses grazing in her field. “I asked Sheriff Law about her background, and he painted a picture that matches your experience.”

“Buddy knows her?”

“Says he knew her father, Eddie Bubb.” I told her the story.

“Their daughter was Melissa, and now she’s Misty.”

“Eddie and Lucille Bubb? That woman was little Melissa Bubb?” If Evelyn hadn’t looked defeated before, she did now. She covered her face with both hands. “I didn’t recognize her.”

“You feel like telling me, I’m all ears.”

Evelyn poured herself another cup of coffee. “More water for you? No? Well, things make a little more sense now, though your information doesn’t make it any easier. I mean, betrayal is betrayal, even if there’s a story behind it. My best friend, a widow, was one of Eddie Bubb’s victims. She was the one who got him sent to prison, and I was the one who pushed her to have him arrested. She never remarried and died a number of years ago, so I don’t imagine she made a good blackmail victim for Misty.”

She spat the word Misty just as I would have. “Your best friend wouldn’t make a good victim, but you, on the other hand, would.”

“But how could she even know of my indirect involvement in getting her father arrested?”

I gave that some thought. I could imagine Misty delving into the widow’s background and eventually figuring out Evelyn was her friend and maybe had even attended the legal proceedings with her. But another thought occurred to me. “Sheriff Law told me Misty had quite a racket going. She seduced men and then blackmailed them for big dollars. I wonder if she was successful?

Do you think Mr. Spenser is being blackmailed?”

“I can’t imagine he’d play ball. If she tried to blackmail him, he’d have told her to go ahead and do her worst. He’d tell her I’d never believe it.”

And yet you did.

Evelyn puffed out an abrupt laugh and shook her head. “It was something about her knowledge of him and his ways that 207

Last Casualty

convinced me she was telling the truth. But the more I think about it, if she’d threatened him with blackmail and he was concerned in any way, he’d have simply ‘dealt’ with her, you know, as you were dealt with by a cease and desist letter and as Moira Zolotow was to be ‘dealt with’—whatever that meant in her case.”

I was trying hard not to conflate my client’s woes with my own. Geoff Spenser and Will Coigne were different men, and Evelyn and I had very different histories. But maybe I was wrong about Coigne, just as I was beginning to think Evelyn might be mistaken about Mr. Spenser.

“Is Mr. Spenser behaving in a guilty fashion? You know the standard joke—the man brings his wife flowers and she asks him what awful thing he’s done for her to deserve them?”

Evelyn’s gaze roamed the garden and stopped at the rose bushes. “No flowers lately. And with Dell’s passing, it would be hard to assess anyone’s behavior as being out of character because everything in our home now is so terribly abnormal.”

“You have a point.” I needed to get going, so I took the last bite of my cookie as we talked over next steps. She started to walk with me to my car, but I urged her to stick with the roses.

I had one parting thought. “You’ve been married a long time, Evelyn. It’s possible Misty put the moves on your husband and he rejected her. Or maybe she didn’t even try. Telling you a hurtful lie, which has tormented you for weeks and possibly damaged your marriage, might have been enough revenge, even for someone as evil as Misty.”

208

39 I left Evelyn in her garden, but didn’t stop thinking about Misty and my client’s husband. Sheriff Law said Misty had never been arrested because no man had lodged a complaint against her. Her crimes of blackmail, extortion, and whatever else she was guilty of had gone unpunished. But if the Spensers were willing to file a complaint, Misty might finally get her just reward behind bars. Evelyn wasn’t willing to confront her husband, but she hadn’t forbidden me to do so.

For the moment, I was tired of wrangling with the human condition. I pulled my car over and parked. The C&O Canal path beckoned and I followed. Despite the tropical feel of the day, my walk along the Potomac, shaded by thick woods, was still a beautiful one. I gave myself a good mile before pulling out my phone.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Bergen? Your car working all right?”

“I’m getting around just fine, Sheila, and thanks for asking.

Your boss around?”

I hoped Sheriff Law was able to give Sheila a raise because she sure was at work every time I called his office.

Before answering my question, Sheila placed her hand over her phone. “Hold on, Riley. I’m talking to somebody. You go sit over there by the wall and wait.” To me she said, “Sheriff ’s not here right now. There’s been some trouble down at the courthouse.

That’s where the tax assessor is. Did you know that? Most people don’t.”

209

Last Casualty

“Tax office? What kind of trouble would he be handling there? Someone steal a tax form? Couldn’t wait to get a jump on filing?”

Sheila laughed. “Oh no, not that kind of trouble. As sheriff, Buddy Law is also county treasurer, and he’s in charge of tax collections. But that wasn’t why he went there, either. He went there because he’s talking to Ms. Moira Zolotow’s colleagues, and that’s where she worked. They’re down there on a Saturday for a special in-service, so he thought he’d catch them. That’s why he went down there, but that’s not why he’s staying there. He’s staying there because someone broke into the drug take-back cabinet. We’ve got one here and they’ve got one down there too.

Big old green mailbox.” She lowered her voice. “You know there’s a security guard right there checking people as they come into the courthouse, which is where the tax assessor’s office is, so you gotta wonder who could break into the cabinet with him sittin’ right there, but there you are. Sheriff Law’s gotta be spittin’ mad.”

I couldn’t help but smile. This really was Small Town, USA, but for the first time, I felt like laughing with one of its residents, not at one. That’d make Coigne happy, but who cared about him?

I hung up and continued my walk, cheered by the rapids along the Potomac and a guy who kept falling out of his kayak.

He had friends nearby, which meant he wasn’t in real danger, but it probably made the situation more embarrassing. I ran into only a few walkers along the path, which suited me fine. Because something gnawed at me about my call with Sheila, and I wanted to give it some thought. The Shusher and drugs were located in the same office. Phelps was interested in The Shusher, and Phelps manufactured drugs, and a Phelps drug had killed Dell, and her death and The Shusher’s were connected. That was a lot of connection. But surely a big company like Phelps didn’t deposit expired drugs in a cabinet at the office of the Jefferson County tax assessor. Maybe Phelps didn’t officially, but maybe someone in possession of a Phelps drug like Phantanyl did.

I might be onto something, but just as likely might not and I wasn’t going to figure it out at that moment. Instead, I’d chow down on my way home, avoiding Coigne a little longer. I couldn’t 210

Lee W. Doty

stay away forever. Doing “Laney duty” was, by all accounts, my responsibility for having put her in jeopardy in the first place.

I was lucky to find a parking space in front of Ruby’s, the eponymous diner in the center of town. Looked like it had been there half a century, what with the Formica counter and aluminum stools with red plastic seat covers. And that’s the way I liked my diners. To my surprise, it was the way Gene liked his too. This really was Smalltown, USA, for there could be no other head of silver hair like his, easily recognizable despite his sitting in a booth and facing away from the door. Marion was with him, and they were deep in conversation. I was worried Marion would tell me to get lost after our unpleasant conversation at her place.

Maybe she’d shared my suspicions with Gene, which would make any encounter tricky.

Before I could discretely back out of the diner, Ruby caught my eye and pointed to a two-seater parallel to Gene’s booth saying, “Be with you in a minute, hon.”

I went ahead and sat down, facing Marion. Her look of shock was replaced by revulsion. “What, you’re following me? This is ridiculous. Let’s get out of here, Gene.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her wallet.

“Wait a minute, Marion,” I said. “I didn’t follow you. This is serendipitous. And anyway, I wanted to get back to you. I didn’t feel good about our last encounter either.” Seeing the baffled look on Gene’s face, I guessed Marion hadn’t told him, or hadn’t finished telling him about our rumble. I gave Ruby my drink order, asked for a chicken salad sandwich, and turned back to the couple. Gene’s hand was now on Marion’s arm, steadying her or holding her there, I wasn’t sure. “If you both can give me a minute, I think I can leave you alone, with apologies.”

Marion spoke through clenched teeth. “Why should we have to tell you anything? We haven’t done anything wrong, but even if we had, you’re not the police. Bug off.”

That Marion sure could hold a grudge.

“Hold on, Marion,” Gene said. “I’m as unhappy as you are if Norma’s making careless accusations. Let’s hear what she has to say, and maybe we can convince her to look elsewhere for her culprits.”

211

Last Casualty

“Probably just one culprit, not culprits. The murders of Dell and the Zolotow woman are connected, according to law enforcement. That tells me it was likely just one killer. And you can see why a rational person might suspect you, Gene. Moira Zolotow followed you around like a shadow, and you’re lying about knowing Dell. So what am I supposed to think?”

“You’re supposed to think nothing,” Marion said. “This isn’t your business.”

Ruby delivered my sandwich, and I got distracted. The pickle juice had seeped into the bread and chips. Why couldn’t I remember to say no pickle?

“Let me tell you what I’ve figured out,” I said, “and you can at least tell me if I’m on the right track.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Gene shoved his lunch to the side, clearing the decks for come what may. He leaned back into the corner of the booth and smiled, recalling to me the charm I’d been attracted to when we first met.

I rescued the few dry chips as I laid out the scenario. “You’ve been after something, Gene. And Marion, and perhaps even Moira Zolotow, a Civil War aficionado like you, have been helping. For Zolotow, her motive was probably more a case of sharing in the glory than affection, which was Marion’s motive.

Suffice it to say, you were after something that Dell had, or knew of, and your relationship with her was contentious. And come to think of it, you probably had access to the same rope used in Dell’s and Moira’s murders. How am I doing?”

A poker player he’d never be. I couldn’t miss the look of fury on Gene’s face. He picked up his napkin and tore it to shreds, not violently—systematically. Marion said nothing and I didn’t either.

He turned and faced me. “You’ve talked with Orvie. He’s told you about the missing draft of the Emancipation Proclamation.”

I nodded.

“And you’re thinking I want it not only because of its own significance, but because it will enable me to inherit under my father’s will. Yes, Marion told me she’d gossiped with you about something that was confidential, and why she did that, God only knows.”

212

Lee W. Doty

“I’ve apologized until I can apologize no more, Gene. It was a mistake, and I’m sorry.” Tears fell.

So much for apologizing no more. I could teach Marion a thing or two. “Look. I’m not trying to embarrass anyone or bust up a relationship. I just want my information confirmed.”

Gene ignored Marion’s discomfort. “As I was saying, you’re right about our search. And as for Moira Zolotow, she elbowed her way in. She overheard a conversation we had with Orvie, and even though we were cryptic, she knew what we were talking about, even from ten feet away.”

“That must have really angered you, Gene. I’m guessing Orvie told you about the missing Emancipation Proclamation draft as he prepared for his first lecture. The one that preceded the one I attended with my daughter. Right?”

Gene nodded.

“And Dell? Where does she come into this? How did she know what you were looking for?”

Marion answered. “This is where you’re really off base. Gene had no conversation with Dell about the document or anything else. He says he didn’t know her, and I believe him.”

I turned to Gene. He was watching me closely.

“Marion is telling you the truth,” he said. “I didn’t know Dell.

And if I did meet her, I didn’t realize it. We certainly never spoke of the Emancipation Proclamation.”

Now I had more questions. Why would they concede they were looking for an incredibly valuable document and Moira found out about it, which conceivably gave them motive to kill her, yet not admit they knew Dell? They’d just put their heads in the noose for Moira’s death. Why give me that much and not the whole enchilada? I was missing something here, and I feared it was the obvious. I checked my watch.

“Do you believe us?” Marion asked. “You do realize it won’t do my job at the university any good if you spread your ridiculous suspicions.”

“Yes, don’t leave us in suspense,” Gene folded his arms across his chest and tried to sound friendly and sarcastic at the same time.

The thing was, I did believe them.

213

40 I left Ruby’s and made a quick call to Coigne, making sure Laney was all right and he could give me another half hour before he needed me back home. I was glad we could still converse civilly, for Laney’s sake.

The more I thought about it, the more I believed Gene and Marion’s story. Sure, they had motive to kill The Shusher if they had found the document and didn’t want to cut her in, but why wait until that day at the Riverside Inn? They wouldn’t have chosen such a public location. And Marion would have given Gene a solid alibi for the time of the woman’s murder, assuming she was in on it. It sounded naïve, but I also didn’t think Gene committed Moira’s murder because of how kind he had been to me when I discovered the woman’s body and tried to resuscitate her. He’d have to have nerves of steel to be that close to the woman he’d just strangled, making soothing noises while I tried to bring her sodden body back to life.

But the real reason I believed their story, perhaps a foolish one, is because I couldn’t imagine a teacher murdering a kid, which is all Dell really was.

So who did that leave? Mr. Spenser? No. Too appalling to think he’d kill his own daughter, especially for reasons having to do with his business. My only hope was that an interview with him might solve the mystery of what he meant by dealing with The Shusher quietly and why he’d fought with his boss about Phantanyl. Sad to say, I knew I couldn’t count on Evelyn to confront him anytime soon.

214

Lee W. Doty

Would he even talk to me, though? He’d been the nicer of the two Spenser parents the time I visited them right after Dell’s death. I could only hope his graciousness was so ingrained he would at least let me say what was on my mind.

As it was Saturday, I figured he would be at home, though he wasn’t when I’d been there earlier in the garden. I reached their housekeeper, Sarah, who remembered me and put me through to him. To my surprise, he said he’d meet with me. Of course, I had been a tad dishonest, stating the reason I wanted to meet had to do with Owen and Laney and how I didn’t want to barge in again on Mrs. Spenser’s mourning. He asked if I could meet him at his office later in the day. His company was holding an art show in its lobby, and it was his department’s event. “I can really think of better ways to spend my Saturday,” he said, “but at least it leaves the evening free. I don’t like to leave Mrs. Spenser alone at night.”

The cargo pants and sandals I wore would do nicely for an art show. I removed my fishing hat, raked fingers through my hair, replaced the hat, and got underway.

Because of its size, the Phelps building was often confused with a nearby sprawling medical center. It was three stories high, mostly tinted glass, with plenty of lawn, fountains, and walkways surrounding the campus. The parking lots were numbered, and Mr. Spenser had given me directions to the executive offices. A sign near the entrance said, “Contemporary Art in the Office Park Setting.” The instant I barreled through the revolving door into a bright atrium, I stood way out among this young cocktail crowd. The women dressed in sleek, sleeveless sundresses and high-heeled sandals. The men looked sporty in beige or grey chinos and white tailored shirts open at the neck. The older higher-ups, like Mr. Spenser, wore navy blue blazers. He waved me over and introduced me to the woman he’d been speaking to and offered me a refreshment. I would have enjoyed lingering to see the paintings in such an airy setting. From a distance they reminded me of works by Edward Hopper. But right away, Mr. Spenser led me to a nearby conference room and, rather gruffly, asked what he could do for me. He was, after all, in the same camp with those who’d sent the cease and desist letter.

215

Last Casualty

“I hope, Mr. Spenser, I wasn’t misleading in saying I wanted to talk about Owen and Laney. My subject only relates to them tangentially.”

“I see.” He loosened his collar, tucking a finger between throat and top shirt button. He motioned me to a chair at the conference table and sat down across from me. “What is it you’d really like to talk about?” His open manner seemed sincere, but as head of marketing and public relations for a drug company, he could probably put a good face on an oil spill.

“Very well, then,” I said. “I was surprised to learn you know Moira Zolotow.”

“Zolotow. Ah, yes. The woman found in the pool at Riverside Inn. By you. I’d completely forgotten it was you who found her.

Dreadful.” He toyed with the pad of sticky notes in front of him.

“But how can I…” I let his unasked question hang for a minute. “My understanding is that you know of her, aside from hearing about her death. In fact, she’s known to certain members of your staff here at Phelps. I’m curious about it because, maybe you know, maybe you don’t, the police have found a connection between her death and Dell’s.”

I might as well have rolled a grenade toward his feet. “What connection?”

His wife had already heard about the connection from the police, but he hadn’t? They really weren’t talking with each other much. “I’m afraid I was told no more than that.”

He sank back into his chair. “I am stunned. I’m—” “That surprises me too, in light of the fact Dell died from her exposure to Phantanyl, a drug manufactured by Phelps, and, well, according to my confidential sources, Moira Zolotow posed some sort of threat to Phelps. You were having that threat handled by your staff. I believe the threat had to do with Phelps drugs that were negligently or criminally disposed of.” That last was pure guesswork, but I was quite at home being wrong.

Geoff didn’t speak at first. He had to wonder whether his phone was tapped or Don Doggett had blabbed the contents of their conversation to someone, maybe to me directly. Then he 216

Lee W. Doty

had to wonder whether to fess up about dealings with Moira Zolotow or deny the whole thing. I hoped I hadn’t exposed Owen by giving away so much of the phone conversation he’d overheard.

The silence became strained. I thought about giving him a little nudge to keep the conversation going, to forestall the “Get the hell out of here,” I expected, but my patience was rewarded.

“Okay, you got me.” He closed his eyes and clasped his hands in his lap. “I don’t like to admit Ms. Zolotow was known to me prior to her death and there were problems, for obvious reasons.

The Zolotow woman—” “Moira.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, Moira Zolotow said she’d made a discovery, one that we preferred to keep quiet. As it turns out, because of her unexpected death, we didn’t have to. Keep it quiet that is. But I assure you, our methods of dealing with her would have fallen far short of murder if that’s where you’re headed with all this. Something more along the lines of a long weekend at Hilton Head.”

I could visualize The Shusher, her ankle-length skirt billowing over the windy golf course as she swings at her crystal ball. “Let me guess. Ms. Zolotow found out that some of your most powerful drug, Phantanyl, had fallen into the wrong hands after it was perhaps erroneously deposited by a Phelps staffer into the public take-back cabinet where she worked. She knew the strength of the drug and size of the PR calamity if it were known the drug had been so cavalierly, or intentionally, disposed of. And she wanted to be paid handsomely for any information she could provide you about who’d mishandled it and who had the discarded drug now.”

I was getting close. Geoff had lost his color. I pulled back some to make sure he was all right, then kicked him in the balls.

“What I can’t understand is why you didn’t tell the police about this. It is possible the Phantanyl from the take-back cabinet was used to kill Dell. But then, maybe you had that conversation with your boss, Mr. Fitzhugh, and he dissuaded you from going to the police. He convinced you to get the information from the 217

Last Casualty

Zolotow woman, and then you all could decide how to handle the backdraft and whether or not to go to the police? How am I doing now?”

Geoff had gone from suave patrician businessman to lost senior with dementia. He looked away, and when he turned around again, his eyes were bloodshot and welling. I hadn’t signed up to make people cry, and I hoped he wouldn’t.

“I don’t know how you know all this.”

“Does it matter?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I only wish I’d had better sense than to see you out that time you came to our home. Maybe my judgment would have been less…what?”

“Shortsighted.”

He nodded. “I swear to you I didn’t connect the dots, or at least not consciously. To hear now the Phantanyl that wound up in the take-back cabinet might have been the supply that killed Dell, and I might have prevented her death by reporting it sooner is too awful to consider.”

“So Moira Zolotow approached you some time before Dell was killed?”

Without a sound, he got up and walked to the window. He wiped his face with his handkerchief.

We were startled by a knock at the door. I leaped up and opened it an inch. I said to the man, “Mr. Spenser is on an important phone call. May I slip him a message for you?”

The man looked surprised to see an oversized, underdressed woman speaking for his boss. He tried to see beyond my shoulder, but I lowered my voice. “It concerns a personal matter. I know you wouldn’t want him to know you’d interrupted. Your name is…?”

He said Mr. Spenser’s presentation was due to start in ten minutes.

“I’ll relay the message.”

Geoff had used the interruption to pull himself together. He stuffed his handkerchief into his blazer pocket. “I think it’s now time, past time, I spoke to the police. I can at least pinpoint when

218

Lee W. Doty

I believe the drugs were dumped in the take-back cabinet. It was several weeks before Dell died.”

“You seem sure of the timeframe. How do you remember so long ago?” Good to know I hadn’t completely lost my lawyer-like insistence on questioning bald assertions.

He returned to his seat and looked directly at me. For a moment, I could see all Dell had had in such a father—flaws, certainly, but he cared deeply for his daughter.

“Ms. Zolotow approached me on my way to work on June 14, Flag Day. I remember this because I said to myself at the time, seeing how strangely she was dressed, ‘This is Flag Day, not Halloween.’ It wasn’t a kind thought.”

Now he’d kick himself for every rotten thing he’d ever done.

“Let’s go through this slowly. It will help when you meet with Sheriff Law to have your facts straight. Ms. Zolotow phoned or came to see you?” It was very hard to imagine Ms. Zolotow, alias The Shusher, getting past the receptionist in this sophisticated setting. I’d gotten odd looks just now and I was Madeleine Albright by comparison.

“She phoned. My assistant put her through because Ms. Zolotow had told her she had information I’d want to know concerning Phantanyl. You must understand, it’s a new, powerful drug, used solely in the sedation of large animals, and your ordinary consumer or patient has never heard of it. I took the call.”

“Why did she call you?”

“She said she figured, as EVP for Public and Government Relations and Marketing, I’d be most knowledgeable about the size of the black mark against the company if word got out.”

“Of course,” I said. “She wasn’t stupid.”

“I told her I’d get back to her, but some other things came up. Like I say, I wasn’t connecting dots. I did argue with my boss about Phantanyl after Dell’s death, but not in connection with Ms. Zolotow’s call. I was pushing for stronger warnings about the drug. It had started showing up in strange places, even supermarket parking lots and high schools, but he wasn’t buying it.” He stopped abruptly as if remembering something. “I did 219

Last Casualty

mention Ms. Zolotow’s visit to a staff member at the time, Don Doggett, and he brought it to my attention again just a few days ago, by phone. That’s when we talked about dealing with her in some way. Anyway, how do you know it’s the same supply?”

“I don’t know—and won’t know—where the drug came from until we catch the killer and ask. But in light of what you’ve said about the use of the drug, the supply that killed Dell came either from a Phelps employee or distributor in the area, or from someone like a vet.” Once more, it occurred to me a vet would have access to controlled substances for large animals—someone like Misty, probably the only evil vet on the planet. But I had to follow where the evidence led.

In days gone by, I would’ve blown off Geoff Spenser’s head for failing to report the attempted blackmail over the lost drugs to the police. They could have questioned Moira Zolotow about who had the drugs. All that would come of rubbing it in now would be more heartbreak for him and a waste of my energy. As to whether I should butt into his marital affairs, intra and extra, I also decided to leave that alone. It was up to Evelyn to wrestle with her husband. I had my own wrestling to do. But I still had one last question for him, one I’d been awaiting an answer to for a long time.

“I understand you were told some man from Phelps was stalking Dell, and you didn’t see fit to tell that to the police either.

Why?” “Wait a minute. That’s something I can explain.” Unlike every other issue we’d been discussing for half an hour. “Don Doggett has solid PR experience and talent, but what he doesn’t have enough of is good sense. He’s appointed himself chief snitch in the Phelps organization and routinely comes to me with negative information about employees. Occasionally that information had to do with Dell because I included my family in office functions and she was, well, simply beautiful.” Her photo sat on his desk, along with Owen’s and Evelyn’s. We both looked at her. “I’d track down the rumors and almost invariably find them groundless. To have reported this most recent rumor against Miguel Sanchez, the man who just stuck his head in, by the way, and a rising 220

Lee W. Doty

department head could have caused him no end of trouble with the police, ICE, and every other governmental bureaucracy—all without cause. As usual, I looked into the matter myself, knowing the source of the rumor, and learned that on both occasions when the stalking supposedly occurred, Miguel was with his wife at Children’s National. His son has leukemia.”

That answered that, and I got ready to leave. I didn’t envy Geoff Spenser having to figure out how, rising up from the neardead, he would infuse his speech on “Contemporary Art in the Office Park Setting” with spark and sizzle.

I reached for Geoff ’s extended hand. “Thank you for your time.” Lightning struck. I’d just remembered something. Was it possible? No. Did it hurt to ask? No. “What schools?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, withdrawing his hand.

“What schools did your drug start showing up in? You said that’s what galvanized you to seek stronger warnings for Phantanyl. What schools?”

“Not Dell’s, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was one of those other private schools. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Very familiar for some reason, but I can’t think of it.”

“Winchester Collegiate Day Academy, the Prep School.”

“For Girls Who Ride Horses,” he added. “That’s it.”

“That’s not good.” My dots were connecting.

“Wait. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’ve got to go.”

221

41 At home, I was surprised to find no one in sight, especially with Coigne’s truck in the driveway. It was just as well. I had to concentrate on what I’d just learned. The identity of the murderer was right in front of me, if I could only fit the pieces together.

Coigne had taken much of the hay from the fields out front and that’s where I’d get the best view of the property. I positioned a lawn chair to face the long hillside Coigne and I had climbed on horseback the other day. Then I prayed for inspiration.

For a moment I thought I saw Laney, far off and beyond a stand of Osage orange trees. It wasn’t she, but some other person with blond hair. One of the riding students, most likely. Whoever it was soon disappeared from view. I also noticed the combine had been moved since the other day. It surprised me since Coigne hadn’t said anything about cutting more hay.

The meeting with Geoff put me onto something that worried me. The tip about Gene’s relationship with Dell had come from Taffy and Madison. The sisters were also the ones who’d suggested Dell had found something, or at least had acted oddly, during the Pry House renovations. Those renovations—something odd about their information on that, too. And now I’d learned kids had access to Phantanyl in local high schools. Their high school.

A horse, Naggy, appeared out of nowhere, nuzzling grass as she ambled along. What the hell? No horses pastured in our front yard. I remembered Laney said something about a new rider needing to tack up Naggy, our gentlest ride. Maybe the rider canceled. But that didn’t explain how the horse escaped the paddock.

222

Lee W. Doty

I went inside and grabbed an apple from the fridge and a rope hanging from a nail on the back porch. I knew little about horses except that in the case of apples, they were bribable. By the time I returned to the front yard, Naggy had barely stirred, and I got her headed back behind the house and toward the barn.

Where the hell were Laney and Coigne?

I continued to parse through my conversation with those sisters and the possibility Dell had made a discovery while at Pry House. I could have kicked myself for the way I’d handled my questioning of the girls. I unintentionally biased them into answering in the affirmative by asking them if Dell had found something. Of course they’d say yes. But those renovations. I kept coming back to something Hoag had said about closing Pry House temporarily. Why do that so soon after closing for renovations? And why were the girls and Dell even at Pry House during renovations, which they’d made sound extensive?

I felt uneasy entering the barn, the scene of near catastrophe only the day before, but I needed to secure Naggy and make sure the paddock fence was intact.

“So far, so good,” I said out loud, looking around the interior and patting Naggy’s neck. I led her into her stall and shut the gate, causing the small bells hung next to Naggy’s nameplate to jingle. That jingle. I’d heard it yesterday when someone cornered me in the barn, but I’d swear the sound hadn’t come from Naggy’s stall. Just like that, I remembered when I’d first heard that sound.

It was the jingle of the keychain around Taffy’s neck that day at the Visitor Center.

Did I see connections that weren’t there, or did those sisters lie? And what about Moira Zolotow? How did she fit into it?

These were important questions, but not the one that troubled me most. I had to know whether my investigation had frustrated the killer enough to go after Laney, harm her in some way to scare me into leaving matters alone. So far my car had exploded and we’d suffered a home invasion. And the killer had no problem killing a young person. The answer to my questions was certainly yes.

223

Last Casualty

The technical aspects of the car explosion had been on my mind as well. Sheriff Law had said an ANFO had been used to blow up my car, and Coigne said the Oklahoma City bomber had used an ANFO-based explosive. That bomber, Timothy McVeigh, was a war veteran. The ex-con painter at the Pry House was also a veteran, and he was someone beholden to those sisters. A quick Google search on my iPhone confirmed for me the military customarily used ANFO-based explosives. All this could be just coincidence, but coincidences were piling up.

I called Sheriff Law’s office and left a message. What a time for Sheila to be away from her desk. Then I called Coigne and left a message for him too. Even from inside the barn, with an iPhone pressed to my ear, I could hear the combine starting up.

I left the barn and jogged to the front of the house. I could hear it more clearly, but the sound came from beyond the range of vision. I had a feeling it wasn’t Coigne in the combine.

When the combine was delivered, soon after we moved in, Coigne gave us ominous warnings about getting run over or worse, pulled into the header and fed to the cutting mechanism.

He explained how we could be dragged under, separated, thrashed, and winnowed, then spit out.

I ran back, tacked up, and mounted Naggy. We headed up the hill. On hot days, Laney had been known to take a picnic into the thick woods off to the left of the hill and might be there now.

I forded the same stream where Coigne had so recently abandoned me, this time without getting mired in the mud.

Then I stopped to listen. I couldn’t hear the combine anymore, but something stirred in the woods. I pushed Naggy to move as fast as her stubby legs would go in that direction. The noise could have been a hawk as easily as a voice. In fact, a couple of hawks swooped down from a sycamore. Scared me to death. But I could still hear a voice. Voices. Now I was sure. “Laney?”

Wrong. Taffy and a shirtless Owen staggered from the edge of the woods. His arm was flung over her shoulders, but it looked like she was holding him up. His shirt was wadded up, pressed against his rib cage, and soaked with blood. Otherwise, they were

224

Lee W. Doty

both intact. “Come on, Naggy. Move!” I gave up on the horse and ran to them.

“He’s got a bad cut,” Taffy said. She seemed woozy with shock herself. She tried to tell me all that had happened, but I cut her off. “Where’s Laney? Where’s Coigne?

“That other girl, Madison, she’s crazy,” Owen said. “She came at us with that old scythe from the barn and made us give her our phones. Then she went after Laney.”

“That’s how he got hurt,” Taffy said. “He jumped in front of Laney and got cut.” Her lip was quivering. She looked so young and miserable. I would have comforted her had I not felt like strangling her. “Don’t you dare start crying. Where is Laney?”

Taffy shuddered, but got herself under control. “I don’t know.

Madison chased Laney. Owen went after them, but he bled and bled. I tried to help him. I didn’t mean for this to happen. We’re trying to find Laney.” The sobs were now loud and unstoppable.

I turned my back on her.

“It’s true, Ms. Bergen. What she said is true.”

“Okay, kiddo. Take it easy. Do you know where Coigne is?”

“Before she went crazy, Madison told Mr. Coigne she saw a horse down the road, loose. He told us to watch for the horse here while he went out to the road to look.” Owen’s knees buckled, but he righted himself. His face was white and his eyes unfocused.

“Guess I didn’t do such a good job.”

“You did just right.” I gripped his hand. “I’ve got to go find them. You two head to the house. The police should get here soon. Think you can make it, Owen?”

“Sure. But Laney.”

“The best you can do for Laney is to tell the police exactly what’s happened. And you, Taffy. You do anything to harm another living soul, I’ll come after you. Just a kid? I don’t care.

Now go!”

I ran back to Naggy and hopped on. Which way to go? I could head back to the cleared part of the hill or deeper into the woods. Then I spotted two things that shot me up the hill.

Coigne galloped over the crest of the hill, away from me. I waved, but there was no way he could see me. Naggy and I headed in his 225

Last Casualty

direction, but I pulled hard on the reins when I saw where he was headed. Laney’s blue cowgirl hat lay in the field ahead. Someone was under that hat, face down in the grass. I made out the hair color. Blond. It had to be Laney.

“Come on, Naggy. Get going!” Where the hell was that combine?

If I could just hear it. Then I did—that ringing, humming, grinding sound. But my eyes began watering. Where was the combine? All I could see was white light and black smoke and glass exploding in every direction. I was no longer in a hayfield but an asphalt lot. A familiar asphalt lot. I had to get out of the way, but I had to reach Laney first. I knew I was reliving the mall explosion, but I couldn’t make it stop. I had to stop it. The noise would make my head burst.

Naggy flung me off her back, or maybe I fell off. Either way, my confusion cleared and so did my eyesight. The combine was headed for that hat, and so was Coigne.

I’d never galloped before, and Naggy would have to be my teacher. I hopped back on and we did our best. If I could just get the combine driver’s attention, I could make him or her chase me. I still held out hope it wasn’t Madison operating the combine but some other idiot with no agenda.

I kicked, swore, and begged for all Naggy was worth. “Come on, you. Let’s go!” But Naggy was good for trotting around at birthday parties, not the winner’s circle. I was now close enough to see inside the cab. Madison.

I cried out. Naggy got up some steam, but how close could I get to the combine without getting drawn in. Coigne would reach Laney faster than I would, but not fast enough. I knew I’d never make it in time. The combine was unstoppable, crushing stalks, pulling them into the reel, rolling them into the auger, and spewing stalk out the chimney. Coigne had to make it. God let him make it. But I knew he’d never make it.

Operating on gut panic, I jumped off Naggy and yanked the canteen off her saddle. I hurled it by the strap at the cab windshield.

It didn’t crack, but the combine slowed for a millisecond. Coigne leaped at Laney’s body and rolled with her over and over. The 226

Lee W. Doty

machine regained speed and rolled forward. I remounted Naggy and the combine turned to follow me, picking up speed.

I fled for my life and hoped like hell the combine would keep following and Naggy could outrun it. I gave imperfect, confusing signals. The woods would be the best hiding place, but now so far away, I’d never make it before Naggy gave out.

What the hell was the matter with Madison? Was she on drugs? My need to find answers gave way to the more pressing need to survive. I didn’t look back, just headed for the stream and hoped like hell the combine would follow and get stuck and I wouldn’t.

Naggy, bless her heart, didn’t hesitate. She headed right into the muddy stream. I looked back. The combine was so close, it was as though I were riding on the header. Dammit. I was stuck. I kicked and pleaded and turned around as the combine approached the edge of the stream. Should I jump off? Leave Naggy? I now realized what I should have foreseen. The machine was too big to get stuck. Its mechanisms underneath, too big.

The grinding noise changed—less volume, more sputtering, then nothing. I whipped around. The combine had slammed into the far bank of the stream. The driver’s head flopped forward.

She must have lost control.

Coigne rode up and jumped off his horse. We could barely talk, we were both panting so hard. “You okay?”

I nodded. “Where’s Laney?”

“Catching her breath back up the hill. She’s all right. That girl must have hit her over the head, but she seems okay. We’ll have to get her checked out.”

I dismounted and patted Naggy’s neck, God bless the old girl. Her coat glistened with sweat. “I’m heading up there. The cops are probably at the house with an ambulance. Can you wait here?”

He nodded and pulled out his cell phone. No doubt Madison was badly hurt, but I couldn’t wait another second.

As Naggy and I headed up, I thought of what might have happened. I couldn’t believe Madison would aim the combine at another human being. She had to know Laney was under that 227

Last Casualty

hat. To me, Madison had become a creature, not a person. Was that how she’d felt toward Laney? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.

And then something did make sense. At the crest of the hill, weary but walking, Laney waved her damn hat. A sound gurgled from my throat, something like neighing that got louder and louder, but I didn’t care. I hopped off Naggy, ran the rest of the way, grabbed Laney in my arms, and hung on tight.

“Owen? Is he okay?” She sounded scared.

“He’ll be fine, sweetheart.” I stepped back and looked her over. She was filthy and her shirt torn, but I was more concerned about her pallor. “I want you to ride Naggy back. She’s my new favorite horse, by the way.”

She looked at me, then the horse. “Naggy. She suits you.”

228

42 Soon enough our gravel driveway was thick with members of local law enforcement and first responders, but not before the sisters got in a round or two.

“This is your fault, Madison.” Red-faced and hoarse from shouting accusations, Taffy hurled this last with understandable bitterness. She was, after all, the younger sister. “I hope you rot in hell with the rest of your druggy friends.”

“You shut up. I’m not the one to blame. If she hadn’t said she’d tell, none of this would have happened. That’s who’s to blame, shithead. Now shut up.” The sizeable knot on her forehead in no way diminished Madison’s gall.

“I won’t shut up. If you’d left that stuff alone like I said, none of this would have happened.”

An ambulance sped Owen to the hospital, and the sisters, handcuffed, furious but ambulatory, awaited their rides. To the hospital or jail, I wasn’t sure. Coigne and I spoke briefly to Sheriff Law. Then, after much begging from Laney, we left for the hospital to be with Owen. He had, after all, saved Laney’s life, taking the brunt of that scythe.

From the backseat, Laney peppered us with questions, most of which we couldn’t yet answer. How do you tell your kid her new friends are killers? We did our best.

“It may be small comfort to you, Laney,” Coigne said, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, waiting for the light to change, “but Dell was ready to do the right thing. She was on the verge of reporting the girls to the police, or her parents, or someone. Looks like that act of bravery got her killed. “ “She must have hated working there, knowing what they were up to.” Laney’s voice was shaky and I turned around. She 229

Last Casualty

wasn’t on the verge of tears. Her clenched fists and tight mouth told me she was enraged.

And she was right about how Dell had felt. Evelyn had given me a clue I’d completely misunderstood. Perhaps Evelyn had too.

She said Dell wished she’d never met the sisters. I’d thought poor spoiled Dell was mad they’d talked her into taking such a boring job. Even Don Doggett had given me a key piece of information, but I’d been so wound up by the parking lot explosion, I’d failed to remember his saying something like, “All the girls in the fashion show were into drugs, except Dell. Too proud, too vain.” His reference to “all the girls” probably included Madison and Taffy.

“They practically told me that Gene guy, the lecture guy, killed Dell,” Laney said. “That’s what they wanted me to think anyway. Why did they tell me he hung around Dell, Norma? I bet he didn’t.”

I, too, had been ready to believe the sisters’ twaddle about Gene. I’d failed to keep an open mind about who the murderer might be. But I wasn’t ready for Laney to become cynical. “We shouldn’t have to assume someone will look us in the face and lie about something that could put an innocent person in jail.”

We parked and headed into the emergency waiting room. But for the rows of chairs, some disgorging foam stuffing, a candy vending machine, and a loud, fluorescent hum, the room was featureless and stuffy. The only occupant was a man who flipped through a much-thumbed magazine, his eyes half-closed. We approached the nurse’s desk where I chanced to look down the hallway of ER treatment rooms. Evelyn and Geoff stood in the hall’s center, embracing. She was crying. I couldn’t bear another tragedy. I grabbed Coigne’s arm.

Evelyn turned our way, wiping her face with waded tissue.

She waved. “He’s going to be fine. They say he’s okay!”

Thank God. We stayed awhile for Laney to sit and talk with Owen. He was due for discharge as soon as his ER physician reviewed some tests. Evelyn and Geoff thanked me for all I’d done to find their daughter’s killers.

“We’re thanking you, or more properly, Owen,” I said. “If he hasn’t already told you, he jumped between the scythe and Laney.

We’ll never know how to—” 230

Lee W. Doty

“We’re proud of him. We’re so very proud of him.” As Evelyn welled up again, I promised to stop by her house in a day or two.

We both had appointments with the sheriff, so we’d later compare notes and sort out what the hell had gone on at Bloody Lane.

At home, no one felt like eating a full meal, much less preparing one. We took our drinks and a family-sized bag of chips out to the porch to watch the sunset. I kept my eyes on Laney all the way down to the last chip. A few facial tics, but not the reaction I’d feared. Soon she left to see to the horses.

“I’ll come with you, kid.” Coigne stood slowly. He was as tired as I was.

“That’s okay, Coigne. I sort of want to—you know.”

“Have a word with the horses? I get it,” he said.

When Laney left, he dropped down on the bench rocker beside me and put his head on my shoulder. “I want to talk to you. I mean really talk to you.”

“Can you really talk to me tomorrow? I’m too mentally scrambled to respond to anything now.”

“Tomorrow then.” He squeezed my knee.

“What I don’t understand is how the sisters could do such evil things.”

Coigne looked off toward the barn and shook his head.

No answer there. “My experience has been that most young criminals don’t go into it like it’s a career choice. They make one bad decision that begets another until they lose control. But how someone goes from being a teenager without a care in the world, you’d assume, into a cold-blooded killer, I don’t know.”

I thought back to some things Laney had told me. “Madison had been bullied at some point. Taking drugs, drug dealing, if that’s what she did, may have given her some standing among her friends.” We were both quiet, observing stars as they popped out one by one. “And then there was Dell—beautiful, arrogant Dell— who probably didn’t bother to hide any disdain she might have had for the sisters. Madison might have truly felt she deserved whatever she got.”

“No one likes a snitch.”

231

43 A couple of days passed before I made it back to Sheriff Law’s office. Everything looked different. The office hadn’t changed—I had. Those cheery buttercup yellow walls now looked covered in dark mustard. After we got my signed statement out of the way, I settled into my usual chair.

He’d had some luck. The District Attorney’s office convinced Taffy’s attorney the girl wasn’t helping her older sister or herself by withholding details. Madison would likely be tried as an adult and perhaps suffer life in prison, but Taffy, in light of her age and questions about her role in the killings, would fare better, especially if she cooperated.

“I’m ready to put this episode in my life to bed, Sheriff, so please—tell me a bedtime story.”

Law leaned way back in his chair, his paunch a soft, black fabric-covered hemisphere between us. “It all started when Dell overheard Madison arrange a drug deal. Yes, right there at the gift shop. I admit old Dell had gumption. She threatened to snitch on them if they brought drugs anywhere near her.”

“I see. She couldn’t afford to get sucked into their criminal activities and miss her chance for New York.”

He nodded. “They ignored her warning, and one fine day Dell discovered the Phantanyl in the storage room there. She recognized the Phelps name on the packaging and figured out what it was. Not sure she knew how dangerous it was, but you have to expect the Spensers talked pharmaceuticals around the dinner table.”

232

Lee W. Doty

This part didn’t make sense to me. “Why didn’t she just tell her parents?”

His phone rang and he let Sheila answer it. “She probably would have told them, but the three of them got into a scuffle.”

“Which accounts for the blood on Dell’s forehead?”

“Right, and it’s still not clear whether or not she inhaled the material by accident during that scuffle, or they forced it on her somehow. What we do know is even when the sisters realized she was unconscious and in trouble, they didn’t call for help.”

He paused to let register the full weight of that heartless failure to act. The sisters let Dell die rather than face the consequences of dealing drugs.

“So, you were able to confirm that it was the war veteran who worked at Pry House who blew up my Prius and the others?”

Law whistled. “And I’m sure glad he was bad at it.”

“Me too. But was he in on Madison’s drug dealing and Dell’s death?”

He pushed the full dish of Jolly Ranchers forward. “Have one. That’s a little complicated. We have no reason to believe he intended to get involved in any drug deals, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. For one thing, the sisters needed his help getting Dell’s body out of the Visitor Center. We haven’t figured out yet exactly how they managed it without getting caught.”

“It’s amazing what people can get away with when no one expects it to happen.”

This time when the phone rang, he took the call. Must have been his wife. Who else would he call Shugha-Law? What I couldn’t figure out was why the war vet went along with the sisters’ plans. Sure, he was grateful for their help in getting him his job, but that grateful? When Law got off the line, I asked him.

“Seems they kept dragging him down, deeper and deeper, until he saw no way to climb out. You see, the girls were onto you from that first day you and Laney approached them in the gift shop at Antietam. They overheard you and Laney whispering bout Dell.

“You’re kidding me.”

233

Last Casualty

“Then a park guide recognized you as the one who’d discovered Dell’s body and pointed you out to them. He had no idea what they were up to. The girls persuaded their war veteran to “just frighten you,” get you out of commission. Crazy, immature thinking on their part, I know. And, sad to say, other than painting walls and passing bad checks, making explosives was about all the poor boy knew how to do.”

I couldn’t believe I’d been oblivious to all their plotting.

“He followed you for two days, waited for the right opportunity, and when you pulled into the mall lot, he had a good hour and a half to place his little bombs. How’d they get him to risk it? Same way they got him to help dispose of Dell’s body—threatened to implicate him in her death.”

That poor guy. He wasn’t all there, and the sisters would be responsible for sending him back to prison for a long time. “But tying her to a tree? Why’d they go to the trouble?”

“Near as I can figure, they hoped the setting and her position would throw law enforcement off track.”

“Hmmm.” I raised an eyebrow.

“All right, seems it worked. We had no idea those girls were involved and we should have,” Law said. “We questioned them, had our eye on their veteran friend, but never suspected the girls.

But you figured it out.”

“None too soon.”

After a bit he resumed. “Then enter Moira Zolotow, your ‘Shusher.’ You see, the war veteran innocently started this whole series of events by telling the sisters he’d dropped off his expired drugs at the take-back location in the tax office and was surprised the cabinet wasn’t even locked. When the sisters went to take a look, maybe seize an opportunity, The Shusher spotted them lifting the drugs.

“I guess The Shusher recognized the girls from her many trips to Antietam.”

“Not only that. From where she sat, or more like crouched, she got a look at the name of one of the drugs they took, Phantanyl.

No one has the full story on what it was doing there, but that Phelps company will have to come up with one soon.”

234

Lee W. Doty

I thought back to my visit to Geoff Spensers’ office. Looked like he’d have to deal with just the trouble he tried hard to avoid.

“So rather than tell the authorities about the theft, The Shusher monetized her discovery by attempting to blackmail Phelps about their missing, lethal drugs. Did she try to blackmail the girls too?”

“Bingo. Family’s got money. Don’t be fooled by the fact the girls had summer jobs. Even worked on a farm one summer, which explains how the older one knew her way around a combine. Daddy insisted. Didn’t want to spoil them.”

“I know their motive for getting their blackmailer out of the way,” I said. “But how the hell did those girls know The Shusher would be at the Riverside Inn that day?”

“Easy.” Law grabbed a jolly rancher and flicked it all the way across his desk. It landed snuggly inside a “V”- shaped pocket made from two scorecard pencils taped to the surface. I’d wondered what that was. “They knew because they’d arranged to meet her there for the payoff.”

“What? Why there? That makes no sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. Except their family owns the Riverside Inn, along with half a dozen other hotels around.”

I remembered hearing something like that from Laney.

“Those sisters had the run of those places since they were tots. No one would have thought too much about seeing them there. Why The Shusher agreed to meet them there and didn’t suspect a trap is something we’ll never know. What we do know is she was desperate for money. And inexperienced at blackmail.”

“Woefully.” That day at the Inn came back to me like a punch in the gut, especially those hideous marks on The Shusher’s neck.

“Did the sisters bring the rope with them?

“Yes, indeedy. Looks like premeditation to me.”

He bent down as if to reach into his drawer. I hoped he would offer me a drink. I’d been doing a lot of drinking the last few days. It allowed me to cope with the note in my pocket. Instead, he pulled out a file with a photo in it. “Recognize the boy?”

“Nope.”

235

Last Casualty

“He’s a classmate of Laney’s, one Robert Woolf. He’s got a crush on her and saw the two of you at Pry House. Thought it would be cute to take a Snapchat photo, send it to her and keep her guessing.”

“Another caper solved.” I gave him a thumbs up but was otherwise too distraught to make a joke of it.

“You’ll be needed for the trial, or trials, as the case may be. I suppose you’ll be around?”

I folded my arms across my chest like somehow that might ward off further involvement in the madness. “For the time being, I’ll be around. I’ve got a job. I visited yesterday with your cousin, Evelyn. She and Geoff, Sr., are thinking about establishing a foundation in Dell’s name. They’d like my help with it. You didn’t happen to have something to do with that, did you?”

“She’s impressed with you. Don’t ask me why.” He took a deep breath. “Now, since you told me about your marital mess, I feel free to ask. You got rid of Misty yet?”

I looked at him like he was crazy.

“When I say ‘got rid of,’ I mean in the usual way, like reporting her to the ASPCA or something.”

“You have no idea what a devil she is.” I told the sheriff how Misty had Evelyn believing her husband had had an affair with her, when he’d most likely told her to get lost. “Misty tried to get revenge for some old injustice that wasn’t even Evelyn’s fault.”

I reached into my pocket and felt Coigne’s crumpled note with my fingers. “You know, Sheriff, life is brutal, the way it tears at a person, rips them to shreds, and yet expects them to rise up and deal.”

“Sounds like you’ve got another story to tell.” Now he pulled out the scotch. “I’m all ears if you want to talk. He poured me a glass, two fingers, neat. I knocked it back and stood.

“You’re nice. You’re awfully nice, Sheriff. And I’ll be sure to tell all once I’ve sorted things out for myself.”

I said my farewells to the sheriff and Sheila and got in my car. I sat a minute, then pulled out Coigne’s note only to realize I didn’t need to. I’d memorized it.

236

44 My Dearest Norma, I am resorting to cowardly note-writing in part because you won’t have a conversation with me and in part because I’m so ashamed I can’t even give voice to the facts or my feelings. Whatever you may think, I love you now as I did the day we met. You are still the most beautiful, albeit worst-dressed, woman I’ve ever known.

From that first day, when you blew my head off, to this day, I’ve been yours. Funny to think of those early days on the Cape as the good old days. But what I loved about you then—your sharp as shrapnel intuition about people— is what kills me now. You knew me better than I knew myself, and what you knew wasn’t good.

I did have a one-time, soul-destroying entanglement with Misty. There. I said it. You were right about me.

It was the night Beauty died and her foal died, and I’d nearly lost you in that explosion and—I can’t believe it—I just can’t explain it except to say it was the worst moment of my life, only exceeded by the next day, seeing you in that hospital bed and knowing I’d let you down.

It wasn’t long before I learned what Misty was up to, and when she threatened to go to you with the truth if I didn’t pay up, I almost paid. The extent of my wrong— bringing you to West Virginia when your home is on the Cape, convincing you to marry me because I’d never let you down, only to do that very thing—made me want to 237

Last Casualty

pay her so you wouldn’t have to know. I tried to explain my weakness by blaming Misty and her skills as an evil, much-practiced seductress, but the truth is, I was a weak piece of shit.

I would beg you to forgive me, but you shouldn’t.

There is someone out there who, like me, will recognize you’re a marvel, but unlike me, will never let you down.

That’s who you should hold out for. But then, you don’t need me to tell you what to do because you don’t need me at all. It’s me who needs you.

You decide whether you want to remain on the farm or not. For Laney’s sake, you may decide to stay and hire someone to run the horse aspect of it. I’ll pay for it. Or you may decide to move into town or back to the Cape.

I’ll stay near wherever you two go, but not get in your way. We can work something out.

I will always love you, Coigne I slowly refolded the note and didn’t move for some time.

I remembered a friend of mine who, whenever she went on a long train ride, would amuse herself by writing down a list of all the people she hated. Now, I made a mental list, not of people I hated, but of people I’d been wrong about: Evelyn Law, Hoag (somewhat), Dell, Madison, and Taffy, but most spectacularly, Coigne. The lawyer-dialectical side of me argued that my own behavior played some role in his betrayal, but the flesh and blood, human side of me said there is never a justification for betrayal.

I pulled a Dunkin Donuts napkin from the glove compartment and wiped my cheeks. I took one last look at the letter, tore it up and stuffed the bits into the console, with the soggy napkin on top.

Coigne did me a favor. My brief flirtation with Trust was over for good. I struggled over wanting to punish Coigne and punish myself for my folly. But for Laney’s sake, I abandoned all revenge fantasies from my brain. Abandoned all but one, that is. Never 238

Lee W. Doty

before had a woman deserved so much retribution from so many blameless victims as did Misty, and I was prepared to mete it out. It occurred to me this might be another joint venture with Evelyn Spenser.

The End

239

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Jefferson County, West Virginia’s retired sheriff and county treasurer, Pete Dougherty, a lifelong public servant and my ace beta reader and advisor, whose only resemblance to the sheriff in Last Casualty is in their shared wisdom, sense of humor, and law enforcement expertise. Special thanks are also due to Shepherd University’s Dr. James Broomall, Associate Professor of History and Director of the Civil War Center, whose extensive knowledge of the Civil War, including the Battle of Antietam, make him a national treasure. I wish to thank the Antietam National Battlefield park guides and other personnel who answered my questions with unwavering courtesy and in-depth information. The inspiration for Last Casualty came from The Emancipation Proclamation, a small but powerful book by the historian John Hope Franklin that was given to me by a dear friend and amateur historian, Philip B. Dow. Readers should understand that any errors in Last Casualty in the areas of law enforcement and Civil War history are all my own.

I am grateful to Sandy Tritt, Founder and CEO of Inspiration for Writers, Inc., who provided a thorough, professional review of my manuscript. I also thank my two writing groups for their encouragement, skill, and stamina in reviewing my work. The members of the Monday group are Patty Bain Bachner, Pam Clark, John Deupree, Sean Murtagh, Leila Ryland Swain, Tom Trumbull, and Lisa Younis, and the members of the Friday group are Joanne Bario, David Borchard, Patricia Donohoe, Alan Gibson, and Ellen Hoffman. Finally, I thank my sister Helen for her support, her willingness to read and reread my manuscripts, and her ever-insightful critiques.

240

“I love this carefully crafted mystery with its horse farm setting, heavily flawed heroine, and an ending that has stayed with me for days. A great read.”

—HAN NOLAN, National Book Award Winning Author of Dancing on the Edge “Last Casualty will leave you with a lasting thirst for more from one of the best new mystery writers on the scene—Lee W. Doty. The second in her entertaining and engrossing Norma Bergen series, Last Casualty delivers a brilliant mix of horse-farm couture, history-slamming secrets from a bloody Civil War battlefield, and the consequences of dangerous pharmaceutical marketeering—all in and around a tony little college town in the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia.”

—PATRICIA A. DONOHOE, author of The Printer’s Kiss: The Life and Letters of a Civil War Newspaperman and His Family

N O R M A

B E R G E N

M U R D E R

M Y ST E RY

LAST CASUALTY

LEE W. DOTY

LEE W. DOTY received her MFA in Creative Writing from Rosemont College. Lee spent most of her professional life as a lawyer in Washington, DC and Philadelphia. Her first Norma Bergen novel, Tidal Kin, received a New England Book Festival Honorable Mention. She now divides her time between Cape Cod and West Virginia, where she teaches creative writing in the Shepherd University Lifelong Learning program.

A

LAST CASUALTY

Everyone thought those who died on the Antietam Battlefield did so more than 150 years ago, that is until Norma Bergen, a prickly, stubborn, but otherwise loveable lawyer-between-jobs, stumbles onto someone new. When her teenage daughter realizes the person who died was her close friend, she falls into an alarming depression, driving Norma to bring the killer to justice.

Norma’s husband wants to help, in between boarding, training, and instructing on their new horse farm, but no one can help Norma when she faces an unexpected, devastating loss. Last Casualty, the second murder mystery in the Norma Bergen series, delivers all the humor, heartache, and triumph of real life.

LEE W. DOTY