Dark Coulee (12 page)

From Jenny Spitzler to Rainey Spitzler was an easy jump to make. Claire found herself thinking about Rainey Spitzler often and wondering what had happened to her that she had fallen into the sorghum press. Next time she was out at the Spitzlers', she would ask Jenny and Brad a few questions about it. Get them to show her the press itself so she had a better idea of how it might have happened.

While Meg was slopping away, standing on a footstool pulled up to the sink, Claire looked down at her hands and wished she had a quilt in them. Was she going to turn into a Martha Stewartite even though she was a deputy? At a certain age did all women want to make something valuable with their own hands? Claire had never liked sitting and simply watching TV or listening to the radio. It felt like a waste of time. She would often clean house or paint walls or scrub floors while listening to the radio. She would iron and watch TV. But if she was quilting, then it would make it totally fine that she was watching TV because she would be doing something productive.

Also, the idea of working on a project that you could do a few hours a day and slowly, over a week or two, see progress, seemed like a wonderful idea to her. Police work was endless, and even after a case was solved, it still went on forever with appeals and all. And sometimes the culprit got away with it.

But with a quilt, at some miraculous point, it would be finished. You could hold it in your hands, put it on a bed. You could walk past a room and look at it every day. It would enrich your life.

Her therapist said she needed to get more solace in her life. Claire hadn’t even been sure what the word meant. She knew generally, but not specifically. So she had looked it up when she got home. The dictionary said, “An easing of grief, loneliness. A comfort.”

She liked the second definition: a comfort. Quilting would be a comfort. She could quilt a blanket for her daughter’s bed.

A magic blanket that would only let her have good dreams.

Then she would quilt one for herself. One with red roses tumbling all over a white background. A lovely quilt to sleep under with someone you loved.

One day she might even quilt one for Jenny.

P
IT could tell this was not going to be a good day. The boulder looked as big as the mountainside. Right at the beginning of the project, thank God, he had warned the couple that they might find such a monstrosity. The Vernons were adding on to their house, which sat tucked into a hillside about halfway up the bluff with a spectacular view of the Mississippi River far below. To add on to the house, they had decided to go into the hill. And he had been hired as the contractor.

Pit remembered clearly the conversation in which he told them that his bid was based on no such boulder being found. He had even been smart enough to write it into the contract. It was the Vernons’ bad luck that where their foundation was to be a huge boulder now sat. He had called the blaster. He had set up the backhoe. It would set them back a week or two and add probably fifteen thousand to the price of the addition. But what could you do? These things happen.

When he saw the county patrol car pull up into the driveway, he nearly ran into the woods. This was way worse than the boulder. Yet more inevitable. He had been dumber than dumb. Dumber than that stupid gray boulder whose massive shoulders were just showing above the ground.

He should have gotten rid of the knife. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t. And now it was way too late.

He put a smile on his face and walked toward the woman deputy. What was her name? Watkins. That’s what Ruth had told him last night.

Ruth and he had made love after dinner. Gone right to bed and made fast and furious love. She was joking around, saying she’d never done it with a killer before. He had been dead serious about it, trying to get as much of her as he could.

He loved Ruth. If it was possible, more than he had ever loved Rainey. Why would he think of doing anything that would jeopardize his marriage with her?

Why had he thrown it all away?

Claire left Pit Snyder sitting by himself in the interrogation room, otherwise known as the coffee room, the fax machine room, the document room, the supply room, depending on what you needed. She poured him a cup of coffee, allowed him his one phone call, and let him stew for a while.

Stewing was as good for suspects, she had found, as it was for an old piece of beef. It softened them up for the questions that were to come, it tenderized them, as tough as they might be. While she didn’t think Snyder was particularly tough, he was at core a strong man, and she wanted to give him time to think about what he had done and what he had to say about it.

What she wanted was for him to confess and explain so she could come to understand why he had killed Jed Spitzler. She wanted to get it over with cleanly so there wouldn’t be a trial, the children could get on with their lives, and the community wouldn’t get all riled up about charges being brought against a prominent citizen.

Sheriff Talbert called her into his office. “Hear you’ve got Pit Snyder in the waiting room.”

“Is that what that room is called?”

“Oh, you know, whatever. Has he said anything yet?”

“No, I haven’t asked him anything. This is going down by the book. I don’t want any mistakes to happen.”

“You’re sure about this one?”

Claire hated that question. She asked herself the same thing far too often. “I’m never sure. Not even when I’ve seen the crime happen myself. But he’s got motive, he’s got opportunity, and now he’s got the murder weapon. What do you think, Sheriff?”

“Don’t look good for Pit.”

“Would you like to be present at his questioning?”

“No, but thanks for asking. I’d like to stay fairly far back from this one. I’m not sure the voters are going to like it.” Sheriff Talbert pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve done good work here, Claire. I’m glad you don’t have to worry about your job like I do.”

“Me too. I’ll let you know what happens.”

She went back to her desk and gathered her notes. She often scribbled down points she wanted to clarify with suspects when she sat down to interrogate them. She didn’t want to forget anything and have it come back to haunt her.

Billy had gone to get the tape recorder and make sure it was all ready to take Snyder’s statement. It probably hadn’t been used in a while; they didn’t have an opportunity to interrogate someone very often. She told him to be sure and check the batteries. When he presented himself at her desk, she stood up, gathered together her notes, and said, “Let’s do it.”

When they walked in, Pit was sitting very still, both hands wrapped around the ceramic coffee mug Claire had filled for him, although it looked like he had not taken a sip of coffee, and he was staring at the wall.

Claire and Billy sat down opposite him. Claire nodded at Billy to turn the tape recorder on. “We’re going to be recording this, Mr. Snyder. We’ve read you your rights. Do you acknowledge this?”

He looked at her for a moment and then nodded. His eyes lacked shine; if possible, they seemed turned inward.

“Please say yes for the tape recorder.”

He spoke up calmly. “Yes, I know my rights.”

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Claire took a deep breath and started at the beginning. Don’t skip the easy questions, she had learned, they are the rock foundation of an investigation. “Where were you the night of August twenty-fifth?”

“I was at the street dance in Little Rock. I was there with my wife, Ruth.” Pit spoke slowly and clearly, as if he were aware of being recorded. There was little hesitation in his voice as he answered the questions.

“When did you see Jed Spitzler?”

“I saw him once at the beer stand, but we didn’t speak. Then I saw him later on in the evening by the Porta Potties.”

“What happened that second time?”

Pit took a sip of the coffee. It must have been cold, Claire thought; it had been sitting in his hands for over fifteen minutes and had probably started out lukewarm. Pit was giving himself a moment to think how to answer the question best.

“He had been stabbed. I could see the blood. The knife was there. On the ground. So I picked it up. I’m not sure why. But I picked it up and took it with me.”

“He had been stabbed, you said. Had you stabbed him?”

“No, ma’am, I did not.”

“Who had stabbed him?”

For the first time, Pit ducked his head and did not answer immediately. Then he raised his head and said, “I can’t say.”

“What does that mean—you don’t know, or you won’t tell?”

Pit ducked his head again. Claire had played poker with a bunch of her buddies when she worked on the police department in Minneapolis, and she knew a lie when she saw one. He was going to lie.

“I didn’t see. When I saw Jed, no one was around him.”

“I have trouble believing that.”

“No one was very close. I didn’t notice anyone.”

“Do you understand what is happening to you here? You have been arrested for murder. If you can shed any kind of light on who else might have done it, I’d advise you to do it. Otherwise, it looks very bad for you, Mr. Snyder.”

“I realize that.”

“So, you are telling us that you did not stab Jed Spitzler, but for some reason you picked up the knife?”

“Yes, that’s what happened.”

“You expect us to believe this?”

“No, not particularly. I don’t quite understand it myself, so it might be a lot to expect you to see any sanity in my actions. But that’s what I did.”

“Was it like a memento for you?”

“Not really.”

“Did you wipe it off?”

“Not particularly. It wasn’t covered with blood. I think maybe someone else had wiped it off.”

“And then you saved it.”

“Well, I guess you could say that. I just didn’t know what to do with it, so I put it someplace out of the way.”

“Why didn’t you throw it away?”

“I’m not sure. I was thinking about it, I just hadn’t gotten around to it. I never thought anyone would think I had it.”

Claire moved on to questions of his past history with the Spitzler family. “Mr. Snyder, it’s my understanding that you went out with Rainey Spitzler, Jed’s wife, when you were younger. Is that correct?”

“Yes, I went out with her all of high school. Then for a year or so after. And we wrote while I was away in Vietnam. But that was that. By the time I got home, she was already married to Jed.”

“I also have heard that Rainey wasn’t happy in her marriage, and that there was a rumor that you and she had an affair. Is there any truth to that?”

“Yes, there is truth to that.”

“Do you care to elaborate?”

“What would you like to know? How I felt about her? How many times we slept together? What we thought might happen?”

“How did you feel when it ended between you two again?”

“Awful for a while. But I knew that Rainey was right. Or I thought she was. I tried to understand. She loved her son—that was Brad. She was afraid that Jed might get to keep him if she left Jed for me. She couldn’t have left Brad with Jed. She told me that. So she chose to stay with Jed. Then I met Ruth the next year. We married shortly after. I’ve been happy ever since then.”

“But you’ve held a grudge against Jed Spitzler?”

Pit didn’t rise to the question at all. He answered it in the same calm but perplexed voice with which he had answered all the others. “I never liked the man, but he wasn’t very likable. I didn’t like the way he treated Rainey, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. But to tell you the truth, after I married Ruth, I tried not to give it much thought. I couldn’t do anything more for Rainey. She had made her own choice, and she had made it twice. What more can a man do?”

Claire wasn’t sure what more to ask him. He claimed he hadn’t killed Jed Spitzler. “Did you do anything else when you saw that Mr. Spitzler had been stabbed? Did you call for help? Try to help him yourself?”

“No, I didn’t, and I feel bad for that. But as I’ve already said, I never liked him much. I think there was a good reason he was stabbed. I decided not to interfere. I knew someone would find him soon enough.”

“A good reason? What do you mean? What more do you know?”

“Nothing specific. I just figured anyone who put a knife into Jed Spitzler more than likely had a damned good reason to do it.”

“I have to tell you, Mr. Snyder, that I’m having a hard time believing that it wasn’t you who stabbed him. It seems to me that you had some very strong, albeit old, grudges against this man. You never liked the guy. How can you expect me to believe that you didn’t do it?”

For the first time in the interview, Snyder raised his voice slightly. “I’ve never killed anyone or anything in my life. Even in Vietnam. Why would I let a lowlife like Jed Spitzler ruin a perfect record?”

A knock on the door sounded in the room, and then the door swung open. A tall man with sharp features wearing a suit that looked too small for him came in with his briefcase and held up his hands. “Let’s stop right here.”

He reminded Claire of someone, but she couldn’t remember who. She stood up and asked, “What do you think you’re doing, barging in here?”

“I’m his lawyer, Kent Byron.” The man sat down in a chair that was next to Pit and asked him, “What are you doing calling your wife? When you get your one call, you call your lawyer. I can call your wife.”

“I don’t need you here.”

“You need me here worse than you even know.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s what I mean. Ruth called and told me to come.”

Pit thought about it for a moment. “Okay.”

As Claire watched the lawyer speak to Snyder, she realized who he looked like—Ichabod Crane. Even though there was no such person, if there had been, Kent Byron would be his double.

Byron turned his long thin face up to Claire’s and said clearly, “This interview is over.”

The sunsets were as gorgeous as they had been a week ago. Rich knew they were. The sun was dropping down behind the western bluffs of the lake a little earlier, and a little farther to the south, but the last red light still poured across the lake and turned it opalescent, as he liked to think, like a good oil spill.

His life was solid and good around him. The pheasants were getting plumper, the air had snap in it, the season of fall would be upon them soon, and he would be busier than he cared to think getting his pheasants to market. As he sat on his front stoop and watched the night fall from the sky and snuff out the last colors, he knew he was a lucky man.

But he missed Claire terribly. And what he missed even more was the possibility of her. He hadn’t known her long enough or well enough, she hadn’t been woven intimately enough into his life, that he should mourn her leaving it so much. However, he realized that he had hoped that she would be the woman that was going to step into his life and give it richness and completeness. And then there was Meg. A terrific kid to fill out the picture. He had wanted it all. He still did.

He tried to think what he could do. He was embarrassed to remember what he had done two nights ago. He had driven by her house, feeling like he was in high school again. It hadn’t been out of his way at all. In fact, it would have been out of his way to avoid it. But still, it seemed like such a sophomoric thing to do. It had been after ten o’clock at night, and he had gone over to Stuart’s to play cards and drink a brew. The lights had been off in all the house except her bedroom. He had actually thought about pulling over and getting out of the car and standing in her yard to look up at her window. What then, Romeo, were you going to warble her a tune?

But the urge to do something, to communicate with her, was strong in him. He had thought about writing her a letter and had even started it, but every word he wrote sounded utterly sappy. I miss you. I want to see you. I hope you’re doing all right. I think about you all the time. It was all true and stupid. He wasn’t a very good writer, so he couldn’t expect to think of anything original.

Then he thought of calling her. Just say a quick hello, ask how she was, how Meg was, tell her he was fine. Hang up. Short and snappy. But it seemed like a breach of promise. He had said he would stay away.

He could send her flowers. After all, she had left him flowers. He could give her a pheasant. Bake something. Make her a chair.