See Also Murder (16 page)

Rewrap was a nightmare to an indexer. All of the page numbers had changed, meaning the work I'd already done was useless. The thought of it boiled my blood. I was a missus, too, not a miss. I wanted to correct him, but I didn't. “I understand, but . . .”

He cut me off again. “We have to have the index as soon as possible. Our date with the printer is set, and we cannot miss that delivery by an hour. Do you understand? This does not change the deadline. It is imperative that you understand this.”

“I'll have to compare the pages sentence by sentence, word by word, for that matter. It's a very tedious process, and adds more time to an already dense text,” I blurted out. I was mad all over again. Why should I have to work harder just because Sir Nigel wanted to make changes to the book at the last minute?

“That's why we hired you, Miss Trumaine. You come highly recommended by other editors in the house. We don't want to tarnish that reputation now, do we? We have to have the index by deadline, regardless of the circumstances. Am I clear? It's an important book for us. This could be a prize winner. That would be a nice feather in your cap.”

I exhaled, bit my tongue. It was obvious that I had no choice other than to throw my hands up in the air. But I couldn't do that. We needed the money, and I needed the stream of work that came from H.P. Howard and Sons to continue. I knew a threat when I heard one.

“I'll do my best, Mr. Rothstein,” I said.

“I need more than that. I need your excellence.” He paused, like he was writing something down. “Well, I'm sorry about this Miss Trumaine, but it happens, as you must know.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “There won't be any more changes will there?”

“I can't guarantee that. Nothing is written in stone until the book goes to press. You should know that.”

I didn't say anything right away. “Yes, of course, I understand,” I finally said.

“Is there anything else?” Richard Rothstein asked.

“It's just that . . .”

“All right, I'll call again if anything comes up.” And with that, he hung up. Richard Rothstein hung up without a decent good-bye or thank you.

All I could do was stand back and stare at the telephone. I hadn't realized how hard I was gripping the receiver. My fingers were red. I gritted my teeth and slammed the handset onto its hook. It echoed like thunder inside the house, like a storm had invaded all the walls and windows, and a dark rain cloud had permanently affixed itself over my head, threatening to rain at any second.

It was all I could do not to scream out loud. Instead, I hurried out of the house with tears welling in my eyes, just in time to see a green Chevrolet sedan slowing down and pulling into our drive.

CHAPTER 17

Guy Reinhardt had left just after the sun had come up, relieved by another deputy, Duke Parsons, an old-timer that I hardly knew at all, at least personally.

Duke looked like he had been sitting behind the steering wheel of a police car all of his life. He was short and squat and kind of resembled a blood-engorged tick. He wobbled when he walked, and I always thought he was going to fall over and roll away. He smelled like lard that had been left in an iron skillet too long, but from what I'd heard you'd be a dense fool to underestimate him. He could run faster than anyone thought and shoot straighter than an arrow—better than anyone else in the department. I'd never seen proof of those assertions—but I was glad that it was Duke sitting in front of my house. He would protect me from the green Chevy—if he could get out of the car.

My vision was blurry, and I blinked to make sure I was seeing what I thought I saw. I hadn't invited tears to my eyes, but I was sure that's what was fiddling with my sight.

I couldn't remember being so upset in my life. Richard Rothstein had just sent me over the edge and put more on my shoulders than I thought I could handle. But I had no choice but to face the present—and that came with an extra helping of fear. I wiped my eyes clear and steeled myself all over again.

There was no question that the Chevrolet was the same one I'd seen around town, the one that had sped around me on my way home. I was positive of it. The color was unusual, lighter than any other Chevrolet that I could recall seeing. Maybe it was new for the model year? I didn't know and I didn't care. I just wanted to know why it was on my land.

I was tempted to turn right around, go back in the house, and get Hank's shotgun. But Duke Parsons's presence kept my feet firmly planted on the stoop.

The green car stopped next to the brown and tan Ford for a second, then drove straight up to the house. If there were any words exchanged, they were deaf to me—but Duke Parson had obviously given them permission to proceed forward.

There was a single person in the car, a man with dark sunglasses on, just like the green Chevy that I had seen at the library and had zipped by me on the way home. I couldn't make out much more than that, until he came to a stop and stood up out of the car.

I didn't know whether to be afraid or concerned. I think I was both, if that were possible.

“Miss Trumaine?” the man said, after pulling a jacket out of the seat of the car. He removed the sunglasses, exposing white streaks on both sides of his tanned face. He was obviously outside a lot.

A leather briefcase occupied his left hand. It barely had a mar on it. The man, though he could barely be called that since he had a boyish face, looked freshly scrubbed. Taller than normal, but not as tall as Guy Reinhardt. He was half a head shorter, but built similar, like a tall stalk of ironweed instead of corn. His hair was dark—at first glance it was black—with flecks of auburn dark red in it and recently cut. The sun reflected off of the skin around his ears.

He wore a heavily starched white shirt, a thin black necktie, tan slacks, and a pair of Red Wing boots that looked like they'd never seen a dollop of polish on them; they were far more worn than he appeared to be. His jacket was the same color as his pants and had some kind of patch over the pocket on the right side, but I couldn't make out the emblem.

Nothing that I saw suggested that I should be afraid, but I glanced out to the brown and tan car just to reassure myself that Duke was watching over me. He was.

“Missus,” I said, correcting the man as harshly as I had wanted to correct Richard Rothstein when he'd called me miss, too. I crossed my arms across my chest as tight as I could.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Trumaine.” He stopped five feet from me. Our eyes were nearly on the same plane, even though I was standing on the stoop. “I understand I need to speak to you since . . .” The words fell off, and the young man looked down to the ground, to the top of his boots.

“Since Hank is indisposed?” I said.

“Yes, I suppose so. I heard about his accident. It must be difficult.”

I ignored the comment. I didn't know who this man was, and I certainly wasn't going to acknowledge any of my troubles to him. “What's this about?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, then reached around to his back pocket and pulled his wallet out as quickly as one of those gunfighters on TV pulled out a six-shooter. His actions were distinct, like his joints caught an extra-second longer than anyone else's. It was almost like he was arthritic, but he was far too young for that kind of affliction.

I jumped at the move but tried to hold myself together the best I could as he handed me a card. I read the simple type quickly and had to force my mind not to try and categorize the information it held. It said: CURTIS HENDERSON—STARK COUNTY EXTENSION AGENT

So, this was Lloyd Gustaffson's replacement? A youngster, green behind the ears, who looked like he'd just graduated from college?

I wondered what wonderful advice he thought he could bring me about the operation of the farm, the state of the soil, the roots to my wheat, on a day like this? I was in no mood for an agronomy lesson. Not today. If ever. Conversations about dirt bored me stiff, even though my indexing job wasn't working out too well. Books were making my life crazier, more pressured and stressful than I could have ever imagined they would. Maybe I needed to reconsider my priorities. . . . Life as a farmer's wife had to be simpler.

I looked up at Curtis Henderson and nodded. I had to say I was a little relieved. Truth be told, I'd half expected him to be a newspaper reporter, maybe one from Bismarck or Fargo. I figured news of the three murders, in two days, had spread across the state like wildfire.

The new extension agent stepped forward and offered his right hand for a handshake. “Curtis Henderson, ma'am. I'm happy to make your acquaintance.”

I sighed, accepted my position as a farmer's wife, a proxy for Hank in more ways than I had ever counted on, and offered him my hand. He looked at me with great surprise as my grip equaled his. I never saw the necessity of demurring to a man, especially under “difficult” circumstances. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Henderson,” I said.

He withdrew his hand. “You have a good handshake.”

“Thank you,” I said with a little bit of pride. I needed every complement I could find to help buoy me in the storm I was in the midst of. “You have big boots to fill. Lloyd Gustaffson was the closest thing to a magician, psychiatrist, and financial analyst any of us had ever met. He changed my life.”

“I've heard that,” Henderson said. He stepped back, but continued to face me directly. He had good posture, square shoulders. He was confident in himself. I liked that, and I was already starting to relax. There was nothing nefarious about the green Chevy at all. He was new in town. That had to be it. One less thing to worry about.

“I've spent some time with Mr. Gustaffson,” Henderson continued. “He's filled me in the best he could on most of the local farms. But I understand circumstances have changed drastically in the last few days for folks around here.”

I'd kept my place on the stoop, but my arms weren't quite as tight as they had been when the agent had first stepped out of the car. “You could say that. This really isn't a good time,” I said, looking past Henderson as a couple of pickup trucks downshifted out on the road and slowed down as they passed.

“I understand; I really do. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself,” he said.

“It's good to know there's someone in Lloyd's place,” I said. I glanced down at the briefcase. I was sure Henderson didn't have a Welcome Wagon package in it. He had business on his mind and in his face. There was no mistaking that, regardless of what he said. “I'll tell Hank you came by,” I said.

“I'd really like to introduce myself to him.”

“It's not a good time, Mr. Henderson,” I said, staring directly into his wheat-brown eyes. “Our dear friend was found killed behind the barn yesterday, and the Knudsens . . .”

Henderson nodded and interrupted me. “I'm aware of the terrible tragedies that have occurred in the county, Mrs. Trumaine, but it is imperative that I speak with your husband.”

I was none too amused to be cut off again, this time on my own front stoop. “You can speak to me about anything concerning the farm, Mr. Henderson. There is nothing that I don't know about our operations, our finances. I've paid the bills since Hank hasn't been able. I know that our circumstances are not the best they could be.”

Henderson looked down to his boots again, then back up to me quickly. “Lloyd Gustaffson said I should only speak to Hank about this one thing, ma'am, and I took that as a directive, a certainty. This is business, ma'am. I'm only here in a consulting capacity. I think it's best if I speak to Hank,” he insisted.

I shook my head back and forth, trying to understand and fight off the anger that was rising from deep inside of me at the same time. I couldn't do both. Any understanding I had was lost, and the anger quickly won over.

I stepped down off the stoop and didn't stop until I was toe-to-toe with Curtis Henderson. He smelled like Old Spice, citrus on the wind, an odor out of place and nearly unidentifiable. “There is nothing that I don't know about this farm,” I repeated, my jaw set hard. I had to restrain my right index finger from rising upward and wagging in the young man's face. “I make all of the decisions that need made. Do you understand me? Hank is incapable of handling the pressures that the farm brings right now. He is an invalid.” I stopped, but it was too late. That word, a word I had sworn to never utter, escaped my lips, funneled its way through Henderson's ears, then rode on the wind, over the barn, until it vanished. But there was an echo of it in my own ears, in my own mind, in my heart as it broke all over again with the reality that was inside the house, lying in my bed.

Henderson said nothing, just stared at me with a look of concern that I wasn't sure was real. It almost looked condescending. Like he wanted to say what he really thought but didn't dare to. Smart boy.

I lowered my head. “It is all Hank Trumaine can do to eat, to do his exercises so he doesn't die of bed sores, and do everything he can to keep himself sane, Mr. Henderson. The business of daily life is too much for him. If there's anything dire or urgent concerning this farm, you will have to speak to me, and then I will decide if it is something Hank can contribute to, can handle. Do I make myself clear, young man?”

I eyed the new extension agent as directly and with as much confidence as I could. I might not have ever had children, but when it came to protecting the ones I loved, I sure knew how to do that.

Nobody was going to push by me and upset Hank any more than he was already. Losing the Knudsens had been a big blow, but losing Ardith had knocked him down. I had never seen Hank so depressed, distant, and forlorn.

Curtis Henderson nodded and gripped the briefcase a little tighter. “I'm sorry to have bothered you, ma'am. I'll come back when Hank is having a better day.” He started back toward the car.