Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

As acting sheriff, Dawson had taken over my father’s office. I’d been in here before; heck, I’d been arrested in here before. But it was still disquieting not to see the mounted antlers for the nine-point buck my dad had shot. Or the row of family pictures. Or the expert marksmanship award certificates adorning the south wall. Certificates that’d all been mine.

Dawson stood and held his hand across the desk to John-John. “Thanks for coming, John-John.”

“No problem, Sheriff.”

He didn’t offer me his hand, just a curt, “Miz Gunderson.”

I managed not to roll my eyes at his formality. But he wasn’t aware John-John knew about our playing slap and tickle; I felt a little smug in the secret.

We settled in the chairs opposite the desk. John-John spoke first. “I know it’s been less than twelve hours since Mercy discovered the body, but do you have any new information?”

“Just our suspicions from last night, which haven’t changed.”

“What suspicions?” I asked.

“We suspect it was a robbery gone wrong.”

My mouth dropped open. “Are you fucking serious?”

John-John kicked my foot to shush me.

“Yes. His wallet was gone, and preliminary tests indicate the fatal injuries were consistent with a robbery.”

“A robbery. Out in the middle of nowhere? Jesus. Why didn’t the would-be robbers try to rob Clementine’s? There’s a helluva lot more cash inside the bar than trying to roll customers in the parking lot for a few bucks. And I usually close up by myself, which isn’t exactly a secret either. I can’t believe-”

“Mercy,” John-John cautioned. “Listen.”

Dawson looked at me. “The point is, a list of who was in the bar last night, from all Clementine’s employees, would help us narrow down the possible suspects.”

I started to speak, but John-John beat me to the punch. “Absolutely, Sheriff. I was there for a good portion of the night, so I’ll compile a list. Winona’s and Mercy’s lists will be more complete since they both worked a full shift.”

Again Dawson’s gaze pinned me. “Are you willing to cooperate, Miz Gunderson?”

I flashed my teeth at him. “Absolutely, Sheriff.”

That shocked him; he’d expected me to resist. My only reason for insubordination last night? It was John-John’s call whether we violated our customers’ privacy, not mine. I, probably more than anyone, wanted to see that whoever killed J-Hawk was caught.

“Good to hear.” He unearthed a small notebook and flipped to a clean page. “Can you tell me what happened last night? From the start of your shift up until you came across Jason Hawley’s body?”

“Sure.” I have an eye for detail, which Dawson had counted on. As I rambled, I figured he might get a hand cramp. Served him right. If he wanted no stones left unturned, I’d give him a rockslide of information.

But I wouldn’t offer up details about my previous relationship with the victim, unless he specifically asked me.

Dawson kept writing long after I answered his last question. He paged back through his notes before tucking the notebook in his desk drawer. He addressed John-John. “I appreciate your cooperation. Let me know as soon as you’ve completed your lists.”

“You’ve got it, Sheriff.”

I asked, “Has the victim’s family been notified?”

“Yes. They’ve requested immediate transport back to North Dakota.”

“Is Titan Oil taking care of the costs of transporting the body? Or is the family?”

Dawson gave me an odd look. “Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

“That’s a crap answer, Mercy.”

Oh, so now he was addressing me by my first name? “Fine. You know how I feel about Titan Oil and what they’re trying to do in this county. It’d reflect even more poorly on them, after they’ve claimed to be such a family-friendly company, if word got out that they balked at paying to send their field operative back home after he was brutally murdered while in their employ.”

“How would ‘word get out’?”

I shrugged. “People talk. Maybe locals will think twice about going to work for Titan Oil when it’s obvious the company doesn’t give a damn what happens to their employees. Maybe then they’ll shitcan their plans to destroy our county and move on.”

“Mercy,” John-John warned.

“As far as I know, the coroner is doing the exam at Clausen’s Funeral Home today, and Clausen’s is transporting the body. Don’t know who’s paying for it.”

The lighting tubes above us buzzed in the silence.

“If that’s all?” John-John said.

When the sheriff nodded at John-John, we both stood.

But I had one more question. Before I could speak, my boss grabbed my elbow and hustled me out.

In the parking lot, I jerked out of his hold. “Since when do you manhandle me?”

“Since you were gearing up to spar with Dawson even though our business with him was done,” he retorted.

“Maybe I just wanted to ask when it became county policy to hire a racist receptionist.”

“Doll, I get treated worse than that in my own bar. Let it go.” He kissed my forehead. “But, thank you, kola .”

“You’re welcome. I’ll come to the bar and get the other lists in a few hours so Dawson can get going on this case.”

I stopped at Besler’s grocery store and loaded up on single-girl supplies. Coffee. Soda. Peanut butter. Apples. Crackers. Batteries. On an end cap I noticed a display of Memorial Day remembrances, including a red, white, and blue stuffed frog. What the hell a puffy patriotic frog had to do with Memorial Day, I didn’t know. But the bug-eyed critter was cute, and Joy might like it, so I tossed it in the cart.

My self-congratulation on avoiding eye contact with anyone was premature. Effie Markham bumped her cart into mine to get my attention.

“Why, Mercy Gunderson, I didn’t expect to see you out and about after you found a man bludgeoned to death last night.”

I started to correct her that J-Hawk had been shot and sliced up, not bludgeoned, but she kept talking.

“And you poor thing, finding another body. What’s that? The fourth one since you’ve been home?”

“The third,” I said tightly.

“You seem to have the worst luck.” Effie leaned closer and confided, “Pity that man was murdered, but I’m not surprised. His presence was… unwanted, and I hope Titan Oil takes notice.”

The he-got-what-he-deserved attitude wasn’t new, or surprising, but it set me on edge. “Your concern is noted, Effie.”

I raced to the checkout line and hoped my back-off vibe would keep other nosy busybodies at bay.

While I deposited the bags in the truck bed, my cart made a break for freedom. A man stepped out from between two parked cars and snagged the runaway before it smashed into a Gran Torino.

The cart savior was none other than the Indian hottie who’d been drinking at Clementine’s last night.

The same man Dawson snarled at for lurking around the crime scene in the wee hours.

A weird vibe rippled through me. “Who are you? And why do you seem to be everywhere?”

He shrugged. “Eagle River County is a small area.”

My gaze took in his long hair, fringed leather coat, plain black T-shirt, khakis, and steel-toed boots. “Are you from the rez?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Who are you?” I repeated.

He cocked his head. The move might’ve looked flirtatious, but it wasn’t. His assessing eyes weren’t quite threatening, but not friendly either.

My fingers curled into the metal bars of the shopping cart as I awaited his response.

Finally, he said, “My name is Shay Turnbull.”

“Should I know you?”

“No.” He passed me the bag from my runaway cart, quirking an eyebrow at the stuffed frog.