Michael Mcgarrity - Slow Kill

“Did he say why?” Ellie asked.

Price laughed as he pushed the gurney into an open locker and closed it up. “For two reasons: to keep you happy, and to see if the drug may have contributed to the death. Spalding’s heart blew a valve and the muscles showed signs of fairly rapid and recent deterioration.”

“Getting the lab results could take several days.”

Price hosed down the autopsy table, stripped off the bloody gown and gloves, and dumped them in a hamper. “Not much we can do about it,” he said.

In his late fifties, Price had a fatherly air about him that always calmed Ellie down. Maybe she’d pushed the investigation as far as she could for the time being.

She gave Price a resigned smile and nodded. “Do you think I’m wrong about this one?”

Price responded with a shrug of a shoulder and a grin. “I’ve learned never to bet against you, Sarge.”

Ellie’s smile turned mischievous.

“What are you thinking?” Price asked.

“Did you do a plain-view search of the cottage?” she asked.

“No, just the bedroom.”

“I took a quick tour around the other rooms,” Ellie said, “and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe we should go back there and look again, this time more carefully. Perhaps Chief Kerney will let us search his personal property.”

“He could challenge you on that,” Price said.

“I hope he does.” Ellie dialed Jardin’s number on her cell phone, and when he answered she asked for permission to search the cottage to look for any evidence that might help determine the cause of Clifford Spalding’s death.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” Jardin replied.

“It would be a great help to the investigation,” Ellie said.

“Do your search, Sergeant,” Jardin said.

“Thank you, sir.” Ellie disconnected and winked at Price. “Let’s go see what we can stir up.”

“Don’t you mean stir Chief Kerney up?”

“Exactly.”

Kerney found doing business with Ken Wheeler enjoyable. The man had given him lots of space and made no attempt to influence his choices. In the ranch office, Kerney signed the paperwork for the animals he’d selected, and arranged to have Wheeler contract on his behalf to transport the horses to Santa Fe. He was one mare short, but he could probably talk Jack Burke into selling him an eight-year-old bay he had his eye on.

“You picked the best of the lot,” Wheeler said as Kerney wrote out the check.

“They’ll do nicely,” Kerney replied. “Have you ever been to Santa Fe?”

Wheeler shook his head as he took the offered check. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me about Mrs. Spalding.”

Wheeler laughed. “I can’t help you there. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just hired help, and I’m sure not the type that would turn her head.”

“Meaning?” Kerney asked.

Wheeler scratched his chin. “She seems to have an eye for men. But they’re all a hell of a lot taller, younger, and better-looking than me. I’ve never heard that it went any further than that. But playing around isn’t all that unusual among the horse-racing set.”

“She got along okay with her husband?”

“Yeah, as far as I could tell. Why wouldn’t she? The guy was fronting some big bucks to keep her happy.”

“Did Spalding ever say anything about his marriage?” Kerney asked.

Wheeler wrinkled his nose. “Not directly to me. I did overhear him once bellyaching to a friend before a race that he had a hard time getting her to travel out to the coast. There was always something that would come up and keep her in Santa Fe. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I have the feeling the sheriff’s deputy thinks I may be personally involved with Mrs. Spalding,” Kerney said, “and that her husband’s death may not be as uncomplicated as it appears.”

Wheeler’s genial attitude vanished as he looked Kerney up and down. “You’re saying the cops think Spalding might have been murdered?”

“They haven’t discounted it.”

“Well, you sure fit the type she’d be drawn to.” Wheeler shifted uneasily in his chair. “Not that I’m saying you’re involved in anything.”

“I’m sure it will all get sorted out,” Kerney said.

He picked up the paperwork from the desk and thanked Wheeler for making the transaction pleasurable. Outside, two sheriff’s units were parked in front of the guest cottage.

Kerney walked across the circular driveway thinking that what Wheeler had told him lent credence to Sergeant Lowrey’s gut instincts about the case. The idea of going home as a suspect in a homicide held no appeal. He decided to delay his return to Santa Fe and poke around a bit to see what more he could learn about Clifford and Claudia Spalding.

Ellie Lowrey didn’t see any hint of surprise or uneasiness in Kerney when he entered the cabin.

“Have you found anything interesting, Sergeant?” he asked. In the kitchen, the coroner was bagging the juice glass Kerney had rinsed out and left on the counter.

“Not yet,” Ellie replied.

He turned to leave. “I’ll wait on the porch until you’re finished.”

“Mr. Kerney,” Lowrey said.

Lowrey had deliberately avoided addressing him by rank. It was a neat psychological trick to establish dominance. Kerney countered by reducing Lowrey in rank. “Yes, Deputy?”

Color rose on Lowrey’s cheeks. “I’d like permission to search your luggage.”

“Go ahead,” Kerney said. “I’ll be on the porch.”

“Don’t you want to be present?”

“It’s not necessary.”

She held out a clipboard. “Please sign the permission slip,” she said tersely.

He scrawled his name, went outside, and sat on the stoop. Woodpeckers were busy in the trees and mares grazed lazily in the adjacent pasture. The afternoon sun, hazy in the sky, cast a soft, golden light that looked like melted butter. A mare rubbed her rump against the thick, curling lower branch of a live oak tree as her foal lay asleep close by, legs folded. Leaves shimmered in a whispering breeze, and a crow swished overhead, wings spread wide, croaking as it passed to drop down and perch on a creek-bed rock.

It had been an unusual day. Some of it had been as pleasant as the warm afternoon sun now on Kerney’s face, and some of it as chilly as the early morning air, the darkened bedroom, and death. He wondered what other events might be in store for him before it ended.

An hour passed before the coroner hurried out carrying a small cardboard box. He loaded it in the trunk of his unit and drove away. Lowrey soon followed, stopping to thank Kerney for his cooperation.

“No problem,” Kerney said.

“I still haven’t heard back if Spalding’s wife has been notified,” Lowrey said.

“I take it she’s not the first Mrs. Spalding.”

“No, ex-wife number one lives in Santa Barbara.”

He decided to tell Lowrey his plans. “I’m staying over until this gets resolved. How long do you think it will take?”

Lowrey blinked. “Through tomorrow night should do it.”

Kerney stood, brushed off the seat of his jeans, fished Lowrey’s business card from his shirt pocket, and waved it at her. “Good. I’ll find a motel and let you know where I’m staying.”

“Don’t you want to know what I found in your luggage?”

“Nothing of any consequence, I’m sure,” Kerney replied.

Lowrey nodded and walked away.

Kerney went inside, found his return airline ticket and car rental agreement, and changed his travel itinerary by phone. Then he called long distance information and got a phone listing for an A. Spalding in Santa Barbara.

A woman answered on the first ring. Kerney identified himself as a police officer and asked if she was Clifford Spalding’s former wife.