Witness Page 17

  “Oh.”

  “Get going, scoot.”

  Ginny turned on her heel and headed toward the art classroom. She heard her name being called out and she whirled around.

  Brittany.

  “Watch your back. Don’t let my step-father get you alone, or you may end up dead, too.”

  Ginny ran away.

  32

  Friday, March 15, 6:45 p.m.

  With only the most cursory of knocks, Margie walked into Randy’s office, stood across from his desk, and grinned at him.

  What the fuck are you so happy about?

  “Yeah,” Randy said. “Better get it over with, eh?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, not really answering him.

  “Tell’em I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Okay,” she said, and left his office.

  He used the facilities, washed his hands, then walked out to the front door of the Sheriff’s Office and stood on the top of the steps with a microphone and a podium already set up for him by Rob, and pulled the notes he’d prepared from his front breast pocket and proceeded to read from the script.

  At his arrival, a phalanx of reporters crowded near.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the press. As you all know, my beautiful wife, Miranda Randalls, killed herself a week and a half ago.”

  A hushed murmur followed this comment.

  “Obviously, I’m devastated.”

  To his surprise, he did not lose his composure.

  “I do fully understand, that as a public servant, even though I do not like it, unlike the rest of you, I must conduct myself in public, even during matters of deep despair.”

  Josie had added that part in, and he’d argued with her about it; he said he didn’t talk in that high-falutin’ way, but she convinced him; he practiced it a few times, and he’d come to appreciate and admire her for insisting on it, for as the words had their impact on the assembled reporters, he saw a few people look, if not approvingly, then at least with a measure of respect. And it was fine. at least they appeared to be taking it all at face value.

  They were buying it, if nothing else.

  A few minutes later.

  Rob walked into the house on Sunset Lane and saw the kids, two-year-old Amelie, and four-year-old Robby, parked in front of the television, and his nostrils flared at the delicious aroma of grilling steak. She’d cooked his favorite. “Shelley?” he called out, hanging his deputy sheriff hat onto a peg on a peg board hanging by the front door. “I’m home.”

  “Daddy!” the kids cried out. They turned off the television and stampeded for him and wrapped their tiny arms around his shins and he felt a swell of pleasure and love at the sensation of his children. He might be the second-in-command at the Rowan County Sheriff’s Office, but at his home, right here, he was the king.

  Shelley popped her head out through the archway leading to the kitchen. “Rob, you’re home,” she said, her voice filled with pleasure.

  “Right on time, I see,” he said, grinning.

  “Yep. Dinner’s about ready.” She glanced at her children and smiled with love. “Okay, you two. Let Daddy go. You can wrestle with him all you want after dinner. Now go wash your hands.”

  “Go on, kids, scoot,” Rob said, and he shooed them off to the bathroom. He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge and, without saying a word, laid down a brick of money onto the counter, beside the bowl of salad.

  Shelley, wearing her kitchen apron, glanced at the stack of money, grabbed it and tucked it away into the front pocket of her apron and resumed grilling the steaks.

  He popped the lid off the beer, tossed the cap into the trash, took a long swig, watching her closely.

  She lifted the steaks off the grill, placed them onto a serving plate, and handed the plate to him. “Go on and put that on the table. Dinner’s ready.”

  He stepped toward her. “Kiss me, lady.”

  She did.

  A few minutes later.

  Randy said a few more things, then asked for questions.

  A pretty female reporter stepped forward. “There are some people, Sheriff, who say you had something to do with your wife’s death?”

  “I had nothing to do with my wife’s death,” he said evenly. “My wife was suicidal in the months leading up to her suicide.”

  “Can you prove that?” another reporter asked.

  “I don’t have to answer a question like that.”

  “Why didn’t you call in a special prosecutor to investigate the circumstances of your wife’s death?”

  “My wife committed suicide, as confirmed by the Coroner.”

  “The Coroner’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “The Coroner is a man of integrity and would not falsify a report, not even for a good friend like me.”

  “You did more than help the Coroner, though. You helped get him elected.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked with a belligerent frown.

  “Some people say you were abusing your wife.”

  “Well, those people had better come forward, then, hadn’t they?”

  The same pretty young woman stepped forward again. “Do you have a mistress, Sheriff?”

  He gazed darkly at her. She shrank back but kept her gaze steadfast upon him. “You’ve got a mistress, don’t you, Sheriff?”

  “I don’t have a mistress,” he said. “And this press conference is over.”

  33

  Thursday, March 14, 8:00 a.m.

  “Kathryn, Doctor Bradley Chase is on line three,” Margie called out.

  “Thanks, Margie,” Kathryn said.

  She picked up. “Kathryn McGlone.”

  “Deputy McGlone?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “This is Doctor Chase, and you left a message for me the other day, asking for me to call you when I made my autopsy results known.”

  “Yes, Sir, do you have an opinion?”

  “I do, and unfortunately, after conducting a thorough investigation, I’ll be making a finding of suicide.”

  It took Kathryn a moment to digest this information.

  “Detective?”

  “Yes, Doctor Chase, I heard you, I just needed a moment to process it.”

  “I realize it’s different from what I originally suggested, and I did take your concerns into consideration, but I’ve had time to process my results, and I’m now of the opinion that the bruises I found in the arms and on the neck, are not consistent with a homicide.”

  “But I thought you said the bruises around the neck were distinctive and separate and much older than the bruises from the noose.”

  “Yes.”

  “And doesn’t that lead to a result consistent with the beating she received a few days earlier?”

  “Yes, yes it does,” the Coroner said, and then he hesitated. “Look, Detective, I know this isn’t the result you wanted, and I apologize for that, but I had to make my decision on what I thought was the cause of death, and it’s clear to me that she died from asphyxiation due to strangulation.”

  “And the defensive bruises from the beating she took, on the arms and hands, and even on the neck, means nothing?” Kathryn asked.

  “They mean something. They mean something terribly sad, but they don’t mean what you want them to mean. I’m sorry.”

  “I am too,” Kathryn said.

  “Do you have any more questions for me, Detective?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “All right, then.”

  She thought he was ready to hang up, when he hesitated and said, “Ah, er, I realize this isn’t the best time or way to do this . . . I mean, after all, we’ve just finished discussing a possible murder investigation . . . but do you think we might get together sometime for a cup of coffee or something?”

  It took her a moment to realize what he’d just said.

  “What, oh, you mean, like going out for a cup of coffee?” her cheeks flamed as she realized tha
t yes, it did mean a cup of coffee, and it also meant that her instinct about him had been right; he had been attracted to her, he had been interested in her, it hadn’t been only her wild imagination giving her flights of fancy.

  Dr. Bradley Chase really liked her.

  Feeling silly and giggly, she had to stifle the urge to slam the phone down and instead forced herself to calm down and said, “Okay, well, there’s a new Starbucks that got built down on the strip, across from the Shoney’s.”

  “A Starbucks, eh,” he said. “Well, that sounds like a fine thing.”

  “Maybe, we could meet there sometime?” she asked, tentatively.

  “What about tonight?” he asked.

  “Um, yeah, I guess we can do that,” she said shyly. “I get off work at five tonight. What say I meet you there around, say . . . five-thirty?”

  “Five-thirty it is. I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up, and it wasn’t a moment too soon, for her entire body had broken out into a sweat, but after the call ended, she sat at her desk for a long moment, in a deep funk.

  If he didn’t think Mrs. Randalls had died by anything other than her own hand, then what more was there to say or do?

  As far as she could see, the investigation was over.

  But hey, the doctor wanted to date her . . . why didn’t that make her happy?

  Eight hours later.

  “Grandpa,” Ginny said at dinner, “I found out when Brittany’s mother’s funeral is going to be.”

  “When is it?”

  “Not this Friday, but next, and the principal sent out an announcement this morning, that anyone who wants to attend the funeral can go, and it won’t count against them as an absence.”

  “Is that why you want to go?” Grandpa asked with a wry smile.

  “No, Grandpa. I really want to go to the funeral, to support Brittany.”

  “You hardly know the girl, honey.”

  Ginny stopped and thought, hard. Did she really want to tell Grandpa what she said to Brittany that day at school? No, she did not.

  “I feel like . . . I know her better than you think.”

  Grandpa studied her for a long moment. “I’m really not too keen on the idea of you attending this funeral, but if you really want to go, I’ll take you.”

  “Okay.”

  Grandpa cocked his head. “Are you really sure you want to attend this thing?”

  “Yes, Grandpa. I want to support Brittany.”

  Grandpa sighed. “All right.”

  An hour later.

  While she waited for Randy to show up, Josie puttered around her snug bungalow, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning, getting ready for her man.

  Her cell phone chirped and without looking at it to make sure it was Randy, she yanked it out of her front shorts pocket and answered.

  “Josie, I need to talk to you.”

  Oh, God. Here we go.

  She turned off the vacuum and went into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Is he there?”

  “No, Mom. He’s not here.”

  “Well, praise God for small mercies.”

  “But,” Josie added spitefully, “he’s on the way.”

  “With a rope for a noose, no doubt,” her mom said.

  “Oh, Mom, that’s so unfair.”

  “No, it isn’t, young lady. You live out of town, so you don’t hear all the news—and”

  “More like all the gossip,” Josie snorted.

  “Nonetheless,” Mom said. “Word on the street is worth a fake news piece any day of the week.”

  “Uh, huh,” Josie said. She finished loading up the dishwasher, poured in some detergent, and turned the machine on. “Mom, you’re just listening to a bunch of gossiping old magpies.”

  “Maybe, maybe not, but everyone in Shelbyville, apart from those Barney Fifes over at the Sheriff’s Office, believe that the Sheriff killed his wife and made it look like a suicide, when he was the one who hauled her up there and strung her up to die.”

  “Mom, I really don’t want to discuss this with you.”

  “When will you?” her mom demanded. “When you’re lying in your casket, all dead and cold?”

  “Mom, you’re exaggerating.”

  “He’s a man prone to violence, Josie,” Mom said urgently. “He’s a violent, dangerous man. And he’s got too much power. Who in the world thought it was okay for his own deputies to process the crime scene, huh? Tell me that. There’s a clear conflict of interest there, and I don’t understand why nobody’s allowing all this nonsense to go on. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Mom, look. I’ve been dating Randy for a while now—”

  “And that’s another thing,” Mom said. “What kind of a man, who’s married to a perfectly nice lady, goes catting around his wife’s back with another woman? Why do you want to be with this man, honey? When you have your choice of available men?”

  “Mom,” Josie said, her patience wearing thin. “We’ve been over this and over this.”

  “Josie, I know you love him and think he’s wonderful, but the ladies in my book club all agree—”

  “Oh, my God,” Josie said. “You’ve been talking about me to your book club ladies?”

  “They’re my friends,” Mom said indignantly. “And if I can’t discuss my concerns with my own women friends, about the terrible decision my daughter’s making, then I don’t know what to think, Josie, I really don’t.”

  Josie saw the headlights of a car approaching her driveway. Was it Randy? Was he here already? She looked anxiously but sighed with resignation when the car did not slow down, but instead drove past her driveway.

  “Josie, a man who batters a woman, will batter the next woman he dates or marries. It’s a known fact.”

  “Oh, Mom, you listen to Dr. Phil too much.”

  “It’s the truth, Josie.”

  “Mom, I—”

  At that moment, a pair of headlights appeared in her driveway and the car pulled up to her front door.

  “Mom,” Josie said. “I gotta go. Love ya.”

  “I will always love you,” Mom said ominously, “no matter what.”

  “Um, okay, Mom,” Josie said, and hung up and put the phone back into her front pocket.

  Dang, her mom got her all upset, when she wanted to be happy and joyous at Randy’s return. She ran to her bedroom, shucked off her t-shirt and shorts and slipped on a negligee. Ran into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine.

  And, just like that, she got back into a good mood.

  Her momma worried too much, that was all.

  Even so, as she prepared to open the door to admit Randy, a wave of apprehension washed over her.

  Mom was right about one thing . . . Randy did run the town.

  But she needed him to keep her operation running. That was something momma didn’t, and wouldn’t ever, know.

  She plastered a huge smile on her face and opened the door to greet her lover.

  A few minutes later.

  Randy got behind the wheel of Miranda’s sleek black Mercedes and drove out of Shelbyville, got onto the westbound lane of I-74, and drove toward Indianapolis. Before he reached the I-465 interchange, he got off the highway and drove down a quiet country road until he reached the snug cottage close by the tiny village of Express, Indiana.

  A funny name for a town in a state renowned for funny-named towns, but Express had come by its unusual name honestly. At one point in the little burg’s history, there’d been a chance of Express Mail—a direct competitor to UPS—setting up shop, but after some negotiation with the city fathers, and the builders who wanted to put a huge facility in the smack dab center of what passed for a town, the interest faded and the builders took their business elsewhere, but the name stuck. The town’s prior name had been Sleepy-town, and it may as well have stayed that way, for nothing happened in Express.

  Not even Express Mail.

  The Sheriff pulled into the gravel parking lo
t, parked the car, killed the engine, and got out as the front porch lights came on and a slender silhouette hovered in the light.

  It warmed his heart to see her. “Josie.”

  “Here I am, Randy. Come and get me.”

  “Okay, here I come,” he growled. His cock grew hard as he walked up the steps to the front porch and saw, with shock and surprise, and a flash of pleasure, that Josie wore only a negligee. Her large breasts, round, pendulous, firm, the dark areoles, the taut nipples, he looked at her and thought he could take her right then and there. Her thatch, dark, secretive, was right there for him to see, for she didn’t even wear a panty or a thong or anything.

  “Ready access,” she purred. “Come and get it, Sheriff.”

  “You’re telling me,” he said, grabbing her roughly around the waist and planting a deep, penetrating kiss on her full, luscious lips. She oohed and aahed with appreciation, and then he lifted her up into his arms and, with his left shoulder shutting the door, adjusted his stance so she could lock it and turn the deadbolt. He carried her to her bedroom with the king-size bed, dropped her onto the coverlet of the king-sized bed, and watched with appreciation as she immediately widened her legs and put her fingers in her pussy and started tickling herself.

  He thought he might come in his pants if he didn’t get his cock inside her, and soon.

  “You happy to see me, Sheriff?” she asked with a playful smile.

  “Are you kidding? You’re the hottest pussy I ever saw.”

  “Meow,” she said, and she pulled the negligee up to reveal her large breasts fully. He kicked off his shoes, shucked off his pants, tore off his shirt, and landed on the bed in the next moment.

  “Fuck me, hard, Sheriff. Fuck me hard.”

  He pulled his cock out of his boxers and got between her legs. He thrust himself inside her and she groaned with pleasure.

  Oh, Christ, did that feel good.

  “Harder,” she said.

  He began pounding her, the way she liked, then decided he wanted to do it doggy style, so he withdrew his cock and lifted her hips. She understood what he wanted and pulled her left leg over his head and flipped over onto her stomach and spread her legs wide and offered up her luscious, white, creamy ass.