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Authors: R.P. Dahlke
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the grim lines between his eyebrows said so. Did he know something I didn’t—like my dad’s chances really didn’t look so good?
I felt the lump in my throat form new tears. It was now final. We wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I crossed my arms and stared blindly out of the window feeling as if we’d been dropped into an old western where the rules leaned toward lynching convenient strangers.
.
Chapter Eleven:
The good news was that Caleb had been able to light a fire under the telephone and electric company which meant the well worked and we now had water for the sinks and toilets when the detectives arrived.
They immediately separated us, putting me in the living room and my dad with another detective outside in the shade of the patio on one of the two folding chairs we’d found in a closet.
I added patio furniture to my growing list of items we needed to make this house a home and nervously watched the door.
While we waited, I leaned close to Caleb quietly going over the questions I’d been asked.
“Relax, ” he said. “It’ll be over soon.”
“I was fine until they sprang the news on me that the art compound property used to belong to a member of our family.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They didn’t tell you? Evidently, Aunt Mae used to own all of this,” I waved my hand around the room. “One hundred and forty acres, including the art compound.”
“That’s interesting, but what’s the connection now?”
“Like they need another reason to pin a murder or two on one of us?”
“What did you tell them?” He squeezed my shoulder to show me I was overreacting again.
“I told them the truth; that I didn’t know she used to own it, but it wasn’t all that big of a surprise, either. My great-aunt Mae and her husband were rich by anyone’s standards and they bought whatever they fancied.”
“No crime in that, sweetheart.”
“Then he wanted to know if this was our first trip to Arizona, and when I told him it was, he still tried to nail down Dad’s every footstep since he got here . He did that little mouth pursing thing, like he didn’t believe a word of it. I hate it when cops do that.”
“Interrogation techniques. Don’t worry about it.”
“He asked if he might’ve taken a vacation this summer,” I said, rubbing my hands together as if to wipe away the suspicious deputy. “I told him summers are much too busy for a vacation, and he pounced on that with—‘Your father’s retired, isn’t he?’ He ought to live in my boots for a summer. No one has vacations where I work.”
“What else?”
“I told him my father was retired but he still answered the phone and wrote up orders and such. I left out that he does so when he isn’t squiring widows around town. I hope Dad remembers to tell them about his trip to Alaska last year. I suppose that will be used against me, too. After all, it was summer, right? What did they ask you?”
“I had my interview yesterday. They have copies of all the files from Modesto—the murdered pilot this year, the body last year, the two the year before that.”
“Gee, when you say it like that, I do look like I might be a killer.”
“Homicide is just doing its job. You answered all their direct questions truthfully, didn’t you?”
My heart rate picked up. “I forgot to tell the detective that Dad sold the business. You think I’ll be in trouble for that?”
“I wish you’d stop,” he said, and went to the fridge for a couple of cold sodas.
I got off the couch but couldn’t stop my unremitting pacing. What was taking so long? What else could they possibly want from him? Should I start looking for a lawyer? Better yet, should we start looking for suspects? That was a ridiculous notion. I didn’t know anyone here, and the dour faces of the detectives indicated there would be no help coming from that quarter. I sniffed back a tear. The regulars at Roxanne’s café, the farmers,
I felt the lump in my throat form new tears. It was now final. We wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I crossed my arms and stared blindly out of the window feeling as if we’d been dropped into an old western where the rules leaned toward lynching convenient strangers.
.
Chapter Eleven:
The good news was that Caleb had been able to light a fire under the telephone and electric company which meant the well worked and we now had water for the sinks and toilets when the detectives arrived.
They immediately separated us, putting me in the living room and my dad with another detective outside in the shade of the patio on one of the two folding chairs we’d found in a closet.
I added patio furniture to my growing list of items we needed to make this house a home and nervously watched the door.
While we waited, I leaned close to Caleb quietly going over the questions I’d been asked.
“Relax, ” he said. “It’ll be over soon.”
“I was fine until they sprang the news on me that the art compound property used to belong to a member of our family.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“They didn’t tell you? Evidently, Aunt Mae used to own all of this,” I waved my hand around the room. “One hundred and forty acres, including the art compound.”
“That’s interesting, but what’s the connection now?”
“Like they need another reason to pin a murder or two on one of us?”
“What did you tell them?” He squeezed my shoulder to show me I was overreacting again.
“I told them the truth; that I didn’t know she used to own it, but it wasn’t all that big of a surprise, either. My great-aunt Mae and her husband were rich by anyone’s standards and they bought whatever they fancied.”
“No crime in that, sweetheart.”
“Then he wanted to know if this was our first trip to Arizona, and when I told him it was, he still tried to nail down Dad’s every footstep since he got here . He did that little mouth pursing thing, like he didn’t believe a word of it. I hate it when cops do that.”
“Interrogation techniques. Don’t worry about it.”
“He asked if he might’ve taken a vacation this summer,” I said, rubbing my hands together as if to wipe away the suspicious deputy. “I told him summers are much too busy for a vacation, and he pounced on that with—‘Your father’s retired, isn’t he?’ He ought to live in my boots for a summer. No one has vacations where I work.”
“What else?”
“I told him my father was retired but he still answered the phone and wrote up orders and such. I left out that he does so when he isn’t squiring widows around town. I hope Dad remembers to tell them about his trip to Alaska last year. I suppose that will be used against me, too. After all, it was summer, right? What did they ask you?”
“I had my interview yesterday. They have copies of all the files from Modesto—the murdered pilot this year, the body last year, the two the year before that.”
“Gee, when you say it like that, I do look like I might be a killer.”
“Homicide is just doing its job. You answered all their direct questions truthfully, didn’t you?”
My heart rate picked up. “I forgot to tell the detective that Dad sold the business. You think I’ll be in trouble for that?”
“I wish you’d stop,” he said, and went to the fridge for a couple of cold sodas.
I got off the couch but couldn’t stop my unremitting pacing. What was taking so long? What else could they possibly want from him? Should I start looking for a lawyer? Better yet, should we start looking for suspects? That was a ridiculous notion. I didn’t know anyone here, and the dour faces of the detectives indicated there would be no help coming from that quarter. I sniffed back a tear. The regulars at Roxanne’s café, the farmers,
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