A Killing at the Creek Read online

  Dedication

  For my favorite storytellers:

  Janice, Carol, Susie and John

  Epigraph

  My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.

  My son, walk not thou in the way with them; refrain thy foot from their path: For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.

  PROVERBS 1:10, 15–16

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Nancy Allen

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  THE BLOODY YELLOW school bus wound through the hills of the Missouri Ozarks in the early dawn of a June morning. The blood inside the bus pooled under the driver’s feet, trickled in the aisle, drained out the back exit, and ran over the rear bumper.

  The young man at the wheel kept his eyes on the road as he maneuvered the vehicle up and down twisting roads shrouded by oak and sycamore trees, looking for the turnoff that would lead him back to the Interstate.

  The road flattened out as he approached the Oklahoma state line. Shortly after crossing into Oklahoma, he spotted a McDonald’s, built atop and over the highway, spanning all four lanes of I–44. He took the exit and drove into the parking lot.

  He could have parked at a distance from the other vehicles, but didn’t bother, pulling the bus into the open spot nearest the door. Reaching into a duffel bag, he pulled out a handful of money and shoved it in his jeans pocket.

  His shoes tacky from the mess in the bus, he made prints on the pavement as he walked to the entrance. He paused to wipe his feet on a black nylon mat. A flight of stairs led up to a bathroom; he made that his first stop. The boy took care to wash his hands, rubbing them vigorously with the pink liquid soap, watching the rust-­colored water circle the drain. The mirror in the bathroom showed that his dark brown hair needed shampoo, and his eyes were red-­rimmed, with dark circles from the long night.

  He kept a neutral expression as he left the toilet. Passing an ice cream stand, he paused to examine the contents in the refrigerator case. A white-­haired woman in a hairnet, armed with a metal scoop, let him look at the buckets of ice cream in the case for a minute before asking, “You want something?” The boy stalked away without looking at her, toward the McDonald’s counter to order. Though there were no customers ahead of him, he had to wait while two uniformed cashiers held a whispered conversation, two young girls laughing. One girl, a short blonde in heavy makeup, with four studs in one ear and two in an eyebrow, finally noticed him standing there. She leaned on the counter and said, “Can I take your order?”

  “Big Mac. Large fry, medium Dr Pepper.”

  “Want to try the Mac Wrap?”

  He shook his head. “I want what I ordered.”

  Something about him made the girl take a half step back. She spun around and pushed a button to pour his Dr Pepper. Her friend, a pretty Cherokee girl with long black hair, looked behind the boy and said, “Hey, big shot, you’re tracking mud in here. Don’t you know they make us mop that up?”

  He didn’t respond. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wad of money, mostly ones, and counted out the exact change for his order.

  “For here?” the blond girl asked him, in a more respectful tone. He nodded. She hastily set his food on a tray.

  He took the tray to the video arcade, and ate his food in a leisurely fashion. Pumping quarters into the machines, he held the sandwich while he played with one hand. He lingered for half an hour, nursing his drink.

  When he departed, a fry cook was walking out into the parking lot at the same time.

  “Hey, man,” the fry cook said to him, “can I have a light?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Come on, man. I can see it in your pocket.”

  The pocket of the boy’s white T-­shirt clearly revealed a pack of Camel cigarettes and a Bic lighter.

  “Fuck off.”

  The cook bristled and grabbed the young man by the arm, but he ripped his arm away and turned with such ferocity that the cook backed off. Stepping backward, raising the palms of both hands, the fry cook said, “No problem, dude. Forget about it.”

  The young man jumped behind the wheel of the bus and threw it into reverse; before he drove off, he rolled down the driver’s window and thrust his arm out, extending the middle finger of his left hand.

  “Eat shit!” the cook yelled in response.

  The young driver’s arm disappeared inside the bus. He grappled under the seat, then brandished a bloodstained item in his hand for the cook to see.

  It was a bloody knife.

  The cook took one look and ran like hell back toward McDonald’s as the school bus took off for the highway.

  Chapter 2

  ALL IN THE world Elsie Arnold wanted was a murder case.

  She was late for the Monday morning staff meeting at the McCown County Prosecutor’s Office, but she didn’t feel a bit guilty about it. She’d burned the midnight oil all weekend in preparation for a Monday afternoon preliminary hearing for a manslaughter case. She was as ready as she’d ever be, but the heel of her shoe had ripped the hem out of her skirt when she was getting dressed, costing precious minutes on the hunt for scotch tape. When she couldn’t find it she substituted safety pins, jamming them through the fabric, cursing all the while.

  The manslaughter assignment was a major breakthrough for Elsie’s career: her first death case. It was a major step, a badge of honor. But a vehicular homicide was not a murder.

  All I want, thought Elsie, as she trod the worn marble steps in the interior of the old stone courthouse, all I want is a goddamned murder.

  Elsie certainly didn’t wish any harm to befall her fellow citizens of McCown County, Missouri. She appreciated the quiet community nestled in the Ozark hills; she had chosen to return to her hometown after law school, back to the hills where she was born and raised. It was not the big city, like St. Louis or Kansas City or Little Rock, where murder cases were a common tragedy. Even with the middling crime rate, Elsie had a fine record as assistant county prosecutor; but she hadn’t handled a murder case, and was conscious of the hole in her experience.

  She bypassed the front door of the office, displaying the name of her boss, Prosecuting Attorney Madeleine Thompson, in bold letters, and slipped in the back way. The meeting was under way; she could see the attorneys clustered on the sofa in the boss’s private office. Elsie squared her shoulders and entered the meeting with what sh
e hoped was a confident air.

  All eyes were on her. The new chief assistant, Chuck Harris, flashed an electric smile her way. He struck her as a wolf in pin-­striped clothing.

  “ ‘A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar,’ ” he said.

  “The hell you say,” Elsie retorted. “It’s barely past eight.”

  “Eight-­fifteen,” said her boss. Madeleine double-­checked the time on her Rolex watch, regarding Elsie with an ill-­humored expression.

  Elsie and Madeleine were not on the best of terms these days. Madeleine viewed her position as a political stepping stone, having been appointed, not elected, by the prior governor as a political favor to her wealthy husband, the local John Deere distributor. Her entitled attitude constantly irked Elsie, who was passionately dedicated to her job in law enforcement.

  “Don’t even start with me,” Elsie said, approaching the sofa where her friend Breeon sat hip to hip with three other attorneys. There was no vacant seat in the crowded office, so she dropped her purse and the big accordion file she’d been carrying and leaned against the door frame. “I lived here this weekend. Should’ve had a cot and a hot plate in my office, I logged in so many hours.”

  Her comment was met with silence. Elsie began to backpedal; she didn’t want to sound like a complainer, not when she had finally been assigned a death case.

  “Of course, I didn’t mind being here, because I’m ready for the prelim. ‘Ready for my close-­up, Mr. DeMille.’ Do you think the TV stations will cover it?”

  Madeleine looked at Chuck, her chief assistant, and back at Elsie. “We need to bring you up-­to-­date, Elsie. There’s been a change of direction.”

  Elsie eyed her warily, like a dog guarding a bone. “What do you mean?”

  “The defendant is waiving preliminary. He’s going to plead.”

  Elsie took an involuntary step forward. “Nobody told me!” Her chest clutched as she felt her case slip away.

  Chuck said, “We just worked it out, Elsie. His defense attorney only okayed it late last night.” His tone was conciliatory, with a hint of condescension.

  “Why were you talking to him without me? This is my case,” Elsie said hotly.

  “It’s my case,” Madeleine said shortly. “I’m the county official, the one appointed by the governor. They’re all my cases. We’ve had this conversation before, I think.”

  “Well, hell,” Elsie muttered. “Guess I’ll tell the judge there’s a plea.”

  “Don’t bother,” Madeleine said. “Chuck will do it. He’ll appear on the waiver and take up the plea.”

  Elsie felt her blood boiling.

  She tried not to resent Chuck’s position as chief assistant, but it was tough. When the spot opened up recently, both Elsie and her friend Breeon Johnson had made a bid for it; either of the two women seemed a likely choice, from their stellar trial records. Madeleine overlooked both of them and brought Chuck Harris in from the Jackson County office in Kansas City, Missouri. Predictably, Chuck’s father was a big shot in Republican politics. Since that disappointment, Elsie knew that Breeon was considering leaving the office and moving back to St. Louis, but Elsie would remain in McCown County. The Ozarks was her home.

  Madeleine continued, “Chuck worked out the plea bargain; he got the deal.” The ring of her cell phone interrupted the exchange. As she answered, Chuck turned to Elsie; he had the good grace to look a little abashed.

  “Hey, Elsie, sorry about your lost weekend. But you know, all the good work you did was important. The defendant knew we were ready. That’s why I was able to get this plea bargain.”

  Madeleine waved a manicured hand at them in irritation; moving the phone away from her mouth, she snapped, “Can’t hear over you.”

  The office fell silent. Madeleine grimaced with distaste as she listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Who found it?” she asked.

  She listened silently for several moments while her staff watched. “No,” she said into the phone, “I can’t get out there, Shelby. I’ll just send someone else.”

  Shelby Choate was the county sheriff. Something’s up, thought Elsie.

  “Did you call anyone from the Barton City Police Department?” Madeleine asked. Elsie could hear the crackle of the reply all the way across the room. “I know, Shelby; I know it’s outside the city. You all can still work together.”

  Madeleine spun slowly back and forth in her chair while the lawyers watched and waited.

  “Don’t worry, I will; I’ll get someone out there to take a look. I’ll send my new first assistant. I don’t know if you all have met yet; his name is Chuck Harris.”

  Chuck Harris’s chin jerked up. No, he mouthed, waving his hand to catch Madeleine’s attention. Not me.

  She ended the call and sat up straight in her chair, looking the picture of professionalism; a snowy white collar and cuffs peeked out from her smartly fitted jacket. To Elsie’s eye, her boss’s garb was a costume, designed to look like a character from Law & Order.

  The head of a safety pin scraped Elsie’s thigh. She shifted to escape the sting.

  “Someone outside the city limits stumbled onto a dead body dumped under a bridge in the county. Sheriff Choate wants someone from the office to take a look at the scene. I told him you’d go on out, Chuck.”

  “I’ve got the manslaughter appearance.” Harris rose from his chair and made for the door.

  “Not until one o’clock. You’ve got all morning.”

  Elsie seized the chance. “I’ll go.”

  Chuck turned back to face the boss. “I’m wearing my good suit,” he exclaimed. “They’ll have me tracking through cow pies.”

  “I don’t mind. I’ll go. I’m free.”

  “I’m sending you, Chuck,” Madeleine said, without a glance in Elsie’s direction. “You’ve only been in the office for a ­couple of weeks. You need to make contact with the sheriff, work with the law enforcement personnel.”

  She stood, making a neat stack of her notes to signal the end of the meeting. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a meeting with the head of the statewide Republican party this morning, so I am”—­firmly shutting a desk drawer—­“all. Tied. Up.”

  She flashed an artificial smile to no one in particular and dismissed the staff, saying, “Let’s get to work.”

  Elsie followed behind Harris as he headed for his office and flung his door open wide.

  “I’m serious about coming along. I’ll help out. You can bounce your ideas off of me.” When he rolled his eyes, she said tersely, “Hey. You owe me. You took my manslaughter right out from under my nose. Now, you take me to see this dead guy.”

  Harris considered, frowning as he looked at her.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 3

  THE JUNE SUN was already hot at 9:00 A.M. when they pulled up to the scene. It was in a lonely spot, a dry creek bed under a one-­lane bridge on a farm road that didn’t see much traffic.

  Chuck Harris and Elsie exited his car and walked over to the deputy who stood nearby. Joe Franks, a short, wiry man in his fifties, had been with the Sheriff’s Department for over a decade, even prior to the election of the current county sheriff. He smoked a cigarette as he jotted notes on an incident report form.

  “Who’s this dude?” Harris asked Elsie before they reached the deputy. Harris hadn’t been in Barton long enough to know the deputy by sight.

  “Joe Franks,” she whispered.

  “Hey, Joe,” Harris greeted him, clapping him on the shoulder like a long-­lost pal, “what you got here?”

  “Body down in the creek bed. Dead as a doornail. Throat cut.”

  Harris let out a low whistle. “No shit.”

  Franks eyed Elsie with interest. “Why’d they send you out here, hon? You’re gonna run your hose.”

  “Not wearing any,�
� Elsie replied shortly, containing a flash of irritation. Often it seemed that southwest Missouri was still mired in the past century, when law enforcement was strictly a boys’ club.

  A tall, solidly built plainclothes detective sporting aviator sunglasses ducked under the crime scene tape and approached them. Chuck Harris waved in greeting.

  “Hey, Ashlock! Did Madeleine manage to hustle you out here? She said she hoped the Barton PD would keep an eye on the county sheriff’s office—­JK, Joe.”

  Bob Ashlock was the chief of detectives at the Barton City Police Department, and Elsie’s current flame. In fact, the two of them had spent some quality time together at her apartment less than twenty-­four hours prior, engaging in the kind of activities that put them in a happy place . . . but at the moment, Bob looked grim.

  Chuck addressed him again: “What did you see down there? How long has the body been there, you think?”

  “The coroner says a ­couple of days, maybe more. Franks, you better get down there and collect what you need before the doctor fucks up the crime scene.” He glanced at Elsie and said, “Pardon my French, Elsie.”

  Elsie winked at him and brushed the apology aside with a wave of her hand, as Harris exclaimed, “Hell, Ashlock, don’t worry about Elsie. Have you been around her? She swears like a sailor!”

  Ashlock turned on him with a look that would make a sensible man quail. “Yep. A whole lot.”