Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

DEAD OF SUMMER

by Liz Milliron

The scent of manure mingled with the metallic scent of blood. The furnace-like temperature in the barn didn't help. Pennsylvania State Trooper First Class Jim Duncan stared at the floor. Another day in Fayette-nam, he thought.

Flies buzzed in the fetid air, but even that appeared sluggish as if even insects were affected by the heat. He pulled out his notebook and wiped the sweat trickling down his face. Hopefully he could make this quick and get into some AC. "What have you got, Burns?"

Deputy coroner Tom Burns didn't look up. "An awful, bloody, smelly mess. It's hotter than them crotch of Hell in here. I might as well be working in a boiler."

Duncan couldn't argue. Willpower was the only thing keeping him from holding his nose. "It's a horse barn. It's at least one hundred degrees in here. Of course it's hot and smells bad. Be more specific."

"Middle-aged Caucasian male. Overweight and probably out of shape. Leaking all over the floor and deader than a nail in a horse's hoof. According to the license in his wallet, his name is Leonard Taylor."

Duncan maneuvered for a better look at the body, being careful not to step in the blood, which wasn't easy. It was everywhere. "Cause of death?"

"You know better than to ask that. Not until the autopsy."

"Not even for me? I thought we were friends."

Sweat soaked the armpits and back of Burns' shirt. He gave Duncan a lopsided grin. "Okay, but only because I love you. Like a brother, of course."

"Of course." Thank God for Tom Burns.

Burns sat back on his heels and pointed at the dead man's throat. "Considering that blood is sprayed around here like champagne in a sports locker room, and the size of that hole in his throat, he bled to death."

"Jugular vein?"

"Nah, carotid. Jugular would ooze." Burns returned to his inspection of the body. "The first blow spurted all over the place, and every time the poor bastard's heart pumped, it just added to the mess."

Duncan looked around. Burns was right: the blood was pooled around the body but also spattered against the nearby hay bales. "Likely that our killer got splashed?"

"I'd say impossible to avoid it."

Duncan picked his way over to look at the bales. One of them was broken apart. "Got a murder weapon? Or at least an idea?"

"That." Burns pointed at an evidence bag containing a sharp, curved instrument with a handle.

"Especially since it was still stuck in the victim's throat. Then again, he might have had a heart attack before he was impaled, so you might want to let me do that autopsy."

Duncan ignored him and picked up the bag. "What the hell is it?" To him, it looked like a pirate's hook, but larger.

"Damned if I know. I'm a city boy, remember?" Burns stood. "I'll call you with the autopsy results."

Duncan took off his hat and wiped his forehead again. The sweat-soaked fabric made his skin itch, but the abysmal heat wave gripping Fayette County was no excuse for being out of uniform. He put the hat on and adjusted the chin strap. "The woman who found the body, where is she?'

Burns squinted. "Outside. The aroma of blood and manure upset her. People are so weird."

Duncan headed for the door, glad to get out of the barn. The outside air was barely cooler, but the slight breeze made a huge difference.

Across the yard, he saw an older man consoling a sobbing woman. Another woman stood near them, but not close enough to form a trio. Interesting, Duncan thought. One woman with no emotion, one overwhelmed. Of course, shock would explain both reactions. So who found the dead man?

He mentally rolled the dice and decided to question the distraught woman first. "I'll be with you in a moment," he said to the second woman, who was still staring at the barn. She barely acknowledged the words, which struck him as odd. He could understand being upset or stunned at the scene of a violent death, but the complete lack of emotion was puzzling.

"Trooper First Class Jim Duncan," he said, approaching the couple. "Ma'am, you're the person who found the body?"

She didn't answer but took huge, gasping breaths while nodding, trying to calm down enough to speak.

"What's your name?" The simple question should be enough to get her talking. Duncan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and gave it to her. Now I know why Dad insisted I always carry a handkerchief.

The woman gulped. "Th-Theresa Hawkins," she said, blotting her eyes. "I'm the office secretary for the stables." Her eyes were swollen from crying, but whether it was from shock, grief, or guilt, Duncan did not yet know.

"Did you see the victim when he arrived?"

"Yes."

Duncan waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he prompted her, "And after that?" He studied her face. She was distressed but trying to stay coherent. He didn't detect anything that made him think she was hiding information.

"He got a call from the 4-H office, so I went to the barn to get him. I opened the door and, I saw, saw..." Her fragile control crumbled and she buried her face in her hands.

"It's okay. Deep breaths." He waited a few moments for Theresa to regain a bit of control. "Was anybody else here this afternoon?" Duncan kept his voice soft, projecting calm. Hang with me, just a few more minutes.

She sniffled and waved her hands in the air. After a few moments, she said, "I don't know. I was in the office, where it's air-conditioned. Can't see clearly from there, or hear anything over the AC. Do I have to stay here much longer?"

Duncan thought for a moment. "No, you can go." He handed her his card. "If you remember anything later, call me. Sir, do you mind sticking around?"

The man patted Theresa on the shoulder. "You go on home and have a drink, Terry. You need anything, you call."

She hiccuped. "Thanks, Tom." Clutching Duncan's handkerchief, she fled.

Glad I don't buy expensive ones, he thought as he watched her go. Chasing after her wasn't worth the buck fifty.

"Poor woman. Never seen that much blood in her life, I'm sure." Tom sighed and rubbed his chin. "Why don't we go into the office and you can ask your questions in comfort?"

"In a minute." Duncan wanted to question the other woman first, before she assumed she wasn't needed and left. Her attention had never wavered from the barn, her face still oddly expressionless. "Excuse me. I need to ask you a few questions."

The woman nodded. She didn't look at Duncan but remained fixated on the barn.

"Name, please?"

"Miriam Connolly."

"How long have you been here? Today, I mean."

"A few hours maybe."

"Did you see Mr. Leonard Taylor while you were here?"

A spasm crossed her face, the first expression Duncan had seen. "No. I've been working. I'm a 4-H volunteer."

"You knew Mr. Taylor?"

"Of course. Everybody knows, knew, Len."

He might have been questioning a robot. "But you didn't see him today?" She shook her head.

"What about anyone else? Maybe you saw someone go into that barn?"

"No, I've been in the other barn since I got here." She licked her lips and grasped her forearms.

Duncan looked down. "Mrs. Connolly, you're bleeding. Are you okay?"

His words made her jump, and she glanced at her sleeve. "Yes. I scraped myself on a box in the barn. But it's nothing. I'm fine." She still refused to look at him.

Duncan studied her face, noticing the twitch in her eye and the flush in her cheeks. Could be heat, shock, and stress, or could be something else. "You sure you don't want someone to look at it? Wouldn't be a problem."

"No, no thanks." She forced a smile. "Is there anything else?" She glanced at her watch.

"Is there someone who can bring you a clean shirt, or meet you at the Uniontown barracks with a shirt?"

"It's fine. I'll change when I get home." She stared as Burns wheeled a gurney with the bagged body out of the barn and to the waiting coroner's van, all the while chewing her bottom lip.

"You don't understand. I'm going to have to take your shirt into evidence," Duncan said.

Finally, a reaction. Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped open. "Why would you need my shirt?" Her voice wavered and the register climbed. "I told you, it was just an accident. Nothing to do with Len. I scratched myself." There was a wild light in her eyes.

"Mrs. Connolly, please," Duncan said. Guilt-induced panic or shock? "It's standard procedure. By the way, may I see that scratch?"

Miriam didn't say anything. She dropped her arms but didn't offer the injured one.

Duncan grasped her wrist, lifted the arm, and pulled back the sleeve, being careful to avoid the bloodstain. "Hey, Travers." He waved to the forensic photographer near the barn. "Would you come get some shots of this woman's arm? And there's a bloodstained box in that barn. I need photos of that, too."

Miriam's face flushed an even deeper red. She jerked her arm out of his grasp and twisted a strand of hair. Duncan had her attention now. "Trooper, I don't understand. Are you accusing me--"

Duncan pocketed his notebook. Sweat dripped down his face. Thanks to Theresa Hawkins he didn't have a handkerchief. "Mrs. Connolly, I told you, it's standard procedure. I'm not accusing you of anything, at least not right now." He was sympathetic to Miriam's distress, but he still needed to do his job. "That looks ugly. I want you to let the EMTs clean it up so it doesn't get infected. Is there anyone who can bring you a fresh shirt? I apologize for the inconvenience, but I really do need to take this one."

Travers took his pictures and left. Miriam clutched her arm to her chest. "No, my husband is working. My kids don't drive," she said, blinking furiously. "I, I just, I need--"

Tom, who had overheard the last bit of Miriam's protest, stepped over. "I'm sure we can find a spare shirt somewhere," he said. "Would that be okay, Trooper?"

Duncan hesitated. Under ideal circumstances, he'd have a female trooper available to bag the shirt. But one of the EMTs was a woman. That would have to do. "Yes, that's fine," Duncan said.

"Bring it over to the ambulance. Mrs. Connolly can change there, in private."

The EMT had just finished cleaning and dressing the scratch when Tom returned with a long-sleeved T-shirt. "This'll be big, but it's clean. Don't worry about rushing to return it."

"Thanks, Tom," Miriam said, voice dull. She took the shirt.

"I'll stay here and make sure she's not interrupted." The EMT closed the back of the ambulance.

While he guarded the ambulance door, Duncan marked an evidence bag. A few minutes later, Miriam emerged, clutching the bloody shirt. Duncan tugged it out of her hand and dropped it into the bag. "Thank you, Mrs. Connolly. Someone will call you in the event that you can have it back."

"That makes it sound like I might not," Miriam said, her eyes wary.

"I can't say for sure," Duncan said. "All depends on the test results."

"Are we done here?" she asked, scowling. "Is there anything else you want, any other pieces of my clothing you need?" Her voice had lost the robotic quality and crackled with anger.

If she were guilty, of course she'd be unhappy about giving up her shirt. But even if she wasn't, Duncan could hardly blame her. He had made her half-strip in an ambulance. "Not right now. Here's my card. If you think of anything, call me." He watched her pocket the card and hurry away.

He walked back to Tom, who was still waiting. "We can go inside now," he said and followed Tom into the office. It was as welcome as stepping into a meat locker, except now he was acutely aware of his shirt sticking to him. "For starters, what is your full name?"

"Tom Ripley. I'm the day manager for the stables." Ripley sank into a chair by the desk.

"Did you know Mr. Taylor?"

"Sure." Ripley leaned back. "He's the president of the local 4-H chapter. A very, um, forceful personality around here."

"What do you mean, forceful?"

"Well, Len could be a bit abrasive. He was passionate about 4-H. When people didn't agree with him, he could get a bit prickly." Ripley toyed with a pen.

"So he had enemies?"

"Now, I wouldn't go that far." Ripley sat up, and the chair snapped upright. "He just had a tendency to rub people raw, if you take my meaning."

In other words, he pissed people off, Duncan thought. "Was Mr. Taylor at the barn often?"

"Often enough." Ripley leaned back again and resumed playing with the pen. "We do a lot with the 4-H horse program. Their end-of-summer show is coming up, so he was here more often than usual, making sure everything was to his liking."

So lots of people would know Taylor might be here. "Who else from the 4-H has been here lately?"

Ripley pursed his lips. "Well, there's the kids in the show, practicing, of course, but not today.

Miriam Connolly was here pretty regularly. Her son's in the show, and she was doing something with the marketing. Bob Porter and Lydia Thompson, they run the horse program. Can't think of anyone else off the top of my head."

Duncan jotted down the names and made a note to call 4-H for contact information. "Thanks very much, Mr. Ripley. Here's my card. I'd appreciate a call if you remember anything."

He didn't want to leave the coolness of the office, but he couldn't conduct a murder investigation from a stable. He made sure the car's AC was cranked up as he drove away.

"I'm telling you, I didn't do it."

Sally Castle stared at the man sitting across from her. As a Fayette County public defender, she was used to hearing "I didn't do it." She consulted the case file. "I believe you, Mr. DiCosta.

Unfortunately, money is missing from the 4-H. You are the treasurer. You have several cash bank deposits in your personal account. You see where this is going, right?"

Tony DiCosta shifted and tugged at his shirt collar. "That money has nothing to do with the 4-H. I'd rather not talk about it."

Sally tossed her pen aside and leaned back, fixing him with her best attorney stare. "Mr. DiCosta, I'm trying to help you. But you have to help me first. Tell me where the money came from."

His face reddened. "I've got a side business. I arrange for, um, entertainment at parties. Not sex or anything, but I don't think my wife would really understand."

Sally pinched the bridge of her nose. Why do they do this? Why? "You provide strippers," she said.

"Look, the man you should be investigating is Len Taylor." DiCosta's face went from deep pink to scarlet.

"The president?" Sally shuffled some papers. "By all accounts, he lives for 4-H. Why would he steal from it?"

"Because Len's got a son. Derek, well, let's just say he's an embarrassment. And Len would do anything to avoid looking bad." DiCosta sat back, some of the red receding. "Len's bailed Derek out a bunch of times. Except a couple of those times, I know the bailout took more cash than Len would have had. I bet those times coincide with money disappearing from the 4-H."

Sally bit her lip. She didn't believe DiCosta had embezzled the money. The cash deposits didn't match the missing amounts, although the prosecutor would argue DiCosta had kept some. The accusation against Taylor was thin, but worth checking. She sat up.

"Okay, Mr. DiCosta. I'll make some calls. In the meantime, do me a favor and make your entertainment business public before it blows up in court."

After DiCosta left, Sally went for a cup of coffee. Why did her clients do this? Because you gave up prosecution for public defense, that's why. Coffee in hand, she did a Google search to find the telephone number for the 4-H office in Fayette County. Might as well start looking for Taylor there.

"So what was the disturbance? Someone's horse get loose?" Corporal "Golden Gary" Sheffield sauntered over to Duncan, who scrubbed a hand through sweat-dampened hair.

Duncan schooled his face. Prick. You thought it was a joke. "Dead body. Len Taylor, president of the 4-H, stabbed through the carotid."

Sheffield's smirk faltered. "Really? Uh, got any other details?"

"I just got back. Burns from the coroner's office gave me some preliminary observations. The techs found lots of stuff, but it was a pretty dirty scene."

"Stabbed through the carotid, huh?" Sheffield's face turned pale under its tan.

Duncan felt a twinge of satisfaction. Golden Gary didn't like gore. "Very messy. Blood everywhere. That'll happen with the carotid. Spurts like a geyser." He tried not to take too much pleasure in Sheffield's obvious discomfort, but it was hard.

"Well, uh, make sure you keep me up to speed." Sheffield tried to regain some of his swagger. "Excuse me; I've got to see to some things." He hurried off.

"Jackass." Duncan sat down and took out his notebook. He'd no sooner flipped to the right page when the phone rang. "Duncan."

"Jim, what's this I hear about Len Taylor being murdered?"

It took him a minute to place the voice. "Damn, Sally. How'd you hear about Taylor?"

"His name came up in connection with a case. When I called, the 4-H office directed me to the stable where he was supposed to be. I got your name from the manager. What happened?"

Sally always was direct, something Duncan appreciated about her. He could practically see the cat-like gleam in her eyes as she questioned him. "I'm waiting on the autopsy results. Saying anything at this point in the investigation would be premature."

"Ripley at the stable said he was stabbed in the neck."

"I said I'm waiting on the autopsy."

"So it's true."

Duncan rubbed his forehead. "No comment. Why are you calling me?"

"You've read about the 4-H embezzlement scandal, right? I'm representing Tony DiCosta. He says he's not guilty and blames Taylor. So when I heard about Taylor's death, I called you. I thought there might be a connection."

"Why would Taylor take money from the 4-H?"

"According to DiCosta, Taylor has had to bail out his son, Derek, including times when he didn't have enough cash."

"Taylor Senior took 4-H money, so someone killed him?"

"Maybe. Or maybe Taylor Senior was in trouble over the debt."

"What kind of debt?"

"DiCosta didn't say. But he did say it was a source of embarrassment."

"Huh." Duncan flipped to a clean page in his notebook and jotted a few notes.

"So you think there is a connection?"

"It's a little early to be speculating. Thanks for the information. I'll look into it."

"So what can you tell me about the murder?"

"Beyond what you already know? Nothing."

"Have you requested Taylor's financial records yet?"

"Not yet. But I will."

"Good. I'll send my own subpoena and let you know if I find anything."

Duncan's heart lurched. More than anything else, this was the part of Sally's personality that gave him indigestion. One of these days, he wasn't going to be there to protect her from her own impulsive action. And why does that bother you? People face consequences daily. Why should Sally be different? But he didn't have time to pursue that line of thinking.

"Be careful. If Taylor crossed someone and they murdered him, they won't take kindly to you butting in. I'd hate to have to process a scene with you featuring as the victim." Even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were futile.

"I'm going to do what I can to defend my client, Jim." Her voice was serious, all lightness gone.

"I promise to share anything I find that might relate to your investigation, but you can't keep me away." She hung up before Duncan could respond.

Sally would do what she'd do; he knew better than to try and stop her. He rubbed his thumb against his bare left ring finger. She always manages to get under my skin. Damn it.

Pushing thoughts of Sally and her eyes from his mind, he called the coroner's office and asked for Burns. "Anything on the autopsy yet?"

"You are an impatient S.O.B. You know that, right?" Far from sounding irritated, Burns's tone was chipper. "Through the powers of forensic science, I can tell he died less than eight hours before he was found."

"Through the powers of investigation, I can tell you he died between eleven-thirty, when he stopped at the stable office, and two-thirty, when the secretary found his body. What about the autopsy?"

"We haven't started, but the murder weapon was a hay hook, that thing at the scene. Also called a baling hook. I'm pretty confident in my initial determination of exsanguination. There were no other signs of violence on the body. Poison is possible, but really, he'd have bled out first. Pity. Poison would be more interesting from a medical point of view."

The young man enjoyed his job far too much. "What the hell is a hay hook?"

"Something for hooking hay? I told you, I'm a city boy."

"I don't work with horses or in barns," Duncan said, making notes.

"Well, you country people are weird. In Pittsburgh, they kill each other in civilized ways, with guns. Although this is definitely something for me to write in my memoirs."

God help me, Duncan thought. "Burns, you are a strange man."

The deputy coroner just laughed.

Duncan's next call was to the crime scene unit. "Anything interesting from the Taylor scene?"

The tech sighed. "I'd rather have processed Grand Central," he said. "Any number of footprints, inside and outside, fingerprints everywhere, bits of straw, dirt, you name it. The blood on the hay bale was the same type as the victim's."

Duncan had expected that. "What about the weapon, the hay hook? Did you get any prints off of that?"

"Sure," the tech said. "There are several muddled ones and a beautiful bloody thumb print, but IAFIS didn't come up with a match."

Damn, Duncan thought. "Hey, just what is a hay hook used for anyway?"

"Not a barn guy, huh?" The tech laughed. "Pretty much what it sounds like, breaking apart hay bales, moving them, that sort of thing."

"How heavy are they, usually? The hooks, not the hay bales."

"Not very. Extremely sharp, so it would pierce a throat easily, even through the surrounding muscle."

"You're not helping me."

"Sorry. I'll let you know if anything pops up."

"Thanks." Duncan hung up the phone. An unmatched fingerprint, no immediately useful forensic evidence, and a weapon that a child could use. Not much to narrow the field. Now what?

He looked at his notes from the conversation with Sally. Duncan hadn't been involved in the 4-H embezzlement case, but he'd heard about it. DiCosta, the volunteer accountant for the local chapter, was accused of filching the money. He'd protested his innocence to anyone who would listen, but he'd never hinted that Taylor was involved. Was this his new defense, pinning the crime on a dead guy, or was DiCosta on to something?

As tempting as it was to remain in the air-conditioned station, Duncan ventured out to the 4-H office DiCosta had volunteered in. The few minutes it took him to get from his patrol car to the office sucked the air out of his lungs. Once inside, he removed his hat and wiped his face.

"Pretty hot to be wearing that thing," the receptionist said, tsking.

Duncan studied the sweat-stained lining. "You're telling me. I'll never get this stain out."

"Oxy-clean." She smiled. "What can I do for you?"

Duncan showed his badge and identified himself. "I'm looking for someone who I can talk to about Tony DiCosta and the embezzlement case. Maybe an office manager?"

"Jason Greenfield kind of manages things. I think he's here; hold on." The woman called someone on the phone. "Jason, there's a State Police officer here to see you. Should I send him back?" Nodding, she hung up and waved to the door. "Right through there. I'll bring you some cold water, or would you prefer a cup of coffee?"

"Water, thanks." Duncan passed through the door into a small, cluttered office. A man with thinning hair sat behind a desk piled with paper and magazines. "Jason Greenfield?"

"That's me." The man stood and shook Duncan's hand. His tie was crooked and the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. "Is this about Len Taylor? I just heard. Shocking."

The receptionist bustled in with two bottles of water, condensation dripping.

"Sort of. I was hoping you could tell me a little about Mr. DiCosta and the embezzlement scandal." Duncan sat and took out his notebook.

"Tony?" Greenfield loosened his tie and sat again, lips pursed. "He's been the accountant for our group for a few years. We never had any problems until Len asked to see the books. He said he noticed something funny about the numbers and called a professional auditor. The auditor found discrepancies. When they looked, there were cash-only deposits in Tony's bank account right about the same time. Naturally, we relieved him of his responsibilities until after the trial."

"Was this a one-time event?"

Greenfield rubbed his chin. "Yes, no-wait, no,"

"Had DiCosta volunteered for the 4-H for a long time?"

"That was the funny part. His own kids had been part of the program at one point, and he'd always been really enthusiastic." Greenfield opened his bottle of water. "He's volunteered in a number of positions. I never would have suspected he'd steal. But I know they cut back his hours at work recently. I guess being around all that money was just too much temptation."

"I see." Duncan took a swallow of water. "When Mr. DiCosta was accused, did he implicate Mr. Taylor in any way?"

"No, not that I can remember." Greenfield's forehead creased as he thought. "He said he was innocent, of course, but he never brought up Len. Even when he and Len argued, I don't remember any accusations being made."

Duncan looked up. "They argued? Did they do that often?"

"You've got to understand. Len was hard to get along with sometimes. A bit stubborn about doing things his own way."

"So they did argue."

"Look, Trooper, I don't want to speak ill of the dead."

"Mr. Greenfield, I understand. A man's dead; why malign his character, right?" Greenfield nodded, and Duncan continued. "But this isn't an ordinary death. If you want to help me out, tell me the truth. Without worrying about how it looks."

"You want the truth?" Greenfield raised an eyebrow.

Duncan spread his hands. "In my line of work, the truth is generally preferable to lies. And chances are I'll find out anyway, so you might as well say it."

"All right." Greenfield took a drink. "Len Taylor was a first class, grade-A asshole. He never said thanks. He more or less treated people like disposable goods. I'm surprised no one ever punched him in the face."

"Sounds exactly like the person you don't want running a volunteer organization."

"Precisely. He argued with everyone. Tony was one of the most mild-mannered people I know, but every man has his breaking point. Although..." His voice trailed off and he frowned.

"Although what?" Duncan prompted him, pausing in his note-taking.

"Their last argument was pretty violent. Len came down to make sure Tony cleaned out his office without taking any 4-H stuff. He kept throwing little digs, just being mean, you know?

Tony handled it pretty well until Len said something about it being too bad that white collar criminals didn't rot in jail. And Tony said, well..." Again, Greenfield's voice faded.

"He said what, Mr. Greenfield? If you don't tell me now, I'm quite sure you'll wind up telling somebody. Do you really want that somebody to be a judge? Let's clear things up now." Duncan watched Greenfield shift in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable.

There was a long pause while Greenfield studied his hands. At last, he looked up. "Tony said, 'You bastard, I'll kill you before I spend one day in prison for this.' But I don't think he meant it. It was just words. Tony'd never hurt anyone."

Duncan reviewed his notes. Greenfield's protests didn't mean anything. Mild-mannered men got pushed over the edge every day. Duncan stood. "Thank you, Mr. Greenfield." He put on his hat and went back out into the oppressive heat.

Once in his car, he tapped the steering wheel. Did Sally know about that argument? She had to. DiCosta might not have told her, but she was too smart not to find out. He put the car in gear. He and Ms. Castle needed to have another talk.

And if Len Taylor had been that unpleasant, who else might he have argued with?

It had been two days since Derek Taylor had been to the bar where he supposedly worked. He lived with his father but didn't answer the phone, his cell, or the door when Sally went over to see him. In frustration, she leaned on the buzzer, listening to the doorbell peal through the house. Surely he'd get sick of the noise and answer.

"He isn't there." An elderly woman was on the sidewalk, walking a small dog.

"I'm not looking for Leonard Taylor. I'm looking for his son, Derek."

"Yeah, he isn't there, either." The woman bent to clean up after the dog. "You'd be better off looking at Bugsy's."

"Thanks." The woman moved off and Sally looked up directions on her phone. Minutes later, she pulled up outside Bugsy's. The inside was almost as hazy as outside, but from cigarette smoke instead of humidity. Horse races played on multiple screens. "Excuse me." She flagged down the bartender. "I'm looking for Derek Taylor. Have you seen him?"

"Over there." The bartender gestured to a heavyset young man at the end of the bar. A pile of betting slips and three bottles of Iron City were in front of him.

Sally walked up to him. "Excuse me, Derek Taylor?"

"Yeah, who are you?" His gaze never moved from the TV. "Come on, come on. Damn. You worthless nag." He tossed another slip onto the pile and took a swallow from the bottle in front of him, then glanced at Sally. "Do I know you?"

Derek was none too clean. His hair was greasy, and his body reeked of beer and fried food. "Sally Castle. I'm a Fayette County public defender. I'm here to talk about your father."

"What about him? He's dead." Taylor belched, sending a cloud of cheap beer fumes toward her.

Sally took a step back. "Yes, but that's not why I'm here. I'm defending Tony DiCosta, the man accused of embezzlement from the 4-H. Do you know Mr. DiCosta?"

"Yeah, yeah, Tony. Nice guy. Shame about the money thing." Derek emptied the beer bottle and waved for another.

"Mr. DiCosta says he's innocent and claims your father is responsible."

"That's bullshit." He pulled out a betting slip and studied it. "Why the hell would the old man steal from the 4-H? Stupid organization was his life."

"Mr. DiCosta thinks it was because of you." Derek looked up, eyes squinty, and Sally continued.

"Your father has gotten you out of trouble a couple of times. Mr. DiCosta claims to know of at least two occasions where the amount of money was more than your father had, and he says those occasions match up to the money missing from the 4-H."

"I told you: bullshit." Derek turned his attention back to the slip.

Sally waited, but when he didn't say anything else, she continued, "Is it true?"

"Okay, fine, my luck hasn't been so good lately, but it'll turn around. He never believed that, my dad. But it will. And if you think he'd steal from the saintly 4-H to help my ass, well, you didn't know him very well."

"What makes you say that? I mean, you are his son."

Taylor looked up, face blotchy. "Because the old man never missed an opportunity to tell me what a loser I am," he said, bitterness laced through his words. "Told me if I'd spent more time working with horses as a kid, I wouldn't be so eager to bet on them, or at least I'd know which ones to pick. Like hanging around a bunch of nerds in a smelly barn would teach you about race horses."

"That must have made you angry." She laid a hand on the bar but jerked it away from the sticky surface. Don't they clean this thing? There was a wet-wipe packet on the bar and she snagged it to wipe her fingers.

"Are you a lawyer or a shrink?" He pushed the slips aside. "'Course I was angry. He was always, 'Why don't you get a real job?' and 'All that money on a fancy engineering degree and you're a fricking bartender.' Doesn't he know the economy's bad? Shit."

Sally said nothing, just watched him. She'd known Derek for three minutes, but the chip on his shoulder was obvious. Of course, Taylor Senior didn't sound like candidate for Father of the Year.

Derek turned back to the TV. "Come on, eight, get the whip out!" The horses thundered across the finish line and he threw his slip in disgust. "Damn. There goes another." He fished a twenty out of his wallet and tossed it onto the pile of slips. "My father was an ass-wipe, Ms. Castle. Just ask anyone who had the unfortunate pleasure of working with him. As far as I'm concerned, he can rot in hell. And so can you." He stormed out.

"I heard you talking to Derek," the bartender said, picking up the slips and the empty bottles.

"Trouble doesn't begin to describe his situation. He's so far down the money hole, I'm not sure he'll ever get out. But like every gambling junky, he thinks all he needs is one big win."

"Isn't that always the way." She handed over a few slips that had fallen on the floor, as well as the used wet-wipe.

"His old man came in looking for him a couple of weeks ago. They had a pretty big dust-up. Dad wasn't too pleased to find his little boy here. Threatened to cut him off and toss him out of the house if he didn't quit gambling."

"And how'd Derek take that?"

"Not well." The bartender threw his towel over his shoulder. "If I remember, Derek said something like Dad would be dead before he, Derek, moved out. I don't want to get Derek in trouble, but I don't want to see an innocent man go to jail either."

The bartender moved off and Sally stood there, thinking. Derek said he'd never had much use for 4-H, but maybe he'd learned just enough to use a hay hook in a completely unintended fashion.

The next morning, Duncan sipped coffee while he reviewed his notes. He called Sally to talk about DiCosta, but she was in court, so he left a message. Then he called Burns.

"Duncan, you're killing me. What makes you think I've gotten to your dead horse guy yet?" The words were exasperated, but Burns's voice was amused.

"Come on. Guy stabbed through the neck with a hay hook? You probably jumped all over that."

"You know me so well," Burns said. "Okay, Leonard Taylor. I'll skip the boring stuff. Cause of death was massive blood loss from a punctured carotid."

Duncan scribbled, even though he'd get a copy of the autopsy. "How long would it have taken him to bleed out?"

"Not long. Really, quite a humane way to snuff someone."

"What about blood toxicology?"

"Not back yet. But preliminary BAC was within the limits, and I didn't see anything that would make me suspicious of prolonged alcohol or drug abuse. Between his weight and the deposits in his arteries, the guy was a heart attack waiting to happen."

"Was there anything to indicate the amount of force behind the impact?"

Burns paused. "Not really. Hell, you saw that thing. It wouldn't take a lot. Definitely the most interesting weapon I've dealt with."

Duncan made a few notes. "Send me a copy of the report when it's finished."

"Well, duh." Burns hung up.

Duncan was finishing his coffee when Lt. Dan Nicols walked up. "Any news on the Taylor homicide?"

"I just got off the phone with the deputy coroner." He summarized the information. "Taylor arrived at the stables around eleven-thirty, and the body was found around two-thirty. Taylor argued with DiCosta. But according to Greenfield, Taylor had a real mean streak and argued with a lot of people. The son hasn't returned my calls. And there's Miriam Connolly. I talked with her briefly at the scene, but I want to interview her again. Maybe she remembered something."

Nicols nodded. "Keep me posted. Hell of a way to go."

Duncan grabbed his keys and hat. "Remind me to stay out of barns."

The Connolly house was a split-level a few miles outside of Uniontown. The sun beat down on bikes, soccer cleats, and a metal watering can in the front yard. A pair of muddy boots lay beside the front door, which was shut. He pressed the doorbell, then rapped on the door.

After a few moments, the door opened to reveal Miriam, her shirt and pants dusted with something white. "Oh, no, what's wrong?"

Duncan touched his hat and reminded her of his name. "We talked the day of Len Taylor's death. I'd like to ask you a few more questions."

"Oh, sure." She held up hands covered in what appeared to be colored frosting. Her hair was frizzy, and frosting was smeared on her cheek, too. "Come to the kitchen. I have to finish these cupcakes."

She turned, and Duncan let himself into the house. Random items were strewn across the living room, evidence of several busy kids, but there was no sign of the kids themselves. Piles of paper were everywhere. Apparently cupcakes are more important than a clean house, he thought.

The kitchen looked like a bakery had exploded. Open bags of flour and powdered sugar explained the white dust on Miriam's clothing. At least four dozen cupcakes, some with an elaborate baseball design piped on them, covered the counters. The fridge was covered in papers and sticky notes, most dealing with various activities and reminders.

"Nice cupcakes," Duncan said. "What's the occasion?"

Miriam picked up a bag of icing and began piping. "It's the baseball banquet. I volunteered to bring something for the bake sale."

"Must keep you busy, all this volunteer stuff, plus work."

"Oh, I don't work. Volunteering and my kids take up all my time. Do you have kids, Trooper?"

"No."

"Then you wouldn't understand. The same four people in any group do everything. Often, they

aren't really appreciated. It's like I said to--" She stopped.

"Like you said to who?" Her cheeks were flushed, and a sheen of sweat gleamed on her forehead. But it wasn't that warm in the kitchen. A quick glance told him the oven was off. The icing on the cupcakes wasn't melting, so he knew they were cool.

"Nothing. Look," she resumed piping, "I understand you're trying to be polite and all, but I've got to pick up my daughter from dance camp, get my son from summer soccer, and finish these cupcakes. Ask your questions."

"Right." He took out his notebook and looked at her forearm, covered in flour. "How's your arm?"

"What?"

"Your arm. It looked pretty bad. I hope you didn't wind up needing stitches."

"Oh." Miriam bit her lip. "It's fine. So, these questions."

"When did you get to the stables on the day of the murder?" He looked at her, but her gaze remained on the cupcakes.

"Somewhere around eleven. Maybe a little earlier." Her hand was steady as it piped the baseball design.

"You were volunteering for the show. What was your role with that?"

"I was in charge of advertising. Flyers, contacting local media, that sort of thing." She finished one cupcake and moved on to the next. "But there are always little things to be done, things no one remembers until the last minute. I was at the stables to sort tack, make sure everything was ready."

"You said you hadn't seen Mr. Taylor that morning?"

Her hand shook. "No. I told you I was in the barn."

"You didn't hear him pull in, or his voice, or see him through a window?"

A gob of black frosting splattered on a cupcake. "Damn." She tried to wipe it off. "Oh, I thought you meant see as in spoke to. I suppose I saw him pull in."

"But you didn't speak to him?"

"No. I already told you." She moved a tray of finished cupcakes out of the way and began another, never looking up.

Is she deliberately not looking at me? "Did you see anyone else at the stable that day? Mr.

Taylor's son, or Mr. DiCosta?"

She grasped the bag of frosting. "Well, I said hello to the secretary when I got there, let her know I'd be in the barn. But other than that, no. I suppose someone could have come in and left while I was working. I wasn't really paying attention."

Duncan made a few notes but was more interested in studying Miriam. She was nervous, and he wasn't sure why. Although even innocent people got a little weird when being questioned by the police.When he didn't say anything, she looked up. "Is that all? I don't mean to be rude. I'm just terribly busy."

"Yes, I think that's all for now." He slipped the notebook into his pocket. "Thank you for your time. If I think of anything else, I'll call you."

"Of course. You can find your way out." She didn't wait for a response and returned to her cupcakes.

Once outside, Duncan sat in his car, letting the AC kick in, staring at the house. Yes, Miriam Connolly had definitely been on edge. What exactly had her volunteer duties for the 4-H been, and why had she been in that barn in the first place?

Sally sat in a back booth, sipping water. She'd left Duncan a message, telling him to meet her for lunch. She hoped he would arrive before she was due back in court.

The door opened, and she smiled. It might be the dog days of summer, but Duncan looked crisp and cool in his gray uniform. She felt wilted in comparison. "Jim, over here."

He slid into the booth. "Nice place. So let's talk."

"Order first. I have to be in court at one-thirty. They have a great Reuben." She pushed the menu across the table.

A waiter came for their orders. "Did you follow up on what I told you about DiCosta?" Sally asked after the waiter left. "I did." Duncan pulled out his battered pocket notebook. "Most of it lines up with what you said.
However, I hope he told you that he'd argued with Taylor, including the words 'I'll kill you.' That doesn't make me want to remove him from the suspect list."

"He did." Sally pushed her water aside. "Heat of the moment. He said Taylor was really pushing his buttons that day, and he was stressed out because of the audit. And because his wife was going in for surgery the next day. He said he regretted the words as soon as he said them."

Duncan loosened his tie. "That doesn't mean anything unless you can tell me he has an alibi for the day of the murder from eleven-thirty in the morning until two-thirty in the afternoon."

"That's pretty specific for a time of death. Are you supposed to have your tie off?" Not that I'd mind if you took your whole shirt off.

"Don't tell," Duncan said. "Taylor stopped in the office at eleven-thirty. Nobody admits to seeing him after, but the body was discovered around two-thirty."

"Point." Lunch arrived, and Sally waited until the server left to resume speaking. "I can't alibi DiCosta for that time. He was released on his own recognizance and his case isn't scheduled to go to court for another week. He could have been anywhere."

"Including driving a hay hook into Len Taylor's carotid." Duncan took a bite of sandwich. "You're right: this is good."

"So we're looking for someone with barn experience."

"Not necessarily." He paused to wipe up dressing with a french fry. "Have you ever seen a hay hook? You don't have to know what it is to know that you could cause some damage."

"Lovely." She slumped. "Maybe I ought to start getting ready for a murder defense."

"Don't rush it." He paused to take another bite of the Reuben. "Does your client know Miriam Connolly?"

She stabbed her salad. "He's never mentioned her, and the name isn't familiar. Should it be?"

"She was at the scene of the murder that day. She says she only saw Taylor arrive and didn't speak to him, but I don't know."

"What don't you know?" She wished she could spend the afternoon talking about the case with Duncan. Or talking about, well anything. Hell, they didn't even need to talk.

"I spoke to her this morning. She acted a little odd. Like she was hiding something, but I can't think what."

"Maybe your uniform freaked her out." The sight of Duncan in uniform freaked her out, but only because seeing him was closely followed by thoughts of taking it off. "Even an innocent person will act a little squirrelly when questioned by the authorities."

"Maybe." Duncan pushed his empty plate away from him and rubbed his left ring finger with his thumb. "But ask DiCosta. She's a loose end. I don't like loose ends." He stared at her as if he wanted to say something else. Was it her imagination, or was his face a little redder than when he walked in? "Will do." They sat in silence for a few minutes while she finished her salad. "Oh, I also spoke to Derek Taylor. He's quite a character. I can see where he wouldn't get along with Dad."

"Really?"

"He spends most of his time sitting in off-track betting parlors, losing money. He has a fancy engineering degree from CMU, and probably the loans to go with it, but no engineering job. And he's not really inclined to get one." She finished her water and fished out her wallet.

"I've got it." Duncan tossed down a credit card.

"I can pay for my own lunch."

"I know you can. I said, I've got it."

Once again, she got the feeling he was going to say something else. But when he spoke, it wasn't what she hoped to hear. "I'd like to talk to Derek Taylor."

Sally rattled off the address. "If he's not there, try Bugsy's. That's where I found him." She looked at her watch. "I've got to run. Thanks for lunch. I owe you."

He waved his hand. "Talk to DiCosta about Miriam Connolly and we'll call it even."

"Will do." She was more than happy to ask DiCosta about Miriam, because then she'd have an excuse to talk to Duncan again. Maybe next time, they could talk over dinner.

Duncan straightened his tie before leaving the restaurant. When a phone call to the Taylor home didn't connect, he decided to bypass the house and go straight to Bugsy's. Sure enough, Derek Taylor sat at the bar, betting slips at his elbow.

"Come on! They ought to send you to the glue factory." Derek tore up a slip and tossed it aside, drawing a line through something written on a legal pad. Totally absorbed in the TV, he failed to notice Duncan.

"Excuse me. Derek Taylor?" Duncan had to repeat himself twice and tap on the pad to get Derek's attention.
"Yeah, yeah, what do you want?" Derek whipped around. At the sight of a uniformed officer, his frown disappeared. "Oh, sorry. What can I do for you?"

Duncan identified himself and took out his notepad. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Yeah, I mean no, go ahead." Derek rubbed his chin and turned back to the TV. He consulted the next slip in his pile.

"When was the last time you saw or spoke to your father?"

"The morning he died, I guess. Maybe eight o'clock. Or nine. I got up late that day." He sipped his drink. "All right you nag let's get it."

"Did you talk about anything specific, or argue?" Duncan waited, but there was no answer. He slapped his hand down on the pile of slips. "If it's distracting here, we can continue this conversation elsewhere." Derek was a weasel. Duncan recognized the type. They had to be firmly pinned down before you could talk to them.

Derek eyed Duncan's hand and licked his lips. "I don't remember. We might have argued. We usually did, so I tried not to talk to him."

"If you did argue, what would it have been about?"

"Same old shit. 'Get a job, stop going to the betting parlor, you're a lazy slob.' It was constant."

"Was it deserved?" Duncan raised an eyebrow.

Derek shrugged. "Times are tough. Economy's bad. What's a guy to do?" He took another drink.

"I don't have a problem or anything. Sure, I lose, but nothing I can't handle."

"Except when you needed Dad to bail you out."

Derek's face turned red. "A couple of times. So what? Isn't that what parents are for, to help you out?"

Duncan doubted his own parents would have agreed. "Where were you that day between eleven-thirty and two-thirty?"

"Don't remember. Probably here."

"Did you threaten him, your dad, I mean? Maybe that morning?"

"I don't remember." Derek scuffed the toe of his shoe on the floor. "I mean, a guy says things when he's angry, you know?"

Duncan consulted his notes. Just once, I'd like someone to tell me the truth without being prompted. "You once told your father 'he'd be dead' before you left home."

"Really, I don't remember." Derek turned away, focusing on the pile of slips. "Look, I talked to him that morning. We probably argued. I don't remember the specifics. I think I'd remember if I threatened to kill my dad. If I did, I'm not likely to tell you. I really need to pay attention here. Would hate to miss a winning race." He picked up the top slip, the conversation over on his part. Duncan tapped his pen on his notebook. "That's all for now, Mr. Taylor. I'll call if I have more questions." He walked away, looking for a manager. He settled for the bartender and approached, showing his badge. "Afternoon. Do you happen to remember if that young man," he pointed to Derek, "was here two days ago between eleven-thirty and two-thirty?"

"Derek?" The bartender laughed. "He's always here. Shows up before the first race, doesn't leave until dinner."

"He didn't leave for any reason that day?"

"Let me think." The bartender stared in Derek's direction. Derek fidgeted, looked around, and hastily turned his attention back to the TV. "Now that I think about it, I do think he left for a bit around noon."

"How long was he gone?"

"Maybe half an hour. He asked Carly, one of the waitresses, to watch his slips while he stepped out. Pretty sure it was that day."

Half an hour was plenty of time to go out to the stables, kill Taylor senior, and get back. "Did you happen to notice if he was wearing the same clothes when he came back?" Duncan said.

"I think so." The bartender's words were slow. "I mean, I didn't pay that close attention, but they weren't obviously different."

"Thanks." It was slim, but Duncan might have enough for a search warrant for Derek's car. If he had killed his father, there would likely be blood in it. There wasn't much of a motive, but in this heat, anything was possible.

DiCosta was waiting when Sally got out of court a few hours later. "Did you look at Taylor's bank records?" he asked, following her into her office.

She dropped her bag on the floor. "No. I just filed the subpoena this morning. It'll be at least two weeks." She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat.

"Two weeks? You're joking."

"No, I'm not. Sit." She pointed to a chair. "This argument you had with Taylor. You threatened to kill him."

"Yeah, I might have. I told you we argued." DiCosta sat down in the visitor's chair.

Sally sighed. "Mr. DiCosta, considering that Mr. Taylor is dead, that doesn't look good. In fact, I'm sure you'll be hearing from the police."

"I'm a suspect?"

"You can't be surprised about that." Sally sat back and stared at him. The shock looked real enough to her, but perhaps he was a great actor. "Where were you on the day of the murder between eleven-thirty and two-thirty?"

"How the hell should I know?" DiCosta frowned. "I had errands to run all day. I stopped at the 4-H office in the morning. Not the stable, the office in Uniontown. I think I went to the bank around lunch."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"There should be a record of my transaction. The teller might remember, or I'll be on CCTV. The secretary at 4-H should remember I was there."

"Did Mr. Taylor take your threats seriously?"

DiCosta snorted. "I doubt it. I told you, the jackass argued with everybody."

"But he ended up dead after arguing with you." Sally made a note to tell Duncan to look at the CCTV footage from the bank.

"So." DiCosta snorted again. "You think my argument with him was bad, you should have seen him go at it with that Connolly woman. Holy shit, I thought they were both going to blow a gasket."

"You know Miriam Connolly?"

"Sure. She's a nut case, but most parent volunteers are."

"Nut case, how?"

"I got the impression she volunteers for everything, every activity her kids are involved in."

DiCosta clasped his hands behind his head. "She was always running from meeting to meeting. Her phone chimed non-stop. I liked to help my kids, but she took volunteering to extremes."

"You heard her argue with Mr. Taylor?" Duncan would be interested in this.

"Hell yes." DiCosta lowered his hands. "It was a few days ago, maybe the day before Len was killed. She'd been doing advertising or something for the horse show. Middle of nowhere, Len comes up and says he's asked someone else to do it, so Miriam didn't have to bother. Didn't even say thanks."

"How'd she take that? Had she done a lot?"

"I suppose. I've seen her in the office, making phone calls and stuff. Getting show sponsors is hard work." DiCosta crossed his legs. "She was pissed. Started off calm, explaining how much she'd done. But Len blew her off, which was typical. It got ugly from there. She was screaming, called him a bunch of names. That got his hackles up and he started shouting back, how she was overreacting and needed to step back. It ended with her accusing him of being a blight on the organization and he should be fired. Then she stormed out."

Sally wondered how Miriam had described the argument. Probably not the same way. "Did you, or anyone else, hear her threaten him?"

"Threats? No. She just said Taylor should be removed from leadership and replaced with someone who understood people." DiCosta checked his watch. "Check the bank statements. You'll find corresponding deposits to Len's account, I'm sure of it. Better matches than mine. As far as my argument, you ask around. If arguing is a motive for murder, half of the 4-H are suspects. Everybody argued with the bastard." He walked out.

Sally shook her head. So far, she'd learned that Miriam Connolly was a volunteer freak, Len Taylor was an asshole, and Derek Taylor was a bum.

Thank God I don't have kids. I'd probably wind up killing someone, maybe myself.

Two weeks later, not much progress had been made on the Taylor murder. Hopefully I'll get that bank information soon, Duncan thought. I need a break on this one.

His cell phone rang just as he maneuvered his car into a space. "Duncan."

"Jim, it's Sally. I've got two pieces of information for you."

"Wait, let me get paper and pen." He pulled out his pen and notebook. "Okay, go."

"First, Miriam Connolly. You said she admitted to arguing with Taylor?"

Duncan thought. "Yeah, said they disagreed over the show marketing or something like that."

"It was more than a disagreement." Duncan could again imagine her green eyes gleaming like a satisfied cat's. "Tony DiCosta does know her. He said she volunteers just about everywhere. Anyway, when Taylor told her that he was giving the marketing job to someone else, she went through the roof."

"How so?"

"According to DiCosta, she was screaming. Taylor just told her someone else was taking over and she needed to get over it. That's when she said someone ought to remove him from the 4-H. Said he was 'a blight on the organization' or something like that."

"Nice. But she didn't threaten him?"

"Not in so many words."

"And you didn't tell me this before because..."

The ruffling of papers came through the phone. "Look, Miriam was unhappy and emotional. If she'd seen Taylor, and they'd argued some more..." Sally's voice trailed off.

Duncan got the suggestion. "It could have gotten ugly. Well, I will definitely talk Mrs. Connolly again. That's item one, what else?"

"Taylor's bank statements finally came," Sally said. "He has deposits that match to the penny. I also tracked down Derek's bookie. His name is Marcus Christian. He runs one of those payday advance credit agencies and takes bets on the side. And that's why I didn't call until now."

"How did you-- never mind; I don't want to know." Duncan didn't want to think about how Sally had come up with that information. He rubbed his ring finger just thinking about it. "Good job on the bank records."

"I made copies of my notes. I'm sure you have your own statements, but you can have my copies."

"I'll stop and get them. I want to pay Mr. Christian a visit." Duncan twirled his pen. "Does DiCosta have an alibi for the day of the murder?"

Sally gave him the information from her client. "You can probably confirm the bank visit on CCTV. Depending on when he was there and when he was at the 4-H office, he may or may not have had time to get out to the stables."

"And if no one saw him at the stables, it'll be hard to prove anyway."

"Well, I'll probably be in the office until about five."

"Good, then I'll come over and grab those copies after I see Christian. Do you know where his place is?"

"East Main, not too far. I'll pay for dinner." She hung up without saying anything else.

Duncan stared at his phone. When did he agree to have dinner?

The bank statements were sitting on his desk. He grabbed them to look at later and headed to Uniontown.

Like many such businesses, Marcus Christian's pay-day loans office was rather shabby. Loans my ass. More like legalized extortion, he thought.

As he entered, the teller eyed him, stuffing some papers under the counter. "Is there a problem?" she said.

He showed his badge and identified himself. "I'm looking for Marcus Christian. I have a couple of questions, nothing more. Is he here?" He kept his tone light, but the teller looked wary.

"I'm really not sure," she said. Her gaze flickered to a closed door at the rear of the room.

"I'll just knock and find out," Duncan said. He rapped on the door.

"I told you, I'm busy, and I don't want to be disturbed," a nasal voice said.

Duncan smiled at the teller. "Guess he's here," he said. "State police. I have a few questions for Marcus Christian."

There was a lot of scuffling and slamming of drawers, and Duncan heard, "I'll call you back," before the unmistakable clunk of a phone receiver being replaced. He raised his hand to knock again, but the door opened.

"I'm Marcus Christian. What can I do for Pennsylvania's men in gray?" Christian was a wiry man, smelling faintly of onions, cheap cologne, and hair gel.

Duncan wrinkled his nose. "I have a few questions about Derek Taylor," he said. "I want to know if he has any outstanding gambling debts."

"There must be some mistake." Christian spread his hands and angled himself to block Duncan's view of the office. "This is a lending office. I assure you, I have no idea--"

Professionalism was the only thing that kept Duncan from grabbing Christian by the collar. More than the illegal gambling, the thought of Christian charging exorbitant interest rates to people barely getting by in the first place turned Duncan's stomach. I'd shut every last one of these places down if I could. "I'm investigating a murder. I know you take bets. I want to know if

Derek Taylor's debts were settled."

Christian licked his lips. "Just stay there." He closed the door. Moments later, he appeared with an old-fashioned ledger. "You said Derek Taylor? His account is paid in full."

"When, and by whom?"

"He did, although I'm quite sure he got the money from someone. He certainly didn't have any of his own." Christian ran a finger down the page. "Here are the payments." He rattled off the dates.

Duncan made a note to compare them with Sally's information. "Were there any issues? I mean, were the debts settled amicably?"

Christian shrugged and snapped the ledger closed. "Amicably enough," he said. "There was the usual whining in an attempt to get out of paying."

"You never saw or spoke with Mr. Leonard Taylor?"

"No, just Derek. Whose credit at this establishment is no longer good, I might add. You bet, you lose, you pay. It's that simple." Christian stared at Duncan, challenging him to say anything to the contrary.

Duncan started to leave.

"Glad to be of help," Christian said. "Oh, if you ever need a fast loan, feel free to come back."

Duncan turned slowly and gave Christian a stoney glare. "Mr. Christian, should I ever find myself in need of a loan, I assure you, this is the last place I'd come. Been a long time since I've been at Sunday school, but I'm pretty sure the Old Testament has some pretty harsh words about usury." He nodded to the teller and left.

Outside he took a few deep breaths to calm down. Then, he drove over to the PNC branch on East Main. He identified himself and asked to speak to the manager.

"Can I help you?" The manager, a brisk woman in her mid-forties with short, graying hair, shook his hand.

"Ms. Cooper." Duncan read her nametag and identified himself. "I'd like to see the CCTV footage for this date and time." He handed her a note.

"Sure." She led him to the security office. "Give me a minute." She located the tape for the day, loaded it, and fast forwarded to the right time.

Duncan watched as DiCosta entered the bank. He approached the teller, and they exchanged a few words. Then he left.

"Is that what you were looking for?" Cooper asked.

"Pretty much. Looks like Tony DiCosta was here that day. Can you tell how for how long?"

Cooper replayed the footage. "Looks like about ten minutes," she said.

Duncan noted the time and date information on the screen. "Is that teller working today?"

She peered at the screen. "No, that's Daphne. It's her day off. I can give you her address and phone number."

"Please." Duncan gazed at the screen. "He looks relaxed to me."

Cooper jotted down Daphne's information. "Mr. DiCosta comes in frequently," she said. "He's always very pleasant. It's much nicer dealing with him than Mr. Taylor."

"Did Taylor come into the bank often?"

She shrugged. "Not very. When he did, he was unpleasant. Thought he was more important than the average customer. I think the tellers race to see who can put their 'closed' signs up first so they don't have to deal with him."

Duncan nodded. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Cooper. I'll show myself out."

Outside, he consulted his watch. It was late afternoon, but there was no break in the brutal late-summer heat. Time to meet Sally and see what she'd found.

"So he was definitely at the bank?" Sally asked.

They sat in her office, surrounded by paper and Chinese takeout. "Sally, please, do not make me eat in public in a pit-stained uniform," Duncan had begged.

She'd given in. She had to admit eating face-to-face in her office had a certain charm.

Duncan nodded and grabbed a packet of soy sauce. "According to the CCTV footage, he got there at twelve-oh-five and left at twelve-fourteen. It's a twenty-minute drive from the bank to the stables. Pass me those chopsticks."

"So while it is possible he came from the stables after murdering Taylor, it doesn't seem probable." She handed over the sticks. "I can't believe you can use those."

"I have many hidden talents," he said, digging into his kung pao beef. "I agree. It's unlikely he was at the stables prior to arriving at the bank. But he would have had plenty of time to go out there afterward. He has no alibi for that."

I'll bet you have hidden talents. "Actually, he does." Sally put aside her lo mein and picked up a sheet of notes. "While you were at the bank, I called some of the other places he said he went that afternoon. The secretary at the 4-H office remembers him coming in around eleven, and he stayed for maybe half an hour. He had lunch at Connor's Hot Spot. The waitress remembers seeing him around twelve-thirty. The cashier at Dawson's Hardware said he was there around one-thirty and didn't see any blood on him."

"You've been busy." He dipped an egg roll in duck sauce and took a bite.

"No sense waiting. Have a napkin." She handed him one and continued, "Can't the coroner be more precise with the time of death?"

Duncan wiped his fingers. "It's not like TV. We have our window based on when Taylor was seen by the stable secretary and when he was found."

"Pity." She ate in silence for a few minutes. "It's possible, but tight. At least from my view."

"I agree. So what about the bank stuff?" Duncan chased the last piece of beef and pushed the empty container aside.

"Here." Sally handed him a sheaf of paper and set aside her own food. "Here's the first instance of missing 4-H money. Over here, I've highlighted two cash deposits to Taylor's account, one

and two days after. Add them together. Same here, the second time money was noted as missing."

Duncan moved his finger down the column. "He tried to hide the deposits by breaking them up."

"Exactly. And DiCosta's deposits don't match." He might have been sweaty, but Duncan still smelled good to her.

"Where did DiCosta say his money came from?"

"Lawyer-client confidentiality."

"Right." Duncan sat back and stared at her. The gold flecks in his eyes stood out. "What about Derek? He did leave the bar."

"But not for long enough. The bartender said he was only gone for thirty minutes. He'd have had to make the drive, kill his father, wash up, change his clothes, then get back to Bugsy's. That would take way more than half an hour."

"I think I need to interview Mr. DiCosta." Duncan thumbed his left ring finger.

"You keep rubbing your finger. Does it itch or something?"

With a start, he looked down and clenched his hand. "Nervous habit I've picked up."

"You, nervous? Since when?" she asked, teasing.

He flexed his hand and shifted his gaze to her face. "Since I met you."

The blood surged to her cheeks. His left-hand ring finger. Is he comparing me to his ex? A heavy silence hung between them. Finally, she spoke. "DiCosta won't talk to you without me present. He doesn't think he can be considered a suspect."

"I don't care what he thinks. DiCosta argued with the victim. He believes he was set up for the embezzlement. That's a lot of resentment." Duncan pointed at Sally. "He can't invoke his right to counsel until he's in custody and being interrogated. You know that."

"But you don't want a belligerent witness." She leaned on her desk and shoved her emotions aside. Duncan was right, of course, but DiCosta was her client. "He'll be here tomorrow morning for pre-trial conversations. Be here at eight. I'll let you go first."

Duncan scowled. "Fine. But don't think I'll go easy just because you're there. If he won't answer my questions..."

"He will." She sat back. "Mind if I ask you something?"

"You bought dinner. You're entitled." He started putting empty containers in the garbage.

"You've been a trooper for at least twelve years, right?" Sally said. "Shouldn't you be a corporal

or something?"

Duncan swept the last bits of fried rice into the garbage bag. "I'm not interested in promotion. Just the job."

"Didn't the job cost you a wife?" He can't like his job more than a woman.

"Yeah." He tied up the bag of garbage. "But this all I've ever wanted to do. Tish didn't understand. So she left." Duncan leaned back, his face expressionless.

Sally waited, but he didn't offer any details. His cell phone trilled, breaking the awkward silence.

"Duncan." What he heard either puzzled or displeased him because a crease appeared on his forehead. He snapped his fingers, miming a pen. Sally handed him one, along with a legal pad. "Say that again." He scribbled something down. "You're positive." More scribbling. "Thanks." He ended the call and tapped the phone against his chin.

When he didn't say anything, Sally said, "Now what?"

Duncan ripped the page with his notes off the pad. "The ABO test is back on Miriam Connolly's shirt."

"That's for blood type, right? Isn't that kind of fast?"

"ABO doesn't take long. In this case, the results are very interesting." Duncan folded the piece of paper and put it in his shirt pocket.

"What's so interesting? Probably Miriam's, right?" If Duncan said it was interesting, she was interested, too.

"I'm sure one of them is," he said. "What's interesting is that, in this case, the ABO came back positive for two types, A positive and B negative. B negative just happens to be Len Taylor's blood type."

"She had his blood on her shirt? Does that mean she killed him?"

Duncan stared at Sally and grimaced. "I can't be sure it's his blood without a DNA match. But where else would it come from? And while it doesn't mean she killed him, it means she lied about not being in that barn with him, either before or after his death."

"If she lied about that, what else did she lie about?"

"Exactly. Maybe Taylor wasn't killed over gambling debts or embezzled money."

Sally shook her head. "Miriam killed him over being replaced? Isn't that a little extreme?"

"If she's a volunteering freak and felt she was being disrespected, she might have lashed out. Hell hath no fury and all that." Duncan stood. "So why'd you become a public defender?"

"A conversation for another time," Sally said, "and drinks. You going to see Connolly tonight?"

"If not tonight, first thing tomorrow after I talk to DiCosta."

"You still want to talk to DiCosta?"

"Yes, just to be thorough." He grabbed his hat and paused. "Thanks for dinner, counselor."

As always, she got the impression he was holding something back. "My pleasure. See you tomorrow."

Duncan tapped the back of the chair, started to say something, then stopped. Nodding, he went out the door, leaving Sally slightly disappointed.

Well, dinner hadn't been all about work. And he hadn't said "no" to future drinks. Miriam Connolly better have a really good explanation, Sally thought. Otherwise, Miriam's next conversation with Trooper Duncan was not likely to end well.

Miriam had not been home the previous night, nor had she returned Duncan's repeated calls. His gut told him that the interview with DiCosta wouldn't go anywhere, but it would be bad form to skip it.

He made sure his uniform was perfect before he went to Sally's office. Part of it was for DiCosta's benefit, but part of it was for Sally. Standing outside her office door, he rubbed his left ring finger. He hadn't thought of the missing ring in years. It was a reminder of why he needed to remain detached. He knocked on the door and entered.

Sally stood behind her desk, wearing a black pencil skirt that showed off just the right amount of leg. "Good morning, Trooper Duncan," she said. Her bit her lip as she looked him up and down. Her voice was cool and she remained behind the desk.

She's hiding behind that desk the same way I'm hiding behind this uniform, he thought. "Mr. DiCosta here yet?" he said.

"You're a little early," she said. "You look all spit-shined this morning."

He held her gaze and resisted the urge to rub the ring finger. "A good command presence can be the key to a successful interview," he said.

The flush in her cheeks deepened, but before either of them could say anything else, the door opened and DiCosta entered. Duncan must have looked intimidating because DiCosta stopped the minute he entered the room. "What the hell?" DiCosta's voice was belligerent, but the slight widening of his eyes told a different story.

"Tony DiCosta, Trooper First Class Jim Duncan." Sally made the introductions. "He has a few questions regarding Leonard Taylor."

"I didn't kill him." DiCosta said, not moving an inch.

"I'm not accusing you," Duncan said. "But you did argue with Mr. Taylor and you've implicated him in the embezzlement charges you are currently facing, yes?"

DiCosta's face reddened. "Whatever happened to lawyer-client confidentiality?"

"My information doesn't come from Ms. Castle," Duncan said. "Yes, or no: did you argue with him?"

DiCosta bit his lip. "Don't you have to read me my rights or something?" he said. He glared at Sally.

"Actually, since you're not in custody, I don't." He gestured at Sally. "I'm here because I knew you'd be here this morning. Ms. Castle is present as a courtesy."

"Tony, calm down," Sally said. "Trooper Duncan is right. You're not under arrest. He's looking to clarify a few facts. Answer the questions and he'll be out of your hair."

DiCosta continued to glare and, for a moment, Duncan thought he was going to refuse to speak. But he finally did. "Yes, we argued." DiCosta stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Yes, I think he set me up with this embezzlement crap. But I didn't kill him because of it."

Duncan made a few notes. "Where were you between eleven-thirty and two-thirty the day Mr. Taylor was murdered?"

"I went to the 4-H office in Uniontown, the bank, and the hardware store. I don't remember the

exact times," DiCosta said.

The story tallied with what Sally had said the previous night. "When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Taylor?" Duncan said.

"Damned if I know." DiCosta's forehead creased. "I guess we talked a few weeks ago. I was clearing stuff out of my office at the 4-H when he came in. We traded a few heated remarks, and I left."

"Anything else?" Duncan made notes of everything, but, as he suspected, learned nothing new. When DiCosta didn't reply, Duncan nodded to Sally. "Thank you, Ms. Castle. Have a good day, Mr. DiCosta."

Outside in his car, he stared at the courthouse, forcing himself to focus on the investigation, not Sally's legs. The fact that DiCosta couldn't tie his errands to times didn't bother him. He'd have been more suspicious if DiCosta had been specific.

With Derek Taylor and Tony DiCosta bumped down the list, that left Miriam Connolly. There was something not right with that woman. He needed to catch her before she started another day of volunteer work.

Miriam's car was in the driveway when Duncan pulled up. A mountain bike had joined the rest of the items he'd seen on his previous visit. He navigated the mess and pressed the doorbell.

A minute later, a pre-teen girl answered. Her eyes widened at the sight of a police officer on the front porch. Before Duncan could say anything, she yelled, "Ma! There's a police officer here. Should I let him in?"

"Anna, please don't shout." Miriam appeared in the doorway. When she saw Duncan, she scowled. "Trooper Duncan. What can I do for you?" She did not invite him inside.

"I have a couple more questions," he said. "Mind if I come in? It's ungodly hot out here and we're letting it into your nice, cool house."

Miriam nibbled her bottom lip. "I suppose," she said, the words sounding like they had to fight their way out. "Anna, go get the trooper a glass of water." The girl nodded and walked off.

Duncan went inside. "Thank you," he said. Take a long time with that water, Anna. This isn't something you need to hear. "Mrs. Connolly, you said you'd argued with Mr. Taylor recently."

"That's right," she said, crossing her arms.

"How would you describe that argument?"

She clasped her arms tighter. "Pretty mild. I mean, it wasn't a big deal."

"That's not what other people have said." Duncan looked at her, noting the defensive posture.

"Witnesses said you were pretty upset. You'd done a lot of work on the horse show marketing

and he yanked it from you."

"Something like that." Miriam's fingers tightened on her forearms.

"That must have made you angry."

She paused. "As a matter of fact it did," she said, biting off the words. "I'd spent a lot of time calling businesses, getting sponsorships, placing ads. And he just up and tells me someone else is taking it over. Just because I'm a volunteer doesn't mean my time is valueless."

"Understandable." Duncan watched Miriam's face flush. "I received the ABO test results from the blood on your shirt. That's the test for blood type," he said.

"You didn't need to test for that. I could have told you my blood type," Miriam said. "I'm A positive. Not that I know why you care."

"See, that's the thing, Mrs. Connolly," Duncan said, watching her. "There was A positive blood on the shirt. But there was also B negative." No reaction. "Len Taylor's blood type was B negative."

"I don't see what--"

"You lied to me. You said you hadn't been in that barn. But you must have, if Mr. Taylor's blood was on your shirt." No response. Miriam's face had become unnaturally calm. "Mrs. Connolly, can you tell my why Mr. Taylor's blood was on your shirt?"

Her face turned pale. "It was all a mistake, just a horrible accident," she said, whispering.

"Before you continue, I must advise you of your rights," Duncan said, but Miriam waved him into silence.

"I was in the barn, moving hay bales," she said. "My husband said I should stay away after my fight with Len, but I didn't listen. I didn't expect to see Len there. But he came in and demanded to know what I was doing. Said he'd told me I wasn't needed and he had people to handle the hay."

"Then what?"

"I just sort of snapped." Miriam took a deep breath. "He was so mean. No 'thank-you,' just tossed me aside. I do a lot for my kids. I volunteer a lot. I don't expect praise, but I do think organizers should thank volunteers, you know? He was there, and I had the hay hook in my hand, and I just wanted to hit him. So I swung, and..."

Duncan waited.

"There was so much blood," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I panicked and ran to the other barn. There was some on my sleeve. I scraped myself on the box so I'd have an explanation. I didn't think you'd take the shirt. Maybe if I'd tried to stop it, or called 9-1-1, or something..."

Anna came out of the kitchen with a glass of water. "Here's the water, Mom." She stopped.

"Mom? What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

Duncan read the plea in Miriam's eyes. "I don't need that water after all, Anna," he said. "Your mom and I are just going to go clear some things up. Are you okay to stay by yourself, or do you need someone to come over?"

Anna looked from Miriam to Duncan and shook her head. "I'll be fine. When will you be back?"

God, this is painful. Making an arrest was supposed to be satisfactory, but there was nothing satisfying here. "Not sure. Someone will call you."

The girl said nothing, but ran upstairs. A few seconds later, a door slammed.

Duncan pulled out his cuffs and waited for Miriam to compose herself. "Miriam Connolly, you're

under arrest for criminal homicide in the death of Leonard Taylor."

"I need to call my husband." She picked up the phone. "And I need to find an attorney. I don't know any criminal attorneys."

Duncan nodded at the phone. "Call your husband," he said. "And if you can't find an attorney, there's always the public defender."

***

Mary Sutton has been making up stories, and creating her own endings for other people's stories, for as long as she can remember. After ten years, she decided that making things up was far more satisfying than writing software manuals, and took the jump into fiction. She writes the HERO'S SWORD middle-grade fantasy series as M.E. Sutton and finds a lot of inspiration in the lives of her own kids. A lifelong mystery fan, she also writes crime fiction, including THE LAUREL HIGHLANDS MYSTERIES, under the pen name Liz Milliron. Visit her on the web at http://marysuttonauthor.com and follow her on Twitter (@mary_sutton73).