Saving Allegheny Green Page 14

  I leaned across his desk. “Why are you letting them scare you? There’s nothing going on between us, Conahegg.”

  “Isn’t there?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “No! We’ve never even kissed.”

  “It’s not from lack of desire on my part,” he said. “And therein lies the problem.”

  He wanted to kiss me? My heart thumped.

  “I’ve got something important to tell you,” I blurted out, unable to deal with his revelation. “Something about Rockerfeller Hughes.”

  “All right.” He seemed relieved that I’d change the trajectory of the conversation.

  “Rocky didn’t die of autoerotic asphyxiation.”

  “No?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “He didn’t.”

  He toyed with a paper clip. It was the first restless thing I’d ever seen him do. My focus narrowed on those thick long fingers with short clipped fingernails to the point where I could see nothing else. My gaze followed his hand and I wondered at the hot rush of blood that surged through my own fingers.

  The silence stretched. I could hear the clock on the wall tick off the seconds.

  “So,” I said finally, unable to stand the silence for a moment longer. “What do you think about that?”

  “You’re suggesting murder?”

  I clenched the chair arms in my sweaty palms and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Rocky has a severe phobia about putting anything around his neck.” I related to Conahegg what Sissy had told me about Rocky’s childhood accident with the clothesline. “So you see, he simply wouldn’t have tied a belt to his throat.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “My sister.”

  “Your sister is not a reliable source of information. She was involved with the deceased. She has a history of drug use. Why isn’t she here telling me the story herself? How do I know she’s not lying?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “You tell me?”

  What was he getting at? I frowned. “I don’t think she’s making up Rocky’s phobia.”

  “Maybe murder sounds better to her than autoerotic asphyxiation. Maybe she doesn’t want to accept the fact he was engaged in masturbation.”

  “Everyone masturbates,” I snapped and immediately regretted opening up that can of worms. The last image I wanted imprinted on Conahegg’s brain was the picture of me involved in a little self-gratification. I spoke swiftly, “But masturbating and hanging yourself while you’re doing it are two different things. Suppose for a minute my sister told the truth.”

  “All right, for the sake of argument let’s say Hughes had a fear of having anything placed around his neck.” Conahegg indulged me.

  “Then he had to be unconscious when the belt was placed there.”

  “What do you want me to say, Ally? That Rockerfeller Hughes was murdered and someone tried to make it look like autoerotic asphyxiation.”

  “Bingo.” I pointed a finger at him.

  “We’ll wait for the autopsy before drawing those kinds of conclusions,” he said.

  “That could take a week or longer.”

  “With the current backlog, that’s correct.”

  “But if someone did kill Rocky, and believe me there were people lining up to do the job, the murderer will be long gone before you get up off your duff and do something about it.”

  I couldn’t believe his complacency, his utter lack of concern that a murderer might be roaming free in Cloverleaf. Then it dawned on me. He was being pressured to wrap the investigation up with as little fanfare as possible, probably by the very same bunch that told him to quit hanging around me.

  “Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?” Conahegg’s lips twitched as if he was struggling not to laugh right in my face.

  “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  His shrug was as good as admitting the truth. He thought I was off my nut. So much for our friendship. So much for our budding romance. Who wanted a fling with a guy who thought you were a joke? My feelings were hurt.

  “When we get the report back, we’ll see who’s right and who’s wrong,” I said.

  “For the sake of argument, tell me, who do you think would kill Rocky?”

  I held up a finger. “Dooley Marchand.”

  “Motive?”

  “Unpaid debt.”

  “That would be stupid on Dooley’s part. If Rocky’s dead then he’ll never get his money.”

  “Nobody ever said Dooley was a brainiac.”

  “What else you got?” Conahegg cocked his head to one side and gave me the once-over.

  “How about the person or persons who was dealing drugs to Rocky?”

  “Again, what’s the motive?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the professional. You tell me.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “What about her?” I frowned.

  “She has a motive for killing Rocky.”

  I made a noise of indignation. “What motive?”

  “The same reason she shot him in the foot. Jealousy.”

  “Jealousy?”

  “He was going to leave her to go back to his wife. They’d already rented a house together.”

  I had not known that. “Well, then maybe Darlene killed him for being with Sissy.”

  “And maybe Rocky hanged himself while jerking off.”

  “You’ve a hard head, you know that?” I rose from my chair.

  “So I’ve been told. May I suggest you mind your own business.”

  “Why? So you can please the mayor and the wealthy bigwigs in this town. Well, news flash, Sheriff. You can’t tell me what to do. Last time I checked it was still a free country.”

  “I don’t want to pick a fight with you, Ally.”

  “Too late, you already did.” I strode to the door.

  “Wait,” he said. “I never did finish taking your statement.”

  “And you can wait until hell freezes over.” I stalked over the threshold. How dare he dismiss me as inconsequential. How dare he use the town as an excuse not to deepen our relationship.

  Seething, I drove home, swearing never to have anything more to do with the arrogant Sheriff Samuel J. Conahegg.

  SISSY WAS STILL GONE when I got home. Mama told me to be patient and that things would work out. I didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. I wanted to collapse into my bed and sleep for a century.

  The next day, I took some ribbing at the office about being the angel of death. Then I saw Reverend Swiggly again. That today he was so warm and welcoming I wondered if maybe he had multiple personality disorder. Esme made me some chocolate chip cookies, while Miss Gloria lurked in the background.

  On Thursday Darlene held a funeral for Rocky at Vincent’s Funeral Home on Miranda Street, but I didn’t go. Neither apparently did Sissy. Rhonda dropped by to check it out. She told me Rocky’s band members had shown up along with Darlene. And Conahegg was there. She said he looked really sexy and she flirted with him a little but he didn’t ask after me.

  Good. I didn’t care if I ever saw him again. How on earth had I ever found him attractive? I’d been too long without a man. That was the only explanation. Rhonda was right. I needed to start dating again. Anything to keep my mind off Conahegg.

  I was worried about Sissy and that helped me not think about Conahegg some. I had no idea where she’d gone or when she’d be home. She was a big girl. As long as she didn’t drag Denny along with her, I had no choice but to back off. In fact, it was something of a relief to cut her free, to see if she could indeed stand on her own two feet. But letting go didn’t come easy for me.

  Friday night, I checked my work schedule for the weekend at the hospital, and I was surprised to find I had the entire weekend off. I frowned. That never happened.

  “Aunt Ally?”

  I looked up and saw Denny standing in the doorway. “Hi, honey.”

  “You didn’t forget that we’re goi
ng camping tomorrow, did you?”

  Inwardly I groaned. I’d completely forgotten. “Course not,” I fibbed.

  “We need to get the camping equipment out of the garage,” he reminded me.

  “So we do.”

  I put on my slippers and bathrobe and we walked outside. Life had been so crazy lately I hadn’t been inside the garage since the night Sissy shot Rocky. Apparently, neither had anyone else. The place was a total mess with Rocky’s blood still staining the cement.

  I got a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Had someone murdered him as Sissy believed? Or was Conahegg right and I was tilting at windmills?

  Brushing aside self-doubt and sentimentality, I retrieved the camping supplies, then sent Denny off to bed dreaming of his treasured trip.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING came too early. Denny bounced into my room and leaped on the end of the bed. “Get up, get up, sleepyhead. Time to go camping.”

  “Give me five more minutes, please,” I begged and pulled my pillow over my head.

  “Aunt Ally, come on.” He tickled my feet.

  “Hey, cut that out.”

  “Please get up.”

  Sighing, I threw back the covers. “If I only had a tenth of your energy,” I grumbled. “I could be a superhero of unparalleled strength.”

  Denny giggled. A sound that did my heart good.

  After Denny swallowed a bowl of Froot Loops and I downed two cups of black coffee, I dressed in blue jeans shorts, a Cowtown Marathon T-shirt left from my running days and hiking boots. I didn’t bother with makeup. What was the point? I would be spending the weekend on the river with ten eight-year-olds.

  We stuffed the trunk with camping gear and strapped our orange fiberglass canoe to the top of the Honda. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the rendezvous spot at the public boat ramp already crowded with excited campers and their families.

  Kids whooped and hollered and ran around in circles while bemused parents tried to hug them goodbye.

  “Here.” I handed Denny a red-and-yellow life jacket.

  “Aw, already?” he whined.

  “You know the rules.”

  “No life jacket, no getting near the water.”

  “Good boy.”

  Making a face, he wriggled into the bulky flotation device.

  “Where are the other chaperones?” I asked as we unloaded our backpacks and a cooler of food.

  “It’s just you,” he said. “And the troop leader.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh, nobody else volunteered.”

  Great. “Is your troop leader here?” I scanned the crowd. “Do you see him?”

  “He’s over there.” Denny pointed.

  And for the first time I saw the black sports utility vehicle. I must really have been distracted not to have noticed it when we drove up. It was parked to one side and surrounded by canoes and camping gear. A man was leaning over, digging life jackets from the backseat.

  He straightened.

  And looked my way.

  My heart stuttered. No. It couldn’t be.

  “Uh, Denny,” I said, tugging on my nephew’s sleeve. “Is that your new troop leader?”

  He squinted and a big smile broke across his face. “Yep. That’s Sam.”

  Sam.

  As in Conahegg.

  “I HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE Denny’s troop leader,” I told Conahegg after the parents had scrammed, leaving us with their precious darlings.

  “I know,” Conahegg said, looking much finer in a pair of khaki shorts and hiking shoes than he had any right to look. Especially after the way he’d treated me when last we laid eyes on each other. He began loading sleeping bags and tents into the three canoes we were taking with us. “Or you wouldn’t have volunteered.”

  “That’s not true,” I protested.

  “You don’t have to lie to me.” He grinned. Why was he wasting it on me? “I took over as troop leader last month.”

  “Do you think the two of us can handle ten eight-year-olds?” Worriedly, I nibbled on my bottom lip.

  “I’m an ex-MP, you’re a nurse, I think we’ve got the bases covered.”

  “Yeah, but neither one of us are parents.” I glanced over my shoulders at the kids roughhousing on the dock.

  “You’re a parent.” Conahegg lugged an ice chest over to my canoe. “You don’t have to give birth to assume the role.” He nodded at Denny. “He’s a good kid and I know it’s mostly your doing. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “Er, thank you.” I wasn’t going to allow myself to be pleased. I didn’t trust him. Was he buttering me up for some reason?

  He took a map of the river from his pocket. “Here’s our destination.”

  “I don’t need a map. I was born on this river. I know every nook and cranny. Tell me where we’re going and I’ll get you there.” I couldn’t help bragging.

  “Sanchez Creek. We’re looking for the underwater caves.”

  “The kids’ll love that.”

  “You ever been inside the caves?” Conahegg arched a brow.

  I hated to admit I hadn’t after my I’m-a-dyed-in-the-woolriver-girl speech, but I knew where they were located, so I nodded.

  “Okay, troop.” Conahegg clapped his hands. “Listen up.” He gave them a safety lecture, then positioned us in the boats.

  We launched from the dock at the same time. Conahegg had me lead the way while he brought up the rear, the canoe without adults sandwiched between us. I wondered if the kids in the middle canoe would have the stamina to row without an adult but the wind was to our back and before long they were skimming along like water spiders.

  I took a deep breath of fresh morning air and felt the tension leave my body. I had many fond memories of canoeing and fishing with my father on the Brazos. Sissy hadn’t been interested in the water, a fact I could never fathom. I loved it. The peace, the quiet, the isolation. Whenever I felt overloaded, burned out or down in the dumps, I would come out on the water and see life from a new perspective.

  The weather was spectacular. We had that to be grateful for. Not as hot as normal for July due to a nice breeze blowing from the north.

  At lunch, we picnicked on Campbell Island. Eating sandwiches and fruit and potato chips. Sam and I sat on the beach and allowed the boys to romp in the water for an hour before loading them up and heading on.

  Conahegg and I didn’t speak much. We didn’t have to. There was an unwritten truce between us. That’s another nice thing about the river. There’s no hurry, no expectations, no facades. He had ceased being hardheaded, uncompromising Sheriff Conahegg and I’d ceased being dead-body-finding Nurse Green. We were Sam and Ally out for a weekend canoe trip with our ten kids.

  I have to admit. I kinda liked it.

  For the first time in a long time I felt young and carefree.

  We arrived at Sanchez Creek by midafternoon. It’s a narrow but deep strip of water that forks off from the main body of the Brazos. It’s surrounded by ranch land. Overgrown trees with ancient roots and long dangling branches reach out into the water as if to grab you. The banks of the creek were almost ten feet tall and straight up, adding to the spookiness. If you fell out of the canoe and had to swim to shore, your chances of pulling yourself up to dry land were almost impossible.

  The kids got quieter the farther we went up the creek. Leaves littered the surface of the water and cattails grew in wild profusion. Along the banks we saw snakes’ and turtles’ heads pop up on occasion to eye us with idle curiosity.

  We passed two fishermen in a johnboat. They smiled and waved and when prodded by the boys, held up their string of fish. Because of its twenty foot depths, there was good fishing in Sanchez Creek. I’d even caught my first crappie here.

  The wind shifted and we caught the unmistakable stench of something rotten and when we paddled around the corner we discovered the source of the odor.

  A dead, bloated Hereford cow lay half in the water, her ba
leful eyes gazing sightlessly at the sky, one back leg turned at an odd angle. It was clear she had trundled down the cliff in search of water and had broken her hind leg in the fall.

  “Oooh gross,” Denny’s best friend, Braxton exclaimed.

  “Yuck!” said another boy.

  “That’s disgusting.” The chubby kid in my canoe who was always looking for an excuse not to paddle, slapped a hand over his pug nose.

  “Settle down,” Conahegg said, his voice firm but soothing. “It’s just a dead cow. Hold your breath until we get past.”

  I couldn’t look at the cow even though we had to float right past her. I’d seen enough of death in the last few days. I didn’t need any extra.

  We kept paddling until the sun slipped low on the horizon. Another island lay ahead. Smaller than Campbell Island and without the beach. I docked first. Denny stepped out and tied us up to a tree.

  “Good work,” Conahegg complimented us as we secured the canoes up tight for the night. I felt inordinately proud but quickly shook it off. What was wrong with me? I didn’t need his approval.

  “Not so bad yourself,” I quipped, then hurried off.

  “Okay, boys. Let’s pitch our tents and start a fire.”

  We set to work and by the time the sun disappeared we were sitting cross-legged in front of our tents, roasting first wieners for hot dogs and then marshmallows over an open fire.

  Frogs croaked, crickets chirped and in the distance, cattle lowed. Thirty minutes later, the kids trundled off to bed without any prodding. Poor things were exhausted. Before he went into our tent, Denny came over to sit beside me for a moment.

  “Aunt Ally?”

  “Uh-huh.” I placed an arm around my nephew.

  “Thank you, for coming along. I’m having a great time.”

  “Me, too.” I smiled and realized it was the truth. Despite Conahegg or maybe even because of him, the day had been wonderful.

  “Mom sure missed out on a fun trip, didn’t she?”

  “Yes she did, Denny, and I’m sure she wishes she were here.”

  “You really think so?” He looked skeptical.

  “Sure,” I lied.