Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death (6 page)

By the time I had finished in the bathroom and walked out of the country club lobby, Poppy’s ginormous silver Hummer was idling by the curb. Since Poppy’s preschool days, males had been misled by her froth of silvery blond ringlets, striking amethyst eyes, and delicate build. Despite her angelic appearance, she had always been a wild child. I felt a little sorry for the guys who were fooled by her ethereal beauty. There really should be truth in advertising where men and women are concerned.

Considering that Poppy’s father was the chief of the Shadow Bend police force, the irony that Poppy was the town bad girl was not lost on me. Then again, maybe instead of an incongruity, it was a cliché. Wasn’t the preacher’s son often a troublemaker? It didn’t take a psychologist to figure out why the offspring of an authority figure might behave badly.

As soon as I climbed into the H1, I grabbed the seatbelt. When Poppy was at the wheel, it was always a bumpy ride. Her philosophy was, “Drive it like you stole it.” Thank goodness she’d quit taking that idea as literally as she had when she was a teenager. Stopping her from going on unauthorized joyrides in any car that caught her fancy had been one of the trials and tribulations of my adolescence.

My derrière had barely touched the seat when Poppy floored the accelerator and demanded, “Tell me again exactly what Boone said.”

I finished buckling up, then repeated my brief conversation with him, ending with, “So I have no idea who the victim is or why he’s been arrested or what he thinks we can do to help him.”

“Obviously my father’s behind this whole thing,” Poppy snapped.

Her relationship with her dad had been shaky for years, but something had happened last Christmas to push it into open hostility. I had never found out exactly what had caused the final falling-out. I suspected the reason was the apparent one: Poppy’s devil-may-care lifestyle was about as opposite as could be from the chief’s paramilitary-type existence, and one of them finally did or said something the other couldn’t tolerate.

“Dad’s only harassing Boone because he’s a friend of mine,” Poppy added.

I made a noncommittal sound, hoping to soothe her anger without blatantly disagreeing with her. I was reasonably certain Chief Kincaid wouldn’t be that unprofessional, but Poppy firmly believed that her father was the love child of Lizzy Borden and Vlad the Impaler. Nothing I said would change her mind.

As Poppy raced her Hummer toward town, I felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. A couple of months ago, Chief Kincaid had taken my grandmother into custody over an episode that had been blown out of all proportion, and I had been summoned to her rescue. Eventually Gran had been released to me and the event forgotten. I could only hope that this incident would end as well.

When Poppy barely missed hitting a man in a gray hoodie and black jeans walking along the side of the road, I gasped. The guy leapt off the pavement and into the grass, shaking his fist.

Poppy grinned and waved as she sped by. Then she asked me, “Do you know the two kinds of pedestrians?”

“No.”

“The quick and the dead.”

I shook my head but couldn’t stop a little giggle from escaping. Poppy was one of a kind. We’d been friends forever, and I’d stopped trying to change her a long time ago. Now I only attempted to intervene if arrest was imminent.

We arrived at the police station much faster than I would have thought possible. Due to the PD’s location between the hardware store and the dry cleaners on Shadow Bend’s main street, daytime parking was often a problem. But since it was long past normal business hours, all five spaces were free. Poppy wheeled into the one nearest the entrance, squealing her tires as she jerked to a motion sickness–inducing stop.

Relieved as I was that we had arrived safely, and anxious as I was to make sure Boone was all right, I still dreaded going inside. The police station’s square cinder-block building, newly installed front window bars, and overall depressing air reminded me of a mini prison. Which was a problem for me on several levels, the most important one being that during my one and only visit to the penitentiary where my father currently resided, I had developed a sort of jailhouse phobia. I tended to hyperventilate at the thought of incarceration. Sadly, fainting rarely helped matters or left a good impression.

However, when Poppy slammed out of the Hummer and headed for the entrance at a jog, I knew I had to get inside before she did, or she might end up in the cell next to Boone’s. So I took a deep breath and raced past her. My stomach churned as I pushed open the door. Why on earth did the cops think Boone was a murderer?

Although the lobby was empty when we entered, I could hear loud voices coming from the top of the short flight of concrete stairs that led to the rest of the station. Poppy tried to elbow her way in front of me, but since she had a Tinker Bell–like build and my figure was more along the lines of a full-bodied Wonder Woman, she didn’t succeed.

As I stepped into the reception area, I saw that the entire Shadow Bend police force had been called in. All four of the full-time and the two part-time officers were milling behind the counter, seemingly unsure what to do, yet apparently unwilling to sit idly by. The woman manning the desk behind the bulletproof glass seemed ready to shoot them all.

Fortunately there was no sign of Eldridge Kincaid. He was probably in his office or maybe in the interrogation room. Either way, it was best to keep Poppy and her father apart for as long as possible. The two of them were like matches and gasoline—and I wasn’t fireproof.

I approached the dispatcher, and with my mouth inches from the small speaker in the bulletproof glass, said, “May I speak to Boone St. Onge?”

She looked me up and down and I pulled my trench coat closed, trying to conceal my strapless bodice and short skirt. Without answering me, she turned and yelled, “Can St. Onge have visitors?”

The officers behind her froze, suddenly intent on staring at the ceiling or their shoes. Apparently no one was prepared or able to make that decision. Were they scared of Chief Kincaid or had they never been asked that type of question before?

Finally the sergeant must have realized he was the one in charge, and after straightening his shoulders, he said, “He’s with the chief.”

“He’s probably water-boarding a confession from Boone,” Poppy said as she joined me at the counter. Before I could comment, she commanded, “Tell my dad to release him this instant.”

I stared at her. Did she really think she could issue an order like that and expect instant compliance? No. Probably not. Knowing her, I suspected she just felt the need to make her position clear.

To my surprise, one of the cops—I was guessing a rookie—disappeared down the hall, presumably to deliver Poppy’s demand. As we waited for Chief Kincaid’s response, I tried to overhear the conversations going on among the officers, but I couldn’t make out individual words. They seemed excited and maybe a little scared. I speculated that this might be the first real murder case the Shadow Bend police had ever had to handle.

My bet was that they were mostly used to dealing with drunk driving, domestic violence, and the occasional cow tipping. Outright homicide was almost unheard of in our small community. Would that be a positive or a negative for Boone in his situation?

I leaned close to Poppy and whispered, “I understand that Boone’s a lawyer himself, but why do you think he called us instead of an attorney?”

“No clue.” She shrugged. “I doubt knowing how to draw up an airtight will or get the best divorce settlement will help him defend himself from a murder charge.” She scowled and added, “Even a trumped-up one.”

“Do you know any criminal-defense lawyers?” I asked, thinking if we weren’t allowed to see Boone, that might be our only option.

“There’s this guy that comes to the bar once in a while.” Poppy bit her lip. “I think he said he was a defense attorney.” She twitched her shoulder. “But they all lie about stuff like that, so he could very well work in a local factory or spend his days asking, ‘Do you want fries with that?’”

“Great.”

Poppy didn’t seem to want to talk, and I certainly didn’t have anything to say, so I stared at the second hand on the big round wall clock as it ticked from line to line and number to number. While I watched, I tried unsuccessfully to think of something to do for Boone.

Twelve hundred ticks later, Chief Kincaid marched into the reception area and said, “What do you two girls think you’re doing here?”

The chief’s highly starched khaki uniform looked as if it had been ironed five seconds ago, and his gray buzz cut stood at attention. He scrutinized my party clothes—I’d had to take off my coat, since it was so hot in the station—then inspected his daughter’s outfit.

Poppy was dressed to entice—her usual style when she tended bar. His gaze flicked from her stiletto-heeled boots to her body-hugging leather pants, then stopped at her spaghetti-strapped black lace camisole that exposed tantalizing glimpses of porcelain skin. His mouth tightened and a glimmer of unbearable sadness crossed his steel-blue eyes. A nanosecond later, he had himself back under control and his face was once again expressionless.

Poppy crossed her arms, a slight smile playing around her lips. Clearly she had seen her father’s momentary weakness and intended to take full advantage of it. I braced myself for the explosion.

Leaning close to her dad, Poppy hissed, “We are here to free Boone.”

The chief didn’t respond.

Poppy narrowed her eyes. “You probably think you’ve been embarrassed by my behavior before,” she said in a conversational tone, “but if you don’t release Boone to us this instant, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Unfazed, Chief Kincaid raised a brow. “Is that so?” He stepped aside so we could see one of the part-time officers lead a handcuffed Boone past us and toward the jail cells on the other side of the building. “I doubt there’s anything left you could do that you haven’t already done to dishonor our family name.”

Boone tried to call out something to us, but Poppy’s howl drowned out his words. She screamed an obscenity—one I had given up using—and lunged at her father. Without thinking, I grabbed her by the back of her top. Thankfully the material was stretchy and didn’t tear, because I was fairly sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She turned on me, snarling, but I wrapped my arms around her middle and dragged her backward. I fought to keep Poppy restrained and finally plopped her into a chair and sat on her. She might be small, but so is a Tasmanian devil. And female wolverines weigh only twenty pounds. Besides, Poppy had plenty of practice breaking up bar fights, not to mention the years of resentment she had built up against her father. Even as I squashed her, she continued to struggle, attempting to get at her dad.

Chief Kincaid watched us battle. He was silent and unmoving until Poppy exhausted herself; then he said, “Get her out of my station.”

While Poppy and I had scuffled, the officer escorting Boone had halted, apparently mesmerized, or maybe turned on, by the girl fight. Finally he must have realized the chief might notice his lack of discipline, because he jerked Boone by the handcuffs, trying to make it seem as if his prisoner was the one who was at fault.

When Boone didn’t walk fast enough, the creep ordered, “Move it.”

Boone staggered and said, “Please. Just one second. Let me talk to Dev.”

The part-timer ignored Boone and yanked him toward the doorway.

Since Poppy seemed subdued, I got up and, using my most authoritative voice—the one I had used on indecisive investors—I called out, “Wait!”

The cop stopped abruptly, causing Boone to stumble and fall to his knees. The officer ignored the downed man and instead looked uncertainly between the chief and me.

Before Chief Kincaid could react, I hurried up to him and tugged him out of earshot. I was a little surprised he allowed me to move him, and I wasn’t sure what I would say until the words left my mouth. “Sir, I know you don’t have any reason to do me a favor.” I stopped and corrected myself. “Actually, you do, since I was the one who kept Poppy out of numerous jams when we were teenagers, and you know it.”

His brows rose into his hairline, but he didn’t deny my claim.

“If you could just give me five minutes with Boone,” I pleaded, “I really think it would help the whole situation enormously.”

“How?” Chief Kincaid huffed. “Unless I missed something, you haven’t attended law school, and I doubt he needs financial advice or a gift basket.”

“True.” I stalled, trying to think of a reason he might go for.

The chief started to return to the group, who was staring at us. Miraculously, Poppy was still seated.

“How about this.” I improvised. Luckily I was used to thinking fast on my feet. “You put us in the interrogation room where you can hear everything he says to me.” I trusted Boone was smart enough to realize that Big Brother was monitoring us and would not incriminate himself. And, just to be safe, that would be the first thing I said to him. “Maybe you’ll find out something.”

The chief paused but didn’t bother to look back at me. “Not good enough.” He took a step, then asked, “What else do you have for me?”

“If you don’t let me talk to Boone, I’m afraid Poppy will do something stupid.” I hated saying that about my friend, but she was irrational where her father was concerned. “And I know you don’t want her getting hurt, even if you aren’t willing to admit it.”

At that, he turned around, concern softening his normally severe gaze, and stepped back toward me. “And you think if I let you talk to St. Onge, it will stop Poppy from doing something foolish?”

“Yes.” I crossed my fingers, praying that I was right. “I do.”

“Why?”

“Uh.”
Shoot!
I’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask that. “Because I’ll make sure Poppy understands that you allowed me to talk to Boone even though you didn’t have to. She’ll see that you compromised, not for me or for Boone but for her. Because you love her.”

“Fine.” He puckered his lips as if he had taken a gulp of sour milk. “You can have five minutes, and don’t forget we’re recording you.”