A Killing at the Creek: An Ozarks Mystery

WHEN JUDGE CALLAWAY left the bench, Elsie didn’t hesitate. Without waiting for Chuck, she bolted for the door, nearly colliding with Emil as the bailiff fumbled with the keys to truss Monroe.

“Whoa,” Emil cried, but Elsie didn’t pause. She shot through the courtroom and ran to the Prosecutor’s Office.

At the reception counter, she found Stacie, toying with a lip-­gloss wand. Without looking Elsie’s way, Stacie said, “I can’t do anything for you. I’m going to lunch.”

“Stacie. I cannot let that woman have an appointment. Did she come in here? To see me?”

“I’m not making appointments for anybody. I’m out of here. Madeleine said I could lock up the front office till one o’clock today.”

Elsie glanced over at the door. Stacie had taped a CLOSED sign with bold numbers: 12:00–1:00.

Elsie let out a grateful sigh. “Okay, then. That’s good. But did that woman with the crazy hat come by? The homeless woman? She’s stalking me. Seriously.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re the receptionist.”

“Hey. It’s a public office. All kinds of nut jobs come in.”

“But did the hat lady come in? Today?”

“I don’t think so. Unless I was in the bathroom. I do have the right to go to the bathroom, don’t I?”

Elsie searched the counter, lifting Neighborhood Watch Committee pamphlets and citizen complaint forms. No tarot cards had been hidden, nothing to jump out at her.

“Stop messing that stuff up,” Stacie said. “I have to get over to the Wagon Wheel for the reunion planning committee. It’s our five-­year.”

“Great.” Since Elsie turned thirty, she tossed the annual Barton High School reunion notices. She was tired of looking at baby pictures and warding off old lady jokes. “See you at one.”

She headed to the inside hallway with her keys in hand. A note was taped to her door, a piece of paper that looked like it had been pulled from a waste can. She ripped it down and carried it to her desk.

She stared at the wrinkled paper with trepidation. Maybe it’s from Bree, she tried to convince herself; maybe she was in a hurry and grabbed a piece of waste paper to write on. But it wasn’t likely. Elsie delayed confronting the note for another minute. Turning away from it, she stepped over to her miniature refrigerator. Once she had a Diet Coke in hand, she settled in her chair, picked up the note, and opened it.

I WARNED YOU,

QUEEN OF SWORDS

“Ohhh,” she breathed out in a moan. The capital letters were written in a spidery hand, so faint that it looked like the pen had run out of ink. With a reflexive gesture, she dropped the paper, as if it had burned her fingers.

Her stomach twisted as she examined it, thinking it was a cowardly, chickenshit gesture to send anonymous messages. “Show your face, motherfucker.” Then she paused, rethinking the challenge; Elsie didn’t really want to see the person who left the note. She had just tried to dodge the obvious author, Cleo.

And why had Cleo promoted Elsie to queen? She was not a bit happy with the title of Queen of Swords. She had been more comfortable with the Fool. The mention of swords made her nervous.

It was necessary to notify someone higher up, she decided. This game should not escalate; she knew the danger from past experience. The Taney incest case, one of her toughest yet, had involved nasty backlash from a local religious group that took a violent turn.

She opened a desk drawer for a plastic bag, but the box was empty. She had forgotten to pick more up at the grocery store. She lifted the note by the corner, wishing she didn’t have to touch it. It made her uneasy, sending a shiver down her back, like someone was walking on her grave.

Chuck was typing at his keyboard and didn’t look up when she walked into his office. “What?” he said.

“Chuck, look at this.”

“I’m trying to update Madeleine. Come back later.”

A flash of irritation sent a buzz through her. “I’m serious. You have to help me.” She dropped the note on his keyboard.

He recoiled. “Don’t put trash on my keyboard. What’s on this, mustard? Jesus.”

“Read it, Chuck.”

He glanced at the note, picked it up with two fingers, and dropped it in his waste basket. “It’s a crank.”

“It’s a threat.”

With an exasperated groan, he wheeled his chair to face her. “Don’t make me babysit you. This kind of shit happens in an office like ours.”

“Yeah, but it always seems to happen to me.”

“Oh, come on. In Kansas City, ­people got this kind of thing all the time. You’re not so special. Man up, Elsie.”

Her face started to flush. That particular expression always incited her ire. “That’s easy for you to say, since it wasn’t taped to your door. What if you were the Queen of Swords?”

Chuck turned back to the keyboard and focused on the computer screen. “Well, I’m not. Because I’m not a queen.”

“Ha. Funny.” Elsie stepped behind his desk and dug the note out of the trash. She could run it by someone else. Ashlock, maybe.

“Nope,” she said aloud. She walked back to the nearest chair and sat down. Elsie watched in silence as Chuck finished his e-­mail and hit Send.

Turning to her, he said, “Are you going to stay here all day? Don’t you have work to do?”

She gave him a look. “I always have work to do. It never ends.”

Ignoring her response, he continued, “Because we’re set for trial August 10. That gives us basically zero time to prepare. Quit fucking around.”

The mention of the approaching trial date sent a wave of panic through her. Even after four years in the office, she always fought anxiety before a jury trial. Once it began, adrenaline kicked in and took over, making the job easier. But knowing that she would have her game face when the time came never helped to prevent the initial sensation of drowning.

I’m second chair, she told herself. It’s not all on me. I’m the assistant.

Chuck broke into her reverie. “Here’s the first thing I need you to do. Get the ball rolling on the state’s mental exam of Monroe.”

“You want me to do the paperwork?”

“What did I just say? You claim to be the insanity defense expert. Get moving on it.” He opened his desk and pulled out a Clif Bar. As he unwrapped it, he said, “Get us a doctor who will say he’s okay. Fit for trial and sound as a dollar.”

Elsie’s brow wrinkled. “Chuck, I can’t control the evaluation. The doctor will reach his own conclusion.” Sitting, she waited for him to agree.

He pulled an impatient face. “Why are you still here?”

She made for the door, thinking that he acted more like Madeleine every day.

“Hey, Elsie,” Chuck said.

She paused in the doorway. “What?”

He was toying with a pink notepaper; a phone memo, she thought. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. You were right.”

“What?” she said again, taken aback.

“About the interrogation. As I recall, seems like you wanted to bug out, leave the room. I guess that would’ve been a good idea. Looking back, in hindsight.”

“Yeah. A real good idea,” Elsie agreed, but she felt a glow of appreciation at his admission, and her opinion of Chuck rose several notches. “Thanks for saying so.” Took you long enough, she added to herself.

He tossed the pink phone memo across his desk. “Return that call for me, okay? I need to get that woman off my back.”

She picked it up and read the name. “Who’s Phyllis Garrison?”

“Some friend of the murder victim. She keeps calling; like I’ve got all day to talk to the dead woman’s friends.” He snorted and turned back to his computer.

So I guess I’m the one who has all day to do your grunt work, Elsie thought. “Shit runs downhill,” she said aloud, but Chuck didn’t respond.

Back in her office, she first made a note to contact Dr. Salinas, to see if he was available. Salinas had an established psychiatric practice in Joplin, Missouri; he made a strong witness for the prosecution. If the juvenile was a faker, Salinas would pick up on it. He could bring the insanity defense down.

Elsie picked up the receiver of her office phone and dialed Phyllis Garrison’s number, giving the line five rings before she hung up. She had no sooner set the receiver in the cradle before it rang with a vengeance.

She picked up. “This is Elsie Arnold.”

“I want to talk to Chuck Harris,” a female voice said. “This is the Prosecutor’s Office in Missouri, isn’t it?”

“It is, the McCown County Prosecutor’s Office. But you dialed my line; this is Elsie Arnold. I think Chuck’s tied up,” she said, checking the caller ID; it was the number she had just dialed a moment before. “Can I help you?”

“I want information on the Glenda Fielder case.”

“Right; that’s State v. Tanner Monroe.” She checked the pink message again. “Is this Phyllis Garrison?”

“Yeah. And who did you say you are?”

“Elsie Arnold; I’m cocounsel on the Monroe case.”

She could hear the woman huff into the phone. “Finally. I’ve been chasing that Harris guy’s tail for weeks. He won’t talk to me.”

“How can we help you?”

“I’ll tell you what you can do to help me. You make sure the guy who killed Glenda gets the death penalty.”

Elsie rubbed her forehead as she spoke into the receiver. “Well, there’s a legal issue. You see—­”

The woman cut her off. “I want you to promise me that.”

Elsie raised her voice slightly and said, “The defendant—­Mr. Monroe—­is fifteen. There’s no death penalty in Missouri for persons under the age of sixteen. It’s the law. But we will do our best to see that justice is done. So, how do you know the deceased, Ms. Fielder?”

“She was my wife.”

Elsie sat in silence for a moment, digesting the statement. “You and Glenda Fielder were married?” Elsie had no idea whether gay marriage was legal in Michigan; she knew that the state constitution of Missouri refused to permit or recognize same-­sex unions.

Elsie heard a catch in Phyllis Garrison’s voice as she said, “Not legally. We were partners, for over eleven years. Married in every way but the law. You know?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I wanted to do it; begged Glenda to go with me to Massachusetts and get married there, back when it was the only place that we could go. But she didn’t want to fight the battle with her family.”

Gently, Elsie said, “We’ve been in touch with Glenda’s niece, and she never mentioned the relationship.”

“Yeah, well. They never accepted it. Shit, there we were—­in our forties, living together for over ten years, but had to play some lie for her family, like we were just friends. Roommates. Really good friends.” She laughed into the phone with a hollow sound.

Elsie asked, “Did you own property together?”

“We didn’t own much. I’m on the car title. And we both signed the apartment lease.”

“Good. That’s good.” Elsie’s heart rate increased as the significance of Phyllis Garrison’s revelation hit home. Glenda Fielder was looking better by the minute. Even Billy Yocum would have a hard time convincing a jury that a forty-­year-­old lesbian in a committed relationship was the seductress of a teenage boy.

“Phyllis, the case has been set for trial, and I’d really like for you to be here. Can you come to Missouri?”

“You’re goddamned right I’ll be there,” Phyllis said.

Elsie secured the dates with her new witness and hung up the phone with a smile on her face.

Feeling thoroughly self-­satisfied, Elsie tilted back in her chair and propped her feet on her desk; but her jubilant mood dissolved when she saw the soiled and wrinkled anonymous message under the heel of her left shoe. In the quiet of her office, she heard a voice whisper in her head: Queen of Swords.