A Killing at the Creek: An Ozarks Mystery

ELSIE AND CHUCK pulled into the graveled parking lot of the Wagon Wheel Café at eleven o’clock sharp. Chuck put his car into park and moved to cut the engine, but Elsie stopped him.

“Let’s listen to the news on the radio,” she said. “I want to hear if they picked up anything about the dead woman from the police band.”

“Okay.” He turned the volume up a notch.

They didn’t have to wait long. The announcer’s voice crackled with excitement as he said, “Breaking news on KZTO. Prosecutor Madeleine Thompson announced at the courthouse today that a body was discovered in rural McCown County just this morning.”

Elsie shook her head. “She can’t keep her mouth shut. She’d tell a kid there’s no Santa Claus.”

Chuck eyed her reproachfully. “How about a little respect here?” Elsie shushed him as Madeleine’s voice came through the speaker.

“ ‘This horrific crime is a blot on our community. We’ll leave no stone unturned to find the person who committed this vile act. And I promise you: we will seek the maximum penalty under law. You have my personal guarantee that we will see justice done.’ ”

“You have my personal guarantee that she will get her hair done,” Elsie said. “Anything more heavy-­duty, not so sure.”

“What’s your problem?” Harris asked.

Elsie snorted, a genuine response, if not a dainty one. “You haven’t worked for her as long as I have. You’re still on your honeymoon.”

As Chuck turned off the engine, Elsie spied Ashlock’s car across the lot. “Look, Ashlock beat us here. Damn! How’d he do that?”

“Hope he got us a table,” Chuck said as they walked to the doorway together. “I’m starving.”

They entered the restaurant, a ranch-­style house converted to a diner in the 1960s and by appearances, not thoroughly scrubbed since then. Elsie slid into a booth beside Ashlock, her hand swiping through a sticky syrup spot on the side of the table.

“I love this place,” she said. “My mom never let us eat at the Wagon Wheel when we were kids, because the bathrooms were so nasty. Coming to the Wagon Wheel is still like forbidden fruit to me.”

“Best breakfast in town,” Ashlock said.

“And the atmosphere is delightful,” Harris said dryly, taking care to set his jacket where it wouldn’t brush the greasy curtain adorning the window.

“If you’re particular about that sort of thing,” Ashlock said.

Elsie surveyed the two men. Ashlock, powerfully built, wearing a short-­sleeved poly/cotton shirt and military buzz cut, made a stark contrast to Chuck Harris in his crisp pastel cotton shirt and silk tie, with an auburn hairdo that might have required more attention than Elsie’s. She remembered her mother’s admonition, Steer clear of a peacock!

A waitress walked up, pulling a pad out of her white nylon apron pocket. “You’uns want coffee?”

“Lord, no. Too hot,” said Elsie.

Chuck shook his head. Bob Ashlock turned over the crockery cup in front of him and nodded. The waitress put her pad away and walked off to find a pot. “Diet Coke, please?” Elsie begged as the waitress walked away.

“You command respect, Ashlock,” Chuck said.

Ashlock stared at a nick in the Formica and chrome table, circling it with his index finger. Elsie knew that look: the wheels were turning.

He looked up, addressing Elsie. “I got word just before you came in. The deceased had a chauffeur’s license on her because she was transporting a school bus from Detroit to northwest Arkansas. The bus was supposed to arrive a week ago. There’s been a bulletin out, to be on the lookout for either the driver or the vehicle.”

“We’ve got the driver. So where’s the bus?” Elsie asked, as the waitress returned to pour Ashlock a steaming cup of coffee.

“How come your cops can’t find a big yellow bus in the Ozarks?” asked Chuck.

Elsie took the Diet Coke gratefully, tearing the paper off the straw and taking a long pull on the cold drink. When the waitress clicked her pen, Elsie said, “You guys go ahead. I’m not so hungry this morning.”

“What’s up? I’ve seen you eat like a field hand,” Chuck said.

“I’m a girl with a healthy appetite,” Elsie said. Ashlock caught her eye and smiled.

“I’ll have the Pioneer Special with patty sausage and hash browns. Eggs over easy,” Ashlock said to the waitress.

“Biscuits and gravy or toast?”

“The biscuits, ma’am.” He handed her the plastic menu.

Chuck ordered a club sandwich on whole wheat, hold the mayo. As the waitress walked off, he said, “Seriously, how the hell do you hide a school bus? It’s not like it’s hard to spot on the highway. What kind of fools do you have on the highway patrol down here who can’t spot a runaway bus? Sounds like they couldn’t find their fucking ass with both hands.”

Ashlock’s jaw twitched. “Watch how you talk in front of a lady.”

Elsie quit sucking her straw as Harris jerked his thumb at her. “You mean Elsie? Christ, Ashlock, you obviously don’t know who you’re talking about. Elsie couldn’t kiss her mother with that mouth.”

“Shut up, Harris,” Elsie said, “and watch what you say about our local police.” Turning to Ashlock, she said, “Honey, I love your old-­fashioned he-­man side, I really do, but you can’t threaten everyone who drops an f-­bomb in front of me. Especially since I’ve been known to drop a few myself.” More than a few, she amended silently. She reached onto the table and took Ashlock’s hand, rubbing the sensitive spot between his thumb and forefinger. “You are kind of like Prince Valiant. Like old Vernon Wantuck told us at the jail last winter.”

Chuck Harris eyed them. “So. You two have a thing going on.”

A smile played on the corner of Ashlock’s mouth. He squeezed Elsie’s hand, and she leaned in close to him.

Ashlock’s phone rang, breaking the spell. He checked the ID, and answered, “What you got, Patsy?”

Elsie and Harris watched as Ashlock took Elsie’s crumpled napkin and made notes on it with a pen. Ashlock nodded as he held the cell phone, saying, “Yep. Got it. Got it. Call me back when you hear.”

He disconnected. Elsie said, “So, Ash? What is it?”

“They located the bus. It’s in Oklahoma.”

“For sure?” Elsie asked.

“Oh yeah.”

“It’s definitely the one the dead woman was transporting?” Harris echoed.

“Public Schools of Rogers, Arkansas,” Ashlock quoted soberly. “They’ve impounded it.”

“Anything to tie it to the offense?” Harris asked.

“It’s covered in blood.”

They fell silent as the waitress walked up with plates balanced skillfully up her left arm. She set down the sandwich and the breakfast platter, topped off Ashlock’s coffee, and walked away.

“Whose case is it, then,” mused Harris. “Missouri or Oklahoma?”

Elsie cocked an eye at him, surprised that he didn’t know the answer. “Crim Law I, dude. We’ve got the body. We don’t know where the offense occurred, so since the body was dumped in McCown County, it’s definitely our case.”

Harris picked the toast off the top of his sandwich. “No mayonnaise, thank God. Who’s testing the bus, then? Us or Oklahoma?”

“It’s our case,” Ashlock said. “Our ­people will do it.”

“I want Missouri Highway Patrol,” Harris countered.

“Our crime lab is perfectly capable of doing blood, hair, and print analysis. They do it all the time.”

“I don’t want some local Barney Fife screwing my case up. This is a murder investigation, not a speeding ticket.”

A cloud went over Ashlock’s face. Harris saw it and backed off.

The men ate in silence for a few moments while Elsie rattled the ice cubes in her empty soda glass. Ashlock squirted ketchup onto his hash browns and cut his sausage with his fork, dipping it into the egg yolk. When the tone of his cell sounded again, Ashlock answered, his fork in midair. After listening intently, he hit End. He looked at the lawyers and said, “We have a suspect in custody. Oklahoma Highway Patrol is transporting him here this afternoon.”

Elsie said, “That’s fast. Do you think they’ll deliver him to the county jail or the city police department?”

“Neither. He’s going to juvenile.”

Both Elsie and Harris froze, stunned.

“He’s fifteen.”

“Oh shit,” Elsie said.