was, and a few minutes later came back out, and talked to Amy LaChaise. She could hear Amy’s crowing voice, but not the individual words.
After five minutes, the two men left Amy LaChaise and walked over to where she was sitting. She thought, Hold on. Just hold on.
“Mrs. Darling?” The big guy had blue eyes that looked right into her. When he smiled, just a small polite smile, she almost shivered, the smile was so hard. He reminded her of a Montana rancher she’d met once, when she’d gone out to pick up a couple of quarter horses; they’d had a hasty affair, one that she remembered with some pleasure.
The other guy, the shifty one, smiled, and he looked like Dagwood, like a nice guy.
“I’m Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis,” the big guy said, “And this is Detective Sloan . . .”
She caught Lucas’s name: Davenport. Wasn’t he . . . ? “Did you shoot my sister?” she blurted.
“No.” The big man shook his head. “Detective Sloan and I were at the credit union, but neither one of us fired a gun.”
“But you set it up,” she said.
“That’s not the way we see it,” Lucas said.
Sandy’s head jerked, a nod: she understood. “Am I going to be arrested?”
“For what?” the thin man asked. He seemed really curious, almost surprised, and she found herself warming to him.
“Well, that’s what I want to know. I came to the funeral, and now they won’t let me go anywhere. I’ve got to ask before I go to the bathroom. Nobody’ll talk to me.”
“That’s routine,” the thin man said. “I know it’s tiresome, but this is a serious thing. A man’s been murdered.”
The thin man—Sloan?—made it sound so reasonable. He went on. “We’ll talk to the sheriff, see if we can get you some information on how much longer it’ll be. I imagine you’ll have to make a formal statement, but I’d think you’d be home for dinner.”
“If you’re not involved,” Davenport said. She was sitting in a big chair, and he dropped into another one at a right angle to her. “If you’ve got anything to do with this, if you know where LaChaise is at, you better say so now,” he said. “Get a lawyer, get a deal.”
She shook her head, and a tear started down her cheek. “I don’t know anything, I just came to say good-bye to Candy . . .”
Three things were going on in her head. When Lucas said, “Say so now,” she thought, deep in her mind, Oh, right. At another level, she was so frightened she could hardly bear it. And in yet another place, she really was thinking about Candy, dead in a coffin not ten yards away; and that started the tear down her cheek.
LUCAS SAW THE tear start, and he glanced at Sloan. A wrinkle appeared between Sloan’s eyes. “Take it easy,” Sloan said gently. He leaned forward and touched her hand. “Listen. I really don’t think you had anything to do with this, but sometimes, people know more than they think. Like, if you were Dick LaChaise, where would you go? You know him, and you both know this territory . . .”
They talked with her for another fifteen minutes, but nothing came of it. Sandy showed tears several times, but held her ground: she simply didn’t know. She was a horse rancher, for God’s sakes, a landowner, a taxpayer, a struggling businesswoman. She didn’t know about outlaws: “Candy and I . . . she moved out of the house when I was in ninth grade and we didn’t see her much after that. She was always running around with Dick, doing crazy stuff. I was afraid she’d wind up dead.”
“What’d your folks do?” Sloan asked.
“My dad worked for the post office—he had a rural route out of Turtle Lake. They’re both gone now.”
“Sorry,” Sloan said. “But you don’t know anybody they might have run to?”
She shook her head: “No. I didn’t have anything to do with that bunch. I didn’t have time—I was always working.”
“So how crazy is LaChaise?” Lucas asked. “His mother says he’s gonna come
After five minutes, the two men left Amy LaChaise and walked over to where she was sitting. She thought, Hold on. Just hold on.
“Mrs. Darling?” The big guy had blue eyes that looked right into her. When he smiled, just a small polite smile, she almost shivered, the smile was so hard. He reminded her of a Montana rancher she’d met once, when she’d gone out to pick up a couple of quarter horses; they’d had a hasty affair, one that she remembered with some pleasure.
The other guy, the shifty one, smiled, and he looked like Dagwood, like a nice guy.
“I’m Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis,” the big guy said, “And this is Detective Sloan . . .”
She caught Lucas’s name: Davenport. Wasn’t he . . . ? “Did you shoot my sister?” she blurted.
“No.” The big man shook his head. “Detective Sloan and I were at the credit union, but neither one of us fired a gun.”
“But you set it up,” she said.
“That’s not the way we see it,” Lucas said.
Sandy’s head jerked, a nod: she understood. “Am I going to be arrested?”
“For what?” the thin man asked. He seemed really curious, almost surprised, and she found herself warming to him.
“Well, that’s what I want to know. I came to the funeral, and now they won’t let me go anywhere. I’ve got to ask before I go to the bathroom. Nobody’ll talk to me.”
“That’s routine,” the thin man said. “I know it’s tiresome, but this is a serious thing. A man’s been murdered.”
The thin man—Sloan?—made it sound so reasonable. He went on. “We’ll talk to the sheriff, see if we can get you some information on how much longer it’ll be. I imagine you’ll have to make a formal statement, but I’d think you’d be home for dinner.”
“If you’re not involved,” Davenport said. She was sitting in a big chair, and he dropped into another one at a right angle to her. “If you’ve got anything to do with this, if you know where LaChaise is at, you better say so now,” he said. “Get a lawyer, get a deal.”
She shook her head, and a tear started down her cheek. “I don’t know anything, I just came to say good-bye to Candy . . .”
Three things were going on in her head. When Lucas said, “Say so now,” she thought, deep in her mind, Oh, right. At another level, she was so frightened she could hardly bear it. And in yet another place, she really was thinking about Candy, dead in a coffin not ten yards away; and that started the tear down her cheek.
LUCAS SAW THE tear start, and he glanced at Sloan. A wrinkle appeared between Sloan’s eyes. “Take it easy,” Sloan said gently. He leaned forward and touched her hand. “Listen. I really don’t think you had anything to do with this, but sometimes, people know more than they think. Like, if you were Dick LaChaise, where would you go? You know him, and you both know this territory . . .”
They talked with her for another fifteen minutes, but nothing came of it. Sandy showed tears several times, but held her ground: she simply didn’t know. She was a horse rancher, for God’s sakes, a landowner, a taxpayer, a struggling businesswoman. She didn’t know about outlaws: “Candy and I . . . she moved out of the house when I was in ninth grade and we didn’t see her much after that. She was always running around with Dick, doing crazy stuff. I was afraid she’d wind up dead.”
“What’d your folks do?” Sloan asked.
“My dad worked for the post office—he had a rural route out of Turtle Lake. They’re both gone now.”
“Sorry,” Sloan said. “But you don’t know anybody they might have run to?”
She shook her head: “No. I didn’t have anything to do with that bunch. I didn’t have time—I was always working.”
“So how crazy is LaChaise?” Lucas asked. “His mother says he’s gonna come
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