The Farmer's Slaughter Read online

  “Honey, you’ve never been anonymous to me or anyone else who’s taken the time to get to know you. You’re the most special person I know, even if you do have abysmal taste in shoes. And I’m a little worried about you being alone for the rest of your life. Like I’ve told you before, the heroes in your books don’t actually exist. Take it from me, sweetie. I know men. And there’s no such animal as the ones you write about.”

  “No offense Heather, but if you were to throw a dart in a room of a hundred men, you’d hit the worst of the lot. Trust me, there are good men out there. I write about real heroes. The stories I tell might be fiction, but they’re based off real cases with real victims. The men and women I write about, they never forget the dead. They carry those memories not just through their careers, but through their whole lives.”

  Almost as if by fate, the brass bell that hung over the door jingled and Hank Davidson walked in, bold as life. He had the kind of presence that commanded attention, and she and Heather weren’t the only ones who’d noticed his arrival. She wanted to think the pounding in her chest and lightheadedness had something to do with the irritation she’d experienced the last time they were in each other’s presence, but she had a feeling it had more to do with what he was wearing.

  “Good Lord,” Heather said. “It’s like Archie Bunker and Panama Jack dressed him. What is he wearing? And why is he still so attractive.”

  “I think he’s just really bad at being retired. It’s like he’s got this image in his mind of what it should look like, but he’s clearly in the prime of his life. Retirement is the last thing I think about when I look at him.”

  “Oh, ho,” Heather said, raising her brows. “So that’s the way the wind blows, is it? Well, you can have him with my blessing. You were right when you told me he was going to take a lot of work.”

  “Nope,” Agatha said. “Get that dopey look off your face. I’m just having flashbacks from yesterday. I can’t decide if I want to rip off those socks or just run out screaming.”

  Not to mention the fact that she’d spent the better part of her evening the night before researching Hank Davidson. He’d lead some of the biggest criminal investigations in America. He was the best of the best—both revered and hated.

  “Well that’s your problem, sugar,” Heather said. “Socks are not what you should be wanting to rip off that man.”

  “Hush,” Agatha whispered as Hank’s gaze met hers. She knew exactly why he’d taken early retirement. And maybe he deserved a little kindness in his life as he adjusted to retirement.

  “I’ll be back.” Agatha scooted out of the padded booth and straightened her blouse. She blew her bangs, which desperately needed a trim, out of her eyes.

  “Oh, Lord,” Heather said. “This is going to be bad. Please don’t embarrass us. And remember that everyone has a camera phone nowadays.”

  Agatha waved away her concerns and headed toward Hank’s table. He always sat at the same one, his chair in the corner so he could see both the kitchen area and the front of the restaurant at the same time. He might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “Cop,” on his forehead.

  “How’s it going neighbor?” she asked, taking the chair across from his.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, staring at her blankly.

  “Seriously?” she asked. “You don’t remember me?”

  He squinted and then tilted his head to the side. And then he grinned. “Oh, yeah. How’s it going, Aggie? I didn’t recognize you dry.”

  “Hilarious,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “But I thought about your suggestion yesterday and agree that we should start over. We are neighbors, after all, and if I’m being honest, I did have a reason to come see you yesterday.”

  “I know,” he said, maddeningly. “I figured there was a reason you had to give yourself a five-minute pep-talk. Why don’t you just ask?”

  “Because I’m horrible at talking to people other than my close friends,” she said.

  “You mean like the lady who keeps sticking her head in the aisle to look at us?”

  Agatha felt the blood rush into her cheeks. “Yeah, like her. I’m just saying, I’m not exactly social. I mean, I’m fine when I have to interview someone for research, but that’s different. It’s just asking questions and taking notes. But small talk…” she shrugged. “I’m that person that makes things more awkward.” She paused for a few seconds when he just stared at her. “Like now.”

  He chuckled and then called for Penny to bring tea for both of them. “Unsweet for me,” he said.”

  “Unsweet?” she asked. “You might as well shout to the world that you’re a Yankee.”

  “The sweet tea makes my teeth hurt,” he said. “I wasn’t here a week before I thought I might end up in a diabetic coma.”

  “That’s funny, because that’s how I feel every time I see you wearing socks with those sandals.” She couldn’t help but snicker as he held up his foot into the aisle.

  “Okay,” he said, once the drinks were in front of them. “I’ll make it less awkward for you. Maybe just ask what you want like you’re conducting an interview. What are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes all of a sudden. “Hopefully, you’re not a journalist. I’ve had my fill of those. You’ll have to buy your own sweet tea if that’s the case.”

  She swallowed and felt the nerves inside her. She’d lived her professional life in hiding, never revealing her pen name, even to the cops and medical examiners she’d interviewed over the years. But lately, she’d began to feel the restrictions of her success. And she often wondered if she was really living at all.

  “I’m a writer,” she said. “A mystery writer to be exact.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asked. “You published?

  “Nineteen times,” she said. “And another due out next month.”

  “So, what would a mystery writer want with a retired nobody from Philadelphia?”

  “Hardly a nobody,” she said. “Word on the street is you were a cop.”

  “Seven months and ten days,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I haven’t been a cop in seven months and ten days. I retired for a reason. I don’t know anybody here and nobody knows I’m here, and that’s the way I want it to stay.”

  “So you’re hiding?”

  The look in his eyes told her not to press further. Fortunately, she didn’t need to. That’s what the internet was for.

  “What do you want, mystery writer?”

  “I need help with the book I’m working on.”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “There was nothing I hated more in college than writing term papers.”

  “I don’t need you to actually write the book,” she said with exasperation. “I’m just thinking we could maybe help each other. I can imagine that after being a cop, watering roses and doing crossword puzzles is making you stir-crazy.”

  “You could say that. What do you suggest?”

  “All of my books come from real cases. But my current book is a cold case. And no matter how I look at it, I can’t figure out the ending. It doesn’t make sense, and at this point, making up my own ending seems…unsatisfying.”

  “Go on,” he said, obviously intrigued.

  “I’ve got a sixteen-year-old girl named Nicole Green. Eight years ago she was found on her father’s farm, not twenty-miles from here, with her skull smashed in. Not only did the killer sexually assault her, but after delivering the fatal blow he rolled her into a pond and buried her naked body with debris and branches. No arrests were ever made.”

  “There are thousands of cold cases all over the country,” he said. “If you want this one solved your best bet is to talk to the sheriff and see if he has an extra deputy to assign to it.”

  “I want you,” she said.

  “I’m retired.”

  “No, you’re hiding. You said so yourself.”

  “Even more reason to not get involved.”

  Agatha huffed out a breath in disgust and p
ulled a couple of bucks out of her pocket. “I’ll pay for my own tea anyway,” she said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  He grabbed her wrist to stop her before she could scoot out of the booth, but she glared at him and he removed it immediately.

  “You never told me the name you write under,” he said. “Maybe I’ll check out your books since I seem to have so much free time.”

  Agatha let a litany of names she’d like to call him go through her head before she finally answered.

  “You realize you just said all of that out loud,” he said, laughter crinkling his eyes. “You swear like a cop.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of time with cops. It’s always my goal to write them as accurately as possible.”

  “Lady, no offense, but the only way you could do that was if you were a cop.”

  Agatha rolled her eyes and scooted out of the booth.

  “Are you going to tell me your name or not?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said, her irritation obvious. “It’s not like you’re actually going to read me. The name is A.C. Riddle.”

  The burst of laughter he let out had everyone in the café looking in their direction, and Agatha felt the blood rush to her cheeks in embarrassment.

  “Lady, who are you trying to fool? You are not A.C. Riddle. I’ve read every one of his books. And that’s a man who knows cops. In fact, I’d be willing to bet money he used to be a cop, and that’s why he never does appearances. He probably worked under cover.”

  The embarrassment she’d felt a second ago was replaced with rage. “There’s your first mistake,” she said. “He is a she, and that she is me. And I’ll take that bet. The A.C. stands for Agatha Christy. My first and middle name. Riddle was my mother’s maiden name.”

  She straightened her spine and stood her full height, looking down at him with contempt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got a cold case to solve.”

  Chapter Four

  Hank had to give credit where credit was due. The food in Texas was delicious. And fattening. He’d been eating more than his share of chicken fried steak and barbecue over the last several weeks.

  Restaurant choices were limited in Rusty Gun. Other than the Kettle Café, which was where he’d been eating lunch almost every day for the last six weeks, there was Bucky’s Brisket Basket, which was only open for dinner and was always crowded. Both restaurants were on the long strip of Main Street. The locals knew if they wanted other options they’d have to drive twenty minutes to the nearest town.

  He ate most of his meals alone, but every once in a while, Karl Johnson would come in and join him while he was on his dinner break. Hank missed cops. He missed talking with them and hanging out with them. Even Karl, who was barely wet behind the ears, was a sight for sore ears.

  Karl was a good kid, and more important, he was still enthusiastic about the job. He didn’t have the shade of cynicism that came with every passing year on the job.

  “These twelve-hour nights are killing me,” Karl said, taking the chair next to him so they both sat facing the door.

  “I started my career just like you,” Hank said to Karl.

  The waitress came to the table, and he pointed to the grilled chicken salad on the menu. Sheila was probably close to his age, maybe a couple of years old. Her black hair was braided intricately, and the wrinkles on her face showed a life of hardship, but when she smiled it lit up the room.

  He wasn’t sure if she owned the place or if she just acted like she did, but she took care of the employees and the customers with an ease that few could master. Her hands were bare and there was nothing soft about them, and she wore jeans and a t-shirt with the restaurant name in big yellow letters across the front.

  Sheila shook her hand and cocked a hand on an ample hip. “Honey, do you smell that? That’s the smell of melt in your mouth ribs fresh out of the smoker. Douse ‘em in some of our homemade sauce, and mmmm,” she said, putting her fingers to her lips and kissing them. “Delicious.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Sheila,” Hank said. His stomach rumbled, voicing the need for ribs. But his stomach was the problem. It wasn’t quite as flat as it had been when he was on the job. “I’m trying to be good. Retirement hasn’t been good for my waistline.”

  “Sugar, you look just fine to me, but I’ll get your salad. What about you, baby?” she asked Karl. “Want the usual?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You know I’m not going to pass up the ribs.”

  Karl waited until Sheila had left to give their orders to the kitchen and then said to Hank, “I sometimes think about eating healthier. But what if I get shot in the line of duty? Do I really want my last meal to have been a salad?”

  Hank snorted out a laugh. “I used to think that way too, kid. Believe me, age will catch up with you one day.”

  “You’re dreamin’ man. I don’t know who you’re trying to fool about this retirement bull. You’re in better shape than every man in here, except for yours truly,” Karl said with a cocky grin.

  Karl grabbed a hot roll from the basket and broke it open, slathering the inside with butter, and Hank’s mouth watered at the smell. Lord, he missed bread.

  “What did you mean when you said you started your career just like mine?”

  “I started in patrol with Philly PD, and I was humping twelve hour shifts too. But I learned more about police work during those days than any as a detective.”

  “That’s crazy, man,” Karl said, shaking his head. “You worked all over the world. Heck, you trained at the FBI Academy. You lived every cops’ dream. And you’re gonna tell me patrol was better? Pull the other one.”

  “Variety, Karl. When you go 10-8 you never know what to expect.” A 10-8 was active duty. “But when you get that call that all heck’s about to break loose, that’s when your juices start to flow and everything you’ve trained for is set in motion. Then it’s up to you to create a solution.”

  Hank took a long swallow of tea, wetting his dry mouth. If the guys could see him now, what would they think of what he’d become? The more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t really care. Those days were in his past. Retirement didn’t mean he was dead, even though that’s what he’d thought at first. It just meant he was on a different path. Agatha had been right. He had a whole lot of life to live. He just had to figure out how to live it now that the only thing he’d ever known was gone.”

  “I love that feeling,” Karl said. “Nothing like slapping a pair of cuffs on someone.”

  “Arresting people isn’t always the solution,” Hank said.

  Karl’s excitement dimmed a little. “Sheriff Coil says the same thing.”

  “Trust your boss. He’s a good man.”

  Sheila brought their food and set it in front of them, and then refilled their tea glasses. Hank thanked her, and then they said grace before eating.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” Karl said after a bit, “but what’s going on between you and Agatha Harley? I’ve noticed there’s some tension.”

  “You and everybody else in town,” Hank said rolling his eyes. “Last time I went to the drug store I was asked if spraying neighbors in the face was how they greeted each other up north.”

  Karl chuckled. “All I’m saying is Agatha is the real deal. She reminds me a lot of you.”

  “Talk about crazy,” Hank said. “How in the world is that woman like me? She’s a scatterbrained mystery writer. Even she admits that she’s not good in social situations.”

  “No offense,” Karl said. “But I haven’t noticed you making a lot of friends around town.”

  Hanks lips twitched. “I grow on people.”

  “I’m just saying, outside of Sheriff Coil and the other deputies, y’all are the only two people I trust. I mean, really trust. She thinks like a cop, and she has a heart for the victims like you do. She came to me with this cold case she’s working on for her book, and I’m not afraid to admit that you’re the most qualified man for the job. She really needs your hel
p.”

  “I’m not sure what I can do,” he said. “I’m a retired cop from up north. No one’s going to talk to me down here.”

  “Good detective work is good detective work, no matter where you are or your status,” Karl said. “It’s not just about writing a book to her. You’ll never hear her talk about herself or her success. In fact, I’m pretty sure she still thinks no one actually knows her pen name around here. She doesn’t like publicity. She doesn’t seek it. A lot of that has to do with the stalker that terrorized her during college.”

  “Stalker?” Hank asked. “What happened with that?”

  “I don’t know all the details,” Karl said, shrugging. “But I know she almost died. And I know the man wouldn’t have stopped coming after her. He’s been in jail for almost two decades, and she’s been here hiding.”

  Just like him, Hank thought, his blood boiling at the thought of what Agatha must have gone through.

  “She still lives in her parent’s home around the corner from you,” Karl said. “Her parents died in a car crash a few years back. There was black ice on the road and an eighteen-wheeler skidded right into them.”

  Hank winced. “That’s rough.” He knew what it was like to lose people you loved. How it shaped you forever.

  “After they passed away, she could’ve moved away or built a mansion on the outskirts of town. But she didn’t. Have you read her work?”

  “Yeah,” Hank said, a knot forming in his gut. “Every one of them. I thought the guy writing them was a cop, using his own cases.”

  “They were all cold cases,” Karl said. “Cold cases she helped solve. She does it as much for the victim as she does for the book. She’s been a victim, and she knows things could’ve ended much differently for her.”