Melanie Rucker. Randy's wife. Alone.
"Ditsy woman," I growled.
Once inside, I checked in with a deputy at the sliding window, then looked around the sparsely furnished lobby. Just as I was about to lay claim the solitary chair, an interior door flew open and crashed into the wall. I recoiled and tripped over the chair. Randy Rucker caught the door on its ricochet and shoved it again.
I turned to flee, tangled with the chair, and collided with the wall. It was all wasted effort. Randy galloped past me like one of his roping horses in pursuit of a frightened calf and flung open the exterior glass door before the interior one had time to slam. Miraculously, no glass shattered.
Randy hauled to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, snatched the cowboy hat off his head, slapped it against his thigh, and yelled, red-faced, before striding back into the building, flinging the door out of his way again. This time he made a bee-line for the sliding window, and pounded on the glass.
"Phone. I need a phone!"
The window slid open and one was set on the counter. Randy picked it up and hammered the buttons. He kept an eye on the door – my escape route – trying to pace, but the cord wouldn't let him.
"Hey," he said. "Get your goddamn ass in to the sheriff's office now… I don't care what you got going on… No, she was – No she thought I might enjoy the walk. Yes, she left me here. What do you think?… No, you moron, she's got the truck. We've got a car – Christ Almighty, you're an idiot… it probably is the one with the big H on it… just get your ass in here!" Randy slammed the receiver back in the cradle.
That's when he caught sight of me. His eyes narrowed.
"You."
I gulped and backed against the wall. "Hi, Randy."
He took his time walking across the lobby, crushing and re-crushing the brim of his hat with one hand. "You," he repeated. "Are you happy now? Feel like you've gotten even?"
I froze, wide-eyed, gape-mouthed terrified. A little "eep" was all I had for an answer.
"Is there a problem here?" The deputy who'd been at the window was now halfway across the lobby.
Randy turned good-old-boy friendly. "None at all. Just having a neighborly chat." He smoothed the brim of his hat. "Isn't that right, Ms. Campbell?" His slow smile missed "neighborly" by a wide margin if the anger flashing in his eyes was any indication. He nodded to the deputy and ambled out the door.
I slid onto the chair I'd been standing next to.
"You okay?" the deputy asked.
I nodded.
"It'll just be a few more minutes before you can sign your statement."
I nodded again.
What the heck was going on? Although any fool could see Randy and Melanie weren't experiencing a moment of marital bliss, I couldn't imagine how it was my fault – if indeed that's what Randy was so mad about. As alarming as his behavior was, it occurred to me (as my pulse returned to normal) that his tantrum wasn't too far out of character with the rough-around-the-edges, cowboy image he like to project. That image was probably one reason his stable in Marysville, where he trained reiners and cutting horses, was so successful. People thought they were getting the "real deal." Cowboys cuss and yell, right?
Melanie, despite her rapid departure from the parking lot, was the perfect foil for her husband. Her soft, Southern accent and genteel manners have the odd effect of lending a degree of romanticism to Randy. There had to be something noble somewhere beneath the crudeness if Melanie was attracted to him. Or so one would think.
A little over a year ago I had spoken with them, hoping to sign them on as clients for my accounting business. They decided they didn't need to pay someone for something Melanie could do for free – in her spare time – along with raising their daughter, cooking, cleaning and working a full-time job. Jeez.
After today I was glad they weren't my clients.
Ten minutes after Randy stressed the hinges on the inner door it opened again, this time with far more restraint. A portly, balding man stood in the doorway. Instead of a uniform, he wore a rumpled, light brown suit. Hardly a fashion statement, though I doubted he cared. The downward tug of the lines on his face made him look weary rather than angry. His eyes found mine.
"Theodora Campbell?" Hi lack of interest exceeded that of the preoccupied nurse who'd called me in to the doctor's exam room less than an hour ago.
"Here – uh, yes." I jumped up. How was I supposed to act? I felt like a fifth grader being called in to the principal's office.
Mr. Could-Care-Less waved a file folder, motioning me toward the hallway, and introduced himself as Detective Thurman. He didn't return my tentative smile and he didn't bother to shake my hand. He did direct me to a small office and handed me the folder.
"Read this and make sure it's accurate before you sign it. You can sit there." He waved his hand in the direction of the only chair in the room besides the padded one he claimed.
I moved a couple of Field & Stream magazines off the molded, orange plastic seat before perching to read my typed statement.
Thurman didn't speak until I handed the signed paper back to him. "You know the guy who just blew out of here?"
"Only slightly. He's Randy Rucker. Trains western horses, so we don't really cross paths."
Thurman nodded. "Seems to know you. In fact, he said you were a 'lying little mother-of-a-dog' – more or less – and were 'just looking to cause trouble.' Also said I shouldn't believe anything you have to say about how he can afford the improvements on his property. But he wasn't that concise."
My mouth hung open. I snapped it shut and rubbed my forehead. Randy'd been talking to Detective Thurman about me? "What?"
"I take it you disagree with him." He watched me with cool, unblinking brown eyes.
Duh. "Detective, I haven't spoken with or seen the man in over a year, and then it was only when he told me he and his wife didn't feel they needed to hire my accounting services. I haven't even driven past their place since them. I don't know what he's doing business-wise or anyway else."
"Apparently, I'm not supposed to believe that."
"I don't know what to say." Nothing that he'd believe, anyway.
Thurman shrugged and rolled a pen between his fingers. "Have you had any contact with either of them since then?"
"No. I told you."
Then he changed the subject with the same professional ease as every female member of my family. "That's quite a bruise on your jaw. Mind telling me how you got it?"
"Valerie's grieving boyfriend, excuse me, fiancé, was having a hard time distinguishing me from my horse this morning."
"Greg Marshall?" The detective's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Yes."
"What happened exactly?"
I gave him an accurate account of Greg's visit, including what he said to me, and finished with Paul's efficient handling of Greg's departure. "I expect I should tell someone official." I felt my face heat up, remembering Paul's insistence.
Thurman's mouth stretched into a long-suffering smile. "You just did."
Oh. Whoops.
"Do you want to file a complaint?"
"Because Greg went crazy for a while with grief? I don't think it's necessary. I just wanted to make sure you knew." I nodded quickly, my hands pressed together in my lap.
"Been to the doctor?"
"Yes, before I came here."
"Good. So, Greg Marshall was Miss Parsons's fiancé?"
"Yes."
He drummed his pen on the edge of his desk and studied me through narrowed eyes. I held my breath. Whatever was coming next wasn't going to be good.
The drumming stopped. "We determined your horse didn't kill Miss Parsons."