Carson Birdwell’s portrait, large, imposing and exquisitely framed, hung behind his massive baroque desk. The coroner himself appeared larger and more imposing in the comfortably masculine trappings of his office. Booker wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Birdwell was descended from the visionary Grammon who’d founded the city.

Uncertain why he’d been included in the coroner’s discussion with Sheriff Ringhoffer, Booker relaxed in a plaid high-backed chair at the sheriff’s right, a position he considered least intrusive. Ringhoffer perched at the edge of a duplicate chair, rigidly erect and as tall as his five-foot-five stature would allow.

Birdwell folded his glasses on the desk.

“Sheriff, how did we come to this?”

“Sir?” Ringhoffer’s whispery voice barely carried to Booker’s ears.

“Grammon County is not a community of low-life, murdering blackguards. We’re law-abiding citizens. This hearing was intended as a formality to satisfy the court and the deceased’s family that misfortune had reached out its promiscuous claw and snatched up Charles Bailyn Fowler. How did we come to these accusations of adultery and murder?”

“Mr. Birdwell, you saw how those women are. They lied. I assure you—”

“Yes, they’re women, after all. I suppose we must consider the female propensity for prevarication.” The coroner skewered Booker with an admonishing glare. “You didn’t hear me say that, Mr. Krane.”

“No, of course not.”

“Sir, we still have no reason to believe Mr. Fowler’s death was anything but an accident,” Ringhoffer said softly. “Those women and their cat fight should not influence your decision. Sir.”

“Sheriff, Charles Fowler was a valued property owner and business investor in Grammon County. His wife and family will undoubtedly inherit his estate. They are valued property owners. Mrs. Fowler is a respected teacher, a mother to those two young men, and a faithful community volunteer at county events. Now that she has made her suspicions public, we cannot ignore them. We have to investigate.”

“Yes, sir, but you saw how they—”

“Lied. Yes. I sympathize with your situation. That’s why I’m going to prevail upon Mr. Krane to give you a hand as Coroner’s Investigator.”

“Why me?” Booker hadn’t intended to blurt it. “I mean, with all respect, Mr. Birdwell, how could I possibly help in a murder investigation?”

“There’s no need for modesty. The sheriff and I are both aware of your background and aware that you are a member of the American Society of Industrial Security. That’s the same organization that members of our Secret Service belong to, is it not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you are retired, Mr. Krane, are you not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And as a resident of Grammon County, you have an interest in preserving the integrity of our community.”

“Of course I do, but—”

This time Birdwell didn’t interrupt. Instead, he sat waiting, his imposing physique and imperious gaze quietly compelling Booker to agree.

Booker swallowed and started over. “I have a project on my plate that needs my attention.”

“We all have obligations. That’s why it’s important to clear up this situation quickly. Forty-eight hours should be sufficient. You and the sheriff will use that time to erase once and for all any doubt surrounding Mr. Fowler’s demise. Then we will all be free to return to business as usual.”

A gavel’s rap couldn’t have sounded more final. Booker found himself rising, as if dismissed. The sheriff rose, too.

“We’ll start tonight, sir,” he said, shooting a glance at Booker.

Birdwell nodded. “Gentlemen, I’m counting on your speed and discretion.”

Five minutes later, feeling as if he’d been flattened by a loaded Tahoe, Booker sat with the sheriff over iced tea at a cafe across from the Administration Building.

“I know it looks as if I set you up in there,” Ringhoffer said.

“You’re damn right it does.”

“I may have told Coroner Birdwell that you were the most qualified man in the county, but I didn’t expect him to draft you into service.”

Truthfully, Booker wouldn’t have minded helping out if it weren’t for the new Southern Affairs commission. Considering the sheriff’s youth and inexperience, he might easily overlook important details and jump to another wrong conclusion. Now that Roxanna’s disagreement with Fowler was public knowledge, her talent with a bow would come under more scrutiny. But with the weather against him, and two days chopped out to help Ringhoffer, Booker honestly didn’t see how he could make the magazine’s deadline. Publishing was a tight industry, careers made and broken by editors comparing notes in their casual emails. Booker’s poor performance on this commission could prevent his working for any other publication.

He was trying to recall if he’d actually agreed to help the sheriff, when Ringhoffer said something intelligent.

“Maybe we should start by listing the people who had a reason to kill Fowler, then eliminating the ones who couldn’t have done it.”

Emaline, intruding as usual, plunked a glass of tea on the table.

“That’s where I can help.” She dragged a chair over from a table behind her and sat down. “There are planetary aspects that absolutely rule out any capacity for violence. All I need is a birth chart on each suspect and a computer printout of the transiting planets.”

“We don’t have time for silliness,” Ringhoffer whispered roughly. “Mr. Krane and I have a job to do and a short amount of time to do it.”

“Then you need all the help you can get.”

“Not your kind—”

“Wait a minute,” Booker said. “If anybody knows more than Emaline about what goes on at Lakeside Estates, or all of Grammon County, for that matter, I’ll stand on my head and bray like an ass. Sheriff, you made an excellent suggestion. We’ll start with a list of suspects.”

Booker plucked a napkin from a metal dispenser and began making notes. The first two people on the list were Sarabelle and Melinda, then Aaron, Jeremy, and Gary Spiner.

“What about the fellow Ms. McCray came to the funeral with?” Ringhoffer asked. “Ramsey Crawford.”

Booker wrote it down. “He looks mean enough to do it, but what’s his motive.”

“Jealousy!” Emaline waved the waitress over for more tea. “Melinda and Crawford were thick before she set her hooks for bigger fish. And Ramsey’s got that Venus in Scorpio—”

“Now stop that!” Ringhoffer went red in the face, his voice booming across the room.

Emaline squinted down her nose at him.

“Don’t bust a lung on my account. And don’t say later that I withheld information.” She turned to Booker and muttered, “Write down ‘Venus in Scorpio.’”

“Why don’t we stick with earthly information,” Booker suggested. “Aaron told me his father had several dust-ups with Crawford. Maybe the mechanic was holding out hope that

Melinda would come back to him. Then Fowler got serious about divorcing Sarabelle, and Crawford saw he might lose out for good.”

The sheriff frowned around the thought.

“I can see everything you’re saying, Mr. Krane. But when I picture Crawford killing anybody, I see those big fists or, considering his skills with automobiles, a punctured brake line.

What does he know about archery?”

Booker explained his theory about using the arrow like a spear. “A tornado can pierce a tree trunk with a straw. An arrow thrust with enough anger behind it would easily pierce a man’s chest.”

The sheriff’s russet eyebrows knitted. “That’s something I can have one of my deputies check out.”

Booker turned to Emaline, who had sat quiet longer than he would’ve thought possible.

“What’s your take on Crawford?”

“I’m not sure Ramsey wanted Melinda exclusively. That would mean commitment. After all, Chuck only came to town on weekends. Ramsey had Melinda to himself during the week, with no pressure to make it permanent. If Melinda married Chuck, she’d still be free during the week, and with more money to spend.”

“Ms. Peters, you’re talking about premeditated adultery.” Ringhoffer sounded incredulous. “I realize the woman’s a schemer, but you’re suggesting she only wanted Mr. Fowler for his money and he was too dumb to realize it.”

“Nope! Chuck Fowler was a self-made man, pulled himself up by working hard and working smart. He was too smart to marry Melinda. Besides, I think his sexual divining rod was already pointing toward new game.” She gave Booker a level stare fraught with meaning.

Booker felt a stab of discomfort. “You think he was hitting on Roxanna.”

Emaline snatched the napkin list and added the innkeeper’s name.

“Ask her if Chuck ever suggested alternative methods for paying off that ten-thousand dollars other than her friends in Houston.” She looked down her nose again at Ringhoffer.

“Chuck didn’t have Pluto in the eighth house of lust for nothing.”

Come back next Monday for the next chapter in Here Lies a Wicked Man.

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