Husband and Wives Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Susan Rogers Cooper

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Susan Rogers Cooper

  The Milt Kovak Series

  THE MAN IN THE GREEN CHEVY

  HOUSTON IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR

  OTHER PEOPLE’S HOUSES

  CHASING AWAY THE DEVIL

  DEAD MOON ON THE RISE

  DOCTORS AND LAWYERS AND SUCH

  LYING WONDERS

  VEGAS NERVE

  SHOTGUN WEDDING*

  RUDE AWAKENING*

  HUSBAND AND WIVES*

  The E J Pugh Mysteries

  ONE TWO WHAT DID DADDY DO?

  HICKORY DICKORY STALK

  HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

  THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL

  A CROOKED LITTLE HOUSE

  NOT IN MY BACK YARD

  DON’T DRINK THE WATER

  ROMANCED TO DEATH*

  FULL CIRCLE*

  The Kimmey Kruse Series

  FUNNY AS A DEAD COMIC

  FUNNY AS A DEAD RELATIVE

  *available from Severn House

  HUSBAND AND WIVES

  Susan Rogers Cooper

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2012

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2012 by Susan Rogers Cooper.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Cooper, Susan Rogers.

  Husband and wives. – (A Milt Kovak mystery)

  1. Kovak, Milton (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Sheriffs–Oklahoma–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-208-5 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8126-7 (cased)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To my daughter, Evin, for her love and support, and without whom E.J.’s books would never have a plot. But mostly, I want to thank her sincerely for giving me grandchildren.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the usual suspects: my friend, writer, and reader, Jan Grape, for her critique; and my agent, Vicky Bijur, for her help and support.

  ONE

  Milt Kovak – Monday

  You’d think my life would have gotten easier, what with me having a second-in-command and four deputies, and a new civilian aid answering the phones instead of Gladys who had finally, thank God, retired, and God bless her all to hell and back.

  In case you’re not familiar with Prophesy County, Oklahoma, and the way the sheriff’s department does business, let me set you straight. I’m Milt Kovak, sheriff of Prophesy County, and my second-in-command is Emmett Hopkins who, besides being my BFF, used to be police chief of Longbranch, the county seat of Prophesy County, before some political mess screwed that up for him. And my four deputies are Jasmine Bodine Hopkins, my long-time deputy and Emmett’s new wife; Anthony Dobbins, Prophesy County’s first African-American deputy sheriff; Anthony’s cousin, Nita Dobbins Skitteridge, not only our second African-American deputy but our second female deputy as well (got a two-fer there!); and my long-time deputy (can’t get rid of him) Dalton Pettigrew, who is a really nice fella but stupid as a bag of rocks. Dalton’s mama is the former sheriff’s first cousin, so nepotism got him in, and guilt on my part keeps him here. But, like I said, he’s a real nice fella.

  Our civilian aid mans the phones and the radios and acts as sort of a receptionist/secretary. Gladys had been doing that job since before my time, and my time started back in the late seventies, so God only knows how long she’d been there. All I know is once our old sheriff left she got the notion that she was boss of everything and treated me – duly appointed sheriff in charge and finally duly elected sheriff of Prophesy County – like I was the skinny one on her football team and she’d changed her name to Bob Stoops (in case you don’t know, that’s the coach of the finest football team in America – The University of Oklahoma Sooners). But finally she got so old that she’d be making more money with social security and her pension than she made working and her husband, bless him, begged her to retire. We gave her a big old party, and the next day I hired a young gal who’d gotten to Longbranch in a very strange way. Her name is Holly Humphries and for some reason she seems smitten with my deputy Dalton, which somehow makes him seem a little less stupid.

  Now on this particular day, a Monday (isn’t that always when the shit hits the fan?), Holly came into my office and said, ‘Sheriff, we’ve got a problem.’ I don’t like little Miss Holly just because she’s not Gladys. There’s a lot to like. She’s pretty, she’s smart, and she calls me ‘Sheriff,’ unlike Gladys who just called me Milt.

  The problem was that it was three thirty in the afternoon and Emmett was in Oklahoma City at a seminar, Jasmine was just finishing up giving a safety assembly at a high school in the far south side of the county, Anthony and his cousin Nita were both out in the north of the county at a tractor-trailer/four-car pile-up, and Dalton was off duty and taking his mother to a specialist in Tulsa. That’s why Holly said what she did, which was, ‘Sheriff, we’ve got a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, looking up from the paperwork on my desk.

  ‘I’ve got a girl on the phone and she sounds hysterical. I can’t make any sense of what she’s saying, and there’s nobody here to help me,’ Holly said. Then she got a stricken look on her face. ‘Except you, of course.’

  I looked at my phone and saw the line that was blinking. ‘I’ll take it,’ I said, and heard Holly breathe a sigh of relief.

  I picked up the phone and said, ‘This is Sheriff Kovak. To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God . . .’

  ‘Calm down now, honey,’ I said in the soothing tones I’d learned at a seminar in Dallas. It was a child’s voice, and endearments are OK when talking to a child. ‘Take a deep breath, now breathe with me, honey . . .’ And I started doing deep breathing, finally hearing her copying me on the other end of the line. ‘Good girl,’ I said in that soothing tone. ‘You’re doing great. Take a couple more deep breaths, sweetheart.’ I listened. ‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Real good. Now, can you tell me what happened? Start at the beginning, honey.’

  ‘I . . .
I came home . . . with my brothers and sisters . . . I had Mama’s car, I picked everybody up . . . I came in and . . . oh my God . . . oh my God . . .’

  ‘Take another deep breath,’ I said, soothing-like. ‘In, one-two-three, out, one-two-three . . . Now, what happened when you came in?’

  ‘Mama . . . Mama’s on the floor in the kitchen . . . she’s here now, just lying here . . . And there’s blood . . .’

  ‘Now, sweetie, I need to get an ambulance over there. What’s your name, honey, and your address?’

  I heard a sob over the phone. ‘She’s dead. Her eyes are open and she’s dead!’

  ‘I’m so sorry, darlin’. What’s your name and your address so we can get someone over there for you and your brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Lyn . . . Lynnie Hudson. 1803 Magnolia Way, in The Branches.’

  Now, The Branches (and yes, that is a capital ‘T’ in ‘the’) is the newest and ritziest subdivision in the town of Bishop, which is Prophesy County’s answer to Beverly Hills.

  ‘OK, Lynnie, honey,’ I said, ‘you’ve done real good. I’m on my way over there right now, and I’m sending an ambulance too. Now I want you and your brothers and sisters to step outside the house and wait for us out front. OK, darlin’?’

  ‘Just . . . just leave her here?’

  ‘That way the crime scene . . .’ I heard her sob ‘. . . if it is a crime scene, won’t get messed up, you understand, honey?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is this a cell phone you’re on?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you take it out with you and stay on the line. I’m gonna have you talk to my friend Holly until I get there. OK, Lynnie?’

  Another sob. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. Then she screamed.

  ‘What?’ I yelled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Little Mark! I forgot all about him!’

  ‘Who’s Little Mark?’ I asked.

  ‘My baby brother! Where is he? Oh my God oh my God!’

  ‘Lynnie, now just hold on—’

  ‘I’ve got to go find him!’

  ‘No!’ I said emphatically. ‘Absolutely not! If you haven’t heard him by now, he’s probably asleep. Let him be and go outside like I said. Now, Lynnie, I hate to say it, but that’s an order, honey.’

  Just the thought of her finding her baby brother dead was doing things to my head – none of ’em good.

  Still talking to her on the phone, I grabbed up my paraphernalia and said, ‘I’m gonna hafta put you on hold, Lynnie, while I go get Holly. Just hold on a second, sweetie. We’ll be right back.’ I headed quickly to the front office and picked up Holly’s phone, pushing the button for Lynnie. ‘OK, honey, I’m back. You’re gonna talk to Holly now. You and the kids outside yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but Little Mark—’

  ‘I’m on my way, y’all just stay outside, honey. Now I’m giving the phone to my friend Holly. She’s real good people and I’ll be right there, OK?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, but I could hear the tears in her voice.

  Putting my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, I said to Holly, ‘Her name’s Lynnie. Her mama’s dead in the kitchen. There’s a baby in the house someplace. Girl’s near hysterics. Talk to her in a calm voice, keep her and the other kids – don’t know how many – out of the house until we get there, got it?’

  Holly said, ‘Yes, sir,’ took the phone from my hand and in a soft voice said, ‘Lynnie? Hi, it’s Holly . . .’

  That’s all I heard as I radioed for an ambulance and headed out to my squad car.

  Bishop’s like twenty minutes away from Longbranch in miles, but about $200,000 per annum away in terms of income. That’s where all the doctors, lawyers and accountants live. And probably a few drug dealers I’m not yet aware of. The little township itself has boutiques and natural food stores and a store that sells kitchen crap, where I found a potato peeler they were selling for $65. Hand to God. They’ve got massage parlors that women go to (not like the trailers outside of Longbranch with the Asian girls). And they’ve got children’s stores with baby dresses that cost more than my wife’s wedding dress. I kid you not. Needless to say, I don’t go to Bishop a lot, other than command performances at my sister’s mini-mansion. Her husband owns used-car parts stores. Ten of ’em.

  Now, The Branches was new and totally concealed by a six-foot-high rock fence surrounding the entire subdivision and, if I was pushed, I’d say the place was at least a couple of hundred acres. There was a manned front gate (in this instance, womanned) and heavy iron gates that didn’t open without the permission of the uniformed and armed guard. (The armed part was on the up-and-up because they had to come to me to get their carry licenses and take shooting lessons at our range.) I showed the lady guard on duty my badge, told her the problem, and said, ‘Who’s your security chief out here?’

  ‘Maynard Ritchie, Sheriff. Want me to call him?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, have him meet me at the house,’ I said, and squealed tires getting through the gate.

  1803 Magnolia Way was the tip end of a cul-de-sac with only three houses, each of which appeared to sit upon at least a half acre. The house in question was pretty dang big, but looking at the crew of kids hanging out in front of the house, I figured any property that housed this bunch would have to be big. I counted seven kids as I walked up.

  ‘Lynnie?’ I asked, moving through the obviously upset children.

  ‘Sheriff?’ she cried, then ran up to me and grabbed my hand. ‘Mark! You’ve got to find Little Mark!’

  She was a pretty girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, blonde hair that reached her butt, big blue eyes, on the short side, a little thick through the middle, wearing a long dress that looked like the material my mama used to make curtains out of, and thick-soled black shoes.

  I looked around the bunch of kids. Four of them were girls, all wearing long dresses made out of similar material. The boys wore blue jeans and shirts made of the same sort of material, with the top button buttoned up tight. ‘Everybody all right?’ I asked.

  Stepping closer to me she whispered, ‘The little ones didn’t see her. They know something’s wrong, but they don’t know what.’

  ‘Have you contacted your father?’ I asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘He works at Telecom International. I left a message on his voicemail to call me on my cell phone immediately, but he’s an engineer and he’s in meetings all the time.’

  ‘Let me go in and get Little Mark, OK, Lynnie? I’ll be right back. Y’all stay right here.’

  I headed for the front door. The house was two and a half stories of white rock with a double front door made of hand-carved oak with inlays of beveled glass. I opened it gingerly and went inside. Beautifully crafted hardwood floors gleamed in the foyer and off to the right where there appeared to be a living room. At a glance it was sparkling clean and neat as a pin. Hard to believe seven – no, make that eight – children lived here. To the left was a large dining room with an enormous oak table with ten oak chairs arranged around it. Each corner of the room had an oak corner cabinet built in, displaying children’s crafts. I could see the kitchen to the back of the dining room. I headed in that direction. Mama laid on the floor my side of an island that held the stove top and a rack above, showing off sparkling copper pots and pans. I know I’ve probably said ‘sparkling’ or ‘shiny’ a hundred and eleven times, but with reason. The whole house shone like a Christmas tree.

  The lady in question was on her back, her head being the source of all the blood. Her hair had to be as long as her daughter’s, spread out all over the place – blood-soaked blonde hair. Squatting down, I could see a gash on the right side of her head. There was a dishrag clutched in her left hand and a wooden spoon in her right. She was wearing a larger version of the dresses the girls outside were wearing, but her feet were shod in pink fuzzy slippers. I put in a call to the ME, who was already on her way and slightly miffed that I would question her ETA.

  Just
as I was hanging up from having my butt chewed out, I heard a squeal from further back in the house. Then a yell and some more squealing. Having a six-year-old myself, I knew the sound of a baby up from his nap. I followed the sound only a few feet, beyond a bar that separated the kitchen from the family room, which was furnished in beanbag chairs, plastic slides, a small see-saw, bouncy toys, and shelves crammed with books and toys. Little Mark was standing up in a playpen, cotton-blond hair sticking up all over his head, and his coveralls showing wet stains all down the front. He looked to be about a year to eighteen months. Hard to tell with some babies.

  I picked him up, cooing at him, and used my cell phone to call my wife. Jean’s a psychiatrist and she’s on the county roll to call in such cases. Not finding her, I called Holly at the shop and told her to try to get in touch with Jean and why, then I grabbed a diaper and the box of wipes and headed outside with my new pal.

  I’d barely gotten out the front door before a minivan pulled up and was abandoned behind The Branches’ official security car, wherein still sat Maynard Ritchie, I presumed. Two women jumped out of the front of the minivan, and a mass of children came out of the back. They all ran to Lynnie and her siblings, one of the women snatching Little Mark out of my arms.

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded the woman who snatched the baby out of my arms. Four boys, pre- to mid-teens, were following along behind her like ducklings. She was somewhere in her mid-thirties, reddish-blonde hair, slim, but wearing the same long dress, long hair hanging down her back.

  The other woman was much younger, maybe in her early twenties, very long brown hair, a long, shapeless dress, a baby in her arms and one clinging to her leg. Something clued me in that these people were family.

  ‘Ma’am, may I speak to you privately?’ I asked the older one.

  She nodded and pointed at the four young boys. ‘Stay with Mama Rene,’ she said, and moved to the side with me.

  ‘Sorry to say the lady in that house,’ I used my head to point in the direction of Lynnie Hudson’s house, ‘is dead.’