“Pretty much,” the detective conceded, “unless I’ve missed something. I tend to think not, but I’m still digging.”
“Which leaves us where?” Jerome asked. “Have you found any dirt on any of the employees?”
The detective sighed. His plump countenance showed evidence of sleep deprivation, which told Tucker the man had been burning the midnight oil, trying to find something, anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
“So far nothing leaps out at me,” he said. “I have learned that Nan Branson’s mother is a nurse practitioner who can write prescriptions, so it’s possible, if not probable, that the young lady could have forged a script to get her hands on some morphine tablets. Ronnie Post is coming out clean as a whistle, except that her grandmother had a hip replacement a couple of months ago and might have been given a morphine derivative for pain.”
“You can’t find out for sure?” Zach asked.
Ballantine shook his head. “With the Privacy Act, it’s extremely difficult for me to dig up any medical information without hacking my way into the medical community’s system. I’d be breaking the law, which I prefer never to do, and I suspect any evidential material I found would be unusable in a court of law.
“That said, it’s still possible that Post’s grandmother may have taken morphine for pain during her recovery. So it’s not too far-fetched to think that the granddaughter could have stolen a few of the tablets.” He leafed through his notes. “Both Post and Branson have been equine enthusiasts most of their lives, but neither of them ever lived on a farm nor has relatives who do, making it highly unlikely that they might have access to agricultural sprays or outdated swine feed. I’ll continue to do searches on them, but my gut’s telling me they’re clean.”
“Carrie Dobson used to work as an aide for a nursing agency,” Jerome inserted. “She still occasionally works a shift for them. In-home elderly care, I think.”
“I was just getting to that,” Ballantine said with a weary smile that displayed his protruding front teeth. “Miss Dobson does care for the elderly, who are sometimes terminal and given strong doses of opiates to ease their suffering. I’ve spoken to the agency administrator where Dobson still works occasionally, and she swears on her life that they employ a check-and-balance inventory system at every shift change, making it impossible for one of their employees to make off with even one narcotic tablet, let alone several.
“But, as strict and careful as all nursing agencies are, in-home caregivers have managed to steal drugs. There are countless documented instances of it, in fact. Sometimes a nurse steals a drug and black-markets it on the street. Other times a caregiver will steal drugs to support his or her own habit.”
“How do they manage that?” Tucker asked. “We have controlled substances under lock and key at our clinic, and we, too, keep careful track of the inventory. Every dispensation is recorded and logged into a computer. If a shortage occurs, we’re instantly aware of it. I thought similar procedures were required by law everywhere.”
Ballantine nodded. “They are. But someone can still steal the drugs a little at a time, simply by failing to administer the recorded doses to patients. In-home elderly care offers more opportunity for sleight of hand because there is no on-site supervision, and many of the patients are either too old, weak, or mentally impaired to complain if they don’t get their pain medication. The nurse enters the dose into the logbook, pockets the pills, and gives the patient a sugar tablet or nothing at all.”
“That’s awful,” Zach said. “So the old person just suffers?”
“Pretty much, yes, until the next nurse comes on shift.”
Samantha spoke up. “I can’t believe that of Carrie. I’m sorry, but she’s got a tender heart, and she’d just never do such a thing. I’m certain of it.”
Tucker pretty much shared the sentiment, but he was also jaded enough about human nature to realize that even the kindest people sometimes did horribly cruel things. He saw evidence of that far too often in his line of work.
“What we have to focus on is why she might do it,” he interjected. “With enough motive, people will do almost anything.” He leveled a hard look at Ballantine. “Put the magnifying glass on Dobson,” he said, “and on Branson and Post as well. All three of them could have gotten the morphine. Maybe if you take as hard a look at them as you have Fisher, something suspicious will leap out at you.”
A knock came at the door just then. Tucker got up to answer the summons, thinking it was probably a security guard with a question. His heart felt as if it dived clear to his knees when he found two gentlemen in suits standing on the porch. Tucker knew they were cops before the elder one flashed his badge.
“Is Samantha Harrigan in?” the gray-haired fellow asked.
When Samantha came to stand beside Tucker in the doorway, the man said, “Samantha Harrigan, we have a warrant to search your residence.”
“For what?” Frank demanded, his boots slapping the slate as he came to stand behind his daughter.
“Morphine, outdated swine feed, or any other substance containing arsenicals.” The man thrust the warrant into Samantha’s hands, then pushed past her and Tucker, the younger blond detective right at his heels. “You take the kitchen,” the older policeman ordered over his shoulder. “I’ll take the living room, and we’ll fan out from there.”
When the blond plugged the sink with a stopper and started dumping the contents of cereal boxes into it, Tucker turned to Frank. “Call a lawyer. Now. She’s going to need representation.”
It was all Tucker could think to do. When he spun back around, the younger detective was cutting open a cardboard drum of iodized salt and spilling granules everywhere.
“Do you have to make such a mess, asshole?” Clint demanded. “How would you like to have everything in your kitchen dumped in the sink?”
Tucker went to curl a hand over Clint’s shoulder. “Keep your temper. If he dumped all of it on the counter, it’d be a whole lot worse.”
All the starch went out of Clint’s spine. Jerking away from Tucker, he turned on his father. “For God’s sake, do something, Dad. It sounds like the other guy’s tearing the living room apart!”
Visibly shaken, Frank cast a last worried look at his daughter, then drew his cell phone from his belt and stared at it as if he’d forgotten between one heartbeat and the next what he needed to do.
“An attorney,” Tucker reminded him.
And then Tucker was off for the living room. The sight that greeted his eyes made his blood boil. The leather cushions of the sofa and chairs had been unzipped, the foam tossed willy-nilly onto the floor. Drawers had been upended, the contents spilled out and then walked on. He’d never seen such destruction or imagined it could occur so quickly.
When he returned to the kitchen, Samantha looked as if she were in shock. The younger detective was even going through her refrigerator. Evidence bags, filled with unidentifiable substances, already lined the kitchen counter. She hid her face against Tucker’s shirt when he looped an arm around her shoulders.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said.
Tucker shared the sentiment, but it was happening, and he couldn’t think of one damned thing he could do to stop it. When Tucker saw the older detective heading for the stairs, he handed Samantha off to her father and followed the man. The detective went directly to the first bedroom along the hall, jerked all the blankets and sheets from the bed, and slit open the mattress with a box cutter.
“What the hell?” Tucker was across the room in two strides. “That thing probably cost a thousand dollars, you son of a bitch.” Before Tucker could say more, Clint’s hard hand clamped around his arm and he was pulled back a step.
“Let it go,” Clint told him. “It’s not worth your getting arrested.”
Tucker swung away, unable to watch any more without losing his temper and doing something he’d regret. Samantha’s entire house was being turned inside out. It would take hours to set it rig
ht and possibly thousands of dollars to replace the damaged items. He couldn’t frigging believe the law allowed this kind of thing to happen.
Frank Harrigan’s attorney specialized in equine contractual agreements. Whenever a Harrigan bought or sold a horse, John McKay drew up the legal documents. As good as McKay was at his job, he wasn’t the kind of attorney Samantha needed.
Tucker called Rafe Kendrick. Within five minutes he had the name of Sterling Johnson, the best criminal defense attorney in Crystal Falls. Affiliated with an interstate firm renowned for winning court cases, he had once been retained to defend Zeke’s wife, Natalie, when her ex-husband had been murdered. Though it was a Sunday, Johnson took Tucker’s call and agreed to see Samantha in his office the following day at one o’clock.
In the meantime, all Tucker could do was join Samantha’s father and brothers in putting the house back in order after the detectives left. While they worked, Samantha wandered from room to room, her face pale and drawn, trying to rescue mementos and other items that were precious to her.
When as much of the damage had been repaired as possible, Tucker went in search of the woman he loved. He found her in the downstairs office, straightening the inside of the safe. She glanced up as he entered the room.
“They took samples of my cereal,” she said. Wide with fright, her eyes clung to his. “What if someone planted morphine or arsenic somewhere in the house?”
The same thought had already occurred to Tucker, and he could think of little to say that might comfort her. Instead he drew her to her feet and locked both arms around her.
“It’ll be okay,” he whispered fiercely. As he made that vow, Tucker made another promise to himself: that he would confess to poisoning the horses himself before he allowed her to be arrested. The very thought of Samantha behind bars made him heartsick. “It’ll be all right, I swear.”
Work had always been Samantha’s panacea for all ills. If she had a headache, she worked through it. If she had a problem to solve, she always worked until an answer came to her. During her marriage, she’d worked her way through one heartbreak and betrayal after another. Aside from praying, which she could do anywhere, straining her muscles, building up a sweat, and flirting with exhaustion were the only ways she knew to cope when life’s problems seemed overwhelming.
That afternoon and evening were no exception. She dispatched all the males who wanted to hover over her, insisting that her father and brothers go home and that Tucker go to his clinic. When she’d gotten all of them out of her hair, she went to the stables, where there was always something to be done. Because it never failed to soothe her, she chose to bathe and groom the horses, a wet, strenuous, but fulfilling job that afforded her quiet time with the animals she so dearly loved.
Carrie lent her assistance. Samantha appreciated the other woman’s silence far more than she did the help. Carrie seemed to sense that any attempt at small talk wouldn’t be appreciated.
Shortly after four that afternoon, Samantha glimpsed movement at the front entrance of the arena and glanced up to see Jerome, Ballantine, her dad, all her brothers, and Tucker enter the building. Their grim expressions told her they weren’t bringing good news. Stepping to the stall gate, Samantha waited for them to reach her. To her surprise, her father didn’t even bother to say hello. Instead he leveled a cold glare on Carrie, who was brushing Nutmeg’s mane.
“Miss Dobson, may we have a word with you?”
Carrie paled slightly. Dropping the brush to the ground, she dusted her palms clean on her jeans. “Sure,” she said, walking over to join Samantha at the gate. “What about?”
“It’s a conversation that should take place in the office, I think.” Frank gestured for Carrie to exit the stall and turned to lead the way. “It shouldn’t take long. Samantha, can you join us?”
Curious, Samantha trailed after Carrie to join the men. After she entered the office, Tucker closed the door be hind her and ran the dead bolt home with an ominous click. Samantha sent him a wondering look but could read nothing in his expression. Her father sat behind the desk and motioned for Carrie to take the other chair. Like a scared rabbit searching for a bolt-hole, the stocky woman looked nervously over her shoulder. Samantha’s heart squeezed, for in that moment she knew Carrie was some how involved in the poisonings.
Frank Harrigan’s voice cut through the sudden silence as viciously as a razor. “How long have you been intimately involved with Steve Fisher?”
The question ran through Samantha like an electrical jolt, and suddenly the changes in Carrie’s appearance all made sense. Steve had a strong preference for slender, busty blondes who wore lots of makeup.
Carrie grew very still and squeaked, “Who?”
“Don’t,” Frank snapped. He quickly introduced Ray Ballantine and explained how the private eye went about investigating people. “We know about your relationship with Fisher. I will give you this one chance, and only this one chance, to come clean of your own accord. The police are bound to go a lot easier on you if you cooperate and don’t waste anyone’s time tryin’ to lie your way out of it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Frank drew a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. After unfolding it, he said, “You attended a rodeo in Montana a little over a week ago to watch Fisher compete in a bull ridin’ event.”
“So? That proves nothing. Lots of people go to rodeos.”
“Lots of people don’t spend the night at the Whispering Pines Motel with Steve Fisher.”
“You can’t prove I was with Steve.”
“Can’t we? Do you think motel clerks wear blinders? We have two witnesses who are willing to testify in court that you were there with Fisher.” Frank jerked his cell phone from his belt, flipped it open, and gave Carrie a smoldering look. “The game is up. You either start talkin’, or I’m handin’ you over to the police. Trust me when I say you’ll tal k when they have you in custody. It isn’t only the one night you spent with Fisher that’s been documented, Miss Dobson, but several nights. You can lie until you’re blue in the face that you don’t know the man, but the evidence proves otherwise. We know how you got the morphine. We also know where Steve Fisher got the swine feed and that he convinced you to use it to kill the horses. What’s the punishment for stealin’ a controlled substance, Ray?”
“It’s a federal offense, if I recall correctly, with a minimum and maximum penalty. If Ms. Dobson cooperates, the judge will probably go easy on her because it’s a first offense. But if she doesn’t cooperate…well, it’s hard to say.”
“And for feeding the horses swine feed that contained arsenic?”
“For that crime, a judge may put her behind bars until she’s an old woman. Unless, of course, she can convince the police that Fisher was the mastermind and she only did what he told her. In that event, I don’t think her sentence will be quite so harsh.”
Frank waited. When Carrie remained stubbornly silent, he said softly, “It’s your funeral,” and started dialing the phone.
“Wait!” Carrie cried. “Wait.”
Frank immediately stopped punching buttons.
“I never wanted to hurt the horses!” she cried. “You have to believe me. I loved Cilantro. I didn’t want to kill her.” And then she burst into hysterical tears. Swinging her arm toward Samantha, she wailed, “It’s her fault. Why does she have to be such a bitch?”
The ensuing accusations leveled against Samantha were outrageous—a long story, which obviously originated with Steve.
“You’re a cruel, heartless viper who sank her fangs into him, broke his heart, destroyed his self-esteem, humiliated him every chance you got, and then used your father’s money to annihilate him in divorce court and wrongfully rob him of what was rightfully his,” Carrie ranted. “You got everything. After all his hard work—five years of sweating blood to build this ranch into what it is today—he didn’t get one red cent!”
Instead of denying the charge, Frank said, “The basta
rd didn’t have a red cent coming to him.”
Carrie shot up from her chair and pointed accusingly at Frank, her face contorted, mascara streaming from her eyes. “That’s why I helped him. People like you, who walk all over people like him and me.” Her voice quavered with absolute contempt. “He can barely pay his bills, while she lives in a fancy house and struts around here, acting like the big boss and issuing orders. When Steve found a way to get what he had coming to him, of course I agreed to help him!”
“So you poisoned the horses for him.” Frank rocked back on his chair.
“Yes.” Carrie covered her face with trembling hands. “I hated doing it, but I had to help him. I love him. Nobody’s ever loved him until me. I didn’t want to kill the horses, but it was the only way he could get any money.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Insurance,” he said softly. He shot abruptly to his feet, his gaze shifting to Samantha. “Of course. I’ll bet he got insurance on the horses when you were still married and never canceled the policies.” He looked at Ballantine. “Get on it. He probably paid the initial premiums with a check from the ranch account. I don’t know how he paid this year’s premiums, but there has to be a record somewhere.”
Ballantine nodded. “I probably saw it and thought nothing of it. Everyone has to pay for insurance of one kind or another.”
“This will be to a company that offers equine mortality insurance.”
Carrie had collapsed on the chair and bent forward to hug her knees. “He said we’d get married,” she wailed. “That we’d go away together, and he’d make it all up to me. I didn’t want to hurt the horses. It was the only way he could get enough money for us to be together.”
Watching Carrie sob, Samantha felt nothing but contempt for the woman. There was no excuse for what she had done.
“Did you get all that?” Frank asked Clint.
Clint held up a recorder no larger than his palm. “Every word.”
Frank stopped to gaze down at Carrie’s jerking shoulders. Instead of reflecting anger, his expression was sad. “I’m sorry for you, honey. You’re not the first young woman whose life has been destroyed by that lyin’, conscienceless bastard, but I swear on all that’s holy that you’re gonna be the last.”