Niall Urquhart was a private man in a public position, something he believed he excelled at. As the police chief of the town that bore his family’s name, it was a skill he had watched his father and grandfather practice ably. He had seen them push off the X’Komish and state legislators, deal with cattle ranchers, their drunken help, and then court tourists by working with those same people.
Funerals, though, were the worst. He had been attending funerals for men and women he didn’t know since he was a boy. Most of them were strangers, people important to the town in some way, but had been little more than dinner guests to Niall, if that. Over the years he had gotten quite good at appearing stoic, a man who had his grief just within control, unsettled by death but not broken by it.
Thank God that Urquhart was drier than the coast. It meant at Randall Wayne’s funeral he could wear sunglasses and no one would think anything of it. Hell, the whole town was going to come out for this one. At least it was still spring, so wearing his dress blues wouldn’t sweat him out before the entire affair was done.
Walking through the final inspection of the burial site, he all but ignored Britton, his aide-de-camp, who ticked off checkboxes again, making sure that VIP seats were in proper places, the route for pall-bearers was clearly marked, and that the cannon was ready for the gun salute. He had, of course, gone through all of this before with and without Britton. Doing it one more time, though, was a good excuse to get away from Sheila while she busied herself at Finnegan’s with the preparations for the wake. He didn’t care much for the pub since he had quit drinking, but today he’d have to make an appearance.
Niall took off his mirrored glasses to polish them, catching his distended reflection there. His nose might be a bit red and the blue eyes a bit bloodshot, but he had to admit that his otherwise pale face still looked good underneath the bell crown of his cap. Age might have put some extra weight on him, but it had also added enough salt to his pepper hair. Sheila assured him that it made him appear distinguished.
Despite its calm lakes and beautiful mountains, Urquhart had always known its share of trouble. At least today it wouldn’t come from all the strangers that had been moved here since the pandemic. Or that’s what Niall thought until he was mildly surprised by a husky voice that reminded him of a hooker he had once known in Calgary. “Are you Police Chief Niall Urquhart?”
Niall wasn’t sure how this person had crossed all the open ground of the cemetery without being noticed, but he didn’t care for it. Judging by Britton’s sudden stiffening, the little fag was surprised as well. Typically, that would have made him feel better, but looking down at the small, dark-haired individual in the tan raincoat, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t dealing with the same kind of thing.
He turned, bringing his broad chest, with its brass buttons and row of ribbons, to fully face the diminutive stranger. The large, round sunglasses made identification difficult but they reminded him of Audrey Hepburn, so he decided to go with, “I am, miss. Is there something I can help you with?”
The individual extended a neat, pale hand with bright, lacquered nails. “Aggie McPherson.” A small smile appeared under her dark round glasses. “No miss.” Before Niall could respond to the odd dismissal of his formality, they continued, “I’m here to attend the funeral of Randall Wayne.”
The stranger’s smooth, pale skin made Niall wonder if he was looking at a piece of strange Wayne had gotten into, but she didn’t seem his type. Wayne had preferred them quiet and deferential with more meat on their bones. Not sure where he was on the Wayne’s odd social map, Niall replied with, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The stranger waved this away with trails from her nails. “Oh, no, I wasn’t his friend. I’m the reason he was headed here when he died.”
Niall put his sunglasses back on. “Excuse me?”
A shaped eyebrow rose above the dark glasses, as if questioning Niall’s intelligence. “Randall Wayne. He was hot footing it back to your town when he died, right?”
“Young,” Niall paused before adding questioningly, “lady. If that’s a joke I don’t appreciate it.”
The eyebrow dropped and a grin came up. “Sorry, that was a poor choice of words. But you don’t think Randall and his buddies just burst into flames on accident, do you?”
While Wayne’s charcoal briquet of a body had nothing to offer, the automobile was still being investigated by the state police. This, combined with McPherson’s question, caused Niall to ask, “Are you with law enforcement?”
The stranger brushed her short black hair out off her face. “Oh goodness no. I’m a spectral analyst.”
To Niall, that definitely sounded like someone who might be looking into what caused Wayne’s car to explode. “Young lady – “
“Aggie. Or McPherson. Or if you’d prefer to be formal you can call me inspector. And I can call you Chief.” With this McPherson reached up to tap the side of Niall’s shoulder with a small fist. “Chief.”
Niall looked at where she had touched him, then back at McPherson. He put doubt about being so informal into his voice as he asked, “So you are police?”
“I work in the private sector.”
“Oh,” Niall said, changing his doubt to disappointment. “I thought you said – “
“I specialize in spectral analysis.” McPherson lowered her black glasses to look at Niall with violet eyes. Despite himself, Niall found himself unsettled under that gaze as she added, “You know, specters. Ghosts.”
Under this strange stare, Niall attempted his own joke. “I don’t think Wayne’s coming back.”
McPherson exhaled, puffing out cheeks, an expression Niall had seen in worried parents and teachers who received good news. “I should hope not,” she responded. “I mean, who’d want to see him again?”
Niall had let out his own sigh, relieved to finally have a reason to end this increasingly frustrating and bizarre conversation. “A lot of people will be missing Wayne, Miss McPherson.” He emphasized the formality in the hopes it would indicate to this tiny person he was losing his patience. “He did a lot of good for this town.”
“How?”
The blunt question stopped Niall cold. “Excuse me?”
“How did he help? I mean, why would a town in such a beautiful place want to honor a criminal and white supremacist?”
“Excuse me?” Niall emphasized his question with a tone that made his wife, children, and subordinates change the subject.
“I’m sorry, did you not know that Randall Wayne was a leading member of the Silver Shields?”
Niall was glad he was wearing sunglasses. “The what?”
“The Silver Shields. It’s a paramilitary group out of Slakterquay. Hunts ‘deviants,’ fremdblütig, alien-blooded.” Aggie cocked her head to reexamine Niall. “You know that.”
“Miss McPherson,” at the continued use of the formality Niall was pleased to see the button nose on this Aggie crinkled with displeasure. “Randall Wayne was an active member of The Urquhart American Legion and the Neumann Church of Protestation. He helped rebuild this town after the Shangri-La fire and helped God knows how many veterans and police with PTSD settle here, giving them a shot at a peaceful life.”
“Any of those people black? Or any color at all?”
Urquhart pinched the bridge of his nose, signaling his frustration and, he hoped, the end of the conversation. “Miss McPherson – “
“Aggie. McPherson. Inspector. You can pick one.” McPherson calmly insisted on this formality, but without Urquhart’s loss of patience.
“McPherson,” he said in the same breath as a long sigh, letting his hand fall away from his face. “I don’t know what diversity bullshit you’ve shown up here with in your intent to besmirch Wayne’s name, but I have a funeral to finish planning.” Niall stood tall, towering over the inspector. “But if you interfere with it in anyway, I will make sure you spend the night in jail.”
McPherson raised her hands as if Niall were a child who had just pointed a popgun at her. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She lowered her hands, “After all, the murderer is going to show up. I want to get a look at them.”
“If there was a murder and the perpetrator was going to show up, I’d have them arrested,” Niall responded, his anger slipping out of his control and into his voice.
“You say you don’t even know that Wayne was a white supremacist. How would you know who his murderer is?” McPherson cocked her head. “In fact, isn’t it going to be really convenient for you that people are going to stop asking questions about Wayne?”
Niall felt blood rushing to his cheeks, “Are you making an accusation you little shit?”
“Whoa now, no reason to get riled up. I don’t think you killed him.” With such speed he couldn’t stop her, McPherson reached up and tapped him on the shoulder with her fist again, adding, “Chief.”
Read the previous chapter here.
See the author’s published work here.
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