Too Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 2)

by Phillip DePoy

  She nodded, lowering her voice to match mine. “By the time I came in, Lowe was ... gone. But I heard him yelling at the boys?” Almost a whisper: “Telling them they were retarded and all ... which they’re not.”

  “They just didn’t want to give him that land.”

  “Right.”

  “But he was loud.”

  “Uh-huh. He yelled a lot. Lost his temper somethin’ awful.”

  “And then you heard a bump or something.”

  I could barely hear her. “It was like somebody dropped a big old rock on the desk.”

  “And then you went in?”

  “I thought Lowe had thrown something at the boys. But then it was real quiet, and Peachy hollered out, said come in quick, and there was Lowe. It was ... a mess.”

  She had to quit talking. Office Guy, dumb as a stump, was still standing there with the check in his fingers. “You don’t have to say anything to him, Connie.”

  She looked at me again. “It was awful.”

  I looked over at Office Guy. “Got my cash yet?”

  “Oh.” Before he could think, he headed off to the cashier’s window.

  I returned to Connie. “You don’t think the boys did it.”

  “They said Ms. Acree had come in — his wife? But I didn’t see her. She was a very different sort of a person. I’d just as soon believe she did it ... and I wouldn’t blame her.” Once again with the lowered volume, this time more intense. “He used to hit her — even in public.”

  “What for?”

  “He ... not to say anything bad about him, now, because he’s dead and all, but he was just plain mean. He was a very violent man, even at work, but especially in the evenings. You just never could tell what he might do.”

  “To everybody.”

  She nodded; looked down. “Mostly to women.”

  He must have been a swell boss to have. “You don’t know if they did an autopsy, do you?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know if they did or not.”

  “Okay.” I smiled at her. “Thanks, Connie.”

  She gave me a little nod, like a period at the end of a sentence. Then she leaned real close. “Peaker Brothers might know.”

  I leaned in too. “Who are the Peaker brothers?”

  “Morticians.”

  “They’re here in town?”

  “Just down the block.”

  Office Guy was back. “Here.” He handed over the cash.

  I stood, still looking at Connie. “That was quick — but I’m still changing banks.”

  He didn’t care. “You do that.”

  I shot him a look that’s supposed to mean something in French. I got the impression he didn’t speak any foreign languages, but he understood me well enough.

  Still, I had to ask. “You don’t know me. Why, exactly, are you such a firecracker?”

  He was plain. “I just don’t like troublemakers.”

  I stuck out my lip. “Seems to me there’s already been enough trouble to go around, but I believe it started since way before I got here.”

  “Well, it was those retarded Turner twins killed Lowe Acree — and I don’t like the idea of you or anybody else helping them get away with it.”

  Connie’s voice was very even for a change. “This is Byron Lee. I believe you met his wife yesterday at the dinner. She used to be an Acree?”

  I got it. “You’re Alma’s husband.”

  He bobbed his head once; it was more like a punch in the face than a period in a sentence.

  People will tell you it’s a small world, but it’s not. It’s a great big old world, only it’s filled with a lot of small towns.

  I put the cash in my pants pocket and smiled at Connie. She smiled back, gave a look at Alma’s husband, and stopped smiling. I waved at the security guard on the way out. He didn’t wave back.

  11 - The Trouble with Mortuaries

  The Peaker Brothers’ establishment was a grand old Confederate mansion-looking place with a square black sign out front: Peaker Family Mortuary, Caring Since 1934.

  Inside, the climate control was cranked to the maximum and the air was filled with the scent of jasmine. No one came to the entranceway, so I looked around. I’d never been inside a mortuary before — although I’d known morticians. They always seemed to me to be detached from a normal relationship with reality.

  I’ve made the mistake in my life of reading a lot of books on world religions, and the Buddha tells us that a sort of nonattachment is a good way out of the troubles in this world. But then he also says you’re supposed to have compassion all over the place. The only things I’ve ever had any kind of passion for at all were the things that I’d formed an attachment to. Either you care or you don’t. I mean, why do you think Jesus wept, anyway? I always thought it was because he was supposed to have cared.

  I was looking up at a picture of Jesus holding a lamb, looking very much like he cared, when dulcet tones floated through the air behind me.

  “Jesus wept.”

  I turned to face him. “I was just thinking about that.”

  He was late twenties, bald, and kindly. “Jesus wept when he lost even one lamb. It hurt him to see any sorrow. Let him be your rock.”

  “Okay.”

  That seemed good enough for him. “Porter Peaker. How may I help?”

  “You and your brother took care of Lowe Acree.”

  “We did.”

  “Was there an autopsy, do you know?”

  “Oh.” His demeanor relaxed. “Newspaper?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “If you were a policeman, you’d already know that Lowe’s cousin, Tommy Acree, would not authorize an autopsy. He’s a policeman himself, and he’s got ways.”

  Ways of what we didn’t get into. “Somebody told me he was sweet on Lowe’s wife.”

  He nodded. “Some say. I wouldn’t know. Is that what you wanted to ask?”

  I shook my head. “So, no autopsy?”

  “No autopsy.”

  “Any special ... circumstances of the body?”

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  I stuck out my hand. “I’m Flap Tucker from Atlanta. Sally Arnold over at the college called me in to help out J. D. Turner. He can’t put his hand to his boys right now.”

  “You’re here to help the Turner twins?”

  I couldn’t tell from his expression which side of the issue he came down on. I had guessed by now that nearly everybody in town would come down on one side or the other. He kept his eyes on me and called out over his shoulder. “Pyle?”

  From a room deeper in the mortuary, I heard another voice. “What?”

  “Would you come out here, please?”

  After a couple of seconds there was another Peaker. The family resemblance was unmistakable. The Addams Family had moved to Mayberry.

  Porter explained things to his brother. “Says he’s here to help the twins.”

  Pyle nodded. I didn’t know if I was about to be taken into a confidence or thrown out on my leaden backside.

  They motioned me back to an office. I followed, but I was on my guard. I think I could have taken them in a fair fight, but they had needles and scalpels and God knows what else on their side.

  We all sat. Pyle was the first to explain. “We’re not doctors.”

  Porter chimed in. “But we’re quite knowledgeable.”

  Pyle continued. “We think Lowe Acree had an aneurysm.”

  Porter agreed. “And it caused heart failure.”

  I sat back. “What makes you think all this?”

  Pyle was first. “Three things.” He held up three fingers to prove it. “First, the Turner twins are incapable of hurting anyone.”

  This worried Porter. “But that’s not very scientific.”

  Pyle was undaunted. “No, but second, the bump on Lowe’s head was not a bad one, and could not possibly, all by itself, have caused anybody’s death.” />
  Porter was more satisfied with this line of thinking. “When you’ve seen as many bodies as we have, you get to know a thing or two.”

  Pyle nodded. “And three: There were no other bruises or wounds or scratches or anything anywhere on Lowe at all. Not anywhere. A little discoloration on his throat, but we think his neck was swollen after he passed out and his collar and tie choked him.”

  Porter wanted to make it clearer. “How did the Turners crack him on the head without touching him? No weapons. No sticks. No anything. Lowe hit his head on the desk.”

  Pyle was satisfied. “He fell forward and hit his head on the desk. He was already dead. Everything about that body said heart attack to me.”

  Porter was happy to agree. “Me too.”

  I understood. “And when you’ve seen as many bodies as you all have ...”

  They smiled.

  Porter leaned forward. “We buried Lowe Acree in boxer shorts.”

  I was temporarily at a loss.

  Pyle giggled like a kid. “Big white boxer shorts with red hearts ... and Dalmatian dogs all over them.”

  Porter tapped my leg. “That way, if they exhume the body anytime soon, we’ll have an opportunity to say we had some suspicions about a heart attack.”

  Or a Dalmatian dog attack, but I resisted the urge to mention it.

  Pyle sighed. “Also, we thought it would cheer Tommy up.”

  Porter settled back. “He’s so distraught.” He looked at me very genuinely. “It’s our job to make people feel better. We thought it would help lighten his load.”

  Pyle shook his head. “But I don’t think he understood me when I told him about it — the boxer shorts — at the funeral? He just looked at me for a long time and then said he’d send us a check.”

  I smiled. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Porter offered. “We went to grammar school with Peachy and Maytag. They’re good boys.”

  Pyle qualified it. “Not to say they’re not a little strange in their ways ...”

  Porter was undaunted. “... but I’ll tell you what’s the truth: They never killed a fly — let alone a banker.”

  Just to keep things straight, I had to ask. “Who did kill Lowe Acree?”

  Pyle, in what I took to be an uncharacteristic bit of bile, made a mean noise. “I don’t know, but if I’d been there, I might have helped.”

  Porter explained. “We went to school with Lowe too. He was always a bully.” He lowered his voice. “He beat Pyle up two days in a row once.”

  Pyle tightened his lips. “Him and three of his friends.”

  Porter looked down. “I was home with the measles.”

  I looked at Pyle. “What made him quit?”

  Porter answered. “I got over the measles and went back to school, that’s all. He’d never gang up on the two of us. He was a bully and a coward.”

  You had to wonder if maybe that episode hadn’t had something to do with burying the guy in humiliating underwear. Morticians’ revenge.

  Pyle stood. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’m happy to have met you. I hope you can help the Turners.”

  I stood too. “I hope I can find the Turners.”

  Porter joined us out the door. “Oh, they’re not smart enough to hide all that well. You won’t have much trouble.”

  Pyle stood in the doorway to his workroom. “Old Mr. Turner must be worried sick.”

  I had to agree there. “He seems kind of sick anyway.”

  They nodded solemnly. It was a fine example of professional synchronized sympathy. Porter broke the silence. “He hasn’t been the same since his wife died.”

  It was obviously something they’d heard everybody say. They weren’t old enough to know what he was like before she died.

  Just at the door, back out in the heat, I turned to Porter again. “Any idea how I can get ahold of Tommy?”

  “Police station’s right there at the town square.” He pointed. “Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He closed the door behind me. I got the impression they were the sort of morticians that played jokes on each other in the middle of the night, putting the stiffs into funny positions to crack each other up, sitting the bodies up in each other’s offices when nobody was looking, generally playing around. I think it was right about then I decided to have my body cremated.

  12 - The Trouble with Police Stations

  The police station was nearly as cold as the mortuary, but a lot brighter and noisier. There was a very cheery young woman at a desk just inside the front door.

  “Hey. What can I do you for?”

  I resisted any sort of urban comeback to the question. “Looking for Detective Tommy Acree.”

  “Well, he won’t be hard to find.” This was a good joke to her. “He works here.”

  I played along. “That will make it easier. Think he’s in?”

  She sang out. “Tommy?”

  There was a voice down the hall. “Doe-reen?”

  “Somebody’s here to see you. Are you in?” She winked at me.

  “Send ’em back.”

  She pointed; I smiled at her. “Nice intercom system.”

  She got another laugh. I headed down the hall. First door on the left and there was a guy behind a desk sipping coffee and motioning me in.

  Before I even sat down, I thought I should make matters clear. “Name’s Flap Tucker. Mr. Turner has hired me to find his boys. I was just hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

  He set his coffee down on his desk and I was a little surprised to see him stick out his hand.

  I shook it. He talked. “Welcome to Tifton. How’d you like Sally’s fried chicken?”

  I understood. He was telling me he already knew everything about me. “I liked it fine. Good cutoff corn too.”

  “She’s got a secret method.”

  I sat. “The extension-cord method. We discussed it.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Sally’s a fine woman and we all think the world of her, but as you might imagine, we’ve got a whole lot of people around here already lookin’ for Peach and Maytag Turner.”

  “Yeah, but Mr. Turner’s worried.”

  “Mr. Turner’s worried because of my ... relationship with Lowe Acree and his wife. He thinks the boys won’t get a fair shot.”

  “But they will.”

  “From me they’ll get the same treatment I give to any criminal.”

  “I see.”

  “So your help is most likely not needed.”

  “Still, Mr. Turner’s paying me, and I don’t like to take the money and run.”

  He sighed. “If you interfere with our investigation, I’ll put you in the jailhouse.”

  “I’m very big on noninterference.”

  “I hope so.”

  I looked around his office. “You don’t want to see my P.I. license?”

  He sighed again. “You’re a licensed private investigator?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re not a friend of the family?”

  “Well, I am now.”

  “Are you related to our Tuckers hereabout?”

  “I could be.”

  He considered. “Well, Rusty Tucker is a friend of mine, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Me too.” But I had no idea what he was getting at.

  “You’re from Atlanta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Work there?”

  “Often.”

  “I see.” I think he was understanding something about me that may not have been accurate, but I wasn’t going to argue, because it looked like it was helping.

  I sat up. “I guess you’d have to say that Lydia Acree is missing too.”

  His face was a block of marble. “Uh-huh. I’ll find her.”

  “You don’t think she’s dead?”

  “I pray to God she’s not.”

  “But there are those in town that believe she’s another victim of the Turner killing spree.”

>   “There are those.”

  I hesitated. “What’s she like?”

  This irritated him. “What’s she like? What kind of a question is that?”

  I didn’t know what kind of a question it was, but it obviously meant more to him than it did to me. “I was just wondering.”

  “Well, I’m pretty busy now. You’ll have to excuse me.” He stood up, visibly agitated, to usher me out the door. “But before you leave, I will have a look at that license — and we’ll be taking your fingerprints too. I’d like to have them on file.”

  I couldn’t figure what had gotten him so instantly riled. I kept my seat. “My fingerprints are already on file with the licensing bureau in Atlanta. You can send for a copy.”

  “I’d like to have some originals.”

  “Make up a charge, get a warrant, find me, arrest me, and book me — then you can have some originals. Until that happens, I’ll be on my way.” Then I stood up.

  He took another step. He was inches from me. “I’ll be looking at your gun registration too.”

  I didn’t move a muscle. “Don’t carry one.”

  “Is that right?” He reached around behind him and pulled out his own gun — not to point it at me, just to show it to me. “Does this one make you nervous?”

  “Nope.”

  He tried his best to sound tough. “It ought to.”

  I stuck my face even closer. “The last time I was afraid to die was over twenty years ago — I was quite young.”

  He smiled. “Oh, I could do lots worse things with this gun than kill you.”

  “No you couldn’t.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Because if you started something, you’d have to kill me. I wouldn’t quit coming till you did. You can take that to the bank you got down the block.” Things were very tense for a second. “And while you’re there, why don’t you run up an alley and holler ‘fish.’ ”

  He was momentarily discombobulated. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  He busted out laughing. “Yeah. I heard you. That’s from the Andy Griffith Show.”

  I nodded, stepped back; relaxed. “It was Gomer.”

  “Says it to Barney in the ‘Citizen’s Arrest’ episode.”

  “Right.”

  He put his gun away. “ ‘Run up an alley and holler ‘fish.’ What a stupid thing to say.”