by J. J. Murray
Oh no! “I just removed all the rust from it and painted it, so you won’t find any fingerprints, not even mine.”
“Very clever girl.” He leans closer. “So, you painted it only last night, huh?”
“Yes. So when can I get it?”
“It’s part of a crime scene, Miss Ferrari,” I say. “Do you have any paperwork? A work order? Something like that? Something to prove you were working on that tractor.”
“Mr. Simmons and I shook hands on the deal,” I say. “That’s how we—”
“You touched Mr. Simmons?” he interrupts.
“Yes. I even touched him when I checked for his pulse on his wrist and on his neck.”
He scratches his cheek with his pen. “You sure you didn’t do more than that?”
“Are you serious?”
He looks down at my legs and backs away a step. “Yeah, that’s kind of farfetched. That man was a mountain, and you’re … petite.”
I’m not going to thank him for the compliment. “Officer Smith, I only want to finish the job, and you’re keeping—”
“When you say, ‘finish the job,’ what do you really mean?”
This man is insane! “Finish the job, restore the tractor. Complete the deal.”
“With a dead man.”
“It’s how I’m built, okay? I have to finish the job.”
“You keep saying that.”
I sigh. “What harm could it do?”
“Well, that tractor might be used as evidence if there’s a trial.”
This guy must raid the drugs in the evidence locker. “A tractor with no fingerprints on it is going to be hauled into court?”
“That is suspicious, isn’t it? One would expect a tractor to have many fingerprints on it.”
“Not if it had just been painted.”
He smiles. “Yes. Painted by the very person who discovered the body.”
A door at the house slams shut like a shot and echoes. I see a rotund man bound down the porch steps and rip some of the police tape from the railing.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
Officer Smith flips to the beginning of his notepad. “Melville Taylor, Mr. Simmons’ grandson.”
A long string of profanity echoes around us.
“He’s still as angry as a donkey chewing on bumblebees,” Officer Smith says. “He sweats a lot, too. He looks like a reverse sponge, craters all over his face. So fat it takes two dogs to bark at him.” He smiles. “Oh, none of that was in my notes.”
I’m sure nothing relevant is in your notes. “You let him go up there. He hasn’t been in Gray County in over twenty years.”
“Captain Downs said to let him since he’s kin to Mr. Simmons.”
“Is Captain Downs up there now?”
“Why?”
“Is he or isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Call your captain to ask if I can remove that tractor.”
Officer Smith puts his notepad into a shirt pocket. “Uh-oh.”
I watch Melville Taylor get into a Ford Bronco that’s slightly bigger than my Jeep.
“You might want to move, Miss Ferrari.”
“Why do I have to move? He can go around me.”
“He’s not a nice man,” Officer Smith says. “And he sounds funny. He holds onto his R’s.”
Because he’s from New Jersey. “You said he was still angry.”
Officer Smith nods. “He wanted to sell all this land today. Said he had a buyer all lined up through Blue Ridge Realty and has a stack of paper saying he has power of attorney over his mama and his aunt.”
That was quick! “And why can’t he sell it?”
“You can’t sell something if you don’t legally own it yet,” Officer Smith says. “The will hasn’t been read. Probate court and all that. I took some law school classes.”
I’ll bet your mama is so proud.
“The government has to get its cut, too. Taxes, you know. And you can’t sell something if it’s part of a crime scene.”
“All two thousand acres?”
Officer Smith points past the barn toward Motts Mountain. “We have officers searching everywhere. They’re starting at the base of the mountain and working their way down here.”
“To find what?”
“Evidence, of course.”
I point behind me. “But you think he drowned in Gray Creek.”
“We’ll get there eventually,” he says.
“After how many people drive through it?”
“We’re looking for all possible water sources like wells and feed troughs,” Officer Smith says.
“Have you checked his bathtub?”
He narrows his eyes. “What do you know about his bathtub?”
“That most good country people still have them. We do bathe.”
“We have techs checking that tub, too,” he says. “They say it’s huge, big enough for four people to use.”
I still can’t fathom how Mr. Simmons drowned in his living room “What kind of water was in his lungs?”
“Water water, I don’t know. The coroner will tell us once he does the autopsy.”
I see the Bronco backing away from the house in a plume of dust.
“Hey, I’d move now for real, if I were you,” Officer Smith says.
You’re not me. “I have a trailer, and it isn’t easy to maneuver a trailer on regular roads, and this is a cow path going up the side of a hill.”
Officer Smith laughs. “Well, look at that. A cow traffic jam.”
Cows swarm around the Bronco and block Melville’s way, the heifer loudly mooing into the air. Someone needs to milk her soon.
The Bronco whips around the cows and heads our way.
“He isn’t slowing down. Ma’am, Gio, Miss Ferrari, you gotta move!”
I turn off the Jeep, get out, and lean against the hood. “I moved.”
“I meant your vehicle.”
“I know what you meant.” I want to see what makes Melville Taylor tick.
For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to stop, but the Bronco lurches to a halt a few feet from me. Melville Taylor leaps out.
Sort of.
It’s more of a roll-stumble-waddle. He’s a shorter version of Mr. Simmons but just as round. The man is squat. I’ve never said that about a person before. He’s squat with graying hair and pink cheeks. Sweat stains spread from his armpits to the chest of his blue Polo shirt, and his tan slacks look overinflated. I think it’s safe to say that Melville Taylor is melting.
“Get off my property!” Melville yells.
Definitely New Jersey. He could have been one of the goons in The Godfather movies. “It isn’t your property yet, Mr. Taylor.”
Melville wipes his face with a paper towel. “It will be soon. Now move it or lose it.”
Not happening. “Has the will already been read, Mr. Taylor? The will hasn’t even gone to probate court, right?”
Melville stomps up to me, and I notice he wears no socks. His pudgy toes have to be swimming in his sweat. “Do I know you?” He squints. “Wait a minute. You’re little black Sambo all grown up. You used to hang out at the Grapevine. Gio Lamborghini.”
“It’s Ferrari,” Officer Smith says.
I hadn’t heard anyone call me “little black Sambo” in twenty-five years. The Grapevine was a swimming area and somewhat sandy beach at one of the deeper places on Gray Creek where kids hung out and tried to stay cool.
“Yeah, I know you,” Melville says. “You remember me, don’t you?”
I try to remove twenty-five years of fat from Melville’s face. He might be the guy who wore a red, white, and blue Speedo and broke the rope swing at the Grapevine. “Did you once wear a Speedo and have a funny tan?”
Melville frowns.
Yep. He was the guy who wore those “swimming panties.” Bright white skin leaked down his legs to his knees.
“What are you doing here, Gio?” Melville asks.
“I could ask you the same t
hing,” I say. “No one has seen you in over twenty years, and the day after your grandfather dies, you show up. How’d you get here so fast?”
He juts one of his chins forward. “I was down at the Pine Lake Marina delivering a boat. Now what are you doing here?”
Nice coincidence. He took a seaworthy boat to a freshwater lake. “I was trying to get that Farmall Cub tractor back to my shop to finish the restoration for your grandfather.”
“What for?”
“I made a deal with your grandfather to restore it.”
“Obviously the deal’s off now that he’s pushing up daisies.” Melville laughs. “He’s so big he could push up a whole field of daisies. They’re having trouble pushing him out of his chair. Rigor mortis froze him in place. He’s as rusty as one of his tractors. May he rust in peace. Get it? Rust in peace!” He laughs again.
I will pronounce his name Mel-vile in my mind from now on.
“He was such a lard ass,” Melville says. “Maybe I should get him an iron casket so he can rust in peace in the ground, too. Or we’ll cremate him and spread his ashes over the fields. We’d probably create an ash storm to blot out the sun!”
Melville Taylor is Moby-Dick, the great white whale. “Nice way to talk about your grandfather.”
“Look, Miss Sambo Lamborghini,” Melville says, shaking a pudgy finger at me. “That blob never did a thing for my mother or for me. Look at this place. It’s all overgrown. There are only a dozen cows on all of this land. It’s a waste of space.”
“Good land to flood for a lake, though,” I say.
Melville nods, and I think his upper chin has bruised his lower lip. “Exactly, and as soon as they release the body and we get that will read, where we’re standing right now will be under thirty feet of water. Ooh, I see a big bass swimming by your head right now.”
Melville oozes sweat and smells like too many beers. He’s Sponge Mel Fat Pants. “Well, before you flood the place,” I say, “I’d like the opportunity to pull out that tractor and all the other tractors so I can—”
“No,” Melville interrupts. “I plan to sell them all as scrap. Might get a thousand bucks.”
“But those tractors can be restored,” I say.
“What would I need a tractor for? I’m from Jersey.”
There is a breed of cow called a Jersey … “There’s also a forty-one Chevy truck up there in the barn. That could be turned into a classic.”
“Yeah? Well, I will have to do that, won’t I? Now get out of my road.”
“It’s still your grandfather’s road,” I say.
“Not for long.” Melville wobbles toward the Bronco. “Now move it or I’ll plow you and your trailer into the ground.”
“Go around.”
Melville stops and stares at Officer Smith. “You can arrest her for trespassing, right?”
“Um, Mr. Taylor,” Officer Smith says, “right now no one legally owns this land, alive anyway, so technically—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Melville interrupts. “Once that will is read, I’m going to open the floodgates.” He smiles. “Yep. It’s gonna be great. I’ll have to get them to name it Taylor Lake.” He turns toward the Bronco.
“And where will the water come from, Mr. Taylor?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You drove through that creek,” I say. “You think water from that creek and Motts Creek is going to be enough to fill this valley?”
He throws out two sweaty arms. “What do I care? I’m only selling the land. I could care less how they fill it. Fill it with well water, I don’t care. As long as it all disappears, and my mama and I can get our just rewards.” Melville backs up and rides around me.
I hope he bottoms out in the creek, shreds his oil pan, and locks up his engine somewhere far from his destination.
A girl can dream, can’t she?
“Can I at least go up to the house to turn around?” I ask Officer Smith.
“I don’t think—”
“Please,” I interrupt. And I know you don’t think, Officer Smith. My tax dollars evidently pay you not to think.
Officer Smith talks into his shoulder microphone. “Captain Downs, I got Gio Ferrari down here, and she wants to drive up to the house and turn around. She’s got a trailer. She says she came to pick up the tractor in front of the barn. Over.”
“Send her up,” Captain Downs says. “I need to speak to her. Over.”
“He said to—”
“I heard,” I interrupt. “Ask him if I can have my rifle back.”
“Uh, Captain, I took her rifle since she fired it on scene last night, allegedly at some wolves. Over.”
“Give it back,” Captain Downs says. “The man wasn’t shot, Davey. Over.”
“Ten-four.” Officer Smith smiles. “He wants me to give—”
“I heard.”
After he gives me my rifle, I smile. “Thank you for all your wonderful help, Officer Smith.”
He tips his hat. “Anytime, Miss Gio.”
Officer Smith does not understand sarcasm.
I drive up to the house, park behind a CSI van, and get out.
Captain Downs leaves the porch where a few CSI techs dust the porch railing. “Hello, Gio.”
“Good afternoon, Captain Downs,” I say.
Sporting a bushy, trimmed black moustache and so clean-shaven that his face shines, Captain Downs shakes my hand. “How’s your grandpa doing?”
This is the kind of question real country cops ask. “He’s slowing down. He stays in his shop mostly working on clocks and small appliances.” And lets Louise Hill work on him.
“Tell him I said hello,” Captain Downs says. “I don’t know if we would have survived the flood of eight-five without your daddy and your grandpa.”
“Wish we had a flood now,” I say, swatting at a gnat. “Did you read Deputy Bradley’s report?”
“I tried to,” Captain Downs says. “The man can’t type.”
Thomas couldn’t dance at the prom either. “Why’d you call Mr. Deed about me?”
He takes my elbow and guides me further from the house. “Just following procedure, Gio. The last person to see the victim is sometimes the one who did the deed.”
“You think I did it?”
“Of course not,” Captain Downs says. “We’ll do our best to rule you out quickly, but until then, you’re a person of interest.”
Wow.
“And you know why I called Mr. Deed.”
“Because he knows everything that goes on in Kingstown,” I say. “Did I check out with him?”
“Yes, of course, but Sheriff Morris doesn’t seem to think so,” Captain Downs says. “He said he was planning to ask you to sit down for a little chat.”
“I have nothing to hide,” I say. “Did Mr. Simmons really drown?”
“I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what Dr. Henritze says. The guy’s a bit of a loon, but he seems to know his stuff. Henritze said something about Mr. Simmons’ eyes, how they glistened.”
I look at the house. “So Mr. Simmons is still in there.”
He nods. “We’re trying to remove him from his chair. He, uh, became part of it.”
I won’t ask. I look up the hill at the tractor. “Was the police tape on that tractor really necessary?”
“Once Henritze announced his initial findings, we had to do it,” he says. “It might have been one way the perpetrators moved the body from the creek to the house. You got it running, didn’t you?”
I nod. “But the tires are bad, and it has no traction. And unless they know how to operate it, they probably couldn’t even start it. I disconnected the battery leads and turned off the fuel valve. Did you check all the tire tracks in and out of the creek?”
“We didn’t think we’d have to do that,” Captain Downs says. “We should have. There must be dozens of different sets of tracks by now.”
I see Jack running down the hill. “Jack seems fine today.”
“Thomas’s
report said something about Jack being sick. How sick was he?”
“Sick as a dog.” I smile. “Jack was puking his guts out.”
“Can you show me where?”
I lead him to a spot in front of the daisies and find the pile. “It looks like chicken bones.”
“Yeah, we smelled chicken inside,” Captain Downs says. “Maybe Jack got into the leftovers somehow.”
“I doubt anyone would have fed him these,” I say.
“Glad he’s all right.” Captain Downs removes his hat, wipes his forehead, and puts on his hat. “Could you keep things under wraps, you know, about Mr. Simmons drowning?”
“Sure,” I say. “No one would believe me anyway.”
Captain Downs nods. “Yeah, it’s a real puzzler. I’m sure Henritze will announce his findings on TV. He seems like the type who likes cameras.”
The front door crashes open, and a gurney bursts through, the ambulance attendants having a difficult time moving down the stairs.
They’ve wrapped Mr. Simmons in two black body bags.
“We didn’t have a body bag big enough,” Captain Downs whispers.
A short man I assume is the coroner walks out and lets the screen door bang behind him. He removes a pair of rubber gloves and hands them to an assistant. At five-one, he may be the shortest coroner in North America. “The house is all yours, Captain,” he says. “Who’s this?”
“Gio Ferrari, Dr. Henritze,” Captain Downs says. “She found the body.”
Dr. Henritze smiles. “So that’s where the long black hair came from. Good to know. I didn’t think it belonged to Mr. Simmons.”
I’m shedding? Great.
“And why are you here today?” Dr. Henritze asks.
“To trailer out the tractor I’ve been restoring,” I say.
Dr. Henritze points to the tractor on the hill. “That one?”
“Yes.”
“Not a chance. I think that tractor was used to transport Mr. Simmons’ body.”
And I thought Officer Smith was an idiot. “The tires are shredded. It barely carried me up the hill two days ago.”
“Is that so?” Dr. Henritze walks past me.
Oh, he is not blowing me off. “You’re sure Mr. Simmons drowned.”
Dr. Henritze turns and stares up at me. “Captain Downs, is it your normal procedure to allow a suspect to harass law enforcement officers at a crime scene?”
