by Randy Rawls
TEN
I left Sam’s house, confused and wondering if I were onto something, or if my imagination had run away with me. There had to be more, something I had missed.
I looked at my watch and saw three o’clock, too early for the Down Home and three hours before I could see Sam at the fire station. I drove into the country.
Without thinking about it, I pulled off at the overlook below Jake’s house. Surprised at where I was, I got out, walked over to a big rock, and leaned on it. The view was as I remembered—fields, pastures, groves of trees, and hills that appeared to grow from the valleys for no apparent reason. I could see no changes from the way it looked all those years ago when I’d stood here as a teenager.
My body unwound, my mind relaxed. I massaged my jaw where Bubba hit me, knowing I couldn’t have taken another shot without folding. My brain zoomed around like a hummingbird, flitting from one point to another without settling on anything. There was something there. I knew it, but what? What was I missing?
I started through it again. The house caught fire at about one a.m. One person was in the study, and the other was either in the hallway, on the stairs, or on an upper floor. Maybe I misread Jake’s plans. What room was above the hallway on the second floor, on the third floor? Was I seeing fire ants where there were only doodle bugs? To hell with it, I decided, I’m going for a six pack.
I crawled into the car with no answers but somehow feeling better. Suddenly, one other question popped into my head. Where was Jake when the fire started? I realized he never told me.
I drove into the valley, headed for Cisco, then decided to swing by the sheriff’s office. I pulled into a visitor’s space. Getting out of the car, I noticed the difference between my Chrysler and the older beat-up civilian cars parked around me. They probably belonged to the underpaid deputies. That was another reason I’d quit the force. Risking my life for peanuts didn’t impress me. Of course, I was still working for peanuts, but seldom had to risk my life. A vast improvement.
I walked into the station and found myself face to face with that most feared of all public servants, the desk sergeant. “Can I help you?” he said.
“I’m Ace Edwards. Like to chat with the sheriff about the fire at the Adams place.”
“Edwards, yeah, I know the name. You were with Sonny when he bought it. Sonny and I went to school together. I wanna know who did him and why. You got any of them answers?”
Oh boy, here I went again. Another guy who wanted a piece of me. “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t. I also want to know who killed him. If I had the bastard, I’d ask him if he was gunning for Sonny or for me. You guys got any leads yet?”
“None that I’d tell you about. Don’t like meddlin’ big city private dicks.”
I wondered if my breath had turned him off. I’d had onions for lunch. Next trip, I’d remember breath mints. “Is the sheriff here? I’d love to talk to him.” I was determined to charm him.
“Hold on, I’ll check if he’ll see you.”
I sat on a straight-backed, wooden bench, then picked up a Time magazine. The cover asked, Can Clinton defeat Bush? I didn’t bother to check the date as I carefully placed it back where I’d found it. I feared I might fingerprint a collector’s edition.
There was nothing more current to read, so I studied the area. Dingy walls. I tried to guess what the original color had been—gray, tan, off-white, pale yellow, light blue. Could have been any of them. After analyzing the color, I concentrated on the stains—dried blood brown, puke yellow-green, a distinctive faded yellow, and a few other hues I decided to pass on. The ceiling was next in my analysis, but fortunately, before I was halfway through counting flyspecks, the desk sergeant called, “Hey, Edwards. Com’ere.”
I walked to his counter. “Well, do I get to see the secret passages or not?” My urge to charm had slipped.
He glowered at me. “The sheriff will see you. Walk to your right, down that hall. A deputy’ll meet you and take you to the sheriff. Oh yeah, your right’s that way.” He pointed down the hallway as a grin split his face.
I decided to let him win one. I walked in the direction he pointed, hoping he knew my right from my left. A deputy stepped out and asked, “You Edwards?”
My normal sarcasm reared its head, but before I let my mouth get my butt into more trouble, I answered, “Yes sir. I’m here to see the sheriff.”
“Come with me. I’ll take you to his office.”
We wandered a maze of corridors, obviously laid out to keep me from escaping if I tried to make a fast break. I felt uneasy as I pictured myself trapped like Charlie in the old Kingston Trio song about the Boston subway. The deputy nodded toward an open door. “In there.”
I complied and found myself in a nice office with an attractive secretary, telephones, freshly-painted walls, a fax machine and a modern looking computer. Quite a switch from the front of the building.
“Through that door, Mr. Edwards. Sheriff Yardley is waiting for you,” the secretary said.
I gave her my sexiest smile and walked into the office. The man sitting behind the desk was about sixty years old, but looked like he worked-out every day. His hair was gray—mostly he was bald. His tan department-issue cowboy hat hung on a wall hook. It was sweat stained and dirty, giving it character. The star pinned to its front had SHERIFF in block letters pressed into it.
“I’m Ace Edwards,” I said with my best phony smile. “I appreciate you making time to see me.”
“Have a seat, Edwards. I wondered when you were coming by. Heard you were here the other night. Sorry I missed you.”
He almost sounded like he meant it. Maybe he and the desk sergeant had attended the same acting class. He went on. “I remember when you ran the ball in high school. I was a deputy then, and worked traffic control at the games. Always thought the coach should have given you more carries. You were much better than that big palooka he used all the time.”
Now that approach threw me for a loop, but I liked it. I managed to stammer, “Ah, thanks. That was a long time ago.”
Sheriff Yardley leaned forward, his eyes boring into me. “Tell me everything you know about the Adams fire and Sonny Barrow’s death. I don’t like arson and murders in my county, and I don’t like meddlers who come in and think they can walk all over us.”
Maybe there was a subtle change in his attitude. I looked into his eyes and was sure of it. “Sheriff, I’m on your side. If it looks like I’m meddling, I’m sorry. All I want is to find the bad guys who burned the house, and killed Sheila and the other woman.”
“You mean that lawyer?” he answered in a sarcastic snarl. “If that’s what you want, start talking.”
Lawyer. That was it. Madeline Millener was Maddie Millener, the lawyer who’d represented Sheila in the divorce.
“I really don’t have anything to tell you. I’m not even sure who the killer was after. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Sonny, though. It had to be me or Bubba. Sonny was there by accident, and it all happened so fast, no one would have known. The note was passed to Bubba—and it was my car.”
“Makes sense. But not new. I already grazed that pasture. Give me something new. What about Jake Adams? He had reasons to want Sheila and Bubba dead. From what I’m hearing, he don’t have no alibi for either time. How ’bout you? Who’d be gunnin’ for you?”
He might be a country sheriff, but his logic was big city. “Second part first,” I said, not convinced about Jake. “Down this part of the country, I can’t think of anyone specific who has reason to want me dead. Back in Dallas, a few husbands I caught straying from the home hearth don’t like me. I can’t believe they’d follow me here, though, or try to kill me anywhere. They might want to break a few bones, but, nah, they wouldn’t try to kill me.”
“So, you think the killer was after Bubba?”
“No, I didn’t say that. It could be the arsonist trying to take me out before I stumble onto him.”
“Again, not new. I want something new. How ’bout
Jake? What’d he tell you?”
I was embarrassed to tell him I’d never asked Jake where he was when Sheila’s house burned or when Sonny died, so I countered with, “What about Sheila’s lawyer. Who were her enemies? She might be the key to all this. Maybe someone was after her and Sheila happened to get in the way. What was she doing at Sheila’s at one in the morning?”
“Good questions. We’re looking into it. From what we’ve learned so far, she was probably an accident, like you say Sonny was. The Fort Worth folks are working it from their end and have come up with nothing. She had lots of people who didn’t like her, but no more than any other high profile lawyer.”
He glared at me. “Me, I think Sheila was the target. If you don’t know anything new, I’m busy.”
He picked up a folder and pulled out some papers. His message came through loud and clear.
“Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll be in touch.”
He didn’t look up as I left his office. His secretary still looked good, and gave me a big smile. I gave her one back and entered the maze wishing I’d left a trail of breadcrumbs. As I wound my way through the corridors toward the entrance, I wondered if she was married.
Sergeant Jones glared at me when I rounded home into the lobby. I grinned at him. “Have a nice evening, Sergeant.”
ELEVEN
I had a choice to make. It was five-forty-five. I could head for the fire station and butt heads with Sam, or I could head for the Down Home and hope somebody would talk to me before they got too loaded. Remembering that Bubba might be at the Down Home, I opted for the fire station.
I pulled into the parking lot as Sam got out of his pickup.
He waved. “Hey, Ace. Come on in. I’ll buy you a coffee. Then we can look at the plans.”
I sat there for a moment wondering if there were two guys named Ace around here. He sounded downright friendly. After the shock wore off, I went into the firehouse. Sam sat in his small office studying some papers.
Before I could speak, he said, “Here’s your coffee.” He didn’t bother to look up as he pointed to a cup that had somehow appeared on his desk filled with a steaming black liquid.
“Dammit, Ace. You might be as good as Adams said. You’re right. She was on the stairs, the second floor or the third floor. She couldn’t have been killed where we found her remains.”
“Stairs go up there?”
“Yeah. Look at this.” He turned the plans around. “See, her body was right here. Now, look at this. She couldn’t have been on the first floor. The curving staircase covers that area. She had to be on the stairs or one of the upper floors.”
He threw the second floor plans on top of the first. “Look. There’s a hallway on the second floor directly above where we found her body.” A flip of his wrist and we were looking at the third floor. “Ah, shit. There’s a hallway on the third floor, too.”
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, massaging his temples. He mumbled, “That explains the lack of alligatoring. Man, that answers several questions.”
“Slow down,” I said. “All we know is she may have fallen. She could have been on the stairs.”
“Not unless she climbed stairs in the nude.”
“Huh,” I said. “What do you mean, nude?”
He looked at me and his eyes told me he’d decided to let me join his team. “I held out on you. We sifted all the ashes around her body. We found no evidence of clothing, no jewelry, no metal snaps, no metal or plastic buttons, no metal zippers, no nothing.”
While I digested that, he added, “To me, that equals naked, or some kind of lightweight negligee with no bra. Now, do you think she was on the stairs nude or in a negligee?”
He had me off balance so I did what anyone would do. I changed the subject. “What did you mean by alligatoring?”
He ignored my question and started talking, as if unburdening himself. “After you left this afternoon, I sifted through everything I knew while I fed the baby. Two things have bothered me from the first reports. The first was the lack of alligatoring, and the second was any proof of clothing. Your cockeyed idea answered the second one and that fed the first one.”
“I’m glad I’m so good,” I said. “But what is alligatoring?”
“Alligatoring is an effect we find when the perp uses an accelerant. The first floor was oak flooring laid on a concrete slab. Alligatoring occurs when the wood burns so hot it ends up in a pattern like alligator hide. We found alligatoring or distinctive burn trails everywhere he poured gas. There was none around the second body.”
He paused while I played catch up. “What about the other body?”
“Yeah, big time. My best guess is her body was drenched in gasoline. The flooring around her was so toasted you could see her outline. He must have stood and poured a can of gas over her. That’s why she burned so bad, and that’s why I’m sure she was on the first floor.”
The picture of her charred remains sent a chill up my spine, but I had to push on. “And the other woman?”
“She was burned the same, but there was no alligatoring around her. That had me buffaloed. Now, I believe it’s because she was upstairs. I should have thought of that. Thanks, Ace.”
I decided to risk another question. “What about the body in the study—clothing I mean. Was she dressed?”
“Same. No evidence of clothing. Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“One more. Do you know how they died, what killed them?”
He flipped open a folder and took out a sheet of paper. “The coroner says the lady in the study may have died from extreme trauma to the head. Her skull was cracked. He has no guess about the other one. Both bodies were burned too bad for normal procedures. In fact, there’s no sure way to know how or when the crack in her skull occurred.”
“What did you mean, sure way?”
“Well, the coroner said if she was hit with something hard enough to crack her skull and kill her before she burned, the skull should be cracked in. On the other hand, if the skull cracked from the heat of the fire, it should have cracked out because of the pressure built up inside the cranium. That’s the easy part. Sometimes, a cracked in skull will blow out from pressure, especially if the fire is really hot.”
“What about the body in the study?”
“Out.”
“And the other?”
“Out, also. But, the coroner says he’s convinced hers was from the fire. He’s not sure about the one in the study.”
I thought for a moment. “So, all we can do is guess that neither was wearing any metal or plastic, and one was not on the first floor when she died.”
“And, the one in the study was drenched with gasoline.”
I shuddered. “Yeah. I hope she was dead when that occurred.”
We talked on and he promised to re-check the ruins tomorrow. He wanted to verify his sketches and pin down the exact spot where the second body lay, and from where it might have fallen.
I thanked him for his cooperation and left him studying the floor plans. As I walked through the parking lot toward my car, I checked the time. Seven-thirty. It had been a long day. Again, I had two choices. Get a motel room or head for the Down Home. I chose the room. I wanted to speak to Jake.
I drove down Eighth Street toward Interstate 20. A chain had built a motel at the intersection across the street from a popular truck stop. I had no problem getting a room. After moving my luggage in, I again faced a choice—the Down Home or hiding out. I admitted to myself I had been ducking the Down Home and the face-off with Bubba. It had to happen, and I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. But first, a conversation with Jake was in order.
Several unsuccessful phone calls later, I gave up. I’d left messages at his office, his home, and had paged him. Even his cell phone took my message. Hopefully, he’d call back.
* * * *
I pulled into the parking lot of the Down Home and looked around. Bubba’s Suburban wasn’t there. That was a relief. Maybe he wasn’t her
e tonight. I got out, wiped the dust off my boots on the back of my jeans and walked in. Like my last visit, the noise was deafening and the smoke thick enough to count lung cancers—figuratively. The country-western music screaming from the jukebox fought with the sounds from two television sets and the crowd trying to communicate over the noise.
I stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room. I saw what you always find in a country Texas bar—attractive young ladies in dress ranging from office formal to jeans and boots, and young men in jeans, boots, and western hats or gimme caps.
There was no change in the sawdust on the floor. I could tell because the same wet chips were in the same places as when I was last there. Also, some of the chips had a strange color that caused the patrons to step gingerly around the area. Nothing different about the bar—a collection of beer bottles advertising brands sold over the ages, and dusty liquor bottles that looked like they hadn’t been touched by this beer crowd in years. What I didn’t see was Bubba.
I walked to the bar where Hojo held court with a couple of the locals. “Hey Hojo, give me a Killian’s.”
Hojo glanced toward me then went back to his conversation. I waited patiently for about ten seconds, then said in my most courteous voice, “Barkeep, I’d like a Killian’s now if you have the time.” Okay, maybe I put extra emphasis on now.
Hojo ignored me. It was times like this I wish my dad had been six-feet-five. When you're the runt of the crowd, people always think they could either shove you around or ignore you. I’ve visited that neighborhood too many times.
I walked down the bar and shouldered my way between the two guys with whom Hojo had his interesting conversation going. As I separated them, I said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but Hojo is hearing challenged so I thought I’d get closer to him.” I said it that way so they’d know I was politically correct.
Hojo was now in front of me. “Now my good friend, if you can’t understand this difficult order, I’ll slow it down for you. I—want—a—Killian’s—now.”
