But when I saw Finn get out and hurry into the dry ditch bordering the road and head up into the heavy brush, I wondered if he suddenly needed a pit stop. Curious, I slid from behind the wheel and waited for him to reappear. That happened only seconds later and he waved me toward him.
When I reached his side, he pointed at a rusty, sea green pickup truck.
“I see. Someone dumped a truck,” I said. “You thinking of calling Ed to retrieve this old thing?”
“No, Jillian. I was afraid someone was in it, that they might be hurt. Look at the tread marks from the road to here.” He pointed at the ground.
He was right. I could see the path this truck traveled when it went off the road. It couldn’t have been that long ago. I drew closer, saw the driver’s-side door was open and the tailgate down.
Lindsey joined us. “What’s happening? You got a thing for old trucks, Finn?”
I stepped closer, thankful I’d chosen jeans and shoes today. They would protect my legs and feet from whatever lived among these bushes and nearby trees. Lindsey’s shoes weren’t quite as nature-friendly.
But it wasn’t the truck itself that had me pulling my phone from my pocket. It was the streaks in the truck bed and the drip marks on the bumper. I can tell rust from dried blood—and this wasn’t rust.
Sixteen
I stayed about ten feet from the truck, feeling as if I were guarding Fort Knox. It could be animal blood, but I wasn’t taking any chances—not this close to where that sofa had been dumped. Finn took Lindsey back to her car after I pointed out that she had sling-back flats on and could get bitten by ants or something more lethal—like a snake. He was good at reading me and knew I wasn’t really talking about her shoes.
Tom and Candace arrived ten minutes later. Soon Candace, hands on hips, was taking in the tread marks and the path the truck had taken. Finally she said, “This truck wasn’t here two days ago. I surveyed this road up and down looking for something exactly like this—a clue to how a bloody sofa ended up next to that box. It could very well have arrived in this old thing.”
“Traffic here picks up at lunch and suppertime,” Tom said, “but it’s not all that busy unless you’re adopting an animal from the shelter or stuffing the charity box with discards. Finn sure has a sharp eye, because the truck’s almost completely hidden.”
“It’s no surprise he spotted it.” I smiled. “Finn might not be your blood relative, but he lived with you as a boy—what was he? Twelve when you married his mother?”
“Yup.”
“You were the best thing that ever happened to him. He admires you, Tom, and has modeled himself after you. He questions, observes and works hard. Nope, no surprise he noticed that piece of the bumper at all.”
Tom squeezed my shoulder. “Let me ask Finn a few questions and y’all can be on your way.”
I went with him to Lindsey’s car and stood next to Tom by the rolled-down driver’s-side window.
“Hey there, Dad,” Finn said. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping Candace out.” He bent, nodded at Lindsey and said, “Heard you two ran out of gas. What were you doing out this way?”
“We came to help Shawn—right after Lindsey finished her class. And he sure needed us. We took care of cleaning the cattery, feeding the dogs, stuff like that while he helped these cute premature puppies. We were on our way back to Jillian’s when we came to a surprise stop.”
“That’s my fault,” Lindsey offered. “Too preoccupied to even notice the gas gauge.”
“Happens to all of us at one time or another. Glad you noticed the truck, son. We’re on this and I appreciate you being so observant.” Tom straightened, ready to help Candace. She was taking pictures of the truck, the grass and probably every leaf, stone and shrub in the vicinity.
Finn knew something was up and he wasn’t letting Tom off the hook that easily. “It’s just an old truck, right? I mean, you have a lot more important things to handle than this. You’re obviously consulting with the police again.”
“Can we talk about this later?” Tom said. “Time for you two to be on your way.”
Finn got the message and they took off. Too late I shouted, “Stop at a gas station on the way home.”
Tom said, “You worried Lindsey saw the blood?”
“I don’t think she got close enough.”
“Good. We’re on this now. Go on home and say hi to the cats for me. I’ll probably crash at the station, especially now with this possible new lead. Could be deer blood in that truck for all we—”
“It’s human,” Candace called, erasing any doubt. I turned her way and she was holding up the swab. “Bagging this as evidence and I hope we can speed up the DNA test. I’m betting it belongs to Rhett.”
I kissed Tom good-bye, but as I was starting toward my van, a white late-model pickup pulled up behind it. Since the squad car Tom and Candace arrived in was in front of my vehicle, I was pretty much stuck here for now. An older gentleman wearing carpenter’s overalls and sporting two days of gray stubble approached me. Tom, who had joined Candace, did an about-face and started back in my direction.
“You know what’s going on here?” the man asked.
Tom reached us and held out his hand in greeting. “Tom Stewart. Mercy PD.”
“You ain’t dressed like no cop.”
“No, I’m not.” Tom smiled.
He probably didn’t want to reveal his new job quite yet, so he left it at that.
This seemed to make the man uncomfortable and he shifted from one foot to another, saying, “This here is my property. Got fifteen acres between here and my house. I want to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Ah. Maybe you can help us identify this truck we found abandoned. Seen it around?” Tom gestured toward where Candace was using tweezers to pick up fibers in the truck bed.
“Seen it? Son of a gun, that’s mine.” He started toward it, but Tom put out an arm to stop him.
“We’re collecting evidence right now, Mr. . . . ?”
“Strickland. Wilbur Strickland.” He kept staring at the truck and Candace’s activity.
“Mr. Strickland, did you leave your truck here?” Tom asked.
“Leave it here? Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
I was about ready to leave them to do this verbal dance without me and wait in my car, but I was curious. I wanted answers almost as much as Tom did. I stayed right where I was.
Mr. Strickland, still avoiding the question, said, “That truck, even with three hundred thousand miles, runs just fine. When I got a messy job—dead animals in the woods that need proper buryin’ or a slaughtered wild hog I need to carry back to the house—I use it.”
“Pretty well taken care of, I have to say,” Tom said.
“You can’t leave blood and guts in a truck bed and not expect to draw critters out in the country. Even bobcats. I keep that baby clean, inside and out. Why do you think it’s lasted twenty years?”
“Point taken,” Tom said. “Why is it out here, then—and not being taken care of?”
Mr. Strickland scratched his salt-and-pepper crew cut. “Don’t know.”
But if even I could read deceptive body language—no eye contact, fidgety behavior—Tom was already aware this man knew something he didn’t want to share.
“Yes, you do know.” Tom’s voice was quiet, but confident.
The man sighed heavily. “Okay, my nephew’s been known to take the truck out for a ride, ’specially if he fancies a girl. But the truck’s on my property and I won’t be pressing no charges, so what’s the big deal?”
“I can’t tell you that right now, but trust me, it is a big deal.”
Mr. Strickland turned to me then, probably to change the subject. “And who are you? Another cop without a uniform? ’Cause I kno
w that pretty Deputy Carson up there messin’ with my property, but the two of you? What the heck is goin’ on here? It’s a dumb old truck, is all.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Jillian Hart and it’s kind of a long story why I ended up here, but I’m glad to meet you.”
Mr. Strickland’s eyes widened. “You that quilt woman? The person my wife wants to become?” He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “I can score some major points with her today sayin’ I met you.” He smiled broadly. A few teeth were missing, but that smile transformed him into a far less suspicious and ornery person than he’d first seemed.
From the corner of my eye I caught Tom’s grin, the little shake of his head as if to say, “There she goes again, making friends out of strangers.”
“You the one who found my truck, then?” he asked. Tom had suddenly become invisible to Wilbur Strickland.
“Um, yes.” Not exactly the truth, but it didn’t matter at this point. “And I called the police. I was sure it belonged to someone, and the discovery needed to be reported.”
“You sure saved me a bunch of trouble, little lady. I was gone for the past couple days—looking to buy a few milk cows up toward Anderson—and I come home to find the truck gone. Did the missus notice? She says no. But I’m sure my brother’s boy took it. He mighta had a little too much to drink and drove it right through this here ditch. It’s not like the truck’s worth much to anyone but me, so I ain’t got round to callin’ up and askin’ him what he’s been up to.”
“What’s his name again?” Tom’s eyebrows were raised and I could tell he was trying hard to remain patient. This had been one of the most difficult days in his life, and remaining calm surely couldn’t have been easy.
“Bo Strickland. But don’t go runnin’ over to my brother’s place and rouse him. Kid sleeps all day. Works graveyards at the Stop and Shop. Guess that’s why when he has a night off he don’t sleep and sometimes comes round here and takes my truck.”
“He doesn’t own a car?” I asked.
“Nope. Says he’s savin’ up. Sure. That’ll be the day. Anyways, he gets his sister to drop him off here so he can take the truck and meet up with the latest girlfriend. Desperate, I guess. Sister’s not fool enough to lend him her car. She’s actually got a lick of sense.”
I smiled and nodded. And I could tell Wilbur Strickland had a lick of sense, too—well, almost.
Tom asked the question that was now on my mind. “How did he get the keys to the truck if you weren’t around?”
“No doubt Floretta, the missus, gave ’em up. Big softy. The kid smiles at her and she runs to the kitchen to make him cobbler or cookies. We couldn’t have kids, so she wants Bo to keep comin’ round.” Wilbur looked at me. “She would so love to meet you, ma’am. Pick your brain about your ideas. See, we got ourselves about eight semiferal barn cats. I take them from Shawn whenever he asks me to. Hard to find homes for cats like that. There’s nothing better at killing the rats and mice that love my chicken feed than a cat that won’t come indoors for nothin’.”
Wilbur sure loved to talk, and the mention of cats and his obvious love of country life were almost soothing after this difficult day. This must be the couple Shawn had mentioned the other day—just two days ago, but it seemed like a decade.
I was then surprised when Tom came up with an idea, which of course served his police purposes.
Not that I minded.
Seventeen
The Strickland house and barn sat alone back from the road. This small farm was located several hundred feet past the spot where I always turned off to head to the Animal Sanctuary, so I’d never noticed it before. A fenced area, as well as the cattle guard Tom and I rumbled over in my van, kept the cows I’d spotted grazing in the field, and not out on the road. It was almost time for them to lumber back to the barn. Days were getting shorter.
We’d followed Wilbur here, leaving Candace with the squad car. She was still collecting evidence from the truck, and Wilbur told me—not Tom—that he didn’t mind one bit, that she could even tow it off to check it more thoroughly, but he “sure as heck” wanted to know what they were looking for. Tom dodged the question again—for now. At some point he would have to explain, but that wasn’t my job, thank goodness.
Tom told him he wanted to see where the truck had been parked and also talk to Mrs. Strickland, the keeper of the keys in her husband’s absence. I was guessing a visit to nephew Bo would be on Tom’s agenda in the near future.
The white farmhouse, tinted amber by the setting sun, might have been old, but it was freshly painted. The barn seemed in pristine condition, its rusty red color brightened by light from the west. I’d caught a glimpse of the garage when we made a slight turn and parked on the gravel drive in front of the house. What I saw of the shabby garage did not seem to match the house and barn.
Wilbur pulled his truck under a carport next to the house. As soon as our vehicle doors slammed, three cats raced from the barn toward us—two tabbies and a tuxedo.
I crouched and extended a hand palm down, made a chattering noise. The tuxedo came right up and butted against my knees.
Wilbur joined Tom and me and said, “Simpson ain’t never done that. Not ever. He’ll let me and the missus pet him but not no one else—until you.”
The tabbies hung back, but they didn’t seem frightened. I wished I had a few treats in my pocket to tempt them. Cat love was the absolute best and I needed all I could get today.
Tom cleared his throat. “Can I have a word with Mrs. Strickland?”
Wilbur had been staring down at me as I stroked Simpson. The handsome boy was rubbing his face on my knee and thigh, leaving his scent on me, owning me. I smiled and told him he was beautiful.
Tom repeated his question to Wilbur, who was taking in Simpson’s behavior with wonder.
“Oh, sure enough, but Mrs. Hart, my wife won’t never forgive me if she don’t get to meet you.”
I stood, brushing dirt off my rear. “I want to meet her, too. And please call me Jillian.”
A few minutes later, Tom and I were sitting on a sofa with a floral chintz slipcover while Floretta Strickland hustled to make us sweet tea. Tom understood that in South Carolina, if you greeted a person in her home, you first had to be polite and usually accept tea or coffee. Floretta, a kind-eyed woman with large bones and rough, reddened hands that had seen all kinds of work in her life, wobbled on her feet and went wide-eyed when she met me. Her husband had to steady her.
I was by no means a celebrity, but a kitty I fostered had been. The cat and I had made the national news together, and folks in Mercy do not forget things like that—especially the cat lovers. My quilt orders skyrocketed afterward, too. So, as we sipped tea, Floretta’s questions centered on the quilts I made for cats. She was one of the many quilters in this region, and wanted to learn how to make them. I usually had a few in my van but didn’t today. I had pictures on my phone, though.
Tom saw this as a perfect opportunity to have Wilbur show him the garage where the truck was always parked. While they were gone, I displayed photo after photo of my quilts to Floretta. She nodded and smiled and said she could easily make these for her own cats, particularly for the kitties who slept on the screened back porch when it got chilly in winter.
She was about to refill her tea and was ready to see my kitties on the cat cam when Wilbur burst in through the back kitchen door and into the living room.
“Honey bear,” he said to his wife in a voice not exactly dripping with sweetness, “did you go and sell that old sofa I keep out in the garage?”
“Why, whatever are you talkin’ about, Wilbur Strickland?” She stood, walked past him and Wilbur followed. So did I.
As I went through the screened porch and down the outdoor steps to the garage, I noted it was being repainted to match the house’s fresh white exterior. The sun, now almost in full retreat, offered
only enough light for me to notice the painting was about half-done. It wouldn’t be shabby much longer.
I had to almost run to keep up with Floretta and Wilbur.
A lone bare bulb lit the interior of the garage. Tom had his phone flashlight on and was examining the oil-stained concrete where the truck usually must have been parked. Floretta started to walk right across the garage, but Wilbur grabbed her by the back of her housedress.
“The man’s workin,’ Floretta. He said I should only walk around the sides and that’s what you should do, too.”
She turned. “I don’t need to go no further. I can see it’s gone.” She seemed to study the space for a while, as if the sofa might magically reappear. “Now, who would up and steal an old thing like that?”
Suddenly I realized what they must be talking about. “What color was that sofa—and was it small? A love seat, maybe?”
Floretta was staring beyond Tom, but the light was so poor, it was difficult to see. “It was brown. Ugly old brown and not worth the space it took up.” She turned to me. “And yes. How did you know it was a love seat?”
“I don’t know. I was just asking.” This was Tom and Candace’s area to explore, not mine.
“I kept it ’cause the cat liked it,” Wilbur said. “Pretty little thing, she was. She loved that old couch. That one wasn’t like the others. At one time that baby musta been someone’s house cat. She’d sneak inside any time you weren’t careful enough goin’ in and out of the house.”
“A cat stayed in here?” I glanced at Tom, who’d stopped sweeping the flashlight and was listening to this conversation.
“Yup. That’s my Wilbur. Keeps a sofa ’cause a cat liked it, a cat who’d probably steal the breath from his lungs if she could.” But the smile she directed at her husband was a loving one.
The Cat, the Sneak and the Secret Page 12
