Charis’s breath caught. What had Vic done? Wendell was safely out of state— Oh, god, had Vic hurt Deason?
“What has that maniac done?” she whispered, her knees weak.
“Ms. Locke, may I come in?”
Charis pushed the screen door toward him. Detective Benton opened it fully, stepping into the kitchen. Charis walked shakily to the table and pulled out a chair.
“Thank you,” he said, lowering into it, and then taking a notepad from his shirt pocket.
“Would you like some ice tea?” she asked.
“No thanks.”
She slid into the chair across the table from the detective. “Please. What’s this about?”
“Can I ask why you just referred to Victor Locke as a ‘maniac’?”
“Because he is. He gets a kick out of hurting people. Vic is miserable, and causing other people misery makes him feel better about himself.”
“When did you last see Victor?”
Charis twisted her hair into a bun as she thought, securing it with Mr. B’s crossword puzzle pencil. “A week ago, Wednesday. He stopped in front of the house and harassed Wendell. He left when Wendell got out his phone and threatened to call the police. I watched from the screen door.”
“Who is Wendell?”
“Mr. B’s son. Technically, this is his house. He lives here when he’s not away on business.”
“Is he here now?”
“No. He’s in Colorado Springs performing a bank audit.”
“Ms. Locke, didn’t you also have an altercation with Victor in the front yard?”
Charis glanced through the window to the spot where Vic had sent her flying back into the grass. “I see you’ve already spoken with Mrs. Smith,” she said.
“That hoodlum knocked her flat on her back.” Mr. Barnaby shuffled into the kitchen. “I’d have killed him with my bare hands, if that Deason kid hadn’t gotten ahold of him first.”
“Deason. The garbage man?” Detective Benton scratched his pen across his notebook.
Charis could see Mrs. Smith had left nothing to the imagination.
“Damn right he is. Does a good job, too. Always puts my cart right back on the curb where it belongs. Shame he didn’t finish that no good redneck off—like I would’ve done at his age—but he held his own.”
Charis’s head pounded with her heartbeat. “Detective, I’m sorry, but it’s time for me to feed Mr. Barnaby and give him his medication. Can you please tell me what Victor has done?”
“He died.”
“Died? Vic is dead? No. There must be a mistake—” Tears stung her eyes as Victor flashed before them. Vic shyly asking her for a date…proposing on one knee…punching her pregnant belly...blubbering a wet apology after she’d lost the baby…
“His body was discovered by a garbage collector behind Suds Bar this afternoon. Cause of death seems to be a blow to the head. He’d been dead a couple of days—around sixty hours. Hard to tell exactly, given the heat.” He cleared his throat, glanced down at the notepad.
Today was Thursday. Charis’s heart sank further as she realized Deason must’ve found the body.
“Son, I’m going to have to ask you to move. You’re sitting in my chair.” Mr. Barnaby glared at Detective Benton.
“I’m on my way out.” Detective Benton scooted the chair back and stood. “I’ll come back at a more convenient time, Ms. Locke.”
“Call first,” Mr. B said, nudging him out of the way, sliding into his chair.
After the detective left, Charis cooked Mr. B’s dinner, took his vitals and administered his medication. Blinking back tears, she threw herself fully into one task after another, making sure Mr. Barnaby was cared for.
All the while, Vic edged her mind. She focused on the bad things he’d done. Nasty, mean things only she knew about. That way it didn’t hurt so much to think of how he’d met his end. The solution backfired when she recalled all of the times she’d wished him dead.
Just after helping Mr. B into bed, her conscience got the best of her. She sat on the sofa, covered her face with a throw pillow and cried.
The phone rang, jolting her from the cushions. Wiping her cheeks and clearing her throat, she stepped to the kitchen. Wendell’s number appeared on the ID. Dread filled her stomach at the thought of telling him about Vic’s death. She wasn’t in the mood for his sarcasm or false pity. Following a deep shaky breath, she answered.
“Hello, Wendell.”
“Hi. Sorry I’m calling so late. I’m just getting back to the room. Job’s been a real pain in the neck, which has been the trend lately. Seems a bank should know how to put two and two together, but I’m here to tell you, that just isn’t so. At least not anymore. But, hey, if they all did what they were supposed to do, I wouldn’t have a job. Right?”
“Vic—” The words Charis tried to say stuck in her throat.
“What? Charis, are you there?”
“Vic has been murdered.” The words sounded flat. Emotionless. Like a lie.
“Vic Locke? That can’t be true. Charis, are you sure?”
“It’s true. A detective came by to question me this evening.”
“Detective?” Wendell’s voice became hushed. “They think it was me, don’t they? Oh, god, they think I did it.”
“What are you talking about? Why would they—”
“The argument me and Vic had in the driveway last week. The Cleghorns were walking their dogs. Mrs. Smith was watering that petrified lawn of hers. Someone talked to the police, and now they think I did it.”
“Calm down. Nobody thinks you did anything. Detective Benton said Vic had been dead a couple of days when his body was found in the dumpster. You’ve been in Colorado for nearly a week.”
“Dumpster? Oh, that’s fantastic. I think I actually called him a piece of trash that day—or maybe I just thought it—either way, they’re coming for me. I just know it.”
Charis sighed, quickly growing tired of his theatrics. So typical of Wendell to make another man’s death all about him.
“Look, Wendell, you can verify your whereabouts through your job and your cellphone records. I didn’t tell you so you’d spaz out and get paranoid. I told you because I thought you’d want to know. I have to go and check on your father now.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry… I’m not sure what came over me. It’s just such a shock. Do they know how?”
“All I know is he was found in the trash bin behind Suds sometime this afternoon. They think he was hit in the head.”
“I still can’t believe it. And the damn audit’s taking even longer than I anticipated. No way I can finish up by tomorrow. Looks like I’ll be home Saturday evening—unless you think I should come now.”
“No. Why would you do that? Stay. Finish your audit. We’ll see you Saturday night.”
Charis hung up the phone, still massaging her forehead. She stepped around the corner and lightly made her way to Mr. B’s bedroom for one last glance before she turned in.
****
Deason waved goodbye to Jagger from the porch.
“Coming, girl.” He unlocked the front door and stepped in. Stooping, he tucked Kinko into the crook of his arm and with his free hand untied his boots. He kicked them off just inside the doorway—a habit he’d developed the day Charis gave them to him.
He stepped through the trailer and opened the back door, releasing Kinko into the fenced yard. He stood watching her through tired eyes, calling her after a few minutes. She ignored his command, sniffing something on the ground.
“Kink. Come.” He stepped onto the patio to see what she was nosing. A dead bird laid face up in the grass.
Vic Locke’s unblinking eye flashed through Deason’s mind, followed by images of his ulcerated body, pulled from the dumpster by men in Tyvek suits and face shields. Flies swarmed, crawling into Vic’s nose and mouth. The images were sharp, as if sliced into Deason’s brain by a die cut machine.
Maybe he deserved to be haunted. That’
s what he got for pretending his family never existed, for trying to be happy, for getting on with life in this town after what he’d done. He hadn’t been able to rescue them then, why should he allow himself to be rescued now?
Deason returned to the living room, sank into his recliner and patted his knee. Kinko jumped to his lap. Tomorrow was Friday. He would put in a full day’s work, pick up his check at three o’clock then make a phone call to Ted Livingston at Glacier Park, try and convince him to move his start date back a week.
Hopefully, after hearing about his obliterated pickup truck and the dead body he’d found among the trash, Ted would cut him a break. Come what may, he had to get out of this place.
It probably wouldn’t be a good time to mention the authorities had advised him not to leave town until the details of Vic’s murder were pieced together. Or the fact that he was a possible suspect. The police never actually said it, but he knew they suspected him. They had let him go, but he wasn’t off the hook.
All afternoon and evening until it was dark, the detective had questioned him. Toward the end, he came close to doubting his own innocence. He’d wondered how they’d known so much about his dealings with Vic. The fight on Mr. Barnaby’s lawn, the beer can Vic chucked through his window, the stolen boots.
Then, as the detective ended his questioning and opened the door to the interrogation room, Jagger had plodded past. He’d glanced at Deason through the doorway then lowered his eyes to the floor. The shame on his face had given Deason his answer.
Jagger had waited for him in the police station parking lot. Seeing him cry was one of the saddest things Deason had ever witnessed.
“They tricked me, man,” Jagger had bit out. “Told me they knew things about me. Things I’d done in the past that ain’t never come to light. Course I believed ’em. I got plenty of skeletons in my closet that’ve never seen the light of day. Said they knew you and Vic had problems, too. And that I might as well tell ’em what you’d told me, or both of us would be in a heap a trouble.”
Then Deason had held out his hand, and Jagger had shaken it, slapping him on the back with the other one. “I love you, brother,” he’d said.
Kinko licked Deason’s cheek, dragging his thoughts back to the present. He patted the dog’s head, rose from his chair and stepped to the kitchen. Rifling through a drawer, he located the telephone book and flipped through the yellow pages until he found the Greyhound bus station. He dialed the number.
“How much for a one way ticket to Glacier Park, Montana?”
****
“The DVDs are ready. Daphne picked them up for me. She’s bringing them by in a little while,” Charis told Wendell over the telephone as she paced the kitchen floor.
“I’m here. My hands are full,” Daphne’s voice echoed through the screen.
“I’ve gotta go. Daphne’s here. See you tomorrow night.”
She hung up the phone, jogged across the kitchen and opened the screen door. “This is perfect,” she gasped, taking the fish aquarium from Daphne’s arms and setting it on the table. “Jeez, heavier than it looks.”
“You think that’s heavy, wait till it’s full of water. It only weighs twenty-something pounds empty. Sucker will top out at around two hundred sixty when it’s full. Which reminds me, what are you planning on setting it on? Needs to be something sturdy enough to hold all that weight.”
“Mr. B has a heavy metal trunk at the foot of his bed, a military footlocker. There’s nothing in it but a couple of old blankets. I’m thinking of moving it to the east wall and setting the aquarium on top. That will put it about eye-level with Mr. B, so he can watch the fish swim from bed.”
Daphne pushed her chin out and nodded slowly. “That should work. I’ll be right back.”
She returned with a large box of VHS tapes, a shoebox filled with DVDs balanced on top.
“Thank you so much,” Charis said, taking the boxes from her and carrying them to the living room. She set them on the floor beside the television, next to the unopened DVD player.
Daphne followed her in. “Let’s check them out,” she said, pulling a DVD dated nineteen eighty-five from the shoebox. “See what a hottie that Wendell Barnaby must’ve been back then.”
Charis rolled her eyes at Daphne. “The DVD player isn’t hooked up yet. Wendell was going to do it, but he got…sidetracked.”
Daphne lowered herself to the floor and picked up the player, reading the box. “I’ll install it. Can’t be too hard.” She broke through the packing tape and opened the flap. “You go assemble the aquarium while I do this. Think you can carry it on your own?”
“Sure, I need the exercise. I’ll count it as a workout.” Charis turned and walked to the kitchen. She carried the aquarium to the spare bedroom for hiding, stopping only once to adjust her grip and stretch her back. Excitement fluttered through her as she set it on the dresser then poured in the gravel, installed the filter and pump, and set up the little treasure chest and scuba diver.
Smiling, she imagined Mr. B lying in his bed, his curious eyes following a colorful fish. She’d go to Daphne’s shop on Monday and pick out a few for him. She gathered the empty packaging, turned off the light and left the room. Cracking the door of Mr. B’s bedroom on the way down the hall, she found him napping peacefully.
“All done,” Daphne said, rising from the floor, dusting off her hands. Images of a teenage Wendell filled the screen—bad skin, greasy hair, same thick lenses. “Oooh, baby,” she hooted.
“The color looks great,” Charis noted as Daphne handed her the remote to the DVD player.
“Yeah. I can see every zit in vivid detail. Did you get the aquarium set up?”
“Yes. And it’s so cute. He’s going to love it. I hid it in the spare bedroom for now. I’ll move it on Monday, before I add the water and fish.”
“Okay. My work here is done. Come down Monday morning and I’ll fix you up with a couple of fish,” Daphne said.
“Thanks for everything.” Charis hugged her friend. “I’d never make it through…everything without you.”
“That’s what I’m here for. Like I told you yesterday, knowing how Vic treated you, I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone. But I am sorry you’re hurting.” Daphne stooped, gathering bits of Styrofoam and cellophane into the empty DVD player box. “I’ll toss this in the trash cart on my way to the car.”
Chapter Four
Charis ran her fingers across the nightstand and tapped the blaring alarm clock. Eight a.m. She stretched, enjoying the brush of her own linens against her skin. The aroma of coffee lured her to sit up and slide from the bed.
Moments later, she sat in her favorite kitchen chair facing the window, hot cup of coffee on the oak table in front of her. Deason McKindle filled her thoughts as she gazed out the window. She wondered what it had been like for him, discovering Vic’s body behind Suds. The horror he must have felt as he’d recognized Vic in the refuse.
Had he felt guilty—as she had—because of an underlying hatred for Vic? Ashamed of that internal voice that whispered, the world just might be a better place without him?
She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking the thoughts. It shouldn’t matter to her what Deason thought, felt, went through. He was leaving Shaydn. Moving out of her life, never to be seen again. He was probably already gone.
Charis rose from the table, rinsed her cup then stepped to the bathroom to wash the gloom from her face. Today was Mr. B’s seventy-eighth birthday, for goodness sake. A time to celebrate a life well lived, with the person living it.
“Morning, sunshine.” Lita poked her head into the bathroom.
“Good morning, Lita,” Charis said, drying her face. “You heading to work?”
“Yeah. Trenda asked me to work nine to seven today. Some rich lady died and her family donated all of her clothes and knickknacks to the shop. She needs extra help getting it all unpacked and on the racks. I don’t mind working a few extra hours. Besides, I like checking out the wares.”
&nb
sp; “Sounds like a full day,” Charis said, grateful Lita enjoyed her job at the thrift store. “I’ll be out today too. It’s Mr. B’s birthday and we’re having his party. If Trenda cuts you loose early, stop by and have a piece of cake.” Not wanting Lita to feel left out, she tried not to think about Mr. B’s reaction if she really did show up.
“Doubt if that’ll happen, but thanks for the invitation. Gotta run.”
“Be careful. They still haven’t caught Vic’s killer.” The fact the thrift shop was next door to Suds made Charis nervous.
She pecked Charis’s cheek. “I will. You do the same.”
Charis finished getting ready then jumped in the car. She pulled up in front of Fish and Chirps just as Daphne flipped the sign on the door to Open. Daphne waved through the glass then opened the door. “Hey gorgeous, get in here. I’ve got some fish I think Mr. B is going to love.”
Charis walked in and smiled, the parrots instantly greeting her with “Hello” and “How do you do?”
Daphne’s mother waved limply from the door of the storeroom, already looking worn out.
“She’s such a martyr,” Daphne said low. “Any time she lifts a finger, it’s just so she can complain about it later. Pats on the back are her strange addiction, like one of those fruitcakes with the weird fetishes on TV.”
Charis tried not to laugh. “Daph, be more understanding. Thank God you still have a mother. So she needs a little encouragement—just give it to her.”
Daphne’s eyes grew wide. “A little encouragement? That’s like saying Charlie Sheen needs a little therapy.”
Charis chuckled despite herself. They stepped around the bird section, into the fish aisle.
“Here they are. Larry, Moe and Curly. This one over here is Lucy.” Daphne followed a flame red fish with her finger. “I’ve been watching them all week, getting a line on their behavior. Making sure they all play nice together.”
“How many fish can share the aquarium?”
“It’s a thirty gallon so it’ll hold several. You could start out with these four then up the count if Mr. B wants more.” Daphne suggested.
“Good idea. I’ll take them all.”
Another Man's Treasure Page 6
