by Jeff Abbott
“Come along, Billy Ray,” Junebug said with a touch of resignation and infinite patience as our assistant D.A. began to bristle. “Let’s go talk with Miss Twyla and her houseguest.” He nodded at Sergeant Garza. “Jordy, would you ride over there with us and answer some questions for Sergeant Garza?”
“Sure, as long as I don’t have to listen to Billy Ray’s exercises in fiction,” I said. Bob Don and Gretchen quickly said that they had to be going, Lorna looked lost, and Sister stared at me with her arms crossed. I sighed and headed out the door.
Being interrogated by Teresa Garza was a sight nicer than being questioned by Billy Ray Bummel. First, Teresa Garza acted like she knew what she was doing. Second, she was polite. Third, she didn’t conjecture—she just asked. Finally, she had a soothing voice. On the drive over to Miss Twyla’s house, I answered Sergeant Garza’s questions as best I could. Sitting in the back of Junebug’s cruiser with her (and Billy Ray up in the front, being unusually quiet), I provided as many details as I could muster.
“You’re the only person that’s actually witnessed an explosion,” she told me. “No one saw Mr. Boolfors’s shed or Mrs. Tepper’s doghouse blow up.” She made me go over the details of what each blast looked like, the pop of the mailbox, the flash of light, and the concussive noise that trumpeted the detonation.
She gently touched my sling. “You’re very lucky, Jordy. If you had been by one of those mailboxes, you could have been more seriously injured or even killed.”
Billy Ray coughed.
“I know. If Candace hadn’t pulled me inside when I fell, I would have gotten a back load of shrapnel.” I paused. “What kind of person does this, ma’am? Why would they blow up mailboxes on Candace’s street?” A cold thought touched me. “Could someone on that street have been a target?”
Garza shook her head. Her hair was cut professionally short and mousse stiffened it into immobility. “I doubt it, although it’s hard to say. But this has all the classical marks of a prankster. The explosives are homemade, are put in places that don’t have high traffic, and are set off when people generally aren’t about—although this last incident certainly came close to violating the pattern.” She frowned. “That bothers me.”
“Where would someone get explosives around here?”
Junebug cleared his throat. “Parker Loudermilk’s a partner in that construction company over in Bavary. He knows all about explosives,” he observed quietly as he turned into Miss Twyla’s driveway.
This charge against authority was too much for an eggsucker like Billy Ray. “Chief Moncrief, I’m shocked. And the mayor being your boss! Why, I ought to—”
“It was just an observation, Billy Ray,” Junebug said innocently. Made me wonder if perhaps Junebug wasn’t going to seek higher office next election.
To my great annoyance, I was not invited in to see Billy Ray grill Nina Hernandez. Junebug handed me over to Sergeant Garza, and I walked with her, examining where the exploded mailboxes had stood. Garza told me the blackened posts of wood and twisted metal had been sent to her office in Austin for analysis. A total of six had exploded.
“Isn’t blowing up mailboxes a federal offense?” I asked.
“If they blew up post office property, yes,” she answered. “But I don’t think we’ll have to get the FBI involved yet. My worry is that no one in Mirabeau is turning up as having purchased explosives.”
“You can check that?”
Garza nodded. “Yes, the ATF has all the records of explosives purchased in the country. They’ve been running the names of everyone in Mirabeau through our systems, and the only ones that have been coming out are people with legitimate commercial reasons—like Mr. Loudermilk—for having explosives. We’re checking them out, but none of them seem to be good suspects.”
“I still can’t believe this is happening in Mirabeau.”
She shook her head. “Most small towns never have to deal with this kind of activity. For that matter, neither do most big cities.” She pointed at where Candace’s mailbox had stood. “Blasting cap, I think, with a battery attached and definitely with a timer. From your description, someone wanted them to go off in a row, like firecrackers. You’re lucky it wasn’t one of the pipe bombs. Our boy’s been packing those with potassium chlorate, sugar, and powdered aluminum. That would have taken your head off.” I was only half listening; instead, I was staring at Candace’s shrapneled front door. One windowpane had been broken and she hadn’t gotten it fixed yet. I thought she’d come out and see us, but then I remembered she was at the library. Doing my job while I was holding Lorna’s hand. I blew a long breath between my lips. What a mess.
“No, Sergeant Garza, we don’t have to deal with explosives,” I said. “We just have to deal with the Billy Ray Bummels of the world.”
“He is a piece of work,” she agreed politely.
“I wonder—” I stared down Blossom Street at the six empty spots where mailboxes should have stood.
“Wonder what?”
“If there’s any connection between these … pranks and Greg Callahan’s death.” I squinted into the afternoon sun and rubbed my sore shoulder. The two Tylenol I’d taken earlier were wearing off and Billy Ray had given me a headache.
“Why would you think that, Jordy?” Garza’s tone sounded guarded.
“Well, just ‘cause Mirabeau is a small town and we don’t usually have murders or bombings. But now we’re besieged by both. Seems kind of an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”
Teresa Garza favored me with an indulgent smile. “Junebug warned me. He said you have a tendency to stick your nose into crimes around here.”
“I can’t help it if I’ve gotten involved in some unfortunate incidents. And I don’t have any intention of trying to figure out who our mad blitzer is.” I shrugged. “I just wondered if odd events that happen close together were related. Don’t they teach you wild-haired imagination at the bomb squad, ma’am?”
She laughed. “Yes, Jordy, they do. But they also teach us to deal in facts. I don’t know enough about the Callahan case to see any connections.”
I shrugged again. “I suppose I just like for everything to be in its place. Or maybe I just find it a tad more comforting to think we’ve got one nut running around town rather than two.”
Any further conjectures were silenced by Miss Twyla joining us. She was carrying a tray of freshly made lemonade and she invited us to sit with her under the shade of her back porch. I watched Sergeant Garza eye the expanse of Miss Twyla’s backyard, amused at her reaction. There were a flock of plastic pink flamingos herded around a birdbath, an odd sculpture that dated back a couple of Oudelle generations, an old-fashioned tornado shelter, and a lush garden of vegetables and herbs.
We thanked her and drank heartily. Say what you will, lemonade that comes out of a can just can’t compare with the real stuff. Tart and sweet like Candace when I’ve teased her a little too much.
“Sergeant Garza, it’s just awful that Jordy was hurt.” Miss Twyla looked mournful. “Do you think the police will be able to catch the—what is it you call them on TV—the perp?”
Garza shook her head. “I’m sure that Chief Moncrief will get to the bottom of this. And I’d like to talk with you as well, Ms. Oudelle. See what you can tell me about this incident.”
Miss Twyla sipped her lemonade. “I’d be delighted to help. People think old ladies are nothing but nuisances, and I’d like to prove ‘em wrong. Ask away. My, Jordy, all these questions flying about my little house. Poor Nina is just being hounded by that dreadful Mr. Bummel.”
I shook my head. “Look, Miss Twyla, I know you’re fond of Nina and all, but she did have the best motive to kill Greg Callahan. And I, for one, have never considered you a nuisance.”
“Someone who nurtures the earth the way that Nina does could not cavalierly take a life,” Miss Twyla answered. She refilled Garza’s glass from a beautiful cut-glass pitcher. The ice popped as the cool liquid poured over it and Miss Twyla paus
ed, as though listening to her lemonade. “Besides, Nina and I were up late plotting our strategy to defeat Intraglobal’s land purchases. Nina suggested if the town is against the development, the landowners who are inclined to sell might be less likely to do so. My garden club is going to donate at least ten thousand dollars, and although I loathe the idea of using the profits of trashy literature, Eula Mae has generously offered fifty thousand. The Women’s Guild is planning to hold car washes and bake sales to help raise money.”
“That’s a chunk-a-change, Miss Twyla,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s going to be enough to counter Intraglobal’s coffers.”
“We were also going to appeal to the honor of our citizens who owned that land,” Miss Twyla intoned. “I thought it most likely that your uncle Bidwell would sell that land to Intraglobal. I hoped you and Bob Don would at least listen to our side of the story. The Loudermilks—well, they’d find it politically unattractive to sell if we roused the town against the project. If they didn’t sell, and I didn’t sell, and if you or Bob Don didn’t sell, then their project would fall apart and they’d leave Mirabeau alone.”
“You were saving that money for Bid,” I said, laughing despite myself.
“Well, you’re right. We couldn’t match whatever obscene amounts of money Intraglobal would offer. But we could turn the town against the development using that money. Educate people about why we need the river more than we need a bunch of silly condominiums. Money’s the key to stopping Intraglobal, Nina says. Anyhow, as to your suspicions of Nina, she and I were up late discussing our plans and we went to bed around eleven. I am a very light sleeper and I didn’t hear her leave during the course of the night.”
“Maybe she left very quietly,” I suggested.
“Oh, I even hear you and Candace coming and going at times,” Miss Twyla answered and I started blushing before she’d finished her sentence, then realized she meant arrivals and departures.
“Besides”—and her old-maidish face made a pout of distaste—“I understand the poor Yankee was strangled with barbed wire. Most gruesome, don’t you think, Jordy, and certainly not very ladylike. Sounds like a crime a man would commit.”
I’d been so involved in trying to help Lorna I hadn’t given the various aspects of the crime much consideration. Strangulation with wire. Death closing around your throat implacably, mercilessly. When I thought of what Greg must have suffered, the lemonade in my gut threatened mutiny. Once before I’d had hands closing around my windpipe. I recalled Tiny Parmalee trying to squeeze the life out of me on that long-ago playground.
“Jordy, you okay?” Teresa Garza leaned toward me. “You look sick.”
“I’m fine,” I said. I struggled to regain my composure. Tiny Parmalee had been sticking to Nina Hernandez’s side like a familiar to its witch. No woman in town would have much to do with him. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, would he do her bidding? Or even do her dirty work? Killing a man with barbed wire didn’t seem to fit Nina, but the idea of it slipped onto Tiny like a well-worn glove. God, Nina might not even have encouraged him. He might have taken it onto himself to remove anyone who annoyed Nina. I imagined the faint little neurons in his dense brain firing off the clever idea to get rid of Greg Callahan and win Nina’s heart. Tiny saving the fair environmentalist damsel from the fire-breathing developer. I could just see it.
‘Tell me, Miss Twyla, did Tiny come over last night after the library meeting?” I made my voice sound what I hoped passed for normal.
“Oh, yes, Jordy. He’s been so helpful and dedicated. I know that not everyone in town likes Tiny, but he has really a good heart inside. I think the poor soul is just misunderstood. He’s become terribly fond of Nina.” Miss Twyla proffered the pitcher to me, but I shook my head. There was already a sour taste in my mouth. She continued: “He came over for a little while and just sat while Nina and I talked. Poor Nina was sure he was getting bored, so she told him to go home and—well, I’m sure she didn’t mean it cruelly, but that she’d call him when we had, ahem, ‘something you can do, like stuffing envelopes.’ I’m afraid the poor dear didn’t take it very well. He left in a bit of a huff.”
To go prove his worthiness by crushing the life out of Greg? I thought, then chided myself. I sounded like Billy Ray, grasping at straws. But it was far easier to imagine Tiny committing a brutal murder than it was Bob Don or Lorna.
I was quiet, so Garza finally got the opportunity to inquire about the destruction of the mailboxes. Miss Twyla had no details to add to my account.
When they finished talking, Billy Ray, Junebug, and Nina came out onto the porch. Nina looked exhausted as she leaned against the wide white wicker chair that Miss Twyla sat in. Today she wore a faded Greenpeace T-shirt with the logo of the famed Rainbow Warrior vessel on it and snug, well-washed khakis. Her hair had the look of having nervous fingers run repeatedly through it, and she appeared tired.
“Nina, dear!” Miss Twyla said.
“Now that I’ve helped the authorities, I’d like to take a nap, if you don’t mind, Miss Twyla.” Nina glanced at me, no doubt wondering why I was there.
“Of course, dear. Would you like some lemonade before you lie down?”
“No, ma’am, I’m fine.” Nina glanced over at Billy Ray. “Unless you have any more questions for me?”
“No, Miz Hernandez, I don’t believe I do. Not just at this moment.” Billy Ray flipped through some notes. “But you won’t be leaving town without telling Chief Moncrief, now, will you?”
“Of course not. Greg Callahan being dead doesn’t mean that Intraglobal won’t still be after that land. Lorna Wiercinski’s still here, so Intraglobal’s still here. And I’m staying as long as this river is threatened.”
“Then we’ll know where to get in touch with you,” Junebug countered.
“She’ll be here,” Miss Twyla interjected, her voice just a little sweeter than her lemonade. “Jordy, Sergeant Garza, if y’all will excuse us.” She got up and herded Nina into the house.
The rest of us headed for Junebug’s cruiser. Junebug slowed me down a bit, letting Garza and Billy Ray get ahead of us. He leaned in close against my sore arm. “I don’t want you to run straight home. I need your help at the station and I don’t want Billy Ray to know about it. Okay?”
I nodded and silently got into the cruiser, wondering what I had just volunteered for.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN WE GOT TO THE STATION, BILLY RAY Bummel didn’t tarry long; he sallied forth to terrorize other suspicious residents of Mirabeau. Teresa Garza said she needed to head back to Austin and asked Junebug to give her a call if he needed more help or if another prank occurred.
“Thanks, Teresa, for coming out here,” Junebug mumbled. He seemed suddenly embarrassed, and I noticed Sergeant Garza was smiling at him in an enigmatic way. The air was charged between them. I stood there in glee, watching Junebug redden slightly under my gaze. Teresa Garza gave his hand a quick squeeze, thanked me for my time, and headed out the door. We watched her drive off.
“My, what was that all about?” I inquired.
“Nothing,” he said, “let’s go inside and talk.”
This was simply too good to resist and in many ways I’m a slave to my lower drives. “Why, Junebug, one might think you were setting off these charges yourself, just to get her down for these little visits—I mean, investigations.”
“All right, Jordy. I’ve known Teresa for a long time. She requested this assignment because she knows I need the help. Besides, the Austin Bomb Squad provides assistance to several surrounding counties. And don’t tease me. You know better than anyone that these bombings aren’t any laughing matter.” We went back into his office and I watched him try to putter away his embarrassment by shuffling large piles of papers.
“She has lovely eyes,” I observed to myself.
One pile of papers tumbled into further disarray. “Damn it,” Junebug muttered under his breath. “I always end up paying for being your friend
, don’t I?”
He hadn’t called me a friend in years and I sat for a moment, enjoying it. Men aren’t always big on acknowledging who their real friends are when they’re sober. I decided I’d tortured him enough and stopped short of asking him to bring Teresa to have dinner with Candace and me.
“You wanted my help with something?” I asked.
He scratched his brown burr and gave me a look of utter resignation. “You know a lot about computers, don’t you?”
“I guess. I mean, I know how to use one and most of the common software packages. I can’t write programs, though. Why?” I leaned back in my chair.
“Well, I don’t know diddly about computers. Nelda and Franklin use one for office administration, and we got the TLETS system tied in with DPS, but I’ve never learned much about ‘em. I need your help. I didn’t want Billy Ray to know about it because he just got a home computer and he’s been bragging plenty about how much he knows about ‘em.”
“They haven’t yet made the computer Billy Ray can figure out,” I said. “It would have to have buttons for chimp fingers and a built-in drool cup. What do you want me to do, teach you the basics? What kind of computer does Nelda use, or do you want to learn a different one?”
“What I want,” Junebug answered, “is your help and your silence. I want to find out what was on Greg Callahan’s laptop computer.”
It took longer than I would’ve imagined it would. Namely because I had to explain to Junebug each and every step. He knew a little more than he gave himself credit for, but not enough to make himself useful.
We started off in his office, with the door shut. Greg’s dark laptop and the pile of 3.5-inch diskettes that I’d seen in Greg’s room sat there.
“Can you find out what’s inside all this?” Junebug asked.
“Well, let me ask you a question. Have you dusted the keyboard?”
“No. Franklin Bedloe, one of my deputies, he knows about them, he said we’d damage the hard part.”
