Carolina Crimes

by Karen Pullen

  “Metz was trimming pork chops,” she continued. “The knife was right there on the butcher’s block, just like this one.” She nodded toward her own knife. “I couldn’t stop myself. So many people hated Metz, I did the world a favor.”

  Then we heard a man clear his throat. We both looked towards the door.

  Officer Bennett stood there with his small black leather case in his hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt, and so early in the morning. But Mrs. Jones, we’re collecting the fingerprints of all Mr. Metz’s acquaintances, and I’m afraid I neglected to take yours earlier. Is now a good time?”

  THE PLACE WHERE LOVE BEGINS, by Calvin Hall

  Octavius Mead slumped into a chair in R.J.’s office. “I think Valerie’s seeing someone,” he said. His sadness made him look small and beaten in the Kenneth Cole suit he wore. He handed R.J. a copy of his wife’s schedule. “I want you to follow her. I don’t trust anyone else.”

  R.J. didn’t normally investigate his friends’ wives, but Octavius Mead was like a son to him. It didn’t seem that long ago that he mentored him through college and became a father figure after the death of Octavius’ father, R.J.’s college classmate and fraternity brother. He hated to see the younger man in such pain. Plus, except for bail bonds, business had been slow. He was surprised, though; the couple had seemed solid. Mead obviously cherished his wife, and Valerie didn’t seem the type to run around, even though her looks—smooth brown complexion, large soulful eyes and bright smile—attracted plenty of male attention. She was a teacher, a church member, a community volunteer. Not your typical cheater, he thought, though really, who is?

  So for days, he sat in a late-model GMC truck that he borrowed from a friend who owned a car lot for people with bad credit, trying to look inconspicuous as he shadowed Valerie. He followed her to the community college where she taught a course in business writing. To the hairdresser, the supermarket, a framing store, and Walmart. All routine, until the afternoon she left the house with a bright red suitcase and matching garment bag. She’d told her husband she was going to a conference in Greensboro, but she drove to a hotel near Blue Ridge University where she met a man just outside the front door. Valerie opened her arms to greet him with a long hug, embracing him as if she’d been waiting for the moment forever.

  He was in his late 30s, Valerie’s age, well-dressed in a black blazer, pastel blue polo and khakis, but not especially attractive otherwise. His appearance made a strong contrast to Mead, who took good care of himself even as he approached early middle age, and R.J. wondered what Valerie could possibly see in this man. R.J. parked at a distant edge of the parking lot and recorded the moment with a military-grade surveillance camera. He was fond of his camera; he’d purchased it at a flea market from a pipe-smoking man wearing a tee shirt that said, “Welcome to the South! Now leave your daughters and go home!” You had to know to ask for the cameras or he’d try to sell you throwing-stars and hunting knives.

  R.J. followed the pair for three days and two nights, making notes and taking photographs. He was bored yet soul-sick, beginning to hate Valerie for cheating on Mead. He began to hate his friend for asking him to confirm it. And he started to hate himself for not staying out of the whole sorry affair. But he kept taking pictures until the man drove away alone and Valerie returned to her home.

  The next day, R.J. printed out the photographs, put them in an envelope, and called Octavius Mead to his office.

  “My friend, I’m sorry,” R.J. said as he handed Mead the envelope.

  One by one, Mead studied the photographs: Valerie and her companion holding hands as they strolled around a lake in Pioneer City, kissing outside a concert at the amphitheater, smiling at each other as they entered a Thai restaurant. In the wee hours of each night, they returned to the sanctuary of the hotel.

  “She lied to me.” He fell into a chair as if someone had dropped an anvil into his lap, his face as pale as a black man’s could get. “She said she was going to a conference but she hooked up with this clown.”

  “I’m sorry,” R.J. said as sympathetically as he could. “I really am.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s all mine, I guess.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Hugh Harrison. A friend of hers from college. Never met him in person though. I’ve only seen him in pictures. He sends cards, calls her occasionally.”

  “She talks to him and tells you?” R.J. thought that was unusual. Cheaters usually keep their lovers a secret.

  “He wants advice. Wants to just say hello.”

  “You were OK with that?”

  Mead looked at R.J. “I didn’t like it. But she insisted that he was just a friend, there was nothing romantic between them. He was married. I tried to explain my point but she got defensive. Said she should be allowed to have friends.” He rubbed his wedding band with his thumb as if it was burning his finger. “When I suspected she was cheating, I thought it would be someone from around here.”

  “If you need me, I’m still available.” R.J. didn’t know what else to say.

  “Thanks,” Mead said, frowning. “But what can I do? It’s over.”

  “Before you do anything, get counseling. Find out what the problems are,” R.J. said. Usually he kept himself detached from his clients’ business, even ones he knew personally. But Mead was his friend and he felt obligated to try to help.

  “I know what the damn problems are!” Mead slammed his palm on the desk. “She’s been sleeping with someone else. I’ve been loyal to a goddamn fault. I’ve put up with her absences for church-this and charity-that, her committee meeting nights, her book club dinners. Supported her when she went back to school.” He paused, as if being forced into a confession. “I know…I know I’m not the best husband. She says I can be a little moody, a little petty even. But I thought she accepted that as part of who I was. God…” His voice trailed off and he puffed out a sigh. “Dammit,” he muttered.

  “Talk to her,” R.J. said, “And both of you should go see somebody. A counselor. A preacher.”

  “You’re right,” Mead said, still rubbing his ring with his thumb, albeit more slowly now, as if trying to discern its every detail. “I should see somebody about this.” He stuffed the pictures back into the envelope and rolled it into a cylinder. “I know this was not something you wanted to do, but I appreciate your help, R.J. It’s made me see things more clearly.” He held out his hand. His face was pale but calm.

  R.J. took his hand, held it a bit longer than necessary. “You’re welcome. You sure you’re all right?”

  Mead nodded. “I’ll be okay. Really. Don’t worry.” He appeared to brighten a little. “Now, how do I make out the check?”

  “Pioneer City Bail Bonds & Investigations.”

  As Mead walked out of his office, R.J. felt unsettled. Something about Valerie and her lover bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. And Mead—what was he going to do? Because Mead was his friend, he decided their situation deserved closer scrutiny.

  * * * *

  R.J. spent the next day in court testifying as a witness in a domestic violence case. He asked his partner, Xavier Martin, to find out as much as he could about Hugh Harrison, the man he’d seen with Valerie. Xavier, a former small-college football star with a degree in criminal justice, spent most of his time supervising the bail bond side of the business. But he enjoyed taking the occasional break from the bond world to help his partner.

  When R.J. returned to the office at the end of the day, Xavier, holding a memo pad, was waiting for him. “How’d it go in court?”

  “Same as always,” R.J. said. “The system one, the people zero. You got information for me?”

  “The dude’s thirty-two, lives in Chicago. Works as a technical writer. He’s single, has a five-year-old daughter from a previous relationship. He was in town for a seminar a few days before he was with Valerie Mead.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah. Except for the fact that, like you, I d
on’t understand what she sees in him either.”

  R.J. smiled. “The heart wants what it wants—for whatever reason. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Seems our boy Harrison was a source of conflict between her and her husband three years ago. After one argument, Mead moved out of the house for six weeks.”

  “That’s not public record.”

  “Word-of-mouth record. I know someone who knows someone who attends the same church as her. People talk. Even good Christian ones.”

  “Did you check on Octavius?”

  “He didn’t go to work today,” Xavier said. “Went to a pawn shop on the west side of town. He didn’t take anything in or bring anything out that I could see.”

  “Odd.”

  “I watched him go in and come out. Hands were empty both times.”

  “Then what?”

  “To that Kmart near the mall. He spent twenty minutes there. Then he checked into a motel, the Daisy Inn on Glenn Chapel Road.”

  “Looks like you’ll get paid this week after all. Damn.”

  Xavier laughed. “Why are you still interested in his case? I thought it was finished.”

  “It’s personal, I guess,” R.J. said. “His father and I knew each other a long time. Plus, I was a mentor to him after his father died. And I just feel bad for him. I’ve been there.”

  “But you’re a big believer in that ‘forgive and forget’ stuff,” he said. “If it was me, and I found out for sure my wife was with somebody else, I’d have to hurt somebody. Bad.”

  “I think everybody feels that way when it slips away from you,” R.J. said. He thought about the time when, after eight years of marriage, his wife told him that they no longer had a future together. It felt like somebody had taken a bat to his face. “But you put it behind you. You think about consequences and don’t act on impulse. You find someone and talk it out.”

  “Think Mead needs to talk to someone?” Xavier said.

  “Yes. But I don’t know if he will.”

  * * * *

  For seventy-three dollars a night, the Daisy Inn offered a continental breakfast, free Wi-Fi, and cable movies. The receptionist, a five-foot tall woman with a Filipino accent, told R.J. that Octavius Mead was in Room 120.

  “You should have called and asked him before sending a stranger to his room. I might have been a killer,” R.J. said.

  “But you look trustworthy,” she said.

  “So did Ted Bundy.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” He found Room 120 and knocked. Knocked again.

  It took Mead a long time to open the door. He frowned. “What do you want?”

  “Were you asleep?” R.J. asked. He pushed the door open and moved past Mead into the room.

  “No. I was…just…trying to nap, watching TV.”

  R.J. touched the television. Cold. “No, you weren’t.”

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Not out here. How did you know… Never mind. That’s what you do, right? Find people for a living. What do you want?”

  “A good businessman takes care of his customers even after the sale is done,” R.J. said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Like I said, I was taking a nap.”

  R.J. figured that if Mead had been napping, he must’ve been lying on the floor. Neither of the two beds looked as if they had been disturbed since morning cleanup. But the room had a desk, and the chair had been moved. He took a seat on it, to let Mead know he wasn’t going to leave any time soon. “How long you been here?”

  Mead slumped onto one of the beds. “Couple of days. We had a fight. I told her I knew where she’d been. Who she’d been with. That someone saw her and I had proof.”

  “Did she ask to see it?”

  “She didn’t deny it and that told me all I wanted to know. She wanted to talk, but I was too disgusted with her. I left and came here.” Mead rubbed his thumb across his ring finger, making a motion as if he was rotating his ring around the finger. But it was gone. Only a pale circle of lighter skin indicated where it had been.

  “What happened to your wedding band?” R.J. asked.

  “Lost it.”

  “In the vicinity of a pawn shop?”

  “Look, I paid you,” Mead said bitterly. “I don’t need you anymore. What else do you want?”

  “Same thing I wanted when I took you on as a client—to help.”

  “When I need your help, I know where to go. Right now, I just need some sleep.” He leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”

  R.J. tugged open the desk drawer. A Bible, a phone book. And a Colt .38-caliber pistol. “Where are the bullets?”

  “Huh?”

  “The ones you bought at Kmart. You were sitting here loading this gun, heard me knock, and put the bullets in your pocket. That’s why it took you so long to answer the door. The TV hasn’t been on in the last hour, if at all.”

  An uncomfortable silence occupied the room. Mead rolled onto his side but didn’t answer.

  R.J. stood and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Like you said, I find people—and figure them out for a living,” he said. “I don’t know what you planned to do with this gun. And I don’t want to know. But I’m going to hold onto it for now.” He walked to the door.

  “Wait,” Mead said. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m not the one you need to talk to.”

  * * * *

  Valerie Mead’s face expressed surprise, not welcome, when she opened her front door. Looking at her, dressed casually in a paisley top and jeans revealing her figure, R.J. became more determined to make sure that she and Octavius stayed together.

  “May I come in?” R.J. asked.

  Valerie stood aside and allowed him to enter. He had visited the house for dinners on a few occasions before and always felt comfortable here. The living room was decorated in warm earth tones. The dining room and its contemporary furnishings opened out to a patio leading to a large back yard. A red suitcase and a stuffed garment bag sat by the nearby staircase. “Octavius isn’t here, Roger, and I’m in a rush.” She spoke in soft tones that failed to mask her annoyance at the interruption.

  “Going out of town?”

  “For a few days, yes.”

  “Chicago?”

  “Actually, I’m going to my mother’s, if it’s any of your business,” she said, replacing annoyance with a cold anger. “But I must say that I don’t care how close you are to him or his family. I do not appreciate my husband asking you to spy on me—or my friends.”

  “Seems to me he had good reason.” R.J. handed her an envelope containing copies of the pictures he had taken of her with Hugh Harrison.

  Valerie flipped through them quickly, then looked up at R.J. “You had a busy week. Is that why you’re here?”

  She reminded R.J. of his ex-wife—the same careful speech, the same controlled manner protecting a passionate center. “I just want to help,” he said. “You’re like family to me—both of you. And I don’t want to see you break up.”

  “It’s too late for that,” she said.

  “It’s never too late to make something work.”

  “Roger, there’s a place where love ends. Octavius and I are at that place. How can we make it work if we can’t talk? He yells, accuses, twists my words. Always has.” She handed R.J. the envelope. “Yes, you have pictures, but despite what you see there, we didn’t sleep together at that hotel. I had my own room.”

  “Then why…”

  “Why meet him? Why lie about it? Because I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to spend time with someone who understood my feelings without analyzing them, without attacking them. There was no need for anything sexual between us.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Octavius?”

  “I wanted to. I tried. But it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to tell him what I need without getting a lecture. He doesn’t listen. I think you’ve known him long enough to know that.”

 
“Maybe,” R.J. said, not wanting to concede the correctness of her assessment. “But the man I just left over an hour ago is ready to listen. Go to him.”

  Valerie seemed to consider what he said, but if his words had any effect, he didn’t see it. She opened the door. “I’ll think about it, Roger. But I really believe nothing can be done. There’s too much negativity involved. Water under bridge and all that.”

  “He’s at the Daisy Inn on Glenn Chapel Road,” R.J. said, ignoring her protest. “I stopped him from doing something stupid and selfish. Go to him.”

  Valerie was unmoved. “Goodbye, Roger.”

  R.J. left the house and went to his truck. After about twenty minutes, Valerie came out with her packed bags, got into her Acura coupe, and drove away. But not in the direction that would take her by the Daisy Inn.

  * * * *

  When R.J. returned to the Daisy Inn, he didn’t see Mead’s car. He parked in a secluded spot and waited in the cool spring night air. Fifteen minutes later, Mead came back. Using a pair of night-vision binoculars, R.J. saw that Mead carried a six-pack and a bag of food from a bottom-feeder fast-food chain. Tired of watching the room—and certain Mead would be fine physically, if not emotionally—he prepared to leave. He had an early meeting with a lawyer in the morning.

  Just then, Valerie’s car entered the motel parking lot. She parked, went to the reception desk, and then to Room 120.

  R.J. waited another hour, reminding himself to check whether the man who sold throwing stars, high-tech cameras, and night-vision binoculars also sold listening equipment. Around midnight, someone turned off the lights in Room 120, but neither Mead nor Valerie came out.

  He yawned and drove off, thinking about what Valerie said about love ending at a place, wondering if they had found a place where love could begin again.

  RILEY AND THE SAND DEMON, by Jamie Catcher

  I never meant to hurt him. How could I when he was all I ever wanted? But I had, surely as if I’d pulled the trigger. Greer, my Greer, the one who lay sweet kisses to my collarbone just the night before.

  Sideways rain pelts my face as bile inches up my throat. I press his wound harder and sink into the wet sand, desperate to stop the red seeping across his shirt. “Greer. Hang on. You’re gonna be fine. They’re almost here, and then you’ll be in the best of hands.”