“Open the mail and sort it into two stacks: one if it looks important and one if it looks like junk. If in doubt, put it in the important stack.” I might toss the junk stack in the garbage with scarce a glance.
I sat the mail on my desk and turned to look at her. “Okay.” Again we stared at each other. Her face was impassive. Not challenging or angry. Pleasant enough. Just not—interested? No. Just—passive.
“What say we sit for a minute. Get to know each other.”
She scooped her skirt under her as she sat, demurely perched on the edge of one of the two wing chairs in the windowed alcove of my office. My reading nook. The drum table—the top rotated and the sides held small books—had been my grandfather’s. The collection of leather-bound literature shelved around the drum had also been his. The stacks of mail, legal magazines, and case printouts on top were all mine.
“Are you in school?”
She shook her head, her earrings rocking. “Took some classes at Tech. Thinking about going back.”
“What were you studying?”
She gave a right tilt of her head, her version of a shrug. “Nursing. But mostly general courses.”
“That what you want to do? Nursing?”
“No, ma’am.”
She was well spoken, her voice soft and rich. But reaching down her throat to pull out every word was tiring.
“Tell me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?”
A borderline question: close to the questions one couldn’t ask in a job interview. Not that she’d sue me for discrimination, not when she could just sic Aunt Edna on me.
“One brother.”
“Older?”
She nodded.
“So. If not nursing, what would you like to do?”
She ducked her chin and picked at one of her elaborate fake fingernails. “Be an investigator.”
“Like Edna—your aunt?”
She gave another half shrug. “Or a probation officer. Or a counselor. Like that.”
I nodded. “Good.” The most animation I’d seen out of her.
“What kinds of things can you do on a computer?”
The shrug. “I’m not very technical.”
“But you know how to use one?”
“Sure.”
“What kinds of software? What have you used the computer for?”
“You know. Word processing, spreadsheets. Some database. I’ve helped Auntie Edna do online searches and skip traces.” She pronounced aunt like a long “ah” with a “t” tacked on as an afterthought, not like the word “ant.”
“I’m good at finding stuff,” she said.
I suspected she was more computer-savvy than I was. Why was she so danged hard to have a conversation with? I needed to unleash my mother on her. Never failed, she could get anybody chattering away—their hopes, dreams, fears, history, the works.
“Well, I guess we’d better get busy. One thing, Shamanique.” I leaned toward her to emphasize what I had to say. “The things that go on in this office, the things you read or overhear, must stay in this office. Everything is confidential. You can’t talk about any cases, to anybody. We clear?” My standard speech for years to all my law clerks and secretaries. The same speech I’d been given on my first clerking job.
“Yes, ma’am.” She looked me straight in the eye. “Auntie Edna says the same thing.” She shrugged. She was probably thinking, as I had: Who would I tell? Nobody I know is interested in any of this stuff.
“Great. Let me know if you have any questions.”
She went to the desk in the front room, picked up the letter opener, and started methodically slicing open what would be mostly junk mail.
I climbed the ladder to study the chandelier. Some of the dangling crystals could be unhooked. Others couldn’t. I climbed as high as the ladder safely allowed and pulled up on the chandelier’s upper chain, trying to get a sense how much the thing weighed.
The answer: a lot more than I could lift. Two plans ruined. One plan had been to unhook the crystals, soak them, dry them, and return them. The other was to lower the whole assembly and soak the dangly parts in the bathtub. Two problems with that: It was much too heavy and, on close inspection, I was certain no bathtub—not even the deep claw-footed tub in my bathroom upstairs—could hold it. I braced my thigh against the top rung and fiddled and studied.
“I wouldn’t use the bleach, if I were you. It might etch the crystal.” Shamanique’s quiet voice startled me. “That dust wand is a good start,” she said.
“Think that’ll work?”
“It’ll catch most of the dirt. Then you can use a vinegar-and-water solution. Got any cotton gloves? You can wet one glove in the vinegar water and keep the other dry. That’ll polish it up nice. Except your arms’ll get awful tired. I’ve finished with the mail. I could help you with that.”
I stared down at her.
“I’ve helped my mama do it. That’s what she does. Clean houses.”
“Okay, then. Why don’t you lock the door there?” I pointed to the French doors. I wasn’t expecting anybody this afternoon, but then again, I hadn’t expected Edna to show up bringing Shamanique, shaman of arcane cleaning knowledge.
By five o’clock, we had a gleaming chandelier.
“The whole room looks brighter,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am. What time you want me tomorrow?”
“Um.” I couldn’t very well say, I wander downstairs whenever I wake up, some time between 4:00 A.M. and 10:00. “Let’s say 8:30?”
She gave a little wave, her earrings swaying with her graceful spin.
Wednesday Morning
The next morning, Shamanique bounced up the front steps promptly at eight-thirty, her hoop earrings and short skirt swaying. I took only a few minutes to show her the phone and my oak filing cabinets—from my grandfather’s office, refurbished by my dad. I left her making labels to file a stack of papers. I’d stayed up late last night sorting and identifying stacks with sticky notes. How was I going to keep a secretary busy? At least I could go to Emma’s soccer game this evening without feeling guilty about untended mounds of paper.
Rudy and I rendezvoused at Maylene’s at nine o’clock. No need to head out on our somber mission unfortified.
The crowd was predictable. At a large table in the center of the room sat a couple of lawyers, a pharmacist, a couple of retired farmers, and other assorted pundits, dissecting yesterday’s news and offering their own none-too-optimistic predictions for the future. Other tables held a group of highway workers wearing Day-Glo orange vests, a wildlife officer studying the newspaper, and three guys dressed in camo, in from a morning spent fishing. A normal day.
What Rudy ordered for breakfast was equally predictable. I opted for oatmeal and walnuts.
“Any blueberries?” I asked the waitress—another new one.
“I’ll check.” Her tone didn’t offer much hope.
As she turned to the kitchen, still scribbling on her pad, I asked Rudy, “You have a chance to look for Wenda Sims’s file yesterday?”
He poured half the sugar jar into his coffee cup and stirred, the spoon gritty on the bottom of the cup.
“I called Evidence. Carl said he’d look. Doesn’t sound promising, though. We used to put some of our long-term storage in the basement of the old courthouse. It flooded, you know.”
Rudy offered my disappointment a twig of hope. “Carl’s been around here forever. He said Vince Ingum handled that case. Said Vince had retired to Myrtle Beach, but he had a number for him.”
“Great.” Provided he didn’t mind revisiting a case he’d never solved, talking to a live person could be better than reading an old file, waterlogged and mildewed or not.
“Carl said what stuck in his mind was they chalked it up to a domestic case. She had a boyfriend back home who liked to use her as a punching bag.”
“Oh.” Fran hadn’t mentioned any of that. Most crime boiled down to the tawdry, but it still surprised me. I somehow expected
something so life-altering—or life-ending—to be worthy, or at least complicated. “They couldn’t make a case?”
Before he could answer, movement behind me drew his attention. The commotion also attracted the attention of the rest of the restaurant. Even with my back to the door, I heard the chatter stop.
The cause for the disruption suddenly presented itself at our booth: Colin “Mumler” Gaines and the ghosters, in person. Colin huffed to catch his breath.
“Deputy Mellin? We were told you could help us.”
Rudy, his hand around his thick, white coffee cup, didn’t say yay or nay. He just waited.
“I’m Mumler Gaines. This is Quint and Trini.” He acknowledged me with a nod, probably remembering my face but not that he’d seen me hovering overhead when he’d visited my angel.
“We went out to the Heath house. We’re doing some paranormal research in the area and were told that house would be an excellent subject. While there, we were attacked.”
He waved his arms to emphasize the enormity of the offense.
I coughed. My ice tea had gone down the wrong way. The Heath house. I could see the train wreck coming.
So did Rudy. “Someone told you to go out there?”
“Yessir. Somebody called, in response to our newspaper story.”
I glanced at Rudy, but he didn’t take his eyes off Colin or his photographer’s vest and its bulging pockets.
“Exactly what happened?”
“We tried calling, but they don’t have a listed number. So we went out there this morning, to see if we could set up a visit for this evening. They stole our camera!”
“Stole it?” Rudy’s professionalism kept the sarcasm out of his voice. I didn’t dare drink any more tea for fear I’d spew it out my nose.
“Well, they took it from us and wouldn’t give it back. This big guy with a rag tied on his head. Big guy.”
Ah, my old buddy Clyde. Or Do Rag, as I preferred to think of him, though I certainly never called him that to his face.
“Another guy rode his motorcycle down the porch steps and started buzzing around us, trying to run us down.”
The members of the Southern Posse motorcycle gang had recently settled in the pre-Revolutionary War Heath farmhouse. If one of the motorcyclists had wanted to run Mumler down, he’d be in the hospital, not in Maylene’s flapping his arms like a blue jay defending its trinkets.
“Did you ask them to give your camera back?” Rudy’s voice was mellow-sweet as he smiled at Colin. With Rudy, that mellowsweet voice is usually a sign to step out of the way.
“Not—exactly. We . . .” Colin didn’t seem to have an answer for that. “We went to the police station.” He waved over his shoulder toward the front door. “They said it was outside their jurisdiction. They said we could find you here.”
“The city police?”
“Yessir.”
Chief Deputy Sheriff Rudy nodded. Rudy’s revenge on the city cop would be sweet.
“You can go to the county Law Enforcement Center—the sheriff’s office—and file a report. Somebody will be back in touch with you. It might be best if you all stayed away from out there at the Heath house.”
“Yeah.” Colin nodded but looked forlorn. “That was one of our best leads, though.”
Rudy pursed his lips and gave a good imitation of a commiserating nod. “You boys know about the crybaby bridge? Just north of town?”
Quint, the other ghoster guy, drew closer to the table. He and Colin exchanged glances.
“No.”
“Some real activity there. Ask over to the county library. I’m sure it’s been written up and all.”
The group came to an almost immediate, albeit silent, agreement.
“Thanks.”
“Best time’s around midnight. Be careful. Don’t get run over out there.”
“Yessir.”
They turned without seeing the smile at the corner of Rudy’s mouth. I covered mine with my hand. The laugh I tried to choke back came out as a snort. Good thing I’d stayed away from the ice tea.
“Who the heck sent those innocents out to visit Mad Max and his motorcycle gang?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s not funny.” He snorted anyway. “They could’ve lost more than a video camera. Now, thanks to some wiseacre’s idea of a joke, we get to send a deputy out to retrieve their camera.”
“The crybaby bridge?” I said, shaking my head.
“They wanted ghosts.” The grin on his broad face showed how much he enjoyed the thought of the three ghosters trying to capture the illusive baby’s cry.
“You finished?” He stared at my empty bowl, perhaps feeling pity that it sat alone in front of me, no other crockery to keep it company. “They’ll be waiting for us at impound.”
As we walked to the register to pay, one of the three fishermen threw up a wave at Rudy. “Chief. How’s it going?”
Rudy stuck out his hand. “Cuke.” He shook hands with Cuke’s two buddies with that kind of smiling grapple that always looks like guys are testing whether one could take the other in a fight. I eased on through the tables to pay my check.
The impound lot turned out to be nothing more than a fenced-off portion to the side of a towing service and auto body shop. The gravel and dirt had been compacted and glued together with crank case drippings for so many years, while so many greasestained hands had touched the doors and equipment that the whole place had a gray-black tone to it.
Four garage bays stood open with cars parked inside, hoods up or tires dangling from hydraulic lifts. The guys working inside, all with at least one greasy rag hanging out a back pocket, gave us only cursory glances. Just another DUI coming to get her car, for all they knew.
The fifth garage bay sat next to a pen encircled by a ten-foot chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. A battle-scarred, dingy white pit bull shot out of his tar-papered doghouse straight toward us, moving like a heat-seeking missile. He didn’t bark. He just danced along a well-worn track inside the fence and, head turning and bobbing, kept us in view with his one eye. The other eye had been stitched shut. I hated to think where he’d gotten the gouges and brown scars that patchworked his face. Was this the retirement home successful fight dogs long for?
Rudy rummaged around in his pants pocket. I realized the dog wasn’t on a chain. How did those who were allowed entrance get past him?
Rudy walked to the edge of the fence, made the same sappy “good boy” kissy sounds he gives Aunt Letha’s rottweiler, and poked something through the fence before he turned to unlock the garage bay.
Two large Milk-Bone treats. The dog dove for them, his eye fixed on me. He stood at attention, holding both treats in his mouth, until he saw me step toward the garage bay and away from his fence. Only then did he turn toward his house, with one final check over his shoulder to make sure I was behaving.
I studied Rudy’s broad back as he flicked on the garage lights and punched the button that sent the door rattling shut. Both the dog and I knew, it’s good to have friends.
“So this is separate from the body shop.” I’d wondered how they maintained chain of custody using storage on private property.
Rudy, standing at the passenger door, fixed me with that look that said something between you’re so dumb and don’t bring your city smart-ass back here.
“Safer here than parked in the patrol car garage. Some’a those numbnuts’d have the thing stripped and selling pieces on eBay.”
Rudy stepped to the back of the car and popped open the trunk. Inside, the lining was missing, leaving only gray rough-coat metal and glue spots holding stray bits of gray felt.
“Guess the lab took everything, huh?”
Rudy pulled the trunk lid down with two fingers, trying to avoid the sections with the heaviest dusting of fingerprint powder. “Reckon so.”
He unlatched the passenger door and swung it open. “You wanted to see.”
We stood beside the red car, dusty black with leftover pow
der. The metallic smell of dried blood hit me. I blinked. I can get myself ready for the sight, but the smells always take me by surprise.
“Well, Sherlock? Or is it Dr. Phil? Any insights?”
I didn’t take the bait. The driver’s side of the car, predictably, contained most of the aftermath. Bloodstains and stuff I didn’t want to think about had spattered as far as the left rear window. The darkest blood, though, had pooled on and beneath the driver’s seat.
Rudy rummaged in the pocket of his khaki pants and pulled out a flashlight. He flicked the beam around the car’s interior roof, along the frame of the driver’s door window where bits of glass glistened, and settled the light on the driver’s floorboard.
“They vacuumed most of the glass,” he said.
“Somebody going to glue it together?” That was mostly a joke.
He shook his head. “For somebody smart, you sure must watch a lot of TV.”
I didn’t bother telling him I didn’t own a television set. My niece Emma and I used to watch America’s Most Wanted together at her house until her mom decided that wasn’t acceptable fare for a seven-year-old.
“Can I get in?”
Rudy frowned as though I’d suggested something unseemly.
“Here.” I pointed at the passenger seat. “I won’t mess anything up.”
Still frowning, he stepped back so I could slide in.
Someone with long legs had been sitting here. Skipper was tall. Had he been the last person in this seat?
I looked out the front window at the smudged gray cement block wall. What had Neanna seen? Had she sat at the overlook as the sun set over the valley? Could she see the trees, with the leaves now hard-green for summer? Could she see all the shades of green, or had it been too dark?
“When did she die? What time of day?”
“Best guess is sometime after midnight, roughly six hours before she was found. Food in her stomach, but no one to say when she last ate, so internal body temp is our best guess.”
“So it was dark.” I looked over at the Honda coupe’s dashboard. I’d never driven one of these—or even ridden in one.
“Were her headlights on?”
Hush My Mouth Page 10
