I caught the hospital pathologist in her office and got answers to my three questions: No, they hadn’t done even a limited autopsy on Harden Avinger; yes, they could do a tox or heavy metals screen on an exhumed body; and yes, it would cost a lot of money.
Okay, I had answers. No solutions yet, but some answers. The more I mused on it, the more convinced I was that Maggy needed hard evidence to dispel even a hint of wrongdoing. Then she could worry how to keep the monument from being erected. The epitaph would loom larger than the angel, even though she refused to see it.
I drove over to Innis Barker’s monument company. Both “monument” and “company,” singularly or together, implied a concern of more substance than the reality. The Dacus Monument Company was a portable metal shed, dented and surrounded by a scattering of sample headstones on the little patch of grass that fronted Cane Street.
As I drove up, Innis Barker peered out the door. He looked like he’d been planted on this spot about the same time as the rust-flecked shed. Wiping his hands on a cloth, he had to stoop to step out the door. His overalls were covered in dust, and instead of offering to shake hands, he nodded a curt hello.
“How do, ma’am.” His greeting was somber. Guess in his business it was bad form to appear too happy to see customers.
“Mr. Barker, I represent Maggy Avinger. Do you have a minute to talk about her husband’s memorial?”
He shook his head and wiped more dust onto his face from the rag in his hand. “A bad business, that is. Don’t know how I can help. A bad business. Come around back.”
He led the way around the shed to a wooden barn that stood in back, under a sheltering oak. Through an opening in a sliding door, I could see blank stones and what I took to be carving tools and equipment So this was where letters appeared on a headstone, in an orderly, though dusty barn.
He motioned to a sunny spot and a weathered picnic table under the leafless oak. Even on a March day, it was certainly more inviting here in the sun than in that rusted, cramped office shed.
He settled across from me at the table, his sun-deep wrinkles arranged in a morose expression.
I didn’t want to waste his time. As soon as I’d mentioned Maggy Avinger, he knew why I was here. “Mr. Barker, I believe I can prove Mr. Avinger’s accusation is false. From all I’ve been able to find, Harden Avinger was a prankster, and Maggy Avinger doesn’t deserve a cloud of suspicion hanging over her head because of a joke.” I was choosing my words carefully, in case Innis Barker had considered Harden a friend.
As I talked, I pulled out my copy of Harden Avinger’s letter. He knew what it was as soon as he saw it. He sat slumped on the picnic bench, his head bowed.
“Once I prove this accusation is false, then the second problem is how to stop the monument from being erected.”
He shook his head emphatically. “I can’t do that. I got to be paid. That thing cost almost what I make in a whole year. That lawyer fella who sent the letter said I wouldn’t get the rest of the money—two-thirds what I’m owed—if I don’t do what Avinger said. The lawyer said put that poem on there. ‘It’s mean,’ the lawyer said. ‘And it’s not even a good poem, but do it.’ Them bills come here, not to nobody else. I gotta get this settled.”
Barker kept shaking his head, both hands clutching the rag as his voice grew sharp with urgency. A terrible burden, either being a party to wrongly accusing someone of murder or to wrongly covering one up.
“How about this: What if Mrs. Avinger paid you for the monument? That way, you could pay off the bill and Mrs. Avinger could decide what she wanted to do with the angel.”
He looked skeptical, trying to figure out what I was trying to pull on him. “I—don’t know.”
“From my reading of the letter, that’s the only control Mr. Avinger had from the grave, withholding the final payment. If Mrs. Avinger bought the monument, then she could have it say whatever she wanted. He might not be happy, but the Avingers can argue over that later.”
He didn’t smile.
“I don’t know about that. She went a bit crazy when she heard about it.”
“Could I see it?” I’d heard so much about this angel, I was intrigued.
He bent forward, braced his hands on his knees, and stood. “She’s back there.”
He slid the barn door open a notch more and led the way inside. She stood in the center of the workshop, with crating boards stacked against the lesser monuments at her feet.
She filled the shed, glowing with the pearly light of polished marble. Her wings flared fromher shoulders, then folded reverently down her back, the tips dusting the hem of her robe. She wasn’t the sword-bearing, vengeful angel I’d pictured. With her head bowed, she raised one hand prayerfully against the fluted stone obelisk. On her stone pedestal, she stood at least eight feet tall—almost three feet taller than I am.
The blank rectangle of stone where Innis Barker was to add the epitaph covered the base of the obelisk. Harden Avinger was one of the few people who could’ve found a way to desecrate such a beautiful work of art.
“She’s gorgeous,” I breathed.
Innis Barker turned to stare at me, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. I could see her through his eyes. After all, he was in a solemn business. Traditional rectangular headstones lined his workshop, none sporting anything fancier than a demure vase or a heart-shaped silhouette.
“Probably wouldn’t fit in the Dacus city cemetery,” I said. But she was breathtaking.
We stood staring up at her face.
“Don’t know what Mrs. Avinger would do with it if she bought it,” I said more to myself than to Innis Barker. “She was mortified that he’d put something like this on their plot.”
“Sure ain’t much of a garden adornment,” he said.
Maggy Avinger would have to spend eternity resting under an accusation of murder by poison, borne on the wings of an eight-foot angel. Harden Avinger hadn’t left her any financial resources, yet he could buy this for himself. Studying the blank rectangle, I didn’t see that he’d left any room to include her name and dates, to commemorate her life. Nice guy, Harden Avinger.
“Maybe she could sell it back to the manufacturer.” Innis shook his head. “Nope. Harden had this special made. They ain’t takin’ it back. I done asked.”
“There’s always eBay, I guess.”
Innis didn’t respond, his face solemn as a death-penalty judge.
“How much did she cost?”
“The price of a new pickup truck.” ‘That much?” My mouth gaped open, more in shock than in awe. I could understand Barker’s melancholy panic over being paid. A charge like that would rack up some credit card interest.
Maggy Avinger had hesitated over paying my bill. She surely didn’t have that kind of money lying around. So much for my smart solution. On the good news side, that made the cost of an exhumation and tox screen look like pocket change.
“Wow. Mr. Barker, I’ve got to think this over some more.” I hesitated, knowing he wouldn’t like my next question. “Can you hold off just a bit longer on the carving?”
He looked pained. More head shaking. “I got to have that money by the end of the month. I got to. That lawyer said he couldn’t pay me until it was carved and installed.” He resumed wringing his dusty rag.
“I certainly understand. Can you just give me until Wednesday? That’s day after tomorrow. Then, if I don’t come up with a solution, you’ll still have time before the end of the month, won’t you?”
He relaxed a bit, but only a bit. “Not past Thursday.”
“Great.” I stuck out my hand and, after a hesitation, he shook on it. His hands felt dry and dusty and hard.
I walked back around front to my car, a granite lump in my stomach. Some solution, Avery. Now what?
I’d skipped breakfast, so I headed for Maylene’s and an early lunch. Can’t think on an empty stomach.
Rudy Mellin was finishing a late breakfast as I slid into the booth.
“People go
nna start talking, we keep hangin’ out like this.” He sopped up the last of his fried egg yolk with his white toast.
“Probably. What’s new?”
“Other than I hadn’t gotten enough sleep? Let’s see. ATF guys are fixing to descend on us to investigate the explosion. A DHEC guy has already come up from Columbia, something about somebody destroying a wetlands site up there. How can you have a swamp in the mountains? Can’t say I’ve ever run across that before. But if you work for the government, I reckon you can find a swamp any blessed where you want one.”
I didn’t admit it had been news to me. Had Maggy sicced the state’s Department of Health and Environmental Control on Lionel Shoal? She hadn’t wasted any time, if she had. Not that Shoal didn’t have plenty to tangle with already, between a dead body and an explosion. Would the Army Corps of Engineers be far behind? I was beginning to feel a tinge sorry for him. Just a tinge.
“Any word on what happened to that guy in the mine?”
Rudy sat his empty coffee cup down. “Len Ruffin, according to his wallet. Never seen anybody look even worse than his driver’s license photo. Funny thing, he’d been gone a couple a weeks, but his wife hadn’t reported him missing.”
“Ruffin?”Missing. Jesse Ruffin’s father? “Does he have a daughter, about fifteen?”
Rudy’s eyes narrowed with a suspicious frown.
“Just a coincidence. I met her this weekend, at the plant rescue. Somebody mentioned her dad had run off. Said it was a good thing.”
Rudy studied me, trying to put pieces together, figure out if I was holding anything back.
“What about the explosion?” I asked.
He shrugged. “With two separate buildings at once, not a chance it was an accident. Other than a quick check to make sure nobody was inside, we left it for the big dogs.”
“Any connection with Ruffin?”
“Who knows, at this point. Did get an interesting lead on the explosion. Guy works for the highway department told his buddy this woman needed some dynamite and she was willing to, shall we say, entertain him in exchange for a couple a sticks.”
“Huh?” Surely I’d misunderstood him.
“Yep. Just when you think you’ve seen it all. Sex for dynamite. Nookie for nitro. Said she didn’t have any money to pay for it and her boyfriend needed it bad.”
“Dynamite.”
“Yep. Guys at the office are having a hoo-ha over that. Everybody wants to be the one to question her. Trying to pick her up this afternoon. I won’t repeat any of the jokes going around.” From his expression, I could tell he was tempted to share one or two with me, then he’d thought about how embarrassed he’d be. He even blushed.
“No need.” I could imagine. Guys get awfully free with the wordplay among themselves when just the right thing sparks their creativity.
Rudy’s phone buzzed. He listened and rolled his eyes. “Be right there.” He flipped his phone shut.
“Great. Somebody croaked at home over on Liberty Street. Probably some geezer, but gotta check it out.”
“You’re a wonderful public servant, Deputy Mellin.” I saluted him. He thanked me with a withering roll of his eyes. He slid his belly out from under the table and rearranged the implements on his belt.
The waitress cleared Rudy’s dishes and handed me a lunch menu I didn’t need to read. “I’ll have the fried chicken, fried okra, and squash casserole.” All Maylene specialties. The waitress, a young woman I hadn’t seen before, scribbled it all down on her pad as Cissie Prentice slid into the bench opposite me.
“Gawd, I’m so glad to see you.”
Cissie and I have known each other since kindergarten, but she’s rarely exuberant about running into women friends. Men, that’s another matter. The deep V of her sea-foam green cashmere sweater showcased her gently tanned breasts. Push-up bra or implants? I was no expert. I just knew from high school gym class that Cissie had been only modestly endowed then, which matched her slender hips and long legs.
“I need to talk to you.” She plopped the papers and envelopes she’d been clutching onto the table. “I just got the most disturbing thing. At the post office. It’s nasty and creepy and—I don’t know.”
She pulled out an envelope buried in her stack of mail and handed it to me. Printed in a neat spidery script was Cissie’s name and address: Priscilla Prentice, 19 Lake’s Edge Drive, Dacus.
“Read it.” She held a deep wrinkle between her brows as she chewed the lipstick off her bottom lip.
The creamy paper felt oiled and elegant. Glued to the bottom corner of the stationery sheet was a small, carefully clipped three-inch square of newspaper. Cut from an advice column and glued so firmly it became a part of the stationery, the headline read, “Hubbie’s New Friend Means Trouble.”
Written in the same cobalt blue ink and graceful school script as the envelope, the words themselves were anything but graceful.
Dear Mrs. Prentice,
I have watched your licentious behavior for many years, as has the rest of the town. I can keep silent no longer.
Your constant attentions to the new minister at the Presbyterian Church can come to no good. He certainly shares the blame, but he was not the instigator. Men are foolish, particularly men with little experience of women like you.
Leave him be. There are plenty of men versed in base behavior who do not have wives, small children, and vulnerable parishioners relying on their good example.
Stick with your own kind, Mrs. Prentice.
“Women like me?” Cissie whispered. Tears threatened to spill over the thick mascara coating her lashes. “Avery, do you think I’m—licentious?”
“Cissie, don’t be silly.” I turned the envelope over. Of course it had no return address; the postmark was yesterday, Upstate South Carolina.
“Who do you think sent this?”
“I have no idea.” She hugged herself, making her breasts pop farther out of her V-necked sweater. “The more I think about it, the more it creeps me out.”
“It is pretty creepy,” I had to admit. Surprisingly creepy. “Is this—true? About—?”
Cissie drew herself up. “Reverend Stanton and I have played tennis together a couple of times. That’s it. He’s new in town and is just now meeting folks.”
I didn’t answer her indignation by pointing out he had a whole church full of new folks to meet—and some of them probably played tennis, though few would dress the part as well as Cissie did.
“Besides,” she said, “he’s not my type. What use would I have for a preacher man?”
Seeking repentance obviously wasn’t on her self-improvement list this year.
“Anyway, I’m seeing a man in Highlands. He retired there, owned a big company.”
“That’s your type, all right. Well-to-do. Widowed?”
She nodded, but didn’t fire the return volley I’d expected in our well-worn banter. As the waitress approached with my steaming plate of food, Cissie laid her hand on the letter and wadded it up in one fierce motion.
“Just some hot tea for me,” Cissie said, “and some cottage cheese and pears.”
I reached for the letter. “This may sound strange, but you need to hold on to that for a while.”
“Why?” She kept the paper wadded in her fist.
“I don’t know. Just the lawyer in me. You never know.” The more I thought about it, the more disquieting it became. Who could feel strongly enough about Cissie to take time to write a letter? The writer had to be a “she.” The handwriting, the formality, the sense of moral outrage. Women I knew in Dacus had no problem delivering subtle but unmistakable guidance to other women, without ever once damaging the bonds of sociability. Why write an anonymous letter? First Mr. Mack and now Cissie. Was there a club for this in Dacus now? Instead of knitting, did women get together to sip tea and write nasty letters?
Cissie smoothed the crumpled paper, refolded it into its envelope, and slipped it deep into her coat pocket rather than into her stack of mail.
Best to tuck something like that away, out of sight.
Cissie, whose resilience had moved her through widowhood and three divorces in a little over a decade, dipped her spoon into the cottage cheese and canned pears the waitress plopped in front of her and changed the subject.
“Did you hear about them finding that woman dead? In her home? Just over on Liberty?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“Well, you obviously know. What, I can’t have sources, too, Miz Lawyer Lady?”
Sources that beat the chief deputy to the scene? I didn’t reply, not wanting to give away my source.
“Heard it at the post office. They say she was murdered. A horrid scene, mess everywhere.” She swallowed a dainty spoonful of cottage cheese. “What is this town coming to, I ask you.”
What indeed.
11
Monday Afternoon and Evening
About the time everyone else in Dacus would start heading to lunch, I made it back to the office, ready to work. I thumbed through my old hornbook on contracts, hoping to find something that would help Maggy Avinger with her eight-foot angel, but nothing joggled loose a good idea.
Frustrated, I soon turned to putting books on the shelves, trying to decide on some sensible order and how much room the sets of state statutes and case reports would take, a challenge since boxes were scattered here and there, all poorly labeled.
Lots of lawyers were opting not to maintain expensive libraries, relying instead on computer searches, but I liked being surrounded by these hefty, well-thumbed tomes, as though surrounded by history and memory, part of my grandfather’s legacy. I vacuumed the closed pages of each one as I unboxed it, lovingly stroking the baby-smooth beige leather. Search as I might, not one of these books was going to yield the lawyer’s holy grail—a “case on point,” the answer to Maggy Avinger’s problem. Sometimes lawyers solve problems with law and cases, sometimes they solve them by being wise. I needed to get hold of some wisdom.
I was lost in thought and the rapping at the front door had to be repeated several times before I was certain I’d heard something. When I didn’t hear Melvin heading to answer it, I climbed down off my ladder.
Hog Wild Page 10
