Murder Buys a T-Shirt

by Christy Fifield

  I pulled up next to the tall chain-link gate and shut off the engine. In the silence that followed, I could hear the hiss and clank of the service department across the lot.

  Male voices called to one another, and engines started and stopped in the still, warm air of late summer in the Panhandle. From inside the gate, I heard a single sharp bark and the rattle of a chain.

  Sly and Bobo appeared on the opposite side of the gate, Sly holding tight to Bobo’s chain. I stepped out of the car, the doughnut box held in front of me.

  “I brought some doggy treats, too. Just in case you won’t let him have doughnuts.”

  Sly’s dark face split with a grin, and he hobbled quickly to open the gate. As before, the chain was held by an open padlock, and he slipped the lock off to swing the gate open.

  “What can I do you for, girl?”

  I walked through the gate and offered him the box of doughnuts. “When I was here the last time, you told me you remembered my great-uncle. Maybe not well, but there aren’t a lot of people around who did know him. I was hoping I could bribe you to spend a little time telling me what you recall.”

  “Well that’s mighty nice of you. Mighty nice.” He took the box but looked sheepish. “I don’t remember all that much, like I told you. You might be wastin’ doughnuts on the pipe dreams of an old fool.”

  We started walking back toward the building he called home, past the two rows of cars and the wall of pickups, and around the end of the racks of parts.

  Once again I found myself staring at the wreck of Kevin Stanley’s baby-blue Charger. The impact wasn’t as great this time, but I was even more curious about the crumpled mass of steel and chrome. There had to be some clue, somewhere, to how the quarterback died.

  Sly balanced the doughnut box on the rails of an empty slot on the rack of engine parts. “Let me fetch us some coffee,” he said. “And I’ll try to remember what I knew about your uncle.”

  He started for his little house, then turned back. “Lessen you’d rather come in and set. I shoulda thought to ask that first,” he said. “My mama would tan my hide for fergettin’ my manners like that.”

  I could only imagine what the inside of the building might look like. I demurred as politely as I could. “We won’t be having this beautiful sunshine much longer,” I said. “I think I’d like to stay out here and enjoy it.”

  “Suit yourself.” I thought I saw a flash of relief on his face before he turned back around. His mama probably would have tanned his hide about the state of his housekeeping, as well as his manners, from the looks of it.

  He disappeared inside his house, Bobo at his side.

  I moved closer to the Charger, my hands clasped behind my back. I didn’t want to touch it so much as just take a closer look, now that I was certain the driver hadn’t been intoxicated.

  Sure, the lab results weren’t back, but I didn’t need them to know the truth of what I had heard over and over: Kevin Stanley had cleaned up his life.

  He hadn’t been drinking the afternoon the car rolled over.

  He wasn’t responsible for the crash.

  Kevin Stanley had been killed.

  As I walked around the car, I tried to imagine Kevin sitting in the driver’s seat, his right hand on the steering wheel, left elbow propped on the sill of the open window.

  It was an image I’d seen frequently in the year since Kevin got his license. It was the way I would always picture him.

  I bent forward until my nose was nearly touching the side of the car, close up on the deep scratch in the driver’s door. It was shallow at the back end behind the wide door, with gaps in a couple places as though whatever made the scratch hadn’t maintained contact.

  But toward the front, in the middle of the door itself, the gouge ran deep, ending in a nasty depression.

  I could picture it. A vehicle pulled alongside, barely grazing the side of the car as it started to pass. Kevin pulled away, trying to protect his prized Charger from further damage.

  The second vehicle lost contact, touched again, and pulled in closer. The crease deepened.

  Kevin pulled away, and the other vehicle edged closer, its speed nearly matching the souped-up muscle car’s.

  Kevin couldn’t move any more without ending up in the ditch. He tried to hold the car steady as the other driver pressed his advantage.

  Two vehicles flying down the country road side by side.

  Until the driver of the second vehicle cut his wheels hard to the right, punching a deep hole in Kevin’s door.

  Forcing him off the road.

  Into the ditch.

  Into the field beyond.

  I stepped back, shaken. Where had those images come from? I hadn’t been there, didn’t know how the accident had happened. I was making things up out of whole cloth.

  But the certainty I was right wouldn’t leave me, and I shuddered with the terror the young quarterback felt, knowing he couldn’t stop what was about to happen.

  “Served him right.”

  The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Sly’s.

  I whirled around and found myself facing a broad expanse of football-star muscle, stuffing a doughnut into his mouth.

  Jimmy Parmenter.

  “Shouldn’t have been drinking and driving. And you shouldn’t be here, Miss Glory. Nobody’s supposed to be in here, except the old dude who runs the place and the tow driver.” He swaggered closer. “And that’s me. So when I saw a car parked at the gate, I figured I better come check it out.”

  Another step closer. “What are you doing here, Miss Glory?”

  This time the title wasn’t a sign of respect, making me feel old.

  It was a challenge, full of menace, sending a chill of fear up my spine.

  Up close for the first time, I saw some of the things Ernie had told me about. Jimmy’s hair was oily and thinning, and I could see where he had covered acne eruptions with medication.

  Muscles bulged in his arms and shoulders as he helped himself to another doughnut from the box.

  “Brought these for the old geezer?” he asked around a mouthful of glazed cruller. “I’m sure he won’t mind sharing. Especially with Fowler’s football star.”

  “You’re not a star anymore.”

  Julie emerged from behind the rack of engine parts. “You used to be a star, but you aren’t anymore. And you’re never going to be again.”

  She trembled with fear as she approached the hulking parody of the boy she’d fallen in love with. “You’re just a tow truck driver whose wife brought him his lunch.”

  They stood in the sunlight, neither one moving, a tableau of anger and suspicion, desperation and courage. I couldn’t move, still reeling from the images of Kevin’s wreck, as another tragedy threatened to play out in front of me.

  Jimmy ignored the brown paper bag Julie held out to him. “I am a star,” he insisted. “And you’d know that if you weren’t so busy playing up to that boy.”

  Julie shook her head, denying Jimmy’s accusations. Pride stiffened her posture, and she held her ground as Jimmy stared hard at her.

  Something shifted behind Jimmy’s eyes. He thought he was being clever as he turned and advanced toward her.

  A tremor passed through her body, but she refused to back away. Her back straight, she held her head high as he moved toward her.

  “It wasn’t just playing though, was it, Jules? Maybe you thought you’d dump ol’ Jimmy and give the young stud a try?”

  He lashed out, faster than I thought possible, and caught her across the face with the flat of his hand. Crimson fingers appeared on her fair skin as she fell into the dirt. The lunch bag landed a few feet from her, thrown aside by the force of the blow.

  “Thought you could cheat on good ol’ Jimmy and get away with it?” He reached down and pulled her to her feet again, holding her tight against him, in an insane parody of a passionate embrace.

  I slid around the Charger, trying to get to Julie as she hunched over, using her arms to
protect her midsection.

  To protect the child she carried.

  Jimmy turned his attention back to me. “Told you it served him right. Shouldn’t go messing with a man’s woman. No matter who you think you are.”

  He spat on the ground, and a trickle of blood ran down from his nose. He swiped his wrist across his face, surprise registering at the sight of his own blood.

  “Damn,” he muttered, wiping at his nose with the tail of his uniform shirt. “Damn.”

  Julie dropped out of his encircling arm while he was distracted and backed away, poised to turn and run.

  Jimmy advanced on her, his hands curling into fists the size of Virginia hams. I could imagine one of those huge masses of bone, tendon, and muscle landing on Julie’s tiny body.

  “Leave her be,” I shouted. I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish, but I knew I had to try.

  “It’s none of your affair,” he said, continuing to advance toward his terrified wife. “You wasn’t the one she was running around on.”

  He whipped around long enough to glare at me, a look that froze me in place. “You just pay us no never-mind, y’hear? Me and my wife, we’re gonna have a little talk about respecting your vows, and then I’m taking her home.”

  That one look told me Jimmy had gone over the edge. He wasn’t thinking clearly; he wasn’t thinking at all. And I knew that what had happened at the frat party was about to repeat itself, right here and now.

  And I was the only one who could stop him.

  “What did you do, Jimmy? Did you use the tow truck to run him off the road? Did you drive that big old truck up next to him and shove him in the ditch?”

  Jimmy spun around and took a step toward me. Behind him I saw Julie slip behind the rack of engine parts.

  At least she was out of harm’s way. Her and the baby.

  Now all I had to do was get away from this madman.

  Easier said than done.

  I stepped to the side, keeping the bulk of the Charger between me and Jimmy.

  “Is that what you did, Jimmy? Was that why Fowler was chewing you out, he found out you used his tow truck?”

  “I didn’t use his truck,” Jimmy growled. “I just borrowed one from one of my boys.”

  “Your boys?” I kept circling.

  “The team,” he said. “How stupid are you?”

  “Borrowed? Someone let you take his truck?” I had to keep him talking.

  A note of cunning crept into his voice. “I couldn’t use the tow truck,” he said, swiping a fist under his nose. His hand came away streaked with crimson.

  “But you did, didn’t you, Jimmy? We’re talking about you using the tow truck and running Kevin Stanley into the ditch.”

  He lunged, grazing my side with his fist as I slid away.

  I saw stars. I couldn’t keep this up much longer, but I wanted to know, really know, if what I had seen was real.

  “That isn’t your team,” I taunted, pain stabbing my side with every breath. “Your team graduated years ago.”

  “They’re still my team. We party together, hang out. Kevin thought they were his guys, but they were mine.”

  He lunged again and I managed to sidestep, but I was tiring and I slipped, nearly landing in the dirt.

  “They were tired of Mr. Goody Two-Shoes,” he continued. “I brought the fun.”

  “Meaning you brought the beer.”

  With that, everything clicked into place. Jimmy was out in the woods that day, supplying beer for the kegger.

  Jimmy, who was jealous of Kevin’s position as captain.

  Jimmy, who wanted to be back in the spotlight.

  Jimmy, whose drug-addled brain had blown his wife’s concern for a boy into a full-fledged affair.

  Out in the woods with a high-powered tow truck and a hate-on for the quarterback.

  It was a lethal combination.

  I heard voices behind me, but I didn’t dare turn to look. I didn’t dare take my eyes off the raging pile of muscle in front of me.

  “Did you mean to kill him, Jimmy?” I spoke softly, the taunting and baiting gone.

  I was desperate to know, and I wasn’t sure if I was asking for Kevin or for my parents. I wanted Jimmy to give me the answer I could never get from the driver who killed my mom and dad.

  “Did you mean to?”

  He never answered. Because at that instant Bobo launched himself from a spot a few feet behind me and sank his teeth into Jimmy’s massive right arm, dragging Jimmy to the ground.

  A high-pitched scream came from Jimmy as he batted futilely at the dog’s head. Bobo wouldn’t let go, no matter how many times Jimmy hit him.

  I heard the unmistakable sound of a shell being racked into the chamber of a shotgun. “Bobo. Down.”

  The dog instantly turned loose of Jimmy and trotted back to sit at Sly’s feet.

  “You, boy!” Sly yelled at Jimmy. “You stay right there. Don’t even twitch. I ain’t fired this thing in twenty years, and I can’t rightly swear I wouldn’t hit parts you wouldn’t care to lose, if you get my drift.”

  Jimmy muttered, but he took the warning and didn’t move.

  Julie had come back around the end of the engine racks when she heard Jimmy scream. “The police are on the way,” she said. “I called them.”

  She looked down at the man on the ground. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. Sorry you couldn’t believe me. Sorry that you did what you did. But mostly I’m sorry you’ll never know your son.”

  “Ain’t mine,” he snarled.

  “Yes, it is,” she said calmly. “But you believe what you want to believe. You always have.”

  The wail of sirens drew closer, then cut off abruptly as tires squealed to a stop outside the fence.

  “Back here,” I yelled into the sudden silence. I looked over at Sly. “You might oughta put that shotgun down, though. Just so these boys don’t get the wrong idea.”

  “Guard, Bobo,” Sly commanded as he lowered the shotgun carefully to the ground.

  Bobo trotted over to stand next to Jimmy, teeth bared in warning.

  Jimmy didn’t move.

  I SLID THE BANANA PUDDING OUT OF THE OVEN, golden-brown peaks of meringue covering rich pudding, bananas, and vanilla wafers.

  A round of applause from the table greeted the dessert as I set it to cool.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I reminded the assembled group.

  Ernie, ever the schedule master, checked his watch. “That should give us time for dessert and coffee,” he tipped his head toward Felipe, “before we have to leave for the game.”

  He turned to our newest addition. “Jake, you’re welcome to ride with us. We’ve got the van so there’s plenty of room, and parking at the field is just impossible.” He rolled his eyes to underscore just how difficult it was.

  Jake took a sip from his glass of sweet tea. “I’d be glad for the ride,” he said. “Thanks.

  “And thanks to our hostess.” He raised his glass to me, and I felt a flush creep up my cheeks. Probably just the heat from the oven.

  “I had a lot of help.”

  I did. We’d decided to go potluck before homecoming, and everyone had brought a dish. Karen fried up some chicken, Ernie made jambalaya that was so good I wanted to swim in it, Felipe brought a sweet corn salad, and I made dessert.

  With the blessing of my friends, I had included Jake at the last minute, but I’d told him he didn’t need to bring anything; he would be our guest.

  Jake, however, was quickly learning Southern manners. He had shown up with a bubbling dish of potatoes au gratin and had everyone begging for his recipe.

  With a showing like that, I suspected I might only be cooking every five weeks before long. But that was a discussion for another day.

  For tonight, the agenda was good food, a football game, and an oversize helping of hope for the future.

  I had shared my tale of the confrontation in the junkyard with them, answering questions and filling in blanks as I went along. Each time, I thought
about the final question, the one I would never get answered.

  The conversation flowed around me, Jake fitting into the group easily. I noticed, though, that he mostly listened, and asked questions about other people, volunteering little about himself and his background.

  I added the hunky Jake Robinson to the list of mysteries I wanted to solve.

  While my guests continued to visit, I excused myself and went downstairs to check on Bluebeard. I hadn’t had much time to spend with him the last few days, and I was going out again tonight. I needed to give him a little of my time before I left.

  “How you doing, big guy?” I asked as I slipped him scraps from our dinner. He gobbled down the sweet corn and the little bits of chicken I’d brought him.

  “Bad man gone.”

  I gave him the half a banana I’d held back from the pudding. “Yes, Bluebeard, the bad man is gone.”

  The police had arrested Jimmy and immediately put him in a locked-down rehab unit to detox from the steroids. Karen told me they were afraid to put him in the general population until they had flushed the drugs out of his system. ’Roid rage in a jail was a recipe for disaster.

  Bluebeard poked his bill into the bowl I’d brought, looking for more treats.

  “That’s all you’re getting,” I said. I filled his bowl with dry cereal and checked his water.

  “Coffee?” he said plaintively.

  “I wish I could, big guy. I really do, but it would just make you sick.” I petted his head. “I can’t give you coffee, Uncle Louis,” I whispered.

  “I know.”

  The voice, soft and strong, and unbelievably human. The voice that couldn’t possibly belong to a parrot, and yet it came from the bird sitting on my arm.

  Karen came into the shop, walking softly so as not to disturb us. “Dessert’s ready,” she said quietly. She chucked Bluebeard under the chin.

  “Pretty girl,” he said, and let out his best wolf whistle.

  Karen laughed. “You’re pretty special yourself.” She stroked his head. “Can we steal your pal here?” she asked.

  “Family.”

  Karen nodded. “Yeah, she’s family.”

  Bluebeard bobbed his head. “Nighty-night,” he said. He gave me a little head bump and hopped into his cage.