Yup, Vincent was right. Kathy Vanderbilt was a classy lady.
I flipped to the next page.
“She has one son from a previous relationship: Carter Hashaway, age twenty-one.” I completed the narrative as the truck bumped into the parking lot of our destination. “She’s been quiet since 2002. Married Theodore Vanderbilt in 2003, and worked alongside her husband here at the U-Strip-Em Auto Salvage.”
Raising my eyes from the paper, I took in the U-Strip-Em, which turned out to be an enormous car graveyard conveniently located next to the We-Shred-Em Recycling Center, which the Vanderbilts also owned. Auto mechanics and do-it-yourself repairmen could pay a small entry fee to scavenge the U-Strip-Em for used parts from among the vehicular carnage stored there, and what wasn’t used was recycled next door.
I looked between the papers and the building in front of us. “According to their financial records, the Vanderbilts took out a large loan to pay for upgrades to the structure and property, but so far, payments have been on time and in full.”
The U-Strip-Em building was, in fact, much nicer than I’d expected to find at a junkyard. The one-story structure appeared newly built and boasted electric sliding doors and industrial metal sheeting accents.
And it seemed to do a good business. The customer parking lot was half full of vehicles of all shapes and sizes, and there appeared to be a steady stream of people pushing large blue wheelbarrows bearing the U-Strip-Em logo.
“So the Vanderbilts weren’t necessarily comfortable financially, but they weren’t hurting either,” Vincent supplied, also watching the foot traffic around us.
“Yeah, but a million bucks is a pretty big temptation for a woman who already has a record of petty crimes topped off with issuing a false police report.” I jammed the papers back into my bag. “Let’s go see what Mrs. Vanderbilt has to say about it.”
We got out of the GMC, crunched across the gravel driveway, and entered the U-Strip-Em through the automatic doors, which spit us into a large open area with two long counters in the center, one to catch customers going into the junkyard and one to catch them going out so that they could pay for the parts they’d acquired.
We approached the in-desk, and a young employee in grease-stained coveralls looked us over with a critical eye.
I glanced down at myself. My black trousers, suit coat, and light blue button-down were immaculate, and Vincent certainly stood out in his gleaming white dress shirt.
Clearly, we were not dressed for a junkyard.
“Can I help you?” the employee asked, leery.
“We’re with the Georgia Department of Insurance, and we’re here to see Kathy Vanderbilt,” I said, gesturing at the badge at my belt line. “Is she in today?”
“Yo, Kathy,” the man tossed over his shoulder, and then said to me, “She’ll be with you in a sec.”
We moved a bit down the counter so he could serve the next customers, and I watched as the thin, blond woman who had been working the out-counter turned to greet us.
The first thing that struck me was Kathy’s attire—scrubs that were completely out of place for her environment. Maybe she’d gotten tired of soiling her regular clothes with oil every day.
The second thing that I noticed was her small face. Though her head appeared to be normal sized, all her features were delicate and seemed crowded together.
If my mother had been there, she would have said that Kathy Vanderbilt was suffering from the benefits of her Southern royal lineage. In my mother’s lingo, that meant she suspected that her family was a bit inbred.
There was no scientific basis for that assumption as far as I knew.
“Mrs. Vanderbilt?” I asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah, but call me Kathy. We ain’t formal around here. You the people from the insurance place?” She rounded the counter and gestured for us to follow her.
“Georgia Department of Insurance,” Vincent corrected from beside her. To say that he dwarfed Kathy was an understatement. Next to him, she looked like a child.
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said. “We can talk in Theo’s office.”
We followed her toward a small room off the main area, which held only a desk, some chairs, and an old desktop computer that had been shoved aside, probably inoperable. But the window unit air conditioner sure worked. Going through the door was like entering a portal to the polar ice caps.
Vincent and I took the seats across from the desk. I buttoned my suit coat and tried to scoot the chair out of the direct arctic blast from the window unit.
For all the good that did.
Vincent pulled out his notepad and pen, and, trying to ignore the goose bumps that rose on my flesh, I addressed Kathy. “We’re here about your husband’s death and your subsequent life insurance claim.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Kathy said, nodding as she sank into the chair behind the desk. Only she began fanning herself with a file folder.
I eyed her. How could she possibly be warm?
And how could she possibly be so calm less than a week after her husband supposedly died in a horrific accident?
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Vincent said, causing me to wonder if he might have been thinking the same thing.
“I think I’m still in shock,” she said quickly. Her fan picked up speed. “I mean, it just don’t seem real. Every morning since the accident, I keep expecting Theo to show up here with that fast-food coffee he always bought.”
I watched her little face carefully, looking for signs of distress or deception, but other than her rapid fanning and a few downward quirks of her lips as she spoke, I saw none.
“I know it probably seems strange that I’ve got the place open already, but this is our”—she paused and then corrected herself—“my main source of income. I’m left to deal with it now, and if I show any signs of weakness, that pack of jackals out there won’t give me the respects I deserve. I had to come in and keep things running.”
Kathy’s voice had become high and forceful, and in a strange way, it helped convince me that she was not as unaffected by her husband’s death as I’d originally thought. Her emotions seemed to be manifesting themselves as defiance. That was not unusual.
And her use of the word “respects” was particularly telling. Often accompanied in conversation by “don’t you go disrespectin’ me,” that word was reserved for a particular branch of Southern society: the angry redneck. We were dealing here with an upwardly mobile, angry redneck, and now that I had a deeper glimpse into her psyche, I’d learned something: Kathy Vanderbilt needed her respects, and that probably meant she’d never felt worthy of anyone’s respect in the first place.
I had to admit I kind of admired women like Kathy. She might not have the highest self-esteem, but she fought for what she wanted. She didn’t roll over and let life wash over her. No, Kathy Vanderbilt was a fighter.
But just how far was she willing to go to get what she wanted?
“Tell us about Friday night and early Saturday morning,” Vincent said, interrupting my thoughts on the finer points of the redneck mentality. “Where was Mr. Vanderbilt headed?”
A short burst of laughter erupted from Kathy. “You might as well call him Theo. Everybody else does.” She winced. “Did.”
“Okay, where was Theo headed?” Vincent repeated as he took out his notepad and positioned himself to write.
“Home, I expect.”
“Where had he been?” I asked. “It was 3 AM when the call came in. That’s pretty late to be driving around.”
“They was having a drivers’ meeting over at the dirt track.” She pointed in a vaguely southwestern direction. “At the speedway. It’s only a few miles from here, and he’s always got some car or other running there. Plus, we get a lot of business from the other drivers.”
With the number of wrecks that probably happened in dirt-track racing, I could well imagine.
“Why didn’t you go with him?” I asked.
“I get enough car talk
on a normal day. I didn’t need to go to the track too.”
“Was anyone with him?”
Kathy stopped fanning herself for a moment. “Carter went to the meeting. He’s a driver too, but they didn’t ride together or anything.”
“Your son Carter?” I asked.
Kathy nodded.
“Then we’ll need to speak with him too,” Vincent said.
“What for?” Her tone had become defensive.
Trying to convey calm, I said, “To confirm that Theo did make the meeting and ask if he knows what his stepfather might have done for the rest of the night.” Kathy didn’t look any more cooperative, so I added, “It’ll make the claim go faster.”
With obvious reluctance, Kathy gestured over her shoulder. “He works out in the lot, running one of the forklifts.”
I looked out the large plate-glass window behind her as two huge forklifts moved cars from place to place, taking out the remains of the scavenged vehicles and bringing in fresh ones for customers to pick over.
My eyes returned to Kathy. “When did their meeting end?”
“Dunno,” Kathy said. “Probably late. Once they get to talking, they like to never shut up. I’d guess the thing went on ’til about 11.”
“So he didn’t come straight home afterward?” I asked.
Kathy shrugged. “Obviously not.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Knowing Theo, probably the Alley Cat Bar.”
“Did he go there often?” Vincent asked.
“Well,” Kathy began and then paused. “He wasn’t there every time the doors were open, but almost.”
I hesitated, trying to find a way to ask the next question politely. Then, thinking of Tricia and the way I hated watching people dance around the topic, I figured I’d just be blunt.
“Did Theo have a drinking problem?”
“No!” Kathy said loudly, causing even Vincent to look up from his copious note-taking. “I mean, he drank some, yeah. But he weren’t no alcoholic if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Was he ever arrested for DWI?” Vincent asked, even though we both knew Theo’s police record was clean.
“No, not that I know of.”
“Should he have been?” I asked, before I thought to stop myself.
Kathy paused again and then laughed slightly. “Yeah, probably a time or two. Is that why you think he ended up wrapping his car around that tree?”
“We’re not sure yet, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” I lied.
Of course, this wasn’t a drunk driving accident, and besides, the description “wrapped around a tree” didn’t really apply. Yeah, the car had hit the tree, but the impact had done little damage to the front end. A tree-sized dent and that was all.
But did Kathy know that Theo’s death was no accident?
At this point I wasn’t sure, so I decided to switch topics and shake things up a bit. “You understand that we’re with the Department of Insurance, so our questions will also pertain to the death benefits claim you made Saturday morning at Americus Mutual Insurance,” I explained. In my experience, no one really knew that the Department of Insurance existed, much less understood what we did.
“Sure, but I don’t get why. I’m entitled to that money,” she said, and her voice began to take on a bit of the give-me-my-respects tone again.
“Why make the call so soon?” I asked.
“Why wait?” she responded. “Theo isn’t going to get any deader.”
I blinked at her harshness. “Most people wait until all the paperwork—death certificates and such—are in order before filing a claim. The majority at least have the funeral first.”
“Well, I ain’t got that kind of time.”
“What do you mean by that exactly?” Vincent asked, eyeing her intently while his pen remained at the ready.
Kathy gestured around. “Look at this place. We just remodeled, and the bank ain’t gonna wait around for no funeral before they start demanding payments, and without Theo to keep this place running, I had to give up my part-time job.”
“Part-time job?” Vincent’s eyes narrowed. We didn’t have any record of her outside employment.
“X-ray tech. I just finished school a few months ago and got the job offer last month.”
I glanced at her, now comprehending the scrubs. I didn’t picture Kathy working in the healthcare field any more than I pictured her working here. She seemed to exist in between. Like I said, upwardly mobile redneck. Hard to pigeonhole.
But there was no way I would want to meet her on the other side of an x-ray machine. I didn’t imagine she’d offer a lot of pity as she forced people’s bones into the necessary positions.
“I’m not going to lie. I want that insurance money. That’s what it was there for. I paid the premiums all these years. It’s my money.” Kathy dropped her makeshift fan onto the desk. “I want to pay off that loan, sell this place for a nice profit, and between that and Theo’s life insurance, I’ll never have to work again. So yeah, I made the call.” Kathy’s hands landed on her hips in a gesture that clearly demanded to know if I had a problem with her explanation.
I did have a problem with it, but her agitation told me that now was not the time to quibble. I didn’t want her to shut down completely. But I would definitely be checking her financial records later.
She continued, “When do I get my money?”
Vincent slid his notebook closed, obviously also aware that the interview was rapidly unraveling. “You understand, Mrs. Vanderbilt, that before any monies can be issued, the state’s investigation must reach a satisfactory conclusion.”
Her eyes turned sharply to him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we have to be certain of what happened to Theo and why,” he said calmly.
“Well, I would think it was fairly obvious what happened to him.”
“Still,” I said, “we have to wait for the autopsy and fire investigation. Standard procedure.”
“Yeah, you follow your standard procedure,” Kathy snapped. “But be quick about it.”
We thanked Kathy for her time, but we didn’t make any promises to be quick. “We’ll need to talk to Carter,” I said instead.
“Like I said, he’s out back.” Kathy didn’t offer to call him in to the office. She just jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “You can talk to him outside.”
Leaving the main building, we waded deep into the bowels of the junkyard, skirting junker cars of all makes and models.
We passed a long row of trucks, and I spied a GMC like Vincent’s and was about to point it out when Vincent said softly, “Something just doesn’t add up here.”
I looked over my shoulder to find Kathy watching us out one of the building’s back windows.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I’ve seen people whose grief comes out in anger, but this seemed different.”
“Very cold,” Vincent said as we passed another long row of vehicles. “And I don’t just mean the temperature of the room.”
“Yeah,” I said as I took one more look at Kathy’s little face in the window and then turned to Vincent. “I wonder if she killed her husband.”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Vincent said. “She had motive, means, and opportunity.”
“She did,” I agreed. Then, still realizing that things aren’t always what they seem, I added, “But sometimes where there’s smoke, you find some other guy rubbing two sticks together.”
Thirteen
Carter Hashaway drove the enormous yellow forklift as if it were an Indy car. Vincent and I stood on the periphery of the U-Strip-Em and watched for a moment as he wielded the machine through the rows of vehicles, removing a picked-over car and replacing it with a fresh one.
“Doesn’t look like he’s taking a break any time soon,” I said, as I watched the forklift motor down another row.
“Maybe you should approach him,” Vincent suggested. “He’ll stop for a pretty little lady like you.”
I shot
him a hard stare. “Pretty little lady?” I repeated with a major eye roll.
“Thought you’d like that,” Vincent said with a laugh. He was jerking my chain, so I slugged him in the shoulder. Hard.
He winced and rubbed the injured area. “Hey, I’m just predicting Carter’s reaction. So technically, those are his words, not mine,” he said seriously, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
I thought about slugging him again, but we did have to get Carter out of the forklift to ask him some questions.
I considered trying a direct approach by walking up and showing him my badge, but he was wielding a piece of heavy machinery. He could drive right over me.
Vincent was always being pegged as a cop, and I almost never was. I just didn’t have the look, and even I had to admit that it was something I often used to my advantage with people I was interviewing.
Why not use my non-cop looks again now?
“Fine, you wait here and let this ‘little lady’ take care of the hard work,” I said over my shoulder as I sauntered toward the row where Carter was using the forklift to scoop up another vehicle. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I waved at the young man, who did a quick double take, probably surprised to see a woman in the junkyard, and then promptly shut down the machine.
Damn Vincent for being right.
Carter hopped to the ground and lifted his hat in greeting. His dirty blond hair resembled his mother’s, but that was where the similarity ended. His face, though covered in a light goatee, was much more to scale than Kathy’s, and he seemed to have a little less of the angry redneck mentality.
Or so I hoped.
I smiled at him in greeting, and he seemed to take that as an invitation to look me up and down.
“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing at the U-Strip-Em?” Carter asked when he’d gotten close enough for me to hear him.
I grimaced. Double damn Vincent.
Instead of answering, I simply unbuttoned my coat to reveal my badge.
And that’s when I realized I’d made an error in judgment.
Carter’s face transformed from mild flirtation to utter panic in one second flat.
Death Benefits Page 9
