by Jude Hardin
Everyone got a good laugh. I cancelled my order and walked out.
CHAPTER SIX
I drove over to the grocery store and bought some things to keep in the room. Along with some food, I bought a Styrofoam cooler, a two-burner hotplate, a cheap saucepan and a Teflon skillet. They had some steel coffee pots that looked like they came from the set of a cowboy movie, so I bought one of those and a big can of Folger’s. I had decided to boycott Moe’s, and I didn’t feel like driving thirty miles every time I wanted something to eat. On the menu for tonight were pork and beans, olive loaf sandwiches, and a fried pie sealed in wax paper. I asked the stock boy where I could find some beer. He laughed and told me this was a dry county. I didn’t think it was all that funny.
The sun had been gone for over an hour, and the yellow porch lights outside the motel rooms only added to the gloom. The mountain seemed darker than dark, an engulfing black hole that could suck you in and reduce you to molecules. I figured people who went missing around here probably stayed missing.
I carried my new things into the room, washed the saucepan and skillet and set the hotplate on the long and narrow oak dresser. I got some ice for the cooler and stowed my perishables. I opened a can of beans, dumped them into the saucepan, dialed the heat to medium. I’d started putting a sandwich together when someone knocked on the door.
I looked through the peephole. A couple of guys stood there smoking cigarettes, trying their best to look tough. One fat, one skinny. The fat one wore a corduroy coat lined with sheepskin, and a Tennessee Titans skull cap. Late teens or early twenties. Chubby cheeks blistered red from the cold. The skinny guy was older, maybe in his mid-thirties. He wore a faded denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. A shiny silver hoop had been driven into the middle of his bottom lip.
My shirttails hid the little .38 strapped to my waist. I unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“Mind if we come in for a minute?” the skinny one said.
“Who are you?”
“We work at Moe’s. In the kitchen. I’m Lester, and this is Chelton.”
“What do you want?”
“We just want to talk. We have some information you might be interested in. About the Harvest Angels.”
They must have overhead me talking to Pete.
“The room’s a mess,” I said. “Hang on. Let me get my jacket and I’ll step out there.”
“Come on, mister. It’s cold. And what we have to say needs to be said in private.”
“Like I said, let me grab my coat and I’ll—”
The fat one named Chelton bulldozed into me, driving me backwards into the room. I landed on my ass. He straddled me and pinned my wrists to the floor. He was enormous. I couldn’t move.
“What do you want?” I said.
“You talked mean to Millie,” Chelton said.
Lester lifted my beans from the hotplate, started eating directly from the pan with a spoon. He talked with his mouth full.
“Who do you think you are?” he said. “You think you can come to our town and talk to us like dogs?”
“We were the ones being treated like dogs,” I said.
The dump truck parked on my stomach made it difficult to breathe. Every time Chelton shifted, I almost blacked out.
Lester picked up my new I.D. from the bedside table. “Nicholas Colt. Special Investigator. Strong Investigations. You some kind of private eye, boy?”
I didn’t say anything.
“My arms are getting tired,” Chelton said. “Can we go now?”
“We need to teach Mr. Colt here a lesson first.”
“You said we was just going to scare him. I think we done did that.”
Lester set my I.D. card back between the phone and the digital alarm clock. He carried the beans back to the hotplate, took one more bite before abandoning them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. He opened it, the blade locking into place with a click. He picked up the black leather jacket Juliet had bought me for Christmas year before last, stabbed it violently in the back and cut a slit all the way to the bottom seam.
“Next time it ain’t going to be your jacket,” he said.
He put the knife away, walked over to where I lay helpless, and kicked me in the balls.
Chelton got up and they walked out of the room and left me writhing on the floor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning I drove to Nashville and bought a new coat and a case of beer and another cooler. I took the beer to the motel room and dumped some ice on it from the ice machine. I ate four fried eggs and some bread and then headed to Black Creek.
I drove by two-story brick homes with columns in front and sprawling lawns and single-wide trailers with rusted skirting and makeshift porches and satellite dishes the size of spaceships. There were farms and abandoned filling stations and heavily-treed gravel roads guarded by steel gates. On the radio, Billy Ray Cyrus sang about his achy breaky heart, but all I could think about were my achy breaky testicles. I was still sore from last night’s trauma.
I planned to stop and have a talk with Harvey Mullins, but I wanted to check out the Lambs’ residence first, where the murders had taken place. From the curb I saw a metal real estate sign in the front yard and a woman in her forties with bushy salt-and-pepper hair securing a lockbox to the cast iron porch railing. When I got out and shut the door, she squinted my way and said, “Mr. Swanson? I was just about to give up on you.”
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, happy to be Mr. Swanson for a while if it granted me access to the home’s interior.
“Hi, I’m Kate Johnson. I think you talked to Reba on the phone, but she had another place to show this morning.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
She took the key back out of the lockbox and opened the front door. “Come on in. I think you’re going to love this place.”
We walked inside. Everything looked and smelled new. The walls and ceilings had been freshly painted, the oak floors sanded and refinished to a high gloss. Our voices and footsteps echoed as we made our way through the barren living room and into the kitchen.
“How many square feet?” I said.
“It’s twelve hundred, but it feels bigger. Don’t you think?”
“It does. What about the appliances?”
The refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher were all brand new, all stainless steel, the manufacturer’s stickers still on the handles.
“Everything stays,” she said. “There’s even a new washer and dryer.”
She opened a door and showed me the utility room.
“Nice,” I said. “Is there a formal dining area?”
“In here.”
We turned a corner to a short hallway and entered the room where Mrs. Lamb and her daughter-in-law had been butchered. All the evidence, of course, was long gone. The whole place looked as though it had been built yesterday.
“What happened to the previous owners?” I said.
“It was an elderly couple. They passed away.”
“So who’s selling the house?”
“Some great niece or something. Their only heir. Reba could tell you more. Her name’s Allison Parker. If you decide to buy the house, she’s the one you’ll be dealing with at closing.”
I pulled a little spiral notepad out of my pocket.
“Do you have Allison Parker’s phone number?” I said.
“I can’t really give you her phone number. If you’d like to make an offer—”
“I’d just like to ask her a few questions.”
“Well, if you give me your number, I can have her call you. How about that?”
“That’s fine. I’m staying at the motel in Mont Falcon. Room two-oh-eight.”
Since cellular service in the area was so spotty, I wrote the motel’s phone number down and tore the sheet from my notebook. I handed it to her.
“This says Nicholas Colt. I thought your name was—”
&nb
sp; Someone pounded on the front door. Probably the real Mr. Swanson, but I didn’t stick around to find out for sure. I made an excuse to leave there in a hurry, and then I drove to the address Pete had given me for Harvey Mullins. He lived in a shotgun house near a set of railroad tracks. I doubted his place came with granite countertops and a Wolf gas range. Just a guess.
I walked to the door and rang the bell. The guy who answered held a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He wore a wife-beater T and little or no deodorant.
“Are you Harvey Mullins?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
I showed him my I.D. “Nicholas Colt. I’m a private investigator.”
“What do you want?”
I pulled an eight-by-ten photograph of Derek from an envelope.
“You know who this is?” I said.
“Yeah. It’s the cop that killed my brother.”
“He’s missing. I was hired to find him.”
“Yeah, yeah, the cops already talked to me. Long time ago. I don’t know nothing about that. What, you think I killed those two women just to lure him into that house?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Get off my porch.”
“Look, I know you didn’t have anything to do with those murders. You think I would come casually knocking on your door if I thought you were a suspect?”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“I wanted to ask if you’d ever had any contact with Derek. Seems strange he took a job in Black Creek, of all places, knowing the guy he shot had kin here.”
His expression softened. “Come on in,” he said.
Fleece throw blankets covered the windows in Harvey’s living room, effectively blocking any hint of sunlight. There was a tweed sofa, and a laptop computer surrounded by empty beer cans on a wooden coffee table. An infomercial about an exercise regimen blared from a TV hugging the opposite wall. The furnace must have been cranked to eighty. Harvey motioned for me to have a seat, so I shrugged out of my new ski jacket and sat in the faux leather wingback chair next to the couch. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over a floor lamp with pictures of eagles on its shade.
Harvey switched off the television. “Can I get you a beer?” he said.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Let me just grab one real quick.” He disappeared around the corner. I heard some bottles rattle when he opened the refrigerator. “Hey, you want some juice? I could make you a screwdriver.”
“Maybe I’ll take a beer after all,” I said.
Rule #16 in Nicholas Colt’s Philosophy of Life: dedicated drinkers are always happier talking to their own kind.
Harvey brought the beers, sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette.
“That cop Derek came over here one day with some religious pamphlets,” he said. “He wanted me to pray with him.”
“Did you?”
“No. Not really into it.”
“So what kind of church did Derek go to?”
“Something weird. I can’t remember the name.”
“Do you still have the pamphlets?”
“No. I really didn’t even like him coming into my house. He killed Billy, you know? I guess he thought he was going to make up for it somehow. I wrote him a check for ten bucks just to get rid of him.”
“Who did you make the check out to?”
Harvey snapped his fingers. He got up and walked through the archway to the kitchen, came back wearing a pair of reading glasses and flipping through the pages of a checkbook ledger.
“Here it is,” he said. “New Love Ministries.”
“Mind if I use your computer?”
“Go ahead.”
I moved to the sofa, used a search engine to find the church’s website. I wrote the address and phone number in my notebook.
“Want to go to church with me on Sunday?” I said.
“No thanks. But you have fun, Mr. Colt.”
“I’ll try.”
I sucked the beer can dry and set it on the coffee table with the others on my way out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a clear and sunny Friday afternoon, twenty degrees and windless. The crisp February air felt good after the smothering heat and stench of Harvey’s house. The radio weatherman said to expect warmer temperatures on Saturday with the possibility of snow.
When I got back to the motel, the light on my room phone was blinking. I called the front desk, and Beulah said a woman named Allison Parker had called. She gave me the number. I punched it in and got an answer on the fourth ring.
“This is Allison.”
“Hi, this is Nicholas Colt. I looked at the house you have for sale earlier.”
“Yes, the agent said you had some questions for me.”
“Actually, it’s not the house I’m interested in. I’m investigating the disappearance of Derek Wahl, the police officer who discovered the murders there.”
“Oh, so you know about that.”
“Yeah. I noticed Kate Johnson failed to mention it.”
“It’s not something we advertise. Hard enough to sell a house these days. Anyway, Derek Wahl is presumed dead, as are my Uncle Virgil and Cousin Joe. Normally it can take up to seven years to have a missing person legally declared dead, but the court accepted our petition to expedite because of the imminent peril—or something like that—of the situation. Bunch of legal mumbo jumbo. Anyway, it’s the only reason I’m able to put the house up for sale. May I ask who you’re working for, Mr. Colt?”
“My client wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Of course. Well then, what can I help you with today?”
“Do you know who made the original nine-one-one call that Derek responded to?”
“It was from a pre-paid cell phone. Untraceable. The police assumed it was one of the neighbors, although none of them would admit to it.”
“My client said there was some DNA found at the scene that didn’t belong to Derek or any of the Lambs. Do you know if the police ever got anywhere with that?”
“They found a little piece of rubber with a bloody fingerprint on it. They think it was from a mask the killer was wearing, but the print didn’t match up with any of their databases and neither did the DNA from the blood. That’s what they told me, anyway.”
“Were you close to your aunt and uncle?”
“Not at all. I only knew them from family reunions when I was a kid. But if you think I might have had something to do with killing them, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I don’t stand to gain anything from the sale of that house. I’m just trying to cover some of their debts.”
“What kind of debts?”
“Uncle Virgil was a gambler. Always had been. Him and Aunt Martha should have owned that place free and clear a long time ago, but he kept getting equity loans to feed his habit. It’s a wonder they didn’t end up on the street.”
“What was his game?”
“Pardon me?”
“Most hardcore gamblers have a favorite thing they like to bet on. I’m guessing there aren’t any casinos around here, so I was just wondering—”
“He did it all. His idea of a big vacation was driving up to Louisville and hanging around the track for a couple of weeks. He bet on sports events, played the Lotto, whatever. Some of the people I talked to when I was getting the house ready to sell said he’d been into poker lately. There was a game he went to every Friday night.”
“Big stakes?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t have been too big, I guess. Uncle Virgil was on a fixed income, and the house was mortgaged to the hilt. I just don’t see how he could have had much money to play with at this point.”
“Banks aren’t the only way to borrow money. Any idea where the poker game was?”
“No, but I know where you can probably find out. Uncle Virgil had a friend there in Black Creek named Mike Musselman. Been friends since they were kids. I’m sure they knew each other’s secrets. I’m also sure the police have alread
y worked that angle.”
“Probably, but I’ll check into it. You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Parker. I appreciate your time.”
“No problem. Good luck with your investigation.”
After we said goodbye I called information and asked for Mike Musselman’s number, which turned out to be unlisted. I ate a sandwich and drank a beer and wondered how anyone ever got anything done before the Internet was invented. I put my jacket on, went outside, walked around to the office. Beulah was asleep in a chair, a thread of drool dangling from her bottom lip. I fed some coins into the vending machine and pushed button number twelve and a deck of playing cards clanked into the steel receiving tray below. I broke the seal, pulled out the jokers, started shuffling the remaining fifty-two, hoping the noise would wake Beulah. It did not. I found the countertop service bell behind a bowl of candy canes left over from Christmas. I dinged it with my palm. Beulah’s eyes fluttered open and she wiped her mouth on her shirtsleeve.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if there was anything to do around here on a Friday night.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Is there a movie theater nearby?”
“Nashville. You like basketball?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
“There’s a game over at the high school tonight. It’s only three bucks to get in, and those boys can really play. State champs last year.”
“Sounds great. Or maybe I’ll just hang around the room and play some solitaire. Hey, you know anyone who might like to get up a card game?”
“Well, I ain’t too busy right now. I could play you a game of rummy.”
Her smile showed some missing teeth.
“I was thinking more along the lines of some seven card stud,” I said. “You know, for money. But thanks anyway.”
I started to walk out.
“Poker?” she said. “I might be able to set you up with something.”
That’s what I wanted to hear.
CHAPTER NINE
I filled up at Sunoco and got four hundred dollars from the ATM. I’d spoken on the phone to a man named Ted Grayson, who said they just happened to have a seat open for the game tonight. Dollar ante, five-card draw with jacks or better and a ten dollar limit on raises. I figured four hundred would last me at least a few hours.
