Tin God

by Stacy Green

  “Excuse me?”

  She finally looked back up at him. “I don’t want to. But my responsibility is to this paper first. Take two weeks off. Rest. Think about the way your life’s going.”

  “And then?”

  “Either come back with a new attitude, or don’t come back at all.”

  He couldn’t look at Kim as he left her office. Barely spoke to colleagues as he gathered the mail off his desk. He was sick of the pity and fed up with the whispering. But work was the only thing keeping him from drowning in a pool of guilt.

  Outside, a purple wall of thunderclouds closed in from the west. The oncoming rain brought little relief from the heat. His black Taurus baked under the hazy sun, the leather seats hot enough to fry meat on. Nick sank into the driver’s seat and cranked up the air.

  He slammed the car into reverse and then gunned the accelerator, whipping out onto Congress Street. A soccer mom in a blue SUV honked when he cut her off, but Nick didn’t bother to acknowledge her. Lana would have yelled at him.

  God he missed her. Tall, blond, and blue-eyed–the quintessential southern belle. She’d hooked him from the moment she’d walked into the library at Ole Miss, hair pulled back, black-framed glasses on, with a sway in her hips that demanded male attention. She was a year younger than him, majoring in sociology and planning to be a social worker. They’d been inseparable from the start, married just after Lana earned her master’s in social work and Nick had been a fledgling reporter at the Ledger.

  That’s when the trouble had started. He hadn’t been a very good husband. Not a cheater or a slacker. Just absent. A workaholic who supported his wife in theory but never in action.

  He cut into the left lane, scrunching up his face at the onslaught of images. Lana, laid out in the morgue, her face covered with purple contusions, fair skin sliced up with superficial wounds, the telltale strangulation bruises creeping out from beneath the graceful slope of her neck.

  Nick once thought the pain of Lana’s death would be the worst he would ever experience, but with each passing year, the agony grew, festering within him like a spreading cancer and robbing Nick of any chance to move on as he knew Lana would have wanted. The knowledge her murderer walked free, breathing clean air while Lana moldered in the dank ground, tortured him.

  He pulled into his parking spot at the Tombigbee Lofts, one of the few amenities that came with the cheap downtown residence, and let the engine idle. Bigby’s was just around the corner. Maybe he’d walk over and drown himself in drink. At least his mind would have the chance to shut off.

  Nick reached for the mail, a whiskey and Coke on his mind. A letter caught his eye. It sat on top of the week’s worth of crap he’d picked up. Plain white envelope, his name and the Ledger’s address typed. Typed, not printed. Instinct prodded at the base of his skull, warning him not to touch the envelope without gloves, but it was too late. Who knew how many people had handled it?

  He grabbed the envelope and tore it open, yanking out the note. Plain white stock paper, black ink. From a typewriter. Who the hell still had a typewriter these days?

  Carefully, he unfolded the letter. The words jumped off the page.

  I killed your wife again last night.

  4

  “It’s hotter than a two-peckered Billy goat in here.”

  Jaymee yanked open the mobile home’s rusty window and propped up the cracked, plastic sill with an old fan. She turned the fan on full blast and sucked in a gulp of air. June had barely begun, and the temperature hovered in the mid-nineties. She should be used to the heat—it was a southern tradition. But the inside of the trailer was baking hot.

  Anxiety had kept her awake most of the night. Noisy hoot owls, the damned raccoons searching through a neighbor’s trash–every sound had Jaymee ready to spring out of bed. Considered a newer model–meaning, the one with the least amount of rust–Jaymee’s trailer was near the back of the lot and close to the woods.

  Most nights she was grateful for the breeze, but her frayed nerves were on edge. Roselea was a safe town. Even sleazy Ravenna Court only produced crime of the domestic variety.

  But if Evaline, nearly a fortress with its modern security system, wasn’t safe, then Jaymee’s old tin-can home might as well have an open door. Anyone could sneak through the trees and pick her flimsy trailer lock.

  Not to mention Darren had put the fear of God into her with his worrying. He’d driven her home last night, furious because she hadn’t called him as soon as she found Rebecca.

  “A woman–your friend–has been murdered, and you’re out walking around at night,” Darren said. Still in his pale blue dress shirt, Darren had leaned against her counter, looking considerably out of place in her worn-out trailer. At least a head taller than Jaymee, he’d gotten the height in the family and inherited their father’s dusty brown hair. Thankfully that’s where the resemblance ended. Darren usually had a smile on his face and nothing but encouragement for his younger sister. However, he looked tired last night, his lean cheeks covered with a day’s worth of stubble, shadows lining his eyes.

  “You look worse than me,” Jaymee said.

  “Eli’s been sick. I took the nightshift so Mary could rest. Don’t change the subject. Why didn’t you call me for a ride?”

  “Give the little turkey a kiss for me.” Jaymee wished she could see her nephew more often, but life was simpler when she stayed away from her father’s side of town. “And you know why I didn’t call.”

  “Don’t worry about Dad. I can handle him.”

  She said nothing. Over the years, Darren had protected Jaymee from more slaps than she could count. He might be able to handle their father, but their mother would take the brunt of his wrath. And she would still be in the same position. Why add to Sonia’s misery?

  Darren checked the trailer before he left. “I wish you’d come stay with Mary and me for a while. Until they bring in Rebecca’s killer.”

  Paul would love that. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m a target. I just had the dumb luck of finding her body.”

  “How are you doing with that?”

  She shrugged, exhaustion suddenly weighing her down. “It’s like a dream. Surreal.”

  “I’m sorry.” Darren draped his arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry you had to see something like that. After losing Lana–”

  “Her eyes were open, Darren.” Jaymee drew a raggedy breath. “Bulging out of her head. She looked so…shocked.” She couldn’t muster another word and allowed Darren to pull her close. The sobs forced their way out of her chest. “How could a person do that to another human being?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Gossip is she was having an affair.” Jaymee tried to focus on something other than the memory of Rebecca’s corpse.

  “You believe that?”

  “I don’t know what to believe any more.”

  Darren made her promise to check in from Sallie’s in the morning. “You need a phone out here.”

  “Money’s tight.”

  “I’ll pick you up one of those pre-paid deals. For emergencies.”

  “No, you won’t.” She had refused dozens of offers of financial help from Darren over the years. She wasn’t about to give Paul another reason to call her an embarrassment.

  “Lock the door,” Darren had said as he stepped out into the night. “Although breaking into one of these things wouldn’t take much.”

  Now, a scratching sound came from the closed door, followed by an urgent whine. A pair of mismatched eyes half-hidden by shaggy hair stared back at her. The stray Jaymee started feeding a few months ago waited to escape the sun.

  “You’re pathetic.”

  She let Mutt inside, and he made a beeline for her bedroom. She followed the dog into the tiny room at the back of the trailer where Mutt had taken up residence on her bed. He wagged his tail in greeting and then stretched out over the old sheets.

  “Get off.”

  Mutt stretched and rolled over. He ch
uffed a sigh and then was quiet.

  She stripped off her damp clothes, tossed them into the laundry basket, and then made her way into the sweltering bathroom. She turned the water toward cold and stepped into the spray, leaning against the cool vinyl. Her brain raced out of control. She needed to tell Detective Charles what Crystal had said.

  But Sarah…if Jaymee were accused of prostituting as Crystal had threatened, her slim chances of getting custody of her daughter would evaporate.

  You have to find her first.

  The few memories of her daughter took over. Pink and tiny, her skin wrinkled and still covered with afterbirth. Then she was gone. Jaymee begged and pleaded saying she’d changed her mind. No one cared.

  The bar of soap slipped from her fingers and landed with a thunk. Her limbs numbed and her stomach churned as she sank to the floor. All she wanted to do was keep a low profile and save her money until the time was right. Get a lawyer. Then justice would finally be dealt.

  But what about justice for Rebecca? Could Jaymee really keep silent?

  She shivered under the cold water.

  Don’t get involved. Find your daughter and move on with your life.

  Jaymee finished her shower and then quickly dressed. Her lightweight tank top and cutoffs would keep her cool for a few minutes. A loud rap on the door made her jump. She didn’t recognize the fast pattern.

  Mutt didn’t even bark. Some watchdog.

  Detective Charles stood at the door huffing, sweat rolling down his red face.

  “Yeah?”

  “Told you I’d be by this morning. Mind if I come in?” He wiped his forehead with another soaked handkerchief. His extra pounds were dangerous in this heat.

  She stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. “You want some water?”

  Charles’s large frame looked even bigger in the small space. “That would be great. Can I sit?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The plastic bench squeaked in protest as Detective Charles sank onto it. Jaymee grabbed a plastic glass with flowers etched across the center–her best China–loaded it with ice, and stuck it under the faucet. Tap water would have to do.

  “Thank you.” Charles gulped down the water. “Don’t handle this heat the way I used to.”

  Jaymee leaned against the counter. Her fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. “What did you want to know?”

  “How long you known the Newtons?”

  “Since they first moved to town almost five years ago.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “I was working at Sallie’s. Rebecca came in asking if Sallie knew anyone who cleaned houses. I needed extra money, so I offered.”

  “That’s when they were renting while Evaline was being restored?”

  “Yeah,” Jaymee said. “Why does any of this matter?”

  “Everything matters.” Charles pulled a crushed pack of cinnamon gum from his shirt pocket. He tore off the wrapper and jammed the stick in his mouth. “Rebecca ever confide in you about anything personal?” He rolled the wadded paper between his meaty fingers.

  Jaymee’s defenses went up. “Like what?”

  “Anything beyond the usual chit-chat.”

  “She didn’t want kids. Neither did Royce. That’s why they were a good match.”

  “She ever tell you how they met?”

  “Didn’t you ask Royce all this?”

  Charles took a long drink. “I did, just this morning, when he arrived home from Jackson. But I’d like to know what Rebecca told you.”

  “He didn’t come home until this morning?” The question burst out of her. Jackson was only two hours away. His wife had been murdered, for Christ’s sake.

  “Nope. That typical?”

  “I wouldn’t know. This is the first time his wife’s been murdered.”

  “Real nice,” Charles said. “I’ve heard it’s pretty typical for Royce to put his business ahead of his wife. Also heard she might have been gettin’ her needs met elsewhere.”

  “I don’t know about any of that,” Jaymee said. “I do know Royce still spends plenty of time in Jackson even though he resigned from his firm when they moved down here. Supposedly does pro bono stuff.”

  Charles picked up the National Enquirer Crystal had left and waved it in front of his face. “So what else did Rebecca tell you about their relationship?”

  “They met at a charity function for the children’s hospital. She wasn’t into older men, but Royce swept her off her feet. She wanted to move to Roselea, restore Evaline. Said she used to visit Roselea as a child and always wanted to bring Evaline back to her former glory. Royce did that for her. That’s all I know.”

  “They seem to get along?”

  “When he was around.”

  “What about Jonas, the tour guide extraordinaire?”

  “He’s Royce’s guy more than Rebecca’s. He gave her the creeps, always nosing into stuff.”

  “They argue?”

  “Nothing major,” Jaymee said. “Rebecca didn’t need to argue to get her point across. She had a way of speaking real quiet, just sharp enough to show she was pissed.”

  “A southern lady.”

  “Guess so.” Jaymee shifted against the counter. “Is that it?”

  Charles finished his water and wiped his face again. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Jaymee. No sign of forced entry. Alarm not tripped.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “Most times, murders like these are committed by someone the victim knows. Most times, it’s her husband.”

  Jaymee looked away, her nerves crackling with the voltage of a live wire, and tried to keep her face benign and her hands still. Charles was already going in the right direction. Crystal’s throaty voice invaded her thoughts. Best leave him to it.

  “You ever see anything that makes you think Royce or Jonas had it in for Rebecca?”

  A harsh laugh escaped Jaymee’s tight throat. “Fat Jonas? No. He’s a lurker. Only person he’ll go toe-to-toe with is someone he thinks is beneath him. Besides, he’s short and soft. Sometimes I think he’ll barely make it across the house. Rebecca was athletic. She could have fought him off.” Jaymee closed her eyes, willing the memory of Rebecca’s body not to surface.

  “So that leaves her husband.”

  Jaymee grabbed Charles’s empty glass. “You want more?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She busied herself rinsing it off in the sink, her back to the detective.

  “You think Royce is capable?”

  Jaymee dropped the plastic cup into the sink. Outside the small window, a mockingbird hovered over a pepperbush, scouring the plant for bugs. Two small children played in the shade of the woods, chasing each other with water guns. Nearby, a second mockingbird called, its sound distinctive.

  “Jaymee?”

  She clawed the edge of the sink. “I’m sorry, Detective Charles. I don’t go ‘round trying to figure out if a person’s capable of killing someone. I just keep my nose down and work.” Courage bolstered, she turned to face him. He stared back with curious eyes, a half-smile on his chubby face.

  “How could I possibly know if Royce Newton is capable of killing Rebecca?”

  “All right,” Charles nodded. “You think of anything about Royce that didn’t sit right with you, let me know.”

  “Fine.”

  He checked his watch. “Damn near eleven. You got a shift at Sallie’s?”

  “Yeah, and I’m running late.”

  “Figured. I’m heading downtown. Why don’t I give you a ride?”

  5

  Deep in the heart of the Delta, Nick stepped out of his Taurus and almost fell back inside as the Mississippi midday heat assaulted him. Roselea was less than two hours away from the crossroads of Routes 61 and 49, the place many believe to be the location where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in exchange for his blues mastery. The temperature had climbed at least ten degrees since he’d left the city less than two hours ago. He gazed up at the
restored Victorian and thanked God Annabelle’s Cottage had air conditioning.

  I killed your wife again last night.

  He’d read the letter a hundred times, trying to chalk it up to a sick joke, some bastard playing games. Nick had made plenty of enemies in his career. One of them could have sent the note as payback.

  But he’d received it the day after the murder of the Roselea housewife, Rebecca Newton. And the letter had to have been sent before she was killed. Mail didn’t travel at the speed of light.

  A blue jay rushed past, its jeering squawk interrupting the peaceful afternoon quiet. The bird landed on a feeder hanging from a hulking oak and muscled a finch out of the way.

  Nick lugged his suitcase up the cobbled walk. The stones were probably as old as the house. According to the sign from the National Register of Historic Places, Annabelle’s Cottage was Roselea’s oldest Victorian home. More restored houses adorned the tree-lined street, all guarded by oaks and magnolias—their delicate, white blossoms scattered across the well-kept yards. Pink crepe myrtle crawled over the weathered picket fence, and the stately home reminded him of the pictures Lana had kept in her memory box. Roselea was everything a historic Mississippi town should be.

  Except for the murder he’d come to investigate.

  Nick pushed open the heavy door. Large and marred with age, only its paned glass appeared new. A bell chimed. Blessed cool air greeted him, followed by the distinct, musky scent of antiques and old wood. The Victorian’s grand foyer had been turned into a reception area. An old, mahogany sideboard covered with tourist brochures sat at the left of the entrance, and Nick caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

  As usual, he looked like hell. Rumpled clothes, messy hair, a hint of invading gray shining under the bright lights. Dull blue eyes gazed back at him. He’d had the same stare since Lana’s death.

  “Can I help you?” A short woman with a head full of thick, gray curls came around the corner, huffing and pink-faced.

  “Nick Samuels. I have a reservation.”

  “Oh yes.” The woman squeezed her ample frame behind a large desk and pulled out an old-fashioned ledger. She slid her horn-rimmed glasses down her nose and peered at the book. “From Jackson, right? Staying for a week?”