by Bill Hopkins
Nathaniel leaned back in his recliner. “Eddie Joe Deckard.”
Rosswell had heard the cliché about blood boiling all his life. Now with the fire of anger sizzling his insides, he realized how the phrase started.
Keep it steady. Don’t lose this guy. You need info from him.
“Nathaniel, why didn’t you mention him when we were here the first time?”
“You didn’t ask me about him.”
“Sure, I did.”
“No, you did not. Ollie asked me if I knew a Mason around here with the initials EJD.”
“And you told us that the letters EJD weren’t the initials of a person. You gave us an unadulterated bullshit story about those letters standing for a motto.”
Again, Rosswell sneezed. It wasn’t the memory of chalk. It was dust on the books. Why hadn’t it bothered him the first time he was there?
“I certainly did, but it wasn’t, as you say, unadulterated bullshit.” Nathaniel scratched his ear. “What is ‘unadulterated bullshit’?”
“It’s something Ollie says.”
Nathaniel scanned the books in his living room. Perhaps he searched for a dictionary or thesaurus. “How can something as nasty as bullshit be considered unadulterated?” He’d been cleaning house, stirring up dust. A spray can of Endust and a rag gave mute testimony to Rosswell’s conclusion.
“If you knew Ollie better, you wouldn’t ask that question.” Rosswell found it hard to talk with clenched teeth. “You especially wouldn’t want to ask Ollie that question. The answer might last an hour.”
Nathaniel pushed the recliner down and stood. “Would it make you less curious if I gave you permission to talk to my real estate agent?” He opened a desk drawer and rifled through it. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“What would I learn from your real estate agent that you couldn’t tell me?”
“What is it that you want to know?”
“First of all, I want to know where Eddie Joe Deckard went after he sold you his house.”
“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea.” Nathaniel stopped leafing through the papers in the drawer. “Here it is.”
“Who is your real estate agent?” Nathaniel read from a business card: “Nadine Dumbarton.”
“I know a Nadine but her last name isn’t Dumbarton. Never heard of Nadine Dumbarton. Is she from around here?”
“A native if I’m not mistaken. She’s the head of one of the largest real estate agencies in the county. Blessing Land Company.”
Nathaniel handed Rosswell the card. Rosswell said, “Blessing Land Company is owned by Nadine Blessing, not Nadine Dumbarton.”
“I’m sorry.” Nathaniel chuckled. “I knew her when we went to college. Her maiden name was Dumbarton.”
Rosswell choked. The card crinkled when he crushed it in his hand. He felt as if he’d broken the neck of a baby bird. Nathaniel backed away a couple of steps. A crazy judge in his house. First, he wads up a business card for no reason. What will he do next? That’s what Nathaniel was thinking, Rosswell was sure of it.
And what had propelled Rosswell into the weird action?
N. D. Nadine Dumbarton? Nathaniel Dahlbert?
The murderer arranged the bodies with the initials ND. Bragging about her work. Or his work. One of the two is the killer. Or maybe they worked together, thinking it was cute to make a subtle ND clue.
From somewhere back in the recesses of Nathaniel’s house, Rosswell heard a telephone ring. Nathaniel made no move to answer it. The telephone by his recliner was not ringing. He had two telephones with two different numbers. After three rings, the telephone stopped. If it was hooked to an answering machine, Rosswell couldn’t hear the message.
Nathaniel returned to his recliner, sipped from his cup, remained silent. His eyes never left Rosswell. Now, Rosswell assured himself, if Nathaniel felt he was a threat, he’d splash lukewarm tea in his face. A lot of good that would do. Rosswell’s skin would merely soak up the caffeine which would give him a burst of energy.
Rosswell pulled himself away from the distraction back to the main point. Nadine Dumbarton Blessing was the murderer. Or at least she was the first name on Rosswell’s really good suspect list. Dampening his thrill and agitation was a Herculean task. Rosswell didn’t want Nathaniel to see his excitement. Nathaniel could be involved with the murders. Nathaniel had known Nadine since college. Perhaps he and Nadine had cooked up some scheme to murder two people, for what reason Rosswell didn’t yet know. Warning Nadine that Rosswell would call on her, to snoop in her business would be the first thing Nathaniel would do if the real estate agent and the bookseller were cohorts in crime, but there wasn’t much he could do to prevent that.
Another thing bubbled to the surface of Rosswell’s brain.
He concluded that Nathaniel Dahlbert had shot at both Tina and him.
Or Nadine Dumbarton had shot at them.
One or both of them wanted Tina and me dead. We were snooping and getting close to the truth. ND would risk killing us before we could discover her guilt. Or his guilt. Or their guilt.
Either way, Nadine and Nathaniel were in cahoots. Rosswell couldn’t turn his back to the man. And he couldn’t leave Tina alone for another second. He’d talk to Frizz and tell him what he’d learned, but talking to Nadine could wait until morning, His wounded arm hurt and he felt close to collapsing.
Rosswell graciously excused himself from Nathaniel’s presence, with a recollection of an urgent appointment, and headed back to the hospital.
Chapter Twenty-two
Saturday, early morning
Saturday morning, Rosswell left the sleeping Tina in the care of the city cop, who’d groused about not getting enough sleep the night before. Rosswell went to gather Ollie at Merc’s. Crowded as usual, Merc’s smelled of bacon and eggs, the breakfast special.
“Mabel, I need six chicken biscuits to go.”
Rosswell sat and spilled the news about Nadine to Ollie.
Ollie asked, “We’re going to talk to her?”
“Right now.”
“I’ve got news on the Cadillac owners,” Ollie said. “Rasmussen is home in bed with both the flu and his wife’s sister, conning her out of money while he’s screwing her and passing on the flu. Bitti is in the Bahamas on vacation, undoubtedly looking for a new line of furniture. Ambrosia’s in North Carolina at a legal seminar. Reynaud is supposedly out of town, but no one knows where. Probably at a bank convention.”
“Maybe Susan Bitti and Trisha Reynaud are lovers, and they’re sunning themselves on the beach at St. George’s.”
“That’s in Bermuda, not the Bahamas. But I have heard some rumblings that they’re both lesbians hot to trot.”
“And this valuable information came from Merc’s?”
“My lips are sealed.”
After a few minutes, Mabel brought the chicken biscuits, hot and fresh from the smorgasbord.
Ollie had been talking to Nadine about buying her car, so she’d not think it odd that the pair of them showed up at her office to talk some more about the vehicle.
Standing outside, Rosswell asked Ollie, “Doesn’t Mabel ever go home?”
“She’s got a lot of bills to pay. She needs to work as much as she can.”
“She won’t be able to pay many bills if she falls over dead from exhaustion.”
“She’s young.”
Before they boarded Vicky the Volkswagen, Rosswell tapped her peace symbol for luck.
“I’ve seen you do that several times,” Ollie said. “Why do you touch that chicken claw?”
“It’s to bring good luck. Get in the car. We don’t have time. . . .” Rosswell choked again. “What did you call that?” He indicated the peace symbol.
“A chicken claw. Some people think the peace symbol represents a chicken claw.”
Rosswell laid a hand on Vicky’s peace symbol. “That’s what Hermie called it. He said that the silver car that he saw out at the park had a chicken claw on it.”
“
You know where I’ve seen one of these, don’t you?”
“On Nadine Dumbarton’s car.”
Nadine’s assistant said she’d taken Saturday off, which Rosswell thought was odd for a real estate agent. There was an abundance of potential customers milling around today. He asked for Nadine’s home address, but the girl refused to provide it, handing over Nadine’s cell- phone number instead.
Ollie and Rosswell went back to the courthouse, fired up Rosswell’s computer, and Ollie found Nadine’s address within seconds.
“Ollie, can you find anything and everything on the Internet?”
“Sure. Give me something to find.”
“Find my cellphone number. It’s unlisted.”
About five minutes later, Ollie displayed Rosswell’s number.
“Crap,” Rosswell said. “Let’s go.”
The real estate agent lived off the Confederate Trail on a gravel road that wound up a small hill. The log house was isolated, nestled in the deep forest, its nearest neighbor three miles away.
By the time they pulled up to her house, Rosswell had wolfed down all six of the chicken biscuits. Fortunately, none of the chicken had claws. However, his greasy hands messed up Vicky’s steering wheel. After her soaking at the park and his assaulting her with greasy paws, tomorrow he’d have to do a complete detailing on her.
Rosswell recalled that Nadine’s husband, Guilford Blessing, had died three or four years ago, leaving her the sole owner of the small residence. She’d never remarried and had never latched on to a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. That he knew of.
“Do you have your gun?” Ollie asked when the house came into view.
“Hell, yes, I’ve got my gun. I’m not getting
