Smoke (12 page)

Wait! Immy drew in her breath at the thought and dropped the folder in her hand. Rusty’s murder was too much like a real detective case. She picked up the folder, one for invoices that were more than a year old. Immy wasn’t sure she was up to something of the magnitude of an actual murder. That was real, hardcore crime. That case more properly belonged to the police.

There was one more, though. The Case of the Missing Poppy. She scribbled that on a third folder. That case was still open. It needed more investigation. And Immy knew just how to do it. She glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes to go. Dare she leave early again?

She grabbed the next piece of paper and filed it. Her desk was empty. She’d finished the filing! Immy checked Mike’s calendar on his desk. He had three consultations this afternoon so he wouldn’t be back any time soon.

When she reached into her drawer for her purse, her glance caught a manila envelope full of clippings left behind, presumably, by Amy JoBeth when she’d quit the job. Something about them bothered Immy. She sat and pulled them out. They were birth and death notices, and a couple of marriage announcements. One headline said “Land Dispute” on a piece of newsprint that was extra brittle and yellowed. They were mostly about the Squire family, relatives of Sonny and Tinnie. Rusty and Tinnie’s wedding notice wasn’t among them, though. What tie did Amy JoBeth have to that family? Other than having sold her favorite pig to them? But that came after she left this job. She hadn’t been raising pigs when she worked for Mike Mallett.

Immy stuffed the yellowing papers into the envelope and stuffed her speculations to the back of her brain. She was working on Poppy’s case now.

The image of forlorn little Poppy waiting in a dilapidated room for Rusty to show up loomed before her on her way to Cowtail.

It hadn’t been that long since Immy had been at the seedy motel called Cowtail’s Finest. The town had another motel at the other end of town, all of five blocks away, that at least had water in the outdoor pool part of the year. It was a more likely candidate for the title of Finest. But this one did have a fly-spotted, buzzing neon sign that self-proclaimed “Cowtail’s Finest.” After dark it only proclaimed “Cowt l’s F est” because some of the letters didn’t light up at night. Since this was one of the last days of June, dark would come much later.

Immy pulled her green van next to the office and hit the desk bell when she got inside the air-conditioning. A Bassett hound on a doggie bed in the corner lifted his head at the sound. No one else responded, so Immy smacked the bell again.

She was surprised when a cute red-headed woman, maybe in her late twenties, rushed through the curtain behind the counter and breathlessly asked if she could help Immy. The hound dog lifted his head again and wagged his tail, but stayed on his bed.

“What happened to the manager?” Immy asked. An ancient, frail man used to run the place.

“Oh, that was my grandpa,” the woman said with a cheerful smile. “I’m Wanda and I’ve taken over since he departed.”

“Did he…?” Immy didn’t want to say
die
, and learn that Wanda was happy about it. She looked so joyful.

“Yep.” Her straight, shiny hair swung forward with her emphatic nod. “He retired.”

“Oh. Retired.” At least Wanda wasn’t rejoicing at her grandfather’s demise. “I’m looking for a…a friend of mine. I wonder if she’s staying here.”

Wanda pulled a computer keyboard toward her and poised her fingers over it. “What’s her name?”

“Poppy. Poppy Jenkins. She might not still be here.”

Wanda clicked the keys scrolling through a few screens. Immy leaned forward, but the angle of the monitor kept her from reading any names.

“What day did she check in, do you know?” asked Wanda. “I’m very new to all this, so bear with me.”

Would she have checked in last weekend and waited for Rusty all this time? If she’d turned on a TV she would have seen the news of his murder. “Maybe last weekend sometime?”

“Mostly truckers stay here. Not many women. The only one was a couple days ago. And she sat in the car while the guy checked in.”

Would she have come here with another guy? Maybe Wanda didn’t really mean a couple of days. Maybe it was longer. But would Rusty check in with her, then go home and get killed? Should a detective be able to figure all this out? “She might have come here with a guy.”

“Well, the guy’s name is—” Wanda squinted at the screen “—Lernon Vinder.” Wanda tapped the name on the screen. “He seemed kinda familiar, but I can’t think where I’ve seen him.”

“That’s a strange name,” said Immy. “Reminds me of something. Are they still here?”

Wanda shrugged. “He said not to disturb them and I haven’t seen either one of them since they checked in. I didn’t even go in to clean. His truck hasn’t been here since that night.”

“Was it an orange truck?”

“Orange? It was dark out, but the truck looked white.”

Great, maybe ninety percent of the pickups in Texas were white. “Well, could I just knock on their door and see if she’s here?”

“I don’t know why not. It’s room two-oh-five. One of our nicer rooms. It had a fire a few months ago and Grandpa had it and the ones next to it remodeled.” [note
see Choke, chapter 12, by Kaye George
]

Immy walked around to the rear units and knocked on the door of 205. No one answered, but a buzzing sound drew Immy’s gaze to the window.

The curtains were drawn. The glass was covered with huge, fat flies. Then she noticed the smell. She stood with her mouth half open for a long moment, frozen by the ice-cold blood running through her veins. Then ran to the office.

She had to ring the bell again. The hound had left, so she was alone in the office until Wanda again rushed through the curtain.

“Did you find her?” Wanda had such a cute, cheerful smile. “Is something wrong?”

“You should—” Should they inspect the room? Call the cops? Immy wanted to see for herself. “You should—” Immy was having trouble breathing. “You should open the door and see what’s in there.”

“They didn’t want to be disturbed.” Wanda frowned, keeping half the smile on her face. “He really insisted on it and even paid some extra. For later, he said.”

“Have you been by there?” Immy’s voice cracked.

“Not for a couple days. No one’s using any back units right now. A few guys are in the front rooms.”

“There’s a...smell. You should go look. You really should.”

Wanda kept her eye on Immy as she reached behind her for the key to Room 205.

Wanda didn’t hurry on the way to the back units. The sun was heading for the distant horizon, heading for the cattle land surrounding Cowtail. As usual in this part of Texas, the wind blew, rattling the leaves in the grove of salt cedar and scrub oak that stood behind the motel. A mockingbird decreed the tallest tree his territory, trilling his stolen songs like the brazen thief he was. The scene was almost too peaceful.

Immy felt herself stiffen as they approached the door of room 205. The putrid odor seemed stronger.

Wanda saw the flies on the window. “Oh my God.” Her voice was a whisper and her smile completely gone.

Wanda unlocked the door, averted her face, and flung it open for Immy to peek inside.

This was the end of The Case of the Missing Poppy.

Chapter 10

The room had indeed been remodeled. The headboard and nightstand were of light knotty pine and a colorful braided rug covered most of the floor. Large, rough-hewn logs criss-crossed the ceiling to form Xs, lending a rustic, Western feel to the room. The problem with the décor was that Poppy’s slight body, now grotesquely puffy, hung from one of the sturdy beams. Her eyes, which Immy always thought bulged in life, almost popped out of her face in death. Maggots crawled over them. A scratchy-looking rope encircled her long, thin neck, and the flies that weren’t trying to get out through the glass at the window swarmed in and out of her mouth and over her face. A strong gust from the wide-open door swung her, ever so slightly, and she twisted clockwise at the end of her noose.

Wanda was the first to throw up. Most of it hit the braided rug. Immy ran outside to do her vomiting. When both women were through retching, they walked wordlessly to the office, where Immy called the cops.

The computer screen still displayed the name Lernon Vinder. Immy stared at it through eyes brimming with unshed tears, blurring the words. She was going to try to hold herself together to speak to the police. It would be either Chief Emersen or Ralph Sandoval, or both, since the Saltlick cops served Cowtail, too. She didn’t want to fall apart in front of either of them.

She blinked to clear her vision and took another look at the screen. Lernon Vinder. Lernon Vinder? Vernon Linder. The idiot. It was Vern who brought Poppy here.

* * *

Chief Emersen walked into the motel office and nodded to Wanda, who was huddled miserably in front of her computer. She hadn’t touched a single key, but had stared at the monitor through Immy’s 911 call, the arrival of the cops, and the long wait after Chief had stuck his head in and told them to stay put until he had a chance to talk to them.

Now Immy and Chief Emersen sat on the hard chairs and Chief took out a notebook and pen. The Bassett hound padded into the lobby and lowered himself to his bed with a sigh.

Immy was glad the chief wanted to question her first. She wanted to leave this place. She told him about finding the body. But, when he wanted to know why she was here looking for Poppy, she stuttered.

“Poppy… Poppy’s mother called my…my mother. Sh…she was l…looking for Poppy.”

“And?” Chief’s eyes were unreadable.

“And I found her.”

Chief narrowed those unreadable eyes. “What made you look here?”

Immy considered. She couldn’t make sense of what she knew. Maybe the police could. “I overheard her and Rusty make plans to spend the weekend together. Last weekend.”

“Rusty was dead before last weekend was over.”

“Yes, but this is where people go when they want to be together, and hide.”

Chief’s eyebrows rose. “You thought she would still be here, after spending a night with Rusty over a week ago?”

“I didn’t know. I just thought I’d look. Maybe she was sad Rusty didn’t show up and hanged herself. Except Vern’s name is on the register.”

It was obvious the chief hadn’t believed all of her story, but he told her to go home, and didn’t arrest her for murder. It did look to Immy like Poppy had hanged herself. But why had she come here with Vern? Lernon Vinder. That jerk.

When Immy got home, after a supper she barely touched, she brought her new case files into the singlewide and spread them on the kitchen table. She needed to relabel The Case of the Missing Poppy. She had solved that one. It was too bad the outcome wasn’t better.

Technically, there was a new case, but she didn’t want to waste a folder. She crossed through the penultimate word and wrote “Dead” above it. The Case of the Dead Poppy. Maybe, she thought, that word should be “Murdered.” Unless Poppy hanged herself.

Should she make one for Rusty’s murder too? Why not? She wrote The Case of Rusty Bucket on another file, aware that her labels were inconsistent, Rusty being The Case of Rusty Bucket and Poppy being The Case of The Dead Poppy. She would have to look up how to label case files in her
Moron’s Compleat
book. But later. Now, she wanted to add notes to the files.

She couldn’t locate any paper, as usual, but found an empty envelope in the junk drawer. The front had been used but the back was blank. Immy wrote a heading: The Case of the Dead Poppy. Was this even a case anymore? She didn’t know if Poppy had killed herself or not. If someone else had hanged her, how would anyone be able to tell?

Poppy could have jumped off the bed. Or someone could have shoved her off. Or even lifted her to the noose if she weren’t struggling too hard.

Immy closed her eyes and, after a shudder, willed herself to recall the sight of Poppy’s dead body. Her eyes popped out. Her tongue stuck out. And it was swollen. The light outside had shown her clearly. Her face was the purple of a ripe plum. Immy squeezed her eyes harder. Poppy had swung in the breeze from the doorway and her left shoulder had rotated toward Immy. The left side of her face hadn’t been purple. It had been a ghastly white. What did that mean? She’d have to see if she could find information on what happened to a person’s blood after they were dead.

She got her copy of
The Moron’s Compleat PI Guidebook
, which had been in good condition when she bought it, but was now looking like the used book it was, with dog-eared pages and wrinkled spine. She leafed through it to the section called Body Trauma. It didn’t list Hanging, but she found it indented under Causes of Death. Immy thought she might offer to help re-index the book for the next edition.

It said the face could take on a slight bluish tinge, but it could also be red. Nowhere did it mention the peculiar white spot she’d seen on Poppy’s cheek, or only having purple skin on one side of the face.

Ralph knocked on the door, his special dum, da dum dum. He’d missed supper, Immy realized. Poppy’s case must have kept him busy tonight.

Drew threw down her Barbie and ran to the door. “Unca Ralph!” She jumped up as Ralph scooped her into his arms. Zack stayed on the floor where he rested his blond head on Marshmallow’s pillowy tummy.

“Drew, honey, let Ralph sit down before you attack him,” Immy said. He looked bone weary, in spite of his smile for Drew. “Have you been at the motel all this time?”

“Most of it.” He took the beer Hortense handed him and sank into the green plaid couch. Immy waited while he glugged half the can before starting in.

“I have a question about Poppy,” she said.

“I might not be able to answer it, you know.” Sometimes Ralph couldn’t answer questions because he wasn’t allowed, but sometimes it was because he didn’t know the answer.

“How did Poppy’s skin get that way? All purple except the left side of her face. My book doesn’t say you get that from hanging.”

Drew, who had gone back to Barbie on the floor, looked up. “Poppy has purple skin?”