Surest Poison, The (4 page)

He hit the garage door opener as he
headed down the driveway and pulled in beside his truck. Inside the house,
he checked the answering machine in the small bedroom he used as a home
office. No calls. Then the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock. Twenty
after five.

He detoured through the kitchen, grabbed
the package of candy, emptying the goodies into a plastic bowl as he hurried
to the front door. The nostalgic smell of wood smoke from the neighbor’s
chimney swept in on a chilling gust as he opened the door to find two small
spooks standing on the porch, one dressed like Peter Pan, the other Tinker
Bell. They flinched at the sight of what must have seemed a real giant, then
reached out with tentative hands to choose morsels of candy and mumbled,
“Thank you.”

Sid looked down.
“Happy Halloween.”

He waved at the woman who waited in the
driveway, huddled against the wind in a bulky leather jacket. He felt
certain she lived at the other end of the street. Though he had seen the
kids out playing, he had never met the mother or daddy. And considering he
was not much of a social type, chances were he never would.

Back in the kitchen, he decided on a can
of vegetable soup as the simplest solution to supper. He had just opened the
can when the doorbell sounded again.

Grabbing the candy bowl, he strode to the
door and pulled it open. He studied the odd figure bathed in the glow of the
porch light. She stood a good head shorter and appeared at least a hundred
pounds lighter than he did. Dressed all in black, hair flowing in long black
tresses, she looked at him with the sultry eyes and blank stare of the old
TV character Morticia Addams.

“Jaz,” he said, more than a little
amused. “Where the devil did you get that long black hair?”

She gave a cackling laugh. “Trick or
treat!”

He pulled the door open wide. “Get in
here out of that cold wind.”

“I was on my way to a party at an old
basketball teammate’s house in Hendersonville,” she said. “You didn’t call
to tell me what happened with Arnie Bailey.”

“Sorry. I’ve been busy.” He waved at the
sofa. “Make yourself at home.”

She sat and glanced around. Sid followed
her eyes as she took in the earth tones of the sofa and chairs, furnishings
chosen to give the place a masculine look, despite a few touches left over
from his mother, like a crisp white scarf on the table beside the window.

Jaz looked back at him, fingering the
wig. “I got this at a costume shop.”

“You make a great Morticia,” he said from
his recliner, “but I’m partial to the real thing.” Her own hair was short
and blonde. The tight black outfit revealed a shapely figure but hid the
muscular structure that must have helped put her in the boxing ring,
something he’d heard mentioned. She still drew men’s glances wherever she
went.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Chance.”

There was no way around it, he had to
admit. Jaz LeMieux was one helluva woman. She had the looks and the brains
to be whatever she wanted, and she had the money and the contacts to pull it
off. But it hadn’t come easy. Mike Rich told him about the struggles she’d
faced after making an impetuous decision to leave college and go her own
way. He admired what she had done, and he was tempted to pursue that
admiration in other ways. But he had too many issues of his own to go beyond
where things stood.

She cocked her head to the side. “Okay,
Sid. What did Arnie have to say?”

“He wants me to find everything there’s
to know about the polluter. It was a company named Auto Parts Rehabbers.”

He told her about his visit to Ashland
City.

“And the company simply disappeared?” she
said.

“Maybe not so simply, but it hardly left
a trace. I’ll see if the old Chamber of Commerce guy can give me something
to get a grip on. I plan to check with him in the morning.”

“Are you going to see Harrington
tomorrow?”

“After I talk to
Murray Estes.”

“Do a good job on this,
Sid,
Arnie can throw you plenty of business.”

He leaned back and tapped his fingertips.
“You remember how reluctant I was to look into your employee problem.”

“Sure.” She waved a black-draped hand. “I
had to twist your arm a bit. But you did a whale of job with it. You got a
faithful employee reinstated and a crooked manager fired.”

“But after that I intended to head back
to the cabin. You kept pushing me into the PI business. Why didn’t you let
it go?”

She gave him an impish smile. “It was
your scintillating personality.”

“Bullshit.”

She turned serious. “Mike told me a lot
about you. After seeing the way you handled my case, I thought this was what
you needed to be doing. Not sitting on a mountainside, living like a monk.”
She paused, as though wondering whether to go on.

Sid stared at her without comment.

“And, of course, there’s more,” she said,
shifting to a lighter tone. “You know I was once a Nashville cop.”

“Right.
Mike told me a bit about your wayward career.”

“I guess it’s still in my blood. I’m
taking part vicariously in something I can’t afford to do on my own. I have
too much responsibility with the business. But I’d love to help you out on a
case if there’s something I could do.”

“You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

“You’d need a PI license to stay out of
trouble.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve
already put in for it and taken the test. I should be getting my license any
day now.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll let
you
in on a little secret, Jaz. From what I’ve seen of this case so
far, I may need a whole lot of help.”

5

Up early the
next day, decked out in gray sweat pants and a faded Yellowstone tee shirt,
Sid got back to his regular morning run through the neighborhood. He covered
four miles at a brisk pace, honing his powers of observation as he went. He
noted the black van in the gravel driveway, the ornamental birdbath beside
an oak tree, the red bicycle leaning against a fieldstone house, the large
white mailbox with a bashed-in side. Last night’s blustery wind had been
replaced by a less turbulent breeze that rustled the trees, tingeing the
chilled air with the scent of damp leaves. He watched the sunlight filter
through baring limbs and paint slanted yellow stripes on the pavement. This
was a special time of day that resonated with his love of the outdoors. He
filled his lungs with air and sweated like a boxer in the ring and adored
every minute of it.

Back home he showered, dressed, and fixed
his usual breakfast of orange juice, instant oatmeal, cinnamon roll, and
black coffee. He switched on the TV, sat at the kitchen table, and thumbed
through the morning paper. When the phone rang, he walked to the counter and
answered it.

“I’ve got a problem,” Jaz said.
“A missing person.”
Her voice betrayed a note of
anxiety.

“Who’s missing?”

“John and Marie’s
grandson, Bobby Wallace.
He
didn’t come home last night.”

She had told him about the couple, in
their late seventies, employees of the LeMieux family for more than thirty
years. Since Jaz was a youngster. They were Uncle John and Aunt Marie back
then. Time altered the way people addressed each other. Perceptions changed.

Sid carried the portable phone to the
table. “Some guys make a habit of that.”

“Not Bobby. He’s in his early thirties,
and he’s never done it before.”

“Where does he live?”

“Ashland City.
He’s their son’s boy.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“His wife, Connie, called Marie. She was
frantic, didn’t know what to do.”

“They have kids?”

“A boy.
Little Bob, they call him. He’s nine.”

“Any way I can help?”

“Maybe later.
You have plenty to do now. I’ll get back to you after I run down there and
check on the situation.”

Sid understood Jaz’s concern. The
Wallaces were like family. John handled maintenance, landscaping, whatever
the need called for around the eight-acre estate, while Marie did cooking
and cleaning chores and served as Jaz’s nanny in the early years. They had
lived in a smaller house behind the French Colonial mansion until after Mr.
LeMieux died. Jaz worked hard to come up with a convincing argument that it
was for her own benefit before they agreed to move in with her.

After Sid had dressed for work, he called
Murray Estes, the former Cheatham County Chamber of Commerce executive. He
explained who he was and asked Estes if it would be possible to drop by and
chat for a few minutes about a business from the past in Ashland City.

“What was the company’s name?” Estes
asked.

“Auto Parts
Rehabbers.”

“Ah . . . I remember them well. As the
saying goes, that was a tough nut to crack. Come on over and I’ll tell you
about it.”

The street was
in
an upscale area of Old Hickory,
a northeastern suburb once known for its major industrial facility, the
Dupont plant. The original factory produced gunpowder in World War I. After
turning out a succession of products like cellophane and rayon that required
large numbers of employees, the mix changed to an operation almost wholly
automated. At night its illuminated towers loomed as a prominent landmark
from the Old Hickory Boulevard
bridge
over the
Cumberland River. Since the drive through the area took him past a station
with cheap gas, cheap being a relative term, Sid took his truck. It needed a
fill-up after the trip to the cabin.

He found the address among a row of
large, fashionable brick homes fronted by well-manicured lawns. The Estes
name appeared on a mailbox at a two-story house with windows and doors that
reflected Georgian influences. Sid pulled into the driveway and parked
beside a tan SUV.

A gray-haired man opened the door. He had
heavy jowls and stooped shoulders and wore a yellow wool cardigan over a
white dress shirt. Though a bit tall for the traditional image, he wore a
mischievous grin that made Sid
think
of a
leprechaun.

“Mr. Chance?” he asked in a lilting
voice.

“Right.
You must be Murray Estes.”

Sid shook the outstretched hand. Estes
led him into a living room crowded with comfortable-looking modern
furniture, where they sat in soft chairs, their backs to windows with drapes
pulled to block the morning sun.

“Were you interested in anything specific
about Auto Parts Rehabbers?” Estes asked.

“Any specifics you can give me. I’m not
even sure what they did. It sounds like they remanufactured used auto
parts.”

“That’s my understanding. I called on
them a few times to try and recruit them for the Chamber. My efforts were
about as effective as Bill Clinton trying to explain the meaning of ‘is’ to
the Grand Jury.”

With an election coming up, Sid figured a
little political humor was to be expected. “I believe you called it a tough
nut to crack.”

“Indeed. I never managed to penetrate
that hard shell. They were what I called unfriendly business neighbors. I
encountered very few of those during fifteen years with the Chamber.”

“In what way were they unfriendly?”

“The manager was a tall, thin fellow
named Decker. He had slicked-back brown hair and a face out of a Viagra
commercial. Maybe he was a ladies’ man. He sure didn’t cotton to me. He
showed no interest in cooperating with other business people on anything.
And he didn’t want any part of community activities. When I asked to see
their operation, he told me very plainly that visitors were not welcome.”

Estes picked up a meerschaum pipe from
the small table beside his chair. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to smoke it,”
he said. “My daughter-in-law would have a hissy fit. I quit smoking sometime
back, but I like to chew on this now and then.”

“Chewing shouldn’t cause any lung
damage.”

Estes laughed. “Don’t suppose you smoke?”

“I have enough vices without that one.”

“How’d you avoid it?”

“We lived with my grandfather when I was
growing up. He was a Nashville cop and went around with a cigarette dangling
from his lips most of the time. I don’t know how he missed getting lung
cancer. I suspect he was too ornery. Anyway, my mother detested the smoke
and convinced me it was something I should avoid.”

“Just as well.
Not many places it’s legal anymore.”

“About this Decker,” Sid said. “Do you
remember his first name?”