The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter 22

Rusty walked with Al down to the pier. Al had two boats--Doc’s old skiff that was actually a sister boat to Rusty’s and a Boston Whaler. Al was in the skiff.

              Rusty saw Al off, then opened the padlock to his boathouse and stepped inside. He might just take his hydroplane out for a skim.

He flipped the switch that opened the slatted gate. The gate went about two feet into the water and the motion stirred the Elk River.

              He never got used to it. Never got tired of it—that smell you could only get from being in a boathouse or a bait shop on the Elk River. When he had been living on the Esmeraldas River in Ecuador with Jenny and on the Miami River with her and then on the Crystal River in Florida, he would get a whiff of the river under the right conditions and it would smell like the Elk and practically take him there. Just like sometimes he would come out here and the humidity and conditions would be just right and he could swear for a minute he was back on that river in South America.

              There was something about thinking you were somewhere you weren’t.

              He was about to flip the other switch to let the hydroplane down in the water. He heard a clomp, clomp, clomping on the pier deck. Unmistakable. He didn’t have to wonder who it was.

              Shortly she stood in the doorway a minute. Déjà vu. She appeared last time he was going to go out and take a skim in his hydroplane.

              “Jenny,” he said.

              She just stood in the doorway a minute. Again, the afternoon sun was behind her and an aura of light glowed around the back of her like an angel. But he could not make out her features. He stepped back onto the deck and Rusty stepped outside with her.

              She wore a slinky black armless dress, a wide brim black hat, and black heels. She had some kind of red pin on her dress, ruby red lipstick and too much mascara on. Or maybe she had been crying and it made the mascara get bigger.

              It was a funeral outfit. Rusty just stood there five feet away from her and allowed her to have the next word.

              “I just came from Robert’s funeral.”

              “I’m sorry, Jenny.”

              “Thank you.”

              “You want to go up to the house?” It seemed like he had said just that last time she came. But last time she had a living fiancée. I know.

              “You’re welcome. You want to go up to the house?”

              “I prefer here.”

              Now he saw Jenny’s SUV on the other side of the entrance gate. She’d climbed over the fence and some 55 gallon barrels.

              She turned around to see where she might want to sit. Her fiancé’s corpse wasn’t good and cold yet and Rusty himself was up for murder and here he was checking out her ass.

              Jenny sat on one of the benches. Rusty, again, sat up on one of the piling. Not to be higher than her. Even though he’d been married to her three times, under the circumstances right now it didn’t seem appropriate for him to sit down next to her.

              Jenny said, “It’s been a trying time.”

              “I can imagine.”

              “I know you didn’t kill Robert. The district attorney is certain you did it.”

              “How do you know?”

              “I told my attorneys to tell him that you didn’t do it and I want to know who did.”

              He wondered if Jenny knew Robert had a thing for screwing young beautiful girls with wild abandon. Well, now wasn’t the time to bring that up. Maybe never. If she didn’t already know, he’d let someone else be that messenger.

              “I just wanted you to know, that after I talk to Robert’s lawyers and answer any questions they—they, meaning the District Attorney’s office—have for me, I will be going to Sarasota. Robert and I recently bought a condo there together. When Crystal comes back from Argentina, I’ll be right there close to her.”

              “I understand.”

              “I don’t think Crystal cared for Robert much. And she’s upset about you getting arrested.”

              “I know. She called me.”

              “Good. Crystal and I haven’t been communicating as we should ever since Robert and I got serious. Hopefully, I’ll remedy that soon.”

              “Good.”

              “There was this one other thing I wanted to tell you, Rusty.”

              She stood up. Rusty stayed seated on the piling.

              “One of the girls at the office,” Jenny said. “I know she told the investigators about that time you came to my office and we got in a fight. You said I was never going to marry that heart surgeon. That it would never happen.”

              “I didn’t think it would. But I never thought it would be this way.”

              “I just wanted you to know. That doesn’t look good for you. And the other day I was pissed off about that window blowing out and I was saying that damned ex-husband of mine is going to pay for this. Somebody overheard that. If I get questioned on that, I’m going to have to admit I thought it was you blew something up.”

              “I understand, Jenny. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll tell my lawyer Melvin Waters.”

              She was looking up at the house, but with that turned back to look at Rusty. “Melvin Waters? Perry is not representing you?”

              “No. I fired him.”

              “Good. I never did like him.” She sighed. “I’ve got to get home. Today has literally worn me down.”

              Rusty looked at the sky. “It seems they had his funeral a little late.”

              “There were two services. One this morning in Huntsville. And one this afternoon in Haleyville.”

              “Haleyville?”

              “Yes, he was born and raised in Winston County.”

Chapter 23

Sammy was in the alley, leaning against the back wall of Newby’s Dry Goods and sipping on a cup of coffee out of an Alabama Crimson Tide mug. When he spotted Rusty entering the alley from the east end, he pushed away from the wall and started walking toward him.

              They met right back of Jone’s Interiors but the place would always be Kelley & Patterson Department Store to Rusty.

              Sammy said, “Goddamn, Rusty. What are you doing waking me up before daylight, having me meet you in some back alley at sunup like some damn drug deal? Couldn’t we have just met at my office during hours? I drank half a bottle of Scotch last night.”

              “It’s way past sun up. And I didn’t think it would look good you being seen with me.”

              “What do I give a shit? One more year in the DA’s office in any position and I can pull retirement. What do I give a fuck what anybody thinks about me?”

              “Not a damn thang.”

              Rusty could plainly see Sammy was in one of his he-didn’t-give-a-fuck, I’m-king-of-my-domain attitudes. He figured it was best not to tell him that the only cure for a hangover was to not drink in the first place. The last thing Rusty wanted to do this morning was to come off all high and mighty.

              “That’s right,” Sammy said, glad that Rusty had that straight. “What’s the subject of this meeting?”

              “I have something to confess off the record.”

              “Oh, my God.” Sammy leaned his head down as he brought up his free hand and let his head rest there a minute, like this was going to get both of their asses in a sling. Then he looked back up and said, “Go ahead.”

              “All right. A week before Compton got killed this man who turned out to be the Katfish King came to my office. He had the mistaken idea I was a detective…”

              “I wonder how he got that idea?” Sammy interjected.

              “Anyway, despite my objections he handed me five thousand dollars cash to find out who had stolen his two hundred pound catfish…”

              “What?”

              Sammy made a puzzled look, one of disbelief. But Rusty couldn’t read whether Sammy didn’t believe a two hundred pound catfish actually existed or if Sammy couldn’t believe he was actually standing in a back alley at the crack of dawn listening to Rusty talk about one.

              “Yeah,” Rusty said. “He was a grabbler. Grabbled it in Bumfuck, Mississippi, had it hauled and caged up in a hole somewhere, I don’t know where, on one of the rivers here so he could grabble it and win a grabbling world record during the rodeo…”

              “Enter Mississippi into the equation and you got Redneck soup. Thank God for Mississippi.”

              On second thought, maybe it was Tennessee, Rusty thought, but Rusty didn’t want to aggravate Sammy any more by dampening his opinion of Mississippi.

              “He didn’t even tell me his name, anything,” Rusty said. “He was supposed to come back on a Friday morning, go over the details, like give me his name and stuff like that, but he doesn’t show…”

              “Because he’s already deader’n shit.”

              “Right. Look, Man. After I found out who it was I Googled him from every angle I could on my office computer. If Starr and them get a warrant for my office, they are going to try to pin his murder on me.”

              Sammy thought a minute. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He was killed in Florence. I talked to the DA over there. You have an alibi for that one?”

              “Yeah. If Gloria and Ray count.”

              “They count. Anyway, they have about five disgruntled bad-ass former business associates of King who’s in line before you are, even if Starr gets a wild hair up his ass about your Googling subjects. And by the way, I talked to the State Attorney today. I told him Starr was barking up the wrong tree for what it was worth. That he better get an investigation going for who really killed Compton.”

              “Thanks, Sammy.”

              “Sure.” Sammy took a long sip of coffee.

              “Elmore King was from Winston County,” Rusty blurted out.

              “So?”

              “Okay, listen to this. Just late yesterday I found out Compton was from Winston County.” Then Rusty stared at Sammy, as with disbelief.

              Sammy wasn’t getting it. He shrugged. “So, what?”

              “So, what? There’s a serial killer loose out there!”

              Sammy laughed. “Are you nuts?”

              “That’s not the point. Look Winston County is or was the poorest county in the state. We have two very prominent people from Winston County, the same age, killed outside of Winston County inside of a week.”

              “A little bit of a coincidence.”

              “What do you think of coincidences?”

              “What do you mean? What do
you
think of coincidences?”

              “When all of life is grand, they’re fun. When life isn’t grand, I’m suspicious of them. I don’t think there is any such thing as coincidences then.”

              “Two killings don’t make a serial killing.” Sammy laughed.

              “Yes, it does, Sammy. Look, there must be some sixty year old jealous fucker from Winston County. He finds out he’s got cancer. So he is going to kill anyone he went to school with who became successful.” It didn’t take a detective to see that.

              Maybe Sammy had been in the game too long. He should’ve have laughed at Rusty. Rusty wasn’t one to get his precious feelings hurt, but Sammy’s reaction was a disappointment.

              Sammy shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense, Rusty. There’s a lot of prominent people from Winston County. They’re everywhere around here.”

              “I don’t know any. Name one, name one prominent person around here who’s from Winston County.”

              Sammy sipped on the coffee, gave it priority over the conversation, like the caffeine was taking hold now, driving off the hangover. Rusty thought he had him. Thought he couldn’t name one.

              Sammy gave a sigh, like he was feeling good now, and said, “Well, for one. Vargas Preston, the President of Dolopia College, is from Winston County.”

Chapter 24

Morrison Avenue was one big antebellum mansion after another. And the one which served as the residence for the President of Dolopia College was the biggest and most majestic of all.

              When Rusty turned off onto Morrison there was a small bronze-looking sign that read Historical District. Historical District? Some garden club woman went over to Charleston or somewhere and saw some of that and just wasn’t satisfied until she had worried the Dolopia City Council shitless until they passed all kinds of resolutions and paid for and installed all the plaques. Rusty knew how things like that worked.

              He cruised down the oak and magnolia lined street and then parked next to the curb right in front of the president’s house. He walked up to the front door like he belonged there, couldn’t find a door bell, and knocked pretty hard in case they were all upstairs.

              Two seconds later a woman--not much older than Rusty--opened the door. She was wearing one of those gray maid outfits. “May I help you?”

              “Yes, ma’am. Rusty Clay for Vargas Preston.”

              “I think he may have gone on up to college. Let me check.” The maid motioned Rusty to step inside. She closed the door and pointed to a little chair there in the vestibule where he could sit and she disappeared off into the house.

              Rusty opted to just stand there. The chair looked like maybe Jefferson Davis or Abraham Lincoln had sat in it once upon a time but now was waiting for about sixty pounds to be put on it so it could break.

              A sixty year old man in a tie and sports coat came walking very quickly from where the maid had disappeared. “Vargas Preston.”

              “Rusty Clay.”

              “How may I help you?”

              “I wanted to know if you knew Dr. Compton?”

              “Yes. Quite well.”

              “Well, I didn’t kill him.”

              “I hope not.”

              “Why’s that?”

              “Then you might be here to kill me.”

              “Why would I do that?”

              “Two prominent members of my senior class have been murdered in a week’s time. I suspect someone has a list. And I hope I’m not on it. So I called the FBI about it. They didn’t seem all that interested. In fact, I don’t think I even convinced them I was a college president. Actually, my own staff can’t believe it.”

              Rusty liked this man. “Don’t feel the Lone Ranger. The Madison County District Attorney isn’t interested in the fact I didn’t kill anybody.”

              “I read you didn’t have an alibi.”

              “Where’d you read that?”

              “The newspaper. You’re first page material now. Don’t you buy the paper?”

              “Not unless I have to pack a box up to send in the mail. And no I just, and quite conveniently for the killer, happened to be spending the night alone in Dismal Canyon.”

              “I love that place. I got my first piece of ass on the sand beach there at the waterfall.”

              Rusty
knew
he liked this man. “What was your relationship with Dr. Compton?”

              “Oh, man. If they let you go, they may just come and arrest me.”

              “Why’s that?”

              “I like everybody. Except for two people in the world. And I was in their senior class of high school. Elmore King and Robert Compton. Elmore King was an obnoxious asshole and I was stupid enough to lend him a thousand dollars back when a thousand dollars meant a lot to me. Well, a thousand dollars means a lot to me now. After all that money he made in catfish he wouldn’t pay me back. He said that I hadn’t loaned him that money, that we had went into a business deal together and that deal had gone belly up.”

              “A shit ass.”

              “Tell me about it.”

              “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be uppity?” Rusty asked.

              “What do you mean?”

              “I thought college presidents were supposed to have patches on their elbows and smoke pipes and act like assholes.”

              “No. That’s tenured professors.”

              About that time the maid came back in. “Pardon the interruption, Dr. Preston. I have to run to the market. The missus called and she’ll be back here in half an hour.”

              “Thank you, Ellen.”

              Ellen left and Rusty turned to Preston. “You’re a doctor?”

              “Not a real doctor.”

              “What kind of doctor are you?”

              “I was a lawyer.”

              “You were a lawyer?”

              “Yes. But I wasn’t doing very good with it, so I became a law professor. Then through a series of unfortunate and desperate events on the college’s part, I ended up being the president.”

              “I see.” Rusty had to get him back on track. “Speaking of doctors. What was your relationship with Compton?”

              “I sold him the car he got blown up in.”

              “No?”

              “Yes. You want to see it?”

              “That’s not in some crime lab somewhere? You have the car parts left from the explosion?”

              “No. I bought two Mercedes 450’s in a deal. They were just alike. I sold him one of them.”

              “Oh, yeah. I like the lines on that car. I’d love to see it.”

              “That’s my weakness. I love cars.”

              “That’s no weakness.”

              “I knew we were kindred spirits, Mr. Clay.”

              Preston led Rusty through and out the back of the house, then through an old courtyard and off to the south side of the lot that went along Green Street. There was this long narrow building that looked like it could have once been a horse stable.

              “In antebellum times this used to be a horse stable,” Dr. Preston explained. “In the Twenties it was converted into a five bay garage.”

              Preston led him through a side door and turned on a light. The far bay was empty. Then Rusty called off the cars in order coming back toward them.

              “A late model Jaguar convertible.”

              “My personal everyday car.”

              “The 450 Mercedes, a 1953 MDTD.”

              “I bought when I entered college in 1968. And my pride and joy…”

              “A two-door cherry red 1957 Ford.”

              “And if you will care to note the dual foxtails on the antennae and the gas-saving hubcaps.” Gas-saving hubcaps? It was a phrase, a joke, that his own maternal grandfather would have made up. Winston County humor.

              Preston led him down the line of cars and stopped at the grill of the Mercedes convertible. Rusty looked at the lines on the car, at the elegant grayish blue paint. It had the pop top clipped on. Yeah, he’d look really sleek in this baby. Even Gloria couldn’t call him a redneck if he owned something like this.

              “So, this doesn’t add up. You hated Compton, but you sold him a car like this.”

              “Yes. I bought both cars at a sale. I didn’t hate Compton at the time. We were not great friends but we both had a love of cars and we were both from Winston County. Our last names both ended in -ton. We were bit chummy. I called him Comp. He called me Pres. Stuff like that.”

              “How did you end up hating him?”

              “The son of a bitch couldn’t be in sight of my wife, without running over to her and practically dry humping her like a dog.”

              “That would put a damper on a friendship.”

              “Yeah, and the day he got blown up, he still owed me a thousand dollars on the car. He said he was short in the bank account he was writing the check on, that he didn’t want his wife to know about it, that he would pay me the other thousand in cash later. Later has become the same as never in this case.”

              “The two men in the world that you hated had also owed you money. Hell, you have more of a motive than I do. They should have arrested you.”

              “Thanks, Mr. Clay. Didn’t I read that Compton was to marry your ex-wife?”

              “Yes.”

              “Did that bother you?”

              “Not really.”

              “I suppose you must not be a jealous man?”

              “I’ve grown out of certain negative emotions. And replaced them all with mere cynicism for convenience.”

              Preston laughed. “I like that. May I steal it for a speech I’m giving next week?”

              “Please do.”

              Dr. Preston walked over and slapped the car on the fender. “Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to fix this baby. I may just sell it. I need the bay. I got another classic I have an eye on.”

              “What’s wrong with it?”

              “Blown engine. Do you know an original cam shaft in this motor costs hundreds of dollars?”

              “No. What, it just needs a new cam shaft?”

              “No. The cam shaft is fine. Warped head. But it’s going to cost me thousands of dollars to rebuilt this engine properly.”

              “How much you want for this car?”

              “Um….I don’t know. If you pumped five grand it would be worth twelve. I almost want to let it go for four, but I got screwed out of a thousand. So, five thousand, I guess.”

              Five thousand dollars. Exactly the amount Elmore King had plopped down. And Rusty envisioned himself a 450SL with a blown motor. What were the odds of all that?  This had to be some kind of sign.