The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter 25

Two news vans, with those satellite things extended up from the roof, were parked in front of Melvin’s office. Rusty and Melvin needed to talk over a few things, but not under these conditions, so Rusty drove on.

              Ten minutes before he got to his house, he called Ray on his new cell to tell him he was coming. When Rusty got there, Ray was just clearing away a pallet of barrels from his gate, enough space for Rusty to edge his truck through.

              Rusty zig-zagged through a few more barrels to drive up near his front porch. First he saw the blue Acura car and then he saw Sammy sitting up on the porch going away at his laptop.

              Only when Rusty stepped up onto the porch, did Sammy look up. “Let me just finish out this sentence,” Sammy said, and kept clicking away at the keyboard.

              Rusty sat down in a ladder back chair next to him. At last Sammy folded the top of the computer closed.

              “So, did you finally figure out I must be right about this Winston County serial killer thing?” Rusty said and smiled.

              “No,” Sammy replied and looked him in the eye. “I came to tell you Starr intends to go before Judge McCartney in the morning and move to have your bail revoked.”

              Rusty actually cringed. When he recovered, he mumbled, “He can do that?”

              “Yeah. He claims to have new evidence on the case.”

              “What’s that?”

              “I don’t know, Rusty. And what I just told you is insider information. I’m not even supposed to know it. Don’t tell anyone your source.”

              Rusty stared out at the ground and grunted. In fact, Rusty was going a little bit numb. This would change everything. Rusty wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of solving his case. His body was going into some kind of reaction he knew would leave him prostrate right before Sammy’s eyes.

              “What, he’ll go before the judge first thing in the morning?” Rusty managed to say. “How long will it take them to take me into custody if the judge agrees?”

              “Oh, no. Not first thing. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Jeffrey Starr is special,” Sammy said sarcastically. “Oh, he’s not like the rest of us DA’s. Since he works till midnight every night, he thinks he’s entitled to be off on Wednesday mornings until about eleven. He has to go fishing on Wednesday mornings.”

              “What?” Rusty asked. Sammy’s last statement alone had stopped the paralysis from moving up his body.

              “Yeah. He goes out by himself daylight every Wednesday morning. To recharge his batteries. Quote, unquote. He’s one of those bass fishermen.”

              That got Rusty’s muscles back working. He looked up. “I bet the son of a bitch catches and releases?”

              “Not before he brings them back to Hudson Marina and shows them off like he’s the only person who can catch a bass.”

              “A sorry ass bass, my ass,” Rusty said. “Will catch and release a sorry ass bass but wants to catch and fry a Clay?”

              “Yeah. He had a big six pounder he caught years ago mounted and is on the wall behind his desk. But now he’s all politically correct and only catches and releases.”

              What Rusty needed to do was replace the mounted bass with a Billy Bass. See how he liked that.

              “What, he’s got a slip at Hudson Marina?” Rusty said.

              “Yeah. Last year, I had to sit there one morning for over an hour waiting for the arrogant son of a bitch to show back up in his overpriced bass boat. Hey, listen to this and I quote--unwires, unplugs, and unwinds to recharge his electrical dynamic energy. The son of a bitch won’t even take his cellphone out with him. Sat there for an hour waiting for one little tidbit of info. And he was pissed off I didn’t wait until he got back to his office.”

              This was too good to be true. Manna from Heaven.

              Recharge his batteries? Shit.

              “Sorry, man,” Sammy said. “Listen, I got to go. I didn’t want to tell you that over the phone. I couldn’t risk it.”

              “Yeah…Thanks, man.”

              “Just giving you a heads up. Look, I called the State Attorney this morning. I did tell him about the two people were both from Winston County.”

              “What’s he say?” Rusty looked over at Sammy. Rusty tried to act interested. But he knew he was going to have to save his own ass. Not some State Attorney who was trying to do the right thing.

              “It didn’t interest him very much.”

              Rusty looked back down at the ground.

              “But I told him you didn’t do it.”

              “Thanks for the character reference. But it’s not him running the case.”

              “But he is in charge of the state. I told him you didn’t do it and I advised him to keep investigating the case.”

              “What did he say?”

              “He said he would review everything Madison County came up with.”

              Rusty knew that meant nothing.

              “Hey, look, Rusty, you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

              “Go ahead and say it.”

              “You should have stayed with Perry. He knows how to get you off.”

              “And Waters doesn’t?”

              “Waters is untested in these waters. Pardon the pun. But Perry knows how to play this game and win at it.”

              “Yeah, Sammy. For himself. Drag this thing out for two years and cost me my whole net worth.”

              “But you wouldn’t go to jail.”

              “Don’t bet against me, Sammy. I’m not going to jail. One way or another.”

              Sammy paused, like he was about to ask him what he meant by one way or another, but instead he just said, “No, Rusty. I would never bet against a Clay.”

              With that, Sammy got up and left. Rusty kept staring at the ground. He heard Sammy’s car start up and then move away across the dirt drive. He heard Sammy and Ray banter back and forth, but couldn’t really make out any distinct words.

              Only then did Rusty look up. That’s when he saw all the boats going up and down the river. The noise, the humming of the outboards, had been going the whole while. He just hadn’t noticed it.

              Rusty heard Ray step up on the front porch, off to the side and then clomp over and sit where Sammy had been.

              Rusty motioned out at the river. “Let me guess. The catfish have gone on the bed?”

              “Yeah. The race is on. And it’s been a circus here. Three reporters been by today.”

              “Sorry. Listen, I got a job for you.”

              “Another one? I’m just now getting these fifty-five gallon barrel drums under control. And Tina Wilson called up wants us to redo her kitchen.”

              “Well, Tina’s going to have to wait if she wants us.” Rusty tried not to think about being in jail for the rest of his life. Just sitting there it actually dawned on him: An innocent person could go to jail for something he didn’t do.

              “When it rains, it pours,” Ray said.

              “You got that right, Ray. Look, I just bought a 450 Mercedes, blown engine. I need you to have it towed from the college president’s house right away. I want you to take the engine out. The gasket is blown and the valves are bent. But here’s the plan. Take the engine apart. Sell the parts on eBay. Then drop that short block Chevy you got rebuilt into it. Give me a price for it all. Engine and instillation.”

              “Done deal. I can get Tyler Joe uptown to have him make arrangements to haul that car down here. He owes me one.”

              “Where is it?”

              “The college president mansion on Morrison Avenue uptown in Dolopia.”

              “I know where that is. Who’d you buy it from?”

              “The president of the college.”

              “You met him?” Ray asked, disbelieving.

              “Yeah.”

              “How’d you meet him?”

              “Walked up to the front door and knocked.”

              “Let me get this straight, Rusty Clay. You decided you wanted to talk to the damned President of Dolopia College. You go to the front door of that big mansion. Knock on it. They let you in. Then the president himself comes over and y’all start talking cars and he takes you out and sells you his 450 Mercedes with a blown engine?”

              “That’s about it.”

              “You can do the damnedest thangs, Rusty. If that’d been me, they’da called Homeland Security as soon as I stepped up on the porch. But you, they let you in, you start rubbing elbows with the president of the college. That’s just like the field goal you kicked against the Claramina Lions. You just one lucky son of a bitch.”

              “I’m not lucky enough. I just got word from Sammy. And this is secret information. That DA is going to try to have them revoke my bail in the morning.”

              Ray was silent for a moment and then asked, “What are you going to do?”

              “I’m going to call Waters. He wanted to see me anyhow. Then I’m going to Gloria’s and have me a cheeseburger. I’m about to starve.”

Chapter 26

When Rusty got into sight of Gloria’s Café, he almost near turned around right there in the channel. All he could think of was his father’s saying: It was so crowded you couldn’t fly over the place in an airplane.

              And the sight of three sheriff’s patrol cars parked on the other side of the café didn’t do anything to invite Rusty on it. He found his natural instincts and headed on toward the mess.

              Grabbling boats were tied up two and three deep, one to another. Rusty taxied in. He spotted his personal slip. Against all odds, it was empty. Maybe this was a good sign. He cruised in, tied up, and made his way down the slip toward the fueling dock.

              Old man Clanton, who ran the bait shop for Gloria, had three outboard tanks lined up on the dock. He had oil bottles upside down draining in two of them and was gassing up the third.

              A line of people filed in to the bait shop as a line of people filed out. They had an assortment of usual stuff--potato chips, beer, ice. But what was strange was that most every one of them had bought a newspaper.

              Rusty made his way over to Clifford Clanton, maneuvering around grabblers all the way. If anybody else got on the dock, it was going to sink the pilings into the Elk. A lot of them wore this season’s T-shirts and the catfish caps. Gloria was cleaning up this year.

              When Rusty got up near old man Clanton, he saw one of the newspapers in the seat of the ladder back chair that Clifford sat in most of the time when nothing was happening at the bait shop. This was not one of those times.

              Rusty looked down at the paper. He took the whole top half in at one glance.
The
Dolopia Democrat
. The headline in very bold lettering--Clay Arrested, Released on Bond. And there was a picture of his mug shot, taking up a chunk of that top half page.

              Rusty grabbed it and took a closer look. Old man Clanton was satisfied that he had filled one tank up and moved the nozzle over, dripping gasoline between the two. He adjusted the greasy bill of his Alabama Crimson Tide cap and looked up, “Hey, Rusty.”

              “Hey, Cliff. What’s with all the newspapers?”

              “It’s that new rule they got.”

              “What new rule?”

              “To qualify their catfish in the contest, the grabbling has to be video taped to prove the grabble is unassisted and then they have to hold a current copy of a periodical in the shot to prove the date.”

              “I understand proving an unassisted grabble, but just bringing the catfish in would prove it was current.”

              “Ledbetter is putting up the prize money, I reckon he can dictate the rules. I reckon he don’t want nobody raising a pet catfish and then bringing it in like it was grabbled wild.”

              “That would be something,” Rusty said. Elmore King had found a way around that rule. Trouble was, it was hard to cheat with a bullet in your head.

              “Yeah, the world is going to hell when you have to worry about somebody turning in their own pet catfish for the sake of winning a grabbling contest.”

              “That’s the truth,” Rusty said.

              Clifford stood up straight and pointed to the paper.

              “You take a mighty fine picture there, Rusty,” he said, as some fat girl with her own T-shirt that said Gal Grabbler Tupelo, Mississippi, walked by.