The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter 36

Rusty drove straight to The Point. Starr may have had him followed. Rusty didn’t notice anyone tailing him. Anyway, he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t care if Starr thought he did it and that Rusty running straight to the person who hired him would be fodder for Starr. He needed to see Jenny and he, by God, was going straight to see her.

              No concierge manned the concierge desk. He figured the condo association had opted not to hire one. A condo association on Elk River. Shit.

              He took the elevator up to the top floor and rang the bell at Penthouse Four.

              Shortly, Jenny opened the door. She wore a baseball cap, some shorts and an athletic bra underneath a tight T-shirt.

              “Rusty, what brings you here?”

              “I need to talk to you a minute.”

              “I just got through working out.” She let him in, closed the door. “Give me just a second. Make yourself at home.” She walked off into the condo.

              Rusty walked to the French glass doors that led out to the veranda and got himself a grand view of the mouth of the Elk River, where it emptied into the Tennessee. He had been down there on that part of the river a zillion times but had only seen it from this angle a few times--in Buzz Colter’s crop duster.

              “All right,” Jenny said.

              He turned around. There she stood. She had put on a sweat suit. She led him into the kitchen. It was all granite tops and stainless steel appliances.

              “Want a juice, a protein shake, anything?”

              “No, thanks.”

              “Listen, I was about to call you.”

              “Yeah?”

              Jenny hustled around, taking out some protein powder, some pieces of fruit from the refrigerator. “Yeah. I’m going to leave next week for Sarasota.” She motioned for him to sit at the island bar and he did. “Crystal will be back in the country in a couple weeks. She’ll meet me there.”

              “Good.”

              “And there was something I wanted to ask your opinion of.”

              “What’s that?”

              Jenny put down the banana, turned around and faced Rusty. Her butt rested against the counter. “Robert bought that condo. Had it put in my name. Do you think I should give it back?”

              “He’s dead, Jenny. How can you give it back to him?”

              “I mean to his estate. Then his kids or whoever gets all his money can split it up. The thing cost a couple million dollars.”

              “Good God.”

              She didn’t know about the will. He went over and stood next to her.

              “Rusty, you smell.”

              “Don’t start with me, Jenny.”

              “You may think what I have to say is none of my business. But you are still Crystal’s father. I don’t want you to start living by yourself in that cabin and let your hygiene go.”

              “Shit, Jenny! I’ve been on a roller coaster ride today. Piss is coming out of my pores. There’s other important things right now.”

              “Like what?”

              “Is your passport still valid?” Rusty asked.

              “Yes. Why?”

              “I want you to get on a plane and go to Argentina and stay there for a while.”

              “I was advised to stay in the country until they had found Robert’s killer and had a trial date sat up.”

              “Who? Who advised you that?”

              “Robert’s lawyers.”

              “Fuck them!”

              “They’re the best in all of Alabama.”

              “Best for whom?” Rusty asked. “Best for their own interest.”

              “What are you talking about, Rusty?”

              Rusty pushed away from the counter and paced. “Hey, Jenny. I need to tell you something. But you didn’t hear it from me. And I’m not telling where I got it from.”

              “What?”

              “Next week, they’re going to read Compton’s will.”

              “And?”

              “You’re going to get half. His kids are going to get half. When Starr finds out the heirs to the will, you are going to be suspect number one. I’m still going to be the killer. But all of a sudden you’re going to be the one who hired me. I hate to break this to you, Jenny, but Compton had his mistress, or mistresses. They’ll play on that, too. My source claims Starr doesn’t know yet. I think he does. But that’s beside the point. It’ll all come down once the will is read. It will be better than he imagined. He’s going to be star in a courtroom and media drama.”

              Jenny walked over and plopped down on a stool, speechless.

              Finally, she said, “Rusty, I think Robert was worth about fifty million dollars.”

              “There’s money in the heart cutting business.” Fifty million? Rusty was more prone to believe Jenny’s figure than Sammy’s.

              “Do you think I should take that much money?”

              “That’s up to you, Jenny. You should think on it long and hard. What I do know, is you need to get away from his lawyers. They don’t have your best interests at heart. Believe me. You need to go uptown and get Melvin Waters on your case.”

              “I met him at a party when they first moved to Dolopia.”

              “I have a question for you, Jenny?”

              “Yeah.”

              “I don’t have the time to be sensitive right now, Jenny. No, disrespect to your late fiancée. Did you know he was a womanizer?”

              “Well, I know he was. But that was in the past. When he turned sixty he changed his ways. He was faithful to me.”

              “Sure.” Rusty should have gotten Gloria to come over and tell Jenny she was in denial. It sounded stupid coming out of a man’s, especially ex-husband’s, mouth.

              “Why were you going to marry him?’ Rusty asked.

              “I loved him. He had a lot of money. He was generous. And he was never at home. He was going to be the perfect husband.”

              Rusty didn’t have anything to say to that.

              After a long moment of silence, he said, “Will you promise me to go to Argentina and just stay there with Crystal about a month until I get a handle on this case?”

              Jenny said, “If you’ll promise to go straight home and take a shower.”

              Rusty kept up his part of the bargain.

Chapter 37

The rich-looking exotic woman with the French accent had some body English to her that Rusty found flattering. She was slim and had on a lot of jewelry and moved her eyes up and down Rusty in a very playful manner. She must have been about forty.

              Luckily, Rusty had kept his promise with Jenny. He was all showered and shaved. And how did he know he was going to be in the presence with this exotic woman? Those instructions on the shampoo bottle--which the shampoo companies finally admitted was just a conspiracy to sell more shampoo--Rusty took to heart when he was especially grungy, stinky, and dirty. He not only shampooed, rinsed, and repeated. He showered, rinsed and repeated. Shaved, toweled off his face, repeated. He had even ironed his shirt.

              Here was the rich, exotic wife who bought Vargas his exotic cars. Here was the woman whom Robert Compton had come on to and spoiled his relationship with his old schoolmate. Well, Rusty couldn’t blame Compton there.

              Rusty had him a good thing going with Vargas taking a liking to him. It was a thing he didn’t want to screw up.

              “Dr. Preston said you would have something for me,” Rusty said. “I mean, he would have something for me. I mean, he would leave something for me.”

              Slow down, Rusty. What was a woman like that doing in Dolopia, Alabama? Even if she was the college president’s wife.

              “I do have something for you, Mr. Rusty Clay,” she said, in her French, sexy accent, that Rusty was sure she was making more French and more sexy just for him. “Was that a Freudian slip? Well, here is what I have for you tonight, Mr. Rusty Clay.”

              She twirled around. The hem of her black skirt billowed up above her knees. The woman was so hot steam was coming off her.

              What was this? Rusty Clay would like to know. For five years a woman didn’t so much as give him a second glance. And now, let’s just count them, Rusty said to himself. There was Gloria, of course. Then you had hot, young Vivian coming on to him. He had even walked in to his own house while Alice had on nothing but her Victoria Secret fuck-me negligee outfit on. And now this hot French married woman was flirting.

              Women were drawn to men with power and money. And to bad boys? Maybe somehow Rusty had got caught up in that mix.

              Mrs. Preston twirled over to a vestibule table, got a big book off it, and turned back around to Rusty and presented it to him in a very coquettish way.

              “Here is what I have for you. It seems Vargas likes you.”

              “I like Dr. Preston. He’s a very interesting man.”

              “I like your hair,” she stated.

              “Thank you.”

              “I like your eyes.”

              “Thank you.”

              “And I like you.”

              “Thank you.” To say anything more seemed a very dangerous thing to do.

              “Do you have a wife, Mr. Rusty Clay?”

              “No, divorced.” He guessed she didn’t read the papers. She didn’t know he was accused of murdering his ex-wife’s fiancée.

              “Do you have a girlfriend?”

              “Yeah, as a matter of fact I am seeing a lady right now.”

              “Ah, perhaps on one of those rare occasions that my husband does not have a previous and professional engagement for the evening, perhaps you two could join us for dinner here?”

              “That would be great. He has my number.”

              “I have it, too. He gave it to me.”

              Rusty wondered what the hell that meant. He was scared to ask.

              He took the yearbook and got the hell out of there. He drove the few blocks to his office and started studying the yearbook.

              Vargas Preston had been a popular man. Class Vice-President. Best Personality. Co-Captain of the football team, of which he was a corner back. All of the empty pages at the back of the yearbook had been crammed with inscriptions from classmates. Most all the pictures had been inscribed.

              The 1966 senior class of the Haleyville Lions had not been all that small. Roughly a hundred students. About the same size as Rusty’s 1972 Class at the Clear Springs Fighting Blue Catfish.

              Then he checked out Robert Compton. Most likely to succeed. That figured. Class Treasurer. That figured. Baseball team. He had signed his picture. Remember all our trips to B’ham. Best always, Bob.

              Elmore King. Nothing. Rusty flipped and flipped. Nothing. No clubs. Had not made anything in Who’s Who. Had not signed his picture.

              Back to the yearbook.

              If there was anyone more popular than Vargas--other than Betty Seymour, who seemed to be Miss Everything--it was Jim Gordon. Captain of the football team. Quarterback. Class President. And there he was with Betty Seymour herself--Most Popular.

              A fleeting thought occurred to Rusty--without further investigation, it seemed Elmore King was the least popular kid in school. He was a dumpy looking fat kid who couldn’t seem to get the bow tie of his tux straight for his class picture.

              Hell, it looked like Elmore King would have been the one to murder Compton. But he was dead already. Maybe he had hired someone to murder Compton. Then he wouldn’t pay them, said he had put their money in the next restaurant and it had gone under in the last two days. Then the hired killer had killed King. That was how a real detective would think. Yes, that was more like it.

              And if it were serial killings in the making--this Jim Gordon, if not Vargas himself, would be next.

              Okay, but then Elmore King had been a target, so it wasn’t just hot shots who had been Mr. Big Man on Campus during high school, but guys who had gotten rich later.

              Rusty turned on his computer and went to work. There were loads of Jim Gordon’s, but when you put in Jim Gordon, Haleyville, Alabama, he didn’t come up with anything.

              Rusty wrote down the names of all the male senior class members. Luckily, it had their full names. Forty-eight of them.

              Rusty sat there and ran fifteen through. He got one mayor and one state senator out of the deal. A Benjamin Adams was now the head fire ranger of the Bankhead National Forest. Nothing else coming up. No criminals. No shady types. Everyone else seemed to be coming in under the radar.

              The screen was burning Rusty’s eyes and it was getting late. He needed to run the rest through and then sit down with Vargas and get a quick lowdown on each one and where they were now.

              Maybe it was somebody like this Jim Gordon, who was supposed to be a famous senator but had ended up a successful car dealer and then maybe he had lost it all and was all bitter and had turned his hand to killing those from his class more successful than he.

              Who would have been at number one on such a person’s list? Elmore King. Least likely to succeed. Yeah, his success had shoved it in everyone’s face.

              Rusty looked through the senior class one more time before getting ready to take it all down to the river.

              He flipped the yearbook closed and that’s when he saw it. It just stayed there in his mind. He could see it like it was sitting there on his desk. Not even fading away.

              He couldn’t believe it.

              He opened the yearbook back up. Still in his mind. There they were. The picture he had seen was the size of the juniors. He started slowly from the beginning going through the juniors.

              There it was. Katrina Matthews.

              There was no mistaking it. Add five years to the picture. Ten years to the picture. It didn’t matter. She was one and the same.

              Katrina Matthews was the same woman who was in a photo sitting on Al Bolton’s computer desk.

              Katrina Matthews was Al’s mother.

              “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” Rusty said aloud.

              Al’s mother was from Winston County, Alabama. And she had obviously known Elmore King, Robert Compton, and even Vargas.

              Why didn’t this ever come out? Why hadn’t Al said something about it? And hadn’t Gloria long ago told Rusty that Al’s mother was from Bermuda and Al’s father from Boston? That was funny. Not like Gloria to leave out…

              Right now, Rusty had to go see Gloria.