A Dirty Shame (19 page)

Jack’s phone rang a few minutes before six, and I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes when he flipped on the light. We hadn’t been asleep more than twenty minutes.

“Sheriff Lawson?” Jack said by way of answering the phone.

I was still struggling to adjust my eyes to the light when Jack hung up and threw off the covers.

“What’s happened?” I asked, following the gesture. It took me about thirty seconds to realize that all my clothes were still in the other room. Jack hadn’t been kidding about proving his point. My legs felt like Jello.

“That was dispatch. A 911 was just called in reporting a fire. George’s shop is up in flames.”

I ran into the other room and pulled on fresh jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. I pulled a sweater on over that because I knew it would still be cold until the sun came out.

“How bad is it?” I asked as I simultaneously tried to stick my feet in my boots and go down the stairs at the same time. Jack caught me before I tripped on the bottom stair.

“Pretty bad. They’ve at least kept the blaze contained so it doesn’t damage the surrounding buildings, but it’s a complete loss at this point. We’ll talk to the fire chief once we get there.”

***

“Chief Edwards,” Jack said, holding out his hand to the fire chief.

Larry Edwards was a fit man with a graying crew cut in his late fifties. He’d been the fire chief for at least twenty years. I’m not sure I’d ever seen him in anything but his uniform of starched black pants and a white shirt with the fire department emblem sewn over the heart.

“Sheriff,” he answered. “Doc Graves.” He nodded to me, but turned his back to face the fire, effectively shutting me out of his conversation with Jack.

I could decisively put Chief Edwards in the camp of people who thought I was just as crooked as my parents. I rolled my eyes and went to stand on the other side of Jack so I could hear what was being said. Jack moved back a little to include me, and if it hadn’t been completely unprofessional I would’ve given him a hug. Or at least a pat on the ass.

“The 911 came through at 5:42 AM,” Edwards said. “My men were here with the trucks three minutes later. Easy enough trip since we’re only a block away. It was already an inferno by the time we arrived. Went up like a tinderbox. All they could do was run the hoses on the surrounding buildings to keep it from spreading. Place like this is full of accelerants. There were a couple of small explosions, so we’ve set the perimeter back farther than normal.”

“Arson?” Jack asked.

“That would be my guess, but I’ve called in the arson investigator. Place went up all at one time. Doesn’t seem to be any starting point.”

Edwards excused himself when one of his men called him over, and I was left alone with Jack.

“Why’d they do it? George is already dead.”

“They’re sending a message. This is what happens when you try to leave the group. This is what happens when you stop being useful. I need to put men on George’s parents and grandparents, just in case they try to take the message further. Give me a minute to call it in.”

I stared in awe at the blaze as Jack stepped off to the side to talk on the phone. There was something hypnotic in the way the flames seemed to dance from side to side—seductive one minute and quick and angry the next. Everyone around stood completely transfixed as the fire ate away at metal and wood. The walls shrieked an eerie sound that had the hair on my arm raising as they began to collapse.

I felt Jack beside me before he said anything. “Don’t look now, but Floyd Parker is barreling his way over here. Try not to hit him.”

I couldn’t help but freeze at the thought of seeing Floyd Parker again. He’d been the one to stir up trouble after my parents had died. He’d been the one to first suggest that their drive off a cliff had been a rage induced double suicide. But his ability to report everything but the truth found new heights once the FBI started questioning me. He’d been the first to report about the smuggling they’d done using the funeral home.

The headline had read:
Loved Ones Are Receptacles At Graves’ Funeral Home?
He’d even offered to let me use it as a tagline for our business cards. But Floyd had laced the facts with so much conjecture that I was surprised a mob hadn’t formed outside the funeral home to burn it down the morning after his column had appeared on the first page of the paper. Of course, there’d been a lot of truth in his article as well, so I could see why people were angry.

I relaxed my jaw when I felt my teeth start to grind together, and I watched him with what I hoped was bored indifference as he came toward us. Floyd was a big man. He’d played football at Virginia Tech, and if I was being completely objective, I’d admit that he was attractive in an overgrown jock sort of way. But looks were skin deep. He had the personality of a troll.

My resentment of Floyd was also magnified by the fact that I’d been dumb enough to sleep with him while I’d been in med school. He’d kept that secret about as well as he kept any secret. Meaning not at all.

“Sheriff,” Floyd called out. “I’d like to ask you some questions.” I was annoyed to see Floyd was perfectly put together in pressed khakis and a pale blue dress shirt. He held the red notebook he habitually carried in his left hand as he prepared to scribble furiously with his right.

“We’re not making statements to the press at this time, Floyd. The investigation is ongoing.” Jack tried to maneuver the both of us around him, but Floyd blocked our escape.

“Which investigation are you not commenting on?” he asked. “Or maybe you’d like to comment on the fact that crime in Bloody Mary has tripled since you’ve been sheriff. Not good with an election year coming up.”

Jack didn’t acknowledge and tried to move around him again, and I could all but feel my hackles start to rise at the insult.

“How about you, J.J? Got anything to add?”

“You look like you’re spreading a little around the middle. Maybe lay off the donuts.”

Floyd’s shark-like smile turned a little mean as he took a step closer. But I didn’t back down. I’d looked into the eyes of a killer before. And Floyd would never be anything but a spoiled child in a man’s body.

“You’ve been parking your car at the Sheriff’s house since you’ve been back.” He looked me up and down insultingly. “I guess all those bills got too hard to pay. Better watch out, Sheriff. She’ll have a ring on your finger before you know what happened.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jack said. His tone of voice was pleasant enough, but Floyd backed up at the look on Jack’s face. “I didn’t realize you were reporting the society pages now. As you can see, we have a job to do here, so I’m going to have to ask you to move back behind the perimeter.”

We walked away, Jack’s hand on the small of my back, but I was still shaking from the encounter.

“I hate that man,” I said.

“Yeah, but the good news is that you didn’t pass out or try to run away when he mentioned marriage.”

“I was just trying to present a united front.”

Jack’s teeth gleamed white as he smiled. “That’s my girl. Look there,” he said, gesturing about fifteen feet to my right.

I looked over and saw Wormy Mueller, hands fisted at his hips as he watched the blaze. His face was lined with anger, and his eyes were filled with—sadness. His thinning hair was uncombed, as if he’d just jumped out of bed and come running. I looked around and saw several people had the same look about them.

“We need to talk to him,” Jack said.

“I don’t know, Jack. Look at him. He looks devastated. We could be wrong about him.”

Jack sighed. “That’s the great thing about murder investigations. I guarantee you every person we’ve talked to so far has lied about something. It’s the way of the world. Wormy won’t be any different. My job is to figure out whose lies are relevant. And Wormy could be letting us see exactly what we he wants right now.”

“You’re always so full of cheer and sunshine.”

“It’s clearly why we belong together. And I’m sure I’ll get over the smell of embalming fluid eventually.”

“Touché,” I said. “Let’s go talk to Wormy. And then I’ve got to get home and get showered so I can go into the funeral home. It’s a busy day.”

“I like hearing you call it that.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“I like hearing you call my house home. It is, you know.”

I gave his hand a quick squeeze and we made our way to Wormy. He saw us coming and turned his back on the fire to face us. His body shook in fine tremors, and I wasn’t sure if it was anger, nerves or the cold that had him trembling.

“Sheriff. Doc Graves,” he said in greeting, nodding to both of us. “What the hell is happening to this place? It used to be safe here.”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure, sure.” He relaxed his bunched fists and crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive stance.

“Looks like you got out of bed in a hurry,” Jack said, easing Wormy into the conversation.

Wormy looked down at his clothes and shrugged. “Yeah. I heard the sirens from my apartment. Looked out the window and threw ‘em on when I saw the trucks go by. The fire was already big enough to light up the sky.”

Wormy lived in a little one-room efficiency apartment above the pharmacy. He’d never married, though I knew he’d had a few long-term relationships over the years.

“What time do you normally go into the garage?”

“About six-thirty. Eight on Saturdays. George’s old man told me to go ahead and open up today since y’all cleared it. He said there was no need to piss off the customers just cause George had the bad sense to get his head blown off.” Wormy shuddered once. “Those were his words, not mine.”

“Well, we all know Mr. Murphy’s not known for being warm and fuzzy,” Jack said affably.

Wormy chuckled a little and held his arms tighter around his chest. “Ain’t that the truth. George got it honest.”

“Did you know Reverend Oglesby?” Jack asked, switching topics.

Wormy jerked his head to look at Jack, then me. “That preacher man that got killed? I never met him face-to-face. I’m not a church going man. But I saw him around town every now and then. Seemed to stay to himself from what I could tell.”

“How long have you worked for George?”

Wormy scratched his morning beard. I noticed the dark stains of oil and grease around his fingernails that mechanics could never seem to be rid of. “Going on eight years now, I guess. Mr. Murphy was going to make me manager now that George is gone so we could keep the business running. I’m the best mechanic in these parts next to George.”

“I know it,” Jack said in agreement.

“But now I guess I’m out of a job.” Wormy laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that twisted the knife a little deeper when things were going wrong. “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? This was the first chance I’ve ever had at having something that was mostly my own and now it’s gone. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers in front of his face, and I winced in sympathy.

“Was George involved in something he shouldn’t be?” Jack asked.

Wormy’s shoulders tensed and then I watched as they slowly relaxed. “I don’t know. He was a strange one. Pretty secretive about his personal life. Even more so after his wife died. Sometimes there were some inconsistencies with the invoices. Cars coming and going that didn’t get documented. But I figured it was because things got busy or he was just doing some side business so he wouldn’t have to report the income.”

“You ever go with him when he got a call for a tow?”

“Nope,” Wormy said. “That tow truck was George’s baby. Didn’t let anyone else drive it.”

“How many cars were inside the bays before the fire started?”

Wormy blew out a breath and chewed on his bottom lip. “Well, I don’t rightly know. Saturday was a little crazy after George got shot. We had a full house when the police came in and shut us down. Most of the people who could took their cars and went over to King George Proper to one of the mechanics there, but there were some cars that couldn’t be driven. So maybe two or three? I’d check the invoices for you, but they’re on fire right now.”

I appreciated Wormy’s attempt at humor, considering it looked like his whole livelihood was now in the toilet.

“Going back to Saturday for a minute,” Jack said. “A white Cadillac came into the garage. Doctor Graves said you went down to help the man.”

Wormy gave me an unreadable look and then turned back to Jack. “I don’t remember his name. He’s come in once or twice before, but he asked for Kenny. Sometimes we get regulars. I let Kenny know he was there and then went to work on a ’98 Corolla. Didn’t notice when he left.”

Jack thanked Wormy and cut him loose, and I caught sight of Agent Carver as he made his way towards us.

“See? He was lying,” Jack said.

“About which part?” I asked.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He rubbed the back of his neck then called out to Carver. “You look like hell.”

“Probably because I was up all night trying to get the information you requested,” Carver said. He held a cup of coffee in his hands and it was everything I could do not to punch him in the stomach and take it from him. Carver’s hair was combed and he was freshly shaven, but the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. He wore clothes identical to the day before. “Is there any reason you have to get brainstorms in the middle of the night instead of the daytime?”