Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery (18 page)

There’s somebody / Knockin’ at
my
back door
-

And so it went. People cried. Some didn't. Others basked in the benevolence of the one and only Lord Jesus Christ, while a few seemed to be on hiatus from faith. I, myself, had taken up the call of the blues singer. My savior was a sacrificed man. I had been baptized in unsettling paranoia, and unlike the God of my youth, this one at least visited me in my dreams.

I waited for the service to end before confronting Brickmeyer, slipping out into the parking lot just after the casket was loaded into the hearse. Six men I barely recognized were pallbearers, and each eyed me conspiratorially as I dodged past them. I turned as the procession of men passed by and saw no one standing at the rear of the building.

I managed to catch up with Brickmeyer and his henchman before they reached their car. "Leland," I said, as evenly as humanly possible, "Hey, wait up for a second."

They stopped, perhaps expectantly, and turned to face me. Brickmeyer’s suit would have made a televangelist blush, and his hair was held in place by a gallon of gel. He kneaded his hands and then held one out for me to shake. I demurred. The smugness of his expression was replaced by impatience. "How is it," Brickmeyer said, "That someone who seems to turn up everywhere I do can somehow evade being served with a restraining order?"

"You two are the last people the Laveaus want to see. This funeral is about them, not you. And if I'm being honest, I think your political aspirations have eroded your sense of shame."

The big man at his side stepped forward, but Brickmeyer held him back with one gentle hand. I stared up into the giant’s face until he backed down.

"Wait a minute there, hoss. I have done nothing but defend the Laveau family. I'm doing everything I can to help."

"That doesn't change the fact that they think you're responsible for their son's death. Where could they be getting that from?"

His smile became sanguine. "When you're falling out of a tree, you grab for the biggest branch on the way down," he said. "These people, they got nobody else to grab at, so they're reaching for me, since I'm just sticking out there. That boy was found on my land, and some people would think it curious if I didn’t come and see the family on the day of the funeral. I can’t have it both ways."

"You don't honestly expect me to believe that, do you? A press conference and some cooperation with the police won't vindicate you, if you're guilty."

Brickmeyer licked his lips. The behemoth at his side shifted his weight. "Even if I did have something to do with this nonsense, do you think I'd admit anything to
you
? You, of all people, should be commiserating with me. The same person that's after you is after me, trying to get the murder pinned on me."

I turned to the big man. “Have you been to the Boogie House?”

“The fuck kind of question is that? Course I haven’t.”

“Not even once? Not even in the middle of the night, for whatever business?”

His eyes flickered, though I couldn’t tell if it was confusion or hatred in them. He took a step forward, and I planted my weight on my back foot, ready to throw a punch.

Brickmeyer said, “Bodean, don’t do anything rash here, now.”

I said, "You don't have enough charm to bullshit your way out of this. That fucking smug expression will only get you so far, and then people will demand real answers."

"I don't have anything to hide. Ask the detectives. Ask the police chief. Oh, wait. They won't talk to you, will they?"

"No, but Ronald Bullen seems to want you dragged through town by your balls."

I saw a moment's hesitation, of humanity, but then the act returned. "Good cop. What would he want to question me for?"

"Let me tell you something. You've got the whole town clinging to your wallet, but I'm not nearly as gullible. I'm not going to give up digging into this until I hit something solid."

Brickmeyer looked over my shoulder at an elderly couple on the opposite side of the street. "The people in this town are like saplings in serious need of cultivation. Of guiding care. It just takes the right hand. Once they’re ready, they can be harvested for what makes them valuable."

Whatever he was doing was working. He was getting under my skin. "How do you know what’s valuable about anything in this town?"

"It isn't their inherent value I'm interested in. With a little watering, a little care, a few dollars thrown here and there, I can cultivate the people of Lumber Junction sometime in the future."

I could hear the blood thumping in my ears. Brickmeyer tilted his head back just far enough to entice me to crush his Adam's apple with my fist. I might have, if a crowd of people leaving the funeral hadn't rounded the corner at that moment.

Instead, I leaned in and said, "Your luck's about to change. You might seem untouchable to the people in this town, but once you're laid bare, they'll see you for what you really are, and they'll pity you."

This time, I offered my hand for shaking, and Brickmeyer, perhaps thinking it an opportunity to humiliate me, took it. I squeezed, feeling the satisfying crunch of bones. As much as it stung my pride to shake the man's hand, it felt right to see that he could be hurt.

He glowered at me. "I ought to have you run out of this town, you know. The fucking termites that live here have feasted on this like it's some goddamn conspiracy, and if it ruins my chances for a Senate bid, you can bet your sorry ass there will be consequences."

Brickmeyer yanked his hand free and made his way across the road to where he was parked. I sat in the car and waited for them to drive out of sight before cranking the old car and lining up for the procession to the graveyard.

*  *  *

At the graveside service, I stood patiently in the background, away from the bystanders. I felt like an interloper, but still I stayed through the prayers and the traditional hymns and the lowering of the coffin. Leadbelly’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” was stuck in my head, and I spent the whole time trying to pick it out, like a piece of meat lodged in my teeth.

It didn’t work, so I hummed the melody over and over, but at least it drowned out the guitar lick emanating from the coffin.

My expectation for something supernatural was extremely high. I spent much of the service pressing my toes against the soles of my shoes in anticipation, eyeing family members and gravestones alike. I kept my ears pricked for the song’s return, and I watched intently for a figure to appear in Laveau’s grave, perhaps Laveau himself.

Expectations are poor indicators of reality. Nothing happened, save for one out-of-place detail. In the distance, someone hunched over a grave in the run-down section of the cemetery, appearing to pay respects but at the same time stealing glances over his shoulder. He wore a fashionable black coat and gray slacks and peculiar hat.

I moved in toward a small group of mourners to blend in a little better, but I don't think that helped. The jacketed figure crept away from a faded, tilting stone and headed for the rows of parked cars.

Disrupting the service for a chase along the grave-strewn lot was not an option. I watched the figure circle the funeral party, following his progression through the graveyard, until at last the funeral was completely over. He managed to keep his face hidden from me. Something about his gait was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

I took up a brisk walk in that very same direction, watching until the figure disappeared among the cars. Then I launched into an uneven jog, listening for the sound of an engine. A few people turned and stared, but by that point everything had been set into action, so I couldn't be bothered with funerary etiquette.

A vehicle peeked out from the others, edging along a tight row of cars, and I peered in through the windshield. The driver was turned the other way, one arm draped over the passenger headrest, and he was looking behind him. It wasn't until he'd thrown the shifter into drive that I saw his face. He did not try to hide, but a look of surprised horror seemed to grip him when he saw me, and he spun the wheel around and gouged the engine, causing dirt and grass to kick up and the rear end to fishtail. His vehicle nearly sideswiped a poorly-parked Chrysler in the process.

At the last possible moment, I managed to put myself between the driver's car and the road, and he slammed on the brakes. The car stopped mere inches from me. When he rolled down the window, I said, "What are you doing here, Jeffrey?"

Brickmeyer's son shook his head as he peered over the steering wheel. "No entry fee for a funeral."

Some older ladies walked by cautiously, their mouths agape. "Oddly enough, I just saw your father at the funeral home. Brickmeyers seem to have a real affinity for a young man they claim to have never met."

"My father's an asshole," he said. "I wanted to come and patch things over, make amends. For the press conference, or whatever that was."

"Is that what you were doing?"

"I chickened out. Couldn't stand looking at these people. They think my father had him butchered. I thought of it on the way out here. I'd gotten out of the car by the time I decided to head back, and by then it was too late."

"So you decided to take a stroll through the mossy section of the cemetery."

His eyes flicked from me to the old ladies and back again. "It was all I could think to do. At least I tried."

"I'm sure the Laveau family would be comforted by that."

"I want the Laveaus to know that we had nothing to do with it. Cut me some slack."

I measured his glance, and there was some amount of sincerity to it, so I backed off. He was trapped by the old man. I understood why he resisted, but if a man’s in a burning building, does he have to have options about what to do next?

I said, "Cut yourself some slack. Get rid of your dad. He's a cancer on your life."

"He just doesn't know how to handle this kind of situation. He's not a bad guy."

"Take my words to heart, Jeffrey. Even though he's your father, the man would throw you to the wolves to get another foot's head start into the wild."

He was no longer paying attention to me, though. Some family members had drawn close to the two of us, and I turned to match Jeff’s gaze, only to see Kweku Laveau standing under a mossy oak tree.

Unlike normal, he wasn’t smiling. His eyes could have bent steel. There was something in his hand, and he was rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, whispering some words to himself as he did so. I thought I could see something rising from it, but that could have been part of the mass delusion I’d been suffering from lately.

I was about to say something to Jeffrey, something else about coming clean, feeling this might be the right moment, but - perhaps spooked by the old man - he pulled away, slowly at first but then picking up speed when he hit the pavement.

The car sounded like a wounded giant as it disappeared into the wooded two-lane highway. I turned back to the tree, meaning to go and speak to K about the funeral, but he was gone. All I saw was a stray dog padding off in the distance, between two rows of old bent headstones.

*  *  *

I left the funeral without talking to Janita, and I drove back toward town. I should have been thinking about what Jeffrey Brickmeyer was really up to, but my mind kept drifting to Vanessa. Made me miss the old her. You can’t make people be who they were, because change is a constant in people’s lives, but I didn’t quite trust the new version. Her twenty-two year old self would have been able to parse this situation so I could see it clearly, but she seemed like she was looking through clouds herself these days, so I didn’t think she would be much help.

The air in the car was on the fritz, so I seemed to bake from the inside out, and even though I had tossed my jacket and button-down shirt into the passenger seat, my white undershirt was soaked through.

Deuce called and had me meet him at his office, and then we hopped in his car for a ride out to the country. He kept a quiet demeanor, as usual, so I talked about my own problems and eyed the interior of his car. It was mostly pristine, save for two slips of paper that appeared to be IOUs of some sort. Deuce would never cop to it, but he was going through some existential crisis of his own.

We ventured out past my house and turned down a dirt road beset on all sides by junk. Used tires stacked into ominous pieces of abstract art. Rusted cars with bags of garbage spilling out onto the ground. Dozens of broken toys flipped over and faded by the sun. Signs full of buckshot reading, "No Trespassing." As if the buckshot didn’t say it clearly enough.

"Almost there," Deuce said.

"And what exactly are we doing?"

"Got to pick up one of the Castellaws and make sure he gets to his court date. Minor charge of possession of crystal meth, but you know how it is with them. Be ready for anything."

Fringe rednecks, Castellaws were the kind of stereotypes you read about on the internet. Moonshine-drinking hillbillies born of incest who had moved from Appalachia at the turn of the twentieth century. Prone to suicide and abuse of all sorts, they rarely went into town. All but one or two of them lived within a hundred yards of one another, and their spats often involved shotguns.