Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels (18 page)

“When?”

“When we heard them yelling out on the water.” Murdock glanced at me. “Not that we was trying to listen, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Something about the boat,” Dewey replied. “You owe me this, you owe me that. Money, money. With Eddie Ray, it was always about money.”

“Russell’s boat?” I asked.

Murdock nodded, carefully snipping the thread with scissors.

“It’s not a fishing boat. It’s more like a tourist runner. Russell and Eddie Ray bought it together a couple years ago so they could start a water taxi. The whole idea kind of folded, but I think Eddie Ray came snooping around again, looking for some money out of it.”

“Where’s the boat now?”

“Russell keeps it at his farm,” Murdock said. “Uses it for night fishing sometimes, I think.”

“Did Eddie Ray still own half?”

“I doubt it. From what I recall, when the water taxi went belly-up as a business, Russell took over the payments. Been paying on it ever since. I think he figures he paid back Eddie Ray’s share and then some.”

I sat back, wondering if a fishing boat would constitute Eddie Ray’s idea of a “fortune.”

“What’s a boat like that cost?” I asked.

“Depends,” said Murdock. “Probably forty or fifty thousand. Not exactly chump change.”

“No.”

I sat quietly for a moment, thinking, as the men continued mending the huge net. There was something hypnotic about their movements, measured and even with the thick thread. I wondered suddenly if fishermen ever soaked their nets in bleach, perhaps to clean them up.

“That net looks pretty gray,” I said, feeling kind of stupid but blundering forward anyway. “You should soak it in some Clorox.”

This earned a chuckle from Dewey and no response at all from Murdock.

“I don’t think the fish care what color the nets are,” Dewey said. “And long as I’m catching fish, I don’t much care either.”

I nodded, trying again.

“I thought I saw some bleach bottles,” I said. “I thought maybe that’s what they were for.”

“Nah, somebody must be cleaning something,” Murdock said, shrugging, as he sewed. “Bleach is used as a disinfectant, right?”

“My mama used to clean our outhouse with it,” Dewey replied. “Kills germs real good.”

My bleach conversation was going nowhere, so I tried a different tack.

“Tell me about the fight in the bar,” I said. “The one that Eddie Ray had.”

“Oh boy,” Dewey replied, tying a knot with his teeth.

“Over a pool game,” Murdock added, lowering his voice. “Eddie Ray picked the wrong man to try to hustle.”

I leaned forward and used softer tones myself.

“Who? Russell?”

“No. This was a different argument entirely. This was one a them Tanigawa boys—Kenji or Shin, I don’t know which one. They’re twins. I can’t tell them apart, ’cept that only Shin speaks English.”

“Tanigawa?” I asked. “Is that Japanese?”

“Yeah. And they’re bad news, both of them. When they come to town, I always steer clear of ’em.”

“What happened with Eddie Ray?”

“What happened is Eddie Ray was an idiot,” Murdock said softly. “Tried to hustle a pool game. When Tanigawa said he cheated and wouldn’t pay up, Eddie Ray punched him in the jaw.”

“Yikes! Must’ve been some fight.”

“Not really,” Murdock said. “That Japanese fella gets up and whips out a switchblade, one of them martial arts things, yea long, kind of curved-like. He wasn’t fooling around. Eddie Ray took one look at that knife, turned around, and ran away!”

Both men laughed loudly. I tried to picture Eddie Ray picking a fight and then discovering he was in way over his head. I
wondered how I could find out more about these two Japanese brothers—and if the police had also realized there might be some potential suspects there.

“So where do these guys live?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever met them.”

“They’re down the bay a bit from here,” Dewey said. “They come to Kawshek for gas, groceries, and a drink. Like Murdock said, when we see ’em, we just steer clear.”

“Well, I done a little business with them from time to time,” Murdock amended. “But mostly I keep my distance. They really are kind of scary, if you want to know the truth.”

“Soup’s ready.”

I looked up, surprised to see Stinky standing at the counter, roughly lowering a pint container into a small paper bag. Once the container was in, he threw in a pack of crackers, a plastic spoon, and a napkin.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, wishing I’d had just a few more minutes to talk. Finding Dewey and Murdock had been like striking gold; my conversation with them had given me several new things to consider.

“Them Japanese fellows are good customers here,” Stinky said grumpily. “I wouldn’t be talking bad about ’em.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Murdock said. “In other words, they always got a pocket full of cash, and they don’t complain about your high prices.”

“You see some other store out here to buy your groceries?” Stinky said defensively. “You’re free to leave.”

Murdock let out a hoot.

“And miss all the fun in here? I don’t think so.”

Stinky rang me up on the register and I paid; then I took the chance of buying a few more minutes of conversation by opening the soup right there, sitting back down on the barrel, and taking a bite of the spicy red concoction. It wasn’t bad, though I was a bit concerned about the hygiene of the chef. Anyone who looked like
that, and whose name was Stinky, probably shouldn’t be whipping up a pot of soup for general sale.

“So what about Hank Hawkins?” I said chattily to my two new friends, thinking of the big fellow with the scar on his chin who had recently been dating Shayna. “Do you think he could’ve killed Eddie Ray? Out of jealousy?”

Surprised, Murdock shook his head.

“Hank wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, I don’t think him and Shayna was all that serious about each other anyway.”

“If you’re looking for jealousy as a motive,” Dewey said, “you’d do better to look in other directions.”

Something about the gossipy nature of his tone of voice made me look up.

“Oh?”

“Aw, don’t be bringing that up again,” Murdock said, shaking his head. “That’s old news.”

“What is?” I asked, trying not to appear eager.

“Shayna and Russell,” Dewey whispered loudly. “They had themselves an affair a while back.”

“Speak of the devil!” Murdock whispered sharply just as the back door to the store swung open.

“You see,” Dewey continued, unaware of what Murdock had said or that the man who had come in was almost within hearing distance, “Russell and Tia had just moved out to the farm and—ow!”

Dewey was cut short by a sharp kick to his shin from Murdock. Just then the man reached the table and nodded at the three of us.

“Afternoon, Dewey. Murdock. Ma’am.”

“Afternoon, Russell.” Dewey said, his ears burning red.

I had to assume this was Russell Lynch, the man Dewey had been talking about. He was tall and broad, with a pleasant-looking face under a ragged khaki hat. He wore faded jeans and a flannel shirt, both flecked with splotches of mud, and he smelled strongly of sweat.

“Hey, Stinky,” he said, leaning over the counter. “You got any stock wire?”

“What d’you think I am?” Stinky called from the back. “A hardware store?”

“Come on. I just need about ten feet to fix a hole in my fence.”

“Try Buster’s.”

“I did. He only sells it by the roll.”

“So buy a roll.”

“For a hundred dollars? No way!”

Russell looked at us and winced.

“Hey, fellows, either one of you got any stock wire I could borrow? I’ll replace it next week.”

Both men shook their heads.

“I might have some,” I volunteered, heart pounding at my lie. I didn’t even know what stock wire was. “How much do you need?”

“Ten feet or so. Just enough to fix a break in my fence.”

I nodded.

“What kind do you want?” I asked.

“Stock wire,” he said, blinking. “You know. Wire fencing, like Keystone Red? Little squares down near the bottom, bigger squares up near the top?”

Like the fencing around Sal’s play yard.

“I probably have that much. Where do you live? I’ll bring it out to you.”

“Oh, you don’t need to go to all that trouble,” he said. “I’ll just wait here while you go get it.”

My mind reeled, wondering what to do. I figured it might take me 45 minutes to race into Osprey Cove and buy the wire from a hardware store. Then I could come back out here and deliver it personally to his farm and maybe get a better idea of who this man was and how he might fit into the puzzle of Eddie Ray’s death.

“Well, I’m not headed straight home,” I hedged. “But I could have it out to you in about an hour, hour and a half.”

Russell smiled.

“Do you have a boat?” he asked. “If you do, it’s no big deal. If not, it’s quite a drive.”

“Russell don’t live right in Kawshek no more,” Dewey said, chuckling. “He’s a regular farmer now.”

“I live across the river and around the bend,” Russell continued. “As the crow flies, my farm is just right there. But by land it’s a bit of a trip.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” I said. “I’m going to Osprey Cove first anyway.”

He hesitated and then finally spoke.

“If you really don’t mind…” he said. “It sure beats me having to buy a whole three-hundred-and-thirty-foot roll.”

“Sure. You’ll have to tell me how to get to your place, though.”

“I’ll draw you a map. And we haven’t really met, by the way. I’m Russell Lynch.”

“Callie Webber,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too. I sure do appreciate this.”

He seemed glad—but not suspicious—about my offer, and I realized that this was simply how things were done out here. Neighbor helping neighbor.

I packed away my soup as he took a napkin from the counter and began sketching out the series of roads that would take me to his farm. When he was finished, he handed me the napkin, and I studied the crude map. His farm was far. Apparently, I would have to drive all the way east to Osprey Cove, then north on the main highway, then back west to the end of the next big peninsula.

It would be past sunset by the time I got there, which meant that I would be heading into this man’s territory in the dark. Ignoring the little warning bells at the back of my brain, I told him I’d be there as soon as I could.

Twenty-One

Fortunately, I thought to call ahead to the hardware store in Osprey Cove as I drove out of Kawshek. According to them, stockade fence wire was always sold by the roll and was definitely not available in shorter lengths. In desperation, I stopped by my house and simply used a pair of wire cutters to take loose a ten-foot section of Sal’s play yard. I knew it would be a pain to replace later, but I didn’t know what else to do.

I rolled up the wire and tried to get it into the back of my SUV without tearing the upholstery or the carpet. Hopefully, this would be worth all of this trouble. Once I delivered the wire, I could talk to Russell a bit about Eddie Ray and maybe get some more leads on my investigation.

I knew there was more to learn from Dewey and Murdock back at the store, too, but that would have to wait for another day. For now, I followed the winding highway to Russell’s farm, the bale of wire tucked securely in the back, using the hand-scribbled map as a guide. The peninsula he lived on was certainly rural, though not as wooded as mine. Instead, it seemed to hold mostly fields and farms and not a lot of trees.

As I had expected, it was quite dark by the time I reached the farm, so I wasn’t able to get much of an impression of the place. The mailbox was clearly marked “Lynch,” and two wagon wheels decoratively graced each side of the entrance of the driveway. I turned in and drove about a hundred yards before coming to a large, white, old-looking farmhouse. In the sweep of my headlights, I could see a number of smaller outbuildings, including what looked like a chicken coop and, farther back, a barn. Even before I turned off the car, Russell emerged from the barn and started walking toward me.

I opened my door and got out, wondering if anyone else was home or if it was just the two of us here.

“Hey, thanks again for coming,” Russell said, one hand extended. I shook his hand and smiled, thinking he seemed like a nice-enough fellow. “How were the directions?”

“Perfect,” I replied. “I had no problem at all.”

I unlocked the hatchback and let it pop open, the image of Eddie Ray suddenly filling my mind. If I paled for a moment in the moonlight, Russell didn’t seem to notice. He simply removed the roll of wire from the back of the vehicle.

“So what’s the wire for?” I asked, regaining my composure.

“Busted fence section,” he said. “I drove the tractor too close to the wire, and the next thing I knew I had ripped out a good ten foot of fence.”

“Good thing you weren’t hurt.”

“Nah, it was just a stupid mistake. I seem to make a lot of those around here.”

“Have you had the farm for long?”

“I grew up here,” he said, “but it was my daddy’s farm until he passed on, ’bout a year and a half ago. That’s when I moved back to make a go of it myself. Didn’t know what I was getting myself into. It’s a real job of work, I’ll tell you that.”