Murder Deja Vu (14 page)

While he waited, Clarence thought about the four men at the bar with Reece the night of Karen’s murder, including Carl. Finding people was easy when he knew who they were. They paid taxes, got speeding or parking tickets, married, and divorced. He’d interviewed everyone but Carl on the phone but never got around to a face-to-face with any of them. He’d correct that when he returned home, because all were within driving distance. Before, he fit the investigation around other cases. Now, it was his prime concern. Jeri’s too. He’d read the transcripts again, looking for the hole that no one found in over twenty years.
Arrogance, thy name is Clarence Wright.

He labored on his third draft when the bartender tapped his finger on the bar and nodded toward the lanky man who came through the door. Waylon Greer hopped on a stool two down from Clarence with no one in between, and ordered a draft. The bartender served him and pointed at Clarence. Greer looked like he’d put in a hard day doing whatever he did. His grimy fingernails suggested some sort of mechanic, but Clarence didn’t need an employment history.

Greer slid over next to Clarence. “My buddy says you want to talk to me. Let me guess. About Rayanne?”

“My name’s Clarence Wright. I’m working for Reece Daughtry’s attorney.”

Greer hopped off his stool and waved his arms in the air. “Hey, y’all. Hear this? This fella here’s working for the guy cut my Rayanne’s head almost clear off.”

There were a few boos and hisses, nothing Clarence hadn’t heard before in the midst of hostile territory. “You want to sit down and answer a couple of questions without the histrionics?”

“Histrionics.” Greer still hadn’t lowered his voice. “What the hell kind of word is that? I don’t even know what the fuck it means.”

“It means hysterical,” Clarence said, “which you are getting before you even know what I want to ask you.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Waylon,” the bartender said, “and listen to the man? How’d you like it if someone framed you for murder?”

“But this guy’s guilty,” Greer said. “Everyone knows that.”

“I don’t,” Clarence said. “Because he’s not.”

“Well, I just heard over the radio that he’s on the run. Innocent men don’t run, so he’s guilty.”

“He’s running because he rotted in prison for fifteen years. Would you hang around and wait for that to happen again? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

“Me neither,” the bartender said. “Won’t hurt you to listen, Waylon. You got nothing better to do. Rayanne didn’t leave here with a guy six-three. She left with a guy ’bout your height, only heavier.”

Greer shrugged. “Yeah, I saw him hit on her.”

Clarence felt that internal jolt a cop gets when he’s on the verge of uncovering an important piece of information.
Easy, Clarence. This guy’s not a fan.
“Tell me about him.”

Greer huffed and puffed, took a long guzzle of his beer and slapped it on the bar. “I watched him go after her. She was mad as hell at me ’cause I was drunk.”

Someone down the bar yelled, “Big surprise there.”

“Shut up, jerkoff. I’m sober now.”

“What did he look like?”
Keep him on subject.

“About my height, with a mole on his cheek, but soft, you know what I mean?”

“No. Explain it.”

“Puffy. White and pasty. Like he didn’t never work outside. Too much of the good life. Booze without exercise. I drink, but I work out.” Greer straightened. “I’m in good shape.”

Clarence didn’t want to hear about Greer’s workout schedule. “The mole. Did it look real?”

“Naw. Damn thing was fake as they come. You could see the way he kept pressing it, like he thought it might fall off.”

Clarence wondered if he told the sheriff this, but he didn’t want to get Greer off track by asking. He also wondered why he let his girlfriend go off with someone he knew wore a disguise. Must’ve been way more than drunk. “What else?”

“He wore sunglasses. Who the fuck wears shades inside except Nicholson and rock stars? A cap too. Brand new one. I bet he never set it on his head before. You know what it had on it? John Deere. This guy never once planted his ass on a tractor. I can tell you that for a fact.”

“Hair color?” Clarence asked.

“Hmm, couldn’t tell. Cap covered his hair. If I had to guess, you know, from the eyebrows, I’d say light brown. But I can’t be sure. I was pretty wasted, and I was mad back at Rayanne.” A thoughtful look came over Greer’s face. “Shouldn’t of let her go. Shouldn’t of.”

A hush came over the bar. No doubt everyone there agreed. Clarence learned more than he bargained for. An almost clear description of the man’s physical appearance. Things that couldn’t change overnight. Waylon Greer stood about six feet, but height alone wasn’t going to help. Six feet was average these days. Clarence was six feet, and he’d bet the guys at the table the night of the murder were in the same range, give an inch either way, except Reece. But soft—now that said something. Clarence knew exactly what soft looked like. He didn’t know what the men at Reece’s table looked like, but he’d find out in person as soon as he returned to Boston.

“Thanks, Mr. Greer. I appreciate your time. You’ve been a great help.”

“I have?” When Clarence nodded, Greer said, “Hope you get the son of a bitch who done it. Whoever it is.”

“Me too.” Clarence plunked a twenty in front of Greer. “Drink up on me.” Then he turned to the bartender. “Thanks for your help.” He plunked down a twenty and a ten. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Elvis.” He crossed his heart. “God’s truth.”

“Well, Elvis’s friend is leaving the building.” Clarence waved over his shoulder and walked out the door. He had a few more things to do before he left for Boston.

C
larence went back to his room at Pine House to freshen up. He checked his watch. Jeraldine ought to be home by now. He speed-dialed her cell. “Hey, babe. Any news for me?”

“Just got to the office. I called Baker from the airport in Asheville to see what he could come up with before I got back. He found someone from Charlotte willing to talk about Minette. I’m going to call him tonight after he gets home from work. Baker said the guy kind of gagged when he heard Minette’s name. How are you doing down there?”

“The description
Rayanne
Johnson’s on-and-off boyfriend gave me might narrow the field. Sounds like someone gone to seed. Pasty, puffy, pudgy.”

“Oh, the three Ps,” Jeraldine said. “Add another. Psycho.”

“Doesn’t work for me. It’s not alliteration. Call me after you talk to your snitch.”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Me too.”

Clarence had put away three beers at Rudy’s, but he decided to stop in the Pine House Restaurant for something stronger, then eat dinner. He took a seat at the bar.

The bartender put a napkin and bowl of peanuts in front of him. “What’ll you have?”

“Dewars rocks.” Clarence had spent more time with bartenders in North Carolina than he’d spent with Jeri. He was tired, mind running circles. Something nibbled at the corner of his memory, but he couldn’t separate it. Whatever bugged him would probably wake him in the middle of the night.

He felt a presence move up next to him.

“Mind if I join you?” The man didn’t wait for an invitation. He sat down and offered his hand. “Harris Stroud.”

“Please.” Clarence took Stroud’s hand. “Clarence Wright.”

“I know who you are. I make it my business to know what’s going on in town and in the county. That’s what newspapermen do.” The bartender set down Clarence’s drink. “Put his drinks on my tab, Chaz.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stroud.”

“Thanks,” Clarence said. “I owe you one.

“You can pay me back by telling me why you’re still here.”

“It’ll take more than a drink to buy me, Mr. Stroud.”

“Name’s Harris, and I have all night.”

“I don’t. I’m tired. I need sleep. I planned to stop by your office in the morning.”

“Looks like I’m saving you a trip. I assume you were going to pump me for information. I’m curious what you know. We could share.”

Clarence had heard about Stroud. He might get more from him after a few drinks than he would on a morning visit. “Hmm, we could. What do you say we take a table? More private.”

“Good idea. Chaz’ll take care of us. He’s the best waiter in Regal Falls, aren’t you, Chaz?”

“If you say so, Mr. Stroud.”

Stroud leaned closer to Clarence. “Chaz agrees with me because I’m a good tipper.” He winked at the young bartender. “Bring our drinks over, will you?”

He never ordered, but as soon as they sat down, Chaz served Stroud a large whiskey. The editor was younger than Clarence had imagined, but the effects of heavy drinking were beginning to show on his flushed face.

“Why were you coming to see me, as if I didn’t know?”

“Robert Minette.”

“You’re not asking me to talk about my boss, are you?”

“Actually, I am.”

“Hmm. I don’t know if that’s ethical.”

Clarence laughed, but he didn’t say anything. Harris finished his drink before Clarence had downed half of his. Chaz brought another to the table with barely a nod from the editor.

“But what the hell. Minette’s not a nice guy. You name any negative adjective, and it’ll apply to Robert.”

“I’ve heard asshole mentioned more than once.”

“That’s a noun.”

Clarence snickered. “You got me there.”

“There are a bunch of those too.”

“You think Minette is capable of murder?”

The drink stopped halfway to Stroud’s mouth. He sat poised for a moment, took a long swig, swallowed, then put the glass on the table. “I take it you mean our local murders.”

“Only one.”

Avoiding Clarence’s gaze, Stroud concentrated on the dark amber liquid in his glass. “You think he’s involved?”

“I do.”

Stroud appeared thoughtful. “Robert wouldn’t do the dirty himself. He’d suggest to his hire he wanted something done. It would be oblique but clear to someone on the same wavelength. Then Robert would feign surprise when the person carried it out. He’s too much of a coward to ever do anything on his own.”

“If he were hiring, who would it be?”

“PI by the name of Harry Klugh, from Atlanta. Now, turn around’s fair play. Whose murder do you think Robert contracted? Rayanne Johnson?”

“No, the friend.”

Stroud nodded.

Clarence could see he was on his way to getting very, very drunk. He needed to grill the editor while he could still talk, although he wasn’t slurring yet. “Back to the PI How do you know this?”

“He’s used him multiple times over the years.” Stroud finished his drink and waved at Chaz, but the kid was already there with a replacement. “I make it my business to know what Robert Minette is doing, has done, and predictably will do. It’s called survivor’s instinct.”

Clarence wondered why Stroud needed survivor’s instinct where it concerned Minette. “How did Dana survive?”

Harris took a minute, as if he were deciding what bordered on breaking a trust. “Dana wasted too many years with that creep.” He looked around, waved at Chaz. “I need something to eat or you’ll have to wipe me up with a sponge.”

Clarence marveled at the man’s capacity. He’d have been under the table if he’d put away what Stroud guzzled in the short time. Chaz came over and Harris ordered a steak. Clarence decided to join him. He hadn’t eaten all day and could feel himself getting tipsy. He didn’t want to lose his edge with the editor, who obviously revved his mouth like a Formula One engine when he drank too much.

“Dana made three mistakes,” Stroud continued. “First, she married Minette. That was the biggest one of all. Then she had an affair. I’m not talking out of school. Everyone knows. When she divorced Robert, he made sure they did, in spite of the humiliation it caused. Vengeful bastard. And third, her affair wasn’t with me. Not that I didn’t try. Now it looks like she’s made her fourth mistake, and she and Reece Daughtry will wind up in prison. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, whether the woman knows how to pick the right man?”

“She could do worse than Reece.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re his friend. I didn’t think he had any. He’s not what I’d call warm and fuzzy.”

Clarence ignored the disparaging remark. “You think Reece murdered that girl?”

Harris closed his eyes and massaged his fingers over the lids. When he opened them, he blinked a couple of times. “Hell, no. Why would any sane man leave a woman like Dana to screw a little country redneck? Doesn’t make sense. It’s not like he wasn’t getting any.” He broke off a piece of roll from the basket Chaz brought. “I’m sloshed.”

“Quit drinking.”

“Drunks don’t quit until they pass out. I try to save that for when I get home, but sometimes I don’t make it. I come here because they know me, and if I hit the table, they take care of me. It’s not even humiliating anymore.”

Clarence had known a few alcoholics in his day, but most couldn’t admit their problem. “Why don’t you get help?”