Redemption (9 page)

“
Whatever you say, Sheriff, but Mr. Sellers is gonna be
mighty
pissed.” He tipped his hat again and walked out.

Overton whispered to Autumn, “Half a million dollars.”

“
Just what a struggling candidate for office needs,” Autumn whispered. “And his stack
is
here, and as a landlord, I bet he has the keys—”

“
Now don’t go jumping to conclusions, Miss Harper. I’ll just seal this place off as a crime scene.” He stared her down. “Someone
did
break in.”

“
I opened an
unlocked
door, Sheriff.”

“
Uh-huh. Then we’ll see what Jimmy Lee says. In the meantime, I want you to do me a favor. It shouldn’t take long.”

“
I’ve already done you a favor. I uncovered all this.”

“
All this what? We’re standin’ in the house of an ... what you call it? Begins with an ‘E.’”

“
An eccentric.”

Shoulda paid more attention in English class.
“Right. An eccentric. No tellin’ what Crazy Annie the eccentric was up to.”

Autumn sighed. “True. Okay, what’s the favor?” She prepared to write.

“
I want you to find out who owns what around Snow and for how long.”

“
Check plat books,” she said as she wrote.

“
And also make a list of everyone within five miles of Snow.”

“
In all directions?”

“
Well, I’ve played connect-the-dots in my head, and all the bodies were found—”

“
I get the picture,” Autumn interrupted. “But that could be over a thousand names.”

“
Just the heads of the families and their spouses if they have them.”

Autumn sighed. “Anything else?”

“
That ought to do it for now. But if you can think—”

“
Knock, knock again,” Travis said, and he entered the kitchen. “Your radio’s sayin’ they’ve found Lester.”

“
Gotta go,” Overton said.

“
Ain’t no rush, they said,” Travis said. “They said Lester ain’t goin’ nowhere anytime soon.”

11

Nice flight. Decent landing at JFK. No baggage to claim. Catch a taxi to the hotel. Make a call. .

“
Hi! This is Margaret Ledbetter. Thank you for calling. I am not in my office at this time, so please leave your name and number ...”

That’s what they say about literary agents: never in their offices and always doing power lunches from noon until three. What a life. Leeches.

And she still uses that old-fashioned name. Margaret. Why not Marge? Margie. Maggie. Mags. She ought to change her name to Margo and come up with a better last name. Margo ... Jumper. Yes. Margo D. Jumper.

Beep. “Yes, this is—”

“
This is Margaret Ledbetter.” Breathy, southern belle voice drippin’ with hospitality—and about as false as her entire career.

“
Hi. Just calling to confirm our appointment for tomorrow at three.”

Papers rustling. “Oh, uh, yes, of course. You’re in town?”

New York city is not a town. “Yes.”

“
Wonderful! That’s just wonderful! Where are you staying? Maybe we could meet somewhere for lunch. I know this wonderful little cafe that just opened up.”

My, aren’t we excited? Simmer down, Mags. We’re only closing things today. “No thank you, Miss Ledbetter. Will I be your last appointment of the day?”

“
As you requested.”

Now that’s wonderful. That’s almost peachy. “See you tomorrow.”

Hang up. Dial room service. Watch TV. Say a few prayers. Smile. Dream..

12

Overton stood on one of two ladders reaching far into an oak tree, Madison Powell on the other.

“
Cause of death?” Overton asked, swatting at a few mosquitoes buzzing around his head so he didn’t have to stare at Lester’s body.

“
Wasn’t the burns,” Powell said. “These are flash burns. See how he’s just singed?”

Overton glanced up but didn’t focus on Lester. “Yeah.”

“
The explosion sent him here in a hurry, probably gave him quite a headache.” He tapped the gnarled tree branch sticking through Lester’s back. “Official cause of death will have to be death by impalement, though not right away. Probably lived for a few minutes, maybe even half an hour or so. Uh, where’s your reporter? I have a nifty headline for her: ‘Oak Tree Kills Man.’”

I have a better one. “Forensics Geek Dies in Fall from Pine County Oak Tree.”
“She’s on assignment up in Pine.”

Powell started down the ladder. “She’s missin’ one helluva picture.”

Overton looked once more at Lester and backed down the ladder. “It would be in very poor taste, Mr. Powell.”

Powell smiled. “Yeah, I guess ‘Oak Tree Lynches Black Man’ wouldn’t go over too well down here, huh?”

You are such a racist shit.
“No.”

Ramsey walked over with a tape measure. “One hundred and seventeen feet from here to the house. Dang, Sheriff, that’s twenty-seven feet past first base!”

“
Just write it down, Ramsey,” Overton said as Wilkes and another man, chainsaws in hand, climbed the ladders. “Where’s your rope, Wilkes?”

Wilkes slowed his ascent and looked down. “Won’t need one, Sheriff.”

“
I don’t want him falling.”

“
We’ll be careful.” He laughed. “Not like he could feel it if we
did
drop him, right?”

“
And try to keep the branch intact!” Powell yelled. He stepped closer to Overton. “I have a collection of strange murder weapons, and with a little shellac, that branch will make a fine centerpiece.”

You are a very sick man.
“So tell me, Mr. Powell, is this a crime scene?”

“
Propane explosions of this magnitude are pretty rare.”

“
Ramsey, seal the area.”

Ramsey grimaced. “Uh, Sheriff, I don’t think we have enough tape. We used a lot of it up yesterday.”

Powell smiled and blinked at Ramsey. “I have plenty of police tape in the van. Help yourself.”

“
Thanks!” Ramsey said with a smile.

“
And when you’re finished here,” Overton said to Ramsey, “get Wilkes to take you over to Annie’s and seal her place up, too.” Ramsey shuffled off through the woods.

“
Overreactin’, aren’t you, Sheriff?” Powell asked as they walked back to the house.

“
I have three mysterious deaths and no explanations.”

“
And you think they’re connected, right?”

“
They could be.”

“
You been readin’ those cop procedural novels, huh?”

Cop-what novels?
“Don’t have time to read.”

They stood beside Powell’s van. “Some of ‘em are good, but I like the forensic kind best. I’m kinda hot for that Cornwell chick, though I hear she’s a lesbian. You know she’s from Virginia.” Powell laughed. “Oh yeah, they found your pink Caddy.”

And you could have told me this earlier.
“How do they know it’s my pink Caddy?”

“
Well, there was blood on the grille and the hood. I’m sure they’ll match Annie’s.”

“
When did they find it?”

“
Last night around ten. And you’ll never guess where.”

So I won’t guess.
“Where?”

“
At the Calhoun airport in long-term parkin’.”

“
Anyone see—”

Powell shook his head. “In long-term you pull up and get a ticket. No guard.”

Pretty smooth.
“Prints?”

“
Only a couple thousand, but you’d expect that in a twenty-five-year-old car.”

“
Hair and fibers?”

“
Tens of thousands.”

“
Owner?”

“
None.”

“
None? How can a car on the road in this state not have an owner?”

“
That pink Caddy was supposed to be rustin’ peacefully at a junkyard off Highfield Avenue in northwest Calhoun.”

“
So it was stolen ... from a junkyard?”

Powell shrugged. “The way they tell it, it just up and vanished one day, and they didn’t report it. Bad for business, I guess.”

How does a junked pink Cadillac just up and vanish?
“Previous owner?”

“
Are you kiddin’? Junkyards aren’t real good at filing.”

Overton rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So the driver of a junked Cadillac drives it from Calhoun to Snow, runs Annie down, then drives back to Calhoun.”
Why? He—or they—could have dumped it anywhere.

“
They probably left it in long-term parking so it wouldn’t be spotted for a day or two. Hardly a dent on the front bumper, too. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

Someone I knew made that dent.
“You have any ideas on the driver?”

Powell shrugged. “None. Besides, your driver probably hopped a flight somewhere, anywhere after that. Charlotte, Pittsburgh, New York, Newark, D. C., Atlanta, Miami. Calhoun’s almost a hub now.”

Or the driver wanted us to think he has taken off.
“Have they checked up on Creed Rydell, Darcy’s father?”

“
What for?”

Because it’s police procedure, you ass.
“Have they?”

“
Yeah, I think so.” Powell laughed. “But ol’ Creed has a fantastic alibi.” He laughed again.

“
Well?”

“
Creed’s been in the Calhoun City Jail for years. Wanna know what for?”

Not really.
“What?”

“
Unpaid parkin’ tickets to the tune of close to three
thousand
dollars plus interest. Bet he has fun explainin’ that to the drug dealers in there. ‘Yo, what you in here for, man? Parkin’ tickets?’”

Overton left Powell and looked back into the woods. He heard the whiny whirr of the chainsaw, a crackle of branches, and a distinct thud.

Damn. Sorry, Lester.

After chewing out Wilkes for dropping Lester’s body, Overton drove to the gas station to call Lester’s mother, giving as much information as he could without describing the gory details.

“
An explosion? With propane? That boy grew up around propane all his life! Man ran a gas station for heaven’s sake! He wouldn’t have been that careless!”

I agree.
“We’re treating it as a homicide, Mrs. Williams.”

“
You better! An’ I had just talked to him. Who you think done this?”

I have no idea.
“Uh, I’m working on a few leads and—”

“
Yeah, right. Just like that Jeremiah boy. That Sheriff Hughes didn’t know shit, and you don’t neither. Y’all should have called in the FBI back then, and you should be callin’ them now!”

To tell them what? To show them what? Two suicides, an accident, an empty room in a crazy lady’s house, and a whole bunch of coincidences?
“Listen, Mrs. Williams, Lester was a friend of mine, and I’ll do whatever it takes to—”

“
Don’t give me that bullshit!” she interrupted. “You’ll do whatever it takes to keep things quiet is what you’ll do. You’ll investigate for a few days then say my Lester blew hisself up, what a tragic accident. If I could get up there, I’d teach you a thing or two about investigatin’. Hell, I’ve known all along who killed Jeremiah Poindexter.”