Southern Fried (24 page)

She sniffed faintly. “I’d like to see him with a fittin’ burial. He’d had such a hard life. We ’uz all each other had.”

Her smile returned, a bit fainter.

“Miz Earling, if you’d tell me how to get in touch with you, I’ll make some calls, then get back to you.”

“Sure. I knew you would. That deputy said you ’uz Mr. Garnet’s lawyer. I figured if anybody could get some money, you could.”

“Miz Earling, I can’t promise you anything like that. I just said I’d make some inquiries.” Why did I start using bigger words the minute I thought I needed something to hide behind? “But I will get back to you.”

Her smile didn’t dim or waver.

“Do you have a phone number where I can reach you?”

She leaned over to watch me write it down as she recited it for me.

“That’s my neighbor? But she’ll come get me iff’ n you call.”

“Fine. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can tell you something.”

Even as I stood to show her out, I wondered why I’d agreed to help. Here I was, acting again as a messenger, first for the biker boys and now for Nila Earling. I couldn’t picture asking Harrison Garnet to pay the funeral expenses for Nebo Earling, grave flower thief.

And how does one bill for this sort of errand-running? Always before, I’d had well-defined client relationships and a secretary with a drawerful of our “standard agreements.” Lou Wray wouldn’t even loan me a sharpened pencil.

After Ms. Earling ducked her head as a farewell and waddled down the hall, I decided to go see L.J. If I admitted it, curiosity was the real reason I’d promised to look into Nila Barling’s request—and some intuitive sense that it wasn’t good business to get a reputation for being high-handed with people who came asking for help.

After all, if I decided to practice permanently in Dacus—now, that was a scary thought. Who was I kidding? Potential clients the likes of Geneva Gads-den, Nila Earling, and Donlee Griggs made chasing
ambulances with Jake Baker a rosy option indeed. I needed to start looking for a real job.

To postpone that, I picked up the phone to call L.J., then thought better of it. I had enough trouble reading L.J. in person. I’d see if I could catch her in her office before lunch.

y
ep.” L.J. waggled her toothpick to the other side of her mouth. “The ME in Charleston ID’ed Nebo Earling. Or what the fire left of him. Don’t tell me Nebo was one of your brand-new clients. You accumulatin’ quite a list of losers.”

“Not a client, but thanks for your concern.”

She nodded.

“You figuring Nebo for the arson?” I figured we’d toy with each other a bit.

Her desk chair gave a frightening squeal as she leaned back. She eyed me over the tops of her black brogans, maybe trying to decide how much to tell me. After a wait, she spoke.

“Naw. Can’t really see it. Nebo might start a fire by dint of sheer stupidity. Nobody’d be surprised by that. But settin’ out to destroy records and all. That don’t ring quite true.”

She sucked on her toothpick as she studied her shoes. “I reckon somebody could’ve hired Nebo to torch his records for him.” She dangled an opening
for me to leap in and protest Harrison Garnet’s innocence, but I didn’t oblige her.

“’Course, let’s face it, nobody with good sense’d hire Nebo to walk a dog.”

Couldn’t argue with that logic.

“And the settin’ of the fire. That was a sight too sophisticated for Nebo Earling. Imagine him sawing into a pipe to start a gas leak. No way that boy’d have sense enough to turn off the gas first. We’d’ve found him spattered in droplets all over that place.”

Descriptive. And accurate.

“So who do you have figured for it?”

She shrugged, sending another protesting creak through her chair. “You tell me. I need somebody smart enough to rig that blast without blowin’ himself to kingdom come—or at least scorchin’ his eyebrows off. And I need somebody with a reason to destroy Garnet Mills’ company records.” She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What records were targeted? Enough left to tell?”

“Shit, yeah. Hard to burn books. Did you know that? I have to say, I really didn’t. You’d think a book, it’s paper, it’d go right up. But they don’t. That guy outta Columbia said it’s hard to get enough oxygen to the pages. Close together, you know.”

Fun facts to know and tell.

“You got my message about Noodle, didn’t you?”

Her lips tightened around her toothpick. “Yeah. Later I may be askin’ you how you come to know so much. But right now, I got alligators up the ass,”

“You find Noodle?”

“The investigation’s ongoing.”

I took the hint. Time to change the subject.

“L.J., I had an interesting conversation last night. You probably know the story, but it came as a bit of a surprise to me. You know Sadie Waynes? Lives up on the mountain near Luna Lake?”

L.J. pursed her lips, then shook her head.

“She lives over the ridge behind my granddad’s old cabin. She paid me a visit last night. We were talking.” I didn’t quite know how to get into this story. “Had you heard—or does the case file mention—any reports about Harry Garnet being seen regularly up at Luna Lake with Lea Bertram?”

L.J. didn’t register any surprise, just gave a noncommittal sniff. “There’s some mention of them keeping company.”

“Any mention that Sadie Waynes saw Harry Garnet up there the day Lea disappeared?”

The chair protested mightily as L.J. thudded her feet to the floor and leaned across the desk to face me, her eyes narrow slits. “You in here tellin’ me how to do my job? Get your story straight, Counselor. Sheriff Jacobs’s case file reports that a car fitting the description of the Garnets’ silver-gray Cadillac Seville was seen parked near the picnic tables the last day Lea Bertram went to the lake to paint. However, Harry Garnet had a solid alibi. As did his father, just in case you were wondering.”

I hadn’t wondered, which gave me a new appreciation for the deviousness of L.J’s mind.

“Sheriff Jacobs probably reached the same conclusion I would have—that the witness was mistaken. It happens. Happens more times than they’re right, if you must know. So that doesn’t take the heat off your boy Bertram.”

“So Lea Bertram was seeing Harry Garnet?”

L.J. fiddled with the magnetic paper-clip holder on her desk. “Not much doubt about that.”

“And others?”

She looked over at me. “Let’s just say Lea Bertram had a lot more extracurricular activities than most young married ladies did.”

“Any other names?”

“And if there were, what would make that any of your business? Seems to me, the more boyfriends you find, the more reason you have for Melvin Bertram to go over the edge.”

I gave her an exasperated look. “That’d be one way of looking at it, I suppose. Seems like talking to Harry Garnet again wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

She smirked around her toothpick. “Thanks for all your helpful advice.”

I stirred around, reaching for my purse as if ready to leave. “Out of curiosity, L.J., what did the ME determine about Nebo Barling’s cause of death?”

L.J. had to know that question came from more than idle curiosity. On the off chance Nebo had died of natural causes before the fire started, the charges would be limited to two to twenty years, rather than a possible death penalty case.

“Clearly died of smoke inhalation. The heat got
to him later. Crisped him good. But no sign of additional trauma.”

She shuffled through file folders and papers stacked on her desk. “Here.” She pulled out a thin stapled sheaf of paper. The stack on the edge of her desk threatened to topple, then settled onto itself.

“Must’ve let one of the med students handle this one. Got awful chatty in the report. You’ll enjoy this.” She arranged her toothpick so she could read tome.

“‘Generalized charring left skin a uniform black color, though uncharred portions found underneath the victim’s belt indicate he was Caucasian.

“‘Characteristic pew—
pugilistic
or boxer’s attitude of the arms and hands and legs shortened the length measurements of the victim. However, his height is estimated at five-six to five-eight.”

“‘Sealing of the lips by the intense heat largely preserved the teeth from thermal damage. The teeth exhibited poor maintenance care; several were missing, as noted below. While no dental records were available for comparison, the victim’s right front incisor was exceptionally long and protruded in a pronounced overbite. The left front incisor was missing; wear patterns on the teeth indicated this loss occurred well in advance of the fire. The end of the right incisor showed minor signs of heat exposure where it protruded slightly through the lips.’”

L.J. looked up from her monotone reading. “Now, how many guys you know in Dacus got a right front fang poking out their mouth?”

“Given its clinical tone, not a bad description of Nebo, that’s for sure.”

L.J. bent over the document and resumed her recitation. “‘The skin of both hands had peeled off in a characteristic glove. The glove was delivered intact and in a state of preservation, allowing fingerprints to be taken. The fingerprint card was initialed and delivered to the attending deputy.’”

L.J. added, “Lester Watts matched ’em to Nebo. He was arrested about five years ago on a minor theft charge.”

“Guess that cinches the ID.”

L.J. made a show of flipping to the next page and kept reading. “‘Cause of death,’” she announced. “‘Soot particles were observed in the nostrils and mouth and into the upper airway branches of the lungs, indicating that the victim was alive when the fire started.

“‘No external trauma inconsistent with estimated temperatures and duration of exposure were observed.’ What in the hell does that mean,” L.J. muttered, but read on. “‘A blood carbon monoxide (COHb) of only forty percent was measured, using ventricular blood preserved in the heart. While the CO level is low, the lungs and blood pathways show evidence of emphysema and arterio’—something—’heart disease; such findings would indicate a lower-than-normal CO reading consistent with death due to smoke inhalation.

“‘Summary: A white, middle-aged man of less-than-average height and less-than-average weight, exhibiting symptoms of heart and lung disease
which accelerated the effects of smoke inhalation. Attendant changes in skin and characteristic muscle contraction from exposure to high temperatures observed. Cause of death: smoke inhalation.’”

We both sat a moment. I didn’t know what L.J. contemplated, but I considered how clinical our exit from life could be. Of course, I’d read enough labor and delivery records to know that physicians made our entry into life equally clinical.

“Do you get from that, that he would’ve died even if he hadn’t had heart disease and—what else?—emphysema?” I asked.

L.J. shrugged. “Can’t tell from this. Who’d understand half the words? But I can tell you what a doc won’t say on a witness stand. No way a medical examiner’s goin’ to let an arsonist off by sayin’, ‘Gee, if the victim had taken better care of himself when he was alive, he might have been able to hold his breath long enough to escape the fire and he might not be dead now.’ Good try, Counselor. But no go.”

So much for trying defense strategies out on L.J.

“Interesting. And sad,” I had to admit.

L.J. shrugged and tossed the autopsy report on top of the stack of papers. She didn’t bother filing it somewhere she could find it more easily the next time she needed it.

“Thanks for your time, L. J. I’d better get to work.”

“Try gettin’ a better class of client, A’vry. You’re goin’ to ruin your reputation, the trash you keep time with.”

I refrained from saying
oh, that reminds me
, but I
asked, “Have you had any word on Donlee Griggs?” With a pang, I realized I hadn’t asked about him earlier.

L.J. pushed her protesting chair back from her desk, shaking her head. “No sign of him. The rescue squad got tired of dicking around and gave up about sundown yesterday. If he’s there, he’ll float up sooner or later. Big as he is, probably sooner. If he ain’t there, he best not be showin’ his big, dumpy ass anywhere in my line of sight or I’ll shoot him right between his two stupid eyes.”

L.J’s a born peacekeeper.

“And A’vry, while you’re lookin’ for better clients, you might try attractin’ a better class of boyfriend. Donlee Griggs, sheesh. In high school, who’d’a thought that’s what little A’vry Andrews’d come to.”

She smiled, her toothpick hanging precariously from her bottom lip as she showed me to the door.

Since my visit with L.J. had been so much fun, I decided to prolong my morning’s frivolities with a quick visit to Sylvie Garnet’s. Of course, I could’ve gone back to the office, past the Dragon Lady’s gor-gon eye, and waited on some other nutball like Geneva Gadsden or Nila Earling to call or come by. The more I considered my options, the better Jake Baker’s offer to chase ambulances looked.

In violation of what I remembered as the Dacus code of conduct, whereby one should call before dropping by, I brazenly rang the Garnets’ front doorbell.

The Garnets lived in a grand old house just down
the street from my aunts’. They’d bought it a few years back from an elderly lady and had turned it into a showplace. Even in November, monstrous ferns hung all along the wicker-furnished front porch-a porch large enough to host a full-dress ball.

I had just pressed the doorbell when a young woman climbed the steps at the far end of the porch to join me. Lindley Garnet, Harry’s wife, wore a subdued ivory coatdress, matching pumps, and, when she noticed me, a determined expression.

“What a surprise to see you here,” she said as she strode across the expanse of porch. No warm hello, no polite observations about the weather.

“I stopped by to see Mrs. Garnet for—”

“She has an appointment. I’m here to pick her up.” She motioned with a flip of her wrist toward the driveway at the side of the house. Over her shoulder, I could see the roof of a car on the other side of the boxwood hedge.

Easy to see Lindley wasn’t raised in a small town. Folks tend to get their messages across without such stridence.