Stranger in the Room: A Novel (11 page)

“Would you mind jotting down the name of the lab? Was it close by?”

“Pretty close,” Billy said. “Only took two days.”

“And it was cement mix and chicken feed,” I said.

Billy and Brenda exchanged a glance. Billy squeezed her hand. “We couldn’t believe it,” she said. “None of it made sense.”

“Larry Quinn said the employee spilled the ashes, replaced them with cement mix to cover, and accidentally got them mixed in with the chicken feed,” I said.

“We could forgive that. As horrible as it is, accidents happen.” Brenda shook her head. “When you see the layout of the place you’ll understand. The crematorium is on the other side of the property from the barns and the residence. If Joe Ray Kirkpatrick ever did have an employee, there’s no reason he’d be up at the house.”

“Maybe he doubled as a farm hand,” Neil suggested.

Brenda pointed a short, thick finger at him. “Joe Ray Kirkpatrick did something to Miss Shelia’s remains. I feel it in my bones and so does Billy. It’s not enough to lose somebody, but then …” She trailed off, her wide eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry. It must have been quite a shock—”

“More than a shock, Ms. Street. It’s a downright outrage. All that chicken feed in Mama’s urn. I mean, holy shit.” Billy made the sign of the cross. “Mama
hated
chickens.”

  
10

W
alking out of the trailer where there had been almost no natural light and into the bright blue day was a welcome change. Billy and Brenda kept their space neat and clean, but it was closing in on me.

We eased the car back over the sandy drive past mobile homes in varying condition, some spanking new and some dappled with age spots and mold along the bottom edges.

“That was totally weird,” Neil remarked, as we pulled back onto the pavement.

“Tell me about it.” I looked across the car at him. He had his arms folded over his chest like he was cold. It was at least ninety degrees. “Brenda and Billy have a hunch, and we have a reputable local businessman who explained, apologized, and reimbursed them. Be interesting to find out if there’s really anything here.”

“If she said something about
the dead
one more time, I was going to hurl. Creepy.”

“It’s obviously emotional. It must dredge up all kinds of feelings.” I handed him the business card Brenda Wade had given me for Reuters Funeral Care and Chapel. “You think you can get their client list? I need to find an urn that came out of that crematory around the same time Shelia Wade was cremated. I’m thinking we need a feel for
what was coming out of Northeast Georgia Crematorium that week. It’s a place to start.”

We headed back to the hotel. I needed to change into something slightly more official. Neil got busy as soon as we arrived, trying to figure out if the funeral home the Wades had used was automated. There were three funeral homes in Creeklaw County. Two of them had websites. One of them was Reuters Funeral Care and Chapel in Big Knob. They had a slick website that advertised a “beautifully landscaped and peaceful memorial garden.” They’d acted as a middleman for hundreds of cremations.

“Score,”
Neil said. This was accompanied by something that looked vaguely like an end-zone dance. “I went in through the admin function on their website. Simple password script. Opened up the whole system.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I told him, then listened while he rattled off some details. What I should have said was I have no
interest
in what that means. I tuned out the rest of the techno-gibberish and changed into navy slacks and a chalk-stripe blazer. Probably wouldn’t get me a lot of leering, but it did have “urn company representative” written all over it.

A few minutes later we left the resort and climbed into the Impala, top up. We had to pass through downtown Big Knob, and I couldn’t take another YouTube party.

Neil had his electronic devices out, and he was balancing a hotel coffee mug. “This is going to be one of those three-hour-tour things, isn’t it? Big Knob’s the
Minnow
and you’re Ginger and I’m the professor and we’re never getting off the island.”

“You see me as Ginger? Really?” I glanced at myself in the rearview.

We passed through Big Knob without incident and headed south on a shady blacktop, passing lots of grazing cattle and painted barns. I turned onto a paved driveway bordered by white-fenced pastures and headed toward a long ranch house with azaleas lined up under the windows. A carport on the left side of the house held two cars. A jeep was parked behind them. I smelled a grill as soon as I opened the car door.

“Hope it works,” Neil said, and climbed into the driver’s seat. We’d learned from experience that having a driver in place is a good idea. “They’re not going to be thrilled. I can tell you that.”

“Thanks for the positive affirmation,” I said, and grabbed my briefcase off the backseat.

“You look nice, by the way.” Neil leaned on the window and smiled at me. “The business-suit thing always makes me want to mess up your hair.”

“Not going to happen.” I gave him a wink, then walked to the carport door. Front doors are for strangers. I avoided the doorbell for the same reason. It goes off, the dogs go off, and what registers is: unfamiliar person. I was hoping for a nice, friendly feeling.

I tapped on the door and waited, then cupped my hands against the glass-paned door and peeked inside—a lived-in kitchen, bags of chips on the island, a cutting board with traces of green and a couple of avocado shells, tomato seeds, lemons. A covered bowl with traces of dark green guacamole, some empty beer bottles. Beyond that, a den with heavy wood, very traditional décor, glass doors with the grill I’d smelled behind them, a few people in patio chairs with puffy cushions.

I walked around the side of the house. The first thing I noticed on turning the corner was the big, square, black head lifting up off the wood deck, then the growl, then the bark. The rottweiler was down the steps in two seconds flat and loping straight at me. I heard a couple of people yelling at him through a rush of pure terror. Coarse black fur stood up in a ridge down his back and glistened in the sunlight. He had a head about the size of a mailbox.

“Tank,
halt
!” A male voice broke through his frenzied charge. Tank stopped on a dime three feet away, licked his lips. His coffee-brown eyes rolled up at me. He started to pant.

“Hi, Tank.” My voice had a little tremble in it, and it was three octaves higher. Tank’s little black nub tail made a couple of spins. “It’s okay, boy.” Voice coming back to normal. Tank’s tail started to spin like a propeller, then his entire body had started to wag. I stretched my arm out. “Good boy. Okay, come on.”

He rushed me like some kind of heat-seeking missile, jammed his nose between my legs, and practically lifted me up off the ground. He
was making snorting sounds. I heard laughing from the deck. “
Tank
. Back off,” commanded a middle-aged white guy in jeans and a T-shirt who was walking quickly toward me. He had a hard beer belly, like he’d swallowed a basketball, and bright blue eyes. Tank sat down, ogled me longingly.

I tried to recover some dignity. “Mr. Huckaby?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am. What can I do you for?”

The deck was silent now, watching Huckaby greet the person who had just interrupted their cookout. “My name is Keye Street. I’m with the Sunset Journeys Urn Company out of Chattanooga.” I said it quietly, but I let all my southern run loose so everything sounded like it had a question mark on the end. I try to keep a handle on the accent most of the time, since
southern
equals
dumbshit
to most of the world. But I’d heard Huckaby’s accent, and I had the idea he’d trust me more readily. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I was in the area and I happened to see your address on a list of people who purchased one of our urns from your funeral-care provider. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Could you get to the point, Miss Street? I’ve got rib eyes waiting.”

“Well, this is awkward, sir. We’ve had some trouble with that particular style of urn flaking and contaminating the cremains.”

Huckaby’s smile widened. He grabbed a quick look over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “My mother-in-law was mean as a water moccasin.
She’s
the only thing contaminating those ashes. I don’t give a rat’s behind what happens to her.”

I tried a different approach. “What I’m trying to say, Mr. Huckaby, is that if the urn is dramatically eroding, then your mean-as-a-snake mother-in-law might end up in a pile on the carpet. Would Mrs. Huckaby give a rat’s behind about
that
?”

Tank whined a little. I tried not to look at him for fear he’d see it as encouragement. He nuzzled Huckaby’s hand. “What exactly do you want?” Huckaby’s smile had disappeared, and so had a few of the good-old-boy layers.

“A small sample of the ashes for our lab.” I held my index finger and thumb a quarter inch apart. “Tiny sample, really.”

Someone yelled from the deck for him to hurry up. “Look, lady, my wife cried for two weeks. I don’t want her stirred up again.” Huckaby
scratched his head. “Let’s act like we’re done here, and in a couple minutes I’ll excuse myself and go inside and scoop some ashes for you.”

A long strand of drool hung from one corner of Tank’s wide mouth and stretched toward the ground. I could hear him breathing. “I’d prefer to collect the sample myself, if you don’t mind.”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

“It’s important the sample isn’t contaminated.”

“You’re big on the contamination theme, aren’t you?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Wait for me out front.”

Neil had his laptop out when I got to the car. He’d been using Huckaby’s Wi-Fi, he informed me. “You get the ashes?”

“He’s bringing a sample out. Doesn’t want his wife to know.”

“Wow. I honestly didn’t think you’d pull it off.”

“His rottweiler liked me a lot.”

The kitchen door opened. I met Huckaby in the carport. He’d filled a sandwich bag with grayish-white powder. “If you find out something’s wrong with that urn, you call me directly.” He gave me a piece of paper with his phone number.

I dropped the sample into another Baggie, sealed it, then closed it in my case. Neil got my boat of a car turned around and eased down Huckaby’s driveway. His hands were side by side on top of the steering wheel. He was sitting erect and close to the wheel like an old person with vision problems. Neil was a notoriously slow driver. He always seemed to be on a sightseeing tour, which made him the worst getaway driver in the world. I attributed this to the elevated levels of THC in his system.

“I finished checking out Miki’s neighbors like you wanted. Inman Park must be the squeakiest-clean neighborhood in town. I mean, even on social media. They’re all about kids and kittens and shit. No felons, flashers, or jaywalkers. The neighborhood association did generate a few notices Miki’s way about the property. The fence needs to be painted and the yard has to be maintained according to their standards. They remind her she signed agreements on move-in. I forwarded you pretty much everything and whatever I could find on the other guys she dated.”

“You did all that while I was talking to Huckaby?”

“I’ve been doing it since you threw all this shit at me yesterday morning. You think I’m always on Twitter or something?”

“Or stoned.”

“I really respect the fact that you confined your drug use to huge quantities of alcohol. You’re kind of a role model.”

I ignored that. “You think you can get the speedometer up over thirty-five? I’d love to get a look at the crematorium before it gets dark.”

My phone rang. I glanced at the display, an Atlanta number. “Keye Street,” I answered.

“Ms. Street, this is Milo Stanton from the Georgian Terrace Hotel.”

Uh-oh
. Milo. Black-blazer concierge with the brass nameplate. Milo—minion to the manager who hates me.

“We have your cat in our office.”

“Wait wait wait. Why would you have my cat?” Neil looked over at me. “Pull over,” I told him. “Get Miki on the phone.”

“She was found by a guest in the tenth-floor hallway,” Milo told me. “To my knowledge, you have the only cat in the hotel. And some of the staff seem to recognize her.”

“Miki doesn’t answer,” Neil said.

“I’m two hours away,” I told the concierge. “I’ll call someone to pick her up, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“We really don’t have a place for a cat, Ms. Street. I’ve been instructed to call animal control.”

“Listen to me, Milo.” Heat ripped through me like lightning. I opened the passenger door and walked around the car. Neil didn’t ask any questions. He got out and gave me the driver’s seat. “You tell that manager if y’all even
think
about turning my cat over to animal control when you know where she belongs and after you’ve notified the owner, those big, shiny buttons on your fucking blazers are going to be all over the news tonight. You hear me, buddy? Nobody likes guys that send cats to the pound. You can expect to see my cousin, Miki Ashton; my mother, Emily Street; or Lieutenant Aaron Rauser of the APD there shortly to pick her up. By the way, her name is White Trash and she likes half-and-half.” I disconnected, cursed, handed Neil my phone. “Get Mom or Rauser for me. Jesus, why does it have to be so goddamned
hot
in Georgia?”