The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (8 page)

“
Maria?
But John Riley wants an older woman, someone maternal. He said mature several times. Maria looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.”

“Well, I don’t care what
he
wants.
I
want her there. Maria is it. I need her in his house.”

“But, Mr. R.J. . . .”

“I have my reasons. You’ve found his housekeeper:
Maria
. Okay? Tell Mr. Carlos I want him to sell this for me . . . Now, as for Maria’s salary, we’re going to finagle this and here’s how we’re going to work it . . .”

At the end of the call, R.J. looked out at the beautiful afternoon. Maria would be inside John Riley’s house. He could ask Luis to get updates from his sister on what his nephew was up to. Depending on what happened on the operating table, he could handle the rest after that. He gazed down at the blooming dogwoods lining Markham Street below him.
Surgery.
It was hard not to wish for a lucky break on a spring day.

Over forty years ago Carlos Rodriguez arrived in Hayslip, and like Columbus found the natives to be friendly. In those days, filled with dreams for his new home, he planted a metaphoric Guatemalan flag and claimed the rural area for his people. Since that time, Mr. Carlos, the name he always went by, used his property and his many mobile homes to serve as a major U.S. entry point for immigrants from his country. He made a nice living, providing cheap labor to dozens of local companies until his charges found better jobs elsewhere. There was always a fresh wave of illegal workers in the pipeline.

But where was Mr. Carlos now? That was the mystery that the younger Hubbard wanted to solve. He had told Mrs. Carlos he would wait for her husband at the City Café while she tracked him down.

He arrived at the restaurant door just as Sheriff Toil was exiting with a to-go coffee. Hubbard noticed that Toil hadn’t taken the time to shave this morning. He looked even more tired now.

Toil spotted Hubbard and grabbed his arm. “You know what that son-of-a-bitch Connors wants me to do? It’s his investigation, he should do it. We’re supposed to stand back at this point.”

“No. What does he want you to do?”

Toil tugged at Hubbard’s sleeve to emphasize each point. “Connors told me I had to get hold of the parents and tell them what happened to their son since the boy’s body was found in Hayslip. Do you know how hard that’s going to be? Call parents and break the news that their child has been murdered?”

“No, I can’t imagine that. I’m sorry he put that on you.”

“
Yeah, me too
. Anything to make my world a little darker.”

“Have you seen Mr. Carlos?”

“Not today.”

“I’ve got to get something settled. If you see him, tell him I’m at City Café,” Hubbard said.

“Will do.” Toil said. He turned and shuffled slowly across the street as if he was a condemned man walking the last mile carrying a to-go coffee.

Hubbard entered the café, which was usually empty by this time in the afternoon. Today was no different. The seating area was vacant, save for a single waitress topping off ketchup bottles at one of the tables. Joe Sinclair, the owner, was sitting on a bar stool behind the cash register at the entrance, playing a game on his iPhone. He looked up as Hubbard entered.

“It’s two o’clock. We’re closing in thirty minutes. The stove is off for the day,” Sinclair said.

“Just need coffee.”

“To go?”

“For here. I’m waiting for Mr. Carlos.”

“We’re closing—”

“In thirty minutes. Got it.”

Sinclair directed Hubbard toward the long lunch counter on the far wall next to the kitchen. The counter’s original linoleum top was worn clean of its original design, now it was a milky white color with a reddish border. Hubbard took a stool, and Sinclair returned with a cup and saucer and a pot of coffee. “This may be stout.”

“That’s how I like it.”

Sinclair shrugged, set the cup down and poured. “Your uncle had lunch here on Friday.”

Hubbard nodded without comment.

Sinclair sat down beside him and changed the subject. “Hey, did you hear about the dead Arab Eddie found in Shanty Town?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I bet he was up to no good. They say he was from the college. I wonder if it was that kid who came here all the time with Mrs. Andrews.”

“I don’t remember seeing—”

“They would come at the end of the day when business has died down. They usually sat close together in the back booth over there, looking at photographs, laughing at nothing—and making me close late.” His hand raked over the upright hairs on his steel-gray crew cut. “She’s married. She ought to be more concerned about how things look. Haven’t seen them together in about a week . . .” Sinclair paused and his brow creased. “What?”

Hubbard didn’t realize his expression had changed. He had thought he had put the murder behind him. But just the suggestion of a romantic connection between the student and the Boy King’s wife drew him in again. It reminded him that Andrews had said nothing about knowing the student. He felt a burning in the pit of his stomach. “Nothing . . . It just sounds like it probably was him. I didn’t realize they met here.”

“I could tell you stories about what happens in here after the lunch rush. Well, enjoy your quick cup of coffee.” He walked away with the pot, brow creased, eyeing the brew with concern as if he thought he saw something in its murky depths.

Behind him, he heard the restaurant door open. He swiveled around and was relieved to see Carlos Rodriguez entering. Over the years, the Guatemalan’s increasing success was matched by his expanding girth. His body now resembled an over-stuffed teddy bear.

Sinclair pointed Rodriguez toward Hubbard, then to his watch, and informed him of the nearing closing time, as if it had the same urgency as a rocket launch.

Rodriquez approached Hubbard. He used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from his brow and smiled broadly. He reached out his hand.

“And how are you, my friend? I’m sorry that I was unavailable when you called,” Rodriquez said.

“That’s okay, Mr. Carlos. I got an unexpected call from my ex-wife and I’m trying to get ready.”

“I heard. Your daughter is returning home. That’s wonderful. Emily is a sweet girl. How old is she now?”

“Ten.”

“I remember. You were just out of high school. We thought you’d be going to Europe.
France
, wasn’t it? Quite a surprise when you stayed.”

“Yes. Things happen.”

Mr. Carlos shook his head reflectively. “Now she’s almost grown. It goes much too fast, doesn’t it?”

“I know that’s right. So, did your wife tell you that I need an older lady to be with Emily until I can come up with a permanent solution?”

“Yes, she did. I think I may have someone.”

Hubbard felt himself relax. Mr. Carlos was a miracle worker. “Someone mature? Good natured? A jovial woman?”

“Jovial? I don’t . . . I think she’s very mature. Her name is Maria Espinoza.”

“What’s Mrs. Espinoza’s situation? Has she raised kids? Is she a widow?”

“No husband, sadly. She is in one of my trailers until she gets settled here. I know she loves kids. All the young children are drawn to Maria like she’s a magnet—most especially the boys.”

“How old is she? Emily is a very active little girl.”

“John Riley, don’t you know you never ask a woman her age? I promise you. You’ll fall in love with her the moment you see her.”

“Well, you’ve been doing this a long time. I trust your judgment. Now the hard part, can I afford her? I’m thinking about getting a loan to make this work.” Hubbard took a breath. “Let’s talk money.”

The negotiation went well. Mrs. Espinoza was surprisingly affordable. A couple of extra sales of burial insurance each month and Hubbard could manage. He would pay Mr. Carlos directly, and Mr. Carlos would pay Mrs. Espinoza. The circuitous salary trail was necessary to hide the payments from immigration authorities.

Hubbard stood and reached out and the two men shook hands. Once again, Mr. Carlos came through for him. “When I was a kid, you came by the house twice a week to give me the allowance from my uncle or just to check on us. I could count you when there was no one else . . . I just want you to know . . . I think you’re a good man.”

Rodriguez didn’t produce his usual smile. “Sometimes I’m happy when I can do a good thing. Other times, I just do as I’m told.”

It seemed like a curious thing to say.

8

O
NE
N
IGHT IN
S
HANTY
T
OWN

H
UBBARD SPED DOWN THE HIGHWAY
toward Monticello, thinking he was a lucky man. The maternal Mrs. Espinoza seemed perfect. Perhaps she could teach Emily the things women liked to do? Cooking? Hubbard only knew how the timer on the microwave worked. Cross-stitch? Hubbard smiled at his old school thinking. Bring it up to the twenty-first century: Advanced science and math? Bricklaying? He doubted Mrs. Espinoza would be the source of much guidance on those subjects.

It was difficult not to over think this. It was too important. Until now, his ex had tried to keep Emily out of his reach, first by moving to Memphis, before eventually returning home to Little Rock. But he had managed, with the help of R.J.’s lawyers to get Emily home for the summers the past three years. Asking for his uncle’s assistance was a last resort, but it had come with strings. Thanks to R.J., she had spent her days at a summer academy in Monticello learning Spanish, R.J. deeming the French language “useless”. Now, with regular school in session, maybe he could provide her with a more traditional home life. But could he do it? The answer to that question was uncertain in his mind. What did he know about a normal family? That would be Mrs. Espinoza’s charge, helping him give his daughter something he had never seen in practice. He took a deep breath and let it out. There would be time to worry about that tomorrow . . . and the next day after that . . . and the day after that.

With that concern on hold for now, his mind drifted back to the events of the day. He thought about the Boy King’s very young queen. Trish Blankenship—now Trish Andrews—knew Amir well enough to spend afternoons at City Café with him, looking at photographs and laughing about nothing as Sinclair said. Why not? They were about the same age. In the photograph, Amir looked attractive enough, thick black hair, brown eyes, a bit thin, but normal for that age. Was there anything going on between Amir and Trish aside from photography?

It would be difficult for Hubbard to approach the pretty blonde and ask her about the relationship. Hubbard knew her too well. During the time when he was making mistakes as quickly as a shot glass could be filled, he bumped into Trish and several of her friends out for a night on the town. A bit late, he learned the group comprised her bachelorette party. She never said a word about it in the back seat. Trish married Andrews the next weekend. Their chance meetings since then had been awkward, with Trish ducking away at the first opportunity.

When he drank, most of the nights he could remember he wanted to forget. From his brief encounter with Trish, he could understand how the former cheerleader might drive a man insane with jealousy at the thought of losing her to another man. Even now, Hubbard’s memory of holding her that night still lingered.

But the idea of Tony Andrews pressing a shotgun to someone’s chest and pulling the trigger in cuckolded fury seemed too ludicrous to imagine. Shooting Amir, disposing of the body, and covering up the crime would have been a lot of work for an aging
Boy King
to undertake.

Andrews had a checkered history with his wives. His money could only go so far in holding a marriage together. Two other women had married Tony Andrews and left him after the pre-nup terms were satisfied. Not one to learn from mistakes, Tony retained his fondness for cheerleaders fresh from the field of play. Trish was his third wife, and as he told everyone who would listen, this was his last marriage.

Hubbard reminded himself that all of this was none of his concern. He had gone as far on this murder story as he was going to go.

The remainder of the afternoon was consumed by a futile search for a single valve, reverse stroke fuel pump and a non-compact starter suitable for his old tractor. The guy at
Crantz Auto Parts Barn
thought he was joking when he asked if he had a source for the obsolete parts.

“If you know Henry Ford, he might pull them off a Model T for you,” the smartass replied.

The long trip turned out to be unsuccessful. Hubbard was disappointed but not surprised. He knew he’d have to give up on his father’s tractor one day. Maybe now was the time. Nearing the end of the long drive home, Hubbard approached the turnoff leading to Shanty Town. He wanted to ignore it. It had been a hell of a day and there was more to be done tomorrow. But this was where his day began and there were still too many unanswered questions. Was Amir murdered in Shanty Town? If so, were there witnesses? The empty shacks were never occupied by transients; the rotting structures were more likely to collapse than provide shelter. Besides it would take a vehicle to reach the remote location and once you arrived at the godforsaken place you would probably prefer to spend the night in your car, stretched out on the back seat, rather than in those decrepit buildings.

Hubbard pulled off the highway and rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder at the turn to the lane leading to the ghost town. He sat for a moment, his truck idling. There was another possibility. Perhaps the moonshiners in the Deer Woods had relocated here, afraid that the Sheriff or Eddie might stumble across them in a moment of blind luck, after over a year of searching. The still had started after Hubbard had sobered up, so he had no idea where it was. Its hiding place was a small mystery in town; maybe the young student snooped it out and wanted a byline in the paper. Moonshiners, usually armed when working, wouldn’t take kindly to the unexpected arrival of a young Arab toting a camera. Did the state police, earlier this morning, take time to search for potato peels or corn cobs piled somewhere in the brush—the remains of distilling? If they were here, did the Mexicans running the still let some evidence of their presence remain? Evidence they would retrieve from here as soon as possible?

No, don’t do this
. He wasn’t a cop. Investigating this would do nothing for him.
You’re picking at an old wound.
Once more he reminded himself that he had a daughter to think about and a crop to plant.

In spite of his reasoning, he knew exactly what he would be doing in the next minute.

His path through the pines and across the meadow was well lit by the moon. It was quiet this spring night, well before the summer’s deafening uprising of crickets and cicadas. In the lifeless silence, his truck, bumping and creaking along the road, could be heard from far away. No reason to announce his arrival to skittish moonshiners. He parked a short distance from the first rough structure. He retrieved a flashlight from the glove box and began to hike the twists and turns of the nineteenth-century road.

Hubbard rounded a bend in the road and saw the dim profile of the first abandoned dwelling, empty and forlorn. The old road curved ahead of him, making it impossible to see all the remaining hovels of Shanty Town. He trudged on.

A gentle but persistent spring wind funneled through the shacks, making a soft sound like shallow breathing. Unexpectedly, there was part of him that was twelve once more, walking this same road in a search for answers in a village of the dead.

Each dark shanty sprang to life in his imagination as ivory moonlight entered through holes in the roof, illuminating window-eyes and doorway-mouths, animated when he was directly in front, and returning to darkness with a sigh as he passed. The wild undergrowth surrounding the buildings created long shadows that stretched across the road, adopting forms both human and inhuman. He had reached the same spot on the road where, years ago, on the last day of summer . . . He shook his head. Ghosts were just a trick of the subconscious mind.

It was an extended walk before he rounded a sharp curve and the last four shacks of Shanty Town came into view. Hubbard stopped abruptly and switched off his flashlight.

He wasn’t alone.

Through dense foliage, he could make out an indistinct glow of yellow light, definitely man-made, and hear the muffled melody of a love-sick country ballad that seemed to originate at the end of the row.

His pace slowed, becoming careful and deliberate. A few more yards and he saw the source of the light: a window in the last shack. The small cabin faced south toward the drainage channel. It was about a half-football field distant from him. The cabin’s interior light flickered, as if someone was moving around inside.

He considered his options. If he left, he wouldn’t know who had taken up temporary residence here. Maybe it was a witness. He had come all this way and he couldn’t turn back now. Edging closer, he decided he could steal a quick look at the occupant and then go.

Choosing each step carefully to avoid making noise, he neared the window, his heart pounding. More of the interior came into view. A kerosene lantern was perched on a step ladder creating an amber glow. He spotted a cot, pushed against a wall. If he got any closer, he would be forced to step out of the dark and into the window’s pool of light.

A new thought occurred to Hubbard: What if the thugs from earlier in the morning were inside? But why would they be here? What would . . .

From the darkness behind him, the unmistakable sound of the hammer on a pistol locking into place caused his heart to jump. He froze.

“Okay, you son-of-a bitch . . . You’ve been walking on that road for too long . . . I got you now, and I’m going to put you in the ground where you belong. Let’s see if you bleed red, just like the rest of us.”

The gunman’s voice had a rural twang and a stark tremor. There was something about the voice Hubbard recognized, but competing against the music on the radio it was difficult to distinguish it. He raised his hands over his head. “Yes, sir . . . I’m raising my hands . . . Neighbor, I’m sorry if I startled you, just out for a little night air, stretching the legs.”

“I know that voice,” the gunman said, his voice relaxing.

Hubbard turned around, as relief and anger flooded over him. “Eddie?”

“John Riley Hubbard, what’re you doing here?” Eddie said. He returned the pistol to his holster. “Sorry about the gun and all.”

Hubbard didn’t respond immediately. He walked around in a wide circle, hands behind his head, fingers laced, breathing deeply. After his initial anger, Hubbard recognized his own role in creating this near-disaster. “It’s cool. Everything’s okay. Just give me a minute.”

When Hubbard dropped his arms and nodded a greeting, Eddie returned to his open, if somewhat embarrassed, self and graciously invited Hubbard inside.

Hubbard followed him up the fragile steps into the shack. “Andrews said you found the body on your way home. I guess I understand now.”

Eddie turned off the radio as Hubbard surveyed the primitive interior.

“Um, it’s cozy. I guess . . .” Hubbard was at a loss for words.

Much of the wooden slat ceiling had fallen over the years, revealing a surprisingly sturdy tin roof overhead. Eddie had obviously taken a broom and mop to the place, industriously cleaning decades-old dust. A cool breeze wafted through the room.

In the main room, Eddie had dragged a camp cot, two lawn chairs (did Eddie have guests?) and an impressive array of camping equipment. All of Eddie’s additions were colorful, but seemed out of place when set against the driftwood-textured floor, walls, and ceiling. The only trace remaining of previous tenants was a wall calendar from the year 1967 nailed to the slat wall.

The deputy had probably let the yellowing artifact remain due to the large cover photo of a young blonde in a pink bikini sitting on the hood of a lime green Ford F-150. She wore a smile so radiant and heartfelt that it could encourage any sensible man to consider the Ford product line for his next purchase. Eddie’s two lawn chairs faced it like it was a flat screen TV.

All of Eddie’s stuff could be expected to be found at the site of a weekend camp site, but this was Shanty Town, far away from Eddie’s double-wide trailer, his wife, and small baby, Eddie Jr.

“So, Eddie—” Hubbard began, settling into a lawn chair.

Eddie held up his hand, and pointed to the ice chest. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine. I just, um . . .” Hubbard’s fingers strummed the arms of the chair as he searched to a conversation topic. He didn’t want to ask Eddie what had split up his family. Too many people seemed to relish the gossip surrounding Hubbard’s family for him to imitate them.

Eddie seemed intent on fulfilling his offer. “No, you’ll like this. I promise. It’s as good as any drink at the Capitol Hotel bar.”

Hubbard didn’t want to add rudeness to his intrusion.
You can handle this. Just take one drink and you’re out the door
. “Okay, sure. Thanks . . . Um, Eddie, you’re in town a lot more than me. Do you remember ever seeing that Arab kid before now?”

Eddie crossed to the red and white ice chest on the floor positioned directly below the calendar. He paused to consider the question. “You know. I thought he looked familiar. I may have saw him, or someone who looked like him talking to R.J. in the alley behind the square one afternoon.”

It took a moment for Hubbard to process that bit of information. “R.J.? I didn’t know that he knew—”