"That's why I said we gotta be quick, accurate and careful. When we're done, every stitch we got on goes straight into the trash bags I brought, then into the biohazard bin at the hospital."
Leo aimed a mournful look at his wingtips. Delbert said, "Sorry, bub. Dig or don't, those are history. Till the lab tests are run, we don't know where the arsenic is, nor how high it's concentrated."
"If it is here."
Delbert put a fist on his hip. "Go ahead. Say it. You think I'm loco in the cabana, don't ya?"
Leo bent to retrieve his protective gear. "The bushes I have lopped and now the poison dirt, I will dig, so who of us is crazy, eh?" With that, he consulted the dot on the map and set to carving out a grass clump.
Delbert covered his mouth and nose with his face mask. It must be pitching those lace-up clodhoppers that had Leo all riled up. No problemo. On the way home, he'd treat Leo to a pair of Hush Puppies, like he'd been telling him to buy for months.
Delbert's excavation began at the spot designated Number One on the grid. Ground zero, in Delbert's estimation, which was why he'd assigned it to himself. If he were Chlorine Moody, he'd have plunked a corpse in the yard's least visible corner. Since the garage was on the south and the next-door neighbor's house was a two-story, Leo's half of the yard was less likely to be a one-salesman cemetery.
Residual irritation was expended on the hole he was digging. The sun had baked the moisture from the soil faster than he'd anticipated. A plastic scoop wasn't a shovel, either. He'd reckoned metal trowels were forbidden for sample collecting, since arsenic had some metallic properties. That, or the sons of bitches who wrote the rules had stock in a plastic scoop factory.
Progressing from Number Two to Number Three, Delbert gritted his dentures against the aches rippling from his neck to his knees. After the shoe store, he and Leo were hitting Wal-Mart for a case of Bengay. And a fifth of bourbon, for later.
The scoop's handle bent double, throwing him off balance. Wouldn't you know, a soft, sandy spot he thought he'd lucked onto had a rock smack in the middle of it.
He pecked and scraped at it to gauge its size. About to shift position a mite, he noticed reddish, flaky shards clinging to the tip of the blade.
His stomach lurched, then do-si-doed. He stared at the scoop in horror, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat.
Shallow grave
shallow grave
beat like a dirge in time with his pulse.
Get ahold of yourself, you old fool. That hole's not but an inch or two deep. And bad as these goggles are steamed up, you couldn't tell a splotch of clay mud from
well, from this gunk that
ain't
what you think it is.
Delbert had nearly convinced himself when his mind registered the significance of a droning sound. Sunlight glinted off the roof of the white sedan rolling up the driveway. He dropped the scoop and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Schnur! Hit the dirt! She's back!"
A clack, then the roar of an air conditioner's compressor revving the engine was as sweet as a lullaby. Chlorine wouldn't run the air with the windows down. With them up, she couldn't have heard him mayday Leo.
As the garage door rumbled open on its track, Delbert tamped the grass plug in place and grabbed the bagged soil samples and the scoop. On the opposite side of the yard, Leo lay as still as a beached whale. Chlorine likely couldn't see him for the side fence. Safer, though, to wait for her car to pull in past the driver's side window.
On five,
Delbert mouthed to Leo. He pointed at the duffel bag, then at Leo, then at their tunnel. A gloved finger, then another ticked off the signal. At four, Leo panicked and scuttled for the equipment bag. By five, the duffel had popped out the far side of the fence. Had Delbert counted to six, it would have marked when Leo got stuck in the brambles.
"Go, man, go," he whispered.
Leo rocked forward and backward. Branches rustled. Rose petals fluttered down like a scarlet blizzard. "I can't, I can't."
The dull thump of a car door's slam almost stopped Delbert's heart. If Chlorine didn't see them, she'd see half the blessed hedge shaking like a palm tree in a hurricane.
Then
she'd see them. Meaning
him.
The old bat would have to run around the block and up the alley to put a face to the big, fat ass wedged between her gate and the gatepost.
Lowering his head, Delbert rammed Leo square in the rump
and bounced backward a good three feet. Digging in his heels, he rammed him again, pushing for all he was worth.
One second, Schnur hadn't budged an inch; the next, they were both sprawled on their bellies in the alley. Delbert glanced back at the tunnel, expecting to see Chlorine's kisser where Leo's butt had been. He had to blink a few times to believe it wasn't.
With his voice muffled by the mask still covering his mouth, Leo panted, "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Delbert groaned. "To
anybody.
"
It wasn't until they were transferring the soil samples and scoops from their coveralls' pockets into the duffel bag, that Delbert realized his cap was missing.
* * *
A morning that started with the ten-feet-off-the-ground feeling David always had after making love with Hannah was skidding downhill faster than a hog on ice skates.
The sense that Rocco Jarek was involved in the Beauford homicide was stuck in neutral. "The dirtbag's guilty of something" was Marlin's typical assessment pending direct evidence or a confession. Absent was the excitement, the growing anticipation of a hunt nearing a satisfying conclusion.
Circumstances wouldn't allow it. Doubtful, they ever would. It was his and Marlin's tacit agreement that if Jarek was guilty, he couldn't have acted alone. This precluded any feeling of retribution for the victim.
His mood didn't improve by the time he crossed from the Outhouse to the courthouse across the street. Apart from wanting to get it over with, David wasn't in a rush to interview Kimmie Sue Beauford. What put his molars on edge was the certainty that a hog in ice skates picks up speed before it hits bottom.
He shouldn't have been surprised when he opened the door to his office and found Kimmie Sue lounging in his desk chair, painting her toenails. Opposite her, Deputy Bill Eustace was flipping through a copy of
Field & Stream.
The desk had been cleared to make room for a pedicure kit, a box of assorted doughnuts, paper napkins and lidded, take-out coffee cups. The radio on the bookcase was thumping a rap song. The air reeked of polish remover and perfume.
Kimmie Sue and Eustace glanced up and smiled, as if they were happy to see him. David was nearly blinded by the scarlet mist descending like a veil.
A hand circled his wrist. Claudina Burkholtz tugged David back out the door and closed it behind him. "I tried to catch you before you went in there."
David couldn't recall the last time he was so angry he couldn't speak. This one, he'd never forget.
What the fuck are they doing in my office?
must have read loud and clear in his eyes.
"Breathe," Claudina ordered, turning his back to the outer office. "And keep looking at me. Everybody's watching to see what you'll do. Lose your cool, and it'll be all over town before lunchtime."
She was right. David knew it, as surely as he knew how lucky he was to have her for a friend and ally. The less rational, forever-fourteen side of him just wanted to haul off and hit something.
"This isn't the end of the world," Claudina said. "It's not insubordination, either, much as a by-the-book hunk like you believes it is."
David was miles from a smile, but managed an inquiring "Hunk?"
Claudina's laugh was a tad shrill, but a pretty good impersonation of the real thing. Genuine enough, that he could feel waves of relief diffuse behind him. She winked at him and drawled, "You're not bad lookin' for a country boy. Especially when you're mad."
"Mad, hell. I"
"Listen to me. What Bill Eustace did was wrong, but Bill wasn't alone in being wrong. Inside that bullhead of yours, you're asking yourself if you'd have done the same thing."
She held up her hand. "Okay, maybe you're too cussed
fond
of black-and-white to see gray, but there's right, and then there's righteous."
Tapping David's upper arm, as though they'd agreed the Cardinals had a shot at the pennant this year, Claudina stepped from in front of the door and walked away.
David took in and let out another of those breaths she'd prescribed, before he turned the doorknob for the second time. The hen-party atmosphere was mostly gone. The breakfast picnic and claptrap were stowed in a grocery sack. His desk appeared much as he'd left it earlier that morning, and Kimmie Sue had moved to the chair beside Eustace.
Perfume and acetone still pervaded the air. Nobody spoke as David walked over and adjusted the radio dial to KSAN. The Dixie Chicks' "Not Ready to Make Nice" wailed from the speaker. David wasn't, either, but Claudina's lecture had struck a nerve. He might not make her proud, but damned if he'd disappoint her.
"Ms. Beauford," he said, "if you'll excuse us a moment, there's a chair just outside the door."
She chuffed, her arms falling into her lap, as though incredulous he'd suggest such a thing. "But, David, I've been"
Bill jerked his head at the door. "Go on, hon. We won't be long."
Kimmie Sue flounced out, her platform sandals spanking the linoleum floor. She'd either rolled out of bed in full makeup, a miniskirt and a top, or the officers let her bring her luggage along with her.
Bill rose from his chair. His expression was paternal or patronizing, depending on your point of view. "I already know what you're going to say, Sheriff. Kimmie Sue was supposed to dally in the processing room until you got around to talking to her."
David sucked in another breath. If this kept up, he'd hyperventilate before he asked Kimmie Sue a single question. "That wasn't a suggestion, Eustace. That was an order."
The deputy chuckled and shook his head. "Look, I don't know how these things are done down Tulsa-way, but here, we show the sheriff's daughter the kind of respect"
"Respect? Strange you should mention that, seeing as how
I'm
the sheriff, and I don't have a daughter."
"Aw, c'mon. You know what I meant."
"Yep. I do." David yanked open a desk drawer. He shuffled a stack of Beauford crime-scene photos. "Putting me in my place, your affection for Kimmie Sue, her father, the chief-deputy appointment that Knox has hinted at
" He slapped a photo on the desk. "They're all more important to you than
she
is."
"That's not
" Bill's voice trailed off. His gaze riveted on Bev's lifeless body, he shifted his weight, as though his discomfort were physical. He looked up, but not at David. "Iuh, I dunno what to say."
David returned the picture to the stack and dropped it in the drawer. "No need to say anything. Just tell Ms. Beauford to come in, then get back out on the road."
"Yes, sir." Pausing in the doorway, Bill turned and said, "It won't happen again, Sheriff."
David slammed the drawer shut with his knee. Yeah, it would, he thought. Eustace wasn't the only one in the department with divided loyalties. Being stuck between Larry Beauford's cronyism and Jessup Knox's empty promises was a lousy place for a sitting sheriff to be.
* * *
"Les Williams." The Sanity police lieutenant shook Hannah's hand and motioned at a chair. He was about her age, married, and did a fair job of hiding his dislike for drop-in visitors. "What can I do for you, Ms. Garvey?"
"A favor, I hope." Her smile was business-friendly, assuring him that idle chitchat wasn't her forte, either. "I'm looking for information on the disappearance of Royal Moody. The desk sergeant said you were the man to see about a cold case."
"Is this a matter of personal interest?"
Hannah nodded. So far, so true, even though murder had never been among the causes she'd manufactured to explain her own father's total absence. The very idea that Caroline Garvey could have poisoned John Doe and buried him in a trailer-park lot was laughable, as well as depressing.
For one, the Garvey clan was Effindale's version of the Beverly Hillbillies, except they couldn't have struck oil in a petroleum refinery. And, if Caroline had killed her anonymous lover, Hannah's grandmother would have ratted on her in an Illinois second. Faster, if a reward was offered. For fifty bucks, May-belline Garvey would have sworn her daughter conspired with Lee Harvey Oswald, kidnapped Jimmy Hoffa and broke up the Beatles.
Hannah would never know who John Doe was, or why he abandoned her. In a way, homicide would have been easier to accept. She'd have had someone to blame, other than herself, as children invariably do. She could also stop hoping, ridiculous as it was, that someday he might appear, saying how sorry he was and what a fool he'd been.
From her purse, Hannah took a photocopy of the first newspaper story regarding Royal Moody's unknown whereabouts. Passing it to Lieutenant Williams, she said, "I have copies of other articles if you'd like to see them."
