Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg (6 page)

When Annebelle Edney slipped into her plastic raincoat
around 6:30, two or three minutes after her brothers had left
for the memorial service, I grinned to myself. I figured she
was deliberately hanging back so she wouldn’t have to ride
with them. And I didn’t blame her although from what I had
witnessed, she deserved as much blame for their disagreements as Stewart or WR.

Outside, the drizzle turned into a downpour, slamming
against the old house with a deafening roar. I decided to use
my time alone to go over the autopsy, the fire marshal’s
report, and a copy of the will Jack had given me.

The medical examiner’s report was unremarkable.
Physically, the old man was in good shape. He died by
asphyxiation as a result of smoke inhalation. In addition to
the body having been partially consumed by the fire, the
medical examiner reported a blunt trauma to the occipital
region. In fact the way the report read was after transfiecting
the scalp, a blunt trauma force to the left temporal area of
the cranium was located.

I didn’t know exactly what all of it meant, so I prowled the
house for a dictionary. I shook my head in wonder at medical jargon. “Why couldn’t they just say that they removed the scalp and his left temple was smashed in,” I muttered,
closing the dictionary.

The ME further concluded that the injury was sustained
when Edney fell from the explosion, slamming his head
against the concrete floor of the garage.

At that moment, I didn’t figure what little information I
picked up from the report was worth the trouble I went
through with Tom Garrett to get it.

The credibility of the fire marshal’s report was suspect as
far as I was concerned because it stated unequivocally the
spark that ignited the naphtha occurred when Edney was
cleaning the brass fireplace tools, an impossible chemical
reaction between naphtha and any soft metal, one as unlikely to occur as my old man to quit drinking.

With a sigh, I turned to the will, which was only a few
pages. It simply listed several generous bequests to various
organizations, both civic and fraternal, as well as a $10,000
bequest to Alice Windsor, his housekeeper. Once all the
bequests were made, then the four heirs would share all
property equally.

My first question was what property?

Back in Austin, the top sleuth in our agency was Al
Grogan. I was nowhere near his class, but I had learned
much from him, primarily how to think logically. Believe
me, for someone with my background in rural Louisiana
who grew up believing that it always rained when a pig
squealed, acquiring the capability of logical reasoning was a
major chore.

I knew that before any will could be probated, there must
be an inventory of properties. Since I had the gut feeling that
Edney’s death was not an accident, maybe I could find a hint
of motive in the inventory.

I thumbed through the folder of documents Jack had given
me. “Well, well,” I muttered, discovering several pages stapled together. At the top of the first page was `Property
Inventory.’

I whistled as I read down the inventory list. John Wesley
Edney was indeed well off. His physical property in town,
the homestead and various buildings that he leased out,
exceeded an estimated $4 million. Financial assets were
another $4 million. Then I found the land south of town
Annebelle and WR had discussed. It was a thousand and ten
acres of riverside property twenty miles below Vicksburg.
WR had claimed it was worthless. I was curious as to what
he considered worthless.

So, I did what any red-blooded American boy would do. I
picked up the telephone, called a real estate agent at his
after-hours number, and started lying.

“Yeah, partner,” I said, exaggerating a Texas drawl. “I
know it’s past closing time, but I just drove into town from
Fort Worth. I’ll be here a couple days, looking for riverside
property ten or fifteen miles below Vicksburg. Something
reasonable for my thoroughbred horses”

The agent on the other end of the line chuckled. Amiably,
he replied. “Sorry, Tex, but there’s nothing reasonable down
there. Hasn’t been for the last couple years.”

Since my whole story was a fabrication, I decided to play
the role to the hilt. “Well, maybe I should explain what I
mean by reasonable. My oil and gas wells have been pumping mighty good, so good I’d be willing to go three, maybe
even four thousand an acre”

He laughed. “Sorry again, friend. Kick it up to ten or
twelve and throw in one or two of those wells, and maybe
you could pick up a couple acres.” He grew serious. “Truth
is, ever since word got out that the government is planning
to build a new north-south interstate from Lafayette,
Louisiana, to Vicksburg, property along the way has been
hotter than a blowtorch in Hades”

I expressed my disappointment, thanked him, hung up,
and shook my head in wonder. Over a thousand acres at
twelve thousand each. Jeez. Unless my math was off, we
were talking about a nice little nest egg of $12 million.

Add the other assets, and the old man’s estate could total
as much as twenty million, give or take a nickel or so.

Regardless of the nickel, that was more than enough
money to drive even emotionally stable families to desperate steps. And when I considered just how dysfunctional the
Edney clan was, I couldn’t even imagine the limits to which
one or all of the siblings might go, maybe with the exception
of Jack. But then, money can wreak unexpected changes in
the best of people.

After first grasping at straws, I now found myself with a
haystack full of motives, twenty million of them to be exact.

For several moments, I considered where to start. I
glanced out the window. The downpour had subsided into a
fine mist.

I closed my eyes for a moment. I didn’t realize just how
tired I was. I must have dozed, for my head jerked back
sharply, awakening me. “Jeez,” I muttered. “What a day.” I
shook myself awake and, sticking the folder of documents
under my jacket, grabbed an umbrella, and headed out to the
burned shop, detouring by way of my pickup for a flashlight.
When in doubt, I told myself, begin at the beginning.

The rain and drizzle had erased most of the marks made
by the criminalists investigating the scene. Their notes were
as detailed as possible given the fact the fire had obliterated
much of the evidence that might have been helpful.
— - – - - — - - - - - - -

Huddling under my umbrella and shining the beam along
the ground, I paused by the charred wood table where the
fire began. Despite the sodden ashes melting into unrecognizable shapes and heaps, I saw nothing on or around the
timbered workbench that could have been the source of the
spark.

The only tools that could have ignited the cleaning fluid
were buried under the ashes along the outside wall where
they had been hanging, fifteen feet from where the fire
began, much too far to createa spark.

The steady drizzle had washed away most of the lines the criminalists had drawn on the concrete floor indicating the
position of the body. From what I could ascertain, Edney’s
body was discovered at the base of the table. Time of death
was put at 2:40 on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth, the time
his watch stopped.

I tried to put myself in the scene. I’m cleaning fireplace
tools. The naphtha ignites; my clothes catch fire. So what do
I do? What would anyone do? Fall on the floor at the base of
the table?

Not quite.

I’d run like wild hogs were after me. Anyone would.

The drizzle came down harder. I hurried next door to the
garage housing the restored vehicles.

Once inside, I leaned the umbrella against the wall to
drain. The rain kept up a steady patter on the metal roof, like
the soft thrumming of drums.

I stared at the rows of shiny automobiles under the bright
lights, then headed directly for the Model T Runabout.
Opening the door, I climbed in, admiring the immaculate
interior. Not a bad little car, I told myself, feeling the first
hint of car fever.

Glancing at the passenger’s side, for a fleeting moment I
imagined Janice on the seat. “She’d probably get a kick out
of a spin in this little car,” I muttered. One thing in her favor,
she never turned down the opportunity to try something new,
something different.

Leaning back on the seat, I pulled out the criminalists’
report again. Included were the pictures of the scene. I grimaced when I saw the charred lump purported to be John
Wesley Edney at the base of the table.

Since the picture was a facsimile, the definition was
blurred. I angled it so the light would shine on it directly. I
struggled to make out the corpse’s limbs, but the fire had
practically consumed him. Still, I could make out where one
arm ended. As the ME’s report stated, the corpse lay on his
right side in a fetal position facing the table.

My eyes narrowed. All killers make mistakes. And this
one had made a second mistake. But, even with the nonsparking brass, this second error was not enough to lead me
to his identity, but it convinced me the fire was no accident.

John Wesley Edney had been struck in the left temple, and
the fire intentionally set to make it appear an accident.

I visualized the scene in my head. The old man was facing
the table. His assailant struck from behind, and for the wound
to be on the left temple, the killer was probably left-handed.

Not that I ruled out right-handers. One could have initiated the swing backhanded, but unless he used both hands, the
force would not be enough to render JW Edney unconscious
long enough to suffocate.

To me, my theory made sense. If he were struck from
behind on the left temple, he would have fallen to his right,
facing the table. Exactly where the body had been found.

A nagging feeling came over me. Something didn’t fit. I
pulled out the ME’s report and read once again that the body
had been discovered lying in a fetal position on its right side.

I glanced at the autopsy results once again, which concluded the head injury was sustained when Edney fell from
the explosion, slamming his head against the concrete.

For several moments, I studied the report. If I were to
believe the autopsy report, then why was the injury on the
left side instead of the right?

I shook my head. That didn’t make sense. Someone had
murdered JW Edney.

I pulled out my cell phone.

Now was the time to put in a call to my savior on more than
one occasion, Eddie Dyson-computer whiz, entrepreneur,
and at one time, Austin’s resident sleazy-bar stool pigeon.

A few years earlier, Eddie gave up the uncertain life of a
snitch working squalid bars for the snug comfort of computers and credit cards. He had pulled onto the fast lane of the
information superhighway and had quickly become a successful driver on the road.

Any information I couldn’t find, he could. There were only two catches if you dealt with Eddie. First, you never
asked him how he found the information, and second, he
only accepted Visa credit cards for payment.

Sometimes his charges were expensive, sometimes reasonable, never cheap. But, failure was not in his vocabulary.

And failure was the last thing -I needed-now.-

In the morning, I told myself, as much as I disliked the
man, I had to enlist Tom Garrett’s assistance in getting me
in to visit with the medical examiner.

As I completed my transaction with Eddie, headlights
flashed through the rain-drenched window. I rolled my eyes,
not relishing being around the squabbling family this evening.

Deliberately, I remained in the garage.

A few minutes later, Jack showed up, a raincoat draped
over his cast and a wry scowl on his face.

I nodded to him. “How was the memorial service?”

“No problem. We had to wait for Annebelle. She was supposed to be right behind us, but as usual, she fiddled around
and showed up ten or fifteen minutes late. At least, no one
got into a fight. By the way, what happened to your truck?”