Small Town Trouble (16 page)

“The weather’s gonna be the same as yesterday,” Alonzo said to the listeners in radio land. “It’s gonna be hot, then hot some more. He he he. So stay cool. Now let’s have some more of that classic country. Here’s a couple by Roy Acuff, startin’ off with one of my favorites,
Wreck on the Highway
.” Alonzo cued up the music, disentangled himself from his DJ gear, then came out of the booth. He wore his Garth Brooks hat, frayed jeans cut-offs and a jaundice yellow tank top with a faded imprint of Minnie Mouse that hugged his budding spare tire. He was barefoot.

“Made a few programming changes,” he said, cheerfully. “I call this Alonzo’s Hour of American Country Classics.” Sure beat the heck out of an hour of geeky new country singers.

“I like it.”

“What’s up, Cuz’?” Alonzo said. He gave me the Claypoole bear hug, then went to the fridge and grabbed a cold Hudy for himself.

“Just thought I’d stop by and say hi.” A lie, but a small one.

Alonzo leaned against the fridge and drained off about half of his beer. “Evelyn gonna sell this place or what?”

“She’s still not sure.”

“I really hate the thought of goin’ lookin’ for job.” He took another long drink, then belched loudly. “Hey, I got some free Kings Island passes. Me and Evelyn are plannin’ on going this afternoon. Wanna come?”

I gave him my busy schedule excuse.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But there may not be a whole lot of free passes in our future, if you get my drift.”

I was sure that Alonzo had no concept of the profundity of his last remark. He probably had no concept of profundity at all.

He took two new beers out of the fridge, brought me one, and kicked back next to me on the sofa. We sat quietly for a few minutes, drinking our beers, while the ghostly, old-time country sounds of Roy Acuff filled the station and occupied the air waves of greater Fogerty.

“Alonzo, do you think Rick Rod Delozier killed Abbott and Jimmy Jacobs?”

“Yep,” he said. “Why, you don’t?”

“Maybe.”

“Whattaya mean
maybe
?”

I took a generous sip of the ice-cold Hudy. “Maybe someone set Rick Rod up. It happens.”

Alonzo shook his head. “This ain’t
Murder She Wrote
. The police got Rick Rod red-handed.” Alonzo belched again. “He did it, all right.” Alonzo crushed his beer can and tossed it in the general direction of a cardboard box across the room. “So help me, if I ever get my hands on that guy...” Alonzo took a deep, soulful breath. “You know, Abbott wouldn’t have liked my idea for the American Country Classics hour. He liked the modern stuff. We argued about it on and off.” For a minute, I thought Alonzo might burst into tears, but he successfully fought them off. “Well, guess I better get back at it, Cuz’. Thanks for comin’ by.” He slapped me lightly on the back. “Hey, you ever think of movin’ back home?” he asked.

“I think about moving a lot of places.”

A slow grin crept over his mouth. He had puppy-dog eyes, a big head of dark, glistening hair and pouty, red lips. He looked a little like Elvis if you really stretched your imagination. “You are quick, Cuz’. Always admired that.”

Aw shucks. “Thanks for the beers, Alonzo.” I set my empty down and picked up my car keys. “Maybe I’ll take a little walk around before I go, stretch the legs.”

“Sure, stretch your legs.”

Alonzo gave me another crushing hug before I made it out the door. It was a family thing. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said.

The field behind WFOG was daisy-studded, grassy-fragrant and waving in the scorching heat. If I’d had a butterfly net, I could’ve bagged an entire collection in about three minutes flat. Call me a bug lover, but butterflies seem to be at their most enchanting when they’re flitting around freely from blossom to blossom and not pinned to some science freak’s butterfly board.

The field was longer than it was wide. In the distance, was the edge of woods where Amy and I had hugged the turf the night before to avoid a grim rendezvous with Officer Mike and Charlene. Remembering how close we’d come to getting tromped on and subsequently discovered by a pair of potential psychos made my skin crawl all over again.

Knee-high in field flora and fauna, I meandered among the flitting butterflies. The grass was still tromped down in places and the old beer bottles were lying right where they were the night before.

What had Charlene dragged Officer Mike out here to see? And who the hell had followed us last night? I could rule out Officer Mike and Charlene. They were definitely in front of us. So who was tailing our tail?

And speaking of tails, suddenly I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that, once again, I was being watched. Furtively, I glanced around, but, as far as I could tell, it was just me, the flutterbys and a lot of fence posts. I stopped and listened carefully for any tell-tale sound, but all I could hear were the occasional gusts of wind in the trees along the fence row, a cawing crow and the rapid beating of my own tell-tale heart.

I couldn’t help but notice that my crawling skin crawled a little more when I replayed last night’s caller’s hideous message in my mind. It crawled about another ten feet when I considered again that there was a very good chance that whoever was the owner of that hellish voice probably also owned the car that had followed Amy and me only hours earlier.

But I needed to keep my mind on the task at hand and turned my attention back to the field. Had something been lost here? Had someone buried something
or someone
? I pawed and scratched and stomped around until I couldn’t paw, scratch or stomp another moment. A good half hour had passed and, once again, I’d found nothing, another frustrating and fruitless search.

Defeated and sweating like a Finn in the sauna, I headed for the fence row where I plopped down under a massive shade tree. Boy, was I a lousy detective. The crow that was loitering on the branch above me agreed. He taunted me with a barrage of nasty
caws.
I told him he should consider himself fortunate. If I had Ted’s .357, I’d shoot him. He just cackled back at me.

It was hard to believe that I hadn’t turned up anything except the same beer bottles I’d turned up the night before. About the only constructive thing I’d managed to do was shake off a bad case of the heebie jeebies. I mopped my brow with the tail of my T-shirt and tried to figure out my next move.

I was on the verge of embarking on some serious figuring when there was a loud
whap whap whap.
It took me a moment to realize that the racket was coming from overhead. It sounded like a two-ton butterfly was descending. The noise got louder. Startled, the crow above me gave a last cackle, flapped his oily black wings and took to the sky.

It wasn’t a two-ton butterfly, but I wasn’t that far off either. It was a helicopter. A sleek, black flying machine and it was circling the field. I watched as it slowly circled twice then hovered about dead center. I squinted into the sun but couldn’t make out any markings on the copter. I hunkered down low in the weeds, hoping they, whoever
they
were, hadn’t come looking for me. I was hoping that I’d seriously overestimated my popularity.

The copter swung its tail left then right, hanging tight to the air like a giant ebony dragonfly. It was one of those bubble models, but the bubble was so darkly tinted I couldn’t make out the pilot or passengers. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the copter abruptly made like a runaway helium balloon, sailing up over the treetops and then it was gone.

Chapter 33

When I was sure the copter was good and gone, I beat feet back to my car where I’d left it in the station parking lot. The Charger was gone, and, no doubt, so was Alonzo because Agee’s rusted pickup was parked in its place, the changing of the guard. I thought I’d stick my head in the station door before I split to get a cool blast of air for the road and catch my breath and to be civil, I’d say a quick hi-bye to cousin Agee.

Agee was a few years older and a few pounds heavier than Alonzo. As far as I could tell, other than that they could’ve been identical twins.

George Jones sang
The Grand Tour.
Agee was on the phone. He looked up when he saw me come in and he put his hand over the receiver.

“Hey, Kim,” Agee said, holding out the phone, “it’s for you.”

I was beginning to hate incoming calls. I cringed and took the receiver. “Hello?”

“Good,” Evelyn said. “I caught you.”

“Boy, I am glad it’s you,” I let out a sigh of relief. I don’t think I’d actually ever been relieved before to get a call from my mother, but this time I was. It sure beat hearing from Freddy Kruger again.

“What?”

“Never mind. What’s up?”

“Bud Upton called,” she said. “Looks like Larry White’s in town, and he wants to meet later this afternoon.” Evelyn took a long, dramatic breath. “Now Kimberly, you know I want to ride the pony and all, but do you suppose there’s any way you’d let me off the hook just this once and go to this meeting without me? You know I trust you completely. Alonzo’s gonna be so disappointed if I don’t go to King’s Island.”

At this point, leaving Evelyn out of things not only had its appeal, it was probably the right move. Things were getting a bit hairy, and there was every good reason to think that they might get hairier.

“I’ll handle this, Mom. Go with Alonzo. Have some fun.”

“You serious?”

“Of course.” Gee, I was swell.

“Well, I guess I raised you right then. Well, almost.”

I handed the phone back to Agee who’d been standing there staring at me like a dumbstruck woodchuck the whole time. “Everything okay?” he said, recradling the phone.

“Everything’s just super.”

“Wanna beer?”

I did want a beer, badly, but I wanted to drink it somewhere far away from WFOG and anyone related to me. “Thanks, Agee, maybe next time.”

Agee shrugged. “At least let me give you a hug before you go.”

All roads lead to Sparkie’s Lounge, or that’s the way it was beginning to seem. I took the same booth Amy and I had recently occupied and the waitress, also the same one, brought me a glass of water and a menu.

“You must like this place,” she said, taking out her pencil.

Like there were lots of other choices.

“I must.” I ordered my usual, a cheeseburger with the works and a Little King.

“Be right back with your beer,” she said.

“Terrific.” I was greatly anticipating the chilly Little King. This was the best news I’d had all day.

She picked up my menu and tucked her order pad into the back pocket of her jeans. For the backside of thirty, she had a pretty nice backside going for her. She wasn’t kidding. She was right back with my Little King. She poured it into a glass. I didn’t really want it in a glass, but it seemed like she was trying to be nice or at least efficient, so I just said thanks.

I enjoyed my beer and cheeseburger and tried to get my mind to take a coffee break. I was getting nowhere rehashing the questions. I certainly had
them
down pat. It was answers I needed, and soon.

Although it made me more than a hair uneasy, I was looking forward to meeting the man who called himself Larry White face to face. I only hoped that he didn’t bear a strong resemblance to Freddy Kruger.

I shoved my empty lunch plate aside and was contemplating having a piece of coconut cream pie for dessert when Mayor Scotty Mink came in with a giant of a guy who wore a dark suit, alligator boots and a black cowboy hat. He was probably the Wal-Mart store manager.

The waitress carried menus to a table by the window and while Black Bart seated, Scotty Mink took a short detour to my table.

“Why, hello, Ms. Claypoole,” he said, touching my shoulder. “What a nice surprise to see you. I thought you’d be long gone by now.” His hand lingered on my shoulder.

“I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up before I go.”

“Oh? Anything I can do to help?”

For starts, you could take your slimy paw off me. “I don’t think so, but it’s nice of you to offer.”

“Well, do enjoy the rest of your stay,” he said, turning to join his lunch date.

“Thanks, I will.”

Once I’d gotten the mayor out of my hair, I went back to the dessert menu, but in a rare act of self-restraint, I passed on the pie, picked up my check, left a healthy tip and paid at the cash register. Then I hit the potty and the pay phone. I still hadn’t been able to totally shake my queasy, uneasy feeling, and I was getting a little worried because I hadn’t filled Amy in yet on the threatening phone call. I dropped a quarter in the pay phone, hoping I’d catch Amy before I headed to Bud Upton’s office for my meeting with Larry White.

I rang her home number and crossed my fingers, hoping that I wouldn’t have to talk to Dr. Prickwad again, but Amy picked up on the first ring.

“I’m glad you called,” she said. Amy didn’t sound too good. In fact, she sounded terrible.

I held my breath and asked the question I didn’t want to ask. “What’s wrong, Amy?”

She sniffed. “I told Doug that I wanted a divorce. It didn’t go so well.”

Her timing was incredible. “You did?”