The Treacherous Teddy (30 page)

Ash, who was sitting in the backseat, replied, “I know, but you can look forward to staying all day next year. Hopefully, we won’t be investigating a murder then.”

Tina called over her shoulder. “So you’ve decided there’s going to
be
a next year?”

“Everybody at the show seemed to really enjoy themselves, and lots of the out-of-town artists told me that they’d come back next year, if we did it again. It’s a lot of work, but . . .”

“It’s great that you’re going to make this an annual event,” I said. “But who are you kidding, honey? It’s not just a lot of work. It’s a s-teddy job.”

Because Ash was on the other side of the plastic barrier, I couldn’t hear her. But I was pretty certain that she’d groaned in unison with Tina.

The town of New Market isn’t much more than fifteen miles to the northwest of Remmelkemp Mill . . . as the crow flies. However, we aren’t crows and there is no direct route between the two communities, so Tina and I had plenty of time along the way to recount to Ash what Marilyn and Wade Tice had told us during their interviews.

Ash said sadly, “So Everett was really going to sell out? That just makes me sick.”

“I know it’s disappointing, but there isn’t much room for doubt,” I replied. Ev Rawlins was going to take the money and run.”

Tina kept her eyes locked on the interstate traffic ahead and said, “And with Swift Run Gap Realty handling the real estate transaction, Roger Prufrock knew the amusement park was going to be built.”

“Which gives him a motive for arson,” Ash said.

“And maybe even murder,” Tina added. “All Mr. Tice saw were headlights. For all we know, it might have been Roger’s BMW.”

“True enough. What’s your plan for when we get to the motel?” I asked.

“Beats me. We don’t have probable cause to arrest him.”

“Even though you found those burned clothes at his house?” Ash asked.

“All he’d have to say is that it happened when he used some gasoline to burn a bunch of raked leaves. We can’t prove otherwise until the lab analyzes his clothing,” Tina replied.

I said, “And we won’t even be able to ask him that, if he doesn’t open the door. We don’t have a search warrant, so we have no legal right to force entry into his motel room.”

“And he won’t open up if he knows it’s us,” said Ash.

“So we’ve got to come up with some way to trick him into coming outside. Gee, is there anyone in this car capable of that sort of deviousness?” I said innocently.

Tina chuckled as we turned onto the off-ramp for New Market. For most people, New Market is just a blur seen from the interstate, but it’s a secular shrine for those who honor Southern heritage. The town was the site of a Civil War battle back in 1864 that featured an attack by the teenaged cadets of the Virginia Military Institute, which is now a cherished component of Confederate military myth. The community really hasn’t changed all that much since then . . . if you can overlook the gas stations, convenience stores, and fast-food restaurants, and the ten-foot-tall painted fiberglass statue of Johnny Appleseed that belongs in some kitsch hall of fame.

The motel was on the west side of the freeway and stood on the crest of a low hill. Tina turned into the motel parking lot and stopped in front of the office. A young-looking New Market cop and a Shenandoah County deputy sheriff leaned against their patrol cars, waiting for us. We got out of the cruiser, and the cop told us that he’d found Roger’s BMW parked at the rear of the motel. The cop stressed that he hadn’t stopped to take a closer look at the Beemer, but had retreated and called for backup. After that, he’d spoken with the motel manager who’d reported that Roger was in Room 115, which was on the ground floor. The young cop had done an excellent job, and if we were lucky, our renegade real estate agent was still unaware that we’d discovered his hiding place.

As Tina, Ash, and the two lawmen went to conduct a quick reconnaissance of the rear of the motel, an idea of how we might entice Roger from the room occurred to me. The ploy would require a prop, so I began to search for something made out of metal that would make plenty of noise when I walloped it with my cane. I found what I was looking for next to the soda machines and carried it back to the front of the motel. Ash, Tina, and the cops had already returned from their scouting mission, and they made no effort to conceal their looks of mystification.

Ash said, “Honey . . . uh . . . why are you carrying that big trash can?”

“This is going to get Roger out of his room.” I raised the weathered galvanized steel canister. It was easy to lift because it was empty. I’d removed the trash-filled plastic liner bag and left it next to the soda machines.

“How?” Tina asked.

“The magic of special effects. We’re going to wreck his BMW.”

Tina looked at me as if I’d lost my marbles. “What? Brad, we can’t damage his car.”

“You’re right, but we can make him
think
it happened. Now, here’s how we’re going to work this . . .”

A few minutes later, we were in position and ready. Tina and Ash stood on opposite sides of the door to Room 115, with their backs pressed against the wall so that Roger couldn’t observe them though the fish-eye peephole. Meanwhile I was hiding to the rear of a big Dodge Durango SUV, which was parked next to Roger’s BMW. The New Market cop was about forty yards away, sitting in his idling patrol car and waiting for Tina’s signal. She waved for him to begin, and it was showtime.

The cop slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and his car laid down a smoky trail of acceleration skid. Then, as the officer approached my location, he stood on his brakes. That was my cue. Once the car skidded to a stop, I smashed my cane against the side of the trash can, to replicate the sound of a traffic collision. Then I pointed to the cop. He hit the gas again and roared around the corner.

Not wanting Roger to recognize my voice, I tried to disguise it. Hoping I sounded like someone from the urban Northeast, I shouted, “Hey! Get dat freakin’ guy’s license plate! He just hit dis freakin’ Beemer!”

There were a couple of tense seconds as we waited to see if Roger would take the bait. Then the door to Room 115 swung open, and Roger came reeling outside. I think we all winced at the sight. The agent had a mixture of first-and second-degree burns on his face and scalp, and his pink and blistered skin reminded me unpleasantly of a fat Louisiana hot-link sausage that had spent too much time on the barbecue grill.

Still oblivious to Tina and Ash, who were following in his wake, Roger lurched toward the rear of the BMW. That’s when I stepped out from behind the SUV and said, “Hi, Roger. Man, you got one hell of a sunburn while you were golfing down in South Carolina earlier today. Is that why you came back so soon?”

Roger looked from the back of his undamaged Beemer to the dented trash can and realized he’d been duped. Then he gave me a nervous grin and said, “What are you talking about, Brad, old buddy? I wasn’t in South Carolina.”

“I know, and those burns weren’t caused by the sun. You were too close to the house when the gasoline ignited. And don’t bother to lie. We found your gas can, a road flare that is going to have your fingerprints on it, and your burned clothes.”

Roger nodded glumly. “I guess you’ve got me.”

“What are you doing here? You need to be in a hospital.” Then I smelled the strong odor of hard liquor on Roger’s breath. “Or a detox facility.”

“I’m fine. Just fine,” Roger replied in a slightly slurred voice. He dismissively waved his right hand. The gesture revealed that his hand was also burned.

Even though Roger had declined medical attention, I was pretty certain he was too intoxicated to know just how badly he was injured. Therefore, we had a moral duty to call for the EMTs, even if that meant an abbreviated interview. I glanced at Ash, who nodded and went over to ask the New Market cop to contact his dispatcher and have paramedics sent to the motel. Meanwhile, the state trooper gave us a wave and returned to his cruiser.

Tina said, “Mr. Prufrock, we have a few minutes, so we’d like to ask you some questions.”

The real estate agent slowly wheeled to face Tina. “Sheriff! How good to see you. Perhaps we could . . . uh . . . set up a time to chat on Monday?”

“I think
now
would be best.”

“Especially for you,” I added. “Look Roger, you’re a wheeler-dealer, so let me put this in terms you’ll understand. Now’s the time to cooperate and buy yourself some goodwill that can be redeemed later at your trial.”

“Where you might be charged with arson
and
murder, if you don’t tell us the truth,” said Tina, playing some verbal hardball.

Roger gave Tina a bleary-eyed look of amazement and fear. “Murder? Oh my God, was someone in that house? You’ve got to believe me, ol’ Roger didn’t know that there was anybody inside.”

“There was nobody in the house that we know of,” said Tina. “We’re talking about the murder of Everett Rawlins.”

“Ev? I didn’t kill Ev. Everybody says that Wade Tice did it.”

Roger was far too drunk to skillfully dissemble, so I was inclined to believe he was telling the truth, as he knew it. I said, “Everybody might be wrong. So let me get this straight, you weren’t at Ev Rawlins’s house on Thursday night?”

“No! No. I was at my office and then I was home.” The agent began to lose his balance but steadied himself at the last moment.

Ash came back and murmured, “The rescue squad has been notified, but there’s going to be a slight delay. They’re just clearing from a car crash.”

“Okay, then we have a few minutes before the medics get here and transport Roger to the hospital. We’ll see what we can get from him before they arrive,” I muttered to my wife and Tina. “Let’s move him back inside the room and sit him down. There’ll be fewer distractions.”

“And he won’t be as likely to fall over,” Tina added.

We led Roger back inside the motel room, where I discovered what he’d been using as an anesthetic. On the nightstand was an amber-colored plastic prescription bottle of oxycodone pills and beside it a large bottle of rum. Roger had been watching a college football game before we’d interrupted him with our bogus car crash. The real estate agent sat down in the chair while I found the TV remote and shut off the set.

“Hey, I was watching that!” Roger complained.

I sat down on the bed opposite the chair and said, “I think it’s more important that you focus on us for a few minutes.”

Roger eyed the liquor bottle on the nightstand. “Could I have some more rum while we talk?”

“That’s probably not a good idea. Now, we already know about Ev Rawlins selling his farm to Amerriment so they can turn the farm into a theme park. We also know that you were the agent handling the transaction. So, what happened on Thursday?”

“Thursday . . .” Momentarily forgetting that his brow was scorched, Roger reached up to rub his forehead and then jerked his hand away in pain. “Thursday . . . we were supposed to sign the final paperwork on Thursday right around suppertime.”

“You mean the sale hadn’t been finalized?” Tina asked.

“No. We’d been dickering since Tuesday, but Ev was dragging his heels. It was making Friggin’ Driggs crazy . . . that’s my little nickname for that foul-mouthed Amerriment lady, by the way.”

Tina wrinkled her nose. “That’s sweet.”

“She certainly
isn’t
sweet,” said Roger, oblivious to Tina’s barb. “That woman belongs in a kennel.”

Tina shook her head with frustration. It was obvious she didn’t have any patience with drunks. I, however, had learned to deal with other people’s booze-impaired brain functions while I was still a child, as both my mother and father had been alcoholics.

I said, “Where were you going to meet to sign the papers?”

“Rawlins’s house,” he replied. “But I got a call from Driggs that afternoon. She was all upset and said the paperwork was ruined.”

“Because someone had poured coffee all over it,” I said.

Roger gave me a wary look of surprise. “How’d you know that?”

“Don’t worry about how we found out. Just keep in mind that if we know something that insignificant, we’ll also know if you start lying. Now, what else did she say?”

“She said she needed a fresh batch of sales documents as soon as possible. I told her that was going to take some time, and she jumped down my throat and said that I’d better get my hillbilly ass in gear.” The agent sounded angry and with good reason. Despite its wide usage in American culture, the word
hillbilly
is extraordinarily offensive to folks who live around here and throughout the rest of Appalachia.

“What happened after that?” Ash asked.

“Her Majesty had spoken, so I started putting together a new bunch of escrow paperwork. I had the documents saved on my computer, but it was a lot of work.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“Brad, old buddy, are you sure I can’t have something to wet my whistle?” Roger made a big production out of smacking his lips. “All this talking has flat dried me out.”

“Sure. How about some water?”

“How about just a tiny sip of that rum?”

“If you don’t want water, you can’t be that thirsty.”

“But I’m hurting.”

“No doubt, but whose fault is that? You set the fire.”

“I know, but I want a drink.”

“Not on top of God knows how many of those oxycodone pills you’ve taken. Firewater with opiates is a lethal combo. And no offense, but I don’t think any of us feel like giving you CPR.”

Roger’s tone became petulant. “Look here, that’s my bottle. I bought it with my own money and
I want a drink
. Otherwise, I’m going to stop talking.”

We didn’t have time to waste arguing over booze, so I leaned back and gave him a cold smile. “If that’s supposed to be a threat, you’re a lot drunker than I thought. Here’s a reality check, Roger: You have no leverage. We don’t need your help to find out who killed Ev Rawlins, so don’t try to haggle with us.”

The agent gave me a shrewd look. “Oh yeah . . . ? What if I told you it was Sherri Driggs and maybe her assistant, too, at Ev’s house on Thursday night?”