Tin City Tinder (A Boone Childress Mystery) (17 page)

“Whatever,” Cedar said.

“I appreciate your skills,” Luigi said, his head resting on the desk. “Please, keep reading. It helps my listening comprehension.”

“Really?” Gretchen let out a tiny squeal. “Okay.”

Luigi’s comprehension was terrific. All he cared about was hearing Gretchen giggle. But their love was doomed, since Luigi was returning to Osaka soon.

“
Galloway possesses a bullet-like serve that she can place within four inches of a target. She demonstrated the feat for this reporter, destroying six different targets in a row.
Wow. Huh?”

“Impressive,” Luigi said.

While Gretchen read, my thoughts turned to the morning’s news. So much happened since Friday that I was still sorting it out. Learning the victim’s identity was a mix of emotions. It was satisfying to know that she had been identified and that a face and name had been put with the body. She was now a person, and that gave me peace. But the fact that she may have died because Eugene Loach had too much hate in his heart to rescue her made my stomach turn.

I hated dealing with human emotions. Human bones were another story. The information they held told you so much about a person’s body: How old they were, what injuries and diseases they had, what kind of dental problems they faced. But as my little voice reminded me, bodies couldn’t tell you names, and they couldn’t tell you personalities.

Through the fog of my brain machinations, someone was calling my name.

“Childress!”
 

“Huh? Sir?”

Dr. Echols, my history professor, stood in the hallway, looking at his watch. “Class starts in one minute. Care to make the journey into the past?”

I blinked back to reality. My hand resting on Cedar’s bare knee. “Yes sir. On my way.”

Echols disappeared down the hallway. I gave Cedar a quick kiss goodbye before jogging to the classroom.

“All right, young people.” Echols dimmed the lights and pulled down a screen. “Let’s start off with a discussion of Roosevelt’s New Deal and its impact on the great State of North Carolina, shall we?”

Like the class he taught, Dr. Echols was something of a time warp. He wore black pants, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Specifically,” Echols continued, “the Department of Interior’s homestead programs, the first of which was in this county. Over a period of years, a total of four homesteads were established. Notes, people. Write this down.” He turned on the projector and clicked a PowerPoint slide. “Let’s start with the farming utopia of Atamasco, which was followed almost immediately by a similar homestead in Tin City.”

My ears perked up. “Dr. Echols, did you say Tin City?”

Echols clicked to the next slide. “Yes, I believe I did. There it is right there on the slide. It’s spelled T—“

“Got it,” I said.

“Excellent. Moving on. Atamasco Farm was followed by three other homestead farms. The aforementioned Tin City, followed by Black Oak Hill and Nagswood. Of the four, only Atamasco was a long-term success. It is the only remaining population center, while the others have officially ceased to exist. The question for today is: What qualities did Atamasco have that the other three homesteads lacked? Here’s the first one.”

I raised my hand. “Dr. Echols, sorry to interrupt. Could you talk more about the other homesteads?”

Echols strummed his fingers on the lectern. “I’m not that familiar with the ghost towns of Allegheny County. If this sort of history really interests you, you should talk to Mrs. Yarbrough.”

“The college librarian?”

“Also the director of the regional history museum. Pay attention to the resources around you, Boone. Now, can I get back to my lecture?”

“Yes sir.”

“Thank you.”

Echols clicked for the next slide, but his voice was already fading in my ears.
 

Failed homesteads in Tin City and Nagswood.

It had to be a coincidence.

Or was it?

2

Conversing with a southern woman was a dangerous thing. Anyone who had seen that biopic about Truman Capote would know this. Capote grew up chatting with blue haired matrons, listening to their conversations, picking up on their gossip, worming his way into their hearts and their inner circles.
 

In the South, if somebody told a young male that she wanted to chat, his blood would run cold. Because
to chat
in the South, especially when blue haired matrons were involved, meant a polite, torture session that exposed the very fabric of your soul.

My torture session took place in the library. It started from the moment I was greeted by Mrs. Yarbrough.

 
“So, here we are,” she said, seating me across the desk in her cubicle office. “A little bird tells me you’re interested in the history of our fair county.”

“I’m most interested in the homesteads farms. The ones that failed?”

“Yes!” she said. “Of course. Nagswood and my personal favorite, Tin City, with which I have several personal connections. My grandparents were one of the original families to settle there. What a progressive idea it was, a social utopia.”

And then, she was off. Over the course of an hour, she told me about her grandparents, her great grandparents, and their parents, who were the first in her family to settle in the area. But she never came around to my original question, despite my best efforts to keep her on topic.

“Look at the time,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Where does it go?”

“But,” I said. “I still have questions about those farm projects.”

“Can’t drink deeply enough from the water cooler of history? Boone Childress, you surprise me. Well, I suggest you visit me at the Allegheny County Regional History Museum one day soon. We’re open every day, Monday through Thursday, four to sevenish. Except on Wednesdays, of course, when we close at six sharp for church.”

She had the look of a bulldozer that had quit work for the day—there would be no budging her.
 

“Yes, ma’am.” I took the business card for the museum. my head was so full of questions, it was about to burst. "I'll come by the museum soon."

What a complete waste of time. Was there any way the day could be more frustrating?

I pushed open the library door, and the answer to my question was in my face. It came in the form of a water balloon, which had just left the hand of Dewayne Loach.

3

I ducked.

The water balloon sailed over my head. It hit the wall behind and exploded, splashing on the back of my shirt.

Dewayne and the knuckle draggers were laughing when I stood up. They stopped when they saw the murderous look on my face.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kick all of yours asses,” I said.

We met in the middle of the hallway. The crowd formed a ring around us.

“That stunt you pulled the other night, insulting my brother about his sign,” Dewayne said. “You think you’re funny, chump? I got news for you, that’s my house, and ain’t nobody disrespecting me in my own house.”

“It was a store.”

“Everywhere I am, that’s my house.”

“You live at the college then?”

“Do what?”

“You said this was your house. It looks like a campus to me. You seem confused about geography.”

“Up yours.”

“I’m sure you’d like that,” I said, “but you’re not my type.”

Dewayne swung, just like I knew he would. The punch came from the right, a haymaker aimed for the side of my head, but I blocked it easily.

“You think that’s funny?” Dewayne swung again, winding up with the opposite hand. “I’ll show you funny.”

I rammed an elbow into Loach’s chin. The force of the blow staggered him, and he fell on his ass. I expected him to pop right back up, but he stayed put.

“Had enough?” I asked.

A whistle blew.

The crowd whipped toward the sound.
 

The campus cop was running toward us, blowing her whistle and reaching for a can of pepper spray.
 

His buddies pushed Dewayne away.

I was waiting for the cop when Cedar appeared.
 

“Boone! Let’s go!" She steered me to the custodian’s closet. Pushed me inside and shut the door. “You don’t need more trouble with cops!”

“This is nice and roomy for a closet,” I said.

“Sit down.” She turned on the faucet in the utility sink, then splashed water on my face.
 

I lost my balance and grabbed the nearest thing to me. It was warm and soft and wearing blue jeans.

“That’s my ass, Boone.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.” She removed my hand. “Fighting is stupid.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because guys are stupid.”

“No argument there,” she said and splashed more water in my face.

I fished out my handkerchief. “Use this.”

“Is it clean?”

“Clean enough.”

She held the handkerchief under water, rung it out, and dropped it into the trashcan. “Damn it, I’m such a klutz…What’s this?” She reached down, then stopped, “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

Pinching only a corner, she pulled a plastic bag from the trash. It was labeled with large black letters:
 

Sodium
.
 

And underneath, in red:
 

DANGER! EXPLOSIVE MATERIAL!

4

“Thank the Lord for half-days.” Mom threw herself into her chair. She pulled off her heels and slapped them on the desk. “Now I can stop this travesty in its tracks.”

I lay stretched out on the couch with the newspaper over my face, trying to hide.

Mom’s laptop binged
as it booted, followed minutes later by her fingers on the keyboard, first squeaking like guitar strings, then like a fan on a snare drum.

“You’re making enough noise to wake the dead.”

“I intend to.”

“I’m not dead,” I said from under the paper.

“Not you.” She pounded away. “I am referring to the brain dead puppets on the County Council. The planning board says destroying the Tin City cemetery is completely legal!”

“Those would be the puppets?”

“The one and the same. They say the development company has signatures for the relatives of the deceased giving them permission. I find that hard to believe. Don’t you find it hard to believe?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m tired of being patronized today.”

I moved the paper aside. “Is this about the injunction you filed?”

“The injunction that was denied, you mean.”

“Did you see they identified the victim of the Nagswood fire?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Any thoughts?”

“Many. Come to the Council meeting tonight, and you’ll hear them all.”

I checked my watch. 1615 hours. “I was hoping for a ride to the regional history museum.”

“That’s halfway across the county. What’s wrong with your truck?”

“Oil leak.”

“Fix it.”

“I will once I get to the auto parts store. Can you give me a ride there first?”

“Not until after five PM, my dear boy.”

Lamar walked down the hallway. He was dressed in olive green slacks and a starched white shirt.

“If you’re ready to go.” Lamar buttoned both cuffs. “I’ll run you down to the store. I’ve got some errands to do.”
 

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll get my stuff.”

While I was getting ready, the house phone rang. Mom answered and took the call outside for privacy. She finished as Lamar and I were leaving.

“What’s that on the grass outside?” Mom asked me on the way to the truck. “Is that cookies?”

“Possibly.”

“How long have they been there?”

“A while.”

“Why are they still on the grass?”

“Thought the birds would eat them, but even the crows didn’t touch them.”

“Smart birds,” Lamar said.

“Boone?” Mom crossed her arms. “Did you try cooking again?”

“I had a sweet tooth, so I used your recipe to make some snickerdoodles. They were a failure. I don’t understand why. I followed the recipe precisely.”

Mom clamped her lips together, struggling not to laugh. “There’s your trouble. The best recipes are never in a book.”

5

Twenty minutes later, Lamar’s truck was roaring down Highway Twelve toward Atamasco at seventy miles per hour. We had just left the auto parts store, where I had bought the parts to fix my truck.
 

"Mind dropping me off at the museum, too? I can kill two birds that way."

"Don't mind at all."

“Just an observation,” I said, “but when I drive over the speed limit, there’s always a deputy around the next corner. Especially Deputy Mercer.”

Lamar drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Normally, I would say you’re being paranoid, but that feller has given tickets to at least three firefighters. Julia got one on the way to that brushfire up in Black Oak Shelter.”

“He almost busted me on the Tin City call, remember? If Sheriff Hoyt hadn’t stopped me, he would’ve Tased me.”

“Hoyt’s pretty good at keeping his deputy’s reined in. Comes with the territory.”

“I’m not following you.”

“In North Carolina, the office of sheriff is elected, which means half the job is political. Hoyt’s a good man, and he follows the spirit of the law, but there are some things he does to stay on the voters’ good side.”

“Got anything in particular in mind?”

“When I read the paper today, I got a little worried about a few things Hoyt said. There are times when it’s a good idea to stay away from politics, if you know what I’m saying.”

I wasn’t quite sure what Lamar meant, but it seemed like a good time to nod.

“By the way, your mama’s proud as punch you were the one who found that woman. I may not like the way it happened, but there’s no doubt those inspectors never would’ve found her.”

“Thanks. But we might have saved her, if the Atamasco VFD had listened to me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That’s not your place to decide, even if you think it is. Listen, Boone, I know you want to be a bone detective like your granddaddy. Fact is, you aren’t out of school yet, and there are some things you’ve got to let the experts figure out.”