Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 14

CHAPTER 9

Booker awoke hungry and agitated. He’d gone to bed expecting Fowler’s grotesque corpse to bob up in his nightmares. Instead, he spent the night dreaming of an auburn-haired Indian maid in red and blue jogging shorts.

It wasn’t in him to leave the problem of Fowler’s murder alone, now that he had an interest in the outcome. But what did that mean, exactly? Among the seven-hundred-odd residents at Lakeside, he hardly knew a soul except Emaline, which might be a good thing for a self-appointed snoop. No loyalties.

He glanced at his clean kitchen. Cooking would mess it up. He couldn’t stomach cold cereal this morning, and the one banana in the fruit bowl had black spots. Too bad Roxanna didn’t serve breakfast.

One drawback of living at Lakeside Estates was the ten-mile drive into Masonville for such essentials as food and gasoline. The only enterprises allowed inside the estates were golf, horse stabling, the US Post Office, the interdenominational church, and the Caribou Lodge, which included a restaurant, private club, and a few rental cabins. On the upside, the absence of commerce reduced the number of strangers roaming about.

Booker sniffed the aging banana. The lodge served a decent breakfast, and hadn’t Emaline suggested the Fowler family might drop in?

Dressed in his baggiest, most comfortable jeans with a faded blue t-shirt advertising an obsolete Kodak film, he drove around Turtle Lake. The Lodge sat on the main road, about a quarter mile inside the front gates. A Coushatta architect had designed the building of local rock and bleached pine that blended as gracefully with the landscape as the purple wildflowers lining the front walk. Pine and rock continued inside, softened by Apache blankets, Hopi pottery, and intricate fabric art.

Booker entered the Caribou restaurant scanning the crowd as he took a chair. No “mousy little schoolteacher,” as Emaline had described Sarabelle. No young man who might be Aaron or Jeremy Fowler. Booker supposed it was too early yet. If he were the one identifying a body, he’d put it off as long as possible.

Pete Littlehawk, a person Booker had hoped to avoid, strolled from the kitchen carrying a tray of silver bowls filled with plastic cream containers. He began placing them on the tables.

Booker could think of no one who just plain irritated him more than Pete. If the club owner wasn’t bragging about a whopping big fish he caught last week or the fine deer he shot, showing the antlers on the wall to prove it, he was trying to talk you into a bet, usually on the horse races.

Lakeside Estates had laid in a quarter horse track near the stables, right off the highway. The track wasn’t registered with the racing commission, and betting wasn’t strictly legal, but people did it anyway. Pete Littlehawk owned three racehorses and, from Pete’s bragging, Booker figured he also owned a piece of everything at Lakeside that smacked of sports and profit.

To avoid making eye contact with the lodge manager, Booker opened a copy of The Lakesider Bulletin. Chuck Fowler’s picture occupied a chunk of the front page. Surprised, and wondering how a weekly newsletter had worked so fast to publish Fowler’s obituary, he noticed the date: last Wednesday’s edition. The story told about Fowler winning a local golf tournament. Pete Littlehawk had come in second.

When his meal arrived, eggs, sausage, and hotcakes, a hearty country breakfast, Booker cheered up some and turned his attention to eating. Tomorrow, he’d worry about cholesterol.

Midway through his hotcakes, a clipped tenor voice called out, “Mr. Krane! Man of the hour! Man who discovered the Turtle Lake terror!”

Littlehawk settled his wiry body onto a chair across from Booker.

“If you’re talking about Fowler’s body, Pete, it was Pup who discovered it.”

“True enough. But Pup’s your dog, you know, and you were with him. You’re a celebrity!”

Regardless of how much he disliked the man, when Littlehawk grinned, with a flash of even white teeth so wide it threatened to dislodge his earlobes, Booker couldn’t help grinning back.

The club owner wore his long black hair pulled tight at the nape and wrapped with a length of rawhide. Dark, narrow-set eyes and wide cheekbones hinted of Native American ancestry, but his thin nose and pointed chin gave him an urban mean-streets look Booker thought might be closer to the truth. Littlehawk grinned a lot. Booker wasn’t sure what that said about the man.

“Chuck, you know, came here for breakfast last Sunday. Sat right there, in that chair you’re in now.”

“This chair?” Booker wasn’t superstitious, yet his stomach clenched around the bite of hotcakes he’d eaten. “You’re certain it was this chair?”

“Sure, sure.” Littlehawk looked around. “Well, maybe that one over there. But it’s a better story, am I right, you coming in and taking the very chair Chuck sat in before he died?”

Booker grunted. “You don’t want to be inventing stories, Pete, not about Fowler. At least, not until the sheriff finds his killer.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Pete’s brow wrinkled around the thought for a moment, then he grinned again. “What a drama, huh? Murder, right here in our own little village. Starring my good friend, Chuck.”

He didn’t sound particularly broken up about it, Booker noted. “You said he was here on Sunday. Remember what time?”

“Eleven o’clock. The sheriff already asked, and I had to remember back. We stop serving breakfast at eleven. My cook had put chopped steaks on the grill for lunch. He crabbed about messing up his schedule, but Chuck wanted his ham and eggs, and he was a good customer, so I talked to the cook. Told him to put biscuits on the plate, too.”

Booker glanced at his watch. He’d placed his own order well under the wire, it seemed. “Was Chuck with anybody?”

“Sure, sure. Jeremy, that’s his son. They came straight from the golf course. Good boy, Jeremy, you know, but quiet.” Littlehawk chuckled. “Or maybe he can’t get a word in, his father being such a big mouth.”

“Could you hear what they were talking about?”

“Hunting, golfing, fishing.” Littlehawk shrugged. “What does everyone talk about? Oh! The turkey shoot! That had to be it. The Fowlers’ always go out for the Grammon County

Turkey Shoot, even Jeremy. He’s not much on hunting, not like his brother, Aaron. That’s the older boy, a salesman like his father, but cars, not sporting goods. Chuck gave Jeremy a part-time job at the Gilded Trout, wants him to learn the business while he’s still in school.”

Booker was never quite sure how much of the club manager’s gossip was based on fact. Littlehawk did love telling a good story. “How does Jeremy feel about learning the sporting goods trade? I heard he’s interested in theater.”

“Back-talked his dad some. You know kids. Jeremy’s been working all summer, and when school starts, he wants to quit. His dad said to work Saturdays, keep his hand in. Get used to earning his own way.”

Mopping up a pool of syrup with his last bite of hotcakes, Booker wondered if Littlehawk eavesdropped as thoroughly on all his customers. Gossips could be useful, if you learned to decipher truth from tall tale. In any case, his cook served a hell of a good breakfast. “Remember how long they stayed?”

“Naw, I got busy.” Littlehawk lowered his voice. “Are you really helping the sheriff investigate?”

“Who told you that?” Already knowing the answer.

“Emaline stopped in on her way to the Pro Shop.” Grinning, the club manager pointed to Fowler’s picture. “Too bad Chuck missed that story. He liked seeing himself in the news.”

Then he frowned, as if remembering something. “Well now…you know, Chuck sat here reading The Lakesider that morning. Stayed long enough to finish his breakfast. Jeremy didn’t eat.”

“This story says you and Chuck both placed in the tournament. Did you play golf together often?”

“Naw, not together, only in the same tournaments. Hey, now, you and me, we could play a game, am I right? You like golf? I love golf. A small wager on the side, make it interesting? What d’ya say? It’s early, not even really hot yet.”

Right, Booker thought. If it’s August in Texas, it’s hot. Morning or night didn’t make a fig of a difference.

“Thanks, Pete, maybe some other day.” Actually, he’d considered spending more time on the golf course to get some exercise, but Littlehawk never engaged in sports without money changing hands. Booker wondered how much had changed hands with Chuck after the golf tournament.

He picked up his check and counted out a tip for the waitress—Kitty or Kippy. Three college students alternated shifts, but he’d never put names with their faces.

Littlehawk bussed dirty dishes from the table and headed for the kitchen, flashing his toothy grin over his shoulder. “Next week, we’ll have that game, Booker. You and me!”

Paying his check, Booker scanned the room again. Only a few tables were filled. No sign of Sarabelle or her boys, but Melinda McCray, the real estate agent who’d sold him the lots on either side of his house, sat alone at a corner table, cell phone at her ear. He’d been intending to stop at her office and find out when he could expect to receive his property deeds. He paused at her table as she held the phone away from her and stared at it.

“Ms. McCray, mind if I join you for a moment?” Then remembering that they had done most of their dealings over the phone he added, “I’m Booker Krane.”

“Why doesn’t this thing work?” She punched the button and frowned at the digital readout. “No service.”

“Mine never works here either,” Booker commiserated, “not until I’m five or ten miles outside the gates.” A cell phone tower was being built at Lakeside, the site already cleared, but the number of residents didn’t qualify them as a priority on the cellular company’s hit list.

Littlehawk passed by carrying vases of fresh flowers.

“You can use your cell phone, Melinda, at hole number five on the golf course,” he called.

Booker remembered hearing that local quip, the only cellular reception allowed at Lakeside is at the fifth hole. Never had he been desperate enough to walk over and try it.

“There’s also a pay phone upstairs,” he told the realtor.

She looked at him as if suddenly realizing he was there, then consulted her watch, a slim gold band with diamonds surrounding the face.

“I’m waiting to show a property at nine-thirty. But I have a few minutes, now, don’t I?” Composed and professional in a pale pink linen suit, fashionably accessorized and tailored to fit her short, nicely rounded figure, she looked up at him. “Oh, yes, Mr. Krane, that strange but lovely three-story frame house overlooking Turtle Lake. You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”

A sleek cap of salon-blonde hair framed her attractive face and bottle-green eyes. She must be wearing colored contacts, Booker decided. Surely eyes didn’t come that shade naturally. He wondered if the world looked greener to her.

“I’m not selling,” he said, pulling out a chair. The Caribou had comfortable chairs, but heavy. He settled his bony butt onto the seat and asked her about his deeds, which she promised to check on. “In fact, I’ve been wondering about the lots across the road from mine. There’s a For-Sale sign with your agency’s name on it.”

Her green eyes narrowed.

“I know the property.” She studied him while pouring sparkling water into her glass from a plastic bottle. “What did you want to ask? Whether the price will drop now that the owner is, well…deceased? The estate will have to be settled.”

“Deceased? You mean, those lots belonged to Chuck Fowler?” Emaline had said he’d been buying land around the county for years.

Melinda lifted her gaze to someone approaching behind Booker. Figuring this was her prospect, he rose from his chair. Then her eyes grew round and her back stiffened.

Booker turned to find a pale, scrawny woman followed by two young men. The woman’s gray-blonde hair was tied in a tight knot with a navy blue ribbon. She wore a blue print cotton dress, limp and sleeveless. One of the boys had the same scrawny build, the same pale coloring. The other boy had his mother’s stern chin, but was older, heavier, barrel-chested, and sported a mane of tawny chestnut hair that must look much like Chuck Fowler’s had in younger years. From Emaline’s description, these folks had to be Sarabelle, Jeremy, and Aaron.

“You!” Sarabelle spit the word at Melinda. “How dare you show your face in here? You’re the reason my husband’s dead.” The woman’s neck muscles tightened like steel cables above her thin shoulders. Ash gray eyes, hard as granite, had pinned Melinda to her chair. “Enjoy your diamond jewelry, slut. Enjoy your fancy car and your expensive clothes, because that’s all you’ll ever get. It’s over now, and you lost.”

The older of the two men seem to be biting back harsh words of his own. Aaron, Booker figured.

“Mama.” He laid a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Don’t talk to her. Let’s wait outside for the sheriff.”

Sarabelle pulled away from him. A web of cruel lines surrounded her thin lips.

“Why should we wait outside? We have a right to be here. She’s the intruder, the trollop your father’s been whoring with, spending money on like water down the gutter. She’s the one who should leave.”

But even as Sarabelle spoke, she stepped closer, blocking the seated woman’s path.

Melinda’s mouth quivered, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t get the words out. She’d half-risen from the chair and looked ready to run, given a chance.

“Mama,” Aaron said again, angry gaze trained on his father’s mistress, “don’t get yourself worked up over this piece of fluff. We don’t even know yet if the man they found is Pop.”

Sarabelle laughed, a brittle cackle.

“Oh, it’s him, all right.” She leaned closer to Melinda, like a bird pecking at a choice worm. “I saw it all, slut, saw it in a dream, saw him telling you he’d never leave his family for a whore. You couldn’t stand it. You killed him. Couldn’t have him for yourself, so you killed him.”

Spittle sprayed Melinda’s face. She raised a hand to wipe it away, and that seemed to give her the strength to speak. “You are wrong. I—”

Smack! Sarabelle struck like a rattlesnake, slapping Melinda so hard, her head snapped back and the chair skidded. Her cheek reddened in four finger-size welts.

Booker thought it was time somebody intervened. Others in the restaurant were rubbernecking but seemed too stunned to move. The sheriff would be welcome now. Or the club proprietor.

But Littlehawk’s dark gaze followed the drama from the kitchen doorway, where he stood barred from interaction by a tray of bottles in his hands. The waitress looked aghast.

Jeremy Fowler hung back as if wanting to be anywhere but here. Aaron looked ready to land the next blow.

With a resigned sigh, Booker bellied up to the role of mediator. He stood and gently took Sarabelle’s elbow. “Mrs. Fowler, this is no time—”

Aaron’s fist came so fast and so hard Booker thought lightning had struck. He flew backward into a table, knocking it over and sprawling flat. The heavy chairs toppled around him.

His head hit the hard tile floor. One chair smacked his eye. Booker lay still, hoping the bees buzzing around his brain would settle without stinging him. Thinking he’d finally met the Fowler family, and weren’t they a marvel? And then decided to take a nap.

Click here to Buy the Book Now, because you’ll want to see what happens next.