Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 16
Stowing the bag of archery and fishing equipment in the LaCrosse’s trunk, Booker tried to shake off the image of Fowler using stray dogs for target practice. Could any man be that evil?
And didn’t the county have an SPCA to prevent such behavior? Spiner might’ve been jerking Booker’s chain, figuring him for squeamish about such things. He’d got that part right.
On the other hand, what Spiner said about Fowler not practicing in August for an October hunting season made sense. So what was he doing in the woods with his equipment?
Bradley clumped around the car in his new boots, beaming excessively, leather jacket slung over his shoulder. The sight of him decked out like a biker gave Booker’s heart a flop. But the boots and jacket wouldn’t land the boy in a hospital. Brad Senior had provided the dangerous part of the picture.
As he slid behind the steering wheel, waiting for his son to buckle up, Booker considered another question: If Gary Spiner knew his former partner’s habits so well, why hadn’t he mentioned them to Sheriff Ringhoffer? And after listening to Spiner, Booker saw a few more holes in the accident theory, holes even an inexperienced county sheriff would see if he had all the facts. Booker didn’t like stirring up the idea of murder again, but Emaline had pegged him right when she said he couldn’t leave a problem alone until he worried it out in the open where he could see it.
He started the LaCrosse’s engine. A strange plink-plink sound lay beneath the motor’s purr. A glance at the mileage gauge suggested it was due for service—and wasn’t it handy that Fowler’s oldest son worked for a Chevy dealer in Bryan. Probably would have a maintenance shop. Aaron would know whether his father ever practiced on paper targets.
Booker’s hand rose unbidden to touch his sore lip. He’d have to broach the question of target practice without riling the young man again. Tomorrow was Sunday, the service department might be closed, but early next week he and Bradley could drop off the car. Afterward, they’d bum around town. Grab lunch. Take in a movie. How long had it been since they saw a movie together?
A stomach pang reminded him it’d also been a while since he’d eaten. “Hungry?”
“Uh…yeah, I could eat.” The boy rolled his boot soles on the carpet, getting the feel of them.
Booker drove around the square to the Masonville Bed and Brunch, hoping tonight’s menu included beef stew or hash, a meal with substance. He could go for another piece of Roxanna’s homemade peach pie.
Suddenly, his fertile mind conjured Pocahontas as she’d appeared in his dream last night, wearing feathers, braid, red and blue shorts, and hurrying away from one of the vacant lots on Turtle Lake. Fowler’s property? Roxanna hadn’t responded when Booker mentioned seeing her there. Didn’t mean anything, of course, and, in reality, she had not been carrying a hunting bow. That part was only in his dream.
She’d been carrying something, though. A package? A bag?
He and Bradley entered the dining room to the aroma of baked ham. The thought of wrapping around a few ham slices with au gratin potatoes made his taste buds snap awake. He salivated. Hell, if he were any more eager, he’d pant like Pup.
Scanning the room for a vacant table, he spied Roxanna chatting with a young family. Prim as a nineteenth-century schoolteacher in her gingham dress and matching hair ribbon, she spied Booker and smiled. As always, he felt it like an energy boost all the way to his toenails.
He pointed Bradley toward a small table near the kitchen. Despite the heat, the kid had donned his leather jacket. Sweat matted his hair as he steered a path through Roxanna’s Saturday night crowd, but he did look “optimum boss,” Booker had to admit.
No sign of the sheriff. Booker wouldn’t mind passing along what he’d learned from Spiner. No sign of Emaline, either, but he could do without her needling for a while. Tonight he wanted a quiet corner, a heaping plateful of Roxanna’s fine cooking, and a long chat with Bradley. Maybe he’d even find a tactful approach to the subject of drugs. In that leather jacket, the boy should be buttered up just about right to slide a few questions at him.
Booker stopped to check out a dessert tray stationed outside the kitchen door. Chocolate cake. Peach pie.
“Booker!” The voice, Melinda McRay’s voice, approached from behind. “You saw the doctor, after all, didn’t you? When I went to your house and you weren’t home, I said, ‘I hope he drove to the clinic to have his head looked at.’” Flashing a glittering smile, Melinda linked her arm around his, then slid her bottle-green gaze over Bradley. “Now this handsome young man! Why he looks just like you. He’s your younger brother, isn’t he?”
Booker introduced them. “Bradley, Ms. McCray is the lady who sold me the house.”
“Hello.” The boy gave her a thin smile and his rocking nod.
Melinda tugged Booker toward her table. With his interest on food, he hadn’t noticed her sitting there. Otherwise, he might’ve turned Bradley around and walked right out.
Wouldn’t be the first time they’d shared a bowl of cold cereal for supper.
“Did they do one of those CAT things?” Melinda asked. “Brain pictures from all directions?”
She wore a black pants outfit that molded to her curves like chocolate sauce on a double-dip ice cream cone. Booker stole a peek across the room at Roxanna. Though busily carrying plates to a table, she was watching.
“Actually, Melinda,” Booker said, “my son and I haven’t spent much time together lately. We’ll just take that table over—”
The table they’d been headed for was now occupied.
Melinda guided him to a chair. “These may be the only vacant seats in the house, so you two just sit right down and have dinner with me. Then I’ll tuck you in. How does that sound?”
Like trouble.
Bradley, ogling Melinda like she was a film star, slumped into the third chair.
“My son and I have an early date with some bass tomorrow,” Booker told her. “Won’t need any tucking in. I expect to be dead asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow tonight.”
She shuddered prettily. “Oh, don’t say that word. Everyone in the room has been talking about death. Chuck’s funeral is Monday. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Chuck who?” Bradley swung his gaze to Booker.
“Chuck Fowler. He had a summer place at Lakeside Estates.”
“Are we going to the funeral?” Bradley made it sound like a road show. Maybe it was, to a sixteen-year-old who’d never been closer to death than a movie screen. Fowler’s funeral might be more of a show than most.
“We’ll all go together, won’t we?” Melinda chirped. “The memorial service is at the Lakeside church. Should I order flowers for you at the same time I order mine? I know how men hate doing those things.”
“Melinda, do you think that’s a good idea, going to the funeral? Knowing how the family feels about you?”
“I suppose they’ll be hateful, won’t they? But Chuck meant a great deal to me.” She stroked the gold and diamond watch on her left wrist, while the diamond dinner ring on her right hand bounced shards of light from Roxanna’s chandeliers. “You don’t really think Sarabelle would make another scene at the funeral, do you? Especially when you and I arrive together?”
She entwined her fingers with his on the table. Bradley stared at the pair of hands. Booker glanced uneasily at Roxanna.
She was watching. He felt trouble brewing like a bad wind.
“Melinda…” He gently retrieved his fingers. “Let me think about this when my head’s less muddled. Right now, I believe I’ll say goodnight. I just remembered half a barbecued chicken that needs to be eaten.”
He stood just as Roxanna approached. Lord, she looked splendid. He introduced Bradley.
“Mr. Krane,” she said coolly. “Are you and your son ready to order dinner?”
“Actually, I believe we’ll eat at home tonight.” He wished they’d waited another hour. Melinda would be gone, the crowd would’ve thinned out. Maybe Roxanna could’ve joined them for coffee.
“I’m sorry you won’t be staying.” Her gaze slid over him, leaving a chill in its wake.
Melinda’s glower, on the other hand, was hot enough to melt his belt buckle. Like an idiot, he smiled and nodded at both women.
“Ladies, I believe we’ll mosey on home.” He herded Bradley out the door as fast as he could without tripping over his own feet. The aroma of Roxanna’s baked ham hung in his nostrils, more punishment than even a coward deserved.
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