Here Lies a Wicked Man Snippet #5
Booker bracketed three more shots. One floor to go. Downstairs, in the living room, he stole a quick look across the lake. The sheriff was climbing into his car. At any moment he’d knock on Booker’s door.
“How about buying me some time, Emaline? Go outside and tell Ringhoffer I’m indisposed. Heaving up breakfast after spending all that time over the body.”
“I hope you plan to do your civic duty, Booker. Ringhoffer needs help with this murder. He’s only been sheriff six months, and the biggest crimes in Grammon County till now have been poaching and shoplifting.”
“What makes you think I’d know how to investigate a murder?”
“Wasn’t Houston the murder capital of the world a few years back?”
“A few decades ago, maybe. My area was white-collar crime, not murder. I had nothing to do with people killing one another.” Actually, Booker had spent enough years as an accountant to pass the CPA exam before realizing he couldn’t stand the boredom of sorting numbers all day. He’d joined a national security firm, received special training from the Secret Service, and later provided personal security for a former Texas governor—which mostly meant carrying suitcases and chauffeuring. A friend suggested Booker’s assorted skills would earn a lot more money if he offered special investigation services to banks and investment firms. His friend had been right.
Booker had quit that sort of work for good reason. He wanted to enjoy a long, full life, especially the simple, important moments. Shooting a few rolls of film for the sheriff was fine—after all, Booker was now a county resident and didn’t mind doing his part. But he wanted no further dealings with murder.
“The reason we hire peace officers, Emaline, is so the rest of us can go about our business knowing the law is being upheld.”
“Nonsense. You’ve got a Mercury-Sun conjunction in Scorpio. You’re a natural snoop.”
Booker looked up. “How do you know that?”
“Saw your birth date on your driver’s license when you registered at the Pro Shop. Ran your horoscope on the company computer.”
“And you call me a snoop?” He moved a reflector to highlight the side of a vase. “Anyway, Sheriff Ringhoffer hasn’t asked me for help.”
“Of course he hasn’t. Still thinks you’re a suspect.”
Booker scowled at her. “Then he really does need help.”
Booker noticed his father’s portrait hung crooked on the far wall. The hanger nail had worked loose. He banged it tighter with his shoe heel, straightened the picture and started over.
Naturally it’d be Brad Senior’s portrait that jarred out of square. His mother’s and his son Bradley’s hung right alongside, straight as ever. Booker and his father got crosswise with each other at every opportunity.
Was that how boys everywhere got along with their dads? Certainly seemed to be true of Chuck Fowler and son Jeremy, to hear Emaline tell it, and Emaline knew more truths about more people than anyone else at Lakeside.
Booker peered through the viewfinder again as a car rumbled to a stop in the driveway, and his dad’s picture fell off the wall again, face down on the carpet. When he picked it up, he saw the glass had cracked. Easy to buy new glass, but for now he’d have to yank the hook out of the wall or hang something else there to maintain the balance. He spied a small painting, moved it, assessed the result and decided it’d have to do.
Hearing another car on the gravel road, Booker scurried to finish the last two frames then stood back and decided he was satisfied. The exterior photos would show the unique structure, each of the three floors turned at a different angle to the lake. Brass hardware dressed up the rustic siding. A natural stone wall and redwood decking curved around the lake to the pier. Added to the compositions of four houses he’d already photographed, this spread should give the Southern Affairs editor plenty to choose from.
But he hoped the sheriff’s inspection of his pier wouldn’t eat away the whole afternoon. He still had to upload the digital images, develop the Hasselblad film and drive it to FedEx before the clock gavel struck five, or his new career would be as dead as Fowler…
