The devil laughed, p.20
The Devil Laughed, page 20
“Someone up here knows what happened to the sailboat people.”
“Connie?
“Maybe. Also Scully, Orell, or, yeah, even Sonny. It’s a small county.”
“Like you and I, by now all of them think they’re dead.”
“By what means, though, and by whom?”
“You’ll never get people to talk up here, that’s for damn sure.”
We’d circled the park back to the gates. No Sheriff Kitchens or Ranger Janeway in sight, but a church bus was emptying its load of citizen searchers. Two deputies were shepherding folks past the gates. One deputy shouted specific instructions through a bullhorn.
I didn’t think Diane was dead, maybe because I’d had my quota of death for the month, but if she was, whoever disposed of Linette in the lake might do the same with her daughter in some act of convoluted malice.
Portia said. “Diane wasn’t reported missing until after midnight. Everyone thought she was off on her own. Even Sonny, who should know better. He mentioned Diane had a special place she liked to go to sort things out.”
“Where?” Lake asked.
“North of town, near the cabin where she lived with her mama. The cabin was a rental. The rental folks get it back next week.”
“Let’s get there,” Lake said.
He picked up his radio and called Sonny. The sheriff told Lake he was on his way to the park with Janeway. Lake said, “Give me directions to the Parker place.”
There was a moment of silence from the radio. “We searched there thoroughly, Lieutenant.”
“I’d like to go there, but it’s your call, your jurisdiction.”
“I’ve no problem, but you’ll have company. The GBI is on the way.”
Lake cursed. “In that case, we’ll wait for you here.”
My cell phone played the concerto. “Yeah, Web?”
Lake and Portia were all ears. “Evangeline,” Web said. “Mind if I get the office number changed?”
“I’ll give her my cell number. Who’s in your sights?”
“The affairs of the late Sean Broussard first. The FBI’s got a list of corporate bank accounts that appear bogus. What they’re looking for is terrorists’ secret funds, but they’re also rounding up shell corps that might be laundries. Also Stepley Hurst, Broussard’s successor, bought some of Emile’s art. Seems there’s a connect between the missing Laurant, his late nephew Emile, Dave Henderson, Adele Sweppington, and Stepley Hurst.”
“I can’t worry about the mess in North Carolina,” I said.
“Now, about your campers, I found Anna Graham and Gene Poole. Facebook names and YouTube slapstick, but it was videoed five years ago. Nothing since.”
“No clue about their real names?”
“In the skit, she called him Henry; he called her Boleyn.”
“Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn.”
Web went on, “Anne of the Goiter and Henry the Fat, but Anna Graham/Boleyn said off-hand to Gene Poole/Henry, ‘That’s pretty dirty, Tommy.’ The skit wasn’t high-minded. Rather crude, actually. Check it out on YouTube.” They looked to be college age, southern accents, but not mountain types.”
“So his name may be Thomas or Thompson,” I said, watching the sheriff arrive with Janeway. “Keep Webbing.”
I fell in step with Portia and Lake. “Web found the campers, but nothing since five years ago.”
“They’re key,” Portia said. “If they’re still living.”
Inside the ranger’s cabin, we stood in a ragged circle, Portia next to Janeway. She came to his shoulders, and I think he liked looking down on her. He’d learn soon enough.
Janeway stared at me then batted his eyelids. “Sorry you couldn’t make it the other day. That spunky gal you sent hit me with an attitude.”
“I wonder who hit first,” I said.
“They were for your eyes. I put myself on the line with those documents.”
Lake said, “We’re over the documents. We’re here to find a missing girl.”
Janeway breathed in and pressed his lips, apparently seeing the wisdom of cooperation. “My people are all on it.”
Portia said, “We know that you spoke with her at the diner yesterday and she seemed upset. What was that about?”
He zeroed in on the top of her head. “I gave Diane my condolences. It was the first time I’d seen her since Linette died.”
“That all?”
Janeway frowned. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Did Diane cry?”
“There were tears; to be expected.” Janeway stepped back two paces as if to distance himself from her. “I always felt sorry for her—her mother and all.”
“What about her mother?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about her ways.”
“You ever practice some of those ways with her?”
Janeway grinned. “If I were to practice those ways, Judge Devon, it would be in Gainesville or Atlanta. This is a small place in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I noticed, and I haven’t forgotten that this park …” She stabbed her finger at the floor. “That this park which comes under your supervision is where some kids saw a boat brought out of the water the night three people disappeared. It is from the boat ramp in this park where, most likely, Linette Parker’s body went into the lake.”
Janeway lifted his chin. “I can’t answer for the vagaries of kids on dope, and yes, somebody can put a boat in and out of the water at night”
Portia closed her eyes for five seconds. “Once you said your condolence to Diane Parker, thus upsetting her, did you ask her to meet you somewhere?”
Janeway exploded, “No, I did not ask her to meet me. The implication is horrendous, damn near slanderous.”
Portia waved her hand back. “That’s all.”
Janeway marched out and Sonny said, “Never want to be in the box in your courtroom, Judge.”
“Don’t want you there,” she said, and stalked out, maybe to catch up to and badger Janeway some more.
22
Lake drove Portia back to the diner and her car. She was bound for Atlanta as the guest of honor at a media event where she would be roasted. I was to attend, but the investigation trumped a night of humor.
“She’s a kicker,” Sonny Kitchens said as we got in his cruiser and headed for the boat ramp.
“She’ll bust into hell to find Diane,” I said. “So will I.”
His eyes blurred with care and he nodded. “That little girl thinks she can solve her own problems now her mama’s gone.” He looked out the windshield over the sludgy lake. “She never had a real childhood. Her mama started leaving her by herself when she was seven, eight years old.”
I got out of the cruiser and walked onto a long narrow dock beside the boat ramp. The stagnant shallow water smelled of dead fish and old motor oil. “How long is the shoreline in this county?” I asked.
“A mile is all,” he said. “Couple hundred yards west of here Sawchicsee County ends. Sawchicsee is the state’s newest county. It was created when the Corps made the lake. They blasted rock here to make a ramp. Where we’re standing is the only access to the lake from the park.” He turned to face west. “There’s a marina off the main channel ‘bout where the county starts.”
I looked east, to where a mass of stones created a ridge. “Someone could throw a body off that ridge.”
“Wouldn’t carry out into the lake. Be stuck in trees and ravines.”
“I would say that’s a good place to dump a body then.”
“Used to be a lot of feuds over moonshine, marijuana, and plain ol’ meanness …”
I picked out random details of the land. “You saying plain ol’ meanness isn’t happening now?”
“More than ever, but things change. Several years ago, climbers found the remains of five people, all in different stages of decay. Rappelling the other side of the cliff has become popular so bodies aren’t turning up any longer. They still find guns though.”
Lake’s squad car pulled up and I watched as he walked the boards, his brow pulling together like his mind was churning on something. My best guess, he’d gotten a call from the brass.
I asked Sonny, “Where’s a good place to stay overnight?”
“Sawchicsee Inn, a mile from the diner, near town.” I’d seen it. A white concrete block motel that looked to have six rooms.. “Nothing fancy, but clean,” he said.
Lake came up. “You look busy,” I said.
“Gotta get back. Suspect arrested.” He frowned at me. “You going or staying?”
I didn’t have to think twice. “Staying. There’s an inn.”
“Thought so.” His lip twisted; he didn’t like it, but said, “You need a car.”
I looked at Sonny. “Any rental agencies around?”
“Cumming. I can get you there.”
I turned to Lake, “So I’m set.”
“Cumming’s not too much out of my way,” Lake said.
I turned to Sonny. “So I’m set.”
“I guess you are,” he said. “I’ll see to your room at the inn.”
“Take care of her,” Lake said.
“Sure will, but I got a hunch she’s good at taking care of herself.”
“Bet on it.” Lake backed away, taking my arm. We walked to Lake’s car. “I don’t like leaving you here.”
“I’ll be fine. You heard the sheriff.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“Go to the Parker’s cabin. The GBI won’t mess with me. Diane’s hiding herself.”
Lake gave a quick nod. “You have me convinced she doesn’t like what’s happening to her.”
I agreed with a head-shake. “I’ll need to get my gun. Snakes in the woods.”
“Yeah, and they ain’t just reptiles.”
My gun was in the glove compartment of his car. I’d have to talk to Sonny about carrying it in his county. Lake unlocked the glove box and got out my ankle holster that carried the Glock 33, with nine .357 SIG rounds in the magazine.
There was a tap on the Lake’s window. Sonny. Lake slid the glass down, and I watched Sonny’s eyes widen. I held the gun up. “Permission? I’m licensed.”
He studied the gun and silently assented. “You’re all set at the motel,” he said, backed away and waved.
I strapped the holster to my left ankle.
“Don’t get into a situation where you have to use it,” Lake said.
“Have I ever?”
“Too many times.”
On the way to Cumming Lake said that his FBI friend in Atlanta told him that Stepley Hurst had been canned by the bank’s board of directors. He was undergoing interrogation with his attorneys present and had been relieved of his passport. But did Stepley have Sean murdered, arrange the theft of Emile’s safe and, in the end, arrange Emile’s murder?
“Never know, maybe,” Lake said.
“I want to know,” I said.
Lake sighed and gave me a smeary smile.
At the Thrifty Rentals I got a mid-size Ford. Lake complained of hunger and spotted a hometown take-out place that fried the best chicken I’ve put in my mouth. I hadn’t eaten three squares in a row and didn’t realize how starved I was.
Meal over, it was time to let go of Lake. For no particular reason, I hated to, but on the other hand, I had a few places I wanted to go, and it’s hard to wrestle the lead away from a bona fide police lieutenant, even if he pretends to let me.
*****
The western sun had begun its descent into the forest. It looked like a basketball with the tree branches holding back its fall through a hoop of leaves.
I’d cell phoned the sheriff on the way back to his town. Search parties had boarded buses back to base. No sign of Diane. I drove into the town proper. No one on the streets. The fading day and the reality of an unknown tomorrow seeded the furrows of my brain with blind belief. Blind because I had no guide through the darkness except belief that I would find Diane, and when I did I would find the missing boaters. My eyes roamed the town square with skittish anticipation and settled on the ice cream store that was still open. Not surprising since there were no liquor stores or bars in Sawchicsee County. What else to soothe the savage brow? Two-bit wine? I’d traveled a long way from Cape Fear’s grape country, so very far away from the late Emile’s and Domingo’s clever plans.
Pulling the rental into a slanted slot, I got out and walked in. A meaty-looking woman worked behind the counter, making what looked like waffles. She said, “Jist a minute.”
“No hurry,” I said, sitting on a stool and watching her. She put the lid on a round waffle maker and wiped her hands on her chef’s apron. It looked clean, except for a few swipes of batter.
She had a jolly face, all cheeks and chin. She looked familiar. She said, “What can I get you. Supposed to be closed up now, but had some people a little while ago wanting ice cream. They’d been going all day looking for a girl what wandered off.”
“I know Diane,” I said. “From Scully’s diner.”
“Ahhh, t’was bad. Shouldn’t of happened, but some folks don’t live according to the Lord.”
“How well did you know Diane and her mother?”
She looked back at her waffle maker from which steamed poured. “Say,” she said, walking to it, “those cones are ‘bout to come out. Would you like a fresh one?”
“Please.”
She opened the appliance, picked up a long fork and urged the flat waffle from the bottom of the maker. She laid it on wax paper to cool. “Won’t be but a minute, I can roll it. What you like in it?”
“Chocolate.”
She grinned, showing crooked teeth. “Chip, almond, Swiss, plain?”
“Plain.”
She flipped the flat waffle cone over, then picked it up and twisted it into a cone—just like that, and said, “Let ‘er cool some more, or you’ll have chocolate soup.”
“Let me introduce myself,” I said. “I’m Moriah Dru.”
“I know you, Miss.”
“My goodness, if I’ve forgotten your name—I’m …”
“We never met. I’m Gussie, Orell Brunty’s wife.”
“Nice to meet you. I bought wine from Orell.”
She shook her head. “Orell pushes that wine off on city folks who don’t like it like we do.”
“I wanted to try it.”
“Well, what did you think?”
“I haven’t yet. I’ve been busy trying to find out what happened to three people who disappeared on that sailboat they found. And now Diane.”
“You’re a detective, too?”
“Private detective.”
She squinted her eyes like I was an exotic bug, and then scooped two giant balls of chocolate into the waffle cone and handed it to me. “On me.”
“You work too hard to give your ice cream away.”
“I make it back, don’t you worry.”
“Can I ask you about Diane?”
“You can, don’t know if I can tell you what you want to know.”
She confirmed that Diane wandered all over the county by herself when she wasn’t in school or filling in at the diner for her mama, and that Diane now lived with Connie and every one was keeping an eye on Diane until she just ups and runs off. And, yes, she said it was too bad about Mr. Scoggins being killed like that.
I licked the soft chocolate fast so it wouldn’t run down my arm. I said, “Connie thinks he was shot on purpose.”
“Everybody’s got somebody who would like to kill them, don’t suppose Boyd was any different.”
I sucked at the ice cream to stem the flow of chocolate. She went to fetch extra napkins. I said, “He saw those young people camping in the park the night the sailboat sank.”
She capped the container of batter and turned off the waffle maker. “You treat everybody else with respect like the Lord wants, and you don’t have a call to kill or be killed. Mind your own business, that’s the best way.”
“Was Diane unhappy with Connie Scoggins?”
“The court said, and she went. Poor thing. Hope she didn’t run off to Hollywood.”
Did girls do that any more?
I wadded the napkin and soggy cone together, and she took the ball and tossed it in the trash can. “Tch,” she mouthed. “What’d I say about minding your own business?” Gussie untied her apron and came around the counter. “Scully treated that girl right, and what did he get for it? Reported to the authorities.”
“I talked to Scully today. Seems an honest, thoughtful man.”
“Scully is a quiet man, lives by hisself now his mama died. Five years now she’s gone. Seems like yesterday. Always thought ol’ Scully would marry after his mama died, but he never did. Ain’t good for a man not to.”
I got off the stool. “If you think of any place Diane could be, will you let me know? I’m staying at the Sawchicsee Inn.”
“That roach trap?”
“Oh my.” I have a real aversion to roaches—and spiders. Where’s there one, there’s a million.
“You want to stay someplace nice?”
Who doesn’t? “That would be good, yes.”
She headed for the telephone mounted on the wall. Don’t see many of those any more, and I thought of Emile and my dash around his lovely grain mill looking for a telephone. Gussie was saying, “… Rent these places. Not many renters in this kind of weather. You take the snow in the winter, we get a bit, you got lovers wanting cabins, going naked in the snow, you wouldn’t believe.”
“Who rents cabins?” I asked, remembering that Orell said something …
“Scully,” she said. “The cleanest cabins in north Georgia, and quite nicely decorated, too, if I do say so myself.” Ten guesses who did the decorating.
Anyway, a phone call to Scully and I was booked into a roach-less, spider-less cabin. I felt a serendipitous thrill and, at the same time, a peculiar tug of doubt. She drew me a map and told me turn by turn how to get to Scully’s Cabins. I started to leave, but asked, “Who rented the Parker’s their place?”
“Why, Scully—if you call it rent. He never took a nickel from Linette.”
I wondered why.
23
