Authors: Lorena McCourtney
“The details don’t matter,” I cut in hurriedly. “The men didn’t see me, but I got a good look at one of them. This is a sketch of him.” I handed the paper napkin with Dix’s drawing on it across the table. The sketch was blurry where the napkin had been folded, but the man’s mean little eyes and beefy face and neck still showed.
“Of course, Drake Braxton surely wouldn’t involve himself personally in the tombstone vandalism. He’d have some flunky do it, probably one of the many relatives in the clan, so even if you did see—” Then Jordan looked down at the napkin. His jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be. That’s him. Drake Braxton himself.”
“Are you sure?”
“I faced the man in a courtroom enough times to recognize him. Did you do this sketch?”
“No, I described the man to a police officer friend, and he did it. But neither of us could identify him.”
“He’s certainly identifiable here.” Jordan shook his head, his expression troubled. “But from a legal standpoint, I doubt it’s enough to nail him. Could you pin down when you saw him committing the vandalism?”
“Yes, definitely.” The night of Magnolia’s barbecue, the night Mac originally suspected I was midnight-rendezvousing with some unidentified man. “I could also identify him in person.”
“But he’ll come up with some unbreakable alibi for the night, and he might well be able to convince the authorities that your identification isn’t reliable. He’ll swear he doesn’t know anything about the vandalism, condemns it as much as anyone, et cetera. Was he alone at the cemetery?”
“No, there were two of them. They had a big pickup and a cable. The other man was smaller, kind of wiry, I think, but I didn’t get a good look at his face, just heard him speak. He had a high-pitched, almost squeaky voice.”
“Well, we can give it a try with the authorities, if you’d like. I’ll do whatever I can to help. But if it should actually get into court, they’ll attack your nighttime eyesight, your memory, and anything else they can come up with.”
Including, no doubt, my age. I was willing to risk personal attack, I decided, if it would bring Braxton to justice, but I had only to look at Jordan’s frown to know that justice for Braxton on this skimpy evidence was highly unlikely. Jordan was experienced in these things; he’d know.
I sighed. “I suppose the important thing here is simply getting the cemetery restored, whether or not the culprit is caught. Although there is one other thing.”
I told him about the destructive vandalism of my house, including the dragging of Harley’s bench that was so much like the toppling and dragging of the tombstones. “I think whoever committed the vandalism at Country Peace also vandalized my house, as a warning to keep my nose out of the cemetery situation.” I told him about my letter to the editor and described the lipstick warning on my mirror. “I’m sure, if Mr. Braxton wants the graves moved and cemetery disbanded, he wouldn’t have appreciated my interference. And if he’d vandalize the cemetery, he wouldn’t have qualms about vandalizing my house too.”
“It appears Drake Braxton may be even more slimy than I thought.” Jordan frowned again. “Maybe even dangerous.”
“But again there’s no way to prove anything.”
“Right. That’s one of the discouraging elements of being involved with the law for so many years. You see a lot of people you know are guilty go free.”
“Sometimes lawyers help them go free.”
“True.” He was still frowning, and I wondered if he was thinking of some culpability of his own in this area.
“But the Lord deals with them eventually.”
Jordan nodded. “Yes, he does.”
We looked at each other, and I could see he took comfort in that thought, as I did. It was an invisible bond. I leaned forward. “Jordan, have you ever considered selling your home and just roaming the countryside?”
He blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Roaming? You mean like a hobo?”
“Not quite that primitively. In a motor home, perhaps. Or one of those big travel trailers.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing some traveling. Georgia and I had talked about seeing Rio de Janeiro and Hong Kong and the Seychelles, but we always put it off, something we’d do ‘later.’” He sounded a little wistful, as I sometimes felt when I thought of things I’d never done. “Although I know I’d never want to cut all ties and just become . . . rootless. And the idea of doing it alone certainly doesn’t appeal to me.”
A world-type traveler. But one who wanted to hold on to his roots. And who looked at me thoughtfully when he said he didn’t want to travel alone.
Hey,
I thought,
this really is a date.
And I was unexpectedly glad. Even if he was a lawyer.
My next thought was that he was also a lawyer who was very good at digging into things. “How difficult would it be to find out who owns a company?”
Jordan looked a bit taken aback by this next sudden change of subject. But he was up to it. “It depends, among other things, on whether it’s corporate or private ownership. And whether or not someone is trying to conceal ownership.”
“Ownership can be concealed?”
“You can usually dig into city business licenses, corporation papers, property tax records, et cetera, and find out something. But a deliberate tangle of interwoven corporate ownerships can get quite complicated.” He tilted his head, his expression curious. “Did you have something specific in mind?”
“There are two local companies, Bottom-Buck Barney’s and Thrif-Tee Wrecking. I’d like to know who owns them, and especially if it’s the same person.”
“Does this have to do with the cemetery?”
“No. It’s just something I’m curious about.” I could see that roused his curiosity, but he was too gentlemanly to be snoopy. “I could pay a minimal fee,” I added.
“How about I see what I can find out, and as a ‘minimal fee’ you have dinner with me again?”
We smiled at each other. Deal. And, right then, for a moment at least, I felt almost enchanting.
Jordan and I exchanged waves at church on Sunday, but he was involved in a deacon’s meeting right after the service and we didn’t talk. Dix called when he and Haley got home Sunday evening. He seemed to have mellowed out somewhat and didn’t grumble about Haley or her T-shirts. He also said he was going to trade his stick shift car in on an automatic so he could drive himself and would start part-time work at a desk job in the police department in a few days.
I told him about the letters, wishing I’d made photocopies before giving them to Detective Harmon. Dix’s reaction to the other detective’s lukewarm interest was noncommittal, though I suspected that was because he felt one officer didn’t criticize another to someone outside the department, not because he didn’t feel frustration with the other detective.
On Monday, Letitia Stone called from Little Rock. She’d been going through her rental papers and discovered that Debbie’s rental application did list a Christine Stanton, with an address in Nashville, as next of kin. I debated calling Aunt Chris myself but finally decided that since this was a murder and it involved identification of the body, I’d better let Detective Harmon handle it. He wasn’t available, but I left the message for him.
Okay, I’d probably involved myself in this too much already, I acknowledged. I was reasonably certain the information I’d obtained could help identify Kendra/Debbie’s body, but maybe Ray Etheridge’s suspicions had been totally off base. Maybe everything was totally legitimate at Thrif-Tee. Maybe Ray’s death was simply a careless accident. Maybe Debbie was mixed up in drugs, as Detective Harmon thought, and both the borrowing of her brother’s fiancée’s identity and her murder were connected with that criminal activity.
This was Detective Harmon’s case, not mine. Time to become uninvolved.
I called Haley, and she said yes, the community college had beginner computer classes, new ones starting in a couple of weeks. She could help me get signed up. I cleaned the kitchen, paid some bills, washed pantyhose, and bundled newspapers for recycling.
Which left me thinking that there was one tiny thing I wanted to do before I backed away from Kendra/Debbie’s murder completely. Something kept gnawing at that mutant curiosity gene. I found the address in the phone book, located Ludlow Boulevard on a city map, and drove out there at about 4:00.
Ludlow Boulevard was on the very outskirts of the city, a busy, noisy area of warehouses and industrial plants. Unseen machinery clanged and chugged and whistled and blew off smoke and steam from the sprawling buildings. The metal skeleton of some new construction rose behind a chain-link fence. Sounds of a jackhammer rattled my teeth. A long freight train rumbled over a railroad crossing in front of me. The swinging red light clanged, adding to the noise. Big trucks crowded the street. Huge wheels passed within inches of my face. A piece of yellow machinery with forward forks big enough to impale a dinosaur darted around me. The Thunderbird felt as if it had shrunk to toy size.
I pulled into the parking lot of a tavern to catch a claustrophobic breath. A sign plastered to an electric pole showed a picture of a lost poodle. A lost poodle hadn’t much chance of surviving here, I thought with dismay as two passing trucks blasted horns at each other.
After a few minutes I gathered my courage and resumed my search for Thrif-Tee Wrecking. I found it two blocks away, identified by a dirt-spattered sign. Below, the business hours were faded, but, slowing to a crawl, I finally deciphered them: Mon–Sat 8–5:30. Closed Sun. Another sloppy sign said Used Auto Parts, and below that, Barrels for Sale. Any view from the street was blocked by a solid board fence with two gates, one person-sized, one truck-sized. Both gates were also solid boards.
The whole place struck me as suspicious. What were they hiding behind that fence? Anything from drugs to stolen cars to a bomb factory for terrorists could be back there. The thought then occurred to me, however, that concealing junk cars from view was probably some city or county ordinance and didn’t necessarily mean anything nefarious was going on.
But I was certain something nefarious had gone on there, and was probably still going on. If I could just get inside, get into that wall safe Ray Etheridge had mentioned, get proof of whatever illegalities that were motive for both his and Debbie/Kendra’s deaths . . .
Yeah. Right. And maybe I could sneak into the White House and write an intimate exposé about the First Lady’s lingerie drawer.
But if I didn’t try to sneak in, if I simply made a straightforward entrance and looked around . . .
Remember what curiosity killed,
Dix’s annoying voice in my ear warned. “Go away, Dix,” I muttered. “Go read T-shirts.”
There was no real parking lot, but a narrow area next to the board fence allowed space for a couple of vehicles to pull off. I wheeled the ’bird over there and braked. No one could see me through that solid fence, but, as soon as I stepped through the gate, someone would surely pounce on me and ask what I wanted.
What could I say? “I’d like a transmission for the Thunderbird, please.”
Sure, lady, you want that wrapped to go, or you gonna get down and install it here?
Then I thought of something.
In a fractional lull between trucks, I whipped back into the street and returned to the parking lot at the tavern. I carefully removed the lost dog poster from the electric pole. Which I would bring back later, of course.
I returned to Thrif-Tee, but now the minimal space was taken up by a green van with the name of a car repair shop on the side. I suppose I should have recognized the difficulty in parking as a warning to clamp down on my curiosity and head home, but instead I returned to the tavern and slid the Thunderbird in behind a pickup with a flat tire at the edge of the parking lot.
There were no sidewalks in this area, so I walked along the sloping shoulder, dodging beer and soda cans, electric poles, fast-food cartons, and plastic sacks. Although I did pick up a stray quarter and an interesting looking bolt. I’ve always been adept at finding little things on the ground. Maybe because I’m built closer to it than most people.
Late afternoon heat blazed down from the sun and rose in waves from the pavement. I hurried to get to the gate before closing time, and rivulets of sweat ran down my sides by the time I reached the high board fence. Each board, I now noted, had been sawed to a sharp point on top to further discourage unauthorized entry. Two guys carrying a rounded chunk of blue metal were coming out the people gate. They headed for the van, their gazes passing through me as unseeing as radio waves as they congratulated themselves on their success. “Where else would we find a fender for an ’84 Mazda?” one of them crowed. I pushed the gate open, rattling a chain with a dangling padlock.
A shack bore a tilted sign that said Office. The shack was attached to a sprawling metal building with a large sign that practically shouted No Admittance in bright red. A big sliding door was partly open, emitting noisy clangs and sizzling flashes of light from a welding machine. A tow truck stood by the door.
Had Ray Etheridge’s “accident” happened in there?
In back of the buildings and beyond another stern sign saying Keep Out, Employees Only stretched an incredible tangle of whole cars and skeletons of cars and pieces of cars. There was a lineup of engines, a stacked pile of vehicle hoods, others of fenders, wheels, and hubcaps. The mechanical graveyard looked as if it covered at least a couple of acres. Several blue metal barrels, apparently the ones for sale, stood along one edge of the fence. Weeds that looked big and mean enough to be man-eating grew around them.
I stood there warily, but no one appeared to challenge me or offer me assistance. A car and two pickups that looked to be in working condition, probably employee vehicles, were parked to one side of the office. I approached the door cautiously. A big air conditioner in the lone window blocked the view of the interior. No sign suggested this area was off limits, so I pushed the door open. A tinny bell jingled. A short, scrawny man was bending over the drawer of a file cabinet. He turned and looked at me.