Killerfind (6 page)

efore
leaving, Rhetta wrote
a check to Ricky for all the labor and parts for work done to date. The
deputy’s words about keeping the Z28 for evidence echoed in her ears. She
didn’t want Ricky out the cost of labor or any parts already purchased for the
doomed car. Rhetta already thought of it as lost, seeing as how Cami’s
replacement would likely never get to park inside the Garage Mahal, their
detached garage. She’d christened it that because she claimed it was finished
as nicely inside as the house was.

“I can cancel the LS1 engine, so at least you won’t
be out that expense,” Ricky said. “We can always find another one when we get
the car back.”

Rhetta nodded. “It doesn’t appear that we’ll have
any use for it for a long time, according to the deputy. I guess the car will
be held as evidence. But isn’t the new motor already loaded on the truck and on
its way?”

Ricky fired up another cigarette. “I don’t have to
accept delivery. I’ll send it back.”

Rhetta perched on the shop stool, elbows on the
workbench. “I have to tell you, I’m getting bummed over losing this car. I can’t
talk to Randolph about it, because he keeps trying to cheer me up. I was on
board with getting this Z28 to replace Cami, but now, with this….” She didn’t
finish, just sighed and gestured vaguely toward the car.

“We both thought you’d enjoy your new ride so much
that maybe losing Cami wouldn’t hurt so badly.” Ricky blew a long slow spiral
of smoke.

Rhetta stared at the various second-generation
Camaro posters on the wall, and at a picture of Cami taken at a car show two
years before. “I loved that car.”

Ricky nodded. “Me, too. It was awesome.”

The women sat quietly for a moment. Then Rhetta
added, “I didn’t tell you about my mother’s locket that was lost in it, did I?”

Ricky touched Rhetta’s arm. “No, but Randolph did.”

Rhetta glanced around the garage, to the empty bay
where Ricky usually kept her own car, a black 1979 Trans-Am. “So, where’s the
Monster?”

The Monster’s moniker was earned from its shiny
black paint and extra loud headers. “I’ve got it in the paint shop.” Ricky
gestured toward the addition at the back of the garage that she used for her
paint booth. “I’m buffing the paint and spiffing it up to list it on eBay.”

Rhetta glanced around the corner, to a car bundled
under a cover. “You’re going to sell the Monster?”

“Sure, you know me. I’ll fix up something else. I’ve
got a line on a 1965 Mustang that I want.”

Rhetta hopped down from the stool. “I bet Monster’s
paint looks even more fantastic after you buffed it. Besides, if you sell it
quickly, I might not get to see it again, so I should check it out now.”

“Later, when it’s done, I’ll make sure you see it.”
Ricky said, steering Rhetta away from the paint bay. “There’s cutting compound
all over it right now, so it’s not looking too great. Besides, you’ll get that
dust all over you.” She crushed out her cigarette into a steel replica valve
cover that she used as an ashtray. She looked up at Rhetta. “You haven’t quit.”
It wasn’t a question.

“No, not entirely, but I’m trying.”

“I saw you eat that cigarette with your eyes. That’s
how I know.”

ith a
complete list
of
everything the deputies were taking, Randolph left Fast Lane as soon as the
deputies cleared out. After visiting a few minutes more with Ricky, Rhetta
ambled to her Trailblazer. The day had gone decidedly downhill with the grisly
discovery and the presumptive loss of the Z28. To console herself, she cranked
up the volume on the satellite radio, which she kept tuned to an oldies
station. Today it was the 70’s. As she reached her driveway, she hummed along
with the Eagles. Twice along the way home, she nearly stopped to get into her
secret stash of cigarettes that she kept in her console, but resisted.

Stopping to collect the mail from the oversized
mailbox at the end of their gravel driveway, she waved to Mrs. Koblyk, her
neighbor, who sat in a white pine rocker on her large veranda. Although
shielded from the road by a copse of tall pines, the Koblyks’ house sat close
to the county road, directly across from the McCarter property. Mrs. Koblyk
always knew everything that went on in the neighborhood. That she did made
Randolph crazy at times. Rhetta didn’t really mind. She found Mrs. Koblyk to be
a great neighbor, especially when she brought them fresh, homemade bread. Mr.
Koblyk, a retired jeweler and watchmaker, spent most of his time in his little
workshop, “tinkering,” as he called it. He spent hours restoring antique
jewelry, which turned out to be a lucrative hobby.

The McCarter home was once a
turn-of-the-twentieth-century farmhouse that sat in the center of the
picturesque creek-side property. After they married ten years ago, Rhetta and
Randolph spent months looking for the perfect place while living in a modest
two-bedroom apartment. Rhetta had loved remodeling the house. Installing modern
vinyl siding in the clapboard style kept the outside of the two-story white
home looking very much like the old pictures of it that Rhetta had found in the
attic. Inside, however, it was beautifully modernized.

“Sweets, I’m home,” she called out as she entered
the kitchen from the garage. She almost always called Randolph “Sweets,” unless
he left the toilet seat up. The sliding door to the deck was ajar. Rhetta
spotted Randolph spooning out cat food for their four hungry felines—Pirate,
Greystone, Jiggles and Smith. Rhetta said their names sounded like a law firm.

“Barn cats, indeed,” he grumbled as she joined him
on the deck. She brushed his cheek with her lips and relieved him of the can of
food. His silver-tinged black hair flopped over one eye. He’d been so busy
painting for an upcoming show that he’d let his hair grow out a little longer
than his usual cut. She decided she liked it.

“I’ll finish here,” she said, as she bent to croon
to the fur babies. “I know how much you love the smell of this canned fish.”
Jiggles, all white with one black paw, got his name from his strange habit of
bouncing up and down every time she spooned out their food.

“I thought the cats were supposed to live in the
barn and catch mice.” Randolph filled their water dishes from the spigot on the
deck.

“You don’t see any mice in the barn, do you?” Rhetta
said. “They’re doing their job so well, I like to reward them.”

“All right, you win. I’m outnumbered.” Randolph held
the door for Rhetta and they returned to the kitchen. Smith, the Siamese mix,
always waited until the others began eating before he’d venture in to join
them.

“I stopped at
The Golden Dragon,
and picked
up supper.” Randolph pointed to the take-out sacks lined up on the granite top
of the new kitchen island.

Rhetta would’ve preferred the Golden Arches, but
said nothing. She wasn’t hungry anyway, so it didn’t matter. She couldn’t stop
thinking about how they found an actual dead body. Could it really be Malcom
Griffith? She shivered.

“Come on, let’s eat a bite, and talk about what
happened today,” Randolph said, circling his arms around her waist and pulling
her to him in a hug. He brushed her hair from her forehead, then patted the
stool next to him at the counter.

*
* *

With
the meal finished, and the empty containers carried to the trashcan in the
garage, Rhetta curled up in the soft leather chair in the great room. She
savored the rich coffee aroma before sipping from her oversize mug.

“I hope you aren’t going to get involved in this
case,” Randolph said as he dropped into the matching chair alongside her. Ice
cubes clanked as he stirred his tall iced tea.

“I don’t see where I could do anything, so why are
you warning me off? It’s not like the Cape Girardeau County Sheriff seeks me
out for guidance.” She chortled at the idea. “I’m sure the forensic pathologist
will identify the remains soon enough.” She swirled the remaining coffee around
the nearly empty cup. “What if it’s really Malcom Griffith? That means somebody
killed him, and he didn’t run away with a pole dancer, after all. I wonder what
happened to the pole dancer. More importantly, if it is Malcom Griffith, then
who killed him?” In spite of Randolph’s warning, she couldn’t help but think
about possible suspects. The pole dancer? Griffith’s wife? A disgruntled
client? An agitated partner?

“Is Ricky still dating Jeremy Spears?” Randolph
asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“’Fraid so.” She couldn’t hide her disapproval. She
frowned. Did Jeremy Spears kill Malcom Griffith?

“Don’t you like him?”

She returned to the conversation. “Honestly, no. I
heard Ricky having a few cross words with Jeremy this afternoon. She says he’s
blaming her because we found the body. I wonder what he was going to do at the
site after the barn was torn down. And I wonder why the old barn was locked up
anyway? Ricky defended him and insisted Jeremy wasn’t angry because they found
the body. She said the reason he’s upset is that the discovery would set his
project back, and his investors were leaning on him.”

“That makes sense. Especially if he’s got a lot
invested.”

She had no desire to regurgitate the details of the
chilling discovery yet again, so she changed the subject. “I have to admit, I’m
disappointed about possibly losing this Z28.” She drained the last of the
coffee.

Randolph leaned forward. “Of course you are. You
were pretty upset about losing Cami.”

She stared at the remnants of coffee that clung to
the bottom of the cup.

He went on. “I know people in the sheriff’s
department. Maybe I can get them to hurry the testing and release the car.”

Rhetta peered at him over her mug. “Sweets, I know
you’re trying to cheer me up, but I’m a big girl. I know very well I may never
see Cami’s replacement ever again. Or, at least, not for a very long time.” She
set her cup down and stood. She kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right. I
was looking forward to this car, but…well, it’s not Cami.”

She retrieved the remote and clicked on the news. The
discovery of the body presumed to be Malcom Griffith was the lead story. Video
at nine. She switched off the set and noticed Randolph had left the room. She
heard him talking on the phone.

She caught a single word before he
disconnected—Camaro.