Southern Fried (11 page)

Looking first in the refrigerator, then idly through the cabinets, I couldn’t decide on anything to eat. Finally, I grabbed some Fig Newtons and a Coke and headed toward the lake’s edge.

My grandfather’s cabin sits backward, with the back door facing the gravel and grass drive where I had parked the Mustang, and the front facing the lake. Considering that the cabin had been built for enjoying the view rather than receiving callers, its backwardness made sense. Inside, with one large living area and two small bedrooms tucked to one side, it didn’t matter which door one entered. A deep porch ran the length of the cabin’s front, the tin-roofed overhang sheltering its rough-hewn lap siding from heavy rain and hot summer sun. A path, scarcely more than a footfall’s width, ran jaggedly to the lake, to where an old johnboat lay upside down.

I propped myself against the boat’s bottom, hoping I wouldn’t disturb any snakes that had taken winter refuge underneath. The blue-black water mirrored the trees around the lake, a soft contrast to the images from the night before. I could still smell the smoke.

I’d set aside today to work on the cabin. The day after Thanksgiving would be quiet around the courthouse and, I hoped, the jail and the magistrate’s office. If Harrison Garnet wanted to get in touch with me, he had my parents’ phone number. Why hadn’t he called? He didn’t seem interested in my advice, so why had he hired me in the first place? I’d begun to doubt that my trial qualifications or availability had attracted him. Maybe he’d wanted somebody who didn’t know as much about him as the local boys did. That was not a reassuring thought.

Keeping busy around the cabin would be no
problem. Narrowing down exactly what I could do—or had the time or inclination to do—was a problem.

Did I reseal the wax ring under the toilet and risk dropping the bolts under the house because I couldn’t lift the toilet alone? Rescreen the windows? Or wait until closer to summer? Replace the rotten boards on the front steps and porch? That job would take more time than I had, since I’d have to drive to town to buy pressure-treated lumber and borrow a circular saw.

I settled on replacing the broken windowpanes—five in all—that had been boarded over. Along the porch railing, I arranged the glass, putty, and glazier’s points I’d bought earlier in the week, then tackled the window beside the door first. The plywood piece nailed over the hole came off with loud protest, and removing the dried putty required meticulous, mindless chipping.

I could never make a living at this, given how slowly I work. But, when I surveyed my handiwork, I realized I enjoyed a job where I could actually see what I had accomplished. As I worked, I realized that I envy people who could sit back at the end of the day and say yep, I did that.

I couldn’t dig out all the stubborn old caulk, but, when I tested the pane, it fit well enough. I’d just started to bead in a line of new caulk when car tires crunched in the gravel drive and stopped out of sight around the other side of the cabin. Carrying the caulking gun, I swung off the porch, an easier path than walking through the cabin.

Sheriff L. J. Peters pulled herself from the front seat of her cruiser, one hand on the top of the door and one on the doorjamb. Extricating all six-plus-feet of her bulk, even from something as roomy as a Crown Vic, required effort. She brushed her fingers through her cropped black hair and set her brimmed hat on her head before she spoke.

“Why the hell you got yourself stuck all the way up here in the middle of nowhere?”

“To personally inconvenience you.”

We stood like two gunslingers, L.J. with her .357 strapped to her ample hip, me with my caulking gun dangling recklessly at my side.

“Well, for gawd’s sake, why don’t you have a phone? Thought I’d come by and see what had happened to you.”

“Thanks. A new service of the sheriff’s department?”

“Only where the potential victim is a smart-ass lawyer with a client down to the jail.”

“Who’s that?”

“Thought the promise of a fee would perk your interest. You don’t pick your friends too well, though.”

She paused for dramatic effect. I waited her out.

“Melvin Bertram,” she said.

I tried to keep my face straight, not to give anything away. Why was that such a natural reaction? Because she was a cop? Or because she was L.J.? “For what?”

“Questioning. He won’t talk without you. Says
you’re his lawyer. Now tell me why he keeps needing a lawyer and him back in town only a couple of days?”

“You tell me.” I slid the caulking gun under the railing onto the porch. “And what grounds have you got for questioning him?”

“He agreed to come down and talk about the fire last night. You were there, weren’t you.”

She wasn’t asking a question. So I didn’t answer. Glancing down at my clothes, I picked at a smudge of dried caulk on my jeans.

“Give me a sec to change. I’ll be right behind you.”

On the way in the door, I popped the board back over the window pane. I’d have to finish that later.

I sponged off and pulled on my navy blazer and slacks. No court appearances, so no risk of a judge frowning on my failure to appear in skirt and panty hose. I ran a comb through my hair, pulled it back into a ponytail, then hopped in the car. I tried to apply powder and mascara as I sailed down the winding mountain road to town.

In the now-familiar interrogation room, Melvin Bertram, clad in a yellow cotton sweater and navy corduroys, sat on the edge of a wooden chair, his forearms crossed casually on the table. The presence of worry wrinkles between his eyebrows heartened me. In my limited criminal-court experience, only the guilty are graceless enough not to look worried.

“Avery.” He stood to shake hands. I suspected even he wouldn’t have been able to explain whether
a businessman’s reflex or a troubled person’s need for human touch had prompted the handshake.

L.J. pushed into the small room with us.

“L.J., you mind if we have a few minutes here?” I asked.

She fixed me with a withering look, but worked her toothpick to the comer of her mouth and left without saying a word.

“Any idea what this is all about?” I glanced around the small room as I took a chair opposite him. It crossed my mind how easy it would be to bug this room. I glanced at the tape recorder to make sure my voice hadn’t activated it.

Melvin followed my glance, then shrugged. “They asked about the fire last night. At the mill. The sheriff’s tone got a bit belligerent. Brought back some bad memories.” The shadow of a grin drew at the corner of his mouth. “So I told her I didn’t have anything to say without my lawyer. I hope you don’t mind.”

I shrugged in turn. “That’s what lawyers are for. Why do they think you know something about the fire?”

Even before I finished, he started shaking his head. “I have no idea. My connection with Garnet Mills ended years ago. Maybe I’m just convenient. The new resident suspect.” His attempt at humor evaporated behind his sarcasm.

“Okay.” I went to the door. “Answer the questions. Don’t volunteer anything. And give me a chance to interrupt before you jump to answer.”

He nodded, and I motioned down the hall to where a dark-suited deputy stood against the wall, looking like a fleshy potbellied stove.

The deputy summoned L.J. from wherever she lay in wait and, after she addressed the preliminaries to the tape recorder, she began her questions.

“Mr. Bertram, we appreciate you taking time to come talk to us. I know this is an inconvenience, particularly on a holiday weekend.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. L.J. must have just gotten back from a seminar on playing the good-guy cop. Trying to put a suspect at ease came across as an unnatural act for her.

Melvin merely nodded. He still sat on the edge of his chair, his arms crossed in front of him like a barrier—or a restraint.

“Mr. Bertram, could I ask your whereabouts last evening?”

Melvin paused a brief space, with a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth. “You mean after you and I got together yesterday afternoon? I spent the evening—Thanksgiving—at my brother’s house. With his family.”

L.J. blinked, reminding me somehow of a lizard. Or a Komodo dragon. “Could you describe for me your relationship with Harrison Garnet and Garnet Mills?”

“Now? None. I haven’t seen or spoken to Harrison in—oh, probably fifteen years.”

“Since your wife—disappeared.”

Melvin nodded.

“Please answer aloud. For the tape recording.” L.J. gestured toward the little shoe-box recorder, a motion designed to remind Melvin this was no casual chat.

“Since around that time, yes,” Melvin said.

“Your wife worked for Garnet Mills.”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t been in touch with the Garnets since her disappearance?”

“There’s been no need.”

L.J. settled against her chair back, the plastic seat protesting. “Your father and Garnet were partners, weren’t they?”

Melvin paused. “Yes. A number of years ago.”

“And you did some work for Harrison Garnet, accounting work. Back when you lived here?”

A deep breath and a careful answer. “Yes. Dacus had no other accountants or financial advisers at that time.” He implied that the oddity would’ve been if Garnet hadn’t hired him as his accountant.

“What do you know about the fire last night?”

The crease between Melvin’s eyebrows deepened slightly. “Nothing, except that there was one. Some kind of explosion, I understand.”

L.J. leaned forward, keenly interested in his reply. Or feigning interest. “Now, where did you hear that?”

Melvin shrugged. “Somebody talking around the house. Or uptown when I stopped to get gas. Or at the post office.”

L.J. chewed her bottom lip, studying him, waiting to see what he would add. Melvin didn’t oblige her.

“Mr. Bertram.” She settled back again, her tone
more conversational. “I hoped you might help me understand something. You ever been involved in or know about a case—as an accountant—where somebody tried to destroy records? You know, by setting a fire they hoped looked accidental, but arranging things so important documents would be destroyed?”

Melvin paused longer than he had for the earlier questions, more wary. “No, I haven’t. That area of fraud investigation has not been a part of my practice.” Another pause. “If you need an expert of that kind, I have a friend who works fraud investigation for the U.S. Attorney’s office. White-collar-crime stuff. A forensic CPA.”

L.J. nodded. “Well, thank you. That might come in handy.”

Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been for him to volunteer the name of an expert. But surely she hadn’t expected him to scream I did it,
I did it, I blew up that building. You caught me red-handed
.

L.J. studied him a few more seconds, then turned to me. “You were there last night, weren’t you?”

She dropped her saccharine tone and didn’t waste any of her good-cop questioning methods on me. I didn’t point out that, since I sat there as Melvin’s counsel, her question was out of line.

“Yes. I heard the blast from Main Street, then saw the glow in the sky.”

“Pretty loud boom, I hear. Convenient you were there.”

I frowned, meeting her steady gaze. “I don’t know. Somebody else called the fire department.
There certainly wasn’t anything I could do to help.” I remembered the orange flames. And the heat. And my sense of helplessness as I reached for a car phone I didn’t have. That wasn’t anything I’d share with L.J. Or Melvin.

“Did you see anything? Or anybody?”

I shook my head. “No. Not anything that made an impression. But frankly, the damage to the building looked so—incredible. I’m afraid I couldn’t take my eyes off that. Then I left. I didn’t want to be in the way.”

L.J. stared. She wanted to say something smartass. But she knew the tape recorded her comments as well as ours, so she too had reason to choose her words carefully.

She picked at a scar on the table, then asked, “Either one of you know Nebo Earling?”

I’m sure my face betrayed my surprise at hearing that name again so recently on the heels of my graveyard chat with Aunt Letha.

Melvin shook his head. “No. I don’t believe I do.”

But L.J. ignored him, staring at me. I shook my head. “Just by name.”

I didn’t explain that Aunt Letha had taught him in school. And I doubted that Nebo’s graveyard flower-snatching prompted L.J.’s interest in him.

“You know he works for Harrison Garnet?”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe I did.”

She glanced at Melvin. We sat in uncompanionable silence for a few exaggerated seconds. Melvin maintained the dispassion of a business executive at a rubber-chicken dinner.

“Thank you again, Mr. Bertram, for taking time to answer a few questions. We have to ask questions, you know. Eventually we get answers. From somewhere. I’ll have one of the deputies take you back to your brother’s.”

“No need,” I said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll be glad to drop you by, Melvin.” The stiffness in my muscles highlighted for me how tense the meeting had been. Or how little I’d exercised over the last couple of weeks.

I needed to spend more time at the walking trail. Without Cissie Prentice and her designer outfits.

“Nice car,” Melvin said as we pulled out of the Law Enforcement Center parking lot.

I’d known all along he would come to his senses. “Thanks. It belonged to my grandfather.”

Melvin rubbed his palms along the thighs of his corduroys. “I hope this’11 be the last ride I have to catch back from the police station.”

We both smiled, trying to turn it into a joke.

He studied the five-and-ten store as we stopped at a red light. “You know, I’d actually toyed with the idea of moving back here, setting up an office in Dacus, moving back closer to my family.”

I stared at him.

“I know,” he said, amused. “Two trips to the sheriff’s office in two days isn’t quite as inviting as a Welcome Wagon visit.”

“No, I guess not.” Not knowing what to say, I changed the subject. “What do you do, Melvin?”

He nodded. “Mostly I work as a financial adviser.
On limited partnership ventures, that sort of thing. Which I thought could be done from Dacus as easily as from Atlanta. But now I’m back to rethinking my career options.”