Confound It

by Maggie Toussaint

  “I’ve been figuring stuff out, but I had help from my parents and friends.” Another silence settled around us, an easy one. A full belly. Good company. Starry skies overhead. I could get used to this.

  We made plans for the next day, plans that included a boat ride with my dad to the barrier islands and a picnic lunch. Dinner would be a gathering at my folks’ place.

  The dawn call I received changed everything.

  Chapter Six

  Sheriff Wayne Thompson did a double-take when he picked me up for the new case. My mom had collected Larissa ten minutes ago, and Charlotte and Duncan had yet to surface. They must still be at her place.

  Good for her.

  Good for them.

  Wayne and Mayes sized each other up like sumo wrestlers looking for a takedown opportunity. Wayne still carried the lean shape of his football quarterback days, and he had a few inches of height on Mayes. Turned out, the men had mutual acquaintances, and in less than five minutes they were yucking it up like old friends. Wayne even called Mayes’ boss to get him assigned here for the case.

  Mayes told Wayne he wasn’t letting me out of his sight. I would’ve been annoyed if he’d said anything else. Mission accomplished, and the three of us rode in Wayne’s Jeep to the scene. Surprise, surprise, a body had been discovered in the ashes of yesterday’s house fire.

  “The trailer is a rental, according to the property records,” Wayne explained on the way. “I’ve got a call in to the landlord, but so far he hasn’t returned my calls.”

  Charlotte would be sorry to have missed this call-out. As a newspaper reporter, she lived for breaking news. If her rival reporter at the newspaper got the story, she’d be ticked. I shot her a quick text message about the fatality, but she didn’t respond. She and Duncan must be totally wrapped up in each other.

  “What caused the fire?” I asked.

  Wayne met my gaze in his rearview mirror. “Fire chief said the place was a meth lab.”

  “Shouldn’t your guys have known about the cook site?”

  “Meth labs are a universal problem. We have so much territory to patrol in Sinclair County, so many foreclosed homes that could be drug labs, not to mention occupied homes where people are cooking, that we could work nothing but the meth angle for weeks and still not eliminate the problem.”

  Beside me, Mayes cleared his throat. “We’re seeing a lot of shake-and- bake labs in north Georgia. Earlier this week a deputy stopped a couple walking down Main Street. They were acting strangely, so he asked them a few questions. They got twitchier by the second. Fortunately, he’d already called for backup. Both the guy and his daughter had portable meth labs in their backpacks made from plastic soda bottles. The little girl was making drugs in her kiddy-character knapsack. Hard to believe.”

  “I hate that,” I said as we zoomed past orderly acres of pine timber. “What kind of lowlife turns their kid into a walking meth lab?”

  “A dumb one,” Mayes said. “Especially since it turned out poorly for the dad and the kid. Another case of someone not thinking things through.”

  Meth labs used dangerous chemicals. Flammable ones. How could this be a good idea for us to investigate? “Is it safe to go inside?”

  “The house will be cleared before any of us are allowed inside,” Mayes said. “Hazmat has been out there since daybreak. And we’re doing everything by the book in this one. Because of the drugs and the fatality, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation has been notified.”

  I hadn’t worked any cases with the GBI, and truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Wayne and his deputies always moaned and groaned about the state big shots.

  “Got a name for your GBI point of contact?” Mayes asked.

  “Burnell Escoe. He’s new to the region. You know him?”

  “Don’t recognize the name. But I could ask around if you like.”

  “No need. We have to work with him. If he’s got issues, we’ll learn them soon enough.”

  “Is he already at the scene?” I asked.

  “Coming down a little after lunch. That’s why we’re documenting everything and playing by the rules. I do not need the GBI breathing down my neck. I’ve already had this talk with my guys at the station. You two, be mindful of what you say and do around this guy. Any problems with him and you come to me. Understood?”

  I nodded. After a while, so did Mayes.

  The coroner’s van and a cluster of other emergency vehicles were already on site when we arrived at Bartow Road. My dad waved a greeting as he zipped on his official coroner coveralls, alongside his helper, Bubba Paxton. Deputies Virg and Ronnie rolled out crime scene tape along the property frontage, but they stopped when the sheriff waved them over. In their spiffy Class A khaki uniforms, these men resembled competent cops. I knew otherwise, but these good ole boys came with the job.

  As they approached, I noted the hub of activity over at the Hazmat side of things. A row of containers occupied a plastic drop cloth on the ground. Two people wearing white head-to-toe protective suits exited the building and headed for the tarp. They carried empty soda bottles.

  I introduced Mayes to everyone. My dad hugged him. Everyone else did the manly head bob of acknowledgment.

  “We’ve got to do things in order, Tab,” Wayne cautioned my father. “Don’t remove the body until we clear the scene. We can’t get inside until Hazmat clears it. Speaking of which, everyone, gather ’round. Meth labs have their own protocol. All of us will wear Hazmat suits to enter the building as a precaution.”

  Bubba Paxton groaned out loud. “That suit is as hot as summer pavement.”

  The fire chief broke away from the Hazmat unit and strode toward us. Harvey Foster was about ten years my senior. His tall, lean physique gave him an advantage over the other men present, every one of them shorter. He wore ash-coated yellow boots, a white Tyvek suit, and a respirator around his neck.

  “My cousin, the arson investigator, has been assisting me and the Hazmat team today,” Foster said. “Not that I suspect arson, but I wanted a second set of eyes out here. Gene and I combed the site looking for the ignition source. A mobile home this old, we felt sure it would be the wiring, but the incomplete burning had us puzzled.”

  “And …?” the sheriff prompted when Foster ran out of words.

  “That’s when we found the body. It’s charred pretty badly in places, but we think it’s an adult female, given the clothing. I should add, based on the contents of the closets, it appears a female and a male lived here. Possibly a mother and son from the clothing sizes.”

  My stomach clenched. I’d never seen a burnt corpse before, and I wasn’t looking forward to having that image etched in my mind. Worse, what if it was the son who’d died? I shuddered.

  Mayes wrapped an arm around my shoulder. Instinctively, I edged closer to his warmth.

  The sheriff shot an annoyed glance our way before glaring at the fire chief. “Anybody besides Hazmat and fire been inside?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is it safe for my people to enter the house?”

  “We didn’t find any pockets of fire or hot embers and cleared the place for Hazmat. They brought out the last of the container from the meth lab just now and gave the all clear. It’s safe, but your people should still exercise extreme caution.”

  “You’ve got photos of the lab?” Wayne asked.

  “We do. You’ll have full access to our findings and reports, and we’d like the same courtesy from you. Plus, we’d appreciate you not moving anything but the body. We have yet to determine the cause of the fire.”

  “Gotcha covered.” Wayne turned from the fire chief. “Virg and Ronnie, you guys go next door and find out who lived here.”

  “Hold up,” Ronnie said. “I already know. The Pig Woman.”

  Wayne shook his head. “What?”

  “The Pig Woman. Jerk next door must’ve filed half a dozen complaints about her blasted pigs.”

  “The woman with the pot bellied pigs?”
/>   “That’s the one.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mandy Patterson.”

  Wayne studied the ground a moment. “It’s coming back to me now. Mandy’s pigs turned up their noses at their pig-chow dinners, escaped under the fence, and got into the dog-food bag on the neighbor’s back porch. The guy nearly had an aneurism telling you about it, right?”

  “Yep. Good ole Ricky Dixon. He’s wound tight, that’s for sure. If his wife wasn’t bedridden, he’d be a permanent bachelor because no woman would put up with his sh—, uh, stuff.”

  “Head over there anyway. I want a statement from him about what he may have heard or seen. I want to know where those pigs are. Take Powell with you so I know if he’s lying.”

  He was sending me away from the scene? I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t do my job. I pushed away from Mayes’ protective arm. “I can do it,” I said. “I needed a moment to prepare for seeing the charred body.”

  Wayne snorted. “Sometimes I forget you’re a chick, Powell, but I can read you like a fast-food menu. This is the best use of your time. Dixon is important. He’s either a witness or a suspect, and I need your take on what he says.”

  His words didn’t ring quite true. My spine stiffened. “I said I can do it.”

  “Sure you can, but Mayes is a cop. He’s seen burn victims before. He’ll assist me because he wants in on the case. With the fire department’s approval, I’ll collect one or two personal items belonging to the victim, and you can go inside the place once we remove the corpse. Right now, I need you next door with my guys.”

  Crap . I was being sent away on the “B” team. Simultaneously, Mayes had been promoted from spectator to “A” team. Good ole boy networks never died.

  Though my pride smarted, I couldn’t deny I was glad to be granted a respite on the viewing. Wayne was doing me a favor, so I should hush and be gracious about it.

  “Virg, let’s get that statement stat,” the sheriff said.

  “Roger that, boss man.” Virg cocked his head at me. “You ready?”

  I nodded and gathered my thoughts. I might not like being sent away, but I would do my assignment. As a police consultant, I needed to let my abilities be tasked however the sheriff deemed fit. Didn’t matter about the temporary demotion, I’d do my job. I would get justice for this victim.

  “If this guy doesn’t cooperate, I’ll light him up with my Taser,” Virg announced as we trudged down the dirt road to the neighbor’s home.

  Ronnie laughed, an affable giggle with a sinister twist. “Go git ’em, Virg.”

  Having been on the wrong end of Virg’s Taser before, I didn’t wish that experience on anyone. “You will not. The object is to gather information, not have this man sue the sheriff ’s office. If he won’t talk to you, I want a crack at him.”

  “No way he’s gonna talk to you. I’m telling you. This man’s crazier than a sprayed roach.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Shuddup!” A male voice bellowed at the chorus of barking hounds that heralded our arrival at the concrete-block home. The noise level didn’t abate until one dog yelped. Had he kicked his pet? I’d never met Ricky Dixon before, but I disliked him already, even if he was caring for his bedridden wife. If his animals looked mangy or malnourished, I was siccing Animal Control on him.

  Nature was reclaiming the concrete-block house, from the thick carpet of leaves and Spanish moss on the roof, to the vines and swamp funk creeping up the sides. A portable air conditioner droned in the nearest window. An array of old semi tires and ropes dotted the front yard in a semi-circular pattern. They looked like dog tie-ups to me. Not a water bowl in sight.

  Another strike against this man.

  The door creaked open and a slight, wiry man stopped in the threshold. Four hounds crowded around beside him, all glowing with canine health. “You. What you want?” Dixon snarled, accenting his question with a belch.

  Ricky Dixon’s missing teeth didn’t bother me, but I wasn’t crazy about the early morning beer breath or the long greasy hair. Good hygiene and sobriety were important in my book. Fortunately, the smell of his breath quickly dissipated in a mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat that wafted out the door.

  “We want to talk with you about your neighbor, Ms. Patterson,” Virg said. “Did you call and report the fire?”

  “I don’t know nuttin’ ’bout no fire, and I ain’t gotta talk to you.” Dixon puffed up his bantam-sized chest. “I got rights.”

  “No one’s accusing you of anything,” Ronnie said. “We want to know if you saw anything unusual yesterday, or if you noticed something different next door yesterday. We’re asking nice-like for your cooperation.”

  Dixon took another pull from his beer. “I noticed that woman didn’t come outside yesterday and holler for her pigs. That’s what I noticed.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Ms. Patterson and her son?” Virg asked.

  “You need to arrest that no-count son of hers. Doodle’s in and out of there at all hours of the night. When he cranks up that car, the exhaust backfires loud ’nuf to rouse the dead. I’ve called y’all about his disturbing the peace, but he’s long gone when your deputy gets here.”

  Virg made notes on his pad of paper. “You see Doodle Patterson yesterday or last night?”

  “I never look over there when I drive by. Bad for my blood pressure. I ain’t seen that boy in months, but I hear his god-awful music all the time. It ain’t music at all, just a lot of angry talking and thumping bass. It oughta be a crime to call that crap music. But that ain’t the worst of it. All that junk in the yard. They’s all the time hauling in more things to fix in that front yard. Ruining my property value, that’s what they’re doing. That boy is a bad seed, I tell ya. I don’t want no truck with him or his kind that come around when his mom goes off with her slacker boyfriend.”

  I glanced around Dixon’s weed-infested yard. Since I was a landscaper, I considered myself a pro in this field. It would take a solid week of pruning to turn this place into a welcoming area. Dixon couldn’t be too concerned about property values, not with the state of his yard.

  “What kind of people?” Virg prompted when Dixon ran out of steam.

  “Those skanky friends of his, that’s what. The beanpole girls don’t hardly wear any clothes a’tall. The guys look rough. Sooner you haul him off to prison, the better.”

  “What about Ms. Patterson?” Virg asked. “When did you last see her?”

  “I dunno, man. I usually hear her over dere, calling those danged pigs. ‘Soooooey, Sooey, Sooey.’ Now she’s got this three-legged goat what comes over and bugs me. Cain’t you write her a citation or somethin’?”

  Virg leaned in close. “Speaking of her pigs, any idea where they are?”

  The scrawny man edged backward. “Them people are whacked out. Seriously messed up.”

  “How so?” Ronnie said.

  Dixon shot an exasperated glance over at Ronnie. “Anybody that’d bawl over a missing pig is a loon in my book.”

  He’d sidestepped the question about the pigs’ location. We needed that answer. “What happened to the pigs?” I asked.

  Dixon shrugged. “Don’t know. Cain’t say. Don’t care.”

  This was getting us nowhere. I edged between Virg and Ronnie. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why’d I lie?” Dixon said. “I hate pigs, unless they’s the eatin’ kind.”

  He spoke the truth about wanting to eat the pigs. What was going on here? “Did you do something to the pigs?”

  “What’s it to ya, lady?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Nah.” He chugged more beer. Burped again. “Don’t think I will.”

  “You must’ve seen something,” I said, softening my voice and reaching out to pat his arm.

  He lunged away from me, stepping on a hound. The dog yelped and scurried away. “Yowsers,” Dixon said. “No touching.”

  Dang. I thought I’d been so smooth. I retracted my
hand and jammed it in my crystal-filled pocket. The energy from the crystals counterbalanced the negative juju steamrolling off this angry man.

  “Hold the bus.” Dixon waggled a finger in my direction. “I know who you are. The psycho what helps the cops.”

  Ronnie’s giggle got nixed by his partner’s glare.

  “Mrs. Powell is a police consultant,” Virg stated with authority. “She’s a psychic.”

  “Big whup. Take Ms. Goody Woo-Woo Shoes next door and let her do her circus act over dere. Ain’t got nothing else to say.”

  “So you didn’t see or hear nothing and you don’t know anything about Ms. Patterson’s pigs,” Virg confirmed.

  “Persackly. Y’all go on about your bidness.”

  Virg dug in his pocket and withdrew a crumpled card. “Here’s my number if you remember something later.”

  The man took the card, read it, and tossed it on the floor. “Don’t know nuttin’ about the fire or no loud noise either.”

  Virg had already turned to walk down the wooden steps, but he stopped. “Loud noise?”

  “Don’t know nuttin’ about that. Woke up me and the missus, ’sall.” With that, he slammed the door in our faces.

  “She-ite,” Ronnie said as we trudged up the dirt road to the burnt trailer. “We got diddly. The sheriff ’s gonna be pissed.”

  “We got plenty,” I said. “The son’s name is Doodle. The pigs are missing. A three-legged goat is missing. A loud bang occurred at the same time as the fire. And Ricky Dixon hates his neighbors.”

  “We knew that last part afore we even went next door,” Virg said. “What’s your Spidey sense tell you?”

  “Dixon told us the truth, but he’s got secrets.” “What’s wrong with your foot?” Ronnie asked.

  I hadn’t realized anything was wrong with my foot, but sure enough, I wasn’t putting all my weight on my left foot. “Must be something in my boot,” I said. “There’s a sharp pain in my heel.”

  “Uh-oh,” Ronnie said, his rounded face squeezed in a scowl. “Somebody’s done put the root on you.”