Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  “Yep.” She knotted her hair into a loose bun. “I’ve already fixed my hair.”

  “Kinko, come on, girl.” Kinko bounced up the patio steps, covered in grass, her wet nose red from rooting the dirt.

  “Look at you,” he exclaimed, scooping the dog up, scratching her head. “That’s not very ladylike.”

  “Aw, leave her alone. Every lady has the right to get dirty once in a while.”

  He grinned, cut his gaze to her.

  “Can I ask you a personal question before I go?” she asked.

  “How personal?”

  “Where did you get this?” She ran her fingers over the silvery scar on his forearm. “You were burned.”

  Deason’s smile faded. His eyes grew distant, the gold tarnishing. “It was a long time ago.” He covered her hand with his, moving it from the scar.

  ****

  The leaves had finally begun to turn. Deason walked through the cemetery gate, the rose wilting in his calloused fingers. He drew a deep breath, the late September air filling his lungs and flooding his memory banks with images of fall. Halloween was only a month away. The thought brought with it visions of jack-o-lanterns, candy corn and little Beth, dressed up like Ariel the mermaid. Real seashells were stitched to her bathing suit top and Mom had sewn her tail from shiny green fabric. Beth’s chubby legs bulged through, making the fishtail look like a sausage.

  “Bubba, is my hair pretty?” She patted the long red wig then fluffed it, like big girls do.

  “Dad, look what I caught. A big smelly fish.”

  “Put me down, Bubba. I’m not a fish, I’m a mermaid!” She’d tried to kick, but floundered instead, restricted by the tail.

  The late afternoon sun glinted off the three headstones in front of him. Two medium sized, one small, all of them gray. He’d been nineteen when they’d died, and hadn’t had much money. Mr. Taft had let him pay off the stones over a period of two years.

  He knelt, setting the wilted flower on Beth’s stone, picturing her blue eyes—blue like Charis’s—and pink cheeks, round like apples. He remembered playing with her, watching her sleep, holding her when she was afraid.

  With a sharp pang, he recalled how angry he’d been the time she’d poked his Pearl Jam CD into her Easy Bake Oven. Another pang hit when he thought back even further, to the day Mom had told him she was expecting. He’d been mad, telling her she and Dad were too old to raise another kid. Hell, at fifteen he thought his parents were too old to be having sex, period.

  Truth was, he’d been jealous. He’d always been their one and only. He’d known he wouldn’t get as much attention with a baby around, and he’d been right. Little did he know that he’d fall head over heels in love with the new kid.

  She would have been twenty-one by now. Older than he’d been when the house burned. He could almost imagine the beautiful woman she would’ve grown into. A strawberry blond with dimples deep enough to hold nickels and big cornflower-blue eyes. Dad would’ve had his hands full, for sure.

  Deason ran his fingers over the engraved names one at a time. Clinton. Rebecca. Beth. He still missed them all so much. Too much, considering all the time that’d passed. Remorse overwhelmed him and he shook, holding back sobs, fearing if he gave into the pain he’d cry forever. He swallowed and stood, promising to leave his guilt here at their feet, believing they’d want it that way.

  He left the cemetery, his heart lifting a little on the short walk home. In a few hours he’d see Charis again. He could do this, he told himself. He could put away the pain of losing his family, the trauma of finding Victor’s body, the anguish of discovering Vic’s wallet. Just for tonight.

  “Just for tonight,” he breathed.

  ****

  Deason buttoned up the only dress shirt he owned. A dark green oxford he’d worn to a coworker’s wedding two years ago. He whistled a tune as he tucked it into his darkest pair of Levi’s. Kinko tilted her head at him. “Don’t hear that sound too often, do you?” He resumed whistling as he sat on the edge of the bed and laced up the work boots Charis had given him. He strode to the bathroom and combed his hair, leaning close to the mirror, convinced the circles under his eyes had faded. “That woman’s medicinal,” he said, smiling at his reflection before turning off the light.

  Maybe this is what life was like in the land of normalcy. Dinner and a movie with good friends and a beautiful girl by his side. Not just beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful, inside and out. A hard working, intelligent girl with substance. And a good head on her shoulders that didn’t turn a one-eighty every time a man with a pulse walked by.

  He checked his watch, looking forward to the night ahead. Jagger would pick him up in fifteen, and then they would meet the girls at Daphne’s house and pile into her Blazer.

  In his mid-thirties and on his first double date. He shook his head and grinned as he stepped to the living room to listen for the Trans Am. Immediately he heard a car pull into the drive. “Jagger’s early? Wonders never cease.” He patted Kinko’s head and opened the front door.

  Detective Benton and a deputy sheriff stood on the other side. “Good evening, Mr. McKindle. You are being placed under arrest as a suspect in the murder of Victor Locke,” Detective Benton said, opening the screen door. “Deputy Evans here will read you the Miranda.”

  The deputy took a step forward. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

  “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?” Deason asked, stepping onto the porch. “I didn’t kill Vic Locke and I don’t know who did. Piece of trash has caused me more trouble dead than he did alive.”

  “I’d close my mouth if I was you,” Deputy Evans warned. “As I was saying, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  Deason glanced at the sky as the deputy cuffed his hands behind his back. This was great. Just great. Kinko growled and barked as the men closed the door and led Deason down the front steps, the deputy still reciting the Miranda rights.

  “You got someone to take care of your dog?” the detective asked Deason as Kinko’s panicked scratches echoed behind them.

  “I’ll find someone,” he said, hoping to persuade Charis.

  Detective Benton opened the back door of the squad car and Deputy Evans roughly ducked his head for him in case he was stupid enough to bang it on the door frame.

  “If you think I’m guilty, why didn’t you arrest me when I brought the wallet in?”

  “There’s some new evidence. I’ll fill you in at county,” Detective Benton said.

  They rode to the Barger County Courthouse in silence, except for the occasional crackle of the radio and the steady grind of Deason’s teeth. What could they possibly have found to link him to Vic’s murder? Prints on the wallet? Hell yeah, his prints were there. He’d found the damn thing, fumbled it around in the box, inspected it to see who it belonged to. So what? That didn’t make him a murderer.

  They pulled up in front of the courthouse and Deputy Evans helped him from the car then walked him up the steps. He led Deason down the corridor, through the sheriff’s department and into a room, empty except for a long table and a couple of uncomfortable looking chairs.

  “Have a seat, please, Mr. McKindle.” Detective Benton motioned to the deputy, who jiggled his oversized key ring then unlocked Deason’s handcuffs.

  Deason sat, massaging his wrists. “What’s this about?”

  “As you probably already know, we discovered your prints on the wallet.”

  “Figured. Since I’m the one who found it.”

  Detective Benton nodded. “In addition, there’s been another development.” He slid a toothpick from his pocket, the kind with curly red cellophane on the end from a burger joint.

  Deason shrugged. “So…are you going to tell me what it is, or just pick your teeth all night?”

  He smiled, red curls bobbing between his lips. “When’s the last time you spoke to Victor Locke?”

  Deason locked gazes with the dete
ctive. “I told you. It was Tuesday, the fourth. During the wrestling match we had on Mr. Barnaby’s lawn.”

  “At no time did you speak with Mr. Locke on the telephone?”

  “Telephone? Never.” He started to say the only reason he’d have Vic on the phone was if the cord was wrapped around the SOB’s neck, but thought better of it.

  Detective Benton slid an envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled a page from inside and unfolded it. “These are your cellphone records to date for the month of September.” He trailed a finger down the page, stopping three-fourths of the way down. “You don’t remember answering a call from this number on Thursday, the sixth, at six o’clock p.m., just two days after your altercation with Victor Locke?” He held the page in front of Deason and continued down it. “Or what about two o’clock a.m. on the morning of Tuesday the eleventh—from the same number?”

  Deason looked at the digits above the detective’s thumb. He racked his brain, jaw working. “Gabriella.”

  “Who—”

  “My ex-wife, Gabriella, called me from this number—repeatedly. I only answered a couple of times. I picked up the first time to see who was calling.” He tapped his finger on the page. “And this time, on the eleventh, is when I told her, forcefully, to stop calling me. That was the last time I received a call from that number.”

  The detective nodded then slid the toothpick from his mouth. “Does it seem a bit… suspicious to you, that the coroner’s report states Victor’s time of death to be two hours after the last call he ever dialed—a call to you?”

  Deason’s nostrils flared, breath shooting from them in hot bursts. “Victor didn’t make that call. It was Gabriella.”

  “I see. And did you speak with Gabriella?”

  “Look, I already told you, I shouted at her to stop calling me.”

  “But did you speak with her?”

  “No.” Deason slammed his palm on the table. “The phone rang and I yelled at her at the top of my damn lungs. Got it?”

  Deputy Evans shot forward—retreating when Detective Benton shook his head. “Mr. McKindle. If you didn’t wait for Gabriella to speak then how can you honestly say you know it was her?”

  Deason propped an elbow on the table, resting his forehead in his hand. “I guess technically, I can’t. But I can say I never knowingly answered a call from Victor Locke. And I sure as hell never had a conversation with him.”

  “Do you know how he got your number?”

  He blew out a breath. “My best guess would be Gabriella. She’s a barmaid at Suds. She’d called from the bar that first time, on Thursday evening. I could hear loud music and the pool-balls clacking in the background. It’s no secret Vic was a regular. Hell, for all I know he put her up to calling me—just to screw with my head.” He massaged his temples.

  “What’s your ex’s last name?”

  “Sanchez. Gabriella Sanchez. She went back to her maiden name. She goes by Gabby.”

  “Okay, we’ll go from there.” Detective Benton took a notepad from his pocket, scribbled a few lines then motioned to the deputy. “Let’s get the cuffs back on so I can walk you over to processing. Then you can make your phone call.”

  As if on cue, Deason’s cell rang.

  “May I?” Detective Benton asked, stretching a hand toward Deason as Deputy Evans approached with handcuffs.

  Deason nodded. Detective Benton pulled the phone from Deason’s breast pocket and looked at the screen. “Somebody named Jagger.”

  ****

  Charis exchanged a look with Daphne as Jagger pulled into the driveway. “Deason’s not with him,” she said, rising from the bumper of Daphne’s Blazer. She walked toward the Trans Am.

  “Wasn’t there,” Jagger said, slamming the car door.

  “What do you mean he wasn’t there?” Daphne asked, still leaning against her vehicle.

  “I honked half a dozen times but he never showed. He didn’t answer the front door so I went inside—thought that little mutt of his was gonna tear my leg off. Deason was nowhere. I checked every room in the house, plus the backyard. He wasn’t there.”

  Charis squared her shoulders. If he’d changed his mind, all he had to do was call. It wasn’t like she couldn’t take it. She’d experienced worse things than a man’s cold feet in her lifetime. She rearranged her hair, yanking the carefully curled tendrils into a tight bun, twisting it into a topknot.

  “Does he normally leave his house unlocked like that?” Daphne asked, making Charis feel like a selfish heel. She should’ve asked that question, instead of jumping to conclusions, mentally assassinating the man she cared about.

  “He used to. Not so much lately, after the bad situation with—you know who.” Jagger glanced at Charis then quickly looked at the ground. “I even called his cell, but he didn’t pick up.”

  “Are we going to stand around looking at each other or are we going to find Deason?” Daphne asked, opening her car door, wriggling behind the wheel.

  Jagger stepped around with a sideways grin, sliding into the passenger seat. “Jerkoff couldn’t go too far without a vehicle.”

  Charis slid into the backseat, dread replacing her indignation. Insides wound tighter than her topknot, she couldn’t shake the sensation that something was wrong.

  “Any ideas?” Daphne asked, meeting Charis’s eyes in the rearview mirror as she backed from the drive.

  “None. He seemed fine when I talked to him this morning. Said he’d been looking forward to our getting together—” Charis’s phone vibrated in her jeans pocket and she slid it out. “It’s him.”

  She breathed a relieved sigh and answered. “Where are you? What? Oh my god—it has to be a mistake. We’re on our way. Of course I’ll take care of Kinko. Everything’s going to be all right.” With shaking fingers, she slid the phone back into her pocket.

  “Spill it,” Daphne growled.

  Charis’s eyes burned. “Deason’s in jail. He’s been arrested for murdering Vic.” Her lips trembled as she spoke. “He said they accused him of answering calls from Vic’s phone and they have the records to prove it.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “That, along with the fact he found Vic’s body and his wallet—”

  “What a load of bullshit,” Jagger yelled, tearing the seatbelt from his shoulder, turning around in the seat to face Charis. “They ain’t got shit on him, and they know it. Barney Fifes in this cesspool-town got nothin’ better to do than send innocent people up the river just to get ’em out of their hair so they can get back to twiddlin’ their filthy thumbs. This time I’m gonna tell those pigs what I really think of ’em.”

  “Hold your horses cowboy, you’ll do no such thing. Much as the John Wayne act turns me on, you’re going to let me do the talking,” Daphne said, reaching over the console to pat Jagger’s boney knee.

  A few minutes later, Daphne steered into the parking lot of the county courthouse. Charis’s head spun, she stepped to the pavement and steadied herself against the vehicle.

  “You all right?” Jagger asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She sucked in a shaky breath. Daphne took Charis’s hand and squeezed, holding on tightly as they walked up the front steps.

  “May I help you?” A deputy asked, opening the door, holding it as they entered the foyer.

  “Doubt it,” Jagger sneered. Daphne raised an eyebrow, cutting him short.

  “Yes. We’re looking for a new inmate, Deason McKindle. Who can we speak with concerning his arrest?” Daphne asked.

  “Are you related to the prisoner?”

  “Practically.” Daphne winked.

  “Immediate family?”

  “No sir.”

  “Sorry, we only release information to the immediate family.”

  Charis stepped forward, tears held in place by sheer will. “Please. Can you tell us something? Any information would be appreciated.” Tears betrayed her, escaping down her cheek.

  The deputy’s eyes softened. “His arraignment hearing is first thing Monday morni
ng. Call the court clerk around ten o’clock to find out if he’s eligible for bail.” He opened the door, holding it for them as they turned to leave.

  ****

  “So, did he do it?” Lita asked, glancing up briefly then back down at Charis’s laptop.

  “Of course not. He’s being framed.”

  “I’ve heard that one before,” Lita snorted, clacking her fingers across the keyboard.

  Charis wished her mother would look at her. She needed to talk, and this was serious. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into Lita lately, but she’d been distracted, disinterested. The change in behavior made Charis nervous. “I just feel so helpless. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Lita looked up, her eyes tired, bloodshot. “Well, well. Looks like some man’s gone and shoved his way into Charis’s heart after all. And a bad boy, no less. Behind bars for murder. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.”

  Charis’s cheeks warmed. There was no use trying to talk to her about Deason’s predicament. She rose from the table, circling behind Lita’s chair on her way to the kitchen. Local Hot Singles emblazoned the laptop screen.

  The inventory spreadsheet Trenda supposedly assigned to Lita. The one she’d asked her to create at home on Charis’s computer. The one that Lita had spent countless hours working on. Turned out, all that time she’d been doing nothing more than flirting on a dating site?

  Charis wondered what else she had been lying about. “So when will you have Trenda’s project finished up?” she asked, stepping to the kitchen.

  “Hmm? Oh. Not sure yet. There’s still a lot of work to do on the spreadsheet before it’s ready.”

  “Let me help you,” Charis suggested, returning to the dining room, scooting a chair up beside Lita.

  Lita snapped the laptop closed then stretched, yawning too loudly. “Think I’m going to call it a day.”

  “So when does Trenda need you back at work?”

  “She said to take my time on the project and call her when it’s finished.”

  Charis’s heart sank with the realization that Lita had either been fired, or quit her job. Now it was just a matter of time until she fell into the arms of some alcoholic loser, if she hadn’t already.