Jagger released a ragged breath. “Guess you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now hurry up and get us to Deason’s trailer. I feel like a Barbie doll crammed into a Hot Wheels car.” She fanned her face.
Red dust clouded around the Trans Am as Jagger pulled onto the unpaved road leading to Deason’s drive. “Least Deason won’t need to worry about the lawn growing while he’s away.” Jagger nodded toward the yellowish brown grass surrounding the mobile home. He parked the car then helped Daphne from the low vehicle as Charis climbed from behind the driver seat.
“It’s a trip, riding that close to the ground.” Daphne raised her arms, bracelets clinking together as she stretched her back. Jagger shut her car door then headed for the trailer.
“I’ve got the key.” He fished into his jeans pocket while jogging up the steps. He propped open the screen and turned the key in the deadbolt as Daphne and Charis joined him on the porch.
“Whew. Muggier than a Skynyrd show in here,” he said as they stepped in. He fanned the door open and closed a few times before leaving it ajar.
“Where do we start?” Charis asked, looking around the place, heart squeezing as she stepped toward the kitchen table where she’d given Kinko a trim.
“Looks like Deason’s already boxed most of his things up. Guess we get to unpack and look for items of value, stuff we can pawn. Seems to me the easiest thing for us to do would be hawk the valuables, and then have a garage sale to bring in money from the rest,” Daphne said, already rummaging through a box.
Charis inched toward the bedroom. Selling Deason’s grandfather’s pocket watch just didn’t feel right, even if Deason could buy it back later. She had to get to it before Daphne and Jagger. They’d talk her into pawning it, and she’d probably listen.
“Hey, Daph, I’ll lift the TV and you get the papers out from under it,” Jagger said.
It was the break Charis was looking for. She jogged down the hallway, the flimsy subflooring tattling her every move. Snatching the door open, she cleared the room in three giant steps to the dresser.
She yanked open drawer number three and rummaged, suddenly aware her fingers were plowing and sifting through Deason’s underwear. Bottom lip clenched between her teeth she held a pair of boxer-briefs up by the waistband, admiring them. Cobalt-blue. Her favorite color.
Shaking her head to clear it, she tossed the underwear back in the drawer and snaked her hand into the far right corner, wrapping her fingers around what felt like a drawstring. Her heart leapt. She’d found the pouch.
“Ahem?”
Charis jumped and released her hand, jerking it from the drawer.
“Find anything interesting?” Daphne asked from the doorway.
“No, not really.”
“That so? Cause to me, it looks as if you’ve found something of great interest.”
Daphne couldn’t possibly know—could she? “Nope. Nothing. Just checking out Deason’s dresser drawers. Haven’t found anything valuable, though.” Her top lip tingled with perspiration. She’d always been a terrible liar.
Daphne stepped slowly toward her. “Oh, I can see you’ve been checking out Deason’s drawers, all right.” To her horror, Daphne tugged at the pair of men’s briefs inexplicably circled around Charis’s wrist and then belly laughed. “Carry on, my friend, carry on,” she said, leaving the room.
Charis pulled her hand from the leg openings—in one and out the other, how in the world she’d managed that in the first place, she’d never know—and resumed her excavation of the Crown Royal bag. She gripped it tightly, the shape of the watch molding to her fingers, tempting her to peek. She couldn’t, she’d be busted for sure. Her curiosity would just have to wait until she got home. She tucked the pouch into her jeans pocket, and then, after just one more tiny, gratuitous, glimpse inside, slid the drawer shut.
“Okay, folks, what’ve we come up with?” Jagger asked. He’d started a collection of promising items in the center of the living room rug, in front of the entertainment center. “Livin’ room’s got furniture, of course, and a TV, though not a very good one, and the plywood entertainment center it’s sittin’ on. Also got a generic stereo system that sounds pretty decent, a stack of Stephen King books with hard covers, a couple of brass bookends shaped like horses, an ugly vase that might be expensive and a picture of Deason’s family—not for sale—in a fancy silver picture frame that is for sale.”
Charis smiled down at the family portrait. A teenaged Deason stood tall between his parents, a child on his hip. It wasn’t hard to see where he’d gotten his good looks. A perfect blend of his raven-haired mother and hazel-eyed father, he was destined to be gorgeous. And the toddler he held may have been the prettiest little girl she’d ever seen. Only in Photoshop images had she witnessed eyes so blue.
Daphne bumped up beside her and carefully unloaded her wares with the rest. “From the kitchen I unearthed a set of antiquey-looking salt and pepper shakers, three maybe-crystal water glasses and a four place setting of real silverware—minus a fork and spoon.”
“Not bad.” Jagger nodded. Charis wondered if he was serious. “How ’bout you, Charis? Any luck in the bedroom?”
Daphne snickered, her chest leaping.
Charis narrowed her eyes at her friend. “I ran across what appears to be a silver tie-tack.”
“What the hell is a tie-tack and what is Deason doin’ with one?” Jagger cut in.
“It matches the cufflinks I found in the same area.” Charis grinned, opening her palm so Jagger could snarl at the small ornaments. “I also discovered this very old-looking shaving kit with an antique straight razor, lather brush and half-filled can of talcum powder inside.” She gently set the aged box beside the other items then sprinkled the cufflinks and tie-tack into one of the crystal glasses.
“Hmm.” Jagger eyed the small assortment of belongings and rubbed his stubbled chin. “I’d say all of it, includin’ the furniture, will bring a thousand bucks—if we’re lucky. We ain’t got time to raise a hoopla by auctionin’ the stuff on e-bay, neither. We’re in a hurry.”
“What about the mobile home and the lawn mower?” Charis inhaled a stuffy breath of air, held it.
“The doublewide trailer, minus the acre around it, might fetch forty thousand, but that’s a stretch. The riding mower’s a few years old, he bought it used and fixed it up. It might bring five hundred.” He moved his hand up from his chin, scrubbing his whole face. “Damn that sheriff for holdin’ onto Deason’s truck like that.”
“Get a grip, Jag.” Daphne rubbed large circles onto his protruding shoulder blades with her palms. “The truck wouldn’t have brought much money anyway. It’s going to be all right. We’ll get him out of this mess.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” he bit out.
“We’ll have to ask Deason to sell his land.” Daphne shrugged. “You said he hates it here anyway. All he ever talks about is Montana.”
Daphne’s words were a punch in the stomach. Charis knew Montana was his dream, but it hurt to imagine him so many miles away. Even if justice prevailed and he was found innocent, she would never travel that far from Mr. B.
Such thoughts had no place in her head. She caressed the ring on her finger, the delicate white gold wings. Her freedom ring. A symbol of the independence she’d worked so hard for. The badge she’d suffered through so much to attain. She couldn’t possibly let it go so easily.
“He’ll never sell. His folks lived here, and died here. He lost his baby sister not long afterwards. And the house that burned with ’em inside stood right here where this trailer stands now. Cemetery where they’re buried is just a twist or two up the road.”
His mother and father. The beautiful blue-eyed baby. Charis had no idea. Why hadn’t Mr. B said anything about the fire? She shook her head with the answer. Mr. B’s memory was hit or miss. He remembered some things, forgot others.
The silvery scar on Deason’s left forearm flashed through her mind. Deason never ment
ioned his family. She assumed they lived far away, Montana maybe, and that he’d chosen to preserve their peace of mind by leaving them out of his recent nightmare. To find out they’d died, that Deason was utterly alone in the world, squeezed the breath from her lungs and tears from her eyes. She turned to face the wall.
“We can’t bring sentiment into this, Jag. How much?” Daphne demanded.
Jagger released a ragged sigh. “For the land, I’d say around six thousand, since it’s out of city limits. If the trailer stays with it, the whole enchilada might render forty-eight thousand. Folks don’t like to mess with movin’ mobile homes.”
Daphne squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating. “Forty-eight thousand. Plus the stuff we collected, furniture and lawn mower makes forty-nine thousand, five hundred. Figuratively. We’ll drag everything else onto the lawn, sell off the odds and ends, maybe earn a couple hundred more. We can definitely make this happen, if Deason lets go of the land. Talk to him, Jag. It’s the only way.”
Charis wiped her eyes and turned to face her friends. She knew Daphne was right but couldn’t make herself say it.
****
Deason couldn’t help but grin as he straddled the wooden stool and gazed at his friend through the glass. As if paying respects, Jagger snatched off the ball cap he wore, wadding it up in his hand as Deason sat down and put the receiver to his ear. “Hey, Jagger, good to see you, man.”
Jagger frowned at the phone then hesitantly pushed it to his ear. “Come again?”
“I said it’s good to see you, my man.”
“Good to see you too, buddy.” His grin looked forced, the laugh lines absent from the corners of his eyes. “How they treatin’ you in here?”
“Not too bad. Guess Charis told you about my little mishap.” He lowered his eyelid, tapping the purplish streak just under the eyebrow. “It’s healing up pretty good.”
Jagger averted his eyes, staring at something behind Deason.
Deason turned, following Jagger’s gaze. He nodded to Deputy Evans, standing a few feet behind.
“He’s all right,” Deason whispered.
Jagger narrowed his eyes at the deputy.
“So did you make it over to my place on Saturday?”
“Yeah, sure did. Felt weird as hell goin’ through your stuff without you there. Think we got it sorted out pretty good. The gals are plannin’ a yard sale this weekend to get rid of the odds and ends.”
Deason struggled to keep the tension in his shoulders from creeping up his neck, into his face. He knew it had to be done, but there was something ominous about hearing Jagger refer to his belongings as “odds and ends.” Something cold, death-like. An indifferent reading of the will.
“That’s good news, Jagger. I’m thankful for all the hard work you and the girls put in. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.” He cleared his throat, dreading his next question. “Any idea how much money we’re looking at?”
Jagger shifted on his stool and looked down at the hat balled in his fist. “We need to talk about that, bro. Much as I hate to.”
Deason straightened his tingling spine. “Talk about what? Am I still short on bail? Did you talk to Rob about my truck?”
“Well, it’s like this. Rob can’t buy your truck, and he can’t give it back to you neither. These Mayberries in the Sheriff’s department are holding it for evidence.”
“Evidence?” Deason turned to look at the deputy. “Hey, dep, is my truck considered evidence?” Deputy Evans nodded then checked his watch, reminding Deason to mind the time.
“Shit. According to Detective Benton, Vic was already dead by the time my truck was vandalized. I still don’t know who did it—don’t really care anymore. I just want it sold.”
“Truth is, brother, even if Rob did buy your truck for parts, it’d just be a drop in the bucket. No way you can swing that fifty thousand dollars, unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you’d be willin’ to part with your land.”
The world stopped mid-spin. Deason stared at Jagger. “Sell my land?” He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He’d made peace with the idea of giving up the doublewide, but selling his property? There had to be another option.
He’d lived on that piece of land his entire life, even when he was married to Gabriella. And his parents had lived there from the day they wed till the day they died. They were buried only a stone’s throw away in Country Grove cemetery, along with little Beth. Granted, he had no intentions of staying in this town one moment longer than he had to, but the thought of selling his property never crossed his mind. All of his memories were there. It was a place to come back to if, god forbid, things didn’t work out the way he’d planned.
“Isn’t there any other way?”
Jagger met his gaze. “Daphne mentioned her mom’s funeral account. Said she could borrow against it without Maxine findin’ out.”
Deason shook his head. The thought of tricking an old lady out of her savings sickened him. No way he’d ever stoop that low. “Absolutely not. Listen to me, Jag. I will not have any of you borrowing money from the bank or dipping into savings accounts to get me out of jail. I refuse to have that on my conscience. Got it?”
Jagger nodded.
“Good. How much did the watch bring in?”
“Watch?”
“My grandfather’s pocket watch. He got it when he retired from the fire department in nineteen sixty-eight. It’s real gold, has a few diamonds in it too. I told Charis where to find it.”
“Guess she didn’t run across it. I’ll ask her about it tomorrow, maybe drive her back out to look again.”
Deason frowned, not knowing how she could’ve missed it. He’d told her exactly where it was. Had the watch slipped her mind?
“Hey, I need to get something off my chest—just between us,” Jagger said, his color draining.
“Sure, man. What’s going on?”
Jagger glanced warily at the deputy then lowered his raspy voice to a whisper. “Over at your place on Saturday, Daphne mentioned that she’s the one who shoved that empty DVD player box down into Bob Barnaby’s trash bin. And, well, it got me to thinkin’.”
“Thinking about what, exactly?” Deason kept his voice casual, aware Deputy Evans stood within earshot.
Jagger squirmed on the stool. “Daph hated Vic—I don’t mean disliked him like most folks in town—I mean really hated the man, because of how mean he was to Charis. Hell, I think she hated him even more than Charis did.”
“So?”
“So—you saw the way she hauled those two fifty pound sacks of birdseed outa her car, the way she hoisted ‘em over her shoulder like they were bags of cotton balls. I just keep picturin’ that in my mind and I don’t know, man. It makes me wonder, ya’ know?”
“No. Jagger. Don’t let your mind go there. The stress of the situation has your thinking clouded, that’s all.” He wanted to say more, wanted to remind Jagger that Daphne was all talk, that she wouldn’t hurt anyone, not even a waste of space like Vic Locke. But with Deputy Evans hearing his every word, he couldn’t risk turning Daphne into a suspect.
“Time’s up.” Deputy Evans announced.
“Thanks for coming, Jag. Do me a favor, stop by the clerk’s desk on the way out. There’s a note for Sam, giving you permission to pick up my last paycheck. Bring the check when you visit next week and I’ll see if they’ll let me sign the back so you can cash it. As for the land, let me think it over a few days, and then I’ll make a decision.”
“That’s cool, bro. Later.” Jagger hung up, shoved the hat onto his head and slumped away.
****
Charis pulled the rumpled bag from her front pocket and sat on the bed. She rubbed the worn, purple velvet between her fingers then tugged open the drawstring, wiggling her hand inside. She slid the watch and chain from the opening and gasped softly. The intricate gold casing shone as if brand new, its delicate floral filigree scattered with diamonds. The beveled chain, polis
hed and unbroken, gleamed just as brightly. Inside the hinged cover she discovered an engraved message:
Franklin McKindle, Thirty years of service, Shaydn City Fire Department, 1968
Her breath stilled. Jagger said Deason’s parents perished in a house fire. According to the engraving, Deason’s grandfather—his father’s father—was a fireman. The bitter irony forced tears from her eyes. Frank McKindle’s son, daughter-in-law and grandchild killed by the merciless flames he’d worked most of his life to extinguish. She wondered if the old man was still living at the time, hoping he wasn’t.
She held the watch up, admiring it, wondering how much it cost then—how much it was worth now, praying it would never be exchanged for money. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand then carefully slid the watch into the pouch. Her gaze landed on the blue ceramic snail she’d sculpted in college. She rose and stepped to the shelf, removed the snail’s shell and tucked the watch inside.
****
“No!” Deason jerked into a sitting position, again banging his head on the bunk above.
“You all right?” Mitch, his new cellmate asked, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah, fine.” Deason rubbed his head then his eyes, trying to clear away the images behind them.
In the dream, he’d watched Daphne yank a bag much larger than a sack of birdseed from her trunk and hoist it over her shoulder. With jerky movements like sped-up film, she’d hobbled to the dumpster and hurled the bag in, a grin splitting her blood-red lips. From between the silver teeth of a metal zipper, Vic’s clouded eye stared.
He rolled from the bunk and stood, flexing his feet, stretching his back and arms. Dammit. Jagger’s suspicions had infiltrated Deason’s subconscious, causing the nightmare. That, along with the stress caused by the meeting he’d had with the public defender this afternoon.
The lawyer was still hounding him to withdraw his plea. With the preliminary hearing only two weeks away, Crowley’d turned up the heat, doing all he could to convince Deason it would be in his best interest not to appear before a jury. To avoid a trial, he wanted Deason to change his plea from not guilty to “guilty of a lesser charge.” Seemed to Deason, an innocent man shouldn’t plead guilty. Period.
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