by Libby Howard
He set his spoon down and eyed me. “Did you want to blame someone when Eli had his accident?”
I winced as the pain speared through me. Then I forced it down, back into the little place where I hid all the things that were too hard to face.
“Yes, I did. I blamed myself, the hospital, his patient that needed the surgery that brought him in that morning, the idiots who designed that road with a horrible sharp curve in it. I blamed him, I blamed God. And when he died this year, I wanted to blame everyone all over again. Why hadn’t his doctors known he was going to have a stroke? Why hadn’t I seen the signs? Why hadn’t Eli—a doctor for Pete’s sake—seen the signs? Yes, I wanted to blame somebody. It was easier to think it was all someone else’s fault than face the fact that horrible things happen to good people for absolutely no reason at all.”
Judge Beck’s gaze softened. “So you took Peony’s case.”
I stared down at my soup. “I’m not a licensed investigator. She’s a teenager from a poor family, and couldn’t afford to hire an investigator anyway, even if I did have a license.”
“You took her case.” His voice was gentle, as if he completely understood why I’d agreed to check up on Peony’s claims, investigator license or not.
“Yes, I took her case. I tried to reason with her, but then I realized that the best thing I could do for the girl was give her hope. I’ll nose around and check a few things until the lab results come back on his blood alcohol level, or drugs or anything else in his system. It won’t hurt me to do a little research while we wait for the official cause of death. Then maybe Peony will be ready to hear the news that nobody killed Holt Dupree, that it was either a tragic accident, like what happened with Eli, or he’d partied too hard and should have never been driving, let alone giving her a lift.”
Judge Beck broke off a piece of his cornbread. “You’re a good woman, Kay.”
I felt myself blush. No, it was probably just a hot flash, although I hadn’t had one of those for a few months. Yes, definitely a hot flash.
“Thanks. And I appreciate you thinking to bring home the movie and the ice cream.”
He smiled, and once again it crinkled up the corners of his eyes. “The kids are with their mom, so what do you say about following up Blazing Saddles with some Young Frankenstein?”
“I’d say ‘yes’.”
Taco jumped on the table and stared pointedly at my cornbread. I fed him the remains of my piece, completely breaking my rule about not giving the cat any human food, let alone the rule about letting him up on the table. Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, and a huge tub of cookie dough ice cream. It was shaping up to be a pretty good night after all.
Chapter 16
The next morning I was busy pulling arrest records and waiting for the folks at Creditcorp to get back to me on a skip trace when J.T. walked through the door with Deputy Miles Pickford right behind him.
“You doing okay, Kay?” he asked.
I must be doing okay because I was getting tired of people asking me that question and acting as though I was some fragile creature on the edge of collapse because I’d been first on scene of a fatal accident.
“Good. There’s lemon muffins by the coffee maker. Help yourself.”
He made haste toward the coffee maker. J.T. had already snagged two of the muffins when I’d first brought them in, and looked like he was deciding whether to indulge in second breakfast or not.
“Holt Dupree.” Miles shook his head, crumbs falling to the floor as he took a bite of the muffin. “Dude was far too young to die. And drunk driving too. Not that anyone should be surprised. Those folks from Trenslertown aren’t exactly known to be sober, law-abiding citizens.”
I bristled at the stereotype of our less fortunate citizens, but Miles and the other officers saw the worst of society on a regular basis. It must be hard to look on the sunny side when every day he had to face domestic violence complaints, drunk and disorderly calls, and drug deals gone bad. Judge Beck probably had the same difficulty in having faith in humanity.
“He was drunk then? The labs came in?” J.T. asked.
That would have been really fast. I knew from J.T. that everything in the county went to Milford where one poor tech had to manage on her own, sending the more complicated analysis to the state lab. A vehicle fatality like this wouldn’t be a priority.
“Heck no. We might get them along with the M.E. findings by Friday if we’re lucky. If he hadn’t been DOA, we could have breathalyzed him and been done with it.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. The ambulance EMT wasn’t likely to allow Miles to breathalyze a critically injured patient, and hospitals were touchy about allowing tests without consent or a court order. Miles, or the detective on the case, would have most likely had to subpoena the hospital records to get the blood alcohol numbers, and that would have taken far longer than five business days.
Either way, I was feeling like a bit of a devil’s advocate today. “Witnesses at the Persimmon Bridge party say Holt wasn’t drinking then. People who know Holt say he didn’t drink alcohol. That he didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize his contract and career.”
Miles took another bite of the muffin and continued with his mouth full. “What twenty-two-year-old guy doesn’t drink? The girl was drunk. There was a broken bottle of whisky in the car. Everyone is just making him out to be a saint because he’s dead. That guy was no saint, though. Screwed every girl in town, clawed his way to the top no matter who he trampled underfoot.”
At the words a shadowy figure materialized by the coffee maker, knocking a thankfully empty cup onto the ground. Miles turned around and frowned at it, then bent to pick it up, shivering as his shoulder passed through the shadow. “What do you have the AC set at, J.T.? Sheesh, it’s freezing in here.”
“Probably your blood sugar taking a nose dive,” J.T. teased. “Better eat another muffin.”
Miles took him seriously and reached for another, shivering as his arm passed through the shadowy figure. Another cup hit the floor.
“Klutz,” J.T. scoffed. This time it was him that reached down to grab the cup, his arm also passing through the shadow. “Dang, it is cold in here.”
That guy was no saint, though. Screwed every girl in town, clawed his way to the top no matter who he trampled underfoot. Maybe Peony was right. The guy did seem to be leaving a lot of disgruntled folks in his wake. It wouldn’t hurt to check out her allegations of foul play.
“Hey Miles, where did Holt Dupree’s truck get towed?” I asked, as the deputy filled a cup with coffee and grabbed yet another muffin.
Holt probably had been drunk. But that night when I’d given my statement, I’d thought otherwise. And there was a ghost, one who was perpetually angry and knocking stuff off tables and counters with maddening regularity. Plus, I felt like I should be doing something to investigate Peony’s allegations. Her comments about the truck bothered me, like a burr that had worked its way into my sock. She’d said the it seemed to be out of control. Maybe, just maybe there was something wrong with the truck. And whether it was tampering or a manufacturing defect, whether Holt had taken a few shots out of that whisky bottle or not, I felt like I should check it out.
As of now, the death was an accident, and there was no reason to hold the truck for evidence. I assumed Holt’s mother would be pulling it out of impound as quickly as she could to avoid paying a fortune in fees, but the insurance company would need to look at it. Plus, there wasn’t anything worth salvaging in that truck from what I recalled seeing that night. Ms. Dupree would pull it from impound. The insurance company would take their pictures. Then off it would go to the junkyard. I didn’t think there was anything in Peony’s accusations, but it was worth a trip to the tow yard.
Not that I knew much about cars. I could possibly bribe one of the guys at the tow yard to look at it for me. I didn’t have much in the way of money, and I was pretty sure Peony wouldn’t be able to reimburse me for these sorts of expen
ses. Hopefully the guy at the tow yard would take the promise of strawberry cream-cheese muffins as an adequate bribe.
“Doug’s Towing picked it up,” Miles told me. “He’s got a yard out on East past Twelfth Street. Why? Are his folks looking to claim it? They’re better off just letting the insurance company release it to a salvage yard. It’s totaled.”
“Has the insurance company been out yet?” I’d better hustle or the pickup would be a square of squashed metal by the time I got there.
“Probably not. It usually takes them three or four days, although they might have hurried this one up because of the publicity. Usually they photograph it when there’s a fatality and a passenger with injuries.” Miles shoved the rest of the muffin in his mouth. “After that Doug will need to keep it until Holt’s folks sign off on it. Then he’ll strip it, and if the frame isn’t worth saving, he’ll have to wait for the truck to haul it off. His yard doesn’t have a crusher.”
Good. That meant I had some time. I jotted down Doug’s Towing in my notebook and looked at what I’d written during my conversation with Peony. Kendra Witt. Boyfriend David Tripp. Buck Stanford. Robert Chen. I pulled out a piece of paper and ordered them by likelihood based on motive. Then I drew a line and added Violet Smith to the list as a possible source of information. I stared at my list and frowned. Motive, but unless I knew cause of death, motive wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I drew another line and added possible causes of death. Trauma due to vehicle accident: Inattention. Interference by passenger. Falling asleep. Unknown medical condition such as epilepsy or stroke. Alcohol or drugs. Animal in the road. Pavement conditions. Automotive failure—either defect or sabotage.
Mr. Coleman would have mentioned an animal in the road, as would Peony, so I crossed that one off. Without the lab results and M.E. findings, the only thing left for me to check out was pavement conditions and automotive failure.
I hadn’t said anything to J.T. about this little side job of mine. Peony wouldn’t be able to pay, and I wasn’t licensed to officially investigate this, but there was no reason a nosy woman couldn’t check a few things out on her lunch hour.
Starting with Doug’s Towing.
Chapter 17
Doug was younger than I’d expected—late thirties with a powerful build, a long torso, and bright blue eyes. His hair was somewhere between shaved bald and a military buzz cut. It looked like he had a five-o’clock shadow on the top of his head. He shot me a narrowed glance when I asked if I could possibly see Holt Dupree’s truck.
“Unless you’re from either the insurance or wrecking company, the answer is ‘no’. I’ve been fending off groupies all day. Last girl here had a bouquet of flowers and a pair of underwear she wanted to leave on it.”
“Do I look like a groupie?” I spread my arms wide and turned around, just so he could get a good look at the sixty-year-old woman he was talking to.
Doug grinned. “No. But you don’t look like an insurance adjuster either, and I don’t see no flatbed out in my lot. Come back with a clipboard in your hand, and I’ll let you see it.”
I pulled out a bag of muffins and handed them to the guy, feeling like I was doing something illegal.
He shot me a perplexed look and opened the bag. “Is this a bribe?”
“Yes?” I smiled hopefully.
He sighed and went to close the bag, then changed his mind and pulled out a muffin before setting it aside. “Why do you want to see Holt Dupree’s pickup anyway? It’s wrecked. It still smells like whisky. And there’s…well, let’s just say I haven’t cleaned it.”
I remembered going to look at Eli’s car. Carson had been kind enough to go with me as I went to pull anything personal from the glove box and CD player, and sign it away. It had been tough. I was pretty sure seeing Holt Dupree’s truck was going to drag all of those memories back to the surface. Going by the accident scene yesterday after work had been difficult enough. I knew the moment I saw this vehicle, I’d be seeing the twisted piece of metal that used to be Eli’s car with the shattered windshield and rust-colored stains of his blood all over the dash and upholstery. I’d mesh the two incidents together and put myself on the edge of a panic attack.
But I needed to do this. I needed to put the past into the past, and think of this as a case, and myself as some amateur private investigator, digging around for clues like a sixty-year-old Nancy Drew.
I took a deep breath, and decided to level with Doug. “He passed me on Jones Road right before that curve. I saw the accident. I was first on the scene. I was the one who discovered the truck down in the trees. Before that, we all thought it was a hit-and-run and he was long gone. I…I was there.”
Doug sat the muffin down. “That’s all the more reason for you not to see it.”
I took a steadying breath. “The girl that was in the truck with him? She’s a friend of a friend, and she’s not in a good place right now. She didn’t escape that accident unscathed, either physically or emotionally. She swears up and down that something was wrong with the car.”
“And you believe her?”
I was glad Doug hadn’t rejected the wild idea out of hand. This guy might end up with another half dozen muffins if he kept this up.
“I care about her enough to want to check it out. And in all honesty, I didn’t think Holt looked like he was driving like a drunk. It seemed more like how someone would drive if they lost control on an icy road, or had a tire blow, or their power steering broke.” I shrugged. “I’m not a mechanic. There’s probably nothing I can tell from looking at the truck myself, but I want to take a peek before it gets crushed.”
Doug eyed the muffin and picked it up with a sigh. “Okay, lady. Let’s go look at the truck.”
I followed him around to the gates and stood quietly as he unlocked them.
“You said you’re with Pierson’s Investigative and Recovery Services? As in Gator Pierson?” he asked, pulling the chain through the links, and swinging the massive metal gate open with a squawk.
“I’m a skip tracer there. This isn’t an official investigation or anything. I’m not a licensed investigator. I’m just doing this for the girl, to help her out.” Then I thought of something. “Do you watch J.T.’s videos? His Gator series of vlogs?”
Doug shot me a grin over his shoulder and lead me into the yard. “Yeah, everyone in town watches those. He’s hysterical, and it’s cool to see people you know in the videos. My neighbor was a heroin dealer in episode eight. Do you think…if that girl turns out to be right and there was something wrong with the truck, is Gator going to make this case in to one of his shows?”
“It’s not a case—” Oh. Now I realized where Doug was going with all of this.
“You’ll absolutely be in that video, especially if you’re the one who finds out there was something wrong with the car. Reenactment, plus an interview about your assistance in the case, no doubt.”
That seemed to be far more of a motivation to Doug than the muffin bribe, although he was making happy noises as he ate the one he’d carried with him. We wove down wide paths of wrecks choked with weeds and came to a newer section with mangled cars on a cleared strip of gravel-imbedded dirt. The vehicles were neatly positioned in lines with plenty of room between them to get hand-trucks, engine stands, and carts in without banging into the cars next to them. Several were already missing hoods, gaping holes where engines, radiators, and transmissions had once been. A few had been stripped of body panels and interiors. It was clear from looking at these wrecks that used car parts was a productive business.
And as Holt’s pickup truck came in to view, it was clear there wasn’t much in the way of used parts that would be salvageable from this wreck. Doug stopped and we stood before the smashed vehicle, honoring it and the driver who’d lost his life with a moment of silence.
“It’s gonna be hard to see if there was any mechanical problem,” Doug said. “Lots of damage from going down in that ditch and through a couple of trees. Looks like it rolled over t
oo, from the dent in the hood.”
“Let’s start with any kind of mechanical problem that might have caused Holt to lose control of the car. Blown tire?” I suggested.
Doug scratched his head, the muffin already devoured. “Modern tires don’t really go like that unless someone runs over a spike strip. Punctures and scrapes usually result in slow leaks. If he hit a curb or something sharp, the tire still wouldn’t blow. It would take a few minutes to deflate and he’d have warning and time to get over.”
“Even at speed and around a sharp corner?”
The man made his way slowly around the truck, bending over to look at the tires as he walked. “Maybe. It’s hard to steer on a tire low on air. Could have affected his reaction time. If he was wide in that corner, with a near-flat he might not have gotten the truck back into his lane in time.”
I followed Doug, mimicking his stooped perusal of the tires. There was dirt and stone encrusted along the wheel well and imbedded in the treads. I didn’t see any big gashes in the sidewalls, or holes.
Doug stood. “This truck is pretty new, and the tires are sound. Lots of tread. None of them seem flat.”
“So not the tires,” I confirmed.
“Not the tires,” Doug repeated. “Gonna look at the power steering pump and see if something happened with that. Hoses too. If that system loses fluid or seizes up it can happen fast, and a truck with no power steering ain’t no picnic to control.”
I took my notebook out and jotted down a few things, grateful that Doug was assisting. I didn’t know a power steering pump from…well, from any other part of the truck.
It took Doug a while to get to the inside of the truck. The hood needed to be removed in a procedure that involved a crowbar and a hammer, which involved a few trips back to the office while I stood by the wreck and tried not to look at the inside where someone had died, the inside that would be covered with glass and broken plastic and twisted metal and blood, just like Eli’s car had been.