She nodded. “I’m sure of it. I can picture him when I close my eyes.”
Again, Lloyd whistled. “That means he was alive while we were talking to Jason Dobbs.”
She created a centimeter space between thumb and index finger. “There’s a bit more.”
“Why do I always find myself bracing whenever you say those words?”
Bonnie shrugged. “Personally, I think it’s a character flaw, but I’m inclined to overlook such things in a friend.”
“Woman, how you do go on. What else you got?”
Again, Bonnie tugged on her ear, preparing her thoughts and her pedagogy. “How much do you know about noise suppressors?”
Lloyd scratched a callused thumb across his chin. “You mean, like silencers on pistols? A fair share. What do you know?”
“A lot more than I did just a few days ago. For instance, I know the new generation of suppressors are so quiet a murderer could reel off three shots and make less noise than the throwing of the bolt on a port-a-potty door.”
“And you know this how?”
She told him of her visit to Rattlesnake’s and his suppressor demonstration to the paintball kids. “And he was at the fair last night.”
“Bon, Alf Quinn isn’t the only one with access to and knowledge of such devices. This is East Plains after all—Survivalist Central.”
“I’m not saying he is.” She surprised herself at how much she wanted to defend this hypothesis she wasn’t entirely invested in. “It just seems a coincidence he was there and was talking to Witherspoon—erstwhile friend of one murdered clown.”
Lloyd stood, obviously agitated. “Okay, I’ll grant you Alf had the means to kill Furby and do it quietly. What possible motive would he have?”
“How about the death of his son?” Bonnie saw that Lloyd was chomping to shoot holes in this theory, so before he could speak she hurried on. “Bear with me. On that same visit out to his shooting range, Alf went more than a little bananas. He yanked a pistol from a coatrack holster. I got to tell you, I wanted nothing more than to be out of there. The man was in full meltdown.”
“Still—”
“Still, nothing! Lloyd, he was brandishing a lethal weapon, pacing around his office all the while muttering to himself. One of his ramblings included the question, Did they really think it would be that easy?”
“And you interpreted that to mean he intended to hunt down his son’s killer. Who just so happens to be an innocuous dweeb like Dwight Furby?”
Bonnie spread wide her hands. “Okay, I’ll admit I haven’t got all the pieces in place just yet. Like this whole business with a nebbish like Furby shooting Leo in the chest, or Alf somehow knowing who killed his son before the police do.”
Lloyd’s expression changed from skeptical to pensive. He waved a cautioning hand. “Just wait a minute. You know, if you’re correct, Alf doesn’t really have to know for sure.”
Lloyd’s attitude about-face startled Bonnie. “Beg pardon?”
“Your turn to hear me out. You say Alf is bonkers, beside himself with grief. Suppose somehow he gets word—don’t ask me how—that Furby was his son’s murderer. Do you really think he’s in a frame of mind to take the time to validate the story?”
Bonnie had to admit Lloyd was right. How many people kill friends or loved ones because of stupid misunderstandings? “And whoever murdered Furby had to be beyond caring if he was caught. Regardless of how quiet the shot may have been, even ensconced behind the concession line, the port-a-potty’s a public facility. Anyone could have come along and witnessed the murder.”
“Sounds like the Alf you described to me.”
Bonnie studied her longtime friend wondering if he was just humoring her, or if he really believed she might be onto something. She decided to act as if the latter were true. “You know, this line of reasoning leads to another conclusion.”
“I know. Moses Witherspoon has a good chance of being next on Rattlesnake’s hit parade.”
CHAPTER 7
“YOU KNOW, I PROMISED XAVIER YOU WOULD CALL AS soon as your class let out.” Lloyd opened Alice’s passenger door, and Bonnie climbed in.
The act was so gallant Lloyd was ensconced behind the wheel before Bonnie realized he never asked if she wanted to drive her own car. He started the ancient Subaru and to the sound of crunching gravel pulled out of the school parking lot. Definitely old school, Whittaker. Did you fence in your wife with a lifetime of these testosterone assumptions? Is that why she took to the hills?
From the corner of her eye, Bonnie caught Lloyd staring at her. She roused herself, realizing, in her reverie, she had left Lloyd’s declaration and its accompanying question unanswered. She waved a hand, dismissing Divine as a gnat—annoying but certainly not a problem worthy of consternation.
“Just tell him you never saw me. I scooted out the back of the school and made my exit before you could deliver the message.”
Lloyd pursed his lips. “You want me to lie?”
Before she could give voice to, “Pretty much,” Lloyd said, “I can do that.”
This departure from her principal’s normally virtuous interpretation of personal integrity caught Bonnie by surprise. She anticipated resistance. Certainly, she fully expected the man to back her up but somehow do it within the framework of the truth. This whole business with Marjorie and murder was shifting the universe’s moral center. When she had a quiet moment, she’d have to assess how she felt about that.
“Well, all right then. You up for this trip?”
“Woman, I’m more than ready.”
They’d called Byron with their noise suppression theory only to find the deputy out on some official business. Opting not to have him paged, Bonnie had left a message.
Lloyd had suggested they go see Rattlesnake. “Now that I’m out from under the self-pity cloud, I got no intention of falling back into that trap. This adventure is just what the ol’ doctor ordered.”
How do you do it, Whittaker? You spew one good-old-boy cliché after another and make them sound like personal inventions.
Bonnie studied her friend, liking what she saw. His craggy face had lost the care lines it had been carrying the day before. She just hoped recklessness hadn’t replaced depression. “You’re not worried this escapade might be a little dangerous? If Rattlesnake killed Furby, there’s no telling what his mental state might be. And it’s not likely the man will be lacking in the weapons department.”
After a moment, jaw muscles working and making it look like he harbored crab apples in his cheeks, Lloyd shook his head. “Nope. Bon, it ain’t like Alf’s all alone, sitting around the rifle range. The man’s got clients, employees. Criminy, every time I’ve been out there, the place was crawling with shooters.”
“Or kids,” Bonnie chimed in.
“Or kids,” Lloyd agreed. “The way I see it, we find him, ask a few innocent questions, gauge his response, and we’re out of there.” Lloyd glided his flattened hand like a surfboard.
Bonnie smiled, once again impressed with this new version of Lloyd Whittaker. And truth be told, if her principal hadn’t suggested they go out to the shooting range, she would have gone without him. The temptation would have been too great to resist.
Her cell phone chimed, playing her new ring tone—the opening bars of Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” Bonnie flipped open her phone. “City dump.”
“Missus P?” Jason Dobbs’s voice sounded confused.
“Guilty as charged, dear boy. What can I do for you?”
Jason cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you had a minute today to come by the church. My dad and I want to plan the funeral.”
On more than one level, Bonnie had been dreading the idea of a one-on-one with the esteemed Reverend Dobbs. She’d been hoping Rattlesnake would change his mind about the eulogy. Barring that, she was aiming to seamlessly slide into the funeral and give a short talk about Leo—all without any real face time with the odious preacher. She’d need reinforcements if she
was to meet the enemy on his own turf.
“Hold on, Jason.” She covered the receiver with her hand. “Boss, I need a huge favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to go with me to the Saved by the Blood Tabernacle this afternoon.”
Lloyd chuckled. “Cover your back with the good reverend?”
“Something like that.”
“Count me in.”
Bonnie put the phone back to her ear. “We’re on. What time?”
“Would two o’clock work for you?”
I do believe I’d rather have weasels rip my flesh. “Two it is.”
She was just shutting down her phone when Lloyd turned Alice’s nose into the long drive to Rattlesnake’s shooting range. Bonnie gave her friend a sidelong glance. “You given any more thought to sharing what’s going on between you and Marjorie?”
Lloyd took a long pull of air. “As a matter of fact, I have. But I’d rather show you than tell you. You still want to talk to Seneca about Leo Quinn?”
Bonnie resisted the urge to tease Lloyd about becoming almost Bonnie-Pinkwater-random in his impending senility. Give the man a break, lady. He’s got a lot on his mind.
“More than ever.” She tugged at her ear. “Plus, with the murder shutting everything down at the fair, I never did get to see Seneca race.”
Lloyd nodded, evidently pleased with the direction the conversation was going. “So you mean to head out to the fair again tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good, we’ll go together again, if that’s okay?”
Bonnie felt as if she were being maneuvered, if only a little bit and albeit gently. “Want to tell me what’s going on in that devious administrator mind of yours?”
“Not really, Mizz Suspicious, but I will show you tonight what’s happening with Marjorie.”
Now the man had gone and done it. Her curiosity was piqued. “Can I get a hint?”
“I don’t think so.”
She slapped him on the arm. “You’re a sadist, Lloyd Whittaker.”
“Takes one to know one.” Lloyd pointed with his chin. “We’re here.”
Bonnie had been so intent on imagining what could possibly be at the fair that would answer the question of the Lloyd/Marjorie breakup, she’d hadn’t seen Rattlesnake’s offices loom large. A pair of scarecrows, each in army fatigues and a camouflage helmet, held red-arrowed signs. One pointed left to the paintball course, the other right to the shooting range. Shouts from both directions told Bonnie each enterprise was in active and in rambunctious use.
Lloyd shut off the engine. “Shall we engage Mister Quinn in meaningful conversation?”
“I believe we should, MacDuff. Lead on.”
To say Rattlesnake looked haggard would have been akin to saying a grizzly makes big potty in the greenery. From the smell of the man he’d been up to some odiferous activity and hadn’t bothered to shower. His face sported an uneven patch of growth. His eyes were red-rimmed.
Lookin’ good, Alf.
The big man sat behind the same refugee-from-Camp-Pendelton desk that Bonnie herself had sat behind the day before. His feet were up on the desk and a lethal-looking rifle lay on his lap. He appeared to be stroking the weapon like a pet Siamese.
“Well, if it ain’t my two favorite education types.” A moment of dark storm passed over his features—eyes narrowing, forehead wrinkling—then just as quickly, it disappeared into a benign half smile. A Buddha in army fatigues.
He gingerly laid the rifle on the desk and stood. He held out a hand to Lloyd and the two men shook. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visitation?” With a rapid double swipe of the tip of his tongue, he licked his lips—an almost reptilian gesture.
She’d prepared an answer for just such a question, deciding that all things do indeed work together for good, even a call from Saved by the Blood Pentecostal Tabernacle. “I received a call from Jason Dobbs. I’m going over there at two this afternoon, but I wanted to talk to you before I went.”
Rattlesnake narrowed his eyes but didn’t ask the obvious question as to why she didn’t just phone. “Talk away.” He picked up the rifle, jammed the stock down on his desk blotter, and leaned on it like a staff.
“I was wondering if you’ve given this matter of a eulogy full consideration.” She saw a look of profound disappointment creep onto Rattlesnake’s face, and before he could voice his displeasure, she hurried on. “I mean, I’ll be glad to do it. I was very fond of Leo. What I was questioning was using Pastor Dobbs as the minister.”
“What do you mean?”
Bonnie wondered if the man was putting her on. As far as she knew, Rattlesnake had lived in East Plains forever. How could he not know about Harold T. Dobbs’s rabidity when it came to matters of homosexuality?
“The man hates gays, Alf,” Lloyd said. “He’s crazy on the subject.”
“Do tell. That’s news to me.” His face assumed a blank innocence that was obviously feigned.
You asshole. Why are you setting up this explosive situation?
She tried another tack. “Did you catch that piece on the Channel 5 news, about a year ago? Me and Reverend Dobbs?”
Rattlesnake shook his head. “Can’t say that I did. Is that what you want to talk to me about?”
He couched the question like a challenge. Would she try to back out of her commitment? He damned well had seen the piece and for reasons of his own was pitting Bonnie against Reverend Dobbs.
And for Leo’s sake, Bonnie determined to let him. She stared a long moment into his eyes before she spoke. “No, I’m good.”
But you’re going to answer a few questions as a fee for my services. “I saw you at the fair last night.”
Bonnie could swear the man flinched at this non sequitur. Of course the reaction could just be another symptom of his deterioration.
Rattlesnake recovered and donned a blank expression. “Hell of a thing, that clown getting himself shot.”
“That clown was a former student of mine—Dwight Furby. Did you know Dwight?” She studied him, looking for any hint of guilt.
“Dwight? Hell, yes, I knew him. Him and that goofball Witherspoon came out here all the time to shoot off their pistols. One time they showed up drunk, and I had to run the idiots off.” Rattlesnake tapped the side of his head. “Neither one is … were heavyweights in the brainpan department.”
Bonnie thought it odd that Alf would be talking so callously about someone recently murdered, considering his own son was murdered in a similar fashion.
Rattlesnake must have read her mind, because he quickly added, “Don’t get me wrong, that don’t mean the doofus should be a candidate for three in the chest in a port-a-potty.”
“I wouldn’t think so. So you’ve got no idea who might have killed the boy.”
Rattlesnake blinked at her. “Me? How the Sam Hill would I know?” He stretched and yawned.
Up until his last question, Bonnie was unsure as to whether Rattlesnake was lying. The belligerence coupled with the equally phony yawn convinced her, the man was dishing out supersized portions of bull crap. Two years ago she’d taken an afternoon class in body language. The instructor had said obvious displays of casualness—yawning, stretching, rolling of shoulders and neck—many times accompanied falsehoods. She didn’t need that class to tell her Rattlesnake was full of manure.
She waved away Alf’s question. “I just thought Witherspoon might have said something to you.”
A moment of confusion swam across Rattlesnake’s face, then he recovered. “Oh, yeah. I talked with that birdbrain.”
Rattlesnake shook his head. “He didn’t say anything about Furby or if anybody was after him.”
He gave her a lopsided grin.
He’s lying again, but this time it’s as if he wants me to know he’s lying. Bonnie stifled a shudder, wanting more than a little to put some distance between herself and Alf Rattlesnake Quinn.
Before she could voice this desire,
Lloyd reached a hand toward the rifle Alf was holding. “Mind if I take a look at that beauty?”
Rattlesnake hesitated, then handed the gun to Lloyd, who effortlessly shouldered the weapon and sighted down its length. “An M24, isn’t it?” he asked not taking the rifle down from his shoulder.
“That’s right. The model developed by the Marines for ‘Nam.”
Lloyd nodded. “Where’d you pick it up?”
Rattlesnake licked his lips again. Something in Lloyd’s manner was obviously making him nervous. “Gun show, up in Denver.”
Lloyd took the rifle from his shoulder but instead of handing it back to Rattlesnake, he walked with it to the door of the tiny room. He turned to Bonnie. “We should be going.”
Bonnie stared at him for a long moment before she followed. What are you up to, Whittaker?
At the door of Rattlesnake’s office, Lloyd leaned the rifle against the wall. “You take care of yourself, Alf.”
Rattlesnake mumbled something Bonnie couldn’t hear. She wanted to be out of there so badly she didn’t look back. Lloyd held the outside door for her and ushered her down the trio of steps.
“What just happened in there?” she whispered.
“Tell you in the car. Let’s go.”
As before, he held the door for her but didn’t take his eyes off Rattlesnake’s offices, as if he expected the twin scarecrows to give chase. In a flash, Lloyd was around the ancient Subaru and heading Alice down the dirt drive.
By the time they reached Highway 84, Bonnie couldn’t contain herself a moment longer. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Lloyd exhaled for what seemed like half a minute. “You were right. The man’s in meltdown. There was no way on God’s green earth I was going to turn my back on him while he held that rifle. Especially not that particular rifle.”
Bonnie pretended not to notice that Lloyd’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel. “What did you call it, an M24?”
Lloyd nodded. “A sniper’s rifle. In the right hands that rifle could easily pick off an enemy soldier at a thousand yards. That’s definitely reaching out and touching someone.”
Irrational Numbers Page 7