“They know we’re coming, right?” Neil asked. He’d been fully coffeed, facialed, and stuffed with catfish and jalapeño hush puppies at the resort restaurant. “That whole thing with the cowboy was really stressful.”
“Aww. Didn’t the facial help you relax?” I reached across and touched his check. “Nice. Baby soft too.”
He slapped my hand away as we pulled up to a white mobile home with burgundy trim bottom and top. A small built-on deck made from the same raw wood that had been used for the three steps led to the front door.
We got out. “Mr. Wade?” I said to the man on the deck scrubbing a grill with a wire brush.
“My daddy is Mr. Wade. I’m Billy.” He smiled and brushed his hands off on well-worn jeans. He was thin, had a mustache, hair below the collar, and an accent so thick Wade sounded like Waa-aid. He came down the steps and extended his hand. “You must be Mr. Quinn’s investigators.”
“Thank you for seeing us today.” I shook his hand. “I’m Keye Street and this is Neil Donovan.”
Billy Wade invited us inside the double-wide. The metal door opened into the living room. Billy veered off to the refrigerator. “Brenda’s in the back somewhere. Can I get you something? I got beer and water.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“I’ll take a beer,” Neil said.
Billy Wade delivered a Bud Light in a can to Neil and kept one for himself. Two pop-tops went off almost simultaneously. “Come sit down,” Billy said. “Honey,” he called out. “They’re here.”
“Nice place,” Neil said, as we sat down on a tweedy Rooms To Go couch. Two chairs matched it. The heavy coffee table with a place for magazines matched the entertainment center. The trailer was spotless. Photographs of Billy and Brenda’s wedding, the two of them on the beach in bathing suits, Brenda with curves and wavy dark hair—L’Oréal black #3—were lined up on a shelf braced by metal brackets. There was Billy with spindly white legs sticking out of baggy trunks and hair halfway down his back on a beach. Another with Billy and Brenda, arms around the other’s waist, NASCAR caps, smiling at the camera, with a race track behind them, Brenda’s shirt tail tied up, showing cleavage.
“That’s my wife,” Billy said, following my eyes. He raised his voice. “Honey, we got company.”
I smiled. “She’s really lovely.”
“She sure is.” He took a sip of beer.
“Mr. Wade … Billy, we need to talk about your mother’s ashes. I’m so sorry for your loss. Can you tell me how you discovered the mistake and what happened then?” Quinn had given me the skeleton version. I wanted to make sure I understood the facts as the Wades interpreted them.
“I’ll tell you what happened.” I felt the trailer rock in the same way an overpass sways a little in heavy traffic. I heard Brenda’s voice coming down the narrow hallway. And then she appeared. Same face as in the photographs, but let’s just say Brenda’s weight had gotten away from her since the wedding. Hey, I don’t judge. I glanced at the end-table picture of them at the racetrack. Admittedly, North Georgia skinny and city skinny is not the same thing, but in this small, honeysuckle-kissed pocket of the Georgia mountains where a Ford F-150 means you’re knocking ’em dead and church and line dancing are the main activities, Brenda had been a compact little hottie. She took one of the chairs, knees popping like rice cereal when she bent them to sit. “I heard a loud crash,” she said, without bothering with introductions. “And I ran out here and found him standing in the kitchen, looking down at the floor.”
“Brenda doesn’t like a lot of noise inside,” Billy interjected.
She didn’t skip a beat. “And I said, ‘Billy, did you spill your own mama’s ashes?’ And then we started looking close and realized something was really wrong.”
Billy scooted his chair close to hers and put his hand on her arm in that perfectly easy way couples reach for each other. “We scooped it all up and sent it to the lab when the funeral director said he couldn’t help and that crematory operator wouldn’t take our calls,” he told us.
“You mind giving me the name of the funeral home?” I asked.
Brenda got up and went to the kitchen, pulled open a kitchen drawer, and brought me a business card. “We just wanna know what happened to Shelia Marlene’s remains. We’re old-fashioned about these things. We feel like we have to put our dead to rest.”
Neil shifted in his seat, tilted back the beer.
“It’s my understanding you did eventually get hold of the crematory operator,” I told them. “Is that right?”
Brenda nodded. “He said he hired some help and this so-called employee somehow destroyed the remains.” Her tone made it abundantly clear she wasn’t buying the story.
“You have questions about the employee.”
Brenda shook her wavy L’Oréal allover color. “There’s never been any employees up there. It’s been a family business as long as I can remember. The Kirkpatricks been here a long time. Our kids go to the same school. Everybody knows everybody’s business. But Joe Ray’s not like his daddy. Everybody in town loved Mr. Kirkpatrick.”
“And Joe Ray Kirkpatrick reimbursed you for your expenses?” I asked, and Brenda nodded. “Did he ask you to agree to drop it?”
“We didn’t sign anything,” Billy said. “He didn’t ask outright, but it was kind of implied. We said we understood. I guess that sounds like an agreement. But we weren’t thinking straight. Once we thought about it, it sounded suspicious. It’s not about money now. We need peace, and so does my mama.”
“Do you know anyone else that used the same funeral home and crematory?”
“Just about everybody in Big Knob uses the same funeral home. And Northeast Georgia Crematorium serves people in two or three states. Unless they bury their dead,” Brenda told us.
Neil took another long pull from his beer.
“Are you thinking of asking people for their urns to test what they got too? Oh my Lord. I wouldn’t want to put anyone else through this,” Brenda told us.
“And you received a written report from an independent laboratory analyzing the contents of the urn, is that right?” I asked.
“Yes we did,” Brenda answered. “We have it in a fireproof safe.”
“Would you mind jotting down the name of the lab? Was it close by?”
“Pretty close,” Billy said. “Only took two days.”
“And it was cement mix and chicken feed,” I said.
Billy and Brenda exchanged a glance. Billy squeezed her hand. “We couldn’t believe it,” she said. “None of it made sense.”
“Larry Quinn said the employee spilled the ashes, replaced them with cement mix to cover, and accidentally got them mixed in with the chicken feed,” I said.
“We could forgive that. As horrible as it is, accidents happen.” Brenda shook her head. “When you see the layout of the place you’ll understand. The crematorium is on the other side of the property from the barns and the residence. If Joe Ray Kirkpatrick ever did have an employee, there’s no reason he’d be up at the house.”
“Maybe he doubled as a farm hand,” Neil suggested.
Brenda pointed a short, thick finger at him. “Joe Ray Kirkpatrick did something to Miss Shelia’s remains. I feel it in my bones and so does Billy. It’s not enough to lose somebody, but then …” She trailed off, her wide eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry. It must have been quite a shock—”
“More than a shock, Ms. Street. It’s a downright outrage. All that chicken feed in Mama’s urn. I mean, holy shit.” Billy made the sign of the cross. “Mama hated chickens.”
10
Walking out of the trailer where there had been almost no natural light and into the bright blue day was a welcome change. Billy and Brenda kept their space neat and clean, but it was closing in on me.
We eased the car back over the sandy drive past mobile homes in varying condition, some spanking new and some dappled with age spots and mold along the bottom edges.
�
�That was totally weird,” Neil remarked, as we pulled back onto the pavement.
“Tell me about it.” I looked across the car at him. He had his arms folded over his chest like he was cold. It was at least ninety degrees. “Brenda and Billy have a hunch, and we have a reputable local businessman who explained, apologized, and reimbursed them. Be interesting to find out if there’s really anything here.”
“If she said something about the dead one more time, I was going to hurl. Creepy.”
“It’s obviously emotional. It must dredge up all kinds of feelings.” I handed him the business card Brenda Wade had given me for Reuters Funeral Care and Chapel. “You think you can get their client list? I need to find an urn that came out of that crematory around the same time Shelia Wade was cremated. I’m thinking we need a feel for what was coming out of Northeast Georgia Crematorium that week. It’s a place to start.”
We headed back to the hotel. I needed to change into something slightly more official. Neil got busy as soon as we arrived, trying to figure out if the funeral home the Wades had used was automated. There were three funeral homes in Creeklaw County. Two of them had websites. One of them was Reuters Funeral Care and Chapel in Big Knob. They had a slick website that advertised a “beautifully landscaped and peaceful memorial garden.” They’d acted as a middleman for hundreds of cremations.
“Score,” Neil said. This was accompanied by something that looked vaguely like an end-zone dance. “I went in through the admin function on their website. Simple password script. Opened up the whole system.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I told him, then listened while he rattled off some details. What I should have said was I have no interest in what that means. I tuned out the rest of the techno-gibberish and changed into navy slacks and a chalk-stripe blazer. Probably wouldn’t get me a lot of leering, but it did have “urn company representative” written all over it.
A few minutes later we left the resort and climbed into the Impala, top up. We had to pass through downtown Big Knob, and I couldn’t take another YouTube party.
Neil had his electronic devices out, and he was balancing a hotel coffee mug. “This is going to be one of those three-hour-tour things, isn’t it? Big Knob’s the Minnow and you’re Ginger and I’m the professor and we’re never getting off the island.”
“You see me as Ginger? Really?” I glanced at myself in the rearview.
We passed through Big Knob without incident and headed south on a shady blacktop, passing lots of grazing cattle and painted barns. I turned onto a paved driveway bordered by white-fenced pastures and headed toward a long ranch house with azaleas lined up under the windows. A carport on the left side of the house held two cars. A jeep was parked behind them. I smelled a grill as soon as I opened the car door.
“Hope it works,” Neil said, and climbed into the driver’s seat. We’d learned from experience that having a driver in place is a good idea. “They’re not going to be thrilled. I can tell you that.”
“Thanks for the positive affirmation,” I said, and grabbed my briefcase off the backseat.
“You look nice, by the way.” Neil leaned on the window and smiled at me. “The business-suit thing always makes me want to mess up your hair.”
“Not going to happen.” I gave him a wink, then walked to the carport door. Front doors are for strangers. I avoided the doorbell for the same reason. It goes off, the dogs go off, and what registers is: unfamiliar person. I was hoping for a nice, friendly feeling.
I tapped on the door and waited, then cupped my hands against the glass-paned door and peeked inside—a lived-in kitchen, bags of chips on the island, a cutting board with traces of green and a couple of avocado shells, tomato seeds, lemons. A covered bowl with traces of dark green guacamole, some empty beer bottles. Beyond that, a den with heavy wood, very traditional décor, glass doors with the grill I’d smelled behind them, a few people in patio chairs with puffy cushions.
I walked around the side of the house. The first thing I noticed on turning the corner was the big, square, black head lifting up off the wood deck, then the growl, then the bark. The rottweiler was down the steps in two seconds flat and loping straight at me. I heard a couple of people yelling at him through a rush of pure terror. Coarse black fur stood up in a ridge down his back and glistened in the sunlight. He had a head about the size of a mailbox.
“Tank, halt!” A male voice broke through his frenzied charge. Tank stopped on a dime three feet away, licked his lips. His coffee-brown eyes rolled up at me. He started to pant.
“Hi, Tank.” My voice had a little tremble in it, and it was three octaves higher. Tank’s little black nub tail made a couple of spins. “It’s okay, boy.” Voice coming back to normal. Tank’s tail started to spin like a propeller, then his entire body had started to wag. I stretched my arm out. “Good boy. Okay, come on.”
He rushed me like some kind of heat-seeking missile, jammed his nose between my legs, and practically lifted me up off the ground. He was making snorting sounds. I heard laughing from the deck. “Tank. Back off,” commanded a middle-aged white guy in jeans and a T-shirt who was walking quickly toward me. He had a hard beer belly, like he’d swallowed a basketball, and bright blue eyes. Tank sat down, ogled me longingly.
I tried to recover some dignity. “Mr. Huckaby?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. What can I do you for?”
The deck was silent now, watching Huckaby greet the person who had just interrupted their cookout. “My name is Keye Street. I’m with the Sunset Journeys Urn Company out of Chattanooga.” I said it quietly, but I let all my southern run loose so everything sounded like it had a question mark on the end. I try to keep a handle on the accent most of the time, since southern equals dumbshit to most of the world. But I’d heard Huckaby’s accent, and I had the idea he’d trust me more readily. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I was in the area and I happened to see your address on a list of people who purchased one of our urns from your funeral-care provider. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Could you get to the point, Miss Street? I’ve got rib eyes waiting.”
“Well, this is awkward, sir. We’ve had some trouble with that particular style of urn flaking and contaminating the cremains.”
Huckaby’s smile widened. He grabbed a quick look over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “My mother-in-law was mean as a water moccasin. She’s the only thing contaminating those ashes. I don’t give a rat’s behind what happens to her.”
I tried a different approach. “What I’m trying to say, Mr. Huckaby, is that if the urn is dramatically eroding, then your mean-as-a-snake mother-in-law might end up in a pile on the carpet. Would Mrs. Huckaby give a rat’s behind about that?”
Tank whined a little. I tried not to look at him for fear he’d see it as encouragement. He nuzzled Huckaby’s hand. “What exactly do you want?” Huckaby’s smile had disappeared, and so had a few of the good-old-boy layers.
“A small sample of the ashes for our lab.” I held my index finger and thumb a quarter inch apart. “Tiny sample, really.”
Someone yelled from the deck for him to hurry up. “Look, lady, my wife cried for two weeks. I don’t want her stirred up again.” Huckaby scratched his head. “Let’s act like we’re done here, and in a couple minutes I’ll excuse myself and go inside and scoop some ashes for you.”
A long strand of drool hung from one corner of Tank’s wide mouth and stretched toward the ground. I could hear him breathing. “I’d prefer to collect the sample myself, if you don’t mind.”
“That ain’t gonna happen.”
“It’s important the sample isn’t contaminated.”
“You’re big on the contamination theme, aren’t you?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Wait for me out front.”
Neil had his laptop out when I got to the car. He’d been using Huckaby’s Wi-Fi, he informed me. “You get the ashes?”
“He’s bringing a sample out. Doesn’t want his wife to know.”
&
nbsp; “Wow. I honestly didn’t think you’d pull it off.”
“His rottweiler liked me a lot.”
The kitchen door opened. I met Huckaby in the carport. He’d filled a sandwich bag with grayish-white powder. “If you find out something’s wrong with that urn, you call me directly.” He gave me a piece of paper with his phone number.
I dropped the sample into another Baggie, sealed it, then closed it in my case. Neil got my boat of a car turned around and eased down Huckaby’s driveway. His hands were side by side on top of the steering wheel. He was sitting erect and close to the wheel like an old person with vision problems. Neil was a notoriously slow driver. He always seemed to be on a sightseeing tour, which made him the worst getaway driver in the world. I attributed this to the elevated levels of THC in his system.
“I finished checking out Miki’s neighbors like you wanted. Inman Park must be the squeakiest-clean neighborhood in town. I mean, even on social media. They’re all about kids and kittens and shit. No felons, flashers, or jaywalkers. The neighborhood association did generate a few notices Miki’s way about the property. The fence needs to be painted and the yard has to be maintained according to their standards. They remind her she signed agreements on move-in. I forwarded you pretty much everything and whatever I could find on the other guys she dated.”
“You did all that while I was talking to Huckaby?”
“I’ve been doing it since you threw all this shit at me yesterday morning. You think I’m always on Twitter or something?”
“Or stoned.”
“I really respect the fact that you confined your drug use to huge quantities of alcohol. You’re kind of a role model.”
I ignored that. “You think you can get the speedometer up over thirty-five? I’d love to get a look at the crematorium before it gets dark.”
My phone rang. I glanced at the display, an Atlanta number. “Keye Street,” I answered.
“Ms. Street, this is Milo Stanton from the Georgian Terrace Hotel.”
Uh-oh. Milo. Black-blazer concierge with the brass nameplate. Milo—minion to the manager who hates me.
Stranger in the Room Page 8