“I’ll try to keep the lid on it.”
“Well, it’s my own fault if Geneva skins me, since I led her to believe that I was going to give the letter to Vernon’s poor, grieving widow and then mugged her when her guard was down. Oh, speaking of the Bullards, what about Buford Bullard? Does that tie in with Silas?”
“Silas was one of the last people to come into contact with him before he got sick. But the lab still can’t confirm what kind of poison was used. And we’ve got no motive to tie it together with Vernon.” Warren paused and looked hard at Lindsay. “Linds, this arrest is great news, especially for Kimberlee. Looking at you, though, you’d think that somebody took away the punchbowl in the middle of your party.”
“The threatening letter. The printer. If Vernon came in to the police station with the letter a week before he was killed, then that means someone was already out to get him. Before Silas knew anything about the Wilcox diary. Probably before Vernon himself knew,” she said.
“The letter could be completely unrelated. Lots of people had access to that printer. Kimberlee’s whole family has keys to the house. Her older nieces and nephews came over all the time after school with their friends. They didn’t always lock up behind themselves. Hell, for all I know, Vernon could have printed the letter himself for some reason.” Warren leaned against the porch railing. “You’re right to wonder, though. I don’t like loose ends—especially when we are trying to build a case against one of the most powerful men in central North Carolina. We really need to get our hands on the gun. We got the firearms identification back. The gun that was used to kill Vernon was probably a very high-quality custom-made rifle-musket—almost identical to what they would have used during the Civil War in appearance, but able to shoot regular, small-caliber ammo. We’re running down manufacturers and dealers.”
“You’re in luck, then,” Lindsay said, interrupting him. “That should be fairly easy to trace. Only the more hardcore guys at the reenactment would have had guns like that. Custom-made guns cost a small fortune. Most of them probably use either cheap Italian-made reproductions that are just there to look pretty. And if the weapon that shot Vernon had been a genuine antique or a black-powder, muzzle-loader from India, you’d never trace them at all. Antiques and muzzle-loaders are mostly exempt from gun laws.”
Warren let out a long whistle. “Okay Annie Oakley, how come you know so much about guns?”
“My great aunt was a bit of a gun nut, believe it or not. When I was little, she had a collection of about fifty weapons, and lots of them were antiques. She used to take me duck hunting sometimes, though of course she never let me touch the more expensive guns.”
“Well, you’re right about this gun being less common than the typical reenactor’s gun, but it’s not going to be any easier to trace. The killer could easily have bought it out of state, which would complicate things. It’s not like you see on TV, where we just type something into a computer and a picture of the gun’s owner pops up. And, like you said, some types of guns are exempt from registration altogether.”
“Why didn’t you guys wait to arrest Silas? His lawyers could tear your case to shreds. You don’t have any concrete evidence linking Silas to the murder. No gun, no DNA, no witnesses to the shooting. This is Silas Richards, for goodness sake, not some sixteen-year-old who stole a car.”
“We’ve got enough, Linds. This wouldn’t be the first time we caught someone with only circumstantial evidence. You’re right about his lawyer. Like as not she’ll have Richards out on bail by tomorrow or the next day. But we’ve struck the first blow, and that’s important. Besides,” Warren continued, “you know the kind of pressure we were under to get this thing done quick. National papers have been calling to interview the chief of police. They’ve gotten wind of the racial elements and the threatening letter. We heard that the News and Observer was getting ready to run a feature on Sunday calling the murder a modern-day lynching. The arrest will put a stop to that.”
The initial buzz Lindsay felt when she unraveled the Wilcox story in the library was gone. All she saw now was ruined lives and the prospect of more to come. “Have you told Kimberlee yet?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m just on my way back from the hospital now. She was dumbfounded, of course, and real upset. Buford is improving, though, so let’s keep our fingers crossed that he wakes up and sheds some more light on what happened to him. Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and tell you. You’ve done great work on this case, Nancy Drew.” He patted her on the back and coaxed a smile from her. “The bad guy is in jail.”
“Nancy Drew? I thought we were Fred and Daphne from Scooby Doo,” Lindsay said.
“If we’re talking Scooby Doo, you’re Velma. No question,” Warren replied.
“Velma! Just because I’m short and I wear glasses?” Lindsay pouted, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Fine then, you’re Shaggy.”
“I was paying you a compliment. Velma was the smart one. She was cute.”
“You thought Velma was cute? With the orange sweater and the knee socks?”
“I guess I like the smart ones,” Warren said. He blushed slightly and looked very much like his teenage self.
They stood awkwardly for a moment, until the sound of an approaching car caused them to turn. Lindsay was surprised to see John’s truck pull into her driveway. John hopped out of the driver’s side, and walked over to them. “I heard through the grapevine that you got robbed the other night.”
Lindsay nodded. “The grapevine got it right, unfortunately.” She gestured to Warren. “I don’t believe you two have met. John Tatum, this is Warren Satterwhite, one of New Albany’s finest. He also happens to be an old friend of mine who just stopped in for a visit,” she said. She felt guilty for hiding the reason for the visit from John, but she knew he would only chastise her for the extent of her involvement in the investigation of Vernon’s murder. John and Warren were exchanging greetings when Joe emerged from the passenger’s side of the truck, clutching a rifle. He marched right past the three of them and took a seat on the steps of the front porch, where he immediately immersed himself in a meticulous inspection of his gun.
Lindsay raised her eyebrows. “First the police and now an armed guard?” She gestured toward Joe.
“Oh that,” John replied. “We were in town—at the police station, as a matter of fact—to pick up our reenactment guns. They had been holding them since the shooting, but they said we could have them back now. I guess there must have been some breakthrough in the case?” He looked expectantly as Warren.
Warren, however, ignored the question and took the opportunity to say goodbye. “I’ve got to be getting back. Pleasure to meet you, John.”
John watched Warren back down the driveway. Then he walked around the back of his truck and pulled out his toolbox. “I’m here to put some deadbolts on your doors.”
Lindsay rolled her eyes. She had used the robbery to excuse her lateness at work yesterday, not wanting to tell Rob about giving evidence at the police station. In contrast to John and Anna, who always clucked over Lindsay like anxious mother hens, Rob typically let Lindsay’s misadventures and bad habits pass without comment. Yesterday, however, his brow had creased with a line of worry as she related the details of the home invasion. He hadn’t said anything at the time, but it was obvious that he must have been concerned enough to task John with safeguarding Lindsay’s house.
“Look, Linds. I know you’re not helpless. You’re a capable, modern, independent woman, blah, blah, blah. But I also know that Rob told me to come over here and put some new locks on your doors. And I have to live with him, not you.”
Lindsay threw her hands up in resignation as they walked toward the house. “Fine. If you guys want to bully me into home improvements, you can help me fix my bathroom window screen, too.”
“Wouldn’t need to bully you if you weren’t so pig-headed to begin with,” Joe mumbled as they passed his perch on the porch.
“Well, if there w
as ever a clearer case of the pot calling the kettle black, I haven’t heard it,” John replied.
“That may be, but pig-headedness don’t suit a woman,” Joe grunted peevishly.
Lindsay smiled at him and led John into the house. “Pop’s in a mood,” John said. “He thinks the police were messing with his gun. He’s going to take the whole thing apart, clean it, and put it back together ‘how he likes it’.”
They walked to the bathroom where Lindsay pointed out the broken window sash. “Well, let’s get started.” She bent down to open John’s toolbox. As she stood up, a bolt of pain shot through her injured knee. She grimaced and steadied herself on the lip of the bathtub.
“Oh, yeah,” John said. “Anna also told me to tell you to have an orthopedic surgeon look at your knee.”
The two of them set to work, removing the broken window from its frame. While Lindsay sanded down the window frame where the wood had splintered, John went back outside to repair the damaged screen. Lindsay had almost completely smoothed the rough wood when a loud bang punctuated the air outside. The sound was followed immediately by an even louder bang, very close at hand. Lindsay rose. Her ears were ringing from the noise. She felt like she was standing on a conveyor belt—drawn toward the front door, toward the source of the sound. She seemed to reach it without taking a single step. She opened the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. Lying there, with his gun still clasped in his motionless hands, was Joe Tatum. John knelt over him, shouting his name. The sound of his voice was muffled, far away. Blood spilled out of a wound at the side of Joe’s head, leaking down through the gaps in the floorboards.
Chapter 38
Lindsay and Rob moved along the hospital corridor, laden with cups of watery, vending-machine coffee and a packet of chocolate doughnuts. Lindsay had been keeping the vigil with John and Rob while Joe underwent surgery. Now that the initial surge of adrenaline had worn off, she was exhausted and weak from hunger. Her nebulous memories of the past few hours flashed through her mind. They had conveyed Joe to the hospital in John’s pickup. Lindsay had cradled Joe’s injured head in her lap. She had pressed a towel over the wound to slow the bleeding, and watched as the blood soaked the towel, and dripped down her legs and into her shoes. After Joe had been taken into surgery, Lindsay realized that her clothes and hair were covered in a russet crust of dried blood. She had made a beeline for the staff shower room and swapped her blood-soaked clothes for borrowed doctor’s scrubs.
As Lindsay and Rob walked, Lindsay pondered aloud. “I just don’t see how he could’ve shot himself. John said that the reenactors only ever load those guns with blanks, so that there’s no confusion. He’s sure that his dad would have had blanks in that gun. And even if some live ammo somehow got in there, Joe emptied it before he started cleaning it. I saw him empty the chambers with my own eyes.”
“Maybe he didn’t shoot himself by accident.” Rob let the statement hang in the air. Joe Tatum was volatile and prone to extreme emotions. An accidental shooting wasn’t the only possible explanation.
Lindsay dismissed the idea. “I can’t see him trying to off himself. Can you? And why would he have shot himself on my porch? It doesn’t make sense.”
When they entered the waiting area, John was seated with his back to them. His shoulders rose with gasping sobs. He was facing Anna, who covered her face with her hands. Lindsay’s heart jumped into her throat as they approached the pair. She and Rob exchanged worried looks. Lindsay set the coffee and doughnuts down on a small table and she and Rob came around to face John. Her mouth fell wide open when she saw his expression. His face was tear-streaked and contorted…with laughter. Catching sight of Rob and Lindsay, John exclaimed, “He’s okay!” Lindsay and Rob broke into relieved smiles, but still didn’t understand how the situation had changed so completely in the few minutes that they were gone.
“We can go in and see him,” John said.
Anna led them along the corridor, explaining to Lindsay and Rob, “Head injuries almost always bleed heavily, and I know this one looked like the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre to you guys. But Joe’s wound was superficial. The bullet was travelling at an angle, and the extra protection from the metal plate in his head meant that, instead of a fatal wound, he’s probably going to come away with a bad concussion and another scar to add to his collection.”
“I knew he was hard-headed,” John cut in, “but I never thought that it would save his life.”
Anna laughed with the rest of them, but when she spoke, her tone was measured. “He’s not totally out of the woods. We’ll have to monitor him here for a few days and then I want him to follow up with Dr. Checkoway, the neurosurgeon who treated him, in a few weeks.” Anna’s eyes flicked to Lindsay’s face, which revealed a telling blush at the mention of Drew’s name. She continued. “And they had to remove the top of his left ear, so he’s probably lost his chance at this year’s Miss Teen USA title.”
“But he’s going to be okay, right?” John asked.
“I’m optimistic. We were afraid that there would be intercranial bleeding because of his previous injury, but the surgeon said that head CT looked good. Well, as normal as things can look when someone has a metal plate stuck in their head. And he’s conscious and talking. We should know if he’s had any impairment or loss of function in the next couple of days.”
They found Joe in a recovery room. With a two-inch thick layer of white gauze around his head, he looked like a half-finished mummy. John took a seat in the chair next to his father’s bedside and clasped his hand. “I thought you were a goner, Pop.”
Joe’s glassy, swollen eyes opened a crack. He mumbled, “I shot him. I shot that varmint.”
Anna, Rob and Lindsay exchanged confused glances. “He must be confused—thinking of the last time, with the rabbit,” Rob whispered.
“Scared him good,” Joe continued. He closed his eyes again, and drifted off to sleep, muttering.
Chapter 39
Once Joe was comfortably settled into the recovery room, Lindsay tracked down a certain Dr. Belinda Jesper in the ER. The doctor was old and grouchy, didn’t particularly like Lindsay, and wasn’t particularly interested in Lindsay’s (or anyone else’s) problems. She was the perfect person to examine her knee. Other doctors might advise rest, physical therapy, or even surgery. Convalescing, however, didn’t seem like a real option to Lindsay. She was due to begin her night shift in less than an hour, and she had far too much to do to lay around at home with her feet up. True to form, Dr. Jesper exhibited the bedside manner of a pit viper. “I’m on break, you know,” she complained, rolling up the leg of Lindsay’s scrubs. She took only the most cursory look and poked the red lump on the top of Lindsay’s kneecap with her thumb. “Looks infected. Haven’t you spent enough time in this hospital to know that you have to keep a wound clean?” She wrote Lindsay prescriptions for a strong painkiller and a course of antibiotics. “You should really see a doctor about this,” she snapped, as she tore the prescriptions off the pad. What she meant, of course, was, “You should see a doctor who gives a damn, on your own time.”
Lindsay filled the prescriptions in the hospital pharmacy and immediately downed two Percocet. Within minutes, she regretted taking the medication. Although it numbed the pain, it also intensified her feeling of distraction and unease. She wandered, murky-headed, through her shift. When she visited with patients, her words seemed like garbled, meaningless sounds coming from another person’s mouth.
Lindsay wandered down to Joe’s room to check his recovery. As she raised her hand to knock on the door, she nearly collided with Versa Bullard, who was leaving the room hastily. Lindsay had to step backward to keep from being knocked over.
“Wrong room. These hospital corridors all look the same,” Versa said.
“You confused Joe Tatum’s room with your husband’s?”
“Joe is in there? I saw someone wrapped in bandages, but I couldn’t tell who it was.” As she spoke, she looked straight at Lindsay.
She didn’t so much as twitch an eyelid.
“Well now, let’s see if I can find Buford’s room.” She turned and began to walk away. Lindsay followed.
“Aren’t you at all curious about how Joe ended up in the hospital?” Lindsay said. “After all, I know you two are old friends.”
“I couldn’t care less what that old sack of stupid does with himself.”
“Well, if you did care, I’d tell you that he’s going to be okay.”
Versa stopped and confronted Lindsay. “Are you deaf? I do not give a rat’s behind about that man.” She set off again at a brisk pace. Lindsay turned to follow her but the sudden change of direction triggered a spike of pain through her knee. She let out an involuntary yelp and clutched the wall for support.
“What’s wrong with you?” Versa demanded.
“I hurt my knee. I’m taking a painkiller, but I don’t think it’s kicked in yet, as far as killing pain. As far as making my head feel like it’s full of Karo syrup, it’s working like a charm.”
Versa rolled her eyes. She donned the hot-pink reading glasses that always hung by a beaded chain around her neck. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a plastic pill case with multiple compartments, each containing a selection of brightly-colored pills. The effect was like a miniaturized version of the pick-and-mix sweets tubs at a candy shop. Versa flicked open various lids and extracted two pills—one small and green, one large and ginger-colored. “Here, take those.”
“What are they?”
“That one is oregano oil. It helps with inflammation. That one is olive leaf extract. It’s good for the joints. I use them for my back.”
“Oregano and olive, huh? Maybe I should just eat a medicinal pizza.” Lindsay indicated the other compartments. “What are all those other ones in there?”
A Murder in Mount Moriah Page 19