by Unknown
“My guess was, the undertaker had his own hard times. Nobody had any money then, but that didn’t keep folks from dying. He left Burt laying there for some months, all the while Eufala never could come up with the burying money.
“Then, as these things happen, a guy comes rolling into town with a traveling show. Eufala said they used to come quite regular through those little Texas towns. Maybe they did everywhere, I don’t know. It was a way to make a living, I reckon, even if it was only coins at a stop.
“Anyway, this fella heard tell about Burt and offered to buy him from the undertaker, pay his expenses and then some. At first, the undertaker didn’t want to. He thought it disrespectful, and Eufala kept saying she’d find a way to bury him proper.
“For some reason, the traveling fella had gotten quite an itch to take Burt with him on the road. He looked up Eufala. She told me he turned his snake-oil charm on her and witched her, but she never for a minute looked like she minded.
“To hear her tell it, she resisted as best she could, but by the time the traveling show was set to move on, the undertaker was paid off, Eufala was sitting up in the front seat of a DeSoto, and Burt was riding in state in the trailer in back.”
“You’re kidding.” I knew she wasn’t, but my words just came out in sheer surprise.
Dana’s laugh sang from the phone. “That was my reaction exactly when she told me. But Eufala said this was in the day when people paid to see the bullet holes and bloodstains in Bonnie and Clyde’s car. Heck, they paid to see faked-up versions of the death car. Did you know the real car earned thousands of dollars? Probably at no more than a dime a view. I can’t even guess what that would be in dollars today. It was an eye-popping amount of money when I first heard about it, even in 1960. Somebody said the real death car sold to a casino in the sixties for around two hundred grand.”
“Wow.” As a comparison, I knew my granddad’s new Mustang had cost about $2,500 in 1964, and a new version cost more than ten times that now, so $200,000 in 1960’s dollars would’ve been some real money.
“Of course,” Dana continued, “some dead guy from West Texas wasn’t going to pull the crowds in like a bloodstained Bonnie and Clyde murder car, so Eufala’s new beau—his name was Pete—created a story for Burt.
“The barroom brawling ne’er-do-well became a famous West Texas bank robber, who consorted with the worst gangsters of the day. They dressed him up like a desperado. He was stiff enough, thanks to the embalming job, to almost stand on his own, so they propped him up in a rough wooden coffin. He even had a big dusty bandanna tied around his throat, like he was ready to pull it up and yell, ‘This is a stickup.’ ”
She laughed at the memory. “Eufala said Pete spent good money on a hog-leg pistol and getup while she had holes in her cardboard shoes, but he more than made that money back. And in their years together, Pete more than made it up to her.
“I remember Burt’s eyes were sort of half-open, which was creepy. That didn’t hurt ticket sales any, him looking like he was about to wake up from a nap and go for the pistol they strapped to his leg.”
I couldn’t take in her tale. “She actually traveled around with a man who displayed her first husband’s body in a sideshow?” I had to ask.
“I’ll admit, when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound good. But those were different times. And you’d have to know Eufala. She had a country dignity about her. And oh, did she love Pete. He treated her like a princess.”
What had that conversation been like, I wondered. I’d like to buy your dead husband and take him on the road. Want to come along?
As if answering my thoughts, Dana said, “Eufala didn’t have many options. Like a lot of us. This way, she said, Burt got the attention he’d always craved and she took care of him. Lots better than he ever took care of her, I’m sure. Said she didn’t really know how bad Burt was until Pete came along. She was thankful for Burt, though, because otherwise she wouldn’t have met Pete and she wouldn’t have known how to appreciate what she got.”
Pretty sensible, given the wackiness of it all—and surprisingly sweet.
“What happened to Eufala?”
“She died. Gosh, back in the seventies. Pete had died years before. She kept traveling with the show, though old Burt wasn’t as much of a draw. At the end, he was just on display in a show without any mention that he was real—and really dead. Over time, people had gotten squeamish about that kind of thing. Got too proper and didn’t want their neighbors to know they went and paid good money to stare at a dead guy.
“She missed Pete awful. I never met him, but my, how she loved that man. Guess it helps if you have something bad to compare against what comes next. I never could muster that kind of love for the guy I ran off with. When he took off and left me behind, I counted it as a blessing. I sure never took on another man full-time.”
“What happened to Burt after she died?”
“He kept traveling with the show she’d put him in. Some guy bought her stock—or took it, who knows. She never talked about any family. Gosh, what had Burt become by then? A clown in the fun house, I think, last I saw him. I always knew which one was him. Those half-opened eyes were the creepy giveaway. I steered clear of him, let me tell you. I could take a dead desperado in a wooden coffin, but that clown with those opaque eyes, that did it for me.”
“What happened then?”
Shamanique stepped in with the answer. “That’s when the concession was sold to Con Plotnick.”
“That would’ve been the time when a lot of shows were shutting down,” said Dana. “Everybody got so politically correct. Why come to the carnival when you can turn on your TV and see freaks and gaffs and tricksters pouring out into your living room? Not the same life as when I started, I can tell you. Which is why I quit.”
“What do you do now, Miz Strange?”
“Dana, please. I own a restaurant. Down here in Gibtown. You ever down this way, you come in and see me. I’ll serve you the best Co’Cola Cake you’ve ever had.”
My mouth literally warmed at the thought. I doubted her cake could beat Jestine’s Kitchen in Charleston, but I wouldn’t back down from a taste test.
“Do Burt or Eufala have any kin, that you know of?”
“That’s a good question. Shamanique asked me that yesterday evening, and I’ve been musing on it. I can’t think of a soul. Eufala had lots of friends, you know, but no kin—especially none that’d give Burt anything but a good swift kick in his dusty ass.”
“Well.” I paused, torn between the thrill of the hunt successfully completed and the futility of it, in the end. “It’s good to know the story, but it leaves us figuring out what to do with Mr. Furder’s remains.”
“Yeah,” Dana said with a faint sigh. “It’s surely time for him to come in off the road. Quite a run he’s had.”
“He sure has. Thanks so much for your time.”
“You ever down this way, you come on in and visit. And bring that Pinner Pliny with you. Small world. I had no idea she was hauling Burt Furder around with her. Time she got herself a folding lawn chair and a beach umbrella.”
“I’ll let you tell her that,” I said. Pinner and E.Z. might rather become mummies on the travel circuit themselves, instead of settling down, as long as they weren’t the ones fretting over making the nut.
Shamanique disconnected the call, and we stared at each other.
“You gonna tell the Plinys, or you want me to?”
“I’ll tell them,” I said. “I take it they know Dana Strange?”
She nodded. “They eat breakfast in her restaurant when they’re home in the winter. Been friends for years, she said.”
I’d never thought about carnival people as such a close-knit family. They seemed so far-flung and separated. I could see the folks traveling with a particular show getting to know each other, but according to the Plinys, those shows broke apart and re-formed continuously, with everybody always looking for a better site and more reasonable fees an
d bigger crowds with easier money at the next stop.
“I’ll stop by after lunch. The midway opens at noon today, I think.”
Wednesday Noon
I headed to Maylene’s later than usual but didn’t expect to find a line waiting. The folks who normally came for their workday lunch would be off shopping in Greenville or goofing off and avoiding their usual routine.
A handful of us, though, were grateful Maylene hadn’t closed for the whole week. While the locals were on vacation, tourists from other parts of the country came to town for the festival or to take a nostalgic soak in the small-town atmosphere, even though the quaintness is largely a figment manufactured by outsiders who moved to town to open shops and create an image.
The vestiges of real small-town life remain—the Feed & Seed store with the rump-sprung cane chairs outside, the hardware store selling electric fencing and leather work gloves and nails by the pound but no cute kitchen accoutrements, and Maylene’s, with its cracked and slightly greasy vinyl booths and scratched faux-wood tabletops.
I walked the block to Maylene’s Restaurant and saw the welcome sight of an unmarked patrol car parked in front. Sure enough, he was ensconced in his usual booth. The crowd was thinner than usual, and the only waitress working the floor, a relatively new entry through Maylene’s revolving door of waitresses, looked more surly than usual. She wasn’t much of a morning person, but I wasn’t sure she was happier during any other part of the day, from what I’d observed since she’d started waiting tables here.
Despite her mood, it didn’t take long after I slid into the booth opposite Rudy for her to deliver my fried flounder.
“I thought you might be taking the day off,” I said.
“Naw, I’m saving up time for later in the month, go fishing down near Murrell’s Inlet when it’s not so crowded.”
I took a bite of my sandwich. A blob of tartar sauce oozed out the bottom. The bun was fresh, the fish was crispy and hot. Not bad. Not as good as salt-and-pepper catfish pan-fried in cornmeal batter, but still good.
“Did you see Ken Tharp leaving as you were coming in?”
I wiped the corner of my mouth and shook my head. “We must have missed each other.” I felt a pang of sadness, remembering his struggle to find words for his illicit grief—and relief that we’d had no reason to talk.
“Wish I’d missed him. I never in my life saw somebody go so far around his elbow to come up with some reason why he ought to be harassing the police about a case. He hit me with some nonsense about how it was his civic duty as a member of the city council to make sure that murderers don’t wander free in this city. Can you believe that crap?”
When the waitress brought Rudy’s tea, he was kind enough to point to my empty glass. She didn’t roll her eyes. She seemed to like Rudy.
“Why doesn’t he just come out and admit he was sleeping with her? I’d have a lot more respect for him. What’s he think he’s hiding? Everybody in town knows about him and Rinda.” Rudy leaned close. “He had the nerve to lie to L.J. about it when she asked him point-blank. His hind-end would be on the hot seat for sure if we could find anybody who’d seen his car anywhere near Bow Falls last Friday.”
“So you’ve been checking into that?”
He gave me that narrow-eyed stare I get when I’ve crossed the line with him. “His alibi held up. He was in Greenville that day. Shopping with his wife and her sister.”
“Did you check his cell phone records, just to make sure?” I kept talking, knowing I was about to get another slant-eyed stare. “Rinda was on the phone constantly that morning. Some people assumed she was talking to Ken.”
“We know that. And we did check. His alibi held, I said.”
I did sound as though I were second-guessing him.
“I just wasn’t sure anybody’d mentioned all the calls. Don’t get in a snit.”
“I thought you wanted it to be an accident,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re entertaining a few possibilities now.”
“Keep an open mind. Isn’t that what you’re always preaching?” Okay, he didn’t preach it, but he did do it. I wanted him to know I realized that.
“You think we’re locked in on your buddy Rog, but I can assure you we’re walking all the way around this. It just keeps coming back to those bruises on her arms and the money. Follow the money, right? Those insurance policies weren’t tiny.”
“Maybe Rog is just smart and plans ahead. Nothing wrong with having the foresight to buy insurance.”
“If he’s so good with his financial planning, why is he having trouble paying his bills on time?”
He and L.J. had been busy. I didn’t have an answer for that, despite Shamanique’s digging. Obviously Rudy and L.J. hadn’t found an explanation, either.
I changed the subject. “They had life insurance on Rinda. How about Rog? Is his life insured?” I hadn’t thought to ask Rog.
Rudy’s food arrived, and he took a few seconds to douse it in salt and pepper, close his eyes over it, and shove in a forkful of shredded cabbage.
“Yes,” he said after a few chews.
“How much?”
“More than she carried.”
“Well, that helps make the case, doesn’t it? They bought insurance as part of a good financial plan, to provide for the lost income the other would suffer if one of them died.”
“Even if I give you the good financial planning,” he said, “what’s that got to do with him having his butt on fire to get his hands on that insurance money?”
“Rudy, you know good and well he’s not the one who called the insurance company.”
“No, he got you to do it. You and that airy-fairy professor flake that showed up when we were questioning him.”
“He didn’t get me to call. Eden Rand—that airy-fairy professor flake—is the one who asked me to call.”
Rudy smirked. “Okay, Counselor, how about you explain why it’s not odd that he’s got a girlfriend all over him before his wife’s body is even found. The wife’s having an affair. He’s having an affair. Not exactly a Hallmark card home life, is it?”
“You don’t know that he’s having an affair. Eden’s just taken him in, like a lost puppy. None of that means Rinda was murdered.”
“Why’re you so insistent she wasn’t?”
That stopped me. I sat for a moment, processing my impressions. Why was I so certain?
“I was there,” I said. “I saw them both. Rog wandering around in a fog, which seems a permanent state with him. It’s deeper now, but he’s never totally plugged in to the real world, if you know what I mean. He seems to invite people to take care of him.”
“Women, you mean.”
“Okay, women. Eden works with him. She’s got her mother-hen instincts fired up and focused on him. I also saw Rinda that morning.”
I pictured her in her trim white slacks, her head bent over her cell phone, her stylish ponytail flicking with energy. “She wasn’t angry or upset. She was just talking on her phone. Away from everybody, where no one could hear.”
She’d reminded me of high school girls making furtive calls from the hall pay phone to boyfriends who were too old to attend school or who were at home on suspension for some dire offense. The bad-boy boyfriends. The ones they weren’t supposed to be caring about, much less calling during school hours. That’s what she’d reminded me of—a girl with a salacious secret.
“Rog acted like he was oblivious. I didn’t see any—passion. I just don’t see how it could—erupt, with no warning, no sign, no aftermath. I was there.”
“You haven’t been called out on as many domestics as I have. Passion, as you call it, just erupts. Lots of people claim they had no warning. I’m not sure I believe that in most cases. A trash can overflowing with empty beer bottles ought to be some warning, but whatever.”
“That’s my point, Rudy. There’s usually some hint, even if it’s nothing more than a trash can full of empties.”
“Avery, we’re not locked in
to one theory. We have to investigate everything. It may have been an accident. I admit that. But I can’t ignore the money. Follow the money. That works more times than you know. Until we’re comfortable about all the variations, we’ll keep asking questions. Okay?”
“Okay.” Standing in his shoes, I had to agree that two dead wives and two large insurance policies looked like more than just good financial planning. Even though I was there and I couldn’t believe Rog had anything to do with killing her, I had to admit that money in large clumps had its own gravitational pull.
Wednesday Afternoon
“Avery!” Melvin called out when my entrance jangled the bells hanging on the front door. I jumped, startled, because yelling wasn’t his normal form of greeting. He sure had been hanging around the office a lot during the holiday week.
He came to his open office door. “You got a minute?”
“Sure.”
The professional calm with which Melvin approached even the most bizarre events had melted into a quick urgency.
I followed him back to his office. He slid into his chair, his computer screen at his elbow.
“I just got some information on Manna Advisers. Apparently Dr. Pratchett at Ramble College isn’t the only investor with questions. The state attorney general has just issued a statement that Manna is under investigation. I would expect the next step to be an announcement that Manna has temporarily ceased doing business.”
Like a bad restaurant, would a CLOSED TEMPORARILY FOR REMODELING sign taped to the front door presage Manna Advisers’ permanent demise?
“What’s happened to the college’s money?”
“I’ve been trying to get Dr. Pratchett on the phone. One of the trustees offered him the use of a condo at the coast, and he took some vacation time to play golf. His assistant is trying to track him down. Even if they’d pulled their money out before now, though, a bankruptcy judge would come looking for it.”