Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  Jed rubbed his chin. “Now that is a mite curious. Anything I can do to help?”

  “I appreciate your cooperation,” Elliot said. “Was Mr. Sullivan . . . ?”

  The chief nodded. “Along with all of his records. The body was nearly unrecognizable.”

  Again Elliot asked, “Do you know what happened?”

  “It started in the room next to his office. Looks like the fireplace got out of control.”

  “Do you suspect arson?”

  “We’re looking into it.”

  Elliot paused for a moment then asked, “Does the name Jim Llewellyn mean anything to you?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say that it does.”

  Elliot surveyed the wreckage. The smell of smoke stung his nose. “Do you know of anyone who might stand to gain from the destruction of his records?”

  The big cop was silent for a moment, his eyes intensely studying Elliot. “How much do you know about Donegal, Detective?”

  “Nothing really.”

  He nodded. “It’s not as bad as it used to be, or so I’m told, but it’s pretty much a town of factions.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “Either you belong to the Church of the Divine Revelation or you don’t.”

  Elliot thought about the lady in the long dress. “What about you, Chief Washington, what side are you on?”

  “I was hired to keep the peace. Folks aren’t eager to give me trouble.”

  “Does the term Stone Family Project mean anything to you?”

  “People around here don’t talk much, especially about the past. From what I’ve gathered, there was a family in town that went by that name. They weren’t well thought of. I figure they had a run-in with the church. I don’t know what happened, but they don’t live around here anymore.”

  “Do you think the church had something to do with the fire?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that.”

  “Was Sullivan a member?”

  Jed Washington hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. “I’ve heard that he used to be. But it sounds like you’ve abandoned your investigation in favor of taking over mine.”

  Elliot shook his head. “I just don’t have much to go on. I’m trying to find the trail anywhere I can.”

  “I can appreciate that. Just don’t go poking around where you don’t belong.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  “Did you grow up around here?” Elliot asked.

  The chief shook his head. “Like I said, they hired me for a reason. I answered an ad in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. That was five years ago.”

  “How does a small Oklahoma town compete with Dallas and Fort Worth wages?”

  The big man shrugged. “I guess Texas just didn’t know a good thing when they saw it. So I don’t need you sticking your big-city nose in my case.”

  “That’s fine,” Elliot said, “but understand this. Wherever my investigation leads, I fully intend to follow, even if it’s smack-dab in the middle of your living room.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No, just good police work.”

  “Well, something tells me you’re kind of new to this, so let me give you some advice. The next time you go into a jurisdiction other than your own, you might try checking with the local law enforcement before you go snooping around. Things tend to go a lot smoother that way.”

  Even before the chief finished his spiel, Elliot understood where he was coming from. In his haste to speak with Gary Sullivan, he’d forgotten to check with the chief first. “You’re right. I apologize for the oversight.”

  The chief nodded.

  Elliot gestured toward the smoldering remains of Sullivan’s house. “I suspect this is related somehow, your Mr. Sullivan and the murders in Tulsa. We need to work together.”

  “A name written on a notepad is pretty thin evidence, son.”

  “I realize that, but I have a gut feeling about it.”

  Chief Washington shook his head. “I don’t put much stock in feelings. I only trust what I can see and touch.”

  “You sound like my captain.”

  “Then your captain is probably a smart man.”

  “Maybe so,” Elliot said, “but I’m the one working the case. I’d like to know more about this church you mentioned.”

  “Let’s just back up a minute. Now, I didn’t intend to give you the wrong impression about the church. I just wanted you to be aware of its strong presence in the community. If it turns out we need to run an investigation, it’s something we’ll have to deal with. But don’t go reading anything other than that in to it.”

  “Fair enough. Where do we start?”

  Chief Washington shook his head. “If it gets down to an investigation, then sooner or later we’re going to run into the leader of the church, that being the Reverend Marshall Coronet. He’s a shrewd and influential man, Detective Elliot. You get me some solid, tangible evidence and we’ll talk. ’Cause I’m not walking into the lion’s den with nothing more than a gut feeling backing me up.”

  Elliot surveyed the damage again, then looked up and down the tree-lined street where Sullivan had lived. “Do you know anything about Sullivan’s patients, who he was seeing on a regular basis?”

  Chief Washington shook his head. “They were real secretive about it, both Sullivan and his patients.”

  “When I talked with him on the phone yesterday, he mentioned having someone there, a patient. It’s why he cut the call short. But that was earlier in the day. What time did the fire start?”

  “I got the call around ten thirty.”

  “We both know where this is going.”

  “Well, no we don’t. And my offer still stands. Get me something to go on. And I’d prefer you didn’t poke around on your own.”

  Elliot could appreciate the warning but he wasn’t sure he wanted to compromise his investigation just so he could kowtow to a small-town cop who’d outgrown his considerable britches. “I need some coffee before I leave. Could I buy you a cup?”

  The chief shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got business to attend to. And don’t go getting any ideas. I’ve got eyes all over town.”

  Elliot slid into a booth at the diner he’d located and grabbed a menu that’d been stashed between a bottle of ketchup and a napkin dispenser. He needed answers, and he couldn’t see how a little friendly questioning could hurt.

  A few minutes later, a waitress appeared. She looked like she didn’t want to be there but had no choice. From a pocket of her pink smock, she retrieved a notepad and a pencil. “What’ll it be, sir?”

  Elliot glanced at the waitress. He couldn’t recall being called sir in a diner before. “Any suggestions?”

  Without looking up, she spoke, her face as blank and unreadable as an empty chalkboard. “I’d stay away from the meatloaf.”

  Elliot studied the menu. Even the waitress’s attempt at humor, if that’s what it was, came forth with no emotion, as if it’d been rehearsed and repeated each time the question was asked. He glanced behind the counter where deserts were stored in a glass-fronted refrigerated area. “I’ll have the apple pie,” he said, “and throw a scoop of ice cream on it.”

  The waitress scribbled on her pad, then stowed the pencil and walked away.

  “And some coffee, please?” Elliot added, hoping she chose to hear him.

  Moments later, the waitress set Elliot’s order in front of him. “Thanks,” he said. “Are you from this area?”

  With her face still expressionless, she nodded, then turned and left again.

  Elliot grabbed a fork and started on the pie, eating it down to the crust where the fruit ended. After that he sat back and sipped his coffee. When he could stand it no longer, he caught the waitress’s attention and waved her over. “I was wondering if I might get some information from you.”

  She glanced sideways, then almost met his gaze. “What kind of informati
on?”

  “What do you know about the Church of the Divine Revelation?”

  For the first time, Elliot caught a hint of emotion in her eyes. She shook her head. “My job is to work here, sir, not fraternize with the customers.”

  “Are you a member?”

  “Yes,” she said, “are you?”

  Elliot shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about joining. But I wanted to talk with some members first.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced around, then added, “If I stay here at your table for too long . . .” She cut herself off and quickly walked away, but it was too late. A man had come from the kitchen area and was standing behind the counter. When the waitress drew near, he grabbed her arm and said something to her. She shook her head and said something back, then nodded and came back to the table. “Listen to me,” she said. “I’m supposed to tell you something, so in a few seconds nod and say thank you. When I walk away, throw some money on the table and leave.”

  “What are you supposed to tell me?”

  “Directions to Reverend Coronet’s house.”

  Elliot took a napkin and raked loose pie crumbs into a tiny pile on the table. “But you’re not going to do that?”

  She glanced around. It was taking too long again. “You seem like a nice guy, so just do as I say. Get the hell out of here. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t come back.”

  Elliot took that as his cue to nod and say thank you. He still needed more information, but he wasn’t going to get it here. When the waitress left, he pulled his wallet and tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table. Then, hoping the waitress might find a way to use it, he slid one of his business cards beneath the bill.

  Elliot started to leave, but an old black man walking by stopped in front of him, blocking him from getting up. He stank of wine and body odor. He looked out of place in the diner. He feigned a cough and dropped a wadded napkin into Elliot’s lap. Instinctively Elliot palmed it, and the man shuffled toward the door.

  Through the window, Elliot saw Jed Washington coming up the sidewalk. As soon as the old man stepped outside, the chief began quizzing him.

  When Chief Washington allowed the old man to continue on his way, Elliot got up from the booth and walked out. Washington was waiting for him as well. “What are you doing here, Detective?”

  “Having a cup of coffee, just like I told you.”

  “What did old Tom say to you?”

  “Who?”

  “The old man that stopped by your table.”

  “He didn’t say anything. Was he supposed to?”

  “Don’t get cute with me.”

  Elliot shook his head. “I don’t do cute, Chief Washington. And I’ll tell you something else. Your town and its eccentricities might ordinarily be none of my concern, but when it intersects my murder investigation, that changes things. I will cooperate with you and your department, but don’t try to stonewall me.” He sidestepped the big cop and strode back to his car.

  Elliot sat in the car for a few minutes, then grabbed his phone and punched in the number for Judge Broussard. Gary Sullivan kept an office in Tulsa, and it would need to be searched. He wanted to get there first. As he disconnected, he glanced in his rearview mirror to see Jed Washington’s broad, toothy grin. He pulled away from the curb, then drove out of town. He wasn’t finished in Donegal, but he couldn’t operate with Chief Washington following him around. He needed a plan B.

  About five miles up the highway, Elliot retrieved the napkin the old man had given him. Unfolding it revealed words written in blue ink. The old guy had given him a message. Seeing a convenience store ahead, Elliot exited the highway and pulled in, stopping on the concrete lot between the gas pumps and the bar ditch.

  Placing the napkin on the car seat, Elliot smoothed it flat and stared at the words, which had been hastily inscribed upon the delicate paper. It read: THE FIRE WAS NO ACCIDENT.

  Elliot dialed information and got the number for the diner where he’d talked with the waitress. The phone rang twice before she picked up, and when she spoke, Elliot felt a sense of relief. He wasn’t sure if she would be allowed the luxury of answering the phone.

  “Did you get the tip I left you?” Elliot asked.

  Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “What do you want?”

  “The old man who stopped in front of my table, how do I find him?”

  “He’s just an old drunk.”

  “This is important. People have been killed. There may be more.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Why are you afraid to talk to me?”

  The phone was silent. She’d disconnected.

  Elliot tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. Through the windshield of the car, he could see the traffic moving up and down Highway 75. The waitress was a prisoner of her own world, afraid to engage in simple acts most of us take for granted. He couldn’t help but wonder why she would do such a thing to herself, but as soon as the thought occurred, he realized she probably didn’t have any choice, or at least it must seem that way to her. When the phone, which he still held in his hand, began to ring, it startled him. He brought it to his ear. “Elliot.”

  “I don’t have much time, so listen.”

  Elliot breathed a sigh of relief. It was the waitress. “All right.”

  “Follow Main north out of town. When you see the old barn, turn east and go until the road ends. There’re a couple of empty houses sitting off to the right. You can usually find him there, or close by.”

  “Could you tell me his name?” Elliot asked. But she was gone again. Elliot stuck the phone in his pocket. His knowledge of the law told him he should leave it alone until he could get Chief Washington on his side, but his sense of doing what needed to be done was telling him otherwise. He needed to check it out. But he couldn’t go driving back into town in the same vehicle. He needed a new ride. He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the highway.

  Half an hour later, Elliot pulled into his driveway in Broken Arrow. He parked the city car in the garage, then fired up his pickup and backed it out. He was just about to leave when he saw Kelly Anderson coming across the lawn. She walked across the drive and stopped beside the truck. Elliot rolled the window down.

  “You’re a hard man to catch,” she said.

  “Sometimes. By the way, Colorado was out last night. He surprised me in the yard.”

  “Joey left the gate open. Anyway, that’s what I came to talk about. I just wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?” Elliot asked, still expecting some sort of scathing admonishment.

  “For giving Joey the dog. I was against it at first. And I suspect most of the neighbors would love to torture you right now. He’s a noisy little thing. But I haven’t seen Joey this happy in years. He loves that dog, Mr. Elliot. Thank you.”

  Elliot gripped the steering wheel. In this world of bad, it was nice to see and hear a little bit of good. “You’re welcome.”

  A moment of awkward silence ensued, while Kelly lingered. Elliot suspected she had something else on her mind.

  “Maybe, sometime when you’re not so busy, I could make dinner for you, a sort of combination appreciation and peace offering kind of thing.”

  “That would be great,” Elliot said, “but it’s not necessary.”

  He paused. He didn’t want it to sound like he was saying no. “You haven’t done anything to warrant a peace offering,” he said. “And you and Joey are doing me a favor, taking care of Colorado.”

  Kelly pushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “You’re a nice man, Mr. Elliot. A rare commodity these days.”

  After that she walked away, going in front of the truck. Halfway across the lawn, she turned back and smiled, then continued on.

  He backed out of the driveway, heart a little lighter despite the gloom that pervades a murder investigation.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Elliot avoided town and entered Donegal using the back roads, not knowing the area, b
ut figuring he’d seen enough on his first visit to muddle his way through. The caper cost him half an hour, cruising up and down gravel roads that were all too similar, but eventually he found what he was looking for: the empty houses the waitress had told him about.

  They were the kind constructed in the late 1940s to accommodate young families after the war, and sat deep on their lots, at least fifty feet back from the road, beneath a thick canopy of trees and surrounded by brush.

  He pulled off the road and parked in an area that had once been a driveway, and when he climbed out, the sound of the truck door closing behind him spooked a couple of crows out of the treetops. When the birds were far enough away that Elliot could no longer hear them, he listened for any other sound. There was none. It amazed him that small towns like Donegal, less than thirty miles from the city, could be so quiet.

  As Elliot walked toward the houses, tiny clouds of dust from the gravel road puffed around his footsteps. Dust coated the mailboxes, the fence posts, the leaves of trees, every available surface area, as though the cluster of houses lay in the path of a crop duster.

  A slab of corrugated steel the size of a refrigerator covered the doorway of the southernmost house, and it was this one that Elliot chose to search first. He climbed onto the small concrete porch and paused, again listening for anything out of the ordinary. Hearing nothing of interest, he grabbed the edges of the steel and pulled the makeshift door to one side, then peered into a chasm of darkness. An earthy smell, like that of rotted wood, drifted out of the darkness.

  The windows had been boarded over, and the only light—which wasn’t much, due to the trees and brush—came through the opening where he stood. Nothing about this felt right, but he’d come too far to turn back now. He stuck his head through the doorway and called out. “Anybody home? The waitress at the diner said I might find you here. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk to you.”

  The lack of a response did not sit well with Elliot, but he stepped into the house anyway and started across the floor. The wooden planks bowed under his weight, but they held, and when a sensation of being watched waved over Elliot, he pulled a small flashlight from his coat pocket and directed its beam about the room, going from corner to corner. He saw only a collection of spent wine bottles and a few empty soup cans.