Tin City Tinder (A Boone Childress Mystery)

by David Macinnis Gill

  “But there are people in the graves,” Cedar said. “They can’t just, just move them.”

  Lamar scrubbed his head. “Human remains are property like a house or land. They belong to the heirs of the deceased. That’s the law.”

  Cedar looked at me, asking if Lamar was right. I could only shrug that, yes, he probably was.

  “It’s time for me to head home,” Cedar said. “Can I use the little girl’s room first?”

  I gave her directions.

  “Those men did threaten you, Boone.” he said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Mild threats," I admitted. "Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “If you were alone, maybe.” Lamar glanced down the hallway. “Follow Cedar back home, just to be sure. Folks around here are acting funny. It’s smart to be careful.”

  “Funny how?”

  “Some migrant workers ended up in the emergency room last weekend, all beat up. They wouldn’t say what happened.”

  “Dewayne and Eugene Loach happened.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I do.”

  "It ain't that easy, Boone."

  "Being right never is."

  “Ready,” Cedar said when she returned.

  I walked her out to the car and kissed her goodnight. When she was out of the driveway, I’d get in my truck and follow her home. Lamar was right about being safe, but Cedar wouldn’t like me white knighting her.

  “Before I go,” she said, “remember we’re meeting with Dr. K tomorrow. Time to put the final touches on my Olympiad project.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Doesn’t matter what day it is.” She gave a kiss on the cheek. “You made a promise, and you’re sticking to it.”

  6

  It was well after dark when Cedar turned down her driveway. I pulled onto the shoulder until she went inside, and the porch light came on.

  Ten seconds later, my cell rang.

  “Hey, Cedar. I was just think—“

  “I’m safe. You can go home now.”

  “What are you—?”

  “Don’t play dumb. The headlights of a ’72 Ford truck are distinct. Plus your left lamp is dimmer than the right. You should get that checked.”

  “Hope you’re not mad.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said. “But it’s nice knowing you care.”

  “I do. A lot.”

  “Get some sleep. Big day of data collection tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The porch light went out.

  I dialed Abner and got voicemail. “Hey Doc, Boone. Need to reschedule our thing tomorrow. Call me back.”

  I pulled onto Highway Twelve and pushed the speedometer to sixty-five. There were no streetlights in this part of the county, which was still farmland due to frequent flooding, making the night even darker.

  It was so dark that I missed seeing a huge branch in the middle of the lane.

  Whump!

  The branch slammed against the undercarriage, and there was a metallic clank, followed by a clacking noise. On the dash, the oil pressure needle dropped like the second hand on a watch.

  “Don’t do this to me, girl.”

  I pulled back on the highway toward Galax, praying some place would still be open. By my estimate, the truck had less than a quart of oil left. I wasn’t going to win the race. Then I remembered a small store on the left somewhere ahead. After four years in the Navy, my bearings were off, so I wasn’t sure if the store was just around the corner or miles away.

  After cresting a hill, I stuck the transmission in neutral and shut the engine off to keep it from seizing. I rolled through a stop sign without stopping and rounded a bend.

  A light shone ahead above a small, hand lettered sign.

  “Yes!”

  I guided the wounded truck into the store’s gravel lot. After parking, I opened the hood to let light in and the peered underneath the engine. The branch had punctured the line, and oil was dripping from the hole.

  Nothing a little duct tape couldn’t fix.

  Entering the store was like stepping into a time capsule: It was crowded with an assortment of dry goods, hunting supplies, hardware, clothes, cleaning supplies, and groceries. They had the usual bread and milk, along with a cooler in the corner and a display of cigarettes behind the cashier.

  A cardboard sign was taped to the register: No Spanish Spoke Here, Amigo.

  The guy at the counter looked up from the comics. He was leaning on his elbows to read, lips moving with the words, and laughing at every joke. His shirt hung loosely on his concave chest, and his pimple-dotted cheeks looked like they had seen a razor only once or twice in his life.

  He didn’t have a care in the world, until I walked over.

  “Nice sign,” I said.

  “It serves its purpose.”

  “Need some oil. I’ve got a leak.”

  “Ain’t got none.” He licked his fingers and turned the page. “You’d have to ask Red.”

  “Who’s Red?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Ain’t here right now.”

  “I noticed.”

  I picked up five quarts of 10w40 from a display shelf and set them next to the register. Then added a roll of duct tape and a packet of clamps. That would stop the leak long enough to get home.

  “Can’t sell you no oil.” The clerk said picked the scabbed pimples on his cheeks. “Red won’t let me take no money.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “If you can’t take cash, I’ve got a debit card.”

  I dropped the card on the counter. The guy read the name on it, his lips moving as he sounded out my last name.

  “Red!” The clerk disappeared behind a dingy curtain. “We got trouble!”

  I heard voices, and when the curtain opened again, Eugene Loach and the twins stepped out. They weren’t tall men, but they were put together like potbelly stoves, barrel chested with forearms the size and density of cast iron pipe. They all red T-shirts with the rebel flag and the slogan, “Heritage, Not Hate.”

  Considering the sign on the register, I found it hard to believe that heritage was their motivation.

  “We’re closed,” Eugene said.

  “I need motor oil. I’ve got a hole in my line.”

  “We’re all out.”

  “That’s funny,” I said. “‘Cause I put five quarts on the counter. Seems like you’ve got something against me, and I don’t even speak Spanish.”

  Eugene cracked his neck. “I think it’s the other way around, Possum.”

  “Why? I’m not Mexican, am I?”

  Eugene motioned for the clerk to ring up the order. “Sell him the oil. Cash only. Debit cards are just another way for banks to stick it to the working man.”

  The clerk did as he was told.

  “My brother was right about you,” Eugene said. “You’re too nosy for your own good. Now get off my property and don’t ever come back.”

  “No problem.” I backed outside with my purchase. “One question: You guys don’t speak Spanish. How do you feel about Japanese?”

  Eugene slammed the door in my face, threw the deadbolt, and flipped the sign to closed.

  It took a few minutes for me to duct tape the leak and refill the oil, but the repair was a success. I started the engine. The oil gauge drifted to full and stayed there.

  I was pulling the door shut when I noticed a red minivan parked beside the store. The license plate was in the shadows, so I unclipped my keychain light and crept over to the rear bumper. This, I was sure, was the same van used during the attack on Luigi. If only he would press charges, Hoyt could send the whole crew to jail.

  Get over it, I told myself. Luigi wasn’t going to press charges, and Hoyt would need more than a license plate number to get a conviction.

  My cell rang with Abner's number. “Hey Doc, I just left a mess
age on your home number about tomorrow."

  “Ain’t there. I’m in Winston. On the way to meet with the hyphenated lady.”

  “You mean Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith.”

  “The one and the same. Hoyt had the body sent to her for identification, and I offered to lend a hand. Meet me there.”

  “Where is there?”

  “Basement of McClain Hall. Get here as quick as you can.”

  “Winston’s an hour from here,” I said. "And I've got an oil leak."

  “Better drive fast then, or you’ll miss all the fun.”

  7

  I drove fast.

  Fifty-two minutes after patching the oil line, my truck reached McClain Hall on the campus of Carolina Tech. I drove around the service entrance. Abner’s car was parked beside a SUV with a faculty sticker.

  “Dr. Windsor-Smith, I presume.”

  I locked up and noticed a light in the basement windows. That would be the forensic anthropology lab. It had belonged to Abner before he retired. The dean gave it to the Hyphenated Lady, as Doc called her. Despite the circumstances, there were no hard feelings between the two of them.

  I knocked on back door five minutes before Abner finally answered. My grandfather was dressed in a white lab coat and rubber apron, and he wore latex gloves and a face shield. In the old days before everyone worried about pathogens so much, Abner would do field examinations without any gear at all, using just a dab of vapor rub under his nose to cut the stink of decomposition.

  “Wear these,” Abner thrust a coat and apron at me. “The hyphenated lady runs a clean ship.”

  “No gloves?” I pulled on the gear. “What if I have the urge to touch something?”

  “Keep your urges to yourself.”

  Abner steered me to the lab. The basement made for a half-decent morgue. It had a stainless steel table, refrigeration units, instruments, and a good light. “Why are you so interested in this case, Boone? It’s not like you’ve got a horse in this race.”

  “Too nosy for my own good.”

  “You get that from your mama.”

  “She says I got it from you.”

  “All you got from me.” He opened the door and stepped through the decontamination curtains. “Was my charm and good looks. Hey, Meredith, I’d like to introduce you to my grandson, Boone Childress.”

  Meredith was in her mid-thirties, with above-average height. Her blonde hair was cut chin length, and her cheeks blushed red from the cold air in the room. I noticed that she had eyes the color of coffee when she flashed a polite smile. Her handshake was firmer than I expected. Warmer, too.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Boone. Your grandfather tells me you’re following in his footsteps. He didn’t tell me you were so handsome, though.”

  “His footsteps are too big for me,” I said, “but I’m interested in specializing in fire investigation.”

  “You should consider our forensic program.” She nodded at Abner. “If you’re half as gifted as Dr. Zickafoose, you’d be a good fit here.”

  “I’ll certainly consider it.” I was considering three schools—Carolina Tech, State, and Carolina. Lately, Carolina had seemed more appealing.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Now could you sit over there? That way, you won’t be tempted to touch anything, like a certain anthropologist I know.”

  Abner laughed, and I slunk over to a stool, feeling very much like a student.

  Meredith Windsor-Smith opened the body bag containing the female torso. “Dr. Zickafoose, can you hit the tape?”

  Abner thrust a mini-recorder under my nose. “Handle it.”

  “Okay, Boone. Hit it.” She began in a clear voice. “This is Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith, Associate Professor, Carolina Tech University.” She stated the time and date and the names of the people in attendance. “Individual to be examined appears to be a female, between sixty and sixty-three inches in height. Age is still indeterminate. Traces of polyester fabric at the victim’s waist.”

  Unable to fight the temptation, I snuck over to the table. I picked up a probe and pushed away the material on the pelvis.

  “Skin has a glossy appearance,” Meredith continued. “Arms are drawn up in the typical pugilist position.” She grabbed my wrist. “Put the probe down, please. I’m trying to work. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Any evidence of accelerants on the skin?” I asked. “Or anything to determine the source of the fire that killed her?”

  Meredith gave me a funny look, like she was surprised. “Before you arrived, I detected small amounts of shrapnel in the epidermis, along with some residue that I haven’t had time to identify. For example.” She pointed to a chunk of metal in the corpse’s belly. “All burns are post-mortem. Ergo, cause of death is most likely smoke inhalation. There was enough skin, however, to take fingerprints. If she has any record in AFIS, we’ll find her.”

  I began examining the corpse’s fingertips, wondering how Meredith could ever see the prints, just as Sheriff Hoyt barged through the curtains and into the room.

  "Sheriff!" Meredith said. "What bring you here this time of night?"

  “Well, hell, Abner,” Hoyt said, “if this ain’t a pleasant surprise. Except it ain’t pleasant, and I sure ain’t surprised to see you sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

  Abner glanced at the doctor, who stared at Hoyt. Neither of them was happy about the intrusion.

  “Sheriff,” Meredith said. “Dr. Zickafoose is here to assist me.”

  Hoyt tossed a manila folder on to the table. “The fire investigators filed their final report, and there’s no sign of foul play. Y’all go home. I’m taking possession of the body right now. This autopsy is over.”

  “I haven’t finished my work,” Meredith protested. “I can’t file a complete report about the identity of the victim.”

  “That ain’t your problem anymore. And you two,” Hoyt said to me and Abner, “will be leaving. Right now.”

  I walked toward Hoyt. “This is a public building, sheriff, and you’re out of your jurisdiction, so whether we leave or stay is none of you business.”

  “Suit yourself.” Hoyt turned back to Dr. Windsor-Smith. “Tag and bag the body, professor. I’ll be taking it back to Allegheny County with me. Far as I’m concerned, this case is closed.”

  “Dr. Zickafoose, Boone, let’s go.” Meredith pulled off her latex gloves and threw them at Hoyt. “You already took possession of the body, sheriff. We’ll leave the bagging and tagging to you.”

  SATURDAY

  1

  It was past 0200 hours when I got home. The weather had turned cold and windy. I drove down the driveway with my lights off and left my boots on the porch. I tried to be quiet. Mom slept like the dead, but Lamar dozed off and on. It was easy to wake him.

  My effort was wasted. When I got to my room, I started to close the blinds and saw Lamar. He was standing on the pond’s floating deck, staring into the water.

  What was he doing out there? It was still four hours before he normally woke up to feed the animals. It wasn’t like him to go for moonlight strolls.

  Then I saw the flicker of a lighter’s flame, the glowing ember of a cigarette. That explained it. He was sneaking a smoke. He had quit years ago, but he’d been known to sneak one or two when something was eating at him.

  Guess I wasn’t the only one with a trouble mind.

  I closed my blinds and burrowed under the covers.

  Sleep didn’t come easily. My mind was racing with its own problems. The fires. The dead woman. The graveyard. There had to be a pattern here, an underlying set of dots I couldn’t see but knew in my gut were there.

  Then there was Cedar. Her comment about accelerating kept coming back like acid reflux. What did she want accelerated? Our relationship? How was I supposed know? She had thanked me for not pushing when we snuggled in the barn, but now, she was put off because I was going too slowly?

  Long before the alarm clock went off, I climbed out of bed. In the bathroo
m I pulled on a pair of nylon running shorts and a shirt. I added a Carolina hoodie for warmth.

  “Feel like a run?” I asked the cat as I passed through the living room.

  The gold and white tabby looked up from her rug. She hissed. Exercise clearly was not on her agenda. Maybe we needed a beagle like Chigger to motivate her.

  Outside, I trotted down to the driveway. I limbered up beside the cars. Then I took off. My hands and feet were cold at first, but the air was still humid enough to work up a sweat. I trotted for a few minutes, then lengthened my stride and turned from the dirt road leading to the highway.

  Mist rose from the creek like a blanket. In the summer months, the creek would be noisy from the noise of croaking frogs, but now it was quiet. The only sound was thud of my sneakers on the pavement and the rise and fall of my breath.

  I made a mental note to go by the auto parts store later. The patch job on my oil line needed to be repaired correctly, or I’d find myself with a locked up engine.

  The oil line reminded me of Eugene Loach. What a waste of carbon. The man was a racist bastard who had fixed his hate on all “Mexicans.” According to Lamar, Latinos had turned up in the hospital, hurt but afraid to talk. The farmers in the western part of the county were complaining that they couldn’t hire enough labor to bring in the crops because the workers had left the county. It all added up an organized campaign against the Latino community, and I was sure that Loach and his boys were involved. But were they smart enough to conduct an organized attack? Was someone else behind it? Or maybe I was just connecting dots that weren’t there.

  The house was empty when I returned. Mom had left a note letting me know she would be late for dinner. She had a meeting with her attorney, whom she was consulting about the Tin City graveyard project.

  As Lamar had predicted, the sheriff hadn’t shown much interest in old dead bodies when he had a fresh one to occupy his time, but Mom wasn’t about to let that stop her.

  I showered, got ready to meet Cedar, and was about to let the cat out when I heard footsteps on the gallery, followed by a revving engine and tires spinning out.