“I know a couple things,” he offered. “Shelby Anderson’s family is still around—the mom and a few of the kids anyway. We see ‘em in here for the occasional overnight stay.” A smile of compassion crossed his face, even after years on the job, and its authenticity floored me. “As for Smitty, he went on to Lehigh University, then moved to DC. Works as a chemical engineer for the Pentagon. And Jasper, well, he only had his mom and she died about six years ago. Their trailer’s still there but I haven’t seen him around in years. Heard he made something of himself but couldn’t quite overcome his, uh—”
“Mental issues?” I offered.
“Yeah, I guess that’s it. Goes hand-in-hand with genius, sometimes. And I don’t think Enzo Rodriguez is around anymore. Big-time businessman now.”
“Enzo’s here. He’s in town for his cousin’s wedding, believe it or not. Gonna head him off at the pass.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “In a couple hours, actually.”
I stood and began to load the folders into the box on the table.
“Let me carry those out for you,” Detective Barkley said, rising up but staring longingly at the evidentiary material. His thick shoulders wilted a bit, as if disappointed not to be pulling out a magnifying glass and tweezers from his tweed jacket and launching a good, old-fashioned investigation. “Everything you have is copies, but we’ve got all the originals if you lose anything.” His eagerness for me to misplace something shined through despite the helpful air shrouding his offer.
He picked up the box and followed me out. As we passed Delorma, she threw a snide grimace in my direction. Perhaps she thought I was absconding with her next carnal target. Batting her fake eyelashes at Detective Barkley, she patted her hair so much that a few overprocessed pieces chipped off and fell to the floor. The detective didn’t give her a second look.
As I pushed open the heavy door to its squeaking accompaniment, I spotted a worn penny peeking out from under the muddy floor mat, the eye of Abraham Lincoln winking up at me.
I left it there.
Chapter 5
Artie… sixteen years ago
Artie Fennimore liked the sun. Despite his naturally fair skin, his year-round, bronzed color made some people question if he was more Cherokee or Mexican than the Irish and French he claimed to be. The sweat rimming his dark, thinning hairline glistened in a crest above his narrow face. Never a big man, he considered himself blessed with strength and leanness and a face that folks seemed to find appealing when they caught him without a layer of grease streaking across it. He soaked up a few rays of sun now as he returned from the old Hester place over the hill. No sign of Rusty. When Rusty’d gone missing in February, he’d found her under the Hesters’ porch, a sharp laceration on her coarse-haired back, probably from scurrying beneath a jagged fence while running from a stray dog. Rusty’d never been the type of cat to whine and complain, just went off by herself when she had a problem and returned when things were settled. Could use more humans like that, Artie thought. He pulled out the white rag in his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck as Abel Smith drove by on the main road, sporting a brand new Cadillac. No business from Abel in six years, Artie lamented. The man seemed obsessed with never letting a car find its rhythm and mature into its kinks and fits and starts. Got himself a new ride every eighteen months or so. Probably one of them leasing deals through a Charlotte dealership. Still, couldn’t he at least need a new spark plug once in a while?
Abel gave Artie a beep-and-wave, not allowing for the chance that Artie would miss the sight of the new wheels. Matter of fact, Abel was so intent on making sure Artie saw him that he nearly ran a little red-headed girl off her bike. Never even saw her.
Artie waved the rag in response, then stuffed it back in his pocket. It’d been a slow day at the garage so far, as foreshadowed by the four empty garage bays last night. He’d told the boys to come in late since a few people always broke down on a Friday afternoon. Sure enough, as Artie rounded the bend that brought Artie’s Autos into view, he saw an old Ford F-150 ambling in, smoke hissing from under its hood. Had he remembered to put up the Back in 10 Minutes sign? Oh well, it’d only take him five minutes to reach the shop. The Ford wasn’t going anywhere.
Despite having to stand atop stinking Garbage Hill to admire his establishment, Artie always felt a twinge of pride upon seeing it from on high. Fifteen hundred square feet, four garage bays, top-notch equipment, and a solid reputation. He hadn’t done half bad for a kid from the sticks who’d barely scraped his way through high school. It hadn’t been for lack of brains. He’d usually been too bone tired for homework after his shift at the pet food factory. And that came after a three-hour stint tearing stubs, making popcorn and jerking soda at the local theater. At least the theater was slow most days after school, just old ladies and retirees coming in for matinees. Nope, Artie Junior’s life hadn’t left much time for dating or getting into trouble, but it had helped keep his family fed and sheltered, which was more than his worthless dad had done most days. In fact, when Arthur Fennimore, Senior, did come home smelling of booze and cigars, it meant less food for the rest of them, and two less spots for him and his sisters to sleep in. His mom’s half of the bed usually stayed empty ‘cuz she worked the night shift at a motel down the highway, a gun at the ready in case wayward travelers got any bright ideas, but when Dad came home, he’d hog that whole room to himself.
It’d been his mom who taught Artie to shoot, but he never did have her eye. Wasn’t until his mid-twenties when he got his first pair of glasses and the docs told him they didn’t know how he’d managed all those years without ‘em. Oh well, hadn’t taken much to see the things up close that he needed to: dog food pellets, movie names on tickets, and the inner workings of an automobile. Never had much need for seeing too far in life, he reckoned. But he gave thanks for those glasses many times over the years ‘cuz without ‘em, he’d never have seen Justine Jenkins across the Farmers’ Market that sunny day in June, twenty-six years ago next week. She was what the neighborhood fellas considered exotic, half-Italian and parts Lithuanian and Irish all mixed into one fine-looking package. The two of them were both twenty-one and Justine had taken a couple years off to make money for college. Never ended up going, though, ‘cuz before she could scrabble together the tuition, she and Artie’d blown most of it on their honeymoon at Niagara Falls and a new crib for the baby on its way. Unfortunately, they’d lost that baby early on when Justine had a miscarriage, a real heartbreaker all around. Over the next six years, Justine had gone back to school part-time, worked at a craft shop, suffered two more miscarriages, and finally, gratefully, welcomed Kevin, a healthy baby boy. Allison had come along two years later, with eyes so big and beautiful, they brought tears to Artie’s own. In all the time since, Justine had never complained about not completing her degree and Artie sure hoped she didn’t regret the choices she’d made. He hadn’t been the best husband or father in the early going, but he considered himself a work in progress. More improvement in the last couple years than the previous twenty, sure, but he still had a ways to go and he intended to get there.
He hiked over Garbage Hill, giving one last glance for Rusty before the Hesters’ three-story barn went out of sight. “She’ll come when she’s ready,” he mumbled to himself, then headed to his shop to greet the customer.
Three hours later, Artie regretted telling Enzo and Kevin to sleep in and enjoy the day. Starting about noon, a new car with transmission problems came in every hour on the hour, each more pathetic and shoddy than the previous one. Sure, it would mean enough business that he could buy a decent anniversary present for Justine, but each customer wanted their car back that day. All were on their way home from somewhere better than Lavitte, to somewhere better than Lavitte. Just passing through when the dusty roads and 100-degree heat took a bite out of their rides. Even though Artie had them all where it counted—he was the only game in town—he promised each that he’d work late to get ‘em back on the road. Meantime,
maybe they’d spend some of their hard-earned cash in town. Couldn’t hurt. Lavitte businesses needed the money, especially with that new shopping center opening ten miles out.
At four, Enzo rolled in, driving a truck more rust than metal. At least it ran, although Artie surmised it wasn’t due to Enzo’s automotive instincts. Probably got tinkered with by one of those stinking uncles or cousins he was always going on about. Every story Enzo told started or ended with, So this guy, he’s actually my cousin, or You’ll never believe what my uncle did last night. The uncle stories were so far-fetched, Artie discounted a good half of what the boy said. If he didn’t, he’d have to believe that Enzo’s uncles slaughtered 8-foot snakes with kindling wood, wrestled with alligators, kept a million dollars stashed in a hole in the ground, and drank straight bleach with no ill effects. That hut compound the Rodriguez clan called home was filled with either the biggest bunch of liars around or a whole lotta total fools. Enzo wasn’t a bad kid, though; in fact, he was pretty darn smart. It was just that things under the hood of a car didn’t come naturally to him the way they did to Artie and Kevin. And Enzo never failed to drop the heaviest tool on the loudest surface whenever Artie had one of his pounding headaches.
“Hey, Mr. Artie,” Enzo called. The old clunker of a vehicle dwarfed the kid as he hopped out. He stood an inch shorter than Artie and always looked especially young behind the wheel given his hairless face and gaunt build. “Thought you said it was gonna be slow today. Looks like you got a garageful.”
“Grab a wrench, Enzo. We got cars to get running.”
“Just passed another customer on his way here,” Enzo said.
“Who’s that?”
“Bobby Kettrick, your favorite. He’s pushing his Chevy in.”
“Great,” Artie said. “Only that kid would have the nerve to stop here. I damn saw him running away from the garage a couple weeks ago, the night my tools went missing. Couldn’t hide that white hair with the moon shining the way it was. Saw him clear as if he were carrying a neon sign flashing his name.”
“You ever tell the police?”
“Right,” Artie grunted in an easy way that passed for a chuckle on him. “They’re gonna arrest the mayor’s son based on my word? I’d need that brat served up on a silver platter, evidence in hand, ‘fore they’d do anything.”
“But you’ve got the truth on your side,” Enzo said.
Artie lifted his head above the engine he was working on and squinted at Enzo as he always did when he wanted to deliver a paternal lesson. Heaven knew the boy could use some direction. “Careful with the truth around here, Enzo. It’s what they call a malleable thing. And this town’s so crooked, it’s like a game of Crazy 8’s.”
The crunch of gravel drew their attention. They both turned their heads from the stifling garage to the visible waves of heat outside. The sun, hanging lower in the sky, glinted off Bobby Kettrick’s Chevy and boomeranged back to catch Artie in the eyes. “Dammit,” he mumbled, pressing his knuckles into the bony ridge near his left brow where the sweet spot of pain always grabbed him.
Enzo ran over and helped Bobby push the car the rest of the way in.
“Coulda helped me earlier, Enzo,” Bobby sneered, his teeth almost as glossy as his hair. “You passed me back there going pretty fast. Spit all kinds of dust in my face with that rustbucket of yours.” He followed up this friendly, country greeting by mumbling, “Stupid Spic.”
“Sorry about that,” Enzo said submissively. “Couldn’t be late for work.” Then he grinned wide at the spoiled, towheaded prick. “Not to worry about that dust, though, Bobby. I’m sure it’ll come right off and you’ll be all spic and span.”
Bobby sneered again. It was his only expression other than the self-pitying, phony one he used to garner favors from girls.
Artie turned to Bobby while wiping the grease from an old wrench. Sweat formed vertical trails from the rim of his cap to his bushy eyebrows, creating a series of angry crosses where they bumped up against the horizontal lines in his forehead.
“Help you?” Artie said, slowly raising his eyes from the wrench to Bobby.
“Car’s dead.” Bobby showed none of the signs of a guilty party. No kicking up the gravel. No avoidance of Artie’s inkwell glare. “You get it fixed by later tonight?”
“You planning to pay for parts and services rendered?” Artie asked.
“’Course,” Bobby said.
“’Cuz I ain’t one for lettin’ customers rob me blind.”
Bobby didn’t even flinch. “You get it fixed today?”
Artie gestured to the three cars filling the bays. “Got a full shop and Kevin ain’t due in for another hour. Come back in the morning.”
Bobby nodded. “Keys are in the front seat.” He turned to leave, but changed his mind and headed round to the side of the building where Artie still had a payphone, one of only three left in town. He fished a quarter and dime from his pocket, dialed and waited. “Yo Smitty, it’s me. You gotta get to the barn and see what I… Can’t your dad hire someone for that shit job every year?... At Artie’s. Fuckin’ car broke down again… All right, see you later, douchebag.” He slammed down the phone.
Artie watched Bobby turn towards town, opposite of the direction he’d come from. Usually, Artie or Enzo or Kevin would offer a customer a ride into town. But today, what with it being so hot and busy at the garage, Artie felt no such inclination. He watched the dust form an opaque cloud behind Bobby’s head as he departed. It only slightly dulled the blond sheen.
Chapter 6
Allison… present
Detective Barkley slammed the trunk shut, returning the dated case files to darkness, where they seemed to belong.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” he said.
“Shoot,” I said, walking around to the driver’s side.
“In the files, there are statements and testimony from Bobby’s family and friends, Shelby’s family, Enzo Rodriguez, your brother and mother, a bunch of nosey neighbors—”
“But nothing from me?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
“How did this begin for you? Do you remember at all? I feel like I’ve got the middle and ending down pretty well, and believe me, I don’t like the ending, but how did this nightmare start for you?”
I remembered all too well.
The hammering on the door that morning startled me out of the deep, well-earned sleep that only teenagers can enjoy. I’d been out the night before with two of my friends, Arlene and Britney. We’d met up with a group of boys from Latin Club and had been drinking wine coolers. Big deal. Wine coolers. Whoopie. My first time drinking. Sure as hell wouldn’t be my last. When I climbed out of bed to investigate the commotion, my head felt like it’d been run over by a truck. I went to the bathroom, peed what must have been a gallon of dark yellow liquid, and made my way to the kitchen with half-closed eyes. No warm scent of brewing coffee wafted up the stairway, which meant my mother hadn’t even been awake when the callers arrived. She’d no doubt be standing in the kitchen adorned in the ruby-red, terry cloth robe that hit just above her yellow slippers, her hands craving the security of a cozy mug. I listened from the stairs and peeked through the partial banister on the lower steps, a flood of questions rushing through my thick brain. As I suspected, my mother had already received the guests—Police Chief Fred Alesbury and a younger officer—and was scooping ground coffee into a filter. A newly awakened Kevin sat uncomfortably at the kitchen table in his plaid boxers, his hair frazzled as if his head had sweat through the night and finally dried in its final formation against his feathered pillow. His bulky muscles strained under the pain of trying to remember anything through the haze of the previous night while toxins seeped out of his skin and breath. His body filled the whole kitchen with a steamy, sweet odor that blended with his B.O. in a moldy, not entirely revolting combination. His eyes appeared smaller than usual and his dry tongue kept licking his dehydrated lips.
>
“Then what happened to Bobby?” the police chief asked him.
“Someone finally get the better of Bobby?” Kevin asked. “How? What happened?”
“You and your dad do a little shooting at the garage last night, did ya?”
“Sure, yeah,” Kevin said. “Enzo, too. We had a few drinks, shot a few targets. It was a hard week. Bunch of truck repairs that didn’t come easy. Had to jerry-rig some parts for old Mr.—”
“Yeah, yeah,” said the chief. “So where did Bobby come into play?”
My brother sat up, fully awake by this point. “Bobby Kettrick, right? That’s who we’re talking about?”
“Yes, Kevin,” Chief Fred said, his impatience showing in his tight lips and rigid stance. “Bobby Kettrick. The mayor’s son.”
“I don’t know. Aside from breaking in and stealing our tools a couple weeks ago, he brought his car in for some work yesterday. Scumbag, if you ask me. Probably deserved whatever beating he got.”
The chief actually raised his arm to slap Kevin full across the face but my mother, who’d gotten the coffee brewing, reflexively grabbed his arm to stop him. She’d known the chief since he was yea big and she wasn’t about to let him forget it.
“It’s true,” my mother said. “Bobby Kettrick and his crew regularly vandalize local shops and Bobby did steal from Artie’s garage.”
“He mighta even killed Rusty,” Kevin blurted, a kernel of fury taking hold within him. But my mother, her life experience giving her a prescient advantage over my brother, pressed her free hand to his shoulder and squeezed hard, as if suppressing his vocal cords.
“Now tell us, Fred,” she said, “what’s going on?”
Fred cocked his head the way I’d seen him do when my dad tried to explain combustible engines to him. It was what my dad might call a confounded expression. He settled himself into a chair and leaned his elbows near to his knees so he could get a better look at Kevin’s eyes. “What’s this about Rusty? You talking ‘bout that mangy cat used to drag its flea-bitten bottom into Artie’s shop?”
Raveled Page 4