Die Laughing 2: Five More Comic Crime Novels

by Ben Rehder

  Rob went into Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris singing Cash On The Barrelhead from Grievous Angel, followed by Poco’s You Better Think Twice from Deliverin’ and Loggins and Messina’s Back to Georgia from On Stage. It was a good set of live upbeat country rock, songs Rick hadn’t heard in a long time and which he knew would make the right listeners smile like they’d run into a friend they hadn’t seen in years.

  Rick picked up the phone and hit speed dial. “Rob,” he said. “It’s me. I like that line. Gettin’ at the roots of classic rock. It’s perfect. Put it on the card with the other tag lines.” He listened to Rob for a moment then said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go to bat for anyone who’s reliable and does good work.”

  Around ten-thirty Rick put on a suit for the first time since his father’s funeral. He drove over to meet Captain Virgil Boggs of the McRae Fire Department. “I’m a private investigator,” Rick said for the first time. He was still in his truck when he said it, alone, parked outside the fire station. He wanted to practice it a couple of times before trying it on a stranger. He looked in his rearview mirror, all serious, and said it again. “Hi, I’m Buddy Miles, private investigator.” He thought the name fit the job. It had more gravitas than Rick Shannon. He lowered his voice and repeated it. “Buddy Miles, PI.”

  Rick checked his tie then headed for the building. A jittery little wire-haired mutt rushed out from the station to greet him on his way inside, demanding some attention. Rick gave him a scratch behind the ears then went in, introduced himself, and started asking questions.

  Captain Boggs was friendly and as helpful as regulations would allow. He said he couldn’t give any particulars about the case but acknowledged that the fire at Moore Furniture was, in fact, suspicious. “But the problem with arson isn’t figuring out if a fire was set on purpose,” Captain Boggs said. “The problem is figuring out who set it. We only close about fifteen percent of arson cases by arrest and only two percent close by conviction.”

  “Can you tell me if the insurance paid?”

  “Nope.”

  “Can’t tell me or don’t know?”

  Captain Boggs smiled and said, “Both.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll get that from the carrier,” Rick said. While at the library he’d read about a database that recorded insurance coverage by property. It allowed insurers to see if an applicant has had a pattern of claims. “What can you tell me about motives?”

  “Well now, motive’s a little slippery,” Captain Boggs said. “Insurance industry says about forty percent of arson fires are set for revenge.” He made a skeptical face before saying, “And that gets us back to the problem of proving who set the fire. People who burn their own home or business tend to say things like, ‘Oh, yeah, I gotta lotta enemies,’ you know? And if we can’t prove otherwise, even if we know the owner did it, those fires get filed under ‘revenge.’ So my point is you need to take that forty percent with a grain of salt. Other’n that, about thirty percent are set for the thrill of it, twenty percent are attempts to conceal another crime, and about seven percent are just pure vandalism.”

  “What about arson for profit?”

  “Only about five percent, as far as get proved anyway.”

  “But you think it’s higher?”

  “Oh it’s higher all right, just can’t prove it. I’d say it could be as high as thirty percent, maybe more.”

  “And they’re just going for a straightforward collection of insurance money for lost property?”

  “Usually,” Captain Boggs said. “Though you’ll find some done to terminate an unprofitable lease or to get out of a business that’s losing money, things like that.”

  “Makes sense,” Rick said. “So who’s your typical arsonist?”

  “Typical is white male, under twenty-one, middle class, absent or abusive father, some learning problems, and childhood sexual abuse or incest. But like I said, arson for profit is a-typical. The profile there’s an older white male, say, mid-thirties to mid-fifties. A lot of times they’re ex-firemen or fire investigators, since they’ve got on-the-job training, so to speak.”

  Rick thought for a second. What did Stubblefield say? Woman set it on fire, I think. Now, given that the odds were against any arson being for profit, and that most arsonists were male, Rick wondered if Clay had just said that to spice up his story. “Let me ask you one more question,” Rick said. “When an arson’s committed to cover up another crime, what’re they usually trying to cover up?”

  “In my personal experience?” Captain Boggs smiled and said, “Murder.” He paused to let that sink in before he said, “But statistically, theft by the owner’s probably more common.” He tapped a fingernail on his desktop then pointed at Rick. “We had a case not too long ago, owner of a travel agency went out and bought a bunch of junked computers for nothin’ and used ‘em to replace the computers in his office. Then he burned the place down and claimed the loss for his real computers that he had the receipts for. Now, we knew it was arson, the insurance guy knew it was arson, but we couldn’t prove who did it, so they had to pay. A month later, the agent went to deliver the check, right? Well, he’s sittin’ there in the lobby waiting for the owner and he can see the serial number on the back of the receptionist’s monitor. He didn’t have anything else to do so he called it in.” Captain Boggs grinned and pointed north. “Sent that boy right up to Parchman Farm.” He looked at his watch. “Got another eight years to go.”

  Rick said, “What about Moore Furniture? Y’all find a body?”

  “One of my guys found a dog tied up inside.” Captain Boggs looked past Rick. “He’s around here somewhere. Cute little thing.” He looked at Rick and said, “The dog, I mean.”

  “Yeah, I met him on my way in.”

  “That was another thing made that one suspicious. Woman who owned the place said she didn’t have a dog. Professional arson, lotta times they’ll get a stray and burn it with the building, tryin’ to make it look like something could only happen by accident.”

  “But as far as you know the fire wasn’t meant to cover a murder?”

  Captain Boggs held up his hands. “Well, I can’t go into that,” he said. “But I think if we had found a body, you’d’ve read about it in the paper.” He gave Rick a little wink and said, “Sorry I can’t narrow it down more for you.”

  Rick thanked the captain for his time and they walked out to the parking lot, followed by the dog. As they shook hands at the door Rick said, “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Captain Boggs said. They stopped at Rick’s truck. “This sort of thing can look pretty confusing if you give equal weight to all the possibilities.”

  “Amen to that,” Rick said.

  “You want my advice? It ain’t original, but it don’t cost nothin’.” He said, “Follow the money.”

  33.

  As Rick drove out to McRae Tool and Equipment Rental he mulled over his conversation with Captain Boggs. He figured the wink meant they’d found no body, so he could eliminate covering up a murder as the reason for the fire. And while he was glad he wouldn’t have to factor that into his increasingly complicated investigation, his meeting with the fire chief still left him with more motives to consider than he had when he started. But Boggs’s last comment, follow the money, seemed to narrow it back down. Virgil Boggs seemed to be telling Rick not to worry about revenge, thrill seekers, or vandals. It’s usually about greed.

  McRae Tool and Equipment Rental was on the service road by the highway just inside the city limits. The office was a small prefab unit sitting on the better part of an acre, all surrounded by chain link topped with razor wire. Rick parked and made his way through the compressors, steam cleaners, lift mules, and pressure washers. At the back of the lot, sitting under a shed, he saw a cherry picker, a small dump truck, and a big crawler with a backhoe on it.

  The only person Rick could see was a guy who appeared to be a mechanic working on a diesel
jumping-jack tamper. Rick had arrived during a lull between the frantic morning pick-ups and the testy end-of-the-day returns. He walked into the office. It smelled like machine grease and burned coffee. The walls were covered with coiled extension cords, band saw belts and blades, bolt cutters, and all kinds of tools and accessories. There was a tall bar stool behind the counter with no one sitting on it, least of all Donna Moore. Rick directed his voice toward the back office. “Anybody home?”

  A woman’s voice came in reply. “Be right with you.” It was neither friendly nor cordial, just business. A moment later she came into the room like a gas powered drop hammer. Nearly six feet tall and attractive despite apparent attempts to play it down, she wore painter’s pants and a dark short-sleeved shirt with McRae Tool and Equipment Rental over the pocket in bright yellow stitching. In a tone meant to discourage small talk she said, “What do you need?”

  Rick smiled and said, “How’re you today?”

  The woman nodded just enough to be polite. “You call about the arc welder?”

  Rick glanced around the room. “No, actually, I didn’t.” He held out his hand and said, “My name’s Buddy Miles. I’m looking for Donna Moore.”

  Her face iced over. “You found her,” she said. “Now what?” Donna folded her arms and looked at Rick as if daring him to do something, anything.

  Rick noticed an ugly scar on her forearm, about the size of a fifty cent piece. He figured she’d burned herself on a hot exhaust pipe or some other equipment. “I’m a private investigator,” he said, dropping his unshaken hand. “I was hoping I could ask you some questions, if you’re not too busy.”

  “Questions about what?” She seemed both defiant and defensive.

  “A missing persons case.” The words caused a distinct change in Donna’s demeanor. She suddenly seemed more interested, as if she were looking for someone, too. Rick pulled out the photo of Captain Jack and the pretty brunette in the French Quarter and handed it to her. “Do you know either of these people?”

  She looked at the picture longer than she needed to answer the question. Her attitude hardened again. She looked at Rick severely and said, “Who’re you working for?”

  Rick thought that was an interesting question. Like there was a right and a wrong answer, one that would allow her to talk and one that would make her shut up. He said, “To tell you the truth, I’m working for myself.”

  “And what if I don’t believe you?”

  “Well, I could start telling lies until you find one you like,” Rick said with half a smile. “And we could go from there.”

  “Huh.” Donna didn’t exactly smile but she seemed to ease up a bit. She tossed the photo on the counter and said, “Is one of these the missing person?”

  Rick tapped the picture. “This guy. His name’s Jack Carter.”

  Donna didn’t look at it this time. She kept her wary eyes on Rick. “So if you’re working for yourself, I have to assume you’re a friend of his.”

  Rick gave an understanding nod. “That would make sense,” he said. “But no.” Now shaking his head. “I never met him.”

  “Interesting.” Donna reached under the counter and pulled out a gleaming steel drywall hammer. It had a wedge shaped blade, like a small, keen ax opposite the hammer’s head. “So,” she said. “If you’ve never met him, I have to believe you’re either working for somebody else or there’s something you haven’t told me.” She adjusted her grip on the tool’s hickory handle and said, “Take your pick, but either way, I think you should just go.” She nodded toward the door. “I’ve got a business to run.”

  Rick backed away from the counter, keeping his eyes on the hammer. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, puffing his cheeks in a sign of defeat. “You’re right,” he said. “I haven’t been completely honest.”

  Donna tapped the hammer on the counter and said, “Yet you’re still standing in my office.”

  “Look,” Rick said, pointing at the photo. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to that guy.”

  “So you said. But I don’t know anything about it, so. . .” She aimed the hammer at the door.

  “I know, but, see, the thing is, I don’t think you’re being completely honest with me either.”

  “You can think whatever you damn well please,” Donna said. “But you best go think it somewhere else.”

  “All right, look, I’m just gonna put my cards on the table,” Rick said. “When I’m done you can tell me to leave and I’ll go. Or we can talk. But I think we might be able to help each other.”

  Donna tensed at the suggestion. For a moment, it looked as if she might swing the hammer. “I have gotten this far in my life without any of your help,” she said. “I suspect I can go on just fine without it.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Rick said. “But at least hear me out.” He picked up the photo of Captain Jack. “I think this man’s been killed.” He paused before he said, “And I think there might be a connection between that and your fire at Moore Furniture.”

  “You son of a bitch.” Donna raised the hammer and shook it at Rick, leading with the blade. “I did not burn down my store! You hear me?” She brought the hammer down on the counter, startling Rick. “Who the hell you think you are?” She raised the hammer, threatening Rick as she carried on. “That big redneck set the fire. And as far as I’m concerned, your friend’s just as much a criminal as the other one. So I not only hope that bastard is dead, I hope he suffered along the way!”

  “Whoa,” Rick said. “Back up! I didn’t say you burned it down.”

  “Oh.” This took her by surprise.

  “In fact, I’d bet you didn’t.”

  Donna paused, the hammer still raised by the side of her head “Oh yeah?” She lowered it a bit. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. But you might want to know that Clay Stubblefield is telling a different story.”

  Donna looked at her grip on the hickory handle and said, “Clay Stubblefield.” She started smacking the side of the blade into her palm, like an irritated cop with a night stick. “I shoulda known.” She exhaled the way people do when they’re about to let go of something they’ve been holding too long. “It’s that goddamn tape, isn’t it? Now you’ve got it.” There was defeat in her voice when she said, “Christ a’mighty.” She tossed the hammer onto the counter and threw her hands in the air. “What do you want? Huh? There’s nothing left in the kitty. Your friend cleaned me out already.” She gave a rueful shake of the head. “I gave at the office.”

  “First of all,” Rick said, “the guy wasn’t my friend, okay? Second, I’m not trying to shake you down, so relax.”

  “Well, you’d be the first.” Donna gave up on her tough gal routine. She dragged the bar stool over and sat on it. “So what do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “Like what? You want the details of my sex life? You want pictures or something?”

  “No. I really don’t care who you have sex with or where you have it. Unless it’s got something to do with Jack Carter’s disappearance.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Fine. So that brings us to the part about Clay Stubblefield telling people he thinks you burned down your business.”

  “Which I didn’t.”

  “I believe you,” Rick said. “But Captain Boggs said the fire was arson. So if you didn’t set the fire, I’m thinking you know who did.”

  “Maybe I do,” Donna said. “But how is that supposed to help me?”

  “I don’t know,” Rick admitted.

  “Can I trust you?”

  “You don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d believe a man if he said you could.”

  She nodded and said, “So where does that leave us?”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  34.

  Donna’s husband said she was crazy, said she didn’t need to work, said he made plenty of money and why did she need to go out and embarrass him that way, making it look like he couldn’t ta
ke care of his family? But that missed the point as far as Donna was concerned. She had to make something for herself. So, armed with ambition and nineteen years of retail sales and management experience, Donna Moore put together her own business plan and took out a loan. She found the perfect space in the Three Pines Shopping Center, redesigned and decorated the interior, and opened Moore Furniture.

  As with all retail businesses, the first year was a struggle. Donna frequently put in eighty-hour weeks, sometimes without pay, and rarely with her husband’s moral support. But things worked out. Business picked up during the first quarter of her second year. Still, Donna thought she could do better. She realized she needed to advertise, but she couldn’t afford TV. So she tried radio. She called different stations and got their rate cards and claims of demographic superiority.

  Donna was trying to decide where to put her money when Clay Stubblefield walked into her life. He was the first salesman to show up in person, and sell he did. Clay told Donna they could make Moore Furniture a household name in Deckern County and he sold her a run on both the AM and the FM sides. After a few weeks, Donna began to see positive results. So she started to buy more time and Clay started taking her to lunch to thank her for being one of his best accounts.

  And Clay kept selling. In addition to ad time, he also sold Donna on how attractive she was and how her husband didn’t seem to appreciate what a fine, smart, independent, and pardon me for saying so, sexy woman he had on his hands. Donna bought it all and they started having an affair. It started off with a weekend at a fancy hotel in New Orleans but that didn’t last. After a few months, Clay started dropping by the store to tear off nooners and sell a little more ad time. Not long after that, he broke things off and a junior member of the sales staff started making the monthly calls. Donna chalked it up as the inevitable conclusion to an affair with a good old boy like Clay. She had to admit though, he had made it easy to say good-bye. At the start of their affair Clay would say things like,“I want to make love to you all night.” Four months later his idea of amour was saying, “Just bend over, I only need a minute.”