by Ben Rehder
Donna flashed a satisfied grin. “Told you,” she said. “What’d you find?”
Before Rick could answer, Traci said, “Well, first of all, Clay didn’t get a W-9 form from the winner.”
“However, he did say that he’d given one to DeWayne to mail back to us.”
This was news to Traci. “When did he say that?”
“This afternoon,” Rick said. “Just after he pointed a shotgun at me and told me I should mind my own business.”
Traci’s jaw dropped. “What? Here at the station? Are you kidding?”
Rick shook his head. “Said he was getting ready for ‘coon season and, oh, by the way there’s no need for me to worry about the W-9 form that we don’t have on file.”
Donna seemed skeptical. She said, “Is the missing tax form all you have? ‘Cause he’s got till the end of the year to fix that.”
“There’s more,” Traci said. “You know that little short girl who pulled the names out of the barrel?”
“Also known as Joni Lang,” Rick said.
“Well, she’s not tall, is she?”
Rick held up his hands, surrendering the point.
Traci continued by saying, “Well, little Miss Loblolly Pine said she saw Clay palm the name she handed him and then call out that other name. After that she saw Clay throw out the real winner’s name and she went and got it out of the trash.”
“Okay, so he’s probably not declaring the money,” Donna said. “What’s that, tax fraud?”
“That’s what the IRS is gonna call it,” Rick said. “Add to that his failure to fully disclose material terms of the contest–”
“Like the fact that Clay fixed it?”
“That’s the kind of thing the FCC will be interested in.”
“Okay, so we’ve got two federal agencies interested in Clay’s shenanigans,” Donna said. “How does that help us find out what happened to Holly?”
“Well, I’ve got a theory,” Rick said. “It occurred to me after I went out to DeWayne’s house and found a red Corvette that had been painted black.” He looked at Traci. “Did your friend call?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, when he does, I bet the VIN number has Jack Carter’s name attached to it.”
Donna looked confused and sounded frustrated. “Which has what to do with Holly?”
“According to my theory, it’s part of the payoff,” Rick said. “Actually two payoffs, one for killing your friend and one for killing Captain Jack.”
“Wait a second,” Donna said. “All you can prove is the contest was fixed and that DeWayne Ragsdale got a car improperly.”
“Not just any car,” Rick said. “Captain Jack’s car.”
“Is that it?”
“Yeah, until this afternoon when I found a body buried in the woods.”
62.
“I only saw the top of the skull,” Rick said. “I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.”
“So we don’t know if it’s either one of them,” Donna said.
“True, but the body’s a thousand yards from where Captain Jack lived, so I think the odds are good it’s him.”
“Well, I hope it is,” Donna said. “Bastard deserved whatever he got.”
“What he got was one in the hat,” Rick said. “I’m not sure how you measure what that’s worth.”
“If it is Captain Jack,” Traci said, “it makes you wonder if, I mean, if they did kill Holly? It makes you wonder if she’s buried out there, too.”
“I can rent you a backhoe if you wanna go digging around,” Donna said.
“I don’t think that’s our best idea,” Rick said. “The body and whatever’s around it is likely to have the only evidence we’re gonna find. We’ve got to bring in somebody who knows what they’re doing. And it has to be somebody who’s not drinking buddies with the suspects.”
Donna said, “Yeah, Clay used to brag that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get into any trouble in this town. I think they played football together or something.” She shook her head. “What is it about guys bonding over violence and showering together?”
“We’ll be sure to have the prosecutor ask that at trial,” Rick said. “Meanwhile, we need to find out if the Deckern County Sheriff is part of the good old boys’ club. And if he is, we’ll have to go elsewhere like a DA’s office or–”
“The MBI,” Donna said. “Mississippi Bureau of Investigation.” Rick and Traci looked at her. Donna just shrugged. “I looked into it after that son of a bitch burned down my store, but I never called.”
Rick mixed from the Traffic to the War as the three of them discussed how to proceed. Traci would follow up on the VIN number and Donna would find out what she could about the Deckern County Sheriff’s politics and affiliations. Rick would research the DA and the MBI.
Donna and Traci left the studio around ten. Rick finished up his shift with an unlikely mix of Nazz and Manassas. Hello It’s Me flowed nicely into Bound to Lose which in turn went well into Couldn’t I Just Tell You which ended cold with a flurry of drum licks that matched with the drum and cowbell intro of It Doesn’t Matter. Anyone who knew the Manassas record had the natural expectation that Johnny’s Garden would come automatically after It Doesn’t Matter in a whoosh of cymbals, guitars, and percussion. Trading on that expectation, Rick went into Letters Don’t Count by Nazz which Rick started at the last break in the song’s glass harp intro.
At about five minutes before midnight, Uncle Victor walked into the studio with more verve than Rick had ever seen. “What are you playing next?” He seemed insistent and agitated as he moved to the wall of albums, searching for something.
“No idea,” Rick said. “I was thinking–”
Uncle Victor found the record he wanted and pulled it. “Please,” he said. “I have an idea.”
Rick stepped from behind the board and made a sweeping doorman’s gesture. “After you,” he said.
At the end of Letters Don’t Count, Uncle Victor went to the Rascals, mixing the glass harp close of the Nazz song into the chirping bird sound effects intro of It’s a Beautiful Morning. It was perfect.
Rick gave him a round of applause. “Very nice,” he said.
“It was the least I could do,” Uncle Victor said as he cued up his next song. “Had someone told me I could do such a set mixing Stills and Rundgren, I would have heaped scorn upon them. But I would have been wrong.” He turned and put his hands together like a monk then bowed in Rick’s direction. “You are a master.”
Under normal circumstances, this rare compliment from the proprietor of the Wax Museum might have sent Rick home with a satisfied grin. But after being threatened with a shotgun and stumbling across a dead body, Rick just shrugged and said thanks.
63.
Rick found out there were twenty-two district attorneys spread throughout the state, each with a criminal investigator on staff. Under the Department of Public Safety, the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation divided the state into three sectors, each with a regional supervisor. These regions were further broken down into nine districts, each run by a district lieutenant. The MBI ran the Special Operations and Major Crimes Unit, running covert operations and providing surveillance for themselves and other agencies. Most important to Rick, the MBI was authorized to initiate investigations concerning any type of criminal activity.
He called Donna Moore. “The Deckern County sheriff is an elected position,” she said. “Whereas the head of the McRae Police Department is appointed.”
“Ahhh,” Rick said. “So Chief Dinkins has a loyalty issue beyond Clay Stubblefield.”
“Yeah, to the extent that he owes his job to Clay’s friend the mayor, instead of the citizens of McRae. But Sheriff Terry Jackson might have loyalty issues as well,” Donna said, “having once been in the employ of Chief Dinkins.”
“Hmmm. So what’s your sense of it? Can we trust the Sheriff?”
“Don’t know,” Donna said. “People I talked to didn’t tell me any
thing to indicate we couldn’t, nobody remembers if Dinkins endorsed Jackson’s campaign or not, but you know how the old boy network operates with all that back-scratching. I guess I’d be more inclined to go with a DA or theMBI or anybody not directly tied into the local scene.”
“I think you’re right,” Rick said. “I’ll let you know who I talk to.”
When he got to the station, Traci told him that she’d heard from her friend. As expected, the VIN numbers matched. The car at DeWayne’s house was Captain Jack’s. “He also said somebody went to the trouble of making it look like DeWayne had bought the car at auction, even though it was never on the block.”
Just then, they heard the door to Clay’s office close followed by the jingle of his keys as he locked it. He came into the lobby and saw Rick. “Hey, did you ever find that damn carport?”
“Nope,” Rick said. “And I looked all over those woods, too.”
“Damn.” Clay scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. “Well, if it’s gone it’s gone.” He crossed to Traci’s desk and looked at his phone messages but didn’t take any of them as he headed for the door. “All right, I’m outta here,” he said. “Got a meetin’ on the coast. Be back tomorrow afternoon.”
Rick watched Clay get into his car and drive off. He turned to Traci. “How often does he go out of town for these little meetings?”
“More often than his lovely wife approves of,” Traci said. “Why?”
64.
The Stubblefields lived in a five thousand square foot colonial in the Big Pine Lake subdivision. Rick drove past the house a couple of times before calling. It was a little after six and one of the kids answered. “Hi,” Rick said. “Is your dad home?”
“No sir. But my mom is,” the kid said.
“Hello? I think I’m losing. . . my cell. . . I’m just . . . try back. . . closer.” Rick ended the call, drove around the corner, and pulled into their driveway. As he approached the front door, he realized that his truck, with half the paint stripped off by the hail storm, looked like it might belong to someone wanting yardwork. After ringing the bell Rick stood there gazing at the front lawn, wondering what Clay paid for maintenance. A few moments passed before he heard the click of high heels crossing the foyer.
Lori Stubblefield answered the door wearing a two-piece outfit of cream colored linen and innuendo. She had a drink in her hand and, based on her expression, Rick figured it wasn’t her first of the evening.
“Well, well, well.” She leaned against the door jamb and sipped her drink before tipping her glass toward him, saying, “Rick, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” He smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to have a gun, would you?”
She snickered at that. “What, now you wanna be put out of your misery? You haven’t been in this town long enough.” She hoisted her drink. “But I can offer you one of these.” Rick shook his head and she lowered her glass. “No, that’s right,” she said. “You don’t drink until the last hour of your show.” Lori stepped aside, gesturing for Rick to come in. “I’m afraid Clay’s not here,” she said, closing the door behind him.
“I know. He’s on one of his business trips.” Rick said ‘business’ in the same dubious tone he’d heard Lori use it the other day. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh my,” she said. “That sort of comment could mean so many things.” She waved for him to follow her into the living room. “You sure I can’t get you a drink? Maybe a small one?”
Rick hesitated before he said, “Got a cold beer?” He thought she might be more inclined to talk if he joined her in her hobby.
Lori smiled. “You want a glass with that?”
“No, bottle’s fine. Or can, whatever.”
Rick’s cell phone started to ring as Lori disappeared into the kitchen. He looked at the screen and saw the call was from Traci. He decided to let it go to voice mail. A moment later, Lori returned with a cold Dixie in a bottle. “I must say I am intrigued by your visit,” she said. “I don’t get a lot of men callers these days. Certainly not as many as I’d like.” She sipped her drink. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Mrs. Stubblefield–”
“Please, call me Lori.”
“Fine. Lori. I’m not sure it’s going to be much of a pleasure. So I hope you don’t mind if I just get right to the point.”
“By all means. The intrigue is about to kill me.”
Rick shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with himself and what he had in mind. He never would have considered doing this except that he could hear the clock ticking. He was afraid someone would discover the body and contact the McRae Police Department and the whole thing would be swept under the rug. There was also the matter of Rick not being able to think of anyone else who might know anything useful about Clay. “Listen,” he said, “I wouldn’t want your children to hear any of this. Are they . . .” He made a gesture to inquire as to their location. “. . .around?”
Lori’s expression changed as she sensed Rick’s seriousness. “They’re upstairs,” she said as she put down her drink. “Would this by chance have anything to do with my philandering husband?” Rick must have blushed or done something equally telling because Lori suddenly seemed amused. “Oh don’t worry about trying to spare my feelings.” She ran her hand over her hair. “I know I married poorly. I know Clay sleeps around and I suspect he’s involved in all sorts of things he shouldn’t be.” She gestured around the spacious room. “I’m not so naive as to think the general manager of a pissant radio station could afford this home.”
Rick took a big swallow of the Dixie, hoping to wash the bad taste from his mouth. He wasn’t looking forward to this but he didn’t see any good options. He took a moment to choose his words before he said, “I know this private investigator, name of Buddy Miles. A series of events not worth reciting led him to a tape recording of a phone conversation which put him onto a missing persons case. After some investigation, he concluded that Clay might be involved.”
Lori looked down at her empty glass for a moment before she said, “And how is it I can help your friend?”
65.
Lori fixed herself another drink and asked what was on the tape.
Rick pulled a cassette from his pocket. “You want to hear it?”
“No, a summary will suffice.”
Rick told her the whole story. He didn’t mention Lisa’s or Donna’s names and Lori didn’t ask. She sat there listening as if she were too polite to tell Rick that this was a story she’d already heard. If her expression changed at all, it was to make her seem less burdened.
But her face darkened as Rick told her about Bernie Dribbling and how Captain Jack mysteriously disappeared. It darkened further when he told her about Holly Creel’s loan and how she was missing, too. Rick ticked off the evidence one piece after another. Lori couldn’t see the whole thing but she seemed pretty good at making inferences and drawing conclusions. After a moment she asked Rick what he thought had happened and he told her.
Lori sat there for a moment after Rick finished. She stared into the middle distance as she considered her future in light of her past. After a little while she stood and crossed the room. She fixed herself another drink and came back to the sofa. “Do you happen to know the law on tape recordings like that?”
“I know a little,” Rick said. “Just what I picked up from Buddy.”
“Do you know if a tape like that is . . . admissible?”
“Like in divorce court?”
“Like that.”
Rick thought about it for a moment then said, “Well, one part of the statute said it was a felony for anyone other than law enforcement to disclose the contents for any reason other than testifying under oath in a court proceeding.” Rick shrugged. “I’m not a lawyer but that last part makes it sound like it would be admissible.”
Lori nodded her head slowly. “I tell you what,” she said. “For a copy of that tape? I can fill in a couple of your blanks.”
Rick gave
her a cassette. Lori held it in her palm, her fingers closing around it as if it were the key to a magic kingdom. Then she said, “Let me show you where Clay keeps his guns.”
66.
Rick didn’t know if it was the liquor, the relief of confession, or a combination of the two, but once Lori Stubblefield started talking she found it hard to stop. Rick believed her when she said that the things she’d seen and heard were so removed from their context that they didn’t mean anything to her. In her next breath she admitted that she must have known they were up to no good, but what was she going to do, ask for details? But after four drinks and some context, Lori told Rick what she knew. It was more than he could reasonably have expected, though it didn’t answer all the questions and there were still things that had to be proved.
Rick left the Stubblefield residence about twenty minutes to eight. He figured that was enough time to make it to the station. He took the back route to avoid university traffic. But he didn’t count on a freight train and there was no way around it. He sat there for a few moments before he killed his engine. There was no telling how long he’d be there. Rick watched the piggybacks creeping down the track and after a while he realized he was counting them. Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four. . . He glanced at his watch and picked up his cell phone. He called Autumn on the hot line and said, “Freight train got me. I’ll be there as soon as the Illinois Central lets me.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll start playing train songs.”
He hung up, then called Traci. When she answered he said, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
She made a sexy little cat noise then said, “Hey, where’ve you been? I tried calling and I got your voice mail.”