by Bill Hopkins
he’s come to talk to Johnny Dan, who’s been out of pocket for a couple of days earlier this week. Purvis says he’s from Little Rock and never been to Bollinger County before. How could he know Johnny Dan?”
“They’re not buzzards. They’re actually—” Ollie stopped himself. “That’s a mighty strange coincidence.”
“Mighty strange,” Rosswell allowed. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday afternoon
“Where to now, Sherlock?” Ollie’s mannerisms also included references to Rosswell’s detecting ability, which Rosswell thought was way better than Ollie’s. And, since Ollie called Rosswell “Sherlock,” then the snitch was on the judge’s side, and Rosswell told him so.
“This means you’re helping me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Ollie said. “I’ll tag along for a while. Keep my name out of it when Frizz starts smacking you around.”
“I’m not in on this case. I’m just asking questions to satisfy my own curiosity.”
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba come to pay my respects to King Solomon.”
“Back to Merc’s.” Rosswell patted his stomach. “I’m hungry.”
He ordered tuna on whole wheat with lettuce and sweet pickles, just like his momma made, although he didn’t recall her sticking parsley sprigs on the plate. Ollie ordered the same.
“What’s this for?” Rosswell said, chomping the sprig. “Parsley has no smell, weak taste, and looks like a weed.”
“Some say that French chefs placed it on the customer’s plate, signifying that the chef guaranteed satisfaction. Others say that parsley is good for your breath and digestion. Another school of thought—”
“I’m sorry I asked.” A slight belch escaped before Rosswell could tamp it down. “Hermie said he saw a white Cadillac around the time of the murder.”
“Was he sober?”
“He was sober enough to spot a white Caddy with a big driver. Do you know anyone who drives a car like that?”
Ollie chewed on his parsley while he rubbed his head. “Yeah. That Rasmussen guy. The con artist. Turtles. Let’s see who else. Ambrosia Forcade, the shyster. Susan Bitti, furniture lady. Do I win the prize?”
“How about Trisha Reynaud, the banker?”
“Right. Okay, so what?”
“Find out if any of them are missing. And anyone else who owns a white Cadillac in this county.”
“Easy. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours.”
Rosswell didn’t ask, because he didn’t want to know whose computers Ollie would hack into.
Drinking the sludge after finishing the meal, Rosswell inventoried the other patrons. No one popped up with a MURDERER sign on his, her, or its forehead. He was supposed to interview more people but wasn’t clear about whom he was supposed to collar and hit with a bunch of questions. This detective business made his stomach hurt. Or perhaps it was the overdose of caffeine mixed with Merc’s tuna sandwich.
A few people stopped by their table and chatted.
One of them, Nadine Blessing, a redheaded real estate agent that Rosswell guessed to be about thirty or thirty-five, pointed to Rosswell and Ollie. “How’re you gentlemen this afternoon?” She was the one Rosswell had seen in Merc’s yesterday with the young couple. Her late husband, he now remembered, used to run a truck stop out on the main highway.
The purse she carried was a brighter orange than Rosswell’s car and larger than his briefcase. And calling them gentlemen? Her inventory of real estate must’ve been higher than a kite circling in the hot air of a political convention. She was flattering them, trying to butter them up so she could sell some land or maybe a nice house or two.
Rosswell returned her point. “Real good, Nadine. How’s it going with you?”
Although she was a big woman, Rosswell found her attractive in a Dale
Evans kind of way. Several years ago, he had bought a couple of pieces of vacant land from her for investment purposes. She’d seemed competent and honest enough without the slightest trace of murderous rage. Will Rogers advised buying real estate. He bought it, he said, “for the sole reason that there was only so much of it and no more, and that they wasn’t making any more.” Made sense to Rosswell.
“Up and down.” Nadine peered over her shoulder, then turned back to them. “The real estate market is always going sky high or dirt low.” Her hands flew up, then fell down. “You try to even it out.” She demonstrated a leveling gesture with her left hand—palm down, moving back and forth—before she searched Merc’s with her eyes darting every which way. Maybe she was trying to spot more potential customers. Rosswell noted she wore several rings. He wondered if she’d lost any lately.
Ollie said, “Is your car for sale?” Ollie didn’t ask idle questions. He was fishing, too.
Nadine chuckled and pointed to herself. “Honey, everything I got’s for sale.” Rosswell hoped she wouldn’t try to sell herself to Ollie. His genes were already spread out enough in the pool.
Rosswell’s sling was binding up on his arm. He rearranged it several different ways.
She said, “I heard you ran into a couple of nasty guys.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rosswell said. “It was a close one.”
The rumors were getting better. Now it was two bad guys after Rosswell. Ollie rubbed his head. “I’m in the market for a car. May I look at yours?”
“Yes, oh, yes.”
They all paid their bills and headed to the parking lot to inspect Nadine’s silver Buick Regal with 16-inch wheels.
“Nice car,” Rosswell said, regretting such a lame statement as soon as it passed his teeth. A peace symbol decorated a bumper sticker that proclaimed SAVE THE EARTH. The sentiment was noble, although he’d like to see the plan.
Ollie first checked out the interior, then lowered himself to the ground, slid under the car, and scoped out its belly. “How much do you want?” he said, his voice muffled.
“Fourteen K,” Nadine said. “I keep a diary, and part of what I document is every single thing I do to this car. Oil changes, tire rotations, even gas fill ups.”
Fourteen K? That sounds like the name of a supermarket. It also sounds like a mighty high price for a used Buick Regal.
“It’s clean as a baby’s whistle,” Nadine added, “and has four brand-new tires.”
Ollie scooted out from under the car and perused the interior again. After the scrutiny, he said, “Can you pop the trunk?”
She did. The trunk was spotless except for a small cardboard box full of odds and ends. Rosswell noted that Nadine had a bottle of the same kind of hand cleaner that Johnny Dan had. Fast Orange.
Ollie said, “Thanks. I’ll get back with you.”
Nadine said, “Yes, oh, yes!” After a little wave, she drove off.
When the pair was seated inside Merc’s again, Ollie said, “That car’s been detailed lately. Even the tires smell of ArmorAll. If she used it in a murder, it’s been wiped clean since. And the tires are new. Our tire impressions might be worthless.”
“Our tire impressions?”
Ollie squeaked a high frequency squeak. “I meant Frizz’s tire impressions.”
Ribs Freshwater sidled up to the table. “Y’all alone?” Rosswell didn’t know if Ribs had a real name. He got his nickname from his skinniness. Where he got Levi’s and blue work shirts skinny enough to fit him Rosswell didn’t know. He’d never seen Ribs dressed any other way. Ribs claimed he was a full blooded Cherokee. He wore his long black hair in a ponytail and, adding in his ruddy complexion, he fit the image of a Native American.
“Sit down,” Rosswell said.
Ribs stood tall. Would that fit Hermie’s description of “big”? He’d have to ask the ranger. Up to that point, the worst thing in Rosswell’s mind that Ribs had done was buy a silver Lexus, let it get dirty, and then let it get dirtier. Where he got the dough for such a fancy ride, Rosswell didn’t know. Ribs wasn’t old enough to retire and live off prudent investments. He h
ad to be working somewhere in order to support a Lexus. Ribs, about the same age as Nadine and Johnny Dan, was wiry and strong. Rosswell figured he had some kind of manual work as an occupation.
“Ribs,” Rosswell said, “how’s your job going?”
“What job?”
Ollie grabbed the uptake. “You don’t work anywhere?”
“Hell, I got lots of work.” Ribs—despite his age—cackled like an old man. “I just don’t have a job.”
Rosswell said, “What is it you work at?”
“That’s a good question,” Ribs admitted. “I got so many disguises I don’t know myself.”
Mabel appeared, gracing Ollie and Rosswell with the dirty stares again. “I thought y’all left.”
Ollie said, “Honey, we’re back.”
Ribs blinked rapidly. “Honey?”
Ollie said, “It’s a long story.” He scratched his head instead of rubbing it. Maybe he was going through the change of life. “Coffee.”
Rosswell said, “The usual.”
Mabel said, “Y’all are going to die of caffeine poisoning.”
Ribs cackled again. “Then let me have what they’re having. I want to be high when I die.” Ribs’ face turned serious. “Judge, I meant a caffeine high. Not, you know, drugs.”
“I’m not sitting here looking for business.” Rosswell lied. Of course he was snooping around for business. He didn’t want anyone to know that searching for criminals was high on his possible to-do list for the day. And the fact that caffeine was a drug was something Rosswell decided not to present to Ribs.
Mabel scurried off.
Ollie said, “Ribs, I heard you were in Memphis a couple of days