crap,” Rosswell said, rubbing his face. He could still smell the corpses. He suspected that he smelled like them also. “I need to stand in a shower for a couple of hours.” His eyes were more blood-shot than usual.
Without asking him, the waitress brought his standing order, a 20-ounce cup of the strongest coffee this side of New Orleans. He snagged the sugar jar and shook it, working the lumps loose, stirring ferociously.
Ollie said, “The coffee danged near melted the spoon.”
“The way I like it.” The coffee was blacker than midnight on a cloudy night at new moon and thick enough to need two hands for stirring. Rosswell heaped in sugar until the jar ran empty and the liquid became syrupy. The brew smelled sweeter than an angel. He dipped his forefinger in the boiling sludge, then touched it to his tongue.
The waitress tapped her pencil on her order pad. “Anything else?”
Rosswell said, “No, thanks.” He waited for her to leave before he spoke to Ollie. Without so much as a You’re welcome, she sauntered off. Her manners ranked right down there with Ollie’s. Rosswell would’ve crossed her off his Christmas card list, but he didn’t send Christmas cards.
A large man stomped through the front door and barreled for the waitress. He spoke to her and, although Rosswell couldn’t hear what he said, the man didn’t sound happy. The waitress replied and the man grabbed her arm. Merc stormed from the kitchen and yelled at the man, “Get the hell out of here. She’s busy.”
The waitress said, “It’s nothing, Merc. He’s okay.” The man left without another word.
Rosswell said to Ollie, “What the holy crap was that all about? Is that guy stalking her?”
Ollie pointed to Rosswell’s cup. “That stuff will kill you.” When Ollie didn’t want to talk about something, he changed the subject. Rosswell knew better than to try working any information out of his snitch. It had to come voluntarily or not at all.
“Wrong.” Roswell stirred and stirred. “Cancer will get me before this stuff gets a chance.”
“Judge Carew, you’re mighty cheerful today.” Ollie’s nose twitched. Another mouse-like attribute. “Have you had a bad day?”
They weren’t within earshot of anyone. “We had a little problem this morning.” The coffee needed more sugar, which Rosswell filched from the adjoining table.
Ollie’s eyes searched the area around them. Rosswell scanned as well. Nearby, but out of earshot, were ten to twelve other patrons. A real estate agent, whose name—was it Nadine?—escaped Rosswell, talked to a young man and woman that Rosswell supposed might be buying a house from her. Across from her at another table, Gerald Somebody, a farmer, sat chowing down with his pimply son. Some tourists were scattered inside the place. Three giggling teenage girls sat in one corner drinking Cokes.
Rosswell assured himself that no one was paying any attention to him and Ollie. Apparently, Ollie had decided no one was listening either. The patrons at Merc’s had long ago stopped going goggle-eyed when Ollie and Rosswell sat together. Strange people attract their own kind. That’s probably what the patrons thought when they spied the two of them together.
Ollie rubbed the tattoo on his head, then wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “You mean losing the bodies out at Foggy Top?”
Rosswell wondered if he did that head rubbing thing for good luck. Or wisdom. Or maybe his noggin just itched.
Rosswell stirred the sludge and then took a tiny sip. Pouring in a touch more sugar made it better. A dash of salt made it perfect. He took a big swallow. It burned all the way down. The caffeine and sugar began to work their magic. The buzz he needed revved up his brain.
“How do you hear about stuff so quick?” he asked Ollie.
“Why did you want to talk if you didn’t think I knew something?” Ollie countered.
Rosswell gave Ollie his heartless glower. Sometimes it was hard for Rosswell to look at Ollie. Ugly? The best that Rosswell could say about Ollie was that he resembled a giant, hairless rat. Ollie didn’t succumb to the heartless glower. Rosswell figured his lack of caffeine diminished its effect.
“Ollie, are you going to tell me or do we have to dance all day?”
Ollie whispered, “You want to know how I know all that stuff?”
“Yes,” Rosswell said, also in a whisper. “That’s what I asked you.”
No one paid them any attention, yet if two grown men kept whispering to each other, they’d eventually raise eyebrows.
“We have an agreement that I don’t have to divulge my sources.” Rosswell leaned close to Ollie. “Make an exception.”
Ollie nodded, pointing his head toward the waitress. “Her.”
Rosswell took a gander over at the mousy woman Ollie pointed out. Mabel Yolanda Smothers. She wouldn’t bother the Miss America people much, what with her bad skin and stringy hair.
“I think,” Ollie said, still whispering, “she’s my daughter.”
“Cut the crap.”
“I’m not shitting you.” Ollie wasn’t whispering now, but his voice was still low, as was Rosswell’s.
“Why,” Rosswell said, “do you think that sweet girl would be any kin to you? You don’t know?”
“Her momma and I were. . . .” Ollie stared down at his own beverage.
“Were what?”
He looked up at Rosswell. “Close.”
“Does Mabel know that you think you’re her daddy?”
“She knows everything. I told her that I’m proud of her. She takes after her momma. She’s never been in jail.”
“That’s an accomplishment to be proud of.”
A low hum came from Ollie, which Rosswell took as a squeak precursor.
“Smothers,” Rosswell said. “Her momma’s the nurse, Benita Smothers?”
Ollie swigged a long drink of ice water. “I’m pretty sure.”
“You’re pretty sure Benita is her mother or that she’s your kid?”
“Maybe.”
Rosswell really wanted to discuss the disappearing bodies, not Ollie’s possible contribution to the gene pool of Bollinger County, but he had no choice. “That doesn’t tell me why you think Mabel Yolanda Smothers is your daughter.” Ollie had a way of roping a conversation and pulling it his way. If Rosswell didn’t like it, Ollie clammed up.
“Her momma told me.”
“Right,” Rosswell said, giving up. Trying to pry information out of Ollie was like catching flies blindfolded. Rosswell inspected Mabel as casually as he could. “Did Mabel tell you about the bodies?”
“Yeah, I already said that.”
“She told you because you’re her daddy?”
“You’re on track.”
“How did she find out?”
“I told Mabel I was her daddy.” Rosswell removed his glasses, covered his face with his hands, and breathed deeply. All the times he’d been in Merc’s, the thought that Mabel was possibly related to a hairless human rat had never crossed his busy mind. How many more relatives did Ollie have scratching around here? Rosswell didn’t want that conversation with him now.
Rosswell replaced his glasses. “No, I mean about the bodies. How did she know about the bodies?”
“No secrets in Bollinger County.” Ollie started with the rodent grinning. “If you think you know someone else’s secret, then you head to Merc’s and spill your guts.”
“And the reason you never told me before that Mabel’s your daugter?”
“It didn’t seem important before. She’s never had any really good info until now.”
“I need your help.”
Ollie grinned more but said nothing.
“Frizz is swamped. He can’t handle the investigation by himself, whether he wanted to admit it or not.”
I know everyone in the county and remember most of their names. Some of their names. Some of the time. I’m essential. My mushroom hunting can be shunted aside for however long it takes. My docket is clear. I’m on vacation.
Rosswell said, “I need to help Frizz. Two bodies. That’s never happened b
efore in Bollinger County.”
Ollie shook his head. “No way. I’m not in the mood to piss off the sheriff.”
Rosswell gritted his teeth. Ollie had been drifting around for the last few months in one of his periodic bouts of sobriety. He knew more about esoteric stuff than Rosswell did. Ollie made the trivia sites on the Internet look like something that stupid third graders had cobbled together. Add to that he knew how to work computers and Rosswell didn’t, and you then had a guy who could be useful to Rosswell for the investigation. Useful? Try essential.
“Ollie, I can pay you.”
“I’m making lots of money off my computer consulting business, thank you very much.”
Someone, Rosswell couldn’t tell who, dropped a load of dishes, the crash reverberating through the restaurant. Merc yelled. A couple of customers laughed.
Rosswell said, “Think of the intellectual challenge.” Ollie held a Mensa membership. Mensans were noted puzzle aficionados. There was no way he could pass up an intellectual challenge. “It would be a great intellectual challenge. You could help me find the guy who killed two people.”
“The only intellectual challenge I currently have and the only one I need is my study of the Book of Revelation. I’m writing a complete study about the prophecies.”
“You don’t care that two people got murdered?”
Ollie stared at Rosswell for a long time without saying a word. Had Rosswell offended Ollie? After a couple of minutes, Ollie said, “None of my business.”
“There’s nothing I can say to convince you to help me?”
“Not a thing.” He half squeaked and gurgled a mousy half laugh. “But we’ll still be friends.” Now he was