Billy Dan supported Ricky while propelling her to his Ranger. He stopped, opened and then held the door. Ricky winced, then climbed in gingerly. He dashed around to the driver’s side, started the truck and sped away in a shower of gravel.
Randolph studied his cell phone and shook his head. “No signal.” He stepped around Rhetta to study the ground under the window and then the gash where a bullet had punctured the metal side of the garage. “Why would anyone be shooting at you? And who could it have been?” He squatted and studied the hole. “Looks like someone used a hunting rifle. Maybe they were target shooting from farther up the ridge, and the bullets went astray. That happens out here in the country.” He stood and then examined the window.
“After the shooting I saw someone walking around the building, gripping a hand gun. Looked like a .38. Then he walked around the garage, and left. I didn’t see what he was driving.” Rhetta joined Randolph in the examination. “He shot at us when we were on the window ledge first. It’s a wonder we didn’t get cut to pieces.” With that, Rhetta found a stray piece of glass in her hair and plucked it out.
“Did you say you thought he had a .38?” Randolph stooped again to study the garage. He reached in his pocket for his pocketknife, then proceeded to dig out the spent bullet. “This isn’t from a .38, Rhetta.” He bounced the spent bullet in his hand. “This was shot from a hunting rifle, possibly a 30-06.”
Rhetta shook her head. “I don’t understand. The guy I saw definitely had a handgun. He held it in both hands like they do on those TV cop shows.” Rhetta pointed to the marks in the dirt under the window ledge. “He also stood right here and tried to jump up to look into the window but was too short.” They both studied the shoe prints in the dusty earth near the garage. Rhetta examined the bottom of her sneakers, then pointed to some patterns. “I think those are our footprints, mine and Ricky’s where stood before we climbed in. But look here.” She pointed to boot tracks that circled the garage. “See? That’s where he walked around the garage. These have to be his boot tracks.” They both examined the prints. They were made by a foot no larger than Rhetta’s size 7, which she proved by standing alongside one of the impressions.
“Mighty small feet for a man,” Randolph said.
“Then maybe it wasn’t a man, but a woman!” Rhetta stood under the window. “Come here, Randolph and stand by me.” He did.
“I’m pretty short so if I want to see in, I can barely get my chin up to the window sill. But you can look in. You’re taller than me.” She reached up and patted the window ledge. “Whoever stood here was jumping up to see who might be in the garage.” She whirled around to face Randolph. “Whoever was here was as short as me. Whoever was here was a small woman with a handgun. Who was the shooter? What the heck’s going on?”
Randolph checked his phone again. “Still nothing. I guess we’re too far out for the tower. We’ll call the sheriff and report this as soon as we get a signal. We may have to come back out here. I’ll drive Ricky’s truck, if you’ll take the Artmobile. I’ll follow you to her campsite.”
“Why don’t you drive her truck to Billy Dan’s and I’ll follow you. We can leave it there.”
Rhetta climbed in behind the wheel of the Artmobile, and adjusted the seat, steering wheel and mirror. “I don’t exactly know where her campsite is, since we didn’t actually go by there on the way out here.”
Randolph leaned in to the driver’s side window. “Why am I not surprised?” He sighed, then ambled to Ricky’s truck. As he rummaged around the front seat, probably looking for the keys, which Ricky always tucked behind the overhead visor, Rhetta spotted a flash of red farther down the road. Her curiosity aroused, she stood on the running board of the Artmobile and peered down the gravel road that led away from the cabin, and on into the valley below. From here she could see a long ways, perhaps a mile. A cloud of dust rose as the vehicle flew around a curve. As it came out of the cloud, Rhetta spotted a red sports car.
She shouted at Randolph. “Get in with me, and leave Ricky’s truck. I think I just saw Mylene Allard’s car!”
Randolph made it to the truck in three strides. Rhetta shot out of the driveway as soon as he had the door shut. He fumbled to fasten his seat belt as she careened down the driveway and took a hard right on to the gravel road. She accelerated as fast as she dared. Thankfully, this way wasn’t as pothole-and boulder-strewn as the way she and Ricky had come. This gravel road was level and for now, at least, free of traffic.
“How do you know it’s her?” Randolph managed to get the belt fastened. He held on to the assist grip over the door to keep from knocking his head against the glass as Rhetta caromed down the county road.
“I only know of one red sports car like it. I’m pretty sure it was a Viper.”
Chapter 52
By the time Rhetta reached the highway, the red sports car had vanished. She stopped in a cloud of dust at the intersection of Highway 34 and the Old Dump Road, and pounded her palm on the steering wheel. “We lost her. She couldn’t have made it here this quickly.” Rhetta glanced up and down the only straight part of Highway 34. “I don’t see her.”
Randolph began dialing his cell phone, “I have three bars,” he announced as he dialed directly to the sheriff’s office. “I need Frizz, please,” he said pleasantly when the dispatcher answered, “Bollinger County Sheriff’s Department.” No hint of urgency in his voice. Unlike Rhetta, his calm manner always prevailed under stress.
Everyone called Sheriff Dodson “Frizz,” because of his unruly black curly hair that sprang out in all directions from his large square head. When Rhetta had once asked Randolph what the sheriff’s real name was, he confessed he couldn’t remember, and doubted if he’d ever known it. Frizz had been called Frizz since he was a kid growing up near Castor River. Randolph said his head was square back then, too.
After being on hold so long that Randolph had to check his phone to be sure the call was still connected, a frazzled-sounding Frizz picked up. Randolph switched on the speaker so Rhetta could hear the conversation.
“Dodson,” he grunted.
“Frizz, this is Randolph McCarter, and I’d like to report a shooting at Whispering Pines Lake. One person—”
Before he could finish, Frizz interrupted him. “Damn. Who got shot?”
“No one got shot, but my wife and her friend, Ricky Lane, were shot at.” Randolph emphasized the word “at.”
“Is anybody hurt?”
“Not from a bullet. Miss Lane, ah…well, she stumbled and hurt her ankle. My wife saw the shooter and would like to make a report. It happened at the Griffith cabin.”
“Griffith cabin, you say? Wasn’t that the fella your wife and Miss Lane found in that barn? What were you folks doin’ up to the cabin?”
When Randolph hesitated, Rhetta mouthed the words “real estate agent” at her husband.
“Miss Lane is a real estate agent in Cape County, and I believe she was looking to list the property.”
Rhetta nodded enthusiastically and held up both thumbs.
“Well, that’s pretty damn creepy, you ask me,” Dodson said. “First, she finds the remains, then she wants to list the property. Them real-a-tors in Cape got no respect for the dead.”
“I’m sorry, Frizz, but I’m not sure I make the connection. If you could come out to the property, you can see all of this for yourself, and we can get this report filed.”
Dodson grumbled something incoherent, then added. “Meet me there in half an hour.” Then he disconnected.
Rhetta leaned back against the leather seat. The air conditioning had finally gotten cool enough to suit her. She ran her fingers through her hair and found more debris. She examined a piece of twig, then tossed it out the window. “Guess we need to go back up to the cabin and get our story coordinated for the good sheriff.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Randolph said. “Please don’t blurt out what brought us up here in the first place. Let’s stick to the real estate s
tory.”
Rhetta nodded, put the Artmobile into reverse, and headed back to the cabin. Along the way she kept watching for the red sports car, sure that it couldn’t have made it all the way to the highway and zoomed off that quickly. They reached the driveway to the Griffith cabin without further sighting it. It seemed Mylene Allard had evaporated into thin air
.
Chapter 53
“I hope Billy Dan takes Ricky to the clinic in town. I know how stubborn she can be, and probably won’t want to admit her arm is broken, just so she won’t have to wear a cast.” Rhetta had climbed out of the Artmobile and was leaning against the front fender. She stuffed her hands into her pockets to prevent them from groping their way to the cigarettes in Ricky’s truck.
In her lust for cigarettes, she’d forgotten about the Baggie with the paint chips. She pulled it out and held it to Randolph. “Our whole escapade wasn’t in vain. Look at this.”
He reached for the Baggie.
“Those are paint chips from the front of the truck inside the shed.” Rhetta strolled over to the doorway they’d come out of, pocketed the padlock she’d cut and began closing the door. “I think this should be shut when the sheriff gets here.” The door slid into place just as she spotted dust billowing on the gravel road. She hurried over to stand by Randolph. He handed her the Baggie and she slipped it back into her pocket just as the approaching vehicle skidded down the driveway.
When it stopped, Sheriff Frizz Dodson heaved himself out of the passenger side of a battered white Chevy Tahoe bearing foot high black lettering on each front door that said, Bollinger County Sheriff. The lawman was wedged into a tan uniform shirt that bore large half-moons of sweat under the arms. His radio crackled from his shoulder and he paused, slapping at the transmitter to reply.
Sweat drizzled down his face as he lumbered toward them. “Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, swiveling his big head, taking in the surroundings. He wiped an absurdly oversized handkerchief across his wide forehead before stuffing it into his back pocket.
Randolph signaled for Rhetta to begin.
“My friend Ricky asked me to accompany her here because she wanted to try and get the cabin listed for Mrs. Griffith,” Rhetta said. She glanced at Randolph. His expression remained blank.
“Uh-huh,” Dodson said. “Where is she now?”
“When she began running, she fell and twisted her ankle, so Billy Dan Kercheval took her into town to the clinic.”
“Uh-huh,” Dodson repeated. “Billy Dan, you say?’
“That’s right. We said we’d stay here and notify you and report the shooting. We had to go down to the highway before we could get a signal. We drove back to meet you here.”
“Do you want to see where the slug landed in the building?” Randolph asked and began leading Frizz to the shed.
Dodson gazed around and shrugged and then groaned with the effort of stooping to look at the hole where the bullet had been. He stood, removed his cowboy hat and wiped more sweat from his brow. “I don’t see as how there’s anything to report. Folks out here in the country shoot guns all the time. I expect somebody was target practicin’ from over yonder, and the bullet strayed this way.” He waved dismissively toward the trees.
Randolph stepped forward, and extended his hand. The sheriff glanced at it for a beat before he returned the handshake.
“I think you’re probably right, Frizz. You know how city folks are. Hearing guns automatically makes us nervous,” Randolph and smiled.
“Well, then, I’ll be getting along.” The sheriff screwed the hat on his sweaty head and touched the stained brim in a farewell gesture.
Rhetta frowned, but remained silent.
Frizz lumbered back to his Tahoe, and stuffed himself in behind the wheel. He powered down the window. “I came out here because it was you, Judge. I don’t see anything to report, so that’s it, then. Have a nice day.” The window slid back up, the car started and Frizz sprayed gravel as he made a big show of leaving. Apparently, the sheriff wasn’t interested. But he was obviously irritated.
“Hearing guns makes us nervous? Only when they’re shooting at us,” Rhetta said, spinning toward Randolph. “Why on earth did you say that?”
“To get him to leave. I decided we’re better off figuring this out for ourselves. I don’t think Frizz cares much for either one of us, so he’s not going to bust his butt to help us in any way.”
Rhetta nodded. Sheriff Frizz Dodson had made it clear that he was certain Randolph’s drunk driving caused his accident earlier in the year and spread his misinformation all over the county. He had yet to apologize to Randolph. Rhetta had once pointedly reminded the sheriff of that. He’d only scowled and muttered.
Once Frizz left and the dust settled, Rhetta watched as Randolph squatted near the bullet hole in the shed, examining it again. Then he withdrew the spent bullet from his pocket, and studied it carefully, returning it to his pocket as he stood. He walked slowly around the shed one more time. “Looks like the shot came from above, angling downward. Whoever was shooting had a spot higher than the shed.”
Rhetta turned to scope out the surroundings. Her eyes landed on the dormer window at the back of the cabin. The white lace curtain had been pushed aside and its ragged bottom edge fluttered out through the bottom, where the window was definitely opened a crack. Had that window always been open? Rhetta knew she hadn’t really studied the cabin closely when she and Ricky had arrived. They were intent on the shed. Had someone watched them from up there? Was the window open enough to slide the barrel of a rifle through? Turning back to Randolph, she pointed upward to the window. “Maybe from there?”
“Let’s check the doors,” Randolph said. “Maybe someone broke in, and was using her cabin. Maybe they just fired a warning shot to scare you off.”
“Mission accomplished,” Rhetta said. “The scaring part, anyway. But then the cavalry arrived—you and Billy Dan—and we still didn’t leave right away.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think someone could still be in there?”
They mounted the front steps, and tried the sturdy metal door handle. Locked. They rounded the small cabin, and rattled the back screen door. It was locked from the inside.
“If anyone’s been in here, they left by the front door, and locked it behind them,” Rhetta said, as they returned to the front of the cabin, and to their truck.
“Unless someone is still inside.” Randolph glanced back at the cabin.
Gooseflesh erupted on Rhetta’s arm at her husband’s words. Could the shooter still be inside? If so, who was it?
“Let’s get out of here. We need to get back to town anyway, so we can check on Ricky. Can you drive her truck? We’ll leave it at Merc’s.” Randolph broke into her thoughts.
Rhetta nodded, and jogged to it. Beckoning to her from the seat was Ricky’s opened pack of cigarettes. Rhetta thought Ricky wouldn’t miss just one. The pack stayed on the seat only as long as it took for Rhetta to reach a spot in the road where Randolph couldn’t see her.
She tossed them out the window.
Chapter 54
The afternoon sun had warmed Ricky’s truck to a toasty temperature. Rhetta blasted on the cold air, and, finally, the cab cooled down enough to allow her to gulp fresh air as she bumped along the county road in a dust cloud behind the Artmobile.
Randolph stopped at the stop sign at Highway 34 and waited for her to catch up. She pulled in behind him, glancing down at her cell phone to see if she had service. The screen displayed a message that she had two missed calls.
Randolph sauntered over to her window, and leaned in after she rolled it down. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Why?”
He glanced around the cab. “I saw you throw something out.”
Crap. Busted. “I did.”
He arched his eyebrows.
“Her cigarettes. I didn’t want to be tempted.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then returned to his truc
k.
He knows me so well. Rhetta shook her head and grinned. She was a lucky woman. Who else would put up with her? She thanked God every day for him, and for Rosswell Carew, another judge and mutual friend who had introduced them. She and Carew volunteered together on the fund raising committee for the local Humane Society. He’d insisted she and Randolph meet. He’d been sure they’d hit it off. He was right. They did.
She also prayed for Carew, whose descent into an alcohol-filled chasm had nearly caused his death from a violent crash into a tree. That happened a few months before Randolph had his accident. Randolph had then quit the bottle.
Rhetta glanced at her phone and remembered the two missed calls. They were both from Ricky’s cell phone. Ricky’s message sounded almost cheerful as she told Rhetta the good news that her arm wasn’t broken, but the bad news that she’d sprained some “tendons or ligaments or something” and would have to wear a wrap and keep her arm in a sling. Billy Dan was taking her home, and would Rhetta mind dropping her truck off sometime in the next day or so?
That made Rhetta grin, since she doubted the sling would last very long if it got in the way of the sanding block. The wrap might not last either.
Chapter 55
Randolph was up and about and had completed his morning ablutions by the time Rhetta’s eyes sprang open the next morning. She’d wrestled the sheets through another fitful night, waking several times from bizarre dreams. She craved more sleep. Reluctantly, she threw her legs over the side of the bed, and felt around with her foot in search of her slippers. Finding only one, she climbed out, knelt on the floor and located the other far under the king-sized bed. She crawled all the way under to retrieve it. She never realized how many dust bunnies made their home under there. She came out sneezing, resolving to clean them out before bed tonight.
Classical Beethoven by the Boston Pops drifted from the living room stereo. Rhetta found her robe, and padded down the hall.
“How about brunch today at The Venue?” Randolph asked as he met her in the kitchen and poured coffee into her favorite glass mug.