Ricky touched Rhetta’s arm. “No, but Randolph did.”
Rhetta glanced around the garage, to the empty bay where Ricky usually kept her own car, a black 1979 Trans-Am. “So, where’s the Monster?”
The Monster’s moniker was earned from its shiny black paint and extra loud headers. “I’ve got it in the paint shop.” Ricky gestured toward the addition at the back of the garage that she used for her paint booth. “I’m buffing the paint and spiffing it up to list it on eBay.”
Rhetta glanced around the corner, to a car bundled under a cover. “You’re going to sell the Monster?”
“Sure, you know me. I’ll fix up something else. I’ve got a line on a 1965 Mustang that I want.”
Rhetta hopped down from the stool. “I bet Monster’s paint looks even more fantastic after you buffed it. Besides, if you sell it quickly, I might not get to see it again, so I should check it out now.”
“Later, when it’s done, I’ll make sure you see it.” Ricky said, steering Rhetta away from the paint bay. “There’s cutting compound all over it right now, so it’s not looking too great. Besides, you’ll get that dust all over you.” She crushed out her cigarette into a steel replica valve cover that she used as an ashtray. She looked up at Rhetta. “You haven’t quit.” It wasn’t a question.
“No, not entirely, but I’m trying.”
“I saw you eat that cigarette with your eyes. That’s how I know.”
Chapter 7
With a complete list of everything the deputies were taking, Randolph left Fast Lane as soon as the deputies cleared out. After visiting a few minutes more with Ricky, Rhetta ambled to her Trailblazer. The day had gone decidedly downhill with the grisly discovery and the presumptive loss of the Z28. To console herself, she cranked up the volume on the satellite radio, which she kept tuned to an oldies station. Today it was the 70’s. As she reached her driveway, she hummed along with the Eagles. Twice along the way home, she nearly stopped to get into her secret stash of cigarettes that she kept in her console, but resisted.
Stopping to collect the mail from the oversized mailbox at the end of their gravel driveway, she waved to Mrs. Koblyk, her neighbor, who sat in a white pine rocker on her large veranda. Although shielded from the road by a copse of tall pines, the Koblyks’ house sat close to the county road, directly across from the McCarter property. Mrs. Koblyk always knew everything that went on in the neighborhood. That she did made Randolph crazy at times. Rhetta didn’t really mind. She found Mrs. Koblyk to be a great neighbor, especially when she brought them fresh, homemade bread. Mr. Koblyk, a retired jeweler and watchmaker, spent most of his time in his little workshop, “tinkering,” as he called it. He spent hours restoring antique jewelry, which turned out to be a lucrative hobby.
The McCarter home was once a turn-of-the-twentieth-century farmhouse that sat in the center of the picturesque creek-side property. After they married ten years ago, Rhetta and Randolph spent months looking for the perfect place while living in a modest two-bedroom apartment. Rhetta had loved remodeling the house. Installing modern vinyl siding in the clapboard style kept the outside of the two-story white home looking very much like the old pictures of it that Rhetta had found in the attic. Inside, however, it was beautifully modernized.
“Sweets, I’m home,” she called out as she entered the kitchen from the garage. She almost always called Randolph “Sweets,” unless he left the toilet seat up. The sliding door to the deck was ajar. Rhetta spotted Randolph spooning out cat food for their four hungry felines—Pirate, Greystone, Jiggles and Smith. Rhetta said their names sounded like a law firm.
“Barn cats, indeed,” he grumbled as she joined him on the deck. She brushed his cheek with her lips and relieved him of the can of food. His silver-tinged black hair flopped over one eye. He’d been so busy painting for an upcoming show that he’d let his hair grow out a little longer than his usual cut. She decided she liked it.
“I’ll finish here,” she said, as she bent to croon to the fur babies. “I know how much you love the smell of this canned fish.” Jiggles, all white with one black paw, got his name from his strange habit of bouncing up and down every time she spooned out their food.
“I thought the cats were supposed to live in the barn and catch mice.” Randolph filled their water dishes from the spigot on the deck.
“You don’t see any mice in the barn, do you?” Rhetta said. “They’re doing their job so well, I like to reward them.”
“All right, you win. I’m outnumbered.” Randolph held the door for Rhetta and they returned to the kitchen. Smith, the Siamese mix, always waited until the others began eating before he’d venture in to join them.
“I stopped at The Golden Dragon, and picked up supper.” Randolph pointed to the take-out sacks lined up on the granite top of the new kitchen island.
Rhetta would’ve preferred the Golden Arches, but said nothing. She wasn’t hungry anyway, so it didn’t matter. She couldn’t stop thinking about how they found an actual dead body. Could it really be Malcom Griffith? She shivered.
“Come on, let’s eat a bite, and talk about what happened today,” Randolph said, circling his arms around her waist and pulling her to him in a hug. He brushed her hair from her forehead, then patted the stool next to him at the counter.
* * *
With the meal finished, and the empty containers carried to the trashcan in the garage, Rhetta curled up in the soft leather chair in the great room. She savored the rich coffee aroma before sipping from her oversize mug.
“I hope you aren’t going to get involved in this case,” Randolph said as he dropped into the matching chair alongside her. Ice cubes clanked as he stirred his tall iced tea.
“I don’t see where I could do anything, so why are you warning me off? It’s not like the Cape Girardeau County Sheriff seeks me out for guidance.” She chortled at the idea. “I’m sure the forensic pathologist will identify the remains soon enough.” She swirled the remaining coffee around the nearly empty cup. “What if it’s really Malcom Griffith? That means somebody killed him, and he didn’t run away with a pole dancer, after all. I wonder what happened to the pole dancer. More importantly, if it is Malcom Griffith, then who killed him?” In spite of Randolph’s warning, she couldn’t help but think about possible suspects. The pole dancer? Griffith’s wife? A disgruntled client? An agitated partner?
“Is Ricky still dating Jeremy Spears?” Randolph asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“’Fraid so.” She couldn’t hide her disapproval. She frowned. Did Jeremy Spears kill Malcom Griffith?
“Don’t you like him?”
She returned to the conversation. “Honestly, no. I heard Ricky having a few cross words with Jeremy this afternoon. She says he’s blaming her because we found the body. I wonder what he was going to do at the site after the barn was torn down. And I wonder why the old barn was locked up anyway? Ricky defended him and insisted Jeremy wasn’t angry because they found the body. She said the reason he’s upset is that the discovery would set his project back, and his investors were leaning on him.”
“That makes sense. Especially if he’s got a lot invested.”
She had no desire to regurgitate the details of the chilling discovery yet again, so she changed the subject. “I have to admit, I’m disappointed about possibly losing this Z28.” She drained the last of the coffee.
Randolph leaned forward. “Of course you are. You were pretty upset about losing Cami.”
She stared at the remnants of coffee that clung to the bottom of the cup.
He went on. “I know people in the sheriff’s department. Maybe I can get them to hurry the testing and release the car.”
Rhetta peered at him over her mug. “Sweets, I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but I’m a big girl. I know very well I may never see Cami’s replacement ever again. Or, at least, not for a very long time.” She set her cup down and stood. She kissed the top of his head. “It’s all right. I was
looking forward to this car, but…well, it’s not Cami.”
She retrieved the remote and clicked on the news. The discovery of the body presumed to be Malcom Griffith was the lead story. Video at nine. She switched off the set and noticed Randolph had left the room. She heard him talking on the phone.
She caught a single word before he disconnected—Camaro.
Chapter 8
The Tuesday after Labor Day proved to be as rainy as the three-day weekend had been. Rhetta had eagerly looked forward to enjoying some down time with Randolph at their cabin at Land-Between-the-Lakes, Kentucky, and maybe get in some quality fishing. Instead, when thunder boomed through the house and lightning split the skies and jarred Rhetta and Randolph awake before dawn Saturday morning, they decided to stay home. In the middle of Rhetta’s shower Saturday morning, the power went off and the whole-house backup generator kicked on. The outage lasted until Sunday afternoon.
She felt like they hadn’t had any down time at all. Tuesday made the third straight day of the heavens splitting open with storms and torrential rains.
Rhetta had forgotten her umbrella, so she sprinted across the parking lot. Woody was already parked in the slot closest to the door. “The reward for getting here early,” he’d probably chirp, if she groused that she wanted that spot for herself. They’d had that discussion before. He didn’t think her position as manager earned her the spot unless she got there before him.
He held the door for her. “You went looking for trouble, didn’t you? Bank and post office, my broken foot.” He pointed to his foot that had, until a few weeks ago, sported a walking cast.
Rhetta ignored him and carried her triple espresso mocha light to her desk, setting it down gingerly. Some splashed over the top of the cup and on to her desk. She snatched the napkin and blotted quickly. The coffee smelled heavenly. She shook her soaked hair, tossing rain droplets across her desk, then reached for her cup to savor the first sip.
“Where’s LuEllen?” she said, glancing at the empty reception desk. Beyond LuEllen’s desk, Rhetta had a clear view out the window at the solid sheet of rain pelting the building.
Woody ignored her question and instead, shook the newspaper at her. “It’s all here in gory detail on the front page.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t read the local paper?” She tossed the St. Louis Post-Dispatch down on her desk. “Mercifully, no one in St. Louis cares about this, so I don’t have to read about it.” She riffled through her desk calendar, changing the month, and tapping the date. “Is LuEllen off? There’s nothing on the calendar about her being off today.”
Woody dropped into the guest chair in front of her desk and laid the newspaper beside her coffee. “She called and said she’ll be in late. Something about a dentist appointment. Meanwhile, I’m waiting. Spill it.” He rubbed his head.
“Are you upset? You sound as though you’re disappointed that you weren’t there when we found the body.” She rearranged her desk, set her purse down on the corner and picked up the local paper. She scanned it, then handed it back to Woody. Her arm knocked her purse over, dumping everything on the floor. “Crap.” She bent over to retrieve the spilled contents.
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are.” She stuffed her phone, wallet, notebook and an envelope of papers back into her purse. A small sheet floated to the desk. “There’s the receipt for the vacuum sweeper I took to be repaired. I knew it had it.” She crammed the paperwork back in her purse.
Woody tapped the newspaper. “I’m not upset, but yes, I did want to go out there with you. After all, I’m the one who suspected that wrench had dried blood on it.” He held the paper up for her. “It appears I may be right.”
Rhetta peered at the headlines. Front page coverage.
Cape Girardeau County Sheriff Talbot Reasoner issued a statement today about the body found in a barn last week in Gordonville. Reasoner confirmed that the remains were that of a male, but positive identification won’t be made until test results are available. Preliminary lab results performed over the weekend indicated there was blood found on various items discovered by Ms. Victoria Lane inside a vintage Camaro that she was restoring. Ms. Lane had located the car inside the barn, which sits on property now being developed by Mr. Jeremy Spears. Spears is the son of the late Willard Spears, who had been partners with Malcom Griffith in G & S Development, a well-known developer in the area. Griffith disappeared fifteen years ago. Sheriff Reasoner confirmed that he did not expect test results for several days.
Before she could comment, the phone rang. Woody answered, switching to his professional voice. “MCB Mortgage and Insurance.”
When the phone rang again, she answered the other line. The caller identified himself as a deputy sheriff. It seems they had a report that needed filling out. When she explained to him that she needed to be at work, instead of admitting that she’d forgotten her promise to stop by first thing this morning, the words “warrant for your arrest” made the decision easy. “I’ll be right over.”
Chapter 9
After all the reports were signed, Sheriff Reasoner personally escorted Rhetta to the parking lot. The rain had stopped, allowing the late summer sun to peek through the parting clouds. The asphalt smelled of wet dust and sulphur.
“Give Judge McCarter my best regards, won’t you?” Reasoner beamed a megawatt smile down at Rhetta, showing off bright white teeth. She decided he must’ve had them recently whitened. No one over thirty-five could have natural teeth that looked like Chiclets gum—perfect little squares. He removed a wide brimmed Stetson that perched squarely on his head, and then finger-combed his thick black hair. He replaced the hat carefully, and smoothed the brim. “You know we wouldn’t have arrested you, of all people, Mrs. McCarter. The deputy got just a little more, shall I say, enthusiastic, than he should have.”
The deputy’s “enthusiasm” involved a two-hour questioning followed by a thirty-minute wait for the report to be typed. Rhetta had to call Woody to have him cover her appointment with a prospective customer.
“Oh, you can be sure I’ll be telling my husband all about our little visit today,” Rhetta said, beaming her best phony smile back at him, and aiming her key fob toward her ride. The headlights flashed, signaling the door was unlocked. Reasoner was up for re-election this year. In the past, Randolph had always been one of his biggest supporters. After today, she decided she didn’t like the slippery-smooth politician and would convey her opinion of him to Randolph. She slammed the door shut and started the ignition.
She and Randolph usually didn’t argue about politics, even though they were politically opposite. She was liberal while her husband always had an “R” after his name when he ran for judge. However, she found the sheriff way too smarmy for her liking and would tell Randolph so. It had nothing to do with any party affiliation. No party had the market on slime balls cornered.
Reasoner had acted as if he was her newest best friend, assuring her that he would do everything he could to try to get her Z28 back to her as soon as possible. He didn’t realize she overheard him tell the clerk that “she’d be lucky to get that car back in time for her retirement party, right after she signs up for Medicare.” Then he belly-laughed. She wanted so badly to tell Reasoner she’d heard him, just to hear what he’d say, but she decided to hold that information for Randolph to deal with. Rhetta was pleased to see that the clerk had shot the sheriff an unpleasant look, and didn’t join him in his mirth.
After Randolph’s accident a few months back, all of the law enforcement officers she had talked to were convinced he had been driving drunk, especially Reasoner. When she proved that Randolph wasn’t drunk, Reasoner hadn’t bothered to call Randolph and extend his good wishes. Now he was sucking up looking for political support. The creep.
She tried her best to squeal the tires as she left the parking lot, but Trailblazers were not Camaros. She couldn’t even make the tires whimper
. All she managed to do successfully was to fish-tail on the still-wet pavement. She pounded out her frustration on the steering wheel. “I want Cami back.”
* * *
LuEllen was on the phone, and Woody was interviewing a young couple when she finally made it back to the office. Rhetta’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d missed lunch.
LuEllen hung up and turned to Rhetta. “There’s pizza in the kitchen if you haven’t eaten yet,” she said, then swiveled back to face her computer screen.
Rhetta groaned. Although she loved pizza, she’d have to run an extra mile if she gave in and ate it. She shook her head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll wait and eat an early dinner instead.” Her stomach loudly protested her mouth’s decision.
Plopping down at her desk, she fished out her cell phone. The deputy had asked her to turn it off when he was interviewing her. She powered it back up and three missed calls flashed on her screen. Two of them had left messages. She didn’t recognize the third number.
“Call me,” Ricky said in the first message, sounding out of breath. Rhetta figured that she’d probably called while sanding a car—Ricky’s version of multi-tasking.
The second message was from Randolph. “Call me when you get a chance. The sheriff’s office has been looking for you.” His deep voice sounded serious.
She called him first and explained where she had been. “I don’t like Talbot Reasoner. Don’t support him in this election.” She told him what happened.
“I was going to call him about getting the Z28 released,” Randolph said, and she heard him sigh. “I guess that isn’t going to happen.”
Just then her phone beeped and she recognized Ricky’s number. “I’ll call you back, Sweets. Ricky is trying to reach me.”
“No need, just wanted to be sure you didn’t get hauled to jail.” He chuckled. “Love you,” he added, then disconnected. Rhetta smiled.
“What’s up?” Rhetta said, answering Ricky’s call.
“I listed my Trans-Am on eBay auction with a fifteen thousand dollar reserve, and I just got an email from a guy who says he wants it.”