Chapter Seven
SEVEN
“YOU JUST NOW GETTING in?” Hollis says as I enter the motel lobby.
“Huh?”
He rolls his eyes at me and says, “I got up this morning and saw that Datsun of yours wasn’t in the lot. You spend the whole night on stakeout or something?”
I let out a surprised, ironic laugh, and approach the desk.
Hollis’s ever-present cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth and an old PI novel lies open and face down on the desk.
I recognize the cover and smile at the half-remembered story.
A bombing, a stakeout, a deadly confrontation against the backdrop of the 1976 Olympics in Montreal.
I realize Hollis is hoping for the same exciting shenanigans from me.
“No,” I tell him. “I wrecked my car last night.”
“What’d you go and do that for?” he says, almost shouting and obviously both affronted and disappointed. He scowls, flicks his cigarette.
“I’m going to have someone come and check her out today.”
“Is she real bad off?” he asks.
I nod and bite my bottom lip to try and keep my chin from quivering.
“Damn,” he says, his shoulders slumping in shared remorse. “You want some coffee?”
“Yes.”
He goes through a side door and there’s some rattling around before he returns with two fresh, steaming cups. He hands me one and I inhale the strong scent of grocery store coffee. The brew is double strong and exactly what I need.
“You know anyone with a black Ford F-150?” I ask him.
“Sure,” he says. “’Bout half the town.”
“I’m gonna need to get around. Anyone in town drive a ride share?”
“No such luck,” Hollis says. “This is not exactly a hot spot for Uber.”
He lights a new cigarette off his old one, takes a deep inhale, and says, “There’s a guy drives a taxi for all the folks lost their license to a DUI. But I wouldn’t ride with him.”
“Why not?”
“Man’s always drunk.” Hollis chuckles, his skinny shoulders bouncing, and I let out a groan.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I got an old Bronco out back I don’t hardly drive since I bought the new one. Held on to her for years. My ex used to threaten to push it into the Hell Hole. Said it was junking up the yard.”
“The Hell Hole in Brimstone Hollow?” I ask. “The one you mentioned yesterday?
“Sure. Folks say it’s a bottomless pit so they’re always throwing shit in there. Anyway, I ended up keeping the car and getting rid of the wife. She ain’t much—the Bronco, I mean—but she runs and she’ll get you around town.”
“Seriously?” I say. “I’d be happy to rent it from you while I’m here.”
He shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says. He digs down into his pocket and pulls out a ring so crowded with keys that there are extra rings holding all of them. He sniffs as he fingers through them and then finds the old silver key and says, “When you see her, you won’t wonder why I ain’t charging you.”
He wrangles the key loose and puts it in my hand.
“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“Gas her up when you’re done,” he says as I start to leave. “And don’t wreck her.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
Before I’m even out the door, he’s back to his book.
I find the old Bronco immediately. Mostly red and white with a dark-green driver’s-side door, there’s visible rust around the fenders and one of the tires needs more air. Tina would lose her mind if she saw this thing, dreaming of what she could do to restore it.
I slide behind the wheel and find the red-and-white interior is—aside from the cigarette smell—extremely clean.
“Ohh!” I exclaim, as I notice the cupholders in the console. “Fancy.”
I turn the key and the Bronco rumbles to life. While I miss the gravelly growl of Honey’s straight-six engine, I have to admit to smiling at the deep bass moan of the Bronco’s V8.
I stop at a gas station and fill the tires with air and the tank with gas and then realize how hungry I am.
I drive over to Cherry Dairy, squeeze into the busy lot, and head toward the take-out window.
As I approach, the big glass double doors swing open and the county coroner, Roman Bradley, emerges wearing a UV fishing shirt, an old ball cap, and dark sunglasses hanging on a yellow nylon cord around his neck.
“Coroner Bradley—” I start, as I veer toward him.
When he sees me, his mouth spreads into a wide grin and his eyes sparkle in the sun. “Miss Gore, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say. “I know you said to come by tomorrow but I thought—since you’re here—”
“Actually,” he says, “I’m just heading out. If I don’t leave now, I won’t get a good spot.”
“A good spot?”
“Fishing,” he says and mimes casting a fly line as if I’ve never heard of such a thing.
“It’s just a couple questions—”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, “But I have to shake a leg. You know it’s Memorial Day, right?”
“Sure,” I say. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Sorry,” he says. And, for the second time, I notice that he really doesn’t sound sorry. “Thing is, I’ve got to drive a body over to Frankfort tomorrow.”
“A body?” I ask. The only reason coroners take bodies to the capital is for official investigations.
“House fire,” he says. “So, unfortunately, I won’t be around. Come by or call on Wednesday morning and then I can give you my full attention.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
He beams at me—his straight white teeth shining—and then starts off toward his SUV. He pauses as an ancient-looking woman in a flowery blue dress slowly crosses in front of him, her even older husband toddling alongside.
“How you doing today, Miss Bonnie?” he asks as the lady goes past.
She chuckles and says, “Be doing better if I get all my baking done before the picnic.”
I stomp off and bring up the rear of the to-go line, where I watch as Roman Bradley smiles and nods at whatever else Miss Bonnie says and then waves the pair goodbye, climbs into his vehicle, and pulls away.
“A house fire,” I mutter to myself, recalling a house fire being the reason Chief Dishman took off during my interview with him the day before.
Curious, I open my phone, and a quick search reveals a short write-up in the local paper.
It’s not much more than I’ve already heard: A local man, Billy Shepherd, died in a rural house fire, which likely started on Friday night and ended on Saturday morning.
Fire and police chiefs have not yet ruled on the cause of the fire.
Accidental deaths happen all the time. On a holiday weekend, in a tourist zone, when everyone’s partying, the rate shoots even higher.
But, as I stand there looking at a photo of the burned-out house, I can’t help thinking about a possible connection to my own case.
Two apparently accidental deaths: a house fire, a snakebite. Could they be related?
“Ma’am?” a voice says.
Someone behind me clears their throat and I realize the line has moved and I’m next. I step up to the ordering counter, where I’m greeted by a young woman, probably early twenties, curvy and blond with a heart-shaped face and eyes as green as a cat’s. The name on her badge says CRYSTAL.
I realize this is the same woman who flaked on her shift last night and left Frankie—the waitress who ended up serving me and half the town—high and dry. Remembering that, I feel an instant dislike of her and make the decision not to be polite.
“Good morning,” she says as I approach. “How are you today?”
“Just fine,” I answer automatically. “And yourself?”
What can I say? Some habits are hard to break.
“What can I get you, hon? We’ve got—” She pauses as a younger woman with a tub of dishes passes behind her, stops in her tracks, and mutters something to Crystal before moving back into the kitchen. Crystal turns back to me, eyes wide.
“Oh! You’re the private investigator!” she exclaims. She’s grinning, apparently excited. Amethyst earrings glimmer in the morning light as she tilts her head and gives me a long, appraising look.
“Yep,” I say. “That’s me.”
“My boyfriend was in here last night and he told me he saw a private investigator talking to Frankie. I was sorry to miss out, but I was so sick!” Her mouth forms a little, practiced pout and my dislike deepens.
“Are you really investigating Ezra King’s death?” she asks.
“That’s right.”
“Man,” she says, with a slow headshake. “That’s wild.”
“Did you know him?”
Her mouth drops open a little, as if she’s stunned. Like she hadn’t expected the private investigator woman she’d heard about to actually ask her any questions. But she recovers fast enough and says, “No. Well, I mean … everyone knew him.”
Behind me, someone clears their throat again.
“Sorry,” Crystal says. “What can I get you?”
All business now, apparently. I realize that even if Crystal does have anything juicy to tell me, I’m not going to get it standing here at the window with five more people now lined up behind me.
“Pork chop biscuit,” I say. “With cheesy tots. And a large coffee.”
I pay and move down the line to wait my turn at the pick-up window.
After a few minutes, Frankie approaches looking somehow less exhausted than she had the night before.
She holds out a little white bag stained with grease on the bottom, and says, “Oh hey! You’re back.
I was gonna try to track you down later. ”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says. “My boss wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, she’s—” She pauses and looks around and then hollers at someone behind her. “Hey! Where’s Zelda?”
“Out back,” a voice calls. “She was taking out the trash.”
“Out back,” Frankie repeats. “Have a good breakfast!”
I open the bag as I walk, pulling out a cheesy tot and popping it into my mouth.
It’s a lava-hot explosion of salt, cheddar cheese, and grease, and I suck in air around it as I gnash.
I probably look like a dog eating a hot dog, but I don’t care.
I pull another one out of the bag and blow on it as I round the building.
There’s a woman there in a Cherry Dairy uniform top with black jeans and black Doc Martens boots.
Her hair is fiery red and very curly with several tight spirals hanging around her face and the rest of it pulled into a braid that hangs almost to her tailbone.
“Excuse me—” I say.