CHAPTER SEVEN
Main Street had not managed ten minutes of peace before Connor saw Roy Tanner waving both arms beside a parked car.
Connor slowed the SUV.
Selma Brown stood on the sidewalk facing him, handbag clutched in one fist, chin lifted, gray hair pinned tight. Roy stood two feet away from her in jeans and a shirt with the name of his bar stitched above the pocket. Both were talking at once. Neither seemed interested in listening.
Connor sighed through his nose. Those two were always finding ways to argue.
“What the hell are they doing?”
Connor pulled into a space, killed the engine, and got out.
“What’s going on here?”
Roy turned first. “Sheriff, I was parked right there, minding my own business, and this old fool reversed into me.”
Selma swung toward him. “Old fool? Say that again and see what happens.”
“I said what I said.”
“You’ve been drunk since breakfast every day since 1989, Roy Tanner. Your memory isn’t worth spit.”
Roy pointed at her sedan. “You hit me.”
“I tapped you.”
“That’s admitting it.”
“I’m admitting your truck is big enough to survive a nudge from a shopping cart.”
Connor stepped between them and looked at the vehicles.
No dent or scrape. No broken light. Not even paint transfer he could see. Roy’s bumper had old scratches, but none from today. Selma’s rear bumper was faded and loose on one side, though age had done that work.
Connor straightened. “Neither car has a scratch.”
Selma tightened her grip on her bag. “If my bumper falls off on the way home, there’ll be hell to pay.”
Roy barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t surprise me if the whole heap of junk falls to pieces.”
“My late husband bought that car!”
“Then he was conned.”
Selma took one sharp step forward, handbag rising.
Connor caught her wrist before the bag could become county evidence. “Selma.”
Roy stepped back, though not far enough to be wise.
Connor released Selma’s wrist when she lowered the bag. “We’ve got two options. First option, you both go on your way and forget this ever happened.”
Selma glared at Roy.
Roy glared back.
“Second option,” Connor said, “I book both of you for disorderly conduct. Then you spend the night in jail with Old Eddie, who still hasn’t sobered up.”
Selma’s nose wrinkled. “Eddie Kilburn?”
“That’s the one.”
“That old drunk smells like pickled onions.”
“Then I’d choose option one.”
Roy muttered, “Nobody’s booking me.”
Connor looked at him. “Try me.”
For a few seconds, the sidewalk held. Selma’s face remained tight. Roy looked as if he wanted the last word badly enough to risk jail for it.
At last, Selma lowered her handbag fully. “Fine.”
She marched to her car, opened the door, then pointed at Roy through the window. “If this bumper drops off, I’m sending you the bill.”
Roy called back, “Send it to my lawyer. He’ll have a field day with you.”
Selma slammed the door and pulled away from the curb with more force than necessary. The sedan rattled down Main Street, bumper still attached.
Roy watched her go, then turned to Connor. “You could’ve backed me up there, Connor.”
Connor leaned against the side of his SUV. “I have to treat everyone the same. You know that.”
Roy looked offended. “I wasn’t asking for a big favor.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Maybe a little one.”
Connor folded his arms. “Remember Sheriff Kelly?”
Roy’s expression soured. “Don’t remind me.”
“Would you like a sheriff who does deals under the table with criminals the likes of Morimer and only looks out for the people he knows?”
Roy pushed his cap higher on his forehead. “No. Morimer is a creep.”
“Then don’t ask me to be one.”
Roy sighed. “I suppose you’re right. That Morimer… Someone should put him behind bars. Too many fingers in too many pies. I’m sure he was behind the fires in town last summer. Clearing buildings for insurance.”
“I’ll get him eventually. He’s a slippery one.”
“Powerful, too, Connor. Watch your back with that.”
Roy glanced at the SUV. "Where are you off to?"
“Making inquiries.”
“About Warren?”
Connor nodded. News always traveled fast in Harlan County. “Yeah.”
Roy’s face sobered. “Damn shame. Remember when we used to have that card night at Tommy’s with him?”
"I do." Connor let the memory come. Warren is laughing too loudly, Roy is accusing everyone of cheating, and Tommy is burning frozen pizzas. "Maybe we should have another in his honor."
“Yeah,” Roy said. “That’d be good.”
“You heard anything about him, Roy?” Connor asked.
“Like what?” Roy looked puzzled.
“Someone out to get him. Maybe someone who wanted him dead?”
Roy let out a gruff laugh. “You know Warren. He wasn’t exactly shy at rubbing people the wrong way. But I don’t know who would have hated him enough to do this.”
“Okay.”
Roy moved toward his truck, then paused with one hand on the door. “Hope you catch the son of a bitch.”
Connor watched him climb in.
“So do I,” he said under his breath.
Parkinson Rural Properties occupied a brick office two blocks off Main Street, in a building that had once held a dentist, a tax preparer, and, for six unfortunate months, a shop that sold homemade candles shaped like fruit.
Ray Parkinson had bought it ten years earlier and turned it into something respectable, with cream-painted trim, clean windows, gold lettering on the glass, and a planter by the front door.
Connor parked outside and took a moment before getting out.
Real estate in Harlan County was rarely just real estate. Land meant family. Debt. Pride. Timber rights. Hunting leases. Old promises made with handshakes and old arguments settled with lawyers. Warren Holt had understood all of that and made money from it.
Maybe too much money. Maybe not enough. At one time, he and Warren had been as thick as thieves. But that had turned to bad blood in recent years, and few knew exactly why.
Inside, the office was cool and quiet. A young woman sat behind the reception desk with a headset around her neck and a stack of brochures in front of her. Nelly Parkinson looked up and smiled.
“Well, look who it is.”
Connor removed his hat. “Morning, Nelly.”
“Sheriff Chase in the flesh.” She leaned back in her chair. “Remember when you used to chase us off for lighting fireworks on the playing fields? You lived up to your name.”
“I remember telling you not to aim bottle rockets at the scoreboard.”
“That scoreboard had it coming.”
“I hope you behave yourself these days.”
“I do. Mostly.” Her smile softened. “But I miss being a kid.”
“Get used to it.”
A door opened behind reception. Ray Parkinson stepped out wearing gray trousers, a blue shirt, and the smile of a man who knew when to show concern and how much of it.
“Connor,” Ray said, spreading his hands. “Good to see you, though I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
Connor shook his hand. Ray’s grip was firm, his eyes steady, but the warmth felt arranged. Placed. Like furniture before an open house.
“No,” Connor said. “Need to ask a few questions.”
“Of course. Come through.”
Ray led him into a private office lined with framed land maps and property photographs. Behind the desk, a window looked out over the rear lot, where a company truck sat beside stacked For Sale signs.
“Sit,” Ray said.
Connor took the chair opposite him. Ray sat behind the desk and folded his hands.
“I’m heartbroken about Warren,” Ray said. “You know that, right? We had our problems, but the idea I’ll never get to make it right with him...” He shook his head. “I ain’t happy about that.”
Connor watched him. “Don’t give me that, Ray.”
Ray’s eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”
“You and Warren hated each other.”
The polished sorrow cracked. Not much. Enough.
Ray leaned back. “True. But I can still feel bad. We were close once.”
“What happened?”
“You know what happened.”
“I know you argued outside Davy’s Hardware last summer and made half of Main Street stop shopping to listen.”
Ray rubbed at his jaw. “That was embarrassing.”
“What caused it?”
For a moment, Ray looked toward the window. “Warren was getting into risky deals. Putting one of our mutual companies at risk.”
“That doesn’t sound like Warren. He was the most careful card player I ever met.”
“He was careful when people were watching.”
“What kind of risky deals?”
“Land contracts with buyers who couldn’t qualify through proper lending. Leases with terms buried so deep they would’ve caused a lawsuit the first time somebody’s lawyer read them. A development option on floodplain acreage that should never have been touched.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ray.”
“I don’t.” Ray’s voice tightened. “Something had him spooked. That’s the best way I can put it.”
“Money problems?”
“Maybe. He sure as hell acted like a man trying to get cash fast.”
Connor thought for a moment. “Warren always looked flush.”
“A quarter of the rich people in this county just play pretend.”
Connor let that sit. “How did the partnership end?”
“Badly. We split the company down the middle. Properties, contracts, debt exposure, everything. It took months. Lawyers made a fortune.”
“Were you still entangled legally?”
“Not really.”
Connor leaned in. “That means yes.”
Ray gave a short laugh without humor. “It means a few old documents hadn’t been cleaned up. Nothing worth killing over, if that’s what you’re here to ask.”
“People have killed for less.”
“I didn’t kill Warren.” Ray looked straight at Connor, unblinking as he said those words.
“I haven’t accused you.”
“Not in words, fella.”
Connor stared at him until Ray looked away.
“Where were you last night?” Connor asked, taking out his notebook from his shirt breast pocket and scribbling down the details.
“At home.”
“Anyone with you?”
“My wife until around nine. Then she went to bed. I stayed downstairs watching a ball game.”
“Can she vouch for you all night?”
“She’s a light sleeper. She’d have heard me leave.”
“We’ll ask her. Anyone else who’d want Warren hurt that you know about?”
Ray’s fingers tapped once on the desk, then stopped. “Derek Lyle for one.”
The name came back from somewhere in Connor’s memory. “He was a former employee of you both, wasn’t he?”