“You saw Bigalow’s wallet?” Johnny asked.
She blushed. “It was open on the dresser next to Lowell’s. I might have looked over real quick. But I never took anything from it. I mean, maybe Lowell did. He said his brother spent time in jail for stealing.” Her cheeks reddened. “I never took anything,” she insisted when Johnny continued to stare at her. “I swear on my grandma’s grave.” Her voice rose. “Fuck’s sake, Cas, knock it off. Stop shooting that stupid water gun.” She swiped several droplets from her face. “Thing squirts halfway across the room.” She slurped up the last of her soda and tapped her sister’s hand. “How’s about you and me mosey over to one of the construction sites and say hey to the guys with their shirts off. Betcha we’ll find lots better than Lowell swinging hammers at the new supermarket.”
Johnny watched them shove their chairs back and go. “Christ, were you like that as a teenager?”
Melia laughed. “Think, Johnny. I was in my second year of college by the time I was eighteen. Boys were scared to death of me, and men wouldn’t give me the time of day. Except for one of my college math professors, but I’m not going there right now.”
“Why?”
Leaning forward, she teased him with her eyes. “Because our vegetarian sandwich on flaxseed bread is here.”
Chapter Sixteen
Johnny didn’t utter a word of complaint. Thankfully, he did have the capacity to eat wholesome food on occasion. Either that, or he was hoping for great sex later that night. Melia ordered a cherry milkshake for him as a concession, but gave up trying to hold any kind of conversation when he began grunting at her.
Cas seemed to intrigue him, and, more than once, he looked at the spot where Ethan’s squad car had been parked.
By the time they got home, his mind was far away and in overdrive.
“Laidlaw’s here,” he told her. “He’ll stick close. I have to go.” A long, hard kiss was followed by a shorter one and a smile, then he was gone, roaring off to…wherever.
Linda arrived at four p.m. with Carl in tow. “I’ll clean up the guesthouse,” she offered. “Carl can pull weeds in the garden while you see to your patients.”
Melia dealt with bunions, hemorrhoids, a toddler’s bumped head, and two gastrointestinal problems before the thunder began to rumble again. Dark clouds rolled in rapidly from the north. But swamp people didn’t worry about such things in Melia’s experience. Patients kept right on appearing until well after eight p.m.
Laidlaw, who’d been gamely manning the landline, called her to the phone while she was examining a construction worker’s lacerated calf.
“Doc’s got news from the hospital in Bellwater.”
Melia finished wrapping the man’s injured leg and told him to come back the next day so she could check for signs of infection. The lights flickered twice before she reached the phone.
“Don’t let the power go out,” she murmured, picking up the handset. “This is Dr. Rose.”
The physician on the other end had news about Gert. Tests revealed a fair amount of cyanide in her system. Fortunately, it had come up quickly enough that she’d managed to escape death.
“That’s what I thought. Damn.” Hanging up, Melia pressed her fingers to her temples. “What’s going on in this town? Who’d want to poison Gert?”
“Is she rich?” Laidlaw asked.
“No.” She paused while she considered. “Maybe it was an accident. Except…how does cyanide accidently wind up in a person’s body?”
“Maybe Bette did it.”
She shot Laidlaw a dark look.
“Or not.” The big man heaved a breath. “You gonna call Johnny?”
“Probably a good idea. I couldn’t get through earlier. What’s that?” she asked, pointing at his open laptop.
“Ballistics crap. Johnny wanted me to compare a bunch of rifles I shot off to the bullet he dug out of a workbench at the auto repair shop. I sent everything off to the lab we’ve been using.”
“Did they come back with anything significant?”
“Found a match.”
“Seriously? Where?”
Laidlaw tapped a key and zoomed in on two very similar photos. “Both of these bullets came from the same .30-30 rifle.”
A sick feeling took root in the pit of Melia’s stomach. “Please tell me the .30-30 doesn’t belong to Ethan Travers.”
“It doesn’t.” The big man shifted in the chair. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you who owns it. I mean, Johnny doesn’t even know yet.”
“Phone signal’s not getting through to Johnny’s cell, Laidlaw.” She regarded him across the desk where he’d been working. “Tell me who owns the rifle.”
Rather than answer her directly, he spun the laptop around and showed her the screen. Under Owner Identity, a name flashed at her.
It was her cousin Joseph’s.
…
Thoughts and theories raced through Johnny’s head at warp speed. By late afternoon, lightning was forking overhead and thunder had begun to roll in deep, ominous peals.
For lack of a better plan, and while it was still light enough to see, he returned to the site where Lowell Felcher’s body had been buried. The wallet he’d been carrying had been empty, not only of cash, but of ID, as well. Every one of his fingertips had been bloodied before his hands were burned. He’d had no dental work to speak of, at least none that Johnny had noticed. Time and nature would have done their usual job of decimation, but just in case, whoever’d murdered him had taken a few extra precautions.
Stall tactics, Johnny reflected. Satyr was full of them. So was Mockerie, but…no. Not here. Not in this case. Felcher’s death had Satyr’s blood-smeared fingerprints all over it, one way or another.
After checking in at the auto repair shop—Percy was alone and hard at work—he wandered through both construction sites, chatted with some of the workers, and, in the end, wound up heading out to the Brewer farm.
Something twisted in his belly. He knew the feeling well. He’d missed a vital clue, and it was poking at him on a subconscious level.
He’d spoken with Laidlaw three times already. Mel had been seeing patients all afternoon and into the evening. However, when he tried to get through for a fourth time, he couldn’t get a signal on his cell.
Not quite like being home when you roam, he thought, and tucked his phone away.
Hunger pangs made their presence felt, but he ignored them and continued driving to the farm. Dick Brewer’s truck was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Daddy Dick or anyone else in his family. Hopping out, Johnny walked over to the rental shack.
The place was dark except for an occasional flash of blue-white lightning. The building had power, but evidently the storm had knocked it out. Unless the light switch was simply for show, and the kerosene lantern on the table was Brewer’s concession to that particular utility.
He lit the thing, waited for the flame to settle. “Come on,” he urged his brain. “What is it that’s eating me up?”
He glanced at the duffel bag, spied camo gear inside. The last time he’d gone there, he’d thought the bag was Felcher’s, but good old Lowell had left it behind. Conclusion? It hadn’t belonged to him. Crouching, Johnny went through it. Camo pants and T-shirt, an olive drab jacket, and well-worn boots, muddy up to the ankles.
He noticed that everything smelled faintly of wood smoke. Smoke, as in a campfire? He wondered.
He searched deeper, but found nothing more of interest.
Giving up the cause, he turned his gaze to the dresser. Felcher had grabbed stuff from the first two drawers, hadn’t touched the two underneath. Had he picked up a wallet from the top? Maybe. If he had, Johnny would have assumed it was his. But what if it had belonged to his roommate?