The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (10 page)

10

W
HAT’S
G
OING
O
N?

L
YING ON HIS BACK, EYES OPEN,
Hubbard saw the first rays of morning light brightening the bedroom. He groggily recalled the surreal images that roused him from sleep minutes ago and stared up at the white ceiling as if it were a movie screen suitable for the projected images from his dream.

In his dream, it was a summer night. He was trying to guide his family’s truck down a bleak river flooding the shanty town road. In the bed of the truck, there was a carpet roll that was similar to the one that held Amir’s body. It was difficult to see anything but blackness in front of him as the crack in the windshield had blossomed into a thousand different veins. But still, he knew where the current was taking him—toward the dark spirit that he met here on that long ago summer. Unexpectedly, he was distracted by feminine laughter coming from his left. He turned and saw the three costumed party girls standing on the front porch of an ancient shack, their nylon hair glistening in the moonlight.

Cleopatra and her gun-toting flappers called seductively, beckoning him. Their arms strained for him, enticing him further with moonshine poured into a golden cup.

Hubbard wanted the intoxicating drink they offered, but he was drifting past the sirens like Odysseus. Unlike the Greek hero, he tried to steer toward them but failed. Frustrated, he stretched for their extended hands, but the nubile girls were beyond reach.

They evaporated into the mist.

It was only a dream, but it had substance that felt like a memory; his reaching for them, their lovely arms wanting him in return. Hubbard rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore his throbbing hangover. He didn’t know why, but the Arab’s murder was turning out to be his own personal Pandora’s Box. The nightmares, the doubts, and the anger from the past were refreshed and released, swirling around him like demons. The two murders—one old, one new—were unrelated. Why were they melding together in his head? Why couldn’t he walk away from Pandora’s bullshit box?

He rose with a sigh, walked to the dresser, and picked up the photo. The girls seemed so familiar. Why didn’t he recognize them? He dropped the picture on the dresser and walked to the window to check the morning weather.

It looked like another clear day was on tap. Perhaps the fields would be workable soon. He stopped and looked down at the lawn, an empty expanse of green. His mouth dropped open. Where was his tractor? In the rush to leave yesterday, he’d left the machine in the same place where it had died. Now it was gone. Shit!

He threw on a t-shirt and jeans, grabbed his phone and bounded barefoot down the stairs and out to his backyard. The tractor wasn’t in sight.
Why the hell would somebody steal .
 . . He noticed faint impressions in the grass caused by the tractor’s wheels rolling across the soggy ground in the direction of the barn. He followed the tracks and flung open the door of the farm building. There it was, once again in its proper spot.

Had his memory gotten this bad? First it was the girls and now he couldn’t recall putting his tractor in the barn? No. The machine was pushed here. Not an easy process to steer and push; he would remember that struggle. Then he saw a note, duct-taped to the tractor seat. He pulled it off and read—

Rebuilt fuel pump and starter busted.
Very old
. Found another in Mexico. Here in few days. Juan.

Juan handled a myriad of operational details for his uncle. Whatever his sources south of the border, Juan could always find whatever repair supplies for the old John Deere. But the frail man couldn’t have pushed the tractor by himself. Apparently his uncle’s men had been here too and helped shelter the tractor for the night. R.J. always seemed to know what was going on in Hubbard’s life without being told. This was yet another mysterious example.

His cell’s ring tone broke the morning quiet. Hubbard drew it from his pocket.

“John Riley?” The male voice on his cell was almost a whisper.

Hubbard recognized the voice, always hoarse from years of smoking. “Sheriff?”

“Are you alone?”

Toil asked him the question with such urgency, Hubbard found himself glancing over his shoulder before he responded. “Yeah.”

“I had to call you. You’re the only one who’d understand. I called overseas yesterday and it got freaky real quick.”

Hubbard walked out of the barn, closing the door. “What got freaky? I don’t understand. What’re you trying to tell me?”

“I’ve got to talk to you. It’s about the Arab. But not on the phone, in person.”

He didn’t want to be involved with this, but now he found he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to learn more about the murder. Hubbard took a step, stopped abruptly, grimaced, and sighed. He lifted his foot to see what he stepped in. “I could come by your office later. I’m going—”

“No. Someplace else. Not my office.”

“Um . . . okay.” Options were limited in Hayslip. “How about the City Café?”

“Yeah, that’ll work. How quickly can you get here?”

Hubbard was becoming concerned about Toil’s apparent case of nerves. “I don’t know. How’s an hour sound? Sheriff, are you okay?”

“An hour. City Café. Act like nothing’s up. We’re just having coffee. I’m not supposed to be talking.” Toil hung up.

Hubbard lowered his cell. Was he missing something? They were going to meet at City Café and drink coffee while acting like they were just drinking coffee. What the hell was all that about?

Hubbard gazed out at his field. There was much to do, but without a tractor . . . Maybe he could stop by the Kubota dealership in town.
Stop holding on to the past.
It was past time for a new tractor.

It was unexpectedly difficult to find a parking spot at the town square. He spotted a car pulling out on the far side of the square and gunned his truck around the loop and grabbed it. As he got out of his vehicle, he saw four TV crews and several people he guessed were reporters. This was more interest from the Little Rock media for a murder in southeast Arkansas than usual. Perhaps it was the Arab angle that brought them here.

All the media folk were grouped within the confines of a make-do fence consisting of
Do Not Cross
tape strung around empty barrels. A state police trooper was standing between the reporters and the short flight of steps that led up to the sheriff’s office. The cop’s hand rested on his holstered gun as if he expected bored members of the press to transform into an angry street mob at any moment.

His attention on the reporters to his right, he collided with someone directly in front of him.

“Hey, watch—” Tony Andrews’s hands pushed Hubbard back.

Hubbard turned and saw Andrews lowering his outstretched arms. Andrews was a tall man whose face had a slightly Teutonic appearance and framed a long, aquiline nose. His thinning sandy-colored hair drew attention to the top of his balding head. People in town had noted that when the Boy King was angry or embarrassed his partially exposed scalp turned bright red. It appeared almost purple this morning. “Oh sorry, I should watch where I’m going.” Hubbard indicated the crowd to his right. “I guess we should’ve expected—”

“I don’t know why I should pay you for that reporting job you did.”

“What? Oh well, I told you that all I knew was sports—”

“Mrs. Welsh showed me your copy. Where was the White River Killer?
No mention of the White River Killer
. Didn’t I ask you to include—”

Hubbard nodded. “And I followed up on it with Toil. There doesn’t seem to be any connection between this murder and—”

“A good reporter doesn’t take no for an answer.”

“I don’t know what that means, so I guess I’m not—”

Andrews shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. I’ll make it work.”

“I still don’t understand . . .” The words trailed away when Hubbard noticed Andrews’s expensive shooting jacket with a padded right shoulder. “Hey, I didn’t realize you hunted.”

For a moment, Andrews seemed confused by the question then he waved it away. “Oh, the jacket. I don’t hunt, I do shoot competitively. Our team was regional skeet champs two years ago. There’s a competition tonight at the Remington range in Little Rock. I’ve got a new shotgun I’m breaking in. German model, very expensive, you probably haven’t heard of it.”

Aside from Andrew’s boast about how much he spent on his new gun, this was interesting news. The Arab was killed by a shotgun. If Andrews found out that Amir and Trish were having an affair . . . A second later, Hubbard said, “Oh. You know I’ve been thinking about getting a shotgun. Would you be interested in selling your old—”

Andrews ignored the question. “Here’s your check.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I was going to mail it, but since you’re here . . .” Andrews tossed the envelope at him. “Next time, listen to my instructions . . . or I may not need your services anymore.”

There was a split-second when Hubbard felt the old anger rise up. He stopped himself before he took the check and threw it back into Andrews’s face.
Get a grip. Emily doesn’t need to arrive in town and hear about her father getting into a fight in the town square. There are enough embarrassing stories without adding to the list.
Hubbard clenched his jaw.

“Well, I’ve got to get to Monticello.” Andrews bumped him as he passed.

“Yeah.” Hubbard struggled with his immediate instinct to grab the Boy King by the arm and spin him around. Instead, Hubbard watched him depart taking calming breaths. Was Andrews trying to tie Amir’s murder to the White River Killer to shift attention from himself? But if the Boy King wanted to keep a low profile, why would he parade across the town square wearing a shooting jacket in broad daylight? But in the next moment Hubbard remembered Eddie’s comment about seeing Trish at the motor court by the ice machine. She certainly didn’t leave her mansion to spend the night in a dive like the motor court all by herself.

When he reached the diner, the high level of clatter in the packed restaurant surprised Hubbard. At the entrance, five small groups stood in front of the cash register, waiting to pay their bills. Several other customers waited along the foyer wall. Dill Foxcroft—the local road construction baron—was a bear of a man. He was just a bit older than Hubbard’s uncle and was leaning across the front counter in an intimidating way, jabbing a finger in the direction of Sinclair.

“I’ve got meetings with a total of five work crews today at my place and you promised me box lunches for all the men. It’s an important organizational day,” Foxcroft said. His voice was low and threatening.

“You’ll have them. It’s just that my computer system screwed up my order to my suppliers. If you could just be a little flexible with the menu.”

“I want what I want. I don’t bend and I don’t break.”

Hubbard almost laughed at the self-important declaration, but Sinclair nodded energetically. “I’ll get it done.”

Dill Foxcroft, rich and imperial in manner, had an enviable position with state road contracts in Southeast Arkansas. If a contract was awarded—he got it.

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. Now, I hope I don’t have to go through all this with the church dinner—”

Hubbard didn’t have time to wait through a renewed tirade. He cupped one hand close to his mouth to be heard over the hubbub. “Have you seen the sheriff?”

Sinclair looked up, but he seemed too interested in placating the road czar to speak to him. Foxcroft turned around to see who had the gall to interrupt. He mouth turned downward when he saw Hubbard.

“Hubbard.” Foxcroft said the name as if it was a bitter taste in his mouth. “Tell your uncle to stay out of my business.”

Hubbard’s frowned. He didn’t know Foxcroft well enough for the obvious negative reaction. It must mean that Foxcroft and R.J. had a recent run-in. “R.J.’s not in the road business.”

“He’ll know what I mean.”

Sinclair tilted his head in the direction of the dining room. “Sit anywhere,” he called. “Computer system acted up last night.”

Sinclair seemed to think that was an answer to Hubbard’s original question. “But is the sheriff here?”

“Any open table is good. The others waiting are a party of eight. We’re getting them set up now.”

Hubbard walked into the congested dining area. Waitresses and busboys were crisscrossing the floor, weaving through a sea of tables carrying loaded trays and coffee pots. Someone waved, catching his eye. Toil was by a booth on the north wall. Hubbard waved back and made his way toward the sheriff. Toil was halfway through a cup of coffee by the time he got to the booth.

Hubbard sat across from him and looked out at the crowded restaurant. “What’s going on? It’s usually quieted down by 8:30.”

“Hell, who knows. You know most restaurants run by the seat of their pants. It’s like all food joints are run by gypsies.”

Hubbard’s brow furrowed as he tried to follow Toil’s hopscotch logic.

Sarah, a waitress who dyed her hair jet-black like a middle-aged Goth, arrived at their booth and set a cup down in front of Hubbard and paused, holding the coffee pot in her other hand.

Hubbard looked up and nodded. She filled his coffee cup.