Pride v. Prejudice (13 page)

Peter returned, looking grim. “Nobody's chatty, but my understanding is that Sarah was part of a campus group called the Student Antiwar Coalition, known to the feds as SAC. There was a protest, and an undercover FBI agent was killed. Sarah and a few other kids escaped and went underground. Sarah has surfaced.”

“What about Tuck?”

“He was one of them.”

“That explains why they stayed together,” I said. “Any bright ideas, Sherlock?”

“I'll go to the PD and make some calls, see if I can get more information about the incident and her status. You may have bet on the wrong horse, Claire. If Wessell doesn't get her, the feds will.”

I told Peter that I preferred to walk back to the Book Depot, and we parted without sweet sorrow. The town square was not aflutter with activity, since the farmers' market began to close down shortly after noon. I went into a caf
é
and purchased iced tea and a cookie, then sat down on a shady bench. In the past, I may have failed to reveal irrelevant details during my investigations, but Sarah had taken the art of omission to an impressive level. She hadn't tossed out an idle comment about being on the FBI's most-wanted list. She hadn't made passing references to the outstanding charges against her, including conspiracy to commit murder. She'd dropped no wee hints that she and her husband were using false identities to elude the authorities for forty years. It might not have made for an appropriate topic at her book club, but she hadn't shared the information with her lawyer, either.

I nibbled on the cookie as I watched as the parking spaces that had been reserved for the farmers' market pickups begin to be taken by vehicles of a less agronomic nature. A patron from the bookstore waved at me as she entered an art gallery. A professor from the English department glanced at me and hurriedly rounded the corner, perhaps unwilling to be seen in the company of a disgraced nonmember of the jury. Two of Caron's friends stopped texting long enough to gape at me, then resumed updating the world on their current whereabouts and latest philosophical musings. I began to feel like the Notorious Ms. Malloy, a veritable magnet for murder. At least I hadn't shot Carlton in the barn, or even in the chest. According to the Weasel, I was much too devious.

Sarah would not share any enlightenment in the near future. If I believed that she hadn't shot Tuck (or whatever his name was), then someone else had. Most likely, I thought as I sipped tea, not a zombie. Peter, who could be helpful when it suited him, had promised to find out about the green van—if there was anything to be found out.

Images of the Ming Thing began to flit into my consciousness. Doing my best to banish them, I finished my cookie, brushed off the crumbs in my lap, and walked to the Book Depot. The modicum of exercise failed to elevate my spirits. I went through the back door, called to Jacob to let him know I was skulking, and noted that the remains of my sandwich had been neatly wrapped. Like Wessell's case against Sarah. Sarah, who was now a fugitive who'd been on the FBI's most-wanted list for forty years for such minor peccadilloes as conspiring to commit murder. Wessell would not need two days to present his case. Fifteen minutes might suffice. Evan might need ten for the defense.

All I had were zombies. It was time to go hunting.

I drove back out County 107, intending to stop at Miss Poppoy's house to ask her who owned the camping spot William had mentioned. I had reached her road when flashing blue lights appeared in my rearview mirror. I pulled over and watched a sheriff's car race by me, hit the brakes, and turn onto Pinkie Sheer Road. Seconds later an ambulance did the same at a more sedate speed. The two women I'd met the previous day at their yard sale came out to the end of the driveway. When no high drama ensued, they retreated, talking animatedly to each other.

I knew I would not be welcome, but I decided to find out what had happened, albeit from a prudent distance. The official vehicle and the ambulance had stopped by the pond. Deputy Norton and a second deputy were standing in knee-high weeds while medics unloaded a gurney. A large man in bib overalls and a cap beckoned to them from beside the pond. Near his feet was a sodden lump covered with pond slime, but even from where I'd stopped I could see the soles of boots and a splayed arm.

I clung to the steering wheel and stared at a clump of oak trees while I replayed my conversation with Zachery Barnard. He had failed to live up to the decided low expectations of his neighbors; he'd been sober. And he'd quoted Oliver Goldsmith, not a bawdy limerick. I was trying to imagine him on Miss Poppoy's front porch at midnight, ranting about black helicopters, when a rap on the window startled me.

“Mizz Malloy,” Deputy Norton drawled, “what the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Waiting to find out what you're doing,” I said. “Who's the deceased?”

“Who said anyone is deceased?” he countered with a sneer.

“Just a wild guess, Deputy Norton. The paramedics didn't leap over the fence to rush to his aid, which implies it's a little too late for CPR. You and your colleague don't appear to be doing much of anything. Is it Zachery Barnard?”

“You know him?”

“I spoke to him yesterday. What happened?”

“It ain't none of your business, but I suppose it can't hurt. Yeah, that's Barnard. The guy over there, name of Jeeter Buchanon, said he was driving by and saw something in the pond. Thought it looked like a body, so he went over to investigate. Dragged Barnard out of the water, identified him, and called us.”

I am not fond of coincidences. “Cause of death?”

Deputy Norton snorted. “Now how would we know? The medical examiner's on the way, but it'll take him another half hour to get here. Jeeter said there wasn't any sign of blood but he could smell whiskey. Barnard had a reputation for gettin' drunk and blunderin' around at night. Dumb shit fell in the pond and drowned, if you ask me.” He stepped back and gave me a hard look. “I don't want to know why you spoke to Barnard yesterday or any other day, but if you don't get the hell out of here right now, I'll put you in the backseat of my car and take you in for questioning. Do I make myself clear?”

I willed myself not to make a scathing remark, since he was petty enough to follow through with his threat. While he watched, hands on his hips like a belligerent bouncer, I maneuvered the car until I was turned around and then drove back to the highway, hoping he enjoyed a mouthful of dust. I stopped at the edge of the road as a wave of nausea swept over me. I could taste slimy green water. I could feel tentacles of sodden weeds drifting across my face. I managed to open the car door and lean over as everything I'd eaten came spewing out. Once the spasm subsided, I sat back up and found a tissue to wipe my mouth and chin.

Miss Marple would have been aghast.

 

7

There were two cars parked in front of Miss Poppoy's house. I was reluctant to intrude on what might be a highly spirited religious (and high-caliber) exchange, but the clock was ticking. I knocked on the door and waited.

“You again?” Miss Poppoy said as she threw open the door. To my bemusement, she was wearing a coppery wig, high heels, and a gaping bathrobe that gave me a glimpse of a misshapen rose tattoo that had passed its prime decades earlier.

“I am so sorry to disturb you,” I said in a voice that might have sounded a bit shrill. “Do you know who owns the campsite called Flat Rock?”

“Can't think offhand. Let me ask Geronimo.” She looked up at me with a coy smile. “Not his real name, of course, but that's what I call him. You want to come in? We're playing mah-jongg.”

I was not about to be lured into what might have been strip mah-jongg. “I'll just wait here.”

“Suit yourself.” She closed the door.

I tried as best I could to keep my imagination from conjuring up any images whatsoever. I was reduced to mentally constructing a crossword puzzle when she returned.

“The property belongs to Larry Lippet. Go north about a half mile and turn left at an abandoned house. They live in a fancy manor with pillars and all kinds of shit. Marie walks around with her nose in the air like she's smelling something nasty. It's a surprise she doesn't trip over one of those plastic flamingos and break her leg.” Miss Poppoy let out a raucous cackle that might have been heard in the hinterwoods of the county.

I was reluctant to spoil her jovial mood (and whatever delights she'd planned for the rest of the afternoon), but I took a breath and said, “I'm afraid I have some bad news, Miss Poppoy. Zachery Barnard's body was found a little while ago. He drowned in that pond near his house.”

“Yeah, I already heard. Jeeter called his sister, who called everybody she could think of short of God and the governor. Damn shame, but I ain't surprised. Unless you got other business, I need to go. Geronimo turns into a wild man when he has to wait. I got the bruises to prove it.”

I fled to my car. Still battling to stifle my imagination, I drove back to the county road and followed her directions. There were a few mobile homes along the unpaved road, but I had no difficulty recognizing the Lippets' extensive flock of flamingos in front of a large two-story house built in a most peculiar style that hinted of Greek-Mexican fusion. Garden gnomes lined the brick sidewalk like small, pudgy guards, and concrete deer grazed in front of a pergola with a terra-cotta tile roof.

I went onto the porch flanked by columns and rang the doorbell. I was beginning to feel foolish as well as grimy, and I would not have been devastated if no one was home.

The door was opened by a rotund man in jeans and a plaid shirt, with glistening black hair pasted across the top of his head like inky lines. He gazed at me for a moment, then said, “Yeah? If you're selling, we're not buying.”

“Mr. Lippet, I'm Claire Malloy, and I'm looking for information about Flat Rock. Miss Poppoy told me that you're the owner.”

“She did, did she?”

I did not want to elaborate and end up ratting out her confidential informant. “Do you own that property?”

He nodded. “It's been in the family for three generations. Two hundred acres, give or take. This any of your business?”

In for a drachma, in for a peso, I told myself. “I'm trying to find out if there were campers the night that John Cunningham was shot. I know it's been a long time, but I really think it might help Sarah avoid a wrongful conviction.”

“It's not wrongful if she shot him,” Lippet said.

“True, but there are some unexplained incidents that might support her innocence. One of them involves Flat Rock.”

“About a year ago, right?”

“Is there any chance you remember that night?”

“Hell, no. It used to be our private family swimming hole, but then the damn hippies chanced on it and started sneaking out there weekends. Every time I put up a
NO TRESPASSING
sign, the jerks knocked it down. They damn near knocked down the fence, too. I gave up and put in stiles and a trash bin. Sunday mornings after church I go pick up all the wine and beer bottles and litter.”

“Thanks for your time,” I said. I suppose I could have asked him if he'd noticed any zombies staggering across his field, but he might not be amused.

“Marie may know,” he said, scratching his chin. “We let certain groups reserve the area, mostly from churches. You want to get rid of hippies, get yourself a bunch of Baptists and tell 'em they have permission from the Almighty to stay there. Instead of thumping Bibles, they thump heads.”

“Would you please ask Marie if she remembers who might have reserved Flat Rock that night?”

“Wait here.”

I sat down on a porch swing and let my feet brush the floor as I tried not to get overly optimistic. More than a year ago, and during a popular month for swimming, toasting marshmallows, and, for some, getting high by the light of the moon. Or playing flashlight tag.

Lippet came to the porch. “You're in luck, little lady. Marie keeps a notebook so we don't end up with a holy war. She recalled the day Cunningham got killed because it was her birthday. That particular Saturday we let our church's teen choir have the campsite. Well chaperoned, of course. Even then, I had to pluck some condoms out the water downstream. I didn't say anything because the preacher's daughters are in the choir.”

“Do you know the names of the chaperones?” I asked, desperate enough to overlook the phrase “little lady.”

“The choir director's Grady Nichols, so he would have been one of them. I don't recollect who else was there. You want me to ask Marie?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

He went back inside while I considered how to handle this frail tidbit of information. There had been campers at Flat Rock on the pertinent night, but not in close proximity. No one had contacted the sheriff's department to report seeing anything of significance, including the living dead. I had failed to come up with a plan of action when Lippet returned.

“Marie says that Tricia Yates called her to set the date and said she would be accompanying the kids. Fatso Feathers was supposed to go, too, but he ended up spending the weekend in jail over in Hasty. Dumb shit had a lovers' quarrel with Carol Louise Pippins and drove his truck into her living room. She thought it was so romantic that it took three deputies to pull 'em apart.”

“Do you have any idea how I might get in touch with Grady or Tricia?”

“You think Sarah's innocent?”

I cleverly deduced that Mr. Lippet had failed to catch the breaking story on the local TV channel. I realized I was hesitating and, with all the conviction I could muster, said, “Yes, I do. I don't think the campers from your church will have anything to contribute, but I have to follow up on all the possibilities. Sarah says she didn't shoot her husband.”

“Sumbitch deserved it,” he said with a grimace. “Caught him hiding in the bushes by the rocks, watching hippie chicks skinny-dip. That's not to say there's anything wrong with watching those perky young breasts and fine rumps, but Cunningham tried to tell me they were FBI agents.” He gazed over my head, his mind clearly reliving the moment—and the view.