Pride v. Prejudice (19 page)

Neither one beckoned to me. I finally pulled back out and turned on the road that went past Zachery Barnard's house and whatever lay beyond it. I averted my eyes as I drove by the loathsome pond where his body had been discovered. His house seemed lost amid the weeds and debris. The road curled this way and that, with no signs of civilization, until I came to a padlocked gate. A sign warned me not to trespass on county property and to beware of high voltage lines. I was not tempted. If the van had taken this route, it had long since vanished into the wilderness.

I turned around and drove back toward the highway, keeping an eye out for any semblance of a turnoff on either side. The ditches were undisturbed. I passed the shack and pond, and then stopped when I reached the highway. The remaining option was the road that led to Larry Lippet's house and property. My memories were not nostalgic, to put it mildly. I'd been menaced, harassed, and embarrassed. I'd also been threatened with legal complications if I were to trespass in the future.

I do not handle intimidation with grace. I turned onto the highway, and minutes later onto the road to Flat Rock. No vans of any sort were parked near the trailers and mean little houses. When I arrived at the Lippets' house, the laird himself was in the front yard, apparently watching the grass grow while he drank a soda. I braked and put down the window. “Hello,” I called, plastering on an amiable smile. “Did you see a green van drive by here a few minutes ago?”

He hitched up his pants as he came over to my car. “Heard you had a little problem yesterday evening. I wouldn't have thought you'd be afraid of a dumbass dog like Duke. He's scared of squirrels, and the blue jays downright terrify him.” Lippet guffawed, exposing spotted teeth. “Marie asked me if you was daft. Said I didn't think so, but you can't never tell.”

“The dog tried to attack me,” I said primly. “About the van?”

“No one's come along in the last half hour, except for Wade. Said he was going fishing on such a fine afternoon. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten feet away. Rumor has it he has a marijuana patch somewhere behind the old schoolhouse, but nobody cares enough to look for it. I sure as hell don't.”

“Have you ever seen a green van out this way?”

“Driven by little green men with squashed heads? I seem to recollect seeing a whole bevy of them one night after Wade and I finished a quart of vile moonshine.” He rewarded me with another guffaw. “You want to hear about the pink elephants?”

“Another time, Mr. Lippet.” I pulled into his driveway, turned around, and drove away before he could leap into my car and entertain me with more of his hilarious remarks. Once I was safely out of his sight, I slowed down. I was certain that I'd seen a green van, but I was less certain that it was noteworthy. Regrettably, it was all I had on my depleted list of alternate suspects. The Weasel would ride his victory to the bench, where he could continue to terrorize the unfortunate souls who lacked money for a high-priced lawyer (and a contribution to his campaign).

I headed back toward Farberville, reviewing every last conversation I'd had since Friday morning. Billy's story was gaining credence, although he had to be docked a few points for embellishment. I was not unfamiliar with the youthful impulse to toss in extraneous details for added drama. In her prepubescent days, Caron had been certain she was being stalked by celebrities (Elvis was one of the culprits) and denied her rightful position in the British royal family by the gypsies who'd made the dastardly switch in the hospital nursery.

I was almost smiling as I came to the turnoff for Sarah's house. The smile evaporated as I saw movement in one of the second-story bedrooms. I slammed on the brakes and skidded onto the gravel road in a fine spray of dust. Sarah had not been released unless something bizarre had taken place, and Peter or Evan would have called me if it had. If she'd found a way to escape from the county jail, she would not have gone home to pack a suitcase. A truck and the SUV were parked outside the Lunds' farmhouse. Prudence suggested I drive there, alert them, and call the police from their living room. Whoever had broken into the house would have ample time to steal or destroy evidence before waltzing into the maze of back roads.

I parked my car as close to the ditch as I dared, grabbed my purse, and started walking. I could see no vehicle except for Sarah's car. The barn door was slightly ajar, however, and I had no view of the side or back yard. As I came to the driveway, I saw a hazy figure behind the sheer curtains in the front room. Everybody in the county who was old enough to watch the news knew that Sarah was in jail and the house was empty. I sidled behind a tree while I considered my minor adventure with the green van. It had been ahead of me when I drove by Sarah's house, but then it had vanished. The perps might have been casing the joint to make sure the police and FBI agents were not there. They'd made a minor detour and returned while I was investigating other possibilities.

I could hear Peter's voice telling me to back away and call for help. His lovely brown eyes were squinting with intensity and his jaw was tight. What would his mother say if she was told that I'd been kidnapped by surly, hirsute brutes in camouflage jackets? Her nostrils might flare with disdain at the vulgar nature of the criminals and the brashness of their hostage. If I'd underestimated my opponents, would she lower herself to attend my funeral? Could I trust Caron to handle the role of hostess after the internment? Would the mourners be appalled by chips and pizza?

It was time to find out, I told myself as I walked toward the house.

 

10

Rather than storm the ramparts, I went to the barn door and squeezed through the narrow gap. The vehicle in no way resembled a green van. Had it been in better condition, it might have qualified as a vintage pickup truck, but its primary color was a combination of mud and rust, with a decorative splatter of roadkill. I looked in the passenger's window at an unholy mess of beer cans, liquor bottles, dirty clothes, and fast food debris. Vintage fast food debris, based on the blue mold and the maggots. The bed of the truck held a collection of more beer cans, leaves, a sneaker, rubber snakes, rusty tools, a bald tire, and what I initially took to be a furry animal, deceased. A second look confirmed it to be of the species
Wigus platinus.
The gun rack supported a rifle. I was somewhat relieved that it was in the truck instead of in the hands of the burglars.

I slipped out of the barn and darted to the side of the house. The windows were too high to give me a view of the interior. I went around to the back porch and took a quick peek through the glass panel of the door. There were plates and a coffee cup on the kitchen table, as though Sarah had been having lunch when the FBI took her into custody the previous day. The door was not locked. I eased it open and braced myself for a shout of surprise. I was a bit disappointed when I heard a low rumble of voices from the front of the house, thus giving me no excuse to flee in a most cowardly fashion. I assured myself that once I had a glimpse of the intruders, I would retreat with all due haste to my car and call the sheriff's department from the sanctuary of the Lunds' driveway. A most reasonable plan.

I tiptoed across the kitchen. The hallway was empty. I could hear two voices, one gravelly and the other higher pitched and nervous. The TV set was by the front door, and next to it was a wooden crate filled with record albums. The thieves must have been disappointed with their booty—no computer, silver, jewelry, guns, Tiffany vases, or even a platinum wig. I was lamenting the paucity of the household treasures when a man stepped into the hallway and saw me.

“Who in blazes are you?” he croaked.

I assessed my chances. He was no taller than five foot six and was wearing baggy jeans, a dirty T-shirt, and a cap. I doubted he was old enough to buy beer or vote. “I am affiliated with the Farberville Police Department,” I said in a chilly voice. “Who are you and why are you here?”

He pulled off his cap. “I asked you first, ma'am.”

His cohort, also a teenager, joined him. He was bigger and therefore more alarming, but he seemed equally befuddled. “What the hell?” he said eloquently.

I stepped into the doorway, my arms crossed. “I have already called for backup, and I anticipate the arrival of several squad cars within minutes. My partner is outside, and let me assure you that he's armed and dangerous. He's been cited for excessive violence. If either of you moves one inch from that spot, you will require the services of the coroner and a funeral director. Any more stupid questions?” I stared at them until they shook their heads. “I need your names and addresses.”

The bigger one actually shuffled his feet. If he'd had a forelock, he would have tugged it. “My name's Bubba, and this here is Benedict. We just dropped by to see if the woman who lives here is home. Thought she might need help with the harvest next month.”

“Oh, really?” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster. “Do you honestly think I'm going to believe that? It looks as though you're applying for a job that requires heavy lifting and relocation. Did you fail to notice that she's not home?”

Benedict snuffled. “No, ma'am, so maybe we ought to be on our way.”

“To Miss Poppoy's house? No, you've already stolen what you could from her. Do you realize what would have happened if she'd died during your intrusion? You'd have been tried as adults and be spending the next forty years in prison with very rude inmates.”

“My cousin shot his pa and only got ten years,” said Benedict.

Bubba whacked him on the shoulder. “Your cousin was eleven years old, you moron! Remember Bo Bridges Buchanon? He offed those guys at a liquor store and he got life without parole. He weren't but fifteen when it happened.”

I cleared my throat. “Miss Poppoy survived despite your despicable behavior. What would your mothers say if they learned about that? I'm sure they've done the best they could to raise you with proper respect for your elders, and then you two go and pull some boneheaded robberies.” I gave them a moment to think it over, and then said, “So which of you owns a green van?”

Benedict shook his head. “My pickup's in the barn. Bubba drove his GTO into the lake a month ago. He had a boat hitched to it and was backing down the ramp when he hit the gas instead of the brake. Sunk the boat, too. Funniest damn thing I've ever seen, except for maybe when his grandpa dropped his pants in court and waved his dingaling at the judge.”

“Have you ever been on this property before today?” I asked, struggling to remain stern. “A year ago, for instance?”

“Don't reckon so,” Bubba said. “Last night some of the guys at the bar was talking about the lady that lives here, how she was a terrorist and a murderer. We figured that if she was in jail, the house was empty. It seemed neighborly to keep an eye on things, make sure nobody had broken in or anything.”

“So you broke in to see if someone had broken in?” I said.

“Yeah,” Benedict said, “that's why we're here.”

“Is that why the TV set is by the door?”

Benedict looked at Bubba, who blinked and said, “Just being neighborly, ma'am. We best be on our way.”

I was too tired of them to demand their last names. I'd memorized the license plate and would share the information with Sheriff Dorfer when he resurfaced after the long weekend. Their fingerprints would be on the TV set. “Then go,” I said, gesturing at the door, “and don't even think about coming back here. This house will be under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.”

Both of them glanced at the pile of loot and then ambled out the front door. I held my breath until I saw the pickup truck drive across the yard and onto the road. As I exhaled, I tried not to imagine Peter's reaction when I related the story. He might feel obligated to explain exactly how foolhardy I'd been, along with other adjectives that would not reflect well on me. Clearly, the story required editing for his sake. I didn't want him to be agitated when his mother arrived in less than twenty-four hours. Tomorrow. It was only a day away.

I deleted two suspects from the list, since neither Bubba nor Benedict had flinched when I'd asked the pertinent question. The green van was out there somewhere. I had no idea if it was still significant. On that less than optimistic note, I decided to search the house. There were three bedrooms upstairs and an antiquated bathroom with a stained bathtub. I wasn't surprised that Sarah and Tuck had separate bedrooms. Juniper had told me that the marriage was based solely on their oath to remain underground together, like witless rodents in the same burrow. Forty years was a very long time to brood about the past and worry about the future.

I went into Sarah's room. A tattered quilt served as a bedspread, and a bookcase held an eclectic array of fiction and poetry, some in French. On the nightstand was a small framed photograph of two adults and a child, all beaming at the camera. I studied it for a moment, wondering if Sarah had found a way to get in touch with her parents. The FBI's fondness for tapping phone lines would have made a call too risky. Mail would have been routinely waylaid so the postmark could be examined. I replaced the photo and opened the closet door. Her clothes were plain and inexpensive. She'd enrolled in a pricey liberal arts college, and I visualized her pulling up to a dorm in a sleek car packed with suitcases of designer outfits. It had been a hard fall from grace.

I pulled down the boxes on the top shelf and found worn purses and shoes, sweaters, long-sleeved shirts, and a scarf. I continued to search the room without chancing on a diary, journal, scrapbook, or a cache of newspaper clippings and letters. Sarah had kept her secrets without leaving any sort of paper trail.

Tuck's bedroom was a hodgepodge of boxes, duffel bags, stacks of paperwork concerning organic gardening regulations and inspections, and a boggling quantity of medicine for obscure ailments ranging from toenail fungus to excessive ear wax. He'd been prepared to tackle malaria and ringworms, warts and hangnails. I had no problem believing he had reached mastery in hypochondria before being killed in a less esoteric fashion. Sarah had not bothered to deal with his closet. His basic wardrobe had consisted of threadbare jeans, flannel shirts, one sadly dated black suit, T-shirts, and a single navy necktie. Goodwill would not have whooped with delight had it all been donated.