Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) (14 page)

“How were you before spring break?”

She looked down at the table. “I was very upset.”

Boris’s tail thwapped twice. I grinned to myself. “You were relieved.”

She flinched. Gotcha.

“Did he really take it well?”

“Of course.”

Boris’s tail shuddered.

“Did he threaten you?”

“No! No, my God!”

Boris’s tail stayed quiet.

“What did he do, then?”

She finally looked me in the eye. “He said he’d never love anyone else the same way. He said…‌what we had was too special to end. But he was upset, I understood.”

I struck. “Then why did it make you uneasy?”

Vicky Weed’s composure teetered but did not slip. “I don’t know. Something in his eyes, I think. Too much…‌fire.”

“Enough to blow up your house?”

Vicky Weed froze. Her hand went up to her mouth, and dropped again. “Oh my God. Oh my God. He wouldn’t. It was those political nuts. He wouldn’t!”

“Maybe not. But it has to be considered.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh God. If Adam finds out, I’ll die. I’ll just die. I can’t lose him!”

Aunt Marge would’ve been proud. I actually didn’t say out loud that she should’ve thought of that before she screwed around.

***^***

I was talking it over with Tom when Howard and Newsome walked into the office. “Sheriff,” said Howard, “thought I’d give you a copy in person, seeing as it was your front door the Quinns went for.”

I glanced at the papers he handed me. “Preliminary on the Sayers explosion,” I told Tom as I scanned through. “God save us. No wonder it left a crater.”

Howard dropped onto our couch. Guy looked like hell. “From what we can tell so far, he had some old motor oil and a lot of different chemicals in the repair shop, typical car stuff, a lot of it petroleum or alcohol based. Fuel line additives and brake fluids, you get the idea. And it’s apparently where he and his brother were building their pipe bombs, we found some of the same pipe used on your front door. And the Weed house, though that’s not saying much, you can get it almost anywhere.”

Tom had come to read over my shoulder. “What do you think happened, then? He fumbled a pipe bomb and it all went up?”

“Best guess, yes. Our guys think he had a whole stash of pipe bombs, and when one went, it was enough to set off the others. Maybe trying to hide them from us. No idea.” Howard shrugged wearily, while Newsome paced restlessly. “And then the used motor oil went. I don’t know what that was doing there, but according to a few neighbors, he claimed he sent it to be recycled. My thought is, he was planning something big.”

“Yeah,” said Newsome, “a big bang.”

We pretended not to hear him. “Anything to tie it to the Weed case?” asked Tom.

“Yes and no. The fragments of pipe bombs we’ve recovered aren’t terribly sophisticated. That’s not congruent with the Weed house evidence. On the other hand, everyone in Sayers seems to think Ray Quinn was willing to play Tim McVeigh. No target mentioned, but…”

“Friggin’ rednecks,” muttered Newsome.

“But,” I said coldly, and loudly, “we still aren’t sure if he and his buddies were behind the bombing of the Weed house.”

“Sorry,” sighed Howard. “Still, chances are you’re not going to have any more pipe bombs tossed in your direction.”

He stood. I waited until Newsome had gotten out the door before I reported quickly, “Vicky Weed broke up with her lover in April.”

He turned, face blanking. “And?”

“He knows how to use eighteenth-century muskets, and he gave me a funny feeling.”

Howard inhaled slowly, exhaled even more slowly. “So he knows gunpowder. Damn. Okay. Can you follow it up? We’ve got too many eyes on us.”

“We’ll take care of it,” I said. “I understand.” And I did. With a US senator possibly at risk, the media were sniffing all over the case. Throw in the flyer, the explosion at Sayers, and everyone who had cable news thought they knew all about it. We’d been lucky that the big networks were happy to buy the footage shot by the Charlottesville and Lynchburg stations instead of showing up themselves. I hadn’t turned on my TV except to use the DVD player, but I’d heard about it from Bobbi and Aunt Marge, who’d heard about it from dang near everyone in three counties.

I was wondering how to go about questioning Bill Lloyd a second time when Tom cleared his throat and announced, “Lil, Punk wants to talk to you.”

“I’ll see him when he comes on for his shift,” I said.

Tom plowed on earnestly, “It’s not about work.”

I gave him a warning look. Tom reddened but kept going. Brave man. “If he didn’t work here it wouldn’t be my business, but….”

“It’s settled,” I informed him coolly. “We’re not dating. So there’s no business. Now help me figure out how we approach Bill Lloyd.”

***^***

In the end, we decided on sneaky, under-handed, old-fashioned policing, also known to Aunt Marge as “deceit”. It entailed asking Bill Lloyd a few questions to which we knew the answers, in the guise of asking him questions to which we did not.

Now and then, I see why my job makes Aunt Marge itch.

Not to imply that anything went according to plan. Nothing went according to plan. Because, in accordance with the Crazy Sheriff Department SNAFU Principle, and more specifically its Charlie-Fox corollary, all the fecal matter hit the fan at about the same moment.

Margaret Shiflet of Shiflet Realty called to ask me if I knew my ex-fiancée was buying up all the vacant commercial properties in or near Crazy, and had done so in the name of a big property management company up in Northern Virginia. Time to call my cousin, and go have a chat with Steve.

Tom took a call on the office line from Becky Shifflett of Happy Tot daycare, reporting that Sean Brady‌—‌Eddie’s luckless son‌—‌was passed out in the marigolds, reeking of liquor.

We were heading out as Punk came in, and the telephone rang again. I’d made it as far as my car before Punk caught me. “It’s the Weeds,” he said. “Aida’s run away. They saw her hitch a ride on a semi heading north on US 29.”

Every expletive known to man crowded into my head at once. Not one made it out of my mouth. There are some things you can’t even cuss about.

15.

T
here’s not much in life that scares me, but a teenaged girl hitching rides from truckers rates pretty high on the list. After we notified the state boys, tried to impress on Chief Rucker that the county police might want to keep an eye out, and explained to Vicky Weed why we couldn’t issue an Amber Alert, we headed out to patrol the highway ourselves. Out of minor desperation, I put Aunt Marge on the case. Any woman affiliated with any church within six counties was going to be on the lookout for a sulky teenager, and a black tractor with a white trailer. She mobilized Roger and a few of his buddies, who took to the highway as civilian runaway spotters, some of them armed in ways I overlooked for the sake of domestic peace.

“We’re screwed,” I told Boris, who was sitting up, watching trees and houses flash by. “You know how many black cabs there are? With white trailers?”

Boris replied, “Mrrw.” I took that as a “No.”

We’d been prowling for nearly an hour when Tom called me on the radio. “I got her, she’s okay. Heading to the office.”

“Meet you there,” I said, and called Aunt Marge so she could notify the troops. When I arrived back in Crazy, Tom was waiting for me outside. “I stuck her in a cell,” he reported. “Seemed safest. She’s ready to run for it.”

I paused, one hand on the door. “I’m guessing this is more than the usual teenage crap?”

Tom nodded grimly. “She saw her mother with Bill Lloyd.”

I whistled. “And she’s kept it to herself this whole time?”

“Not in school,” Tom clarified. “Yesterday.”

***^***

Aida sulked with enthusiasm. In her situation, I suppose anyone would. Lucky for us, I had a secret weapon. Veronica Turner‌—‌Aunt Marge’s cousin, our phantom cleaning help‌—‌left gooey treats once a week. This week, brownies full of chocolate chips, topped with frosting, and adorned with sprinkles. Custom-made for bribing surly adolescents.

I popped the paper plate between the bars, along with her choice of water, juice, or diet soda. She took the diet soda. “I’m not going back,” she announced.

“Motel sucks that bad?”

She flipped her middle finger at me. Ah, hormones. How they cloud the brain. “Use your words,” I advised. “Now. You saw your mother with Bill Lloyd?”

She nodded, tears welling up. Rage, grief, disillusionment, petulance: those tears had a lot to express. “She said she was coming up to look at, y’know, the house. The house site. Then she said she had to stop and talk to someone real quick. But I wanted to come.” Her mouth pursed up, eerily like her mother’s. “Mom said I’d be bored, but I’m totally bored already. And I’m sick of the motel. And…” She gave a complex, loose-joined shrug. “So I’m sitting in the car, and it’s like, God, how much does she have to talk about? They’re
teachers
. What, they’re gonna compare lesson plans? Then I see Mom come out, and I’m all, thank God….” Her shoulders hunched, almost in a spasm. “And it’s Mr. Lloyd. The dick teacher.”

Tom choked. I studied a spot on the wall. “What happened then?”

“He was pissed off. So was Mom. She had that face she has when she’s been yelling.”

“Could you hear anything?”

She gave me the “you’re a hopeless, outdated dinosaur” look and wiggled a tiny rectangle of plastic in front of me. “I had my iPod. Y’know? Little thing for listening to music?”

I smiled as benevolently as I could while wanting to slap her. “So you ran away because….”

“Mom’s a whore!”

I turned into Aunt Marge. “Language!”

She crimsoned, but kept going. “It’s true, she is! All the teachers flirt with Mr. Lloyd, they all do, but why’s Mom at his house if she’s not…‌and she always stayed late, and nobody else in the English department ever did, and how’d she know where he
lives
? And she was in there like half an hour! And when we got back to the hotel, she lied to Dad and said she stopped by Mrs. Lundy’s, and she gave me this look like I had to say she did, and…” Her hands waved all over, crumbs flying. “And I started to say something, and she took me outside, and she said it wasn’t Dad’s business, and I…‌She was
scared
.” Aida snuffled into her t-shirt. “She’s having an affair, isn’t she.”

On one hand, not my business. On the other…‌I sighed, and gave Aida a gentle, reassuring, “She’s not having an affair with Mr. Lloyd.”

“Really?”

I couldn’t lie to her. It’d be too cruel, in the long run. “Really. But she was.”

Tom quietly brought over a box of tissues and thrust them through the bars. We walked across the office to give Aida an illusion of privacy. “Not our place to tell her.”

“You heard her, Tom. She already figured it out.” I studied the crying girl. “What I want to know is, if Vicky Weed ended the affair, what’s she doing at Bill Lloyd’s house.”

***^***

When the Weeds showed up, the screaming started. Aida at her mother, her mother at Aida, and, once he got the gist of things, Adam at everybody. Tom and I retreated to stand in the open doorway. Punk rolled in, took one listen, and remarked, “Don’t know which one’s got the dirtiest mouth.”

“Vicky,” I said with feeling. “Trust me on that. I’ve got a call in to Harry Rucker. We need more for a warrant on Bill Lloyd’s place.”

Adam Weed must’ve overheard that, God knows how. He buzzed over. “Is that him? Is that the guy? Her lover? That smarmy motherf-umff.”

Tom had gently laid a hand over Adam’s mouth mid-syllable. “Mr. Weed. That won’t help.”

Adam backed away. Vicky came up to us. “Please,” she said, “it’s not what you think, honey. It’s not.”

“Don’t call me honey, you…”

I got Adam Weed’s mouth that time. “Go sit with your daughter, Mr. Weed. Vicky, I’ve got three questions. Can you stay calm long enough to answer?”

She wrung her hands. Never saw
that
before. “I can.”

“Does Bill Lloyd smoke, Mrs. Weed?”

“Yes, but he…”

“Brand?”

“Newports. Filtered. What does that…”

The same brand we’d found in the trees by her house. “Last question,” I rapped out. “What did you talk about yesterday?”

She blanched. “I asked him…‌If he…‌I asked him if he blew up the house. Our house. If he tried to kill my kids.” She sobbed wetly into a handful of crumpled tissues.

“What did he say?”

“He said…‌he said no, but…” Her face collapsed into more tears. “I don’t know what to believe. I never thought it would get like this. I never thought…”

I knew she hadn’t thought. Emotions feel better than thought. Easier. It’s why there’s so little rational behavior in the world.

I patted her arm awkwardly. “Mrs. Weed. Vicky. What else did he say?”

“He told me he still loved me. But the way he talked…‌I don’t think he
cares
! Can that happen? Can you love without caring?”

Tom met my eyes over her head. I nodded. While I went inside to negotiate a peace between the Weeds, Tom got on the phone. When he came to tell me we’d get the warrant, I told him to handle it. I was going to be sitting with the Weeds for a while. If there was one thing I understood, it’s that your emotions can play hell with your life.

***^***

When Punk and Tom got back from searching Bill Lloyd’s house, I figured we’d have our case wrapped up.

Yeah. Right. Like life would ever be so normal in Crazy.

We had pamphlets. Political pamphlets of a variety that I can only characterize as so anarchist they were fascist. None again Senator Weed, but against everything except the stern repression of imposed order.

We had gunpowder, but only what was in a powder horn. Damp. With what may have been mold growing on it.

We had some highly erotic poetry dedicated to his “Queen Victoria”. Some of it explicit enough that all three of us blushed.

Do you know what it takes to make a cop blush?

We had nothing tying him to the explosion, except his brand of cigarettes. A common brand. Obtainable at any fine, or not-fine, purveyor of tobacco products.