Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) Read online

  Finally, I returned to the house.

  Caroline was standing right out front. She hadn’t moved.

  “Did you see them?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “How long ago did you let them out?”

  She took a sip of wine and pondered the question.

  I put up my hands.

  Finally she said, “I don’t know, maybe an hour ago.”

  “An hour!?”

  They could be anywhere.

  “Please help me look for them,” I pleaded.

  “Oh, okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

  She looked at me, then walked—no, clomped—a couple feet toward the large oak. She leaned down, the dress pulling taut around her backside, and yelled, “Come here, pigs!”

  If her desired effect was to take my mind off my two escaped piglets, she only half accomplished it.

  I shook my head and took off into the high brush.

  Thirty minutes later, still having not found them, the reality that they might really be gone was starting to hit.

  The old tractor wasn’t far away, and I pushed my way through the overgrown brush and leaned back against it.

  “Harold! May!” I screamed.

  Oink, oink.

  I flattened myself to the ground, pushed a bunch of grass to the side, and peered under the tractor.

  Two little piglets smiled back at me.

  “Guys!”

  They wiggled their way out from the shade and into my arms. My eyes started watering. I was a thirty-five year-old man, and the closest relationship I had outside of my sister was with two little piglets.

  Good grief.

  I picked up the fugitives and marched back to the house.

  Caroline was standing out front as we approached. I couldn’t help but notice there was more wine in her glass than previously.

  “You found them,” she shrieked. “Oh, thank heavens. I don’t think I would have been able to live with myself.”

  I simply stared at her, then made my way inside. I set the piglets down, then headed to the kitchen to mix their formula. Caroline clomped in behind me.

  There were two grocery bags sitting on the counter. From behind me, Caroline said, “I came to make you dinner.”

  I glared at her.

  Should I really be that upset?

  I mean, yes, she broke into my house. Yes, she let Harold and May out. And yes, she didn’t really put any effort into helping find them.

  “Do you want me to leave?” she asked. Her face fell. For just a brief moment, there was a break in whatever facade she’d created over the many years.

  “What’s on the menu?” I asked.

  Chicken piccata. Lemon butter. Capers.

  It was mouthwatering, and I told her so.

  She smiled meekly, then took a sip of wine. There was still a touch of tension in the air, but there’s something about good food that makes it hard to hold a grudge and I’d mentally signed a treaty. Plus, to Caroline’s credit, she made a concerted effort to be extra nice to Harold and May, even going as far as to give them each a couple staged pats on the back. And of course, there was the small fact she looked like she was smuggling cabbages in her dress.

  I was telling her the story about finding Harold and May in the barn loft when there was a knock at the door.

  I excused myself and opened the door.

  “Hi,” Wheeler said.

  At the sound of her voice, the piglets materialized and attacked her.

  “Hi guys,” she said, picking up May, turning her over, and giving her a big kiss on the belly. “Don’t think I’m not gonna give you kisses too,” she said, reaching for Harold.

  He turned and ran playfully. Wheeler pushed past me into the house and grabbed him. That’s when she noticed Caroline sitting at the table.

  Wheeler turned to me, her face ashen. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “Hi, Wheeler,” Caroline said. The words hung in the air, two large dripping icicles.

  “Oh, hi, Caroline,” Wheeler managed, setting Harold down. “I didn’t see your car out front.”

  “I parked around back.”

  “Right,” Wheeler replied. “Well, I just came to check on these little guys.”

  “Aren’t they just adorable?” Caroline said with a giant smile.

  Wait, hadn’t she called them beasts?

  Wheeler looked at me expectantly. I wanted to explain that Caroline had broken into my house uninvited, that she’d sprung dinner on me, and that I didn’t have the heart to decline.

  I opted for silence.

  “There’s plenty of food,” Caroline said, “if you’d like to join us.”

  From the look on Wheeler’s face, it looked as though she’d rather get a pap smear from a crocodile.

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

  Caroline smiled in response.

  The two women were having their own little conversation, one even a seasoned detective such as myself could only grasp the barest of details. More was conveyed in those few quick exchanges than the Gettysburg Address.

  Against my better judgment, I took a moment to contrast the two women. Both women were attractive, albeit in their own way. Wheeler in a short, petite, Scarlett Johansson sense. Caroline in a tall, voluptuous, Jessica Rabbit variety. Wheeler was comfortable in a pair of jeans, a ball cap, and maybe a dusting of makeup. Caroline appeared to feel more at home in a dress, heels, and lipstick. Wheeler preferred beer. Caroline, a white wine spritzer.

  Wheeler moved past me and out the front door. I followed her down the porch steps. I asked, “Do you two have history?”

  She let out a small laugh. Whatever history they had, she was keeping to herself. She did say, “Enjoy the apple pie. Many have.”

  Then she got in her truck and drove away.

  I headed back to the house and returned to the table. “Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, heavens. Don’t be sorry.”

  “How do you two know each other?” I asked.

  “Oh, Thomas, the first thing you need to learn about a small town. Everybody knows everybody. And everybody knows everything.”

  “And what is the second lesson?”

  “The second lesson is that I make the best apple pie on the planet.”

  Wheeler’s departing words came rushing back. Was this Caroline’s MO? Break into a guy’s house and cook him dinner and feed him apple pie? How many men had fallen into her trap?

  I made a mental note of this, then changed the subject to something more benign. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  She smiled. “My grandma.”

  “Did she live in Tarrin?”

  “She still does.”

  “Your grandma is still alive?”

  “Ninety-one and still kicking.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m guessing all your grandparents have passed.”

  I wanted to answer her, but the words were caught in my throat.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, concerned she may have ruined whatever progress we’d made in the last twenty minutes.

  “You’re fine,” I assured her. “It’s just that my grandpa died a little over a week ago.”

  “Oh, honey.” She stood up and came behind me. She cradled my head and said, “I’m so sorry.”

  Her touch was soft, and she smelled like honeysuckle.

  “This is his house,” I told her. “He gave it to me in his will.”

  She ran her fingers through my hair. It was the first time a woman had touched me in nearly seven months. She stood behind me, caressing my scalp with her fingernails.

  Ahhhhh.

  “What was his name?” she asked.

  I was two-thirds to an orgasm, but somehow managed, “H-H-Harold H-H-H-Humphries.”

  “He was your grandpa?”

  She retook her seat, and I gave her a clipped version of the story. When I was finished, she said, “That’s amazing he found you.
”

  I nodded.

  “And he was the last relative you had?”

  “Yep, now it’s just me and my sister.”

  She was silent a moment, then she dropped her fork. “I don’t know why it didn’t dawn on me earlier.”

  “What?”

  “Jerry.”

  “Who?”

  “Jerry Humphries!” she shouted. “I think you have a cousin here.”

  “Bye, Harold. Bye, May.”

  The piglets oinked their goodbyes.

  I helped Caroline down the porch steps and asked, “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m fine.”

  She’d drank half the bottle of wine herself, but she appeared to have all her wits about her.

  “I’m sorry again for letting your piglets out,” she said.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t even know how attached I’d become until they were gone.”

  “Well, they are cute, and far less beastly than I thought.”

  “I’ll pass that on to them.”

  We walked around to the back of the farmhouse where she’d parked in the dirt. Even at 10:00 p.m. the air was still heavy. Still hot. There was something about the sticky air that made it hard to focus. Made it easy to have a lapse in judgment. I bet teen pregnancy was higher in places with high humidity.

  At her car, Caroline turned. “Let me know how it goes with Jerry. Like I said, he should be at the bank most days.”

  “I will. And thanks for dinner. It was delicious. And you were right, you do make the best apple pie on the planet.”

  She beamed and her fingers brushed against my forearm.

  I never wanted to kiss and not kiss someone so badly in my life.

  She took the decision out of my hands. She leaned forward and pushed her lips to mine. She raked her fingernails across my neck, then she slowly moved her mouth across my cheek.

  “The things,” she whispered in my ear. “The things I will do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Is Jerry Humphries in?” I asked.

  The bank was First Missouri National. Red brick. Two businesses down from the hardware store.

  The prospect of having a relative living in Tarrin had been itching at me since Caroline mentioned it the previous night. It was a big fat mosquito bite in the middle of my kneecap.

  The clerk, the first Asian person I was yet to encounter in Tarrin, shook his head and said, “He’s out for lunch.”

  “Do you, by chance, know where he went?” I was planning on stopping to get a bite after the bank anyhow.

  My mind was still in city mode—cynical, jaded, suspicious—and I was surprised when he answered candidly, “They usually hit the deli, but I heard he and Jim, that’s the manager, talking about going to Mexico. There is a great Thai place there.”

  I still had a hard time not thinking of Mexico, as in south of the border, instead of the town of fifteen thousand, twenty minutes west on Highway 36.

  I asked, “If I leave my number, could you have him give me a call?”

  “Sure.”

  I wrote my number and name on the back of a deposit slip, and he promised to deliver it to Jerry when he returned.

  I left and walked down to Dina’s Dine-In. I looked for the pregnant waitress who let me use her phone, but she must have had the day off. Ten minutes later, I walked out with two club sandwiches and a bag of fries.

  I had planned on eating both sandwiches, but I didn’t feel like eating alone—and technically it had been three days. So I decided to check in on Mike Zernan.

  I made a couple wrong turns trying to find the place from memory, but when I did find it, his truck was parked out front.

  It was closing in on 11:30 a.m. There was cloud cover, and it was ten degrees cooler than the previous day. Somehow the air felt stickier; perhaps the moisture was trapped by the clouds above. Still, it was pleasant enough, and I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer the door. He was probably out back, working on his hot rod.

  I walked around the house.

  The hot rod was sitting in the grass. The busted headlights had been swapped out for pristine halogens and they reflected a couple errant rays of sun shining through a break in the clouds.

  Mike was nowhere to be seen.

  I made my way to his back door and knocked.

  Nothing.

  I set the bag of food on a beach chair and moved to one of the windows. I screened my eyes and peered inside.

  “Shit!”

  Mike was on the floor in the kitchen. He must have passed out or had a heart attack.

  I tried the back door, but it was locked. I threw my shoulder into the door, my adrenaline giving me the extra muscle to knock the door from its hinges.

  “Mike!” I shouted, falling to my knees. He was on his right side, his left arm draped over his body.

  I checked for a pulse more out of ingrained automation than checking for life. He was dead. And he didn’t die from a heart attack.

  There were deep purple ligature marks on his neck.

  He had been strangled.

  “Did you touch anything?” Miller asked.

  It was hard for me to look at him and not see the poor schmuck whom Wheeler had given her engagement ring back to not once but twice.

  He was the first officer to respond, though I predicted the entire police force and half the town was en route.

  Due to Officer Miller’s poor genetic makeup, the brim of his Tarrin Police Department issue baseball cap was hovering two inches from my chin.

  “Do you really have to be so close?” I asked.

  He reluctantly took a small step backward and repeated the question. “Did you touch anything?”

  “I touched a lot of stuff.”

  I don’t think he was expecting this. “What?”

  “After I found him, I decided to whip up some risotto.”

  His lips began to curl. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Run me through what happened.”

  “I brought lunch.”

  “You brought lunch?”

  He acted like he’d never heard of lunch before.

  “Yeah, I brought lunch.”

  “What did you bring?”

  “Club sandwiches from Dina’s.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Sitting on that chair.” We were a couple steps off the back porch, and I pointed to the bag in the chair, which only held one club sandwich now. I ate mine. My blood sugar was getting low, and I knew the next two hours of my life were going to be spent answering questions, though if Miller kept repeating himself, I might not get another meal for three days.

  “What time did you leave Dina’s?” he asked.

  “Maybe twenty minutes ago.”

  “I’m gonna call and verify.”

  “You would be a shitty cop if you didn’t.”

  He ignored this and said, “Did you knock on the front door?”

  “I did.”

  “And no one answered?”

  “No.”

  It wasn’t a terribly stupid question, but I wanted to scream, “No, you nitwit, the occupant was dead!” I didn’t.

  “Okay, so no one answered the door. Then what?”

  “I walked around to the back. That’s where he was last time I came.”

  “The last time you came?” His eyebrows rose under his ball cap. “When was this?”

  “Saturday.”

  “This past Saturday?”

  “Yes, the only Saturday that I’ve been here.”

  “Okay.”

  I could see all the questions rolling around in his head: How did you know Mike? What did you and Mike do last Saturday? What did you talk about? Why did you come here? Was it about the Save-More murders?

  He would have plenty of time to ask me these questions later. In a room. Maybe even a locked room.

  “You go around back,” he said. “Then what?”

  “I expected him to be working on his car, but he wasn’t. I knocked on
the back door. No one answered, if you’re curious. Then I looked through the window. I saw him on the ground. Then I busted through the door.”

  “The door was locked?”

  “Why would I bust down an unlocked door?”

  He didn’t answer. He had, without my noticing, crept a step closer to me, and the bill of his hat once again hovered uncomfortably close to my chin.

  “Can you, like, get out of my face?”

  He took a half step back, and I encouraged him with my eyes to take another one.

  He did.

  There was a screech of tires on the opposite side of the house. Then two more. Miller had thirty more seconds before he was going to have to start sharing me.

  “What did you do when you got inside?” he spat quickly.

  “I checked his pulse, more out of habit than anything else, then I didn’t do shit. Didn’t want to compromise the scene more than I already had.”

  Three men appeared from around the house. One of them was Chief Eccleston. He walked with purpose, his gut and jowls bouncing in near unison. He came abreast of us and asked Miller, “You been inside yet?”

  “Just for a minute.” He cocked his head at me and said, “I’ve been interviewing him.”

  Eccleston glanced at me.

  I waved at him.

  Heyyyyy.

  He jutted his chin out just slightly. Literally the least he could possibly do to acknowledge my presence.

  “Was anything taken?” he asked Miller.

  “Not sure yet. The place is ransacked though.”

  He was right, everything in the house had been overturned. Everything in the kitchen tossed on the floor. Every drawer pulled out and dumped. There was one thing for certain: whoever killed Mike was looking for something.

  As a professional conspiracy theorist, my first inclination was that perhaps they were looking for whatever Mike intended to show me. Whatever had taken him three days to obtain.

  These ruminations started the moment I saw him through the window. They had only grown in the last twenty minutes. And the look on the Chief’s face when he asked if anything was taken, well, that only solidified my theory. Something about the Save-More murder investigation was tainted. And Mike Zernan had proof.

  Two more officers came into view.

  “Well, I’m gonna get out of your guys’ way,” I said.