Death Crashes the Party (17 page)

“I can't believe our two best suspects have alibis—from cops no less,” I said, feeling defeated.

“Liv, think carefully. What time did you first hear the intruders in the house?” Dave asked.

“When I clicked off the TV, the clock read a couple of minutes before eleven. It was less than five minutes later when I heard the kitchen door opening.”

“Okay, then. I think it's about time I had a talk with Mr. Ralph Harvey, who's been fingerprinted and left sitting in a cell to stew since we brought him in. It's not exactly standard procedure, but since you two are already up to your necks in this business, I'm going to put you in the room next to the interview room and let you listen and watch through the two-way mirror. Don't say a word, don't interrupt the interview, and I'll talk to you after I'm done with Ralph.”

A few moments later Di and I were in a dark room, seated on blue vinyl chairs with metal frames, just like the ones in Dave's office. Through a large picture window, we had a full view of the interrogation room, the same one where Dave had grilled Di and me after catching us in Ray's camper.

Ralph waddled awkwardly into the interview room, wearing shackles and handcuffs, with Dave right behind him.

“You really think these damn chains are necessary?” Ralph said, looking like a monkey peeved enough to fling poo. “And, by the way, am I being charged with anything, or is this just harassment?”

Dave took his time, sitting down, shuffling some papers, and clearing his throat, before answering Ralph.

“The shackles are because you tried to evade the police when we came to your house earlier. And, yes, I have enough evidence to charge you with a crime. Now, I have a few questions to ask you. Why don't you start by telling me what you were doing in Larry Joe and Liv McKay's house tonight and why you took their computer?”

“I wasn't in the McKays' house, and I didn't steal their computer. Somebody put that computer in my truck, and I didn't know who it belonged to until you told me just now.”

I shot up out of my chair and charged to the two-way mirror. “He's a lying son of a—”

“Liv, be quiet,” Di whispered loudly. “Remember what Dave said.” She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back to my chair.

“But he's just a—”

“I know, I know. Just let Dave do his job.”

“Well, that's a new one,” Dave continued. “Are people in the habit of putting stolen computers in your truck without your permission?”

“No, sir. This is the first time.”

“Who do you think put this computer in your truck?”

“I have no idea who put it there or why.”

“Why didn't you report ‘finding' this computer to the police? Is it your birthday?”

“I planned to take it to the police station and turn it in first thing in the morning.”

“Is that why your fingerprints were all over it?”

Ralph paused for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. “You're right, Sheriff. I shouldn't have touched it. I wasn't thinking. It's just that it surprised me to find it there, and I was taking a closer look at it. I really did plan to turn it over to the police. That's why I left it in my truck. If I'd stolen it, don't you think I would've taken it in the house with me?” Ralph leaned back in his chair with a smug look on his face.

“Where were you tonight while you weren't in the McKays' house, stealing their computer?”

“I ate supper with my mama at her house. We watched a bit of TV, and then I helped her into bed.”

“What time did you leave your mother's house?”

“A little after ten. Then I drove over to Rascal's and had a few beers. I guess I got there about ten fifteen.”

“What time did you leave the bar?”

“About eleven thirty. That's when I came out and found the computer in my truck.”

“Are you sure about the time?”

“Yes, sir. The late-night talk show on the TV in the bar had just gone off before I left.”

“Did you see or talk to anybody you knew at Rascal's? Can anybody vouch for you being there?”

“Well, Wally, the bartender, of course. I s'pose he'd remember my being there tonight. And I talked a little with Ray Franklin. I'm sure he'd remember me.”

“How do you know Ray Franklin? When did you two meet?”

Ralph suddenly looked a little nervous. His eyes darted around the room. “I don't rightly remember when we first met. It might have been at the bar or at one of those Civil War reenactment shows. Anyhow, you know how it is in a small town. Everybody pretty much knows everybody else.”

“Yeah, I know how it is. Did you talk to anybody else at Rascal's besides Ray and the bartender?”

“I don't think so. I don't remember seeing anybody else I know.”

“That's kind of odd, don't you think? Seeing how this is a small town and all, where everybody knows everybody else.”

Dave stood, left the interview room, and came into the room where Di and I were sitting. I was so mad, my face was on fire.

I jumped up and opened my mouth to speak, but before any sound came out, Dave threw his hands up and said, “Calm down. I know he's lying, but that doesn't help us much.”

Dave explained that Ted had gone back to my house to dust for fingerprints.

“But I don't expect to find any,” he added. “He'd be a moron if he didn't wear gloves, and he seems pretty confident there's nothing in the house that could incriminate him.”

“Aren't you going to check his alibi?” I asked.

“Of course. But don't expect much help there,” Dave said. “The bartender will probably remember Ralph being there, but he won't remember the exact time.”

“What about Ray Franklin?” Di asked.

“Oh, I'm sure he'll remember the exact time,” Dave said. “At least now we have a pretty good idea who Ralph's accomplice was.”

“You mean Ray? Not that it surprises me,” I said.

“Chances are, Ralph just gave Ray an alibi, and I'm sure Ray will return the favor.”

“Speaking of Ray Franklin, were you ever able to get fingerprints or DNA to prove if he really is the Farrells' father or if he's a deserter?” I asked.

“Yes, I did retrieve a DNA sample from his coffee mug, and I received results from the lab late this afternoon. He's not the Farrells' daddy. And he's not a deserter, either. Although he did serve in the military during the Iraq War, same as the Farrells' father.”

“I don't understand. It seemed crystal clear in Duane's diary that Ray was their father,” I said.

Chapter 23

Di and I both stood there, gobsmacked, for a long moment.

Surmising our confusion, Dave explained, “What was clear was Duane thought Ray was his daddy—or maybe just fantasized that he was. Trust me, it's not at all unusual for people to write fiction in their diaries. Apparently, Duane Farrell was a little challenged mentally, kind of childlike. I guess he and Darrell got to know Ray through the reenactment unit, and he looked up to Ray as some kind of father figure. So he pretended he was his dad.”

“But what about that picture of the boys and the postcard we found in Ray's trailer? How come he had those?” Di asked.

“Most likely, Duane gave them to him as some kind of gift.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “The photo and postcard didn't exactly have pride of place in Ray's camper—not that Ray's camper shows any evidence of pride of place.”

I told Dave he should talk to my neighbor, Mrs. Cleats, in the morning. She doesn't miss much that goes on, and it would be nice to have Miss Snoopy Britches actually helping my cause for a change. Dave said he'd talk to her, but he noted that anything an old lady saw out her window after dark from across the street probably wouldn't hold much sway in court.

“What about Liv's testimony? She clearly heard Ralph's voice,” Di said.

“If Mrs. Cleats makes a positive ID, along with Liv's testimony, maybe. But I doubt the district attorney would pursue it. Hearing just isn't as convincing as seeing.”

“So you're just going to let Ralph go?” I asked.

“No. I can still charge him with receiving stolen goods. Nobody's going to buy that business about him finding a stolen computer in his truck, especially since he went running out the back door the minute the police knocked on his front door. But chances are his lawyer will have him plead to a misdemeanor and he won't do any jail time. I checked. He doesn't have a record. For now all I can do is put him back in the cell. Then I'll go over to Ray's place and try to rattle his cage.”

I collapsed in my uncomfortable chair, feeling like I'd just lost a wrestling match. Dave turned a chair around and sat down, facing me.

“There's one other thing, Liv. I want you to go ahead and sign a complaint against Ralph for theft, listing the computer as stolen and the television as vandalized.”

“Okay,” Dave said after reading over the complaint form I'd filled out. “I think you two should try to get some sleep. But I will have to talk to Larry Joe sometime tomorrow, Liv. I'll be talking to him about Ralph and asking him what kind of information was on the computer that Ralph might have been interested in. But I think you better go ahead and bring Larry Joe up to speed on everything. If the Feds end up getting involved in this, there's still a chance of certain tapes left anonymously on my doorstep coming back to bite us in the butt.”

“Don't worry, Dave. I'll tell Larry Joe about everything first thing in the morning. I had planned to tell him after his dad got out of the hospital, anyway.”

“Good night, ladies,” Dave said. “By the way, fistfights and all kinds of drama break out on a regular basis over at Buddy's Joint. I'd recommend you two do your drinking and karaoke somewhere else. I'll check up on Brad.”

As we were driving away from the police station, I asked Di to swing by my in-laws' house so I could retrieve the truck from their driveway.

“That way you won't have to drive me to the hospital in the morning. I definitely want to head Larry Joe off at the pass before he walks in and sees that our house has been ransacked.”

When we got to my truck, I quietly pulled the door open, climbed in, and waited until I had backed out of the drive before switching on the headlights. Then I followed Di to her place.

I was so tired that just walking up Di's front steps was a chore. It felt like I was wearing cement shoes. Once inside, I plopped down on the sofa. Di latched the dead bolt and started toward her bedroom.

“Di, thanks for everything. I know I've been kind of high maintenance lately.”

“Lately?” she said with her usual charm. “By the way, there's a baseball bat under the edge of the sofa. Good night.”

“Good night.”

 

 

Maybe the baseball bat warded off evil spirits and bad dreams, but whatever the reason, I slept soundly in spite of everything that had happened. I awoke to see Di making coffee under the glow of the tiny lightbulb over the stove.

“Hope I didn't wake you. I'm used to getting up early, so my internal alarm clock tends to go off even on Saturdays,” Di said as she poured a carafe full of water into the coffeemaker.

“No, I'm fine. I actually slept pretty well. Maybe you can catch a nap later on.”

“I'll probably just make it an early night. At least I don't have to work today.”

Di started the coffeemaker then left to shower. While she got cleaned up I made us some scrambled eggs and biscuits from a can.

“I wonder if Dave found out anything from Ray last night,” I said as Di walked into the room, still massaging her damp hair with a towel.

“I doubt it,” Di said. “He seems like the kind of guy who's had a lot of experience with lying. Speaking of lying, just how much do you plan to tell Larry Joe? Everything or just the bit about the security tapes?”

“I think the part about me stealing the tapes and Ralph breaking into the house to steal them is probably about all he can handle at one time.”

“That's probably wise,” she said. “If you told him about breaking into Ray's camper—twice—and getting caught by the sheriff, I don't think any jury in the state would convict him for strangling you.”

After Di and I had finished breakfast I left for the hospital and drove through a fast-food place to pick up coffees for Larry Joe and myself. It suddenly occurred to me that I should phone my mother-in-law and tell her I had picked up the truck, so she wouldn't think it had been stolen. Luckily, she had yet to look out the front window when I called, so no harm had been done.

The coffee helped wash down the lump in my throat as I pulled into the hospital parking lot and thought about confessing my recent crimes—or at least some of them—to my husband.

Larry Joe was a bit surprised to see me. Thankfully, it had been an uneventful night for him and Daddy Wayne, and they were both in good spirits. I started to suggest we go to the diner for breakfast, since I thought it unlikely that Larry Joe would kill me in front of witnesses. But I decided it wouldn't be fair to subject our friends and neighbors to the sight of Larry Joe's head exploding. Instead, when we walked out of the hospital, I jumped in my car and said I'd see him at the house in a few minutes.

I drove quickly to make sure I arrived at the house ahead of my husband, and waited for him in the driveway. He seemed a bit confused when I headed toward the front door, instead of going through the garage, where we usually enter. But he followed me to the front steps.

As I opened the door, I glanced over my shoulder at Larry Joe. “Honey, don't get freaked out when you see the house. I'll explain everything.”

“Did you have another little ceiling mishap?” he asked gently, putting his hand on the small of my back as we stepped into the living room. “Looks the same to me,” he said, surveying the room.

“You won't think so when you see the kitchen and den.”

He followed me into the kitchen, which looked even worse, since Ted had left behind a chalky film on the cabinets and counters when he dusted for fingerprints.

Larry Joe looked around the room, his mouth agape. “What the hell?”

“The short answer is that we were robbed. Someone took our computer, but the sheriff has already recovered it, and it appears to be undamaged. Let's go sit on the sofa, and I'll fill you in on the details.”

We went back into the living room and sat on our drop cloth – covered furniture. I asked Larry Joe not to interrupt until I had told him the whole story; then I proceeded to tell him all about Ralph and the security tapes and last night's break-in. The words came out rapid fire, as if I were trying to say it all in one breath. By the time I finished, Larry Joe's face and ears were bright red. His face turns red when he's mad, but usually his ears redden only when he's embarrassed. Since I didn't think he was blushing, I feared the red ears signaled a level of rage I had heretofore not witnessed. I instinctively grabbed a pillow and clasped it against my body as some kind of emotional defense. Not that I believed my husband would ever actually hit me, but I felt emotionally exposed and vulnerable.

Larry Joe said nothing. He stood, walked out the front door, slamming it behind him. In a moment, I heard the truck door slam and the tires squeal as he peeled out of the driveway.

I hurled myself face-first onto the sofa and had a really good cry.

I'd known Larry Joe, literally, all my life. Our parents were friends; we went to the same church and the same school, although he was a grade ahead of me. Growing up, I never fantasized about being Mrs. Larry Joe McKay, although by the time we were in high school, I did acknowledge that he was pretty cute. I guess I just assumed that I would end up marrying a man from some more exotic place—an
exotic place
being defined as anywhere other than Dixie, Tennessee.

When we ended up at Middle Tennessee State University at the same time, Larry Joe and I seemed to gravitate naturally toward each other. As romance began to blossom between us, it dawned on me that we were already friends, that I'd always had feelings for him, however latent, and I suddenly just knew for certain he was the right one for me. His current behavior, however, might cause me to entertain doubts.