Authors: Katy Munger
“If you ever get in a tough spot in an investigation, call me,” I offered.
“What for? That’s my job. To investigate.”
“Yeah, but you have to follow the law,” I pointed out. “I don’t. Not unless I get caught, of course.”
He was silent, considering whether or not the offered favor was worth it. In the end, he relented and threw me the scrap I wanted. “Fire was set by an amateur,” he said flatly. “But that’s all I’m gonna tell you.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Only a fool would have dribbled gasoline around the house like this guy did. It’s a wonder he didn’t set his dick on fire. He was lucky. Very lucky. A pro would have known better.”
“You sure?” I asked.
“I’d stake my reputation on it.”
That was good enough for me.
Using womanly wiles on Maynard Pope would have been like trying to teach a yard-dog table manners. My ex-boyfriend, Doodle Simmons, was another story. After I hung up with Maynard, I called Doodle and demanded the inside info on the Nash fire.
“Come on, Casey,” he said. “I can’t do that. It’s under investigation.”
“Doodle,” I said firmly, “When you wanted to take me to bars fifty miles out of town so no one in your family would know you were dating a white girl, I did not make a peep. And I accepted your sexual boundaries, shall we say, though I would never have tolerated such an attitude in a paler imitation of a man. I even tried to cook for you.”
“Yes,” he countered, “and it’s a good thing I’m a fireman and had an extinguisher handy.”
“Regardless, I gave it my best shot.” I played my trump card. “Most of all, when I had to hide in your closet that time your mother came over with chicken and dumplings, I did so willingly even though you had the balls to sit down and discuss whether or not the new uniforms of her church’s gospel choir had been worth the money.”
“But I had to give you half the casserole after she left, just to keep you happy.”
“Well, of course,” I pointed out. “I was burning more calories than you, remember?”
He sighed.
“The point is, Doodle,” I explained firmly. “I did for you what e cor you I have done for few men. I kept a low profile and sacrificed my self-respect on the altar of your mama’s racist leanings. So now you owe me.”
“God almighty, Casey,” he complained. “Do you have to act like I beat you or something?”
“Give it up,” I said slowly.
He sighed. “I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
He was as good as his word, which was one of the reasons why I had gone out with him in the first place. “Okay, Casey,” he said when he called back. “There’s a little I can tell you, but remember—it didn’t come from me.”
“I can’t even remember your name,” I assured him as I opened up my official Thomas Nash file. I am, at heart, organized and methodical about my work, even if my personal life qualifies for intervention by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Nash was shot in the back and head several times, then doused with gasoline before the fire was set.”
“Ouch,” I said. “What a way to go.” I remembered the turned-over metal desk. There must have been a struggle. One that Nash had turned his back on—a fatal mistake.
“At least he never felt the fire,” Doodle said. “It’s conceivable the gunshot would have been concealed by the fire, but the killer hadn’t counted on Nash falling over a metal desk when he was shot. Water from our hoses pooled in the well of the desk, preserving more of his skull than you’d expect.”
Hey, I’d seen that skull. And I hadn’t expected anything from it but nightmares. Damn, but that Maynard Pope was good at his job.
“Probably less of him was destroyed than the killer figured,” Doodle added. “The other thing I can tell you is that the fire was set to destroy the house as well as Nash. Accelerant was found all over what was left of the counters in the basement, plus upstairs in the areas where both offices were located and in his library and bedroom. They took a chance spreading it around like that.”
I thought of what Maynard Pope had said about it being an amateur. “So they were desperate. And maybe they were trying to destroy his records,” I said. “I wonder why?”
“So does Maynard Pope. But he doesn’t have anywhere to start.”
“Or maybe he has too many places to start?” I suggested.
“Maybe,” Doodle conceaybDoodle ded.
“Did the answering machine survive?” I asked.
“No way. Anything plastic melted during the first flash. And the computers wouldn’t even make good paperweights at this point. Why are you asking?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just wondering. Anything else?”
“Nope. Maynard’s working hand-in-hand with some detectives named Cole and Roberts on this one. Need their phone numbers?”
“No, it won’t do me any good.” I’d heard of them and neither one was going to cut me any slack. “Thanks for your help, Doodle. It’s for a good cause.”
“I knew it had to be,” Doodle answered. “For all your brass, Casey, there’s a heart of gold beneath those thirty-eight D’s. Old Doodle can always tell.”
“Too bad your mother can’t,” I said ruefully.
“I love ya anyway, Casey,” Doodle said unexpectedly before he hung up.
I spent the rest of the afternoon logging onto NandoNet to perform my new case ritual. I hacked my way into the N&O newspaper archives for articles on Thomas Nash, his company and anything having to do with the Talbots. Nash had kept a low profile. Most of the articles about King Buffalo featured his partner, Franklin Cosgrove. I made a note to talk to him pronto and kept reading.
Lydia’s evil stepmother led an active social life. Wherever there was a ribbon to be cut or a champagne bottle to be cracked over a prow, there she was. To catch the drippings, from the looks of things. In such a decorous crowd as North Carolina’s social elite, it’s not hard to spot the dress strap that’s fallen unnoticed to the elbow, the out- of-control glint in an eye, the slightly frazzled hair or the frequently inappropriate facial expression. By all indications, Lydia’s father had taken a drunk for his second wife and her name was Susan Johnson Talbot.
Lydia kept a lower profile. I found her at a charity event, but she was shown in blue jeans taking a group of mentally retarded adults to the zoo rather than in a diamond tiara sipping champagne. Good for her. The conversation was probably more intelligent and certainly more honest.
For one of the most powerful men in the state, Lydia’s father was also surprisingly low key. He was short and photographed wearing a tuxedo over his barrel-chested body. He had a full head of brown hair that curled like vintage Captain Kirk, circa the infamous 1980s toupee, and he had thick, somewhat brutish features that never seemed to change expression. The man could have been a wax dummy for all the animation he drsaimationisplayed. What would it take to get a twitch from those pressed lips or a spark in his narrowed eyes?
When I was done, night had fallen. I was starving—and broke. I drove home, but all I had in my refrigerator that didn’t come crawling out at me was peanut butter and olives. And all I had in my bank account was a promise that funds would be available by the next business day. I settled for peanut butter toast and hoped that by burning the bread I might disguise the taste of incipient mold.
It was tough being penniless. I doubted Bobby D. was dining on such meager fare, thanks to his many girlfriends. The thought made me feel very alone, which was odd since I generally prefer the company of myself over anyone else’s. But I didn’t want a drink, and not even the thought of visiting my friend Jack—who worked on the other side of the bar at a restaurant called MacLaine’s—could get me excited. Instead, I sat on the windowsill in my bedroom, watching the Duke students filter past on their way downtown. I kept zeroing in on the couples, studying them for a clue as to why they seemed so happy.
It was Lydia Talbot I was really thinking of, I finally realized. She had seemed so genuinely in love with Thomas Nash. And now he was gone. But at least she had felt that kind of love in her life and knew it was possible.
It was sick, but in a way I envied her sorrow. At least she was brave enough to face it, instead of running away and never looking back.
The next morning, I chalked up my bout of self-pity to low blood sugar and decided that a two-thousand-calorie southern breakfast would set me to rights. Fortunately, the ATM was in the mood to spew out twenties. I drove over to Honey’s on 1-85 and elbowed aside a couple of territorial truck drivers to make room at the counter. I ordered country ham and eggs plus a side of sausage gravy—a southern phenomenon that relocated Yankee doctors consider liquid suicide. It’s the color and consistency of glue, and flavored with crumbled bits of pork sausage. As if this weren’t enough cholesterol, the gravy is ladled over biscuits before being served, which explains why everyone at the counter overflowed their bar stools. When I was done packing it in, I felt like someone had poured cement down my gullet— the true test of a good southern meal.
I was suffused with goodwill toward the world and, during the half hour drive y hto Raleigh, used my rare burst of enthusiasm for mankind to eliminate suspects in the Thomas Nash murder.
No one made the cut.
When I arrived at the office, Bobby D. was parked at his desk eating chicken biscuits from Hardee’s like they were potato chips. He was examining the photos I had taken of Nash during my one day of surveillance—and getting greasy fingerprints on the evidence.
“Remember these, babe?” he asked. “I stopped by the spy shop for some high speed film and there they were. I’d completely forgotten about them.”
“Do you mind?” I asked, plucking the pack of black-and-whites from his offending fingertips. I’d forgotten, too. Now Lydia Talbot had given me a reason to remember. “Get your own case, partner,” I added, annoyed that, thanks to Bobby, a glob of mayonnaise now obscured Nash’s head in the first photo.
His face lit up. “Already got one. I kept telling Cheryl down at the legislative building to dump that no-good husband of hers. She thinks he’s gay and fooling around down at the Pony Express. Now it looks like she’s going to do it, if I can find enough evidence to make the divorce settlement worthwhile.”
Good old Bobby. He was like the glass salesman who walks through town at night lobbing rocks at his clients’ windows.
“If her husband was gay,” I corrected him, “Cheryl would know it. I think the two of you mean bisexual, which seems to be the media’s favorite word for gay these days. But since neither one of us is a babe in the woods, let’s get it straight. No pun intended.”
“Whatever,” he conceded. “Can you follow the guy for me tonight? See if he hits any swish bars?” Bobby would never qualify for membership in the Rainbow Coalition.
“No can do,” I told him. “I’ve got to work on the Nash case.”
He looked disappointed. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
“Cheer up,” I told him. “The Pony Express is every bit as sleazy as those topless bars you love. The only difference is that the women are fake—and a lot better looking.”
“Cool,” he said, reaching for his jumbo Pepsi. “Just hope I don’t get harassed by the clientele. I got enough trouble keeping women off me.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the buffed-out gay men of Raleigh, North Carolina were unlikely to give his porcine butt a second glance. I left him to his homosexual fantasies and went /dies and back to my office to examine the photos.
I had to admit that the stupid cigarette pack device was a pretty good camera. The prints were crisp and sharp, through no fault of my own, I might add. We’re talking auto-focus and auto-exposure. I examined the photos carefully, but didn’t find much new to go on. Until I reached the last one of the day: Nash’s final stop had been the green-glass office building on Main. I examined the print more closely and noticed huge brass letters decorating the front archway: “T&T.”
I was staring at the house that Randolph Talbot had built, the headquarters for T&T Tobacco. What had Nash been doing visiting his former employer? Especially considering his multiple lawsuits against them.
Not much to go on. I’d have to take the Durham bull by the horn, so to speak, if I hoped to shake loose a lead. After wishing Bobby well for his walk on the wild side, I headed back to Durham and the offices of T&T Tobacco.
The lobby of T&T looked like it had been designed by someone who’d spent too much time in Miami. A wall of water took up the entire southern exposure, with tropical plants and white slat benches arranged in front of it. A newsstand was nestled into an alcove across from the waterfall, near the bank of elevators. I stopped for a pack of bubble gum and recognized a familiar face.
“Well, well, well,” I said, staring at an old black man who had more wrinkles than a geriatric Shar-pei. He was sitting on a stool behind a rack of magazines, his eyes shaded with Ray Charles specials.
He dipped his head first to one side, then the other as if searching for the source of my voice.
“Knock it off, Dudley,” I warned him. “You’ve seen too many Stevie Wonder concerts. Besides, I can tell you’re staring at my tits.”
He checked to see if anyone was watching, then snickered when he saw we were alone. “Would you rather I use the Braille method to check them out?” he asked, extending two eager hands.
I slapped them away. “You couldn’t tell the difference between Braille and buckshot,” I pointed out. “You’re no blinder than I am, you old fraud. I can’t believe you’re still getting away with it.”
It was true. Dudley was a sixty-eight-year-old con artist from Philadelphia who moved south about ten years ago in search of greener pastures. He used to panhandle down near Brightleaf Square, pretending to be a blind harmonica player. He was such a lousy musician that, for a while, he made a good living accepting donations in return for silence. But he got rousted after making a smart-ass remark about the girth of a leading citizen’s wife. So he stole a wheelchair from the Duke Cancer Center and switched to impersonating a disabled war veteran at Durham Bull gau crham Bumes. He would score the excellent seats set aside for the handicapped, turn around and sell them for three times their face value, then demand that his companions supply him with all the beer he could hold during the games. Leaping up to wrestle a foul ball away from a screaming seven-year-old kid had lost him that gig. Now he was back to being blind and I knew why.
“How many times do you give the wrong change and people let you get away with it?” I asked, knowing southerners would be loathe to pick a fight with a blind man who’d made what they thought was an honest mistake.
“All the time,” he cackled with satisfaction. “Got a twenty? I’ll show you.”
I shook my head. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Don’t go turning me in, Miss Casey,” he pleaded. “I got me a tasty younger girlfriend who depends on my income.” He kissed his fingertips.
“Enjoy it while you can. In a couple more years, you’re going to be depending on your Depends.” I took out a photo of Thomas Nash and showed it to Dudley. “Recognize this guy? Look carefully and think hard before you speak. My PMS is acting up and I’m in no mood to screw around.”
Dudley glanced at the photo over his sunglasses. “Sure. He was a big cheese around here for a while. Used to work on the tenth floor.” He jerked a thumb toward the bank of elevators. “Kinda the absent-minded professor sort. Would let a dozen empty elevators go up without him before he noticed he was still standing in the lobby. I used to sit here and count them. The guy was maybe a hot dog or two short of a picnic, know what I mean?”
“He was here a couple of Mondays ago,” I told him. “Did you see him?”
Dudley nodded. “He bought a pack of Rolaids and let me keep the change from a five.” He stopped to reconsider. “Course, I think it was more like he never noticed what he handed me or what I handed him back.”
“Where did he go on Monday?” I asked.
“You think I’m a goddamn doorman or something?” he asked indignantly, holding out his hand for a bribe.
I ignored it. “I think you better tell me or you’re gonna find yourself without this cushy little franchise of yours. Or your extra state disability payments.”
That last little remark hit home. He nodded toward the elevators. “He went to the tenth floor, same as always.”
“Thanks, Dudley.” I turned to go and nearly plowed down a k”>owed doplump matron swathed in pink and purple chiffon, no doubt on her way in for the latest copy of Southern Living. “Better count your change carefully,” I muttered to her. “You’d think the guy was blind or something.”
She was tut-tutting her disapproval of my rudeness as I left. She’d learn soon enough.
The tenth floor of T&T Tobacco turned out to be the Marketing Department, which was a bit of a surprise. I had Thomas Nash pegged as a laboratory rat.
The reception area was pure Architectural Digest and reeked of contemporary good taste. I don’t know why they didn’t just go ahead and paper the walls with hundred- dollar bills for the same effect. The receptionist was way too young for the job and far too pink for the shaggy blue-black mop that topped her head. Traces of heavy eyeliner told me she was one of the Triangle’s music groupies plugging away at her day job. Poor thing. Ten to one, she was supporting a drummer.
I didn’t bother with formal introductions. My goal was to intimidate, not ingratiate.
“How long have you worked here?” I demanded.
She eyed my iridescent purple sharkskin dress. Jealously, no doubt. “About a year. Why?” she stammered.
“You knew this man?” I flashed her a photo of Nash.
“Sure,” she said quickly, her face shutting down with a mixture of suspicion and fear. “He worked for Mr. Teasdale in New Product Development. Why are you looking for him? He’s dead.”
“I know,” I barked at her. “Where’s Mr. Teasdale?”
Her eyes slid involuntarily toward a set of wide mahogany doors firmly shut behind her. “He’s in a meeting right now. He’s not to be disturbed.”
“Disturb him,” I said sternly, sliding my card across her desk.
She was too young to know that it was her job to argue with assholes like me. She plucked my card from the desk with talons that had been painted black, then scurried into the conference room. Her round bubble butt was packed in a black leather mini-skirt and red fishnet stockings. If she’d been the receptionist at a crypt, the outfit might have been appropriate. The fact that T&T tolerated such attire was proof that the local job market was insane. Thanks to a booming economy, if you could breathe, you could work. Which also explained why they had vegetarians trying to argue you out of buying meat down at Wellspring’s butcher counter.
El>
“No need for that,” I informed her. I sidestepped her desk and marched straight toward the double doors of the conference room.
No, I’m not incredibly rude. Well, maybe I am. But that wasn’t my motivation in this instance. After years of investigating assorted white collar crimes, I’m wise to the ways of corporate America—specifically the wiles of good old boys who jealously guard their office fiefdoms with petty power plays. Like making visitors wait, sometimes for days. The only reason why women have trouble breaking the glass ceiling is that they’re too busy trying to wipe the bullshit off it.
My tolerance for bullshit is especially low. I decided to blast Mr. Teasdale’s hopes for a pissing match right out of the water in Round One.
The double doors burst open with a dramatic bang as I marched into the conference room. I was pinned in the sudden gaze of a half-dozen corporate minions. Three of them were men with long brown hair pulled back into ponytails. The women were blondish and fond of blunt cuts. Everyone was dressed in a tailored dark suit with funky advertising-like touches like boxy shoulders. What fearless risk-takers, I thought. I was willing to bet that even their underwear all looked alike.
The group was huddled around a narrow conference table that ran the length of the entire room. It stretched before me like an alley waiting for a bowling ball, its polished surface cluttered with cardboard-mounted sketches, computer-generated comps and other paraphernalia of creative corporate minds.
I took advantage of the shocked silence that greeted my arrival to snoop. The assembled go-getters were working on a new advertising campaign. Various mascots were obviously being proposed, ranging from the photo of a studly young fellow who looked like a Cuban James Dean to a cartoon of a well-dressed panther lighting up a cigarette. Good grief. Ever since the success of Joe Camel, the entire tobacco advertising industry has been searching for an equally successful mascot, especially since cartoons tend not to demand residuals and raises. They all acted like it was some mysterious process to pinpoint exactly the right image and liked to blab about focus groups and cross-affinity. But Joe Camel’s phenomenal success was pretty obvious to me. Stick a giant phallic symbol in a velvet smoking jacket and surround it by adoring girls, and of course underage teenage boys will stampede to buy your cigarettes. A mere panther would never be able to compete.
“You need something with a little more zip,” I told them, sliding the panther cartoon down the table toward its creators. James Dean Jr. followed. “What you need is something distinctive.” I pretended to think. “Wait, I know.” My face lit up with enthusiasm. “How about a giant dancing cigarette, only round the top a little bit and color it sort of pink and …” I stopped when I realized that some of the professionally wacky trend-setters gathered before me were taking me seriously, assumenaously, ing that I was a member of the creative team they’d yet to meet. It was too cruel to continue, so I stopped.