Murder by Serpents (Five Star First Edition Mystery) (6 page)

A clear plastic window framed a Tennessee driver’s license belonging to John Mize. The address on it was in nearby Maryville, but a piece of masking tape attached to the back bore a Silersville address, that is, if “Care of Quentin Mize” could be called an address. There were no credit cards, but Tony counted two thousand dollars in hundreds and another eighty in small bills.

“I’d say that this guy is definitely not a cop.” Tony dropped the wallet into an evidence bag. As they went through pockets, he added only a handkerchief wrapped around a comb. For the moment, he left the keys in the ignition, and stepped away.

“He’s all yours, Doc.” Tony’s eyes lifted and he saw the expression on Wade’s face. Witnessing an autopsy would provoke another bout of upchucking. He decided to let his deputy off the hook. “Let me know when you are ready to do the autopsy and I’ll come down.”

“You don’t want to send Wade?” The doctor snickered as he zipped the bag closed. “It always adds a little something extra when he faints.”

“He’s got plenty to do here with the car and in the meantime, I’m going to find Quentin and break the news to the next of kin. Maybe he can shed some light on what happened to this guy.”

Tony knew Quentin Mize. Not only had he been born and raised in the area, the man was more than slightly familiar with the Park County jail facility. He claimed that it had superior food and what he referred to as “the amenables.” Tony wasn’t sure that he wanted to know what those might be, but he assumed it had something to do with the fact that they gave him aspirin for his inevitable headache. Quentin was usually intoxicated when he arrived, and by the next afternoon would be holding his head in both hands and howling like a coyote.

They supplied him with aspirin in self-defense.

No street address followed Quentin’s name on the makeshift address label, but Tony knew where his home was. He lived so far up the mountain and in the backwoods that it didn’t have mail delivery. Actually, Quentin had no mailbox, and no mailbox meant no home delivery.

To get there, Tony drove east out of town, up and down several narrow, winding roads, through a tiny settlement of homes and then onto a dirt road consisting of a pair of ruts running between the trees.

Tony flinched when the Blazer met encroaching branches. When the dirt turned to mud, he had to slip the vehicle into four-wheel drive. The mud was as slick as ice. Up here on the mountain, snow still lay on the ground in the shady spots. There might even be some ice mixed in with the mud.

Accompanying him was Deputy Sheila Teffeteller, Park County’s solitary female deputy. They did not usually work closely together, but he had left Wade fingerprinting the interior of the car. An attractive woman, only twenty-five, with thick blond hair neatly braided up on the back of her head, Sheila was the most efficient of his deputies. Her paperwork was a pleasure to read. Tony knew that she had grown up in an impoverished area much like the one they were driving through, and it had not stopped her from achieving her goals. “What do you know about Quentin?”

“You mean besides the fact that he is a dedicated drinker and drug user?” Sheila’s eyebrows lifted and she smiled. She looked as radiant as a bride. “I know that he would rather be naked in that car with all those snakes than be anywhere with me. I beat the snot out of him when I was thirteen. The advantage to growing up with so many brothers was that I knew just where to kick him and I did. Hard. Several times.” At that memory, she giggled.

Tony didn’t say anything but he smiled at the merry sound.

“My brother Vernon even took a few swings at him after I had him down in the dirt.” She reined in the merriment, but her eyes still twinkled. “Not long ago I picked him up for public intoxication. The poor man climbed into the back seat and begged me to let him put the handcuffs on himself.”

As she finished her story, they came around the last curve and stopped in front of Quentin’s home.

It had started out as a white mobile home with charcoal gray shutters and trim. That had been many years ago, and the ensuing years had not been kind. It still surprised Tony that someone had ever managed to tow it up that miserable road without breaking it in half along the way. He could only believe that the road had been better in those days.

Some years later, the Mizes made a series of “improvements” to the original structure. They painted everything that had been gray a hot pink. Everything that had been white was painted khaki green. When they added a wooden porch, they painted it hunter orange. A few years later, they “found” enough corrugated metal to cover the porch. It had rusted nicely, achieving a wholesome shade of burnt sienna. The whole thing snuggled under a canopy of dead trees and kudzu like a slug under a bucket.

A slight distance behind the trailer stood another structure created with more corrugated metal. Tony guessed it would be called a shed, but that word implied more strength and design that it deserved. Kudzu was about to swallow it whole. Off to one side was an outhouse. Against common practice, someone built it uphill of the house and then painted it hunter orange to match the porch.

A brand new black Ford pickup with a locking cover over the bed stood in the center of the clearing. Someone had professionally decorated the front with flames. Someone, presumably Quentin, kept the four-wheel drive vehicle polished to a gleaming brightness. No dust had been allowed to settle on the surface. It was obviously a thing well loved and well cared for. Only some mud in the wheel wells kept it from being spotless.

The same could not be said for the yard. If grass had ever grown there, it had been killed off. Refuse of all kinds littered the open area. Most easily identified were the various brands of beer cans. Quentin did not appear to have a clear favorite. Piles of empty Sudafed containers were everywhere. Interspersed with them were pizza boxes, potato chip bags, empty food cans and what looked like the front half of a motorcycle. It had no handlebars. A vicious looking speckled rooster with a bald patch on his back proclaimed that a hideous orange and black three-legged armchair belonged to him.

Tony and Sheila cautiously climbed the four steps to the porch. Each board sagged under their weight, threatening eminent collapse. From inside came the sounds of dogs barking. Tony and Sheila paused, then knocked. The dogs began howling.

Next to the front door, five water-filled one-gallon plastic milk bottles hung from a frayed yellow nylon rope. Tony guessed that the water from his well was not fit to drink and that this made up Quentin’s supply of fresh water. He probably filled his bottles at the gas station in town.

Quentin and a pair of spotted hounds answered their knock. He didn’t invite them inside but slipped out onto the porch. That suited Tony. When Quentin joined them outside, the quality of the air plummeted and if the aroma coming through the screen was any indication, Quentin’s housekeeping was like his gardening. It didn’t smell like wholesome sweat or even garbage, but had a more chemical aroma. Peering through the dirty screen, Tony could see someone moving in the house, obviously female by shape, but Tony didn’t recognize her. He presumed that the aromas from Quentin or the air in the house did not offend her.

Squinting his eyes seemed to help Quentin focus. He started to smile until he recognized Sheila and then he quickly jumped over the porch rail and stood in the yard.

“I’ll welcome your visit, Sheriff, but if you don’t mind . . .” He indicated Sheila with a tip of his head. “I’ve got nothin’ to say to her.”

Tall and bone thin, he appeared incapable of remaining still. Standing in front of them, he practically vibrated. Years of chemical abuse had given him a series of tics and twitches. Although in his early thirties, acne covered his sallow skin, and he seemed to be losing his teeth. Tony considered it a toss up whether Quentin looked worse than he smelled or smelled worse than he looked.

Tony followed him into the yard.

“That woman is plumb crazy.” Quentin watched Sheila like she might pounce on him at any time.

Tony knew that the man had some experience with “crazy,” but it did not mean that he could recognize it in others and so he did his best to ignore Quentin’s raving. “I may have some bad news for you.”

At that, Quentin jerked to face Tony and teetered on a moldy pizza box, almost losing his balance. “News?” Quentin appeared to be having trouble processing the word. “What do you mean?”

Tony saw no way around the blunt approach. “Have you got a relative by the name of John Mize?”

“Sure do.” His smile exposed all of his remaining teeth and gums, Stained brown, they were embedded with smokeless tobacco. “Got me a cousin John.” For some reason he found that vastly entertaining and started to laugh, spraying brown droplets from his mouth. “He’s been stayin’ with me, but he ain’t here right now. What do you want with him?”

Realizing that he was barely out of spit range, Tony took another step backwards. “What does he drive?”

“He’s got one of those itty bitty station wagons, you know what I mean?” His gesture indicated something the size of a shoebox. “I think it’s kind of a sissy lookin’ thing but he says it’s better for the snakes than a truck.”

“Snakes?” Sheila managed to look horrified. She even managed to put a bit of a squeal in her voice. “He has snakes? What kind of snakes?”

Quentin crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back as if the venomous creatures didn’t faze him, but he couldn’t disguise the hint of fear in his eyes or the quaver in his voice. “Rattlers mostly. He uses them in his church services. That man sure does love his snakes and they love him.” Quentin slapped at some invisible insects.

“Maybe not.” Tony mumbled to himself as he remembered the sight in the car, “Are you saying that he’s a preacher? A snake handler?” Tony had heard only vague rumors that a small group had started up church meetings in the area. It had been a long time since the last congregation of snake handlers had been in Park County. For the most part, the county citizens were conservative and considered the snake handlers to be a little too far off the beaten track.

“Yep, he’s the preacher all right.” Quentin looked surprised that his family had produced one.

“He didn’t grow up around here,” Sheila said with total assurance. “How close a cousin is he?”

“Dunno. He’s kin to my mama or something like that.” Quentin shot a quick glance in Sheila’s direction but was careful to keep his eyes away from her chest. Cautious, he moved back another foot, putting him well out of range of her feet. “He come here from Atlanta and asked for a place to stay and I give it to him.” He scratched his neck and left little trails of skin showing through the ground-in dirt. “That’s what family does. What’s it to you?”

“When did you see him last?” Tony wasn’t sure that Quentin knew the current year and month.

“Yesterday evenin’. He was loading the snakes in his car, getting ready for his church time.” Quentin pointed to the porch. “I was sittin’ right there when he left.”

“What time was that?”

“Dunno.”

“When does he usually get back?”

“All hours.” Quentin licked his dry lips. “He didn’t come home last night, but that happens a lot.”

“Why’s that?” said Sheila.

“Sometimes that little car can’t make it up here and sometimes, although he don’t name any names, I think he gets a better offer.” Quentin smirked and punched Tony’s shoulder. “If you know what I mean.”

Tony stared into Quentin’s red-rimmed eyes and couldn’t help but wonder if everything that Quentin saw was tinted that shade. “Did he call?”

Quentin shook his head.

“Any idea about who the better offer might be?” At Quentin’s second shake of his head, Tony inhaled slowly and released the breath. “There’s no easy way to say this but I think he’s dead. The body is with the coroner now but we have his wallet and he was found in a little station wagon. You may have to come in and identify him.”

“Don’t say?” Quentin lifted his eyebrows but he didn’t actually look interested. Years of alcohol and drugs had aged his body and destroyed a lot of brain cells, and he hadn’t started with a full set. “Run off the road?”

“No. Definitely, not that.” Since Tony didn’t have a good idea what had happened to the man, he was not going to speculate about it with the cousin. “Where’s he been doing his preaching?”

“Huh?” Quentin blinked several times while he processed the question. “Oh, yeah, you know that old motel out on the highway, just past the road towards Townsend? Well, they’ve been using the office building.”

“Is he married?” Sheila asked. “Or is there someone else who can identify him?”

“Naw, John ain’t never married. I can do it just fine.” He scratched again, dislodging more grime. A jaw-cracking yawn released a puff of putrid air. “Want me to come along now?”

“No, not now. If you have a phone, we can call you and let you know when.” Tony doubted that Doc Nash had the body cleaned up enough to make any kind of identification possible and he would just as soon not share the Blazer with Quentin if it wasn’t necessary.

“You bet. I’m in the book and everything.” Quentin stayed in the yard and waved to them as they drove away. A wide smile illuminated his homely face.

Using the mirror on her door, Sheila watched Quentin until they made the first turn. “I wouldn’t say that Quentin is exactly broken up by the possibility that his cousin is dead, would you?” She didn’t pause but continued musing. “I wouldn’t even say that he seemed all that surprised, either.”

Tony nodded without taking his eyes from the treacherous road. “Not only was he
not
all torn up by the possibility, but I’ve never known anyone to be that eager to identify a body. It’s not something that I would expect him to enjoy.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like his cousin.” Sheila turned to look out the back window. “Do you suppose that the snake handling cousin does the same drugs that Quentin used today? If so, he might not have realized that he had been bitten.”