Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (22 page)

Ten o’clock, hon. League play just ended; it’s open lanes now.”

“Thanks.” Nick sat at the snack bar at the Strike ’N Spare Lanes, watching three men in matching gray Loungemaster shirts with the name Buck Stop chainstitched in red across the back.

“Can you give me lane twelve? The one beside those three there.”

“Sure thing. Friends of yours?”

Nick shook his head. “What can you tell me about them?”

The waitress eyed him suspiciously. “Why you asking?”

“I’d like to do a little business with them.”

“Ronny, Denny, and Wayne,” the waitress said, pointing. “Three peas in a pod, those boys.”

“What do they do—for a living, I mean?”

“Denny—he’s the little one—still works for his daddy at the Feed & Supply. Don’t worry, he’ll tell you more’n you want to know. Never stops talkin’, that one. Wayne—the one that used to have hair—he drives a truck for Ferrellgas. Ronny’s the big, quiet
fella. He’s got hisself an office over on Dalrymple. He’s the success of the three.”

“What’s his business?”

“Insurance, I think. Something like that. Always seems to have money anyway.” She glanced up just in time to see Denny chest-thump Wayne after picking an easy split. “If you ask me, none of ’em’s a bargain.”

Nick picked up his plate of pork ribs and potato salad and headed for the alleys, stopping by a rack of multicolored spheres just long enough to fit his fingers into a coal black, sixteen-pound Ebonite.

“You need shoes?” the waitress called after him.

Nick shook his head. “Not for this game.”

The three men recognized him even before he sat down. They had never seen Nick before, but they had no doubts about his identity; his massive spectacles were already legendary in the little town of Rayford. They watched as Nick silently added his ball to the return rack and set his plate down on the scoring table.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Can you bowl?” Wayne snickered. “I mean, can you see the pins?”

Nick lifted his ball and turned to the alley. He held the ball chest high, paused, then took three quick steps forward. His backswing rose above his head, and the black shape floated weightless for an instant before arcing down again. The ball met the alley without a sound and rocketed forward along the right gutter, spinning like a gyroscope on its side. Two-thirds of the way to the target lateral rotation overcame forward momentum, and the ball broke, curling in perfectly just behind the headpin. Ten pins exploded and ricocheted inside their black frame.

Nick turned to the three hunters. “Did I get any?”

“You’re that Bug Man,” Denny said. “Settle a bet for us. What’s the deadliest insect in the world?”

“Who are the nominees?” Nick asked.

“I say it’s the female black widow spider.”

“A naughty lady, but not even in the running.”

“Your turn, Wayne. Tell the doc what you said.”

“It’s a definite fact,” Wayne stated with all the authority he
could summon, “that the daddy-longlegs, if eaten, is the deadliest spider in the world.”

“Anyone stupid enough to eat spiders isn’t likely to live very long, but he won’t die from the Phalangida. That’s an urban legend. Any other votes?”

The third and largest of the three cleared his throat and spoke a single word. “Scorpions.”

“That’s right,” Denny said, “I hear there are scorpions that can kill a man in less than a minute!”

“Not that fast.” Nick shook his head. “But you’re getting closer.”

“Okay then,” Wayne said with a generous dose of contempt, “what is the deadliest insect in the world?”

“You’ve got one on your arm.”

All three men jumped back, and Wayne wiped frantically at both arms, sending a single black fly buzzing back toward the snack bar. Ronny and Denny erupted into laughter. Not Wayne.

“That was close,” Denny hooted. “Good thing we got a doctor nearby!”

“Funny,” Wayne grumbled. “Real funny.”

“I wasn’t joking. Less than 3 percent of insects can harm a human being, but that little Musca domestica—a common housefly—is at the top of the list.”

Nick raised his plate up to eye level. There sat a second fly, motionless, leisurely feeding atop a heaping mound of creamy white potato salad.

“Flies can’t chew. They can only suck up liquid. So when they land on solid food, they spit. They eject saliva, and the saliva dissolves the food—dinnertime. The problem is, the fly always leaves a little saliva behind wherever he goes. Now if this fly only visited potato salad it might be okay—but the fact is, he was raised in a manure pile, and he stopped off for lunch on a decomposing rat.”

He carefully lifted a hefty forkful of potato salad, fly included, and brought it to his open mouth. He paused.

“Or maybe he stopped on one of the cadavers over at my place.” The fly buzzed away at the last possible moment before its meal disappeared down the dark, gaping cavern.

“Flies carry cholera, typhoid, leprosy, and polio,” Nick said
through his generous mouthful. “They’ve killed millions.” He held out his plate to the four men. “Say, this is really good. Try some?”

“You really got cadavers over at your place? What for?”

“I’m a forensic entomologist. I study the way necrophilous insects can indicate the time and the manner in which someone died.”

“What kind of insects?”

“Necrophilous. Dead flesh eaters.”

“What these scientists won’t come up with,” Denny said.

“What I do is nothing new. The first book on the subject was written seven hundred years ago by a Chinese investigator named Sung Tz’u. He called his book
The Washing Away of Wrongs
.” Nick cocked his head to one side. “Great title, don’t you think?

“Back in 1235 some good ol’ boy got angry with one of his drinking buddies and decided to express himself with a sickle. The authorities questioned everyone in the village but got nowhere, so they sent for Sung Tz’u—the local Bug Man. Sung Tz’u didn’t bother with questions; he just had all the villagers bring their sickles and lay them side by side in the hot sun. Then he waited.”

Nick casually took another bite of potato salad. “Mmm. You’re sure you don’t want to try this?”

“Waited for what?”

“Flies.”

“What flies?”

“On the sickle. Necrophilous flies were attracted to traces of blood and tissue left on the killer’s sickle.”

“What did they do to him?” Denny asked.

Nick shrugged. “I suppose they Washed Away the Wrong. So you see, I’m part of an ancient tradition. There’s only one way to learn about death, fellas—you have to study the dead.”

“Disgusting,” Wayne muttered.

Nick arched one eyebrow. “Oh, come now. I thought you boys were hunters. Surely you’re not squeamish about seeing something dead.”

“Animals,” Denny said. “Not people.”

“That’s not what I heard. Weren’t you the three that found Jimmy McAllister’s body in the woods?”

Nick looked down and picked at his plate just long enough to allow each of the men to exchange awkward glances. Then he casually set his plate down on the scoring table and wiped his hands on his shirt.

“I answered your questions—how about answering a couple of mine?” Nick smiled at each of them. “I’m investigating the murder of James McAllister.”

No one smiled back.

“You got to be kidding,” Denny said. “It was an obvious suicide.”

“Oh? How so?”

“The gun was still in his hand—his own gun.”

“And the way we found him,” Wayne joined in, “flat on his back. All his stuff was there. No sign of a fight, no struggle.”

“And his history,” Denny added. “You know, the cocaine thing and all.”

Nick stopped. “What cocaine thing?”

“Didn’t you know? It turns out Jimmy’d been doing the stuff. For a long time—since back in the Gulf. That stuff can make a man do things he might not do in his right mind.”

“It can indeed,” Nick nodded. “Where did you hear about this?”

“From Ronny.”

Nick turned to Ronny.

“Pete told me,” he said with his usual economy of words. “I told these two.”

“When did Pete tell you? How long ago?”

“A few days.”

Nick paused.

Denny suddenly felt the weight of two sets of eyes. He glanced awkwardly at Ronny and Wayne; one rolled his eyes, the other shook his head and turned away.

“Okay,” Denny grumbled. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“And maybe you were,” Nick said quietly. “Where do you suppose Jimmy got his cocaine?” There was no response. Nick smiled. “Maybe it’s not so hard to keep a secret in a small town after all … Let’s change the subject. Tell me how you found the body. How was it lying?”

“Sort of like … this,” Wayne pantomimed, standing with his arms and legs spread wide.

“Show me.” Nick pointed to the maple floor.

“What—here?”

“Why not? Who’s going to notice?”

Wayne looked around cautiously, then spread out uneasily on the glossy surface. “Like this,” he said, and quickly started to rise again.

“Not yet.” Nick knelt at his side. “Think carefully. Could one of the arms have been like … this?” He lifted Wayne’s right arm and dropped it across his chest.

“Uh-uh.” Wayne shook his head. “It was definitely out to the side.” Ronny nodded his agreement. Denny kept silent, still smarting from his earlier indiscretion.

“How about the legs?” He lifted Wayne’s right knee and pulled his foot in tight against his buttock. “Could the right leg have been more like … this?” He let go, and Wayne’s leg flopped out to the side.

“How could it? It won’t stay up like that.”

“No, it won’t,” Nick said. “Not without help. Were there any objects around the body, anything that might have temporarily supported a limb in a position like that?”

They all shook their heads.

“Did you boys move anything? Take anything? Did the three of you adjust the body in any way?”

There was a long pause, then Wayne jumped to his feet. “I don’t like this,” he snapped. “Are you saying we did something wrong? ’Cause if you are, say so.”

“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying you could have. Let’s be honest. You three came across the body in the meadow. You could have put it there.”

“Now why would we do that?” Denny growled.

“You tell me.”

“Jimmy’d been dead a week when we found him!”

“When the three of you found him, yes. But any one of you could have put him there the week before, then accidentally ‘discovered’ him a week later with the other two. By the way—which one of you suggested that you work on your deer stands that day?”

The three men looked at each other nervously.

“It was Denny, wasn’t it?”

“Me? I’m the one who said to go have a beer and wait for better weather!”

“Now I remember,” Wayne said. “It was Ronny …”

Nick picked up his ball again and stepped up to the line. This time, the ball hit the headpin square-on and left the seven and ten pins standing.

The hunters stared warily at Nick. They were downwind now, heads held high, straight and alert and ready to run.

“Settle a bet for me,” Nick said. “Which one of you is the best shot?”

No one dared to answer at first—then Denny spoke up unexpectedly. “Probably Ronny. He’s got a Weatherby Mark V Crown Custom. It’s got a Leupold scope on it, and—”

“Shut up, Denny!” Ronny roared. “Can’t you ever keep your mouth closed?”

Nick turned to Ronny. “A Weatherby Crown Custom? Business must be good. Then I assume you’re the one who tried to kill my assistant?”

“We didn’t try to kill anybody!” Wayne spluttered. “We only wanted to scare you off!”

“That’s what the sheriff thinks,” Nick said. “He said you boys only did it to protect yourselves. To protect yourselves from what?”

“From this!” Denny shouted. “From some long-nose trying to make out like we had something to do with Jimmy’s death!”

“How could anyone get that idea? Did any of you have any reason to want Mr. McAllister dead?”

Silence again—but now the air between them was electric.

“Did you boys hear about Amy McAllister? Just this afternoon. I was there, did you know that? Quite a close call—I barely made it out of the house in time. There was a fire, and the fire hit the propane tank. It went off like a bomb. Would you believe her propane tank was right against the back of the house? But you knew that, didn’t you, Wayne? You work for Ferrellgas, don’t you?”

Wayne scrambled to his feet and charged at Nick. Nick spun to face him. Wayne drew back his right arm, then glanced at Nick’s huge spectacles and hesitated.

In that instant Nick swung a roundhouse left. It was smooth and sure, and it came from the floor. It caught Wayne square on the jaw; there was a click and a dull smack, and Wayne crumpled to the floor like a stringless puppet.

Denny jumped to his feet, while Ronny sat and watched. Nick glared at both of them. “Anyone else want to try?”

Wayne lay on his back on the hardwood floor, just as he had done a few minutes ago; this time, his imitation of the dead was much more convincing. Nick reached down with one hand and grabbed Wayne’s belt where it curved around his side. With one smooth motion he flipped him over onto his face, a skill he had mastered by rotating the decomposing carcasses of countless swine.

He reached into Wayne’s back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open, took out two twentys, and tossed the empty billfold at Ronny’s feet. “To cover the cost of my equipment,” Nick said. “You boys can work it out between you.”

He glanced down at Wayne’s motionless form. “When he wakes up, tell him I don’t believe the three of you are responsible for Jim McAllister’s death. But one of you might be—and one of you just might know who it is. Think it over—all three of you don’t have to take the blame. If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

Nick backed slowly away toward the exit. He glanced one last time down the alley at the two remaining pins.

“A split,” he whistled. “Tough one to pick.”