Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (23 page)

You did what? You punched him?”

“It seemed the thing to do at the time,” Nick said.

“You can’t go around getting into fistfights,” Kathryn scolded. “You of all people!”

“Why is that?”

She cocked her head and stared at his enormous spectacles.

“What, these? Actually, I’ve found them very helpful. I find that most people hesitate to take a swing at a man wearing glasses.” Nick smiled. “I don’t have that problem.”

She shook her head. “You’d think a blind man would have learned not to go around throwing punches.”

Nick shrugged. “Where I grew up, you learned to swing first.”

Kathryn glanced around the cavernous room; the Idle Hour Café looked more like a hunting lodge than a nightclub. A score of pedestal tables were scattered randomly across a floor half the size of a skating rink, and a handful of couples eagerly spun and two-stepped among them. On the table sat a half-dozen empty brown bottles, courtesy of the Carolina Brewing Company of Holly Springs, North Carolina.

“So you beat up Wayne just to get the money back for your equipment? I guess I’d better be careful to pay you on time.”

“We know the hunters want this investigation to stop,” Nick said. “What we don’t know is why. The sheriff thinks they were just covering their backsides. Maybe—or maybe they’re trying to cover something more. I wanted to divide them, Mrs. Guilford. Three peas in a pod—that’s what the waitress at the bowling alley called them. They’re a team, and as long as they act as a team they’ll protect each other. I wanted them to know they’re all in danger so each of them will start looking after his own backside. Now we’ll find out if they have anything to hide or not.”

Kathryn rubbed at her face with both hands. “I can’t stop thinking about poor Amy. Peter said it was just an accident.”

“Could be. She could have caused the fire herself—she was capable of it. But I find the timing a little too coincidental, and the fire spread awfully fast. No way to check for arson though. The propane took care of that.”

“Do you think it was one of the hunters again?”

“Hard to say; this was more than just a warning shot. What can you tell me about Ronny?”

“Why Ronny?”

“He’s the one who fired at you in the woods. What business is he in?”

“Investments, I think.”

“The waitress said insurance.”

“I’m not sure. But he seems to do pretty well.”

Nick paused. “The waitress said the same thing—and Ronny owns a very high-end weapon. Don’t you find it a little strange that a man could be so successful in a town this size and no one is sure what he does?”

Kathryn shrugged. “People don’t know everything in a small town.”

“Really? I wonder.” Nick flagged down a passing waitress. “I’m a little new around here,” he said. “Everybody’s talking about this Jimmy McAllister character. What’s the story?”

The waitress glanced over her shoulder. “Jimmy was a home boy, grew up right here in Rayford. Shot hisself in the woods just a week ago. And no wonder—turns out he been doin’ a little …” She held her little finger up to her nose. “For years, they say. Guess it finally caught up with him.” A man at another table signaled her, and she moved away.

Kathryn was stunned.

Nick looked at her. “Who did you tell about Mr. McAllister’s cocaine habit?”

“Are you kidding? Why would I tell anyone?”

“The three hunters knew,” Nick said. “The sheriff told Ronny a few days ago. Ronny told Denny and Wayne. By now the whole town knows.”

“But—why would Peter tell anyone? Why those three, especially a loudmouth like Denny?”

“There’s an old saying, Mrs. Guilford. If you want a secret kept, keep it yourself.”

Several minutes passed. Suddenly, for the first time that evening, Kathryn became aware of the intimacy of the couples around them. A young couple to her right leaned together across a table with no more than a handbreadth between their faces. On the dance floor a man and woman were entwined like kudzu, swaying eagerly with very little regard for the rhythm of the music.

“I’m not going to call you ‘Dr. Polchak’ anymore,” she said abruptly. “It takes too much energy. From now on I’m going to call you Nick.”

Dr. Polchak—Nick—said nothing.

“Okay?”

“Are you asking for my approval?”

“For twenty thousand dollars I think I should be able to call you Nick.”

“For twenty thousand dollars you can call me Queen Latifah.”

She looked at Nick, who sat quietly rapping the rim of his bottle on the table in time with the music.

“Would you like to dance?” Kathryn blurted out—then quickly glanced around as though the words might have come from another table.

Nick looked over both shoulders, wondering if he had accidentally intercepted a message intended for someone else.

“I really don’t dance—except at weddings.”

“How often do you go to a wedding?”

“Never.”

They sat in awkward silence again. Nick inspected the roof trusses and ventilation shafts that lined the ceiling while Kathryn carefully removed the paper labels from four of the empty bottles.

“Dancing is a strange phenomenon,” Nick said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“Dancing. It’s one of the ways your species and mine are very much alike.”

“This I’ve got to hear.”

“Look at those two women standing at the bar. They’re dressed in bright colors; they’re wearing makeup—too much makeup—and probably perfume. Those are their attractants. Watch … they seem to be friends, don’t they? They’re not. They have to compete with one another for the available males, just as members of my species do. Watch their movements. The one on the left keeps tossing her hair back—see? Each woman knows what her most desirable feature is and tries to draw attention to it. This allows her to choose between better males.”

“Why does everything have to be about males? Did you ever think that maybe she did it for her own self-esteem?”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Look at her, Mrs. Guilford. See the way she swings her hips as she talks? I’m sure that enhances her self-esteem. And look at the way they both smile and laugh and try
to look as animated as possible. No, this is typical courtship behavior.”

“You seem to be an expert on female behavior.”

“I am. Did you know that in one study a caged female pine sawfly attracted more than eleven thousand males? Now that’s what I call perfume.”

“I thought we were talking about females of my species.”

“I’ve studied a few of them too—purely in the name of science, of course.”

Suddenly Kathryn noticed that Nick’s elusive eyes had come to rest on some object behind her, just across her left shoulder. She turned. At the jukebox stood a young woman with a body as sleek as a hornet, swaying seductively from side to side as she studied the selections. Kathryn turned slowly back to Nick with a broad smile.

“Aha.”

“Aha what?”

“Nothing.” She raised one eyebrow. “Just ‘Aha.’ ”

“Don’t be annoying, Mrs. Guilford.”

“You seem to have taken more than a clinical interest in a member of my species. Down here, that’s what we call eyeeatin’.”

“Nonsense,” he said casually. “I was merely observing.”

Kathryn leaned forward. “Liar.”

“Well,” he took a second glance, “it’s hard not to appreciate an outstanding example of any species.”

Kathryn watched as Nick’s floating eyes turned back to her again, studying, analyzing, searching for something. She had the distinct impression she wasn’t going to like what came next.

“I suppose your attraction to someone can keep you from seeing things clearly,” he began. “Sometimes it takes a third party to help you see what’s going on.”

Kathryn hesitated. “Who are we talking about?”

Nick rocked back in his chair and folded his hands in front of him.

“Let me ask you a question. It appears quite possible that your friend’s body was moved—and if it was moved, he was most likely murdered. The body could have been moved just a few feet—or
many miles. The murder could have occurred anywhere—in another county, even in another state. Suppose the murder occurred far away; why would the killer choose to return the body to Holcum County? After all, an apparent suicide could be staged anywhere.”

Kathryn shrugged.

“The killer would return the body here because Holcum County is one of the only counties in North Carolina that still operates under the old coroner system—where the death investigation would be conducted by the ice cream man. Here he would have the best chance of faking a suicide and fooling the authorities. Now—who would know such a thing? Not the hunters. The coroner would know, of course—and anyone else who is familiar with medicolegal procedures in your county. Now, who might that be?”

The hair began to stand up on Kathryn’s neck.

“Of course, even if the killer fooled the coroner, the police might figure it out.” Nick looked directly at Kathryn now. “Unless for some reason the police didn’t want to figure it out …”

Kathryn’s eyes narrowed to a fiery glare. She brought both fists down hard on the table and sent two bottles clinking to the floor. The couple on her right stopped and turned. She glanced awkwardly over at them, then turned back to Nick and lowered her voice to a growl.

“Are you saying you suspect Peter? You think he might have done it?”

“Could have done it,” Nick corrected. “Of course, there is one other possible suspect …”

“Who?”

“You.”

Kathryn slumped back in her chair and threw both hands in the air.

“Me? You think I would pay you twenty thousand dollars to investigate a murder I committed myself? Are you out of your mind?”

“You know your problem, Mrs. Guilford? You’re naive—and in this business that can be a fatal error. This sort of thing happens all the time. Here’s the scenario: A beautiful young woman decides to do away with her friend, or boyfriend, or lover—whatever—and then she comes to me to investigate the death for her. She knows
that there’s little chance I’ll be able to find anything, but her eagerness to investigate and her willingness to sacrifice her hard-earned money convinces everyone in town of her innocence. Twenty thousand dollars is a small price to pay for that kind of public support.”

Kathryn sat in stunned silence, shaking her head in disbelief. “Do you actually suspect me?”

Nick paused. “No. I don’t.”

“Then why—”

“Because I want you to open your eyes. No, I don’t suspect you of murdering your friend—but I’m willing to suspect you. I’m willing to suspect you and the hunters and the Sunday school teacher and the president of the PTA. I’m willing to suspect anyone—including your old friend the sheriff. My concern is that you’re not.”

“Peter offered to cooperate with us in this investigation.”

“I believe his words were, ‘I’d like to know what you come up with.’ ”

“And in return, he said he’d give us everything he has.”

“Which is nothing. An interesting form of cooperation.”

“Then why did you agree to go along with him?”

“First, because like it or not your friend is the law, and it’s within his power to demand our cooperation. Second, because I’d rather keep him where I can see him. And third,” he said with a tilt of his head, “because I have no choice, do I? This is your investigation—and wherever you are, I have a feeling the sheriff won’t be far away.”

Kathryn could barely contain herself. “Let me tell you something about Peter,” she seethed. “When I lost Andy he was the first one there. He stayed with me. He held me while I cried.”

“What a terrible burden for him.”

“He helped settle Andy’s affairs. He fought with the Department of Defense about searching for Andy’s body. He took care of the finances. He washed my car, he cut my grass, he did my shopping for me—he kept me from losing my mind.”

“That reminds me of a joke,” Nick said. “A man lies dying on his bed with his faithful wife sitting beside him. He says to her, ‘You’ve always been there, Margaret. When I lost the business, you were there. When I had the accident, you were there. When I suffered
the nervous breakdown, you were there. And now that I’m dying, you’re still there. It just occurred to me—you’re bad luck.’ ”

“That’s not funny,” Kathryn glared. “I owe Peter everything.”

“Apparently not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t love him.”

“How do you know? Maybe I do.”

Nick raised both eyebrows and peered at her over the top of his glasses. “You’re a very poor liar. Take it from an expert.”

“What makes you so sure Peter loves me anyway?”

“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “Mother bears are less protective.”

“Oh, really. It just so happens Peter has a girlfriend, you know.”

Nick stopped. “Now that’s interesting. And what might her name be?”

“Oh no you don’t,” Kathryn shook her head. “The last thing I want to do is turn you loose on Peter’s girlfriend.”

“I’m not going to eat her, Mrs. Guilford. I’d just like to ask her a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Like, ‘When the sheriff holds you, are you aware that he’s thinking about someone else?’ ”

“You are way out of line!”

“In my business, Mrs. Guilford, there are no lines.”

“I am not paying you to suspect Peter!”

“Oh? Who are you paying me to suspect?”

“Anyone else, but not him!”

“Why? Because he’s not capable of killing anyone? You know better, Mrs. Guilford. Because he had no reason to? Take another look behind you.”

Kathryn turned to see the woman with the hornetlike body still smiling and swinging hypnotically from side to side. Two eager young drones now circled around her, vying for her attention and flashing increasingly angry glances at one another.

“She could settle this right now if she wanted to—but she won’t. She’ll let them fight over her. In another ten minutes they’ll be out in the parking lot. If it goes badly, one of them may even die. That’s why your species kills, Mrs. Guilford. That’s all the reason they need.”

“Not Peter.”

Nick adjusted his glasses. “And you thought I was blind.”

Kathryn jumped to her feet. “Why don’t you drop this ‘your species’ and ‘my species’ routine? Like it or not you’re a part of this species, mister! You can withdraw if you like—you can hole up in that perverse little laboratory of yours and spend your life staring at bugs, but you’re still one of us. You can look down your nose at everyone and distrust everyone and pick fights with everyone—but that doesn’t make you more of a bug, it just makes you less of a human! You say I’m naive—well maybe I am, but you’re a cynic! You think you’re above it all, standing outside and staring in the window at the rest of us—but you’re not! You’re just the pathetic little boy with the big funny glasses who got tired of being hurt and ran to his room and slammed the door!”