Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) (12 page)

“Are you quite sure of that, Cousin?”

I hate when he gets all Littlepage-y. “Jack, I’ll swear on Boris’s life, he did not get the idea from me. I said absolutely nothing about you paying for the trailer. Okay?”

“Hmph,” he retorted, and hung up.

As I headed for the main highway, I stroked Boris, dozing contentedly in the hot sun coming through the window. He mrrp-chrrped sleepily and rolled onto his back, paws flexing and drooping.

My cell phone rang again. “Hello?” I answered cautiously.

“Lil, we seem to have a problem.”

It was Steve. I went to worst-case scenario by reflex. “Oh God, someone ran over the flagman.”

“No, not quite…‌some drunk guy stole the stop sign and when no one stops for him, he runs after them threatening to break their windshields.”

Ah. Good old Eddie. “I have deputies. Call them.”

“Your jurisdiction, Sheriff.”

Ow.

“Steve, if you want your stop sign back, go to the liquor store, buy some JD, hell, any whiskey, and trade it for the sign.”

“Do your job, Sheriff, or I will report your dereliction to the mayor.”

He hung up.

I growled. I turned around. Boris woke up, glaring sleepily because he had lost his sunbeam.

I glared back. “Deal with it.”

***^***

Eddie wasn’t just waving the stop sign on its long pole. He was running up and down Piedmont Road, swinging it side to side like a fly swatter. Never would’ve guessed those cheese-stick arms of his had the muscle.

I pulled onto the shoulder. Just once, I was glad you could buy beer at a convenience store. “Hey, Eddie!” I called, and held up a forty-ounce can of cheap beer. “Trade you!”

Eddie whirled. Holy shit. I dropped the beer and went for my tazer. I’m no fan of the things‌—‌I’ve been tazered‌—‌but Eddie wasn’t drunk and raving. By the look of it, Eddie had the DTs. Not surprising. He’d been a hard-core drinker long enough to make it likely. On the other hand, I’d never known Eddie to go booze-free long enough to risk the shakes.

Which meant I couldn’t use the tazer. Delirium tremens can kill. I’ve never understood the physiology, but I understand that the DTs can cause cardiac and blood pressure issues along with the paranoia and panic and hallucinations. Throwing an electric shock at that was like putting gas on a fire the way I saw it.

Eddie veered away from me. I had no idea what he was seeing, though the way he screamed, I was guessing it was bats.

I grabbed my cell phone and stabbed a speed-dial number. “Emergicare, Dr. Hartley’s office.”

“Eddie Brady, DTs, the Grenville turnoff,” I snapped. “It’s bad.”

Kris Spivey gasped once, said, “We’re on the way,” and disconnected. I heard a hoarse shout behind me, and ducked barely in time to avoid the stop sign, which Eddie was now swinging in my direction. It slapped against my cruiser, missing the lights by six inches, and whistled back.

From the car, I heard Boris’s growl rising. I slammed my door shut. Then I hunkered low to miss the stop sign, and tackled Eddie.

He hadn’t bathed recently. Lovely.

He bucked me off in one go. I yelped when my elbow hit the pavement, and hollered at the watching construction guys at Grenville, “Grab him!”

Nobody moved. Freakin’ cowards.

I marched over, shaking, while Eddie chased invisible bats. The way he swooped and darted with that stop sign, it looked like he was netting butterflies.

“You
idiots
!” I roared. “He’s not drunk, he’s got the DTs! We gotta hold him down so he can get a shot before his heart gives out!”

The kid who’d gotten shot at by Chipmunk Tyler half-shuffled forward. “I’ll try.”

“Go for his ankles,” I advised as Eddie came stumbling past. His face had a horrible, high red color to it.

The Emergicare minivan pulled up with a screech of brakes. Eddie turned toward the noise, mouth open in a silent scream, and we tackled him. Two of us could hold him still long enough for Dr. Hartley to administer a shot. A few moments later, Eddie started to calm.

“Versed,” said Dr. Hartley, and with a wave of the hand, had six guys helping load Eddie into the minivan. “I’ll take him down to Gilfoyle. But I don’t understand it. Eddie’s never gone more than six hours without a drink since he was in high school.”

Later, after I had gathered up some clean clothes‌—‌well, cleaner clothes‌—‌for Eddie from his apartment, I had a thought. I checked the trash. One bottle, and it was empty, so it would’ve been this morning’s breakfast. I sniffed the bottle. It still had half an ounce or so in it. I poured it into a paper cup and took a sip.

It was vaguely tequila-flavored, but it wasn’t tequila.

“Oh no,” I said to Boris. No mystery now why Eddie had the DTs. If Eddie hadn’t destroyed his taste buds along with everything else, he’d have noticed his tequila tasted like diluted iced tea. A parting gift from Leeza, that was my bet.

And people wonder why I’m not big on romance.

***^***

After I dropped off Eddie’s clothes, I decided to see what Bill Lloyd might have to say, as long as I was in his end of the county. I wondered if he was all Bee May said. I also wondered if he was why Aida Weed had looked at her mother a certain way, and if he was why Vicky Weed had not liked my talking to her daughter.

I knocked briskly on the front door. Unremarkable, like the house, the carport, the sedan, the shrubbery.

Bill Lloyd opened the door. Against my will, my breath caught a little. Bill Lloyd was better looking than dang near any man I’d ever met, and he knew it. Probably couldn’t help knowing it, unless he shaved without using a mirror. Though I amended Bee May’s assessment. I didn’t see much Tom Cruise in his looks, except for his hair color.

He let me into his house with a broad white smile, and only blinked once when Boris followed by right. He had me take a seat in the living room, walled in books and maps, and brought out bottled iced tea. I declined it in favor of water. When he offered Boris some low-fat milk, I declined that too.

“How can I help you, Sheriff?” he asked politely.

With someone else, I’d have gone right into it. But this guy was self-confident enough I’d have to play some games. “You heard what happened to Mrs. Weed’s home, I suppose.”

“Of course, it’s all anyone’s been talking about, at least, it’s all the neighbors talk about.”

I played dumb. It always works with guys like him. “Not your wife?” I asked, as if I hadn’t already seen the utter lack of female occupancy.

“Divorced,” he said with a sad, toothpaste ad of a smile. “I decided ‘try, try again’ wasn’t really a good idea when it came to marriage. I’m not sure how I can help you with Mrs. Weed’s problems.”

“Standard procedure,” I said, while Boris sniffed around his shoes, then curled up next to me and settled in for a good long glare. “I have to ask her co-workers if they’ve noticed anything unusual.”

He caught me out, or thought he had. “I haven’t heard you were asking anyone.”

I smiled back at him, glad I wasn’t lying when I said, “We started with the English teachers and now we’re working our way through the other departments. I understand the history teachers have their desks right near the language teachers.”

He leaned back a tad. “I see. Well, I don’t really know the English teachers very well.”

Boris’s tail twitched twice. I stroked his back. Good kitty. “Any little thing might help.”

“I thought‌—‌that is, the way people talk, the federal agents are investigating the bombings.”

“They are.”

He shifted. “Then why…”

“The more hands, the faster the job goes.”

We locked eyes. He was counting on looks and charm. After Steve, I’m pretty near immune to that.

He didn’t crack. He bent. “I’ve talked to her. You know. About students. Or at staff meetings. It’s not a big school.”

“Do you get along?”

He hesitated. “Mostly.”

Boris’s tail shivered.

“You’ve ever heard her complain of something, someone? Anyone who’d troubled her?”

A tiny sheen of sweat began to show on his upper lip, though his house was nicely cool. “No, not exactly. I mean, the usual complaints. We all have them. Parents, administrators, paperwork.” His hands locked together on his lap. His knees were pressed tight against each other. Interesting.

I looked brightly around his living room, and nodded to a wall. “Antique map of the state, am I right?”

He relaxed. “Dates back to the 1830s. That’s my favorite period in American history, between the War of 1812 and the war with Mexico. No one looks at it much, yet it shaped most of the history to come, including the Civil War.”

Now I knew what in his speech had my interest. “You’re not a Virginian, Mr. Lloyd.”

“No. I was raised in Cincinnati.” He gave me a snide sidelong look, eyes glittering. “That’s in Ohio.”

Aunt Marge used to help me with my homework, which means she added to it by a factor of ten. “I didn’t think you were from the one in Arkansas.”

He blinked again. He stood. “Look, Sheriff, I know her but I don’t know her, if you get my drift.”

I took the hint, and my time. I wandered through his dining room, then down the hallway back to the living room, noticing that his dining room had one of those gadgets that supposedly sucks the cigarette smoke into it to prevent the smell from permeating the house. Smoke traps, I think they’re called.

“You’ve got a very interesting collection.”

His pride flashed right through his irritation. “Thank you.”

I stopped before a gun rack in, of all places, the kitchen. A bachelor kitchen, Aunt Marge would’ve called it, all stainless steel and dark wood and a lonely cookbook titled “Meals for One”.

“Brown Bess,” I said. “Short Land pattern, I think. The other one is Long Land, I assume.”

“You know your guns.”

I smiled demurely. I’ve seen Brown Besses on display at the Littlepage house. “They look in working condition.”

“The Long Land is, it’s not entirely authentic. It’s been partially rebuilt. I used to use it for re-enactments or events down at Williamsburg.”

I was more familiar with Civil War re-enactments. Like a lot of mountain counties, ours had been fairly divided in its loyalties, when it wasn’t outright against both sides. Then it decided at some point to be wholly Confederate, long after the Confederacy had lost. “Sounds interesting,” I lied.

“It was.”

I let him herd me and Boris to the front door. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

I gave him a smile almost as false as his. “You helped plenty. There’s just one thing I forgot to ask, your collection distracted me.”

He stood in his doorway, blocking any hope of re-entry. “Ask away.”

“Was it you or Vicky who broke it off?”

I’d expected a blink or a twitch. I got a flare of pure fury, enough to make me step back. Boris huffed, cuddling close against my ankles.

Question answered.

“Have a nice day,” I said and strolled to my car like I hadn’t a care in the world.

There’s a reason you shouldn’t play poker with a cop. Half of our job is pure bluff.

13.

A
fter I’d confirmed that there weren’t any permits for a gathering of Freddie Tyler and his pals, I had two things stuck in my brain.

The first was how to approach Bill Lloyd a second time. Or if to do it at all, before I’d had a chance to talk to Vicky Weed. Not that I could talk to her right away. The Weeds had moved out of the Country Rose, and were staying in Lynchburg until their house could be re-built. I’d have to schedule an appointment. With a woman who, if Aunt Marge was right, was up to her eyeballs planning color schemes and matching fabrics on the insurance company’s dime. Not easy.

The second involved sitting in Bobbi’s bedroom while she breast-fed Ruby, and running various outfits past her for my first official we-admit-it’s-a-date date. I started with a dark gray skirt from a suit I never wore, and after that I was clueless. Or, as Bobbi put it, “You think cop blue is the only color there is. Try that silk top I got you for Christmas last year.”

I tried it. “Bad?”

Bobbi beamed like a proud mama. “Perfect. So where’s he taking you?”

“We’re meeting at the C&O.”

She whistled, soundlessly, because Ruby had dozed off. “Lord, this child can eat. That’s a nice place, Raj and I’ve been a couple times. Where after?”

“Movie, probably. Tell Raj thanks for looking in on Boris.”

“Our pleasure. You’ll pay us back baby-sitting in a few months.” She cuddled Ruby close, smiling mistily. “Let me put her down, I’ll do up your hair and make-up.”

I sank into the rocker. Thank God for best friends. I was a wreck enough as it was. If I tried to apply my own mascara, I’d likely blind myself.

***^***

I was early. I was always early. Aunt Marge drilled it into me that being at least ten minutes early is more courteous than being ten seconds late. But we were supposed to meet outside the restaurant at exactly five-thirty, and by six, I was getting very uneasy. At six, I called Punk but got no answer. I left a voice-mail. I went into the restaurant and sat at the bar, sipping a ginger ale and smiling as if I hadn’t a problem in the world.

At six-fifteen, the hostess told me we’d lost our reservation. I dutifully shrugged, called Punk, and left a voice-mail letting him know. At six-thirty, I went back to my car, and watched a thunderstorm roll through. I kept telling myself there was a good explanation.

At seven, I drove through the gray drizzle and stopped at the drive-thru window of a fast food restaurant for a lousy salad and some greasy fries. I pulled into a parking spot to eat, and at seven-fifteen, I called Aunt Marge. “How’s your date, dear?” she asked.

“I’m not on a date.”

I heard Aunt Marge tell Roger she’d be right back, and then the click of a door closing. “What is it, Lil?”

“Never showed, never called. I’m assuming he didn’t get into a car accident.”

“Should I send Roger by?”

I wanted to say no, and have a little pride. I said yes.

The skies had cleared, and people were bustling, walking, laughing, on their way to a fun Saturday night. I told myself the smart thing to do was get out of the car, walk in the same direction, and figure it out as I went. Instead, I drove past the restaurant. I looked up and down and all around for Punk’s car. No sign of it. I even cruised through two parking garages.