Drowning Barbie (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

The smoke had abated and the truck and a crew checking for hot spots had left. The eye-watering smells from the fire lingered. There is no odor quite like a burned-out life. Otherwise, the trailer park had not changed in the two hours since they'd last been there.

Karl scanned the area, one eyebrow cocked. “Weren't we just here a couple of hours ago, Ike?”

“This is the place. TAK, are you sure you found the right address?”

“Yes sir, the Lonesome Villas Park. At least that's what the data search said.”

“Karl and I were here earlier for that fire over there. They found a dead guy in the ruins.” Ike paused. His expression changed marginally. “Dellinger!” he snapped. “You mean to tell me that Ethyl Smut was living in the same trailer park as her ex-husband?”

“Her ex-husband?”

“TAK, you see that smoldering mess over there? That used to be the mobile home of Mark Dellinger, he was—”

“The missing girl's father. Yes, sir, I know. Ms. Smut's unit is three down.”

“This case is becoming weirder by the minute. When did you say she moved here?”

“Umm, I'll have to check my notes—not too long ago.”

“Karl, go back to the manager and get us some occupancy dates on both these units.”

It didn't take long to search Ethyl Smut's living quarters. Druggies don't own anything valuable. If they did it would have been sold, hocked, or traded for the poison of their choice. They usually don't care about the rest of their possessions either. Aside from what looked like a decade of unwashed laundry and dirty dishes, the place was empty.

Except for the blood trail.

***

Leota noticed the car exiting the mobile home park as she slowed to turn into it. The young man at the wheel, whoever he was, seemed so absorbed in conversation with the others in the car he nearly forced her off the road. Good. Not good for being forced to swerve to one side, but good to have gone unnoticed. The last thing she wanted was to attract attention anywhere near Picketsville, especially now and especially under the circumstances that had brought her back. Until this morning, crime and the people who pursued it, as in either perpetrators or police, did not interest her. But…well, she hoped she hadn't turned paranoid, but she could have sworn the vehicle that nearly hit her was a police car. That begged the question: what were they doing here? Was Mark in trouble again? Is that why the phone line went dead? Worse, did they somehow find out something about Mark and Ethyl? What would they find?

She pulled up in front of an old Airstream near the entrance. It had a handcrafted sign affixed to its side that read
Manager
. She sat and studied the sign on the trailer for a moment, hesitant to make her next move. She could still reverse course and head home. Mark was history, after all, and the passage of time meant that no possibility of any sort of reconciliation existed. Common sense told her to quit now before something bad happened. She had neither the courage nor the skill to sort out whatever was at play here. Common sense notwithstanding, she screwed up a modicum of courage, alit from the car, and knocked on an aluminum door that hung on its hinges by a force that seemed to have no relationship to either the condition of the hinges or the laws of gravity.

A man who stood only inches above her five-feet-two answered the door. She asked for the number of Mark Dellinger's unit. The man looked at her a moment, turned and neatly delivered a brown stream of chewing tobacco spit into a Coke bottle he held in his right hand. Leota noticed that there were several stains on the floor, some undoubtedly very old, which suggested his aim wasn't always that good.

“Dellinger, Mark Dellinger,” she repeated, a bit too loudly.

“Ain't no Dellinger staying here, lady.” The old man started to swing the door shut. It was then Leota smelled the residual aroma of fire. Not a bonfire, not a barbeque. Something had burned—a house—here? She felt the first signs of panic rise in her stomach.

“Mark Dellinger. He might have used a different name. He used to…” What did he used to do? When he had all those run-ins with the police he'd sometimes used his mother's maiden name. What was it?

“Wait,” she said still too loudly. “What happened here?”

“What happened? Are you kidding? Is your nose broke? We had us a fire. Fellow named Simpkins got hisself burned to death here this afternoon.”

Simpkins. Madge Simpkins married Robert Dellinger and they had a son, Mark. That was it.

“Cops came, them CSI type of people, lots of excitement, for sure.”

“The man said his name was Simpkins?”

“Yep, that's what he put down on the rental form. I didn't check and the coppers got pretty shirty about that, but hell, he paid cash money and seemed okay to me. Anyway, they said his name wasn't Simpkins after all.”

“Who did they say he was?”

“Who? Didn't catch it. Makes no never mind now. He's dead, ain't he?”

“Yes, of course. What did they want to know?”

“Know? Well, shoot, they was trying to figure about how the fire got started, I reckon. Then, 'bout an hour ago, they come roaring back. Only this time they're looking for that Smut woman. Seems to me they could have saved themselves some gasoline and time if they asked about her the first time they come. Police…what do you expect? Like to find that woman my own self. She owes me back rent for her place. But she wasn't here. If I ain't heard from her by Tuesday, I'm locking her out, and if I ain't had no contact by October, I'm auctioning off the trailer. Say, who are you?”

“I'm a friend, you could say, of both of them. What did the police want with Ethyl?”

“Want? How the hell would I know what them police wanted? They just barreled in here and tossed her unit looking for God-knows-what. Drugs is my guess. She was one of them users you read about, you know. Looked like hell. I'da warned her about men and parties. I got my rules, but who'd want to party around with someone who looked like that, I ask you?”

“Thank you for your time. By the way, you might as well go ahead and sell the trailer. She isn't coming back. She's dead.”

“Dead? You don't say. Well, that'd sure explain the cops and all. Funny how they had to come out twice. Once to find out about this Simpkins fella and then for the woman. Dead, you say?”

“Yes, dead. Did they say what they wanted of the other man…Simpkins?”

“Beats me. Whatever it was went up in the fire, I reckon. I tell you, lady, if you're in the market for a used mobile home, best be careful what you buy. Them old units like the one Simpkins lived in are a problem. Some of them had that aluminum wiring which, you maybe heard about, is a fire hazard and they sometimes go up if there's a short or something like that.”

“You're saying it was an accident?”

“I don't rightly know. Now the cops, they think maybe someone set the whole shebang on fire.” He paused to make another donation to the Coke bottle, this time with less accuracy. “See, the man, Simpkins, or whoever, was in it and all, so they're naturally suspicious. But I think it was them aluminum wires. See, I heard this pop like you get when there's a short in the electrics and then, pretty soon, there's smoke. Somebody called the fire department and then the trucks came. The chief, he thinks it's arson, but I ain't so sure. I mean who sets fires to trailers unless they're insured and then it's the owners doing it for the money, right?”

“I suppose so. Thank you.” Leota left him muttering on his doorstep and wandered over to the burnt-out ruins of what she now knew to be her Marine's last home.

“Mark, what happened here? What were you doing that got you killed and why the old picnic place? Why did you let her out there of all places?”

She stared at the tangled and charred remains for what seemed like an hour or more. Then, a decision made, she walked back to her truck and turned it toward Picketsville. It was time to settle things with her cousins, Flora and Arlene.

Chapter Twenty-five

Blake Fisher happened to be in his office late in the afternoon and not busy. He greeted Ike and asked him to sit.

“Ike, I feel like I owe you something of an apology for the other day.”

“No apology required. I understand your concern, I think. As I am not, strictly speaking, one of the flock—”

“Except in the larger sense. Saint Paul says—”

“It's okay, Rev, I didn't come here to ask you to reconsider, exactly. We had another idea we hope will be more doable. I want to run it by you and then I need to ask you some questions about a girl you spoke to last week.”

“I spoke to? Who said I spoke to a girl?”

“Her guardian, godmother, one or the other. I'm not entirely sure what the relationship is, to be frank, but she said she thought the girl staying with her had stopped here to see you before she went to the godmother's place.”

“Okay, what about the girl?”

“Let me clear the other thing first. After thinking over what you said to us, Ruth said that in effect ‘we were asking you to trivialize a sacrament in order to cover our embarrassment.' Have I got that right?”

“That's pretty much it, yes. But—”

“No buts. On reflection, we finally saw the point. Then, while struggling for a way out of the mess we'd made for ourselves, Ruth dug out her Common Prayer book.”

“
Book of Common Prayer
.”

“That one, yes. In it, we discovered what I hope will be a compromise for us both. Is it true every Episcopalian on the planet owns one of those books?”

“I don't know about the planet, but theoretically, yes, most do, or did. Many lapse and leave them at home when they strike out on their own or move and the book ends up in a yard sale. But if they were confirmed, there is nearly a one hundred percent chance they have, or have had one. What's the compromise?”

“Amazing. Okay, we were browsing, I guess you could say, through that book and found something called…” Ike pulled a scrap of paper from a shirt pocket and read,…The Blessing of a Civil Marriage. Could you do that for us?”

While Blake Fisher listened to Ike's request his eyes wandered from Ike to the door that Ike knew led to the sanctuary. Ike sensed he was about to be rejected again and worried how Ruth would take it. And, more importantly, what they would do if Fisher said no.

“Rev, is something the matter?”

“What? No, sorry, my mind wandered a bit. Thinking about the girl and seeing you in a uniform and wondering if there was a connection. You almost never wear one. I won't ask you what the occasion is. Work, I presume. So, yes, I can perform the Blessing of a Civil Marriage for you. I should have thought of it when you and Ruth came to see me last week. Sorry about that. It's just…churches and clergy are bombarded with requests to do weddings about this time of the year. For parishioners it's one thing, but for non-members…”

“If that's a problem, we could—”

“Not a problem. At least in your case it isn't. It's just, I don't know why, but it seems that everyone—irrespective of their faith or lack thereof—thinks they need to be married in a church. I had a couple in here last month who said they wanted to be married here at this little parish. They spent twenty minutes telling me how gorgeous the church was and so perfect…actually, the bride to be said she thought it was ‘cute.' As they were not members, I asked them why this church and not their own. By now I should have known the answer. The bride to be said, ‘For one, the church is so picturesque,' only she pronounced it picture-skew, ‘and would be so cool for the photos and all.' Before I could respond to that bit of inanity, the young man admitted that neither he nor the bride-to-be attended church. I asked him, ‘Then why do you want to get married in one?' And he said it was because the bride's mother wanted a church wedding. I asked, ‘Well, why don't you get married in your future mother-in-law's church?' and he said—”

“And he said she didn't go to a church either. I am suddenly feeling guilty and forced to confess that neither Ruth nor I can claim much in the way of good intentions in that respect. Ruth and I are asking you to perform a ritual to which neither of us subscribes. You turned us down in the first instance, and rightly so. I am delighted you will accommodate us but am curious to know why you are relenting now.”

“Relenting? Is that what you think I am doing? Well, perhaps I am and perhaps not. There are at least two reasons. You are my friends, and you are no longer attempting to bamboozle the public with a bogus wedding to cover your possible embarrassment over a rash decision made in Sin City. What you propose is the correct thing to do—at least in my admittedly narrow view.”

“Thank you for that. For the record, what we did in Vegas may have been alcohol-fueled, but it was never rash. The two of us have been dancing around nuptials for a long time. After we ran into some very scary stuff the week before, we both realized in our different ways that we might be pressing our luck and may have put the thing off for too long.”

“I won't ask you what ‘scary stuff' you experienced. You seem to live an inordinately dangerous life for a small-town sheriff, by the way. Sometimes it feels like we're filming a reality television show around here. So, okay we'll set the thing up. Now, to finish my lecture. Clergy, like me, live in the constant hope that we will find a way to bring people to the Lord, particularly friends and those we care about in special ways. You need to understand that we take this calling seriously and all that it implies. We worry about your soul even if you and the rest of the world do not.”

“So this is like a free trial offer. If it takes, all to the good. If not, it's a loss-leader.”

“I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but you're close enough, so yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Well, thank you. The two of us are a lot alike, Rev. I worry about the same things, the safety and well being of the people of Picketsville, even if they resent my intrusion into what they perceive as their right to privacy, which they define as doing what they damned well please as long as nobody gets hurt. But, like it or not, I do intrude and I do hope that by providing a permanent police presence, things will get better, or at least no worse. I am a street cop walking a beat, so to speak. In a way, so are you. You walk a different beat, but we're both in the same business—getting people home safe and sound. We have a different definition of home and operate with a different set of commandments is all.”

“Not so different. So what do you want to know about the girl, woman?”

“We're looking for her. I know now she's in the area somewhere. Do you happen to know where she is, Rev?”

“I don't know. Why would you think I might?”

“She came to you once. I take it she wasn't forced to do so. It occurred to me she might have again.”

“Sorry. She didn't and I haven't seen her since. Why are you after her?”

“She is a person of interest in the death of her mother. Her name is Darla Smut aka Darla Dellinger, by the way.”

A frown formed on Blake's face and his gaze drifted to the window.

Ike realized that the clergyman wrestled with something he wanted to tell him but thought he shouldn't. Fisher sighed and turned back to Ike.

“I can tell you this. She asked me to hear her confession. I'm not sure she even knew what that was, but I took it that way. You understand, then, there is not much I can say.”

“You know, Rev, that to make a broad generalization, like where I might find her, wouldn't necessarily be breaking the seal of the confessional.”

“I said I don't know where she is, Ike. I really don't. She showed up here that afternoon and left. If I had to guess, I agree with you, she is still local, probably hunkered down somewhere she thinks safe, but I really don't know. Okay, this is what I can tell you, but please don't press me for more.”

Ike nodded his agreement with the full knowledge that if he thought it would avail him something, he would press the clergyman for more even if it meant threatening him. He had a murderer on the loose and the nicer points of medieval canon law would not sway him from doing what he had to do to catch him.

“Okay, for the record, she did not kill her mother. Lord knows she had every reason to, but I can say categorically that she didn't. I think she knows, or suspects, who did, but she did not tell me. If you know her story, you will understand that if I had been in her shoes, even I would have been tempted to do the woman in myself. Her life has been horrific, Ike. Unbearable, even. Find her, Ike. Talk to her. Get her into some sort of rehab situation, but for the love of God, do not arrest her for something she didn't do.”

“I've heard her story. You are right, it is awful and even if you are wrong and she did kill her mother, I don't think a jury would convict her of anything worse than manslaughter. Probably go with self-defense, maybe even acquit. So, is that all you can tell me?”

“That's all I will tell you. If you know her story, as you say, there isn't anything I can say that you haven't already heard.”

“Okay, Rev, thank you for that much. I will do my best to find her and get her the help she needs. You, on the other hand, will call me if she turns up again on your radar. If she didn't murder her mother, and I have no reason not to believe you when you say you're sure she didn't, then she may be in danger.”

“How so?”

“Whoever killed the mother could have the child in his crosshairs now. If I understand the extent of the trauma inflicted on her over the years, and I am not sure I will ever be able to do that, I am afraid there are people, some of them important people, some from this area, who would be uncomfortable, extremely so, if it were to be public knowledge that she's come back to town and is talking to the police. They will be tempted to do whatever they need to keep that from happening. If I have her data correct, she's not yet eighteen which means the statute of limitations has something over two years left before it runs out on what was done to her by those men and women.”

“But, if that is so, wouldn't the last thing she would want is to be in contact with the police? Frankly, if I were the girl, I would hot foot it out of town before anyone could find me.”

“I take your point, but here's the thing, she can't run forever. I'm afraid that if she doesn't get help soon, worse things will happen. I don't care how strong a person is, no one can carry a burden like that forever. She's still a child when all is said and done and at least with us, she'd be safe.”

“Can you really guarantee her safety, Ike? In the old days, she could throw her arms around the altar in the church and no one would dare touch her—for fear of the law and God. Now days, nobody seems to fear either one.”

“You are becoming cynical, Blake. Come on, you don't believe that, do you? If you did, you wouldn't be sitting in this backwash community working like one of the Hebrew slaves trying to making bricks for the pharaoh from straw and clay.”

“No, you're right, but I confess I do get discouraged.”

“And opportunists like Ruth and me don't exactly enhance your faith.”

“Frankly no, you don't, but, as we say in my line of work, we live in hope.” Blake Fisher smiled. “So, A Blessing of a Civil Marriage…I can do that for you. When?”

“I know your weekends are busy, how about next early next week?”

“Monday works for me, unless that is too short notice.”

“Monday's good. I'll e-mail Ruth and we can get this party together.”

“Dorothy Sutherlin is our resident festivities person. You might have a word with her.”