Heads You Lose (10 page)

P.S. And please, no more with the Monopoly. You keep that up, I might have to give Terry a disease that compromises his mental state. Don’t worry, I’ll pick something that has a cure. Syphilis?

CHAPTER 9

Lacey smoked pot only as a sleep aid, but it worked. She crashed for four hours. During that time Paul tried to untangle the fuzzy town conspiracy that he felt certain would eventually surface. He returned home and waited for Lacey to wake up. Lacey woke in a haze, so Paul started with an easy question.

“Lacey, where’s your car?”

Lacey looked at her watch. She was supposed to meet the sheriff in twenty minutes.

“You need to give me a ride,” she said.

As Paul drove Lacey to the new doc’s office, he didn’t even bother asking why her car was left behind. Instead, he focused on more important matters, like Lacey’s upcoming police interrogation.

“Just be cool,” Paul cautioned.

“What does that mean?” Lacey replied.

“That means don’t tell the sheriff that we found the body three days ago and moved it and then went poking around at the second crime scene and then, when it showed up at the third crime scene, removed evidence.”

“Oh that,” said Lacey. “Anything else?”

“You might not want to mention that we’re marijuana growers.”

“I won’t,” Lacey replied. “But for future reference you’re the grower. Not me. I’m retiring.”

Paul had come to see marijuana cultivation as a career. Lacey always saw it as temp work, something you did after all other options were exhausted. Besides, there was no temp agency in Mercer.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Lace. We’ll talk more later.”

“Sure. Right after my police interrogation.”

“Who do you think did this?” Lacey asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to sort out,” Sheriff Ed replied.

“Could it be drug-related?”

“Could be any number of things,” Ed said, not showing his cards.

“Or personal. Do you know anyone who had a beef with Hart?” Lacey asked.

“Well, that was one of the questions I was going to ask you.”

“I didn’t know him as well as I thought,” Lacey replied.

“Did you know he was making methamphetamine in his basement?” Sheriff Ed asked.

“No,” Lacey lied. She wasn’t sure whether knowing someone was making meth and not reporting it was a criminal offense.

“Now how did that slip by a smart girl like you?”

“I’ve been asking myself that ever since. How did you know?”

“It’s my job to know what’s going on in this town.”

“Then how come you never arrested him?” Lacey asked.

“He cleared out the basement before I had a chance,” Ed replied. Clearly the question had gotten under his skin. Ed had tried to run Hart out of town for years.

“So somebody snitched on him. Who was it?”

“Sweetheart, that’s classified information.”

“Aha, so there was a snitch. I was just guessing,” Lacey said.

Sheriff Ed looked over the single sheet of legal paper that contained all the information he had on the Hart Drexel murder. He let out a frustrated sigh and tried to take the reins on his runaway interrogation.

“Did Hart owe anybody money?” the sheriff asked.

“He owed me a hundred and fifty bucks,” Lacey replied. “But I wouldn’t kill him over that. Do you think he was sleeping with somebody’s wife?”

The sheriff cleared his throat a few times and turned the question around, “A good investigator doesn’t speculate too soon. Now have you heard rumors about an affair?”

“I think Hart was seeing someone on the side back when we were together.”

“Did you ever confront him?”

“I didn’t make anything of it at the time,” said Lacey.

“Who was it?”

“Don’t know. But he used to come home smelling like some kind of flower. If you can find her, she might know something, but I guess that’s not much to go on.”

“What brought her to mind?”

“I’m just thinking about reasons why one person might kill another. Crimes of passion are the most common, right?”

“People kill each other for all kinds of reasons.”

“Don’t you think it’s suspicious that Doc Holland went missing and then Hart’s body turned up?”

“Doc Holland retired. I’m not sure that I see the connection.”

“I’m just brainstorming here,” Lacey said.

If she were in full disclosure mode, she might have mentioned that Hart always had a thorn in his side when it came to Doc Holland. In fact, whenever Hart needed minor medical attention, he’d visit the osteopath in Emery rather than drive a mile to Holland’s place. If Lacey asked about it, Hart would always change the subject in the special way that only he could.

“Thank you for your time,” said Sheriff Ed.

“You should look for the woman who smells like some kind of flower,” Lacey said.

“I think that’s all for now, Lacey,” Sheriff Ed quickly replied, getting to his feet.

Lacey remained seated.

“Why do you think they took his head?” she asked.

“Too soon to tell,” the sheriff replied. “Let me walk you out.”

Lacey noticed the sheriff’s weary tone and slumped posture as he walked her out of the building. He looked as tired as she felt. She figured he’d been up all night. She wondered what theories he had been hiding from her.

“Will you call me if you hear anything?” Lacey said as she got in her car.

“Take care of yourself, sweetheart,” Ed replied as he returned to the station.

Paul, deciding he’d better secure his alibi for the night in question, drove twenty miles to Tulac and knocked on Brandy Chester’s front door.

“Paauul,”
Brandy squealed when she saw her beau. “Why didn’t you tell me you were visiting? I would have made you a tuna casserole.”

Paul had once made the mistake of complimenting Brandy’s signature dish. Truth was, he found it almost inedible, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Since then, she made the meal whenever she knew he was stopping by. That’s when Paul’s surprise visits commenced. Brandy and Paul embraced in the doorway; then he followed the woman in pink into her pink abode.

Aside from the white carpet, which was stained from years of abuse, Brandy’s home looked like it had been decorated by a deranged ballerina. For the first few weeks they were dating, Paul wore sunglasses inside, but slowly he got used to it. Truth was, he liked Brandy. She had a good heart. A heart of gold, you might say. They’d met at Olmstead’s Hardware when Brandy asked for his help finding the right screw.

Brandy was big-boned, full-lipped, and blond all over. She was the kind of woman who was always bleaching something. Brandy began most of her sentences with “Back when I was dancing . . .” although you could tell from her frame that she was never a Rockette. Three years ago, Brandy’s career was sidelined by a pole-dancing injury, which is far more common than you might expect. The accident left her with a permanent limp. Paul never minded the limp. In fact, he found it rather fetching.
¹³

Brandy prepared a grilled cheese sandwich while Paul explained his need for an alibi. It didn’t require too much explaining. Brandy agreed as if people asked her for an alibi every day.

“Sure thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell the cops I made you a tuna casserole and we had a cozy night in watching
Mythmatch.
”

“Let’s first make sure we know which episode was on that night,” Paul replied.

“You think of
everything
,” Brandy said, smothering her man with a kiss.

Lacey swung by the Timberline after her interview with Sheriff Ed. Hart used to kill hours at this place. He and Tate were tight. Lacey had never liked the man, but she figured she should give him the news.

She went straight back to the office and knocked twice on the closed door.

“Enter,” said the gravelly voice on the other side.

Lacey caught Tate in his undershorts and T-shirt.

“I would have waited until you put some clothes on,” Lacey said, averting her gaze.

“My clothes are at the laundry-mat.”

“All of ’em?”

“If you must know, Lacey,” Tate impatiently replied, “my woman kicked me out with the shirt on my back. Those clothes got to be washed sometime.”

Lacey noted that Tate’s couch was made up as a bed.

“What about your underwear?” Lacey asked. “Doesn’t that have to be washed?”

“I bought another pair of shorts. Now what can I do for you, Lacey?”

“Hart’s dead.”

“Your Hart?”

“He’s not mine anymore. Or anybody’s.”

“What happened?”

“Murdered.”

“How?”

“Don’t know.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tate said. The news shook him, but he was the kind of man who tried not to let on what he was thinking, even in his underwear.

“When was the last time you saw Hart?”

“You investigating me?”

“Just asking an innocent question.”

“About three weeks ago, maybe,” Tate replied.

“What did he want?”

“A drink,” said Tate. “What else?”

Lacey’s thoughts turned to the other mystery that had surfaced recently.

“Do you know why Doc Holland skipped town so fast?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Wish I did.”

“Why?”

“Because he left town with an unpaid debt.”

“He was gambling? What was his game?”

“He had no game. It was just a friendly loan.”

“Really? What’s your friendly interest rate?”

“Why? You need a loan?”

“No. Just curious.”

“You might want to keep that in check,” Tate replied. “See you around, Lacey.”

Lacey took the cue and left.

Instead of grieving for Hart, Lacey figured she could do the next best thing: Find his killer. While Tate had an angle on everyone in Mercer, he wasn’t the talkative sort. But she knew who was.

Lacey drove to Betty’s place to see whether a gossip exchange could uncover any new leads. Besides, on TV it’s always two disconnected clues that intersect in the end. Maybe there was some connection between Doc Holland and Hart Drexel.

“I am so sorry, honey. Are you okay?” Betty asked, when Lacey told her the news about Hart.

“I think so,” Lacey said.

She had wondered why she felt nothing. She’d even repeated those three words in her head again and again to induce a reaction:
Hart is dead.
No matter how many times she said it, she still couldn’t feel that it was true.

Betty served Lacey a mug of hot chocolate with a layer of miniature marshmallows.

“This’ll make you feel better,” she said.

Lacey was doubtful, but drowned the marshmallows in the brew and then let them dissolve in her throat.

“Have you heard from Doc Holland since he left?” Lacey asked.

Betty was surprised that the conversation leapfrogged over Hart so quickly. It took her a moment to comprehend the question.

“No. I haven’t seen him since he left. Why do you ask?”

“There’s just something suspicious about the way he skipped town without a forwarding address. Only the new Doc Holland knows where the old Doc Holland is living.”

“Have you met him?”

“Who?”

“Doc Egan.”

“Oh yeah. He stitched me up.”

Lacey pulled up her sleeve to reveal her bandaged arm.

“What happened to you?”

“Gardening accident.”

“You should be more careful. How—”

“Let me ask you a question. You handled Doc Holland’s bills. Was he having financial problems?”

“He wasn’t flush.”

“What does that mean?” Lacey asked.

“Well, he had a lot of bills. Whatever came in every month, left. And then some.”

“Did anything strike you as unusual?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

“Why are you so interested in Doc Holland?”

“I’m trying to take my mind off Hart,” Lacey replied.

“Let me see,” Betty said, consulting the back of her brain. “He had a thousand-dollar payment every month to Mallard Corp.”

“What was it for?”

“When I asked him, he said it was supplementary malpractice insurance.”

“For Mercer!?” Lacey exclaimed.

“Yeah, I thought it was on the pricey side,” Betty replied.

“What does Doc Egan pay?”

“Don’t know. He only asked me to handle his patient billing. He’s got his own computer program and stuff.”

“Thanks for the cocoa,” Lacey said, standing abruptly.

“Leaving already?” Betty asked.

“Sorry to run. I forgot that I told Sook I’d pay him a visit this afternoon.”

Lacey was out the door before Betty could offer her a slice of the lemon meringue pie she had just baked.

“Lacey,” Sook said, slowly getting to his feet. He was wearing his usual tan cardigan that always smelled like mothballs. “Where have you been turtling yourself?”

Lacey knitted her brow and froze it there for full effect.

“Sook, I don’t care how many times Terry or my brother say ‘turtling.’ It’s not a word in the dictionary, so stop using it.”