Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg (22 page)

I could not reconcile Jumbo trashing WR’s and Stewart’s
alibi with his thugs showing up at the national park the previous night or whatever his dealings might be with Rebel
Trucking.

Something was missing, but what?

Abruptly, the telephone rang. It was Garrett. His voice
had not lost its surliness. “The Tiger’s Den was wide open
Saturday, and your boy, Jumbo, age fifty-one, has a rap sheet
as long as your arm. Word on the street is he’s related to Joe
Basco, the mob boss in New Orleans. Cousin. Real name is
James Franklin Harrod. He’s from Jackson, Mississippi.
Grew up on Oak Street, 2113”

His remark about Jumbo’s home struck a familiar chord,
but the significance eluded me. Joe Basco was another matter. I had been right when I guessed Jumbo was working for
Basco, but why would Basco send Jumbo after me at the
park? I could understand the bag of cement and the
eighteen-wheelers, but the mob boss had promised to leave
me alone after those two incidents. Had I gone too far?
“Thanks, Garrett. I appreciate the help.” I made an effort at
some sort of reconciliation in case I needed more help. “I
know I’ve been a pain, but I’d like to get together so you can
see what I have”

My apology, though not abject, tempered his surliness.
“Yeah. Just give me a call.”

Staring at the receiver, I tried to find a path around another boulder that he had dropped in front of me. Jumbo had
lied about the nightclub being closed. Why?

I noted Garrett’s information on a separate card.

“Jumbo and the brothers can’t be working together, but
then how did he know I was at the park? And within an hour
or so after I told Diane?”

I closed my eyes and groaned. “All right, Tony. It’s time
for a flash of inspiration.”

To my surprise it came, and like most flashes of inspiration, it was so obvious, I had paid it no attention.

I practically leaped from my chair and rushed downstairs.
Just as I reached the dining room, I remembered I’d left my
note cards on the desk. Uttering a string of curses, I hurried
back for them. After dropping them in my pocket, I paused,
considering whether I should call Tom Garrett for phone
records. I decided to wait. If my idea was wrong, I didn’t
need his mocking censure.

in the parking lot of Hair by Stewart, I rummaged through
my toolbox of security gadgets and pulled out a walnutcovered box the size of a cigar box, a tap alert.

Looking up through the glass wall of his office, Stewart
frowned from behind his desk when I entered his salon. He
had eight chairs, and they were all in use. Half of the operators were male. I don’t know much about beauty salons, but
this one was bright and clean, and the air carried a pleasant
fragrance. The floor was white tile and the white walls were
covered with pastel flowers. Low-level chatter and giggles
filled the room.

His lips curled in distaste, Stewart hurried to me, as if my
coming too far into his salon would contaminate it. “What
can I do for you, Mr. Boudreaux?”

I studied him a moment, his bald head, and his round face.
“You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”

The question caught him off guard. “Huh? Yeah. Yeah, so
I’m left-handed. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just wondering.” I glanced at his office. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

His reluctance was obvious. I prodded him. “I wouldn’t
be here if it wasn’t important.”

With a deep sigh, he nodded to his office. “In there”

He closed the door and eased into his chair. “Now, what is
so important?” He glanced curiously at the box I laid on his
desk.

“Two or three matters” I pulled out the note cards. “First,
you told me your sister went to live with an aunt in Jackson.
Right?”

“Yeah”

“You happen to remember what street she lived on?”

He frowned. “Why do you want to know that? She’s
dead”

Impatiently, I snapped. “Humor me, Stewart. Okay?”

He sensed the testiness in my reply. “Oak. 2222. I’ll never
forget that address. 2222 Oak”

“How old is your sister?”

He pondered the question a moment. “Let’s see. I’m fiftytwo. Annebelle must be fifty.”

“How long did she live with her aunt? I mean, did she go
to school in Jackson?”

“Yeah. A couple years”

What do you know, I told myself. Sherlock Boudreaux
strikes again.

He frowned. “Why are you asking all this? Is she behind
it all?”

I ignored his question. “Now, one more question. When I
visited the Tiger’s Den to attempt to verify your alibi, the
owner said the nightclub was closed that night. How do you
explain that?”

Stewart stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief, and his
mouth dropped open. His lips opened and closed for thirty
seconds before he could utter a sound. And then it was a
stammering series of “Wh-wh-wh-”

“You heard me. The owner said the place was closed.”

He shook his head. His jowls flopped. “Honest. We was
there. That’s the truth, the gospel truth. We was there from
three to six.”

“Why would the owner say the place was closed?”

“I don’t know, but he’s lying.”

I didn’t tell Stewart I knew Jumbo had lied. Let him stew
awhile. He and his brother deserved it. To even entertain the
idea of blackmailing their father with porn pictures was disgusting, but to actually take the steps to carry through with
the scheme was beyond repugnant.

He leaned forward. “You believe me, don’t you,
Boudreaux? We sat there from three to six, drinking beer
and staring at the stupid tiger with the funny legs on the
wall.”

“I don’t know, Stewart” I rose and shook my head. “I
don’t know” One thing I did know now, he had been in the
Tiger’s Den. But whether he was there on the twenty-sixth or
not was anyone’s guess.

Believe it or not, my newest theory was beginning to gel.
Suppressing my excitement, I nodded to his telephone. “Can
I use it a moment?”

“Sure” He pushed it across the desk. I opened the box,
disconnected his phone and plugged the line into the tap
alert. A red light flashed. Without commenting, I disconnected the alert and plugged the line back into his phone.
“Thanks,” I said, rising.

He frowned. “What’s that all about?”

I shook my head. “Just another little piece of the puzzle.
By the way, you asked me what being left-handed had to do
with anything. Remember?”

“Yeah. So?”

“It appears whoever killed your father was left-handed.”

Stewart was still stammering when I left.

Served him right.

Now, all I had to do was make a short visit to WR.

Ten minutes later I parked in front of his hardware store,
climbed out and tucked the tap alert under my arm.

WR was busy, so I waited at the counter. Finally, he finished with his customer and glowered at me. “You come to
ask me about the Tiger’s Den?”

I grinned, keeping my eye on his bottom lip. “Stewart
called, huh?”

“Yeah. I don’t care what anyone else says. What he said is
true. We were there”

“Well, WR, maybe you were, maybe you weren’t. I’m still
working on the pieces.”

He ran his fat hand over what few strands of hair he had
remaining. “Well, when you get it all together, you’ll see
we’re telling the truth”

To my surprise, I saw no evidence of that nervous habit of
his and Jack’s; running the tongue between the gums and
lower lip. Could it be he was telling the truth? “That isn’t
why I’m here. I’d like to take a look at your telephone.”

He frowned. “That’s what Stewart said you did over at his
place. Why?”

“Call it curiosity. You don’t have to let me, but I’ll just go
to Chief Herrings, and he’ll get a warrant”

I could see the wheels turning in his head. Should he or
not? Finally, he shrugged. “Why not? I’ve got nothing to
hide.”

“Thanks. It’ll only take a minute.” He followed me into
his office.

Opening the tap alert, I followed the same procedure I had
at Hair by Stewart. Instantly, a red light flashed. Without a
word, I unplugged it and closed the box.

“What’s going on?” WR wore a puzzled frown.

“Nothing,” I replied, reconnecting his telephone. “I just
wanted to check your phone line. That’s all.”

“But it’s got to mean something.”

“It does. To me.” I slid a scrap of paper across his desk and
handed him a pen. “How about writing your name for me.”

He shook his head. “This don’t make sense”

“Trust me, WR. There’s reason in my madness”

With a shrug, he scribbled his name with his right hand.

“That’s all I need to know.” I brushed past him for the
door. “I’ll be in touch.”

As I climbed in my truck, I could see him still standing in
the doorway to his office, scratching his head.

I was elated. I’d finally put two and two together, and for
the first time since Monday night, it added up to four.

When I discovered the phone lines back at the mansion
were tapped, I wasn’t surprised at all.

I contacted Doc Raines for the date and time the naphtha
had been ordered for JW Edney, after which I contacted
Garrett for the phone records of the three siblings as well as
those of the old man for July 17 through the present. Then I
retired to my room to go back over my notes.

When I ran across Nancy Carleton’s alibi for Annebelle, I
reread her remarks, especially those referring to Annebelle’s
scouting the Monroe Marauders and the Beaumont Raiders.

What was so important about that game was that it took
place in the same time frame as JW Edney’s death. If she
was scouting the game, she could not have murdered her
father.

That was reason enough to drive to Jackson. I had two
tasks, first to visit the school that Annebelle attended her two
years in Jackson, and second to pick up another DVD, this
one of the Beaumont Raiders and the Monroe Marauders. If
she scouted the game, perhaps she would be in the video.
And if she was, my theory was shot.

Annebelle had attended two schools in Jackson, the last
year of junior high and the first of high school. In the 1965 Jackson Bulldog Annual, I thumbed through the freshman
pictures until I found Annebelle’s picture, and two pages farther, the one for which I had hoped, James Franklin Harrod,
better known as Jumbo.

So far, so good.

Then I visited Coach Barnes to purchase a DVD of the
Marauders and Raiders. He recognized me. “I was wondering how to get in touch with you.”

I frowned. “Me? Why?”

“You bought a DVD the other day.” I nodded, and he continued. “I learned later that batch had some editing problems. I forgot which one you bought. If it’s one of the bad
ones, I’ll give you a corrected DVD”

I started to dismiss his offer, but then figured I might as
well take it. “Thanks,” I told him, and minutes later I was on
the road back to Vicksburg with the corrected DVD plus a
DVD of the Marauders and Raiders.

I read somewhere that to make a fortune, you must have
some assistance from Fate. I could paraphrase the axiom and
say to make a solid case, you can always use some assistance
from Fate.

And that afternoon, Fate smiled on me, twice; once when
I was given a corrected DVD, and second when a
Mississippi State Patrol pulled me over and issued me a
warning for driving too fast. Grateful for the warning, I effusively thanked him.

“We’ve cracked down the last few weeks,” he replied.
“We want you to get home alive.”

The last twenty miles, I drove under the seventy-mile
speed limit.

By one o’clock, I was back in Vicksburg. To my surprise,
the phone records I had requested were on the coffee table in
the parlor. Maybe Garrett wasn’t the jerk I thought he was.

I had previously believed that if one of the three siblings
was the killer, and if the act was carried out by a left-handed
individual, then the killer had to be Stewart. Yet, thanks to the contradiction between Jumbo not supporting their alibi
and his thugs attacking me at the military park, there was no
way I could put together an unbroken chain of evidence linking Stewart and WR to their father’s death despite the preponderance of evidence pointing to him and his brother.