Killerfind (12 page)

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hours after tests
and scans in the emergency room at St. Mark’s Hospital revealed nothing more
serious than a mild concussion, Randolph insisted on going home—in spite of the
emergency room physician’s recommendation that he spend the night for
observation. Rhetta had informed the doctor that Randolph had been out cold
when she found him. Randolph insisted that he wasn’t.

When they were alone, Rhetta took her husband’s
hand. His head bore a serious bandage across the welt and his face had been
cleaned up.

“I know you want to go home, but because of your
last head injury, Doctor Marinthe wants you to spend the night to be sure
everything is all right. He remembers your previous accident.”

“This does hurt,” he said, touching the bandage on
his head, and wincing.

“Do you remember what happened” She pulled the sheet
up and tucked it around him.
Why are emergency rooms always so cold?

“The Dumpster lid got me.” He smiled crookedly, then
flinched. “I guess I shouldn’t have tried holding the lid open and swinging the
trash bag in at the same time. Next time, I’ll know to make sure it’s all the
way open first.” He shivered, and Rhetta reached for the thermal blanket folded
on the table. “The next thing I knew, you were standing over me.”

She kissed the side of his face. “I agree totally
with Dr. Marinthe. You’re going to spend the night.”

“All right, if you say I was out, then I guess I’ll
stay.” He grasped her hand, and squeezed.

“You were indeed out, and yes, I insist.” She
squeezed back.

“Your wife is right, of course,” said Dr. Marinthe,
sliding the privacy curtain aside and walking toward the gurney. Marinthe’s
limp was evidenced in his shuffling gait. He pulled a stool out from under the
counter and sat by Randolph. “We will have a room ready in about ten minutes.”
His French accent lent a musical lilt to his words.

Marinthe, who hailed from French West Africa, was
Randolph’s hospitalist following his wreck. The slight-framed doctor rolled the
stool to a nearby computer station and keyed in his notes. He tucked the stool
away, and returned to Randolph’s bedside. “It is good to see you again, my
friend, but I am sorry it is because of another
calamité.
” He smiled and
turned to Rhetta. “His head is very hard,
non
?”

“That’s true in more ways than one, Doctor,” Rhetta
said and smiled.

“I will check on you later, my friend,” Marinthe
said, patted Randolph’s shoulder, then left.

Rhetta had just begun gathering up her husband’s
clothes, wallet and personal items when an orderly arrived to take him to a
room. Rhetta accompanied them on the trip upstairs, and waited while the staff
got him settled in.

“The doctor would prefer that you have only liquids
until tomorrow morning.” The orderly broke the news to him as he tucked a warm
blanket around Randolph.

Rhetta’s stomach growled. She hadn’t stayed at the
pool party long enough to eat, nor had she been able to grill steaks at home.
The memory of the wonderful scent of the grilling steaks made her stomach
rumble. She realized she was famished.

“That’s all right, I’m not hungry,” Randolph said,
as he wriggled down into the covers.

“I’m hungry enough to eat a couple double
cheeseburgers by myself,” Rhetta said. Her stomach growled in agreement.

“You go on and get something to eat. I’m in good
hands here,” Randolph said.

She leaned in and kissed him, then headed for the
door. “I love you. Be a good patient,” she admonished wagging an index finger
at him.

Walking down the hall to the elevator, she realized
that in all the excitement she hadn’t told Randolph about the party, or about
the strange phone call.
Oh, well. It can wait until morning.

She checked her phone. Still no call from Ricky. She
dialed again. Voice mail. Now, she was worried.
Had that scumbag of a
boyfriend done something to her?
Although Ricky claimed Jeremy was
“younger,” Rhetta wasn’t sure who Ricky thought he was younger than. Certainly
not her or Ricky. Methuselah, perhaps. During their close encounter, she
spotted tell-tale crows’ feet that indicated he was on the long side past
forty. Probably the Botox was wearing off. In fact, her rapid mental
calculations determined that Jeremy was an adult when Malcom Griffith
“disappeared.” Might he have had something to do with that, should the body
turn out to be Griffith’s?

*
* *

As
Rhetta pulled out of the parking lot, she dropped her visor down to temper the
glare from the setting sun. She paused at the exit and groped through her
console for a pair of sunglasses. The daylight, although waning, was still
bright enough that she had to squint. Glasses in place, radio blasting, she
began singing along with the Beach Boys as she cruised to the hamburger stand.
McDonald’s sat just a hop across the interstate on the Gordonville Road.

Although nearing eight, the drive-thru lines were
slow going, filled to capacity with university students crowded into vehicles
snaking around the restaurant. She glanced at her watch. If she could get her
food quickly enough, she might have time to drive by the barn, just to see if
someone showed up there. She was pretty sure that this Mylene Allard, whoever
she was, couldn’t know what kind of vehicle she drove. Decision made, she’d
drive past the barn and scope it out.

en
minutes later, after
suffering through two teenage girls working at the window, followed by a
pimply-faced boy with a nose ring, and finally the assistant manager, they
finally got her complicated order straight—two double cheeseburgers, ketchup
only, no pickles or onions. She tossed the bag of food on to the passenger
seat. She eased into the last parking space available and unwrapped the food.

She hadn’t eaten all day, so she’d ordered two. No
fries, although she dearly loved the famous sweet-salty skinny fries. She
sighed.
Two cheeseburgers means I’ll have to run an extra mile or two
tomorrow
. She inhaled the distinct aroma of the McDonald’s temptation and
took a gigantic bite. It was heaven. While she chewed and dabbed at the grease
dripping from her chin, she tried to remember the last McDonald’s burger she’d
eaten. It had to be over a year ago. She’d been working hard not to eat fast
foods and ran to stay in shape. She sipped her diet Coke, and folded up the
first wrapper. Appetite partially sated, she set the second burger aside and
backed out of the parking slot. She decided to wait until she finished the soda
to see if she was still hungry enough to eat the second one. Maybe her eyes had
been bigger than her stomach, as her mother would have said.

Recalling her mother’s expression made her heart
ache, as it did whenever she remembered how an aneurysm resulting from cancer
claimed her nearly ten years before. When that happened, her father was nowhere
to be found, and hadn’t attended the funeral. He’d abandoned them when

Rhetta
was only two, only to show up mysteriously a few months ago, giving her a
locket that had belonged to her mother. She lost the treasure when she lost
Cami. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She rewrapped the second burger, placed it
back in the sack, and tossed it all into the trash container as she left.

The sun was nearly down, its orange dome mere
minutes away from sliding over the horizon. Behind her, to the east, the inky
night sky was too cloudy to see the stars. She pointed Streak straight for Oak
Forest Subdivision. The crime scene tape that had earlier barricaded the entry
was gone. Stopping at the gate, she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.
Now that she was here, she wasn’t so sure about going in. Then she reasoned
that the Allard woman not only didn’t know what she drove, she undoubtedly
wouldn’t know what Rhetta looked like, either. She pulled in.

Winding her way slowly along the lane to the barn
she reflected again on the strange phone call. Who was Mylene Allard, and why
did she want to meet at this barn? How did she get her cell phone number? Then
Rhetta realized her name had been in all the news reports about the gruesome
discovery, so it would’ve been easy for someone to find her. Especially since
her cell number was on all her business cards and in some of the advertising,
too. However, that didn’t explain why she wanted Rhetta there.

Rhetta stared ahead through the near dark. The barn
stood like a sinister custodian guarding deathly secrets. This wasn’t a good
idea. She would turn around as soon as possible and leave. She didn’t see any
other lights or vehicles along the driveway. When she reached the barn, she was
alone. She pulled up alongside and turned her radio down. She listened
carefully, but heard nothing. The call from Mylene Allard, or whoever she was,
was probably a hoax. She eased forward past the barn to turn around. As she
did, she spotted a vehicle behind the barn—a maroon dually bearing a green oval
logo on the door. She recognized Jeremy’s work truck.

That settled it. She didn’t relish bumping into
Jeremy. Just the thought of another encounter with him made the burger in her
stomach flip and her reflux kick in. She swallowed bile and quickly made a
Y-turn, and headed back down the lane, grateful that Jeremy didn’t come out and
catch her cruising around his barn. His truck was the only vehicle there, so Mylene,
whoever she was, hadn’t shown up. Rhetta zipped back to the county road
wondering now what Jeremy was doing out here at this time of evening. Did this
Mylene know Jeremy would be at the barn? She puzzled again at the call.

Back on a paved road, Rhetta slowed, grappled
through her purse for her cell phone and called Ricky.

This time, her friend answered. “Where are you,
Rhetta? Why did you leave so early?”

“I, uh, am on my way home, again.” That part was the
truth. “I tried calling you when I left, but I guess your phone was off.”

“I turned it off when I put my purse in the closet
at Anjanette’s house. I didn’t turn it on until just a few minutes ago, after I
got home. Jeremy and I had a terrible fight before I left. I thought maybe he’d
call, but, no, he hasn’t.” She sighed. As though just realizing what Rhetta
said, she answered, “What do you mean, on your way home, again?”

After Rhetta told her about Randolph, Ricky asked,
“Is he all right?”

“He’s just staying the night because he conked his
head. Doctor Marinthe felt it would be best, considering his past head injury.”

“Sure, that would be best. By the way, guess what I
got today from Fed Ex? It was at my door when I got home.” Ricky could change
topics with lightning speed. Sometimes, it caused Rhetta mental whiplash trying
to keep up.

“I give up. What?”

“I got a check for my Trans Am. But, it’s kinda
weird.”

“What’s weird about it?” Tiny alarm bells began
tinkling in Rhetta’s brain.

“It’s for a thousand dollars more than the price of
the car, with instructions for me to immediately send the extra thousand
dollars by Western Union to their shipper, a man by the name of Trevor Brinkman
in Paducah, Kentucky. The instructions say that Brinkman is waiting for me to
send the funds. Why would I have to send money to the shipper?”

“Ricky, don’t deposit the check, and especially
don’t send out any money. I think you’ve been scammed.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one thing, eBay cautions against dealing with
anyone who pays you outside of eBay channels, and especially, not to send
anyone any funds via Western Union. Didn’t you read all the selling
instructions eBay provides?”

“I guess not. But this Brinkman sent me a business
check. It looks legit. Except there are a couple of discrepancies.”

“How so?”

“The guy who was emailing me said his name was
Herman Epson, but this check is drawn on a commercial farm account in Corinth,
Mississippi—Valley View Farms, Inc. with a different signature, which looks
like Rita Wilson, while the Fed Ex envelope was sent from an address in
Paducah. Isn’t that strange?”

“You should turn this over to the FBI. This smells
like an interstate scam. Shippers don’t get paid in advance, and especially not
by the seller. Let’s look at this tomorrow, and see if we can figure it out.”

*
* *

After
disconnecting with Ricky, Rhetta decided to check in on Randolph before going
home. Even though Dr. Marinthe assured her that keeping Randolph was strictly
for observation, she was worried, especially since Randolph had suffered a
serious head injury earlier in the year.

When she reached his floor, a nurse rose from the
station and greeted her. “Sorry, ma’am, but visiting hours are over.”

“I wanted to check on my husband, Randolph McCarter
before I go home.”

The nurse, a statuesque woman of perhaps thirty,
brushed an errant strand of mahogany colored hair from her eyes. “He’s right in
here,” she said, pointing to a room across the hall. “He was resting when we
checked on him a few minutes ago.” She left the desk and led Rhetta across the
hall. She pushed open the door and Rhetta leaned in. Randolph was sleeping
peacefully, so she stepped back without going in.

“Thanks, I won’t bother him. Dr. Marinthe said he
should be able to leave in the morning, so I’ll be back then.”

The nurse nodded, and returned to her desk.

Rhetta skipped the elevator and bounded down the
stairs. She’d also jogged up the two floors on her way in, hoping to get a head
start on burning up the hamburger calories.