Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) (13 page)

Yeah, I know. Beyond lame.

Aunt Marge called as I was sitting at a stop light. “Dear,” she began, and stopped.

I’d known since, oh, five-forty-five. “His car’s in the driveway, he’s inside watching TV, and I’m a damn fool.”

Poor Aunt Marge. She did try to cheer me up. “Only two out of three right, dear.”

“Oh? He’s reading a book?”

“I don’t know how to explain it, Lil. Roger was reluctant to knock on the door and ask him anything.” She lowered her voice. “He’s very upset on your behalf.”

More like Aunt Marge’s behalf, but I’d take any sympathy I could get. “Thanks. And tell Roger thanks. I’m heading back. I’ll see you at church in the morning.”

“Drive safely, dear.”

I drove safely. Boris greeted me at the door with a wailing meow to let me know he’d missed me, and curled around my ankles as I headed for the chocolate stash in the kitchen. I took the chocolate and Boris into the bedroom, carefully washed my face and brushed out my hair, and changed into my favorite old cotton pajamas. Then I curled up under the blankets, ate my chocolate, and reflected that I really shouldn’t have expected any different. If a man who’d proposed to me couldn’t bear to show up, why would a guy who wasn’t even officially my boyfriend?

***^***

Church is a great place to keep your finger on the pulse of the town, find out what people are talking about. That Sunday, the two big topics were me getting stood up‌—‌and I’d love to know how
that
got around‌—‌and the rally that Freddie Tyler and his friends were having out by the highway. Opinion was divided on the latter, mostly because it was felt that a political rally on a Sunday was tacky. Also, for the Baptists, downright inconsiderate, since they’d miss it from having to attend afternoon services.

I didn’t listen to opinions about my getting stood up.

I was half-listening to the sermon on something in Matthew when my phone vibrated. Aunt Marge put an elbow in me, gently, to remind me it’s not nice to keep my phone on in church, and I scuttled outside to answer. “Sheriff Eller.”

“It’s me,” said Agent Howard, rather frantically. “Look, we’ve got a shitstorm here, some dumbass just blew up himself and about half of Sayers.” Behind Howard, I heard sirens. “We got state police coming, fire, but they need more help.”

Sayers was the hometown of Alan Quinn, who’d bombed my front door. “What the hell happened?” I demanded, like a fool.

Howard sounded panicked, in a calm and controlled way. “Half the damn town blew up is what happened! Interrogate me later, we need fire, rescue, every spare pair of hands, whatever you can send.”

“Casualties?”

“Dunno the count, but guess dozens.”

My personal problems vanished. I flipped shut my phone, walked back into the church, and in the middle of Reverend Moore’s discussion of Jesus’s question about whether John the Baptist got his authority from man or God, I said loudly, “We’ve got a mass casualty in Sayers. Dr. Hartley, Tom, they need fire, rescue and hands, everyone get going please.”

I then ran down the steps and into my car and drove to First Baptist, about three sort-of blocks up the road, and interrupted a song. Reverend Hines did not look amused, but he did hush the choir. “You have a problem, miss?”

“Hugh,” I said loudly, “mass casualty in Sayers. Get everyone and get going.”

Hugh Rush bolted out of a front pew. I ran home to change into a uniform and get my cruiser, then sped off to Sayers.

***^***

Sayers is a tiny town in the next county, maybe 190 people strong. One of those sleepy little farm villages that time and interstates have passed by. Normally, you’d drive past it without blinking, unless you stopped to ask directions back to the main road.

That day, it was hell. Red lights, blue lights, flashing white lights. Wails, hoots, honks of ambulances, cop cars, fire trucks. People huddling together in groups, mostly gathering around the single church. Rescue personnel running in every direction. By the time I got there, a rough headquarters had been set up in a small hayfield. From what I could see, triage was being run in the church parking lot. Beyond a small blue house, there was nothing but smoke, dust, flame.

I went to the church parking lot. I’ve got my first aid certification, and I’d be most useful helping there, I figured. A paramedic steered me toward a lot of people sitting in the grass beyond the church. The smoke was choking. I was coughing before I’d gone ten steps.

The church ladies had brought up the juice, water, and Kool-Aid meant for the church lunch, and I got busy making sure everyone had fluids to sip. Agent Newsome of all people joined me, and kept up a calm line of inane chatter to distract them while I examined scratches, bumps, bruises, and the relative size of pupils. I flagged a couple of cases for the ambulances, people who weren’t steady on their feet and were disoriented, then a new wave of people stumbled over. Anyone who didn’t seem to need immediate attention I sent into the church to sit in the air conditioning.

It was a muggy day, with a sporadic breeze out of the west, keeping the smoke low, thick, and close. Our eyes were watering and burning, our throats sore. Newsome finally had to go in, but promised to start a list of everyone with injuries. I used a bottle of water to wash my eyes clear just in time for a big wave of dust and smoke to roll into me. A fireman gently pushed two people at me. Both were ambulatory, but the man’s left arm dangled by a few sinews, and the woman had multiple lacerations all over her body. I helped them into an ambulance. I’d maybe been there half an hour, and I already felt like I hadn’t seen clean daylight in years.

I kept sorting out the people who came. My eyes blurred. Smoke and dust stuck to my exposed skin. I felt grit on my eyelashes. My mouth tasted of grime. And still people came, one or two or three at a time, to find help or loved ones and neighbors, or to offer aid. A blanket, a towel, first aid kits. I sorted them out, in an obscene pantomime of directing traffic.

At some point, Agent Howard staggered up to the church. His jacket and tie were gone, his shirt smeared dark. He laid a teenaged boy down on the grass. The kid whimpered with pain, and I gave him some juice, then forced a paper cup of Kool-Aid into Howard’s hands. “You’ll fall over from the heat,” I croaked as EMTs ran over to check the kid. “What the hell happened?”

“Dunno for sure.” He drank, coughed, and spat up black phlegm. “We were en route with a plain sight warrant, half a mile out, boom. Looks like the Quinn brothers’ repair shop is gone.”

Along with all the window glass in town. Dumb luck the church had wooden shutters closed against the glaring summer sun, saving it.

“Blast damage is bad,” Howard told me, “big problem is stopping the fire.” He rubbed at his blood-red eyes. “House we were gonna search, belongs‌—‌belonged‌—‌to Alan Quinn’s brother. No sign of it. Next to his repair shop,” Howard clarified. “No idea what happened but…”

But it could wait. There were more EMTs and cops showing up, flooding the church with hands, help. I hunted up Tom and joined in the search for survivors.

***^***

The fire finally died near sunset. By dawn, we had accounted for all but two of Sayers’ 196 residents. One of those was Alan Quinn’s brother, Ray. The other was Ray’s next-door neighbor, whose house was a cinder. Four other houses had also burned to the ground. Twelve more had taken significant blast damage, and were as good as leveled.

Thankfully, Sayers was a devout town. Over half its residents had been in the shuttered church when Ray Quinn’s house and repair shop blew up. Otherwise, we’d have sent more than thirty-seven people to hospitals. The rest of the injuries were minor enough to not require anything more than first aid.

There were six dead.

I don’t know how I drove home without falling asleep. There was a small cooler on my doorstep. I recognized Bobbi’s kindness in the vegetarian kofta and rice, Aunt Marge in the raspberry-pomegranate smoothie.

I expected Boris to be all over me, but he took one sniff and backed away, mouth open in disgust. Once I’d showered, he crawled up onto the bed with me while I ate and drank, then curled against my hip in a kitten-huddle. Poor guy. I hadn’t had him with me much lately.

I slept about four hours, then went into the office. It gave me a distraction from the images my memory was trying to throw at me.

Punk was there, on-duty, filling out a form that presumably had to do with why Eddie Brady was snoring away in a cell. I tried to remember to be angry, but I didn’t have the energy. I deposited Boris on his cat condo for a good scratch, and hit the lunchroom for a cup of instant hot cocoa. It’s Aunt Marge’s mix, a sort of fudge substance you melt in a microwave and add milk to. I was stirring it when Boris appeared and leapt onto the counter next to me. I poured a little milk into a cup, but he wasn’t interested. His mismatched eyes were fixed on Punk, who’d followed him in. Punk fidgeted uneasily before blurting out, “Um. Lil. I just…‌I mean, I should tell you…”

I spared us both by cutting him off. “Punk. I’m six feet tall, I’m about as girly as a two-by-four, and I’m a cop. I don’t need an explanation for being stood up. An apology might be nice, but there’s a reason it’s a bad idea to date co-workers.” I offered him a crooked smile. “You finish up with Eddie, I’ll take a quick patrol around town.”

I took my cat and my cocoa out to my cruiser. I rolled out to my speed trap on Turner Gap Road, and called Vicky Weed to ask her to come to my office the next day. It was good, being able to rely on my job to distract me from my troubles. There’s not much you see as a cop that doesn’t convince you your life could be worse.

14.

V
icky Weed did not like sitting in our lunchroom with Boris perched on the table by my notepad. She smiled, but it was a tight, fake smile that I could tell made her face hurt. The folding metal chair wasn’t a winner, either. She squirmed from one hip to another, until I asked, “Would you like a cushion?”

“No, thank you,” she snapped. “Why am I here, precisely?”

“Precisely,” I replied, “because there’s been a couple of questions raised. First off, how long were you sexually involved with Bill Lloyd?”

I’d read her correctly. She whitened to her hairline, and her eyes briefly unfocused. “I…‌I don’t…‌I don’t know what you mean.”

I hadn’t slept well, or enough, for three nights by then. I said simply, “Stairwell 3. Not so private.”

The blood came back to her face in a wash of crimson. She uttered a thick moan. I had a premonition, skidded back, grabbed the trash basket, and thrust it at her.

She threw it at my head.

Boris exploded.

Using one hand to deflect the waste basket and one to grab for Boris gave me a great grip on the basket and a whole bunch of no cat. I could hear Vicky Weed screaming words I was pretty sure she didn’t give the kids for their practice college exams. I hurried around the table, thinking the worst, but Boris had exercised a little restraint for a change. He’d given Vicky a good clawing, then scuttled off into the corner. His tongue worked furiously against his paws, and he started to gag.

I was immediately alarmed. “What the hell?”

Vicky Weed shot me and Boris a glare so venomous it ought to have left a mark. She sniffed with disdain as she sat up and straightened her shirt. “I had a massage this morning, there’s peppermint in the oil.”

Oh boy. I winced as Boris threw up‌—‌a cat vomiting is one of the grossest noises on earth‌—‌and took Vicky Weed by the arms. “You,” I said, “are under arrest.”

“Me?” she shrieked. “Your cat attacked me!”

“You assaulted me,” I reminded her. “You have the right to remain silent.”

“Let go of me! I am not a criminal!”

Strangely, the law didn’t agree, but I eased my grip. “Care to make a deal?”

I felt her muscles trembling with tension. So much for that massage. “What do you want?” she hissed.

“You tell me the truth about Bill Lloyd.”

“That’s not your business.”

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney…”

She caved in when I asked if she understood these rights. I was mildly impressed. Most people don’t make it past the right to remain silent.

“We started…‌getting involved three years ago. It wasn’t sexual at first. Then it was.”

I let her sit down again. I even handed her the first aid kit so she could deal with the scratches Boris gave her. I didn’t want to, but she was the type who’d sue. “How long did it go on? The sexual aspect, I mean.”

“Twenty-three months.” She smiled wanly, bitterly. “I tried to break it off twice, but…‌You don’t know what he’s like. It was like…‌we were…” Her gaze fell, twisted inward, and her hand drooped to the table, the alcohol swab falling from her fingers. “He was magnificent. Nothing like Adam. He has so much passion. Bill does, I mean. Adam has a good heart but there’s no fire in him. Just none.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “so you were in love with Bill Lloyd.”

Her head came up, her nostrils flared. “Love? Bill? No.
No
. Fire’s fun, but I don’t love it.”

“And how did Bill feel about you?”

She colored prettily. “Oh, he wanted me to divorce Adam, live happily ever after, all that. He called me his soulmate.” She smiled, in a self-congratulatory way. “It was very poetic. But of course I couldn’t divorce Adam. We have the kids, a life.”

I took a stab at it. “You only like to play with fire, not live with it?”

Vicky’s eyes flashed bright and cruel. “Don’t mock me.”

I made sure the first aid kit was out of her reach, and scooped Boris up onto the table. Psychological warfare is never beneath me. “How did Bill Lloyd take it when you broke it off?”

“Oh, he was upset for a few days, wouldn’t say hello, but he took it fine. When we came back from spring break, he was perfectly civilized.”

That seemed to fit with what Bee May said. “How was he before spring break?”

She hesitated. “Well, he wasn’t happy. It’s understandable. It’s a difficult situation.”