Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) (17 page)
Read Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) Online
Authors: Shannon Hill
I tried again. “Adam. Mr. Weed. You do understand you can have a lawyer.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll have a lawyer,” he said, gaze sharpening. “And the lawyer will argue psychological distress, and I will receive a reduced sentence. In retrospect, it’s quite plain I was not entirely rational. I thought I was. It seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.”
Even Boris was at a loss. I struggled for words. “What did?”
“Blowing up the house. I wanted Vicky to be hurt. Oh, not physically,” he hastily amended. “I’m not a violent man.”
Except for bombing his own house, that is.
And Aunt Marge wonders why I get headaches.
“I knew about her affair. I originally planned to blow up
his
house. She wasn’t very careful, toward the end. She brought him into her car. A car my job paid for. I borrowed it one day, my car was in the shop, and I thought I’d clean it for her. I don’t know why I checked the ashtray.” He tipped his head to the side, fingers steepled. “We neither of us smoke, you know.”
“I know,” I said, to keep him going.
“There they were. Cigarette butts. Sheriff, do you ever see a thousand pieces, but not the picture they make when put together? Then the picture comes together and you wonder how you missed it?”
I said, without obvious irony, “Yes. I know what you mean.”
He gave me a faint smile. “I never did clean the car. Then around Easter she became very affectionate to me again. I knew she’d broken it off. I can’t explain it, but that made me furious.” He scowled vaguely. “I felt as if she had decided she couldn’t have her heaven, and so she would settle for hell. For me.”
Tom and I said nothing.
“It was remarkable, how easy it was to find a design for a suitable bomb on the internet, and it was ridiculously easy to build it. You’d think someone would keep better track of such things.”
“You’d think,” I echoed. I kept checking Boris’s tail. So far as the cat knew, Adam Weed was telling the truth.
Somehow, that did not make me feel better.
“I meant to plant it at
his
house, as soon as I found out his name. Then…I realized it would hurt her more to take away
her
house. She is very house-proud.”
I suddenly remembered how he had said she would cry buckets, and felt like the dumbest cop on the planet. He’d said it right to my face, and I hadn’t caught it. Not even a whiff of it.
From behind the camera, Tom suggested, “We ought to get him a lawyer.”
“Yes,” said Adam Weed levelly. “Call me a lawyer, please. I need one. I think this is going to mean a lot more trouble than I first calculated.”
I went out to call Skip Warner, one of our county’s two public defenders. I shivered as I dialed his number. I’ve run into some head cases over the years, but a guy who could that logically go about the totally illogical? That was… Well,
crazy
.
***^***
With all the hoopla over Alan Quinn and Freddie Tyler and their pals, the matter of Commonwealth v. Weed passed unnoticed outside a very small circle. People believed the bombing of the Weed house was the work of misguided anti-government activists. The absence of Adam Weed was easily explained by his wife’s admission of infidelity.
In the meantime, on his lawyer’s advice, Weed pled guilty, and shuffled quietly off to prison and serious psychiatric care. Vicky Weed continued her plans to rebuild the house on Spottswood Lane, and, in a show of loyalty no one expected, refused to divorce her husband.
Bill Lloyd quit his job and moved to Utah. Nobody missed him.
The two cigarette butts were eventually explained when we got a trespassing call from Shannon Hart. We found Victor Reynolds, teenaged son of Kenny and Carla, grabbing a few quick puffs in the trees between numbers 23 and 25 Spottswood Lane. Young Vic, it turned out, had been sneaking morning smokes back there for months while his parents thought he was out running. A quick walk showed us several other deposits of cigarette butts, of various brands that Vic cadged off his buddies. Tom, who’d interviewed the Reynolds family, took it hard that he hadn’t magically detected Vic’s little habit.
Vic’s parents took it harder.
The Grenville campground project continued on schedule and on budget. As promised, Cousin Jack did what he could to mitigate the damage Steve had caused. The first thing he did was buy from Steve all the land Steve had bought for himself, and donate it to the county as a wildlife refuge. That gave Cousin Jack a nice tax write-off, and the local Boy Scouts got to design some walking trails. Steve, meanwhile, did not end up with a lot of land whose sale or development would have been opposed by every lawyer in the employ of Littlepage Incorporated. Steve was greedy, but not entirely stupid. He knew when not to press his luck.
He also didn’t return to Crazy.
All of that was in the future when I went to the town Fourth of July picnic at Spottswood Park. No Steve this time. No Jack, either. Tom had volunteered to be on duty, against my inclination. I wasn’t in the mood to be a civilian. As Steve had pointed out a very long time ago, it’s not my strong suit.
I sat by Bobbi and Ruby in the shade near the creek, watching the crowd. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Every now and then, Bobbi patted my arm or said, “It’s okay, hon.”
Once, while we were looking at the kids playing volleyball, I said, “I really liked him. First guy I really liked since Steve.”
She clucked.
A little later, she said, “Maybe now he’s quit it’ll work out somehow.”
It’s rude to refuse proffered hope. “Maybe.”
After the barbecue was served, as we were waiting for dusk to go to darkness for the fireworks, put on as usual by Hugh Rush and the VFD, I spotted Cousin Jack. He bee-lined for me. Bobbi had gone home with Ruby by then, not wanting to subject a newborn to all that noise, so I was perched with Boris on a rock by the creek. I stood, and mustered up a half-smile for my cousin. “Hello, Cousin. You look happy.”
“Of course I do,” said Jack breezily. “I’ve got my plans laid and in motion. Including one for you, Cousin Lil.”
Enthusiasm was not in my repertoire right then. “Oh?”
“You won’t have to find extra deputies to deal with my campground. I’ve hired on some security staff. Good experience in law enforcement, on good terms with the local sheriff, even.”
I felt a tiny flicker of interest. “Oh?”
Jack grinned and stepped to one side with a flourish like some cheap magician. “My chief of security for the western Virginia division of LP Inc., ta-da!”
Punk didn’t smile. “Hey, Lil.”
“Hey,” I said. Brilliant. Years of vocabulary drills from Aunt Marge, and I came up with “Hey.”
My cousin, smart man, vanished into the twilight.
Punk scratched idly at a mosquito bite on his neck. “So we okay? I mean, now I don’t work for you.”
Guilt struck. “You didn’t…”
“He offered, I didn’t ask. And the money’s good. Pretty good bennies, too.” Punk reached down and tapped at his prosthesis. “It’ll come in handy with this thing.”
The shadow of shredded self-esteem lay between us. That little conversation with Aunt Marge about my not being sheriff, too. Nonetheless, I made the first move. “I miss hanging out.”
A smile flickered over his face, firefly fast. “Me too.”
He’d drawn closer. I knew by Boris’s warning growl.
Night fell. Punk kissed me. And there were fireworks.
THE END
About the Author
Shannon Hill lives in Virginia and treasures her privacy. Connect with Shannon online at
www.shannonhillauthor.com
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