To Live and Die In Dixie (22 page)

W
HEN I WOKE UP around ten the next morning, coffee was made, but Edna was gone. She'd left a note though, telling me she was filling in at the Coopers' for Ruby, who had another doctor's appointment, and reminding me to keep an eye on Jocelyn.

Coffee in hand, I tiptoed into the den. The television was on, with the sound turned down. Jocelyn, wrapped in blankets, was watching Oprah Winfrey.

“Edna said to check you for brain damage,” I said, taking both my hands and probing her skull. “Looks like the same puddin' head you had to begin with.”

She sat up. Her face had its share of cuts and bruises too, and her right wrist was bandaged where a piece of glass had cut her.

“Some ride last night, huh?”

“I've never been so scared in my whole life,” she replied. “If you hadn't gotten me out of the car, I would have drowned, wouldn't I?”

I considered it. “Probably not. You were shocky, but the water was only about chest-high. You're a pretty tough cookie; you would have made it without me.”

She pointed the remote control at the television and clicked it off.

“I've been thinking about what I did last night.”

“What?”

“You know. Lying to you. Barfing and trying to hide it. Last night you told me if I wanted to kill myself I should get it over with, instead of making everybody watch me do it slowly. But when I was lying on that riverbank last night, wet and freezing, wondering if that car would come back and shoot at us, or who knows what, I realized I don't want to die. I'm tired of all this crap. I don't want to do this to myself anymore.”

“Then stop it,” I said. It seemed easy to me.

“I want to,” she said. “But I don't know if I can. I think I need help. When my parents get back to town, I'm going to talk to them about it. And I want a new shrink, too.”

“You might have to go back in the hospital again,” I pointed out. “How would you feel about that?”

“I think it sucks,” she said.

“Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes. But you might have to.”

“I know.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Want some breakfast?”

She disentangled herself from the blankets and stood up slowly. “Oww,” she said. “I'm sore all over.”

“Me too.” I turned her toward the kitchen. “Coffee's made, cereal's in the pantry, there's fruit on the counter. I'm going to go wash the rest of the river off me.”

Hot water and soap did wonders for my morale. But I was oddly keyed up, full of energy.

Hunsecker and Nickells were out. I left a message. Twice I dialed Littlefield's number and twice I hung up
after one ring. Leave it to the cops, I urged myself. It's their job, not yours.

The kitchen was clean. I got it cleaner. Jocelyn watched me scrub without comment for a while. Finally she couldn't stand it any longer. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Why are you cleaning house instead of trying to find out who ran us off the road and tried to kill us?”

“That is the cops' job,” I said firmly. “And you, especially, are through with detecting. I never should have let you tag along. After a head injury like the one you had last night, you're supposed to stay quiet for a while.”

“That sucks,” she moaned. “I'm fine. I want to nail Jordan. We must have been getting close to him, or he wouldn't have tried to kill us last night.”

“I don't think it was Jordan,” I said.

“Who was it then?”

I could have bitten off my tongue. Like Hunsecker said, someday I've got to learn to keep my mouth shut. But it probably wouldn't be today. Keeping quiet was playing hell with my nerves. But there was another pesky loose end I wanted to check out in the meantime.

My insurance agent was delighted to hear from me. “Make any decisions on that group policy yet?” he wanted to know.

After I promised to discuss it with the girls, he gave me the number of the independent claims adjuster his company used. “Name's Gillespie. What he doesn't know about fires, they haven't discovered yet,” he promised.

K. C. Gillespie had to drop off a roll of film to be processed, then he promised to meet me at Josephina's house.

The only way I was able to leave Jocelyn at home was
to lie. I told her I was going to see my agent about some insurance business. Really, it was only a half-lie. And I promised to take her with me if I went out again later in the afternoon. “In the meantime,” I reminded her, “you better get on the phone yourself. The cops will have had your car pulled out of the river by now; call and find out where it is. Then you better call your insurance agent and start talking repairs and estimates and deductibles. If Edna comes home, tell her I'll be back in about an hour. And if C. W. Hunsecker calls, tell him I'll call back this afternoon.”

A red Ford pickup truck with a camper top was parked in front of the burned-out house on Gormley Street. The driver, a heavyset man with an impressive set of white muttonchop sideburns, was sitting with the cab door open, shoving his feet into a pair of tall black rubber boots.

“Callahan?” he said, standing and holding out a callus-worn hand. I shook. He gestured with his head toward the house. “Looks like a bad one. Woman and a baby died; isn't that right?”

I was surprised he knew the details, but he showed me the police radio in the truck. “I monitor fire calls all over the metro area,” he said.

He insisted I borrow a pair of his boots before we toured the house.

A discarded piece of yellow crime scene tape lay forgotten on the concrete stoop of the house. I stood aside to allow Gillespie to lead the way.

The acrid carbon smell in the house was intense, even though most of the front wall of the house was burned out and the roof had gaping holes, allowing the sun to shine into the blackness. We picked our way through the small living room. “See this?” Gillespie said, pointing to a place where the floor had apparently caved in.
“The sofa burned so hot and so fast it just burned right through the floor joists and fell in.” Looking over his shoulder I could see a blackened oblong lump with metal springs extruding from it.

“Does that mean someone maybe left a lit cigarette on it, or a kid might have been playing with matches?”

“It could,” he agreed. “It could mean a bunch of things.”

From the living room we went to the kitchen. A blackened stove and refrigerator, surreally melted, stood against a back wall. From a hook in the ceiling hung a crisply dried out house plant.

“Fire didn't start in here,” he announced, turning to go back to the hallway.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Walls are still standing, ceiling is intact,” he said. “The front part of the house was totally involved when the firefighters got here, and they got here pretty quick. They put hoses on the back, before it could do more damage.”

I followed him and stood in the doorway of a small back bedroom. The walls were scorched, the bedclothes sooty and water-soaked, but I could see a double bed with the sheets still rumpled. A pink crocheted baby blanket lay on the floor nearby. A closet held women's blackened clothing.

“This is where the mother and baby were sleeping,” I said. It was more a question than a statement.

He nodded. “Smoke got to 'em before they were awake.”

One thing puzzled me. “How was the little boy able to get out alive? He was only four.”

“That happens a lot,” he said. “Smoke and poison gases rise. Little kids are closer to the ground, which is where the cooler oxygen is.” He looked around the
room soberly. “If this lady had put up a ten-dollar smoke detector, she and her baby might still be alive today.”

“She'd never had her own place before,” I said softly. “It probably never occurred to her.”

We looked in on the other bedroom; it too was smoky and water-stained, but a small cot covered with a blue Mickey Mouse bedspread told us we'd found little Oscar's bedroom. A battered toy chest overflowed with stuffed animals and Ninja Turtle action figures.

The house was small. The tour was short. Gillespie dug a small knife out of the pocket of his overalls and poked at the walls in the living room. He walked around the outside of the house, sniffing and kicking at the blackened grass.

“Could the fire have been deliberately set? Like with kerosene or something?”

He didn't answer my question. Instead, he went back into the house again. In the corner of the living room, in a wall near the hole in the floor, he found what he was looking for. A melted lump of metal.

“Here's your probable cause right here,” he said. He got up and went back in the kitchen, using the knife tip to unscrew a smoke-blackened wall socket. He cut a hole in the soggy Sheetrock and pulled the electric receptacle out.

“See that?” he said grimly. “It's copper.”

“Is that against the electrical code or something?”

“No, it's right up to code,” he said. Then he took his knife and flicked at a slender piece of silvery wire. “Except when you use it with aluminum wiring.”

“Is aluminum wiring bad?”

He folded the knife and put it away. “Aluminum is cheap is what it is. But if you use aluminum receptacles
with it, it's all right. Whoever wired this house used copper receptacles.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To save a little money, maybe. Not much, you'd probably only save around fifty to a hundred bucks. Or maybe somebody just didn't know what they were doing.”

“What caused the fire?” I wanted to know.

He pointed back to the living room, to the sofa wall. “Something, maybe a television or a lamp, was plugged in near that sofa. Corrosion between the two metals set in, and the receptacle began to get hot. Eventually it started to smolder in that wall, and then it flared up, probably late at night, after the family had gone to bed. The sofa acted like a wick, and the rest of the house went too.”

I felt sick. I had to get out of that sad little house. Away from the smell and the soot and the sight of soggy, melted toys and a life's dreams up in smoke.

Outside, I leaned against the van and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. When Gillespie came out, he had the copper receptacle in a plastic bag.

“That's it then?” I asked. “Bad wiring?”

He opened the truck door and stowed the bag on the seat. “That's for the arson boys to decide,” he said. “Mine is an opinion, that's all. I'll take this thing and drop it off to Don Mann at the fire department, to make sure his guys don't miss it.”

He stood by the truck door. “You get what you needed?”

I glanced back at the house. A strong wind could knock down what was left of Josephina's house. The street was quiet. Its residents were at their jobs, stretching toward their dreams of a middle-class existence. “If somebody wired that house, cut corners to save money,
knowing it could cause a fire, is that considered arson? If somebody dies, could it be prosecuted?”

“District attorney can prosecute anything he wants,” Gillespie said. “That doesn't mean you'll get a conviction. Georgia juries are funny about arson. A lot of people don't see much wrong with burning something down. Especially if there's insurance money involved. The attitude is, let the Yankee insurance companies pay for it. Even in Atlanta, where you've got fairly enlightened juries, arson's not easy to prove. Most juries want the cops to hand them somebody with a match in his hand and a smile on his face.”

I thanked Gillespie and gave him my business card. Then I went home. Suddenly there was more than dinner on the menu for my date with Jake Dahlberg.

I
GOT MYSELF ALL SPRUCED UP for dinner at Jake Dahlberg's house; short, black-knit, off-the-shoulder T-shirt dress, a silver concha belt, silver flats, and some dangly, silver, cowboy-boot earrings. I even wore makeup, which I applied more out of nervous energy than from the desire to look good. As long as it was a day for settling up, there was something I wanted to settle with him.

Dahlberg's eyes swept me up and down. With the tip of his finger, he stroked my bruised cheek. I flinched at his touch. “What happened?”

“It's nothing,” I said. “Comes under the heading of work-related injury.”

He looked puzzled but didn't pursue the matter.

His living room was an essay in minimalism: taupe walls, white woodwork, bleached wooden floors. The art was modern oil paintings, splashes of bold primary colors, and some lumpy-looking bronze sculptures. The chairs and sofas reminded me of so many black punctuation marks, and the windows were large curtainless expanses of glass. The whole world could see in, if it wanted to. Some cool jazz, nothing I recognized, was playing.

He showed me to an apostrophe chair. “I'll get you a drink,” he suggested. “Gin and tonic all right?”

“Actually, I'm a bourbon person,” I said. “With water, on the rocks.”

The house was chilly. I rubbed my bare arms, trying to wish away the goose bumps.

He came back in, handed me my drink, and sat down on the big, squashy sofa with his own drink, a gin and tonic.

“Dinner's about fifteen minutes away,” he said. “So how's the case coming along?”

I didn't want to discuss my case. I didn't even want to be in this house anymore. I'd planned my speech just so, dressed for drama, built up my indignation. I thought I was primed for a big scene. But my anger had mostly ebbed. I wanted to walk away from the whole thing.

He sat across from me. Dark-haired, his smooth-shaven face radiating intelligence and sensuality. I loved the way he dressed; khaki-colored pleated linen trousers and some soft, full shirt in the same hue of khaki, his tanned ankles showing above a pair of soft leather-soled shoes. He even smelled good, like trees, or forests.

“What?” he said, leaning forward. “What's wrong, Callahan?”

I took a healthy swallow of the bourbon. Sometimes artificial courage is better than no courage at all.

Matter-of-factly, I laid it all out for him. Told him I knew the house on Gormley Street had burned down, and two people had died, because his organization had cut corners.

To his credit, Jake didn't try to dodge the blame.

“You're right,” he said, shrugging. “It was my call, God forgive me. Josephina's and the Kings' houses were the first ones for our project. We had thirty thousand
budgeted for the rehabbing, and I thought it would be plenty.

“Then we found out Josephina's floor joists had dry rot. We had to jack the house up and pour a new foundation. The roof of the Kings' house had to be stripped bare. Then it rained before we could get the new roof on, and the plywood underlayment buckled and leaked. We were over budget. And then the foundation that had been our major donor decided that they wanted to have a grand ribbon cutting on move-in day, a month away. I was desperate. So I called in the subs and told them we had to get the costs down, that I didn't care what it took. Most of the cuts were harmless, cosmetic things: one coat of paint instead of two, the cheapest grade of vinyl flooring, kitchen and bathroom cabinets that were seconds. We canceled the storm windows we'd ordered. Things like that. But it wasn't enough. When my electrician said we could save money by using aluminum wiring, I hesitated. But he said the city inspectors wouldn't notice, because the Sheetrock guys would cover everything up before they came. I told him to go ahead.”

I gripped my glass with both hands and stared at the pale amber liquid. “You knew it was a fire hazard.”

He nodded. “I didn't know exactly what could happen, but when he made it a point that the inspectors shouldn't see it, I knew it was wrong. I just thought we'd go back later, after we got more money, and make it right.”

“Couldn't the ribbon cutting wait?” I asked. “Couldn't you explain that you'd run out of money and needed more funds to finish?”

He sat his drink down on the coffee table. “I can see you know nothing about nonprofits,” he said wearily. “They put money in projects with the maxi
mum visibility, and they put it into projects run by administrators who've proven they can get results. Just do it, that's the rule. If I'd told them the truth, they would have pulled their support, another eighty thousand in grants we'd applied for to do the next phase.”

“You could have gotten other sponsors,” I suggested.

“No,” he said flatly. “We had to prove the first phase would work. Nothing breeds success like success,” he said, his voice mocking. He leaned forward, hands pressed together, prayerlike.

“This program is so important, Callahan. We're saving lives. Saving families, getting people off the streets, out of shelters, putting them in their own homes. This is a pioneering program. Other organizations from as far away as Seattle are coming to Atlanta to see how it works. A filmmaker is doing a documentary about Valeria and Juan King. We have four more houses under contract. Four more families to help.”

The bourbon was really good. I couldn't tell whether it was Wild Turkey or Maker's Mark. I do hate cheap whiskey. I saw a green Blazer glide slowly past the house. It had been by once before, while I was waiting for my drink.

I was finished with the drink now.

“Will you help those families like you helped Josephina and her daughter?” I asked.

“That's not fair,” he said, flushing. “I never, ever believed that family was in real danger.”

“You didn't really care about that family,” I said angrily. “None of this is about helping homeless people. All those ridiculous, dehumanizing rules about clotheslines and cars and unauthorized residents. It was all to make you look good. Your practice was struggling. The foundation was supposed to make you a big
name in the right kinds of circles. And I don't believe you didn't know that wiring was dangerous. After the fire at Josephina's house, you must have known, but you tried to cover it up, blaming it on a kid playing with matches, or on Josephina herself. And what about the Kings? There's an outlet in their living room that smokes, but they're too afraid to report it. How long will it be before you do something about that? Or do more people need to die so you can ‘help' four more families?”

“The work order is already in for the Kings' house,” he said, pleading. “What happened to Josephina was tragic, and I take the blame. But does the program have to suffer because I made a mistake?”

My empty glass was making a puddle on the top of the stainless-steel table next to my chair. I smoothed my skirt and stood up. Time to go.

“You're a murderer, Jake Dahlberg. I called the arson squad today. They've got one of the copper receptacles from Josephina's house. I suppose you'll be hearing from them. And Mr. Szabo set me straight on the flag incident at Littlefield's. Your father never saw that Nazi flag. You hate Littlefield so much you'll say or do anything to destroy him. Killing Bridget would have accomplished that neatly. I can see you like things neat,” I said, gesturing to his immaculate decor. “But cops have a way of messing up your life when they investigate you for murder. Jake, I'm sorry about your dinner, but under the circumstances, I don't think I can swallow anything else you have to offer.”

Suddenly he jumped to his feet. I backed away involuntarily. He grabbed my arm. “How can you believe I'd kill Bridget?”

I yanked my arm away. “After seeing that house today, I believe you're capable of anything.”

 

Moral indignation caught up with me three blocks from Jake Dahlberg's house. And I always get hungry when I'm feeling righteous. It wasn't terribly late, maybe Tinkles would scramble me an egg or something.

The green Blazer was parked on a side street near the Yacht Club. I parked right behind it and locked my doors. These are scary times.

Mac was sitting alone at the bar, his chin propped on his hand, sipping a Killian's Red, watching the Braves whip up on the Dodgers.

I sat down beside him, and he looked up, surprised. “I thought you were having dinner with a friend tonight.”

“He thought so too,” I said.

Tinkles walked up to take my order. “Jack and water,” I said.

“Let's go over there and talk,” I said, when the drinks came. We moved to a booth, away from the blare of the television.

“I saw you drive past the house. Twice,” I said. “Is this a game I don't know?”

“You missed the other two times,” Mac said. He was clearly unrepentant. “I could see you through the window, sitting there, chatting, sipping your drink. I wanted to kill that guy. Stupid, huh?”

“That's an understatement,” I said. “What the hell is the big idea, following me around, then cruising back and forth, like something out of an old grade-B movie? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” he whispered hoarsely. “Don't I mean anything to you? One night you drop by and hop in the bed with me and we're talking about living together. The next thing I know you're
seeing somebody else. What the hell is going on with us, Callahan?”

I took a long swallow of my drink and kept both hands on the glass because they were itching to slap the face across the table from me.

“It was a business thing, goddamnit,” I said. “Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You're right,” he said, pushing his chair back and getting up from the table. “You don't owe me a thing. Not a goddamn thing.” He threw some money on the table and stalked out.

I sat there, stunned. I had no idea how things had escalated so fast, from casual conversation to a rip-roaring fight. I got up and walked quickly out the front door.

I found him sitting behind the wheel of the Blazer. Just sitting there. “What?” he said when I opened the passenger's side door and got in.

“It was a business thing,” I said lamely. “Swear to God. It's too complicated to go into.”

“And there was no attraction between you,” he said quietly. “You got all tricked out like that for a business meeting.”

He had me. “Okay,” I said, sighing. “Maybe I was sort of attracted to him, at first. I love you, Mac, I really do. I've always told you, I'm a one-man woman. But just because I'm on a diet, that doesn't mean I can't go to the store, does it?”

He laughed a little bit. “Interesting metaphor. So why didn't you stay for dinner?”

“I probably never intended to. I just found out he was responsible for the death of a woman and her baby. I had to let him know I knew, to tell him he wasn't off the hook for their deaths.”

“And that's it.”

I put a tentative hand on his knee. “That's it. But you can't go around following me, you know. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. And I hate the idea that you don't trust me.”

He put his hand over mine. “I do trust you. It's just that sometimes I don't know where I stand with you. Things with us are so, so, temporary, I guess is the word. We're like a couple of kids, shacking up here or there, wherever we get the chance. I'm too old for that shit. I like to know where I'm sleeping every night, and who's going to be there. I want us to live together. Is there something wrong with that?”

Here it came again. And this time I couldn't dodge it. “It's not that I don't want us to be together,” I said. “I do. But I need to be able to live my life a certain way. Sometimes I do stuff that's sort of dangerous. But it's stuff I'm trained to do. Stuff I'm good at. But you'd worry, I know you would. And I can't be always leaving a note to tell you I've gone out and I don't know when I'll be back.”

“I know what you do for a living,” Mac said. “I've never interfered in it, have I?”

He hadn't, but then most of the time he had no idea what I was up to, because I made it a point to be vague about such things.

“And don't forget, my house is the House Mouse office too. I need to be someplace central for the girls and our clients. And what about Edna? I can't just walk off and leave her with that house to run. She'd never admit it, but it would be too much.”

“We've been through this already,” he said quickly. “Edna and I get along pretty good. She could move in too. There's loads of room in the cabin.”

“Very sweet,” I said. “But very impractical. Besides, Edna'd never move way out to the sticks. Have you
considered moving in with me? We could use a man around the house.”

“Rufus,” he said simply. And it was true. The big, goofy black Lab would be miserable in the city, with no fields to run in and no creeks to romp.

No wonder I'd avoided this issue for so long. “So where does that leave us?” I asked. “I want to be with you, you want to be with me, but we're still about forty miles apart.”

“Sounds like we're right back where we started,” he agreed. “Listen. Come home with me. Just for tonight. I'm getting up at five-thirty to go trout fishing up in Helen. Supposed to meet B. J. halfway. Why don't you go with me?”

I shook my head. “I'd like to, but it's been a long week. Jocelyn's still at the house, and things are heating up with the case. I wouldn't feel right about leaving her home, after what she went through last night. I'm planning on sleeping in tomorrow.”

He got out of the Blazer and walked me back to the van, glancing up and down the street. “No gray sedans. I'll follow you home anyway, just to make sure.”

I shook my head. “Didn't we just discuss this?”

“Humor me,” he said. “Pretend I'm not there.”