Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. H. Mel Malton
of Lug-nut’s reach, then he took them from me and started to carry them over to the household garbage pit. I followed him, desperately trying to come up with a way to get a conversation going. Usually, Freddy was the one with the opening gambit, but this time he was as tight-lipped as a Tory senator.
“It must be weird being here alone after a body was found here, eh?” I said. He grunted and kicked at a chicken bone with his foot. I tried again. “Lots of people coming around trying to get you to talk about it, I’ll bet.”
He looked at me slant-wise. “Nope,” he said. “You’re the only one. You and the cops.”
“They talked to you, did they?” Here was an opening. It was just like the women’s magazines. Draw him out. Get him to talk about himself.
“They interrogated me is more like it,” Freddy said. “Nazis, both of ’em. Specially the fat one. They came in here with some damn fool story Morton cooked up to explain the lump on his head. He blamed me, eh?” Freddy was looking at me carefully, gauging my reaction.
“He did??” Surprise. Outrage.
“Yup. Said I hit him. That’s a crock of shit if I ever heard one.”
“I saw him at the hospital yesterday,” I said. “He’s doing fine, but he did take quite a knock to the head. I guess he’s confused. Maybe his story is a little exaggerated, eh?”
“Huh. I’ll bet it’s mostly from the hangover. He drank most of a jug of Amato’s hooch on Sunday, then he fell down outside the hut.” Freddy pointed. “Knocked his head on the cement step there. Out cold. I dragged him over to his hearse and put him inside to keep warm while he slept it off. Did him a favour and that’s how he pays me back.”
It could easily have happened like that, I supposed, but I must have looked sceptical, because Freddy turned nasty.
“That’s what you wanted to know, ain’t it? You talked to Morton and he told you his fairy-tale, and then you come nosing over here to get my side of it. Just like the cops. Meddling.”
“Freddy, I just came to drop off some garbage, that’s all.”
“Two measly bags fulla paper, more like. I know my business, and you, Missy, should know yours. Meddling in what doesn’t concern you. You should stick to your goats.”
I froze. A vision of the ruined squirrel swam before me and I tottered a bit, remembering.
“What did you say?” I said.
“I said you should mind your own business. I got no quarrel with you, and I don’t want to start one.” He was standing very close to me—close enough that I could smell the musty coat he was wearing and see the blackheads on his skin. It was very still and there was nobody at the dump but me, Freddy, Lug-nut and a couple of seagulls. I backed away, slowly.
“Okay, Freddy. I’ll stick to my goats. You bet.”
“Atta girl. That way you don’t get hurt.”
I hopped in the cab of the truck and beat a hasty retreat, my heart pounding. That had been a threat, no question. What I couldn’t figure out was what Freddy had to do with the whole thing. Was he the one John owed money to? Was he the murderer? As far as I knew he had no connection with John or his friends, but I was fooling myself if I thought I knew everything that went on in Cedar Falls. It seemed the more clues I found, the more confused I was becoming.
If John had been shot before midnight, as I believed he had, Freddy couldn’t have killed him, because he was drinking with Spit at the dump. Was Freddy an accomplice? Was it all set up beforehand? I doubted it. Although there was a phone in the dump hut, the killer would hardly have called Freddy while Spit was there and said: “Knock him out. I’m coming over with a body I want to dump.” Would he? I would have to ask Spit if there had been any phone calls while he was whooping it up with Freddy.
I was quite sure that Freddy had been responsible for my scare of the night before, though. He had as good as admitted it. The question was, should I tell Becker about it or keep it to myself?
If I told Becker, would he search the dump hut, maybe find a package of lilac-motif notepaper and a newspaper with letters cut out of it? I decided it was probably best to drop it. I had told Freddy I would mind my own business, and around here, if you say you’ll do a thing, people generally believe you. I’d just have to be more discreet, that was all.
On my way down the dump road, I saw a tall figure walking slowly along the gravel verge, head bent, shoulders hunched. It was Eddie and as I slowed to give him a ride, he looked up mournfully. He had a black eye, a fresh one, as ugly as the one Francy had been wearing on Monday. What was this, an epidemic? One thing was certain, this bruise at least had not been caused by John Travers.
I reached over to roll down the window on the passenger side.
“Hey Eddie. Want a lift?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He climbed inside.
“Don’t tell me. It was a doorknob, right? You walked into a door.” It was tactless, I know, but I’m like that.
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s right. Late at night. You gotta pee. You get up and smack! Right into the bathroom door.” Back in theatre school we called that “follow-up”—when you take a suggestion from a fellow improviser and run with it. Eddie would have been good at improv.
“You okay?” I said.
“Yeah, thanks. You should see the door.” His jokey tone sounded hollow.
“Your dad back from that conference yet?” It was a shot in the dark, and it earned a bull's-eye. Eddie winced, as if he had been shouting “Dad” loud enough for me to hear it. So it was Samson who had hit him. Figured. Samson was short and mean as a weasel.
“Yeah. I mean, yes,” Eddie said. “He came back yesterday. Why? You want to talk to him?”
“Not especially. Listen, Eddie. I saw you over at the Travers’ place yesterday. I mean, we saw each other, right?” He blushed. Welcome to the club, I thought.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe nothing. I saw you. It’s none of my business what you were doing over there, so I won’t even ask, okay? It’s between you, me and Lady Chatterley.”
Eddie smirked. “I don’t know why my Mom’s all upset about that book,” he said. “It’s pretty tame, really.”
“Read on,” I said. “It gets better. What I wanted to ask you though, is, did you tell anyone you saw me over there? I was wondering if you’d mentioned to someone that you saw me.”
He seemed grateful that I wasn’t probing—I guessed he got enough of that at home. If he wanted to tell me he went back for the book, and if he wanted to say who had whacked him in the eye, he would. It didn’t matter. He thought for a moment.
“Well, I might have mentioned that you took the dog, eh? I thought that was cool. John never treated that dog right and Francy never liked him either.”
“So your parents knew I was over there. Was anyone else at home when you mentioned it?”
“Well, no, but we had adult Bible class at our place later, and the text was Lazarus, so we got to talking about dogs and I might have said something again then. I don’t remember. I just thought it was good that you took him. Real Christian. Mom thought so too. Real Christian charity, she said.”
Great. So most of Cedar Falls probably knew I’d been over to the Travers’ place to get the dog, and somebody was suspicious enough to go check to see if I’d found the truck and the gun. They’d taken the gun and told Freddy to nail a dead squirrel to my door. Charming. I was no closer to the truth, though.
“Eddie,” I said. “Someone’s trying to scare me off asking questions about John’s murder. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“Heck, no. I don’t