4 The Marathon Murders by CHESTER D CAMPBELL Page B

than a subtle pinprick. “Okay, I get the point. Confession is
good for the soul, right? I don’t think the client would mind my telling you
our case involves Arthur Liggett.”
    I told him briefly about the
Marathon Motors papers and Pierce Bradley’s apparent murder. I added that Agent
Fought remained to be convinced of any connection between the two.
    “So you’re thinking Sharkey was
looking for the papers?”
    “That’s my guess, but I don’t have
any proof.”
    “And you’d really like the identity
of his employer.”
    “I’d lick your boots for it,
buddy.”
    “Well, your tongue’s in no danger. We
checked Sharkey’s office and came up with a blank. Not even any doodles on the
desk calendar. If this guy wrote anything down, he burned it before he left the
place.”
    I thought of the possibility
someone connected with our case had tossed the office before the cops, but the
people who searched Bradley’s and Kelli’s places had hardly been that subtle.
    “What a character,” I said. “I
wonder how he managed to hang onto his PI license? ”
    “I can’t help you there. We don’t
issue PI licenses.”
    “I know. Well, thanks anyway for
the heads-up on Colonel Jarvis. I’ll get back to you if we learn anything of
interest.”
    When I told Jill about the plan to
call Jarvis into the assistant DA’s office, she slapped her hand on the desk as
if trying to kill a fly. “Why don’t they quit playing their little boys’
games?”
    “Warren is a big boy. I’m sure he
can take care of himself.” I really wasn’t so sure, but I hoped he could.
    “We promised to call them when we
got back from the TBI,” she said. “Let’s see if they want to get together now.”
    She picked up her phone and dialed.
I heard her say, “Kelli, this is Jill. Would you like us to meet you somewhere,
or do you want to come over here? . . . Okay, we’ll be looking for you.”
    As soon as she hung up, Jill went
into hospitality mode. Ever the consummate hostess, she had to serve food
whenever mealtime lurked anywhere in the vicinity. “I’ll go over to the little
café up the street. They have a darling tray with all kinds of sandwich
fixings. I’ll be right back.”
    She hurried out the door, leaving
me to wonder if my talents as an investigator would impress clients more than
her mastery of the culinary arts. I didn’t have long to ponder the image before
the phone rang.
    “Mr. McKenzie, this is Martha
Urey,” said a voice I recalled from Trousdale County. “You asked me to call if
I remembered anything else about last Monday night.”
    “Right. What did you come up with?”
    “Well, I was driving through town
this morning after I finished my bus route, and I saw a car that struck me as
just like the one in Pierce Bradley’s driveway.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “As sure as
anything. It was parked at the store, a little red car.”
    My attention sharpened like the
point on the pencil I held. “What store was that, Mrs. Urey?”
    “Cumberland Farm
Supplies.”
    I thanked her, remembering Sheriff
Driscoll’s account of Bradley’s fight over a bill he didn’t think his father
owed the farm supply store.

Chapter 17
     
    Warren Jarvis drained his glass and set it on the corner of
my desk, where we had indulged in small talk while devouring a tasty array of
sandwich fare. “That tea was delicious, Jill,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve
ever had anything quite like it.”
    I finished off mine, too. “It’s her own secret formula. We call it fruit tea. She pours in a
mixture of pineapple and orange juice, plus a dollop of Marachino cherry flavored syrup.”
    Kelli smiled. “If it isn’t too
secret, I’d like the formula.”
    “I can give you an idea, but I
don’t measure the stuff,” Jill said. “I just put in what looks like the right
amount. Say, I guess you two are dying to hear about our visit to the TBI. Why
don’t you bring them up to date, Greg?”
    I gave them a brief account of