that.” Pun was always helping my dad track down parts for my Mustang. He probably wouldn’t ask many questions—or mind if some window glass got broken. “I can check, if you want,” I said.
“Maybe.” Rudy wasn’t going to let himself look too excited—or too committed. Playing it close to his beige uniform shirt? Or was he worried about looking foolish, if Detective Boy found out?
“Do y’all still have her car—Neanna’s?”
“Yeah.” His tone was cautious.
“Can I look at it? Or is it still—whatever?”
“The crime-scene guys have finished with it, if that’s what you mean. But we can’t use it for any kind of experi—”
“No, no. I know that. I just wanted—can I see it?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know why you’d want to.”
I couldn’t quite answer that, even for myself. Whenever I’d tried large civil cases, I’d liked to conduct witness interviews myself, see the scene, touch the evidence, read the original hospital records before they were photocopied—even when I couldn’t in good conscience bill for that time. I liked to know my case, personally.
“I just want to give her sister some small sense of—” Not closure. Something like this is never over and shut away.
“Understanding?”
I nodded. “Something like that. Too many open questions just makes it that much harder. Maybe it will help convince me that we have the right ending for her.”
“I can take you tomorrow, if you want.”
“Thanks. Would you all still have the file on her aunt Wenda’s murder?”
“Should have. It’s still an open case. Reckon you want me to dig that out, too. Anything else, Miz Andrews?”
With his attitude, he made a mighty poor Della Street. No good as Archie Goodwin, either.
The peach cobbler brightened his mood, if only a watt or two. He hunkered over it, using his left arm to protect it from a sneak attack from across the table.
I needed to change the subject. “You ever think about quitting? Doing something different?”
His brow wrinkled in a frown, and he looked at me as if I might know something he didn’t. “No-o.”
I shrugged. “Just wondered. You know. What else you might find interesting.”
“Well, let’s see. What could I do? Work in a mill? Everything’s heading to Mexico. Nobody pumps gas for a living anymore. Fixing my own car makes me cuss, so my mama’d be by regular to knock knots on my head. Maybe the feed-and-seed store?”
“You ever thought about running for sheriff?”
He snorted. “My wife has. You both gotta be kidding. Kissing be-hinds on county council? Listening to an irate mama scream because a deputy abused her crackhead son? No thanks. I like what I do just fine.” He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you ask?”
“Nothing. Just wondered.” L. J. Peters, Rudy Mellin, and I had started kindergarten and graduated from high school together. I’d never heard him say how he liked working for L.J. No gracious way to ask how it was to have her for a boss, so I changed the subject.
“You heard about the ghost hunters in town?”
He spooned in a heap of golden crust and peaches Maylene had frozen last summer, dripping with half-melted ice cream. The smell of cinnamon made my mouth moist. “Heard something about it.”
“Not a big crew or anything. Three kids. You see their article in yesterday’s paper, asking anyone who had paranormal goingson around their houses to call them?”
He covered his mouth with a filmy paper napkin and gulped, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Isn’t that the craziest thing?” I said. “Ghosters running loose.”
“Seems to me if you were psychic or whatever,” Rudy said, “you could ride around and find ghosts on your own. Shouldn’t have to advertise for them like you were looking for a used mobile home or a single white female.”
“You believe in ghosts?”
He graced me with only a shake of his head. “Used to like to scare people who did, though.” His smile grew as he enjoyed
“Maybe.” Rudy wasn’t going to let himself look too excited—or too committed. Playing it close to his beige uniform shirt? Or was he worried about looking foolish, if Detective Boy found out?
“Do y’all still have her car—Neanna’s?”
“Yeah.” His tone was cautious.
“Can I look at it? Or is it still—whatever?”
“The crime-scene guys have finished with it, if that’s what you mean. But we can’t use it for any kind of experi—”
“No, no. I know that. I just wanted—can I see it?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know why you’d want to.”
I couldn’t quite answer that, even for myself. Whenever I’d tried large civil cases, I’d liked to conduct witness interviews myself, see the scene, touch the evidence, read the original hospital records before they were photocopied—even when I couldn’t in good conscience bill for that time. I liked to know my case, personally.
“I just want to give her sister some small sense of—” Not closure. Something like this is never over and shut away.
“Understanding?”
I nodded. “Something like that. Too many open questions just makes it that much harder. Maybe it will help convince me that we have the right ending for her.”
“I can take you tomorrow, if you want.”
“Thanks. Would you all still have the file on her aunt Wenda’s murder?”
“Should have. It’s still an open case. Reckon you want me to dig that out, too. Anything else, Miz Andrews?”
With his attitude, he made a mighty poor Della Street. No good as Archie Goodwin, either.
The peach cobbler brightened his mood, if only a watt or two. He hunkered over it, using his left arm to protect it from a sneak attack from across the table.
I needed to change the subject. “You ever think about quitting? Doing something different?”
His brow wrinkled in a frown, and he looked at me as if I might know something he didn’t. “No-o.”
I shrugged. “Just wondered. You know. What else you might find interesting.”
“Well, let’s see. What could I do? Work in a mill? Everything’s heading to Mexico. Nobody pumps gas for a living anymore. Fixing my own car makes me cuss, so my mama’d be by regular to knock knots on my head. Maybe the feed-and-seed store?”
“You ever thought about running for sheriff?”
He snorted. “My wife has. You both gotta be kidding. Kissing be-hinds on county council? Listening to an irate mama scream because a deputy abused her crackhead son? No thanks. I like what I do just fine.” He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you ask?”
“Nothing. Just wondered.” L. J. Peters, Rudy Mellin, and I had started kindergarten and graduated from high school together. I’d never heard him say how he liked working for L.J. No gracious way to ask how it was to have her for a boss, so I changed the subject.
“You heard about the ghost hunters in town?”
He spooned in a heap of golden crust and peaches Maylene had frozen last summer, dripping with half-melted ice cream. The smell of cinnamon made my mouth moist. “Heard something about it.”
“Not a big crew or anything. Three kids. You see their article in yesterday’s paper, asking anyone who had paranormal goingson around their houses to call them?”
He covered his mouth with a filmy paper napkin and gulped, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Isn’t that the craziest thing?” I said. “Ghosters running loose.”
“Seems to me if you were psychic or whatever,” Rudy said, “you could ride around and find ghosts on your own. Shouldn’t have to advertise for them like you were looking for a used mobile home or a single white female.”
“You believe in ghosts?”
He graced me with only a shake of his head. “Used to like to scare people who did, though.” His smile grew as he enjoyed
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