Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg by Kent Conwell

driving away, I faithfully jotted my notes on threeby-five cards, pausing to reassess what I believed to be the
salient points of my visit with Wilson Jenkins.
    First, the preserve had been the subject of many discussions over the years by Jenkins and Edney. Second, JW
Edney had made no mention of the two changes in the new
will. And third, Edney was obsessive about following up
promises with a letter of confirmation.
    Why the latter?
    I had no idea. And aberrant behavior always made me
wary of any theories or conclusions I might draw.
    But now, the only logical conclusion I could construe
from the interview with Jenkins was that the changing of the
will with no follow-up was indeed out-of-character behavior
on the part of JW Edney.
    Quickly, I glanced back over the growing stack of note
cards. For some reason, I had the feeling I had overlooked
some detail, but what?
    As I shifted into gear and headed to the interstate, I pondered the old man’s obsession with follow-up letters. What
kind of person would do something like that? Obviously an
individual to whom organization and details were important. “Stop and think a moment, Tony,” I said aloud. “If someone
has the patience bordering on almost a maniacal obsession
to take apart a Model T bolt-by-bolt and restore it to showroom quality, chances are they could be obsessive enough to
write follow-up letters.”

    Then a revelation hit me. Those little flashes of insight
don’t happen too often for me, but when they do, I always
pursue them. So, first chance I had, I would pay a visit to
JW’s attorney.
    Back in Vicksburg, I stopped by Jack long enough to learn
the location of WR’s hardware store, which turned out to be
on Washington Street also, a few doors beyond the original
building housing the Biedenharn Candy Company where
Coca-Cola was first bottled in 1894.
    The building was in need of repair. Mortar crumbled from
between the dingy red bricks, and the plate-glass show windows appeared to have had no acquaintance at all with soap
and water.
    In my brief encounter with WR the previous day, I realized he probably wasn’t the brightest bulb on the string. The
unimaginative name of his store, Washington Street
Hardware, reinforced that opinion.
    He scowled when he saw me enter. I looked about the
store. It was empty of customers. A single clerk was leaning
idly beside the manual cash register on the front counter. I
couldn’t believe this was what he owed the bank a quarter of
a million on.
    And I don’t know how WR used the few hundred thousand his father had given him over the years, but it certainly
wasn’t to modernize the hardware store. The worn wooden
flooring was split, uneven, and even springy in spots. Decades of dust darkened the ceiling.
    I headed directly toward him.
    “What do you want?” His tone was gruff and threatening.
    “Just to visit a moment. That’s all.”

    He started to walk away, but I stopped him with a white
lie. “The police chief sent me.”
    WR froze, then looked around, a look of disbelief on his
round face. “Police chief? You mean Hemings?”
    I nodded. “I’ll be blunt, WR. Someone murdered your
father.”
    The look of disbelief grew more pronounced.
“Murdered?” He snorted. “You’re crazy.”
    “That isn’t what Chief Herrings thinks. That’s why he
gave me his okay to follow through on the case.”
    WR studied me suspiciously, his shoulders thrown back
and his belly straining against the light green shirt he wore.
“Why you?”
    I was candid with him. “Your brother didn’t believe the
fire was an accident. He hired me to find out”
    “Jack? What made him think the fire wasn’t an accident?”
    “The way I understand it, he believed his father was too
cautious, too careful for that kind of accident to occur.”
    He pondered my response a moment. “Okay. So why are
you here-at my place?”
    “Because you owe a quarter of a million to the bank, and
you stand