Silent Son by Gallatin Warfield Page B

Bowers sign a statement
     that there were no others in circulation.
    “Do you have any problem going inside with me now?” Brownie opened the door with the key he had brought and turned to face
     Purvis.
    The man was standing at the bottom step. “Is that really necessary? You never said anything about going inside.”
    “I’d appreciate it if you would,” Brownie said gently.
    Just then the noise of a vehicle erupted around the western curve in Mountain Road. A beat-up red truck approached at high
     speed. Brownie and Purvis both turned to look at the truck. It slowed suddenly, as if to stop, then picked up speed again
     when it came opposite the lab van. The driver was shaded by the cab, not clearly visible. In an instant, it had blown by,
     and vanished into the wooded grove to the east.
    “You know that guy?” Brownie asked.
    Bowers had not moved a muscle since the truck first rounded the curve. “Huh?” Purvis said absently.
    “Miller. Roscoe Miller. You know him?”
    Purvis removed his glasses, and probed an eyesocket with his knuckle. “Miller?”
    “Yeah,” Brownie answered. “Roscoe Miller. You ever seen him before?” It was a question without accusatory intent. “I might
     have run into him a couple of times…” Brownie’s ears pricked. “Yeah? Where?”
    Purvis unbuttoned his coat. “Around town. Here or there…”
    Brownie made a mental note. Purvis and Roscoe. Maybe it meant something. He decided to let it ride for now.
    “Let’s go inside.” Brownie changed gears, and led Purvis into the store. This time, when he hit the switch, the lights came
     on. They walked past the cash register and stopped. The blood had been scrubbed and the stains removed, but the white lines
     on the floor remained. “Heard you did some accounting work for your aunt and uncle,” Brownie said suddenly. “That right?”
    Bowers took several steps away from the chalk lines. “Yes,” he answered.
    “Did they deposit their income in a bank?”
    “Bank?”
    “Yeah,” Brownie said sarcastically. “Bank. A place where people keep money.”
    Purvis crossed his arms. “They did use Western National occasionally, for cashing checks they received.”
    “But did they
deposit
their receipts?”
    “No. Not that I’m aware of.”
    “Never had a bank account.” Brownie’s statement was really a question.
    “No,” Bowers reiterated. “Uncle Henry had a problem with banks. He never trusted them.”
    “So how much cash did your aunt and uncle have?” Brownie had done so well up to now, why not hit the central issue head on.
    Purvis took another step away from the lines. “How much money?”
    “Yeah,” Brownie repeated. “How much cash?”
    Bowers did not respond. He was thinking. “Why are you asking me these questions?” he finally said.
    “I’m doing a murder investigation,” Brownie answered firmly. “I have to ask questions.”
    “But I already gave a statement to the other officers,” Purvis said. “Told them everything I knew.”
    Brownie motioned Purvis outside, and they walked to the porch. “That was a preliminary report. They didn’t ask you about your
     aunt and uncle’s finances. If they had some money stashed away, big money, it might have been the motive for the shooting.”
    Purvis turned around suddenly. “They told me it was a robbery
attempt
. No one said anything about money being taken.”
    Brownie leaned against a porch post. “I’m working another angle. Maybe it was
more
than an attempt. Maybe something was actually taken. Some hidden cash—that’s why we need to know what they had.”
    Purvis closed his eyes for a moment.
    “Can you answer the question, Mr. Bowers? Did your uncle have some money hidden away?”
    Bowers remained silent.
    Brownie sensed a problem. “How much money did they have?” he repeated.
    “Am I under arrest or anything?” Bowers asked suddenly.
    Brownie recoiled in surprise. “No! Of course not! But if you know anything about any secret