the motor repairs. I don’t know much about agriculture, but it was obvious to me that this farm was in serious financial trouble.
I parked the Aztek and raised the rear windows to prevent Kitch from jumping out and finding some barnyard muck to roll in. Getting out of the car, I caught sight of a bemired four-wheel ATV parked on the other side of the house. However, that didn’t necessarily mean it was the vehicle that had left the muddy tracks on the road. A lot of the farmers around here had quad-runners.
A moment later, a middle-aged man with a large flat-head screwdriver in his oil-stained hand emerged from the barn. The man looked to be about five feet, ten inches tall, with a stocky physique, grayish-black hair, and a shaggy iron-colored beard. There was an old brown briar pipe stuck in the right side of his mouth, and a tendril of white smoke rose from the bowl, reminding me of a volcano that was mistakenly thought to be extinct. He wore faded jeans, a sun-bleached blue ball cap, and a ragged old military flight jacket that had about as many holes in it as the plots of the Star Wars movies.
“Help you, mister?” asked the man, in a voice that didn’t sound particularly helpful.
“Are you Mr. Wade Tice?”
“Look, if you’re from the heating oil company, my wife told the woman at your office that I’ll have the money to you on Monday.” Wade’s teeth tightened around the pipe stem.
“No, sir, I’m not from the oil company. I’m Brad Lyon, and I’m an investigative consultant with the sheriff’s office.” I pulled the badge case from my jacket pocket and showed him my ID card.
Wade glanced from the card to my cane. “You’re Lolly’s son-in-law that moved here a few years ago from California, right?”
“That’s right,” I said, hoping the family connection would breed some goodwill.
The pipe sagged slightly as his jaw relaxed and he said, “What can I do for you?”
“If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Is it about that ruckus last night?”
“What ruckus?” I asked, just in case he wasn’t referring to the police response to the Rawlins farm.
“All those sirens from out on the road.”
“So I take it you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“That Everett Rawlins was killed last night.”
Wade Tice folded his arms across his chest. “Huh. That’s a damn shame. But what does it have to do with me?”
Tice was cool, I thought, but the body language suggested he was hiding something. However, rather than directly confront him with the potentially damning facts about his conflict with Rawlins and his longtime experience as a bow hunter, I decided on an oblique approach. I said, “You’re his neighbor, and I know you want to help. Did you notice any suspicious-looking people or vehicles around here last night?”
“Nope.”
“How about a vehicle up on the ridge?” I pointed toward the hill with my cane.
Wade shot a quick disinterested glance at the hill. “Nope. I was in the house with my wife all last night.”
“In the past, have you ever noticed any vehicles up there?”
“Sure. Hunters go up there looking for deer, but it don’t bother me none. There’s plenty of deer and I figure I can’t begrudge a man if he’s hungry.”
“Getting back to last night, did you hear any strange sounds?”
“Just the sirens. Lots of sirens.”
“Is your wife here? Maybe she noticed something.”
“Nope, Marilyn is at work.”
“And where is that?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
I shrugged, feigning indifference. “I need to ask her these same questions, and I’m just trying to save myself a trip out here later tonight.”
Wade removed the pipe from his mouth and used the screwdriver to dig out some ash. Finally, he said, “She works at the lodge as a maid.”
“The Massanutten Crest Lodge?” I asked. I found this new link to the lodge mildly intriguing, but after a few seconds of consideration, I was inclined
I parked the Aztek and raised the rear windows to prevent Kitch from jumping out and finding some barnyard muck to roll in. Getting out of the car, I caught sight of a bemired four-wheel ATV parked on the other side of the house. However, that didn’t necessarily mean it was the vehicle that had left the muddy tracks on the road. A lot of the farmers around here had quad-runners.
A moment later, a middle-aged man with a large flat-head screwdriver in his oil-stained hand emerged from the barn. The man looked to be about five feet, ten inches tall, with a stocky physique, grayish-black hair, and a shaggy iron-colored beard. There was an old brown briar pipe stuck in the right side of his mouth, and a tendril of white smoke rose from the bowl, reminding me of a volcano that was mistakenly thought to be extinct. He wore faded jeans, a sun-bleached blue ball cap, and a ragged old military flight jacket that had about as many holes in it as the plots of the Star Wars movies.
“Help you, mister?” asked the man, in a voice that didn’t sound particularly helpful.
“Are you Mr. Wade Tice?”
“Look, if you’re from the heating oil company, my wife told the woman at your office that I’ll have the money to you on Monday.” Wade’s teeth tightened around the pipe stem.
“No, sir, I’m not from the oil company. I’m Brad Lyon, and I’m an investigative consultant with the sheriff’s office.” I pulled the badge case from my jacket pocket and showed him my ID card.
Wade glanced from the card to my cane. “You’re Lolly’s son-in-law that moved here a few years ago from California, right?”
“That’s right,” I said, hoping the family connection would breed some goodwill.
The pipe sagged slightly as his jaw relaxed and he said, “What can I do for you?”
“If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Is it about that ruckus last night?”
“What ruckus?” I asked, just in case he wasn’t referring to the police response to the Rawlins farm.
“All those sirens from out on the road.”
“So I take it you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“That Everett Rawlins was killed last night.”
Wade Tice folded his arms across his chest. “Huh. That’s a damn shame. But what does it have to do with me?”
Tice was cool, I thought, but the body language suggested he was hiding something. However, rather than directly confront him with the potentially damning facts about his conflict with Rawlins and his longtime experience as a bow hunter, I decided on an oblique approach. I said, “You’re his neighbor, and I know you want to help. Did you notice any suspicious-looking people or vehicles around here last night?”
“Nope.”
“How about a vehicle up on the ridge?” I pointed toward the hill with my cane.
Wade shot a quick disinterested glance at the hill. “Nope. I was in the house with my wife all last night.”
“In the past, have you ever noticed any vehicles up there?”
“Sure. Hunters go up there looking for deer, but it don’t bother me none. There’s plenty of deer and I figure I can’t begrudge a man if he’s hungry.”
“Getting back to last night, did you hear any strange sounds?”
“Just the sirens. Lots of sirens.”
“Is your wife here? Maybe she noticed something.”
“Nope, Marilyn is at work.”
“And where is that?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
I shrugged, feigning indifference. “I need to ask her these same questions, and I’m just trying to save myself a trip out here later tonight.”
Wade removed the pipe from his mouth and used the screwdriver to dig out some ash. Finally, he said, “She works at the lodge as a maid.”
“The Massanutten Crest Lodge?” I asked. I found this new link to the lodge mildly intriguing, but after a few seconds of consideration, I was inclined
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