Not One of Us(11)

I’d had a long, long time to learn how to mask my reaction at the old nickname. I didn’t blink or tense a single muscle. “At least I had the good taste not to screw you,” I answered with a practiced, slightly contemptuous upturn of my lips.

Anger flushed his already-ruddy face, and he barked a laugh that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “Touché,” he grumbled.

Oliver entered the hallway, and we both turned.

“There’s justice for ya,” Dempsey said. “The man Ray killed years ago was a rough son of a bitch by all accounts, but he was only sixteen. A kid. Someone around here figured an eye for an eye. That Ray should suffer the same fate as his victim.”

“Vigilante justice will get you the death penalty same as a random murder,” I noted drily. “Nothing we can ever condone. Murder is murder.”

“Course,” Dempsey agreed, but his back stiffened, and he drew away. “Just sayin’ Ray might have had this coming to him, that’s all. He was a low-life scum who lived life on the edge.”

I didn’t respond. If Dempsey had even the slightest peek inside my mind, he’d be shocked. Because as far as I was concerned, Raymond Strickland was a fucking hero.

For a microsecond, displeasure crossed Oliver’s face, but he quickly suppressed it, and I doubted Dempsey even noticed. My estimation of Joe Oliver grew. Whether or not Strickland was considered a scumbag victim by others in law enforcement, Oliver sincerely believed in justice and the sanctity of life. Perhaps the fact that I recognized and approved of his old-fashioned values is why he’d chosen to lift me from property crimes and minor thefts to work alongside him.

“Why don’t you escort Mrs. Tankersley to her home and interview her further?” Oliver asked me, completely ignoring Dempsey. “I’ll talk to the neighbors gathered outside and then join you over there.”

“Gotcha,” I agreed, hastily putting space between me and Dempsey. I took a final look at the home’s interior as I entered the den. The furniture was shabby, but brightly colored afghans were draped over tattered cushions. White lace doilies were placed under lamps, and an old-fashioned braided rug centered the area. A small collection of cobalt-blue bottles lined the front window shelf, and two healthy peace lilies anchored either side of the window. Beside a rocking chair was a basket holding skeins of red and yellow yarn, and knitted rows were loaded on the needles, as though waiting for their creator to pick up the project again and finish. A framed counted cross-stitch hung nearby, the serenity prayer painstakingly crafted.

All was tidy, and the atmosphere cozy and warm—unless you were aware of the grisly scene tucked away in the back bedroom. I imagined Mrs. Letitia Strickland as the kind of older woman who made her guests feel at home with a cup of coffee and freshly baked cookies. Her son Raymond must have been a huge disappointment and a constant source of heartache.

I thought of my own kids, Linsey and Luke. Fifteen-year-old twins, now sophomores at Erie County High. A vulnerable age, right on the cusp of danger. If I had the money and aptitude, I’d homeschool them, keeping both kiddos tucked safely inside our home under constant supervision. No learner’s permit. And dating? Out of the question until they’d graduated college, at least. My lips curled in a wry smile. Good thing I didn’t have unlimited funds and time—they’d chafe under my overprotective nature.

I stepped onto the back porch and scanned the crowd for Mrs. Tankersley. She held forth between two other women, dabbing her eyes with the hem of a floral apron and shaking her head. “I just knew something was wrong,” she wailed. “I had a premonition and came straight over this morning.”

Her words gave me pause. I didn’t believe in premonitions and omens. Either the woman was being dramatic for an audience, or something in the normal routine of this sleepy street had subtly shifted, alerting her that all was not right. I’d dig it out of her.

“Mrs. Tankersley?” I said, striding up to the little group. “Deputy Blackwell. I’d like to speak with you.”

She puffed up with importance and lifted her chin. “I expect you do. Seeing as I’m the one who called you out here and all.”

One of the women standing beside Reba, her head also plastered with sponge hair curlers—who didn’t use hot appliances these days?—patted Mrs. Tankersley’s shoulder. “You call me later, Reba,” she gushed. “I want to hear everything.”

I bet she did.

I cocked my head to the right and lifted a thumb, gesturing for us to move away. Reba fell in alongside me. “Let’s walk to your place,” I suggested. “You’ll be more comfortable and perhaps recall some small detail that can help us.”

“I’ll do whatever I can. Never cared much for Ray, God rest his soul, but Letitia was a fine woman. A good neighbor.” Her eyes dried, and she shot me a sidelong glance as we crossed the dirt road. “Ray must not have died of natural causes?” she asked, prodding for information. “I mean, if he had, y’all wouldn’t have sent for those men from Mobile.”

No harm in telling her the truth about that, at least. “Appears he was murdered,” I conceded.

Reba licked her lips. “Gunshot?”

It was time for me to be the one asking questions. “Did you hear anything last night?”

“Only his motorcycle. Like I told the police earlier, it must have been close to eleven o’clock. I’d finished watching the ten o’clock news, taken a bath, and tidied up in the kitchen, same as always.”