Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(40)

Thump. Scrape.

Lance’s hand inched toward the weapon on his hip as the door creaked open.





Chapter Nineteen

Morgan edged in front of Lance, who looked ready to shoot the homeowner. The door opened two inches and hit the end of the chain lock on the other side. The eye that looked through the gap was blue and rheumy. Next to her, Lance removed his hand from the butt of his gun. His body didn’t exactly relax, but he was longer poised to rush the door.

“Mr. Jackson?” She smiled.

“Who are you?” the old man asked.

Morgan introduced herself and Lance and offered her business card through the gap above the door handle.

The old man took it. A few seconds later, he squinted at Lance. “You look like a policeman.”

“No, sir. I’m a private investigator,” Lance said.

“What do you want?” Mr. Jackson asked.

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” Morgan explained.

The old man grunted. The door closed. Metal scraped, and the door opened fully.

“I’m Elijah Jackson.” He was at least seventy-five, likely closer to eighty, and leaned with both hands on a four-pronged cane. A body that had once been tall and strong now bowed under a lifetime of hard work and disappointment. “If you’re defending Ricky and you want money, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Do you know Ricky Jackson?” Morgan asked.

“He’s my grandson.” Mr. Jackson nodded. “The sheriff was here last night.”

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said.

“Me too.” Mr. Jackson shuffled backward a few steps and motioned them to enter the house. “I need to sit down. This damp cold is hard on my arthritis.”

Morgan and Lance wiped their feet on a rag rug and stepped into a wood-floored foyer. The old farmhouse was falling down, but the inside was tidy. There were none of the dust-and-fur bunnies that bred in the corners of Morgan’s house.

Mr. Jackson led the way down a narrow hall to a huge, old kitchen. A fire crackled in the adjoining living room. A picture window overlooked a weedy barnyard. Rickety wire fencing encircled a chicken coop. Inside the enclosure, a dozen hens scratched at the dirt. A second fenced-and-cleared rectangle held neat rows of plants.

He gestured toward a scarred oak table. Morgan and Lance sat at ladder-backed chairs while Mr. Jackson filled a teakettle and set it on the stove.

“I’m out of coffee, but I still have some tea,” Mr. Jackson said.

“We already had our breakfast, but thank you anyway.” Morgan couldn’t take one of this poor old man’s last tea bags.

She rested her forearms on the tabletop. The gray-brown surface was worn smooth from decades of plates and elbows and scrub rags. In the center of the room, a butcher-block island held a basket of brown eggs. Chipped ceramic bowls held carrots, beets, kale, and brussels sprouts. A large stainless-steel pressure canner on the stove and a line of mason jars suggested Mr. Jackson was getting ready to preserve his harvest.

“If you’re looking for bail money for my grandson, I don’t have anything left. He’s bled me dry.” Perched on a stool, Mr. Jackson leaned his cane on the island, picked up a vegetable peeler, and began scraping the skin from a fat carrot. “I took him in when my son got hooked on drugs and disappeared. I fed the boy. I clothed him. I tried to teach him some sense. But he’s just like his daddy. All he can think about is drugs.” He shook his head. “That heroin will be the end of this country. I bailed him out twice. He’s taken every dollar I have. If it weren’t for my chickens and my garden, I’d starve. Before he left last night, he emptied my wallet. I guess it wasn’t enough. Miss Fox wasn’t much of a neighbor, but there isn’t much lower a human can sink than stealing from a dead woman.”

Unless it was stealing from his own elderly grandfather.

“I’m not representing Ricky,” Morgan said.

Mr. Jackson tossed the naked carrot into an empty bowl and started peeling another. “Then why are you here?”

“How well did you know Crystal?” Morgan asked.

“She lived up the road as long as I can remember.” Mr. Jackson shrugged. “We were neighbors, but I wouldn’t say we were close. Crystal had her problems.”

“Do you remember when her daughter disappeared?” Morgan asked.

“I do. Mary wasn’t any better than her mother.” Mr. Jackson attacked the next carrot. “My Gracie, God rest her soul, was a hell of a woman. A lot of people go to church, but my Gracie, she walked the good walk.” Sadness wrinkled his tanned face. “Anyway, I remember this one time that Gracie heard Crystal had lost her job at the five-and-dime. Knowing Crystal had a teenager to feed, Gracie took her some eggs and a casserole. Crystal told her to mind her own you-know-what business and shut the door in her face.” His wrinkles hardened. “After that, I had no time for Crystal. No one should’ve treated my Gracie that way. She was only trying to help.”

“So you haven’t seen Crystal lately?” Morgan asked.

“I’ve seen her long enough to wave as she drove by. We didn’t talk. Grace would be disappointed in me, but polite distance was all I could muster for Crystal.” He paused. “If you want to know what Crystal was doing lately, you should talk to Abigail Wright. She plays the organ for the church. She also owns the Roadside Motel out on Route 99. Crystal worked there.”