“Wait, wait, wait!” Cyl protested. “Brandon Frazier? Millard King? Reid Stephenson? Your cousin? What do they have to do with the wreck or last night’s murder?”
We’d forgotten that she wasn’t up to speed on this.
“Rosa Edwards worked at the Orchid Motel. We think she saw Lynn Bullock’s killer, and each of those three men slept with Lynn Bullock in the last few months,” I said bluntly.
“Really?” Despite her own situation, Cyl frowned in distaste. All the men were familiar courthouse regulars, but she hadn’t known Jason Bullock’s wife. “Was she such a fox?” Cyl asked curiously. “Or such a slut?”
Dwight and I both shrugged. “Some of both probably,” I said.
Interrupting each other, he and I almost did a probable cause on each man and how none of them had a watertight alibi for the time of death—between five and eight on Saturday evening. As rain pounded against the window glass, we discussed Millard King’s desire for future elective office, Reid’s late arrival and early departure from the field, Brandon Frazier’s frank admissions, and the tie tack that probably belonged to Millard King. (I busied myself tidying the table while Dwight told her about the silver pen.)
“What about her husband—Jason Bullock? Did you eliminate him?”
I explained how I was there when Lynn Bullock called, pretending to be a hundred miles away and how he’d been at the field during the relevant times.
“She was registered under her maiden name, and some man called the motel switchboard before she checked in and again just a few minutes after she talked to Jason. Asked for her by the name she was using, too.”
“Might as well tell her about Jeremy Potts, too,” said Dwight. “Deborah thinks—”
At that moment, we were startled when the back door opened with a loud squeak and something dark and shiny walked in from the storm. In the flickering candlelight, it gave the three of us a start till we realized it was Cletus, wearing a large black plastic garbage bag for a rain poncho.
“I thought you went up to bed,” I said.
“Naw, I got to worrying about how the house was faring down there. Went out the side door. They’s a tree down across the path now, so I had to come back in this way.” He pulled off the bag and left it to drip in the sink before heading back upstairs. “You young folks oughta get a little rest. Be morning soon.”
Physically, we were all tired but were too keyed up to call it a night just yet. And Cyl wanted to know about Jeremy Potts. Once again, I found myself describing that acrimonious divorce and Lynn Bullock’s part in it.
I finished up by reminding her that she was there at the hospital when I told Ralph that I had his wife’s handbag. “And less than forty-five minutes later, somebody popped the lock on my car trunk.”
“Looking for her purse? But why?” Cyl asked. “And why would anybody hurt Ralph’s wife if this Rosa Edwards was the one who could put him at the motel?”
“Maybe he was afraid Rosa had talked to her good friend Clara,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“We do know that she was driving Mrs. Freeman’s car last Saturday,” Dwight reminded me.
“So maybe he thought she was the one who’d seen him.”
“If anyone saw him,” Cyl said, sounding like a skeptical prosecutor. “Coincidences do happen and—”
Yawning widely, Stan came out to the kitchen. “They say the eye just collapsed over Garner a few minutes ago. I guess it’s pretty much over.”
His own eyes were looking at the chicken with such interest that I got him a paper plate, napkins, and a big glass of milk to go with it. He wasn’t interested in a tomato sandwich, “but if there’s any of that potato salad left?”
There was.
When his plate was full, Stan looked around the table. “Miss Cyl told me about Miss Rosa getting killed. Is that what y’all were talking about?”
We admitted we were.
“When did you last see her?” I asked.
“Deborah!” Cyl protested. “He’s a minor.”
“And if Ralph were here, do you think he’d object to Stan telling us that?”
“It’s okay, Miss Cyl,” said Stan, using his paper napkin to wipe milk from his upper lip. “She came over to the house yesterday morning just as Mama was fixing to drive us to school. Shandy and I were already in the car, but Mama was still in the house and Miss Rosa just went on in. Said she had to speak to Mama about something.”
“Did she say what about?” asked Dwight.
“No, sir. And Mama didn’t say, either. They both came out together and Miss Rosa drove off and then Mama took us to school. That’s the last time we saw her. I tried to call her when Mama went missing, but she never answered her phone. I guess she was working then?”
“Do you know where she works?” I interjected curiously.
He shook his head. “I think she’s a housekeeper somewhere in Dobbs. One of the motels?”
Dwight gave me one of his do-you-mind? looks. “And all she said was that she had to speak to your mother? Those were her exact words? Nothing about why?”
Stan nibbled thoughtfully on the drumstick he held, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”
“Stan,” I said slowly. “There was an envelope in your mother’s purse and—”
“Hey, right!” His face brightened. “I forgot. When Miss Rosa went in the house, she was carrying a white envelope. And when she came back out, she wasn’t. She must’ve given it to Mama. Did you open it? What was in it?”
“I didn’t open it. Someone burgled my house tonight and took it.”
“What?”
Cyl and Stan were both looking at me in disbelief. “That’s why Reese and I were so long getting back with Lashanda’s doll,” I said and told them about the broken window and fleeing taillights.
Cyl shook her head. “Girl, you do stay in the middle of things, don’t you?”
“That’s why Miss Rosa got killed, wasn’t it?” asked Stan, making the same leap I’d made but not for the same reasons. If Lynn Bullock’s murder over in Dobbs had even registered on him, it was clear he didn’t connect it to Rosa Edwards. “She had something somebody wanted and she gave it to Mama to hold for her? And then when Mama disappeared, they must’ve thought Miss Rosa was lying about not being able to get it back?”
He yawned again. “I wonder if she told Mama what it was?” Suddenly he looked very young. “I sure hope she wakes up tomorrow.”
“Today,” said Cyl. “And you’d better get some sleep.”
“You okay on that pallet?” I asked. “Or would you rather try one of the recliners?”
“The floor’s fine,” he said with yet another wide yawn that made me yawn, too.
Cyl and Dwight were smothering yawns of their own as Stan said goodnight and went to lie down in the den.
I opened the back door to let in some fresh air. It was only marginally cooler than the air inside and heavy with moisture. Rain still pounded the tin roof and fell as if it meant to go on falling forever.
Dwight’s face was grim as he joined me by the doorway.
“It was her insurance policy, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Probably.”
“She told him she’d written it down and given it to someone to hold,” Cyl said softly from behind us. “That’s why he cut her so badly. And kept cutting till she told him who.”
“Then killed her because he thought he’d already killed the who and sunk her purse,” I said. “I wonder if Millard King really was visiting his brother in Fuquay last night or was he hanging around Possum Creek waiting to see if he could get to Clara Freeman’s car before anyone else did?”
“If he was, it must’ve scared the hell out of him when you grabbed her purse,” said Dwight with a wry smile.