“No. Of course not. Was he … difficult?”
“Oh, no. He was the nicest boy you could imagine. Sometimes I forgot he was from out of town. Very polite, well mannered. Opened the door for the ladies. Never took seconds. Respected the other tenants’ privacy. In fact, he rarely spoke to anyone.”
“Well,” Ben said, “it’s always the quiet ones.”
“Isn’t that the truth? You know, it wasn’t until the last week—the week before the, well, you know—that he even had visitors.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir. That was when I got my first hint that he might be planning something. ’Course I never guessed—”
“No. Who could’ve?”
“Normally I don’t even take notice of my tenants’ visitors. But when that woman came by”—she raised her chin—“well, that was a different kettle of fish.”
“I can imagine.”
“If Donald Vick thought I was going to let him go sparkin’ with that woman in my boardinghouse, well, he had another think coming. I don’t run that kind of place.”
“I’m sure.”
“I was prepared to march right in there and boot her out myself if necessary. Fortunately she left on her own just a little after eleven.” Mary Sue took a white guest book from the end table and opened it to the current page. “If you’ll just sign in, please.”
Ben took the feather pen and signed.
“ ’Course, I will have to ask for some … you know … in advance. Since we don’t know each other.”
“Naturally.” Ben reached into his wallet and withdrew a fistful of twenties. “Will this do?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Mary Sue reached eagerly for the money, but one of the bills slipped through her fingers. A draft from the front window caught it, nudging it to her side of the Dutch door. It slowly drifted downward … and lighted on the end table on top of the morning Herald.
Don’t look! Ben found himself issuing mental commands, for all the good it would do. Just pick up the money and—
“Oh, my gracious. Is this you?”
Ben’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.
Mary Sue picked up the newspaper and unfolded it. “You’re this—Benjamin Kincaid?”
Ben briefly considered a story about an evil twin, but decided it was probably futile. “It’s me.”
Mary Sue scanned the article. “Then you’re—good Lord!” She threw down the paper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ben shrugged. “It didn’t come up. …”
“You’re one of them!”
“I’m not one of anything. I’m just a lawyer—”
“Do you have any idea what you people have done to this town? I don’t feel safe walking the streets anymore.”
“I’m just representing a man I believe may be innocent—”
“Innocent!”
“You know Donald. You know how harmless he is.”
“I saw him nearly beat a man senseless!”
That slowed Ben down. “What?”
“I was at the Bluebell Bar that afternoon, before the murder. I was shocked; I had never seen Donald act like that. For no apparent reason, he attacked that poor Vietnamese boy. From behind, with no warning. He liked to have killed the boy before he even knew what was happening. A few of the boy’s friends pulled Donald away, then laid into him. When they threw Donald out, he was bleeding in half a dozen places, screaming about how he was going to kill him. And the next morning that Vietnamese boy was dead. That’s pretty conclusive evidence as far as I’m concerned.”
“That’s strictly circumstantial—”
“Circumstantial? What’s that—some big-city lawyer word?” She threw Ben’s money back at him. “You just get on out of here. I don’t want anything to do with you and your kind.”
“Please listen to me, ma’am—”
Mary Sue bent down, then came up with a double-barreled shotgun almost as big as she was. “You get on out of here, understand? Now!”
She held the shotgun steady and ready; Ben didn’t doubt for an instant that she knew how to use it.
“Last chance! Scram!”
Ben knew it was pointless to argue, and probably highly dangerous. He grabbed his money and hurried out the front door.
12.
HOURS LATER ALL BEN had accomplished was several repetitions of the same old scene. No matter where he went, The Silver Springs Herald had been there first. No one would talk to him; no one would even take his money. Overnight he’d become a local pariah.
By nine P.M., Ben had covered both Main and Maple streets from one end to the other and managed to find absolutely no one who would talk. They didn’t pretend that they didn’t know anything; they just weren’t telling him. What Judge Tyler had said was absolutely true; the whole town was on edge—expecting the ticking time bomb to explode at any moment.
The only lights on Main Street that still flickered were the ones inside the Bluebell Bar. A red neon sign in the front window boldly announced that they had Coors on tap. At this point Ben was ready for a drink. And more importantly he recalled that this was where the fight between Vick and Vuong took place on the afternoon before the murder.
Ben spotted a scuffle in the alley just outside the bar. Both combatants were beefy, tough-looking men in blue jeans and T-shirts. Fortunately they appeared to have imbibed a fair amount of beer. More punches were connecting with empty air than any part of either body.
Ben pushed open the front door and stepped inside. The Bluebell was small, simple, laid-back—and packed. The bar had six stools, all but one of them currently occupied. A pool table in the corner was flanked by two pinball machines, both of which Ben judged to be at least fifteen years old. Four booths in the back provided space for couples who wanted to get snuggly.
Ben took the available bar stool and flagged the bartender. The jukebox was wailing a country-western tune, a bit of homespun philosophy courtesy of Mary-Chapin Carpenter. “Sometimes you’re the windshield,” she sang, “sometimes you’re the bug. …”
“I’ll have a longneck,” Ben said, pointing at the label on a bar coaster.
The bartender peered at him, eyes narrowed. He was an older man, but the pronounced wrinkles lent his face an air of distinction and world-weariness. “You’re the lawyer.”
Ben had heard it too many times today to be surprised. “That’s right. And now that the introductions are out of the way, could I have my beer?”
The bartender hesitated. “I don’t want no trouble in my place.”
“I don’t plan to cause any,” Ben replied. “Unless you don’t get me that beer.”
The bartender gave a small, lopsided grin. “What the hell! I suppose Satan himself has to take a drink now and again.”
He pulled a Bud out of the ice. The song changed; now Mary-Chapin Carpenter was singing a slow sad song about being haunted by the past, and finding the courage to love again after “the first time you lose.” Carpenter’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Come on, come on … it’s getting late now. …”
While he waited Ben scanned a copy of The Herald lying on the bar. It appeared that District Attorney Swain was trying his case in the morning edition and polarizing public opinion by making the “big-city lawyer” the bad guy. Ben learned that Sheriff Collier had found the murder weapon, a twenty-four-inch Carvelle crossbow. Swain claimed that tests run by the forensic office in Little Rock conclusively linked the crossbow to Donald Vick.
“My name’s Mac.” The bartender pushed a beer and a bottle opener across the bar.
“I’m Ben. But you probably already know that.” Ben opened the beer and downed a good long gulp. He wasn’t that fond of Budweiser, but since the man had apparently compromised his virtue by serving it, Ben wasn’t about to appear ungrateful. “Nice place.”