“Two measly bags fulla paper, more like. I know my business, and you, Missy, should know yours. Meddling in what doesn’t concern you. You should stick to your goats.”
I froze. A vision of the ruined squirrel swam before me and I tottered a bit, remembering.
“What did you say?” I said.
“I said you should mind your own business. I got no quarrel with you, and I don’t want to start one.” He was standing very close to me—close enough that I could smell the musty coat he was wearing and see the blackheads on his skin. It was very still and there was nobody at the dump but me, Freddy, Lug-nut and a couple of seagulls. I backed away, slowly.
“Okay, Freddy. I’ll stick to my goats. You bet.”
“Atta girl. That way you don’t get hurt.”
I hopped in the cab of the truck and beat a hasty retreat, my heart pounding. That had been a threat, no question. What I couldn’t figure out was what Freddy had to do with the whole thing. Was he the one John owed money to? Was he the murderer? As far as I knew he had no connection with John or his friends, but I was fooling myself if I thought I knew everything that went on in Cedar Falls. It seemed the more clues I found, the more confused I was becoming.
If John had been shot before midnight, as I believed he had, Freddy couldn’t have killed him, because he was drinking with Spit at the dump. Was Freddy an accomplice? Was it all set up beforehand? I doubted it. Although there was a phone in the dump hut, the killer would hardly have called Freddy while Spit was there and said: “Knock him out. I’m coming over with a body I want to dump.” Would he? I would have to ask Spit if there had been any phone calls while he was whooping it up with Freddy.
I was quite sure that Freddy had been responsible for my scare of the night before, though. He had as good as admitted it. The question was, should I tell Becker about it or keep it to myself?
If I told Becker, would he search the dump hut, maybe find a package of lilac-motif notepaper and a newspaper with letters cut out of it? I decided it was probably best to drop it. I had told Freddy I would mind my own business, and around here, if you say you’ll do a thing, people generally believe you. I’d just have to be more discreet, that was all.
On my way down the dump road, I saw a tall figure walking slowly along the gravel verge, head bent, shoulders hunched. It was Eddie and as I slowed to give him a ride, he looked up mournfully. He had a black eye, a fresh one, as ugly as the one Francy had been wearing on Monday. What was this, an epidemic? One thing was certain, this bruise at least had not been caused by John Travers.
I reached over to roll down the window on the passenger side.
“Hey Eddie. Want a lift?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He climbed inside.
“Don’t tell me. It was a doorknob, right? You walked into a door.” It was tactless, I know, but I’m like that.
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s right. Late at night. You gotta pee. You get up and smack! Right into the bathroom door.” Back in theatre school we called that “follow-up”—when you take a suggestion from a fellow improviser and run with it. Eddie would have been good at improv.
“You okay?” I said.
“Yeah, thanks. You should see the door.” His jokey tone sounded hollow.
“Your dad back from that conference yet?” It was a shot in the dark, and it earned a bull's-eye. Eddie winced, as if he had been shouting “Dad” loud enough for me to hear it. So it was Samson who had hit him. Figured. Samson was short and mean as a weasel.
“Yeah. I mean, yes,” Eddie said. “He came back yesterday. Why? You want to talk to him?”
“Not especially. Listen, Eddie. I saw you over at the Travers’ place yesterday. I mean, we saw each other, right?” He blushed. Welcome to the club, I thought.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe nothing. I saw you. It’s none of my business what you were doing over there, so I won’t even ask, okay? It’s between you, me and Lady Chatterley.”
Eddie smirked. “I don’t know why my Mom’s all upset about that book,” he said. “It’s pretty tame, really.”
“Read on,” I said. “It gets better. What I wanted to ask you though, is, did you tell anyone you saw me over there? I was wondering if you’d mentioned to someone that you saw me.”
He seemed grateful that I wasn’t probing—I guessed he got enough of that at home. If he wanted to tell me he went back for the book, and if he wanted to say who had whacked him in the eye, he would. It didn’t matter. He thought for a moment.
“Well, I might have mentioned that you took the dog, eh? I thought that was cool. John never treated that dog right and Francy never liked him either.”
“So your parents knew I was over there. Was anyone else at home when you mentioned it?”
“Well, no, but we had adult Bible class at our place later, and the text was Lazarus, so we got to talking about dogs and I might have said something again then. I don’t remember. I just thought it was good that you took him. Real Christian. Mom thought so too. Real Christian charity, she said.”
Great. So most of Cedar Falls probably knew I’d been over to the Travers’ place to get the dog, and somebody was suspicious enough to go check to see if I’d found the truck and the gun. They’d taken the gun and told Freddy to nail a dead squirrel to my door. Charming. I was no closer to the truth, though.
“Eddie,” I said. “Someone’s trying to scare me off asking questions about John’s murder. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“Heck, no. I don’t know nothing about it. I was just over there for a minute, honest. I hardly saw you. I was just getting that book. I went in the back way and when I heard you downstairs I got out of there. Please don’t tell my parents, okay? My Dad’ll kill me. I’ll read it and then I’ll give it back. I wasn’t stealing, I swear.”
He was freaking out and totally missing the point. It seemed cruel to ask him any more questions, so I let it go. “I know you weren’t stealing, Eddie,” I said. “Francy wants you to read the book. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you, like, helping the police or something?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Just asking questions.” I glanced sideways and saw his face turn wooden.
“Questions are dangerous,” he said. “Sometimes, you get hurt.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” I said, “but isn’t the truth worth getting hurt for?”
“I don’t know. Mostly, I think the truth is stupid. You can let me out here, Ms. Deacon. Thanks for the ride.”
I pulled over just outside the entrance to the Schreier’s driveway. Samson Schreier’s pickup was parked near the door and there was smoke coming from the chimney. Home sweet home. I watched Eddie unfold his gangly limbs from the cab. I liked the kid, but there was definitely something amiss in Jesusland. I hoped that he would be able to cope with it, whatever it was.
