haven’t found any signs of a timing device. The pour patterns indicated that whoever did it seems to have sloshed gasoline around and lit a match right then, so we need to know where people were right before the alarms went off.”
“Where was Donny?”
“Around. Coming home from a Little League ball game when the first fire started, home early and watching television with his parents when Mount Olive went up. Or so he says. We’ll see.”
“I take it that means you confirmed A.K.’s story?”
“Off the record?”
“Always.” I held up my hand in the Boy Scouts’ three-finger pledge of honor.
“Okay. Ed did reach out and touch the Pritchett woman today and she corroborated. ATF’s still not ready to cut them loose though.”
The lid was about to bounce off the popper bowl. I opened the microwave, poured some of the popped kernels into a big wooden bowl and put the rest back in to finish. Dwight snitched a few as we waited.
“Donny Turner tell you about how Charles Starling spray-painted their school bus once?”
“And how careless he is with cigarettes? Oh, yes indeed. Why do you think we’re taking a closer look at Turner?”
“On the other hand,” I said, “maybe it’s not as obvious as it looks. What do you want to drink? Bourbon?”
“Beer if you’ve got it.”
I pointed him toward the refrigerator.
“And what do you mean, not what it looks?” Dwight popped the top of a long-necked bottle and took a deep swallow. “If it’s not racism or pyromania, what else would it be?”
“Murder?”
“Arthur Hunt? Who’d want to kill a harmless old drunk like Arthur Hunt?”
“I don’t know. You’re the detective. But the man is dead and nobody seems to be paying much attention to that.”
“We’ve paid attention,” Dwight protested. “There’s nothing there. No next-of-kin. No insurance on his life. Nobody threatened by him.”
“I heard him threaten Reverend Ligon.”
“When?”
“Sunday before last. Mr. Ligon fired him for drunkenness and Hunt said he was going to tell the deacons all about Ligon.”
“Ligon sound worried?”
In all honesty, I had to say no. “But look at the results. Ligon wanted to enlarge the church and he couldn’t get the votes to do it legitimately. Now with the fellowship hall out of the way and the most fortuitous end of the church burned, he can call in the architects and insurance money will foot most of the bill. Not to mention all the money that’s been donated.”
“Reverend Ligon?”
I had to admit it was hard to picture that very proper man with a gas can in one hand and spray paint in the other.
“He’s not the only one who wanted to remodel,” I said. “Maidie tells me there’s a sizeable contingent that’s burning to build.”
Dwight grinned and I had to smile, too, as I realized what I’d said.
“All the same,” he reminded me, “how many of them would know to use that brand of spray paint?”
I nodded. “Or know Starling’s way of printing?”
The bell rang on the microwave and I dumped the rest of our popcorn into the big wooden bowl.
“A horse angel, huh?” said Dwight as we headed upstairs to my VCR.
24
I didn’t know if Cyl DeGraffenried was avoiding me since Monday evening or whether Doug had legitimately assigned her elsewhere, but Tracy Johnson prosecuted on Tuesday and Wednesday and she was there again on Thursday.
Tracy’s tall and willowy with short blonde hair and gorgeous green eyes that she downplays in court with oversized, scholarly-looking glasses. Even though she loves high heels as much as I do, she’s savvy enough to wear flats when arguing before vertically challenged male judges.
Thursday is usually catch-up day, but I’d worked hard to keep things moving the first three days and there wasn’t all that much to catch up on.
“Be nice if we could finish early enough for me to get my hair done this afternoon,” said Tracy during our morning break. “I’m driving down to the beach tomorrow afternoon.”
