Storm Track

“Grind,” Reid said firmly. “He and Millard King. Birds of a feather. And not just because they humped the same woman.”

“How’s that?”

“Both of them are ambitious as hell and both of ’em have at least two reasons for everything they do. Like playing ball. That’s an appropriate ‘guy’ activity. Makes you seem human. Puts you right out there to bond with your peer group. Good social contacts. Like the way you moved your membership over to First Baptist in Dobbs,” he added shrewdly.

“See?” said the preacher, who’s always been embarrassed by that cynical act.

The pragmatist shrugged.

“Before it’s over, you’re going to see King and Bullock both on a statewide ballot,” said Reid. “Just remember that you heard it here first.”

“Elective office?”

“Why else do you think King’s so hot to marry one of the homeliest gals that ever wore lipstick? Because she’s connected on both sides of her family to some political heavy hitters, that’s why. And in this state, you still need a ladywife to do the whole white-glove bit. If Lynn Bullock threatened to make a scandal, she could’ve scared the little debutante off. Soured things with her daddy the Justice.”

His venom surprised me. “What’s Millard King ever done to you?”

“Nothing really. Just sometimes I get a shade tired of the deserving poor.”

“Come again?”

“All these up-by-their-bootstrap people, who keep reminding you that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth while they had to work for everything they got,” he said scornfully. “As if you’re worth shit because your parents and your grandparents could read and write, while they’re the true yeoman nobility who really deserve it. And all the time they’re sneering, they’re out there busting their balls to have what they think you’re born to. As if money’s all it takes.”

“Why, Reid Stephenson! You really are a snob.”

“If not apologizing for who and what my parents are and what they gave me makes me a snob, then guilty as charged,” he said as his scowl dissolved into one of those roguish smiles. “But I’m not guilty of murder.”

“You’re the one without an alibi though.”

I drained the last of my coffee and as he took my mug to pour me another cup of the rich dark brew, we mulled over the other men known to be in Lynn Bullock’s life.

“She died between five-fifteen and eight, give or take a few minutes,” I said. “Dwight and I got to the ball field around four-thirty. Jason Bullock was right behind me when she called at five and after the game, he went straight from the field to the pizza place with us. We even followed him back to Cotton Grove.”

“He may be out of it,” said Reid, “but what about Millard King?”

“He told Dwight that he was there jogging for at least an hour, but I didn’t notice him till he was coming off the track around six o’clock. I suppose he could have cut through the trees and jogged over from the Orchid Motel. It’s on this side of the bypass and less than a quarter-mile as the crow flies.”

“Or the jogger jogs,” said Reid, brightening up a bit.

“Courthouse gossip says that she was with Brandon Frazier for a while.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too, but so what? Frazier doesn’t have a wife or anybody special and he doesn’t act like someone planning to run for political office.”

“Frazier and King. Not much of a pool,” I observed.

“And neither of them threatened to wring her neck,” Reid said glumly. “There has to be somebody else, somebody we haven’t heard about yet.”

“Maybe we’re going at this the wrong way,” I said. “Maybe it’s not who she slept with, but who she didn’t. Like Dr. Jeremy Potts.”

“Who?”

So I told him about young Dr. Potts, who would have walked away from his marriage with no strings attached to his income had it not been for Lynn Bullock’s shrewd advice to his wife and Jason Bullock’s equally shrewd representation.

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. A professional degree as marital property. Good thing I made Dotty settle out of court.”

(Tough talk, but Dotty herself told me that Reid was voluntarily paying twenty percent of his income for young Tip’s support.

(“I’m socking it all away in mutual funds for his education,” she’d said complacently.

(Like most hotshot real estate agents in this part of the state, Dotty’s doing very well for herself these days.)

“Did you hear that she’s getting married again?” Reid asked abruptly.

“Who? Felicia Potts?”

“Dotty.”

Most of the time, Reid kept the torch he carried for his ex-wife well hidden under his Casanova cloak, but every once in a while, I caught a glimpse of it. She was the love of his life and he’d screwed it up by screwing around.

I reached out and squeezed his arm. “Maybe I’ll call Amy,” I said, offering what comfort I could. “See if she’s