the early hour, a Bud was in one gnarled hand. When a hurricane had blown down the sign indicating the Malfourche turnoff some years ago, Billy B., inevitably manning his rocking chair, would almost always be consulted by strangers as to which road led into town.
Betterton mounted the old, creaking steps. “Hiya, Grass,” he said.
The man peered at him out of sunken eyes. “Well, Ned. How are you, son?”
“Good, good. Mind if I take a load off?”
Billy B. pointed at the top step. “Suit yourself.”
“Thanks.” Betterton sat down gingerly, then raised the pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. “Coffin nail?”
Billy B. plucked the cigarette from the pack; Betterton lit it for him, then snugged the pack back into his shirt pocket. He did not smoke himself.
For the next few minutes, as Grass smoked his cigarette, the two chatted idly about local matters. Finally, Betterton worked around to the real purpose of his visit.
“Any strangers been around lately, Grass?” he asked casually.
Billy B. took a last deep drag on the cigarette, plucked it from his mouth, examined the filter, then mashed it out in a nearby kudzu vine. “Couple,” he said.
“Yeah? Tell me about them.”
“Let’s see now.” Billy B. screwed his face up in thought. “Jehovah’s Witness. Tried to give me one of her little magazines when she asked which way to Malfourche. I told her to take a right.”
Betterton forced a chuckle at this misdirection.
“Then there was that foreign fella.”
Betterton said, as casually as possible: “A foreign fella?”
“Had an accent.”
“What country you suppose he was from?”
“Europe.”
“I’ll be doggone.” Betterton shook his head. “Whenabouts was this?”
“I know exactly when it was.” The man counted on his fingers. “Eight days ago.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Billy B. nodded sagely. “It was the day before they discovered them Brodie folk murdered.”
This was more than Betterton had hoped for in his wildest dreams. Was this all there was to being an investigative reporter? “What did the fellow look like?”
“Tall. Skinny. Blond hair, ugly little mole under one eye. He was wearing a fancy raincoat, like you see in those spy movies.”
“You remember what kind of car he was driving?”
“Ford Fusion. Dark blue.”
Betterton stroked his chin thoughtfully. He knew that Ford Fusions were very commonly used as rental cars. “Did you tell any of this to the police, Grass?”
A truculent look stole over the man’s features. “Never asked me.”
It was all Betterton could do not to leap off the porch and race to his car. Instead he forced himself to stay, make a little more conversation. “The Brodies,” he said. “Bad business.”
Billy B. obliged that it was.
“Lot of excitement around these parts recently,” Betterton went on. “What with that accident at Tiny’s and all.”
Billy B. spat thoughtfully into the dirt. “That wasn’t no accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“That FBI feller. Blew the place up.”
“Blew it up?” Betterton repeated.
“Put a bullet in the propane tank. Blew everything to hell. Shotgunned a bunch of boats, too.”
“Well, I’ll be… Why did he do that?” This was stupendous news.
“Seems Tiny and his pals bothered him and his lady partner.”
“They bother lots of folks around here.” Betterton thought for a moment. “What did the FBI want down here?”
“No idea. Now you know everything I know.” He opened a fresh beer.
The last sentence was the signal that Billy B. was tired of chatting. This time, Betterton stood up.
“Drop by again,” Billy B. said.
“I’ll do that.” Betterton walked down the steps. Then he stopped, reached into his pocket, pulled out the cigarettes.
“Keep the pack,” he said. He tossed it gently into Billy B.’s lap and made for his Nissan with as much gravity as he could manage.
He’d driven out on a hunch and now he was returning with a story that
His hand still throbbed, but now he hardly felt it. This was shaping up to be a very good day.
CHAPTER 36
PETER BEAUFORT’S CONSULTATION ROOM LOOKED more like a wealthy professor’s study than a doctor’s office. The bookcases were filled with leather-bound folio volumes. Beautiful landscapes in oils decorated the walls. Every piece of furniture was antique, lovingly polished and maintained: there was no hint of steel or chrome anywhere, let alone linoleum. There were no eye charts, no anatomical engravings, no treatises on medicine, no articulated skeletons hanging from hooks. Dr. Beaufort himself wore a tastefully tailored suit,
Pendergast eased himself into the visitor’s chair. In his youth he had spent many hours here, peppering the doctor with questions of anatomy and physiology, discussing the mysteries of diagnosis and treatment.
“Beaufort,” he said, “thank you for seeing me so early.”
The M.E. smiled. “You called me Beaufort as a youth,” he replied. “Do you think perhaps you’re old enough now to address me as Peter?”
Pendergast inclined his head. The doctor’s tone was light, almost courtly. And yet Pendergast knew him well enough to see the man was ill at ease.
A manila folder lay closed on the desktop. Beaufort opened it, put on a pair of eyeglasses, examined the pages within. “Aloysius…” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat.
“There is no need for tact in this matter,” Pendergast said.
“I see.” Beaufort hesitated. “I’ll be blunt, then. The evidence is incontrovertible. The body in that grave was that of Helen Pendergast.”
When Pendergast did not speak, Beaufort went on. “We have matches on multiple levels. For starters, the DNA on the brush matched the DNA of the remains.”
“How closely?”
“Beyond any shadow of mathematical doubt. I ordered half a dozen tests on each of four samples from the hairbrush and the remains. But it isn’t just the DNA. The dental X-rays matched, as well, showing just the single small cavity in number two — the upper right second molar. Your wife still had beautiful teeth, despite the passage of time…”
“Fingerprints?”
Beaufort cleared his throat again. “With the heat and humidity in this part of the country… well, I was able to
