“That why you think Jackson killed Karl? Because it’s simple?”
“Sure!” He shrugged and shook his head like asking that question didn’t make sense. “I mean, who the hell else even cared enough about Karl to bother?”
I wasn’t about to say I agreed with him, but he had a point. I went for the hint of a joke: “Doesn’t seem like he inspired much in the way of passion.”
He snorted with laughter. “What do you expect? He drank. He fished. He fucked. It ain’t much of an obituary.”
“No, it ain’t.” I finished my Schweppes. The music got louder; another dancer must have gone on stage. I half yelled, “Speaking of drinking, you ever see him hanging out with a guy named Pete? A trucker?”
“Hard to say,” he yelled back. He finished his whisky. “We’re right on the highway. No way I can remember everyone who passes through here.”
He was looking at me like he dared me to prove otherwise. I wondered how much experience he had, if any, on the wrong side of the law. He sure seemed well versed in the fact that if you don’t want to get caught in a lie, saying you couldn’t remember was your best bet.
“Well,” I said, swirling my last onion ring in the ketchup, “my compliments to your grandma. I ain’t never had better rings.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him jut his chin to signal someone. Seconds later, Cheryl appeared and set the bill down on the bar. It was a ten-dollar tab. I handed her a five-dollar tip.
“Oh my goodness,” she gushed. “Honey, thank you! I want to see you back here, okay?”
Dunk snorted and walked back up the bar, shaking his head.
Watching him go, she leaned close to my ear to ask, “Darlin’, did you make him mad?”
“I might have.” I stood up and stuck my wallet back in my pocket. “Didn’t mean to.”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “Don’t do that. You just do whatever you got to do to get along with him.”
“What, he hold grudges?”
She hesitated. Her eyes flicked to the side, making sure he was far enough away. Then she said, “He does a lot of things.”
I nodded, thinking on that. “Thank you,” I said. “Now, you take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will.”
The parking lot outside was deserted, and it was dark. I got in my beater, slammed the door, and dialed Kitty Ives’s number. Then I thought better of calling her from here, where Dunk might come out the door at any moment. I headed toward Roy’s office for the Blue Seas file he needed me to work on and called Kitty on the way.
I got an automated message: her number was not in service.
Dunk wasn’t kidding. She’d really gone to ground.
20
Wednesday, August 7, Afternoon
I took a break from researching maritime law for Blue Seas and drove down to the beach to meet Terri, swinging by my house on the way to get Squatter. For all the digging I’d done on Jackson’s case, my shovel kept coming up empty. He was reasonably safe—when the hospital sent him back to jail, I got him put in solitary instead of in the general population—but my investigation was stalled. I thought if Terri and I sat on a bench eating lunch, watching the dogs play and talking about things, maybe the sun and the sea breeze would clear the fog out of my brain.
In the parking lot, Terri checked out my new silver Malibu and said, “Nice car. You can tell it’s new by that big old towel on the seat.”
I laughed. The fear of damaging Roy’s car had made me put a folded-up towel on the passenger seat to prevent Squatter and his dog purse from ever touching the upholstery.
We got lunch at the hot dog stand, which was about ten yards from the ice cream stand that, I remained convinced, Jackson had set on fire. It was already almost completely repaired. A sign announced a grand reopening next week. I pointed it out as Terri loaded up her first hot dog with onions, relish, banana peppers, and every other topping available.
“Good for them,” she said. “At least they’ll catch the last part of summer. It’s family-run. They’d probably go under if they missed the whole season.”
“Seems like you know everything about this town,” I said. “I couldn’t have said who ran that place.”
“Even though it’s part of your case?”
“Yeah, I should know.” I shook my head, wondering what else I’d missed.
Her pup, smelling the food, stood on his hind legs and pawed at her hips. He knocked her off balance; he had to weigh at least forty pounds. “Buster!” she said. “Down!” He sat right back down in the sand, perfectly behaved. I would have too, if she’d aimed that voice at me.
I was impressed. “You training him yourself?”
She gave me a look. I laughed. She didn’t need to put words to it, but she did anyway: “No, Leland, I got Buster his own private tutor. And I take him for a hot-stone massage and doggy acupuncture every week. Because that’s just the kind of person I am.”
I was still laughing as I ordered my food. Pocketing my change, I told her, “I’m working on my obliviousness. But it could take a while.”
She smiled. “We all got our crosses to bear.” She took her second hot dog, which was topping-free, out of its wrapper and held it down to Buster. “Wait,” she said, and he did. When he’d waited long enough, which was a while, she said, “Okay,” and in a flash of black fur the snack disappeared.
Squatter’s ears wilted. As
