“That would be Dorothea. She doesn’t like to waste time getting places,” said Eddie.
Michelle glanced out the window and saw the big black Beemer. The woman who got out of the car was dressed in a tight, short black skirt with black shoes and black stockings, and her wavy hair color matched that ensemble. She took off her sunglasses, glanced sharply at King’s car and then headed to the door.
Dorothea strode into the room in a pale—if jet-black—imitation of Remmy Battle, it seemed to Michelle. And then she wondered if the younger woman had consciously patterned herself after her mother-in-law in that regard. Fashionably thin with curvy hips, a round firm bottom and slender, sexy legs, the woman possessed a disproportionately large bosom that had doubtless seen professional work. Her mouth was a little too wide for her face and the lipstick a little too red for her pale complexion. The eyes were a dull green but shrewd-looking.
Greetings and introductions were made all around, and then Dorothea drew out a cigarette and lit it while Eddie explained why King and Michelle were there.
She said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sean.” Dorothea kept her focus on him and seemed to make a point of ignoring Michelle. “I was out of town when it happened.”
“Right. Either everyone was gone or no one who was here seemed to notice anything,” said Michelle, baiting the woman on purpose.
The dull green eyes shifted slowly toward her. “I’m sorry if the family and its hired help didn’t work their collective schedules around Junior Deaver’s felonious pursuits,” she said in an icy and condescending tone. If she closed her eyes, Michelle would have sworn it was Remmy Battle speaking. Before Michelle could return fire, Dorothea looked back at King. “I think you’re hunting the wrong fox here.”
“Just trying to make sure an innocent man isn’t sent to prison.”
“Again, I think you’re wasting your time,” she shot back.
King rose. “Well, I certainly won’t waste any more of yours,” he said pleasantly.
As they left, Michelle and King heard raised voices behind them.
Michelle looked at her partner. “I bet Battle holiday get-togethers are just a hoot.”
“I hope I never find out for sure.”
“So now we call it a day?” asked Michelle.
“No, I lied. Next up is Lulu Oxley,” replied King.
CHAPTER
19
KING AND MICHELLE
pulled up in front of a double-wide trailer set on a permanent cinder-block foundation at the end of a gravel drive. Electrical and phone lines running to the trailer were the only signs of a connection to the outside world. Scraggly pines and stunted wild mountain laurel formed a weary backdrop to the very modest home of Junior Deaver and Lulu Oxley. An ancient, rusted Ford LTD with a cracked vinyl top, an ashtray full of butts and an empty quart of Beefeater on the front seat and sporting dirty West Virginia plates sat in front of the trailer like a cheap sentinel.
As they climbed out of the Lexus, however, Michelle noted that flower boxes lined the windows of the trailer and more pots covered with brilliant spring blooms sat on the wooden steps leading up to the front door. The trailer itself looked old, but the exterior was clean and in good repair.
King glanced at the sky.
“What are you looking for?”
“Tornadoes. The only time I got caught in one I was in a trailer in Kansas. There wasn’t a single blade of grass disturbed in the whole area, but that twister picked that trailer up and deposited it somewhere in Missouri. Luckily, I got out before the ride started. The guy I had gone to question about a counterfeiting ring chose to stick it out. They found him in a cornfield ten miles away.”
King didn’t head to the front door; instead, he went around to the side of the trailer. Directly behind the double-wide about forty feet back and enclosed on three sides by leafy trees was a large wooden shed. It had no door, and inside they could see walls lined with tools and a large air generator on the floor. As they approached the structure, an unkempt dog, ribs showing, lumbered out of the shed, saw them and commenced barking and baring its yellowed teeth. Luckily, the animal appeared to be chained to a deeply set stake.
“Okay, enough snooping around,” King declared.
As he and Michelle mounted the steps to the trailer, a heavyset woman appeared behind the screened front door.
The woman’s hair was big and black with silver streaks. Her dress resembled a purple sandwich board glued over her immense, square-cut frame, and her face was composed of doughy cheeks, three chins, small lips and closely set eyes. The skin was pale and virtually unwrinkled. Except for the hair color, it would have been difficult to guess her exact age.
“Ms. Oxley?” said King with his hand out in greeting. She didn’t take it.
“Who the hell wants to know?”
“I’m Sean King and this is Michelle Maxwell. We’ve been hired by Harry Carrick to handle an investigation on behalf of your husband.”