it.”
That was good enough for me.
Using womanly wiles on Maynard Pope would have been like trying to teach a yard-dog table manners. My ex-boyfriend, Doodle Simmons, was another story. After I hung up with Maynard, I called Doodle and demanded the inside info on the Nash fire.
“Come on, Casey,” he said. “I can’t do that. It’s under investigation.”
“Doodle,” I said firmly, “When you wanted to take me to bars fifty miles out of town so no one in your family would know you were dating a white girl, I did not make a peep. And I accepted your sexual boundaries, shall we say, though I would never have tolerated such an attitude in a paler imitation of a man. I even tried to cook for you.”
“Yes,” he countered, “and it’s a good thing I’m a fireman and had an extinguisher handy.”
“Regardless, I gave it my best shot.” I played my trump card. “Most of all, when I had to hide in your closet that time your mother came over with chicken and dumplings, I did so willingly even though you had the balls to sit down and discuss whether or not the new uniforms of her church’s gospel choir had been worth the money.”
“But I had to give you half the casserole after she left, just to keep you happy.”
“Well, of course,” I pointed out. “I was burning more calories than you, remember?”
He sighed.
“The point is, Doodle,” I explained firmly. “I did for you what e cor you I have done for few men. I kept a low profile and sacrificed my self-respect on the altar of your mama’s racist leanings. So now you owe me.”
“God almighty, Casey,” he complained. “Do you have to act like I beat you or something?”
“Give it up,” I said slowly.
He sighed. “I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
He was as good as his word, which was one of the reasons why I had gone out with him in the first place. “Okay, Casey,” he said when he called back. “There’s a little I can tell you, but remember—it didn’t come from me.”
“I can’t even remember your name,” I assured him as I opened up my official Thomas Nash file. I am, at heart, organized and methodical about my work, even if my personal life qualifies for intervention by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Nash was shot in the back and head several times, then doused with gasoline before the fire was set.”
“Ouch,” I said. “What a way to go.” I remembered the turned-over metal desk. There must have been a struggle. One that Nash had turned his back on—a fatal mistake.
“At least he never felt the fire,” Doodle said. “It’s conceivable the gunshot would have been concealed by the fire, but the killer hadn’t counted on Nash falling over a metal desk when he was shot. Water from our hoses pooled in the well of the desk, preserving more of his skull than you’d expect.”
Hey, I’d seen that skull. And I hadn’t expected anything from it but nightmares. Damn, but that Maynard Pope was good at his job.
“Probably less of him was destroyed than the killer figured,” Doodle added. “The other thing I can tell you is that the fire was set to destroy the house as well as Nash. Accelerant was found all over what was left of the counters in the basement, plus upstairs in the areas where both offices were located and in his library and bedroom. They took a chance spreading it around like that.”
I thought of what Maynard Pope had said about it being an amateur. “So they were desperate. And maybe they were trying to destroy his records,” I said. “I wonder why?”
“So does Maynard Pope. But he doesn’t have anywhere to start.”
“Or maybe he has too many places to start?” I suggested.
“Maybe,” Doodle conceaybDoodle ded.
“Did the answering machine survive?” I asked.
“No way. Anything plastic melted during the first flash. And the computers wouldn’t even make good paperweights at this point. Why are you asking?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just wondering. Anything
That was good enough for me.
Using womanly wiles on Maynard Pope would have been like trying to teach a yard-dog table manners. My ex-boyfriend, Doodle Simmons, was another story. After I hung up with Maynard, I called Doodle and demanded the inside info on the Nash fire.
“Come on, Casey,” he said. “I can’t do that. It’s under investigation.”
“Doodle,” I said firmly, “When you wanted to take me to bars fifty miles out of town so no one in your family would know you were dating a white girl, I did not make a peep. And I accepted your sexual boundaries, shall we say, though I would never have tolerated such an attitude in a paler imitation of a man. I even tried to cook for you.”
“Yes,” he countered, “and it’s a good thing I’m a fireman and had an extinguisher handy.”
“Regardless, I gave it my best shot.” I played my trump card. “Most of all, when I had to hide in your closet that time your mother came over with chicken and dumplings, I did so willingly even though you had the balls to sit down and discuss whether or not the new uniforms of her church’s gospel choir had been worth the money.”
“But I had to give you half the casserole after she left, just to keep you happy.”
“Well, of course,” I pointed out. “I was burning more calories than you, remember?”
He sighed.
“The point is, Doodle,” I explained firmly. “I did for you what e cor you I have done for few men. I kept a low profile and sacrificed my self-respect on the altar of your mama’s racist leanings. So now you owe me.”
“God almighty, Casey,” he complained. “Do you have to act like I beat you or something?”
“Give it up,” I said slowly.
He sighed. “I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
He was as good as his word, which was one of the reasons why I had gone out with him in the first place. “Okay, Casey,” he said when he called back. “There’s a little I can tell you, but remember—it didn’t come from me.”
“I can’t even remember your name,” I assured him as I opened up my official Thomas Nash file. I am, at heart, organized and methodical about my work, even if my personal life qualifies for intervention by the Federal Emergency Management Agency.
“Nash was shot in the back and head several times, then doused with gasoline before the fire was set.”
“Ouch,” I said. “What a way to go.” I remembered the turned-over metal desk. There must have been a struggle. One that Nash had turned his back on—a fatal mistake.
“At least he never felt the fire,” Doodle said. “It’s conceivable the gunshot would have been concealed by the fire, but the killer hadn’t counted on Nash falling over a metal desk when he was shot. Water from our hoses pooled in the well of the desk, preserving more of his skull than you’d expect.”
Hey, I’d seen that skull. And I hadn’t expected anything from it but nightmares. Damn, but that Maynard Pope was good at his job.
“Probably less of him was destroyed than the killer figured,” Doodle added. “The other thing I can tell you is that the fire was set to destroy the house as well as Nash. Accelerant was found all over what was left of the counters in the basement, plus upstairs in the areas where both offices were located and in his library and bedroom. They took a chance spreading it around like that.”
I thought of what Maynard Pope had said about it being an amateur. “So they were desperate. And maybe they were trying to destroy his records,” I said. “I wonder why?”
“So does Maynard Pope. But he doesn’t have anywhere to start.”
“Or maybe he has too many places to start?” I suggested.
“Maybe,” Doodle conceaybDoodle ded.
“Did the answering machine survive?” I asked.
“No way. Anything plastic melted during the first flash. And the computers wouldn’t even make good paperweights at this point. Why are you asking?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just wondering. Anything
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