Read Online Point of Origin by Patricia Cornwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Cornwell
Tags: Fiction, General, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Legal Stories, Mystery Fiction, Women Detectives, Scarpetta; Kay (Fictitious character), Women physicians, Forensic pathologists, Virginia, Medical examiners (Law), Medical novels
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commented to me as she shook her head, too. 'Course, he's been here before, which is partly why they fight so much. Never knew there'd be so many people cheating on each other. Half the business here is from folks just three miles down the road.'
'And they can't fool you,' I said.
'Oh no-sir-ree-bob. But it's none of my business as long as they don't wreck the room.'
'You're not too far from the farm that burned,' I then said.
She got more animated. 'I was working that night. You could see the flames shooting up like a volcano going off.' She gestured broadly with her arms. 'Everyone staying here was out front watching and listening to the sirens. All those poor horses. I can't get over it.'
'Are you acquainted with Kenneth Sparkes?' I wondered out loud.
'Can't say I've ever seen him in person.'
'What about a woman who might have been staying in his house?' I asked. 'You ever heard anything about that?'
'Only what people say.' Helen was looking at the door as if someone might appear any second.
'For example,' I prodded.
'Well, I guess Mr Sparkes is quite the gentleman, you know,' Helen said. 'Not that his ways are popular around here, but he's quite a figure. Likes them young and pretty.'
She thought for a moment and gave me her eyes as moths flickered outside the window.
'There are those who got upset when they'd see him around with the newest one,' she said. 'You know, no matter what anybody says, this is still the Old South.'
'Anybody in particular who got upset?' I asked.
'Well, the Jackson boys. They're always in one sort of trouble or another,' she said, and she was still watching the door. 'They just don't like colored people. So for him to be sporting something pretty, young, and white, he tended to do that a lot . . . Well, there's been talk. I'll just put it like that.'
I was imagining Ku Klux Klansmen with burning crosses, and white supremacists with cold eyes and guns. I had seen hate before. I had dipped my hands in its carnage for most of my life. My chest was tight as I bid Helen the clerk good night. I was trying not to leap to assumptions about prejudice and arson and an intended victim, which may have been only Sparkes and not a woman whose body was now on its way to Richmond. Of course, it may simply have been the former governor's vast property that the perpetrators had been interested in, and they did not know anyone was home.
The man in the tank top was on the pay phone when I went out. He was absently holding his new lightbulb and talking in an intense, low voice. As I walked past, his anger flared.
'Dammit, Louise! That's what I mean. You never shut up,' he snarled into the phone as I decided to call Benton later.
I unlocked the red door to room fifteen, and Lucy pretended that she hadn't been waiting for me as she sat in a wing chair, bent over a spiral notebook, making notes and calculations. But she had not touched her fast-food dinner, and I knew she was starved. I took Whoppers and French fries out of the bag and set paper napkins and food on a nearby table.
'Everything's cold,' I said simply.
'You get used to it.' Her voice was distant and distracted.
'Would you like to shower first?' I asked politely.
'Go ahead,' she replied, buried in math, a scowl furrowing her brow.
Our room was impressively clean for the price and decorated in shades of brown, with a Zenith TV almost as old as my niece. There were Chinese lamps and long-tasseled lanterns, porcelain figurines, static oil paintings and flower-printed spreads. Carpeting was a thick shag Indian design, and wallpaper was woodland scenes. Furniture was Formica or so thickly shellacked that I could not see the grain of the wood.
I inspected the bath and found it a solid pink and white tile that probably went back to the fifties, with Styrofoam cups and tiny wrapped bars of Lisa Luxury soap on the sink. But it was a single plastic red rose in a window that touched me most. Someone had done the best with the least to make
'And they can't fool you,' I said.
'Oh no-sir-ree-bob. But it's none of my business as long as they don't wreck the room.'
'You're not too far from the farm that burned,' I then said.
She got more animated. 'I was working that night. You could see the flames shooting up like a volcano going off.' She gestured broadly with her arms. 'Everyone staying here was out front watching and listening to the sirens. All those poor horses. I can't get over it.'
'Are you acquainted with Kenneth Sparkes?' I wondered out loud.
'Can't say I've ever seen him in person.'
'What about a woman who might have been staying in his house?' I asked. 'You ever heard anything about that?'
'Only what people say.' Helen was looking at the door as if someone might appear any second.
'For example,' I prodded.
'Well, I guess Mr Sparkes is quite the gentleman, you know,' Helen said. 'Not that his ways are popular around here, but he's quite a figure. Likes them young and pretty.'
She thought for a moment and gave me her eyes as moths flickered outside the window.
'There are those who got upset when they'd see him around with the newest one,' she said. 'You know, no matter what anybody says, this is still the Old South.'
'Anybody in particular who got upset?' I asked.
'Well, the Jackson boys. They're always in one sort of trouble or another,' she said, and she was still watching the door. 'They just don't like colored people. So for him to be sporting something pretty, young, and white, he tended to do that a lot . . . Well, there's been talk. I'll just put it like that.'
I was imagining Ku Klux Klansmen with burning crosses, and white supremacists with cold eyes and guns. I had seen hate before. I had dipped my hands in its carnage for most of my life. My chest was tight as I bid Helen the clerk good night. I was trying not to leap to assumptions about prejudice and arson and an intended victim, which may have been only Sparkes and not a woman whose body was now on its way to Richmond. Of course, it may simply have been the former governor's vast property that the perpetrators had been interested in, and they did not know anyone was home.
The man in the tank top was on the pay phone when I went out. He was absently holding his new lightbulb and talking in an intense, low voice. As I walked past, his anger flared.
'Dammit, Louise! That's what I mean. You never shut up,' he snarled into the phone as I decided to call Benton later.
I unlocked the red door to room fifteen, and Lucy pretended that she hadn't been waiting for me as she sat in a wing chair, bent over a spiral notebook, making notes and calculations. But she had not touched her fast-food dinner, and I knew she was starved. I took Whoppers and French fries out of the bag and set paper napkins and food on a nearby table.
'Everything's cold,' I said simply.
'You get used to it.' Her voice was distant and distracted.
'Would you like to shower first?' I asked politely.
'Go ahead,' she replied, buried in math, a scowl furrowing her brow.
Our room was impressively clean for the price and decorated in shades of brown, with a Zenith TV almost as old as my niece. There were Chinese lamps and long-tasseled lanterns, porcelain figurines, static oil paintings and flower-printed spreads. Carpeting was a thick shag Indian design, and wallpaper was woodland scenes. Furniture was Formica or so thickly shellacked that I could not see the grain of the wood.
I inspected the bath and found it a solid pink and white tile that probably went back to the fifties, with Styrofoam cups and tiny wrapped bars of Lisa Luxury soap on the sink. But it was a single plastic red rose in a window that touched me most. Someone had done the best with the least to make
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