Read Online The Scribe by Matthew Guinn - Free Book Online Page B

through with my service, and I’ve never looked back.”
    â€œMister Wellingrath is in the real estate business,” the bishop said carefully.
    â€œDamned right. This town is a gold mine, just waiting forthe big rush. The big rush, you see? And it’ll come, you mark my words. What we’ve seen so far is nothing. Someday there’ll be settled development all the way out to Buckhead.”
    Canby could not repress a smile. He thought of old Henry Irby’s store—with its stuffed whitetail head out front giving the rough crossroads the name—and could not imagine anything more at the meeting of the Pace’s Ferry and Roswell roads than the run-down clapboard pub. “And after that, Vinings?” he said. “It’s hard to imagine many living a half day’s ride from downtown.”
    â€œDon’t smirk at me, boy. I’ve got over a half million in real estate to my name. Got a credit line with the Gate City National Bank for twice that”—Wellingrath glanced at the bishop, who looked intensely uncomfortable—“and you don’t know shit from apple butter.”
    Wellingrath took the glass of whiskey from the waiter’s hand before he could set it on the table. Sweat had begun to bead on his pink neck. Canby stared at his own glass for a moment, figuring that Wellingrath had gotten his start in the bad years, probably buying up land at sheriff’s auctions or from war widows themselves, direct. Pennies on the dollar.
    â€œAnd I’ll tell you another thing before I shut up and let Drew take over. I told Billingsley to watch out for you,” Wellingrath said, his drawl picking up speed. “Anyone who got into bed with the Union can’t be much. Nigger-lovers, coon-humpers, scalawags, and damn Yankees, that’s all the Union army was, I told him, down to the last man. But did he listen?”
    Wellingrath glared at Canby as if to imply his presence was answer enough to the question.
    â€œStrange bedfellows we are,” Canby said, taking a careful sip from his drink. He and the bishop both seemed to be struggling for something to say next when Vernon slipped into the lone vacant chair at the table. The chief’s eyes were on Wellingrath.
    â€œA.N., you remind me of an overloaded boiler. One of these days you’re going to blow your own gasket. Meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d not insult my man.” Vernon leaned on his elbows across the table. “If common decency isn’t enough, just let the thought of your losses shut you up.”
    â€œAll right,” Wellingrath said, his features softening. “The money.”
    â€œGood, then,” Vernon said. He leaned back and smiled at Wellingrath, at Canby. “Tell them what we have on the case.”
    Do the job , Canby thought. Do the job and get the hell out of here . So he began to talk.
    Canby talked and did not let up until the sorbets arrived, taking them through each crime scene, through the state of the bodies, the linkages and discrepancies he could see between each murder. Before he’d even mentioned the dead whore’s room, the bishop had pushed his plate of mussels away.
    â€œHe’s trying to make a point, gentlemen,” Canby concluded. “He has a grudge, some sort of injury he perceives that’s been done to him.
    â€œBut I have to admit that these letters are a mystery.” Canby felt a drive to keep his face on Bishop Drew’s, away from Vernon’s, as he spoke. “They ended in a U , which I’ve not been able to make much sense of.”
    â€œ Maul? ” the bishop asked.
    â€œCould be,” Canby said, feeling a stab of guilt at the lie he’d just told Vernon, the first he could remember between them. “Thus far it does not come together.”
    Vernon turned to the bishop. “Most of your murders are simple as can be, Bishop. Your motive’s usually right in front of you.