C Corwin - The Unraveling of Violeta Bell

“None that I know of,” Eddie assured me.

I was coming to the heart of my theory. “We know that Violeta didn’t own a car. Let alone a delivery truck. If she were still dealing in antiques, she’d have to have some help. Somebody to deliver things and maybe pick things up. Somebody she could trust.”

Eddie started waving his cup like a white flag. “Mea culpa! Nolo contendere! Hang me high by my huevos grandes! Yes! Yes! I delivered a thing or two for the old bird-in that beautiful old bread box out there!”

Jeannie’s twitching lips told me she wasn’t happy hearing that. She defended her brother nonetheless. “Nothing illegal about driving a truck.”

“Heaven’s to Betsy, no,” I said. “Not if Violeta truly owned the things she was selling.”

“Or if the driver was oblivious to the pre-supposed illegality of the endeavor,” Eddie added.

I pretended to absolve him. “Just a working man earning a little unreported cash on the side?”

“Nothing more convoluted than that,” said Eddie.

Now I started closing the trap. “Where exactly did you deliver things for her?”

Not surprisingly, Eddie was suddenly opaque. “That, most unfortunately, is impossible for a professional driver like myself to reiterate. I’ve driven to so many places, I don’t know exactly where I’ve been or haven’t.”

I rocked back and forth, drumming on the armrests, letting Eddie stew. Then I let him have it. “You know what I think Eddie? I think you and Violeta were in business together. Buying and selling stolen antiques. Those things the police found up here weren’t gifts. They were a shipment for you to deliver. Maybe to a dealer in some other city or state who didn’t know they were hot. Or didn’t give a damn. You couldn’t tell police that, of course. You’d go back to prison.”

Jeannie’s laugh was dripping with disbelief. Not to mention contempt. “And so he’s risking a murder charge to hide his other crimes?”

I smiled at her like a senile aunt. Turned toward Eddie. He was slowly sinking into the sofa cushions. “That is what you’re doing-isn’t it Eddie? Betting the police won’t find enough evidence to charge you with Violeta Bell’s murder?”

That was the last straw for Jeannie. She jumped up and wrapped her arms around her waist like the sleeves on a straightjacket. She started shouting at me. “My brother did not kill anybody! Bob said you believed that!”

Nobody shouts at Maddy Sprowls. Not without getting double the decibels in return. “Your brother is going to be twiddling his thumbs on death row if he doesn’t start telling a more forthcoming version of the truth-that’s all I’m saying!”

Jeannie stormed to the door. Threw it open for me. “I’ve never heard anybody talk so much bullshit in my life!”

I slowly rocked back and forth, staring into Eddie’s gray eyes until they started to quiver. “Is your sister right, Mr. French? Am I talking bullshit?”

Jeannie suggested it would be better if I left. I agreed. I clomped down the steps as mad as a hornet. Not caring one whit if Eddie was innocent or guilty. If he spent the rest of his life in prison or Paris, France. When I reached the ground I headed straight for that bread truck. I was sure they were watching me. I didn’t care one whit about that either. First I wrote down the license plate number for Eric Chen to check out. Then I checked the driver’s side door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. I got in. I checked the ashtray for the key. It was there. I put it in the ignition and started the engine. I watched the gas gauge rise. The tank was almost half full. I checked the odometer. There was a string of zeros. When I looked closer I could see that a tiny smiley face had been painted inside each little white aught. Next I looked for that metal strip under the windshield that has the vehicle identification number. It was gone. I crawled out of the truck, got in my Shadow, and drove the hell home.

Sunday, July 23

We were on our way to Oswosso Swamp Park, to dine on baked chips and turkey sandwiches from Subway, watch the herons stand perfectly still in the stagnant water, and try not to get trampled by the joggers. Ike’s idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon.

“I think I may need professional help,” I said, as we zipped along West Apple Street.

He slipped his right hand off the steering wheel-the reckless old buzzard always drives with both hands like some kid in driver’s ed-and lovingly scratched the top of my head. “Come on now, Maddy. I know Bob Averill’s got your brain in a twist, but it’s not something that requires psychoanalysis, is it?”

“Not that kind of professional help,” I growled. “Somebody who knows something about the antique business.”

He put his hand back on the wheel. Chuckled with relief. “I know Joseph Lambright, if that’ll do you any good.”

“It might if I knew who Joseph Lambright was.”

He squeaked with disbelief. “What? You’ve lived in Hannawa all these years and you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is?”

“No, I don’t know who Joseph Lambrigh is.”

“I can’t believe you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is.”

Now my brain was in a twist. “Jesus Christ, Ike! Who is Joseph Lambright?”

Ike’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Somebody who doesn’t use language like that on a Sunday, far as I know.”

Ike had just come from church. Changed into walking shorts and that khaki shirt of his with the epaulets. Bought those chips and submarine sandwiches for us. I bit my tongue and started over. “This Mr. Lambright knows the antique business, does he?”

“I can’t believe you don’t know who Joseph Lambright is!”

We were sitting at a red light now-but I would have done the same thing even if we were speeding along at eighty miles an hour. I grabbed his chin and twisted his face toward me. I purred like a saber-tooth tiger. “Unless you want a 12-inch turkey sub sticking out your ear, you will kindly accept my ignorance and tell me who Joseph Lambright is.”

Ike pried my fingers off his chin. Kissed the back of my hand. “He owns that shop on German Hill.”

“You mean Joey Junk?”

“I guess some people call him that.”

“Even he calls himself that. Heaven’s to Besty, Ike, sometime you make me mad enough to scream.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Then take me there-now!”

And so, we delayed our happy afternoon at the park and drove straight to Joey Junk’s Treasure Trove. It was located right there on West Apple, just three blocks east of Meriwether Square, on Herders’ Hill. The area was named after the Scotch-Irish farmers who grazed their sheep on the slope back in the 1800s. Those picturesque days are long gone, of course. Today it’s a sad strip of low-rent apartment buildings, empty storefronts, gas stations that sell more beer and lottery tickets than gas, and one ramshackle motel that rents rooms by the hour. Because of that motel, snooty suburbanites call it Herpes Hill.

Joey Junk’s Treasure Trove is one of Hannawa’s most familiar landmarks. You can’t help but twist your neck when you drive by. The worthless crap stuffed inside pours right out the front door. It fills the sidewalk and half of the parking lot on the side. Old claw-foot bathtubs and bathroom sinks, chairs missing a leg or two, yellowed wedding dresses on chipped plaster mannequins, rusty iron beds, and gaudy living room lamps that should never have been made. I’m sure you’ve got a place like that in your town.

Ike pulled into the parking lot. Parked alongside a twisted pile of old bicycles. We went inside. It was bric-a-brac heaven in there. The musty air immediately made my eyes itch. Joey spotted us. He stepped across a box of old magazines and waddled toward us. “Maddy Sprowls and Ike Breeze! Don’t tell me you two know each other!”