The Boaz Stranger–Chapter 26

For what seemed like minutes, Kent, me, and the other sixteen attendees acted like mechanical manikins, revolving half a turn one way, then another, raising an arm here and there. It was like the resonating blast had short-circuited everyone’s brain. The explosion was terrible, but seeing the ascending fireball left us all speechless and saddened. I know it did me. Plus, I was torn whether to remain at Old Mill Park in honor of Kyle or rush to the Hunt House to pay tribute to a disintegrating landmark. Either way, I felt the two subjects were hopelessly entangled.

Finally, Kent clutched my forearm. “You need to go. The firefighters may have some questions, plus you might learn something.”

I shook my head sideways. Kyla and Lillian inched forward, one to my right, one to my left. Both placed a hand on my upper back. “No. Not yet. Let’s continue here. You have a speech we all need to hear.” I realized what I was doing. The guilt I’d always felt from leaving Kyle after the Christmas parade was overwhelming. And now, there was no way I’d leave him again.

Kent looked toward Ted King, who was already halfway to his car. “It doesn’t matter. Kyle is gone and long forgotten by this little town. I was wrong to assume the mayor, the council, and two or three hundred citizens would attend.” Kent was clearly in pain, likely feeling a sense of disrespect for his brother. “Folks,” Kent gazed over the dispersing group. “Thanks so much for coming. I’ll never forget.”

 I was thankful Kyla took charge. “Lee, go see what you can find out. I’ll stay and help Kent roll-up Kyle’s banner and finish up here.” She asked Kent if it would be okay to leave the food for the firefighters and the city workers who’d helped set up several hundred chairs. He agreed.

“Sounds like a plan.” Kent patted me on the back and started toward the stage. I kept watching him, wondering what was going through his brilliant mind. I had a feeling he would make another attempt to talk with Jackie Frasier before he returned to Houston. Kent stepped onto the stage and turned. “I’ll send you a copy of my speech. Call me anytime.”

I gave him a nod, returned to my seat for my notebook, and reluctantly headed to the Hunt House.

***

I crossed E. Mann Avenue and walked to the backside of the parking lot to store my notebook and suit jacket inside the Hyundai. As usual, I engaged in some self-talk. Should I move the rental to Piggly Wiggly’s parking lot? Ultimately, I opted against that since I barely felt the fire’s heat given the Hunt House was a good two hundred feet away.

I reopened the back door and tossed in my tie. “Lee. Wait.” The voice came from the direction of Old Mill Park. It was Lillian. I raised my hand, more to acknowledge I’d heard her than as an invitational wave. She was semi-jogging and carrying two bottles of water. “Can I go with you?”

My first thought was Lillian was doing a good job of smothering me. Why I said, “I guess,” and accepted her gift of water probably came from Mother’s undying influence in my life.

We exited the parking lot and walked Whitman Street to Thomas Avenue where a line of wooden blockades demanded we stop. We joined half-a-dozen other spectators staring toward the glowing structure. I thought of a miniature Titanic waging a lopsided battle against nature.

But for now, the Hunt House remained solid and erect. From where I stood, the massive brick and tile structure seemed unharmed. Except for the wild and raging flames erupting from every window on all three floors. Even if the walls remained after the fire expired, the beauty and comfort of the interior vanished forever. I couldn’t help but think of Rosa and Rob, insurance coverage, and Ray Archer’s victory.

“Do you need to call Rosa?” Lillian must have been thinking the same thing. Omitting Rob’s name meant Kyla had told Lillian about his stroke and his admission to Roanoke General.

I think it was the two ladies to my left who caused my turn toward Lillian. It’s funny. Sometimes I hear worthless chatter too well, and life-changing prescriptions barely at all. “Probably.” I said, realizing how out-of-place Lillian looked. For Kyle’s memorial, she’d chosen an all-black outfit: a below-the-knee skirt with matching jacket over a white mid-cut blouse. Her stockings were skin-toned, and her shoes were black, low-heeled. A strand of white beads hung from her neck. The redbird pinned to her label couldn’t be the one I’d given her Christmas 1971. Or could it?

“Lee. Are you okay?” No doubt she caught me staring but couldn’t have known I’d noticed her lack of makeup except for the pale red lipstick.  She’d never worn much makeup. I quickly cocked my head sideways and upwards, capturing two firefighters walking the yard between the Hunt House and Julia Street Methodist Church. That’s when I saw Dan Brasher coming our way.

I pulled out my iPhone, dialed Rosa, and stepped backwards a few yards towards Old Mill Park. Earlier this morning, I’d spoken with Lyndell. Rob still hadn’t awakened from his surgery. Six rings later, I heard Leah’s voice, “hey Dad.”

“Hey baby. How are you?” My mid-thirties daughter looked so much like Rachel, even though adopted.

“Tired and worried about Papa.” Leah was in the cabin. I could hear the grands in the background, maybe in the kitchen having breakfast. “Dad, before I get sidetracked, Rosa wants you to stay in Boaz and take care of the fire.” It was a peculiar way of putting it.

“So, she already knows?” News travels fast in small towns, even when the recipient is multiple states away. I gazed at Lillian, who was deep in conversation with Pastor Brasher.

“Jane called a few minutes ago, right as Rosa got home and headed to bed.”

“I’m not sure what I can do here.” Leah interrupted me before I could continue.

“Dad, since I’m alone, I can tell you. Lyndell spoke privately with Papa’s doctors. They say he’s in a coma. He might never wake up.”

“Oh my, that’s awful.” Lillian motioned for me to return. A firefighter had joined their conversation for a few seconds before walking away. “Honey, I need to go for now. Call me if there’s any change.” I struggled whether to go to Roanoke or stay put.

“Dad, quick, before you go. Mama Rose said to tell you to hire someone to haul off the rubble once the sight’s released.” Sadly, that sounded more like Rob than Rosa.

“Okay,” I said, confused over my mother-in-law’s instruction. I returned to the blockade and a growing crowd of onlookers.

“Lee, you need to hear this.” Lillian said as I saw three fire hoses arching thick streams of water through the upstairs windows. The flames were undeterred.

“Hey Dan,” I said, reaching out and shaking his hand. He nodded and motioned me to walk with him to the sidewalk leading to Dr. Hunt’s long-abandoned office.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.” Dan held out a hand, like a stop sign, as Lillian approached. “Give us a minute.” He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.

“What’s that?”

“It may be nothing but since the blast my mind’s grown suspicious.” I almost laughed at Dan’s word picture.

“Okay.”

“First, let me ask you something.” He stared into my eyes, waiting for my response. I gave him an affirmative nod. “Have you recently hired anyone to do work at the Hunt House?”

“No.”

“Now, I’m even more suspicious. Yesterday afternoon I saw an older model van parked in the driveway.” Dan pointed at the Hunt House as though I couldn’t follow his story. “Two men got out and walked to the back door. They stayed fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Then left.”

Dan’s story triggered a dozen questions. I started with, “can you describe the van?”

“It was white, off-white, or might have been dirty. The back panel was solid with a sign in blue lettering: ‘Larry’s Electric & Plumbing.’ Funny, the painting or decal, whatever, looked much newer than the van.”

“Why?”

“It was cleaner, bright white.”

“I’m curious. Where were you when you saw this?” Dan’s story was already believable. He is the pastor of Julie Street Methodist.

“I was in my study.” He turned and pointed to the church. “Corner window, second floor.”

Dan turned back to face me. I again nodded. “What time yesterday afternoon?”

“That’s one thing I didn’t peg, but it had to be between 2:45 and 3:15. On Thursdays, I meet my daughter at the library after school.”

I was about to ask my next question when I heard a loud crash. It sounded like breaking glass. When I looked, I saw tile after tile slip from the front side of the roof and land on the ground and sidewalk. “One other question before you go.” I had noticed Dan, twice, looking at an oversized wristwatch.

“Go ahead, but hurry. I have a lunch appointment.”

“Can you describe the two men?” Sometimes, but rarely, I knew the answer before the witness or student responded. The rare occurrence had normally happened in court, but that was nearly twenty years ago. Although it had happened twice in a Torts class.

“Mutt and Jeff. One was tall and thick, the other was short and thick. Both wore uniforms: light blue short-sleeved shirts, darker navy pants, tan-colored hats and work boots.”

“Short sleeves?”

“Yes.”

“Were they carrying anything?”

“The taller man had an over-sized toolbox. From the way he was toting it, I’d guess it was heavy.”

“Okay, thanks for telling me.” Dan looked at his watch for the third time. “You better go.”

This time, he nodded. And walked away.

***

By 2:30 PM, I’d tired of fire watching. For two reasons. The first was the lengthy delay in holding a promised press briefing. To me, after the firefighters extinguished the flames, the firefighters followed a never-ending loop. Like an episodic story, scene after scene repeating the same thing. Two walked inside the Hunt House, stayed a few minutes, exited, and two more followed the same pattern. Things finally made more sense when a firefighter with a megaphone yelled that Chief Beck was waiting on the State’s Fire Marshall to arrive before a briefing could take place.

The second reason was more troubling. The subtle insults from several gawkers had made me angry. And filled me with an emotion I’d classify as ‘isolated.’ Several times over the past few hours I’d heard remarks such as, “the greedy bastards got what they deserved,” and, “I hope the insurance company cancelled their coverage yesterday.” I’d even heard a Boaz police officer mumble a response to a younger man in shorts and a tee-shirt, something like, “God is good.” The young gawker’s response was probably, “All the time,” although I couldn’t make out the words. Walking back to my car, I’m still wondering whether anyone present knew who I was. It probably wouldn’t matter if they did.

At 4:30 PM, I exited Highway 77 in Attalla and pointed my Hyundai south on I-59. I’d spent the past hour and a half alone at Kyla’s, considering whether to cancel my flight. Although my departure time wasn’t until 7:00, I looked forward to reflecting on the day’s events, and considering what awaited me in Roanoke.

***

I took the Springville exit and bought a chicken sandwich and fries at Hardee’s. I hadn’t eaten since Kyla’s scrambled eggs and toast early this morning. After eating inside, I visited the restroom before continuing to Birmingham’s airport.

I’d just merged into traffic when my iPhone vibrated in the seat beside me. It was Micaden Tanner. I’d been eager to speak with him ever since dropping off the pistol Tuesday afternoon. “Hey Micaden.”

“You got a minute?” The salt and pepper haired man was like a stingy book editor, cutting unnecessary words with abandon.

“Yes. I’m driving to the airport.” I chose context and brevity.

“My best to Rob.” Unsurprisingly, Micaden already knew about my father-in-law’s stroke.

“Thanks.”

“Just came from the press conference.” A tractor-trailer rig pulled beside me, muffling Micaden’s voice. “They found a body.”

“What? Hold on, let me get my ear-buds.” I fumbled with the wires, half expecting a state trooper to zoom in behind me. “Okay, you said you attended Chief Beck’s press conference.”

“Don’t add words. Beck was there but didn’t say ten words. State fire Marshall Kendrick and Boaz Police Chief Gaskin did most of the talking. Did you hear me say they found a body?”

“Damn. Let me guess. The man was tall and thick, or short and thick?” I was projecting from Pastor Brasher’s story.

“Don’t know. They’re awaiting an autopsy.” Micaden said goodbye to Tina in the background. “One thing seems certain. There was a gas leak. However, they’re not sure about the ignition.”

“What set it off?” Dumb question.

With no transition, Micaden added, “Connor says the pistol can’t be the murder weapon.” Before I could respond, Kyla called. I ignored her for now, not knowing when I’d have another chance to talk with Micaden.

“Connor Ford, our investigator?”

“Who else? He’s excellent but said a third grader could have figured it out.”

I was feeling stupid but didn’t know why. “How’s that?”

“Serial number. Smith and Wesson’s web page provides this information all the way back to its founding in 1856.”

“So, what year was it manufactured?”

“Between 2015 and 2019.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I felt like such a dumbass.”

“It happens to me sometimes, but usually for a more respectable reason. Just kidding.” Micaden was loosening up.

“Since lately, I’m rather slow, let me summarize. The pistol Rachel led me to is irrelevant to Kyle’s murder, and the Hunt House fire is arson.”

“Your latter point seems certain. Not sure I agree with the former. But, at a minimum, it couldn’t have fired the deadly shot.” I heard a phone ringing. “Hold on, I need to get this.” Our call went mute. After a minute, he returned. “You still there?”

“Yep.”

“That was Connor. Be sure you’re sitting down.”

“I am. Remember, I’m driving to Birmingham.”

“It was a metaphor. Listen to what Joe found.”

“Joe?”

“Connor’s employee. Sidekick. He stumbled over a deed in the Marshall County Probate office. Your father-in-law signed over the Hunt House property to Rylan’s of Boaz three days ago.”

My response was predictable. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Rarely. Since this is confidential, you want to know my theory?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ray Archer bought the Hunt House for two reasons. One is to make a quick buck. The other was to destroy evidence.” Micaden went silent. I imagined his rudimentary pencil sketching. This time of fire raging skyward from the Hunt House’s windows.

“That’s clear as mud.” Maybe Micaden wasn’t so bright after all.

“According to Connor, Ray paid your father-in-law half a million and insured it for $750,000. I admit, this next statement is Connor’s hypothesis. Ray thinks Rachel hid the murder weapon at the Hunt House, and since she is dead, that pistol was the last link to the crime he committed half-a-century ago.”

Ten minutes after Micaden ended his call, a car accident in Roebuck forced all southbound traffic to detour onto Highway 11. In less than a mile, it was bumper to bumper. I activated my iPhone. It was 5:40. When Micaden called, I’d slowed my speed, as though that would help me digest all the bad news he’d relayed. Now, with the detour and snail-paced plodding, I worried if I’d make my flight. Thankfully, I only lost ten minutes. At East Lake Park, a state trooper directing traffic signaled approval to rejoin I-59.

My mind returned to Micaden’s call. And Ray Archer. In law school, I’d learned to ask questions, especially, ‘what does this mean?’ Professor Stern loved analogies, so he’d encourage his students to think of their case as a puzzle, and ask, ‘where does this new piece fit?’

Until the Hunt House fire, and Micaden’s call, I’d thought my puzzle was an old one, that I was on a mission to find the missing pieces that would enable a prosecutor to convict Ray Archer. One mistake I’d made was subconsciously believing Ray Archer’s horrible criminal conduct was in the past. Now, I realized I was in a whole new ball game. If Connor Ford’s hypothesis was true, Ray Archer is just as much a criminal now as he was half-a-century ago. But, with one giant difference. Now, his defense counsel couldn’t argue his client was just a kid and should be granted youthful offender status.

As I exited I-59 to Birmingham-Shuttlesworth airport, I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach, one reminiscent of the day I’d read Rachel’s story of Kyle’s murder. Sweat popped out across my forehead. There was one difference. For the first time, I was afraid. If Ray Archer would risk his financial empire and his freedom to destroy the Hunt House and any incriminating evidence it might contain, what in Hell would stop him from killing me, or anyone else who became a threat to his comfortable life?

I chose Car Park 1 since it was the closest and, I assumed, the safest place to park my Hyundai. Before leaving Kyla’s, I’d read it contained 3,497 spots. I finally found an opening on the fifth floor, remembering it was Thanksgiving weekend. This probably meant the check-in process would be as slow as traffic had been on Highway 11.

I parked, grabbed my carry-on, and headed for the elevator bank. When I exited the parking deck, my iPhone vibrated in my jacket pocket. This time, it was Rosa. Our conversation was quick and pointed, not to mention virtually one-sided.

***

For some strange reason, nothing to do with being hungry, I ate at McDonald’s in Roebuck before I left Birmingham. My decision to stay in Alabama seemed wrong. But Rosa had been so adamant, even pleading, almost begging me to remain in Boaz. “Lee, there’s nothing right now you can do here. I promise I’ll tell you soon, but now I need you. Rob needs you to have the Hunt House mess hauled off.”

It was a strange request. I didn’t have the heart to ask her about the sale to Ray Archer, but I now knew I had to act instead of react.