I stayed about ten feet from the truck, feeling as if I were guarding Fort Knox. It could be animal blood, but I wasn’t taking any chances—not this close to where that sofa had been dumped. Finn took Lindsey back to her car after I pointed out that she had sling-back flats on and could get bitten by ants or something more lethal—like a snake. He was good at reading me and knew I wasn’t really talking about her shoes.
Tom and Candace arrived ten minutes later. Soon Candace, hands on hips, was taking in the tread marks and the path the truck had taken. Finally she said, “This truck wasn’t here two days ago. I surveyed this road up and down looking for something exactly like this—a clue to how a bloody sofa ended up next to that box. It could very well have arrived in this old thing.”
“Traffic here picks up at lunch and suppertime,” Tom said, “but it’s not all that busy unless you’re adopting an animal from the shelter or stuffing the charity box with discards. Finn sure has a sharp eye, because the truck’s almost completely hidden.”
“It’s no surprise he spotted it.” I smiled. “Finn might not be your blood relative, but he lived with you as a boy—what was he? Twelve when you married his mother?”
“Yup.”
“You were the best thing that ever happened to him. He admires you, Tom, and has modeled himself after you. He questions, observes and works hard. Nope, no surprise he noticed that piece of the bumper at all.”
Tom squeezed my shoulder. “Let me ask Finn a few questions and y’all can be on your way.”
I went with him to Lindsey’s car and stood next to Tom by the rolled-down driver’s-side window.
“Hey there, Dad,” Finn said. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping Candace out.” He bent, nodded at Lindsey and said, “Heard you two ran out of gas. What were you doing out this way?”
“We came to help Shawn—right after Lindsey finished her class. And he sure needed us. We took care of cleaning the cattery, feeding the dogs, stuff like that while he helped these cute premature puppies. We were on our way back to Jillian’s when we came to a surprise stop.”
“That’s my fault,” Lindsey offered. “Too preoccupied to even notice the gas gauge.”
“Happens to all of us at one time or another. Glad you noticed the truck, son. We’re on this and I appreciate you being so observant.” Tom straightened, ready to help Candace. She was taking pictures of the truck, the grass and probably every leaf, stone and shrub in the vicinity.
Finn knew something was up and he wasn’t letting Tom off the hook that easily. “It’s just an old truck, right? I mean, you have a lot more important things to handle than this. You’re obviously consulting with the police again.”
“Can we talk about this later?” Tom said. “Time for you two to be on your way.”
Finn got the message and they took off. Too late I shouted, “Stop at a gas station on the way home.”
Tom said, “You worried Lindsey saw the blood?”
“I don’t think she got close enough.”
“Good. We’re on this now. Go on home and say hi to the cats for me. I’ll probably crash at the station, especially now with this possible new lead. Could be deer blood in that truck for all we—”
“It’s human,” Candace called, erasing any doubt. I turned her way and she was holding up the swab. “Bagging this as evidence and I hope we can speed up the DNA test. I’m betting it belongs to Rhett.”
I kissed Tom good-bye, but as I was starting toward my van, a white late-model pickup pulled up behind it. Since the squad car Tom and Candace arrived in was in front of my vehicle, I was pretty much stuck here for now. An older gentleman wearing carpenter’s overalls and sporting two days of gray stubble approached me. Tom, who had joined Candace, did an about-face and started back in my direction.
“You know what’s going on here?” the man asked.
Tom reached us and held out his hand in greeting. “Tom Stewart. Mercy PD.”
“You ain’t dressed like no cop.”
“No, I’m not.” Tom smiled.
He probably didn’t want to reveal his new job quite yet, so he left it at that.
This seemed to make the man uncomfortable and he shifted from one foot to another, saying, “This here is my property. Got fifteen acres between here and my house. I want to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Ah. Maybe you can help us identify this truck we found abandoned. Seen it around?” Tom gestured toward where Candace was using tweezers to pick up fibers in the truck bed.
“Seen it? Son of a gun, that’s mine.” He started toward it, but Tom put out an arm to stop him.
“We’re collecting evidence right now, Mr. . . . ?”
“Strickland. Wilbur Strickland.” He kept staring at the truck and Candace’s activity.
“Mr. Strickland, did you leave your truck here?” Tom asked.
“Leave it here? Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
I was about ready to leave them to do this verbal dance without me and wait in my car, but I was curious. I wanted answers almost as much as Tom did. I stayed right where I was.
Mr. Strickland, still avoiding the question, said, “That truck, even with three hundred thousand miles, runs just fine. When I got a messy job—dead animals in the woods that need proper buryin’ or a slaughtered wild hog I need to carry back to the house—I use it.”
“Pretty well taken care of, I have to say,” Tom said.
“You can’t leave blood and guts in a truck bed and not expect to draw critters out in the country. Even bobcats. I keep that baby clean, inside and out. Why do you think it’s lasted twenty years?”
“Point taken,” Tom said. “Why is it out here, then—and not being taken care of?”
Mr. Strickland scratched his salt-and-pepper crew cut. “Don’t know.”
But if even I could read deceptive body language—no eye contact, fidgety behavior—Tom was already aware this man knew something he didn’t want to share.
“Yes, you do know.” Tom’s voice was quiet, but confident.
The man sighed heavily. “Okay, my nephew’s been known to take the truck out for a ride, ’specially if he fancies a girl. But the truck’s on my property and I won’t be pressing no charges, so what’s the big deal?”
“I can’t tell you that right now, but trust me, it is a big deal.”
Mr. Strickland turned to me then, probably to change the subject. “And who are you? Another cop without a uniform? ’Cause I know that pretty Deputy Carson up there messin’ with my property, but the two of you? What the heck is goin’ on here? It’s a dumb old truck, is all.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Jillian Hart and it’s kind of a long story why I ended up here, but I’m glad to meet you.”
Mr. Strickland’s eyes widened. “You that quilt woman? The person my wife wants to become?” He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. “I can score some major points with her today sayin’ I met you.” He smiled broadly. A few teeth were missing, but that smile transformed him into a far less suspicious and ornery person than he’d first seemed.
From the corner of my eye I caught Tom’s grin, the little shake of his head as if to say, “There she goes again, making friends out of strangers.”
“You the one who found my truck, then?” he asked. Tom had suddenly become invisible to Wilbur Strickland.
“Um, yes.” Not exactly the truth, but it didn’t matter at this point. “And I called the police. I was sure it belonged to someone, and the discovery needed to be reported.”
“You sure saved me a bunch of trouble, little lady. I was gone for the past couple days—looking to buy a few milk cows up toward Anderson—and I come home to find the truck gone. Did the missus notice? She says no. But I’m sure my brother’s boy took it. He mighta had a little too much to drink and drove it right through this here ditch. It’s not like the truck’s worth much to anyone but me, so I ain’t got round to callin’ up and askin’ him what he’s been up to.”
“What’s his name again?” Tom’s eyebrows were raised and I could tell he was trying hard to remain patient. This had been one of the most difficult days in his life, and remaining calm surely couldn’t have been easy.
“Bo Strickland. But don’t go runnin’ over to my brother’s place and rouse him. Kid sleeps all day. Works graveyards at the Stop and Shop. Guess that’s why when he has a night off he don’t sleep and sometimes comes round here and takes my truck.”
“He doesn’t own a car?” I asked.
“Nope. Says he’s savin’ up. Sure. That’ll be the day. Anyways, he gets his sister to drop him off here so he can take the truck and meet up with the latest girlfriend. Desperate, I guess. Sister’s not fool enough to lend him her car. She’s actually got a lick of sense.”
I smiled and nodded. And I could tell Wilbur Strickland had a lick of sense, too—well, almost.
Tom asked the question that was now on my mind. “How did he get the keys to the truck if you weren’t around?”
“No doubt Floretta, the missus, gave ’em up. Big softy. The kid smiles at her and she runs to the kitchen to make him cobbler or cookies. We couldn’t have kids, so she wants Bo to keep comin’ round.” Wilbur looked at me. “She would so love to meet you, ma’am. Pick your brain about your ideas. See, we got ourselves about eight semiferal barn cats. I take them from Shawn whenever he asks me to. Hard to find homes for cats like that. There’s nothing better at killing the rats and mice that love my chicken feed than a cat that won’t come indoors for nothin’.”
Wilbur sure loved to talk, and the mention of cats and his obvious love of country life were almost soothing after this difficult day. This must be the couple Shawn had mentioned the other day—just two days ago, but it seemed like a decade.
I was then surprised when Tom came up with an idea, which of course served his police purposes.
Not that I minded.