The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (18 page)

19

M
OVING
D
AY

H
UBBARD RETURNED ACROSS THE WEEDY FIELD
to Mrs. Fincher’s farmhouse to ask for her proxy on the negotiations and get her wish list for a perfect deal. Sitting at her kitchen table again, he was surprised by the expansiveness of her imagination. The old woman could dream big when she set her mind to it. Maybe dreams don’t come with expiration dates. He took a deep breath and assured her that he would get her terms. The distinct possibility that he might not help at all, but only screw up a transaction that only required her signature, tried to work its way into his thoughts—but he pushed the negative thought aside.

Leaving her farm for Monticello, Hubbard telephoned the college girls who worked at the drive-in. They were both at home.
Cleopatra
, or rather Missy, was as seductive on the line as her party costume in Amir’s photo implied. She told Hubbard she was
so
eager to see him that words
failed
her. Her endearment delivered in a sultry voice.

“Yeah, uh, sounds good.” Hubbard told Missy he’d be there in ten minutes and clicked off.
Keep your wits about you, Hubbard. Don’t get sidetracked.

The three girls had an apartment on the same pricey street as Amir, but across the road and two houses away. A small U-Haul truck was parked in their driveway.

When Hubbard rang the doorbell, it triggered an immediate vocal reaction deep in their home, muffled, but with the snap of battlefield commands. He caught the words, “wait for me” and “no, he came to see me” and then the thump, thump, thump of multiple footsteps racing for the house’s massive entry—then nothing. After a long moment of silence, he heard the click of the latch and the oak door slowly opened, revealing the two girls affecting an expression of cosmopolitan élan.

Missy smiled at Hubbard and flung her blond hair over her shoulder. Behind her, Carla Jo, almost hidden by Missy’s mane, dodged the hair whip and peeked around her roommate’s shoulder. They both wore shorts and sorority-branded T-shirts. Instead of shoes, their feet were clad in white athletic socks. The young women reached out and yanked Hubbard inside without warning, as if they feared he might escape.

They escorted him through a jumbled mess of cardboard boxes, scattered newspapers, and bubble wrap.

“Y’all moving? Aren’t classes still in session?” Hubbard said.

Missy released his arm and walked to an ivy-green couch, which had been pulled away from the beige wall in their central room. She yanked two boxes off, let them both fall to the floor, and kicked them away. She then returned to Hubbard and pulled him along to sit down beside her on the sofa. “You’d think when Amy flew off to Europe without giving us any notice; she or her daddy would feel some sort of obligation to write a check for her share of the rent through summer.”

Carla Jo joined them on the settee, becoming the other feminine bookend pushed against him. She tucked her long legs, tanned to a luxurious brown, underneath her. “There wasn’t space for us at the Tri-Delt house. You should see the dump we’re moving into. The rest of the school year is going to feel like an
en
-
ternity
.”

“
E
-ternity,” Missy corrected sharply, leaning toward Carla Jo. Her long hair smelled like violets. Perfumed locks brushed softly against Hubbard’s cheek like a sweet caress.

Carla Jo tilted back at her. “Don’t correct me! You’re always trying to make me feel like I’m
un
-sophisticated.
Hell, you’re from
Dumas
.”

Missy’s appeared angry at the slight, her bottom lip protruded like a pugilist’s. “And what’s wrong with Dumas?”

The intimate closeness of their quarrel produced an unexpected rise in Hubbard. How long had it been since . . . ? He had to get down to business. “So, um, what can you tell me about Double A?”

Both girls froze, leaned back, and their eyes opened wide with surprise. Missy was the first to speak. “How did you know Amir? He was so quiet, we thought we were his only friends.”

“I’m writing a story for the
Union Democrat
.”

Carla Jo lowered her voice to a whisper. “The
Union Democrat?
My mama just called. She said Aunt Juanita phoned her this morning to say that the front page story was that Double A was killed by . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Missy shook her head in confusion and then sighed with frustration. “By who? We can’t hear you!

Carla Jo leaned across Hubbard and punched out her words in a throaty whisper. “The—White—River—Killer. It was the headline in the Hayslip paper.”

Missy gaped at Carla Jo and then looked at Hubbard. Her forehead furrowed with anxiety. “Is that true? Why would they hide that little news flash in the Hayslip
want ads?”

Hubbard’s brow creased. “The
Union Democrat
is a
real
newspaper . . . But, uh, the White River Killer thing, um, that’s just one man’s opinion.”

Missy reached for Hubbard’s arm and pulled herself against him. “The White River Killer murders beautiful young women. Carla Jo and I fit that profile
—big time
.”

On the other side of Hubbard, Carla Jo squeezed Hubbard’s bicep to get his attention. “Amir must have died trying to protect
us
.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality. “We’re so vulnerable.
Anything
could happen to us right
now
.”

The girls felt warm. They smelled sweet. Hubbard knew he was just a few squeezes and presses away from losing his good sense. He gently removed their hands, stood, and took a few steps away from the couch. “Uh, girls . . . Let me reassure you that this wasn’t the White River Killer. I think Amir was killed by someone he knew and trusted.”

The girls glanced at each other and then back at Hubbard. Missy seemed alarmed.
“Do you think we did it?”

Was she joking? Hubbard waved his hand for emphasis. “No . . . no . . .
no
. But I thought that you might tell me who some of his close friends were.”

Carla Jo looked at Missy before she answered. “He didn’t have many friends. He was shy.”

Missy nodded. “He was a
dork
. Amy was closest to him.”

Carla Jo put her hand on Missy’s shoulder, looking as if she wanted to take the lead in explaining their absent friend. “You see, that was just her. Amy was always picking up strays. Whenever we drove past a dead dog at the side of the highway, she’d start crying. If our landlord let us have pets in this apartment, I bet she’d pick up every lost cat, dog, or opossum she came across.”

“Is that all Amir was to her—a stray?”

Missy blinked with surprise. “What else could he be?”

“I don’t know. A boyfriend?”

Missy and Carla giggled. The laughter seemed real, as if Hubbard had made a clueless suggestion. When Missy could finally speak, she said, “Amy is high society. She’s the one who was paying most of the rent for this place. She can do better than some nerd
Arab
. Know what I mean?”

Carla Jo elaborated. “She dragged him around like he was her special project, always encouraging him to smile, and telling him to not let the past dictate the future—that sort of stuff.”

“What past? What was she referring to—?”

Missy frowned and shook her head. “
Nothing.
Amy always talks like she works in a fortune cookie factory. The rich can afford to believe that shit.”

“Rich?”

“Well,
she’s
not rich exactly. But her
father
is,” Carla Jo said.

“Who’s her father?”

Both the young women looked surprised that Hubbard didn’t know. “Dill Foxcroft,” Missy said.

“The highway contractor?”

Missy raised her eyebrows. “Is there another Dill Foxcroft?”

“No, I suppose not. I guess I never got her last name. Sorry.”

Hubbard remembered his encounter with Foxcroft and his veiled warning about R.J. staying out of the road business. It was all beginning to make more sense.

“How’d they get along?”

Missy seemed taken aback by the question. “Mr. Foxcroft and Amir?”

“Yeah.”

“They didn’t know each other. Why would they?”

“But certainly Amy’s father came over here from time to time, met Amir somewhere or other.”

“I never heard about it if they did. Her daddy never came here; she always went to Hayslip. He made her drive home every Sunday for church service. She could never miss since he’s a deacon at the Baptist Church.” Carla Jo’s face took on a little smirk. “Everything’s got to look right and proper.
Oh, no
. I don’t think she’d introduce Amir to her father.”

Missy nodded. “After all, her daddy’s not too pleased about
us
being her friends. We’re a bit too
common
. He keeps his baby on a tight leash.”

“But I heard that Amir had a job taking photos for someone. I assumed he was working for her father.”

“A job? Why would Amir need a job? Have you seen his place? The furniture? The artwork? He was rich—family money.”

Carla Jo arched her eyebrows dramatically, as if she was on stage at the dinner theatre in Little Rock.
“Oil money.”

Missy held up one finger and chided her. “You don’t know that.”

“It has to be.”

Hubbard didn’t want to get sidetracked by another squabble. “Did Amir ever say anything about his family?”

“No . . . I don’t think he was close to them,” Carla Jo said. “They gave him an inferiority complex or something. He took photos of people all the time, but he’d never let anyone take his photo. He found out I took a couple of him when he wasn’t looking and he got so mad you’d think I’d murdered someone . . .
I guess I don’t play by the rules
.” She said the last part looking directly at Hubbard, as if that had special meaning for him.

“That picture in the paper didn’t look anything like him, “Missy said.

“It was a driver’s license photo. Nobody looks like their driver’s license photo,” Carla Jo countered.

Missy sighed, shaking her head at Carla Jo before turning to Hubbard. “He was different from us. I asked him about his parents once. He said they believed in things he didn’t, so they didn’t talk very much.” Missy shrugged her shoulders with a ‘
what can you do?’
expression. “
Families.
Everybody’s got one.”

Hubbard cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

The conversation with the girls continued along the same frustrating lines. It seemed that his best source for in-depth information about Amir was Amy, but she had left for Europe almost a week before the murder and wouldn’t return home until the end of the year.

Missy failed to hide her jealousy. “Her father probably sent her over there to land some goddamn prince to be her husband.
It’s not fair.
No matter how hard I work, I’ll never have a chance at that kind of life.”

A sympathetic loneliness for Amir pressed down on Hubbard’s shoulders. His nominal American friend felt more outrage about the vagaries of wealth than for the Arab student’s brutal murder. He wondered if Amir’s relationship with Amy went deeper than his being her pity project.

“How did Amy take the news of Amir’s death?”

Missy rolled her eyes. “She called us, uh . . .”

“Tuesday,” Carla Jo said.

Missy nodded. “Tuesday night. She
freaked
out. Went off the
deep end
.”

Carla Jo’s eyebrows arched and she held up her hand like the guard at a school crossing. Her concerned expression made it seem that she thought that Hubbard would get the wrong impression about Amy. “That’s just the way she is—too soft-hearted for her own good.”

Hubbard was trying to weigh the implication of their words when Missy told him that they had been interviewed by the FBI. The feds had asked them if they had any photos of Amir on their cell phones. They had a few, which they had shared with the agents, thinking they would only take what they needed. But when the phones were returned to them, the two photos that included Amir had been erased; even the copies of the digital images they hadn’t told the feds about on a web photo site were gone.

With a lot to consider, Hubbard left a business card with his cell phone number with the two girls, requesting they ask their traveling roommate to call him the next time they heard from her. The young women were uncertain when that might be since she was vague about her travel itinerary, but they would ask Amy Foxcroft to contact him.

At their door, he lied to the two girls by promising that he would visit them in their new place. As he walked to his truck, he noted a white Chevy Impala parked at the far end of the street. Bright sunlight reflected off the windshield.

There was one other person that might provide more background on Amir: Trish Andrews, the soon-to-be ex of the Boy King. She was probably working with her dance team this afternoon. Hubbard, like every male in the vicinity, knew where and when the college cheerleaders practiced.

That knowledge was instinctual, much like how migratory birds always knew true north.

20

T
HE
E
XES OF
E
VIL

H
UBBARD LOOKED INTO THE REARVIEW MIRROR
as he got behind the wheel of his pickup. The Chevy Impala, parked at the far end of the street, was the only other vehicle on the road. He glanced back at the front porch of the big house and raised his hand in farewell to Missy and Carla Jo, who were watching him depart.

Maybe it was paranoia, but he knew the FBI would be very interested in his activities. The same Chevy, or its twin, was behind him on the highway when he left the Fincher place. Perhaps his suspicions were triggered by his angry confrontation with Agent Ramirez, but still . . .

At the corner, he made a lazy turn onto Maple. When he was out of the line of sight of the Impala, he gunned the truck, drove to the next road, and turned the wrong direction on a one-way street. When he had gone the length of four houses, he made an awkward U-turn and stopped behind a large SUV at the curb. He was only partially hidden from any cars driving down Maple, but if he was lucky, it would be enough.

To his right, he noticed an elderly woman, wearing a floral smock and slippers, standing in a garden at the front of a turreted Victorian home. She had been busy with her roses until Hubbard roared down the street. The silver-haired lady took a small step in his direction and wagged a shaming finger at him for reckless driving.

Please lady, give me a break.

He returned his attention to Maple Street. A florist truck passed by and then there was no more traffic. Embarrassed by his melodramatic imagination, he was about to put his truck in gear when the Chevy flew by carrying two men who appeared to be in their early thirties. In the passenger seat, a man wearing sunglasses pointed to the road ahead of them. Then, they too were gone from view.

Impalas.
Hubbard never liked the clunky vehicles. But they were the popular choice of rental car agencies and corporate motor pools. He had guessed that this apex of non-descript automobile design might be also a staple of federal fleets—especially the FBI’s.

It’s not paranoia if you’re right.

He heard a small noise that sounded like the tapping of a miniature woodpecker. The paper-thin woman, who had been pruning flowers a minute ago, was now at the passenger door of his truck, using a cut branch to rap on the window.

Hubbard rolled down the glass.

“Young man, what are you doing? Are you
crazy?”

Two questions without easy answers.

Five minutes later, he was driving on the narrow roads of the college campus. Every weekday afternoon in spring, the college stadium was home for the Monticello cheerleader practice. When Hubbard walked onto the field, Trish Andrew’s team was hard at work.

The Boy King’s wife, wearing tight pink shorts and a school sweatshirt, didn’t look much older than her charges. Her blond hair swung gracefully across her shoulders with every step she took. Focused on her squad, her back was to Hubbard as he approached. The young women gathered in front of her were attempting a human pyramid, an impressive three-girl-high structure. Hubbard tried not to gape at the great wall of toned legs gleaming in the sunshine.

Trish shouted instructions as her team climbed skyward. One girl’s right foot slipped off its shoulder perch, but the cheerleader caught herself, found a new foothold and continued her ascent. Trish lowered her head and shook it with disappointment. She then stepped forward, beating a clipboard against her leg. “Ladies, keep your eyes on the horizon or you’ll lose your balance . . . Stay focused . . .
C’mon,
eyes front
. What’s goin’ on? You
nailed
this yesterday.”

Her team continued to struggle, tottering back and forth until the pyramid crumbled to the ground. Trish cursed under her breath, threw the clipboard at the grass and stomped away.

Hubbard took a couple of steps forward. At first, everyone appeared to be all right, but then he noticed a pretty brunette cheerleader limping off the field. He trotted up to her. “Are you okay?”

Her bottom lip was pressed tightly against the upper one. “Yeah . . . It’s just my ankle.” She tried to take a few steps before stopping, wincing in agony. “It may be broken.” She pointed toward the sidelines. “Could you help me get to that bench?”

Hubbard scooped her up in his arms. “Don’t put any weight on it until we know how badly you’re hurt.”

“Oh!” she said.
“You’re so strong.”
Her arms wrapped around Hubbard’s neck and she laid her head against his chest. Her hair smelled like honeysuckle in June.

Once on the sidelines, Hubbard helped the girl get settled on an aluminum bench and then kneeled before her to ascertain the extent of her injury. She rested her petite foot on his thigh, allowing him to examine the entire length of her leg.

Hubbard focused on her ankle. “Tell me if this hurts—”

Trish’s voice boomed behind him. “Clarice! You’re not foolin’ anyone. Get with your squad and start on the new dance steps right now.”

Clarice revived and stood. She bent down and whispered in Hubbard’s ear before trotting back on the field. “We’re here every afternoon.”

Hubbard was surprised her pain subsided so quickly. He stood and faced the field.

Trish walked to him and folded her arms in front of her. “John Riley Hubbard, I should’ve realized you were the tsunami that crashed my women.”

Hubbard’s brow rose. “Tsunami? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t . . .” A sly smile spread over her face and she put her hands on her hips. “I think I know why you’re here. You’ve heard about me and Tony splittin’ up.”

He didn’t expect her directness. In the bright light of the afternoon he could see that any question he asked about her marriage would appear rude and presumptuous. Perhaps he should’ve thought this through more fully. “Well . . . um . . . uh.”

“Are you here for
you,
or did
Tony
send you? If you’re here for Tony, tell him the answer’s no. I’m tired of his insane jealousy. I met the terms of my pre-nup agreement and I’m goin’ to collect. That’s the only thing he’s good for—giving a dirt-poor girl like me a chance at somethin’ classy like I deserve. And he doesn’t have to worry about bein’ alone in that big house when I’m gone. There will always be a sweet-young-thing waitin’ in the wings to get her a nice slice of the Andrews family fortune.”

Trish’s back straightened as if she was accepting a challenge. “This time it’s goin’ to be different. He’s not going to scare me off like he did his other wives. He can’t frighten me. I’m goin’ to do somethin’ big with my life. Hayslip will be hearin’ lots about me real soon.” Trish’s voice became as cold as a blue steel gun. “Everyone better stay out of my way.”

“Um.” Hubbard interjected the non-word as a placeholder, trying to interrupt her drawlin’ mean-spirited monologue. “I’m working on a follow-up story for the
Union Democrat
about Amir Abadi’s death and—”

“I saw the paper this morning.
Your part was hard to miss
. You really think he was killed by the White River Killer?”

“No. I don’t. Not a chance in the world.” Hubbard attempted to chuckle. “Long story about that headline . . . Um, I know you were friends with Amir and—”

Her eyes turned skyward and she released a loud groan of frustration. “
There was nothin’ goin’ on between us.
I don’t think Tony ever believed that, but it’s true.”

“Did Tony accuse you of something?

“Tony suspected I was sleepin’ with everyone—
yes
,
even you
.”

Hubbard felt a pang of guilt over his pre-wedding, backseat entanglement with the Boy King’s future bride and his jaw tightened.

“Amir tried to tell me the last time I spoke with him on the phone. He said that he had gotten into some kind of dust-up with a rich guy in Hayslip. He was too scared to say who it was.”

Hubbard brow creased and he stumbled over the word. “R—Rich?”

“Yeah. I think it was his roundabout way of telling me that Tony was threatenin’ him. He warned me it’d be too dangerous to be near him, so he stopped takin’ photos for our recruitin’ brochure. He was afraid somethin’ would happen and I might get hurt. He was afraid
for me
.” Trish wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand.

Hubbard was surprised at the appearance of a tear, but reached into his pocket and handed her a white handkerchief. After she had dabbed her eyes, she gave it back to him.

Hubbard tried to come up with something appropriate to say. “From everything I’ve learned about him, it sounds like he was a nice guy.”

Trish began to sniffle. “He . . . was.”

Hubbard returned his handkerchief to her. “Keep it. I go through lots of these working in my fields.”

She held the handkerchief to her nose. “You and I both know Tony don’t have near the guts to kill someone by himself. If he wanted someone dead and gone, he’d hire it done for him. Hayslip’s too small a town to find a killer-for-hire just like that.” Trish snapped her fingers. “The FBI needs to ask around. Somebody heard somethin’.” She bent her elbows and raised her hands like machetes to add strength to her words. “Get the bastard who shot Amir—and you’ll get the man who hired him to do it—
Tony
.”

“You really think your husband could do that?”

Trish nodded. “
Yes, I do
. You don’t know him like I do . . . But I’ve told all of this to the FBI. It
had
to be him. I don’t know what the agent’s problem was acceptin’ somethin’
so
. . . Trish’s brow wrinkled and her eyes tilted down toward the field as if she had spotted a snake in the grass. Her face slowly turned up to Hubbard. When she spoke, her voice was low, almost a whisper. “Amir said ‘rich’. I was so fixed on Tony . . . I didn’t even think about . . .” Trish feigned a casual question. “Um . . . did your uncle . . . know Amir?”

“No. Of course not . . . No . . . I don’t think so . . . Maybe . . . I don’t know.”

“John Riley,
why
are you here?”

“I’m just writing a story. That’s all.”

Trish looked at him for a long moment. Her brow furrowed. “Please believe me. Tell Mr. Hubbard that I don’t know
anythin’
that could cause trouble for
anyone
.”

“Trish, I’m not . . .”

Trish glanced at her team. “I have to get back to work. Regionals are in two weeks.”

“Sure.”

She turned back, her eyes intent on his face. “Be careful,” she said, and then jogged onto the field.

Dance music blared from the field speakers. Hubbard stayed a moment longer and watched Tony’s unhappy wife pace as her team became a swirl of motion. Her focus, as far as Hubbard could tell, was not on the young women, but on a section of empty stands.

Trish Andrews’s suspicions reminded him how unformed his own were. When she brought up his uncle’s name, he started to defend R.J. out of habit.

He blew out a long stream of air through pursed lips.

Heading for the stadium gate, he pictured Luis and the Rolex . . . or was it a Seiko? That led to thoughts about Luis’s employer. How could he find out if his uncle knew Amir? R.J. Hubbard revealed little about his life. It was a safe bet he wouldn’t be open about his connection to a murder with an unknown perpetrator.

Head bowed, dark memories began tumbling through his mind. The breeze at his back felt a few degrees colder than earlier in the day. He was all the way to his truck before he glanced up again.

“Shit.”

The parking lot was almost empty on this weekday afternoon, only a dozen or so cars were parked near the north entrance to the football field. One vehicle, however, was making a tight circle to exit the lot through the east gate.

Hubbard had been so focused on the FBI’s Impala, he didn’t notice the second car following him—Tony Andrews’ white SUV.
How long had the Boy King been following him?