I'll admit that most of those little facts I accumulated didn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things, whereas Alcee's misbehavior actually led to human misery. But so far I hadn't seen a single way to stop Alcee. He was very clever about keeping his activities under control and hidden from anyone with the power to intervene. And I wasn't too awful sure that Bud Dearborn didn't know.
"Detective Beck," I said. "Are you looking for Jason?"
"The sheriff asked me to come by and see if I could find anything out of order."
"And have you found anything?"
"No, ma'am, I haven't."
"Jason's boss told you the door to his truck was open?"
"I closed it so the battery wouldn't run down. I was careful not to touch anything, of course. But I'm sure your brother will show back up any time now, and he'll be unhappy if we mess with his stuff for no reason."
"I have a key to his house, and I'm going to ask you to go in there with me."
"Do you suspect anything happened to your brother in his house?" Alcee Beck was being so careful to spell everything out that I wondered if he had a tape recorder rolling away in his pocket.
"Could be. He doesn't normally miss work. In fact, he never misses work. And I always know where he is. He's real good about letting me know."
"He'd tell you if he was running off with a woman? Most brothers wouldn't do that, Miss Stackhouse."
"He'd tell me, or he'd tell Catfish."
Alcee Beck did his best to keep his skeptical look on his dark face, but it didn't sit there easily.
The house was still locked. I picked out the right key from the ones on my ring, and we went inside. I didn't have the feeling of homecoming when I entered, the feeling I used to have as a kid. I'd lived in Gran's house so much longer than this little place. The minute Jason had turned twenty, he'd moved over here full-time, and though I'd dropped in, I'd probably spent less than twenty-four hours total in this house in the last eight years.
Glancing around me, I realized that my brother really hadn't changed the house much in all that time. It was a small ranch-style house with small rooms, but of course it was a lot younger than Gran's house - my house - and a lot more heating- and cooling-efficient. My father had done most of the work on it, and he was a good builder.
The small living room was still filled with the maple furniture my mother had picked out at the discount furniture store, and its upholstery (cream with green and blue flowers that had never been seen in nature) was still bright, more's the pity. It had taken me a few years to realize that my mother, while a clever woman in some respects, had had no taste whatsoever. Jason had never come to that realization. He'd replaced the curtains when they frayed and faded, and he'd gotten a new rug to cover the most worn spots on the ancient blue carpet. The appliances were all new, and he'd worked hard on updating the bathroom. But my parents, if they could have entered their home, would have felt quite comfortable.
It was a shock to realize they'd been dead for nearly twenty years.
While I stood close to the doorway, praying I wouldn't see bloodstains, Alcee Beck prowled through the house, which certainly seemed orderly. After a second's indecision, I decided to follow him. There wasn't much to see; like I say, it's a small house. Three bedrooms (two of them quite cramped), the living room, a kitchen, one bathroom, a fair-sized family room, and a small dining room: a house that could be duplicated any number of times in any town in America.
The house was quite tidy. Jason had never lived like a pig, though sometimes he acted like one. Even the king-size bed that almost filled the biggest bedroom was more-or-less pulled straight, though I could see the sheets were black and shiny. They were supposed to look like silk, but I was sure they were some artificial blend. Too slithery for me; I liked percale.
"No evidence of any struggle," the detective pointed out.
"While I'm here, I'm just going to get something," I told him, going over to the gun cabinet that had been my dad's. It was locked, so I checked my key ring again. Yes, I had a key for that, too, and I remembered some long story Jason had told me about why I needed one - in case he was out hunting and he needed another rifle, or something. As if I'd drop everything and run to fetch another rifle for him!
Well, I might, if I wasn't due at work, or something.
All Jason's rifles, and my father's, were in the gun cabinet - all the requisite ammunition, too.
"All present?" The detective was shifting around impatiently in the doorway to the dining room.
"Yes. I'm just going to take one of them home with me."
"You expecting trouble at your place?" Beck looked interested for the first time.
"If Jason is gone, who knows what it means?" I said, hoping that was ambiguous enough. Beck had a very low opinion of my intelligence, anyway, despite the fact that he feared me. Jason had said he would bring me the shotgun, and I knew I would feel the better for having it. So I got out the Benelli and found its shells. Jason had very carefully taught me how to load and fire the shotgun, which was his pride and joy. There were two different boxes of shells.
"Which?" I asked Detective Beck.
"Wow, a Benelli." He took time out to be impressed with gun. "Twelve-gauge, huh? Me, I'd take the turkey loads," he advised. "Those target loads don't have as much stopping power."
I popped the box he indicated into my pocket.
I carried the shotgun out to my car, Beck trailing on my heels.
"You have to lock the shotgun in your trunk and the shells in the car," the detective informed me. I did exactly what he said, even putting the shells in the glove compartment, and then I turned to face him. He would be glad to be out of my sight, and I didn't think he would look for Jason with any enthusiasm.
"Did you check around back?" I asked.
"I had just gotten here when you pulled up."
I jerked my head in the direction of the pond behind the house, and we circled around to the rear. My brother, aided by Hoyt Fortenberry, had put in a large deck outside the back door maybe two years ago. He'd arranged some nice outdoor furniture he'd gotten on end-of-season sale at WalMart. Jason had even put an ashtray on the wrought-iron table for his friends who went outside to smoke. Someone had used it. Hoyt smoked, I recalled. There was nothing else interesting on the deck.
The ground sloped down from the deck to the pond. While Alcee Beck checked the back door, I looked down to the pier my father had built, and I thought I could see a smear on the wood. Something in me crumpled at the sight, and I must have made a noise. Alcee came to stand by me, and I said, "Look at the pier."