Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake (лучшие книги без регистрации txt) 📗

“Well, isn’t that a small world? I lived with my daughter and her husband in Phoenix up until a year or two ago. Where you say you were from?”

“Tucson.” She wished the woman would leave her alone to think.

“I grew up here, never wanted to leave, but my daughter wanted me to come live with her and I wanted to be near my grandchildren … now the kids are grown, and I just couldn’t stop being homesick for this little town. So I finally made a break and came on back. One thing I’ve got is really good feet, that plus stamina, so I figure I can work until I’m seventy at least. Plus, I like the work, being around people.”

Laura could appreciate that, but she just wanted to be left alone with her blue funk.

“What’ll it be? The biscuits and gravy are good.”

She remembered how when she was a kid she always ordered a BLT on white toast with a side of pickles. She hadn’t eaten white bread for years, but suddenly craved it. Must be the influence of the south.

The waitress pushed back a strand of brittle hair and said, “Sure thing, honey.” She whisked away with the menu and headed for the kitchen.

There was some kind of heating vent near the back wall and Laura could feel it on the back of her neck, steaming her clothes. The place looked none too clean either—a greasy spoon. Her dad loved greasy spoons. She’d forgotten about that.

Laura replaced the photographs of the girls with the picture of Jimmy de Seroux. Maybe she was wrong—what if it was Lehman?

She reached into the wooden bowl of dried olives in front of the table jukebox, suddenly starving, took one and bit. It wasn’t an olive—the thing was salty and kind of mushy. She had no idea what it was.

“Never had a boiled peanut before?” asked Marlee coming by with a fresh pot.

“Who’d want to boil peanuts?”

“You just keep on eating them, and sooner or later you’re gonna be addicted." She set the plate with the BLT down on the table with a plastic click and glanced at the photograph of de Seroux. “You know Dale?”

“Dale?” Laura was confused.

“Dale Lundy. That’s got to be Bill Lundy’s son. What’s that say?” she added, craning her neck to see the writing on the bottom. “Best Wishes … Jimmy.”

Laura said, “Jimmy de Seroux.”

She frowned, as if she were trying to access something on her hard drive. “No. That just can’t be.”

“This is Jimmy de Seroux. He plays piano at the Gibson Inn.”

“No, that’s got to be Dale Lundy. He looks just like his daddy.”

Laura felt as if she’d just slipped down the rabbit hole. This woman obviously didn’t know what she was talking about. Everyone she’d talked to had assured her that this guy was Jimmy de Seroux. He’d signed his name Jimmy. It was Jimmy de Seroux. Laura reiterated that.

“Nope, that’s Dale Lundy. He looks so much like his daddy." The woman’s conviction was unshakable. “Maybe you’re getting them confused because they were neighbors.”

There was something about the way she said it. As if she were holding back an unsavory detail. Laura remembered something Judge Lanier had said: The de Serouxs have been through enough.

“The de Serouxs and the Lundys were neighbors?”

“Next door neighbors.”

“You knew the de Seroux family?”

“I surely did. They used to come in every Saturday. Henry always ordered biscuits and gravy. Never ate anything different. That could have been a warning sign in itself.”

“Henry?”

“Henry de Seroux. More coffee?”

Laura put her hand over the mug, natural curiosity getting the better of her. “What did you mean by ‘warning sign?’”

Suddenly, Marlee looked uncomfortable. “It was a long time ago. You don’t want to hear about that.”

Something bad—Laura could feel it. The judge’s statement, Chief Redbone’s evasions. He hadn’t told her anything about the de Serouxs. “What did he do?”

“I guess it’s no secret. He killed his own family.”

35

Laura stared at Marlee’s mouth, the net of wrinkles moving. Now that Laura had finally pried it out of her, Marlee was happy to share the gory details. “Slaughtered his wife and two little girls one afternoon, then turned the gun on himself. Shotgun—heard he had to use his big toe.”

“What about his son?”

“His son? Oh, the little boy. He died when he was younger—had leukemia. Can’t remember his name.”

“Then who’s Jimmy de Seroux?”

“Well, he could be a cousin. But that’s no de Seroux.” She tapped one long, lacquered nail on the photocopy. “That there is Dale Lundy. I know that because his daddy died must be eight, nine years ago, and he’s the spitting image of his father.”

Laura was having trouble absorbing this. “Dale lives here?”

“He might’ve come back, I don’t know. When his father died, an aunt took him in. She lived in Alabama.”

“You knew the father well?”

“Just to say ‘hi’ to. Not that he was what you’d call friendly. Bill was an oysterman.”

“And this Dale—did you know him?”

“Not hardly. I don’t think anybody saw much of that kid.”

Laura couldn’t make sense of what she was hearing, but she asked anyway. “Why was that?”

“His mother home-schooled him. Nothing wrong with that, plenty do, but there was more there than met the eye.” Marlee refilled Laura’s cup. “That’s a story in itself. She ran off and left the boy and his father to their own devices.”

Laura was still trying to reconcile the one man and two names.

Marlene continued, “Alene Lundy belonged to some religious group. These days you’d call it a cult. Everybody knew she was a little strange and she seemed to get worse, keeping to herself, keeping that son of hers away from other kids, and you know that’s not natural. If any family was going to end in tragedy, I’d a bet it would have been them, not the de Serouxs.” She nodded to the photo. “I don’t know who’s been pulling your leg, but that’s Dale Lundy.”

Laura caught Redbone as he was coming down the stairs of the police department. “Why didn’t you tell me about the de Seroux family?”

He paused in the stairwell, a Co’ Cola in his hand, the heat making his proximity stiflingly close. Laura saw little lumps of ice on the bottle. A Co’ Cola would really hit the spot right now, but for once he didn’t offer her one.

“Can’t talk now. I’m on my way to a meeting,” Redbone said, continuing down the stairs. Laura followed him out into the heat haze.

“I want to know why you didn’t tell me about the de Seroux murders.”

“Holy Jesus Lord, it’s hot today.” He pressed the Coke bottle to his sweating cheek. Perspiration like giant inkblots soaked his shirt. Looked at her. Good ol’ boy with eyes of steel. “That de Seroux story was a long time ago. That’s why.”

“Maybe so, but it could have affected my case.”

“And how would that be?”

“Whether it did or not, you should have let me know. At least then I’d have some idea what I was dealing with.”

“He’s a cousin from the outside,” he said, stressing the word “outside." “He had nothing to do with any of that.”

“You had to know I’d find out. A mass murder in a small town isn’t—“

“That’s all water under the bridge. Folks here don’t like to talk about it. We don’t like to even think about it.”

“So the piano player is Jimmy de Seroux.”

“He is to the best of my knowledge.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “I know the family had cousins somewhere. He showed up and said he was a cousin. He owned the house. That was good enough for me. People here mind their own business.”

“But didn’t you wonder about his resemblance to Lundy?”

“I thought that wasn’t any of my business either.”

“What? Oh.” She got the inflection. “You think Bill Lundy might have—”

“I think we’ve aired enough dirty laundry for one day." He unlocked his car.

She persisted. “How would that happen?”