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“Shucks, I reckon,” she mocked. “I’ll call you when I get something. Or when I strike out.”
“You never strike out,” I said. By the time the door whammed shut behind me, the keys were already clattering.
MY OFFICE phone rang an hour later. Miranda had dug deep into her bag of Google tricks without finding any trace of Trinity Crematorium. She’d also tried AnyWho.com and MapQuest, she said, in a vain effort to track down an address or phone number. “And I’m sure you’ll be shocked, shocked, to know that Rock Spring, Georgia, doesn’t have an online database of property-tax records.” She’d hit a stone wall with the records clerk in the county courthouse but finally hit pay dirt by calling the post office and pretending to be a UPS driver in need of help finding the Littlejohn house. “And,” she announced triumphantly, “I got a phone number.”
“Miranda,” I said, “you are a Jedi master of skullduggery.”
But if I thought my quest was over, I was wrong. When I dialed the number she gave me, a machine answered. There was no greeting or announcement, just a beep. I hadn’t mentally prepared a message, so I hung up. After collecting my thoughts, I called back, ready to say who I was and simply ask for a return call. Once again I was taken by surprise. “Hello,” said a flat, guarded male voice.
“Oh, hello,” I said. “Is this Delbert Littlejohn?”
There was a pause. “He’s not available right now. Who’s this?”
“My name is Dr. Bill Brockton,” I began. “I’m a forensic anthropologist at the University of Tennessee. I’ve been asked to take a look at some cremains that came from your crematorium-a Tennessee woman named Jean DeVriess. I’m hoping-”
The line went dead. I hit redial, and I got the machine again. I hung up and tried again; again I got the machine. This time I left my name and number. I called once more, and this time the line was busy-or the phone was off the hook.
My next call was to Burt DeVriess. I told Burt about Miranda’s near-fruitless research and my unsuccessful phone calls. “This smacks of skullduggery,” I said in conclusion. I liked the way it sounded; I could see why Miranda had grinned as she’d said it.
“You’re right,” he said, “sounds like this place is screwing people over.”
Damn, I thought, how’d he know that?
“You willing to keep digging, Doc? Or duggering, or whatever?”
“Keep digging how, Burt?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Doc-you’re the one who’s the forensic genius. Maybe go down there, poke around some, see what you stir up?”
I considered the request. I could make a six-hour round-trip to the boonies of Georgia, not knowing if I’d fare any better in person than I’d fared on the phone…or I could sit around Knoxville waiting for the phone to ring with news about the search for Garland Hamilton.
“I’ll go dugger around,” I said.
“Might be a good idea to take somebody with you,” he said.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said, “but Miranda might find it interesting.”
“I was thinking maybe somebody who could watch your back,” he said.
“You’re thinking it might be dangerous?”
“You never know,” he said, “seeing as how it smacks of skullduggery and all.”
ART DIDN’T hesitate when I asked if he’d be willing to accompany me to Georgia. “When you want to go?”
“Whenever you can,” I said. “I was supposed to be testifying this week at Garland Hamilton’s trial, but that particular engagement seems to have been postponed for now. And UT doesn’t start fall classes for another couple weeks. How short a leash are you on with this Internet assignment?”
“If we left early in the morning and could get back by late afternoon, I can probably swing it,” he said. “The chat rooms don’t start heating up till around three or four, and they stay pretty lively till bedtime. Tiffany needs to be in school all day anyhow-that’s where innocent little fourteen-year-olds are supposed to be between eight and three-thirty. Unless it’s the weekend, and then they’re sleeping late.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“How ’bout I pick you up around six-thirty? That would put us down there around eight.”
“How ’bout five-thirty,” he said, “so we’ve got time to grab breakfast at a Cracker Barrel down Chattanooga way?”
“Deal,” I said. “I’ll buy.”
“I think your buddy Grease should pick up the tab.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Grease’ll buy.”
“Be good for you to get out of town for a day,” he said, “and away from the Hamilton stuff.”
He was right about that, too.
CHAPTER 14
FRIDAY MORNING DAWNED HOT AND BRIGHT, AND BY the time it dawned, Art and I had been on the road for an hour already. At seven we bailed off the interstate at the Ooltewah exit, about ten miles north of Chattanooga. The acres of asphalt outside Cracker Barrel were virtually empty.
“This parking lot is nearly as big as Neyland Stadium’s,” I said.
“An hour from now, it’ll be full,” said Art. “You’d have to wait thirty minutes to get a table.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said.
“Wouldn’t have to?”
“Wouldn’t wait,” I clarified. “I love the food here. Great breakfast, great vegetables. But I’m not willing to wait half an hour to get it.”
“Me neither,” said Art. “I might be, though, if they’d ever get the biscuits right.”
“You’re boycotting them over their biscuits?”
“Not boycotting, exactly,” he said, “but less likely to fight the crowd on account of ’em. You’d think a place that prides itself on southern country cooking would make a decent biscuit, but theirs are sorry. Heavy and doughy, too much baking powder, or maybe they’re even using Bisquick. The ones at Hardee’s are ten times better. Golden and crispy on the outside, light as air on the inside.”
“Hardee’s does make a better biscuit,” I agreed. “We should point that out to Cracker Barrel. In the spirit of constructive criticism, of course.”
“I have,” he squawked. “I do. Every blessed time I eat at a Cracker Barrel, I fill out one of those customer-comment cards. ‘Your biscuits are sorry,’ I say.”
“That’s your idea of constructive criticism?”
“It gets more constructive after that. ‘Make better biscuits,’ I tell ’em. ‘Hire a biscuit maker from Hardee’s.’ You’d think they’d get the message. But they never do-not unless they’ve been hiring folks from Hardee’s and then making them follow the same sorry Cracker Barrel biscuit recipe. I’ve pretty much given up now. Always get the corn muffins instead.”
“The corn muffins aren’t bad,” I said.
