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“Of course.”
This is getting old. “I’m going to jump off here, Mr. Derne. One more thing.
Do you know the folks who bought Delilah’s house?”
“My daughter-in-law did. I met ’em, but that was all really. I was glad to see they wanted the place.”
“Remember their names? Anything?”
“I used to. Haven’t thought of it in a while.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, Mr. Buckner.” He hangs up. Hmmm. Genuinely bothered by a girl he knows is promiscuous, is a drug user, is a flake...heartsick to go back to her old flame.
Carolina is a decently long street, segmented into bite-size lengths by cross streets. It runs through a residential area composed of several quaint neighborhoods. An elementary school is a few houses down from Delilah’s old address; a middle school only a few blocks away. About a mile east is a Catholic parish with its own school. So much education.
The neighborhood is quiet. Lined by elms and oaks and walnuts. Just enough yard to where everybody has space. The homes are old enough to have avoided the cookie-cutter look of newer neighborhoods. These residences might have been built with pride and lasting value as opposed to the hustle of recent homes stamped out to be filled ASAP.
Delilah Boothe’s old residence is boxy. A skirt of brick lines the base of it, siding going on up to the roof. Wooden deck in the front. Single car garage. Spots for gardens, now all layered in sparkling snow. I park. Rub my face and get out. Make the cold call.
The husband answers the door.
Around thirty, brown and brown. Big guy. The type of dude that if I were arresting him I’d jump his ass with a sap when he wasn’t looking to make sure I didn’t have a fight on my hands. Side note: fights against perps are only fun when you know you’ll win. If ever any doubt, white knuckle and cheat it out. The reality of it is, if you find yourself in a fair fight your tactics suck.
But as it is, the husband seems rather pleasant.
“Hello. I’m looking for Delilah Boothe.” I say.
“I’m sorry, sir, but she no longer lives here.” Braces, gives me his full width. The kind of stance someone takes intuitively to fight. It’s the body’s way of squaring off to the target. A tell. Two, actually.
One: I’m not the first dude to come knocking and sniffing for our little princess.
Two: whoever came before me didn’t leave without a brawl.
A different angle: “I’ve been hired by a man named Elam Derne to look for her. Got a minute?”
He calculates the situation and I understand. It’s all in his eyes.
“Your name, sir?”
“Richard Dean Buckner.”
“Would you mind waiting in your car for a moment?”
“No.” Clear direction on where he wants me.
He steps inside, shuts the door. I walk back to my car. The blinds in the front windows are drawn back; I see him with one eye on me, cell phone in hand. Checking up. Good man.
I smoke two cigarettes back to back before he comes to his door. Waves me in. The home’s warmth washes over me like relief.
“Mr. Derne’s daughter-in-law sold us the place. I called her, she called him, said you were legit.” He says. His stance is much more relaxed.
“I appreciate your candor.” I look around. The walls are off-white, tipping towards a very creamy, extra light brown. The baseboards are painted, chipped. Hardwood floors, scuffed here and there. One or two cigarette burns stick out like bombed craters in an aerial photo.
“Complements of Ms. Boothe, I’m sure,” he says, looking at the burns also. Looks to me, meets my eye. Sticks his hand out. “Tyler Bellview.” We shake hands. “And this is my wife, Abigail.”
She enters the room from what I presume is the kitchen. The aroma of baking cookies follows her like an escort. She smiles and waves; looks slightly uncomfortable at the stranger in her house.
