Hour Game (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 2)

King told her why they were there, and Sally’s brow clouded as she anxiously glanced in the direction of the main house.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.

“So you were in your house with Mason and the rest the whole time, I suppose.”

“Right,” she said. “I go to sleep early. Have to get up at the crack of dawn.”

“I’m sure. Well, if anything occurs to you, let me know.” He handed her one of his business cards. She didn’t even look at it.

“I don’t know anything, Sean, I really don’t.”

“Okay. You ever see Junior Deaver around here?”

Sally hesitated and then said, “Couple times. When he was working here.”

“You ever speak to him?”

“Maybe once,” she said evasively.

“Well, you have a good day, Sally.”

They drove off. King looked in the rearview mirror at a very nervous Sally.

“She’s not telling us something,” said Michelle.

“That’s right,” answered King.

“Where to now?”

King pointed to a large house on the other side of the board-on-board fencing. “Two more Battles to go, and then we can call it a day,” he said.

CHAPTER

18

“SO THIS IS A CARRIAGE

house,” said Michelle as she climbed out of King’s car and stared at the approximately five-thousand-square-foot red brick structure. “I always imagined them to be bigger,” she added sarcastically.

“I guess it depends on the size of your carriage.” King glanced at the late-model silver Volvo station wagon parked in the motor court. “That’s Eddie’s car.”

“Let me guess, you’re clairvoyant?”

“No, but I see a Confederate soldier’s uniform and a painting easel in the back.”

Eddie Battle answered the door and ushered them in. He was a big man, at least six-two and packing over 220 very muscular pounds. He had unruly thick dark hair and striking blue eyes, and his features were strong and weathered by the elements. The hair came from his father; his mouth and eyes came straight from his mother, Michelle observed. However, there was nothing of her sternness and cold reserve about him; indeed, his boyish manner was ingratiating. He reminded her of a handsome, albeit older, California surfer dude.

He shook their hands and sat them down in the living room. His heavily muscled and thickly veined forearms were spotted with paint, and he was wearing what appeared to be cavalry boots with his faded jeans tucked inside them. His white work shirt had several holes in it and numerous paint stains; he was also unshaven. He seemed the antithesis of a rich man’s son.

He chuckled when he noted Michelle staring at his footwear. “I was killed last week during an ill-advised charge against a fortified Union position in Maryland. I wanted to die with my boots on, and I can’t seem to muster the energy to take them off. Poor Dorothea is growing very annoyed with me, I’m afraid.”

Michelle smiled and King said, “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”

“Nope. My mother called a few minutes ago. She filled me in. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. We were gone when the burglary happened. Dorothea was at a Realtor’s convention in Richmond. And I fought in a fierce two-day reenactment in Appomattox and then drove straight over to Tennessee to catch the early morning light over the Smoky Mountains. I was painting a landscape,” he explained.

“Sounds pretty exhausting,” said Michelle.

“Not really. I get to ride around on horses and play pretend soldier and cover myself in paint. I’m a little boy who never had to grow up. I think it pains my parents to see what’s become of me, but I’m a good artist, though I’ll never be a great one. And on weekends I play soldier. I’m privileged and lucky and I know that. And because of that, I try to be modest and self-deprecating. Actually, I have a lot to be modest and self-deprecating about.” He smiled again and showed teeth so perfect in shape and color that Michelle concluded they were all capped.