Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [16]
“Where have you been and what happened to your shoes?” Paul asked when Lacey returned home.
“Driving,” Lacey replied, sidestepping the second question.
Paul had always had a notoriously short attention span. In fact, no one would play basketball with him anymore—he kept forgetting which team he was on. Lacey figured a quick subject change and he’d forget all about her missing footwear. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell Paul about her excursion.
“Who crashed?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Paul replied.
“Whose plane?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“You’re just chock-full of useful information,” Lacey said. Sometimes she had to pull teeth to get a complete answer from Paul. Other times he was as long-winded as a folksinger. When it came down to it, Paul had more to say on subjects he knew nothing about.
“A plane went up into a ball of flames. Just like in the movies. Where were you? The whole town was there.”
“Not the whole town,” Lacey replied.
“If you’ve got something on your mind, spill it,” Paul said.
When Paul wasn’t stoned, he could tune in to Lacey’s moods like a transistor radio (which might explain why he smoked so much). But it had been a while since he was thinking clearly. It took her by surprise. Besides, she didn’t like being in this alone. So she told him.
“Headless non-Darryl is missing from his second resting place.”
Paul sighed. Lacey wasn’t sure if he was sighing about the missing-body part or the Lacey-knowing-about-the-missing-body part.
“You returned to the dump site?” Paul asked, disappointed. “Good job staying under the radar.”
“The whole town was occupied. I couldn’t have manufactured a better scenario.”
“Lacey, you have to let it go.”
“A man is dead. I can’t let it go.”
“A man is always dead, Lacey. Is it your plan to start investigating them all?”
“If they’re dumped on our property, yes,” Lacey replied.
Paul took a hit from the pipe he kept in his pocket. He reached for his beer, clumsily knocking it over. Paul righted the bottle and saved the few ounces that remained. Lacey jumped up to grab a rag from the kitchen. Then she stopped herself halfway to her destination and said, “You spilled it, you clean it up.”
Lacey’s brief assertion was followed by the sound of an engine barreling up the driveway. If both siblings had been hooked up to an EKG, the thing would have exploded.
“Shit,” Lacey said, not even knowing who they’d find on the other side of the door.
The engine died suddenly, so they knew it wasn’t Rafael paying another visit. Paul approached the curtains.
“Don’t peek,” Lacey said. “It looks suspicious. Just act normal.”
“Normally, I’d peek through the curtains,” Paul replied.
Lacey watched the beer drip onto the shag carpet. She shook her head, returned to the kitchen, and grabbed a sponge and dishrag. She cleaned up the mess, waiting for the doorbell. Despite expecting the unnerving buzzing sound, both siblings jumped as if they’d been stung by a bee.
Paul looked through the peephole.
Who is it? Lacey mouthed. Paul’s complexion whitened even beyond his usual indoor tan. Sheriff Ed, he mouthed back. Paul hid the pipe and pulled the can of air freshener from the pantry, loading the room up with the scent of a mountain breeze, whatever the hell that was. Lacey answered the door, despite her recent stand against it.
“Sheriff, to what do we owe the pleasure,” Lacey said.
Paul rolled his eyes out of sight. Lacey had never used that phrase before, especially not to law enforcement.
The sheriff nodded at Paul and remained in the foyer. Lacey wondered whether the sheriff was smelling mountain breeze or mountain breeze masking the scent of marijuana. When Sheriff Ed’s nostrils flared and he shot Lacey a glance, her question was answered. She always had a feeling he