“Oh, God. Marshall . . . what do I do? Is he all right? Is he comfortable? I mean—”
“I know what you mean. They’re treating him with respect. Byron Ellis picked him up. I imagine they’ll take Buck to the hospital for a brief period. There’s going to have to be an autopsy in Jackson.”
“Oh . . . no. They’re going to cut him open?”
“There’s no way around it, I’m afraid.”
“Was it not an accident?”
Here a little soft-pedaling won’t hurt anyone. Not in the short run. “They don’t know yet. But anyone who dies while not under a physician’s care has to have a postmortem.”
“Dear Lord. I’m trying to get my mind around it.”
“I think you should stay at home for a while, Quinn.”
“I can’t. I have to see him. Marshall, does he look all right?”
“He was in the river. That doesn’t do anybody any favors. I think you should stay out at your place for a bit. I’ll drive out to see you in a couple of hours.”
“No. No, I’m coming in. I can take it. He was my husband.”
“Quinn, listen. This is me, not the police, asking. Do you know where Buck was last night?”
“Of course. He was going back to the industrial park to try to find some bones.”
I fight the urge to groan. The industrial park is the site of the new paper mill, where the groundbreaking will happen in two hours. Buck was jailed for five hours for digging at that site the first time, and charged with felony trespass. He knew he would only get in more trouble if he went back there. But more important, that site lies downstream from where Buck was found.
“Did they kill him?” Quinn asks. “Did some of those greedy bastards murder my husband because of their stupid mill?”
“I don’t know yet, Quinn. But I’m going to find out.”
“If you don’t, we’ll never know. I don’t trust one of those sons of bitches in the sheriff’s department. They’re all owned by the local big shots. You know who I’m talking about.”
I grunt but say nothing.
“The goddamn Bienville Poker Club,” she says.
“You could be right. But we don’t know that.”
“I know. They don’t care about anything but money. Money and their mansions and their spoiled rotten kids and—oh, I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s just not right. Buck was so . . . good.”
“He was,” I agree.
“And nobody gives a damn,” she says in a desolate voice. “All the good he did, all those years, and in the end nobody cares about anything but money.”
“They think the mill means survival for the town. Boom times again.”
“Damn this town,” she says savagely. “If they had to kill my husband to get their mill, Bienville doesn’t deserve to survive.”
There it is.
“You need to call Jet Matheson,” she says. “She’s the only one with the guts to take on the Poker Club. Not that you haven’t done some things. I mean, you’ve printed stories and all. But Jet’s own father-in-law is a member, and she’s still gone after a couple of them like a pit bull. She took Dr. Warren Lacey to court and damn near stripped him of his license.”
Quinn got to know Jet during our senior year in high school, and better during the years I was away. “Jet’s out of town this morning,” I tell her, “taking a deposition in a lawsuit. I’ll speak to her when she gets back.”
“Good.”
Quinn goes silent, but I can almost hear her mind spinning, frantically searching for anything to distract her from the immediate, awful reality. I wait, but the new widow says nothing more, probably realizing that no matter what I do, or what Jet Matheson or anyone else does, her husband will still be dead.
“Quinn, I need to get back to work. I’ll check in with you soon, I promise. You call me if you have any trouble with anyone or anything today.”
“I can handle it, Marshall. I’m a tough old girl. Come out later if you get a chance. This house is going to seem pretty empty. You’ll remind me of better times. All my old Eagle Scouts around the dinner table. Well, Buck’s, really.”
Quinn and Buck married in their early forties, and she was never able to have children of her own. Buck’s Boy Scouts always got an extra dose of maternal affection from her, one much needed by some.