Free Mesopotamia by Arthur Nersesian

Beaucheete—that sleazebag I had met at the bar who allegedly called the police when he found Floyd’s dead body—was cradling the widow in his arms and they were both giggling. Suddenly I sensed who had broken that bed in the storm cellar. Disgusted, I sized up that hypocritical lamb of God, who had left those soiled lambskins on the cellar floor.
    “Well, looky here,” Beaucheete said as I entered. “It’s the girl who God forgot.”
    “She’s researching poor Floyd’s case.”
    “Oh really,” he said. “Did you discover anything?” They both had this air of concern that made me feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
    “Unfortunately, I did not,” I replied loud and clear.
    “Well, you’ll have to excuse me. There’s never enough time to prepare for a good sermon.” And with that, the strapping man of the cloth was gone.
    “Vinetta, I got to go too,” I concluded.
    “You seemed a little rattled to see the minister here.”
    “I saw him the other day at Blue Suede.”
    “All the fellas in town hang out at the B.S. and Minister Beaucheete has helped me in infinite ways since Floyd’s passing. We go to his church for Sunday services.”
    “I just heard from the sheriff that he was the one who heard the explosion and found Floyd’s body.”
    “That’s cause he’s right across the field,” she replied. After a short pause, she both divined my thoughts and answered them: “I hardly think he’d kill a man a stone’s throw from his own church.”
    Silently, I looked at my watch and said, “My editor is screaming at me. I got to get back to my story down in Memphis or I’ll get fired.”
    “I really need your help,” she muttered sadly.
    “Tell you what,” I said to pacify her, “I’ll try to make some inquiries about Floyd from Memphis.”
    “Please call me with anything you find.” Her eyes were misting up.
    I bade her and her band of balladeering children a fond farewell and drove out of Babyland, and back through the maternal hell of Mesopotamia southward.
    I didn’t know if she, he, or both of them were in on it, but seeing that large lusty preacher cradling that cute little widow spelled out ample motive to eliminate a tired pack rat husband. The only thing missing from their plan was the insurance money, and I guess she figured that if I—a desperate Elvis-baited tabloid reporter—could come up with a weird murder motive, just an iota of evidential doubt, they could all live happily ever after.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    E n route back down to Memphis, after a forty-eight-hour absence, I finally called Jericho Riggs, boy editor. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve called everywhere in Memphis looking for your drunken ass!”
    “Please don’t use that kind of language with me,” I said. “I told you I left Memphis.”
    “And then you vanished for an entire day! Christ, I thought you were dead!”
    “I was up in Daumland, Tennessee, investigating Missy’s family and I stumbled on something big.”
    “What?”
    “Well, it’s more of a hunch really,” I said without a clue of what I was going to say next.
    “You had better tell me something good, and if you fake bad cell phone reception, don’t call back.” He had anticipated my next move.
    “I have reason to suspect,” I took a deep breath, “that Missy Scrubs might still be alive.” I pulled the lie right out of my ass hoping it might just cut me a little more slack.
    “What reason?”
    “A tip.”
    “From who?”
    “Just give me some time.”
    “Give me a name—who?”
    “The wife of a dead private investigator.”
    “What’s the private investigator’s name?”
    “Floyd Loyd,” I said.
    “You’re kidding.”
    “I’m dead serious.”
    “All right,” he said, “I’m going to Google that ridiculous name and if nothing turns up you’re not just fired, I’ll have you blackballed.”
    “He’s dead. They said it was accidental.”
    “Did he live down there?”
    “Yes, in Murphy County,” I replied,