Murder Deja Vu

though—a few small farms bordered by mountains. He could easily retire around here. Better weather than up north, for sure.
    It didn’t take but a minute to find Rudy’s, sandwiched between Belle’s Fashions and Tucker Hardware. A few people were already cooling off with a noonday beer, watching the sports channel. Some others were in booths eating what looked like barbeque sandwiches. If there was a smoking ban in North Carolina, no one at Rudy’s had heard. The place reeked of cigarettes. At least he’d worn jeans and a shirt so he didn’t stand out, not until he opened his Midwest, Yankee-tainted mouth. He took a stool.
    “What’s that sandwich they’re eating?” he asked the bartender.
    “Pork barbeque. Want one?”
    “Yeah, and whatever you have on tap.
    The bartender was a big guy, six-two, at least, with a scruffy beard, ponytail, and bulging muscles stretching the fabric of a worn Charlie Daniels T-shirt. “You want to know if Rayanne was in here Friday night?”
    Clarence smiled. Small towns. “Micah or the woman?”
    “Woman’s my wife’s aunt. She called this morning. Said to expect this Yankee fellow checking what went on Friday night. Rayanne’s murder’s the biggest thing to hit the Carolinas since Eric Rudolph.”
    “Did you know her?”
    “You trying to get that murderer off?”
    “Not if he’s guilty, and he isn’t.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “I know him. He served time for a murder he didn’t commit. Someone’s setting him up.”
    The bartender wiped down the counter, his gaze solid on Clarence. “That happened to a friend of mine. Served eighteen miserable months before they nabbed the bastard who really robbed the convenience store.”
    “How would you like to serve fifteen years, hard time?”
    “I wouldn’t. That sucks.”
    “Yes, it does.”
    “You have to admit, it’s a bad coincidence.”
    “It is, and it happened to my man.”
    “You a cop?
    “Used to be. I’m an investigator for the accused’s lawyer.” Clarence took out his card, along with Reece’s picture. “You see him in here Friday night? Someone said he was. You couldn’t miss him. He’s taller than you, got some gray in his hair. Tanned, good looking.”
    The bartender examined the picture. “That was Ricky Poteat said that. He couldn’t have seen Santa Claus Friday night. He was drunk as a skunk. Don’t know why he’d say that.”
    “Get his name in the paper, maybe?”
    “Maybe.”
    “So Reece Daughtry wasn’t here Friday. That what you’re saying?”
    “Nope. Not Friday, but he’s been here before, couple of times. People come from miles around to hear the music. You get to recognize them. Strangers stick out. He seemed like a nice guy. Quiet. Drank a few beers, listened to the music, and left. Good tipper.”
    Clarence knew that. Reece said he’d been to the bar. “Would you be willing to tell that to a judge?”
    “Yup. Not a problem.”
    “Rayanne in here Friday?”
    “Yeah. She popped in most Fridays.”
    The bartender shot some more beer into Clarence’s glass and said the second thing he came to hear.
    “And she left with a stranger.”

Chapter Fourteen
Calling Bluffs

    R obert hated dealing with Harry Klugh because the slimy private eye knew too much. That was Robert’s own damn fault, but getting ahead required someone like Klugh on the payroll. Robert would have to live with it because it was too late now. He’d do what Robert wanted without him having to spell it out. Klugh would balk first, act like he was above the dirty deeds, but the PI liked money too much to refuse.
    They sat at a table in the out-of-the-way diner where they usually met. Robert never wanted to be seen with Klugh. “I told you to get to Rudy’s early. What’s going on?”
    Klugh shrugged. “Who knew the investigator working for Daughtry’s big-mouth Boston attorney would beat me there today? He sweet-talked the yokel police chief in Corley into giving him the police report too.”
    “Jesus.” Robert mopped the sweat off his forehead. He’d kill for a drink, but this place didn’t have anything but beer. He needed scotch. “Maybe I should fucking hire him. When was the last time the great Harry Klugh lost the edge?”
    “I’m slowing down, Robert. Getting old, kinda like you. What’s the big deal, anyway? Maybe Daughtry didn’t do this one or the first one either, like they say. Considering the flimsy evidence back then, it’s a wonder they ever convicted