“I know who she is,” Frannie snapped.
Once more, Nikki stretched out her hand, but Frannie, her face set and hard, ignored it.
Huh.
Wheelan went on, “She wants to know if we saw or heard anything on the night Billy Huber died.”
“Of course she does. She’s just like the rest of them. They’ve all been callin’ and harassin’ us. How in the world would we know what happened? His farm, if that’s what you could call it, is on the other side of the woods.” She shot her hand outward, motioning to the thick wall of trees in the distance. “And no, I didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary. We already said as much to the police. Didn’t you tell her?” she charged Wheelan.
Nikki interjected, “I’m not with the police.”
“I heard that. It’s not the point,” Frannie said. “Get your information from them! I don’t have time for this. I’ve got dinner on the stove.” She skewered Wheelan with her stare. “It’s after noontime. Goin’ on one.”
Wheelan explained, “We’ve always had dinner midday, and Frannie’s on a schedule.”
Frannie’s eyes flamed. “If you expect me to cook for you, then—”
“I know. It’s all right.” Wheelan patted the air as if to placate her.
With a huff, Frannie turned, whistled to the old dog, and started for the house.
“Did you know Mavis Greenlee?” Nikki called after her.
Frannie hesitated. Then turned around again. “Only through the church. Reverend Stark introduced us once at the Christmas pageant, a couple of years ago, but, that’s all. A shame about her. A real shame.”
Nikki asked Wheelan, “What about you?”
“I was at the same pageant. She thanked me for helping rebuild the life-size crèche that is always on display during the Christmas season. Part of the stable and two of the wise men had been destroyed.”
“Vandals!” Frannie said indignantly. “Defacing the nativity scene like that? Who would do that? I don’t know what gets into some people!” And, with that, she turned back to the house.
And, Nikki noted, Frannie seemed far more incensed at the vandalism than at the murders of her neighbor and church acquaintance.
“There’s really not much more to tell you,” Wheelan said, his gaze following Frannie’s backside as she marched onto the porch, where she scooped up her discarded apron and swept through the screen door, the old hound skittering through just before it banged shut.
“You were in a dispute with Billy Huber,” she said to Wheelan.
“Who wasn’t? He didn’t get along with anyone, including his family.”
“He trespassed?” she persisted.
“Yes. Hunted, well, actually poached off my property.” He pointed to the forest at the edge of a field where sheep and goats were grazing, the same stretch of woods that Frannie had indicated earlier. “Huber’s acres run through that stand of trees over there, and he couldn’t seem to stay on his side of the fence, no matter how many times I posted signs against trespassing and told him face-to-face to stay off my property.” Scowling slightly, Wheelan added, “He was the kind of man who just wouldn’t listen.”
The screen door opened again, and Frannie yelled, “Duke! Dinner’s on!”
“Coming!” he shouted back, waving at her as she reentered the house. He said to Nikki, “Look, I’ve got to go, and that’s really all I can tell you.”
And with that, he left her and headed inside. The short interview was over.
As she drove away, Nikki couldn’t help feeling as if she were leaving with more questions than answers. She decided to check with the neighbor to the south, Otis Childers. It might be his dinnertime as well, but she didn’t care. Like Wheelan, Childers had never returned any of her calls. And like Wheelan, Childers had had a bone to pick with his neighbor.
It took less than five minutes to pass Huber’s property and roll into the Childers’ place, where all of the outbuildings were painted white to match a low-slung ranch house with a wraparound porch. As she climbed out of the car, she heard a cacophony of dogs barking, three rushing to the chain link fence that separated them from the parking area.
“Hey! Hey!” A man bustled out of a freestanding shed and shouted toward the kennels. “Hush! Robey! Sam! Hush, I said. And you, too, Elvira!” He was large and heavy-framed, his face florid. Strands of brown hair escaped from under a faded Georgia Bulldogs baseball cap, and the sleeves of his work shirt were pushed up, revealing tanned, meaty forearms.
The dogs did quiet, only one giving up a rebellious whine before they all waited, ears pricked near the gates of their cages. “Darn fool mutts,” he muttered, scowling at the dogs. “Go on in!” He snapped his fingers and pointed at the kennels, where all the dogs—German shepherds, or mixes thereof—immediately turned and entered their individual doghouses. “That’s better,” he said. “Now I can hear myself think.” He yanked a rag from the back pocket of his jeans and wiped off the dirt and oil that had collected on his fingers. “How can I help you?”
Nikki introduced herself and explained why she was there, and he acknowledged that he was, indeed, Otis Childers. “Well, you’re notthe first reporter to come out here, and I s’pose you won’t be the last.”
