Hour Game

She looked at her shovel. "Never seen her doing this part of the job, though."

King decided to get right down to it. "I saw you at the funeral."

"Mr. Battle had a lot of friends. There sure were tons of people there."

"No, I meant Junior Deaver's funeral."

Sally froze. "Junior Deaver?" she said cautiously.

"Unless you have an identical twin, you were praying over his grave."

Sally started mucking again while King studied her.

"You can tell me or the FBI, it's up to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sean. Why would I be praying over Junior's grave? Like I told you, I hardly knew the man."

"That's what I came here to ask you, because you obviously did know him."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Are you sure you want to do it this way?"

"I've got a lot of work to get done today."

"Fine, it's your call. Do you know a good lawyer?"

Sally stopped shoveling and looked at him fearfully. "What would I need with a lawyer? I haven't done anything wrong."

King took the shovel from her and set it aside. Then he drew very close, backing Sally up to one of the horse stall gates. "Let me make this as clear as I can. If you knowingly have material information about either Junior Deaver's murder or the burglary and you fail to come forward to the authorities, that's a crime punishable by imprisonment. And if you're charged with that crime, you're going to need a lawyer. If you don't have one, I can recommend several good ones."

Sally looked like she was a second away from bursting into tears.

"I don't know anything, Sean, I don't!" she wailed.

"Then you have absolutely nothing to worry about. But if you're lying to me, you could go to prison." He handed her back the shovel. "And while they don't have horses there, they do have lots of shit. Of the human variety," he added.

He pulled out one of his business cards and stuck it in the sweatband of her hat. "So when you think it through and realize I'm right, call me. I can help."

As he walked off, Sally took out the card and looked at it, an expression of helplessness on her features.

CHAPTER 58

EDDIE'S STUDIO WAS IN A TWO-STORY converted barn in the rear of the carriage house property. Michelle walked in the side door and called out, "Eddie?"

The place had been substantially remodeled inside. There were windows running along the second story and a skylight to give necessary illumination to the artist; worktables, easels and buckets of paintbrushes and other tools were neatly arranged. Large and small canvases in various stages of completion hung on the walls. The smells of oils and turpentine were heavy in the air. Stairs went up to a second-floor landing, where there appeared to be a small windowless room with a door.

"Eddie?" she called out again as she examined some of the works on the wall. The portraits and landscapes were done with meticulous attention to detail. There was one almost finished scene of a Civil War battle that, to Michelle's admittedly inexperienced eye, should have been hanging in a museum.

On another wall were a number of objects neatly hung and labeled. They appeared to be assorted memorabilia from Eddie's reenactment hobby.

She turned when she heard feet clattering down the stairs. Eddie had on an artist's smock, the front of which was smeared with blue paint, and his hair was charmingly disheveled. Under his arm he was carrying what looked to be a small canvas. It was covered with a cloth.

"Hey, I was just finishing something up," he said.

Michelle pointed to the paintings. "I'm no expert, but I never expected to see this level of work."

He waved off her comment, but his smile betrayed how much it had pleased him. "Technically, I'm right up there, I think. But the really great artists have something-I don't think anyone can really quantify it-that I don't. But that's okay. I'm happy with what I do have, and so are my clients." He took the piece he was carrying and set it up on an empty easel but did not uncover it.

"So, any luck with Mom?"

"When your mother doesn't want to do something, you might as well try moving a mountain. But we'll keep trying. What is it?"

Eddie had turned to her with a broad smile. "Okay, close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just close your eyes."

Michelle hesitated and then did as he asked.

"Okay, now open them."

When she did, she was staring at herself, at least a version of herself on the canvas, wearing the ball gown from the reenactment. Michelle approached the canvas and studied it closely before turning to Eddie in amazement.

"That's why I wanted the Polaroid of you," he explained.

"It's beautiful. How did you do it so fast?"

"Worked on it all night. With the proper motivation a person can accomplish anything. But it doesn't do you justice, Michelle, it really doesn't." He wrapped it up with brown paper and masking tape. "You can take it with you."

"But why did you paint me?"

"You spent all day watching me play soldier, it was the least I could do."

"I enjoyed watching; it wasn't a burden."

"I still appreciate it."