A cardboard sign was taped to the register: No Spanish Spoke Here, Amigo.

The guy at the counter looked up from the comics. He was leaning on his elbows to read, lips moving with the words, and laughing at every joke. His shirt hung loosely on his concave chest, and his pimple-dotted cheeks looked like they had seen a razor only once or twice in his life.

He didn’t have a care in the world, until I walked over.

“Nice sign,” I said.

“It serves its purpose.”

“Need some oil. I’ve got a leak.”

“Ain’t got none.” He licked his fingers and turned the page. “You’d have to ask Red.”

“Who’s Red?”

“My cousin.”

“Where is he?”

“Ain’t here right now.”

“I noticed.”

 I picked up five quarts of 10w40 from a display shelf and set them next to the register. Then added a roll of duct tape and a packet of clamps. That would stop the leak long enough to get home.

“Can’t sell you no oil.” The clerk said picked the scabbed pimples on his cheeks. “Red won’t let me take no money.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“If you can’t take cash, I’ve got a debit card.”

I dropped the card on the counter. The guy read the name on it, his lips moving as he sounded out my last name.

“Red!” The clerk disappeared behind a dingy curtain. “We got trouble!”

I heard voices, and when the curtain opened again, Eugene Loach and the twins stepped out. They weren’t tall men, but they were put together like potbelly stoves, barrel chested with forearms the size and density of cast iron pipe. They all red T-shirts with the rebel flag and the slogan, “Heritage, Not Hate.”

Considering the sign on the register, I found it hard to believe that heritage was their motivation.

“We’re closed,” Eugene said.

 “I need motor oil. I’ve got a hole in my line.”

“We’re all out.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “‘Cause I put five quarts on the counter. Seems like you’ve got something against me, and I don’t even speak Spanish.”

Eugene cracked his neck. “I think it’s the other way around, Possum.”

“Why? I’m not Mexican, am I?”

Eugene motioned for the clerk to ring up the order. “Sell him the oil. Cash only. Debit cards are just another way for banks to stick it to the working man.”

The clerk did as he was told.

“My brother was right about you,” Eugene said. “You’re too nosy for your own good. Now get off my property and don’t ever come back.”

“No problem.” I backed outside with my purchase. “One question: You guys don’t speak Spanish. How do you feel about Japanese?”

Eugene slammed the door in my face, threw the deadbolt, and flipped the sign to closed.

It took a few minutes for me to duct tape the leak and refill the oil, but the repair was a success. I started the engine. The oil gauge drifted to full and stayed there.

I was pulling the door shut when I noticed a red minivan parked beside the store. The license plate was in the shadows, so I unclipped my keychain light and crept over to the rear bumper. This, I was sure, was the same van used during the attack on Luigi. If only he would press charges, Hoyt could send the whole crew to jail.

Get over it, I told myself. Luigi wasn’t going to press charges, and Hoyt would need more than a license plate number to get a conviction.

My cell rang with Abner's number. “Hey Doc, I just left a message on your home number about tomorrow."

“Ain’t there. I’m in Winston. On the way to meet with the hyphenated lady.”

“You mean Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith.”

“The one and the same. Hoyt had the body sent to her for identification, and I offered to lend a hand. Meet me there.”

“Where is there?”

“Basement of McClain Hall. Get here as quick as you can.”

“Winston’s an hour from here,” I said. "And I've got an oil leak."

“Better drive fast then, or you’ll miss all the fun.”

7

I drove fast.

Fifty-two minutes after patching the oil line, my truck reached McClain Hall on the campus of Carolina Tech. I drove around the service entrance. Abner’s car was parked beside a SUV with a faculty sticker.

“Dr. Windsor-Smith, I presume.”

I locked up and noticed a light in the basement windows. That would be the forensic anthropology lab. It had belonged to Abner before he retired. The dean gave it to the Hyphenated Lady, as Doc called her. Despite the circumstances, there were no hard feelings between the two of them.

I knocked on back door five minutes before Abner finally answered. My grandfather was dressed in a white lab coat and rubber apron, and he wore latex gloves and a face shield. In the old days before everyone worried about pathogens so much, Abner would do field examinations without any gear at all, using just a dab of vapor rub under his nose to cut the stink of decomposition.

“Wear these,” Abner thrust a coat and apron at me. “The hyphenated lady runs a clean ship.”

“No gloves?” I pulled on the gear. “What if I have the urge to touch something?”

“Keep your urges to yourself.”

Abner steered me to the lab. The basement made for a half-decent morgue. It had a stainless steel table, refrigeration units, instruments, and a good light. “Why are you so interested in this case, Boone? It’s not like you’ve got a horse in this race.”

“Too nosy for my own good.”

“You get that from your mama.”

“She says I got it from you.”

“All you got from me.” He opened the door and stepped through the decontamination curtains. “Was my charm and good looks. Hey, Meredith, I’d like to introduce you to my grandson, Boone Childress.”

Meredith was in her mid-thirties, with above-average height. Her blonde hair was cut chin length, and her cheeks blushed red from the cold air in the room. I noticed that she had eyes the color of coffee when she flashed a polite smile. Her handshake was firmer than I expected. Warmer, too.

“Pleasure to meet you, Boone. Your grandfather tells me you’re following in his footsteps. He didn’t tell me you were so handsome, though.”

“His footsteps are too big for me,” I said, “but I’m interested in specializing in fire investigation.”

“You should consider our forensic program.” She nodded at Abner. “If you’re half as gifted as Dr. Zickafoose, you’d be a good fit here.”

“I’ll certainly consider it.” I was considering three schools—Carolina Tech, State, and Carolina. Lately, Carolina had seemed more appealing.

“Excellent,” she said. “Now could you sit over there? That way, you won’t be tempted to touch anything, like a certain anthropologist I know.”

Abner laughed, and I slunk over to a stool, feeling very much like a student.

Meredith Windsor-Smith opened the body bag containing the female torso. “Dr. Zickafoose, can you hit the tape?”

Abner thrust a mini-recorder under my nose. “Handle it.”

“Okay, Boone. Hit it.” She began in a clear voice. “This is Dr. Meredith Windsor-Smith, Associate Professor, Carolina Tech University.” She stated the time and date and the names of the people in attendance. “Individual to be examined appears to be a female, between sixty and sixty-three inches in height. Age is still indeterminate. Traces of polyester fabric at the victim’s waist.”

Unable to fight the temptation, I snuck over to the table. I picked up a probe and pushed away the material on the pelvis.

“Skin has a glossy appearance,” Meredith continued. “Arms are drawn up in the typical pugilist position.” She grabbed my wrist. “Put the probe down, please. I’m trying to work. What exactly are you looking for?”

“Any evidence of accelerants on the skin?” I asked. “Or anything to determine the source of the fire that killed her?”