The Wanderer by Robyn Carr Page B

makes it unpleasant rather than deadly.”
    “Done. How fast?”
    “Tomorrow. We’ll bring in a crew, a Dumpster and some fans to air the place out.”
    “Let’s do it. I have to look around in there before I can figure out what to do next. Right now I’m leaning toward a bulldozer.”
    “Can’t say I blame you, Mr. Cooper.”

Four
     
    R awley lived in a little inland town called Elmore. Mac gave Cooper directions to his place. Besides a gas station, post office, elementary school and Dairy Queen, Elmore wasn’t much of a town. The larger town of Bandon wasn’t far away and possibly served the small population’s needs.
    The house was a small, old, brick structure with a porch. That classic pickup was parked on the side, identifying the place as belonging to Rawley. The yard was well kept and the grass still green, though the trees and shrubs were showing signs of fall with either color or brown. When Cooper knocked on the door and Rawley answered, the last thing he expected was the homey, clean, orderly house he saw inside.
    “Hey. Got a minute?” Cooper asked.
    Rawley gave his version of a nod, which was a smirk and a tilt of his head, stepping back so Cooper could enter. Inside was a living room and dining room that looked like a woman had left it behind—lace covers on the worn arms of chairs and sofa, pictures of farm scenes on the walls, a buffet with a couple of good glass bowls on top of a fabric runner, candlesticks on the table. All old, all maintained. In front of the fire sat an elderly man in a wheelchair. He was dressed in overalls and a long-sleeved shirt—clean—and on his feet were socks only. No point in shoes if you never walked.
    “Very nice, Rawley,” Cooper said, taking it in. “That your dad?”
    Rawley nodded.
    Cooper had never been a patient man, but this was really stretching what patience he had very thin. “I wish you’d talk,” he said. “Unless you’re mute.”
    “I’ll talk when I got something to say,” he said.
    “Well, there,” Cooper said. “You doing okay since Ben’s death?”
    “Not hardly,” Rawley said.
    Well, there you go again, Cooper thought. Honest, if not informative. “Anything you need that I can get for you, now that he’s gone?”
    “Can’t think what,” Rawley said.
    At that statement, the old man turned his chair around to face Cooper. He didn’t exactly hold his head up, and Cooper could see that he was very likely a stroke victim. He turned the chair with his left arm, the right kinked in protectively at his side, and the right side of his face—mouth and eye—sagged.
    “You looking for work?” Cooper asked.
    “Hadn’t been. Why? You gonna open up Ben’s place?”
    “No, but I’m cleaning it up and clearing it out. It’s got troubles—rot and mold and dead fish. Tomorrow a crew is coming out to clean out and remove the fish tanks, rotten food, trash...”
    “Police locked it up and wouldn’t let me in,” Rawley said by way of explanation.
    “I know. And the electric company turned off the power,” Cooper said. “The result is a stink and mess. But once they get the place so I can breathe in there, I have to go through his things. You know—pitch, give away, sell, whatever. There might be some things in there you want. If you help out, I can pay you what Ben paid you.”
    Rawley grinned and showed off a stunning set of dentures. “He paid me a ton.”
    “Gimme a break, Ben didn’t have shit. And he couldn’t tolerate a lie, either.”
    “Eight dollars an hour,” Rawley said. “When?”
    “In three days, I guess. Your dad okay alone if you work?”
    The old man inhaled sharply and briefly lifted his head. It looked like he scowled, but with the uneven features, it was hard to tell. His good eye narrowed.
    “He’s okay. If I work, the neighbor checks on him twice a day. I leave him fixed up for what he needs.”
    “Okay, then. If you’re interested.”
    Rawley gave a nod. No questions, no suggestions, no