Tin City Tinder by David Macinnis Gill Page A

trauma to the joints, as well.”
    “It’s soot.”
    “More than soot.” Abner passed the box back. “Who’s leading the fire investigations?”
    “Nobody.”
    “Nobody? How the hell are they going to catch the perpetrator?”
    “You think it’s arson, too?”
    Abner sucked a chunk of liver from his teeth. “Your evidence came from an embalmed individual, suggesting well-preserved remains, possibly from a metal coffin of some sort. It takes a whopping amount of force to blow open a buried coffin and send limbs flying. Which leaves me with two questions: Who blew up this house and where’s the rest of the body?”
    “My thoughts exactly. But like I said, there weren’t any other remains.”
    “You sure?”
    “The man who found that definitely would’ve told me.”
    Abner picked his teeth with a toothpick. “There are three reasons firebugs commit arson: Money, pleasure, and to hide evidence. Which was it?”
    “Maybe this will answer your question.” I pulled out the waste pipe I’d collected. “I found this in a creek. A hundred yards away from a burned out house.”
    “The one in Tin City?”
    “No, in Duck.”
    “Cast iron waste pipe.” Abner picked it up. “I’ll have a friend run some tests.”
    “What about the finger?”
    “You could turn it over to law enforcement,” Abner said, “and face a whole bunch of questions about how you came to possess evidence. Or you could give it back to Stumpy and let him tell the sheriff.”
    “He tried. Hoyt thinks he’s a no-account drunk. His words, not mine.”
    “Maybe he won’t believe a no-account drunk, but he might believe an old buddy.”
    “You and Sheriff Hoyt are friends?”
    “Not friends exactly. We used to get along pretty well, but now, I think he’s got a different feeling for me.”
    “He dislikes you?”
    “Dislike is probably too mild a word,” Abner said. “It’s more like pure hatred.”

    2

    Traffic was starting to clog the highway when I reached Stumpy’s house. Despite what Cedar had said about Stumpy’s housekeeping skills, the outside looked well-kept. The siding wasn’t covered with the green scum that plagued mobile homes. The patio was clean. The picnic table was smoothly sanded and finished with clear lacquer. As far as I could tell, there was nothing wrong with this picture.
    Then I noticed a huge dent in the side of the trailer. About two-thirds of the way down. Looked like somebody had backed a car into it. Something heavy had definitely hit the motor home.
    “Can I help you?” Stumpy called through the window.
    “It’s me, Boone Childress.”
    Stumpy opened the trailer door and released a wave of stink. He looked at me with choleric eyes. He wore a white shirt with a T-shirt underneath, brown polyester slacks with no belt, and black nylon socks. His toenails stuck through the nylon.
    He held a skillet full of rendered bacon fat. I wondered if he was going to offer breakfast or throw hot grease on me.
    “Brought back the finger.” I showed him the plastic container. “Like I promised.”  
    The lines under his eyes softened. “I was about to eat a bacon sandwich. They tossed the meat out at the Piggly-Wiggly, so I took it out of the trash. Want some?”
    My stomach lurched. No way was I eating spoiled bacon. “Not hungry. You wouldn’t happen to have a drink of water?”
    “If you ain’t minding well water. Gets sorta tangy.”
    “We have well water.” I followed Stumpy inside. “My dentist could swear to that. I’ve had cavities since I was three.”
    “Don’t talk to me about no dentists.” Stumpy stuffed the finger into his freezer, then took a seat at a dinette table. “You’re Mary Harriet’s boy, ain’t you? She’s good people. Heard you was in the service.”
    “Got out around Christmas time. I’m going to ACC for now.”
    “Good to be home?”
    “It’s an adjustment.”
    “Family’s funny like that.” Stumpy filled a slice of bread with four strips of fatty bacon. He