Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

The top of his head was as bald and shiny as the desk and speckled with age spots as large as knots in the desk. Longish wisps of gray hair fanned out from above his ears like angel wings and the prism-shaped plaque in front of us read: Warden Mayweather.

“My name’s Cotton Mayweather. And you are?”

“Matt Mettle.”

“Rosie Casket.”

Mayweather’s eyes lingered on me. “Ordinarily, I would thank you both for visiting my prison, but we have now witnessed two troubling conflagrations and we are short on explanations,” he said. He turned to the beige computer on the edge of his desk and tapped the spacebar on his keyboard. “Dimitri Roganoff burst into flames and died in your presence less than half an hour ago. Phyllis Martin died the same way a few days earlier. You are the only common denominator. Or should I say, demon-ator. Tell me, Rosie Casket, are you the antiChrist?”

“Am I what?”

“Do you have a compact with the devil?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” I said through my teeth.

“Then what is your explanation for the color of your hair?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Recessive genes.”

“Are you aware of what the Bible has to say about red-headed women?”

“No.”

“Me neither. That’s because they are not worthy of description. Have you checked your scalp for the number of the beast?”

“Are these serious questions?”

“Very serious,” Mayweather said. “In times when science fails us—which is does quite often—we must look for other explanations. I believe in upholding three basic tenets in this institution. Routine. Prayer. And discipline. Freedom comes from within, not without. The moment you set foot in this prison you are a free man if you choose to accept the Lord.”

“Lord, get to the point,” Mettle muttered.

“After reviewing the facts of this case, I can only draw one conclusion: you have been working from within, not without.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I barked.

“It means that I’ve checked the logs and I see that you have made two other visits to this prison within the past year, both times to visit the woman who is now in an urn, no cremation necessary. Care to tell me the nature of those visits?”

“Yes, I was visiting,” I said.

Mayweather narrowed his eyes.

“He wants a straight answer,” Mettle said.

“And I gave him one. I came to visit. I talked with an inmate. There’s nothing else to tell you.”

“I’m aware that sometimes security can be too lax in our medium security wings,” Mayweather said. “After Phyllis Martin’s death, I reviewed the security footage and noticed that you smuggled a cell phone into the visitation room on at least one prior occasion. How, I don’t know, but crafty women have been known to hide things in different places than men.”

“I didn’t smuggle it in,” I said. “I didn’t know phones were against the rules and no one told me and no one checked me for it.”

With his fingers, Mayweather combed a wispy strand of hair behind his ear. “If you could smuggle a phone into the visitation room, then you wouldn’t have much difficulty smuggling a fire-starting device of some nature, now would you? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have you arrested right this very minute.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “A lack of evidence. And I have a very good lawyer on my side.”

“Don’t be flippant with me, young lady,” Mayweather said.

“Young lady? How about you find out who’s leaking your security footage all over the internet? Thanks to your ‘lax security’ my business has been destroyed.”

“Settle down and watch your tone,” Mayweather said.

“Is this a witch hunt? Do you want to check behind my ears for warts? How about you give me the water test? I assure you, I don’t float very well. It’s been tried.”

Mayweather turned to Mettle as if he had no patience for a shrill woman. “You, I understand you’re a state Trooper correct?”

Mettle smoothed his uniform. “This isn’t a Halloween costume, if that’s what you mean, sir.”

“And what do you make of this situation? It seems reasonable that Miss Casket has had some help on the inside, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mettle looked at me. My nostrils flared. Don’t you dare throw me under the bus again.

“Yes, it seems reasonable,” Mettle said. “But I’ve known Rosie for quite some time now and while this whole thing has freaked me out a bit, I honestly don’t see a motive.”

“No motive? Dimitri Roganoff threatened her life. Is that not a motive?”

“Yes, fine, that’s a motive,” Mettle said. “A good one, too. But new evidence came to light before Rosie visited and she wanted to come here to ask Dimitri a few questions, not kill him. She wanted him alive.”

Mayweather fixed his eyes on me as if he were determined to exorcise my demonic spirits. “Dimitri Roganoff attempted to murder you and your elderly friend. Is that not a motive?”

“We understand how bad this looks, Warden,” I said. “But I did not come here to kill anyone. I wouldn’t even know how to kill them. The glass is an inch thick and we were both searched before entry.”

“So you know how thick the glass is?”

“It was just a guess,” I said.

“Did you not kill them with your mind?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you cast a spell?”

“I’m not answering anymore inane questions.”

“Did you set it up with her?”

“With whom?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“Am I the only one who knows exactly what I’m talking about?”

“Apparently,” I said.

Mayweather thumbed the phone on his desk. “Bring me Phyllis Martin’s cellmate. And while she’s gone, tell the guards to search her cell.”

21

We waited in awkward silence. The only sounds were the farting of our cracked vinyl cushions as we shifted uncomfortably and the squeaking of the warden’s casters as he tried to maintain his flag-pole posture.

Mettle cleared his throat, but it was only a half-hearted attempt as he seemed afraid to upset me, afraid that I’d set his crotch on fire or something. Because the first throat clearing was so ineffectual, he had to clear