“Her poor, poor mother. Some folks would turn on God after all she’s been through. But no ma’am. Not Denesa. She’s here every Sunday, one of the finest Christians I’ve ever known. ”
“She was here this morning?” I asked as a creepy feeling crawled up my spine.
“Singing in the choir like she always does.”
I had not seen her. But there were at least two hundred people present and the choir had been in the balcony behind me. Rob Kelsey, Jr. ” was in his fifties, a wiry man in a cheap blue pin-sthped suit collecting communion glasses from holders in the pews.
I introduced myself and was very worried I would alarm him, but he seemed the unflappable type. He sat next to me on a pew and thoughtfully tugged at an earlobe as I explained what I wanted.
“That’s right,” he said in a North Carolina drawl as thick as I’d heard yet.
“Papa worked at the mill his whole entire life. They gave him a mighty nice console color TV when he retired and a solid gold pin.”
“He must have been a fine foreman,” I said.
“Well, he wasn’t that until he got up in years. Before that he was their top box inspector and before that he was just a boxer.”
“What did he do exactly? As a boxer, for example?”
“He’d see to it the rolls of tape was boxed, and then eventually he supervised everybody else doing it to make sure it was right.”
“I see. Do you ever remember the mill manufacturing a duct tape that was blaze orange?” Rob Kelsey, with his near crew cut and eyes dark brown, thought about the question. Recognition registered in the expression on his face.
“Why, sure. I remember that because it was an unusual tape. Never seen it before or since. Believe it was for a prison somewhere.”
“It was,” I said.
“But I’m wondering if a roll or two of it might have ended up local. You know, here.”
“It wasn’t supposed to. But these things happen because they get rejects and stuff like that. Rolls of tape that aren’t just right.”
I thought of the grease stains on the edges of the tape used to bind Mrs. Steiner and her daughter. Perhaps a run had gotten caught in a piece of machinery or had gotten greasy some other way.
“And generally, when you have items that don’t pass inspection,” I interpolated, “employees might take them or buy them for a bargain.” Kelsey didn’t say anything. He looked a little perplexed.
“Mr. Kelsey, do you know of anyone your father might have given a roll of that orange tape to?” I asked.
“Only one person I know of. Jake Wheeler. Now, he passed on a while back, but before that he owned the Laundromat near MacK’s Five-and-Dime. As I recollect, he also owned the drugstore on the corner.”
“Why would your father give him a roll of the tape?”
“Well, Jake liked to hunt. I remember my daddy saying Jake was so afraid of getting shot out there in the woods by someone mistaking him for a turkey that no one wanted to go out with him.” I said nothing. I did not know where this was leading.
“He’d make too dad gum much noise and then wear reflector-type clothing in the blinds. He scared other hunters off all right. I don’t think he ever shot a thing except squirrels.”
“What does this have to do with the tape?”
“I’m pretty sure my daddy gave it to him as a joke. Maybe Jake was supposed to wrap his shotgun up in it or wear it on his clothes.” Kelsey grinned, and I noticed that he was missing several teeth.
“Where did Jake live?” I asked.
“Near the Pine Lodge. Sort of halfway between downtown Black Mountain and Montreal.”
“Any chance he might have passed on that roll of tape to someone else?” Kelsey stared down at the tray of communion glasses in his hands, his brow wrinkled in thought.
“For example,” I went on, “did Jake hunt with anybody else? Maybe someone else who might have had a need for the tape, since it was the blaze orange that hunters use?”