Woolsey snatched the tickets tucked under our plates.

“I’l get this and meet you outside.”

“Thanks.”

Winding through the tables behind Woolsey, I clicked on.

“That you, Doc?” I could barely hear Slidel .

“Hold on.”

Woolsey queued up at the register. I stepped out to the parking lot. The morning was hot and breathless, the clouds gauzy wisps against a dazzling blue sky.

“That you, Doc?” Slidel repeated.

“Yes.” He was expecting Oprah Winfrey on my cel phone?

“Rinaldi had a pretty good day yesterday.”

“I’m listening.”

“He may be putting some flesh on those bare bones of yours. Get it? Bare bones? Bear bones?”

“I get it.”

“Turns out Jason Jack Wyatt, our mysterious passenger, spent a lot of time stalking and trapping. Gramma over in Sneedvil e puts him one notch above the Crocodile Hunter. Only, get this. J.J.’s specialty was bear. A city slicker booked into Wilderness Quest, laid down a thousand clams, J.J. scored him a bear for his trophy wal .”

A car pul ed up and a black couple got out. The woman wore a tight red miniskirt, pink blouse, black hose, and stiletto heels. Flesh bulged from every place her clothing al owed a gap. The man had wel -muscled arms and legs, but a bel y that was yielding to a love of fatback and grits.

As Slidel talked, I watched the couple enter the Cup.

“Nothin’ il egal, of course,” I said.

“Of course not. And the other Sneedvil e young’un could have been president of the chamber of commerce, were it not for the Lord cal ing him home so soon.”

“Ricky Don.”

“The Donald Trump of Sneedvil e.”

“The grandmother admitted the two knew each other?”

“Ricky Don gave his gifted but less fortunate cousin seasonal work at the Wilderness Quest hunting camp. Also sent him on errands from time to time.”

“Errands?”

“Seems J.J.’s job involved terrific travel benefits.”

“Ricky Don’s plane.”

“Also made long car trips.”

“Think Wyatt was boosting drugs for Ricky Don?”

“Could explain the blow we found in his cabin.”

“No kidding.”

“Would I kid you?”

“Rinaldi got a warrant?”

“He would have, of course. But Gramma insisted on a look-see to make sure no one was messing with J.J.’s posessions since his passing. She asked Rinaldi to carry her on over there in his automobile.”

“I’l be damned.”

“So J.J. the bear slayer might have been muling for Ricky Don Dorton and dealing a little gal on the side.”

“Granny know anything about little J.J.’s phone cal s to Darryl Tyree?”

“Nope.”

“Sonny Pounder talking yet?”

“Remains mute as a dead cat.”

“What’s the word on the pilot?”

“We’re stil digging on Harvey Pearce.”

A tal man in cornrows, gold chains, and overpriced designer sunglasses approached the door just as Woolsey started through it. Something about him looked familiar.