“Yeah? If you’re late on your rent, man, they don’t miss a beat. Eviction notice. They slap it right on the door and take you to court. One guy, he was sick, so he couldn’t move out. When he was at the hospital, they went in and took all his stuff and put a chain on the door.”
“That doesn’t seem legal. It’s still his RV, isn’t it?”
“Nah, they own some of them. Rent them out like apartments. They say you can get your stuff back, but you’ve got two weeks. Don was still in the hospital, you know?” Talking about JT seemed to have made Foster forget his earlier reticence. “There’s this law they’re trying to pass, and it would make it impossible for landlords to jack up the rent. It’s going to pass, too. So, you know what JT and Channelle did?”
“Raised the rent before the law passed.”
“It’s crazy, man. Nobody should be allowed to do that. And it’s not like we can afford it—” Foster stopped. As a hint of red climbed his cheeks, he sent a look my way that was simultaneously sullen and challenging, like he was daring me to follow up on that admission.
Instead, I said, “So, there are lots of people who might want something bad to happen to him.”
“I don’t know.” But he shifted, adjusting his arms across his chest, and said, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Anyone in particular? Anyone besides Keme who’s gotten into a disagreement with him lately?”
“I don’t know,” Foster said again. It must have been automatic, an engrained defensive answer, rather than a genuine one, though, because he said, “This guy showed up yesterday. Pounded on the door. He and JT really got into it.” He must have seen the question in my face because he pointed at a window and said, “The office is right there. It’s a straight shot.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“I don’t know.” There it was again, that knee-jerk, adolescent defiance. “They weren’t yelling, but this guy got right up in JT’s face. JT shoved him.”
This was life in an RV park, I thought. Live entertainment, twenty-four seven.
“He was police, too,” Foster offered, unprompted.
“I heard a deputy was out here for a domestic dispute.”
“Oh, that. No, this guy wasn’t from Hastings Rock. Orange County. That’s what it said on his car.”
“Did you get a good look—”
“That deputy was out here later. September called it in. JT and Channelle were going to kill each other.” More of that red rose in his cheeks, and he said, “Shoot, that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“They were having a fight, a big one. They do it all the time. Some people don’t know how to build a solid relationship. JT was throwing all of Channelle’s stuff out of the house, and Channelle was screaming at him. When Channelle hit JT, that’s when September called.”
I tried to construct the sequence of events. “So, the guy from Orange County came, and then later, JT and Channelle got in a fight.”
Foster nodded.
“What happened?”
“Same thing that always happened. Deputy comes out. Splits them up before they can—” Foster stopped. Swallowed. “Channelle goes and stays in a motel for a few days like she’s done with him, but she always comes back.”
“You saw her leave?”
“Yeah, she left. That deputy always makes sure she’s actually going to the motel and not just going to loop back and start things up with JT again.”
“And did you see anybody else after that?”
Foster shook his head.
“When was the fight with Keme?”
“Before all that. I figure that’s why JT was already so worked up when that police officer came to the door.”
If that was true, then I didn’t understand why the sheriff was so interested in talking to Keme. JT had clearly been alive after their argument. Then a possibility occurred to me.
