The Dish Ran Away With The Spoon

by M. Glenn Graves

  “They’re hiding from us,” she said to me.

  “Question is why.”

  “Something’s not adding up.”

  “Clarify,” I said.

  “She knew her captors when they seized her on the AT. She had to figure out that Curly McClure was involved. She now knows that all three of the men are dead or disabled. Homer probably assured her that all was now safe. So, what is she running from?”

  “You think she suspects someone else to be involved?” I said.

  “Not sure what to think.”

  “What if Homer is injured? What if she is injured? Where would they go?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest notion at this point. I’m not even sure of what is happening. It seems to me that we’re trying to rescue a young girl who doesn’t want to be rescued.”

  As strange as it sounded, it did seem that way.

  When we reached 213, Starnes headed the old truck in the direction of her house. Twenty minutes later we were parked in the dirt drive staring through the dirty windshield of the old Ford.

  “We should’ve driven back to get your car,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you remind me?”

  “Too hungry to think.”

  “Yeah, me too. Let’s go eat and drink while we ponder this mess, Ollie.”

  I turned and looked through the truck’s back window at the dogs. Both were sound asleep. I pointed to them with my thumb.

  “I think we exhausted them,” Starnes said.

  I bathed while Starnes began fixing some spaghetti sauce and pasta. When I had finished, I took her place in the kitchen while she cleaned up. I stirred the pot full of sauce as if I knew exactly what I was doing. Cooking was not my forte.

  “Don’t burn the pasta,” she yelled at me from the bathroom.

  “It’s in boiling water. How could I burn it?”

  “Precisely,” she yelled back.

  I wasn’t clear about that little exchange, but I translated it to be a slight to my culinary talents and paid closer attention to the pasta as well as the sauce. I was still stirring the sauce when she returned to the kitchen.

  She examined both pots on the stove and grinned.

  “Don’t think you did any damage,” she said.

  “I appreciate your confidence.”

  “I know you too well. Pasta’s almost done. Get the plates and we shall dine forthwith.”

  I obeyed and brought both dishes to the stove.

  “You want a salad?”

  “I’ll eat anything you place in front of me,” I said.

  “If you want a salad, then get the stuff out of the fridge. Otherwise, it’s pasta and sauce along with some whole wheat bread. Nothing fancy, mind you, just good food.”

  “I’m too hungry and tired to worry about anything else. The sauce and pasta are more than enough.”

  She served my plate and nodded at the table behind us. I sat down. The chair felt good even though it was a cane backed chair not built for comfort. She piled pasta and sauce on her plate, placed it at her usual place, and grabbed a bottle of wine from the bottom cabinet next to the stove.

  “You been hiding that?”

  “Just needed an occasion,” she said.

  “Like hunger and weariness?”

  “Good as any.”

  She poured two glasses full of something red and dark. It tasted delicious. We sat and ate and drank for a good while. My body was craving sleep, but I was so hungry I refused to close my eyes until my stomach was satisfied.

  Halfway through my second helping of spaghetti Starnes-style, I realized that I was finally full. The wine was still good. My third glass was evidence of that. Starnes had finished her second helping and was leaning back in the caned chair pondering something. I had a good idea what.

  “Arrive at any conclusions about Laurel?” I said.

  “Not yet. Retracing our steps. Twiddlee-dee and Twiddlee-dumb captured her on the AT. Somehow, she escaped; they lost track of her and then found where she had likely escaped their clutches. They trailed her. We came along by following Curly, the brains of the outfit.”

  She snickered. Couldn’t remember ever hearing Starnes Carver snicker. The wine must be getting to her.

  “The outfit was clearly in trouble with Curly at the head,” I said.

  She stopped snickering and laughed with must gusto and flourish. The wine.

  “It’s not that funny,” I said.

  “It’s hilarious. What are you talking about? Curly McClure was the genius who brought Lisha and old Sticky Fingers, don’t forget that was his nickname…. Jerome … along to help him kidnap a fourteen-year-old girl. All three of them botched it.”

  “All three of them paid dearly for botching it.”

  “Yeah. I don’t believe her running into Homer was planned. That was a happy accident, as far as Laurel was concerned. She was simply trying to get away, and ran into Homer, who turned out to be her knight in shining armor without the armor.”

  “He had a crossbow,” I said.

  Starnes laughed again and drank some more wine. We were both getting a little tipsy.

  “Homer Gosnell killed three men who tried to take Laurel,” Starnes said.

  She didn’t laugh this time. It wasn’t funny.

  “A good man is hard to find,” I said. The line sounded vaguely familiar to me. I was trying to recall who had said it recently.

  There was a loud knocking on the front door. The dogs were both asleep in the living room. They had eaten and quickly retired for the night. The knocking didn’t disturb them.

  Starnes opened the door. I could hear her from the kitchen table, where I was still sipping my wine and trying to focus on the meaning of the events of the last few days.

  “Come in, Sheriff Murdock,” I heard her say.

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Carver,” the harsh voice from the other room said.

  Chapter 24

  The two figures were lying very still in the dark shadows of the late afternoon. They were hiding close to fifty yards into the woods just off the Grapevine road not too far from Highway 213. The larger figure was trying desperately to remain conscious. The girl was pressing hard against the worst of his three gunshot wounds.

  “We need to get you some medical help,” she said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “You need rest and food. I need to help you back to your cabin.”

  “We’re a good ways from there,” he said.

  “We are,” she agreed. “Do you know anybody who lives close by?”

  He was silent. She thought maybe he was thinking of someone he might know. After some time passed and he didn’t answer her, she shook him a little.

  “Homer, drink this water.”

  She held her nearly empty canteen up to his lips and he drank.

  “You want half of my bar?” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “You need to eat,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  She canvassed their present situation while continuing to press on the still bleeding wound. She was using the extra shirt she had brought along at her rapid departure from home days earlier. That seemed like years ago to Laurel now. Miles and years back.

  She ripped the shirt into two pieces, folded one section four times, and pressed it against the wound. She returned the unused piece of shirt to her backpack. The other two wounds had stopped bleeding, so there was no need for a pressure bandage for them.

  Time passed. It was darker now in the shadows of the setting sun. Her shirt-press was soaked with Homer’s blood. She opened her backpack and took out the other half of the torn shirt. After she folded it several times to make it thicker, she pressed it onto the bleeding wound, and wondered how she would get this large man to a safe place.

  She tossed the bloody portion of her torn shirt behind the tree that Homer was leaning against without considering the implications
. More time passed. There was no way she could know the hour of the day. Laurel only knew that it was dark now, and she was worried about her friend. She listened to his heavy breathing. The only comfort that his heavy breathing brought to her was the knowledge that he was still alive and that he might make it despite his wounds.

  She became aware that the new press was now wet to her touch. She had nothing else in her backpack that she could use to restrict his blood loss. She considered the clothing on her body. She decided against that. She kept her hand in place, not wanting to move it and cause more blood loss. Her hand and arm were aching a little, but she refused to give in to the discomfort. He had stayed by her and saved her life. The least she could do for him would be to suffer a little soreness by continuing to press the wet cloth against his wound.

  Sometime in the night Laurel came to the realization that she had to find someone to help her. Homer needed some medical attention. She was the only one who could do that. The question was when to leave him.

  Homer was asleep. At least she believed he was asleep. The possibility of him being unconscious crossed her mind. Laurel decided not to attempt to awaken him. As she considered her limitations in this drama, sleep finally overtook her.

  The night passed quickly for her. Dawn arrived for her with the sound of birds singing in the nearby trees. It was barely light, but she could see. Several seconds elapsed before she realized it was morning. She turned quickly to check on Homer.

  His breathing was softer and somewhat easier. It was not as labored as the previous day. She placed her ear close to his mouth and nose. The soft sound of breath being passed through his lips was discernible. She felt a little relief.

  The slow but steady, ever-increasing light of the pre-sunrise allowed her to see the blood-soaked press on his wound. It no longer appeared to be wet. The blood appeared to be dry. She hoped the bleeding had finally stopped. She wondered. She worried.

  She decided to go for help.

  Standing and stretching after the short night of uneasy rest, she decided to leave her backpack in case Homer might awaken and wonder where she had gone. Her thought was that the backpack would tell him that she was close by or returning soon. Her absence would only be momentary. Perhaps it might even suggest to him that she had gone for help.

  She ran through the woods back to the road.

  She remembered a house not too far from where they had entered the woods. Just maybe the folks who lived there were early risers. She also hoped for some kindness to be offered in such a dire situation.

  Laurel began to plan what to say to the people at the house. How much should she tell them? Should she keep it simple and straight forward? She should mention a gunshot wound? Maybe not. Maybe just tell them that her friend was injured and was weak from blood loss. They would, of course, ask how he had been injured. She wondered about that. She wondered a lot about that. He had two other injuries, gunshot wounds as well.

  She was not used to lying. It was not her nature. She also knew that in this instance telling the truth might get her into trouble. Still, the most important thing was for Homer to get some medical attention. He needed to be in a hospital. That much she believed.

  The fresh air of the morning filled her with cautious optimism. The walk along the road helped her to awaken more.

  She approached the house. There was a light on in what she imagined to be the kitchen. She stood at the edge of the sidewalk that split the front yard into two equal sections. She hesitated despite the urgency she felt. She wondered why some decisions were so hard to make. Too many consequences, she reasoned. The word risks passed through her young mind.

  She was growing up fast.

  Taking a deep breath and knowing that what she was about to do was for her friend, she moved slowly to the front door and knocked.

  Chapter 25

  Sheriff Buster Murdock was standing by the front door when I entered the living room. Starnes sat down and gestured for Buster to do likewise. I could tell he was upset. Sighing deeply and shaking his head were the two indicators. Words were yet to be shared between them. I moved uneasily between the two and sat on the far end of the couch away from Buster. He sat in Spud’s favorite chair. I doubt if Buster knew that it had been her daddy’s spot for several decades. Or perhaps he did know and sat down there intentionally.

  “You have a lot of explainin’ to do, Carver,” he said.

  He still had his sheriff’s hat on. It was an official visit. The wine had not completely wiped away my keen detective skills.

  “Let me tell you what we know and then you can ask questions,” Starnes said.

  Buster glanced at me, and I smiled. He didn’t return my smile.

  She explained to him in rather distinct detail what had transpired before I had arrived in the county. Then she brought him along with our rather exciting tale of trailing the two suspects, finding Homer in his remote cabin, witnessing the first two murders, and then using Homer to help us trail Laurel, who believed that Curly was still after her.

  “Why was Curly McClure after her?” Buster said.

  “Don’t know, but likely the same reason he served time a few years back,” Starnes said.

  “How’d you know that?” Buster said.

  “Some research,” she said.

  “And why did you research Curly?”

  “Didn’t like him,” I shared.

  “Not much of a reason.”

  “Sufficient for me. If things don’t smell right, then I dig around some.”

  “Bet you’re a real pleasure to have around,” Buster said with a snarl.

  “Mixed reviews regarding that,” I said honestly.

  He turned his attention back to Starnes.

  “What happened next?”

  She told him that Homer left us on the trail and that when we finally reached the end of the trail as it emptied out into Grapevine, we found Curly’s body crushed to death.

  Buster took his hat off. He leaned forward in his chair and began moving his fingers around the brim of his rounded Stetson. Buster had lost some weight since I had first seen him a few years back. He was still a few pounds overweight but carried himself well.

  “Hard to believe that a man could crush another man like that,” he said.

  “Did you examine the body?” Starnes said.

  “I did. I sent it to the coroner for the exact cause. How big was this Homer Gosnell person you claim you met?”

  “So, you don’t know this man?” Starnes said.

  “I’ve heard some stories. Knew about a young fellow who lived out that way some time back, but I’ve never seen him around. He must stay close to home.”

  “Hunts and fishes a lot. Lives off the land. Likes his privacy,” I said.

  “Describe him.”

  “Six feet five inches, I’d say, give or take an inch or so, and likely weighs some three hundred pounds, maybe more. That about right?” Starnes said as she looked at me.

  “Big,” I said.

  “Well, if he’s really that big, then I reckon he could’ve crushed the life out of Curly.”

  We sat quiet for a few seconds. Buster had made a statement, and since he hadn’t asked a question, I had nothing to say. Starnes was watching Buster. The wine consumption seemed to have no ill effects on her.

  “We need to find this Homer Gosnell,” Buster finally spoke. “We’ll have to charge him with three counts of murder.”

  “He was defending the girl,” Starnes said.

  “That’ll be up to a jury to decide.”

  “We didn’t see him kill Curly McClure,” I said. “What we think and what we know as fact are rather different as far as the courts are concerned.”

  “Point,” he said. “But you did see him kill the other two.”

  I reluctantly nodded. Starnes didn’t say anything.

  “You wouldn’t have much of a case if we don’t testify,” I said.

  “Then I could charge you two,” Buster said.

  “T
hat wouldn’t be very neighborly,” I said.

  “Hang neighborliness. I’ve got three dead bodies, and somebody needs to answer for them.”

  “Maybe they could answer for themselves and tell the world just how stupid they were.”

  “You shouldn’t have to die because you’re stupid,” Buster said.

  “True enough,” I said, “but if you continually do stupid things, the consequences can often be exacting in their outcome. Kidnapping is not a good way to map out your life.”

  “We need to find this girl,” Buster said. “You believe she’s still in danger?”

  We looked at each other, and then Starnes said, “No.”

  I was afraid to answer the sheriff. My fear was that he and his deputies would go after Homer like a lynch mob. It’s happened before, and it could happen again. History has a sad way of repeating itself.

  “Here’s the thing … you two are always getting in my hair and my work. I want it stopped. So, from now on, stay out of this. Do you understand me?” Buster said in a raised voice.

  “I understand,” Starnes said.

  I said nothing.

  “And you, Miss Ace Detective from the city, do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  I smiled at him.

  “Say it! I want to hear you say that you understand,” Buster stood up with his hat in his hand. His face was red. His temperature seemed to be rising.

  I waited a second or two to see if he might have a heart attack.

  “She understands,” Starnes said to break the tension of the room.

  “You both better stay clear of this. It’s an official matter now, and you have no say in this investigation. Three murders … I can’t believe it.”

  Buster Murdock moved to the front door. He paused before opening it and turned back to face us.

  “I know that you’re a pretty good crime scene analyst, but I don’t need your help this time, missy. So, unless you want to end up behind bars, stay out of this. What were you two thinking anyway?”

  He turned back to the door and left before I could offer my side of the thinking part. Something told me that his last question was rhetorical.