A Matter of Malice

by Thomas King

  “Golly,” said Duke. “Well, that clears everything up.”

  Thumps raised his cup to see if he could get Al’s attention. “Except for the coincidence.”

  “Yes,” said the sheriff, “there’s that.”

  Rattler stopped a yawn. “And you two don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Trudy Samuels is found dead at the bottom of Belly Butte,” said Duke. “And then Nina Maslow is found dead at the bottom of Belly Butte.”

  “And you think that I’m the common denominator.”

  “You are the common denominator,” said the sheriff.

  Rattler pushed his plate to the side.

  “You going to arrest me?”

  “Nope.”

  Toby slid out of the booth. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” The sheriff slid out with him.

  “You going to walk me out?”

  “Nope.”

  “You going to tell me not to leave town?”

  Duke turned to Thumps. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Thumps ran a forkful of potato through the ketchup. “It must have slipped your mind.”

  Rattler threw his jacket over a shoulder. “You two ever think about taking it on the road? Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong made a fortune.”

  The sheriff took over Rattler’s side of the booth.

  Thumps stayed where he was. “You can see the door from there.”

  “I can,” said the sheriff.

  “In case Rattler comes running back and wants to confess?”

  “As a law officer, I have to be ready for anything.”

  Thumps used a piece of toast to mop up his plate. “Cheech and Chong?”

  “Well,” said Duke, “here’s another fine mess you’ve got yourself into.”

  “That’s Laurel and Hardy,” said Thumps. “And it’s ‘another fine mess you’ve got me into.’”

  “Either way,” said the sheriff, “it’s your mess-fortune and none of my own.”

  Al appeared out of nowhere. “And do my little doggies want more coffee?”

  “Please,” said the sheriff.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Thumps.

  “So, have you two figured it out yet?”

  “Which ‘it’ are we talking about?” said the sheriff.

  “The murders,” said Al. “Pretty obvious if you ask me.”

  Thumps pushed his cup close to the pot in case Al was distracted and in danger of forgetting. “Samuels and Maslow?”

  Al put the pot down and held up three fingers. “Samuels, Samuels, and Maslow.”

  “Buck?”

  Al filled the cups. “Sure,” she said. “Adele killed them all.”

  “Adele Samuels?”

  “Ask the sheriff,” said Al. “Emmitt Tull let her slide on Buck, and look what happened.”

  “Emmitt was a decent cop,” said Duke in a low voice without much conviction. “He was just rigid.”

  Al headed back to the grill. “First Buck. Then Trudy. And now Maslow,” she called back over her shoulder. “All you two geniuses got to do is connect the dots.”

  Duke stared at his half-filled cup and waited, but Thumps knew that Al wasn’t going to return any time soon.

  “You want to give it a try?”

  “What?” said Duke.

  “Connect the dots.”

  “Hell, DreadfulWater,” said the sheriff, “I was a kid when Trudy died.”

  “But you’ve seen the file.”

  “Emmitt Tull was my uncle.” Duke’s face tightened. “Trudy Samuels was Chinook’s big unsolved mystery.”

  The sheriff reached across and helped himself to one of Thumps’s sausages. “Buck Samuels died of a heart attack. Man had a wonky heart. Already had two attacks. No real surprise when he keeled over.”

  “Where’d he die?”

  “At home,” said Hockney. “Adele called the fire department, but he was dead by the time they got there.”

  “Rumours?”

  “Sure,” said the sheriff. “Adele switched his medication out for sugar pills. Or Buck had a heart attack, and she stood around and watched him die before she called for help. Or Adele was having an affair and broke Buck’s heart.”

  “Or he just had a heart attack and died.”

  “Or that.”

  “Okay,” said Thumps. “Trudy Samuels.”

  “Pretty girl,” said Duke. “In and out of trouble.”

  “Drugs and alcohol?”

  “All that,” said the sheriff. “And speeding tickets.”

  “Speeding tickets?”

  “Soon as she turned sixteen, Trudy bought herself a Corvette. I was probably thirteen at the time. Hell of a car. Word was she racked up a ton of speeding tickets. There’s a trap in Randall. Trudy would get nailed there at least once a week.”

  “She ever lose her licence?”

  “Nope,” said Duke. “Rumour was the citations got fixed.”

  “Samuels’s money.”

  “Way things worked back then.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a happy kid.”

  “No,” said the sheriff, “don’t think she was.”

  Thumps tried to find a soft spot on the bench. “Tobias Rattler?”

  “Him I didn’t know at all.” Duke looked off at the back wall. “But Emmitt and my dad used to talk. You know how kids are.”

  “They listen to stuff they’re not supposed to listen to.”

  “Adult stuff was always the best,” said Hockney. “There was an incident. Happened after a football game. Best I can figure it, Trudy Samuels was attacked. Behind the bleachers.”

  “Rattler?”

  “Trudy said no. Said Rattler saved her. Ran the guy off.”

  “But?”

  “But then Rattler made the mistake of taking Trudy home, and when Adele saw Trudy and her torn dress in the company of one Tobias Rattler . . .”

  “She went ballistic?”

  “Evidently,” said Duke. “Rattler was older. Rattler was Indian. Adele insisted that Emmitt charge Rattler with rape. That’s when Trudy moved off the estate. Got a place in town.”

  “With Rattler?”

  “Nope,” said the sheriff. “The two of them hung around together all the time. Maybe they were lovers. Maybe they weren’t.”

  “And when Trudy was found dead?”

  “Adele screamed murder. Wanted Rattler arrested and hanged, not particularly in that order.”

  “But there was nothing to say that it was murder and nothing to tie Rattler to Trudy’s death.”

  “Nope,” said the sheriff. “The case had the town dancing for a couple of months, and when the music stopped, Rattler left.”

  “So what’s Malice Aforethought’s angle?”

  “No idea,” said Duke. “Okay, it’s your turn.”

  “For what?”

  “Try to connect the dots.”

  “I don’t know shit about the case.”

  “Sure,” said Hockney. “That’s your advantage.”

  “I don’t want a turn.”

  “I can make the parking ticket I gave you go away.”

  Thumps put his cup down. “You gave me that ticket?”

  “How about we play Law & Order?” said Duke. “You can be the sleazy defence, and I’ll be the righteous prosecutor.”

  “You gave me a ticket?”

  “Take your best shot.”

  Thumps leaned up against the corner of the booth. “All right. When Buck died, was there an autopsy?”

  “No. Family doctor signed the death warrant, and Adele had Buck’s body cremated.”

  “Quickly?”

  “Within the week.”

  “The attack on Trudy. Behind the bleachers. I’m assuming there was a police report?”

  “Yes,” said the sheriff, “and no.”

  “Not helpful.”

  “It was Adele who called it in,” said Duke. “Emmitt tried to get a statement from Trudy, but she said she didn’t know who had attacked her.”

&
nbsp; “Except she was sure it wasn’t Rattler.”

  “Yes,” said the sheriff. “She was sure of that.”

  Thumps tried to do the math in his head. “When did the attack happen?”

  Duke thought for a moment. “Trudy would have been a junior in high school.”

  “Adele’s son, Ethan, would have been living on the estate at the time.”

  Duke smiled. “DreadfulWater, you have one suspicious mind.”

  “Buck is dead. Adele moves her son in on top of Trudy. I don’t suppose the two of them got along.”

  “Sibling rivalry?”

  “Maybe,” said Thumps. “Or maybe Ethan was angry at all the advantages Trudy had received while he was off in the wilderness.”

  “Are you asking if Emmitt raised that question?”

  “Would you know?”

  Duke shook his head. “Nothing in the file that says he did.”

  “So, if Ethan was the one who attacked Trudy behind the bleachers, why wouldn’t she tell the world?”

  “No reason she wouldn’t.”

  Thumps looked at his empty cup. “And then a year and a half later, Trudy winds up at the bottom of Belly Butte.”

  “You got any more dots to connect?”

  “Forget the dots,” said Thumps. “It would be nice to have a motive.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re looking at it all wrong.” Al had snuck up on them with the coffee pot. “Motive is the oldest one in the world.”

  “Sex?”

  “That’s the oldest profession,” said Thumps, extending his own cup.

  “Money.” Al filled both cups. “Adele killed Buck and Trudy and tried to frame Toby so no one would notice.”

  Duke shook his head. “You don’t think Emmitt would have looked at that?”

  “Either one of you ever read Buck’s will?” Al gave each man a knowing glance. “And what about Nina Maslow?”

  Duke moved his cup out of Al’s reach in case she tried to take it back. “You think that Nina Maslow found out that Adele killed her husband and her stepdaughter and that Adele killed Maslow?”

  “Sure,” said Al. “All the pieces fit. Malice Aforethought comes to town. The case is resurrected. And suddenly, Nina Maslow winds up dead at the bottom of the same butte as Trudy. You two believe in coincidences?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Simple as pie.” Al scraped the plates and stacked them. “Maslow discovered something, and that something got her killed.”

  “You got to stop watching so much television, Alvera,” said the sheriff.

  “Human nature,” she called out as she disappeared into the back room with the plates. “Nothing but human nature.”

  Thumps remembered his insulin kit. Now that he had eaten, he was going to have to give himself a shot, but he had no idea how much to take. He didn’t want to lift his shirt here at the table. Was he supposed to go into the bathroom each time and hide out in one of the stalls?

  “You know anything about insulin injection?”

  The sheriff pulled his face out of his coffee cup. “You’re not thinking about sticking yourself here. At the table?”

  “No.”

  “’Cause that would be a little gross.”

  Thumps slid the kit back into his jacket. “So, what do you think?”

  “You mean did Maslow discover something about Trudy’s death that got her killed?”

  “You have to admit,” said Thumps, “it’s a tempting thought.”

  “And it would suggest that whoever killed Samuels also killed Maslow.” Duke set the cup down. “Course that still leaves the other question.”

  “What did Maslow discover?”

  “No,” said the sheriff. “Which of us is supposed to be Cheech?”

  Twenty-Three

  Thumps had never thought much about the plywood booths in Al’s, but after the sheriff left to return to his office and ride herd on the mayor’s Howdy program, Thumps discovered that the booth he was sitting in felt like a little sanctuary. It was dark. It was private. It was quiet.

  “This ain’t a hotel.”

  Al was back with the coffee pot.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Word gets out that I let people lounge about in my booths, and I’ll be knee deep in ear wire.”

  “Ear wire?”

  “You know,” said Al. “Kids with laptops and wires hanging out of their ears. The ones who can nurse one of those latte things and a blueberry lemon muffin until closing.”

  “You don’t serve lattes,” said Thumps. “Or muffins.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “They all go to Mirrors.”

  “No sense taking any chances.”

  Thumps held out his cup, and Al filled it.

  “So, Toby worked for you?”

  “Washed dishes,” said Al. “Cleaned the place.”

  Al generally wasn’t stingy with information. Most times she was only too eager to share.

  “And?”

  “Man’s entitled to his privacy.”

  Thumps wanted to remind Al about her willingness to share his medical information with the world. “Since when?”

  Al snaked her eyes and sharpened her lips. “Sarcasm is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

  “Consistency,” said Thumps. “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

  Al wiped her hands on the towel. “You helping the sheriff or you working for that TV program?”

  “Neither,” said Thumps.

  “So what were you two discussing?”

  “sheriff’s business,” said Thumps. “Duke and I were just having a hypothetical discussion.”

  Al cocked her head to one side like an owl looking at a mouse. “How about I make you a hypothetical breakfast next time you come in?”

  Thumps felt the rush of air and heard the front door bang.

  “Good,” said the sheriff, “you’re still here.”

  Thumps looked up at Al. “You need to put in a back door.”

  Al shrugged. “Looks as though you’re about to enjoy another one of those hypothetical discussions.”

  “Come on, DreadfulWater,” said Duke. “I haven’t got all day.”

  “I have to go home.”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  “You will?”

  “Absolutely,” said the sheriff. “Right after we make one little stop.”

  THERE WERE ALL sorts of places Thumps could imagine the sheriff taking him. His first guess was the county morgue in the basement of the old Land Titles building. Beth would have Nina Maslow’s body on her stainless steel table by now, might have even started the autopsy. If that were the case, Thumps would have plenty of warning and time enough to come up with a good excuse to pass on Beth’s creepy dungeon.

  Or Duke could be taking him back to his office. The only thing of any danger there was the sheriff’s coffee, and Thumps had enough experience and good sense to steer clear of the old percolator.

  They had already been out to Belly Butte. Thumps didn’t think the sheriff was going to return to the scene of the crime so soon, but anything was possible.

  Instead, Hockney pulled his cruiser into the no-parking zone in front of the Tucker hotel.

  “Citizen could get a traffic citation parking here,” said Thumps. “I hear the sheriff is a real stickler for minor infractions.”

  “Cheech,” said the sheriff. “You can be Cheech.”

  THE TUCKER WAS the boutique hotel in Chinook. Construction began in 1875, and it opened a year later, just as George Armstrong Custer was riding into the Little Bighorn Valley. In 1890, the top floor burned down, compliments of a hotel guest and an oil lamp. By the end of World War I, the hotel had closed, and over the next half-century the building was used as a hospital, a warehouse, a library, and a roller-skating rink.

  A community group had been showing art films in the lobby every Friday and Saturday night when a construction conglomerate ou
t of Los Angeles bought the place and turned it back into a hotel.

  Thumps followed the sheriff through the lobby. “I’m guessing you’re not buying me lunch.”

  “I just bought you breakfast.”

  “No, you didn’t. Rattler bought me breakfast. He paid for your breakfast as well.”

  “Same thing,” said the sheriff.

  “And seeing as Rattler is a person of interest,” said Thumps, pushing his luck, “his buying you breakfast could be construed as bribery of a public official.”

  Duke’s grunt was a shotgun shell being jacked into a 12-gauge pump. “How’s your car?”

  “How’s the Howdy program going?”

  The sheriff pressed the button for the third floor.

  “What’s on the third floor?”

  Duke wasn’t known for his smiles, and this one didn’t disappoint. “Rooms,” said the sheriff. “I hear the third floor is lousy with rooms.”

  The door to 326 was open. Sydney Pearl and Calder Banks were sitting on the sofa. Gloria Baker-Doyle was relaxed in an easy chair.

  “Nina Maslow’s room?”

  “Don’t know that I’d hire her decorator.”

  The room had been trashed. Drawers had been pulled out. File boxes had been dumped out on the floor. The refrigerator and the cupboards had been emptied and the contents left in a pile.

  “Sheriff.”

  Duke tipped his hat. “Ms. Pearl.”

  “Bedroom’s the same,” said Pearl.

  “You found it like this?”

  Pearl shook her head. “Calder did.”

  Duke turned to Banks. “And you called it in?”

  Calder looked uncomfortable. “Actually, I called Sydney.”

  The sheriff hooded his eyes. “Because she’s the sheriff?”

  “Well . . . no . . . I mean she’s my boss . . . and Nina . . .”

  “Is dead,” said Duke, finishing the sentence for him.

  Gloria got out of the chair. “Calder and I came over here to retrieve Nina’s files. Yeah.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes,” said Gloria. “We found the suite like this.”

  Duke walked the room, slowly, stepping over the cereal boxes and the cartons of takeout. “Do you know if anything is missing?”

  Gloria looked at Pearl.

  “Don’t look at Ms. Pearl,” said Duke. “She’s not the one who’ll throw you in jail if I don’t like your answers.”