by Paula Boyd
"Miz Jackson," the man in question said. "I'm Deputy Bob Travers. Sheriff Parker sent me over to protect you. I was just giving you a while to shop before I told you. I was trying to be nice."
"Nice, my hind foot," Lucille sputtered. "Just how'd you know I'd be out shopping at the mall anyway? Nobody knew I was going to be here except Jolene."
She shot me an evil glare to which I responded with an appropriately innocent shake of my head. This was not my fault and I wasn't willing to take the wrongful blame. "Hey, I didn't squeal."
"Then you had to be stalking me," Mother said, turning back to Deputy Bob. "I've been stalked by that bony-butted fool Ethel Fossy long enough to know when I'm being stalked. I also darn well know it's against the law, now you get your hands off me."
I was torn between trying to help my mother and protecting the rapidly thinning sheriff's department employees from their captive. Seeing a third option, namely that somebody needed to disperse the masses, I settled for being the designated crowd controller. I held my hands up like a seasoned evangelist and called out to the swarm. "Listen up, people. This was just a misunderstanding. You can all go on about your business. Move along, now."
Not a soul did.
"Oh, for godsakes," I muttered, trying to think of a better plan. "The woman has Alzheimer's…and AIDS. Hang around it you want to, but don't be crying to me when she spits on you." I've never been that great at extemporaneous speaking. "Or worse."
In a swirl of gasps and scuttling, the crowd evaporated instantly.
When I turned back around, the mall security guard and Deputy Bob had released Lucille, but each still had a cautious hand ready to nab her if need be. She shot venomous glares to each of them in turn. Apparently, she hadn't heard what I just said because she was still busy giving them a what-for.
"You get away and leave me be! This is a violation of my civil rights," she said, waving her good arm for emphasis. "It's a mighty sad case when a little old woman who wouldn't hurt a flea can't go to the mall for a little recreation without being trailed around by a goon and treated like a common criminal. Why, it's just horrible, and I'm gonna file a complaint with somebody. If that Jerry Don Parker weren't shot to pieces, he'd give you two a what-for about this. He wouldn't stand for you treating me like this."
I was amused that Mother was throwing Jerry's name around, particularly since her earlier reference involved a highly unflattering comparison to a post. Mother had always thought Jerry hung the moon, to use her words, but now her opinion apparently depended on what kind of trouble she was in--and wanted to wrangle her way out of.
"Sheriff Parker's the one who sent me out here, Miz Jackson," said Deputy Bob repeated, trying to soothe her. "I'm here as a personal favor to him. This is my day off."
Lucille snorted at his above-and-beyond the call sacrifice.
But before she could elaborate, the mall cop stepped toward the deputy. "You need me anymore, Bob?" he said, rubbing his shoulder.
Deputy Bob looked at Lucille then at me then back at the guard. "Now that her daughter's here it should be okay," he said, trying to convince himself it might be true.
It wasn't, of course, but we could hope. And she did actually calm down, but only after announcing that she would be finishing her shopping before she went anywhere. I'd had no idea she was completely out of fingernail polish, lipstick and cologne, not to mention the fact that she needed a new slip and bra. I had a nagging suspicion that these last two purchases were for pure spite, but I had the decency not to say so. Besides, I wasn't looking forward to being imprisoned again either. Eventually, we headed home, Lucille leading the way and Deputy Bob following close behind.
As we turned the corner onto Mother's street, I caught my breath. The place was covered with official vehicles, flashing lights and yellow crime scene tape. Yes, new tape and new flock of cars.
A sheriff's car and a van were in the driveway, but Mother pulled in as well, leaving the back half of her car sticking out in the road. Deputy Bob had parked across the street and was sprinting toward Lucille.
I muttered and cursed as I found a spot for the Tahoe. I know I should have raced over to see what was going on, but my pesky friend Denial was perched on my shoulder screaming, "You don't really want to know."
Gathering up my ever-present paper cup of tea, my keys, billfold and courage, I flicked the pesky voice off my shoulder and hustled myself toward the fray. Yes, it had occurred to me that nobody was sprinting out to escort me inside, and it did kind of hurt my feelings.
By the time I got to the house, Deputy Bob had already zipped Lucille inside and was back talking with another deputy. He turned toward me as I walked up. "There was a package left on the back porch while you were gone, Miz Jackson. We'll need to talk to you about it."
"Did you know about this when we were at the mall?"
He nodded. "They found it when they came to clear the house." He smiled a little. "It was easier to let her stay at the mall while we checked things out."
That made sense. What was going on here now, however, didn't. "I assume this package was not a floral arrangement, a fruit basket or a box of cosmetics."
"No."
I'd managed to verbalize my clever remark, but my heart wasn't in it. I knew good and well we weren't having a deputy convention over FTD, Chiquita or Avon, which meant it had to be bad--really bad. Visions of dead bodies and sundry body parts danced before my eyes, and my stomach did a triple somersault at the gory image clips. I swallowed hard, my bravado sliding down as fast as the bile surged in my throat. "What is it?"
"A shotgun."
Oh, no, I knew where this was going. "Dad's."
Bob nodded.
The shotgun's reappearance brought a whole bunch of the old unpleasant issues right back into the foreground. Specifically, did this confirm what we had all guessed? Had my father's favorite shotgun been used to kill my mother's boyfriend? And why was it now being flaunted in our faces? The killer's boldness scared me almost as much as the bullets--almost.
"You ain't gonna want that gun back, Jolene," Leroy's gravel-like voice boomed from behind me as he marched up and broke into our cozy group. "Bertram would be fighting mad, I reckon, seeing's how the stock on that thing is just plumb ruint."
I ignored Leroy and looked at Deputy Bob. "Tell me."
"It would be best if I didn't," he said apologetically, then turned to glare at Leroy. "This new piece of evidence is vital to the case and we need to keep it out of the newspapers."
I didn't take offense at the remark, at least from him. I kind of liked Deputy Bob, and I knew he wasn't implying anything about the moronic article I'd been an unwitting--or maybe that's witless--party to. He even started to say as much, but I waved away the concern. He was also right about keeping the facts of the case out of the paper, but I still wanted to know what had been done with and to my father's gun--and why.
"Slut," Leroy said, snickering.
My head snapped toward him. "What did you say?"
Leroy tucked his thumbs in the top of his pants and grinned. "Slut. I said slut."
What stupid thing was he up to this time? "Good for you, Leroy, you learned a new word. Do you want me to spell it, tell you the definition or give you a pat on the back for being one?"
He scrunched up his good eye and puffed out his chest. "Slut. It was carved into the stock of your old dad's gun, Jolene. Bertram's probably turning over in his grave right now." He paused and got a smug look on his face. "Guess we all got the message pretty clear, huh? Slut," he repeated, laughing. "Kinda funny, ain't it?"
Lucille, who had apparently slipped out of the house in time to hear the slurs, didn't think it was funny at all and promptly whacked him in the head with her purse. The blow landed in the vicinity of the bandaged stitches. He wailed and howled, but I didn't much care. Apparently neither did any of the on-duty deputies since they turned their backs and left Leroy screaming in the driveway while they escorted us into the house.
Ch
apter 12
The Redwater forensics guys finished doing their thing with the gun, the back porch and the outside areas while Mother and I chatted inside with the deputies. We were no closer to knowing the identity of the killer, but returning the shotgun had fairly well cleared up any confusion about the target. It also had renewed the issue of matching up someone on the mayor's hate list with my mother's--or mine. I still couldn't see how I'd had time to offend too many people in four days. I'm good, but generally not that good, although I supposed it was possible. Still it was heartening to see them officially pursuing something.
And, let's not forget the slut thing. Carving up the gun in order to slander my mother wasn't a prank or a joke--it was premeditated viciousness. It sort of discounted a heat-of-passion killing as well. Someone had gone to great lengths to steal the gun, plan and execute a murder, hack up the stock on the shotgun, then return it while no one noticed. Very clever. Or at least very determined to make a point.
The Redwater Falls detective Jerry had told me about was the latest arrival on the scene. Having already chatted with Deputy Bob and Deputy Marshall, I was less than enthused about covering the same ground again, particularly with the blond-haired beach boy walking into the room.
Detective Richard "you can call me Rick" Rankin was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, tall, lean, well-tanned and very blond with a stylish cut that just screamed "waiting to be discovered by Hollywood." Detective Rick looked like he belonged at the beach perched on a surfboard rather than in my mother's kitchen in Kickapoo, Texas, flashing a badge.
After dispensing with the introductions, we got down to the business of rehashing what was obviously old news for us both. "Look, Rick," I said, after about fifteen minutes. "This is getting us basically nowhere. How about I tell you what I know, have heard rumored or have just plain guessed at, and then we'll get back to the old news, okay?"
Detective Rick Surfer Dude set his pen aside and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, Jolene," he said, sounding just a little too friendly--and arrogant--for my tastes. "Just what has your investigative reporting uncovered?"
I declined to mention that I hadn't actually investigated much of anything--now or previously--for reporting purposes or otherwise. Those were just technicalities, of course, and they didn't keep me from having an opinion, so I proceeded onward. I ran down my own list of suspects and their respective pros and cons. There was no shining star in the group, but I did note that Velma Bennett's name had been cropping up in conversation an awful lot, and there was that new white Town Car to think about. She had plenty of reasons to kill her husband and my mother, but my theory couldn't explain why she'd want to kill me--or Leroy or Jerry if those options were still on the table.
As I rattled off my ideas, Detective Rick nodded and smiled like a politician who didn't give a damn, but wanted you to think he did so you'd vote for him. He did perk up when I mentioned the fact that the brick to Leroy's head had loosened his tongue, and the trip to the hospital had been amusing, if not particularly coherent. Leroy's ramblings hadn't made sense at the time, but combined with what my mother had told me and the tidbits Jerry had shared, I'd pieced together a fair guess at Dewayne Schuman's troubles--and they went far beyond building permits and carports. Once I started telling what I thought I knew, Rick started quizzing me in earnest. As we went along, I smoothed off the edges of my speculation and guesses and came up with a pretty good overview, if I did say so myself.
Apparently, Dewayne's arrest for murder had triggered, or maybe accelerated, other serious ongoing criminal investigations. He might have escaped the clutches of an inept county deputy, but he hadn't been so lucky with the Feds. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had swooped in with guns blazing, so to speak, on the shed out behind his house where he kept his construction materials. Dewayne Schuman, homebuilder and former felon, was apparently buying and selling things he ought not be. Behind some sheets of fiberboard and vinyl siding, he had stacked about forty wooden crates of various weaponry.
That in itself was plenty bad enough for a convicted felon, but Dewayne was doing a little modification of his inventory as well. Being somewhat of a thinker, he had quite efficiently labeled each box with helpful identifying details such as "full auto," which in layman's terms means fully automatic and seriously illegal. Not being an expert on either construction or arms dealing, I still suspected that Dewayne's profits from selling guns were considerably more than from selling houses. How that all fit into the tangled web of murder and assorted shootings, I had no idea, but odds were that it did.
Detective Rick seemed interested in my assumptions, suppositions and wild-ass guesses, but I was afraid he was mostly concerned about how I obtained the information, which told me I was fairly close in all the above. His curt "you're not to discuss this information with anyone" comment was a pretty good clue as well.
I took a turn, leaning back in my chair with an arrogant little smirk. "You know, Rick, I've been thinking."
He didn't groan, but I suspected he did so internally.
Professional types such as Rick do not appreciate amateur types such as myself attempting to "help" them with their work; therefore, I did not wait for him to ask me what had been weighing on my mind and shared anyway. "I know you've already talked to Gifford," I said, not knowing that at all. "He and Dewayne were awfully chummy at the mayor's funeral. I guess you know all about that."
He made a quick note on his pad then looked back at me, but said nothing. Not to worry, I had plenty more to chat about.
"It's also common knowledge that Gifford didn't care for either BigJohn or Lucille. That doesn't make a huge ripple in the cesspool of suspects, but it's definitely something to be aware of. On the surface, being mayor of Kickapoo, Texas, is hardly worth killing for. Officially, the job pays a whole dollar a year, but the rumor is that the kickback potential is in the mid-five figures, which ups the possibilities considerably. And you do remember about the mayor's wife's new Town Car, right? The grapevine says BigJohn paid cash, and those things aren't cheap."
Rick thought for a moment then said, "The Bennetts were still married, you know. It's certainly not unusual for a man to buy his wife a car."
If he was saying this stuff to insinuate anything regarding my mother and her poor choices, he was wasting his breath. "I am well aware that the Bennetts were legally married at the time of his unfortunate demise. The mayor had told my mother a rather different story, however, going so far as to show her something he called divorce papers. You might want to check on that too. He said he'd officially filed, but then the wife showed up in town and subsequently so did a new Lincoln. Kind of makes you wonder why, doesn't it?"
I let him stew on that for a few seconds then added, "It could be important to know the exact sequence of events. I don't know what Mayor Bennett had in the way of assets, but as long as the grieving widow was still legally married to him when he died, she'd retain control of all the community property. That included the water treatment plant lots he was trying to scam the city for and a tidy lump sum distribution from his retirement plan, not to mention the paid-for Lincoln, a mobile home and who knows what else."
Rick looked at me, waiting for more details.
I just shrugged. He didn't need me to tell him that Velma Bennett was far better off financially with BigJohn out of her way than if he'd stayed alive and divorced her. Personally, it would have probably been an even bigger relief. Following that train of thought, killing my mother out of spite was an easy leap. Adding me as a potential target wasn't, but she was still a viable suspect in my book.
Rick made a few more notes then thumped his pen on his notepad. "You certainly seem to know a lot about all of this." He sounded kind of impressed and was smiling just a little strange.
It was a nice change from the suspicious looks I usually get, and in a different situation, I would have suspected he was flirting with me. I decided to ignore his grin. "I know more than I want to, but I'm in the midd
le of this whether I like it or not. When people start shooting at people I love, not to mention me, I tend to get pretty interested in details."
"Details are good."
Odd comment, and not the most professional he could have made, but I chose to ignore it. "Sheriff Parker said you'd be helping his department out on this case, but exactly what is your role?"
His eyes twinkled and his boyish grin widened. "I get to interview all kinds of interesting people."
The look on his face was drifting farther into the non-business realm and I was not amused. "Uh huh. I'm just interesting because I'm from Colorado and can translate what the natives are up to into a language you understand."
"Maybe," he said, chuckling. "But, I've also learned a great deal about you over the last few days, and I have to say I'm impressed on quite a few levels."
Oh, please. Anything he'd heard about me around here couldn't be good, and I surely didn't want to get into some idiotic flirtation thing. I was, however, definitely flattered that he seemed to find me attractive enough to sidetrack an official interview. I haven't had many young studs making fools of themselves over me lately. That honor generally falls to guys with AARP cards and pacemakers. "I don't know what you've heard about me, Rick, but one thing I promise you is true."
He raised an expectant eyebrow. "What would that be?"
"When a woman gets to be about forty, she realizes that she doesn't have to put up with the same bullshit she did when she was twenty. Nor is she quite as gullible." I paused and smiled for effect. "She begins to care less about offending people and more about just getting to the point."
His brow wrinkled a little. He was beginning to see where I was headed and was deflating accordingly.
"I've over forty, Rick." I watched as that little detail sunk in, but I didn't see it deterring him as I'd expected. Fine. I could keep going. "So, no matter how cute you grin, surfer dude, I'm not going to be the older woman that you remember fondly for teaching you something or other about love, meaning sex."