Courtin’ Murder in West Wheeling
A West Wheeling Mystery
Michael Dymmoch
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2011 by Michael Allen Dymmoch
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition May 2016
ISBN: 978-1-68230-061-9
Also by Michael Allen Dymmoch
West Wheeling Mysteries
Death in West Wheeling
The Fall
M.I.A.
The Cymry Ring
Caleb & Thinnes Mysteries
The Man Who Understood Cats
The Death of Blue Mountain Cat
Incendiary Designs
The Feline Friendship
White Tiger
For
Ginny Grandt
a modest proposal
“Nina Ross, will you marry me?”
Nina’s the woman I been sweet on since she was jail-bait.
Me.
Homer Deters.
Sheriff of Boone County.
She looked surprised; I don’t know why. I’d been courtin’ her since spring an’ had her grandad’s permission.
We was stretched out in the sun, next to the Glass Mountain Reservoir, the first weekend in October. Injun summer. The grass was still green and sweet. The trees was startin’ to turn. An’ we’d had a killin’ frost a week earlier, so there was nothin’ left to bug us. I was on my back with my feet propped on a rock. Nina was lying cross-ways to me, with her head resting just north of my belt buckle. We’d polished off a fair-sized picnic lunch an’ washed it down with moonshine. God was in heaven an’—far as I knew—all was right with Boone County. Not that it was my concern. It was my day off.
B’fore I could get a answer, my radio started squawkin’.
“Sheriff!” Festus Reagan—Deputy Reagan—sounded like he’d got his tail in a ringer. Damn all!
I’d a ignored him, but Nina said, “Homer, ain’t you gonna answer?”
“I axed you—”
“No! Answer Festus?”
“Yeah. But why’d he have to call now? It ain’t like I been all that busy the last two hours.”
“Sheriff?” This time Festus sounded like he’d lost his best dog.
I got up an’ keyed my radio. “This is Sheriff Deters. What do you want, Festus?”
He said, “Thank God! Sheriff, we got a 10-50-an’-a-half over on County C, just off the interstate.”
“What’n hell’s a 10-50-an’-a-half?” I axed.
“Sump’n you tole me never to announce over the radio.”
I ’membered that. I also ’membered—finally—what 10-50-an’-a-half meant.
“Do tell. You jus’ hang tight till I get there.” I turned back to Nina, but the magic had leaked outta the moment. She was gatherin’ up the leavin’s of our picnic, an’ shakin’ out the blanket we’d been lyin’ on.
“Stop by for dessert if it ain’t too late,” she said matter-of-factly. Her tone reminded me of the doc tellin’ me to be sure to get my tetanus booster.
“Aw, Nina, I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to get used to it.” She handed me the blanket. “By the way, what’s a 10-50-an’-a-half?”
“That’s West Wheelin’ police lingo for a corpse.”
gaper’s block
I burned up the highway gettin’ to the scene, but it seemed like half a Boone County was way ahead a me. Festus had his cruiser angled across the road, blockin’ the scene on one side, but that left the other end open. Assorted pickup trucks an’ a big ol’ white Lincoln Continental lined up on the shoulder behind Handy Taylor’s dredgin’ rig.
Handy’s the contractor the county hired to dig the sand—what the highway department dumps on the roads in winter—outta the ditches so there’s room for next winter’s dump. It’s a pretty good deal ’cause Handy’s contract don’t specify what he’s s’posed to do with the dredgin’s. Usually he picks up a couple bucks sellin’ it to people who need sand an’ a bundle sellin’ the rest back to the county. Anyway, he’d left the motor runnin’ an’ the amber safety lights flashin’, an’ he was standin’ just outside the police line, chewin’ the fat with half a dozen locals, includin’ the mayor; Nate Williams, the barber; an’ councilmen Cramer an’ Andrews.
They was all behind the line, but I could see by the tracks every one of ’em had been down in the ditch to see the body. So much for securin’ the scene. I didn’t see no percentage in makin’ a federal case of it at that point, so I just said, “Afternoon, Mayor. Boys.”
There was a chorus of, “Afternoon, Sheriff.” I just nodded and said, “You-all had your look. Now clear out.” Then I tole Festus, “When I get back from viewin’ the body, we’re gonna run in anyone standin’ ’round who don’t have evidence to give.”
Most of ’em muttered about unfriendly peace officers an’ started driftin’ towards their wheels.
Festus looked at the mayor an’ swallowed hard. Festus is young an’ he’s been crippled all his life by his ma namin’ him after a Gunsmoke character. Personally, I allus thought Festus Hagen was a straight shooter. An’ Deputy Reagan is eager an’ honest. As Nina’s pointed out, at least he wasn’t named for no dead president.
The mayor’s small an’ feisty as a banty rooster. “I expect a report first thing, Sheriff,” he said.
I could see he’d started puffin’ hisself up for a jurisdictional dispute. I just said, “Yessir.”
He couldn’t tell was I bein’ smart or not, but we’d locked horns on previous occasions an’ he knew I won’t back down. When I fixed him with my best State Trooper stare, he started headin’ fer his car. I went to look at the remains.
That was a good description. Remains. Weren’t no question they was human, but they was nothin’ left ’cept disjointed bones, heaped in a pile like pick-up sticks. They was lyin’ in the ditch, half buried in the sandy bottom, with grass an’ the weeds that’d took hold since spring growin’ up between ’em. There weren’t no sign a clothes or personal effects that might help identify ’em. The grass was trampled in a circle all ’round, an’ the same tracks I’d seen up by the road—gaper’s tracks—was showin’ in the sandy patches. Whoever’d dumped the body was long gone—mebbe since spring.
I got down on all fours for a closer look. The bones was dry an’ yellow as old dirt. Far as I could see, none of ’em was showin’ any breaks, scrapes, saw marks, or bullet holes. There wasn’t no sign they’d been gnawed by critters. The skull was face up, grinnin’ at the blue October sky. It had teeth wore down like a old dog’s, but no cavities or fillin’s.
Festus come up an’ said, “This what they call a ‘John Doe,’ Sheriff?”
I stood up and dusted off my hands. “Yeah, ’less it’s a Jane.”
Handy was still waitin’ up by his rig. “Where’s your truck an’ driver, Handy?” I asked, meanin’ the truck he hauled the dredgin’s with. “Al Holland, right?”
“Al didn’t feel too good about hangin’ round no dead body, Sheriff. An’ he about had a load anyway, so I sent him to call you, then finish up an�
�� go home.”
Which meant by now he’d told his story to everyone in Boone County who’d listen. And he’d prob’ly embroidered it considerable.
I nodded. “How ’bout you tell me what went down?”
Handy kept shootin’ quick looks at the ditch. “Was he murdered, Sheriff?”
“Can’t say, Handy. What happened?”
“Well, we’d worked our way down this side’a the road, when I had to take a leak. While I was standin’ there, gettin’ my business done, I happened to look down an’ spot somethin’ funny in the ditch. Naturally, I climbed down for a better look. That’s when I seen it. I yelled for Al to come look. An’ he near-to passed out. I figured it’d be best to send him to call you. I’s about ready to think no one was comin’ when Festus showed.”
“You got any idea who this might be?”
He shook his head.
“Much obliged, Handy.”
“I kin go?”
“Shore. Jus’ come by my office tomorrow an’ fill out a statement.”
Soon as he was outta sight, I give Doc Howard a call on my cell phone. Doc’s the Boone County coroner. He used to just be the local pathologist—when Nate Williams was coroner. But when Nate got back on a deadbeat customer by declarin’ him dead, it riled Doc up enough to run against him in the next election. By that time, the story’d got out. An’ there was so many folks scared they’d be dead before their time, Doc won by a landslide.
When Doc come on the line, I explained the situation. He told me to take lots a good pi’tures an’ bring the bones on in.
“Ain’t you gonna come take charge a the body?” I asked.
“Doesn’t sound to me as if there is a body. I trust your judgement, Homer. Pictures’ll be good enough.”
So I sent Festus off to scare up a box, an’ I got out my camera. First a roll of just the bones from every angle, then a second roll with a ruler next to the skull, and everything that looked like it might be evidence marked with numbered cards. Time I was done, it was nearly dark, an’ Festus was back with the carton a satellite TV dish come in. We collected up John Doe, an’ I headed fer the morgue.
• • •
“I don’t guess I need to hang around for the autopsy,” I remarked as I handed Doc the box of J. Doe’s mortal bits.
Doc just said, “Humph. I stayed up for this?”
I shrugged.
“You could’ve left these in the trunk overnight, Homer, and brought them in tomorrow with the photos.”
“’Gainst procedure, Doc.”
“Has that ever stopped you before?”
I couldn’t answer that one honest, so I shut up an’ cleared out.
the truck stop
After I got my pictures developed at the One-Hour photo, I locked ’em in the trunk of my cruiser an’ stopped in at Hardsetter’s—a.k.a. the Truck Stop—for a bite to eat an’ a nightcap. Rye Willis was settin’ at the counter contemplatin’ a old-fashioned glass half full a West Wheelin’ White Lightnin’. Rye makes it hisself, so he could drink it at home a whole lot cheaper. But half the pleasure of savorin’ good likker is drinkin’ it in company. I set down next to him an’ said howdy to the waitress, Charity Nonesuch, an’ let my glance linger in appreciation of her generous endowments. That woman is blest.
“What can I get you, Homer?” she asked.
“I’ll have one a them,” I said, pointin’ to Rye’s glass. “An’ the Special.”
Hardsetter’s Special was chicken fried steak’n mashed potatoes with sides of greens, black-eyed peas, an’ corn. Coffee an’ apple pie was optional but not extra.
Rye finally took notice of me an’ said, “Hi, Homer.” He sounded blue. “I heard you found a body.”
“Handy Taylor did, actually.”
“Anyone I know?”
“John Doe.”
Charity’d pulled a jug a shine from under the counter an’ was fillin’ another glass. I could almost see her ears prick up.
“Humph,” Rye said.
When I didn’t add no details, Charity seemed to lose interest. She set the glass in front a me, an’ put the jug back, then moseyed off.
“Rye,” I said. “You feelin’ all right?”
“Middlin’. Why’d you ask?”
“Seems like your natural curiosity’s down a quart.”
“Aw, Homer…” I waited. “It’s Awful Lonesome.”
Awful hated Rye’s guts. “What about ’im?”
“He told me he was siccin’ the ATF on me. Then he come back later an’ told me ATF wouldn’t bother with me. Said I’m too in-sig-ni-fi-cant for ATF to give a damn about.”
“I thought you was tryna think a ways to get ATF off yer back.”
“It ain’t just that.” Rye reached down the counter, an’ grabbed a newspaper somebody’d left. He pounded it with his pointin’ finger. “Lookit that, Homer.” ‘That’ was a full page ad for Kellerman’s Cheap-Ass Likkers. “How kin I compete with that?”
I looked. Kellerman was sellin’ Budweiser for $5.99 a case, an’ Jack Daniels for $6.99 a fifth. It didn’t seem as though a independent contractor like Rye could stay in business with the competition low-ballin’ ’im like that. I looked over the other ads. Coors was average, Sam Adams highly overpriced. Imports, like Bass, an’ Heinekens, was outrageous.
“Seems to me you’re goin’ at this ass-backwards, Rye. ’Stead a tryin’ to compete against these booze factories, you outta cut your production an’ double what you’re askin’. Put a fancy label on it, an’ it’ll be like that Evian stuff. Yuppies’ll trample each other beatin’ a path to your still.”
“You think?”
“Worth a try.”
“Yeah, but what’ll I do with all the time that’ll free up? The Devil shore ’nough finds work for idle hands. ’Specially Willis hands.”
“Well, Festus’s been complainin’ he don’t get enough time off to spend with his girl. You could be a deputy sheriff part time.”
Mary Lincoln
Ever since becomin’ a daddy—a little over six months ago—I been makin’ a point to set a good example by havin’ breakfast every day. Neither me nor my boy, Skip—Skip Jackson Deters—cooks so we usually eat at the truck stop or the café. The mornin’ after Handy Taylor’d come across John Doe’s remains, me an’ Skip stopped at Hardsetter’s fer a bite to eat an’ a bit a local gossip.
As luck would have it, Rye had the same idea. We was sittin’ at the counter when he come along. He said, “Mornin’, Homer, Skip,” an’ sat down on the stool next to mine. “I’m ready when you are, Homer.”
“Fer what?”
“Deputy trainin’.”
Skip leaned over the counter to look at Rye—tryin’ to figure was he kiddin’, I guess. “Ain’t that like settin’ a fox to guard the chickens?”
I give him the eye. “Some’d say takin’ a Jackson under my roof was a risky proposition.”
Skip hung his head. He don’t like to be reminded he come from West Wheelin’s crime family.
I clapped him on the back an’ said, “Everybody oughtta have a chance to prove hisself.”
I told Rye to stop by the office later an’ fill out a application.
• • •
Time I dropped Skip at school, it was too late to catch Nina at home and too early fer her to be to work yet. So I went on in to my office to start catchin’ up on my paperwork.
I begun by callin’ Doc Howard, who told me he needed a few more days ’fore he could gimme the autopsy report.
“The victim’s just a box a bones, Doc,” I said. “You don’t need more’n a couple hours for a Cracker Jack job on a real corpse. What gives?”
“I’d like to do a few more tests.”
“You mean pass my victim ’round the Med school like a cold germ.” He didn’t say nothin’ to that. Couldn’t. I’d hit the nail hard’n true. “Least you could tell me was it a John Doe or a Jane.”
“The remains are those of an adult male,” Doc said.
/> “Don’t s’pose you wanna guess what killed him or when?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“Well, then, jus’ be sure you get that chain of custody sheet signed.”
’Fore he hung up on me Doc said, “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”
Doc’s a old friend, so I didn’t take offense, but I wondered who’d put what burr under his saddle.
• • •
When I come into the Post Office half a hour later, Nina was sortin’ envelopes into the little cubby holes she has for General Delivery. She knew I was there, but she didn’t look up ’til she was done. Then she said, “You lose your cell phone, Homer? Or broke your dialin’ finger?”
“Didn’t seem to be much sense in wakin’ you up to tell you I wasn’t comin’ over.”
“Do tell. Real anxious to get the answer to that question you put to me, weren’t ya?”
“Aw, Nina.”
“You even get me a ring?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I held my hands up to make a hold-everythin’ signal. “You wait right here.”
I come near to settin’ a land speed record gettin’ out to my cruiser. I’d been carryin’ the ring around with me ever since our first date. Now I had the chance, I made the Flash look like Aesop’s tortoise gettin’ it inside the P.O.
Nina was standin’ behind the counter with her arms crossed, lookin’ like Judgement. I set the ring box on the counter facin’ towards her, an’ flipped it open.
It was like magic—watchin’ it turn a statue into a goddess. Nina’s eyes widened, an’ her face lit up like a kid at Christmas. “Homer, is this real?”
“If it ain’t, there’s a jeweler’s gonna be doin’ some serious time fer fraud.”
She got down to stare the ring in the eye.
“Which reminds me.” I took off my hat an’ dropped down on one knee. “Nina Ross, will you marry me?”
Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling Page 1