“Loonies didn’t say. But don’t they eat horses in France?”
I shrugged.
“What do we do, Homer?”
I set down at my desk an’ turned on my new computer. “We figure out which animal rights agency to sic on ’em. Then we get back to work findin’ out who done Loomis in.”
Don Firenzi
I spent the rest of the afternoon goin’ over the lab reports an’ the evidence list from the Loomis killin’. The list—a log book an’ papers Loomis’d been carryin’ when I arrested him; his keys an’ fake license; an’ the steering wheel an’ assorted bits of his burnt-up truck—didn’t add nothin’ to what I knew already. The lab reports was almost as unhelpful.
One of ’em—on the truck—stated the lab rats had found another log book—half-burnt—in the cab’s headliner. That sounded promisin’ so I swung by an’ collected it along with the official log I’d confiscated when I arrested him. Just for the hell of it, I picked up Loomis’s keys too.
Back at the office, I spread newspaper over the desk top an’ took the burned log out of the evidence bag. It made the whole room smell like burnt trash. I laid the book on the paper an’ studied it.
It was different from the log I’d seized when I arrested Loomis. I could tell from the dates an’ locations which trips he was deliverin’ horses, puttin’ in twice as many hours on the road as the law allowed. Same for the other trips, but there was no way to tell what he was haulin’ those times ’cause there was no addresses. I had to wonder why Loomis bothered keepin’ two sets of books, ’specially such confusin’ ones.
I studied the keys next. One was fer the truck—no surprise there, an’ one looked like a house or room key. I had the number for Loomis’s landlord from the Oraville police, so I called Loomis’s landlord an’ asked what kind of lock Loomis’d had on his front door. Landlord named the same brand as the house key. “I switched the lock out, though,” he said. “It won’t fit that key no more.”
“What’d you do with the old lock?”
“It’s here.”
“Don’t s’pose you could send it to me.”
“Why’d I want to do that?”
“To avoid me havin’ to get a federal court order to search your premises.”
“Fer what?”
“Fer evidence of a conspiracy. Ames was a alias for one Sam Loomis. An’ he was involved in a interstate fraud ring.”
“I didn’t know—”
“Best way to clear yourself is cooperate with my investigation.”
I didn’t have the authority to investigate interstate anything, but I was bettin’ Loomis’s landlord didn’t know that.
I musta guessed right, ’cause he said, “What do I gotta do?”
“Just pack up that lock an’ send it to Sheriff Deters, West Wheelin’ City Hall, along with a notarized statement that it was the lock you took off the door of the room you rented to Henry Ames.”
“It’s gotta be notarized?”
“Yeah. So if you lie in your statement we can get you fer perjury.”
I could almost see him turnin’ white ’fore he said, “Where do I have to go to get it notarized?”
“Any licensed notary will do—your bank or where you get your fishin’ license’ll be fine.”
“And that’ll get me off the hook?”
“Long as you don’t lie.”
“All right. I’ll do it.”
’Fore I hung up, I gave him the City Hall address an’ told him to sign his name on the package tape.
One of the other keys on Loomis’s ring was a Brinks key, probably fer a fancy padlock. The other looked like a safety deposit key, but there was no way to tell where either the padlock or the box might be located.
I decided to sleep on the problem. I locked the books an’ keys up in my safe an’ called it a night.
• • •
Saturday mornin’, I let Skip sleep in. I watered the jackass an’ moved him to the back fence, then picked up Nina fer breakfast.
We settled at a table at the Grassy-ass, an’ Maria served coffee an’ took our orders. “Homer,” Nina said, “what do you know about this new guy drives a plaid truck?”
“He’s wanted in Highwood, Illinois.”
“Fer what?”
“’Tempted murder.”
Nina’s eyes widened. “How come you ain’t brought him in?”
“Wasn’t much of a attempt. Feller I talked to said he caught his wife sleepin’ with another man an’ bricked ’em into the house—covered all the doors and windows. But I don’t think he was really tryin’ to kill ’em ’cause he left ’em a few little holes for air.”
“I see whatcha mean,” Nina said.
“Weren’t too bright,” I added. “If he’d just shot ’em, he coulda got off on temporary insanity. He’d be a free man.”
“But it’s your job to arrest him,” Nina said.
“No, it’s the Highwood Police Department’s job.”
One of the things I love about Nina is she’s more curious than a litter’a kittens, but she has the sense to know when to butt out. Now, she said, “He’s a bricklayer?”
“Says ‘Masonry’ on his truck.”
“Ain’t Father Ernie lookin’ fer somebody to tuck-point the church?”
• • •
After I dropped Nina at the post office, I took her advice an’ mentioned the church tuck-point job to Firenzi. He musta followed through, ’cause just under a hour later I got a call from Father Ernie—wantin’ me to check on Firenzi’s background.
“Didn’t he give you references?” I asked.
“Yes,” Father Ernie said. “His former employer praised him, and his parish priest spoke highly of him. But Mr. Firenzi was pretty vague about why he moved here.”
“Well,” I said. “It’s only hearsay, but I got it on good authority that he had a bit of wife trouble. Shouldn’t have nothin’ to do with how well he can lay bricks.”
• • •
Lunchtime, I was waitin’ for my take-out in a back booth at the Grassy-ass when Nina come in. I was about to say hello when Mary Lincoln followed her through the door.
Nina said, “Howdy, Mary.”
Mary stopped an’ shoved her hand out.
Nina shook an’ pointed to a table near the window, across the room from the booth where I was hidin’ out. “Can I buy you a cup a coffee?”
“That’d be very nice. Thank you.”
The two of ’em sat down, an’ started visitin’. I just sat there wonderin’ if I should get up an’ announce myself or just sneak out the back. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the place was nearly empty—just the two ladies, an’ me, an’ a few serious eaters shovelin’ down their food—an’ it was real quiet.
After Maria’d served coffee an’ took their orders, Nina said, “You ever been married?”
“Why do you ask?” Mary said.
“I recently been asked to be a wife. I’m wonderin’ what I’m gettin’ into.”
I wondered if Nina was gettin’ cold feet.
Mary said, “Surely you have married friends you can ask.”
Nina nodded. “But friends an’ relations use-ly tell you what you want to hear. Strangers is more honest—when they talk to you at all. ’Sides, you’re vouched for.”
“By whom?”
“Father Ernie. Don’t worry. He didn’t spill no secrets, just said you was a Christian—that’s better’n bein’ a Catholic. He said you do good fer the town.”
“How nice of him.”
“More like just honest.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never been married. I doubt I could give you advice.”
“You ever been serious ’bout anyone?”
“Once. Long ago. Who’s the lucky man?”
“Homer—Sheriff Deters.”
“Congratulations. He’s very nice.”
Just then, Maria come out with my order. I grabbed it an’ skedaddled ’fore Nina and her new best friend noticed I was listenin’ in’.
dead Harlan
When I come into my office Monday mornin’, I found I had a visitor—the Reverend Elroy’s mother in law, Hera Latham. She stood up from the chair where the mayor’s secretary had her parked an’ said, “Sheriff, gypsies’s come to town! You got to do somethin’.”
Closest we’ve ever had to gypsies is some travelers come through town once. They’d filed a complaint with me when they got took for two thousand dollars by our local sleight of hand expert an’ amateur card shark. Gordie MacTavish is a retired college professor an’ a statistics expert who’d once confessed over a jug of White Lightnin’ that he’d been banned in Las Vegas for countin’ cards. When he explained to me how card countin’ works, I had to wonder why they could ban him for it—seemed to me like just good card playin’. Anyway, when I told them travelers, there weren’t no law ’gainst card countin’ in Boone County, they left in a huff. I ain’t seen a sign of ’em since.
Which is why I asked Hera how’d she knowed they was gypsies.
“Why, she’s put up a sign offerin’ to do physics readings. An’ she’s even got a gypsy name—Madame Romany.”
“Where’d you see this sign, ma’am?”
“Next door to the Grassy-ass.”
I thanked Hera for doin’ her civic duty. An’ after she left, I put a Post-it on my filin’ cabinet to remind me to follow through.
Quittin’ time, I was fixin’ to wander over to the post office an’ invite Nina to dinner when Festus called to tell me he’d found another body in a ditch. “Looks like Harlan, Sheriff.”
“I’ll be right there, Festus. Don’t touch nothin’.”
• • •
It was Harlan all right—what was left of ’im. He was lyin’ face up in the ditch, and he had a surprised look on his face—like death wasn’t what he expected. He’d been a big man—six-foot-five or so—an’ heavy. An’ he’d had a beer gut looked like he was about to birth a bull calf. Now his body seemed smaller, like bodies always do before they start to bloat—like the dead parts are less by a considerable amount than the livin’ man.
But Harlan was a whole lot different—seemed like half of him was missin’. It took me a minute to figure out what was wrong with this pi’ture—b’sides Harlan bein’ dead. His beer gut was completely gone.
“Festus,” I said. “You heard any talk lately ’bout Harlan bein’ on a diet?”
“That what killed him, Sheriff?”
“Ain’t likely, but he seems to've lost a lotta weight since last time I seen ’im.” I took out my cell phone an’ punched in Doc Howard’s number. When he come on the line, I said, “Mr. Coroner, we got a body.”
“That’s what you said about that Indian skeleton, Sheriff.”
“This one’s all here. Pretty much.”
Doc sighed. Or mebbe it was just bad reception on the phone. “Give me half an hour,” he said. Soon’s he had the address an’ directions, he hung up.
I warned Festus not to run his mouth about the case an’ sent him up the road to wave off gawkers. Meantime, I set to work photographin’ the scene an’ collectin’ evidence. Time Doc got there, I was nearly done.
Doc took a look an’ shook his head. “Has the cemetery filled up since the last time I was there?”
“Not so’s you’d notice. Why’d you ask?”
“People seem reluctant to make use of it lately.”
“I hear that. How long you figure he’s been dead?”
Doc tugged on one of Harlan’s fingers, then tried to lift up his arm. The fingers was like putty, but the arm was stiff as cord wood. “Rigor has set in,” he said. “And started passing off—between twelve and twenty-four hours.”
I couldn’t wait no longer. I tugged the edge of Harlan’s shirt loose an’ looked underneath. Guess I musta stepped on Doc’s toes, so to speak, ’cause he said, “Do you mind?”
I ignored that. Under Harlan’s shirt was a long red line of stitches where Harlan’d been cut open and sewed back together. “What do you make of this, Doc?”
Doc forgot he was pissed off as he took a close look. “The victim had surgery recently.”
“That what killed him?”
Doc frowned. “I wouldn’t think so.” Then he got real business-like an’ said, “Ask me tomorrow. You can transport him now.”
“Ain’t that the coroner’s job?”
“I’m deputizing you.”
Which is how Festus an’ me come to roll Harlan into a body bag an’ stow ’im in the back of Festus’s squad.
• • •
First off, I had to notify the widow. Harlan an’ his missus lived in a tidy white house with spot lights in the yard shinin’ on old truck tires—painted blue an’ white an’ planted in the center with red flowers. The house had a lighted porch runnin’ ’round the front an’ sides. White-painted coffee cans on the steps was decorated with American flags and had the same red flowers growin’ in ’em.
I parked in front an’ admired the landscapin’ fer a spell to give Miz Harlan time to notice she had a visitor. Then I got out an’ put on my hat an’ went up to the door.
Miz Harlan opened it ’fore I got onto the porch. She told the black an’ white dog that was warnin’ me off to be quiet, then said, “Good evening, Sheriff. What brings you out this way?”
I didn’t beat around the bush. After askin’ about her health, I said, “Sorry to have to break the bad news, ma’am, but Harlan’s dead.”
Miz Harlan’s a big woman, six foot tall an’ heavy. She took it pretty calm. “You sure, Sheriff?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What of?”
“Don’t know, ’xactly. He been ailin’ lately?”
She got a funny look on her face—like she had two different ideas an’ didn’t know which one to mention.
“Just the facts, Miz Harlan.”
“Harlan’d die if anyone found out—Oh, Lord!”
I guessed it’d finally hit her. Harlan had died.
I waited. Tears run down her cheeks, an’ she sniffed like she was tryin’ not to cry out loud.
Then she got herself in hand an’ said, “He paid some quack down in the city to cut out all his belly fat. He figured it was the quickest way to lose weight. He was worried about his heart.”
“Was he havin’ problems with it?”
“No. He had a good heart.” The way she said it, I didn’t figure she was talkin’ health-wise.
a canvass an’ a autopsy
Miz Harlan told me Harlan’d gone out to work right after breakfast an’ she hadn’t seen him since. He didn’t have any enemies she knowed of, didn’t owe no money—’cept to the bank, an’ nobody owed him. I waited with her ’til her family showed, ’long with Reverend Elroy an’ Father Ernie. Then I started canvassin’ the neighborhood.
Doin’ a canvass in the country ain’t no walk in the park. It’s miles from one house to the next, so potential witnesses is few an’ far between. When you do track ’em down, they use-ly ain’t happy to cooperate—’specially after dark. An’ they might like you well enough, but that don’t mean they’ll talk.
Most nobody’d seen Harlan for a couple weeks, an’ not a soul had anything against him. That they’d admit to. While I was at it, I asked if they knew how our skeleton come to be in Silas Hanson’s ditch. Nobody had any ideas ’bout that either, though Mother Henshaw—who was ninety an’ forgetful—allowed as how Injuns lived in these parts long ago. I filed that away as interestin’ but not particularly useful.
It was late, time I called it quits an’ went home, tired an’ hungry. The house was dark when I pulled into the drive—no Skip, but the jackass let out a “hee haw haw haw” they musta heard all the way to the interstate.
• • •
Next mornin’ after we’d ate, I dropped Skip at school, then headed over to the Rooney place.
“What brings you out this way, Homer?” Martha said.
“I was wonderin’ could you gimme some advice?”
&nb
sp; “Surely, if I can. Come on in. Ben’ll be glad to see you.”
The three of us settled at the kitchen table with mugs of coffee an’ a plate of fresh, home-made donuts. Ben don’t talk since he had his stroke, but he’s come to be a great listener. An’ he used to own mules ’fore he was sheriff, so he an’ Martha know somethin’ about ’em.
“Martha, can you tell me if there’s some way to get a jackass to go forward? ’Sides pullin’ ’im by the tail?”
Ben gave a wide grin an’ shook his head—made his whole upper body sway back an’ forth.
Martha squeezed Ben’s forearm, then told me, “Sometimes you have to tack ’em—like a sailboat. Pull ’em off balance to the right, then pull ’em to the left. All together, they’ll take a few steps in a more-or-less forward direction. It’s easier if you just train them to follow you, but that takes longer.”
“I guess it would.”
“You thinkin’ of buyin’ a jackass, Homer?”
“No way! Man’d have to be crazy. But there was a jackass in that truckload of mustangs we confiscated, an’ Mars Boone wouldn’t touch it. So I got ’im.”
Martha was too polite to comment how that made two jackasses livin’ at my place. ’Stead, she said, “It sounds like you’re gonna be fostering the critter for some time.”
“I sure ain’t gonna keep him. But I’m stuck with ’im for the time bein’.”
“It might be easier, in the meantime, to hire Bello Willis to train him.”
Most nobody but me knows Bello’s short for Bellerophon. He’s been a horse whisperer since he was eight—the first time he clapped eyes on a horse.
“I don’t want to spend no more’n I hafta,” I told Martha.
“Well, time is money, Homer. And it sounds like you’re already spending quite a bit of time.”
“You got that right. An’ he’s ate up my lawn—front an’ back—an’ half a Mrs. Shaklee’s roses. I’m gonna hafta pop fer a load a hay, too.”
Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling Page 9