“No, sir. I just stopped to make a call. Reception ain’t too good in the truck.”
Judgin’ by the number of truckers that fly through here with their cell phones glued to their ears, I thought that a mite suspicious. “Mind showin’ me your license, registration, an’ insurance card?”
He fished his wallet outta his back pocket an’ thumbed through it. He handed me a new-lookin’ CDL—accordin’ to which his name was Goodson Wooten—an’ a valid-lookin’ insurance card. I eggsamined them very carefully—they seemed okay—an’ handed ’em back.
“Registration, Mr. Wooten?”
“Sonny.” I waited. He said, “In the truck. I’ll get it.”
I followed him up to the cab an’ waited while he climbed up and reached out his registration, which also looked okay. “Hand me down your manifest and log book while you’re at it.”
“What’ve I done?”
“Well, for one thing, you ain’t usin’ your hazards. That’s a safety violation. But I’m willin’ to cut you some slack if you cooperate.”
He shrugged an’ produced the requested items. The manifest said he was haulin’ plumbin’ fixtures; the log looked okay. I handed ’em back an’ was about to cut him loose when we heard the back doors of the trailer slam shut.
Sonny looked like he was suddenly facin’ down the barrel of a 12-gauge. I turned my head just enough to see Nina come around the back of the truck an’ head toward us.
In that fraction of a second I was distracted, Wooten reached back in his cab an’ come out with a .22. He pointed it at me. “Drop your gun, Sheriff!”
It was déjà vu all over again.
I said, “Nina get back!” an’ took a step away from the truck, further onto the shoulder.
Nina froze. Wooten pointed the gun at her an’ said, “Don’t move, girl.” He told me, “You don’t drop your gun, I’ll shoot her!”
His hand was shakin’, but he seemed scared enough to shoot someone by accident. So I drew my sidearm, slowly, an’ dropped it as ordered. Wooten jumped down from the cab, keepin’ his gun on Nina. As he reached for my pistol, I backed away an’ let my mad show, clenchin’ my jaw an’ squinchin’ up my eyes. “Shoot her an’ I’ll tear you apart ’fore you can swing that toy around. You gonna shoot, better shoot me first!”
He took the hint an’ swung the gun in my direction. Got off one round. Just one. It missed me by a good six inches. ’Fore he could get off another, Nina jumped forward an’ cold cocked ’im. I seen rocks drop slower.
“’Mind me never to piss you off,” I told her as I pulled out my handcuffs.
She grinned. “Well, you come up with the distraction. You almost had me convinced you was gonna tear him apart. Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Watchin’ Dr. Who.”
“Dr. who?”
“That’s right. On PBS. Me an’ Skip never miss a episode.”
• • •
West Wheelin’ ain’t got a proper jail, just a holdin’ cell off the sheriff’s office that we mostly use for scarin’ the livin’ daylights outta juvenile delinquents ’fore we turn ’em over to their folks. Stands to reason we also ain’t got a proper interrogation room. The state boys are pretty obligin’ about lettin’ me use their facilities—entertainment, Sergeant Underhill calls it. So I hauled Mr. Wooten over to the state cop shop an’ put him in one of their interview rooms.
Like most law enforcement officers, I let my suspect set an’ stew fer a spell while I checked the plumbin’ an’ got coffee an’ run his prints through AFIS an’ his name through NCIC to see if he’d been caught before an’ was he wanted now.
Meanwhile, Nina, Underhill, an’ Trooper Yates waited around fer the show to start.
The background check showed Sonny had something to answer for ’sides the stolen truck, the contraband, an’ the unlicensed handgun. Turned out he was a local boy—raised in Okra—who’d got hisself arrested fer drunk drivin’ an lost his real license. ’Cordin’ to the Department of Motor Vehicles, he’d just got the license back. Which meant if the log book I’d confiscated was correct, he’d been drivin’ fer some time without a valid license.
I asked what he’d been doin’ fer a livin’ while his license was suspended.
“Odd jobs.”
“Like what?”
“Loadin’ feed. Cuttin’ cord wood.”
“How you been gettin’ yourself to these odd jobs?”
“Wife drove me.”
I looked up at the two-way mirror as I raised a eyebrow. I knew Underhill was watchin’ an’ would check the story ’fore I got the next three questions out. “That so?” I asked Sonny.
“God’s truth!”
“You might wanna take care how you use the Lord’s name,” I said. “I seen your log book. An’ your manifest don’t match up with the load of likker you was haulin’, which you ain’t got a receipt or shippin’ order for. Then there’s the matter of aggravated assault on a peace officer. You’re lookin’ at some serious jail time.”
He got paler’n a black man at a Klan rally. “I want a lawyer.”
I decided we’d let him set in the state cops’ lock-up a day or two, then make him a offer he couldn’t resist.
likely prospects
First thing next mornin’, I decided to tackle Miz Latham’s complaint—’bout our new resident gypsy. The sign in her window said, “Psychic Readings, Life Coaching, Ordinary Magik.” The little store Madame Romany’d took over was clean an’ bright with fresh paint an’ real flowers, with a rockin’ chair an’ a Lazy Boy, a coffee table an’ Ansel Adams posters. It seemed more like a new-age coffee shop than a—I ain’t sure what it was exactly.
I wasn’t sure what I was expectin’ Madame Romany to be like, either, but Reba McEntire at twenty wasn’t it. She had long, copper-colored hair—the real thing, an’ blue eyes. An’ she was dressed like a hippie chick from a Woodstock poster—only cleaner. White, long-sleeved shirt with stitchin’, an’ bell-bottom jeans. No shoes. But no flowers in her hair.
When I come through the door, she was standin’ on one foot with the other in the air, crossed over her shin. Her hands was out in front of her like she was playin’ a imaginary flute. She was smilin’.
I took off my hat. Her smile got wider. She lowered her hands to her sides an’ her foot to the floor, an’ said, “Good morning, Sheriff. How can I help you?”
“Tell me what exactly is a psychic readin’.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing very exact—Perhaps I should just give you a demonstration.”
I nodded, an’ she led me through a doorway in the back of the shop that was closed off from the rest of the place by a bead curtain.
The back room was painted white—no pictures. There was a small round table, flanked by two foldin’ chairs an’ covered with a dark blue cloth. A deck of cards sat on the middle of the table top, along with a itty-bitty clam shell, a silver dollar, a small chunk of pink quartz, a pheasant tail feather, a .38 shell casin’, an’ a one-inch ball of smooth-sanded wood—all arranged in a circle around the cards. Ms. Romany slid into the chair that was backed up to the far wall; she offered me the other.
I set down. Couldn’t help but pick up the shell casin’. “What’s this for?”
She laughed. “It’s a tell.”
“That tells what?”
“Something about you.”
“Which is?”
She just smiled. She shoved all the junk, ’cept the shell casin’, off to one side an’ handed me the cards. Didn’t take but a glance to see they weren’t regulation. Instead of hearts an’ spades, clubs an’ diamonds, they had odd pictures with labels like Seven of Swords, The Tower, an’ The Hanged Man.
Madame Romany watched me check ’em out, then held out her hand for the deck. I passed it back.
“When you’ve thought of a question you’d like to have answered,” she said, “I’ll ask you to pick a card.”
There was a lot of cards, an’ I had no idea how was
I s’posed to know which to pick.
She shuffled them and set the deck in front of me. “Cut them, please.”
I did.
She fanned the deck out, face down. “Pick one.”
I did an’ turned it over. The label said, “Temperance.” I couldn’t tell what she thought of that. Her expression didn’t give no more away than a black jack dealer’s at a high end casino. She said, “Have you thought of a question?”
I nodded. I’d thought of a couple.
She started layin’ out the cards in a pattern that looked like some bizarro game of solitaire, studyin’ each one as she put it down. An’ she studied my reactions.
When she finished, she said, “What is it you want to know?”
“Who killed Harlan?”
• • •
I’d just got back to my office when Hera Latham come bustlin’ in. “Sheriff, you haven’t done anything about that gypsy woman.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“Far as I can tell, she ain’t broke no laws.”
“Isn’t it fraud to claim you can tell the future?”
“Would be if that was what she was claimin’. Sign says, ‘Readin’s.’ Don’t mention nothing ’bout tellin’ the future.”
“Well, what do you think readings means?”
“That kinda question’s outside the scope of my job description, ma’am. You want me to arrest her for ‘readin’s,’ you’re gonna hafta get the town council to pass a ordinance definin’ the term an’ make it against the law to do it.”
Hera’s mouth opened and shut, then hung open while she took it all in. She musta decided it’d be easier to get the traffic commission to convene, ’cause she finally just said, “What good are you?” an’ stalked out.
Hera’d no sooner left than my phone rang. I picked it up an’ said, “Sheriff’s office. Deters.”
“Sheriff, we got a request from the courthouse for you to serve some papers.” Eleanor, Mayor’s secretary. “On yourself,” she added.
“Mrs. Shaklee already served me. I’m on it.”
“No, Homer. This is a summons and a complaint. I guess you’re being sued. And since the process server hasn’t been able to catch you himself, he’s asking the sheriff’s office to do it.”
I sighed. “I can only handle so much at a time, Eleanor. I’ll get to it soon as I clear some of the serious matters I got pendin’.”
“Like what, Sheriff? What’s more serious than being sued?”
“Murders. An’ hijackin’s. An’ citizens complaints about on-usual newcomers.”
“What am I supposed to do with these papers?”
“Well, you ain’t bein’ paid to serve ’em, so just hang on to ’em till next time I stop by your desk.”
“When’s that gonna be, Sheriff?”
“God only knows.”
• • •
Lunch time, Nina met me at the Grassy-ass an’ brought up the subject of findin’ Rye a woman. There’s times when I feel like I’m livin’ in Dogpatch. Other times I wish I was. “Sadie Hawkins Day ain’t a bad idea,” I told her. “How ’bout you arrange one an’ we’ll see which local lovely Rye lets catch him.”
Nina gimme her don’t-mess-with-me look. “Just tell me who’s available.”
“Well, there’s the Homely sisters.” Comfort an’ Joy.
She shook her head. “Like you said, they’re homely.”
“Gloria Starcutter?”
“Star-crossed. If it wasn’t for her bad luck, she wouldn’t have any at all. Rye don’t need the grief.”
“Leona Hazelwood?”
“Secretly engaged. What do you think a Sally Ann Wallace, Homer?”
“She’s nice enough but she’s dumber’n a box a rocks. How ’bout Lucy Willis? She ain’t but Rye’s second cousin.”
Nina shook her head again. “She’s scary she’s so smart.”
“Well, she don’t hold a candle to you in the brains department.”
“I know. But I don’t put on airs an’ try’n’ talk like I ain’t from around here.”
“Well, I seen him eyein’ Madame Romany from across the square. She don’t talk like she’s from around here, but then she ain’t from around here.” I finished my coffee an’ signaled Maria for the check. “I told you,” I said to Nina, “I think Rye’d rather find his own girl.”
Nina went on like she didn’t even hear me. “How ’bout Miz Lincoln?”
“She’s too good for Rye. An’ too old. An’ she’d never put up with his shit.”
Nina scratched her head. “What about that new lady just moved in next to the Grassy-ass? The one with the curly hair. Wears overalls.” Alice Bowne.
“I don’t know. Rye’s kinda partial to huntin’, an’ that woman’s one of them animal rights nuts.”
“Why’d you say that, Homer?”
“Well, you gotta be nuts to turn loose a whole truckload of horses in the Truck Stop parkin’ lot.”
“You may be right. I’d’a just stole the truck an’ turned ’em loose in a field somewheres.”
“Possible she can’t drive a truck.”
Nina thought on that a minute, then did a one-eighty on the subject.
“Homer, you’re a bachelor. You gotta get in on this too.”
“Hell, no. I’m the sheriff.”
“That makes you a great catch.”
“You already caught me.”
“The rest a West Wheelin’ don’t know that.”
“Well, they would if you’d just wear that ring I paid so much fer.”
“I gotta catch you on Sadie Hawkins Day first.”
“How ’bout I just give myself up?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
I couldn’t argue with that kind of logic so I just shook my head an’ said, “I gotta go back to work.”
• • •
“So what’s this life coachin’?” Rye asked me later. We was sittin’ in the office, comparin’ notes an’ windin’ down fer the day with a jug of White Lightnin’. “This ordinary magic sounds like a scam. She tell your fortune?”
“She didn’t tell me who killed Harlan, but she said I’d figure it out.”
“That don’t take no physics ability—you allus do. I was over to the post office today an’ Nina asked me what I thought a her. I ain’t even met the woman.”
“You tell Nina that?”
“Yeah. She offered to introduce us. What’s Nina up to?”
“I axed Nina to marry me.”
“Aw, I was workin’ up the nerve to do that.”
“Yeah. Well, I axed her first.”
Rye just shook his head like it was sad I’d go around behind his back. Then he looked suspicious. “So what’s that got to do with Ms. Romany?”
“Nina’s all worried you’ll be heart-broke by our news ’less you got someone too.”
“She don’t trust me to find my own woman?”
I just shrugged. “You know Nina.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Well, you don’t have to actually get married. Just show up around town with a woman, an’ I’ll try to convince Nina you’re as serious as you’re likely to get.”
Rye took a sip of his drink an’ thought on that fer a minute. “Rumor has it Ms. Romany’s a witch. Just like Annie Felton.”
Rumor had had it Annie Felton was a witch ’cause ’fore she moved away, she’d witched half the men in West Wheelin’. But contrary to malicious gossip she weren’t a loose woman. Feller offered her money to sleep with him once, an’ she cussed him out an’ threw him outta her car—goin’ sixty through Car Wrecks. He turned up next day with a concussion an’ two broken arms. Way he told it, she’d magicked him into the air an’ let gravity do the rest. The story put a mortal fear of Annie into half the men who’d been pesterin’ her. An’ after one of the town’s worst gossips come down with lock-jaw….
Rye said, “You know that expression, ‘colder’n a witch’s tit’?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s just a expression. Annie’s ain’t cold.”
“You know that from experience?”
“Damn straight.”
“How come you never mentioned it before?”
Rye held his glass up. “A gentleman don’t talk about a lady.”
• • •
Nina musta actually been listenin’ to my idea ’bout Sadie Hawkins Day, ’cause next mornin’ she come into my office an’ plunked a stack of flyers on my desk.
“New to Oktoberfest, First Ever Sadie Hawkins Day Race and Wild Horse Auction.” The rest of the sheet gave particulars an’ invited all bachelors an’ bachelorettes to join the race an’ mebbe get a real, original mustang gentled by Bello Willis.
“What am I s’posed to do with these?” I asked her.
“Post ’em.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“’Cause I’m gonna be plannin’ the events. An’ givin’ a few pointers to certain eligibles so they won’t miss out.”
“Match-makin’.”
• • •
First off, I made it a point to stop by an’ give Owen Rhuddlan one of the flyers so he’d be sure to have Cheryl show up fer the race. “It’s ladies’ choice, Owen, an’ Cheryl can have her pick of the bachelors.”
“I thought you was gonna arrange fer her to meet a nice boy.”
“Done that. Now it’s up to Cheryl.”
Owen looked like I was tryna put somethin’ over on him. “You hooked Cheryl up with someone I ain’t even met? Without bringin’ ’im by for a inspection first?”
“I ain’t never met Cheryl. I arranged for a nice boy to introduce hisself to her, an’ he has. Next step is fer her to catch him on Sadie Hawkins Day.”
“Next step is fer you to bring him by here so I can see is he fit to date my niece.”
“I reckoned everybody in Boone County knows Bello Willis. An’ that he’s fit to date anybody’s niece.”
“The horse whisperer?” I nodded. “Why’n’t you say so?”
I just nodded an’ tipped my hat an’ said, “See you at Oktoberfest.”
Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling Page 16