I nodded. “Both cases. I think. It seems pretty clear that whoever killed Harlan did it to keep him quiet about a Injun cemetery.” I looked at Silas.
“Silas, you got the right to remain silent, but you’re a God-fearin’ man. An’ you know confession is good fer your soul.”
Silas turned two shades of white an’ swallowed.
We all waited.
Finally he said, “I ain’t gonna add lyin’ to disturbin’ the dead. I done it.”
“You wanted to make it look like Peterman dumped them bones?”
“Yeah.”
“But they really come from your property.”
Silas nodded.
“You didn’t want to lose your farm to Injun claims?”
He nodded again.
“An’ you hoped I’d think Peterman done it to jam you up?”
Silas nodded again.
“Mighta worked, too, if I hadn’t been so distracted by all them other things.”
“Sheriff, what’re you gonna do about it?” Roy Peterman demanded. “You gonna arrest him?”
“I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, don’t get too smug. You got some Injun remains buried on your place too.”
“Prove it.”
“I will, soon’s the report comes from the state anthropology department.” I pulled the paper the Injuns’ lawyer’d give me outta my pocket an’ handed it to Peterman. “Meanwhile, the state don’t want you doin’ nothin’ to disturb the site. An’ if you ain’t got a alibi for the afternoon Harlan died, you’d best get you a good lawyer.”
I turned to the crowd an’ said, “That’s all, folks. You can get the details in the paper.”
Abner, who was takin’ notes faster’n a court reporter, pointed his pen at me. “I expect an interview, Sheriff.”
I nodded. Rye put the cuffs on Peterman an’ stuffed him in a cruiser while I served the Injuns’ paper on Silas. Silas looked like his best dog just died. Nina told me she’d take Skip home an’ see me tonight. Then everybody headed out.
• • •
Time I got to the state cop shop, Peterman was nervous as a cat at a dog fight. Rye wouldn’t tell him nothin’ an’ the state cops wouldn’t even talk to him. I walked in; he said, “Sheriff!—”
I held up my hand to shut him up. “You got a right to remain silent, Roy. Anything you say—”
“I didn’t mean to kill him!”
“Can be held against you in a court a law.”
“I was just holdin’ him down, tryin’ to get him to listen.”
“Will you shut up an’ let me finish!”
He did, an’ I did. He nodded when I axed did he understand, then added, “Time I noticed he wasn’t breathing, it was too late.”
“You just left him there for the dogs and varmints?”
“I knew the mailman would be along shortly. I wanted to talk to Harlan without his missus overhearing, so I was waiting when he came out to meet the mailman. Harlan always got to his mailbox around delivery time. I swear I didn’t mean to kill him!”
An’ I believed him. I didn’t point out that Harlan might’a been resuscitated if Peterman had called 9-1-1. Or that Len Hartman hadn’t discovered the remains ’til Harlan was comin’ outta rigor. Roy was tellin’ the truth as he saw it; an’ nothin’ was gonna bring Harlan back.
So we charged Roy with manslaughter an’ called George to take over the case.
• • •
I headed back to the office just before sunset, an’ I hadn’t got far when Martha come on the radio. “Homer, Wilma Netherton just called. She was too hysterical to tell me what’s wrong.”
“Ten-four. If she calls back, tell her I’m on my way.”
Wilma was on her porch, pacin’ like caged hyena, wringin’ her hands an’ gettin’ her dogs so riled up they wouldn’t stop barkin’. There wasn’t a cat in sight. Smart critters.
When I got outta my cruiser, the dogs started barkin’ at me. I put on my hat an’ give ’em a don’t-piss-me-off look an’ yelled, “QUIET!”
Dogs looked surprised. An’ shut up. An’ lay down.
I turned to Wilma. “What seems to be the problem, Miz Netherton?”
Wilma’s hand shook as she pointed towards the road. “That—That woman—Look!”
I looked. Peepin’ above the line of new bushes across the road was the top of somethin’ looked like a castle from a kid’s story book, with four towers or spires made of gray stone studded with shiny round disks instead of bricks. A flagpole—looked like made from a broomstick—topped the tallest spire, with a pennant flutterin’ from it in the breeze. I couldn’t make out what was on the little flag, but it was colorful an’ stood out in the last light of sunset against the bare trees in Mary Lincoln’s yard.
“What’s she up to?” Wilma screeched. “She can’t do it!”
“Wilma, settle down! I’ll go check it out. You go inside and make yourself—” I almost said a cup a coffee, but it hit me she may’ve had too much of that already. “…A good stiff drink.”
Wilma’s a Baptist, who don’t drink. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Then she turned around an’ stalked into her house an’ slammed the door.
I got in my car an’ drove across the street.
It was startin’ to be too dark to see, but first thing I noticed was a stake drove into the front grass with a building permit nailed to it. Second thing was Don Firenzi’s plaid truck. Firenzi’s cat was parked on top of the cab with its front feet tucked under its chest. Firenzi was up on a scaffold, dressed in rubber boots an’ coveralls with a trowel in one gloved hand an’ a plasterer’s hawk in the other. I watched as he slapped mortar off the hawk onto the wall he was buildin’—looked like the wall of a castle with steel window frames set in places an’ rebar pokin’ up fer reinforcement. Instead of bricks, Firenzi was usin’ empty bottles—blue an’ green glass mostly—from a old milk crate on the scaffold. When he ran outta mortar on his hawk, he scooped more outta a five gallon paint bucket. The pile of scavenged glass bottles I’d seen on my last visit was gone.
At that point, the porch light went on, an’ Mary come outta the house. “Don, how can you see what you’re doing? And supper’s nearly ready, so why don’t you call it a day?” She spotted me an’ said, “Good evening, Sheriff. Homer.”
Firenzi turned around an’ said, “Sheriff.” To Mary, he said, “Let me just use up the last of this.” He went back to layin’ the bottles into the wall while Mary an’ I watched. When his hawk was empty, he scraped the last of the mortar outta the paint pail an’ slapped that in place, then smoothed it an’ put his tools in the pail. He climbed down, went to the hose pipe an’ started washin’ mortar off his tools.
Mary turned to me an’ said, “What brings you by so late, Homer?”
“Some a your neighbors got a low tolerance fer novelty. I said I’d check to see you had all your plans an’ permits in order so they could put this—” I waved at the construction. “…Outta mind. You run this whatever-it-is past the buildin’ department?”
“It’s a castle. Of course we did. They thought it was unusual, but structurally sound. Do you want to see the plans?”
“That won’t be necessary.” I didn’t add I probably wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails of that kinda plans. “What made you decide to build a castle?”
“Well, the sign on Don’s truck says Masonry and Whimsy. So I asked him what whimsy was, and he said, ‘What would you like?’ I asked for an example, and Don said, ‘A castle.’”
“When she asked what I’d build a castle with,” Firenzi chimed in, “I told her just about anything. Like the stuff she had lying around the yard, for instance.”
“One thing led to another,” Mary added, “and here we are.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess it all looks better as a castle than in piles.”
“And it’s much more practical, Homer. When it’s finished, Don’s going to rent it from me. For a studio.” She looked at Firenzi an’ smiled,
then looked back at me. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
“I’d be obliged, but I got a few things to wrap up ’fore I call it a day.” I pointed at the castle. “Good luck with that.”
Wilma musta been watchin’ for me, ’cause she swarmed out on her porch as I drove up. I got outta the car—didn’t bother to put on my hat—an’ walked up to the porch.
“What is that thing, Sheriff? And what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m gonna ask you what was the first thing you done when Miz Lincoln moved in across the road.”
Wilma looked confused. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Ah hunh. An’ what was the first thing you done when the Davises moved in?”
Wilma looked even more confused as she thought about it. Finally she said, “I took them over a pecan pie.”
“Yeah. Well, I think your problems with Miz Lincoln will end if you just take her a pie.” I put on my hat. ’Fore I turned to go, I said, “Bein’ eccentric ain’t illegal in Boone County. So don’t call me again ’less there’s been shots fired. Or I’m gonna run you in for wastin’ police time.”
Last I seen a Wilma, as I backed outta the drive, was her standin’ with her mouth open, watchin’ me drive away.
• • •
Back at the office, Rye cracked a jug of White Lightnin’ ’fore we called it a night, an’ we had a drink to celebrate solvin’ all our cases.
“Homer, what’re we gonna do with all that money Loomis had in the bank?” Which was now burnin’ a hole in my safe.
“Technically, it belongs to Henry Ames.”
Rye give me a look that said, “Yeah, right!”
“Mr. Ames ain’t all that competent to handle money, so I asked his daughter to take care of it for him.”
“You’re shittin’ me!”
“I wouldn’t do that, Rye.”
“But it was Loomis’s money!”
“Said Henry Ames on the paperwork.”
“A.k.a. Loomis. Loomis didn’t have no next of kin. We could use that money. We could get a new squad car. Or some laser radar.”
“Miss Ames needs it more, Rye. Nursin’ homes ain’t cheap.”
Rye just shook his head an’ left the office.
movin’ day
I didn’t have to show up fer the closin’ on Ash Jackson’s old place Monday mornin’. Hazel Wrencock set up a blind sale—made it seem like she’d suckered some city feller into takin’ it off Pappy Jackson’s hands. All I had to do was get a cashier’s check for the purchase price, an’ sign the papers. Hazel come by my office after the deal was sealed to give me my share of the paperwork an’ the keys to the house.
First thing I done was call up Lockout Willis an’ have him change the security arrangements. Then I give the new keys to Jesus Lopez an’ axed him to fix anything that was broke an’ give everything a new coat of paint—inside an’ out. I didn’t mention anything about any of it to Skip—figured if he knew, he might be tempted to brag to his buddies at school, an’ everybody in Boone County’d know about it.
Jesus done the job in three days. Found out later that Martha Rooney watched his kids so he could work round the clock. Martha took over from Jesus. She called up everybody owed me—or her—a favor. Told ’em to show up at my old place Saturday mornin’, ready to work an’ with all the empty boxes they could scare up. So Saturday, when Skip axed me at breakfast, “Ain’t we s’posed to be outta here today?” I was able to say, “We will be.”
I’d just finished washin’ the breakfast dishes when we heard a commotion outside. Turned out most of West Wheelin’ was congregatin’ in the front yard, carryin’ boxes.
Martha Rooney led the parade. “Nina said to tell you she’ll be closing the post office early, and she’ll meet you at the new house,” Martha said.
Skip said, “What house?”
“You’ll see,” I told ’im.
Shortly after that, Rye and Merlin, the volunteer fire department, the Truck brothers an’ Dan Underhill arrived, most of ’em in pickups. Stanley Redwine an’ his band come in their Silverado. The mayor even showed up to supervise. Church ladies swarmed into the kitchen an’ started emptyin’ cabinets an’ drawers into cartons an’ crates. Jesus Lopez led most of the volunteer firemen down the basement with boxes an’ totes. Mary Lincoln shoved a couple boxes at me an’ said, “Put your personal effects in these, Homer. The men are going to move your furniture next.”
In less than a hour, everything Skip an’ I owned—except for my gun safe, which Rye, D.W. Truck, an’ I had moved after dark the night before—was packed into a assortment of vehicles on its way to our new place. Martha an’ Maria Lopez—who’d closed up the Grassy-ass to help—scrubbed the floors an’ took out the last of the trash ’fore they climbed in Martha’s van to join the convoy. The whole operation seemed like a cross between army ants cleanin’ out a picnic an’ a Chinese fire drill. Mrs. Shaklee stood beside her jackass-chewed rosebushes watchin’ the show with her arms crossed an’ her jaw set. When the house was finally empty an’ clean as a old Ajax-was-here commercial, I handed her the keys an’ told her I was much obliged.
Mrs. Shaklee just said, “It’s about time, Sheriff,” an’ watched me climb in my old Dodge pickup an’ drive off.
• • •
We’d pretty much got everything stowed away an’ settled, an’ the church ladies—from all three churches—was layin’ out a pot-luck spread on foldin’ tables Father Ernie'd set up in the yard, when a horse trailer pulled up. Bello was drivin’, Mrs. Shaklee ridin’ shotgun. Bello done a three-point turn an’ backed the truck up near one of the big trees in front of the house. He jumped out an’ dropped the truck-ramp while Mrs. Shaklee come bustlin’ over to me. “A little housewarming gift, Sheriff,” she said. She didn’t smile when she said it. She did point towards the horse truck, where Bello was leadin’ a jackass down the ramp.
The jackass. The one I thought I’d got rid of at the auction. Jackass must’ve spotted me or Skip ’cause he let out a hee-haw-haw-haw they might could hear all the way in town. Bello didn’t pay that no mind as he tied the jackass to the tree an’ closed up his truck. He got back in the driver’s seat ’fore I could even say, “Hey!”
Mrs. Shaklee pressed the paper she was carryin’ into my hand and said, “…along with a bill for re-landscaping my rental property.” She turned an’ stalked back to the horse truck ’fore I could think of anything to say. Soon as she was in the cab, Bello took off like a posse was after him. Which I was tempted to arrange.
Last guest to arrive at the house-warmin’ party wasn’t invited. Pappy Jackson come outta his truck spitting tacks ’cause he’d finally discovered who bought the property—after he’d been bragging he’d stiffed some city guy with more money than brains.
While Pappy was standin’ there rantin’, jackass come up behind ’im and give ’im a shove that knocked him off balance, an’ he landed face down in the free fertilizer the critter’d just laid down. Pappy got up, an’ the jackass took off after him, followin’ till he come to the end of his tether. A good many of the movin’ crew had run afoul of Pappy one time or another, so the jackass got cheers an’ applause as Pappy made a run fer his truck. Skip laughed with the rest of ’em, ’til I told him to knock off disrespectin’ his birth dad. “’Sides, It ain’t right to make fun of folks with disabilities. You gonna laugh at Grampa Ross cause he can’t hardly walk?”
That took the fun out of it for Skip.
• • •
Later, when everybody’d cleared out, Skip an’ I sat on the porch with sodas, enjoyin’ our new front view an’ watchin’ the jackass trim the grass.
“You ain’t gonna be scared to stay out here all alone,” I axed him. “When I’m on duty?”
“Heck no. ’Sides, I won’t be alone. I got a vicious guard donkey to protect me.”
proposal accepted
“Homer, how d’you think all this stuff’s gonna work out? Everything that’s been goin’
down lately?”
Nina an’ me was stretched out in the sun next to the Glass Mountain Reservoir, first weekend in November. The grass was still green. The trees was nearly naked. We was sittin’ on one blanket, snugglin’ under another. We’d polished off our picnic lunch an’ washed it down with hot mulled cider. Skip was with Bello, learnin’ how to teach horses—an’, hopefully, donkeys—tricks. Rye was on patrol, my radio was turned off, God was in heaven, an’—far as I knew—all was right in Boone County.
“Peterman an’ Harlan was friendly, ” I told her, “an’ Miz Harlan is unnaturally forgivin’, so Peterman’ll likely plead guilty an’ get the minimum sentence. As part of the plea bargain George is offerin’ ’im, he’ll have to sell his land to the Injuns so they can open a Native American tourist education center.”
“So no Cheap-Ass Likker stores in town?”
“I think the whole chain may be foldin’.”
Nina smiled. “That should make Rye happy.”
“I dunno. He seems to be takin’ to law enforcement—may wanna retire from moonshinin’.”
“What’ll happen to Silas, Homer? Ain’t what he confessed to pretty serious?”
“On the advice of his lawyer, he didn’t admit to diggin’ up the bones, but since he confessed to dumpin’ ’em in front of half the town, we hadda charge him with unlawful disposal of human remains. The tribe’ll probably settle fer him donatin’ the part of his land where the remains was buried, an’ the court’ll probably let him off with probation. Oh, an’ Miz Harlan made up a will leaving her place to the Injuns when she passes.”
Nina was quiet fer mebbe five whole minutes. Finally, outta the blue, she said, “Homer, can we get a horse?”
“If you’re askin’, you must want me to talk you out of it.”
“Why’d you say that?”
“’Cause if you really wanted a horse, you’d just go out an’ get one.”
Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling Page 22