Murder at Mabel's Motel

by G. A. McKevett

  “Down here,” he said. “In room five.”

  A moment later, he was opening the door with the faded symbol of a five on it. The metal numeral had long since fallen to the ground in front of it.

  He took her hand and led her into the room.

  “I apologize ahead of time for what you’re about to see, Stella,” he told her. “It’s not pretty.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Forewarned and all that.”

  Her eyes took several moments to adjust to the dim light. When they did, all she saw was a bed with a bare mattress. On it lay some bloody bandages, a blue, torn hospital gown, some jeans and a black T-shirt, a knife, a pistol, and six empty beer cans.

  “He was here!” Stella said, excited.

  “He still is.”

  She looked up at Manny in surprise. “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Where?”

  Pointing to a small door on the far wall, he said, “There.”

  The door was more than halfway open. She was vaguely aware of something ragged, torn, hanging down around the frame. She had to step around a cheap, metal chair to go inside.

  The bathroom was small and even darker than the bedroom, as it had no window and the light was off.

  Instantly, she was aware of an odor that seemed vaguely familiar. For some reason, it reminded Stella of baking, but she couldn’t recall where she’d smelled it before.

  Manny pulled the powerful penlight from his service belt, but before he turned it on, he said, “Are you sure you want to see this, Stella?”

  Stella considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I want to know the truth, and there’s no knowin’ like seein’ with your own eyes.”

  “Okay.” He turned on the small flashlight and shined the beam into the darkness.

  It took a while for Stella’s brain to discern what she was seeing.

  On the floor, just inside the door, was a pale, white body. It was lying on its side, the arms curled around and over its head and face, as through trying to protect itself from something that was attacking it.

  But there was no sign of injury, other than some dried blood on the fingers and a bit more in the ear.

  Even without seeing the face, Stella knew exactly who it was. She recognized the tattoos on the chest, arms, and shoulders.

  The snarling skull with a swastika in the middle of its forehead on the body’s torso, the black snakes that curled out of the top of that skull and down both arms, baring their long, blood-dripping fangs onto the owner’s wrists—those and the lightning bolts that formed the words “Lone White Wolf Pack” across the belly could only belong to Billy Ray Sonner. Billy Ray was extremely proud of both his physique and his branding. In the summer, he was seldom seen wearing a shirt as he strutted around, showing off each new addition to his artwork. The more his neighbors expressed their distain and disapproval, the more he liked it.

  Billy Ray lived by the motto, “Better to be noticed and hated than not to be noticed at all.”

  “But he ain’t alive no more,” Stella said, more to herself than to Manny. “He’s definitely among the departed. Gone on to his eternal reward . . . or otherwise.”

  “I checked him, and he’s got some pretty solid rigor mortis going on there. Herb would have a better idea, once he takes his temperature, but I’d say he died sometime during the night. Maybe not that long after he escaped.”

  “He had help then,” Stella said, tearing her eyes away from the horrible sight on the bathroom floor and looking back at the room and the items on the floor. “He’s got a change of clothes, a weapon, and then there’s the truck outside.”

  “I’m thinking he managed to get hold of a phone and call Earle,” Manny said.

  “I heard Billy Ray and Deacon haven’t been gettin’ on so well lately. From what I understand, Deacon was thinkin’ he might move up in the world, take over the top spot from Billy Ray.”

  “I heard that, too. Deacon’s going to be at the top of my list.”

  “What list?”

  “List of suspects.”

  “Like in a murder case?”

  “Yes.”

  Stella studied his face. Even in the dim light she could see he was serious. He was wearing his grim and determined look.

  “You think somebody killed him?”

  “I do.”

  “But there aren’t any injuries. I just figured he died of an overdose of drugs, or maybe he just expired from pure meanness. Lord knows he had enough of that in him to kill him, if anybody ever did.”

  “If pure meanness killed people, I wouldn’t have a job,” he said. “Besides, you didn’t find the place undisturbed the way I did. If you had, I’m sure you’d feel differently.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She looked around, then paid closer attention to the stuff hanging down from the window frame.

  “Can I have use of that flashlight for a second?” she asked, holding out her hand.

  “You may.” He gave it to her and pointed to the door. “Check it out and tell me what you see.”

  As soon as the bright light shone on the frame, she could see that it was covered with tape—heavy, wide duct tape—hanging like a tattered band around the door’s frame. “It looks like it was stuck around the door and somebody cut it,” she said.

  “I did. I had to in order to get inside.”

  “It was stuck all around the door?”

  “Good and tight,” he replied. “Like . . . airtight.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded toward the nearby chair. “That was jammed against the door, the top of it under the doorknob.”

  “Tape and a chair. Somebody wanted to make sure he didn’t get out.”

  “They succeeded.”

  She aimed the flashlight’s beam at the back of the door, the side that had been in the bathroom. “That’s blood,” she said, pointing to the dark red streaks and smears all over it, then to the dead man’s bloody fingertips. “Oh, Lord have mercy, he was trying to claw his way outta there!”

  “Looks like it, for sure,” Manny concurred.

  “That’s sad.” She shook her head. “Even for a toad’s butt wart like Billy Ray Sonner, that’s a frightful way to leave this world. Such desperation! I wouldn’t’ve wished that on anybody. Not even him.”

  “Me either. But what I’m not sure of was why he was so frantic to get out, or why he even died,” Manny said. “I can understand wanting to get out, trying, yelling maybe, getting mad and kicking till you hurt your feet, but to tear your fingers up like that . . .”

  “Maybe he was claustrophobic.”

  “Never seemed to be when I locked him up in my smallest jail cell. Or when I was driving him around in the back seat of my cruiser. That’s enough to set off most folks who’re claustrophobic.”

  “I’m sure if he’d been, he would’ve mentioned it. Billy Ray wasn’t exactly the sort to suffer in silence.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Stella looked down at the body on the floor once again. “You’ve gotta call Herb. Get him over here to take a look.”

  Manny gave her a kind smile. “You’re a generous lady, Stella, assuming that old Herb’s going to see anything that’s not obvious to you and me.”

  She shrugged. “He’s gotta earn that big coroner’s paycheck he gets somehow.”

  “True. Make sure the city of McGill gets their thirty-eight dollars a month out of him.”

  Stella looked one more time down at the body, then the rest of the bathroom that contained nothing but Billy Ray and one ragged, dingy bath towel.

  “At least nobody’s gotta worry about this ol’ boy anymore. His bullyin’ and insultin’ and hurtin’ good folks who don’t deserve it—that’s come to a screechin’ halt.”

  “Thankfully, it has. In spite of Deacon’s great ambitions, I’d say the Lone White Wolf Pack’s days of ‘glory’ are behind them now. I heard Billy there cussing them out in a downtown alley one night because neither one o
f them could remember to bring beer to their weekly meetings.”

  “Yolanda’s gonna be relieved that he’s dead, like the rest of the town. She doesn’t have to worry that he’ll hurt her again. Dolly won’t have to fret none either.”

  They both looked at each other and their smiles turned somber.

  “Except . . .” Manny began.

  Stella finished it for him. “Except for the polecat that put that threatening letter in her mailbox.”

  “We’ve got to find out who wrote that thing,” Manny said, “as well as who put this ol’ boy out of his misery.”

  “Outta our misery is more like it.” She handed Manny back his flashlight. She had seen about as much as she could stand. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, they’ll be one and the same.”

  “We can always hope.”

  Chapter 14

  Sitting in the cruiser’s passenger seat, Stella watched as Herbert Jameson’s hearse pulled away from the motel and headed down the highway toward his funeral home.

  Next to her, behind the wheel, Manny watched, too. His face looked pale beneath his tan and his eyes seemed red and irritated.

  “When’s the last time your head made acquaintance with a pillow, Sheriff Gilford?” she asked, her words playful but her tone serious.

  He had to stop and think about it.

  Never a good sign, she thought.

  “Night before last, I guess,” he said. “Though I think I was half-asleep on my feet when I was trudging around in those woods last night with your buddy Magi Red Crow.”

  “I don’t reckon that counts as restorative slumber.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Maybe I can catch a few winks in one of the cells later.”

  “Charming.”

  “The second cell on the left’s not so bad. The mattress doesn’t sag.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I get incarcerated in your jail someday, like you keep threatenin’ me with.”

  He laughed, reached over, and tousled her curls, the way she frequently did Waycross’s hair, only not as hard.

  “How are the kids these days?”

  “Okay. Energetic as ever. Alma’s had a tummy ache off and on, but she just had to go to school anyway. The spelling bee’s today, and she wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

  “She’s our little champion when it comes to spelling. Two years in a row now, right?”

  Stella nodded. “Determined to make it three.” Stella glanced at her watch. It was already past noon. “I told her to have the school call me if she got to feelin’ poorly again. I hope they didn’t try while we was inside. I’d hate to think she needed me, and I was outta reach.”

  He nodded toward the radio microphone. “Give Merv a call. Tell him to ring the school secretary and patch you in.”

  “He can do that?”

  Manny hesitated. “Most folks could. Second graders. Most anybody who’s even semiconscious. A trained monkey.”

  Stella rolled her eyes and reached for the microphone. “I’m not especially optimistic, but . . .”

  “Try to keep your expectations low. That way you won’t fall too far, too hard.”

  Stella reached for the microphone. “I learned long ago, a girl just can’t trust her heart to the likes of Mervin Jervis.” She pushed the button, as she had seen Manny do so many times, and said, “Sheriff’s station—come in please.”

  It took a while, but eventually, an annoyed voice replied. “Who’s this?”

  “Stella Reid. I’m at the old motel and—”

  “What the hell’s happenin’ out there? I heard ol’ Herb’s done run out there and picked up a dead body. Why hasn’t anybody told me what’s going on?”

  Stella looked over at Manny, who shook his head “no” vigorously.

  “You’ll have to speak to the sheriff about it later, Merv,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll fill you in on all the nasty details.”

  “There’s nasty details? What kinda details? How nasty?”

  Stella could tell this was going nowhere fast. “I need you to do me a favor, Merv, if you aren’t too busy, and you don’t mind too much.”

  “Well, I am busy, and I do mind. I ain’t your servant. Just because you and the sheriff’s been keepin’ company lately, that don’t mean you can boss me around.”

  Stella reached inside her tired spirit and managed to find a bit of patience that she didn’t know she had. Though she didn’t feel particularly self-righteous about it. She knew that if Merv was within arm’s reach and Manny wasn’t around, chances are he would’ve gotten his left ear boxed.

  “I beg your pardon, Deputy Jervis,” she said. “I didn’t mean to come across bossy. I just wondered if you could—”

  Before she knew what was happening, Manny had snatched the microphone out of her hand. He pushed the transmit button and said, “Dammit, Mervin, put down those playing cards this minute, and do whatever this lady asks you to do. It’s either that or, I swear, when I get back to the station, I’ll put you to scrubbing out the cells with the toothbrush, bleach, and ammonia. Got it?”

  In record time, Stella was speaking to the secretary of the school, who reassured her that little Alma was not only feeling just fine but would have good news to report when she returned home that afternoon.

  Stella thanked her profusely, feeling a weight lifting from her spirit. She hadn’t realized how worried she was about the child until she heard she was okay.

  “Feel better now?” Manny asked her when the call was finished.

  “So much better. Thank you.”

  “Then let’s head back to the station. I’ve gotta get this evidence sorted out, looked over, and locked away.” He pointed to the brown paper bags that covered the cruiser’s rear seat.

  “I’d like to help you with that, if I could,” Stella said eagerly. “I’ve still got a few hours before the kids get out of school.”

  “I’d be glad to have you. Believe me, these tired eyes of mine would much rather look at you than Mervin’s sourpuss.”

  “Only if you promise to make me a fresh pot of coffee. My head’s a little achy. I hope I’m not coming down with anything.”

  “I don’t feel that great either. I could use a mug of it myself. One fresh pot of coffee within minutes of you walking through the station door—how does that sound, Mrs. Reid?”

  “Pure dee divine!”

  “How’s about we make a quick pit stop and get some donuts to go with that coffee?”

  “Ah, boy . . . you’ll spoil me rotten, treatin’ me like that.”

  “It’s high time somebody did. A good woman like you, Stella, you deserve a break once in a while, bless your heart.”

  There was a sad tone in his voice that Stella didn’t quite understand. It was as though he had something on his mind that he wasn’t saying, and she wasn’t quite sure what it might be.

  But after the morning she’d had, dealing with Mervin and the terrified Dolly Browning, then seeing that body lying there on the bathroom floor, she decided not to worry about it.

  Fresh coffee and donuts were on the way. Little Alma was feeling okay and had good news to share when she got home from school. No doubt the evening would be spent celebrating with the grandkiddos.

  A body’s gotta take full advantage of the good times when they pop up, she told herself, ’cause, heaven knows, there’s plenty of not-so-good times to suck the energy clean outta you. You just gotta recharge them batteries. . . and sometimes, sharing a cup of strong coffee and a fresh donut with a good-lookin’ fella like Manny Gilford . . . that’s just the thing.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Stella’s “rest and restore” interlude was short-lived.

  No sooner had Manny made the coffee and sent Mervin on an errand to buy tweezers and a magnifying glass than the station door opened and half of the population of McGill poured over the threshold.

  But after taking a second look, Stella realized that it was only the Tucker family: Franklin Tucker and his wife, Gertrude; t
heir daughter, Daisy; and Daisy’s fiancé, Donald Barton.

  Stella decided that the reason the “crowd” had seemed so large at first glance had more to do with their mood than their numbers.

  Four angry, upset people seemed to take up a lot more room than the same number of happy, peaceful folks.

  Franklin led the group, followed by his wife, with the young, engaged couple bringing up the rear.

  Franklin Tucker was one of the tallest and overall largest men in town. When he marched up to Manny, the two of them were eye to eye, a rare occurrence for either of them on the streets of McGill.

  “Good morning, Frank,” Manny said, but his eyes were less friendly than his words. No one in the room was under the impression this was a casual, social visit.

  Gertrude Tucker glanced over at Stella, who was sitting in the chair next to the desk, a mug of coffee in her hand. Stella gave the woman, her daughter, and her future son-in-law a warm smile each. They acknowledged her with curt nods, then turned their attention back to Manny and Franklin and the showdown that appeared to be imminent.

  Besides being exceptionally tall, Franklin Tucker presented a striking figure with perfect posture and a highly developed physique. He radiated dignity and a high degree of confidence that prevented most people from doing anything that might put them on his bad side.

  As president of the town’s only bank, he was usually dressed in a smartly tailored suit, a crisp white shirt, and a navy tie. Though today he wore slacks with sharp creases and an elegant, pale blue sweater that complemented his skin, which was so deeply black as to have a bluish tint.

  The ladies were as feminine as he was male in their starched pastel cotton dresses, accessorized by white, patent leather pumps and strands of pearls.

  Stella couldn’t help thinking that the Tucker family always looked like they were going to Sunday morning church services—even when attending a Fourth of July town picnic or strolling through the livestock displays at the county fair.

  As she looked them over, Stella thought, not for the first time, The Tuckers look more like a family from the nineteen fifties than the eighties. Now days, folks’ll wear any ol’ thing any ol’ where and think nothin’ of it.