‘Can’t see it happening to a more deserving guy,’ I said.
‘Now, Milt, he seemed real remorseful about killing his wife,’ Emmett said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, ‘every time he beat the crap out of her, he’d feel all remorseful in an hour or two. Didn’t stop him killing her.’
‘Well, there’s that.’ Emmett cleared his throat. ‘By the way he looks, and the fact that his running buddies, Billy and Shorty – Billy being dead and Shorty locked up in California—’
‘Did you check both of those stories?’ I asked.
‘You just insulted me, Milt. I want you to know that. Of course I checked out those stories. Both true. Anyway, I think the McDaniel family should be OK.’
‘That’s good, real good. Just keep your eye out—’
‘Milt—’
‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘I worry.’
‘OK, Mom, get back to your shuffleboard,’ Emmett said and, as I was telling him that they didn’t have shuffleboard on this boat, he hung up.
By the time I made it to the first hole, Jean was already putting for our team. Even with her crutches she did more than OK, basically beating the crap out of the rest of the adults. After that we split with the Tulias and headed to a puppet show in one of the smaller halls. I think it may have been a little immature for the boys because they talked all the way through it, mostly in whispers and giggles. I know, I’ll never say ‘giggles’ out loud about my son, but that’s exactly what they were doing.
Meanwhile, Back In Prophesy County
Emmett hit the intercom and asked Holly Humphries to send in Anthony Dobbins.
‘Yeah, Emmett?’ Anthony said, sticking his head around the corner of his door frame.
‘Do a background check on Billy Hunt and Shorty Hunt. Billy’s supposed to be dead, and Shorty’s supposed to be in prison in California. You might check the files to find Shorty’s real first name.’
‘Relations of Darby Hunt?’ Anthony asked.
‘Cousins,’ Emmett replied.
He’d lied to Milt. It should have been the first thing he did, and he would have if it hadn’t been for the whole ‘petal pusher’ bullshit. The call Jasmine made the day before had been to Petal’s afternoon sitter, Carol Anne Haynes, who said Petal told her that one boy had called her that early in the morning and then everybody else picked up on it. Jasmine had insisted Petal go to this special Christian school, rather than the public school, but Emmett was beginning to think public school might have been a better idea.
At least Milt and he would have their kids on break at the same time. This Christian school was weeks behind the public school. Their spring break coincided with Easter, giving the kids almost as much time off on that holiday as at Christmas.
‘So who was it?’ he’d asked his wife the night before.
‘Riley Sturgis!’ she said, hands on hips, like Emmett was supposed to know who that was.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s some kind of Yankee fish, right?’
She didn’t even laugh. ‘That’s sturgeon, you moron,’ she said. And she wasn’t kidding.
‘It was a joke, honey,’ Emmett said.
‘Well, this isn’t funny! It’s not bad enough she did this to me all through high school – now she’s doing it to my child!’ And she burst into tears.
It took a whole hour before Emmett finally heard it all. The gist of it was that Riley Sturgis was the son of Jasmine’s rival for everything in high school, one Mary Ann Cummings, who used to make fun of Jasmine and her sisters and their flower names, calling them ‘the weeds.’ And yesterday, after talking to an old friend from high school, Jasmine found out that Mary Ann had been making fun of Petal’s name to one of her old crowd, saying that Jasmine just couldn’t stop it with the stupid names, ending with, ‘If she were in my class, I’d call her petal pusher.’ Her son had not been too far away.
So Emmett had been up real late dealing with that, thinking he might have some ammunition to get his daughter out of that damned Christian school and into the public school (he swore to himself it had nothing to do with money, although the school was scarily expensive). He wasn’t able to sleep after that, worrying about his little girl. She was so tiny, so sweet-natured. This was a hell of a thing to be happening to her.
He went and got himself another cup of coffee. The new civilian aid made a dynamite cup of coffee. Made you kind of not miss Gladys at all. Ill-tempered, uncooperative and the maker of really bad coffee, it was a joy not to see her sour puss every morning.
Anthony motioned to him from the bullpen.
Emmett ambled over, sipping his coffee.
‘What ya got?’ he asked.
Anthony put down the phone and said, reading from his notes, ‘William Jason Hunt, aka Billy Hunt, died in a one-car accident on the early morning of June 14, 1993. Autopsy showed an extremely high alcohol content. John Wesley Hunt, aka Shorty Hunt, is currently incarcerated at the Elwood Moody Correctional Facility in Moody, California. He’ll be eligible for parole in 2014.’
Emmett nodded and took another sip. ‘OK, then,’ he said and walked back to his office, at which point an inconsistency finally dawned on him. A guy fresh out of prison, living with his mama in a rundown house without much more than a pot to piss in – where in the hell did he get the money for that fancy new Harley and that big old flat-screen TV?
Emmett decided another trip out to see Darby Hunt was in order. He took Anthony Dobbins with him this time. Unlike poor Dalton, Anthony might have something to contribute to the interview.
The street, the house and the driveway all looked the same as they parked the squad car at the curb. Darby Hunt must have seen them coming because he opened the door before their knock.
‘Sheriff,’ Darby said. ‘What can I do you for now?’
‘It’s just Acting Sheriff, but you can call me Emmett. Can we come in for a minute?’
Darby looked hard at Anthony standing behind Emmett, but opened the door for them to enter. When he did, Emmett noticed on the flap of skin between thumb and index finger on Darby’s left hand, which was holding the door open, was a tattoo of a swastika. Made sense. The Oklahoma Penitentiary, like so many others, had two main gangs – the white supremacists and the black Muslims. If you wanted protection, you joined the gang of your color.
The swastika wasn’t missed by Anthony Dobbins. He gave Darby Hunt the stink-eye right back as he and Emmett went to the sagging sofa and sat down.
‘What do you want now?’ Darby asked.
‘Something I forgot to ask you earlier,’ Emmett said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Where did the new motorcycle and TV set come from?’
Darby Hunt raised an eyebrow. ‘Why in the hell do you need to know that?’
Emmett shrugged. ‘Just wondering how a con straight out of prison comes to live with his obviously poor mama and has the wherewithal to purchase a motorcycle and a big ol’ TV. Makes me think he’s been up to no good.’
‘When have I had time to be up to no good?’ Darby asked. ‘’Sides,’ he said, taking a long breath, ‘where would I find the strength to rob a bank or whatever?’
‘So you saying the pen has upped their release stipend to like $10,000 or so?’ Emmett asked.
‘Woo doggies, you haven’t been pricing motorcycles or TVs lately, have you, Acting Sheriff Emmett?’ Darby asked, that snaggle-toothed and dimpled grin very much in evidence.
‘Where did you get ’em?’ Emmett asked, not smiling back.
‘They were gifts,’ Darby said, grin still in place.
‘From a grateful nation?’ Emmett asked with a sneer.
‘From a grateful lady,’ Darby answered, his grin getting bigger.
‘Hum,’ Emmett said, ‘you got out yesterday and already you got a girlfriend?’
‘No, this lady’s been my, um, friend, I’d guess you’d say, for about eighteen months. Started out as pen pals, then she started bringing my mama to see me. Real nice lady.�
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‘And she bought you the motorcycle and TV because . . .’
‘Because I’m so fucking handsome,’ Darby said and laughed.
‘And how can she afford to buy you such expensive gifts?’
‘She’s got a real good job. She’s the principal at that Christian school in town.’
No more discussion. Petal was moving to public school.
On the way home the night before, Dalton had called the realtor who had the listing for the little house near downtown and made an appointment to see it on the way in to work that morning. He pulled up outside the house about ten minutes early. Dalton never, ever got any place late, or even on time. He was always early. He never wanted to keep anyone waiting. But Holly wasn’t that crazy about that habit. He’d show up at her apartment and she’d never be ready, and although that didn’t bother him a bit, as he didn’t mind waiting for her – either inside her apartment, sitting on the couch, or even outside standing on the porch – it seemed to bother her.
But while he was waiting for the realtor, he got an itch. He wanted her to hurry up because he wanted to see this house. The outside had him all atwitter. It was what the realtor had called a pre-war bungalow. He wasn’t sure which war, but he didn’t really care. It was a wood-frame house, painted yellow with white trim, and had a big front porch. In his mind he could see a white porch swing and maybe some push toys and a tricycle or two. There were evergreen shrubs on either side of the porch and mulched flower beds just waiting for planting. The driveway was paved and led to an old-fashioned garage with one of those doors that went from right to left, rather than up and down. He thought he’d probably want to replace at least the door – get one of those electric garage door openers and make it easier for Holly, especially when she’d be carrying groceries and a child or two. Or three.
A fancy Lexus pulled up in the driveway and Dalton got out to meet the realtor. She was an older lady, probably in her fifties, wearing glasses with great big fancy frames, and slacks, a top, a jacket, a bunch of scarves and jewelry.
‘Mr Pettigrew?’ she called as he approached. ‘Or should I say Officer Pettigrew?’
‘That would be Deputy, ma’am,’ Dalton said, taking her outstretched hand. ‘But please call me Dalton.’
‘Well, fine, Dalton, I’m June O’Hara, and you can just call me June! Isn’t this a lovely home? Like I told you on the phone, it’s a two bedroom, one bath with an extra room, a one-car garage, or,’ and here she patted his arm, ‘a workroom! You look like a man who likes to work with his hands.’
‘Yes’m, sometimes,’ Dalton said.
‘Is your wife joining us?’ June asked.
Dalton blushed. ‘No, ma’am. Not today.’
‘Well,’ she said, and looked at the gun in Dalton’s holster.
‘Oh,’ Dalton said. ‘Would you be more comfortable if I left my service revolver in the car?’
June smiled. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said.
Dalton headed back to his squad car and put the gun in the glove box, locked the box then relocked the car. He joined June on the porch and they headed inside. The front door opened into the living room, which was a good size, a fireplace on the right with bookcases on either side, with a small window at the top of each bookcase, and on the left what the lady had called ‘an extra room.’ It had glass French doors separating it from the living room, and big windows on two sides. It wasn’t a big room, but it would be perfect as an office, Dalton thought. Although he had no idea what he would do with an office.
Beyond the living room was a large dining room, and Dalton couldn’t help thinking about the Thanksgiving dinners he and Holly could host in that room with his mama, his best friend Milt and his family, and anybody else they wanted to invite. He smiled big just imagining it.
‘And here’s the kitchen,’ June the realtor said, opening a swinging door.
It was just like his mama’s kitchen. Real big with lots of cabinets and drawers. Some of these cabinets, however, had glass doors and he thought that would be a good place to put their wedding china and stuff like that. There was a closet by the back door that, when opened, revealed a space for a washer and dryer.
‘Where are the bedrooms?’ Dalton asked.
June the realtor led him back to the dining room where there was a doorway into a hall. There was a small bedroom straight across, with one window – perfect for a nursery, he thought – a bathroom in the middle, then the master bedroom at the back. Huge windows on two walls looked out on the backyard.
‘This house sits on a half-acre, most of which you’re looking at,’ she said, indicating the backyard, which seemed to go on forever. The houses on either side were fairly close, but the back yard was at least half a football field long. ‘It backs up to Mason Creek,’ June said. ‘But they fixed it up two summers ago so there’s not supposed to be any more flooding.’
Flooding? Dalton’s face fell.
Again, June put her manicured hand on his arm. ‘Now, honey, they fixed it!’ she said. ‘It’s not going to flood anymore. Stop with that hangdog expression!’ And she laughed and squeezed his arm.
‘This place is a real steal,’ she said, and named a figure that made Dalton’s head swim.
He nodded his head for a while, then said, ‘I’m gonna have to think on it.’
‘Well, of course, but don’t take too long! At this price, this little beauty’s gonna be snapped up in a New York minute!’
They heard the sound of breaking glass, and Dalton ran for the front door. Having been in the back bedroom, it took him more than a minute to get to the front porch. He couldn’t see anyone, but he did see what was broken: the side window on his patrol car. Inside, the glove box had been prized open and his service revolver was gone.
‘Oh no,’ he said.
‘What was it?’ June the realtor asked as she came out of the house and down the porch steps.
‘Somebody broke my window and stole my service revolver,’ he said.
‘Oh my God!’ June the realtor said, looking around her in fear of being shot.
Dalton looked around with her. ‘Wonder who did it?’ he said to the world in general.
‘Well, I had nothing to do with this, Deputy!’ June the realtor said in huff. ‘If you’re accusing me—’
Dalton’s face showed his complete and utter bewilderment and surprise. ‘Oh, no, ma’am, I’m not doing that! I just wonder who did it, that’s all.’
‘Well, I didn’t!’ she said, emphasizing the point.
‘Yes, ma’am, I know,’ he said and moved around the car to the driver’s side, as June the realtor headed quickly to her Lexus.
Dalton swept the broken glass off the driver’s-side seat, got in his squad car and sighed heavily. He didn’t dwell on it, but things like this seemed to happen a lot to Dalton Pettigrew. But he did worry about how he’d tell Milt. Well, not Milt. He was on vacation. Emmett, then. He’d have to tell Emmett. Dalton sighed again. He and Emmett weren’t real good friends like him and Milt. Or even him and Anthony. Maybe it was because of Jasmine, Dalton thought. Jasmine never had liked him, since her first day on the job. Dalton didn’t know why, but he knew it was true.
But still and all, he was going to have to tell Emmett. Dalton sighed yet again and started the car.
Milt – Day Two
That night was the dress-up event in the dining room. Dressing up is not my idea of a vacation, but Jean was very happy about it. She’d bought a new dress just for this occasion and had insisted that the boys and I bring suits. The boys were adamant about not going to the dining room.
‘Mom! I don’t like the food there! And besides, I don’t want to dress up! And I forgot my jacket anyway!’ Johnny Mac whined.
‘I packed your jacket for you. Along with your dress pants, your belt, black socks and your good shoes. And Early’s mother did the same. You have no excuse.’
‘How about I don’t want to?’ he yelled.
Well, now, you just don’t yell
at Jean. That got him sent to the top bunk for the half hour before dinner. And, although Early had not participated in the yelling, he was punished nonetheless by having to stay out in the main part of the suite with me and Jean. He brought a book.
We had the early feeding that night – they have two, one at six and one at eight – so we got the boys dressed, against their wills, got ourselves dressed, and headed out. I decided dressing up was worth it when I saw Jean all dolled up. She had on a red one-shoulder dress that hit above the knee at the front and went down a little more in the back. My wife has truly beautiful shoulders and I was gonna have to try like crazy to keep my lips off that exposed one. Even Johnny Mac managed to say, ‘Mama, you look really nice.’
And Early, looking up at Jean, managed a ‘yeah,’ before the blood infused his face and he turned around and headed out the door. Poor guy; I hoped he’d outgrow that before high school.
Everybody was dolled up when we got to the dining room. Women in full-length gowns and what they call cocktail dresses, men in suits, and one guy who wasn’t a waiter in a tux. And the boys saw their friends only a couple of tables over, having to endure the same torture as them. The little blonde waved at Johnny Mac and he waved back, and I was pretty damn sure the little guy had his first serious crush. He beat me: I was in the sixth grade and her name was Bobbie Jean Murdock. She was beautiful. Her family moved to Dallas after that year and I never saw her again. Truth be known, I do believe that that night, watching my son crush on the little blonde, was the first time I’d thought about Bobbie Jean Murdock since she moved away. I couldn’t help wondering what she was up to now. Being my age, probably a grandmother.
Jean and I greeted Mike and Lucy Tulia and the bigger boy’s dad Vern Weaver. He was sitting next to a much younger and very sexy-looking redhead in a strapless gown showing a lot of cleavage, and across from her was the boy Ryan and next to him an older boy we hadn’t met. He looked like a youngish teenager.
‘Milt!’ Vern Weaver called. ‘Come on over and meet my wife!’ He was all smiles, as well he might be, as ugly as he was sitting next to someone like her. Vern was a big ol’ guy, most of it running to fat, with a bad comb-over, wiry eyebrows and fat earlobes. Not a pretty guy.
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