Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  “Me?” “You knew Greg Callahan, didn’t you?” Billy Ray asked. “You had business with him.” “Well, yes, I’d met him. He wanted to buy my land.

  He came by the car dealership day before yesterday, told me about the development plans he had, and offered me a price. I told him I wanted to wait and see if Jordy was selling his land, too.” Billy Ray rocked back on his heels. “Well, Mr. Goertz, I just find all that highly interestin’.” I wasn’t about to stand mute while Billy Ray auditioned for Lear’s fool in my own living room. I also didn’t care for the accusatory stare he was favoring Bob Don with. “Do you have a point, Billy Ray?” Other than the one on your head, I added to myself.

  Junebug said, “Hey, Jordy, why don’t you go outside with Sergeant Garza and talk about-” “That’ll keep,” I snapped back. I don’t usually bark at the local constabulary, but I wasn’t about to leave Bob Don or Lorna to Billy Ray’s tender mercies. Sergeant Garza looked pissed, but I didn’t care. This was about murder, not blowing up mailboxes or canine chateaux. Junebug harrumphed. “Listen, Billy Ray, I think that-” Billy Ray didn’t give Junebug a chance to cogitate. Undoubtedly our local paean to jurisprudence thought he was hot on the trail of a career-boosting case, and he wasn’t about to let common sense or decorum get in his way. Billy Ray’s what folks around here call book-smart. He must’ve had one lobe working to get through law school (even if he got his certificate by mail, as it was rumored), but he didn’t have enough common sense to fill a thimble. He’s the type of fellow that’d poke his finger between a cottonmouth’s fangs to see if the mouth really was all soft inside. “You keep some of your land over by the river fenced off, don’t you, Mr. Goertz?” Billy Ray continued, holding up a hand to fend off Junebug’s protest. “Excuse me!” Gretchen stood and looked down on Billy Ray imperiously. “Are you interrogating my husband? Or accusing him of a crime? Because if you are, you haven’t informed him of his rights and I will not stand for it!” I could have kissed the old battle-ax. “Gretchen, for God’s sake,” Bob Don interrupted. “Billy Ray’s just asking questions. He doesn’t suspect me. I don’t have a solitary thing to hide.” “Not anymore,” I thought I heard Sister mutter behind me, but I didn’t turn around to check. Bob Don nodded at Billy Ray. “Yes, I keep barbed wire on that property to keep out Dee Loudermilk’s cows. I don’t have fencing on the side of the property that’s next to Jordy’s.” He beamed at me. No fences between this father and son, I thought to myself. “That’s highly interestin’.” Billy Ray loved that pet phrase. “Thin barbed wire, ain’t it?” I saw where this was going and felt myself go pale.

  Bob Don shrugged. “I guess. Why?” “Because, Mr. Goertz, the wire that was in Greg Callahan’s neck matches a length of wire that’s missing from your fence. Same length, same type.” “Wait a second!” I said.

  “How do you know this?” “The wheels of justice move quickly, Poteet.”

  Billy Ray Bummel smirked. “The lab over in Bavary identified the type of wire that killed Callahan last night. And this morning, Junebug got a call from the mayor, complaining that Dee’s calves were getting loose because Bob Don hadn’t fenced correctly on one section. We checked out that section and there’s a big old yank of wire missing.

  Isn’t that a coincidence?” “Probably not,” I retorted. “Maybe the killer cut that wire, maybe he didn’t. But Bob Don didn’t cut that wire and he didn’t kill Greg. It’s ridiculous! What motive would he have?” “Jordy, you stay out of this-” Sister began, but she hushed when I scowled at her. “Well, a little bird told me that Miz Goertz here was seen having lunch with Mr. Callahan yesterday. Maybe Mr.

  Goertz didn’t appreciate having his wife wined and dined by a good-lookin’ young feller like that.” Gretchen gave Billy Ray a glare that would’ve frosted a fire-ant mound. “I don’t know who your little bird is, Billy Ray, but it’s chirping the wrong song. Yes, I did have lunch with Mr. Callahan yesterday, at his invitation. He wanted to talk to me about the land purchases. He hoped I would be able to convince Bob Don to sell to him. It was purely a business lunch and he conducted himself like a gentleman the entire time.” Gretchen took Bob Don’s hand. “And I ought to whack you one for suggesting different, Billy Ray Bummel. Why, I’ve half a mind to call your mama and tell her how you’ve been treating decent folks, with your snide accusations!”

  Billy Ray Bummel did for once look a little pained. Probably no one he’d tried to browbeat had threatened to call his mother on him-and if you’ve ever seen Mother Bummel, you know that’s not an idle threat.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Bummel.” Lorna had finally decided to get involved in the fracas. “I don’t see what motive Mr. or Mrs. Goertz would have.

  You know that Nina Hernandez loathed Greg. Why aren’t you off questioning her?” Billy Ray, repulsed by Hurricane Gretchen, turned his own bluster on Lorna. “It’s real easy to keep pointin’ fingers at Ms. Hernandez, when you’re the one who knew the deceased best. I’d like to know more about your relationship with Callahan, Miss Whychintzy.” “Wiercinski,” Lorna corrected. A nervous tongue darted out over her lips. “I don’t know what you mean about a relationship. I worked for Greg. He was my employer and that was it.” Know when someone you know intimately is lying? There’s that subtle shift in the air, like when the air-conditioning comes on in a house that’s been closed up too long. You can’t always tell when a loved one is lying right to your face (because you want to believe whatever garbage they’re feeding you), but it’s a damned sight easier to tell when they’re misleading some other fool. I caught my breath, sure that Lorna was fibbing. Billy Ray wasn’t deterred. “Mr. Blanton seemed to think that perhaps there was a bit more to it.” Lorna iced. “Mr.

  Blanton is mistaken.” She glanced over at me. Her eyes played along my face. “Just what is the purpose of all this, Billy Ray?” I demanded.

  “Are you just spending your time going around blindly accusing people of charges? How industrious of you.” “I’ve got to ascertain the facts of this case, Poteet,” Billy Ray answered, a sudden odd pleasantness in his tone. “I want to know just what Mr. Goertz, Mrs. Goertz, and Ms. Wiercinski know about this case, and I don’t intend to put up with interference from you.” His little eyes (they don’t need to be big because his brain can only handle limited information at any given moment) focused on me. “You knew the deceased as well. Care to comment on that?” “I met him once, last night, very briefly. He never called me or contacted me about my land. He was letting Lorna handle that.”

  “Did you think he and your ex-girlfriend were having an affair?” “Good Lord, of course not,” I stormed. Would I have cared? I wasn’t sure. I wondered if the sudden pang in my stomach was what Lorna had felt when she’d learned about Candace and me. “So you say.” Billy Ray smirked again. “But I already know what kind of temper you have, Poteet.”

  “Junebug, put him on a leash,” I said. “I’m not going to have him come into my home and make totally unfounded accusations against my friend and my”-I nearly said father, but some internal editor cut me off-“other friend.” I tried not to look at Bob Don. I didn’t want him to think I was ashamed of him, but I also didn’t want to share my paternity with a trashmouth like Bummel. “I told you, I wasn’t having an affair with Greg.” Lorna shot me a look. “Is this what your judicial system is like down here? They’ll never catch Greg’s killer.”

  “Come along, Billy Ray,” Junebug said with a touch of resignation and infinite patience as our assistant D.A. began to bristle. “Let’s go talk with Miss Twyla and her houseguest.” He nodded at Sergeant Garza.

  “Jordy, would you ride over there with us and answer some questions for Sergeant Garza?” “Sure, as long as I don’t have to listen to Billy Ray’s exercises in fiction,” I said. Bob Don and Gretchen quickly said that they had to be going, Lorna looked lost, and Sister stared at me with her arms crossed. I sighed and headed out the door. Being interrogated by Teresa Garza was a sight nicer than being questioned by Billy Ray Bummel.
First, Teresa Garza acted like she knew what she was doing. Second, she was polite. Third, she didn’t conjecture-she just asked. Finally, she had a soothing voice. On the drive over to Miss Twyla’s house, I answered Sergeant Garza’s questions as best I could. Sitting in the back of Junebug’s cruiser with her (and Billy Ray up in the front, being unusually quiet), I provided as many details as I could muster. “You’re the only person that’s actually witnessed an explosion,” she told me. “No one saw Mr. Boolfors’s shed or Mrs. Tepper’s doghouse blow up.” She made me go over the details of what each blast looked like, the pop of the mailbox, the flash of light, and the concussive noise that trumpeted the detonation. She gently touched my sling. “You’re very lucky, Jordy. If you had been by one of those mailboxes, you could have been more seriously injured or even killed.” Billy Ray coughed. “I know. If Candace hadn’t pulled me inside when I fell, I would have gotten a back load of shrapnel.” I paused. “What kind of person does this, ma’am? Why would they blow up mailboxes on Candace’s street?” A cold thought touched me. “Could someone on that street have been a target?” Garza shook her head. Her hair was cut professionally short and mousse stiffened it into immobility. “I doubt it, although it’s hard to say. But this has all the classical marks of a prankster. The explosives are homemade, are put in places that don’t have high traffic, and are set off when people generally aren’t about-although this last incident certainly came close to violating the pattern.” She frowned. “That bothers me.”

  “Where would someone get explosives around here?” Junebug cleared his throat. “Parker Loudermilk’s a partner in that construction company over in Bavary. He knows all about explosives,” he observed quietly as he turned into Miss Twyla’s driveway. This charge against authority was too much for an eggsucker like Billy Ray. “Chief Moncrief, I’m shocked. And the mayor being your boss! Why, I ought to-” “It was just an observation, Billy Ray,” Junebug said innocently. Made me wonder if perhaps Junebug wasn’t going to seek higher office next election. To my great annoyance, I was not invited in to see Billy Ray grill Nina Hernandez. Junebug handed me over to Sergeant Garza, and I walked with her, examining where the exploded mailboxes had stood. Garza told me the blackened posts of wood and twisted metal had been sent to her office in Austin for analysis. A total of six had exploded. “Isn’t blowing up mailboxes a federal offense?” I asked. “If they blew up post office property, yes,” she answered. “But I don’t think we’ll have to get the FBI involved yet. My worry is that no one in Mirabeau is turning up as having purchased explosives.” “You can check that?”

  Garza nodded. “Yes, the ATF has all the records of explosives purchased in the country. They’ve been running the names of everyone in Mirabeau through our systems, and the only ones that have been coming out are people with legitimate commercial reasons-like Mr.

  Loudermilk-for having explosives. We’re checking them out, but none of them seem to be good suspects.” “I still can’t believe this is happening in Mirabeau.” She shook her head. “Most small towns never have to deal with this kind of activity. For that matter, neither do most big cities.” She pointed at where Candace’s mailbox had stood.

  “Blasting cap, I think, with a battery attached and definitely with a timer. From your description, someone wanted them to go off in a row, like firecrackers. You’re lucky it wasn’t one of the pipe bombs. Our boy’s been packing those with potassium chlorate, sugar, and powdered aluminum. That would have taken your head off.” I was only half listening; instead, I was staring at Candace’s shrapneled front door.

  One windowpane had been broken and she hadn’t gotten it fixed yet. I thought she’d come out and see us, but then I remembered she was at the library. Doing my job while I was holding Lorna’s hand. I blew a long breath between my lips. What a mess. “No, Sergeant Garza, we don’t have to deal with explosives,” I said. “We just have to deal with the Billy Ray Bummels of the world.” “He is a piece of work,” she agreed politely. “I wonder-” I stared down Blossom Street at the six empty spots where mailboxes should have stood. “Wonder what?” “If there’s any connection between these… pranks and Greg Callahan’s death.” I squinted into the afternoon sun and rubbed my sore shoulder.

  The two Tylenol I’d taken earlier were wearing off and Billy Ray had given me a headache. “Why would you think that, Jordy?” Garza’s tone sounded guarded. “Well, just ‘cause Mirabeau is a small town and we don’t usually have murders or bombings. But now we’re besieged by both. Seems kind of an odd coincidence, don’t you think?” Teresa Garza favored me with an indulgent smile. “Junebug warned me. He said you have a tendency to stick your nose into crimes around here.” “I can’t help it if I’ve gotten involved in some unfortunate incidents. And I don’t have any intention of trying to figure out who our mad blitzer is.” I shrugged. “I just wondered if odd events that happen close together were related. Don’t they teach you wild-haired imagination at the bomb squad, ma’am?” She laughed. “Yes, Jordy, they do. But they also teach us to deal in facts. I don’t know enough about the Callahan case to see any connections.” I shrugged again. “I suppose I just like for everything to be in its place. Or maybe I just find it a tad more comforting to think we’ve got one nut running around town rather than two.” Any further conjectures were silenced by Miss Twyla joining us.

  She was carrying a tray of freshly made lemonade and she invited us to sit with her under the shade of her back porch. I watched Sergeant Garza eye the expanse of Miss Twyla’s backyard, amused at her reaction. There were a flock of plastic pink flamingos herded around a birdbath, an odd sculpture that dated back a couple of Oudelle generations, an old-fashioned tornado shelter, and a lush garden of vegetables and herbs. We thanked her and drank heartily. Say what you will, lemonade that comes out of a can just can’t compare with the real stuff. Tart and sweet like Candace when I’ve teased her a little too much. “Sergeant Garza, it’s just awful that Jordy was hurt.” Miss Twyla looked mournful. “Do you think the police will be able to catch the-what is it you call them on TV-the perp?” Garza shook her head.

  “I’m sure that Chief Moncrief will get to the bottom of this. And I’d like to talk with you as well, Ms. Oudelle. See what you can tell me about this incident.” Miss Twyla sipped her lemonade. “I’d be delighted to help. People think old ladies are nothing but nuisances, and I’d like to prove ‘em wrong. Ask away. My, Jordy, all these questions flying about my little house. Poor Nina is just being hounded by that dreadful Mr. Bummel.” I shook my head. “Look, Miss Twyla, I know you’re fond of Nina and all, but she did have the best motive to kill Greg Callahan. And I, for one, have never considered you a nuisance.” “Someone who nurtures the earth the way that Nina does could not cavalierly take a life,” Miss Twyla answered. She refilled Garza’s glass from a beautiful cut-glass pitcher. The ice popped as the cool liquid poured over it and Miss Twyla paused, as though listening to her lemonade. “Besides, Nina and I were up late plotting our strategy to defeat Intraglobal’s land purchases. Nina suggested if the town is against the development, the landowners who are inclined to sell might be less likely to do so. My garden club is going to donate at least ten thousand dollars, and although I loathe the idea of using the profits of trashy literature, Eula Mae has generously offered fifty thousand. The Women’s Guild is planning to hold car washes and bake sales to help raise money.” “That’s a chunk-a-change, Miss Twyla,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s going to be enough to counter Intraglobal’s coffers.” “We were also going to appeal to the honor of our citizens who owned that land,” Miss Twyla intoned. “I thought it most likely that your uncle Bidwell would sell that land to Intraglobal. I hoped you and Bob Don would at least listen to our side of the story. The Loudermilks-well, they’d find it politically unattractive to sell if we roused the town against the project. If they didn’t sell, and I didn’t sell, and if you or Bob Don didn’t sell, then their project would fall apart and they’d leave Mirabeau alone.” “You were
saving that money for Bid,” I said, laughing despite myself. “Well, you’re right. We couldn’t match whatever obscene amounts of money Intraglobal would offer. But we could turn the town against the development using that money. Educate people about why we need the river more than we need a bunch of silly condominiums. Money’s the key to stopping Intraglobal, Nina says.

  Anyhow, as to your suspicions of Nina, she and I were up late discussing our plans and we went to bed around eleven. I am a very light sleeper and I didn’t hear her leave during the course of the night.” “Maybe she left very quietly,” I suggested. “Oh, I even hear you and Candace coming and going at times,” Miss Twyla answered and I started blushing before she’d finished her sentence, then realized she meant arrivals and departures. “Besides”-and her old-maidish face made a pout of distaste-“I understand the poor Yankee was strangled with barbed wire. Most gruesome, don’t you think, Jordy, and certainly not very ladylike. Sounds like a crime a man would commit.” I’d been so involved in trying to help Lorna I hadn’t given the various aspects of the crime much consideration. Strangulation with wire. Death closing around your throat implacably, mercilessly. When I thought of what Greg must have suffered, the lemonade in my gut threatened mutiny.

  Once before I’d had hands closing around my windpipe. I recalled Tiny Parmalee trying to squeeze the life out of me on that long-ago playground. “Jordy, you okay?” Teresa Garza leaned toward me. “You look sick.” “I’m fine,” I said. I struggled to regain my composure.

  Tiny Parmalee had been sticking to Nina Hernandez’s side like a familiar to its witch. No woman in town would have much to do with him. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, would he do her bidding? Or even do her dirty work? Killing a man with barbed wire didn’t seem to fit Nina, but the idea of it slipped onto Tiny like a well-worn glove. God, Nina might not even have encouraged him. He might have taken it onto himself to remove anyone who annoyed Nina. I imagined the faint little neurons in his dense brain firing off the clever idea to get rid of Greg Callahan and win Nina’s heart. Tiny saving the fair environmentalist damsel from the fire-breathing developer. I could just see it. ‘Tell me, Miss Twyla, did Tiny come over last night after the library meeting?” I made my voice sound what I hoped passed for normal. “Oh, yes, Jordy. He’s been so helpful and dedicated. I know that not everyone in town likes Tiny, but he has really a good heart inside. I think the poor soul is just misunderstood. He’s become terribly fond of Nina.” Miss Twyla proffered the pitcher to me, but I shook my head. There was already a sour taste in my mouth. She continued: “He came over for a little while and just sat while Nina and I talked. Poor Nina was sure he was getting bored, so she told him to go home and-well, I’m sure she didn’t mean it cruelly, but that she’d call him when we had, ahem, ‘something you can do, like stuffing envelopes.’ I’m afraid the poor dear didn’t take it very well. He left in a bit of a huff.” To go prove his worthiness by crushing the life out of Greg? I thought, then chided myself. I sounded like Billy Ray, grasping at straws. But it was far easier to imagine Tiny committing a brutal murder than it was Bob Don or Lorna. I was quiet, so Garza finally got the opportunity to inquire about the destruction of the mailboxes. Miss Twyla had no details to add to my account. When they finished talking, Billy Ray, Junebug, and Nina came out onto the porch. Nina looked exhausted as she leaned against the wide white wicker chair that Miss Twyla sat in.