by Steve Laracy
“I was saving these for your birthday, but I guess I’ll have to give them to you early,” she said, pointing to copies of the two issues already on the table. “Happy birthday, Doc. Now you both have copies.”
“But where did you get them?” asked Doc, surprised.
“I called Fred down in Yuma, and she found them on the Internet. Cost a lot more than the original cover price, I might add.” Turning to me, Leo continued, “Fred is my sister, Frederica.”
“But why did Felicity have them?” asked Doc.
“I wanted to surprise you, and I was afraid you would go snooping around the house and office.”
“Milo says it’s called investigating, not snooping,” Sam interrupted.
Leo laughed. “When Milo does it, it’s called investigating. When Doc and the Flagg sisters do it, it’s just plain snooping.”
Just then Ben, Phil, and Indian Charlie walked in.
“The damage to the roof and parlor isn’t as bad as we expected,” Ben said.
“We should be able to fix it up in about a week,” Indian Charlie said. “Until then the house is still livable. We temporarily patched the hole in the roof.”
“The fire engine came from over in Bell City,” Phil said. “They looked around and left since there was nothing for them to do.”
“You two are welcome to stay here during the repairs,” said Felicity.
“Thank you, dear, and call me Ethel, please,” replied Mrs. C, “but after all the excitement, I think I would like to get home and relax.” She and Roy rose from the table to leave.
“Again, thank you all for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Cavendish—I mean Ethel—and maybe you and Roy can join us for the next movie night,” Felicity said.
“We’d love to,” Ethel replied.
“I’ll reserve you a seat.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” complained Mrs. C. “We’ll sit wherever is available, same as everybody else.”
“Maybe Phil can get hold of an old western for you, Roy.”
“Mighty kindly of you, missy,” Roy said with a decent John Wayne imitation. “And I’d advise everyone to avoid the seat next to Ethel. Sometimes she forgets where she is, and she’s still good with the elbows.”
The last remark earned Roy an elbow as they walked onto the porch.
Sam ran after them. “And maybe you can teach me how to roller skate,” she exclaimed.
Mrs. C. turned. “Well, at my age I’m afraid my knees won’t let me lace on the skates, but I’d be glad to give you some pointers. Stop by sometime and I’ll show you some of my old mementos. They’ve been hidden away in the attic for many years.”
“I’ll be over tomorrow morning,” Sam yelled, and Ethel and Roy walked down the street to their home, hand in hand.
> CHAPTER 28
MR. CHURCH
Deciding I should think about the events of the last few days, I took a walk myself. I determined that the best place to be alone in Cordoba was the Municipal Building, so I headed over to my office.
As expected, the building was empty when I got there, so I settled into my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and reviewed the past few days. Aside from a tragic death that may or may not have been a homicide, a mysterious stranger lurking around a diner that was owned and operated by two people who were actually the same person, and the case of the missing magazines, my stay had so far been uneventful.
At least the magazine fiasco has been sorted out, I thought, though the successful conclusion was more from the efforts of a nine-year-old girl than anything I had done. I consoled myself with the fact that I had bigger fish to fry.
Back to Billy Webster. Was it an accident? Murder? Maybe suicide. Chief Baker and Jim Turner held grudges against Bill, and both had access to the plane and parachute. Motive and opportunity. Why did Annie Webster lie about Billy’s condition? Or didn’t he tell her?
And what about Costello? Why was he so interested in Frank’s diner? Maybe the two cases were related.
By this time, I was confusing myself. “Slow down and take it one step at a time,” I said to myself out loud. “You’ve got all afternoon, and no one will disturb you here.”
Just then a face appeared in the open door to the office, followed by a small, thin body. “Am I interrupting something?” the face said, peering at me through thick glasses and looking around for whoever I was talking to.
“No, just talking to myself,” I said. “Come on in.”
The small, thin man with thick glasses and a stylish comb-over walked in. He had a squeaky voice to match his mousy appearance.
“Are you the sheriff?” he asked as he approached the desk.
“If I’m not, I better get my feet off his desk before he returns,” I said with a straight face, and then added, “You’re not the sheriff, are you?”
“No, no,” he responded, and then realizing I was kidding, laughed a squeaky laugh, and still unsure said, “You are the sheriff, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I responded honestly this time, removing my feet from the top of the desk. “Come in and sit down. What can I do for you?”
The man sat down, reached in his pocket for his wallet, pulled out a business card, and placed it on the desk so I could read it, although there was no need since he introduced himself.
“My name is Church, and I work for the Arrowhead Insurance Company.” He reached over and shook my hand.
Before he could continue, I interrupted. “Sorry, Mr. Church, but I’m not interested in purchasing any insurance. A man in my position is unlikely to get into risky situations, and I can carry a gun in case I do.”
“Oh, I’m not selling insurance. I’m an investigator with Arrowhead, and I’m looking into the death of William Webster, who had an insurance policy with us. You see, you and I are in similar lines of business.”
After I had stopped shuddering from the last remark, I asked Church, “Why come and see me?”
“I heard you were investigating the tragic accident.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Was there any indication that maybe this wasn’t an accident?” Church asked.
“I have nothing conclusive to dispel the notion it wasn’t an accident,” I said, trying not to emphasize the word conclusive. I was trying to walk a thin line between telling Church what I discovered and keeping my suspicions close to the vest. “Why do you ask?”
“This is standard procedure on large payouts.”
“I’m confused,” I responded. “I was led to believe that Billy’s policy was only ten thousand dollars. That doesn’t seem like a large payout.”
“That’s true, but there was an accidental death clause that pays ten times the face value if the death is a result of an accident.”
“So Arrowhead is on the hook for a hundred grand?”
“Yes, unless his death wasn’t an accident. And don’t get the wrong impression. Arrowhead’s business is insurance. We don’t consider ourselves ‘on the hook,’ as you say. We’ll pay the money once the investigation is completed.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that Billy’s death was anything other than an accident?” I asked.
“Quite the contrary,” said Church. “Everything seems to indicate an accident, and the cause of death is listed as accidental on the death certificate.”
Dr. Baker doesn’t waste time, I thought.
“And we’re prepared to pay the hundred thousand to Mrs. Webster. I wanted to check with you to cover all the bases.”
“I have no conclusive evidence to prove that it was other than an accident.”
“Well, if you should find something conclusive,” he said, emphasizing the word conclusive, “please call me. My number is on the card.”
With that Church got up, gave me a slight smile, and started walking out of the office.
“Mr. Church,” I called before he got to the door.
“Yes,” he said, turning around.
“What if Billy committed suicide? Would the company refuse to pay?”
“The policy also has a suicide clause that states no payment will be made if the insured commits suicide within a year of purchasing the policy. Since Mr. Webster’s policy was taken out more than a year ago, Arrowhead is still obligated to make payment. However, if Mr. Webster committed suicide, the payout would be ten thousand rather than one hundred thousand, since the death would not be considered accidental.”
Mr. Church turned and left, leaving me to ponder the situation again. The coroner had already ruled the death accidental, so I could justifiably conclude my investigation. But what was Dr. Baker’s rush in issuing the death certificate? And what about the harness and the syringe and Billy’s enemies? There were more loose ends than a nearsighted spinster’s afghan.
I looked for something to take my mind off the problem for a while, but the only distraction I could find in the office was the Archie comic book Ben had used to swear me in. I picked it up and absentmindedly started leafing through the pages.
As usual, the main plot involved Archie stealing Veronica away from Reggie as he has been doing for the last fifty or sixty years. The last frame showed Archie and Veronica walking away and Reggie standing there with steam coming out of his ears.
That’s when I decided to pay a visit to Jim Turner.
> CHAPTER 29
JIM TURNER
The ride to Chiquita was about the same as every other ride I had taken in this area, dusty and monotonous. I drove the same route we had taken to the fair. Chiquita was a few miles past the fairgrounds. It was another small town with some businesses on the main street and a few side streets.
I hadn’t asked for directions to the sheriff’s office before I left, figuring I’d have no trouble finding the place, and I was right. I pulled into the small lot next to the police station and found my way to Jim Turner’s desk.
The Chiquita sheriff’s office was an open area with three desks, two in the front on opposite walls and facing each other, and one in the back of the room, Jim’s desk, facing toward the entrance. Jim was talking to a man I assumed was a deputy at the desk on the right. The left-hand desk was occupied by a woman, maybe a deputy, maybe a secretary.
Jim was wearing a white short-sleeve shirt and jeans and cowboy boots.
I walked over and introduced myself.
“I remember you from the other day,” Jim said. “What can I do for you?” Jim didn’t seem thrilled to see me.
“I want to touch base with you on the Billy Webster death,” I said.
“I thought the investigation was done. Didn’t the coroner rule accidental death?”
“Yes, but I want to tie up a few loose ends. I understand you grew up with Billy.”
“Let’s take a walk,” Jim said, grabbing a cowboy hat off a hook in the wall and ushering me out of the building. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk in front of the others in the room.
We walked down the street past a Laundromat and a bowling alley called the Chiquita Lanes, which, judging by its width, held about three alleys. Next to the bowling alley was a dive called the Red Parrot. Jim grabbed the door and walked in, with me following behind. I stood a moment and waited for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the darkness of the bar but realized no period of adjustment would allow me to see beyond five feet since there was little lighting inside.
This didn’t matter as there was little to see. The Red Parrot had a bar running the length of the room on the left wall; on the right wall, there were four or five small round tables with two cane-backed chairs at each table. That was it, except for a door between two of the tables on the right-hand wall that I assumed connected with the bowling alley.
No television, no pool table, no music. Just the bar, some barstools, tables and chairs, and the barstools and chairs were all empty. The only person in the bar besides me and Jim—unless someone was sitting in the back of the bar beyond my scope of vision—was the bartender, a grizzled old man who hadn’t shaved in about a week. I hoped that he had bathed during that time.
Jim, who hadn’t spoken since we left his office, walked up to the bar and ordered a beer; then he turned and looked at me, still without speaking.
“The same,” I said.
The bartender grabbed two kitchen glasses, held them up to the only light in the room, a ceiling fixture with a bare bulb of about sixty watts, and wiped one of the glasses with a bar rag which was flung across his shoulder. He then filled the glasses and placed them on the bar. Jim threw two quarters on the bar, which I assumed was enough to cover both beers. The bartender took the money, tossed it on the counter behind the bar, and went through a door at the back of the building. During the whole exchange, he had not spoken a word. I didn’t know where he was going, but I was hoping for a bath or even a shave.
Jim grabbed one beer and headed a table, saying, “Let’s sit at a table where we can have some privacy.”
After the scene I described, I leave it to you to determine how incongruous that statement was.
I grabbed the other beer and took a quick look at the glass while I still had the benefit of the lightbulb. Fortunately, the glass did not look substantially dirtier than those found in my kitchen, but not nearly as clean as the ones found in Felicity’s.
After we were seated, I attempted to break the ice.
“Should you be drinking on duty?” I asked.
“It’s almost quitting time,” Jim responded, “and should you be drinking on duty, Sheriff?”
I will point out at this point that there will be a lack of descriptions of Jim’s facial expressions, since I could not see Jim’s face, which was at least three feet away from mine.
Having forgotten that I was also a sheriff, I continued.
“What can you tell me about Billy?” I asked.
“Not much,” Jim responded. “We grew up together and were friends then but haven’t been close for a long time. I’m sure you heard the story from others.” By the tone of his voice, I pictured a wry smile.
“Annie Lee?”
“As I said, I’m sure you heard the story already.”
“Do you still have feelings for her?”
“I have feelings for everyone I know, some good, some bad. I thought you wanted to talk about Billy.”
“I hear you two were always interested in flying. Was Billy careful about jumping?”
“As far as I know. We did some jumping in high school, and he was always careful to inspect his gear. Why? Was something wrong with his chute?”
I didn’t answer but continued with my questions. “You spend time at the airport, don’t you?”
“I fly the plane occasionally.”
“The day before the accident?”
“Yes, I was there.” Jim was becoming agitated. “And yes, I had access to the parachute. But I had no reason to kill Billy. My thing with Annie was long in the past, and if I still had a beef with Billy, I would have faced him like a man. Why don’t you go talk to Chief Baker if you want to talk to someone who had a grudge against Billy?”
“I already had an encounter with the chief,” I said. I waited a minute without speaking, giving Jim a chance to settle down and to see if he had anything else to say.
Finally, he said more calmly, “Do you have reason to suspect that Billy’s death was more than an accident?”
“I’m just doing my job,” I said.
“Look, Billy and I were no longer close, but we were best friends in high school and you don’t forget those things. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt either him or Annie. And this was only a tragic accident. Why don’t you leave it alone and let Billy rest in peace?”
“I will when I’m satisfied that I’ve done what I can,” I answered.
I got up and walked out the door, leaving Jim sitting at the table.
> CHAPTER 30
THE CRIME SCENE
It was midafternoon when I drove out of Chiquita. The fair was again in full swing when I
drove past, and I thought of stopping for a bite to eat but decided against it as I had other things on my mind. Everyone I talked to seemed to want me to stop looking into Billy’s death. Jim Turner seemed to be a more likable guy than Chief Baker, but he was no more cooperative.
As I came to the intersection with County Line Road, I decided that maybe it was a good idea to check out the crime scene again. I hadn’t had a good look at it the day Billy fell, with everyone crowding around, and I didn’t think I would find much after all the traffic got through with it, but it seemed like something a sheriff ought to do.
I pulled over to the side of the road and walked over to the area where Billy had landed. The rain of the previous day had soaked the area, which was now drying out in the desert sun, so the ground was hardening again. There were remnants of the many footprints that had littered the area, but not much else as I walked around. On closer inspection, there seemed to be an indentation in the ground a little way from the area where Billy landed, but the combination of tracks from the crowd and the rain made the marks, if there were any, indistinguishable.
The surrounding area was flat land in all directions, apart from the intersecting roads and a few cactus and bushes scattered about. Seeing nothing of interest, I was ready to leave but decided to walk around the perimeter of the area. I walked around in ever-increasing circles, trying to cover most of the ground around the accident site.
Finding nothing of interest, I was heading back to my car when the glint of a shiny object caught my eye from the middle of some low bushes a good distance away from the intersection. I went over to investigate.
> CHAPTER 31
A TALK WITH BEN
The rest of the drive back to Cordoba was spent trying to clear my mind and determine my next steps. I decided to have a talk with Ben Nye. I was hoping to catch him in his office, rather than at the diner, so I could speak to him privately. I found him at his desk.
He was reading a newspaper, a portion of which was lying on his desk. As I entered and sat down, I saw that the banner on the paper read “Bell City Bugle”.