by Jean Erhardt
I topped off Evelyn’s coffee and put the pot back on the burner. “Sounds good.” I was sure that, whatever Agee and Alonzo decided to do with Abbott’s remains, I didn’t want to hear about it.
Evelyn shook her head. “Wish we could afford a decent Christian burial.” At this juncture, Evelyn could barely afford a decent pair of underwear.
I did my best to conjure up a tender tone. “Cremation is a decent Christian way to go,” I said. “And I know Clint would agree.” I had no idea whether my brother Clint would go along with this, but his opinion carried a lot of the weight with Evelyn in the Jesus department.
“Well, maybe so,” Evelyn said. “Besides, it is better for the environment.”
I was really impressed. Al Gore was making a difference.
“The memorial service is tomorrow,” she said, setting her bowl of leftover Cheerios on the floor for an eagerly awaiting Bunky. “Guess I better find something to wear.”
There was really no need to ask where the service would be held. Fogerty was a one funeral home town. Here, it was Hooker-Handy’s all the way, and it’d been that way since before Jesus rolled away the big stone.
Although the Hookers had sold out to the Handys probably just before the end of the last century, the name had such a nice ring to it that the Handys had decided to keep it around. I didn’t want to think about what else the Handys had kept around after all of these years. I’d gone to school with the Handy kids, all seven of them, and they were weirdniks for sure. Any one of them could pass for a prime suspect in the recent spate of macabre murders, but what could you expect, having been raised on a steady diet of embalming fluid and Nearer My God to Thee?
The phone rang, and Evelyn hopped up to get it. Bunky stopped chomping his Cheerios long enough to snort again. Apparently, he wanted Evelyn to hold his calls.
I was feeling a little like snorting myself once I could see that Evelyn and Bunky had finished off the box of Cheerios.
In a rather excited voice Evelyn said to the caller, “Well, praise the Lord!” Then she said it again about ten more times. Either Evelyn was participating in a telephone tent revival or the caller had some very good news to pass along. Finally, Evelyn hung up the phone and said, “Praise the Lord!”
“I got that part.”
“That,” Evelyn said, “was the police chief. They caught the killer!”
“Well, praise the Lord,” I said, although there was certainly no need to say it again. I was half-expecting Evelyn to tell me they’d nailed Charlene the Spangled Dancing Machine for the heinous crimes, but I was way off.
“I just knew he was dangerous! Didn’t I say so?” Evelyn said, her hand still on the phone. “Well, thank the good Lord he’s behind bars.”
“Who, for crying out loud?”
“Rick Rod Delozier, that’s who.”
Chapter 23
Suddenly, I was no longer in the mood for Cheerios or much else for that matter, except maybe a fast train to anywhere but Fogerty.
“Rick Rod Delozier?”
“Yessiree,” Evelyn said. “The police found a big, bloody knife under his bed.”
“Good God.” I wondered how Amy was taking the news. Poor Amy, she had to be in shock. Something this hideous would rip the heart right out of any sister worth her salt, unless perhaps you were Rush Limbaugh’s sister.
“It’s plain scary,” Evelyn said. “That Delozier boy’s been running loose in this town for years, and everybody knew he was nuttier than a PayDay.”
Rick Rod Delozier was a dark horse. He certainly wouldn’t have been my first pick in the Daily Double, but in the light of what had come to light, I was willing to entertain the notion that he’d been responsible for two grisly murders. I was no evidence expert, but a big, bloody knife under anybody’s bed was more than a bit incriminating.
But before I could say “poor Amy” three times in a row, the phone rang again. Evelyn snatched it up, and after a brief conversation with the caller, she covered the receiver and handed it over to me. “It’s poor Amy,” she said.
What does one say to a friend whose brother has just been arrested for murdering and chopping the genitals off his fellow townsfolk, especially if one of the unfortunate townsfolk happens to be one’s own cousin? I had no idea, but I took the phone anyway.
“Hello, Amy. I’m sorry about Rick Rod.”
“Well, don’t be,” she said in what sounded like a huff of major proportions.
“Don’t be?”
“Kim,” she said with real punctuation, “Rick Rod didn’t kill anybody. He’s been set up!”
I couldn’t remember just which numerical circle of hell it was that one must pass through on the road to accepting something dreadful, but it sure sounded like Amy was knee deep in denial.
“This must be difficult, Amy.”
There was a very uncomfortable and elongated pause. Then she blurted, “You don’t think for a second that Rick Rod’s really the killer, do you?”
“Well...” I started, but she cut me off like an ace calf roper.
“Jesus, Kim! First my husband turns on me, which should have come as no huge surprise, but you? Listen to me. I know my brother. He may be nuts, but he is not a murderer.”
I’d never sided with a dentist, but there was a first time for everything and the list of first times was growing longer by the minute.
“Amy, at this point, it doesn’t matter much what I think. What Rick Rod needs is a good attorney. No, make that a great attorney.”
Amy sighed. “I’m working on that. And Rick Rod’s going to need money to pay his legal expenses, so now we’ve got to sell the farm.”
It made sense.
“Please,” she said, and I could hear the panic in her voice, “if we don’t do something, they’ll hang Rick Rod for this. I know this town. And I know he’s not guilty.”
We? I didn’t know what to say. “What can I do, Amy?”
“You can meet me at Sparkie’s Lounge in an hour.”
Chapter 24
Amy said she wasn’t hungry, but I talked her into splitting a turkey sandwich. I wasn’t exactly starving myself, but my system needed more to run on than an empty box of Cheerios. The waitress brought us our sandwich, a side of fries and a couple of iced teas.
Amy looked terrible. Her worry lines were prominently on display, and I could tell she’d been crying, maybe a lot.
“I feel like shit,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
She went on to tell me that she and the dentist had had a big, hairy fight that morning, him saying rotten things about her family and how ridiculous she was acting by not facing the facts where Rick Rod was concerned. “I told him to get out. He packed a bag and went home to Mommy.”
“You’re kidding.”
Her eyes half-mast, Amy blew a slow stream of smoke. “I’m not.”
“If he was a bug, I’d step on him.”
“Thanks. That helps.”
“I hope Mommy lives very far away.”
“Try about a half-mile,” she said, blowing more smoke. “Some supportive spouse, huh?”
Shithead was the S word that came to my mind.
Amy added, “What a prick.”
I had to agree with her there.
“God! Men!” She stubbed her cigarette out, then picked up her sandwich and took a healthy bite.
Am I the only one who’s noticed that no one complains more about men than straight women? It’s beginning to look like the only real friend a regular guy has any more is a lesbian, unless you’re a dentist. Then no one likes you.
The waitress swung by and refilled our tea glasses. I uncorked the ketchup and started working on the fries and my half of the turkey sandwich. Sparkie’s was starting to feel like home, and I wasn’t sure that this was good news, but it had been so long since I’d had good news, I wasn’t even sure what it looked like anymore.
To my surprise, Amy reached across the table and laid her hand on mine. I couldn’t help but notice that
her hunky diamond ring was now missing in action. Maybe the dentist had decided to give it back to Mommy.
There were extra-large reptile tears pooled up in Amy’s big, sad eyes. In that moment, I realized just how special a woman Amy was, and no matter who’d whacked cousin Abbott, it caused me great pain to see her in such distress.
“Kim,” she said, squeezing my hand, “under the circumstances, I know it’s not fair for me to ask for your help, but will you?” She squeezed my hand. A tear let loose and rolled down her cheek.
Like an idiot I said, “Sure.”
Chapter 25
The floor fans were cranked up high tilt at the Hooker-Handy Funeral Home, but the main memorial service room was still plenty hot and miserable. To make matters worse, the place was packed. It seemed that Fogerty was out in full force. I was sure the size of the crowd had more to do with macabre curiosity than Abbott’s popularity. No matter, it pleased Evelyn and the boys and even me a little to see such a fine turn out.
Agee and Alonzo wore cheap dark suits and sunglasses. They would have looked like the Blues Brothers had it not been for their cowboy boots and Garth Brooks cowboy hats. They were both heavily doused in some repulsive cheap cologne which only added to my misery since they were seated on either side of me.
I hadn’t packed funeral clothes, so I’d borrowed a dark pantsuit from Evelyn which fit me like a very bad dream. Evelyn was wearing what could have been a snappy but sober black pup tent minus the mosquito netting.
“There’s the mayor,” Alonzo whispered in my ear.
I guess I was supposed to be impressed.
Scotty Mink had been Fogerty’s mayor for about 200 years. It wasn’t that he was that great, it was just that Forgertians were big on continuity. Everyone knew that Scotty wasn’t always as honest as choir boy. It was common knowledge that he’d a hand in a few shady deals over the years and he’d been caught a time or two in a motel room with an underage girl of questionable repute, but hey, wasn’t this true of every successful politician?
Scotty Mink had the Dick Clark gene. No matter the decade, he always looked the same. In fact, Scotty Mink even looked a little like Dick Clark, except Scotty’s hair was higher, greasier, and, in the right light, could’ve been mistaken for the Big Rock Candy Mountain.
Like always, Scotty wore a mindless, eternal grin like the Frisch’s Big Boy. His wispy wife Glenda, who did not have the Dick Clark gene, hung on Scotty’s arm as he nodded at folks and shook a few hands as they made their way to seats near the front.
Although Evelyn hadn’t actually attended church any time recently, she’d always considered herself to be a good Baptist. She’d asked Brother Bobby Lee, the pastor of Fogerty Baptist, to MC the event.
Brother Bobby Lee looked about eighteen. He still had pimples and that eager beaver zealot look about him. No doubt he was a recent Bible college graduate. There were only about 100 such institutions within spitting distance of Fogerty. But for all his scholarly preparation and divine enthusiasm, it was obvious that Brother Bobby Lee was not yet steeped in this sort of thing. Throughout the service, he sniffed nervously and his voice quivered as he attempted to sum up Abbott’s assets and contributions. Blessedly, the list was short. Still, embarrassingly, he stumbled over simple words and sometimes left out whole phrases.
Finally, when he’d made it through the last Bible verse, he purposefully closed his oversized King James version and, on cue, Bonnie Lou Handy punched out a few chords on the organ. Brother Bobby Lee loudly cleared his throat, then proceeded to belt out one hell of a rendition of I Surrender All.
It was easy to see what had landed Bobby Lee in the cockpit at Fogerty Baptist. Baptists are suckers for singing preachers, and Brother Bobby Lee made Jimmy Swaggart sound like Art Garfunkel. When he’d finished, you’d have been hard pressed to find a dry eye in the place. Even I got teary, although it could have had something to do with the boys’ cologne.
Evelyn, who was seated on the other side of Agee, sobbed audibly. Agee put an arm around her. I could tell that Alonzo was having a very tough time, too, but he was keeping it together the best he could.
No matter how much of a creep my cousin Abbott had been in life, he was still his brothers’ brother, and they were going to miss him terribly.
I sat there with my arm around Alonzo’s shoulder and wondered what the chances were that Amy could be right, and if she was right and Rick Rod Delozier wasn’t the killer, then who was responsible for all of this grief?
And speaking of Deloziers, I’d kind of been expecting Amy to come to the funeral. We hadn’t actually discussed her attending, but I thought she’d show. Maybe Amy wasn’t up for the small town scrutiny, ugly glances and an emotional tar and feathering just for sharing Rick Rod’s gene pool. Who could blame her?
After the service Mayor Scotty Mink and Officer Mike were hanging around on the front porch of Hooker-Handy, shaking hands and soaking up praise from the townspeople for rounding up the killer. Officer Mike had apparently made the collar on Rick Rod. He’d gotten an anonymous phone tip at home, and moved on it pronto.
“Way to go, Mike,” Agee said, holding his hand out for a shake.
“Thanks, brother,” Officer Mike said, pumping Agee arm.
I reached out to take Mike’s hand, too, but Evelyn nearly dove in front of me and threw her arms around the officer. “I can’t thank you enough for catching the man responsible for doing those horrible things to my nephew, Abbott.”
Officer Mike gently peeled Evelyn off the front of his uniform. “Glad I could be of help.”
Mayor Scotty clapped Mike on the shoulder. “This is one heck of a cop all right. We’re mighty proud of you, son. You’ve shown us once again that the Fogerty police won’t let anyone get away with anything for long, unless, of course, you’re me.” He slapped Mike on the back and he and Mike laughed heartily. Then the mayor quickly sobered up and took my mother’s hand. “Evelyn, Abbott was a fine young man and a good citizen. We’ll all miss him.”
“Thank you for saying that, Scotty, even if it ain’t altogether true.”
I took this opportunity to shove my mother in the forward direction and I shook the mayor’s hand. “Yeah, thanks a lot,” I said, nearly pushing Evelyn down the steps.
He took my hand in both of his. His hands felt like sweaty socks. “You’re Cal Claypoole’s girl, aren’t ya?”
“That’s me.”
“You’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman. Cal would be so proud.”
Was he full of it, or what. “That’s nice of you say so.” Now please let go of my hand.
“Cal Claypoole was a great man. He helped make Fogerty the town it is today.”
Yeah, and he thought you were a snake in the grass.
“Well, I must let you get back to your family.”
“Nice to see you again,” I said, already halfway down the steps.
As I walked toward the parking lot, I noted Chief Cokie sort of slouched against her cruiser in the shade. Guess she’d sponged up all the glory she could handle for one day.
“There’s a luncheon at the church,” Evelyn called to me from across the lawn. “Shall we ride over in one car?”
“Why don’t you go on ahead with Alonzo and Agee.” As well-meaning as the folks at Fogerty Baptist no doubt were, I didn’t think I could face pickle loaf sandwiches and a tub of potato salad in a dank church basement. Besides, this looked like a golden opportunity to chit chat with Chief Cokie.
Police Chief Cokie was drinking a Mountain Dew and resting her guns there under a big maple.
“Nice service,” she said and took a swig.
“That Brother Bobby Lee is something else,” I said. That was no lie.
She nodded heartily. “Yeah, he’s my second cousin.”
“Wow.” What else could you say?
It was quiet for a few minutes. We watched the mayor and Officer Mike continue to work the crowd. A slight breeze kicked up and for a second it didn’t feel like 100 degree
s. I was hoping that some bit of bonding was occurring between us, perhaps through osmosis.
Chief Cokie brought it up first. “That Delozier’s a real case, huh?”
“Sure looks that way.”
The chief eyed me like she didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, not everybody seems to be in agreement that Rick Rod Delozier’s the killer.”
“No?” She finished off her Mountain Dew, crunched the can and tossed it inside the police car. “Do tell.”
Knowing full well how stupid this was going to sound, I said it anyway. “For one, Rick Rod’s sister, Amy, doesn’t think he’s guilty.”
The police chief stared at me like I was a horsefly in her ointment. “Golly,” she said. “Guess I better run right down to the jail and let him loose.”
“Well, it is possible that someone set him up, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, right.” She belched softly.
Chapter 26
I parked my Toyota out behind Fogerty High School in a shady spot next to the ball field. This was the same field where I’d played a lot of softball a long time ago, third base. Modesty aside, I’d been fairly handy as an infielder, and, on a good day, I was the kind of batter who could worry the other team. My father had occasionally taken Clint and me to see the Reds play at Crosley Field. Clint was largely bored with the whole thing, but not me. I’d always taken my glove along just in case they needed me to sub for Pete Rose.
Except for an occasional light breeze kicking up dust on the deserted playing field, not a creature was stirring, which was just what I was hoping for. After the memorial service and girl talk with Chief Cokie, I desperately needed some down time. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to pass through the Rite Now Beer Drive-Thru on the way over to the school and was now the proud owner of an ice-cold six-pack of Weidemann. I cracked one open. I took a long drawl, swallowed and sighed blissfully. There is nothing, I repeat nothing, like a cool one on a hot one.