But then there was old Wharton Jacobs, the man Maudeen Sanders killed. Did he have kin? They could be upset with the judge for only keeping Maudeen overnight in jail with the first shooting and letting her go home to kill Jacobs when he tried to come back. But I couldn’t see what my deputies had to do with that. Especially Anthony, as he’d still been in Tulsa when that whole thing went down. Who handled that case? I wondered. Maybe I needed to get Holly to check that out and see if Wharton Jacobs had any kin around. Or maybe one of his other wives? Maudeen was his fifth – that we knew of. Were the others from around here? I knew two of them were but what about the other two? And why would they care?
This whole thing was giving me a big old headache. I got Maudeen Sanders’ file off Emmett’s desk, took it back to my office and called the phone number listed for her brother, Ralph Winchell. The number was out of service. Considering the file was near eight years old, it wasn’t a real big surprise. So I called information and got a new number, then dialed that.
A kid answered the phone. ‘Winchell residence.’ Couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl.
‘May I speak to Mr Winchell, please?’ I asked.
‘May I say who’s calling?’
‘Sheriff Kovak,’ I said.
‘Really?’ said the kid with a high squeak of delight. ‘You’re a sheriff? You got a gun and a badge? You kill bad guys?’
‘Is your daddy there, sweetheart?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. Daddy!’ the kid yelled in my ear. I pulled the phone away from that ear and rubbed it to relieve the pain. ‘Daddy! It’s a sheriff!’
Winchell took the phone. ‘Who is this?’ he demanded.
‘Hi, Mr Winchell. This is Milt Kovak, sheriff of Prophesy County—’
‘What can I do you for, Sheriff?’ he asked, the first of our suspects who didn’t sound pissed at me.
‘I was wondering if I could speak to you and to your niece, Lynette.’
‘Why?’ he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.
‘It’s in regards to your sister, Mr Winchell.’
‘Yeah? Why?’ he said, and then came the pissed sound.
‘There have been some developments I’d like to speak to you and your niece about,’ I said.
‘What kind of developments?’ he asked.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss that in person,’ I said.
‘Well, then, come on over and discuss it,’ he said. But he didn’t sound happy.
‘Will your niece be there?’ I asked.
‘Probably not. She lives in Dallas now. Going to SMU. Doubt she could help you in any way,’ he said in a way that seemed to put an end to the subject of his niece.
‘Well, then, how about I head your way now?’ I asked.
‘Whatever,’ he said and hung up in my ear.
‘Yep,’ Guy Berden said. ‘Neat as can be. Whoever’s doing this,’ he said, pulling himself out from under Judge Norman’s Cadillac Seville, ‘sure knows his shit.’
‘Damn,’ Emmett said, leaning back against a vintage Dodge Charger resting on its rims with no trunk lid or hood. Or much of anything else. Emmett thought that didn’t bode well for Maudeen Sanders’ kin.
‘Guess I need to get somebody out here and dust for prints,’ he said, knowing that was a lose/lose situation. The Seville had been sitting in a junkyard for several months. It had been scavenged for parts, and whoever had cut the brake lines in Anthony’s wife’s car had left no fingerprints. Since Emmett was beginning to wholly believe that the two cut brake lines had been done by the same person, he was pretty sure that person would have used gloves on the judge’s car, just as he did on Maryanne Dobbins’ car.
He pulled his cell phone out of his pants’ pocket and dialed Milt’s cell. ‘Hey,’ Milt said on answering.
‘The judge’s brake lines were cut,’ Emmett said. ‘We can dust for prints but I don’t think it’ll do much good.’
‘I’m on my way over to Ralph Winchell’s house,’ Milt told him. ‘Wanna meet me there?’
‘Yeah,’ Emmett said, his voice dejected. ‘I suppose we gotta.’
‘Cheer up,’ Milt said. ‘Judge Norman presided over some of the other suspects, too.’
‘Yeah?’ Emmett said, brightening. ‘The Permeters?’
‘I’m happy to report that’s an affirmative.’
‘Gotta drop off Guy and I’ll meet you there. Give me thirty.’
‘Be careful. Snow’s really beginning to come down here,’ Milt said.
‘Heard anything on the TV or radio about another cold front?’
‘Don’t think I need a weatherman to tell me it’s cold out there,’ Milt said, then laughed. ‘Hey! I think I almost stole a line from Bob Dylan!’
‘Bob who?’ Emmett asked and hung up. He had one more call to make. He owed it to Bob Huntley, Judge Norman’s bailiff, to let him know his friend had been murdered.
Huntley had given Emmett his direct line and answered on the second ring.
‘Huntley,’ he said.
‘Hey, Mr Huntley, it’s Emmett Hopkins from the sheriff’s department.’
‘Hey,’ Huntley said.
‘I got bad news. The judge’s brake lines were definitely cut.’
‘Goddamn,’ Huntley said after a few seconds of silence. Then he said, ‘You mentioned that there were some pranks played on y’all before the brake lines, right?’
‘Yeah. Nasty note on the door, then somebody cut the alarm system to break in and string one of those ugly Halloween zombie babies up in our interrogation room.’
‘Yeah, well, that got me to thinking. Dave told me he’d been getting crank calls at his house about a week before his accident. Well, I guess it wasn’t exactly an accident.’
‘How many, did he say?’ Emmett asked.
‘Yeah. Seemed to be a bunch. He said they were pretty nasty, and he said it sounded like they were using one of those voice things that change the sound?’
‘I’ve seen that on TV,’ Emmett said. ‘Did the judge live alone?’
‘Yeah. His wife died a couple of years ago and his kids are all grown and not living anywhere around.’
‘So nobody else would have heard these crank calls?’ Emmett asked.
‘No,’ Huntley said. ‘I suggested he try to tape one of ’em but I don’t know if he ever did.’
‘Can you find out if one of his kids might have his answering machine or whatever he might have recorded it on?’
‘Yeah, I can try,’ Huntley said, ‘but I doubt they would. They sold almost everything in a garage sale.’
‘Well, we can at least try.’
‘I’ll do that. And get back to you. And Deputy,’ Huntley said, ‘thanks for keeping me posted on this. Let me know how things develop.’
‘I’ll sure do that,’ Emmett said, noting how Huntley saying letting him know hadn’t been in the form of a question. It sort of sounded, to Emmett’s ear, like a demand.
Ralph Winchell and his family lived in a nice white-rock house on a couple of acres in a subdivision where all the houses had big, tree-lined lots and all the houses were at least three-to-four-thousand square feet. I’d say, looking at it, that Winchell’s house went closer to the four thousand mark. I wasn’t sure what he did for a living, but whatever it was it was doing him proud. The snow was beginning to pile up on the roof, making the house look like a Christmas card. There was a Jeep Cherokee, a lot newer than mine, in the driveway and another car could be seen through the windows of the garage. It dawned on me at that moment: what did Ralph Winchell do for a living that allowed him to be at home at two in the afternoon on a week day? Good work if you could get it.
I parked on the street and waited for Emmett to show up. He got there just a few minutes after me. We both got out of our cars and met on the sidewalk leading up to the house. There weren’t curbs in the subdivision, just rich lawns sloping to the street to give it that country look. The sidewalk leading to Winchell’s front door was made of paving stones looking a lot l
ike the white rock of the house, but they were beginning to ice over and were slippery. There was a wide front porch and a double door with beveled glass windows on either side. I rang the bell and heard a few bars of The Lone Ranger theme. (I can hear my wife now – yes, I know it’s the William Tell Overture but to me it’ll always be the theme song to The Lone Ranger.)
A man opened the door. I didn’t attend Maudeen Sanders’ trial so I’d never met Ralph Winchell before, but I was pretty sure that’s who was standing in front of me. He was a big man, well over Emmett’s professed height of six foot one inch, with shoulders that would make a linebacker proud. He had a full sandy-blond beard and a buzz cut, with watery blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.
‘Mr Winchell?’ I said.
‘Sheriff,’ he said. Slowly he backed up and let me and Emmett in.
Me and Emmett dusted the snow off our shoulders and wiped our feet on the porch mat before entering the home. We were both raised right.
‘This is my head deputy, Emmett Hopkins,’ I said.
Winchell nodded at Emmett. ‘Seen you around the church,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. Seen you and your family there most Sundays,’ Emmett said.
Just then a little boy of about six or seven came bounding down the stairs.
‘This him? Daddy, is this the sheriff?’ the little boy squealed.
‘Yeah, Dustin, this is him,’ Winchell said.
The little boy – Dustin – walked up to me shyly and held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, sir,’ he said.
I shook his hand. ‘Nice to meet you too, Mr Winchell,’ I said. ‘This here is my deputy,’ I said, indicating Emmett.
Dustin’s eyes got big. ‘Wow, a deputy!’ he said. ‘I watch Gunsmoke!’
Emmett held out his hand and the little boy shook it. ‘You got a limp?’ Dustin asked.
Emmett smiled. ‘You mean like Chester on Gunsmoke?’
The little boy nodded.
Emmett shook his head. ‘No, I’m lucky, I guess. No limp.’
‘Didn’t know you could still find Gunsmoke on TV,’ I said to Winchell.
‘We’ve got a dish,’ he said by way of explanation.
I thought maybe I should get one of those.
Winchell indicated we follow him into the living room. ‘Dusty, you go see Mama in the kitchen, OK?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dustin said and scampered off. He was a real cutey that boy, blond like his daddy, with eyes a lot brighter blue and dimples in his cheeks – whether that was from his daddy or not was hard to tell, what with the elder’s full beard covering everything up.
The living room was what my wife would call ‘well-appointed.’ Light brown leather furniture, dark wood floors with coffee and end tables the same color. Art on the walls that didn’t distract, book shelves crammed full of books and knick-knacks and a few toys scattered about. It was a lived-in room of a well-off family.
‘I gotta ask, Mr Winchell. What is it you do for a living?’ I asked.
‘I’m a commercial artist,’ he said. ‘I freelance but I got contracts with two New York ad agencies and a kids book publisher out of Chicago.’
‘Huh,’ I said. ‘So you work out of your house?’
‘I have a studio behind the garage. You come all this way to ask about that?’
‘I’m real sorry to disturb you like this, Mr Winchell,’ I said, ‘but we’ve been having some problems at the sheriff’s office.’ I went on to describe the note and the zombie baby, leaving out the more serious problems.
‘And you’re here because …’ Winchell said.
I sighed. ‘We’re trying to figure out who’s been doing this and why. Went over some old cases—’
‘And decided my niece or I looked good for it?’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘Not at all,’ I said, but he could tell I was lying. ‘Just following up on some outstanding cases.’
‘How is my sister’s case outstanding? She’s in jail and has been for almost eight years. She goes before the parole board in a couple of weeks. She should get out. Are you trying to mess that up, Sheriff?’ he asked, getting red in the face.
‘No, sir, not at all. I’m glad to hear she should be getting out soon. We’re just following up any leads we can.’
‘For a couple of pranks?’ he asked, arms crossed over his chest.
‘Well, sir, it sorta escalated from there. Couple of cut brake lines, that sort of thing.’
Ralph Winchell shook his head. ‘Look, I didn’t cut anybody’s brake lines. I don’t know squat about cars. Ask my mechanic that I almost single-handedly keep in business. And my niece hasn’t been back here since Christmas. She’s on the dean’s list at SMU so she doesn’t have much time to be playing pranks all the way back up here. And I guaran-damn-tee you she knows less about cars than I do.’
‘You got an address and phone number for Lynette?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But I’m not gonna give it to you. If you want it, you’ll have to dig for it.’ And with that, he stood up. ‘I’ll show you fellas to the door.’
And he did. As dismissals went, it was fairly abrupt.
Dalton left early to go check on his wife and mother. He was worried about both. What with Holly being pregnant and his mama having had such a bad day, he wanted to make sure everybody was OK. The weather was also taking a turn and he wanted to make sure he could get home while the streets were still passable.
Neva Keller met him at the front door. ‘About time you got here, Dalton!’ she said. ‘Your mama’s lying down but she’s not doing too well. And Holly’s trying but, well, what do you expect?’
‘Excuse me?’ Dalton said.
Neva Keller tsk-tsked a bit and shook her head. ‘A girl like that, Dalton. What were you thinking?’
Dalton turned and opened the front door that he’d just closed behind him. ‘Thanks for your help, Miz Keller,’ he said, ‘but you best be leaving.’
‘Your mama may need me—’
‘Holly and me are here. We’ll take over. Thanks.’
Neva Keller seemed to finally notice the look on Dalton’s face. ‘Well, I never!’ she said and headed out the door.
‘Yeah, I bet you did,’ Dalton said under his breath, but loud enough for his wife, who had come in from the kitchen, to hear.
Holly laughed. ‘She’s a treasure, that one,’ she said, wrapping her arms around her husband’s waist.
Dalton hugged her and kissed the top of her head. ‘If you think a bag of snakes is a treasure then I guess you’re right,’ he said. ‘How you doing? Baby OK?’
Holly let go of his waist and took his hand, leading him into the kitchen. ‘Baby’s fine, I’m fine. Even your mama’s fine. Upset, but Jean came over and gave her some Valium and she’s sleeping like an angel.’
‘Sorry you got stuck with Miz Keller,’ he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘Something smells good.’
‘Since I had the time, I thought I’d make a pot roast – and I’m following your mama’s gravy recipe.’ She lifted the lid on the large pot on the stove. ‘It’s looking real good.’
‘Smells good.’
‘So, what’s going on with the investigation?’ Holly asked, sitting down at the table across from her husband. Since she was a department employee, even if not a deputy, she was most often in the loop on all cases.
‘Me and Anthony went by Mama’s house. You know Mike Reynolds, from the police department?’
Holly nodded her head.
‘He met us there, but the police had already gone over everything so there wasn’t much for me and Anthony to do. Since it was my mama’s house, though, Milt thought I might notice if something was out of place.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah, I did. But I don’t know if it was that big a deal,’ Dalton said.
‘What?’
‘Mama keeps her brooms and mops in that closet right by the back door—’
/> ‘I know,’ Holly said.
‘Well, one of the brooms was missing and I found it in the kitchen, propped up against the wall.’
‘Mama would never do that,’ Holly said. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place – that’s Mama.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So did you tell Milt?’
‘Well, it didn’t seem like such a much—’
Holly stood up abruptly and grabbed the cordless phone. ‘Call him, honey. It could be such a much.’
SIX
‘So did y’all dust it for prints?’ I asked Dalton.
‘Anthony did, I think,’ he said. ‘Want me to call him and check?’
‘No, you take care of your women. I’ll call Anthony.’
With that I hung up on Dalton and punched the number on my phone that automatically called Anthony. Holly had set up the new phone system – each deputy and Holly had a one-digit number I could hit and call them directly. There was also a two-digit number I could punch in that would call all of ’em at the same time. That had come in real handy when we had that bad business at the Longbranch Inn.
Maryanne Dobbins answered the phone. ‘Hey, Maryanne,’ I said. ‘How you doing?’
‘Hi, Milt. I’m fine, thanks for asking.’
‘And Melinda?’
‘Sleeping like a baby.’
‘Well, that’s her job,’ I said.
Maryanne laughed but her heart didn’t seem to be in it. ‘Anthony around?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ she said, and I heard her put the phone down and call out, ‘Anthony! It’s Milt.’
‘Sheriff?’ Anthony said when he picked up.
‘Heard you and Dalton found a broom out of place at Miz Pettigrew’s house.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any prints?’
‘Thing was wiped clean. Not even Miz Pettigrew’s prints were on it.’
‘Hum,’ I said. ‘I assumed the asshole was wearing gloves, but if he wiped the prints—’
‘Then maybe not always?’ Anthony supplied.
‘Yeah. That.’ I was quiet for a moment. ‘Charlie or Mike say anything about the police finding prints?’
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