Family Thang

by James Henderson

  He’s washing his hands bloody because he knows I’m gay and he touched my hand.

  You’re being paranoid.

  Presently, Sheriff Bledsoe came out, drying his hands thoroughly with a paper towel. He nodded at the doughnuts and coffee. “Help yourself. The coffee machine is on the blink, I picked up an extra cup.”

  “Thanks,” getting up and retrieving a glazed doughnut. “I’ve already tried the coffee, not my particular brand.” He bit into the doughnut and looked up.

  Sheriff Bledsoe was frowning, staring at the two cups. “You took a sip?”

  “Yes, I sure did.” Leonard could tell by the Sheriff’s expression he was dying to ask which one.

  “So you’re from Chicago,” Sheriff Bledsoe said, sitting behind a desk.

  “No. Originally I’m from here, Dawson. I moved out of my father’s house when I was in high school. I moved to Chicago eleven years ago, right after I graduated college.”

  “Which college?”

  “University of Arkansas at Monticello.”

  “Is that right? I went there myself. Business administration. Didn’t graduate. I lack a few credits. One day I’ll go—”

  “Sir, I didn’t poison my father.” He then recognized the cologne that seemed to breeze in through the air conditioner.

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “Why I’m here, isn’t it?” Hai Karate, the cheap cologne his father used to slather on. Where in hell can you purchase Hai Karate today?

  “Okay, Mr. Harris, you want to cut to the chase. As you know, your father was poisoned with arsenic, along with his pet, which I think was poisoned incidentally. And, according to eyewitnesses, you and your father got into a heated argument shortly before his death.”

  “Yes, we had a few words. If your eyewitnesses were completely honest with you, sir, they would have told you my partner and I were late arrivals to the barbecue. My partner can attest to that. He accompanied me from Chicago.”

  “I see. What’s his name?”

  “Fields. Victor Fields.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe nodded, but didn’t write the name.

  “Sir, I’m sure your eyewitnesses have informed you I’m gay, and Victor is my mate of five years.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe loosened the collar on his beige shirt. “Kinda hot in here, isn’t it?” Leonard shook his head. “So… uh…” He cleared his throat. “So at no time did you come in contact with the neck bones prepared exclusively for your father?”

  “No. Not once.”

  “If someone said they saw you—”

  “They’re telling a damn lie! I don’t poison people’s food, Mr. Bledsoe. My father and I had an argument, which I truly regret and will regret till the day I die. I did not poison him!”

  Sheriff Bledsoe interlaced his fingers and nibbled on both thumbnails.

  Leonard held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. He noticed the jail cell, the thin mattress covered with what looked to him a piss-stained sheet, and the aluminum commode. I’ll die before I go in there.

  He returned his attention to Sheriff Bledsoe. What the hell!… The man was still staring at him. Leonard stared back.

  The man wore his afro in a shag that went out of style fifty years ago. And that goatee, another joke: the peach fuzz under his broad nose didn’t droop far enough to connect with the fuzz that formed a crude U under his chin. Big boys should never try anything more than a moustache anyway.

  “Well?” Leonard signaled by raising an eyebrow.

  “You have any idea why anyone would want to harm your father?” Leonard shook his head. “Let me rephrase that. Who do you think poisoned your father?”

  Leonard let out a nervous laugh. Who’s the detective here? “You’re asking me? I don’t have a clue.” Then he remembered: “The damn money!” he said to himself.

  Sheriff Bledsoe sat up straight. “Excuse me? I didn’t catch that.”

  “The money.”

  “What money?” Sheriff Bledsoe picked up one of the coffee cups, flipped the lid with a thumb, put the cup to his mouth, stopped and put the cup down. “What money?”

  “Daddy worked at Hillard Catfish Farm forty-three years, started when Robert Earl was a baby. He invested his money in the company’s stock, accruing a rather hefty sum, most of which he put in his will. Daddy was parsimonious, extremely stingy. When we were kids Daddy didn’t give us money, he loaned us money and we had to pay—”

  “How much?”

  “—him back with interest. Thirty percent. He charged a penalty if—”

  “How much?”

  “—we didn’t pay him back on time. Why I was shocked when I heard Daddy had willed his money to his family.”

  “How much?”

  A thin smile played on Leonard’s lips. “One-point-three million dollars.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe whistled. “Everyone in your family knows about this?”

  “I’m afraid so. Mother told Robert Earl, the mouth of the south, about the money. Mother telling him was her way of ensuring all her children got the news. He called me at three in the morning and told me.”

  “Has the family received this money yet?”

  “Not yet. I’m not sure how it works. I guess the money won’t be doled out until we find out who murdered Daddy.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe shook his head. “You’re thinking insurance money. As long as your father was of sound mind when he made out his will and had three witnesses, he determines the whenever and to whomever his estate is to be issued. Who’s the executor of your father’s will?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The name of the beneficiaries?”

  “Mother, Ruth Ann, Shirley, Robert Earl and me.”

  “Have you seen the will?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Hmmm. Do you often fly home for family barbecues?”

  “No. The barbecue was planned as an early celebration of my parent’s golden wedding anniversary. Shirley and Ruth Ann scheduled it to accommodate my vacation week.”

  “I see. Anyone you know, friend or family member, who held a grudge against your father?”

  Leonard stared at the floor, concentrating. “Daddy aggravated people. Snide comments, name-calling, insults. He’d raise holy hell if you didn’t pay his money back. If he borrowed from you, he got amnesia, then got testy if you insisted reciprocation. One time Daddy took a rather nasty whooping over an unpaid debt.”

  “From who?”

  “Joe Hill. A long time ago, and after Joe whooped Daddy, Mother paid him. I doubt Joe still holding a grudge.”

  “You sure it was Joe? I know Joe, he’s not the fighting type.”

  “Borrow thirty dollars from Joe and don’t pay him back, then tell me what he won’t do. I was there when he ran to the house, smoke blowing out his nostrils.”

  “Joe Hill whooped your daddy at your daddy’s house?”

  “Not inside the house. When I yelled, ‘Joe’s coming,’ Daddy ran out the back door. Joe caught him in the backyard.”

  “Anyone else whom your father disagreed over money.”

  “There was a tiff between Daddy and Robert Earl, but Daddy didn’t owe Robert Earl money.”

  “A tiff? A disagreement or a fight?”

  “I wasn’t there. Shirley told me about it. According to her, Robert Earl went to Daddy and asked for an advance on his share of the money, fifty thousand dollars, if I’m not mistaken. Daddy, as usual, feigned amnesia, told Robert Earl he’d lost his one and only marble. Robert Earl called Daddy a tightwad. They pushed and shoved each other, but it didn’t get dirty.”

  “Sounds to me Robert Earl needs money in a bad way. He’s having financial problems?”

  “No more than anyone else. You see, Robert Earl dreams of opening a combination snake farm and gas station.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe arched an eyebrow. “Snakes?”

  “I’m afraid so,” wondering if Sheriff Bledsoe thought his entire family was insane.

  “Here in Daw
son?”

  “Yes.” Leonard sighed. “Right here. Robert Earl stopped at a gas station displaying snakes when he was in Arizona. It definitely made an impression on him; he’s been talking about it for years.”

  “Has Robert Earl—”

  Leonard cut him short. “Robert Earl is not a murderer. He’s a snake lover, a blowhard, a coward, a nut—he’s not a murderer. He’s also a homophobe, though I’m sure you wouldn’t hold that against him.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe ignored the slight. “I didn’t say he was a murderer. Money brings out the worst in people, good and bad people.” He paused and looked Leonard straight in the eye. “I have to ask you this. Did you murder your father?”

  “I said it once and I’ll say it again. I did not murder my father.”

  “You willing to take a polygraph?”

  “Yes,” Leonard snapped. “Day or night.”

  “When were you planning to return to Chicago?”

  “Today, just as soon as I leave here.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe shook his head. “Uh-uh. I prefer you didn’t, not until we clear this up.”

  “I can’t stay!” Leonard said, raising his voice. “I have a job, a life, in Chicago.”

  “Your father was murdered during a family gathering. And not only were you there, you threatened him.”

  “I didn’t threaten him. Who said I threatened him? Who?” He waited… Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond. “No way can you construe what I told my father as a threat. Please! I just told you we, Victor and myself, arrived late. Everybody knows that. This is a waste of time!”

  “I’ve got plenty of time, Mr. Harris.” Leonard stood abruptly. “If you leave town prematurely, Mr. Harris, I will issue a warrant for your arrest.”

  Leonard stared at him. He wanted to say high cholesterol makes rational thinking difficult, doesn’t it? Instead: “This is ridiculous!”

  “Maybe so. Here in the country we treat murder seriously.”

  “How long will it take you to complete your investigation?”

  Three creases appeared on Sheriff Bledsoe’s forehead. “Not too long,” he said, and Leonard detected a tinge of doubt.

  “I heard a murder investigation runs cold if the perpetrator isn’t caught within the first forty-eight hours. My father’s murder is, what, four-days-old? You’re not sure how long this investigation will take, are you?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond.

  Leonard crossed his arms and scrunched up his nose. “I’ll stick around for as long as it takes. I’m not the litigious sort, but if I lose my job before you realize I did not murder my father… well, as the old saying goes—”

  “I will see you in court,” Sheriff Bledsoe finished for him. “You’re free to go, Mr. Harris.”

  Leonard walked to the door, opened it and then stopped. “Have you ever lost a family member to murder?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “Words can’t describe it. Numb, anguish, pain—don’t even come close. Then to be suspected—”

  A black truck drove by, a rebel flag in the back window. Leonard lost his train of thought. “Have a good day, Sheriff,” and stepped out into the afternoon’s heat.

  Chapter 4

  Along Highway 10, two miles east of Dawson’s city limits, a mile or so short of a vacant lot where Robert Earl planned to build a gas station and exotic snake farm, stood the Blinky Motel. The only building before a ten-mile stretch to the next town, Hamburg, it lit up the sky for miles around.

  A full moon hovered above. A large neon sign in front flashed INKY, missing the first two letters. Along the edge of the roof, red Christmas lights blinked intermittently from one end to the other.

  Nine rooms comprised the single-level building, one inhabited by the manager, an Iranian who boasted American citizenship; thus the sign American Owned and Operated in the office window.

  Three cars were parked in front on the gravel lot. In back, a late-model Chevrolet S10 truck hid among a copse of pine trees. Its owner, Eric Barnes, sat on a bed in room number seven, watching a video, Deep Throat.

  Mesmerized by Linda Lovelace’s oral resuscitations, Eric didn’t hear the soft knock at the door.

  “Eric?” a woman whispered, followed by a tap on the window. “Eric!” This time he heard and hastily took out the video and changed the channel, The Cartoon Network.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.”

  Eric opened the door and Ruth Ann, wrapped in a trench coat, stepped in.

  “I’ve been out there a long time,” she said, looking around the room. “What you doing you didn’t hear the door?”

  “I musta dozed off.” Ruth Ann brushed past him and sat on the bed. He wondered why she wore a coat in the middle of July. “Something wrong?”

  She stared at the television; a petite woman slammed Johnny Bravo on his head. “The funeral, my father, everything, really…” She shook her head.

  He sat beside her and ran his hand through her hair. “What you talking about, baby?” She pushed his hand away. “What’s the matter? Don’t you still love me?”

  “Eric, my daddy was murdered. Somebody poisoned him. His funeral was just yesterday.”

  “He was murdered! Damn! Ain’t that a bitch! Take your clothes off, let’s get busy.”

  Ruth Ann shot him a cold look. “For your information, Daddy and I were real close. You wouldn’t understand.” She covered her eyes and started crying. “I miss him so much!”

  “I miss him, too,” tugging on the trench coat. Good girl, he thought as he slid the coat down her shoulders.

  To his surprise, Ruth Ann sported a blue skin-tight jumpsuit underneath the coat; crying loudly now, her sobs drowning out Johnny Bravo begging for a date. Even in her distress, he wanted her.

  Ruth Ann was an attractive woman. Coal-black hair fell loosely to her shoulders. Brown eyes below pencil-thin eyebrows slanted upward, giving her a slightly Asian appearance. Her complexion resembled liquid caramel, creamy smooth. Figure curved in all the right places, especially in the rear.

  What mostly fascinated Eric was her mouth. Lips full and sensuous, almost always sporting a sparkling cherry sheen. When she talked her lips barely moved, concealing her teeth, straight and snow white.

  He hugged her. “It’s going to be all right, baby. I’m here.” He palmed her breast and she pushed his hand away.

  She stopped crying and said, “I’ve been doing some thinking, some serious thinking.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, I have. Daddy’s death triggered my conscience. I’ve allowed my moral compass to shift to depravity and self-gratification.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said, not having a clue what the hell she was talking about. “Me, too.”

  “Really? You feel the same way?”

  “Yeah, hell yeah! I feel the same way you do. Now let’s get naked.” He pulled her to him and started kissing her neck, then tried to push her onto the bed.

  “Stop!” Ruth Ann shouted, pulling free.

  “What’s the matter, baby? We don’t have much time. I took two Levitras and rented this room for an hour.”

  “Didn’t you just say you felt the same as I do, guilty and ashamed? Morally depleted?”

  “I did?” When did I say all that? “No, I didn’t!”

  Ruth Ann got up and went into the bathroom. Eric kicked off his sandals, hopped out of his baggy short pants and snatched off his V-neck T-shirt. He lay on the bed stark naked, his erection pointing north.

  Ruth Ann stepped out, drying her face with a washcloth. She glanced at Eric, then sat down in the chair next to the bed.

  “C’mon, baby,” Eric said, patting the bed. “I’ll make you feel better, all tingly inside.”

  “Eric, you’re not listening. I can’t do this anymore. My sister, your son’s mother—I can’t do this anymore, not in good conscience. It’s wrong. It was wrong from the start. This should not have happened. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Eric sat up. “Okay. I’ll sta
rt using a damn rubber.”

  “No. Listen to what I’m saying. I cannot do this anymore. You hear me? I cannot do this anymore! Shirley’s my sister and technically she’s your wife. We can still be friends, but the hanky-panky is over. We were lucky no one got hurt. No longer we have to worry about Shirley or Lester finding out about us. You see what I’m saying? No more guilt feelings. We can live a moral life. You see what I’m saying?”

  Eric wasn’t listening, watching his erection shrink slowly but surely.

  He stood up directly in front of her. “One for the road, okay? Just once more, and then we’ll start being friends.” He was on the rise again. “Come on, baby.”

  Ruth Ann shook her head.

  “C’mon, Ruth Ann, one more time. Look, he’s all excited.” Ruth Ann closed her eyes. Damn… double damn! She was so close. “Ruth Ann, look at me.”

  Shaking her head emphatically: “No, Eric!”

  He moved closer and brushed himself against the side of her face.

  “No, Eric!” and pushed him. He fell onto the bed. “It’s over, Eric.” Starting for the door: “It’s best you understand that.”

  Eric jumped to his feet, ran to the door and pressed his back against it. “Hold on, Ruth Ann, just hold on. Let’s talk, okay? Don’t leave me like this!”

  Pulling on the doorknob: “I’ve got to go, Eric. I told Lester I’d be back in thirty minutes. I’ve been gone an hour.”

  “Fuck Lester!”

  “Let me out, please!”

  “Ruth Ann, wait a minute. You can’t leave me like this. I…” He swallowed. “I-I love you, Ruth Ann. I really do!” That was hard, incredibly hard. His father had warned him never to tell a woman those three words unless he planned to marry and take care of her. Until now he’d obeyed the edict. “Honest, Ruth Ann. Cross my heart. I swear!”

  Ruth Ann paused, stared him straight in the eye for a beat. Is she giving in? He could only hope. So he told her those three awful words again and again.

  “Ruth Ann, I love you more than…” Than what? This was shaky ground; if he named something he treasured, she might want him to fork it over.