by Bill Crider
Hack glared at him. It was Hack’s job to tell the story. Lawton was just supposed to help him string Rhodes along. And now Lawton had made another mistake and revealed that the radio station was somehow involved.
“K-Vue?” Rhodes asked, using the station’s nickname, which was based on the station’s way of pronouncing the call letters KVUE.
“You know of any other radio stations in town?” Hack asked. “Or the county, for that matter?”
Rhodes admitted he didn’t know of any.
“Wait a second,” Lawton said, looking suspicious. “Didn’t Pearl tell you about the radio station?”
Rhodes shook his head. “I don’t think she said a thing about it.”
“Well, she should’ve,” Hack said. “She wanted to blame the station at first. So did the others. It sounded like a real contest to all of ’em.”
Rhodes was beginning to get the picture.
“Pearl didn’t tell me what she was supposed to have won,” he said.
“She was prob’ly too excited at seein’ Terry Don in person,” Hack said. “That was what the contest was all about, more or less.”
Rhodes thought he had just about all the pieces to the puzzle now.
“Somebody who was supposed to be from the radio station called Pearl and those others to tell them they’d won a date with Terry Don Coslin,” he said.
“Yeah,” Hack said. “And those women were pretty upset when they found out it wasn’t the truth, let me tell you.”
“They would’ve known there wasn’t any contest if they’d listened to the radio,” Lawton said. “There hasn’t been a word about it on the air.”
Rhodes looked at the little TV set on Hack’s desk. It was tuned in to The Young and the Restless. The sound was turned off, but Rhodes could see a man wearing a moustache and a serious expression. He was deep in conversation with a blond woman.
“We listen to the radio now and then,” Lawton said defensively. “Which you’d know if you stayed around here more. It’s about the only way to get any news in this place, since we don’t ever get to go out. Not that there’s been a good reporter at that station since Red Rogers got killed.”
“I sort of miss old Red,” Hack said. “Even if he was a bee in the sheriff’s bonnet.”
“Let’s get back to the contest,” Rhodes said. “Did any of those women recognize the voice of the person who called them?”
“Nope,” Hack said. “They couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. Just said it was a nice voice, kinda soft, but not too soft. Kinda low, but not too low. When they called the K-Vue, they got the word that nobody from there had called them. That’s when they called here.”
“Sounds to me like somebody tryin’ to make trouble for Vernell and that writers’ conference she’s havin’,” Lawton said. “Why anybody’d want to do that beats me. It’s good publicity for the whole county. There was even somethin’ about it on the news out of Dallas last night.”
Rhodes hadn’t seen the news, but he knew that Vernell’s conference had been getting a lot of attention. She’d managed to get several fairly well known writers of historical romances to take part, and she’d also landed Jeanne Arnot, a New York agent who’d sold so many books, including Vernell’s, to so many different publishers that she was called the “Queen of Love.” And of course there was the star attraction: Terry Don Coslin.
“Somebody’s got it in for Vernell, that’s for sure,” Hack said. “Or maybe for the radio station. Find out who it is, and you’ll find out who’s been makin’ those calls.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Rhodes said, though he really didn’t think there was any way to find out who the caller had been. “Don’t any of those women have caller ID?”
“Blocked,” Hack said.
“What about that call-back deal? Star six-nine.”
“Blocked that, too.”
“It figures,” Rhodes said.
As soon as someone came up with something that might be helpful to law enforcement, someone else found out a way around it. In his more pessimistic moments, Rhodes suspected that it was all part of a conspiracy by the phone company. First they sold you the caller ID. Then they sold people a way to block it. Then they found a way to keep your phone from accepting blocked calls and sold you that. Next they’d be advertising a way to get blocked calls through whatever was keeping them out. And then … he didn’t even want to think about it. Besides, there wasn’t just a single phone company now. There were lots of phone companies. So there couldn’t be any conspiracy.
“What’s Deputy Grady working on?” he asked, to change the subject.
“She’s down in Thurston,” Hack said. “Somebody broke into an antique store down there last night. I don’t think they took any antiques, but there was some money in the cash register. They got that.”
“Kids, most likely,” Lawton said. “Didn’t know what an antique was.”
“Any vandalism?” Rhodes asked.
“Not to speak of,” Hack told him. “Not unless you count the broken window.”
“I don’t think I will,” Rhodes said. “Count it, I mean.”
“If Pearl Taylor calls back, can I tell her you’re on the case?”
“You do that,” Rhodes said.
But he didn’t really have any intention of doing anything. Prank callers were almost impossible to catch, and it all seemed harmless enough. It was irritating to the women who had been called, but it wasn’t exactly a major crime. Instead of worrying about it, he sat at his desk, put on his glasses, and got busy with his paperwork.
3
THE REST OF THE DAY WAS FULL OF THE USUAL KINDS OF things that a sheriff’s office in a small county had to deal with. Nothing exciting, but time-consuming nevertheless: cows wandering loose on county roads and posing a danger to the traffic, drivers running into ditches or into the loose cattle or through someone’s fence, neighbors getting into loud arguments over pets or property lines, a possibly rabid possum terrorizing homeowners just outside of town, calls saying that someone had been shooting at mailboxes and road signs out near the Milsby community.
Rhodes didn’t have to deal with any of those things himself. Ruth Grady or Buddy Reynolds responded to the calls and calmed the callers, tried to find the owners of the livestock, put a stop to the arguments, and trapped the possum, which was to be held for observation by Dr. Slick, one of the local vets. The possum didn’t look rabid to Rhodes, but then he didn’t know much about that kind of thing, and it was always a good idea to be careful.
When he got home that evening, Ivy was already there. The first thing she said when he walked through the door was, “Did you get my book?”
Rhodes brought his hand from behind his back and showed her the book.
“Signed by Terry Don Coslin himself,” he said. “Get away, Yancey.”
Yancey was Rhodes’s Pomeranian, and his one talent was barking. That, and circling around Rhodes’s ankles trying to take a nip at them.
“He’s just excited to see you,” Ivy said.
Yancey continued barking, circling, and nipping. Rhodes sighed and handed the book to Ivy, who opened it to see what Terry Don and Vernell had written.
“Did you read this inscription?” Ivy asked.
Rhodes hadn’t. He hadn’t even thought about reading it. He nudged Yancey aside with one foot and moved to look over Ivy’s shoulder.
Vernell had written “To Ivy with all best wishes” above her signature.
Terry Don had written “To Ivy, the woman with the nice name.”
“Wasn’t that sweet?” Ivy said.
Rhodes said he guessed it was.
“You’re not jealous, are you?” Ivy asked. “Because he’s not a threat to you.”
“Are you sure? He’s got muscles you wouldn’t believe.”
Ivy closed the book and looked at the cover.
“I believe,” she said.
Rhodes nudged Yancey away with his foot. Yancey kept yapping.
“I think I’d better feed Speedo,” Rhodes said. “Give you a little time alone with Terry Don.”
Ivy hit him in the shoulder, but she didn’t try to stop him. He went out into the back yard to get Speedo’s dish. Yancey bounded out the door behind him. Besides barking and nipping at Rhodes, Yancey liked barking and running around with Speedo, who was at least partially a border collie and considerably larger than Yancey, who pretended not to notice the difference. Or maybe he really didn’t notice, Rhodes thought. Brain power wasn’t one of Yancey’s assets.
It was a cool fall evening, and Rhodes could see the first stars beginning to appear through the bare branches of the pecan trees whose leaves covered the ground. Rhodes wasn’t fond of raking leaves, and they didn’t seem to bother Speedo, whose real name was Mr. Earl and who bounded around the yard with Yancey yipping and nipping along behind.
Rhodes filled Speedo’s bowl with Old Roy dog food and stood for a minute, enjoying the evening and the dogs. Then he called Yancey and went back inside, looking forward to a quiet evening at home.
Supper was chili, made with extra lean beef, which Rhodes insisted on eating with beans, a habit that would have disgusted any chili purists who caught him at it. Rhodes didn’t care. He liked beans in his chili, and he didn’t think any chili purists were likely to happen by.
While they ate, he and Ivy discussed the writers’ conference. Yancey had finally settled down and gone to sleep so that it was quiet enough for talking.
“I wouldn’t mind going to that conference, myself,” Ivy said. “Except that I’m not a writer.”
“What will they be doing?” Rhodes asked, having no idea of what went on at a writers’ conference.
“They’ll talk about writing,” Ivy said. “Vernell has some really well-known people on the program.”
“And people come to listen to them?”
“Lots of people,” Ivy said. “Vernell filled every spot she had. She could have sold more places, but there just wasn’t room.”
Rhodes crumbled some crackers into his chili and said that he didn’t know so many people wanted to be romance writers.
“You’d be surprised,” Ivy said. “I’ll bet there are twenty women in Clearview with manuscripts stuck away somewhere. Maybe more than that. Everybody wants to write a book.”
“I don’t,” Rhodes said.
“You’re the exception, then.”
“You mean you want to write one?”
Ivy shook her head and laughed. “No, not me. I’m an exception, too. I just like reading them.”
“But you said you wouldn’t mind going to the conference.”
“That’s because I’d like to meet the writers. Marian Willoughby will be there, and Serena Thayer. Belinda Marshall, too.”
Rhodes spooned chili into his mouth and said nothing. He’d never read a book by any of the women Ivy had mentioned. He’d read Vernell’s book only because she lived in Clearview and was a friend of Ivy’s.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like to read. It was just that he rarely had time, and when he did have a spare moment, he was happier watching a bad old movie than reading a book.
“And Terry Don Coslin will be there, too,” Rhodes said. “Don’t forget Terry Don.”
“I’m not interested in him at all,” Ivy said.
“I don’t blame you. Not when you have a guy like me around the house.”
“Right.”
“So you’re only interested in the writers.”
“Of course. I think writers must be fascinating people.”
“Probably not much different from anyone else,” Rhodes said.
“I’d think they have better imaginations.”
“Speaking of imagination,” Rhodes said, “somebody in this town sure has one.”
He told her about the “contest.” When he was done, he asked if she could think of anyone who might have a grudge against Vernell. Or against the radio station, for that matter.
“I’d think nearly everyone in town would have a grudge against that station,” Ivy said. “The music they play is pretty bad.”
Rhodes had to agree. About a year previously, KVUE had switched to the “Young Country” format, which meant that no song over five minutes old was ever played, and no performer over the age of thirty got any airtime. That meant that no performer Rhodes had ever heard of got played, except the Dixie Chicks. There was nothing wrong with the Dixie Chicks.
“I can’t go after everyone in town,” Rhodes said. “That’s too many suspects. What about people with a grudge against Vernell?”
“I can’t think of anyone, except maybe Henrietta Bayam.”
Henrietta had been one of those who called to complain, but that didn’t mean anything. She might have called to avert suspicion.
“What about Henrietta?” Rhodes asked.
“There was quite a bit of gossip about her and Vernell. Are you sure you haven’t heard?”
Rhodes pushed away his empty chili bowl.
“I’m sure,” he said.
Ivy took a sip of water and set her glass back on the table.
“Henrietta told a few people that Vernell stole the idea for Wild Texas Wind from her.”
“How could she do that?” Rhodes asked.
“They were in a writers’ group, and—”
“Hold it. What’s a writers’ group?”
“People get together and read chapters of their books to each other. That way they get feedback and criticism.”
Rhodes couldn’t imagine people sitting around and reading chapters of unsold books to each other, so he found it hard to believe that there was a writers’ group in Clearview. Ivy assured him that there was.
“In fact,” she said, “there are two. One for romance writers and one for mystery writers. Your friend Clyde Ballinger is in that one.”
Rhodes knew that Ballinger had an excessive fondness for old paperbacks with titles like Bargain in Blood and A Touch of Death and The Jugger, but he’d had no idea that Ballinger aspired to write a book like the ones he read.
“I told you,” Ivy said. “Everyone wants to write a book. The people who aren’t writing romance novels are writing mysteries.”
“It must pay awfully well,” Rhodes said.
“I don’t have any idea.”
“It doesn’t matter. So Henrietta must’ve thought Vernell stole her idea from something that she read at one of those group meetings.”
“That’s it,” Ivy said. “I don’t think Henrietta has spoken to Vernell since the book was published.”
“I wonder if Henrietta’s going to the writers’ conference,” Rhodes said.
Ivy didn’t know. “You could call her and ask if you really want to know.”
Rhodes didn’t want to call Henrietta. He thought it was silly to have made the prank calls, but he wasn’t really interested in finding out who’d done it. What harm could a few calls do?
“You couldn’t call Henrietta, anyway,” Ivy said. “I just remembered. She wouldn’t be at home if she went to the conference. The programs started tonight, and everyone’s staying out there at the college.”
“Why not just come back to town after the meetings and sleep in your own bed?” Rhodes asked.
“That way you’d miss out on all the association with the writers.”
“Oh,” Rhodes said.
He decided to forget about the prank calls.
“Are there any good movies on tonight?” he asked.
“If you’ll help me clean up the dishes,” Ivy said, “I’ll tell you.”
It turned out that there was a good movie on, one of Rhodes’s favorite westerns, The Comancheros, and he finished helping Ivy just in time for them to get in on the beginning. After John Wayne had ridden off into the sunset, with Stuart Whitman and Ina Balin waving good-bye, Rhodes and Ivy went to bed.
“Just think,” Ivy said as she lay back on her pillow. “All those women out there in Obert have to settle for sleeping in the same building wit
h Terry Don Coslin, but I have you.”
“I’m glad you appreciate me,” Rhodes said.
Ivy grinned. “You bet I do,” she said.
Rhodes dreamed that he was a rugged frontiersman who wore fringed leather pants but no shirt. His pecs were hard as oak, and his flat, ridged stomach was equally hard. He was racing along astride a straining stallion, in hot pursuit of a woman whose long hair streamed out behind her as she galloped ahead of him. She looked a little like Ina Balin would have looked in The Comancheros if she’d taken her hair down.
He was just about to catch her when the telephone woke him.
“You better get out to Obert quick,” Hack said when Rhodes managed to answer. “We got big trouble.”
“How big?” Rhodes asked.
“Henrietta Bayam’s dead. And there’s a naked woman runnin’ around loose.”
“I’m already on the way,” Rhodes said.
4
THE COLLEGE CAMPUS AT OBERT SAT ON THE TOP OF OBERT’S hill. The hill was the highest point between Houston and Dallas, which was why Obert had at one time been considered as a possible location of the Texas state capital. Austin had won out, however, and Obert had sunk into an extended period of obscurity, its only claim to fame being the small private college, which had been founded shortly after the Civil War and had struggled along under the management of one denomination or other for nearly a hundred years before closing its doors forever in the early 1960s.
The campus had decayed steadily for a long time after that, until it had been bought by a rare-book dealer named Simon Graham, who planned to restore it and use it as a place to hold conferences and meetings. Graham’s plans had been brought to a sudden halt by his murder, and it seemed that the campus would continue its decline. But then Tom Chatterton, a wealthy antiques dealer from Dallas, had bought it and finished the restoration work.
The old main building was the only original building left on the site, but other buildings had been added over the years of the college’s life. These included a dormitory, a gymnasium, and a home that had been the president’s residence. Graham had managed to restore only the latter building before his murder, but Chatterton had seen the project through to the end. The main building, the dormitory, and the gym had been set to rights at considerable expense, and the campus was now open for business for the first time in nearly forty years.