The Double-Jack Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery (Sheriff Bo Tully Mysteries)

by Patrick F. McManus

  “That’s where I’m going with it, Bo.”

  “You got any idea what happened to Howard Blunt?”

  “Just my guess.”

  “About the same as mine, I bet. You know of any Blunts live around here, Teddy?”

  “No, not around here. There’s a Blunt that owns an accounting firm in Spokane. It’s an unusual name. He could be a descendent.”

  “It so happens I have to make a trip to Spokane. I’ll check him out.”

  At lunch, Tully went with beef dip and fries and Susan went with the fish-and-chips. “I have to admit,” she said, “Crabbs has the best fish-and-chips in all of Idaho. England, on the other hand, has the best fish-and-chips in the world.”

  “You’ve been to England?”

  “Yes, when I was twelve. My father and mother took us four girls with them when Dad was on a sabbatical from the university. We lived in an apartment down in Cornwall for a month. The fish-and-chips were absolutely scrumptious!”

  “I’ve never been anywhere,” Tully said. “I’d like to get to England someday. Maybe we could go together.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “You would have to be a lot more attentive, though.”

  “I’m working on it,” he said. He wondered if the flyboy had been attentive. Apparently not.

  “I do think you’re still hung up on your wife, Bo. It’s been ten years since Ginger died. It’s really time you put that part of your life behind you. People have to move on.”

  “I have moved on,” he said.

  “But not all that far.”

  25

  HE PULLED HIS sheriff’s department Explorer up in front of Jean Runyan’s art gallery in Spokane, took the painting out of the back, and hauled it inside. Jean was an attractive woman with gray, neatly coifed hair and deceptively kind eyes behind rimless glasses. “Oh, Bo, wonderful to see you! I’ve been hoping you would bring me something. But it’s huge.”

  He stood the painting up and turned it around so she could see it.

  “Oh, my gosh!” she said. “It’s wonderful! I have patrons of who will kill for that painting!”

  “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I want Sid Brown to have first shot at it.”

  “But, Bo, you’re depriving me of a bloodbath among Spokane’s art patrons!”

  “I’m sorry, but I want Sid to have it.”

  “He’ll have to offer at least twenty grand.”

  “I expect he will. I don’t have his phone number, Jean, but he owns the Giggling Loon restaurant in Boise.”

  “I know Sid,” she said. “I’ve sold him half a dozen of your watercolors at ridiculously low prices. Now he’s going to pay!”

  Tully turned and left, so he wouldn’t have to hear Jean’s merciless laugh. It was the sort of thing that could haunt a person’s dreams.

  Raymond Blunt’s office was on the top floor of the Blunt Building, an indication that the Blunt family had done all right for itself over the years. He told the receptionist he was Sheriff Bo Tully to see Mr. Blunt.

  The girl turned pale and gasped, “Not again!”

  Tully imagined her boss scurrying down a rear fire escape. “I’m not here on enforcement business,” he told her. “I just need some information about his grandfather.”

  The girl disappeared through a door behind her and presently returned with a bald, wizened little man not over five-foot-five. His white eyebrows were bunched up in a frown.

  “What is it you want?” he growled.

  “I would like some information about your grandfather,” Tully said, “if Howard Blunt was your grandfather.”

  The little man responded with a facial tic, then said, “Come on back to my office.”

  The office was large and old with a great deal of dark wood on the walls and four tiny windows on two sides of the corner office. Blunt motioned to a chair in front of his desk. Tully sat down.

  “So what is it you want to know about my grandfather?” he asked.

  Tully thought he should give Blunt a little background first. He explained about the murders of Tom Link and Sean O’Boyle.

  “Sounds like something my grandfather might have been involved in,” Blunt said. “My understanding is that he was a thoroughly nasty man. My own father, who wasn’t exactly a prince of a human being, was terrified of him.”

  “Must have been the standard for fathers in those days,” Tully said. “Do you know if your grandfather was a member of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders?”

  “Yes, I certainly do. I tired of hearing about it at a very young age.”

  “Apparently, he and Jack Finch joined up together and were buddies all through the Spanish-American War. From what I have been able to learn, your grandfather started what became known as the Finch Mine.”

  “That’s my understanding. Then one day he simply disappeared without leaving a trace. From what I understand, my family at the time was not in the least grieved to have him vanish. They generally felt they owed Jack Finch a debt of gratitude.”

  “So they thought Finch had something to do with your grandfather’s disappearance?”

  “Oh, yes. If you’d known Jack Finch, I think you might have, too. He apparently was an unholy terror.”

  Tully tugged thoughtfully on the corner of his mustache.

  “The reason I’m here, Mr. Blunt, is that I’m looking for the weapon used in the murder of a miner named Tom Link and a fourteen-year-old boy by the name of Sean O’Boyle. I suspect your grandfather may have brought back a .43-caliber rolling-block rifle with him from Cuba. The bullets for it probably would have been green, not unusual, but the moist climate of Cuba may have made them even greener.”

  Blunt leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. After a bit he said, “I’m not much of a gun person, Sheriff, but I do remember a box of green bullets. I gave both the bullets and the rifle to one of our local museums. The curators were putting together a display of Spanish-American War artifacts involving people from this area. Apparently, the war was quite popular with our residents at the time. I’m not much of a museum person, so I don’t know if the display ever got set up or not.”

  Tully thanked Blunt and told him if he ever determined the rifle at the museum was the murder weapon, he would let him know.

  “Don’t bother,” Blunt growled.

  26

  THE MUSEUM WAS a large boxy affair with a great deal of exterior metal and glass. Tully wasn’t much of a museum person, either, and the place made him nervous. Museums always gave him the feeling he was supposed to know something he had never even heard of. A striking young woman took him back to the director’s office, her high heels clicking smartly on the floor, reminding him of Daisy. She knocked on a door and was told to enter. The room turned out to be a workshop of some sort and the director was dressed in a pair of dusty gray coveralls. The young woman said, “Sheriff Tully, this is our director, Mr. Mullan,” and then left. Tully could hear her footsteps receding down the museum hallway.

  “Sheriff Bo Tully,” the director said. “I am aware of your reputation, as an artist that is. I’m afraid I don’t follow the crime scene much.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Tully said. “But it’s the crime scene that brings me here.”

  “Indeed? Well, how may I be of service to you in that regard?”

  Tully told him about the 1927 murders of Tom Link and Sean O’Boyle and the rifle that may have been used in the killings.

  The director said, “Nineteen twenty-seven! You take your crime-solving very seriously, Sheriff.”

  “Yes, I do. Usually, I don’t take on crimes quite this old, but one of the victims was the father of a friend of mine. I suspect there may have been a third murder, but I will be satisfied if I can simply find the rifle that was used in the first two. I assume you keep a record of the various donors. The rifle I’m looking for was donated to the museum by a Mr. Raymond Blunt.”

  “Ray Blunt. Yes, I know him well. Quite the jovial individual.”
/>   “That was my impression.”

  The director laughed. “I believe we have three Cuban rifles in the exhibit, but the one from Ray Blunt will be identified as such. Come with me and we’ll go take a look.”

  The exhibit showed three mannequins dressed in Cuban uniforms, each holding a rifle. They were surrounded by Rough Riders, one of whom bore a slight resemblance to Theodore Roosevelt. There was an open box of the green bullets at the feet of one of the Cubans.

  “The Cuban soldier on the far right is the one holding the rifle donated by Ray Blunt,” the director said, referring to a note on the edge of the exhibit.

  “Excellent, Mr. Mullan. Now I’m afraid I must take that rifle with me to have it checked by my CSI unit.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t permit that,” said Mr. Mullan.

  Tully gave him The Look.

  “Oh, you’re right of course, Sheriff. I’ll have to have you sign some papers, though.”

  “No problem.”

  Tully spent the night at the Davenport Hotel in Spokane and drove back to Blight City in the morning, stopping first at the office. The law-enforcement business seemed to be humming smoothly along under Daisy’s firm command, even though he knew his undersheriff would take credit for it.

  “Looks like you’ve got everything under control, Herb,” he said, giving Daisy a wink. She rolled her eyes.

  Herb said, “Yeah, but I’m glad you’re back, Bo. This job is wearing me to a frazzle.” He went back to reading his paper. Tully had noticed that in any institution or business, there are always individuals who do absolutely nothing. This was Herb’s function.

  As usual, Lurch was hunched over his computer. He probably had already solved three crimes that morning.

  “I’ve got a job for you, Lurch,” Tully said. “Something a little more interesting than your usual fare. It’s the rifle that may have been used in the mine murders. Check out the striations on its bullets against those we found in the mine.”

  Lurch beamed at him. “Great!”

  “The gun’s in the back of my Explorer. I guess you can use your water tank to fire the gun into.”

  “Right. As soon as I have the bullet, I’ll head down to the crime lab in Pocatello to make the comparison.”

  “I guess that will take you through Boise,” Tully said. “Why don’t you spend the night there on the way back? Take Sarah out to dinner at the Giggling Loon restaurant. Put it on your county charge card.”

  Lurch stopped and stared at his boss as if he thought the sheriff had gone mad. “I’ll do it!” he said, grinning. “Sarah would love that!”

  Sarah was the gorgeous and brilliant medical scientist in a Boise hospital. Why she took to Lurch, Tully couldn’t fathom. He suspected failing eyesight on her part, all that time spent looking through microscopes. Although he was fond of Lurch himself, he couldn’t imagine what kind of girl would fall in love with his CSI unit. Oh, yeah, Sarah was a scientist and Lurch was brilliant. He probably was attentive, too.

  “What are you thinking?” the unit said, stopping on his way out.

  “Nothing, Lurch. Get going before I do think of something.”

  He walked into his office. Daisy followed him in. “So what hideous messes have occurred while I’ve been gone?” he asked her.

  “Just the routine,” she said.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yeah, it never ends.” She sat down in a chair across from him. As always, she was a model of perfect efficiency, her back ramrod straight, her legs crossed beneath her black skirt, the white blouse perfect.

  Daisy is something else, he thought. Now that she’s divorced, she’s also available. So many women, so little time. “So how is our jail population getting along?”

  “Oh, they’re grousing as usual. A couple of them tried to climb out of the playpen the other day. Herb put down his newspaper long enough to fire a shotgun in the air. Scared the wits out of them. Ever since then they’ve occupied themselves with basketball.”

  “Who were the two miscreants?”

  “Oh, Vince and Otto. They share almost a whole brain. Maybe you should think about getting some tax to expand the jail, especially the playpen.”

  “If I ever get the urge to raise taxes, it will be to improve the wages around here. I don’t think we have one deputy with a decent car of his own. Pugh is still driving that ratty old blue Ford pickup he’s had for about thirty years.”

  “Brian loves that pickup, Bo.”

  “I know. All us old Idaho boys love our pickups. Speaking of Brian, I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from him.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “I’m starting to think we never will.”

  “Don’t say that, Bo!”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Anyway, it would be nice to get a new pickup once in a while. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a new pickup. By ‘new,’ of course, I mean one not more than ten years old.”

  Daisy said, “A raise would be wonderful, Bo! Can we count on that?”

  Tully laughed. “No! The strain of my being gone must have affected your sanity. You know how folks around here feel about taxes. Of much greater importance is that the mention of taxes would certainly have an adverse effect on my next election. We don’t want to do anything that might threaten that, do we?”

  “Oh, you know your Freezer Day guarantees your next election.”

  He noticed the cartoon he had drawn of Susan on his desk calendar. He ripped off the page, wadded it up, and threw it in the wastebasket. “You think? Well, I suppose I should wander down to the jail and check on our criminals.”

  “You should, Bo. You know they’re always so happy to see you.”

  “Right.” He headed down to the basement.

  Lulu, the jail matron, opened the door for him. “Hi, Bo.”

  “Hi, Lulu. How’s it going?”

  “Not bad, but don’t go over to the women’s side. They’re having a hissy fit of some kind. As soon as I’m done with my tea, I’ll go shut them up.”

  “I’ll take a look at the men. Anyone of interest in there?”

  “Naw. Just the regulars and your stick-up man, Tanzy.”

  He opened the door to the men’s section and walked in. Someone called out, “Snap to, everybody. It’s Bo, come for a visit!”

  Instantly there arose a great yammering of voices and pounding on bars with various objects. He walked along the cells, looking in. He knew all the inmates. Lulu was right, all the regulars. Suddenly he stopped, backed up, and took a second look into a cell. “Petey! What are you doing back in here?”

  “It’s all a big mistake, Bo!” the little man cried. “I was walking home from your Freezer Day and saw this chain saw on the sidewalk. It looked just like mine. I figured somebody must of stole it, so I picked it up and took it home.”

  “Petey, you’re not a chain saw kind of guy and you know it. You fall down on one of those things, they bury you in a dozen quart jars.”

  “I hate it in here!” Petey yelled, very much the enraged pixie. “These guys are a mean bunch!”

  Tully had to smile. “That’s one of the downsides of being a criminal, Petey—the company you get to keep!”

  He walked to the end of the row of cells. “Guess what, fellows,” he shouted. “I’ve ordered in sirloin steak, baked potatoes, and salad with blue cheese dressing for each of you tonight. Crabbs is preparing it all right now.”

  Cheers went up from the cells.

  Tully laughed. “You guys are so easy. I was joking! Can you imagine what the commissioners would do if they caught me feeding my criminals a bunch of steak dinners from Crabbs with all the fixings?” He slammed the door behind him to shut off the screamed obscenities. People stupid enough to end up in jail just don’t have the intelligence to appreciate a good joke.

  He returned to the briefing room, tugging thoughtfully on his mustache.

  “Daisy, how many jokers we got locked up down there?”

  “Six women and te
n men. Why?”

  “Call up Crabbs and order sixteen steak dinners with all the fixings. Have them delivered tonight.”

  “Have you gone crazy, Bo! The commissioners will howl like banshees.”

  “They howl no matter what. Give them something to howl about, I always say.”

  27

  THE NEXT MORNING Tully had barely fizzed out his usual half cup of coffee when Lurch called. “We got a match, boss!”

  “Great!”

  He went into his office and dialed Agatha’s number. Bernice answered.

  “Hi, Bernice. It’s Bo. Pap was going to help you out with that road into the ranch. I was wondering if he got around to it.”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes! Agatha is going to have the whole thing paved.”

  “Paved?”

  “Yes. And there will be money left over.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes, Pap called yesterday and said the smelter up in Trail called yesterday and said there were forty-three ounces of gold in the slag. They said at today’s gold prices that amounts to thirty-eight thousand seven hundred dollars.”

  Tully frowned. “Pap set this up?”

  “Yes, without even telling us. Agatha was in total shock. She called the Finches right away and said she couldn’t take the money, but Teddy said she had to take it, because all he had given her was an old pile of slag. So she finally gave in. She’s been calling contractors all morning to find out how much it would cost to get the road paved.”

  “Pap set this up?” Tully repeated, still frowning.

  “Yes, he really is a dear man. Not many men would go to all this trouble for two old ladies. I’m actually sorry I’ve called him such rather harsh names from time to time.”

  Tully was now frowning and shaking his head. “So Pap set this up? Is Agatha handy?”

  “Hold on a second, Bo, I’ll get her.”

  Agatha came on. “Oh, Bo, it’s so good to hear from you. I guess Bernice has already told you the wonderful thing Pap has done. I tried to give the money back to the Finches, but they refused. They said the pile of slag had sat there for eighty years or more and as far as they were concerned it was totally worthless. They insisted I keep the money, so I am.”