Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  My new passenger didn’t much look like a circus clown, though. He was a big guy. Maybe six-four or more, and I could feel the car settle when he climbed aboard. He mumbled some sort of thanks as he got his damp self into the back seat, and he didn’t say much else. “Just as well,” I thought, since I wasn’t in much of a talking mood, myself. And while I wondered what he was doing alone and hitchhiking on this lonely stretch of highway, I wasn’t about to ask. So I turned up the bluegrass station. That was when the local news announcer cut in.

  “The police are looking for a suspect in the murder of Charles Colefield and his wife. The crime occurred less than a half-hour ago and, according to Sheriff Matthison, it looks like a burglary that went badly wrong. The Colefields had flown in last night, and apparently the burglar was unaware of their presence. Mr. Colefield died instantly from a gunshot wound to the head. Mrs. Colefield was unconscious when the police arrived at the scene and died on the way to the hospital. Some children who were playing nearby heard the shots and reported seeing someone running across the neighboring pasture soon afterwards. Police are now combing the area and are asking everyone to report any strangers they might see in the vicinity. We’ll have more news alerts on this terrible crime as the reports come in.”

  My front seat passenger looked horrified. “Did those people live anywhere near here?” He asked. I shrugged and looked up at the rear view mirror. My back seat passengers’ dark and unflinching eyes stared back at me. Mr. Milquetoast kept on chattering nervously. “From what I’ve seen of these castles along here, it’s a wonder the police even investigated. It’s not exactly a crowded neighborhood. If it hadn’t been for those kids, the bodies mightn’t been found for a day.”

  I had to agree with him. It would have been unlikely for anyone to discover the crime for days. He kept on chattering, and I generally just nodded, keeping my eyes on the big guy in the back seat.

  After having heard that newscast, I wasn’t a bit surprised at the roadblock just this side of Juniper Springs. What did surprise me is what happened after they told us to get out of the car. Later, the deputy who arrested me said he spotted me right away, and he told me why.

  “You were the only one with red clay all over your shoes.”

  RUCKY MAN

  Duke hadn’t changed any, not a bit, even though he was getting along in years. Just as efficient as ever. He passed the small folder across the desk to Larry. It contained the usual: a photograph, a brief physical description, date and place of the rendezvous. This time, though, two plane tickets to Reno were included, along with the flight number and boarding time. There was also a car reservation. Duke left nothing to chance.

  He gave Larry a few minutes to absorb the contents. It looked like an easy job.

  “You won’t be able to just drive up to the hotel and park. It’s downtown, and you don’t want to waste time going down to their garage. And you sure as hell don’t want to leave any record that you’ve been there. So that extra ticket is for Chet. He’ll know where to pick up the necessary gear for you, and he’ll drop you off at the lobby and come back for you ten minutes later—or whatever time you figure it will take to do the job.

  “I won’t have the room number until tomorrow afternoon. So give me a call—usual phone number—and I’ll have it for you then. You’ll be a courier, delivering important papers. He’ll be expecting you. As soon as he opens the door, do him.”

  It annoyed Larry to have anyone telling him his business, but he wasn’t about to show Duke his resentment. The old man was never very tolerant of objections. When you worked for Duke you did the job the way you were told, you collected your pay, and that was it.

  Even so, Larry couldn’t resist one comment. Having put in so many years as a completely reliable employee in Duke’s service, he felt considerably more secure than some of the young guys just learning the trade. “You sure he won’t be entertaining a call girl? Two hits’ll cost extra, you know.”

  For a moment, Larry thought he’d pushed too hard. Duke’s annoyance was obvious, but it quickly faded. “You damn well get paid enough to cover two. Anyway, don’t worry about it. He’ll be knee deep in records when you get there and won’t have time for call girls, or anything else. Besides, he won’t want anyone to see the papers you’re supposed to be delivering. So, relax!”

  Larry got the message: Conversation over, now get on with it.

  He actually didn’t mind having Duke push him around a little. He was sure the old man valued his services. After all, Duke knew that Larry was the ideal hit man. Average looking, easily lost in a crowd, a forgettable face. And he always made it a point to fade into the background. When he pushed that one woman in front of the El, no one on the crowded platform realized he was the one who’d done it.

  And never any boozing or drugs to muck up his mind when working. Anyone doing a job for Duke couldn’t afford to screw up. Duke was unforgiving of mistakes, even minor ones. Major ones meant more than the loss of a job. He had once given Larry the task of eliminating an inept employee, one who had made the colossal mistake of being identified by a witness after carrying out a contract. Even before the police moved in, Duke had put the mark on him and Larry had removed him from the picture. That incident left Larry with acute awareness of the consequences of failure.

  The one flaw in his character went back to his early contacts with the law, a past he frequently regretted. A string of petty crimes, including a burglary that had netted nothing but thirty days; then a stupid armed robbery that had produced fourteen dollars, a Timex and a long stretch in the pen.

  But he’d learned his lesson. Never any small-time stuff, and he was now always extra cautious about fingerprints. That was one reason this job looked easy. No need for gloves, no concern about fingerprints.

  Thirty hours later he was walking through the lobby of the garishly decorated second-class hotel. Slot machines filled all but the area immediately adjacent to the front desk. Crowds of tourists, including many businessmen sporting convention badges, made him wish he were home in his quiet LA apartment. The biting wind of this miserably cold Nevada winter day added to this sentiment. But the comfortable and familiar feel of a silencer-equipped automatic resting in his shoulder holster reassured him. He’d be out of here in minutes, and out of the state in less than an hour.

  As with all of his previous jobs, this one went smoothly. He emptied the clip into his victim, then carefully closed the door with the string of the “Do Not Disturb” sign that was hanging on the outer doorknob. Duke’s assurance there would be no other visitors to the room that night meant there was no need to rush. That gave Larry a chance to focus on the ten thousand dollars now due him, and about how he planned to spend it. Beyond that, there was the satisfaction he always felt at a job well done.

  The lobby was more crowded than ever, and Larry was certain he would never be remembered by anyone. No one even looked in his direction. He reached into his pocket for car keys and instead found a lone quarter. He smiled as he remembered this was a chauffeured trip. The smile faded when he peered through the front door and saw no sign of Chet.

  Reluctant to go out into the icy wind, and wanting to appear as unobtrusive as possible, he dropped the quarter into a slot machine next to the entrance. Maybe I’ll win enough for taxi fare if Chet doesn’t show up soon, he thought, absently pulling the lever.

  But Chet was just coming through the door, and everything seemed to happen simultaneously. Chet was saying “Damn flat! I’m parked right around the corner.” And the machine was screaming “JACKPOT!”

  Lights were flashing, whistles were blowing, everyone in the lobby turned in his direction. Two Japanese women tourists standing nearby, a mother and daughter, were caught in a fit of giggling and immediately trained their instant cameras on him. A hotel security guard was rushing over with arm extended to congratulate him. A Japanese man, evidently the father of the family, now had a camcorder turned on the winner of the $600,000 dollar jackpot.

 
; Larry heard him say to his wife, “Un ga ii desu, yo.”

  Lowering the camcorder, the Japanese tourist, now being jostled by all the well-wishers eager to shake the winner’s hand, grinned and said, “You rucky man.”

  SACRED MUSHROOMS

  The first taste of the coming Alaska winter was in the air. A swirl of dry snow blew across the airfield as the Cessna approached. Shem Duval suddenly had the feeling it might crash, the last thing he wanted to have happen. It didn’t. The landing was smooth; the plane taxied swiftly over to Kukavik’s airport waiting room, a forty-by-forty wooden building that doubled as the control tower. The lone passenger alighted, hunched his shoulders against the chilling wind and hurried toward the shack. Shem didn’t wait for him to enter. Pulling on his fur hat, he walked out to shake hands with Dennis Knapp. It had been six years since he’d seen him. Six long years.

  As a deputy sheriff, Shem had long been acquainted with Dennis, a small-town lawyer operating out of the nearby county seat. The two hadn’t corresponded since the latter had moved to California, so there was a lot to catch up on. But Dennis was impatient to get to the topic Shem had called him about in the first place. There hadn’t been much in the way of details. Shem had merely told him about the recent discovery of gold specks in the stream meandering across the land Dennis owned and been trying to sell since he’d left Kukavik.

  There was no stopping Shem today, however. He was off onto other matters. He had always been a talker, and seemed to have become no less so over the years. During the short drive to Kukavik and on to Shem’s house on the other side of town, he brought Dennis up to speed on what had and what hadn’t changed.

  “Hotel facilities haven’t improved any since you left. Mamie McCarthy is still running a bed and breakfast, and her food hasn’t showed any signs of improving either.” Dennis nodded. Shem’s house, where Dennis had been invited to stay, was a far cry from his own luxury apartment in San Francisco, but was a vast improvement over what he remembered of Mamie’s offering.

  It was beginning to get dark when they arrived, a reminder to Dennis that short days and long nights were closing in fast, this far north. It wasn’t until they had settled down into the small living room and Shem had poured them each a drink of Bushmiller’s “for old times sake,” that Dennis was finally able to push the monologue over to the topic that was on his mind and which was why he had made this sudden visit.

  Shem settled back into one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs, took a sip of his drink and said, “The reason I called you is because Karl Knutsen found the settlings on your land. So far, he and I are the only ones who know about it, but you know how he is. I swore him to secrecy, promised him he’d get a share if it turned out to be a good find—I knew you’d be willing to do that—and gave him enough money for a couple of drinks, but not enough for him to get drunk and start shooting off his mouth. We can go out first thing in the morning and scout around. This early snow won’t amount to much, and we should be able to take my four by four back there without any trouble.”

  It was difficult to keep Shem on the subject. Soon he was drifting off onto the events that might have been prime topics of conversation for residents, but held little interest for Dennis. The weather, of course. And a mild earthquake that had shaken the town a few months back. Crime, or the lack of it, in Kukavik. Shem shook his head. “We never did figure out who killed Naomi Weiser. That kind of sticks in my craw, what with me being a deputy and the one who found her. That happened while you were still here, didn’t it? Why, ‘course it did. I remember now. Must have been six months or so before you left for California.”

  “One of the natives, I’m sure.”

  Shem nodded, getting up and moving to the kitchen, which opened up into the living room. “More than likely, but we haven’t been able to prove a thing. Say, I’ve got a big pot of that slumgullion like you used to rave about on hunting trips. It’s been simmering since noon. Will you be hungry enough to eat in a half-hour or so?”

  Memories of the hunting and fishing trips with several of the gang flooded back. The smell of the stew didn’t exactly conjure up thoughts of a San Francisco gourmet restaurant. But Dennis had eaten only a light lunch on the plane to Alaska, and the memories did include the wonderful taste of that stew after a long, tiring day of tramping through the woods and hauling game back to camp.

  Shem brought the steaming casserole over to the table, handed Dennis an old US Navy issue ladle and said, “Dig in.” They both did, eating silently for several minutes. Better than a gourmet meal, Dennis decided, breaking off a large piece of Russian rye to supplement the stew.

  “Help yourself to more,” Shem said as Dennis tilted his bowl to scoop out the last pieces. “It will be kinda nice not to have leftovers. I can never bear to throw them out, so I eat them, even when they don’t taste as good as the first time around.

  “That killing always did stick in my craw,” Shem repeated to a puzzled Dennis who had forgotten the earlier conversation about the Weiser murder. “No sign of a burglary. No sign of a sex attack. ‘Course she was close to sixty and no beauty, so you wouldn’t expect anything like that. We’ve had some killings around here over the years—not many—and all of them pretty straightforward. Brawl at the Moosehead. Simp Smith shooting his wife. No mystery to any of those. But why would anyone want to kill the Weiser woman?”

  As Shem rambled on, Dennis noticed a weakness in his hand holding the black bread. “I feel funny,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the sensation of paralysis creeping over him.

  “Jet lag. That’s what it is. Last time I flew down to Juneau, I felt weak as a kitten. Good night’s sleep will fix you right up. More slumgullion?”

  Dennis tried shaking his head. Nothing moved. His hands fell down to his side. His feet felt like lead. His voice became hysterical. “It’s not jet lag. I can’t move.”

  Shem seemed to be unperturbed. “If that ain’t it, maybe it’s the mushrooms I put into the stew. You know—those sacred mushrooms the natives talk about. We had quite a crop this fall. Prettiest things you ever seen. I’ve been eating them for four or five years. Little at a time, you know. That way you can build up a resistance to them like the old shamans used to do. Guess maybe I put too many in the stew for someone who’s new to ‘em.”

  The eyes in Dennis’ immobilized head looked wild. “You poisoned me!”

  “I guess. In a way of speaking, I guess you might say that.”

  “But why? You’re mad!”

  “In a way, you’re right. I am mad. Mad because I know you killed the Weiser woman and just walked away scot-free. You see Dennis, I know she was blackmailing you. I never was able to figure out quite what she had on you. But I was sure it was you putting fifty dollars in cash into her account every week, right up to the week before you killed her. What happened? Did she raise the ante? It had something to do with the Brown estate, didn’t it? Somehow you got Wally Brown’s money and his land, and she knew something about that. Something shady. Right?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The eyes were straining.

  “That’s OK. Maybe I’m making a mistake. I could call 911. We have it here in the boonies these days. And the medic is less than a mile away. Let’s see. From what I’ve read, you really don’t have anything to worry about if your stomach’s pumped out within ten minutes. They could get here long before that. But, look at the bright side. Some people don’t die. Their livers get pretty badly screwed up, though. You’d probably spend most of your life in and out of hospitals. No more booze of course.”

  “You can’t get away with this. You poisoned me. They’ll find the mushrooms in the stew.”

  Shem showed his amusement. “Shucks, Dennis, I’ll insist they pump out my stomach too—even before they have an autopsy on you. Same Bushmiller’s, same bread, same stew, same mushrooms. Nope. It’ll just be one of those things. You must have been allergic to something. Too bad. But I’d be willing to call 911 right now, if y
ou’d tell me why Naomi Weiser was blackmailing you.”

  “She…she wasn’t.”

  “Shucks. If you’re going to be that way, I might’s well wash up the dishes and go to bed. And, by the way, you won’t be able to talk much longer anyway. The paralysis gets to the throat muscles after a while. I think that’s what does…”

  “OK. I didn’t kill her, but she was blackmailing me. She was a witness to the will along with the old gardener, who didn’t know what he was doing. She knew I was the attorney, and wondered how I could inherit. So she checked the county records and found out Egen Mock was the one who actually signed the will as attorney. I…I had a hold over him. He had no alternative but to sign it, even though he wasn’t the lawyer present with the witnesses.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Poor Egen. No wonder he drank himself to death.”

  “For God’s sake call 911.”

  “No way. Now that I know what the motive was, all I need is a full confession. Admit that you killed her, and I’ll get right on the blower. You’ve still got six minutes. Take your time. How’s your throat?”

  “Call them. Call them. Please!”

  “Seems to me you’d be better off confessing. Didn’t you use to claim the State of Alaska mollycoddled its prisoners? Why, a smart lawyer like you might be able to get off with only a half-dozen or so years. Six years of mollycoddling would be better than what’s going to happen to you in a few minutes—at least, to my way of thinking.”

  “Alright, alright. I did kill her. Call them!”

  “One more minor item. Sheriff Toomes and I had two different locals confess to that murder, the usual kind of kooks who love to confess, but neither of them knew something about the crime scene that only the Sheriff, me and the murderer could know.” Shem held his hand up high, palm outward. “You tell me what it was and I’ll call 911 right away.”