Murder at the Courthouse

by A. H. Gabhart

  “You’re adorable the way you are, Betty Jean.”

  “Then how come you’re going out with Karen instead of me?” She began typing again. “Oh yeah, and Reece Sheridan called. Said his niece would be in town tonight or tomorrow, and he really appreciates you taking her out to dinner while she’s here.” Betty Jean glanced over at him with raised eyebrows. “Maybe while you’re up there at that show in Eagleton with Karen tonight, you can get another set of tickets for tomorrow night.”

  “Alex Sheridan is an old friend, Betty Jean. We used to play together when we were kids.”

  “What’d you play? Doctor?”

  Michael shook his head at Betty Jean and changed the subject. “I guess I might as well go ahead and call Paul.”

  “Good.” Betty Jean laughed as he punched in Paul’s number. Then in her best Sheriff Potter voice, she said, “Because you boys are just going to have to learn to work together.”

  20

  Paul Osgood had to hear it all slowly, and most of it twice. Michael could almost see him cranked up in the hospital bed, meticulously writing down Michael’s every word on a yellow notepad.

  Michael drew squares on his desk calendar and tried to be patient as he repeated the information. But there were limits, and his patience was wearing thin even before Paul started harping on how Michael had to find the murder weapon.

  “It’s all very well to know who the victim is,” Paul said. “But finding the murder weapon is vital to solving the case. You did search the grounds there at the courthouse, didn’t you?”

  “You know we did.” Michael drew a new square, darker than the others. “You were here.”

  “Could be you missed something. Make another search right away.”

  Michael pressed down so hard with his pen that as he drew a new line, the nib broke, but he kept his voice level. “Okay. Anything else?”

  Betty Jean looked up from her computer, started to smile, thought better of it, and studied her screen again.

  On the other end of the phone, Paul was speaking slowly. “I don’t think so. It appears as if you’ve been handling things fairly well while I’ve been incapacitated, but I insist you make finding the murder weapon a number one priority.”

  “Whatever you say.” Michael took a deep breath and relaxed his grip on the receiver. “But I sort of doubt it’s just lying around waiting for us to find it. Whoever shot Rayburn probably carried it away with him.”

  “Then he may have disposed of it somewhere else. What do you think are the possibilities?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Michael found another pen and began doodling again. This time he drew guns. “He could have put it in a trash Dumpster or maybe just stuck it under his car seat to use on the first policeman to pull him over. Who knows? Could be he pitched it in the lake.”

  “That’s an idea.” Paul sounded excited. “I’ll bet that’s what he did. The lake would make a perfect disposal place. He’d think we’d never find it there.”

  “And he’d be right.”

  “Not necessarily. We could get divers.”

  “Paul, what kind of medication are you on?” Michael’s patience was ready to snap the way the pen’s point had moments ago. “We can’t search the lake for a gun we aren’t even sure is in there, and even if we were sure, we’d still never find it. It’s a big lake.”

  “We’ll have to pinpoint the most likely disposal spot.” Paul was obviously not bothered at all by Michael’s arguments.

  “If the killer tells us where he pitched the gun in the lake, we won’t need the gun. We’ll have the killer.”

  “That wouldn’t negate the need for physical evidence.”

  “Maybe you’d better talk to the chief. See what he has to say.” Michael gave up the fight. Then before Paul had time to come up with any other insane ideas, Michael said a quick “hope you feel better soon” and hung up.

  Michael stared at the phone and wondered what the chances were of Paul needing some other kind of emergency surgery before next week. Slim to none, unfortunately. Instead, it looked like they’d have to figure out the easiest place to search the lake for a gun and make a show of it.

  It would have to be done, crazy or not. Paul was like a pit bull when he got hold of an idea. He wouldn’t turn it loose.

  Michael stood up and told Betty Jean, “I think I’ll go get a haircut.”

  “Joe’s not back.” Betty Jean kept her eyes on her computer screen. “I looked when I went out at lunch. They say his sister has cancer. I forget what kind, but it’s bad.”

  “Well, then maybe I’ll get something to eat. I forgot about lunch.”

  “I wish I could forget things like that.” Betty Jean sighed.

  Out on the street, Michael looked over toward Joe’s Barbershop. The handwritten note was still taped to the door. Maybe it was just because of his sister that Joe had gone to Tennessee. Maybe being worried about her was what was bothering Joe when Michael talked to him after Rayburn’s body was found. Michael’s need for some kind of lead might have him imagining something when nothing was there.

  Michael didn’t know why he needed a definite answer as to who shot the man. He needed to accept the obvious. Jay Rayburn had not paid his debts to the wrong people one time too many. They’d cut their losses, shot him, and got out of town fast. Was Michael being like Paul, unable to let go of his own idea of what happened?

  Michael smiled at that thought. He didn’t have any absolute ideas of what happened to let go of. So why not let it be loan sharks?

  As Michael passed the newspaper office, Hank Leland almost tore off the door getting outside. “Hey, Mike, wait up.”

  Michael didn’t stop walking but slowed down a little. “How’s it going, Hank? Got enough news for next week’s issue yet?”

  “I think we’re going to have to print three sections. A lot of stuff going on at the schools with just two weeks left in the school year.” Hank was panting from rushing to catch Michael. “Where you headed?”

  “To the Grill to grab a bite.”

  “Sort of late for lunch, isn’t it?” Hank looked at his watch. “But what the heck? A piece of pie sounds good. Mind if I join you?”

  At the Grill, the big round community table was practically full as the judge held forth about the latest happenings in the homicide investigation. The sheriff sipped his coffee and inserted a word here and there when the judge looked his way. Between them, the two men could get just about anything done in Keane County they thought needed doing.

  “Here’s the man now,” the judge boomed when Michael came in the door. “Pull up a chair.” He didn’t notice Hank behind Michael.

  “Got room for two?” Hank peeked around Michael to ask.

  “Oh, hello there, Hank.” The judge’s smile stayed firmly in place. “Sure, we can always make room for one more.”

  “Never mind, Judge. We wouldn’t want to crowd you.” Michael got the judge off the hook. “Besides, I’m planning on ordering some of Cindy’s special onion rings, and if I sit up here, every one of you would be wanting me to share.”

  Sheriff Potter smiled with a little nod at Michael. While the sheriff claimed not to have anything personal against Hank, that didn’t mean he was ready to talk to the editor unless he had to.

  Just having Hank in the room put a damper on the conversation at the middle table, and before long a couple of the men headed back to their stores. A Realtor had some houses to show, and one of the insurance agents needed to make some calls.

  By the time Michael was finishing up the last of his onion rings, even the judge and the sheriff had left and the only other customer in the Grill besides Hank and him was a retired magistrate up in one of the front booths, leafing through the Grill’s copy of the Eagleton News.

  When Cindy came out of the kitchen to fill up their coffee cups and offer Michael a piece of pecan pie, Michael apologized. “Sorry, Cindy. Looks like we ran off your business.”

  “It wasn’t you. It was old big ears here
,” Cindy said, but she was smiling. “Actually I might give you coffee on the house if you want to come in every afternoon about this time, Hank. Those guys come in here and drink enough coffee to float a boat. They’ve got so they don’t even order pie most of the time. All on low cholesterol diets or something. I don’t know how they expect us to make a living.”

  “But you’re always trying to talk me out of pie,” Hank said.

  “That’s because the more I say it’s bad for you, the more you want it.” She picked up Michael’s empty dinner plate.

  “Then tell me how bad ice cream is for me so you can plop a big scoop on top before you bring a piece of that pecan pie on over.”

  After she brought their pie and left a fresh pot of coffee on the table, she disappeared into the kitchen to start on the dinner offerings before the after-school crowd stormed in for fries and sodas.

  Hank attacked his pie and finished it off in record time, saying it wasn’t as good if the ice cream melted. Then he sat back and fingered his notebook as he watched Michael eat more slowly. He’d already third-degreed Michael about Rayburn’s family, and Michael had told him the basic facts without going into detail.

  But Hank had obviously been doing some checking on his own. “I hear our guy was a big-time gambler.”

  “I wouldn’t say big-time exactly,” Michael said.

  “What would you say?”

  “That he liked to bet, but he wasn’t very good at it.”

  “You think he made one bet too many?” Hank asked.

  “I think he may have had some financial problems, but I don’t think that was anything new for him.”

  “Nope. According to my sources . . .” Hank apparently enjoyed the sound of that so much he repeated it. “According to my sources, Rayburn was over his limit on his credit cards, and his bank laughed and hung up on him if he asked about loans.”

  “You talk to somebody at his bank?”

  “My source didn’t want to be identified,” Hank said importantly.

  “Come on, Hank. Get down off your source horse.”

  The editor shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Really. A newspaperman has to protect his confidential sources. It’s a matter of honor.” Hank looked almost sorry to hold out on Michael. “But I’ve already told you everything the person told me. You couldn’t find out anything more by talking to him yourself.”

  “I might know better questions to ask.”

  Hank studied Michael’s face. “Do you?”

  Michael pushed away his pie plate and refilled his coffee cup before he admitted, “No.”

  “So.” The editor sat up straighter and leaned a little toward Michael. “What do you think about it all? Why did this loser get dispatched on the courthouse steps?”

  Michael’s eyes went to the editor’s notebook on the table.

  “Okay. Off the record.” The editor picked up the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to antagonize the only person left in Hidden Springs who will drink coffee and eat pie with me.”

  “Not unless you thought it would make a good story in the next issue of the Gazette.”

  Hank clapped his hand over his heart. “You injure me.”

  “Right.”

  Hank grinned at him. “Okay. So you don’t injure me, but give me a break, Mike. If I wanted to be a low-down, dirt-grubbing reporter, I wouldn’t be here in Hidden Springs. I’d be writing for the supermarket tabloids and making enough money to pay for my kid’s braces.”

  “Why are you here in Hidden Springs, Hank?”

  “Sometimes I wonder.” Hank laughed and brushed a crumb off the table.

  “I’m serious.” Michael pushed him for a real answer. “You’re good at what you do. Why not go where the money is?”

  Hank’s smile faded as he got a different look on his face. “I don’t know. Maybe I like not having to answer to anybody but the folks who buy my paper. And maybe it’s just because once a small-town kid, always a small-town kid. Hidden Springs is a lot like the little town where I grew up. I don’t know why the courthouse crew has taken such a dislike to me. I don’t aim to make anybody look bad.”

  “Sure.” Michael shook his head. “I was swallowing your story up till that last line.”

  “Okay, so not too bad. I just aim to keep them straight. We’ve got people here who have been in office so long they think they were born to it or something instead of being voted in.”

  “Sometimes it almost seems that way.” Michael couldn’t argue with that. “Take the judge. He’s been judge executive ever since they had such a thing in Keane County. I can’t remember when he wasn’t calling the shots about whose potholes got filled. The sheriff’s been in office almost as long, but they do their best for the people.”

  “Sometimes they only do average. That’s when I goad them up to a little higher level of public service by reminding them they are accountable even if they could win the next election without ever kissing another baby.”

  “It would be a waste of time and money to run against them.” Michael took a sip of his coffee. “I don’t think the judge has had any competition the last three terms.”

  “Yeah. I thought about running once just to make it interesting, but I figured folks would take it wrong and cancel their subscriptions.” Hank grinned again before his face turned thoughtful. “Now it’s my turn. How about you? What made you come back to Hidden Springs? You hanging around hoping to run for sheriff when and if Potter ever decides he’s tired of catching the bad guys?”

  “Me? Sheriff? I don’t think so.” Michael ran his finger around the rim of his cup.

  “Why not?” Hank leaned on his elbows and studied Michael. “You’d make a good sheriff, or even better, you could take over for the judge if the rumor going around about him running for state representative is true. After all, you are a Keane. It would be like carrying on where your great—however many greats—grandfather left off.”

  “It’s Aunt Lindy who worries about that sort of thing. Not me.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” Hank sat back and twirled his coffee cup around on the table a couple of times. “We both know it’s not for the money a deputy draws down any more than I’m putting out the Gazette to get rich.”

  Michael looked away from Hank out toward the front window. The sun glanced off the dirty window glass and hid the view outside, but Michael knew what was there. People in their stores and businesses going about their quiet, everyday lives.

  “What’s the matter, Mike?” Hank asked after a minute. “The question too hard?”

  “Maybe it is.” Michael looked back at him. “I’m not sure why I came back except that this is where I belong. My roots are here. I want to raise my children here.”

  “What children?”

  “Someday, Hank. Someday.”

  “Have you told Karen?” Hank raised his eyebrows at Michael.

  “Someday doesn’t have to be tomorrow. It’s better to take things like this slow.”

  “Nah, it’s better to jump in with both feet.” With a laugh, Hank reached over and poked Michael’s hand. Then he turned thoughtful again. “Sometimes I think that’s why you’re here, Deputy, because you like having all the answers before you start. And you think you can have the handle on those answers here.”

  Michael frowned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve had times when I didn’t have any of the answers.” A familiar flash of uneasiness shot through Michael as he thought of all the answers lost forever in the quicksand of his mind. Sometimes he had the weirdest feeling that something important, vital even, was trying to struggle to the surface, but it never made it out.

  “Maybe that’s the reason you like having the answers now,” Hank was saying.

  “It’s my job to find the answers.” Michael smoothed out his napkin and began folding it into accordion pleats. “But could be you’re right. I didn’t like it much in Columbus where I didn’t even know what question
s needed answers. It feels better here. Safer.”

  “At least it did before Tuesday, right? That guy getting shot within shouting distance of the sheriff’s office had to put a chink in your armor, I’d say. In all our armors.” Hank peered at him over the rim of his cup. He took a slurp of the coffee and put his cup down. “I hear Clay Turner sold completely out of locks yesterday. ’Course he probably only had two in stock.”

  “Folks can get in a panic easy. It’s probably like the sheriff says. The murderer is probably long gone from Hidden Springs.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Michael looked straight at Hank and turned the question back at him. “Do you?”

  Hank thought a minute, then sighed. “I wish I could, but I don’t know. There’s just a bad feel to it somehow, if you know what I mean.”

  “Come clean, Hank. Do you know something about all this I don’t?”

  “Me? I was practically the last person in town to even know the guy got shot. I’m always two steps behind.” Hank shook his head. “No, this is just a hunch. A reporter’s hunch. My granddaddy was a newspaperman back in Hampstead when I was a boy. The paper was going busted even then, but my granddaddy liked to dream I’d take it over someday, and I guess so did I. Anyway, he used to say a hunch to a reporter is like a fleck of gold to a prospector. Once he sees that first little sparkle no matter how tiny it might be, he wants to keep digging to turn up some real nuggets.”

  “Where are you digging?” Michael asked.

  “That’s the trouble with this particular hunch.” Hank kept his eyes on his cup. “Nobody left behind a map, and it’s sort of like the fleck of gold floated down out of thin air. I don’t have any idea where it came from, so there’s no way to know where to dig.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Go around dipping in my shovel here and there to see what I might turn up while I keep a real close watch on where other folks are digging.” He looked up at Michael. “You for one.”