Between Claude's penchant for finding new uses for much of the trash he collected, and Katti's love of pink, visiting the Marmot home was always an adventure. Theo admired the mind that converted a sedan into a pickup. Now Tony had described a hard shell motorcycle cover. What would Claude use to build a baby stroller?
When the new little Marmot arrived, space was such an issue, it would probably have to sleep in the sink. Theo hoped Claude would find enough scrap lumber to build on another room or two.
Tony wondered if any of his deputies had learned anything more interesting than he had. So far, the most important thing he learned was to hand each person a breath mint before asking them any questions. Ramps were almost a tie with garlic if there was a contest for a vegetable producing the most pungent breath. The mints didn't fix the problem, but did serve as a distraction and also gave the interviews a more social feeling.
Most of the citizens of Park County were either okay with Harrison Ragsdale being deceased, or pleased by the situation. No one shed a tear. No one admitted to being his friend or even to having had a conversation with the man at the festival. This was hardly surprising. For as long as Tony had known the man, he seemed to have been in a bad mood. He openly professed to disliking animals, which made his job choice fascinating. Tony had asked him once why he'd decided to be a game warden. In a weak, or surprised, moment, Harrison had admitted he enjoyed knowing people who liked to kill animals. Tony didn't want to know anything more.
Tony wasted little time with each person. He asked his questions, jotted down the answers, and sent them back to the party. He wasn't prepared for everything. When an old man settled into the chair, sighed, and laced his fingers together, Tony tried his usual approach even though he doubted it would work. “Name?”
“You know me. I'm Sid Lundy.”
Tony did know. “Did you see Harrison Ragsdale?”
“Say, Sheriff, look here.” Sid opened his mouth wide, releasing a gust of ramp infused air, and pointed to his false teeth. “Kin you tell if they fit? They seem a bit wiggly. Make's me disbelieve these is mine.”
Coughing from the noxious fumes, Tony decided to stamp Sid's hand and send him away. “They look fine to me.” His eyes were watering, but he was able to point out his brother. “Get Berry to look.”
Queen Doreen was next in line. Tony wasn't sure he'd ever been so delighted to see her. He waved the mayor's wife to the chair facing him, offered her a mint, and asked her the same questions he'd been asking everyone else—did she know Ragsdale, did she notice anyone approach the man or see anything notable or suspicious? It was like dropping dynamite into a well.
“That wretched man!” Doreen slapped her hand against the blue leather purse in her lap. “I know people in this community think I'm cold, but I'm not. It's just that my interests are different from theirs. Harrison Ragsdale was the coldest excuse for a human being I ever saw.”
Tony watched her squeeze the purse strap like she was trying to strangle it. He waited.
“On more than one occasion I saw him swerve to intentionally hit some poor animal—it didn't matter what—squirrel, cat, dog, or possum. If animals had money I'd say one of them had hired a hit man. If someone killed him, I don't think you need to spend much time looking for the guilty party.”
“Did you have personal experience with him?” Tony couldn't recall ever seeing Doreen or Calvin with a pet.
“You mean did he kill one of my animals? No. I don't have pets. But Pansy Flowers Millsaps has come to work crying a couple of times because she's seen him do it. And Carl Lee's wife swears he ran over her cat on purpose, just like he did Portia's.” Doreen pressed a trembling hand against the side of her face, catching a tear. “I did see him hit a possum with his car once. He stopped, got out, and kicked it into a ditch. Rotten bastard.”
Surprised by the depth of her emotion, Tony sent her on her way. Doreen wasn't leaving town, and he didn't believe she was guilty of anything worse than speaking ill of the dead. But her words made him think about Roscoe and his missing bear. Where was Baby? Had Harrison taken the bear? Destroyed her? Was he responsible in any way for her absence? If so, Tony could imagine Quentin deliberately shooting the man with a potato in hopes of exacting revenge for his best friend. Was Quentin goofy enough to think he could murder a man in front of witnesses and get away with it? He was about to go after Quentin when he remembered the facts didn't match, even if the motive did. No one could have predicted Harrison would walk into potato range, and what they needed was someone who could, and would, stab the man with a wooden stake.
Tony felt a prickling at the base of his neck. Who else possible was left then? Carl Lee, Mr. Espinoza. Where was Angus now? Tony radioed, asking Flavio to relay his question. The answers came back—no one knew where he was or when he'd left. Given her post in the front, Theo might know, but she was not on radio. He dialed her cell phone.
Theo picked up on the second ring. “What is going on, Tony? People are leaving in droves and another group seems to be arriving. It's like a tidal wave. Is there bus service I don't know about?”
“Damn. I should have sent someone to help you and Berry right away. I don't want anyone else to leave, I'll send you Darren.” Tony waved to his deputy, calling him closer, even as he spoke to Theo. “I know you're in a jam down there, but please try to remember who left and make a list.”
“But, Tony.” Her voice sounded strained. “How can I make a list? I don't even know a lot of them.”
It was late in the afternoon by the time Tony and his deputies had talked to everyone and made notes on what, if anything, they'd seen. He stood and stretched and walked back toward the food concessions. Clustered in a warm place, sitting on folding chairs upwind of the rancid ramps, the six “relics” appeared to be sound asleep. Wondering why they were still on duty, Tony glanced at his aunt.
Martha shrugged. “I tried several times to get them to let me call for their ride. They don't want to miss anything, and they want to do their jobs. Until they wore out, it looked like they were all having lots of fun.”
“I'm guessing this is the most excitement any of them has had for a while. Lots of activity and people to talk to and music—no wonder they want to stay.” Tony hoped they weren't overdoing it. “I haven't seen your friend, Mr. Espinoza, for a while.”
“He left early. Before you began the interviews and hand-stamping business.” Martha's eyebrows pulled low. “You don't think he had anything to do with Harrison's death?”
“I don't know what I think yet.” Tony didn't like missing Mr. Espinoza. “Why did he leave so early?”
Martha's shrug told him nothing.
“What excuse did he give you?”
“He said he had an appointment he couldn't be late for.” Martha's eyes met his. “Really, Tony, he's a very nice gentleman.”
“When did he tell you about the appointment—before or after Harrison died?” He scribbled two words in his notebook. “Find Espinoza.” He showed it to his aunt.
“It was right after everyone ran toward the field.” Martha paused, clearly trying to remember the sequence of events. “I tried to see what was causing the commotion, but didn't want to abandon the cash. Orlando passed by me. I think he couldn't see me for the crowd, and he did tell Jane to let me know he had left.”
“Did you expect him to stay the whole afternoon?”
“Yes. He told me he would spend the day here and help us shut everything down.” Martha kicked the ground with her toes and shrugged. “He must have gotten an important phone call.”
“Does he get them often?” Tony didn't approve of the way Orlando was treating his aunt. He considered her silence an answer. She deserved better.
Almost all Tony knew about Orlando Espinoza was that he was an exotic-looking man for East Tennessee. He was short, stout, and combed his oiled, thinning hair straight back from his forehead. Dark brown, almost black eyes vied with a lustrous mustache for his most noticeable feature. He tended to dress fo
rmally, even for informal occasions, so he was the only man at the festival wearing a suit. And not just a suit, but a three-piece suit complete with a vest, tie, and jacket pocket handkerchief.
Most of the time he carried another handkerchief in his hand, using it frequently to dab perspiration from his neck and forehead. Tony thought he was a pompous bore.
He claimed he was a visiting professor at the university and enjoyed meeting the locals, but in truth he rarely mingled. It wasn't because of a language barrier. His English was totally fluent and idiomatic. A wide line of snobbery ran through him and, although he found the locals interesting and very nice, as a rule he shared no common interests with any of them. As far as Tony could see, he enjoyed Martha's company because he found the English teacher not only amusing but extremely well read in the classics, his preferred reading material. The two of them often attended lectures and book events together. And they enjoyed ballroom dancing.
“What do you really know about him?” Tony rubbed the side of his nose. “You're the only one who has gotten more than two words out of the man.”
Martha looked uneasy. “I never doubted anything he said. Do you think he's not what he appears, a very pleasant gentleman from South America?”
Tony sighed. “I don't think anything. I'm just curious, more so because of the timing of his exit.” Martha's late husband had been a secret womanizer, gambler, and loan shark, and finding out about him hadn't made her cynical. On the contrary, she now operated on the assumption that having already having dealt with a cheating liar, everyone else must be telling the truth. Tony knew it was not necessarily accurate. “I am going to dig a bit deeper into Mr. Espinoza's background.”
“And if you find something unpleasant?”
Tony thought “unpleasant” was the least of their worries. “I'll be sure to let you know.”
Tony felt trapped. He was sandwiched between two men, angry men, who came looking for him. They must have partaken of liberal amounts of ramp pie and had the breath to prove it. “What's the problem?”
“I parked in the overflow lot across the road and just went over to lock my popcorn and cookies in the car. It looks like someone crashed into it hard. The whole thing looks like an accordion, crumpled in front and back.”
The man on the other side piped up. “I was going to leave, but this guy's rear bumper is jammed into my car's front end. There's no way my car's drivable.”
A glance around the festival grounds showed all of his deputies were occupied. “Show me.”
The two men kept up a steady stream of complaints about the parking situation, at least when they weren't threatening to sue the museum or asking if the museum's insurance company would pay. Tony thought their own automobile insurance would have to pay. Unless the culprit left a note taking responsibility and an offer of cash. They walked only halfway across the road when Tony saw the cars. Neither man had exaggerated the problem.
This was not a simple parking lot bump—the cars looked like the losing entries in a demolition derby. Tony checked the two cars and noticed some deep dents in several nearby vehicles. Staring at the mess, he massaged the back of his neck while mentally running through his list of profanity. He considered using several new swear words he'd picked up from Ada but managed to contain them. “I'll get a camera and call for a tow truck. If your insurance agents are over at the festival, you might want to show them this mess.”
Sheila had just finished talking to a gentleman when Tony went to get the camera. “I'll do it, sir, I could use the fresh air, and I know every insurance agent in a five-county radius.”
Tony couldn't even work up a token protest. “I'll go chat with Farmer Brown and see what he can tell us about the damage.” Tony checked Farmer Brown's house, including both porches, the milking barn, the pastures. No one. Circling around, Tony returned to the house, where Mr. Brown sat on a ladder-back rocking chair on his front porch. Tony knew he hadn't missed seeing the man there earlier.
Tony thought Sam Brown resembled his name. Sturdy, simple, and utilitarian, dressed in a festival of browns. Thanks to Theo, Tony had been exposed to nuances of color, tone, and shade. As he did now, Sam often dressed in brown work clothes of heavy canvas—waterproof, warm, and long wearing. Chocolate with overtones of red clay. His hair, deep mahogany with strands of silver, was shaggy but clean. There was less silver in it than most men in their late sixties had. Gleaming under heavy brows, his eyes were almost black except for flecks of amber. His face and hands were the color and texture of old saddle leather.
Sam's wife had passed away about six months earlier. The two living children, a boy and a girl, had long since moved away.
“How are Anita and Junior?” Tony leaned against the roof's support post.
“Junior's moved again,” Sam said. “Wish he'd move home, but now he's in Virginia coaching girls basketball. College. At least he's closer than he was.”
“And Anita?”
“She was always too busy to settle down.” The amber in his eyes faded. “Now she's in LA. She still wants to be in the movies, but meantime she works at an amusement park sewing people's names on hats.”
Pleasantries over, Tony said, “What happened over in the parking area?”
“Nothing.”
“Those dented-up cars would indicate otherwise.” Tony said. “There are several cars with pretty severe damage.”
“Then they came like that. I was here.” Sam shook his head. “I'd know.” After his pronouncement, he stopped talking.
Tony wondered what he was hiding, and why. Tony had a fair amount of experience with lies and automobile accidents—this incident was a whopper on both counts.
“You heard Harrison Ragsdale died?”
“Good news travels pretty fast.” Brown's face showed satisfaction. “I do hate him—did hate him, you hear. I know he killed my boy and claimed it was an accident. I hope he suffered a lot.” He pulled out a faded blue bandana handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “I don't suppose you'll tell me what happened?”
Tony shook his head. But the old man's question made him curious.
Tony still remembered the accident that had occurred when he was young and new to Silersville. The Brown boy had been riding his bicycle after dark out on the highway when he was struck by a car. Tony's own mom had been so upset by the incident she'd locked all the family bicycles in a shed and made all four kids walk everywhere for a month.
As a parent, Tony fully understood how the unthinkable event would never fade in the old man's memory. What Tony wanted now was to know if Mr. Brown came to the festival and if so, had he been carrying a sharp stick? Had Ragsdale even been the one driving the deadly car? How many years had passed? More than twenty for sure, maybe closer to thirty.
CHAPTER NINE
Early the next morning, after a semi-sleepless night disturbed even more by heartburn and nightmares of zombies driving cars and catapults tossing vegetables, Tony retrieved the Sunday edition of the Knoxville newspaper. A real newspaper. Their local Silersville Gazette provided gossip, school lunch menus, and event listings twice a week. For news and, more particularly, sports news, it held nothing national. Baseball season was his favorite time to read the paper. This morning's headline stopped him.
“Killer Spud in Silersville.” The byline, his nemesis, newspaperwoman Winifred Thornby. The accompanying photograph showed people charging toward a prone figure on the ground. A second photograph was of him, can-can skirt and all, standing near the body. The article began, “Sheriff Tony Abernathy is investigating the suspicious death of long-time Silersville resident, game warden Harrison Ragsdale. To this reporter's questions, he merely claimed to have no comment. Only time will tell if the sheriff's department will be able to clarify the events to the satisfaction of this reporter and the citizens of Park County.”
Tony wondered who would write the follow-up article, “Sheriff Strangles Reporter.” He envisioned a photograph of Winifred's body, wrapped in a blue tarp, lashed to the roof
of his vehicle. He started to slam the door behind him, but remembered his family sleeping upstairs. To release some of his tension, he threw the newspaper at the wall. Predictably, it just became disordered. Not satisfying at all. He picked it up, shuffled it into some semblance of order, and went upstairs to shower and change. This Sunday was going to be just another work day. He'd read the paper when he got home.
Tony wanted to talk to the mayor's nephew. Carl Lee Cashdollar was as honest a man as Tony knew, but everyone had a breaking point. Maybe his wife had encouraged him to give the game warden a taste of his own medicine. Tony had seen the younger Cashdollars dancing before the cannon episode, but not after. A series of radio calls established the couple had to have left during the confusing moments immediately after the body fell. They had not given a statement at the museum.
Wade joined Tony at the Cashdollar house.
Carl Lee opened his front door when Tony knocked. He smiled a greeting. “Come in, Tony. Wade.”
Tony handed the attorney the Knoxville paper they'd picked up from the sidewalk. Tony and Wade went inside and stood just inside the door. “This isn't a social call. Is your wife here?”
“Yes.” Carl Lee's expression was suddenly wary. “Is there a problem?”
“I hope not.” Tony didn't move. “Can you ask her to join us?”
Carl Lee loped toward the kitchen and returned with his wife. Jill was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. While not a beauty, she had a sweet face and had always given the impression of being quite shy. “Sheriff?”
“You two were at the Ramp Festival.” Tony began. It wasn't a question.
“Yes, we left early,” said Carl Lee.
“Any particular reason why?”
“It was the smell.” Jill waved a hand in front of her nose. “At first it was just awful, and then it got even worse. I couldn't eat my hamburger because the air around us smelled so bad. We had to leave.”
Barbara Graham - Quilted 04 - Murder by Vegetable Page 11