by Bill Crider
“Maybe,” Rhodes said. “Maybe not. He’d have been released as soon as he made bond, and that wouldn’t have taken long. He’d have been back at home last night, no matter what I did or didn’t do.”
“Also no matter what I did or didn’t do, then,” McClaren said.
“True enough,” Rhodes said. “Dr. King, who were the people who complained?”
Dr. King looked around. “I’d rather not mention any names. I don’t believe they have anything to do with your investigation.”
She didn’t have to name any names. Rhodes thought he knew who at least one of the complainers was without having to be told. Marilyn Bradley had disappeared.
Chapter 19
Rhodes thought it was possible that Marilyn was one of those people who disliked being caught in an awkward situation, standing beside two people who were arguing and maybe being a little embarrassed by what was happening. What seemed more likely, however, was that she’d been one of the complainers that Dean King was talking about.
The crowd had thinned considerably, and it was easy enough to spot Marilyn. Her orange hair would have made it easy even if the place had been packed. She was standing near Seepy Benton, who’d set his guitar down by his stool. She was talking to him about something, so Rhodes decided he’d join the conversation. McClaren and King didn’t seem sorry to see him go.
Rhodes passed by the buffet table on his way, so he picked up a clean plate, snagged a napkin, and loaded the plate with major snacks and a couple of cookies before walking over to Seepy and Marilyn.
Benton was explaining to her that while he knew far more than three chords on the guitar, most of his songs did happen to employ about that number.
“It makes them easy to sing along with.”
Rhodes was tempted to say that he hadn’t noticed anybody singing along, but he refrained. Instead, he ate a quesadilla and listened to Marilyn tell Seepy what a nice voice he had.
“You don’t think it’s too low for a lead singer?” he asked. “I’m normally a bass, but when you’re doing a solo act, you can’t sing everything in the low ranges.”
“Your voice is fine,” Marilyn said. “It’s … rough-hewn, that’s what it is. It’s what you need more of in your art. What you did was all right, but it was too obvious and polished. You need to put more feeling into it.”
Rhodes ate a deviled egg and pondered what she’d said. It didn’t take him long to conclude that he had no idea what she was talking about. To him there was just as much feeling in Seepy’s cross-sectioned seashell as there was in some upside-down stairs. It was clear that he wasn’t cut out to be an art critic. He knew his deviled eggs, though, and the one he’d just finished was a good one.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I need to ask Marilyn a couple of questions.”
“Oh,” she said. “What about?”
“Art,” Rhodes said. “We can move over there so Seepy can sing another number.”
“I think it’s time to close the show,” Seepy said. “I have a new love song I’m going to try out for the first time tonight. I think it’s great.”
Seepy thought everything he sang was great. Rhodes said, “I’ll be right over here, listening.”
He had no intention of listening, but it wouldn’t hurt to let Seepy think he was. He planned to be too busy talking to Marilyn to hear the song.
Marilyn had already moved over near the door into the antiques shop. The door was closed, and Rhodes suspected that it was also locked. He hoped that Lonnie and Eric had learned their lesson about that.
“What questions did you have about art?” Marilyn asked when Rhodes joined her.
“They’re not so much about art as about whether you’re one of the people who complained to Dean King about the problems with the conference,” Rhodes said.
Marilyn didn’t answer. She looked toward Seepy, who was now doing his tender love ballad. Rhodes looked for Ruth Grady and saw her still standing near Ivy. She was the only one who appeared to be listening.
Rhodes ate a cookie while he waited for Marilyn to respond. Chocolate chip. When he’d eaten it, he said, “Well?”
“I don’t see what complaints have to do with anything,” she said.
“You never know,” Rhodes said. “I need all the information I can get.”
“All right, then, yes. I complained. This was a very important event for me. I’ve told you that already. I needed to win, and that man ruined my chances.”
“Burt Collins,” Rhodes said. Even someone like Burt deserved a little bit of respect after his death.
“Whoever,” Marilyn said. “He cost me a prize.”
Seepy Benton finished his song to light applause and thanked everyone for their kind attention. Rhodes didn’t applaud, but he had a good excuse since he was holding his plate from the buffet table.
“I thought the judges disregarded the marks on the paintings,” Rhodes said to Marilyn.
“Oh, sure, that’s what they’d like us to believe. They had to say that. They weren’t fooling me, though. I knew better. And if you want to know the truth, I think the whole thing was rigged. There’s just no way some of the paintings were better than mine.”
Rhodes wondered if she had any specific painting in mind.
“Seepy Benton’s, for example?”
“Maybe.” Marilyn started to walk away. She’d gone only a step before she turned back. “His voice isn’t rough-hewn, either. It’s just scratchy.”
Rhodes couldn’t argue with that. He ate another deviled egg and was considering a return to the buffet table when Don McClaren approached him.
“I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea from my discussion with Dr. King,” McClaren said. “I was a little upset, sure, but I didn’t really mean that you were in any way to blame for that man’s death.”
“Burt Collins,” Rhodes said.
“Right. Mr. Collins. He made a mess of things, but it’s nothing that can’t be worked out. We’ll do this again next year, and it’ll be bigger and better.”
“An event like this could be good for the town if it became an annual thing,” Rhodes said. “It would get more people downtown and make it look a little livelier.”
McClaren nodded. “Exactly, and that’s why we need to keep it going. I hope you catch whoever was responsible for Mr. Collins’s death.”
“I will,” Rhodes said. “Sooner or later. While I’m figuring that out, maybe you can answer a couple of questions for me.”
McClaren looked doubtful. “You can ask. I can’t promise I can answer.”
“I think you can. It’s about the judging of the paintings. You were one of the judges, weren’t you?”
McClaren looked relieved. “That’s an easy one. Yes, I was one of the judges, and Eric was the other one.” McClaren rubbed his forehead. “Next year, if there is a next year, we’re going to bring in outside judges. We would’ve done it this year, but we didn’t have the money.”
“Where will you get the money next year?”
“The college is going to pitch in some more. The dean and I were just talking about it. I’ve promised her that things will go smoothly, and she really doesn’t blame me for this year’s problems. At least I think I’ve talked her out of that, and I’ve convinced her that it’s a good thing for the town and the college, too. By the way, let me repeat that I’m sorry I said what I did about you. That was wrong, and I know it.”
“I’ve already forgotten about it,” Rhodes said. “Now about the judging. You and the dean were talking for a while before I came over. Did she mention any complaints about the judging?”
“Yes, and that’s why we’re bringing in outside judges when we do this again. Some people complained that Eric and I showed favoritism.”
“Did you?”
“Of course not. We were strictly impartial.” McClaren rubbed his forehead again. “Okay, let me rephrase that. I’m not sure any judge can be strictly impartial. Most people, even judges in art shows, have their ow
n ideas about what’s good and what’s not good.”
Rhodes knew he had his own ideas, all right. He thought about Marilyn Bradley. She certainly had her own opinions as well.
“It’s hard not to let your own ideas influence you,” McClaren said. “Even when you’re trying not to. Sometimes you even bend over backwards not to be prejudiced, and that can work against you just as much as the other can.”
“You want to explain that?” Rhodes asked.
“Let’s say you like representational art,” McClaren said.
“I do. I like things that make sense to me.”
“There’s not a thing wrong with that. So you like representational art, but you’re a judge and you want to be fair.”
“No chance of me ever being a judge of an art contest,” Rhodes said.
“Never say never. So you’re a judge, and you see something you really like, and you ask yourself, ‘Do I like that because it’s good or because it’s just the kind of thing I like?’ You might wind up excluding it when really it was one of the best things in the show.”
“I get it,” Rhodes said. “From what you’re telling me, I’d have to say that you and Eric were as fair as it’s possible to be.”
“That’s what we tried for. We discussed everything before making our final decisions. I resent the fact that someone claimed we weren’t impartial. We were, or at least we were as impartial as it’s possible for two people to be.”
“Here’s where it gets even more personal,” Rhodes said. “Why didn’t Marilyn Bradley’s painting win?”
McClaren smiled. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Nope,” Rhodes said. “I know you might not want to discuss it. Judge’s ethics, maybe, but I’d like to know.”
“You’re right about the ethics, but in this case it doesn’t really apply. Eric and I said we’d be happy to give a private critique to anybody who wanted one.”
“Did anybody ask?”
“Several people did. Your friend Dr. Benton was one of them.”
“What about Marilyn Bradley?”
“She didn’t ask.”
“Too bad, but now’s your chance, I’m asking for her. For me, too. It could be important.”
McClaren thought it over. “This won’t go any further?”
“Not an inch.”
McClaren looked around to see if anyone was listening. Nobody was. The only people left in the building were Seepy Benton, Ivy, Ruth, and Eric.
“The coast is clear,” Rhodes said.
“Yeah, I guess I was being a little obvious,” McClaren said. “Anyway, Marilyn’s painting didn’t win because it isn’t very good. It wasn’t even considered.”
“What about the deep hidden meaning?”
“Do you see it?”
“No, it’s too well hidden for me,” Rhodes told him, “but I don’t know much about art.”
“You wouldn’t have to. There isn’t much technique on display, either. Sloppy work, if you ask me, but she didn’t, which was just as well. She wouldn’t have been happy about it. I’ll tell you something else, too.”
Rhodes waited while McClaren looked around again, maybe just to be sure nobody had wandered back into the gallery.
“That man who was killed? Mr. Collins?”
Rhodes nodded.
“He did Marilyn a favor. She probably knows it. Because of what he did, she has a good reason to complain about not winning. Even though we told everybody we disregarded the markings because we’d seen all the paintings before he defaced them, she doesn’t believe it. She can always tell herself that it was the marks and the prejudiced judges that cost her an award.”
The catering crew from the college came into the gallery then to clear away the food and plates and trash. Rhodes thanked McClaren for answering his questions and ate his last cookie before returning his empty plate to the table so the crew could pick it up. He put the plate down and went over to see if Ivy was ready to go home.
Seepy Benton was with her and Ruth, telling them how great the crowd had been and how well everyone had responded to his songs. It was true, Rhodes thought, that people saw things differently, whether it was art or music or audience response.
“Things went really well,” Benton said. “I should’ve tried a sing-along. I’ll bet that would’ve been fun.”
“I’d have given it a try,” Ruth said.
Ivy and Eric kept quiet.
“How about you, Sheriff?” Benton said. “Would you have joined me in a rousing audience participation number?”
“I may have mentioned before that I’m not a singer,” Rhodes told him.
“Everybody’s a singer. You have to forget your inhibitions and sing right out. It’s good for you.”
“You haven’t heard me sing,” Rhodes said, “and you should hope you never will.” He turned to Ivy. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Anytime,” Ivy said.
* * *
Before going home, Rhodes made the short drive around what was left of downtown. It was just as depressing as usual, and maybe even more depressing because things looked worse after dark. Even though Rhodes knew that the Walmart parking lot was full and that people were visiting other places of business out on the highway, it still bothered him that the downtown looked for the most part like a deserted city in some postapocalyptic movie.
“It’s not just Clearview,” Ivy said, reading Rhodes’s mind. “It’s like this in a lot of small towns. Things aren’t like they used to be.”
“I know,” Rhodes said, “and they never were.”
“Who said that?”
“I did. Just then.”
Ivy poked him in the arm. “I know you said it, but you stole it. Who did you steal it from?”
“I’m not sure,” Rhodes said, and he wasn’t. “Will Rogers, maybe.”
Ivy grinned. “I wonder if anybody younger than you even knows who Will Rogers was.”
“You’re younger than I am, and you remember who he was.”
“He died a long time before either one of us was born, but I did hear about him when I was younger. Not so much now, though.” Ivy was quiet for a moment. “Another thing he’s supposed to have said is that he never met a man he didn’t like.”
“He never met Burt Collins,” Rhodes said.
“Was Burt really that bad?”
Rhodes thought about what Ella’s sister had told him. “Bad enough. We never got a domestic violence call from Ella, but Bonnie Crowley said we should have. There was some hitting. And other things.”
“Bonnie is Ella’s sister?”
“Right. She lives down in Thurston.”
“You think Ella killed Burt?”
“She could have,” Rhodes said. “Bonnie thinks she should have.”
“What do you think?”
“I think she could’ve killed him and gotten rid of the thing she hit him with before I got there.”
“You’re not sure, though.”
“I’m not sure about anything right now,” Rhodes said.
* * *
After Ivy and Rhodes got home, it took Rhodes a few minutes to get Yancey settled down. The cats, of course, were already settled down and didn’t bother to get up.
“Did you get enough to eat at the gallery?” Ivy asked Rhodes.
“Yes, but if there’s any dessert around, I could use some.”
“I saw you eating those cookies. Do you really want dessert?”
“Just kidding. I was checking to see if you knew I ate the cookies.”
Ivy gave him a skeptical look. “Really?”
“Really. Let’s watch the rest of that DVD we started the other night.”
“Justified?”
“That’s the one. I like that hat Raylan Givens wears. Maybe I’ll get me one like it.”
“You? In a hat?”
“I was kidding again. Where’s the DVD?”
Ivy located the DVD, and Rhodes put it into the player. They’d watched almost five minutes
of the show before the telephone rang.
“Are you going to answer that?” Ivy asked.
“I’m the sheriff. I have to answer it.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“You’re probably right,” Rhodes said, and she was.
Chapter 20
“Robbery in progress,” Hack said as soon as Rhodes answered the phone.
Rhodes knew it was serious because Hack didn’t try to prolong things.
“Oscar Henderson’s place,” Hack said. “Shots fired. Oscar’s in hot pursuit.”
“Hot pursuit?” Rhodes said. Hack had been listening to Buddy too much.
“That’s right, hot pursuit.”
“What was Oscar doing at his store?”
“He was watchin’ the place, I guess. You can ask him when you get there. You better get a move on.”
Rhodes knew it was urgent, but he needed more information. “Which direction is the pursuit headed?”
“It’s on foot, in the trees back of the store. It was Chris that called it in. He sounded shook up. Second night in a row and all.”
“What about Duke and Buddy?”
“You’re a lot closer than they are. You goin’ or not?”
“I’m on the way.”
Rhodes hung up, got his pistol from the gun safe in the closet of an unused bedroom, and told Ivy not to worry about him.
“I always worry.”
“I always come back, too. Maybe a little beat up, maybe a little dirty, but at least I make it home.”
Ivy kissed him on the cheek. “Get home early. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I’ll do my best,” Rhodes said.
* * *
He was at the convenience store within five minutes of Hack’s call, and maybe within ten minutes of when things had started, but ten minutes can be a long time when guns are involved. That didn’t mean Rhodes could rush into things. He parked in front of the store, got his sidearm in his hand, and went inside to talk to Chris, who was shaken up even more than he’d been the previous night. The sight of Rhodes’s pistol didn’t calm him down.
“What happened?” Rhodes asked, slipping the pistol into his back pocket.