by Still Life
Marge suddenly remembered the article in the paper. “Of course. You’re that fellow from down south who’s looking into the murder. I could tell you weren’t from around here, of course. Not talking like that, you aren’t.”
She looked at him with fresh curiosity. He was rather tall, with hair so blond it was almost white, and he returned her look with pale eyes full of mild inquisitiveness. Although he was slender, he gave no sense of being frail; quite the opposite, really, although his suit was so unrelievedly black it was hard to tell. He was really very attractive, in a Southern Comfort kind of way.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pendergast,” she said. “I’d offer you a seat, but this swivel chair of mine’s the only one. The people who come here aren’t usually inclined to stay very long.” She barked another laugh.
“And why is that, Mrs. Tealander?” The question was phrased so politely that Marge didn’t notice he already knew her name.
“Why do you think? Unless you happen to be partial to paying taxes and filling out forms, of course.”
“Yes, of course. I do see.” The man named Pendergast took a step forward. “Mrs. Tealander, it’s my understanding that—”
“Five hundred dollars,” Marge interrupted.
The man paused. “Pardon me?”
“Nothing.” Marge pulled her eyes from the now-silent TV.
“It’s my understanding that you are the keeper of public records for Medicine Creek.”
Marge nodded. “That’s right.”
“And that you function as town administrator.”
“A part-time job. Very part-time, these days.”
“That you run the public works department.”
“Oh, that just means keeping tabs on Henry Fleming, who drives the snow plow and changes the bulbs in the streetlamps.”
“And that you levy real estate taxes.”
“Yes, andthat’s the reason I don’t get invited to Klick Rasmussen’s canasta parties.”
Pendergast paused again for a moment. “So one could say that, in essence, you run Medicine Creek.”
Marge grinned widely. “Young man, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Of course, Sheriff Hazen and Art Ridder might not share your view.”
“We’ll leave them to their own opinion, then.”
“Man alive, Iknew it!” Marge’s eyes had strayed back to the television, and with an effort she returned them to her guest.
Pendergast slipped a leather wallet from his jacket pocket. “Mrs. Tealander,” he said, opening it to display the gold shield inside, “you’re aware that I’m an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“That’s what they said over at the Hair Apparent.”
“I would like to get a better, shall we say,bureaucratic perspective on the people of Medicine Creek. What they do, where they live, what their economic status might be. That manner of thing.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place. I know everything legal there is to know about every blessed soul in town.”
Pendergast waved one hand. “Technically, of course, such an inquiry requires a warrant.”
“Where do you think you are, young man? Great Bend? Wichita, maybe? I’m not going to stand on ceremony with an officer of the law. Besides, we’ve got no secrets here. At least, none that would interest you.”
“Then you see no difficulty in, ah, making me better acquainted with the inhabitants.”
“Mr. Pendergast, I’ve got nothing on my calendar until August twenty-second, when I have to type up the property tax bills for the fourth quarter.”
Pendergast glided a little closer to the desk. “Let’s hope it doesn’t take quite that long.”
Another bark of laughter. “Take that long! Hoo-eee!Man alive, that’s a good one.”
Marge turned her swivel chair to the back wall of the office, where an old-fashioned safe stood. It was massive and decorated around the edges with faded gold leaf. Aside from the desk and a small bookshelf, it was the only article of furniture in the room. She twirled its large central dial back and forth, entering the combination, then grasped the handle and pulled the iron door open. Inside was a smaller box, closed with a padlock. She unlocked the padlock with a key that she drew from around her neck. Reaching inside, she removed an even smaller, wooden box. Then she turned around in her swivel chair again and placed it on the desk between herself and Pendergast.
“There you go,” she said, patting the little box with satisfaction. “Where do you want to start?”
Pendergast looked at the box. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, where do you want to start?”
“Do you mean to tell me that—” For a very brief moment, the man’s face seemed to go completely blank before once again assuming its look of casual curiosity.
“What, did you think it took a computer to run a town the size of Medicine Creek? I’ve got everything I need right in this little box. And what isn’t there is up here.” She tapped her temple. “Look, I’ll show you.” She opened the box, drew out an index card by random. It contained perhaps a dozen lines of neat handwriting, followed by a row of numbers, a couple of squiggles and symbols, and a few stickers of various colors: red, yellow, green. “You see?” she said, waving it under Pendergast’s nose. “This is the card of Dale Estrem, the cranky young farmer. His father was a cranky old farmer. And his grandfather—well, we won’t mentionhim. Dale and the rest of those troublemakers in the Farmer’s Co-operative, always standing in the way of progress. See, it shows here that he’s two quarters behind in his taxes, that his oldest kid had to repeat ninth grade, that his septic tank’s not in compliance with the code, and that he’s applied for farm relief seven years out of the last seven.” She clucked disapprovingly.
Pendergast looked from her, to the card, and back to her again. “I see,” he said.
“I’ve got ninety-three cards here, one for each family in Medicine Creek and in the unincorporated areas around it. I could talk for an hour on each, maybe two hours if necessary.” Marge felt herself growing excited. It wasn’t every day that somebody official took an interest in her records. And with Rocky passed on, God knows, she had precious few people to chat with. “I promise, you’ll know all there is to know about Medicine Creek when I’m done with you.”
This was greeted by a profound silence.
“Of course,” Pendergast said after a few moments, as if re-collecting himself.
“So I ask again, Mr. Pendergast. Where do you want to start?”
Pendergast thought a moment. “I suppose we should start with the A’s.”
“There are no last names starting with ‘A’ in Medicine Creek, Mr. Pendergast. We’ll start with David Barness, out on the Cry Road. So sorry I can’t get you a chair. Maybe when we start in again tomorrow I’ll bring one along for you from my kitchen.” And she returned the card she was holding to its spot, licked her finger eagerly, plucked the first card from the box, and began to talk. At her elbow the television flickered on, the game show now completely forgotten.
Sixteen
Deputy Sheriff Tad Franklin guided his cruiser into the gravel parking lot between the big old Victorian house and the gift shop. He crunched to a halt, pushed open the car door, and unfolded himself into the hot August sun. He paused to stretch, scratch at his black crew cut, and to peer, a little warily, at the house. The white picket fence that surrounded it was falling apart, paint peeling, slats hanging every which way. Beyond lay the overgrown yard. The giant old gabled house looked like it hadn’t been painted in fifty years. Kansas dust storms had sandblasted it right down to weatherbeaten wood and were now stripping the wood down to tarpaper. The “Kraus’s Kaverns” sign, off-kilter, with its great strips of peeling red and white paint, looked like something out of a grade-B horror flick. The whole place depressed him. He had to get out of Medicine Creek. But to do that, he needed to put in his time, get some more experience under his belt. And he dreaded the idea of telling Sheriff Hazen. The sheriff, Tad
knew, was grooming him, in his rough paternal way, to take his place. Tad didn’t like to think about what the sheriff would say when he told him he was taking a job in Wichita or Topeka. Anywhere but Medicine Creek.
He forced himself through the gate, along the weed-choked sidewalk, and up the steps onto the crooked wraparound porch. His leather boots made a hollow sound as he walked up to the door. The air was still, and in the corn he could hear the cicadas droning. He paused, then rapped on the door.
It opened so quickly that he jumped. Special Agent Pendergast.
“Deputy Sheriff Franklin. Please come in.”
Tad took off his hat and came into the parlor, feeling uncomfortable. The sheriff had wanted him to quietly check up on what Pendergast was up to, what else he had learned about the dog killing. But now that he was here, he felt embarrassed. He couldn’t imagine any way to broach the subject without making the reason for his visit painfully obvious.
“You’re just in time for lunch,” said the agent, closing the door behind him. The shades were drawn and it was a little cooler here, out of the sun, but without air conditioning it was still uncomfortably hot. Not far from the front door sat two oversized suitcases—wardrobe trunks, really—overnight express labels still affixed to the expensive-looking leather exteriors. It seemed that Pendergast was settling in for a longer stay.
“Lunch?” Tad repeated.
“A light salad with antipasti. Prosciutto di San Daniele, pecorino cheese with truffled honey, baccelli, tomatoes, and rucola. Something light for a hot day.”
“Er, sure. Great.” If they were going to eat Italian, why not stick with pizza? He advanced another step, not knowing what to say. It was one o’clock. Who ate lunch at one o’clock? He had eaten at the normal time of eleven-thirty.
“Miss Kraus is feeling poorly. She’s taken to bed. I’ve been filling in.”
“I see.” Tad followed Pendergast into the kitchen. In one corner a stack of Federal Express and DHL boxes had been neatly piled halfway to the ceiling. The counter was littered with at least a dozen food packages sporting foreign-sounding names: Balducci’s, Zabar’s. Tad wondered if maybe Pendergast wasn’t Italian or French. He sure didn’t eat like an American.
Pendergast had busied himself in the kitchen, his movements deft and economical, quickly arranging odd-looking food onto three plates—salami and cheese and what had to be some kind of lettuce. Tad watched, shifting his hat from one hand to the other.
“I’ll just bring this plate back to Miss Kraus,” said Pendergast.
“Right. Okay.”
Pendergast disappeared into the back recesses of the house. Tad could hear Winifred’s soft voice, Pendergast’s murmured responses. A moment later, the agent returned.
“Is she okay?” Tad asked.
“Fine,” Pendergast said in a low voice. “It’s more psychological than physical. These delayed reactions are common in such cases. You can imagine the kind of shock she had, learning about the murder.”
“We were all shocked.”
“Of course you were. I recently wrapped up a rather unpleasant case myself in New York, where killings are regrettably more common. I am used to it, Mr. Franklin, or as used to it as a creature can ever be. For all of you, I have no doubt this was—and is—a most unwelcome new experience. Please sit down.”
Tad sat down, put his hat on the table, decided that wasn’t a good place, laid it on a chair, then snatched it up again, afraid he might forget it.
“I’ll take that,” said Pendergast, placing it on a hat rack nearby.
Tad shifted in his chair, feeling more awkward by the minute. A plate was put in front of him.“Buon appetito,” Pendergast said, gesturing for Tad to dig in.
Tad picked up a fork and stabbed into a piece of cheese. He cut some off and tasted it gingerly.
“You’ll want to drizzle a little of thismiele al tartufo bianco on there,” Pendergast said, offering him a tiny jar of odd-smelling honey.
“I’ll stick to it plain, thanks.”
“Nonsense.” Pendergast took a pearl spoon and dribbled some honey over the rest of Tad’s cheese.
Tad took another bite, and discovered it wasn’t bad.
They ate in silence. Tad found the food much to his liking, especially some small slices of salami. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Cinghiale.Wild boar.”
“Oh.”
Now Pendergast was pouring olive oil all over everything, as well as some liquid as black as tar. He poured some on Tad’s own plate as well. “And now, Deputy, I imagine you are here for a briefing.”
Somehow, having it stated so baldly made everything much less awkward. “Well, yes. Right.”
Pendergast dabbed his mouth and sat back. “The dog was named Jiff and he belonged to Andy Cahill. I understand that Andy is quite an explorer and that he used to roam all over the place with his dog. My assistant will be providing me soon with the results of an interview.”
Tad fumbled for his notebook, brought it out, and started taking notes.
“It appears the dog was killed that previous night. You may recall it was overcast for a few hours after midnight, and that appears to be when the killing occurred. I have the results of the autopsy right here, which I just received. The C 2, 3, and 4 vertebrae were actuallycrushed. There was no indication that any kind of machine or instrument was used, which is problematic, since if only one’s hands were employed, such crushing would require considerable force. The tail appears to have been hacked off with a crude implement and removed from the scene, along with the collar and tags.”
Tad took notes furiously. This was good stuff. The sheriff would be pleased. Then again, he’d probably gotten the same report. He continued taking notes, just to be sure.
“I followed the bare footprints leading to and from the scene. The same corn row was used in both cases, leading away from, and then back to, Medicine Creek. Once in the creek, it was no longer possible to follow the tracks. So I spent the morning with Mrs. Tealander, the town administrator, acquainting myself with the local residents. I fear that this task will take much longer than I’d originally—”
A tremulous voice came from the rear of the house. “Mr. Pendergast?”
Pendergast held his finger to his lips. “Miss Kraus is out of bed,” he murmured. “It wouldn’t do for her to hear us talking this way.” He turned, and said in a louder tone, “Yes, Miss Kraus?”
Tad saw the figure of the old woman appear in the doorway, muffled despite the heat in a nightgown and robes. Tad quickly rose.
“Why, hello, Tad,” said the old lady. “I’ve been poorly, you know, and Mr. Pendergast has been kind enough to take care of me. Don’t stand on my account. Please, take your seat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tad.
She sat down heavily in a chair at the table, her face careworn. “I have to tell you, I’m getting awfully tired of that bed. I don’t know how invalids do it. Mr. Pendergast, would you mind pouring me a cup of that green tea of yours? I find it settles my nerves.”
“Delighted.” Pendergast rose and moved toward the stove.
“It’s just terrible, isn’t it, Tad?” she said.
The deputy sheriff didn’t quite know how to respond.
“This killing. Who could have done it? Doesanyone know?”
“We’ve got some leads we’re following up,” Tad replied. It was the line the sheriff always used.
Miss Kraus drew the robe more tightly around her throat. “I feel dreadful, just dreadful, knowing someone like that’s on the loose. And maybe even one of our own, if the papers are to be believed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Pendergast served tea all around and the table fell silent. Through the gauze curtains Tad could see the great fields of corn stretching out toward the horizon, a monochromatic rusty yellow. It made the eyes tired just looking at it. For the first time, the idea occurred to him that working on this case—if it had a successful resolution—could be just the
ticket out he’d been waiting for. All of a sudden, checking up on Pendergast didn’t seem like a chore. It seemed, instead, like something he should do regularly. But Miss Kraus was speaking again, and he politely turned to listen.
“I fear for our little town,” Winifred Kraus was saying. “With this murderer out there, I fear for it truly.”
Seventeen
Corrie Swanson brought the Gremlin to a shuddering halt, sending up a swirl of dust that spiraled slowly into the air. God, it was hot. She looked over at the passenger seat. Pendergast returned the glance, eyebrows slightly raised.
“This is the place,” she said. “You still haven’t told me why we’re here.”
“We’re going to pay a visit to one James Draper.”
“Why?”
“I understand he makes certain claims regarding the Medicine Creek Massacre. I think it’s time I learned more about them.”
“Brushy Jim makes a lot of claims.”
“You doubt him?”
Corrie laughed. “He can’t say hello without lying.”
“I have found that liars in the end communicate more truth than do truth tellers.”
“How’s that?”
“Because truth is the safest lie.”
Corrie eased the car forward, shaking her head. No question about it: weird, weird, weird.
Brushy Jim’s place was an eighth-section of land out on the Deeper Road, fenced in with barbed wire. The plankboard, two-room house stood well back from the highway, a lone cottonwood in front offering a semblance of privacy. The house was surrounded by a sea of junked cars, old trailers, rusted boilers, abandoned refrigerators, washing machines, old telephone poles, compressors, a couple of boat hulls, something that appeared to be a steam locomotive, and other things too sunken into decrepitude to be recognizable.
As Corrie rolled into the dirt driveway she gave the car just a bit too much gas, and the Gremlin shuddered, backfired thunderously, and died. For a moment all was still. Then the door of the house banged open and a man appeared in the shade of the porch. As they got out of the car, he advanced into the light. Like most people in Medicine Creek, Corrie went out of her way to avoid meeting Brushy Jim, yet he looked just the same as she remembered: a mass of pale red hair and beard that sprouted from his entire face, leaving nothing visible but two beady black eyes, a pair of lips, and a patch of forehead. He was dressed in thick denim jeans, big chocolate-colored roper boots, a blue shirt with fake pearl snaps, and a battered felt cowboy hat. A bolo tie with a chunk of turquoise big enough to split the skull of a mule hung around his thick neck, the knotted leather partially obscured by the heavy beard. He was well over fifty, but with all the hair managed to look a decade younger. He gripped the post and peered at them suspiciously.