Death on the Move

by Bill Crider

  “Thursday afternoon. Used to, they didn’t start selling until after noon on Sunday, but things got so big they had to start earlier and earlier. I doubt you’ll be able to cover the ground in just an afternoon. What’re you looking for, anyway?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Rhodes said.

  “The Storms were by here today,” Ballinger said. “They still aren’t happy about Miss Storm’s being buried without that jewelry. Have those Holcombs confessed yet?”

  “Not yet,” Rhodes said. “They haven’t said anything at all, aside from their names, and I’m not sure they’re telling the truth about that.”

  It’s too bad we can’t go back to the old days,” Ballinger said. “Not that the boys in the Eighty-seventh ever did anything vicious even in the old days. You know that series has been going on for over thirty years now? Anyway, Carella would never do anything to beat a confession out of anyone, but Hawes, maybe he would have. Back in the old days, I mean. Not now. But you take Lou Ford—he’s the deputy in The Killer Inside Me—he’d do anything and just about did.”

  Ballinger had discussed his favorite book with Rhodes before. “I think sometimes the writers exaggerate the old days,” Rhodes said, though he had heard stories about past sheriffs in Blacklin County who hadn’t been averse to administering a few judicious blows with the rubber truncheon from time to time.

  “Maybe they do exaggerate,” Ballinger said, “but it makes a pretty good story when they do.”

  “Well, I’m not going to break out the battery cables and start in beating on people,” Rhodes said. “We’ll put the formal charges on the Holcombs and then get them a lawyer if they don’t already have one. Maybe they’ll talk to him. I can’t even find out where they live.”

  “Aren’t they on the tax rolls?”

  “No, and they aren’t in the phone book, either. But we’ll find out where they come from sooner or later. I imagine that the rest of the loot will be right in the house.”

  “I wish you’d find it sooner,” Ballinger said. “It’d do me a world of good with the Storms.”

  “When they come in again, tell them it’s just a matter of time,” Rhodes said.

  “I’ll do better than that,” Ballinger told him. “I’ll just send them right on to you and let you tell them.”

  “Thanks,” Rhodes said.

  That night he was fixing supper for himself and Ivy again. He had decided to keep it simple this time and make his specialty, which was what his daughter called beanie-weenie. She had also told him that it was only one step above bologna as a gourmet dish, but at least it was something he could do without too much trouble.

  He drained off the liquid from a can of pork-and-beans and dumped the beans in a cooking pot. Then he added ketchup, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, butter, and dried onion flakes. He didn’t measure any of the ingredients, going mostly by the way the mixture looked. When it got to be just about the right color, he cut up the wieners and dumped them in the pot as well. The secret, as he had told his daughter, was to use only Oscar Mayer wieners. They had just the right flavor to blend in with the other ingredients.

  He turned on the fire under what he preferred to call barbecued franks and beans and stirred the mixture a few times. It looked fine to him. Add some corn bread and Dr Pepper, and you had a meal fit for a king. He hoped he had some corn bread mix in the house; he wasn’t very good at making it from scratch. It fact, he wasn’t very good at making it from a mix, either, but it usually turned out to be edible.

  Ivy arrived just in time to save the corn bread from incineration and to stir the beans and franks one last time. Rhodes dipped his wooden spoon in for a taste and pronounced it ready.

  “Well?” Rhodes asked after they had gotten seated and begun to eat.

  “I have to admit that these are the best barbecued beans and franks I’ve ever tasted,” Ivy said.

  Rhodes assumed that she meant it as a compliment.

  After they did the dishes, they discussed their marriage plans. Rhodes wanted to keep things simple.

  “We’ll just get ready and go to the judge and get married,” he said. “I don’t think we need to make any real plans.”

  “What about a honeymoon?” Ivy asked.

  Rhodes admitted he hadn’t thought about that.

  “You should be able to get a few days off,” she said. “When was the last time you took a vacation?”

  He couldn’t remember.

  “I thought so. We could go somewhere like San Antonio and spend a few days. There are a lot of things to do in a city like that, even in the winter.”

  Rhodes was not overly fond of cities, winter or summer. “Well, maybe,” he said. He didn’t sound extremely enthusiastic, even to himself.

  “Whatever happened to those people from this morning?” Ivy said, changing the subject, for which Rhodes was grateful.

  “They still haven’t admitted anything. I’m not sure we’ll ever get them to talk,” Rhodes said. Then he told her of his suspicion that the Holcombs might be connected in some way with Burl and Lonnie.

  “Do you think they’re related or just acquainted?”

  Rhodes said that he didn’t know. “I might be reading too much into just a look, but I think there’s something to it.”

  “And you’ve never found that truck?”

  “Not yet. We’re still looking.”

  “What if the Holcombs owned the truck?”

  Rhodes hadn’t thought about that, but he was pretty sure there were no Holcombs on the list of buyers. It was something he could check, however. There had to be some good reason why they were keeping their address a secret. They didn’t dress or act like they lived back in the boonies near Burl and Lonnie, but you could never tell. Maybe they did.

  There was no movie on that Rhodes wanted to watch, and he didn’t have anything on tape, so he decided to play a few of his old records. He and Ivy could sit around and talk some more, and maybe she would come up with some more ideas that would be useful to him. He located a copy of Roy Orbison’s Greatest Hits and put it on the turntable. Rhodes didn’t own up-to-date stereo equipment. In fact, his stereo was about as old as the record album. That was fine with Rhodes, who had a theory that old music from the Fifties and early Sixties sounded best on the small, tinny speakers used in the automobiles of the day. Roy Orbison was probably an exception. Turned up to full volume, his voice could blast the speakers out of nearly anything. As Roy launched into a scratchy version of “Only the Lonely,” Ivy apologized for getting carried away at the funeral home that morning.

  “I just couldn’t help myself,” she said. “It was really spooky, lying there and pretending to be dead. I kept thinking of what it would feel like if the coffin lid were to be closed on me.”

  “I told you not to worry about that,” Rhodes said.

  “I think I read too much Edgar Allan Poe when I was a teenager,” Ivy said. “And then that woman came in, crying and running her hands over me. That was the really strange part. I almost believed she was really grieving. And you couldn’t believe the touch she had. I didn’t even realize the first earring was gone until she started on the second one, and she might have gotten that one off without my knowing if she hadn’t dropped part of it. She had to reach down for it and she jostled me.”

  “What I was wondering was how you could hold your breath so long,” Rhodes said.

  “I just had to take very shallow breaths when she’d go into a crying spell,” Ivy said. “I was afraid she’d catch me.”

  “But you caught her instead. Clyde’s pretty happy you did.” Rhodes paused. “Of course, I’m afraid you set Miss Woods back a bit.”

  “I’m sorry about that. It was just so much like one of those old scary movies I couldn’t resist, and it seemed like as good a signal as any. I hope she wasn’t too scared.”

  “Clyde says she’ll be all right. Maybe she can find some other way to spend her time now. I don’t think she’ll ever feel the same about funeral homes agai
n.”

  Ivy laughed. “Me either.”

  Chapter 15

  They got to listen to most of the Orbison album before Hack called. “Sorry if I interrupted anything,” Hack said, though his tone indicated that he wasn’t sorry at all. “You better get out to the lake. There’s some shootin’ goin’ on out there again around Miz McGee’s.”

  “Who called?” Rhodes asked.

  “Didn’t say. Just said it sounded like a war had broke out.”

  “I’m on the way.”

  Ivy insisted on going, and Rhodes, against his better judgment, said that she could, even though the lake area was getting to be more and more like a firing range and you could never tell who might step in front of a bullet.

  “You’ll have to stay in the car,” Rhodes told her, though he wasn’t sure how much protection the car would provide.

  “Siren again?” Ivy asked.

  “Siren again,” Rhodes said.

  When they got to the lake, Mrs. McGee’s house was ablaze with lights, though the houses all around were dark. Rhodes stopped the car, got out, and ran to Mrs. McGee’s door. Ivy was right behind him, despite what he had told her.

  Mrs. McGee met them at the door. “Come on in,” she said. She still had on her cold-weather gear. Rhodes wondered if she slept in it.

  “What’s going on, Mrs. McGee?” Rhodes said as soon as they were inside.

  “I don’t know, Sheriff,” she said. Her face looked haggard beneath the knit cap.

  “Has there been more shooting?”

  “I’m afraid there has,” she said. She walked over to her rocker by the fire and sat down. She didn’t invite Rhodes or Ivy to sit. She simply folded her hands in her lap and began rocking slowly back and forth.

  Rhodes walked over to stand beside her. “Did you shoot anyone?” he asked.

  Mrs. McGee shook her head. “Don’t think so,” she said.

  “Did you shoot at anyone?”

  Mrs. McGee continued to rock. “Maybe,” she said.

  Rhodes was beginning to get frustrated. “Maybe? How can you maybe shoot at someone?”

  Ivy said, “Do you have any tea, Mrs. McGee? I’d surely like a cup of hot tea.”

  The old woman got up. “I’ll fix you some,” she said.

  Rhodes watched her walk slowly to the kitchen. “All right,” he said to Ivy. “I was starting to lean on her a little. It wasn’t a good idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Ivy said. “She’s old, and she’s a little confused. Give her time to think things over.”

  “I’m afraid if I give her too much time, she’ll come up with a twisted version of the story,” Rhodes said. In low tones he told Ivy of Washburn’s comments on Mrs. McGee’s behavior.

  “You believe him?”

  “I’m not sure who to believe anymore,” Rhodes said. “All I know is that something funny’s going on, but I’m not sure what it is.”

  They waited for Mrs. McGee while the incredible heat of the room began to make itself felt. Rhodes, who had noticed a slight draft the first time he visited, now noticed one even more extreme. And there was hardly any wind.

  He began to look around the room. Directly across from him was a shattered windowpane. The window was divided into four sections, and the glass in one section was almost completely missing. He turned and looked at the wall. There was what looked like a bullet hole there. To get to the bullet, he would have to remove that section of the wall. He didn’t want to damage the bullet by digging for it like they did on television.

  The bullet was concrete evidence of gunfire, even if Mrs. McGee had fired it herself, which didn’t seem likely, given her preference for warmth and the fireside. Rhodes didn’t think she would have gone outside to shoot back into the house, so someone must have been shooting at her.

  Unless she was more clever than he thought, in which case she might have fired the bullet in order to make him think someone was trying to kill her. He didn’t know why she might want to do that, but then he didn’t know why anyone would want to kill her either.

  He heard a kettle whistle in the kitchen, and Ivy went to help Mrs. McGee with the tea. Rhodes continued to study the room, but there didn’t seem to be any other signs of a gun battle. He sat down in the rocker and waited for the tea. He hated tea.

  When the two women returned, they were talking softly. Ivy was telling Mrs. McGee that tea was a wonderful drink for settling the nerves. They set the cups and teakettle down on an end table by the couch and poured three cups. Rhodes had been hoping they might forget him, but they hadn’t. He would pretend to sip it without really drinking any. Ivy handed him his cup. It was thin china with painted roses.

  “Mrs. McGee was just telling me what happened,” Ivy said. “It’s been a very unsettling experience for her.”

  “I’m sure it has,” Rhodes said, pretending to sip the tea, which was much too hot. He wished he had a Dr Pepper.

  They all sat down, Rhodes and Mrs. McGee in the rockers, Ivy on the couch. Rhodes had trouble balancing the cup and saucer, so he finally reached over and set it on top of the Dearborn heater. The top of the stove was heavily insulated and remained cool, no matter how hot the fire might be.

  “Maybe you’d like to tell me what happened now, Mrs. McGee,” he said.

  Her hands began to shake and the cup clattered against the saucer. “I was sitting right here,” she said. “Right here in this chair. I was feeling a little cold, so I bent over to get closer to the fire.”

  Rhodes found it hard to imagine that anyone would want to get any closer to the fire. He could feel it right through his pants legs.

  “That was when it happened,” Mrs. McGee said.

  “What happened?” Rhodes said.

  “Someone shot at me!” Mrs. McGee’s voice rose sharply on the second word. “I didn’t really hear the shot, but I heard the window smash, and something hit the wall over there.”

  They both turned to look at the wall where Rhodes had spotted the bullet hole.

  “What did you do then?” Rhodes said.

  She looked at him accusingly. “Well, you’d got me so scared about hurting someone that I didn’t have my pistol with me. It was in the bedroom. I went in there to get it.”

  “There was no more shooting?”

  “Not right then.”

  “When, then?”

  “When I went outside.”

  Rhodes could imagine what a target she must have made, silhouetted in the doorway. “You shot back?”

  “I surely did. And got shot at again, too. I could hear the bullets hittin’ the porch out there.”

  “How many shots did you fire?”

  “I emptied my whole pistol. I don’t keep a shell under the hammer, so that would make five shots.”

  “How many were fired at you?”

  “Wasn’t countin’. It sounded like a lot.”

  Rhodes took his teacup off the stove and pretended to drink. “Are you sure you’ve told me all you know about things out here, Mrs. McGee? You haven’t left out anything at all?”

  Ivy coughed, but Rhodes didn’t look at her. He set his cup down and looked at Mrs. McGee.

  The old woman stared back at him. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  “It just seems that things keep happening around you. First we find a dead woman next door, then you shoot at one of your neighbors, now someone’s taking a few shots at you. There’s too much going on.”

  “We live in a terrible world,” Mrs. McGee said. “It’s not my fault that people are so rotten. I just do what I can and mind my own business.”

  “That’s another thing,” Rhodes said.

  “What is?”

  “That part about minding your own business. There are a few people around here who think you don’t do that.”

  Ivy coughed again, louder.

  Mrs. McGee put her own cup and saucer on top of the stove. There was quite a clattering as she did so. “Who says so? You tell me right now.”

  “I
can’t do that, Mrs. McGee,” Rhodes said. “Is it the truth?”

  “Of course not,” she said. But she didn’t look at him. Her watery eyes looked down at the fire burning in the stove.

  “I think it is true,” Rhodes said. “I think you know more than you’re telling me, and I think someone wants to keep you from telling.”

  Mrs. McGee stood up with a speed that surprised Rhodes, knocking the rocker back several feet. “That’s not so. You shouldn’t say things like that to me. It’s not so!”

  Rhodes looked up at her. “I think it’s so,” he said.

  “I’m not going to talk to you anymore,” she said. “I want you to go now.”

  “I’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Rhodes said, standing up. “I have to check for evidence.”

  “You send somebody else. I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Rhodes glanced at Ivy, who looked away. “I’ll send Deputy Grady,” he said. “Thank you for the tea.”

  “I can’t believe you badgered an old woman that way,” Ivy said when they were back in the car.

  “I didn’t badger her,” Rhodes said. “She’s been involved in a shooting scrape. I could have taken her in if I’d really wanted to badger her. I was being nice.”

  “Sometimes I don’t think you’re nice at all. You certainly don’t know how to treat old ladies.”

  “That old lady’s involved in a murder case.”

  Ivy was horrified. “She is not! Except that it looks like someone’s trying to kill her.

  “Where are we going?” Ivy said.

  “To find out who made that phone call,” Rhodes told her.

  There was no light at Washburn’s, but Rhodes got out and pounded on the door anyway. “Come on, Washburn. Open up,” he called.

  After a minute a light came on and Washburn came to the door. He was in a pair of blue pajamas, and his hair was tousled.

  “What’s going on, Sheriff?” he said.

  “You know very well what’s going on,” Rhodes said. “You called my office not so long ago.”

  Washburn looked at first as if he were going to deny the accusation, but then he said, “All right. I called. So what? It sounded like a war zone around here. I thought that crazy old bat had started in on someone else, so I called.”