by Ben Rehder
“Smedley, you all right?”
Neither of them even looked his way.
A cat emerged from somewhere and began to rub against Marlin’s leg. A black bird in a cage bobbed up and down on its perch, chirping, probably thinking it was morning already. Marlin looked away, and then looked back at the bird. It looked…familiar.
Marlin stood there awkwardly for a moment, watching Smedley and the housekeeper gaze into each other’s eyes, then he turned and left them alone.
Sheriff Bobby Garza finally decided to accept assistance from an outside agency. An investigative team from the Department of Public Safety converged on the Mameli house within hours. When Marlin spoke to Garza on Monday afternoon, the sheriff was exhausted but confident.
A .35-caliber shell had been found on the housekeeper’s necklace, just as Poindexter had said. Three bullet holes pocked the walls of Sal’s den. One .35-caliber bullet, still in good condition, had been extracted from a stud. Luminol revealed the presence of blood in many locations around the room, with a large concentration in one particular area on the carpet. This, Garza figured, was where Emmett Slaton had died.
Monday evening, Marlin drove Inga to the Mamelis’ house. She would be leaving in the morning, going back to Minnesota, where Thomas Peabody would be buried. Inga had been crushed by the news of her friend’s death, and Marlin hoped he could lift her spirits a little. He had warned her that he hadn’t gotten a good look at the bird, and he was pretty sure it didn’t have a red band on the back of its neck.
That seemed to excite her. “The males don’t have that band when they’re young. It appears when they mature sexually.” Inga started talking about the possibilities—the opportunity to initiate a captive-breeding program—if only the bird turned out to be a male. Marlin was worried that she was in for a letdown.
He pulled around the house and parked by the garage, next to one lone van from the DPS. The investigation was obviously wrapping up.
He put his truck in PARK and sat for a moment. “I’m sorry it had to end up this way,” he said. “With your friend….”
She smiled, then leaned over and gave him a hug. Marlin held her tight for several moments.
“Well,” she said, wiping her eyes, “let’s go see what we have.”
They walked to the small cottage, and Marlin ducked under the yellow tape while Inga waited behind it. A moment later, Marlin emerged carrying the birdcage.
As he got closer, Inga’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, John,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”
Billy Don and Red were watching the Cowboys on Monday Night Football, sucking back a few cold ones, but Billy Don felt like he was sitting in a funeral home. It was just that depressing. Billy Don hated to see Red feeling so low.
The day had actually started out pretty well. This morning, they had met with Smedley—who turned out to be a federal marshal after all! It had looked like they were in hot water up to their necks, but Smedley and Billy Don had shared a box of Twinkies and Smedley decided not to file charges.
Then the cops called, and Red found out he wasn’t responsible for killing that little guy on the tree-cutter. The man’s neck had been broken when he’d crashed into the trailer. Didn’t have a single bullet wound.
But right after that, Red received some awful news from Emmett Slaton’s lawyer, Harold Cannon. Turns out Mr. Slaton didn’t have insurance on any of the tree-cutters. Cannon said the old man was so rich, he hadn’t needed insurance.
That’s why Red was moping over there, pissed off that his brand-new business had gone up in smoke last night. He wasn’t even a vice president of anything anymore.
“Red, you want another beer?” Billy Don asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” Red said.
Damn, the man was downright glum. Billy Don pulled two beers from the cooler sitting next to his recliner and tossed one to Red. “What say I go in there and whip up some of my world-famous nachos? With extry jalapeños like you like ’em?”
“Whatever.”
Billy Don came back fifteen minutes later with a cookie sheet loaded with tortilla chips that had been covered with refried beans, melted cheese, jalapeños, and sour cream. Billy Don started wolfing them down, and Red finally ate a few himself. That was a little bit of progress.
The game was a scoreless tie, and Billy Don was starting to get a little bored. He raised his arm and examined the cast around his left wrist. “Red, let me ask you somethin’,” he said. “Why do they call this stuff ‘plaster of Paris’? You think it’s all made in Paris?”
Red grunted and shook his head.
“Because, to me,” Billy Don continued, “that seems kinda dumb. I mean, why ship this shit all the way over from Paris when we could manufacture it right here in the U.S.A.? Damn unpatriotic, if you ask me.”
“It ain’t made in Paris,” Red muttered.
“What was that?”
Red grabbed the remote and turned the volume down a tad. “I said it ain’t made in Paris, you doofus. That’s just a name they give it.”
Billy Don tried to look skeptical. “Aw, come on, Red. Then why would they call it that?”
Red sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Hell if I know, Billy Don,” he said forcefully. “Maybe they named it after the inventor or somethin’.”
“What, like ‘Bob Paris’?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Red said defensively, getting all stirred up now.
“Shee-yit, I don’t think you know what the hell you’re talking about,” Billy Don said.
And that got Red riled. He swung his bandaged leg off the sofa and sat up straight, his jaw flapping ninety miles a minute now, giving it to Billy Don with both barrels. Billy Don wanted to grin, but he did his best to keep a straight face.
EPILOGUE
Susannah Branson, the newspaper reporter, was happy to have another crack at John Marlin. Not just for personal reasons this time, but for professional ones, too. The man was a local hero now—he and the sheriff. The cases they had been involved in were incredible. Front-page stuff. Susannah could envision her stories being picked up by the dailies in Austin, Dallas, Houston…maybe even New York and L.A. This was the kind of exposure that could finally skyrocket her career.
They met at Big Joe’s Restaurant again, took the same booth, and sat down for a quiet interview. It was three o’clock on Thursday, and the restaurant was nearly empty.
“Thanks for meeting me again, John,” Susannah said, giving him her best smile as she removed her tape recorder from her purse. “Sounds like you had a wild week.”
Marlin smiled faintly. “You could say that.”
They talked for nearly an hour about both the Bert Gammel bribery case and the Emmett Slaton homicide. Susannah was getting some magnificent material on tape, but there were still some things Marlin couldn’t discuss. Like the autopsy results on T.J. Gibbs. The police were remaining quiet on that topic—but the buzz was that it wasn’t a drowning after all.
“Tell me about working with the federal marshal, Smedley Poindexter.”
Marlin proceeded to describe Poindexter as a committed, hardworking agent. “I’ve spent some time with him over the last few days, going over details on the cases, and he’s really a fine man and a dedicated officer. The U.S. Marshals Service is lucky to have him.”
“What about the gossip that he plans to move to Guatemala and open a beachside hotel? With the Mamelis’ housekeeper?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Smedley about that,” Garza said, and Susannah suspected he knew more than he was telling.
“And the other rumor: that you’re thinking about hanging up your game warden’s hat and joining the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department?”
Marlin laughed. “You’ve been talking to Bobby Garza, right?”
“Well,” Susannah played along with his good humor, “you know I can’t reveal my sources. Just passing along what I heard.”
Marlin grabbed his coffee cup but didn’t drink. “Well, to be honest, that�
��s all it is: gossip.”
“No plans to join the Sheriff’s Department, then?”
“None whatsoever.”
Susannah eyed him, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a few seconds, she was convinced.
“Okay, last question.” She had gotten all the good stuff already. Now she just needed some filler. “Do you have any comment on yesterday’s reading of Emmett Slaton’s will?”
“Sorry, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Oh, well, I guess you have been kind of distracted. It turns out that Slaton was wealthier than a lot of people realized. His lawyer held a press conference yesterday and announced that Mr. Slaton left more than fifty million dollars to the county. And it says here….” She rifled through some papers. “I know I have a transcript of the announcement somewhere. Here we go: The attorney said, ‘The bulk of the money is to be used to renovate and expand the Blanco County Hospital.’ Pretty exciting, huh?”
Marlin set down his coffee cup. “May I see that?”
Susannah handed the papers to the game warden, who began to scan them quickly. He looked up, grinning broadly. “That’s fantastic news,” he said. “When is all this going to happen?”
“From what I understand, they’re going to start building as soon as possible. The city council says….”
John Marlin was sliding out of the booth. “I don’t mean to be rude, Susannah, but I’ve really got to make a call.”
“Sure,” Susannah said, anxious to get in front of her computer and begin writing. She held out a hand and Marlin shook it. “A pleasure, as always, Mr. Marlin.”
“Thank you, Susannah.”
Susannah gathered her belongings, keeping an eye on Marlin as he went to the pay phone and slipped some coins into the slot.
OTHER BOOKS BY BEN REHDER
The complete series of Blanco County mysteries, available now, or coming soon, in ebook format.
Buck Fever
Flat Crazy
Guilt Trip
Gun Shy
Holy Moly
For more information, visit www.benrehder.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ben Rehder lives with his wife near Austin, Texas, where he was born and raised. His Blanco County mysteries have made best-of-the-year lists in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews, and Field & Stream. Buck Fever, the first in the series, was nominated for the Edgar Award.