Murder in Four Parts

by Bill Crider

  “I didn’t realize books like that were worth so much,” Rhodes said.

  “You’d be surprised. And the sexy ones are worth even more.”

  Rhodes looked around, wondering where the sexy ones were.

  “I don’t have any of them,” Weeks said. “They’re hard to find around here. I don’t think you came to discuss literature with me, though. You mentioned Lloyd. He probably hasn’t read a book in his life.”

  “Too late now, then,” Rhodes said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s dead. Somebody killed him.”

  Weeks didn’t say anything until he’d cleared some books off a chair and put them on a table.

  “You might want to sit down,” he told Rhodes.

  Rhodes didn’t see any other vacant chairs in the room. “What about you?”

  Weeks pulled out the chair from the computer desk. It didn’t have any books on it, and Weeks sat down. Rhodes went to the cleared chair, careful to avoid stepping on the paperback copy of Six Deadly Dames that lay on the floor nearby.

  When they were seated, Weeks said, “So when are you going to arrest Cecil?”

  “Why should I arrest him?” Rhodes said.

  “Because,” Weeks said, “he killed Lloyd.”

  9

  WEEKS, OF COURSE, HAD NO PROOF OF HIS ACCUSATION, BUT HE insisted that Marsh had to be guilty.

  “Cecil was really mad that Lloyd let it slip about the singing valentine for Lindy Gomez. He and Faye Lynn had a big fight about it.”

  “How do you know about that?” Rhodes asked.

  Weeks gave Rhodes a quizzical look. “Didn’t you happen to notice how close our houses are? I hear a lot of things.”

  Rhodes thought that Weeks probably made it a point to listen in whenever he could. He hadn’t looked at all surprised to see Rhodes at his door, and he’d known Rhodes had already been to the Marsh house.

  “Mrs. Marsh thinks you might have had a reason to kill Lloyd,” Rhodes said.

  Weeks looked like a man who’d just been poked in the back with a sharp stick. “The woman hates me. Anybody can see that. Surely you didn’t believe her.”

  “Why would she hate you?”

  Weeks shook his head and gave a smile that was probably supposed to look innocent. “I don’t have any idea,” Weeks said. “I’ve tried to be a good neighbor to her and Cecil, Lord knows, I’ve tried. But they just never seem to let up with their petty complaints.”

  Rhodes didn’t feel like rehashing the history of the feud or reminding Weeks of his own recollection about who’d started the feuding.

  “It couldn’t be that you’re the one who posed as Cecil and paid for the quartet to sing to Lindy Gomez, I guess.”

  Weeks’s eyes widened. “That’s crazy. Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “You don’t deny that you and Marsh have been feuding for years, do you?”

  “No, but that’s his fault. I wouldn’t pull a stunt like that on him. The only problem we have right now is that he doesn’t like my chickens.”

  “Lots of people object to having chickens in town.”

  “I don’t see why. They’re no worse than cats or dogs, and they’re a whole lot more useful.”

  Rhodes couldn’t see anything to be gained by getting into that argument.

  “I heard that Lloyd and Darrel Sizemore were having some problems,” he said.

  Weeks appeared glad to change the subject. “That’s right. Darrel doesn’t like it that Lloyd’s spending money on music. There’s a legal angle there, you know.”

  Rhodes didn’t know, so he asked what it was.

  “It’s illegal to copy sheet music. You’re denying the writers their royalties. You’re supposed to buy the music for whatever you sing. Darrel is one of those ‘information is free’ types, though. He said the music belonged to everybody and that we didn’t have enough money in the treasury to be buying sheet music. Lloyd didn’t call him a thief, but he came close to it.”

  Darrel hadn’t mentioned that. Rhodes wondered what Lloyd would have thought of someone who sold used books on eBay, but he didn’t ask.

  “When did Lloyd and Darrel have that argument?” he said.

  “At last week’s practice. Which reminds me. Today is Tuesday, right?”

  Rhodes agreed that it was.

  “So our practice is tonight. I wonder what will happen. If Lloyd’s dead, who’s going to be our director?”

  So far, nobody Rhodes had talked to seemed too concerned about Lloyd’s death. Nobody in the strip center had known him very well, and his supposed friend, Weeks, was worried only about who was going to take his place as director. Faye Lynn Marsh had hardly cared, except as the death might affect her husband. Darrel Sizemore had been bothered, but more because he’d found the body than because of any feeling for Lloyd.

  “Did Lloyd have any close friends?” he said.

  “I don’t know. He was the director of the chorus and a good singer, so we all respected him. I’m not sure anybody really liked him, though. Didn’t anybody see who killed him?”

  “So far nobody’s admitted it,” Rhodes said. “Somebody could turn up, though, when the news gets around town.”

  “That won’t take long.”

  Rhodes agreed. Changing the subject again, he asked Weeks if he’d lost any chickens lately.

  “I’ve been wondering if you’d get around to that,” Weeks said. “I got a call about it from Hack this morning. What’s going on?”

  Rhodes didn’t like to lie, but now and then he had to stretch the truth a little.

  “We’ve had some complaints about chickens wandering around loose. We thought maybe you’d lost some.”

  “Complaints? From Marsh?”

  “No,” Rhodes said. “Not from either of the Marshes.”

  “Well, I can tell you that none of my chickens are missing. They can’t get out of the pen. I’ve clipped their wings, so there’s no way for them to get loose. And I haven’t seen any chickens in town. That’s probably just a rumor started by people like the Marshes. If you want to do something for the town, you round up all the stray cats and dogs and don’t worry about the chickens.”

  “We have an animal control officer now,” Rhodes said. “Alton Boyd. He’s doing a good job.”

  “Then get him after those rogue chickens, if there really are any. And if there are, they aren’t mine.”

  Rhodes was almost sorry he’d brought it up. He had the feeling that Weeks wouldn’t admit it even if some of his chickens had gotten out of the pen. White Leghorn feathers all looked pretty much alike, so there was no way to identify the feathers Rhodes had seen in the ditch with the alligator as belonging to one of Weeks’s hens.

  Rhodes thought about his job. Alligators, chickens, murder, and family feuds. Maybe when it came time to file for election, he wouldn’t bother. He’d stay at home and watch old movies on TV and sell something or other on eBay. He’d have to learn a lot more about computers before he could do anything like that, though. It would probably be better to stick with something he knew, even if it was frustrating at times.

  “Sheriff?” Weeks said.

  “What?”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m listening. I’ll have Alton look into the problem with the chickens.”

  The fact that there wasn’t really a problem would make it a lot easier to solve, Rhodes thought, wishing that all his problems were imaginary.

  He thanked Weeks for his help and left, again being careful not to step on any books.

  As he pulled away from the curb, he looked into the rearview mirror and saw Jennifer Loam’s car headed in his direction. Rhodes grinned. He was one step ahead.

  It was getting to be late afternoon, so Rhodes didn’t bother to drive to Obert to look for Marsh. He thought it might be a good idea to drop by the chorus practice that evening and talk to him then. He could talk to some of the others while he was at it.

  So in
stead of looking for Marsh, Rhodes headed for Max’s Place. He wasn’t sure if Schwartz would be there or at the music store, but he’d be at one or the other. He wanted to talk to Schwartz before the chorus met again.

  When he arrived at the restaurant, Rhodes could smell woodsmoke. It made his mouth water. The cheese crackers he’d eaten for lunch hadn’t done much to take the edge off his appetite.

  Rhodes went inside. Schwartz had redecorated the place with a Wild West theme. The lobby contained old photos of Texas Ranger units, western movie posters, a couple of saddles, some worn-out boots, and even a dummy of John Wayne, dressed as he’d been in Rio Bravo.

  Schwartz himself was behind the counter. He was wearing a string tie and a ten-gallon hat that looked like something from an old Hoot Gibson movie. It made Elsner’s Stetson look like a child’s hat.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” Schwartz said. “You lookin’ for some good barbecue this afternoon?”

  “Maybe,” Rhodes said. “I need a little information first.”

  “You’ve come to the right place, then.” Schwartz leaned on the counter. “When it comes to barbecue, I’m the man to talk to. Let me tell you something.”

  Rhodes tried to interrupt, but when Schwartz got on a roll, interrupting him wasn’t easy.

  “It all starts with the smoker,” he said. “So I bought the best, the Cadillac of the industry.”

  Rhodes wondered if the Cadillac was still the standard of any industry. Maybe it was. He drove an old Edsel, himself, so he wasn’t qualified to comment.

  “Southern Pride,” Schwartz continued. “That’s the name of the smoker. Bought two of ’em on eBay, and the barbecue’s mighty fine. Maybe not great, but pretty danged good. I figure if I start out with good barbecue, people will buy it, and I can make it better as I go along.”

  Rhodes tried to interrupt again, to ask about the music store, but Schwartz didn’t give him the chance.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘How can he run the restaurant and the music store at the same time?’ It’s easy. My wife’s going to handle the music business when I’m not there. She can run a business as well as I can. Maybe better. I’m more of an idea man than a manager. So while I’m getting this one off the ground, she’ll take care of the other one.”

  “I see,” Rhodes said, “but—”

  “Anyway,” Schwartz said, “after the smoker’s cooked the barbecue, there’s the sauce. I know some people say that you should eat barbecue without sauce, but I’m not one of them. My theory is that the sauce is the key to the flavor, and I’ve got a secret mixture that’ll knock your socks off. Mixed it up myself from my own secret formula. The barbecue might be just good, but the sauce is great.”

  He stopped for breath and pointed to a small poster behind him. It was a picture of Seepy Benton, who sat on a stool and held a guitar.

  “I’m keeping the entertainment, too,” he said.

  Kergan had allowed Benton to sing occasionally, if singing was the right word. Benton wrote his own songs, and the ones Rhodes had heard were hardly related to the western theme.

  “He’s writing some cowboy songs,” Schwartz said. “One of them’s called ‘Don’t Forget Your Pants When You Strap on Your Chaps or You’ll Get Chapped.’ ”

  That sounded like something Benton would write, Rhodes thought, but he really hadn’t come to hear about Schwartz’s barbecue, his secret sauce, or his plans for the future of the restaurant.

  “Cobbler,” Schwartz went on, waving a hand as if he were whipping it up right there. “Cherry cobbler and vanilla ice cream. That’s what I’m serving for dessert.”

  The thought of warm cherry cobbler with vanilla ice cream melting on top of it was almost enough to distract Rhodes, but not quite.

  “I want to ask you about Lloyd Berry,” he said.

  “Berry?” Schwartz smiled. “You’re a hundred percent right. Berry cobbler would be great. Blackberry. We’ll have that, too.”

  “Not blackberry,” Rhodes said. “Lloyd Berry. The director of the barbershop chorus.”

  Scwartz gaped. Rhodes waited for him to grasp the idea that they weren’t talking about his plans for his restaurant any longer. It took a few seconds.

  “What about Lloyd?” Schwartz said at last.

  “He’s dead,” Rhodes said. “Murdered in his shop.”

  Schwartz pushed his hat up on his head. “Are you kidding me, Sheriff?”

  “No kidding,” Rhodes said.

  “Damn. He was in here just yesterday for lunch. He and that Wilks fella that runs the gambling den.”

  Rhodes remembered what Wilks had said about eating at the restaurant. “Wilks and Berry were together?”

  “They sat at the same table, if that’s what you mean.”

  That wasn’t exactly the way Wilks had told it. Rhodes wondered what that meant.

  “Was the restaurant so crowded that they had to sit together?”

  “Crowded? We don’t have crowds yet, but we’re still in the planning stages. We’re still in the brisket stage. Just wait till I start cooking ribs. Wait till everybody’s heard about my sauce.”

  Rhodes held up a hand. “What I should have asked was, did Wilks and Berry look friendly? Did they talk?”

  Schwartz shrugged. “How do I know? I’m too busy at lunch to watch people. Speaking of which, how about dinner? We should be getting some customers in here anytime, but if you want to eat right now, I can give you any seat in the house.”

  “Maybe I’ll come back later,” Rhodes said.

  He’d have to ask Ivy what she wanted to do. If she hadn’t planned anything for dinner, she was always ready to eat out, and she rarely planned anything because of Rhodes’s irregular hours. He never knew when he’d be getting home.

  “You do that,” Schwartz said. “You give my food a try, and you won’t be sorry.”

  “Don’t you sing in the chorus on Tuesday nights?”

  “Yeah, but Jackee will be here. She can run this place, too, when I’m gone.”

  “What about a director for the chorus?”

  “Damn. Lloyd’s dead.” Schwartz was another one who didn’t seem exactly torn up about Berry’s death. “How did you say it happened?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  Schwartz winked. “Cop stuff, right? Withhold the information so that if the suspect slips up and tells you, you can book him.”

  People watched too much TV, Rhodes thought. “No, I just didn’t say. Have there been problems with the chorus? Anybody have it in for Lloyd?”

  “Cecil Marsh did because of that valentine business. I guess you know about that.”

  “I’ve heard the story. What about Darrel Sizemore?”

  “Yeah, Darrel and Lloyd argued about the music. You’ll notice there’s no music playing in here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I have to watch out for the law, that’s why. Not you, not the local law, but it’s illegal now to play commercial CDs in a place of business. That’s why Seepy’s playing his own songs. He can’t play music by other people.”

  “I thought you played Kingston Trio music in your store.”

  Schwartz looked around as if spies from ASCAP and BMI might be lurking behind the John Wayne dummy.

  “I used to, but I stopped when I found out it was illegal. Well, not exactly illegal, but you have to pay a big fee if you play music like that. So I don’t. Now it’s very quiet in the store.”

  Not if you’re there, Rhodes thought. “Did Lloyd have any other problems with people in the chorus? Or anywhere else?”

  “Not that I know about.”

  The front door swung open, and a couple came in.

  “Gotta get busy,” Schwartz said, coming out from behind the counter. “Howdy, folks. Lookin’ for some good barbecue? You’ve come to the right place.” He led them toward the dining area. “I’ve got the best smokers and the best sauce in Texas.”

  Rhodes didn’t wait to hear the rest of the spiel. He
let himself out.

  10

  TO GET BACK TO THE JAIL, RHODES HAD TO DRIVE ACROSS THE old overpass that curved above the railroad tracks on the west side of town. The overpass was a town landmark. It had been there all of Rhodes’s life, and he’d thought it would be there long after he was gone.

  He’d been wrong about that. The state highway department had decided that the overpass wasn’t up to standard and was making plans to build a new one. Rhodes supposed it was necessary. He didn’t like to think of the overpass collapsing and dropping cars and trucks, not to mention their passengers, all over the railroad tracks below, but at the same time he was sorry to think of the old structure’s being demolished.

  Sometimes it seemed to him that everything he remembered about Clearview was disappearing. Many of the fine old houses he’d known in his youth were gone, and others had fallen into disrepair. Most of the buildings in the downtown area had either fallen down or been torn down after most of the businesses were sucked into Wal-Mart’s orbit farther out on the highway that Rhodes was driving on.

  The elementary school he’d attended was gone, and houses had been built on the playground where he’d stumbled through touch football games and many innings of softball.

  The railroad tracks below him still carried trains, but none of them stopped in Clearview. The depot that had served the town had been torn down so long ago that Rhodes didn’t even remember it, though he’d heard some of the older residents mention it now and then.

  Before long, Rhodes thought, there wouldn’t be anything left of Clearview’s past. Well, change was supposed to be good. If that was so, a lot of small Texas towns were better than they’d been years ago, even though it didn’t always seem that way to Rhodes. Sometimes he felt as if little pieces of himself were disappearing and no one would ever see them again.

  The old jail was the same, though. Rhodes parked in front of the low chain that ran in front of the parking spaces. Clearview was one of the few towns left in Texas that didn’t have a big new jail with all kinds of modern equipment. The commissioners occasionally talked about building a new jail, but as long as the old one met the state’s standards and wasn’t overflowing, they funneled the money into other projects. Rhodes didn’t mind at all. The old building met the needs of the county and the town just fine. The prisoners might have preferred some more conveniences, but Rhodes wasn’t excited at the prospect.