Death in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Martha held her hand out; Lopez shook it. Maria looked from Ben to Martha an’ smiled shyly. I knew they were all gonna hit it off when the kid trotted over to Ben, patted his knee, an’ said, “Abuelo!”

  “They seem like real nice people,” Martha said.

  “Yeah. I’d take ’em home with me if I was on my own.”

  She knew what I meant. I live in my ma’s house, the same one I grew up in, with my sister Penny an’ her husband an’ eight kids. I share a bunk bed with two nephews—they got the top. The oldest boy sleeps on the couch.

  Martha said, “Don’t worry about them, Homer. They can come home with Ben and me.” She looked at Ben. Jose was huggin’ the sheriff’s leg an’ the old man was as near to grinnin’ as I’d seen him since his stroke. Martha added, “He misses havin’ grandchildren.”

  After a while, Rye come hurryin’ up. He seemed to have gotten over his mad at me. “Homer,” he said, “we got a problem.” He wouldn’t tell me what, made me come see for myself. He pointed at a van that had broke open in the pile up.

  I leafed through the report forms on my clipboard ’til I found the paperwork. The driver was a Ken Worth, suspected of havin’ a concussion, “found semiconscious and incoherent, transported to the hospital for observation.” The van was empty.

  There was tracks leadin’ away from the back of it that looked like the ones Nina’s cat makes, only these was big as dinner plates.

  tiger by the tail

  The tiger’s name was Genius. We found that out by makin’ a quick call to the hospital on Rye’s cell phone. They put Mr. Worth on, an’ he begged me, over an’ over, to find his cat. An’ keep him safe. An’ he said the cat’s name was Genius. I had to ask what kind of cat it was—he didn’t volunteer. It was a white Bengal tiger, full-growed, an’ friendly, prob’ly lonesome after three hours on his own, prob’ly scared stiff. Yeah, right.

  I tole him I’d do the best I could an’ please put the doc back on. The doctor seemed to think Worth was sane enough, but too concussed to be released any time soon.

  If he’d been a ordinary tiger, Genius’d a prob’ly faded into the backwoods, blendin’ in at least as well as a paint-ball hunter in a camouflage suit. His problem was that he was white—maybe the first time in Boone County history bein’ white wasn’t a asset. Genius, friendly as he might be, was bound to attract every reporter an’ hunter an’ gun nut in the state.

  When I first got to be deputy, my ma made me read a thing called Shooting an Elephant, by a George Orwell. When I give it back to her, I was pretty sore ’cause it was the kind of downer thing I generally avoid.

  She’d said, “You know why I had you read that, Homer?”

  “I guess you don’t want me to get boxed into shootin’ no elephants.”

  “I guess I don’t,” she’d said.

  Which is why, when Rye got the 30-30 out of his truck I said, “Rye, you shoot that tiger, I’m gonna run you in for malicious damage to property—if I can’t get the DA to go for murder one.”

  “Aw, Homer.”

  “’Fact, if you even mention he’s out there, I’m gonna—”

  “Homer,” Dwayne Truck’s voice interrupted.

  I turned ’round fast, ready to lay into anyone with somethin’ else for me to deal with. “What?”

  Dwayne looked a little hurt at my tone. “Nina axed me to tell you there’s a ‘large animal’ in her post office. She wants you to come get rid of it.”

  “We got a small crisis goin’ on here, Dwayne. Tell Nina to call a exterminator.”

  He shrugged an’ went off, an’ I turned back to Rye. “Where was I?”

  “You was just about to put your foot in your mouth one time too many.”

  “You wanna trade jobs?”

  “No. But I ain’t gonna track down no tiger for you without my gun.”

  “That’s fair enough. But you don’t have to shoot it ’less it comes after you.”

  We started plannin’ our tiger hunt—who we could trust not to panic an’ shoot it without reason, how we could catch it alive without elephants, nets, or tranquilizer guns. We were speculatin’ on how far it might’a gone an’ where it might be now, when D.W. come back.

  “Homer, Miz Ross said to tell you the animal in the post office is a live tiger, an’ she’s gonna send a exterminator after you if you don’t come right away.”

  That took care of one problem.

  ’Course, it left us with another. The post office is right across the street from the park, where half the population of West Wheeling an’ a fair number of friendly strangers were recreatin’. An’ I noticed one of the revelers was our local reporter. We didn’t need him findin’ out there was a tiger in town an’ traipsin’ across the street to peer in the windows at it, maybe poundin’ on the glass to make it look.

  I hurried over to the post office, where Nina was sittin’ on the porch, tryin’—unsuccessfully—to look relaxed. I sauntered up the steps an’ sort of nonchalantly looked in the window. There was a tiger in there, all right—big as a Holstein bull. It was sniffin’ ’round in there just like a overgrown house cat. I turned ’round an’ swore all present—Nina, Rye an’ Dwayne—to secrecy an’ said, “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I think we oughtta feed him, Homer,” Nina said. “When they’re well fed, cats use-ly jus’ sleep all day. Then maybe we could get one of them state game wardens to come out with a tranquilizer gun an’ put ’im to sleep til we get ’im caged.”

  I said, “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  An’ it prob’ly would’a worked if we could’a got hold of a game warden. As it was, we threw a couple steaks into the post office an’ the tiger inhaled them like a chocoholic snarfin’ up Whitman’s candies. I sent Rye to the Saveway for more meat, an’ we all waited to see what the tiger’d do next. He got up to put his paws on the window sill an’ look out. In fact, he leaned forward ’til he bumped his nose on the glass. He even batted at it a few times with his big paws.

  “Homer,” Nina said. “That cat must weigh three hundred pounds. What’s to stop him just jumpin’ through the glass?”

  “He don’t know he can do that. Long as he don’t know he can do it, he won’t.”

  “What if he jus’ sees somethin’ out here he wants an’ goes for it?”

  It was a good question. “I guess we’ll just have to clear the street so there’s nothin’ out here for him to see that he might want.”

  “An’ in the meantime,” she said, “we’ll have to think of a way to get him to go in the back room, where there’s bars on the window, so we can keep him in.”

  Rye got back from the Saveway in time to hear her say that. “Yeah? Who’s gonna go in an’ close the door on ’im?”

  “You get him to go in the back,” I said, “I’ll go in the front way an’ close the door.”

  The way things was goin’, bein’ et by a tiger was startin’ to look preferable to bein’ actin’ sheriff in a county with two unsolved murders, three disappearances, an’ a three-ring, chicken-pluckin’ circus in the center of town.

  order restored

  It went down pretty much like we planned. Rye an’ Nina went ’round back with the rest of the meat. We made Nina the lookout an’ gave her a handheld radio. She watched through the barred, back-room window while Rye unlocked the back door. Naturally, the noise attracted the cat’s attention an’ he come runnin’.

  Nina give me the word, an’ I slipped in the front, scooted ’round the counter, an’ grabbed the back-room door handle.

  “Homer!” she yelled. “He’s comin’ your way.”

  I froze.

  “Homer, he’s turned around. He’s goin’ for Rye!”

  Fortunately for all concerned, both doors to the back room open in. When the tiger jumped at Rye, he knocked the back door shut. Then I jerked the front door shut, an’ we had the cat bagged.

  That was one critter down an’ four hundred to go.

  Rye got us a Mason jar of brew an’ th
e four of us sat on the porch while we considered the problem.

  Across the street, the park was full of people—young families an’ old folks; courtin’-age members of both sexes; newlyweds an’ old married folks; children of every description; an’ chickens—four hundred of ’em. Chickens on the grass an’ in the bushes, chickens under the tables an’ the cars an’ trucks parked along the street. Even a chicken atop the head of the Civil War statue. The chicken truck driver had given up an’ was sittin’ on the front bumper of the stock van, swiggin’ somethin’ out of a paper bag.

  Rye said, “’Cept for them chickens, this’d be a near perfect day.” Great minds think alike.

  Nina said, “How ’bout we get someone with a cow dog to come an’ herd ’em in the truck?”

  “Nah,” D.W. said. “Most folks spend too much time tryin’ to teach their dogs not to chase chickens to go for that.”

  “’Sides,” Rye added. “You can’t herd chickens.”

  All three of ’em looked at me. Nina said, “You’re allus jus’ full a great ideas, Homer. What do we do?”

  I looked across the street an’ thought hard. My ma always said, “Live horse an’ you’ll get grass.” I’d a been happy to get even a half-assed idea, just then. An’ just then, I did.

  A couple middle school–age kids give it to me. 4H-ers. One of ’em, in his Sunday-best suit, grabbed a hen an’ yelled to a buddy, “Bet I can get more of ’em than you!”

  His friend naturally pounced on the next nearest bird. Both of ’em suddenly found theirselves with the problem of what to do with the bird he had, to free his hands up for another catch.

  I stood up an’ yelled, “Hey kids!” Both of ’em froze as I started cross the street, trailin’ my posse. When I got near enough I didn’t have to yell, I pointed at the stock van an’ said, “Bring them hens over there. That fella’ll give you a nickel for every one you bring ’im live.”

  The chicken truck driver heard me an’ stood up. “In a pig’s eye!”

  I fixed him with my sternest Law Enforcement frown an’ said, “We got fines for litterin’ an’ creatin’ public nuisances, if you get my drift. An’, given time, I could prob’ly find half a dozen other laws apply. It’d sure cost you more’n a measly twenty bucks.”

  He swallowed hard. “I guess a nickel apiece isn’t too bad. But what about those …” He pointed to the chicken on the barbecue.

  “Salvage,” I said. “None of the ones we cooked up was alive.”

  “Are you going to pay me for them?”

  I tried to look hurt. “They’re your contribution to this party. After all, you convened it.” I eyed the bag he’d been pullin’ on an’ said, “An’ it ’pears to me, you’re enjoyin’ yourself as well as the next man.” Which pretty much put an end to his objections.

  It took about a minute an’ a half for word to get ’round to all the kids about the “easy” money to be made. Then Rye, D.W., Nina, an’ I just had to sit there an’ keep tally as the young-uns rounded up the stock. Turned out to be the most entertainin’ picnic game we’d ever come up with in West Wheeling.

  two favors

  Rosy-fingered dawn was stealin’ the cover of night when my pager went off—right by my ear. I have folks page me at night, so they won’t wake my nephews in the top bunk.

  I staggered out to the kitchen an’ dialed the number that come up. A hoarse voice answered on the first ring. “Yeah.”

  “Deters. You paged me.”

  “Homer!” It was Rye. “Homer, I need a favor.”

  “You got any idea what time it is?”

  “Yeah. An’ I’m stranded in Okra. Can you come git me?”

  I smothered a yawn an’ stifled the urge to hang up. “I s’pose. Where in Okra?”

  “’Cross from Calamity Jane’s.” That explained a lot.

  “I’ll be along.”

  Rye looked like he’d been rode hard an’ put away wet. He got in the truck an’ said, “Thanks, Homer.”

  I just nodded. I turned ’round an’ headed for the Truck Stop. I needed caffeine as much as Rye looked like he did. I said, “Where’s your wheels?”

  “Must be at Diamond Jim’s. Least, that’s the last time I ’member seein’ ’em.” He shook his head. “I got drunker’n Couder Brown last night—woke up in a strange house, in bed with a woman ugly as homemade soap. Must’a been wearin’ my beer goggles when we hooked up.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  “I’m gettin’ too old for this, Homer. I gotta get serious ’bout findin’ a wife or talkin’ Nina—”

  “Nina’s spoke for.”

  Rye made a face like he’d been gut shot, an’ put his hands to his head an’ shook it slowly.

  “Well,” I said, reasonably. “I saw her first.”

  We ordered breakfast an’ didn’t talk until it was half gone. Then I axed Rye to go over the disappearance of Roger Devon again.

  “Lord, Homer, can’t you think a nothin’ else?”

  “Devon’s still missin’.”

  After we’d mainlined enough coffee to bring Lazarus back, I dropped Rye off by his truck an’ swung ’round to the Motel Six. John Peter weren’t no happier to see me’n he’d been the last time, but nobody said bein’ deputy sheriff was a popularity contest. He wasn’t a serious suspect in any of the recent happenin’s, so I drove him back to the Truck Stop an’ let him get food an’ coffee in him ’fore I started grillin’ him. He tole me, since his mission an’ his clients wasn’t confidential, he didn’t mind comparin’ notes. This last was wishful thinkin’ on his part, but I let him wish. He tole me he’d showed Devon’s pi’ture ’round, too—with no luck. He’d talked to the Greyhound driver an’ various semi drivers that had regular business in the area. If he knew about Angie Boone, he didn’t say.

  For my part, I tole him what I knew ’bout Puzzle Man—basically nothin’. The other body’d been about twice Devon’s age, which ruled Headless out as a candidate for the missin’ missionary.

  “So unless Roger was abducted by aliens,” Peter said, “I think we can assume the swamp victim was he.”

  “Sheriff Rooney allus tole me when you assume you make a ass out of u an’ me. So I ain’t assumin’ nothin’.”

  I could see my wafflin’ was gettin’ to him. Or maybe it was the limited amenities West Wheeling had to offer sophisticated city folk. “I’ve been asking about Ash Jackson,” he said. “According to everyone, he’s bad news.”

  “’Spect you ain’t talked to his mother.”

  Peter ignored that. “Even you have to wonder about the coincidence of them disappearing at the same time.”

  “Could be a coincidence, but Ash’s gone missin’ before. If he’d had a conscience, you might think his conscience was gettin’ to him. But since he don’t, you could figger he’s makin’ hisself scarce ’til the heat’s off.”

  “Well, if these bones are all that’s left of Roger, a DNA test should prove it. I’m ready to call it quits and, frankly, staying on would just be taking the Devons’s money.”

  “They kin afford it, can’t they?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Do me a favor. Give me another forty-eight hours to clear this up. Maybe I kin give you somethin’ firm to tell ’em, even if it ain’t real happy news.” I was thinkin’ of Angie Boone’s kid. I couldn’t bring back the Devons’s son, but mebbe I could put ’em on to a grandchild. I’d have to talk to Angie.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Call it more of a hunch. I gotta hunch this case is gonna break soon.”

  “I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”

  Mrs. Ruthless

  Mrs. “Ruthless” Groggins is such a plain woman, she’ll probably disappear if she ever turns pale. Which is likely why Ruthless married her. No matter how slovenly or hungover he is, he has to look good standin’ by her side.

  “Rufus ain’t here, Sheriff,” she tole me.

  “Yes, ma’am. Kin you tell me w
here he might be?”

  “Workin’.”

  That was a novelty. But I didn’t say so. I said, “Well, mebbe you kin help me.”

  She waited, not givin’ the slightest sign of resentment or curiosity, or even that she’d heard.

  “I wonder, could you tell me where Rufus was the night of the seventh, last month? Did he go out, do you recall?”

  She stared like she hadn’t heard me, for long enough to make me wonder. Then she blinked once an’ said, “He was at the rally.”

  It took me twenty minutes like that to get it out of her that Ruthless’d been away that whole week. An’ that she hadn’t believed he was where he said, either, ’til he’d showed her the newspaper pi’ture. When I axed, “Could I see it?” she’d said, “Sure, Sheriff,” an’ trotted it out.

  The pi’ture showed Ruthless bein’ stuffed into a squad car by a black an’ white cop team. He was wearin’ those wimpy, plastic handcuffs. Under the pi’ture, it said, “A KKK member is arrested by police.” I ain’t sure I’d want nobody to see me in a situation like that, but then, I ain’t Ruthless. Nor desperate, neither.

  I noted the particulars in case I needed a reprint, an’ I thanked Mrs. Ruthless.

  Nina ain’t always right.

  Angie disappears

  When I got to the kitchen, Grandpa Ross actually stood up. He was breathin’ ’specially heavy, like he always does when he’s excited. He said, “That was fast.”

  “What was?”

  “Can’t be five minutes ago I called.”

  “Maybe you’d best start over. Who was it you called an’ what about?”

  “You. Well, I talked to Martha Rooney. She said she’d get hold a you.”

  “About?”

  “That dad-blamed girl Nina’s had stayin’ here stole my gun!”

  I looked at the corner where Grandpa kept his twenty-gauge; it weren’t there. I said, “Angie?”