The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  “Evening,” said Lily. “I’ve come to visit Wesley Stafford.”

  “Well now, ma’am. ”

  Lily had anticipated that whoever was watching Wesley wouldn’t want to let her see him. She was prepared for stronger opposition than Cecil Barnes could offer. She had the advantage with Cecil because one Christmas years ago she had caught him stealing a peppermint candy cane and promised not to tell his daddy if he wouldn’t do it again.

  “I have some things I want to give him,” she said, displaying the soap and magazines, “and I thought,” she added in sudden inspiration, “he might want to join me in a word of prayer.”

  Having conferred on herself semiofficial status from the Lord, Lily had no doubt that Cecil’s next move would be to get out the keys. In fact, after a short hesitation, he did just that. “Come on in here, ma’am,” he said, unlocking the door to the cells.

  The St. Elmo jail had two cells at the end of a short corridor. In one, the bunk was occupied by a motionless figure. In the other, crouched on the floor near the bars, where the corridor light could reach the leaves of his open Bible, was Wesley. His lips were moving. He didn’t look up when Cecil said, “Miz Trulock’s here to visit.”

  “Hello, Wesley,” Lily said.

  In the subdued light, Wesley’s face looked knobby. A smudge darkened his cheek, and one lens of his glasses, Lily saw, was cracked.

  “What happened to him?” she asked Cecil.

  “Resisted arrest a little.”

  “I thought he confessed.”

  “He did, pretty much.” Cecil stood watching Wesley.

  “I’m not here to help him escape,” said Lily. “You can leave us alone for a word of prayer.”

  Cecil bobbed his head and returned down the corridor. Lily knelt outside the bars and said, “Wesley.” She shoved the Saturday Evening Posts toward him. “I brought you some magazines.” He didn’t respond, and after a moment she held out the bar of soap. “And some soap.”

  Wesley swayed forward. “Save me, O God,” he said, “for the waters are come in unto my soul.”

  Wesley’s voice had always been rich and full, his best feature. Now harsh with anguish, it had an eerie power. If he could only preach now, Lily thought, he’d convert all of St. Elmo.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, but he wasn’t listening.

  “I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.”

  As always when she heard the psalm, Lily thought King David must have known a place much like St. Elmo. She, too, had seen deep mire, deep waters, floods. She understood what it meant for the waters to enter your soul, or thought she did. She reached through the bars and touched Wesley’s shoulder.

  He looked at her. “It’s me, Lily Trulock,” she said. “I brought you something.”

  She could see no recognition in his eyes. He drew a breath and said, “I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried: mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.”

  He was crazy. Lily felt cold, confronted with it. Wesley’s face, however, seemed to burn. He clutched at her sleeve, pulling her close enough to feel his breath as he continued the psalm, dropping his voice to a fervent half-whisper. “They that hate me without a cause are more than the hairs of mine head: they that would destroy me, being mine enemies wrongfully, are mighty: then I restored that which I took not away.” She felt his hand shaking. “That which I took not away, Miss Lily.”

  One of his eyes seemed weirdly divided by the broken lens of his glasses. “You know me, then,” she said.

  He turned back to the Bible and read, “Deliver me out of the mire, and let me not sink: let me be delivered from them that hate me, and out of the deep waters.”

  Kneeling there with the smell of lavender faint in her nostrils from the soap she still held, Lily felt dizzy. What was Wesley telling her? I restored that which I took not away. Could that mean confessing to something you hadn’t done? “Did you kill Diana?” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes and once again his lips moved soundlessly. Although she remained minutes longer, he didn’t look up or speak again. She got to her feet and left him.

  Cecil was cleaning a rifle, the parts spread on a white dish towel on the desk. “See all you wanted?” he asked with the suggestion of a smirk.

  “How did Woody get the idea he killed Diana?”

  Cecil ticked off on his fingers. “Feller seen him running from the boat. We went to his rooming house. He’s there reading his Bible and crying. He tells us he done it.”

  “How’d his glasses get broken?”

  Cecil was shamefaced. “He run off. I had to stop him. But when the sheriff asked him if he’d killed her, Miss Lily, he says, ‘Yes, God forgive me,’ and cries harder.” Cecil’s face had a mulish look, and Lily didn’t argue.

  Aubrey was asleep on his porch cot when she got home. She took the Bible from its shelf and turned to the sixty ninth psalm, in which King David complains of his afflictions and prays for deliverance. She read it through. Wesley was asking me to help him, she thought. Deliver me out of the mire, he had said, and let me not sink. But what could she do? The face of the man named Josh came into her mind. He knew something about the murder. She had already planned to see what she might find out about him. Would that help deliver Wesley out of the mire? Was it, in any case, her business to deliver him?

  Maybe it wasn’t. But Woody, she knew, would never admit that Wesley might not be the murderer. Snapper was satisfied. She was the only one who cared.

  Poor Wesley, she thought, with his Bible and his broken glasses. He was in the psalm, too. She ran her finger down until she found the verse, which was addressed to the Lord: For the zeal of thine house hath eaten me up.

  26

  Preparations

  Bo Calhoun was making preparations. He ignored Sue Nell, who had returned from the fish camp early that morning saying she had some things to pick up. She watched him oil his shotgun and then oil it again a few hours later. He had talked on the telephone with each of his brothers and now, in the late afternoon, the four of them were gathered on the front porch drinking beer. Their conversation drifted through the open window into the living room, where Sue Nell sat on the floor, sorting through a tackle box.

  The children were still at Sonny’s. Sonny’s wife, Missy, with every appearance of disapproval, had offered to keep them for a few days. “Until your nerves are better,” she said to Sue Nell.

  “I don’t reckon I’ll ever have as much nerve as you do,” Sue Nell shot back, and Missy retaliated by offering to have the doctor look at the rash on Little Bo’s legs, which really shouldn’t have been let go so long.

  “You left. Why the hell didn’t you stay gone,” was all Bo had said when Sue Nell walked in.

  “I’ll be gone soon enough,” she said.

  That had been right before the call came from Elmore. After the call, Bo didn’t speak to Sue Nell at all, but went ahead with his planning as if she weren’t there. She, for her part, packed a cardboard box with an assortment of supplies: clothes, canned goods, and a lump of lead for making weights for a net and the mold to make them with, corks and fishing line, a ten-pound sack of corn meal, a nickel-plated pistol with a bone handle. Arrayed on the floor in front of her was a tangle of fish hooks. She sorted them by size with her forefinger. Her red hair clung damply to her neck.

  Bo’s voice surged with energy. “He comes up the canal in a cabin cruiser. Elmore will be at the entrance to the slough at eight o’clock to meet him. You all be there at seven. Park on the fire road and come up over the ridge.”

  There were murmurs of agreement and a shuffling as the men got to their feet. Then Lester’s voice, thin with excitement or fear: “What about Daddy?”

  “We’ll tell him afterward.”

  The voices faded as they walked down the steps, Bo accompanying them to their cars.

  The hooks were sorted, largest to smallest, in a neat line. Sue Nell scooped them up, undoin
g all her work, and dropped them into an empty metal Band-Aid can. She stood up and put the can in her cardboard box briskly, with the air of someone who has made a decision.

  27

  Ambush

  Josh felt uneasy, watching the mainland come closer. Venturing into unfamiliar territory without knowing what to expect wasn’t his style, and Murphy’s order that he help make the delivery tonight had been unexpected. His task, Murphy had said, would be to transfer cartons of liquor from the boat to a truck. That was all. As long as he didn’t break anything, it sounded simple. He glanced sidelong at Murphy, who was driving the boat. Murphy’s blubbery profile looked grim in the fading light.

  They passed the ferry landing, the pilings stark in the twilight. A few more miles down the coast, the cruiser made a right-hand arc into the mouth of the canal.

  Here it was darker, the tall cypresses cutting off much of the last light. There was a brackish smell of mud and rotting leaves, and overhead a flock of birds wheeled through their last arc of the evening. Josh, straining his eyes ahead, was the first to see the shadowy outline of a bateau in the middle of the canal. He sat forward. There was a figure standing up in the boat waving a flashlight.

  “Watch it,” he said. To go around either end of the boat would be to risk knocking a hole in the cruiser’s bottom on cypress knees. Murphy cursed and cut the motor while Josh scrambled out on deck. “Hey,” he called. “Did your motor conk out?”

  The flashlight went off, but the figure didn’t answer at first. As the cruiser drifted closer a female voice said, “I’ve got something to tell you-all.”

  They were close enough now to converse normally. “Something to tell who?” Josh’s mouth filled with saliva, and he wished suddenly and violently for his shotgun.

  “You’re going to meet Elmore, aren’t you?” said the voice.

  “Just a minute.” Josh returned to the cabin and said to Murphy, “It’s some lady, says she has something to tell us if we’re heading to meet Elmore.”

  Murphy grunted, took his gun from the rack, and went on deck. Josh trailed behind. “What was it you wanted to say?” Murphy asked.

  “Don’t go there,” said the woman. “Somebody’s there waiting for you.”

  Murphy rubbed his belly for a moment, then said, “Ma’am, head over to the bank and tie up. I’d like to talk to you.”

  There was the gargle of a small motor being cranked—not more than five horsepower, Josh guessed—and the bateau slid toward the bank. As Murphy started the cruiser and followed, Josh saw the figure tie up to some bushes, then come to the back end of her boat and wait for the cruiser to drift alongside. When it did, she grabbed the ladder and climbed up, disregarding the hand Josh offered to help her on deck.

  From what he could see in the dusk, she was skinny and wore pedal pushers, a sleeveless blouse, and sandals. Her long hair, frizzing in the evening humidity, was pulled to the nape of her neck. “You were about to get your ass shot off, boy,” she said.

  Josh was unsure how to respond. “Come on in here,” he said, indicating the cabin.

  She followed him, and Murphy greeted them with a nod, then said to Josh, “I’m heading up that creek a little ways. Get out there and drop the anchor.”

  When the boat was anchored in a winding slough the three met in the cabin. Murphy stood in the doorway with the shotgun cradled in his arm. Josh lit a lantern, and in its light he could see that the woman’s hair was dark red. She had a strong chin, which was thrust forward, and she stood with her legs apart, looking from one to the other of them. “Now, what are you talking about?” said Murphy.

  “My husband and his brothers are waiting for you. They plan to hurt you bad.”

  The answer was so prompt and sharp that Josh thought Murphy seemed taken aback. “What for?”

  “He figures you blew up his still and stole his business.”

  Murphy sat on the edge of the bunk and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Sue Nell Calhoun.”

  The Calhouns, Josh thought. I was afraid of this. Sue Nell, he noticed, looked highly stimulated. She moved jerkily around the cabin, the corners of her mouth curving upward. Although he knew he should let Murphy do the talking, a question escaped him: “Why are you telling us?”

  She glanced at him. “Reasons.”

  “I tell you what, little lady,” said Murphy, getting up. “I think I better have a look at what’s going on up there. And while I do, I think you better stay here with my boy Josh.” He rubbed the back of his neck meditatively, then turned back to Sue Nell. “I’m going to take your boat back to the landing.” He said to Josh, “I got a truck parked there.”

  Sue Nell nodded. “If you go up the fire road you’ll see some Oldsmobiles. That’s them. But you better not get too close, or you’ll be sorry.”

  Murphy motioned for Josh to join him on deck. Outside, he said, “If she’s telling the truth, I got to let somebody know. She don’t go anywhere until I get back.”

  “All right,” said Josh. Murphy took up the anchor, and Josh drove the cruiser back to the canal and Sue Nell’s bateau. He heard a thump as Murphy landed in it. As he swung the large boat back toward the creek, he saw Murphy’s dark form heading the bateau toward the mouth of the canal. He anchored in the creek again and returned to the cabin.

  Sue Nell had kicked off her sandals and was looking in Murphy’s ice chest. “Thought maybe there’d be a beer,” she said.

  Josh shook his head.

  “There must be moonshine, then,” she said. “That’s why you’re in this mess, isn’t it?”

  “We got some liquor on board. You saying you want some?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  Without responding to the sarcasm, Josh went to the stack of cartons against the wall and removed a demijohn. He found two glasses in the cupboard, poured each half full, and gave one to her. They drank in silence, Josh listening to the water slapping the sides of the boat and listening, too, for any unusual noises. The whole thing might be a trick. A plot to hijack the boat and the whiskey.

  He looked at Sue Nell. She was sitting on the bunk, feet tucked under her. She wasn’t pretty at all. Scrawny, with a yellowish pale face, freckles, and eyes like swamp water. Frizzy red hair coming loose. Just the type to be lying, and now Murphy had left him here alone. He climbed up to the steering cabin, took his shotgun from the rack, and returned, feeling better.

  Sue Nell watched him over the rim of her glass. “You going to shoot me?”

  Josh didn’t reply. He propped the gun next to him. Most of his drink was gone. He’d better take it slow.

  She held out her glass for a refill. “My husband makes better whiskey than that.”

  Pride of workmanship overrode Josh’s caution. “If your husband makes such good whiskey, why are you here? Why aren’t you helping him shoot us to pieces?”

  “I didn’t come here because he makes bad liquor.”

  “Why, then?”

  “He does other bad things.” She swallowed deeply from the glass he handed her, and Josh thought he saw her eyelids droop.

  “He’ll be mad, if he finds out what you did.”

  “Oh hell. Let him be mad. I don’t even live with him anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “None of your business.”

  Josh sipped his drink. He had no head for moonshine. He didn’t like Sue Nell Calhoun. It was likely to be a long time before Murphy got back. Josh would’ve given a lot to know who he was going to see, and he might’ve been able to find out if it wasn’t for being stuck with Sue Nell. A wave of anger filled him with his next swallow. “You’re something,” he said. “I’m glad you’re not married to me.”

  She looked him over swiftly and said, “So am I.”

  Sue Nell hummed a few bars of “The Tennessee Waltz,” got to her knees, and looked out the window
. “Wonder where your big old ugly friend is.”

  “Don’t you worry about it.”

  “Keeps you hopping, does he, calls you ‘my boy Josh,’ tells you what to do?”

  Josh said nothing.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said, holding out her glass.

  Josh refilled it and his own. She looked at him speculatively. “Where you from?”

  “Near Columbus.”

  “Georgia boy. That explains a lot.”

  “Like what?”

  “About your personality and all. Bet you grew up on a farm.”

  “What if I did?”

  Sue Nell snickered. “I could tell, that’s all.”

  Strands of her hair were escaping from the rubber band. I would like to take and snatch that red hair out, Josh thought. I would like to give this lady a clip up beside the head, just enough to shut up that smart mouth. He said, “I guess Georgia people aren’t nearly as nice as St. Elmo people. We don’t even hardly ever beat up girls and kill them.”

  Sue Nell sat very still. “That’s what you folks do, isn’t it,” he went on recklessly. “Murder your own congressman’s daughter? Nice people.”

  “Maybe you ought not to mouth off so much about something you don’t know about.” Her voice was harsh.

  The blood rushed to Josh’s face. “And how do you know what I know about and what I don’t? Maybe I know more about it than you think.”

  They glared at each other. At that moment, it struck Josh forcibly that with her face flushed, making her eyes look gold, Sue Nell didn’t look so bad. Her mouth, which he hadn’t noticed before, struck him as being particularly soft and pink.

  As he watched, her lips began to quiver. It seemed an effort for her to form the words, “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Never mind,” said Josh. “Did you know the girl or something?”

  Her expression didn’t change, but he saw that she was shaking. The liquid left in her glass sloshed, and it took both her hands to steady it.

  He picked up his drink and went to sit beside her on the bunk. “I’m sorry,” said Josh. “Was she a friend of yours?”