Gone Crazy

by Shannon Hill

  “Well,” said May nervously. She glanced over at Ken. She was a Payne by birth, had the soft cheerful look of that family. “I’ll leave you to talk.”

  She skittered out into the fresh air. I flipped open a notepad and made sure my pen had ink. “Mr. Collier…”

  “Ken,” he corrected, smiling a little sourly. “There’s a lot of Mr. Colliers around here.”

  “You and some of your brothers and sisters went to Harry Rucker with a complaint,” I went on like I hadn’t noticed the hordes of Colliers lurking around this morning. “About your mother’s passing?”

  His knuckles whitened around the mug. He pushed it away. His mouth was stone. “Yeah.” He looked everywhere but at me, and I wished I could see Boris’s tail. I had no idea how to read this guy.

  “Take it slow,” I suggested. “Tell me what you can tell me.”

  Ken nodded. He kept his eyes on the table. I let the silence grow and swell right up to the ceiling. He finally tried to fill it. “I figured it wasn’t natural causes right off.”

  “How so?” I asked, though I already knew. Harry had faxed me the initial medical examiner’s report, fresh from the district office. It was a minor miracle the local ME had even noticed anything unusual‌—‌he wasn’t known for his forensic brilliance‌—‌but apparently there’d been a spectacular bruise around a needle mark that even he couldn’t miss. We usually didn’t get such quick results from the district ME, but Harry had fast-tracked it. I didn’t ask how.

  It’d be a while before we got any toxicology reports back, but a big needle mark on a woman taking her heart pills by mouth was a bright red flag that someone might have hustled her off this earthly plane before she was ready to leave. We could proceed with this as a murder without too much concern we were making a mistake.

  Ken shot me a nasty little stare. “You tell me. I just know Mama was healthy and then she’s dead and she wasn’t hardly sick a bit with her pills and all. So we told that doctor and that…‌Mr. Rucker,” he corrected mid-sentence, “we wanted them to look into it.”

  I pushed back my chair to allow Boris onto my lap. His tail was shivery, but not lashing. So far, Ken was passing the lie detector test.

  “But I figured…‌well, she went so quiet is what it was,” said Ken, more in wonder than anything else. “I always figured it’d take an axe to kill her.”

  I shifted Boris’s weight. “I never met her. She was a tough lady, I’ve heard.”

  Ken barked a laugh. “Mama? She was a damn bitch is what she was. Not that I mean that in a bad way,” he hastily added. “She worked hard to raise us after Daddy passed. But…‌She was a hard woman. Hard.” He glowered at his coffee. “Had a punch like a bulldozer. She laid out some guy come up to talk to her about buying up some land, I guess he was looking to get himself into the hollow. Back twenty years or so.” Ken sighed heavily and ruffled his hair. “I just don’t know, Sheriff. I don’t. I hate to think ill of my kin.”

  Boris’s tail lashed twice. I almost nodded. I’d spotted that lie easily enough on my own.

  “But you’re a Collier,” I said boldly. “All those kids, stands to reason you won’t all get along. And there’s all your cousins. Lots of ways to get on each other’s nerves.”

  Ken’s face went ugly. “You want a motive, I’ve got one. Mama had money, Sheriff. Nobody’d believe it, the way she lived. But she had money. Stashed it all over the house. She got sneakier when she got older, once she knew us kids figured it out, but she had it hidden all over, and she was smart.” He barely paused for breath. Always a sign that the pimple has popped, if you’ll pardon the image. “Real smart. Had stocks and stuff, too. I seen ‘em once. Lookin’ for Daddy’s squirrel rifle.”

  I had to ask. “Can I ask where?”

  “She moved ‘em after that,” said Ken impatiently, fingers flicking dismissal. Then he blinked, seemed to remember something. “Oh. You wouldn’t know. Mama was a what-you-call it. Some fancy thing now. Hoarder, that’s it. Pack rat, we called her. Doubt she threw a damn thing out. Kept it all clean,” he continued. I noticed his English had grown markedly less formal. Get someone rattled, you can always tell where they’re really from, socio-economically speaking. “But you couldn’t move two feet without comin’ up against some box of shit she said she couldn’t throw out. Dunno how the little kids survived. You know we found her dog once under a bunch of magazines fell over? Followed the flies buzzin’.” He shuddered, grimacing. His eyes were dark and mean with memory. “Oughta just set fire to the house and to hell with it.”

  Boris’s tail had remained still, confirming my impressions. I said silkily, “And to hell with her money?”

  Ken turned red, glared at me. “I loved my mama.”

  “Money’s a powerful motive,” I pointed out. “About how much do you figure there was?”

  He shook his head. “Dunno.” Now he thrust his head forward, shoulders hunched. “You-all won’t let us in there!”

  The county police, headed by that idiot Rucker, hadn’t done more than seal the house. A real inventory would take forever, or at least months, if I waited for them. Especially if they’d seen the inside of her house. I’d run into a couple of hoarders before, and that’s not something you forget.

  I noted that I’d try to get Harry Rucker to help me get permission to do the inventory myself. I asked Ken, “When we do an inventory, you can tell us if anything’s missing?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Good point, but it had to be asked.

  The meanness was back. “You don’t go stealin’ my mama’s things!”

  Boris’s ears flicked. I felt his claws dig into my legs, and the faint wriggle that meant he was readying for a pounce. I petted him a moment, letting Ken blush and mumble an apology in his own time.

  “You told Harry Rucker you thought maybe one of your siblings did it.”

  Distracted, Ken grunted an affirmative.

  “Which one?”

  “Well, can’t be Buck, he’s down to Benning.” Ken shrugged widely. “Could be any of ‘em.”

  “Not the cousins?”

  Ken snorted. “Nah. They got their own shit to worry about. It’d been one of us. Mama didn’t let no one else in the house.”

  I didn’t mention someone could have broken in. I ticked off the list of his siblings. “Eileen?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Army?” Short for Armisted, and a hell of a name to stick on a kid, in my opinion.

  A sneer. “That stuck-up bitch wife of his.”

  An interesting sentence fragment. I moved on. “Rob?”

  Ken laughed. “No balls. Mama shelled them out years ago.”

  A motive of itself.

  “Beau?”

  “Piece of shit.”

  “Okay,” I said, “how about Laura?”

  “Absolutely not. Laura’s just about the nicest woman you’ll ever meet.”

  Finally, I thought. A sibling he liked.

  “Davis?”

  “Faggot.”

  I pinked a bit. Aunt Marge disapproves of such terms. Strongly. “So that means you don’t think so?”

  “Nah. He might get dirty.” He mimed floppy-wristed prancing.

  “Marilee?”

  “She’s in Norfolk. Never comes home. She and Mama didn’t speak.”

  “Honey?” I asked next. I’d been a year or two behind Honey in school. Speak of uptight you-know-whats.

  “Pissy bitch.”

  I took that as a yes, she could kill her mother.

  “Jeff?”

  “Nah. He didn’t like Mama much, but he just sticks to himself up the hollow.” He pointed loosely north. “Don’t even know if anyone’s told him Mama’s dead.”

  The Waltons they weren’t. I flipped my notebook shut, and dumped Boris to the floor. “What about you?”

  Ken briefly paled, then turned brick-red. “What the hell’s that mean?”

  “You knew she had money and stocks hidden,” I pointed ou
t. “It’s a yes or no, Mr. Collier. Did you have reason to kill your mother?”

  His hands were fisted. His jaw set. “No,” he said, but I caught the two quick flicks of Boris’s tail.

  I picked up Boris. He braced his hind feet in the bulletproof vest. It felt like I was carrying a sack of flour. “Thank you, Mr. Collier. Ken. Can I have the phone numbers for your brothers and sisters? I’d hate to drop in unannounced a second time.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t sure my nerves could take it.

  He handed me a list of neatly printed numbers, quickly jotted on a pink piece of paper bordered in green vines, that read “Grocery List” on the top. I shook his hand. He nodded crisply at Boris, and politely watched the dogs to be sure they didn’t attack. I settled Boris in his seat, pressed my forehead to his momentarily. “Well, sweetie,” I said as we drove away, “that is one angry man. What do you think?”

  Boris mewed. Then he tapped the bolted-in container that usually holds some crunchy kibble. It was empty. I sighed. Never ask a cat for an opinion when he’s hungry.

  4.

  I rolled back to Crazy in a quiet mood. Domestic disputes are common enough in my line of work, but this had gone far beyond some sibling squabble over who got Mama’s nice dishes. I swear I could smell it, that’s how badly it stank.

  I’d just gotten to the little shopping plaza when I saw something in the Food Mart parking lot. Five-six people, maybe seven, and they were in a tight knot. I recognized Bobbi. She was yelling at the top of her lungs. So was everyone else. I caught a glint of sunlight on metal, and hit the lights and siren. Just a quick whoo-whoop, enough to scatter a couple of people and get Boris’s tail lashing with anticipation. Ken Collier’s dogs had put him in a bloodying mood.

  I hopped out, shouldered my way to Bobbi. “What’s going on?” I demanded.

  It’s amazing how people who were, twenty seconds ago, screaming obscenities can manage to all look like put-upon bystanders when a cop shows up.

  I let my eyes move from one person to another. Mike Spivey, who’d once been a Crazy deputy, and now lived off his wife; Josie Shifflett, my least-favorite chronic traffic offender, and her ratty son, Chris; Joe Brady, related to town nuisance Eddie Brady; Al Rush, a retiree; Maury Morse’s brother, Delbert. Bobbi, fuming. And a tall guy who reminded me of Gary Cooper, by way of Bollywood. Who opened his mouth, and instead of the Indian accent I expected, I got pure Midwest anxiety. “Look, I just wanna go home.”

  A growl from someone, and Mike Spivey‌—‌genius that he isn’t‌—‌snarled, “Yeah, go on back to al-Qaeda.”

  Bobbi opened her mouth again. I stepped in. Literally. Mike’s a big guy, but not that much taller than I am. Bobbi, by comparison, is a pipsqueak. “You want to back off now.”

  He didn’t, not really. Josie Shifflett shifted her weight, joggling hard against me in an accidental not-at-all-accidental way. Boris was mewling near my feet, uneasy at all the people crushing close. His tail was stiff and low, never a good sign.

  “Get outta the way, Lil,” said Delbert. “We got to see if he’s some damn Muslim.”

  I’d like to say this is a purely small-town mentality but the truth is, it’s a human mentality. As Aunt Marge will say now and then, in a rare fit of pessimism, you can’t cure xenophobia when it’s built into the DNA.

  I snapped around, hand out to the stranger. “Can I see your ID?”

  He gave me his whole wallet. Trusting guy. Crazy was going to eat him alive.

  I checked his driver’s license. Legitimate Virginia license. “Rajiv Vidur,” I pronounced with care. I glanced at a second card. “You’re the new vet, then.”

  You could hear the mini-mob deflate behind me.

  “Yeah,” he said. I pegged him for Ohio, maybe Indiana. “Just got here.”

  “I told you!” shrilled Bobbi. “You all ain’t got a lick of sense, y’know that? Why’d any damn terrorist come here? Ain’t nothin’ to blow up!”

  Not the argument I’d have used, but it did have merit, backed up by Bobbi’s mountain twang. Like Boris’s tail, a reliable sign of mood. I smiled at Vidur with a wince. “Where in the Midwest?” I asked, ignoring the squabble behind me.

  “Dayton. Went to OSU,” he said. “I’ve been working in Richmond, but I like the country.” He was actually taller than I am, for a wonder, and peered past me. “This how everyone says hello in hill-billy territory?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You want to end up as my next homicide case,” I said coldly, “you go ahead and make the Deliverance joke.”

  He suddenly realized he was outnumbered, and stepping on toes in more than a metaphorical way. “Oh,” he said, and turned a deep red.

  “Let’s agree you’re not Taliban, and we’re not inbred idiots,” I suggested icily, “and then you can go on home.”

  He nodded. He edged closer to his car. I turned around to deal with the would-be lynch mob, raising my voice to be heard over Bobbi’s argument with Mike Spivey. “All right, settle down! Everyone just back up and settle down right now!”

  Al Rush obeyed. So did Chris Shifflett. Joe Brady shuffled a few inches out of my way. Then Delbert pushed forward like a bull in a china shop and poked two fat fingers into my shoulder. “What you gonna do about him, huh?”

  There are some things you should not do. Not to me. I put up a hand, warning him to back up, but Delbert has a special brand of stupidity that is Maury’s despair. Maury makes a good mayor; Delbert makes a good embarrassment. So he shoved me again, like we were a couple of jerks in a bar after too many beers, and he used both hands. I’m tall, but Delbert’s heavy, and I had to step back a little to catch my balance. That was all Boris wanted. He’d had a long, stressful day, and finally someone had given him his excuse.

  There was a screech of feline rage, a scream of human pain, and then a black-and-white blur attached to a plaid-shirted blur as Delbert tried to fend off the attack. Normally Boris would’ve just gone after his arm or leg, but he shinnied up Delbert with all eighteen claws out and ripping, then got himself between Delbert’s shoulder blades. Delbert had some rolls of fat convenient for Boris to plant his paws in, and he clung grimly on with his teeth sunk into a thick wedge of tissue near Delbert’s neck. Delbert kept screaming, flapping his arms as he spun.

  I tapped Mike Spivey and Al Rush. “Hold that fool still,” I said, and they grabbed Delbert’s arms gingerly as he whirled past. When he stilled, I put a hand on Boris. “Down, sweetie.”

  He released Delbert, and twisted, leaping to safety. Which was when Delbert swung at me. He connected, too. I didn’t see it coming. I was half-turning to make sure Boris was all right, and the big fat ham of a fist clocked me right in the jaw. I spun around and hit the asphalt, seeing little gold and silver showers of sparks. Training took over, and I kicked out to knock him down, but Delbert had bigger problems.

  Boris and Bobbi both went for him. She screeched louder than Boris, and when my vision cleared‌—‌Al Rush kindly helped me to my feet‌—‌Delbert had Bobbi on his back, clinging to him like he was a horse she was riding, and she was punching at his head for all she was worth. Boris was wrapped around one thick arm, his claws tearing right through Delbert’s favorite tattoo. Swear to God, if I hadn’t had such a headache, I’d have died laughing.

  Delbert went to his knees. Blood was streaming from his arm, his nose, his mouth. I was tempted to kick him in the groin for good measure, but there are rules. I peeled Bobbi off him, with help from the new veterinarian, and then had to shout twice before Boris released his grip. Both he and Bobbi stood seething.

  “Someone call Dr. Hartley and tell him I’m coming,” I snarled at the audience we’d gathered. “Bobbi, dammit, get in the cruiser. Myrna’s gonna have to close up for you. Delbert, stop crying, you’re not dying yet. You’re both under arrest.” I glared at them all. “Anyone else wanna come for a ride?”

  You could hear the flowers bloom, it was that quiet.

  I flung myself into the cruiser, along with two prisone
rs, and my cat. I used the radio to warn Kim what was coming, then slammed the accelerator to the floor.

  ***^***

  I didn’t have a concussion, just one huge nasty bruise. Delbert needed stitches and antibiotics. By the time Maury came to my office, the word had spread over half the county, and Aunt Marge had already arrived with a cold compress and some healing vegetable broth. “My poor Lil,” she crooned, checking the swelling on my face. She shot Delbert a look that ought to have deep-fried him on the spot.

  Maury took off his ball cap and rubbed his ever-growing bald spot. “Miz Turner, your pardon,” he said, then nodded his apologies to Kim as well. “But God-gol-damn it, Del, what the hell were you thinkin’? You hit a woman! And a sheriff!”

  “Her fucking cat,” Del began, but Maury put a hand through the bars and slapped Del’s mouth.

  “Watch your language, boy.”

  “Her damn cat…”

  “Lil, did he lay hands on you?”

  I had to be fair. “Yeah. Twice.”

  “Jeeez-us!” Maury exclaimed. Then he scrubbed his hand over his face. He and Delbert owned and operated Morse Sanitation and Disposal, our local resource for getting rid of waste of all kinds. He couldn’t really afford to leave Del in jail, much as he might want to. Finally he heaved a big sigh. “What’s the bail?”

  “He hit a cop,” I told Maury. “It’s gotta go to Harry Rucker.” I paused, grinned a little to myself. “And you know Bobbi’s kin to him.”

  “Jeez-us,” Maury repeated. He looked like he had my headache. It didn’t matter Bobbi had jumped Delbert. Delbert had laid hands‌—‌well, hand‌—‌on her trying to get her off, and there are rules you don’t break. Not in Crazy.

  Aunt Marge added nastily, “And to Chief Rucker.”

  Maury’s face scrunched. “Lord,” he mumbled.

  Tom Hutchins cleared his throat. He has a big open face and a big open build, the kind you see in guys who leave the hard-body military and soften up a bit. “Mayor? Might be it’d be easier if Del there dropped his charges against Bobbi. She was trying to help the sheriff, after all.”