“What about that sickle sheen you were going to show me?”
“Here’s some.” Faye held out a blade very similar in shape to the one that had killed Carroll Calhoun. “When you see sickle sheen, then there’s a good chance that your tool is old, and that it was used in a prehistoric agricultural society.”
“And that would help me how?”
“If it’s new, then your suspect probably either made it or bought it from somebody who did. There might be a bill of sale and a flintknapper who could identify the buyer. If it’s old, then, again, the killer could have bought it, which would give you a receipt to look for. Or you could be dealing with a collector. A farmer, for instance, can build up quite a collection of stone tools during a lifetime of walking a plowed field.”
“No kidding. My father framed a bunch of his best pieces. He laid them out on brown velvet and built a shadow box frame to hold them. He had a bowl full of run-of-the-mill arrowheads just sitting out on the table next to his recliner where he could look at them whenever he wanted to. Somebody stole one during a football party one time, years ago. Can you believe it? Everybody around here’s got a bowl of arrowheads, and somebody stole one of Daddy’s. He didn’t speak to Preston Silver for a week, thinking he was the thief, but he and Preston patched things up. Then he suspected Carroll Calhoun. Never did get it back.” Neely picked up a spear point and turned it over in her hand, running a finger along its still-sharp edge.
“How’d he know it was missing?”
“They were like his babies. He knew their color and shape. He liked the way they felt in his hand. He still likes me to put that bowl in his lap so he can pick them up and look them over, one by one.”
“Would your father know who the collectors are around here? Maybe somebody would recognize the murder weapon.”
“My father doesn’t even know who I am any more.”
Faye could have bitten her tongue out for making Neely admit that.
The sheriff recovered quickly. “An old tool wouldn’t necessarily point to a collector. It could implicate a Choctaw. Or one of your archaeologists. And a new tool could point to a collector, too. Like you said, people buy brand-new arrowheads from flintknappers all the time. It’s an art form, just like painting or sculpture. And I understand that some people don’t just like to make stone tools. They like to practice shooting their homemade arrows.”
Faye thought fast. Bodie just happened to be the Florida state atlatl champion, a competition that required him to fit a homemade spear to a spear thrower of ancient design. If Calhoun had been felled by a spear through the heart, Bodie would have been Faye’s first suspect. Except he was so soft-hearted, she wasn’t sure he could stomp a cockroach.
Should she say something about Bodie’s accomplishment? Since anyone with an Internet connection had immediate access to the information, it seemed unwise not to mention it to the sheriff. The sheriff would find out eventually, and then she’d wonder what else Faye wasn’t telling her. Which could lead to some uncomfortable questions like Do you know anybody else with that kind of primitive skill?
“You do know that Bodie, Dr. Mailer’s assistant, is one of the best spear throwers around? Not that I think that makes him a suspect. If he’d wanted to kill Calhoun, he could have done it from fifty paces.”
So could Joe. What was more, Joe had actually put a spear through a man’s throat once, but there was no need for Neely to know that. Joe was a practical man, who couldn’t conceive of why he’d want to enter a contest to prove himself, so there was no official record of his skill. Joe saw no value in aiming at a target, not when he couldn’t eat it. Faye had enjoyed many a dinner featuring rabbits that Joe had felled with stone projectiles.
“Besides, there’s not much overlap in skill between throwing a spear at a target and holding a blade in your hand and slicing someone’s throat with it,” Faye pointed out, hoping that Neely would leave Bodie alone. “Anyway, back to the question of sickle sheen, anybody who works with lithics could take a look at your murder weapon and give you a fairly good idea of its age—even if it’s a modern fake, and somebody purposely tried to simulate edge wear. You could use that knowledge to guide your investigation, but in the end, you’ll need a lab to confirm it.”
“The murder weapon looks a lot like this one,” Neely said, pointing to the tool Faye had selected as a prime example of sickle sheen. “So you can tell any flintknapping friends you’ve got to rest easy.”
Faye nearly lost her poker face.
A knock on the door saved her from blurting out something stupid. Dr. Mailer stuck his head in and beckoned to Faye. Someone stood close behind him.
“Chuck is back.” Mailer’s tone of voice was pleasant and even, but his clenched jaw said that he wished Chuck had stayed gone just a little longer. “Joe told him that the sheriff was interested in learning how to distinguish ancient tools from modern reproductions. Chuck would just love to spend some time showing her his reference collection.”
It couldn’t have been more obvious that Mailer didn’t want Chuck left alone with the sheriff. Faye squeezed through the doorway and crowded herself onto the entry stairs where the two men waited. She closed the door behind her, and she could tell that Mailer was glad she did. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Chuck. I’ve shown the sheriff a good example of sickle sheen, which is really all she’s interested in today. She knows that she’ll eventually have to have the murder weapon examined by an expert. I’ll tell her that you have some recommendations when she’s ready to select a lab.”
Chuck’s response was quick and eager. “I could examine the weapon for her.”
His face was flushed at the thought of using his esoteric knowledge for something concrete and useful. Faye doubted very much that the sheriff would consider using someone who’d been in direct conflict with the victim barely a day before he died, but she said, “Thanks, Chuck. I’ll tell her.”
She backed through the door and shut it behind her, hoping Chuck didn’t follow. It was, after all, his office. The door stayed shut.
The sheriff, whose poker face was better than Faye’s, was waiting quietly. “This is his office?” She gestured toward the door.
“Chuck’s? Or Dr. Mailer’s?”
“The…unusual…one.”
“That would be Chuck.”
Neely shoved the points around on Chuck’s desk, shuffling them like dominos.
“Whoever sits in this office has access to all this stuff and more. So, I guess, do all the rest of you. But this guy…you said his name was Chuck? He’s the one that worries me.”
Faye couldn’t argue with her.
Before the sheriff had even reached her car, another car pulled into the makeshift parking lot in the Nails’ side yard. When a slender black man emerged from the car, Faye realized that they were being graced with the presence of a retired congressman. And that he wasn’t happy.
Judd strode directly toward the sheriff. “Your receptionist said you were out here, and I needed to talk to you right away, so I just drove out.” His voice was high-pitched and agitated.
Faye didn’t like the tremor in his hands, not when she’d heard him tell everybody at the Neshoba County Fair that his health problems included high blood pressure and God-knew-what-else. She stepped forward, putting a hand on his elbow to steady him, and turned to Bodie. “We need a chair.”
Bodie got to the trailer and back with a chair in seconds. He helped the older man ease himself into the desk chair.
“Wouldn’t you like to talk privately?” the sheriff asked. “These folks—”
Judd started talking, blurting his story out quickly, as if he couldn’t bother to wait and listen to what she had to say.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve read the newspaper article about Mr. Calhoun’s death. Well, not the part about his death. I just couldn’t stop reading the part that described where he was found. He was in a marijuana field, wasn’t he? Well, that got me to thinking about something tha
t happened not too long before I was beaten. Before someone tried to kill me.” He took a ragged breath.
“Chuck,” Mailer said quietly. “The man needs a drink of water.”
As if relieved to be given something useful to do, Chuck ripped the shrinkwrap off one of the cases that he’d just bought, and plucked out a water bottle. Removing the cap, he held out the open bottle with a gesture that was almost tender. His manner made Faye feel a little tender towards him, too.
“One day not long before the beating, I’d gotten up early to go fishing. My favorite spot was very near here, close to where the creek goes under the road. It had been a dry summer and the creek was low. There wasn’t much water in my regular fishing hole, so I followed the creek further into the woods than I’d ever been before, looking for a better spot. I walked quite a ways, and I remember passing an open field that was planted with a crop I didn’t recognize.”
He paused and drew a long sip from the bottle. “I know now that it must have been a marijuana field that I saw, but I was a preacher’s kid and it was a simpler time. I don’t think I even knew what marijuana was. Anyway, right after I passed that field, I remember walking past an overgrown cemetery that was on top of a little hill.”
Oka Hofobi said, “You must have been way out in the woods. I’ve walked over most of the land around here, time and again. I don’t know of any cemeteries near here.”
“You spend a lot of time trespassing?” the sheriff asked tartly.
“Not since I learned better.”
Judd lowered his face into his hands. Faye thought for a second that he was going to faint, but he pulled himself together and looked up at Dr. Mailer. “There are some pills in the glove box of my car, and there’s one or two that I could use right about now. I’ve got too darn many meds to carry them in my pockets.”
Mailer nodded to Chuck, who hurried to the car.
Oka Hofobi pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call my doctor.”
Judd waved a hand at him and shook his head. “Lord, no. This happens a lot. More often than I’d like, that’s for certain. If I keel over, go ahead and call. Otherwise, just let me sit here and breathe for a minute.”
Chuck had crossed the yard quickly, at an easy lope. He brought with him a prescription bottle and a case with multiple compartments, one for each day of the week. “I didn’t know which you needed.”
Judd took the bottle. “My wife keeps that big one filled with all the stuff I have to take every day. This one’s for angina. When the chest pain comes, I’m supposed to take one of these.” He put a pill under his tongue and closed his eyes.
Faye stepped away from the crowd of archaeologists hovering around Judd and beckoned to the sheriff. “Maybe he wasn’t being lynched that day. Maybe somebody knew he saw their field of pot and wanted to shut him up before he called in the law.”
Neely looked over her shoulder at the sick man. “I don’t know, Faye. Mr. Judd is smart and well-spoken, and Lord knows teenage boys are cocky beasts. He was probably a lynching waiting to happen. Maybe it just comes from growing up around here and hearing the stories about what things were like in the sixties, but my gut tells me that his attack was racially motivated. I’ll give your theory some thought, but I’ve got my hopes set on an interview I’m doing this afternoon. The guy’s a former Klansman and he’s got cancer. I think he’s willing to talk before he dies.”
An image of white sheets and hoods flashed through Faye’s head, and her skin crawled. “They say confession is good for the soul. Sounds like this guy has some atonement to do. Maybe he’ll tell you what you need to know.”
“Let’s hope so. And I might get lucky and learn something about Calhoun’s killing, too. There have always been rumors that his buddy Preston Silver was big in the local Klan. The KKK is a shadow of its old self now, and thank God for that, but Preston’s getting up there in years. He could have been part of some nasty things, back in the day. And maybe Calhoun was, too.”
“Nailing a Klansman or two is a good use of a sheriff’s time.”
“Well, I like to think so.”
They returned to Judd’s side. His color was improving, and the pain-generated tension around his closed eyes had eased.
“Can I take you back to your hotel?” Neely asked gently. “I’m going back to town, anyway.”
“I can drive,” he insisted, though his trembling hands said otherwise. “I can’t just leave my car out here.”
“I’ll bring it,” Faye offered.
“You’ll need to get back out here to work, and the sheriff has other places to be,” Joe pointed out quickly. “I’ll drive Mr. Judd, Faye, and you can follow in your car.” Having just earned his driver’s license, after several frustrating efforts to pass the written test, he was always eager to exercise his new independence. Plus, Joe was, by nature, happiest when he was helping someone else.
But the sheriff was shaking her head. “I want to drive the congressman myself. I’ll just feel better if I can keep an eye on him till he’s feeling better.”
Faye didn’t really think Neely needed to add another older man in ill health to her list of burdens, but she could see that there would be no arguing with the sheriff. She herself had nursed both her mother and her grandmother through their last illnesses, and she recognized a born caretaker when she saw one. If she got a chance, she wanted to tell Neely that it was no crime to take care of herself now and then.
Joe had ciphered through the vehicle situation and come up with a second-best scenario. “Okay. We take three cars. The sheriff drives Mr. Judd in her car. Faye follows in his car. And I bring up the rear in Faye’s car, so I can take her back to work.”
“Good plan,” Faye said. Within minutes, their convoy was pulling out of the Nails’ driveway. The road into Philadelphia was deserted—probably because everyone with a pulse was at the Fair—so they made good time.
Faye knew that Judd was staying at the same hotel as the archaeologists. Owned by the Choctaws, it boasted a wide range of amenities, including a casino. Ex-congressmen might be accustomed to such luxury, but archaeologists weren’t. Faye had unkinked her muscles nearly every night since they arrived in the nice, toasty sauna.
She was looking forward to more of the same, and not paying very much attention to the road, when Neely swung a hard right into a parking lot. By taking the turn at a higher rate of speed than was wise (all the while hoping that the sheriff didn’t write her up for reckless driving) she managed to follow. Joe, whose reflexes were perfect, as were his powers of observation, made the turn effortlessly. And to think that the state of Florida hadn’t wanted to let him drive. Faye was still irate on his behalf over that snub.
As Faye put the car in park, Neely tapped on her window and Faye lowered it. “Would you hand me Mr. Judd’s pills out of the glove box? He needs to refill one of his prescriptions. I’ll go in and do it for him. Would you and Joe like to sit with him while I’m gone?”
“No problem,” Faye said, rounding up Joe and walking over to the sheriff’s car. She gestured for Joe to join Judd in the front seat, while she sat in the back behind the divider that protected the sheriff from hardened criminals. From the look of him, Joe enjoyed the sight of her back there entirely too much.
Judd nodded at Neely’s back as she disappeared into the pharmacy. “She’s worse than my wife.”
Faye raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I told Neely I wanted to get a look at that old cemetery, just to see if I could find the spot where I saw that marijuana field all those years ago. Maybe it’s the same place where Mr. Calhoun was killed. She said ‘No,’ and gave me a long list of reasons why I shouldn’t go. First, she said that the idea that I was attacked to keep me from telling somebody about the pot field is far-fetched. She said, ‘Mr. Judd, you grew up here. You knew that your attack was racially motivated while it was happening, and you know it now.’”
“That’s what she told me,” Faye said. “Just because she believes
it doesn’t make it true.”
“My point, exactly. Then, she pointed out that Calhoun’s widow owns all that land now, and Neely says she’s more prejudiced than her husband ever was. Neely declared that she’d never allow me to set foot on it. Actually, what the sheriff really said was, ‘That woman would shoot you dead before she’d let you traipse over her property looking for evidence that her husband’s been growing pot for forty years.’”
“Well, the sheriff knows her jurisdiction,” Faye pointed out. “She might be right about Mrs. Calhoun.”
Judd shrugged. “I don’t know the woman, so I can’t say. She doesn’t sound like a real reasonable person, for sure. The sheriff says that even now, with him being found dead in the middle of his own field full of contraband, his wife’s insisting that he didn’t plant it. She claims that somebody else must have planted it, then, when he stumbled onto it on his own property, he got killed by the real drug dealer.”
“People generally believe what they want to be true,” Joe said.
“Yes,” said Judd, “but that doesn’t help me any. The sheriff told me to give it up, that she wouldn’t help me look for the truth.”
“I will,” said Faye.
CHAPTER TEN
Neely plopped down in the driver’s seat. Faye tried to look like she hadn’t just been discussing the possibility of doing an end run around her authority as a sheriff. She willed Joe and Mr. Judd to do the same thing.
Neely pulled the pill case that held Judd’s routine medications out of her purse. Opening the bottle, she put one pill in each slot, then dropped the empty bottle into a wastebasket on the car’s floorboard. She did it methodically, talking all the while, like someone who sorted other people’s medications all the time. Which, of course, she did. Remembering Neely’s father’s condition, Faye understood her solicitous care of Mr. Judd a little better.
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