Past Dying (The Alan Graham Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  “I hear you caught something in China,” I said.

  Sam shrugged. “Just Yangtze blood poisoning or some other unknown disease. I’ll be all right.”

  I handed him a bottle of J. W. Dant I’d picked up at Albertson’s.

  “Maybe this’ll help,” I said.

  “I hope so. If you don’t mind, though, I’ll put mine off until later.” He called to Libby: “Pet, see that Alan gets something to drink.” He turned back to face me and gave a little cough. “So what have you been working on lately?”

  I told him about the project in Lordsport and then about Miss Ethel and her UFO. Finally, I told him about the car and finding the body of Jacko Reilly.

  “Damn,” he muttered, stroking his white goatee. “You always manage to put your foot in it.”

  “I have to help Jeff,” I said.

  “Watch yourself, Alan. There’s nothing like these small towns for dirty politics and pure out-and-out treachery.”

  “You’re not saying I shouldn’t trust Jeff?”

  “How much have you seen of him in the last five or six years? Power does funny things to people.”

  “Jeff’s okay,” I told him.

  When I left, I thought Pepper had been right: Sam’s usual enthusiasm was missing and his skin had a gray cast. It was a sobering thought that the man who’d gotten me started in this business, always stood behind me and given his support, might be mortal.

  I was still thinking about our visit later in the day when my phone rang and I had a premonition it might be Libby, telling me something had happened. But I was wrong. The quavering voice on the other end, while female, did not belong to Libby MacGregor.

  “Dr. Graham? Is this Dr. Alan Graham?”

  I hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Ethel Crawford. I got your number from your business card. I hate to bother you at home.”

  Not more about the damn UFO …

  “What can I do for you?” I’m afraid my tone was brusque.

  “I think you better get back up here.”

  “To Lordsport?”

  “Yes, of course. I tried talking to Jefferson but he was almost rude. You seem like the kind of person who’ll listen.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, I did everything I could and—”

  “This is different. You really need to come up.”

  “This is Saturday. I can’t do it now. I may be up later in the week. What’s this about, anyway?”

  When she spoke again her voice was a whisper: “I can’t talk on the phone, don’t you see? You’ll just have to come. Now.”

  “I can’t come now, Miss Ethel. It’s almost a three hour drive. I’ll call Sheriff Scully and—”

  “Never mind. I should have known.”

  The phone went dead. I stared at it for a long time. Pepper came in from the kitchen, where she’d been experimenting with my jambalaya recipe.

  “Who was that?”

  I told her.

  “Do you think you ought to go?”

  “And miss tonight’s poker game? Look, you’ve been badgering me for two years to let you play and I’ve finally convinced the other guys and, believe me, it wasn’t easy. If I bug out, it’ll be like resigning from the group.”

  “You’re such a gentleman,” she said sarcastically.

  “I try.” I reached for my Rolodex. “Anyway, I’ll call Jeff and tell him to go talk to the lady.”

  But Jeff Scully wasn’t at home and his office said he was hunting. I told the deputy on duty to check on Miss Ethel and heard him groan.

  “Sheriff Scully was just there yesterday.”

  “Just go by again today, will you? I’ll square it with your boss.”

  “Sure,” the deputy said without conviction.

  I hung up the phone and turned toward the kitchen, to make sure the jambalaya would be edible.

  It was total insanity to even think of dropping everything to rush up to Lordsport to listen to an old lady’s fantasies about a UFO. Nobody would blame me for blowing it off. In a couple of hours my friends would be here for an evening of companionship around the card table, and after that I had another deliciously long night with Pepper. It would have taken dynamite to pry me loose.

  In short, I stayed.

  It was a big mistake.

  SIX

  Sunday, after breakfast at ten, I drove to the office to catch up on some paperwork. When I got back, just before noon, Pepper watched me go to my study and then came and stood behind me.

  “So what is it?” she asked.

  “What’s what?”

  “You hardly said a word after you got up and nothing at all during breakfast.”

  “No?”

  “No. Not since the poker game, in fact.”

  “Oh.”

  “Was it that big a deal, letting me play?”

  “Not for me, but the others aren’t used to having a woman. I’m sure they’ll—”

  “They seemed fine with the idea,” she said. “You’re the only one who acted upset.”

  “Well, it was my house. They couldn’t say no. That’s what made it so awkward. I mean, they know that you’re … that you and I … that the two of us …”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well, what if everybody decides to bring his wife or lady friend or whatever?”

  “Then the whole game goes to hell, is that it?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say that … exactly. It’s just that it’s a break in tradition. The guys are used to one another. And they curse a lot. It kind of throws them to have a lady. A person of refinement, like yourself, and besides, you beat them.”

  “I won a little. But that’s because stud poker’s a game of skill.”

  “They aren’t used to five-card. It threw ’em.”

  “At first you told me you were scared I’d embarrass you by calling spades wild. Now it’s because I play real poker with five cards.”

  I knew it was a lost argument. The Saturday night game would never be the same. A tradition had fallen. What was there to say?

  “I think I’ll walk the dog,” I told her.

  When I got back an hour later it was early afternoon and there was a note on my computer.

  HAVE GONE TO LIBRARY, WHICH ALLOWS BOTH SEXES. I’LL BE BACK WHEN I GET BACK. JEFF SCULLY CALLED. WANTS YOU TO CALL HIS OFFICE ON DIRECT LINE (318) 555-9701. URGENT.

  No heart shape above her initials. No signature.

  I carefully folded the paper, so that the next time we had an argument I could point out that not signing one’s messages was childish. Then I dialed Jeff’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  I identified myself. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Miss Ethel,” he said. “My deputy drove over to her place after you talked to him yesterday and …”

  “And?”

  “She was gone.”

  A chill passed through me.

  “Maybe she went somewhere to visit a relative. Does she have family?”

  “No husband, and only a niece in Ferriday. The niece never saw her. What I’m saying, Alan, is she’s disappeared.”

  “Maybe she went shopping in Natchez.”

  “And stayed over? I doubt it.”

  “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “Yeah, and they all expect me to have it. I’ve already gotten a call from that newspaper fellow. And if that’s not bad enough, I got a call from the judge. He wants things cleared up without bringing in the State Police. Alan, things have gone from bad to shit.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “So what did she tell you when she called?” he asked. “Did she say anything about taking off?”

  I repeated what I could remember of the phone call: “She said I should come up but she wouldn’t say why. It was almost like she thought somebody was listening on the line.”

  “Hell,” Scully swore. “I should’ve paid more attention. I thought she was just a crazy old maid.”
<
br />   “That makes two of us.”

  “What about the silver piece?” he asked. “Had any luck with it?”

  I told him what we’d found out. “It may have been in somebody’s collection. Are there any coin collectors up there?”

  “Everybody’s got knives and guns. But I don’t know of any serious coin collectors. It’s just as likely Jacko and his gang burgled some pawnshop or museum or private house in a four-or five-parish area. He got around. Trouble was, he kept coming back here.”

  “Well, he won’t anymore.”

  “Speaking of coming back, are you going to be with the crew this week?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. They’re home for the weekend, but they’ll probably leave for Lordsport tomorrow morning.”

  He sighed. “It’s nice to have some sane people around. I swear, Alan, I don’t know who to trust up here anymore. By the way, you didn’t tell anybody I gave you the silver piece, did you?”

  “Nobody but my people.”

  “Good. Hey, you remember that job we did ten years ago over at Tallulah?”

  “Sure.”

  “The one where you fell out of the boat into the Tensas River?”

  “I’ve tried to forget it,” I said.

  “Kind of lucky I was along. Those heavy boots would’ve dragged you to the bottom.”

  “Jeff, I was standing on the bottom.”

  “But that bottom mud was sucking you down. It’s like a quagmire. I’m just glad I was there to give you a hand.”

  “Right.”

  “I remember you said you never would’ve gotten that job done if I hadn’t been there. You were short of crew, everybody’d begged off at the last minute, and you’d promised your client you could get up there and start in three days.”

  “I’m grateful,” I said.

  “Yeah, we had a few beers when that was over. You know, Alan, you always were sort of a mentor to me.”

  “Jeff, it’s getting deep.”

  “If I’m lying I’m dying.”

  “You only worked for me six months.”

  “Yeah, but I kept coming back to ask you questions and you were never too busy to listen. I had the feeling that if I ever needed anything you’d be there.”

  “Enough,” I said. “Is it really that bad up there?”

  “Alan, you are literally the only person I can trust.”

  “And you want me to come back.”

  “It’s not like you don’t have any business here. I mean, your company has a major project and you’d probably be up here anyway, right?”

  “Jeff, what do you want me to do?”

  “You can go places I can’t because of who I am. You can ask dumb-ass questions and people’ll just think it’s because you’re an archaeologist.”

  “Stands to reason,” I muttered.

  “You’ve had some experience in these things. There was that business at Plantation last year, and then when you got mixed up with the Tunica artifacts—Alan, you see things other people don’t.”

  “Almost got me killed, too,” I said.

  “You’ll be okay. This is my bailiwick. Look, I’ll even have some groceries delivered.”

  “What?”

  “I had to lock up Luther again, Friday night. The game warden caught him with a doe this time, big as hell, no excuses accepted. But it’s only temporary—he bankrupts the parish every time I lock him up: gets sick and we have to spend thirty thousand dollars keeping him in the hospital giving him medical tests.”

  My eyes wandered over to Pepper’s note.

  Well, why shouldn’t I go back to Lordsport? I had business, like Jeff said, and if she wasn’t even going to sign her notes …

  “I guess I can manage,” I said. “I can be up there tonight.”

  “There you go. Come to my house.”

  “Right.”

  I hung up, thinking about what I’d committed myself to. Jeff was a friend, and I wanted to help him, but I was about to step into a nest of rural politics. And besides, I was doing it partly because I was miffed at Pepper.

  But why should I be the one to worry all the time? Let her do some worrying for a change.

  I scribbled out a note at the bottom of her own:

  Gone to Lordsport, taking Digger.

  I threw some clothes and a toilet kit into an AWOL bag and then loaded a box of Digger’s dog food into the red Blazer. I called David and told him I’d be up there when he and the crew arrived and then checked in with Marilyn, whom I caught at home.

  “I don’t think there’s anything urgent I have to do at the office,” I said.

  Finally, I took Digger himself, who happily leaped into the vehicle and took a position on the passenger’s side, beside me.

  “You’d sign your notes, wouldn’t you?” I asked, buckling myself in. “If you could write, that is.”

  His tongue flopped out and I thought I detected a nod.

  “Well, come on, then,” I told him, starting the engine. “You’re going to love Lordsport.”

  The Scully farm was two miles south of town, on the river. The place had belonged to Jeff’s folks and he’d inherited it when they died, just as I’d inherited the house where I lived, but unlike his father, who’d managed the farm as an avocation while serving as a state trooper and then sheriff, Jeff had let the farm operations go, preferring to lease the land for crops. Now, as I drove up the winding gravel drive to the old house set back in the trees, I wondered why he’d never married. The place, unlit and brooding, seemed as lonely as he was.

  Of course, I was a bachelor, too. But my excuse was a short, unhappy marriage to a beautiful Mexican archaeologist, which had soured me on long-term relationships until I’d met Pepper.

  Maybe he was having too much fun playing the field.

  Yeah, Jeff Scully having fun.

  I stopped in the yard, in front of the house, almost bumping into the birdbath in the dark. Digger trotted beside me, nose to the ground, and I tried to remember if Jeff had a dog. As if in answer a pale shape came bounding out of the darkness then, only to begin a series of angry yaps as it saw Digger. My dog, as affable as he was big, gave a couple of acknowledging barks in return, and the other dog quieted. I saw from its light color and the single light blue eye on one side that it was a Catahoula, a breed originated by the Indians and cultivated by the later European colonists for hog hunting.

  Odd, the house was totally dark. Almost as if he’d forgotten I was coming.

  “Digger, do you hear anybody inside?”

  But the shepherd just nosed the walkway, as if he’d discovered some fascinating scent in the cracks of the concrete.

  I went up to the door, opened the screen, and then saw the note:

  Alan—

  Sorry I got called away. May not be back till late. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow at your camp.

  Jeff

  I put the note in my pocket.

  Why should I be surprised? He was the chief law enforcement officer of his parish. He could be called out at all odd hours for wrecks, break-ins, robberies, mysterious deaths. An image of Ethel Crawford flashed into my mind. What if they’d found her?

  There was nothing I could do about it if they had, so I let Digger jump back into the Blazer, got in myself, and left the dark farm.

  I’d counted on eating off Jeff but now I had to make a decision: Drive all the way to the nearest town with a restaurant, which meant ten miles on a dark road, or do the best I could at the local convenience store. If the deli was still open, I might be able to get a meal there.

  The convenience store was open, and a clutch of pickups crowded the small parking area. Across the street the old brick courthouse loomed against the dark sky and I thought of our erstwhile cook, Luther, safe in his basement cell. It was galling to think he was getting a better meal than I was about to.

  The deli was closed, of course, and I bought a couple of cans of Vienna sausages, some crackers and a six-pack of Dr. Peppers. A couple of burly loca
ls regarded me from the corners of their eyes but said nothing.

  I drove across the street to the back entrance of the courthouse, where the sheriff’s cruisers were parked, and went into the building. A trusty in an orange jumpsuit was buffing the hallway and stopped just long enough to let me pass through the doors into the main office where a deputy sat watching a small TV.

  “Sheriff around?” I asked.

  “Haven’t seen him,” the deputy said. “Need something?”

  “It’s not important,” I said and went back out to my vehicle, where Digger tried to lick my face.

  “I know,” I told him. “You don’t like being left alone in a strange place.”

  We drove back out through town, passing the Scully farm, and a few minutes later reached the house where the crew stayed.

  It, too, was dark, and I went in and turned on the lights and then lit the space heaters, to chase away the chill. The crew’s paraphernalia was still strewn about, and on the back porch there was a stray plastic bag of artifacts from the site. It had been overlooked in the rush to get home for the weekend, no doubt; I’d have to put it where it would be seen, because missing bags created problems in the lab.

  I went into David’s room and dropped my AWOL bag beside the bed. Digger looked up hopefully.

  “The floor’ll do fine for you,” I said. “I don’t think the bed’s big enough for both of us.”

  I found a plate in the cupboard and opened a can of dog food. Digger ate greedily, and I turned around to open my own pitiful cans. Then I saw the phone on the wooden counter.

  I probably ought to call, let her know I was all right. I reached for the receiver, then drew back my hand.

  Why should I be the one to call? Why should I always be the one who worked himself into a frenzy when she wasn’t around? Damn it, it was high time for her to show some concern.

  Don’t be childish. Is that what it’s all about: Who’ll blink first? If you really love her, you’ll call and make up.

  But it will wait. You’re hungry. You’ll think more logically when you have some food in your stomach, even if the best you can do is Vienna sausages and chips. And maybe she’ll call while you’re eating.