The cruiser pulled into the little turnaround close to the house that was the parking area. A dark blue Saturn was already there and the deputy halted behind it. I stopped behind him and got out. In the center of the turnaround was a small pond, with a concrete black boy, eternally fishing. I was still looking at it when I heard the front door open behind me. The deputy cleared his throat.
“Is something the matter?” I heard a woman ask.
I turned and saw her standing in the doorway, a woman in her early forties, with short blond hair and a refined face. She was wearing designer slacks and a wool sweater, and from the glasses dangling from a ribbon at her neck I got the impression she’d just put down a book.
“Judge is on his way,” the deputy said. “He asked me to bring Dr. Graham here to meet him.”
The woman nodded slightly.
“Of course. Won’t you come in, Dr. Graham?”
She had just enough of a drawl to let me know she’d been born hereabouts, and the formality that said she was gentry.
When I reached the porch she held out a hand.
“I’m Tally Galt. You’re the archaeologist, aren’t you?”
Her hand was soft and she withdrew it after two seconds.
“Do you know why your husband wants to see me?”
She shrugged and led the way inside. “With Arlo you never know. Can I offer you something? Hot tea or coffee? I’m allergic to chocolate, so I can’t offer cocoa.”
“Tea will be fine,” I said, my eyes wandering past her to the walls. There was a nude study, in an expressionistic style, a blond woman with two blue eyes on one side of her face and small breasts. On the other side of the door was another painting, but this one was a Brahma bull.
“They’re Arlo’s paintings,” Tally Galt said, reappearing with a tea tray. “The blond woman is supposed to be me. He had me pose for it right after we were married. He paid a famous artist more money than most people around here make in a lifetime.”
“And the bull?”
“That’s his prize, Buster. He’s taken all kinds of medals.”
“He’s big,” I said, unsure what else to say.
“That’s Arlo,” his wife said. “He always has to have the biggest, the most expensive, the first, the … prettiest.”
I stirred a spoonful of sugar into my tea.
“Archaeology is fascinating,” she said, blue eyes on me. “I’m interested in history. I’m a genealogist.”
“Really.”
She nodded. “Have you ever tried to trace your family, Dr. Graham?”
I smiled. “The Yankee side is kind of murky. I think one of my ancestors was a merchant who got run out of Scotland for cheating the king.”
“Not a good idea,” she said. “And on your mother’s side?”
“Alsatian. A bunch of them came over in the last century and settled in Louisiana.”
I watched her fingers play with her teacup and I thought she was about to say something else, but then I heard tires crunching in the drive and Tally rose.
“He’s here. I don’t know what he wants with you, but good luck.”
Arlo Gait, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, appeared in the doorway, overcoat open.
“Dr. Graham. I’ve been wanting a chance to sit down with you ever since I heard your people were starting to do that work outside town.” He turned to his wife: “Did you offer him something stronger than tea?”
“Tea’s fine,” I said and heard Tally murmur her excuses as she melted away.
“Then I think I’ll indulge.” The big man went to his bookcase and pulled out a false set of legal volumes, revealing a bar. “Tuesday’s criminal day in this parish. Jesus, I don’t think there’s a new kind of crime under the sun. Always the same old crap: stealing cars, switching inspection stickers, assault and battery, wife beating, manslaughter …”
“You wouldn’t call Jacko Reilly’s death manslaughter, would you?”
The judge leaned back on his bar. “Don’t know yet.”
“Or Miss Crawford?”
“Don’t know that she’s dead.”
I put my teacup down on the coffee table. “So what can I do for you, Judge? You didn’t have a deputy bring me here just to talk about your day in court.”
He regarded me through close-set eyes and sipped his whiskey.
“I asked you here because you’re a friend of Jeff’s.”
I nodded in acknowledgment. “I’ve known him a long time.”
“And so have I. Hell, that’s why I wanted him to run for sheriff. A breath of fresh air. An educated man. Not one of the old courthouse crowd. Of course, as district judge, I had to be careful. Not supposed to mix in these things. But when you sit in court as many days as I do, you get to be a pretty good judge of people. I picked Jeff for a winner.”
“And now?”
Galt shrugged. “Time will tell.”
I kept quiet, waiting for him to make his point.
“I understand he’s got you helping him,” Galt said finally. “That true?”
“As an expert witness, you might say.”
The judge fingered his beard. “You mean in archaeology?”
“As an expert on certain artifacts,” I said.
“Ahhh. You mean that doodad.”
“That’s right.”
He ambled over with his drink in his hand and plopped onto the couch next to me, and I felt the structure sag.
“So what did you find out about it?”
I told him what Hightower had said. “My guess is Jacko stole it somewhere.”
Galt nodded gravely. “Sounds like it.” He shook his head again and squinted at me. “I think I know this Hightower. He’s an expert on guns and knives. Especially Bowie knives.”
I nodded.
“You know,” Galt went on, “Rezin Bowie owned hundreds of acres in this parish and he and Jim even had a mulatto half cousin named James who lived here. The Bowies were big land speculators. They always said Rezin, the older brother, was the cooler head.” He got up and went to the bar, where he poured himself another drink. “They say the Bowies used to stay at the old Morgan house in Lordsport. It wasn’t the Morgan house then, of course. They called it by another name. It’s on the National Register, you know.”
I’d seen the old building, which had been a hotel when the town had lived off the river traffic.
“I think Jacko Reilly belonged back in those days, when there were highwaymen and steamboat gamblers. He would’ve been at home with old Jim Bowie.” He sighed. “Well, maybe we’ll find his killer one of these days. Meanwhile, I asked you here to talk about Jeff. Even before this there was concern about him among some folks. Oh, I’ve tried to reassure ’em. They say he’s not a politician and I tell ’em that’s why they elected him. But this is a rural parish. A sheriff has to be a man of the people. Jeff tries, but sometimes it just plain don’t come through.”
I knew what he meant but I wasn’t going to agree.
“Why are you telling me all this, Judge?”
“Because you’re his friend. Just like I am.” He set his glass down on the bar. “Don’t you have a feeling, Alan, that there’s something mysterious about Jeff? That’s what bothers people. A sheriff’s supposed to solve mysteries, not be a mystery himself.”
I thought about the cabin and what Chaney Reilly had said. I wondered now if he’d just repeated what the rest of the parish was already saying.
“When people give folks the impression they’re hiding something, then folks take ’em at face value. That can be dangerous. And, what the hell? Sometimes they act that way because they really are hiding something.”
The judge was moving me toward the door now. He’d delivered his message: I would repeat the conversation to Jeff Scully and Jeff would get Gait’s warning.
Except that I wasn’t going to do that. Judge Arlo Galt could deliver his own threats.
“Nice of you to come, Alan.” We shook hands. “I may drop by that dig of yours on
e of these days. I’ve always been interested in archaeology, and we have a lot of archaeological sites around here.”
“Come ahead, Judge. But I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
“Why should I be?”
“People expect archaeologists to make spectacular discoveries. Sometimes they get surprised when they see that all we’re really after is flakes of stone and broken pieces of pottery.”
“Goes to show how much I know about archaeology,” the judge said as I stepped out onto the porch. “Reminds me of the time Percy Grayson came up for burglary. He said, ‘Judge, I oughta get a break because I’m not a professional.’ I told him a man oughta not mix in something he doesn’t know how to do. Five years. That’s a good policy, I think: Leaving something you don’t know about to the experts.” He tried to wink at me but it came across as a grotesque twitch.
“Goodbye, Judge.”
THIRTEEN
The old bridge hovered in front of me like a phantom as I approached Lordsport, and off to the right I saw Jeremiah Persons’s wooden shack. It appeared tightly shut, no smoke issuing from the chimney, but on a hunch I turned and stopped in the muddy front yard.
I went to the front door and knocked but there was no answer. Then I walked around the side. The yard melted away into a field overgrown with weeds. I looked toward the river. Someone had fashioned a rock path, with sandstone boulders on the side, in an attempt at landscaping, and the steps vanished at the stone paving. I followed the path to the water’s edge, where a skiff floated, tied to a small willow.
Then I heard a cough from the willows a few feet away.
“Goddamn, it’s cold out here,” a voice said, and I saw a little man in a windbreaker, with a stocking cap, zipping his pants. “I was just in the bushes, taking a leak, when I saw you come along. Figured I might as well stay till I was finished. Wouldn’t do for the mayor to go around exposing himself.”
“Mr. Stokes, isn’t it?” I asked.
“That’s me.” He rubbed a hand on his pants. “Won’t shake with you, considering what I just had in my hand. But the sentiment’s there.”
“You looking for Jeremiah Persons?” I asked.
The mayor spat onto the ground. “Yeah, old Hawkeye was supposed to cut me some firewood. Said he’d have it for me Saturday. This is Tuesday.” He squinted at me through his glasses. “So, was he supposed to sell you some wood, too, Mr. Graham?”
“No,” I said, “I just wanted to talk to him about the car we dragged out the other day.”
“Figure he might know something he ain’t telling?”
I shrugged. “He lives down here. If anybody saw something, he would have.”
“Hawkeye’s not what I’d call a real good witness, know what I mean. I just buy wood to help him out. Folks around here do that sort of thing. He has a mama somewhere, Winn-field or maybe Tallulah. Can’t recall just now, but Miss Ethel used to drive him up to see her every few months. Neighborly, like.”
“Do you think he went there?” I asked.
Stokes shrugged. “If he could find a way. And he’ll come back when he figures nobody’ll bother him. All that UFO stuff made him real nervous and then, when that car came up out of the river …”
“I hope you get your wood, Mayor.”
Stokes spat again. “It ain’t hard to find. I don’t get it from him, there’s others.”
“Nice talking with you, Mr. Stokes.” I started away, but his voice stopped me:
“Be careful, Mr. Graham. I hear you got shot at yesterday. Killing somebody like Jacko Reilly’s one thing, but it’s bad for the town if they start killing visiting archaeologists. Be sort of like the old days, when the Jamesons and Lyles were feuding. Do you know Colonel Lyle and his son were killed right inside the old Morgan Hotel in 1870? And it all started over a woman.”
“I hear the Bowies came through here a lot, too.”
“Lot of famous people come through here. Jeff Davis stayed here, and so did Grant on his way back from the Mexican War. There’s even a story about Jesse James, when he was in hiding. What we got now?” He dug out a cigarette and sniffed. “Jacko Reilly, and he’s dead.” He gave a raucous laugh. “Talk to Calvin Capshaw if you’re interested in the history. He collects historical facts. Don’t do anything with ’em, but he collects ’em.”
“I think I’ve heard about Mr. Capshaw,” I said.
“Probably. Couldn’t not hear about him around here, know what I mean.”
“Where do I find him?”
“Fourth house on the left when you turn onto Ouachita Street.”
“Thanks.”
“Meanwhile, if somebody wants to put up a sign that says UFO capital of the state, I wouldn’t be against it. There sure ain’t gonna be no signs after they build that bridge south of town.”
“No.”
I drove past the courthouse. They were breaking for lunch, and the parking lot of the food mart was full of milling people. I realized I was thirsty and stopped. On the way back into the parking lot with my fountain coke, I felt a tug at my sleeve.
“Dr. Graham? I’ve been looking for you. Remember me, Tim Raines?”
I recognized the young newspaper reporter and looked for a means of escape.
“I hear somebody shot at you yesterday up near Sheriff Scully’s cabin.”
“It may have been an accident,” I said.
“That’s not what Luther’s saying. He’s saying somebody was trying to kill him and you both.”
“Sounds like he knows more than I do.”
“Mind telling me what you were doing up there?”
I took a deep breath. “I already gave a statement to the sheriff’s office.”
“How about telling the press?”
“I’d rather not. It’s cold out here, anyway.”
“Damn it, Mr. Graham, don’t you see? If I can get this story out to the big papers, it may be my big break. What’s so bad about that?”
“Good luck,” I said, putting a hand on my door handle. “Now …”
His head was close to my own now and he lowered his voice.
“Look, you know how these people are: Half of ’em think the old lady was beamed up by a spaceship. They think there’s something down there in the river, that there’s some kind of force field, and it killed Jacko, too. They’ll be wondering who’s next. There could be a panic. All I want to do is get out the truth.”
The wind gusted, bringing tears to my eyes.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll help you if you’ll help me.”
“Fair enough.” His voice rose an octave in excitement. “What kind of help do you need?”
“What’s the story on Chaney Reilly? He says he was hired by Jacko’s wife. Is that true?”
“That’s what I hear. She and Jacko fought a lot but Jacko was hers. She’s about as mean as he was.”
“What about Chaney? Is he likely to beat Scully next election?”
“Most around here think Scully’s honest but inept. There’s something about him that just doesn’t mesh. Not everybody feels comfortable with him. He’s not a good old boy.”
“No.” I thought of the mounted animal heads on Jeff’s living room wall, the hound dog he kept, and the boat in his drive. All valiant attempts to convince, and yet even I had felt it. As if he tried a little too hard …
“So I’ve answered your questions,” the reporter said. “How about answering mine?”
“I honestly don’t have any answers at this point.”
“But they found some silver with Reilly’s body, didn’t they? That’s all over the courthouse, how there was a treasure in the car with him and maybe he was making off with it but somebody followed him and killed him. What’s the truth?”
I managed a chuckle. “No treasure,” I said.
“Then what was it?”
“That really ought to come from the sheriff.”
“Damn, you’re a hard man,” Raines complained. “Okay, try this then: Do you really thi
nk the shooting yesterday was an accident? Look, I’ll keep it out of the story if you want.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I figure somebody was trespassing and we surprised them.”
“Was anybody in the cabin?”
“I didn’t see anybody, but I guess I didn’t look very hard. I assumed it would be vacant. Why?”
“Just a question.”
“But you had something in mind.”
It was Raines’s turn to shrug. “Folks say the sheriff’s gone a lot. I figure he spends a lot of time at the cabin. It’s a good hideaway.”
For some reason the memory of the night before last surged into my consciousness.
“Think back to Sunday night,” I said. “Was there a pile-up on Highway 20?”
“Highway 20? No, everything was quiet, why?”
“No reason,” I lied. “Just a miscommunication.”
Calvin Capshaw’s house was a white frame two-story a block from the river. An American flag projected from his front porch like a warning finger, and even in winter the front lawn was trimmed as close as a recruit’s head. The white Lincoln Towncar in the driveway was ten years old but had been polished to a high sheen. I went up on the porch, knocked, and waited, enjoying the smell of woodsmoke that drifted down from the chimney.
The door opened and a burly man with white hair and thick glasses stood looking out at me as if I might be bringing him the plague.
“Mr. Capshaw? My name is Alan Graham.” I handed him my card. “I was told you’re the town historian and that maybe you could help me.”
The man stared at me for a few seconds, nodded, and held open the screen door.
“I’ll do what I can.”
I followed him into a living room dominated by a grate with a roaring wood fire. A warm breeze rubbed my face, and I realized there was a central heating system, too, making the air inside oppressive. A tiny woman with black hair got up from her knitting. I introduced myself and she smiled.
“I’m Myrtle. Calvin here knows everything about the history of this town.”
Capshaw showed me to a stuffed chair and sat down close to the fire, near a standing lamp and a small table with a pack of cigarettes.
Past Dying (The Alan Graham Mysteries) Page 10