Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  McTeague, who had been taking notes, interrupted the narrative. “Who’s the boyfriend?”

  “Al Harper.” The sheriff shook his head. “Harper’s the kind of bum who gives parasites a bad name, but I s’pose it’s Marilee’s business if she wants to support him.” He eyed the impertinent housefly as it made another pass. “Sarah always went to Ben’s place through Hatchet Gap. Yesterday morning, she might have showed up at Ben’s house after he was already gone with Marilee, or she might’ve watched ’em drive away. Point is, Ben never left his house without locking it up tight. But somehow or other, Sarah got inside. And she did it without breaking a window or a lock.”

  Moon seemed to wake up. “Any idea how she managed that?”

  “I expect she must’ve pilfered his spare key.” Popper’s shrug stretched his red suspenders. “Or maybe last time she was there, she undid one of the window latches.” He took a tentative sip of the tepid buttermilk. “But there’s no doubt she planned to steal stuff from his house. And if there hadn’t’ve been a bad accident out on the interstate, I expect she’d of been in there and out in a few minutes, and Ben would be alive today and mad as a stepped-on rattlesnake because he’d been burgled. But when Ben’s doctor appointment was canceled because of the pileup out on the four-lane, Marilee drove him right back to his home.” Popper picked up a manila file, laid it down again. “And if Sarah had heard Marilee’s car coming, she’d have took off and Ben wouldn’t be dead. But then another one of them funny things happened that changed everything. Marilee and Ben got into a shouting match—it was about his private driveway and what a sorry shape it was in—and Marilee kicked him outta her car and made him walk the rest of the way home. That chunky little woman sure has one helluva temper.” Popper paused to chuckle, then frowned at the picture forming in his mind. “Point is, Ben was walking along his lane, which is why Sarah didn’t hear him coming. But she must’ve heard him step onto the porch, or maybe put his key into the front door, and then she hid somewhere. And once Ben got inside, he must’ve realized somebody was in his house, because he tried to make a 911 call. My dispatcher was in the ladies’ room and didn’t pick up, so the call was transferred to my cell phone. Ben wasn’t on the line long enough to say more than a few words to me, because Sarah yanked the phone cord outta the wall.”

  McTeague had her pen poised above a small notebook. “What did he say?”

  The sheriff closed his eyes. “It didn’t make much sense—at first I thought we had a crossed line and he was talking to somebody else. But I guess he didn’t want whoever was still inside his house to know he was calling the police.”

  She made shorthand notes. “Could we listen to the 911 recording of the conversation?”

  “There ain’t one for Ben’s call.” The sheriff ducked his head and blushed. “We’ve just had a new phone system installed. Incoming calls that get forwarded to my cell phone don’t get recorded.” He swirled the bluish-tinted buttermilk in the glass. That looks like goat puke. “After Sarah yanked the cord, Ben probably cussed a blue streak, told her how he’d see that she got put in jail. I doubt the kid thought very much of being jugged, which is why she bopped him on his bean with the baseball bat. I expect she must’ve commenced to searching his pockets, because when I showed up and took me a look-see through the window, she was hunkered down behind Ben’s desk—where he was laid out on the floor, but of course I didn’t know that at the time. But I hadn’t no more than got my nose close to the glass when she happened to raise up and saw me and squalled like a scalded wildcat.” He grinned. “She heaved that damned baseball bat right through the window and took off like her team was two down in the bottom of the ninth and she’d just knocked a line drive and there was runners on second and third.” He rubbed the lump under the gauze, winced. “Danged kid came within a whisker of cracking my noggin open like a eggshell. Matter a fact, I was pretty well scrambled for a minute or two; couldn’t quite figure out whether I was Ned Popper or his cousin Henry the half-wit. By the time it come to me that I was the duly elected sheriff of this here county and had me a job to do, the skinny kid was roundin’ third and makin’ a hard run for home.” He shook his head. “Only she didn’t go home—not to Marilee’s place, anyway.” The sheriff had a bitter taste in his mouth, but not from the buttermilk. “When Sarah left Marilee’s house that morning, she never intended to go back. The kid’d already made up her mind to run away somewheres, maybe down to southern Arizona, to her Papago folks.”

  “Tohono O’otam,” McTeague murmured.

  The sheriff did not hear the correction. “But the kid’s poor as a church mouse on welfare who also has a gambling habit, and she would’ve needed some cash money for a trip.” He thumped his knuckles on the desk. “So there’s her motive for the burglary.”

  The tribal investigator and the FBI agent shared a melancholy silence.

  Popper felt a pang of pity for Provo Frank’s Ute friend. “If it’d make you feel any better, I don’t believe for a minute that girl intended to kill Ben Silver. These kids nowadays are raised on a diet of TV and movie violence—how many times has a girl like Sarah seen some actor get knocked cold with a club and then wake up with nothin’ but a little bump on his head?” The bump on his head throbbed. “No, I expect she just wanted to knock Ben down so she’d have time to get away and—”

  There was a knock on the door.

  Why can’t I have a moment’s peace. Popper scowled under his bushy eyebrows, barked at whoever it was. “What is it?”

  Deputy Packard opened the door, stuck his little-boy face into the sheriff’s office, flashed a modest smile at the Ute, a super-size version at the lady.

  Smiling back, McTeague thought Tate Packard was incredibly cute. And suitable material for a toothpaste commercial.

  Ned Popper thought his deputy was a damned nuisance.

  Seeing the sour look on the sheriff’s face, Tate Packard lost the smile. “Sir, there’s somebody here who wants to have a word with you.”

  Popper set his lantern jaw. “Tate, in case you ain’t noticed—I am already having a word with somebody. In fact, I am having a serious conference with a couple of professional peers.” He sneered like a fox about to bite a rooster’s head off. “The point, Deputy—is that I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Yessir, I know that. But this may be kinda important.” Packard swallowed hard, bobbling his Adam’s apple. “Thing is, while I was outside for a minute, talking to one of my friends—”

  Popper snorted. “One of your girlfriends.”

  Packard blushed. “Well, yes sir. Anyway, while me and Nancy was having us a little chat, who walks up but Raymond Oates. Sir, Mr. Oates is very anxious to see you.” The deputy looked like a dog about to be whipped. “I just thought I ought to tell you.”

  The sheriff got to his feet, gave his subordinate a squinty-eyed look. “You give Mr. Oates a cup of that so-called coffee Bearcat makes for our jailbirds, and tell him soon as I’m finished talking with Agent McTeague and Mr. Moon, I’ll give him a coupla minutes of my time.”

  The deputy glanced at the visitors. “Sir, I think Mr. Oates wants to talk to you while your visitors are present. He claims he has some important information.” After two heartbeats, he added: “About Ben Silver’s death.”

  The sheriff stared at his pint-sized deputy, then at the ceiling. This is one of those times when no matter what I do, I’ll wish I hadn’t. “Okay, Tate. Send him in.”

  Raymond Oates stuck his head over the deputy’s shoulder, grinned around the ever-present cigar. “Why thank you, Ned.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  More Bad News

  The Sheriff closed his office door in deputy Packard’s face, gloomily introduced Raymond Oates to Agent McTeague and Mr. Moon. As there were only two seats for guests, Oates seated himself on the corner of the sheriff’s desk.

  Ned Popper glowered, seemed about to protest, but managed to keep his silence.

  With his back to the local lawman, Oates
addressed the tribal investigator and the fed. “I heard you folks had hit town, and I thought I ought to pay the sheriff a visit while you’re still around. But don’t worry about me talking your legs off.” He was eyeing McTeague’s long, shapely limbs. “What I have to say won’t take a minute.” The county’s most prominent citizen removed the cigar from his mouth, pointed it at the FBI agent, who had produced a pad and pen. “I wish to state—and you can write this down for the record, Missy—that I am offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the apprehension, arrest, indictment, and conviction of the ruthless person who murdered my half brother.” The lawyer lowered his voice to a mumble. “Plus the return of any and all property that was unlawfully removed during the burglary of said half brother’s residence.”

  “Missy” maintained a passable poker face. “That is quite a generous reward.”

  Oates popped the cigar back between his lips. “Ben was the only family I had left.”

  Popper rolled his eyes. “Are you done now?”

  “Not entirely. There’s one more thing.”

  The Confession

  Oates Hitched his thumbs under a pair of tasteful, dark blue suspenders that matched his exquisitely tailored blue suit. “I wish to state—for the record—that I am responsible for my brother’s death.”

  This declaration had the stimulating effect of what is commonly known in those parts as a rabid, rip-roaring, two-headed gollywampus galloping into camp at midnight, howling like a wounded timber wolf and spitting red-hot blood. With spurs on. Even among the most rugged, steely-eyed cowboys, such an event tends to cause a temporary lull in the conversation.

  Just such a lull ensued.

  Having years of practice manipulating juries of his half-witted clients’ peers, the attorney knew how to employ such a pause for dramatic effect, and he did.

  The pair of out-of-state officers of the law waited for the man with jurisdiction to take the initiative. They were required to wait for four seconds, which was how long it took for Sheriff Popper to get his thoughts together. “Turn around Raymond,” he said. “And look me straight in the eye.”

  The man who had made the surprise confession removed his behind from the desk, rotated his rotund self, looked down at the sitting lawman. Raymond Oates met the sheriff’s flinty gaze without flinching.

  Finding the low-altitude perspective not to his liking, Popper unfolded his lanky frame from the chair. In his stocking feet, he had a good five inches on the local attorney. His boot heels gave him another two and a half. Now, he was doing the looking down. And down his nose, to boot. He was pleased to see the ambulance-chaser wilt. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve come here—in front of witnesses—to confess to a homicide.”

  The attorney’s intelligence had been insulted. “Well of course not, Ned—that would be a damn fool thing to do!”

  Popper removed the antique Hamilton timepiece from a vest pocket. “Then you’ve got about thirty seconds to tell me what’n hell this is all about.”

  Oates clamped down on the cigar. “A half-hour or so ago, while I was viewing my poor dead brother’s body, I recalled something that might well be germane to his death by violence.” Avoiding the sheriff’s face, the shifty lawyer shifted his gaze back to the strangers. “Two or three weeks ago, right in front of Oates’s Supermarket—which is one of my prime properties—I happened to meet that skinny little Indian girl who’s being sought in connection with Ben’s murder. I didn’t realize who she was, but the kid—Sally What’s-her-name, she—”

  “Sarah Frank,” Popper muttered. Realizing the long-winded man was all wound up, he eased himself into his seat.

  “Oh, right. Sarah What’s-her-name buttonholed me, told me how she’d been doing some household chores for Ben. I guess he must’ve been talking to the girl about our family, because the kid knew quite a lot about me—including the fact that I own the Thunder Woman Café. Anyway, she claimed she was half-starved, and hit me up for a free lunch. Well, I felt sorry for the pitiful little waif, so I took her inside and bought her a burger.” He paused to smile at a pretended memory. “I happened to have a wrapped gift under my arm—a cute little animal book I’d bought for my niece in Montana, but I kinda took a liking to Sarah, so I gave it to her.” He shook his head. “That big-eyed girl could charm the socks right off your feet.”

  Popper was drumming his fingers on the desk. “I hope this tale don’t run on too long; I got a dentist appointment middle a next week.”

  Ignoring the critic, Oates continued his narrative: “While Sarah’s feeding her face with a three-dollar wedge of banana creme pie, she tells me how Ben’d been bragging about taking some of my daddy’s things. Turns out Ben told her that I’d offered him a sizable sum of cash money for their return—which is true enough.” He assumed the injured expression of one cut to the quick. “I can forgive Ben a lot of things—even petty theft. But talking to strangers about private family business—well, that was going a mite too far.”

  McTeague did not wait for the sheriff to ask the question. “Mr. Oates, it would be helpful if you provided a list and detailed description of the items that were allegedly stolen by your half—”

  “There ain’t no allegedly about it, ma’am. And no I won’t, because it wasn’t nothing but some little baubles and bangles my mother had left—”

  Popper interrupted: “You said it was your father’s stuff.”

  “Well it was, dammit! But when Momma died, everything she had became Daddy’s property.” He gave the sheriff a pitying look. “You never heard of community property laws?”

  Somewhat subdued by this counterattack, Popper withdrew into his leathery shell.

  Oates addressed the lady. “Would you like to hear the rest of the story?”

  “Yes. Please continue.”

  He rolled the cigar on his tongue. “Where was I?”

  McTeague checked her shorthand notes. “Sarah Frank was revealing her knowledge of the disputed property currently in your half brother’s possession.”

  “Oh, right. Then, bold as brass, the Indian kid says to me: ‘Mr. Oates, if you’d pay me what you offered Mr. Silver for the stuff he stole, I believe I could get your daddy’s belongings back.’ Well, I was surprised, of course—you coulda knocked me over with a canary’s tail feather. But you know how cute these kids can be, so I said: ‘And how would you manage that?’” Oates locked eyes with McTeague. “Young lady, are you ready for the show-stopper?”

  The federal agent nodded.

  “Sarah said she’d find out where Ben was hiding the stuff, and steal it—and she expected ten thousand dollars on delivery!” The accomplished actor paled with feigned outrage. “Well, you can imagine what a highly respected attorney such as myself would say to a felonious proposition such as that!”

  Ned Popper chuckled. “You tried to talk her down to twenty bucks.”

  The lawyer sniffed. “Ned, under the current melancholy circumstances—I refer to my half brother’s corpse, which is barely cold—your attempt at humor is in poor taste.”

  The sheriff’s face flushed like a hothouse tomato, but Popper did not apologize.

  Within an instant, Oates got over his indignation, returned his full attention to the FBI agent. “Naturally, I gave the kid a good talking-to. Explained the difference between what is right and what is wrong—from a legal perspective.” A listless sigh. “I thought I’d gotten through to her, but looking back, I guess I was wasting my breath. What I should’ve done was report the kid’s proposal to Sheriff Popper right away.” He gave the lawman a sideways glance. “But I expect he’d have made a big joke out of it.” Cutting off a retort from the lawman, he continued: “The point is, the girl was a thief. And I’m convinced she burgled Ben’s house to find that stuff he’d stolen from my daddy, figuring she could sell it back to me.” He exhaled, seemingly deflated with the knowledge of his guilt. “If I’d been more stern with the girl—made her understand I’d never pay a dime for stolen p
roperty, even when it was mine—maybe Ben would still be alive. It’ll weigh heavy on my conscience ’til I draw my last breath.” Palms raised, he got to the bottom line: “That’s the reason I’m offering the humungous cash reward. Maybe somebody who knows where Sarah is will come forward and give the police some help.” He stuffed the enthusiastically chewed cigar into an inner jacket pocket. “If you folks have any questions, I’ll be spending the afternoon in my office.” He launched a saucy grin at McTeague, tipped a make-believe hat. “I will also be preparing a statement for the media about the reward.” Raymond Oates turned the knob, opened the door, and was gone.

  The ceiling fan rotated oh-so-slowly.

  On the wall clock, a second hand rotated around its circular path.

  Somewhere in the neighborhood, a lonely dog howled a mournful lament.

  “Well,” Popper said with a weak smile, “that’s a hard act to follow.”

  Charlie Moon got to his feet, thanked the sheriff for his time.

  McTeague followed his lead.

  Moon opened the door for his lady friend, followed her into the outer office.

  Bearcat, AKA Leland Redstone, had returned in the interim to deposit prisoners Cowboy Roy and Bettie Jean in the Tonapah County Detention Facility, which was the same lockup as last year’s Tonapah Flats Jail, but had a much better ring to it.

  Moon and McTeague ignored questioning glances from Deputies Leland “Bearcat” Redstone and Tate Packard, who were semi-busy with feigned paperwork.