by Bill Crider
“Anything else?” Rhodes asked.
Lawton came in from the cellblock about then, but Hack pretended not to notice him.
“Might be one thing,” Hack said. “We got a call from Miz Hovey. You know Miz Hovey?”
“Elberta Hovey,” Rhodes said. “Lives on the south side of town.”
“That’s her,” Lawton said.
Hack shot him a look. “I’m the one took the call.”
“I know it,” Lawton said. “I was just lettin’ the sheriff know he had the right woman in mind.”
“I’m glad I have the right woman in mind,” Rhodes said. He knew he was going to have to put up with a certain amount of Hack’s and Lawton’s contrariness before he could ask them the questions he had, so he might as well get it out of the way. “What happened?”
“You know much about Miz Hovey?” Hack asked. “What her house is like, what her income is, stuff like that?”
Rhodes didn’t know where this was going, but he seldom did when Hack and Lawton got started on him. There was no hurrying them.
“She’s not rich,” he said. “Her husband died about ten years ago. She probably lives on Social Security.”
“Prob’ly so,” Lawton said, earning another look from Hack.
Rhodes just waited, and after a second or two Hack turned back to him and said, “So you don’t think she’s got nine million dollars around the house?”
Rhodes had heard stories about people who didn’t trust banks and who kept large sums of money under mattresses, in mason jars buried in the backyard, or in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. In spite of all the stories, however, Rhodes had never known of an actual occurrence of that sort of thing, and Mrs. Hovey didn’t seem a likely candidate to be the first person of his acquaintance who’d hidden money around the house, especially such a huge sum. Even nine hundred dollars would be a stretch for someone in her financial situation. Nine million was an impossibility unless her deceased husband had owned the biggest life insurance policy in Blacklin County.
“I don’t think she’d have more than ninety dollars lying around,” Rhodes said. “Why?”
“Because she called and said her brother had robbed her,” Hack said.
“Got away with the whole nine million,” Lawton said.
Hack sighed.
“Well, he did,” Lawton said. “Nine million bucks. That’s a lot.”
“It is,” Rhodes said, before Hack could jump on Lawton. “It’s even more than I make every year. Did we have the brother arrested for stealing all the money?”
“You want the story or not?” Hack asked.
Rhodes grinned. “I thought I had the story. Mrs. Hovey. Nine million dollars. Brother stole it.”
“You’re messin’ with me,” Hack said.
“Me?” Rhodes said. “Mess with you? I know better than to do that.”
“You and Lawton are a real pair of comedians, you know that?”
“I don’t see you laughin’,” Lawton said.
“’Cause you ain’t funny.”
“I thought you said I was a comedian.”
Rhodes figured it was time to step in and maybe even find out what was really going on.
“I’d like to know what we’re doing about the theft,” he said. “Did you send Buddy to investigate?”
“I sent him,” Hack said. “It turned out there wasn’t any nine million dollars. Her brother didn’t steal it, either. It was under the kitchen table. Buddy found it.”
“The nine million dollars?” Rhodes said.
“Nope,” Lawton said. “What he found was—”
“The lottery ticket,” Hack said in a rush before Lawton could finish the sentence. “The jackpot’s nine million this weekend, and Miz Hovey was sure she had the winning numbers. Came to her in a dream, she said, so she went right out the next day and bought a ticket. She had it on her kitchen table, under a butter dish, when her brother came over. When he left, it was gone, and she thought he’d taken it. Those two never did get along. Anyway, he hadn’t taken it. She’d moved the butter dish or something, and the ticket fell under the table. She was real sorry ’bout causin’ trouble for ever’body, but she was sure glad to find that ticket.”
“She’s gonna be mighty disappointed if she don’t win,” Lawton said.
“Maybe I’ll win,” Rhodes said.
“You buy a ticket?” Hack asked.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. Lawton and I didn’t, neither. We’re waitin’ for one of them really big Powerball deals before we make our investment. Hundred million or so. Then we’ll go all in. Maybe buy two tickets.”
“Good luck,” Rhodes said. “Is that the only big crime of the day?”
“That’s it,” Hack said. “Pretty quiet otherwise.”
“Good. You want to tell me a few things about some of our local residents?”
“If I know anything.”
“I’m sure you do, and if you don’t, Lawton will.”
Hack snorted. “Wouldn’t count on it.”
“We’ll see. Let’s start with Ace Gable. What’s the word on him?”
Rhodes had begun with Gable because he was the one Hack and Lawton were likely to know the least about. Since Gable had been in town only about five years, he didn’t have much of a history, and he had none at all with the sheriff’s department, never having been arrested.
“Bought a muffler from him once,” Lawton said. “Seemed like a nice enough fella. Why you askin’?”
“Vicki Patton works for him. She used to be Neil Foshee’s girlfriend.”
“Don’t know him,” Hack said. “You want me to check the databases?”
“Good idea,” Rhodes said.
Hack had been the first in the office to get computer literate, and Rhodes trusted him to run the database checks. Rhodes had learned a few computer skills, but Hack was still ahead of him, a fact that Hack was quick to remind him of if the occasion arose. If it didn’t arise, Hack would sometimes remind him of it anyway.
Hack turned to his computer, and Rhodes said, “What about Brad Turner?”
“Lives up by the graveyard,” Lawton said. “Not far from the Moore place. Been around forever. I remember when he worked for the light company. Used to be a meter reader. That was back when we had meter readers, ’fore they put those computerized things on the houses. A man had to go right up to the meter and look at it his ownself. It wasn’t easy, what with people havin’ dogs in their yards and all. Things have sure changed a lot.”
Lawton stopped and looked at Hack, who was busy with the computer and didn’t have anything to offer.
“Turner don’t have a lot of friends, if any,” Lawton continued. “Keeps pretty much to himself. Little bit crazy. Don’t like folks much.”
Rhodes had pretty much figured that out for himself.
“I hear he wears a tinfoil hat,” Lawton said. “That kind of thing puts people off.”
“He just lines his baseball cap with tinfoil,” Rhodes said. “It’s not too noticeable.”
Hack turned around in his chair. “You know that it’s not tinfoil, don’t you? It’s aluminum foil.” He looked at Lawton. “Some of us here might be old enough to remember when foil was made out of tin, though.”
“I ain’t as old as you are, you old coot,” Lawton said. “Ever’body still calls it tinfoil, no matter what it is.”
“Not ever’body,” Hack said. “I don’t.”
“Don’t anybody care what you call it.”
Things were getting out of hand again, as they so often did when Hack and Lawton were involved. Rhodes wasn’t too concerned about Turner anyway, and he especially wasn’t concerned about tinfoil.
“Forget about Turner and his hat,” Rhodes said. “Here’s the big question. What do you know about Mayor Clement?”
Hack was interested enough in the question to look away from Lawton. “You sayin’ the mayor might have somethin’ to do with killing Foshee?”
“Nope. I’m saying that somebody claims to’ve seen the mayor’s car up by the Moore place last night.”
“Drives that big Lexus SUV,” Lawton said. “Not many of them around here.”
“Dr. Filby’s got one,” Hack said. “Wonder what Ace Gable drives.”
“We’ll find out,” Rhodes said. “Is there any reason the mayor might’ve been there last night?”
“You could ask him,” Hack said.
“I’d rather not, not just yet. I need more information.”
“I got some,” Lawton said.
Hack looked chagrined. He didn’t like being one-upped by Lawton.
“Tell us,” Rhodes said, trying not to smile.
“There’s been some talk,” Lawton said.
“Don’t stall,” Rhodes said. “Just the facts.”
“Sounds like Joe Friday, don’t he?” Lawton said to Hack, who didn’t answer. He was still pouting.
Rhodes didn’t say anything, either. He just waited.
“You sure are a killjoy lately,” Lawton said to him. “Ain’t that right, Hack?”
“That’s right,” Hack said, relenting. “Been sayin’ that for a while.”
“The mayor,” Rhodes said. “Let’s don’t forget the mayor.”
“It ain’t the mayor. It’s his nephew.”
“What about his nephew?” Rhodes asked. He didn’t even know that Clement had a nephew.
“College kid,” Lawton said. “Been in town a week or so. People say he’s nosy. Drives around in the mayor’s car. Asks questions he oughtn’t be askin’.”
Rhodes was a little surprised that no one had called to complain. “What kind of questions?”
“Drugs. Says he’s writin’ a paper on drugs in small towns.”
Rhodes thought it was odd that someone writing a paper on drugs wouldn’t ask the sheriff’s department about the situation. Why go to the citizens first?
“You think he was lookin’ to buy some?” Hack asked.
“Could be,” Lawton said. “I don’t know much more than that about it.”
Rhodes remembered something Clement had said to him that morning that didn’t fit with something he’d heard from Hack a few minutes before. No wonder Clement had tried to persuade him that investigating Foshee’s death wasn’t important. Clement had made a big mistake, and Rhodes was going to call him on it. He had a couple of questions for Lawton first, however.
“Has Andy been by with the evidence from the Moore house?”
“Dropped it off a while ago,” Hack said. “He told me you wanted Mika to check for fingerprints. I called her, and she’ll be by later on this afternoon.”
“Okay. Did you find anything on Ace Gable?”
“He doesn’t have much of a record. A couple of speeding tickets and once for assault. From what I can tell, it involved some guy trying to pick up his date.”
Rhodes thought about that, then stood up. “I’m going to talk to Mayor Clement to see what I can find out about his nephew. Call me if you need me.”
“Don’t I always?” Hack said.
* * *
Alice King’s perkiness hadn’t waned with the day. If anything, she was even perkier than she’d been that morning.
“Good afternoon, Sheriff,” she said when Rhodes entered the office. “This must be my lucky day, you coming by here twice. I don’t think that’s ever happened before. I hope you’ve been having a great afternoon.”
“Absolutely,” Rhodes said. It would never do for Rhodes to tell Alice that he hadn’t been having a great day. If he did, she’d try to jolly him up, and he didn’t have time for that. For all he knew, it might involve a cheerleading routine. “Is the mayor in?”
“He sure is,” Alice said, with a nod to the open door leading to Clement’s office. “You can just go right on in.”
Rhodes stepped into the office. Clement was at his desk, and his dour face was almost a relief after Alice’s relentless perkiness.
“What is it, Sheriff?” Clement asked. “I hope you’re not going to bother me about that business at the Moore house again.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Rhodes said, sitting down without waiting for an invitation that might not have been forthcoming. “That’s exactly what I’m here for.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’ve said my say.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” Rhodes told him. “This morning you said that you’d found out about the murder of Neil Foshee on Jennifer Loam’s Web site. I’d like to know how you managed that, since the site was down all morning.”
Clement fell back in his chair as if Rhodes had struck him. “I … you must be wrong about that.”
“Don’t think so. My dispatcher told me about it. I could always call Ms. Loam and ask her, but I don’t think I need to. And here’s another thing that you might want to explain to me while you’re at it. I’ve been told that your car was seen in the vicinity of the Moore house at the time of Foshee’s death. I’d like to know what you were doing there.”
“I wasn’t there,” Clement said, pushing his chair back from the desk as if trying to get away from Rhodes. The chair hit the wall and stopped, so Clement couldn’t escape that way. The only way out of the room was through the door, and to get there, Clement would have to pass Rhodes. Rhodes wasn’t planning to let him pass.
“Your car was just out for an evening drive on its own?” Rhodes said.
Clement didn’t laugh at the joke. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said you weren’t in it. If you weren’t, who was driving? Your wife?”
“No, not my wife.” Clement sighed and pulled his chair back to the desk. “It was my nephew.”
“I heard he was in town. I don’t think I’ve met him.”
“He’s my brother’s son. My brother lives in Dallas, and Wade, that’s his son, goes to school in Denton. He’s spending a few weeks with us this summer while his parents go to Europe.”
“He have a drug problem?”
“Of course not,” Clement said. “He’s a clean-living young man.”
“Seems he’s been asking questions around town about drugs,” Rhodes said. “He was seen in the area where a known drug dealer was killed. That doesn’t look very good for him.”
It also didn’t look very good for Clement. If word got out that his nephew had been involved with drugs while cruising around in the mayor’s car, Clement might not get reelected. If he didn’t get reelected, he wouldn’t be able to continue to try bossing Rhodes around. All the fun would be gone from his life.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Clement said.
“If it’s not,” Rhodes said, “you’d better tell me what it is.”
Clement sighed again. Rhodes was reminded of something Peppermint Patty had said in a Peanuts strip, something like “Don’t hassle me with your sighs, Chuck.” Clement probably wasn’t a fan of Peanuts.
“Wade’s majoring in criminal justice,” Clements said. “He and I were talking a little bit about the drug problem in small towns like ours, and he got interested. He thought he could get some firsthand information and write a paper for one of his classes next fall. Wanted to impress some professor.”
“Why not send him to me?” Rhodes asked. “I’m the sheriff, or maybe you’d forgotten that.”
Clement didn’t answer, but Rhodes thought he knew why Wade hadn’t consulted him. Clement didn’t like Rhodes, didn’t think he was doing a good job, and might even have thought that some college student could do a better one. Especially one majoring in criminology at a big state university. He might even have told Wade that.
“There’s another little thing, too,” Rhodes said. “If your nephew knew that Neil Foshee was shot, he should’ve reported it to the sheriff’s department.”
“Just hold on there,” Clement said. “He did report it. He called it in anonymously. He didn’t know that Foshee was dead. He heard the shots in the house just as he got out of his car. He got back
in the car and left immediately. Surely you can’t blame him for not staying there when shots were being fired.”
Rhodes didn’t blame him, but he wasn’t going to tell Clement that. He said, “There’s another thing. You remember our little discussion about implying and inferring?”
Again Clement had nothing to say.
“Well, I remember it,” Rhodes said after a second or two. “How do you think it would look if people thought you were trying to shut down a murder investigation because your nephew was involved? Don’t bother to tell me I was inferring something, either, because now we both know better.”
The office was air-conditioned, but Clement had begun to sweat. “I was wrong to do that. It was a mistake.”
Rhodes nodded. “I’m glad we agree on that. Now call your nephew and tell him to get in here so we can all three have a nice little talk.”
“He might not want to come. Might not have a way to get here.”
“That’s okay,” Rhodes said. “I can go and get him. I haven’t arrested anybody all day, and it’s about time I did.”
“He can use my wife’s car,” Clement said, reaching for his phone.
Chapter 11
Wade Clement looked like he was about fifteen to Rhodes, who’d noticed that more and more people were looking younger than their years to him. Rhodes had a feeling that wasn’t a good sign as far as his own age went.
Wade went in for the same kind of facial stubble that Brad Turner sported, and while it did look careless to Rhodes, it didn’t look quite as bad as Turner’s. Wade’s was also considerably darker than Turner’s, which was mostly gray.
Wade had something besides stubble in common with Turner. He wore a baseball cap, a Texas Rangers cap just like the one Turner wore, except newer and minus the tinfoil. Or aluminum foil. Wade, in fact, looked a bit like a baseball player, a second baseman maybe, or a shortstop. Compact but muscular. He had an easy smile, but he seemed a little worried about his situation.
“I guess I’m in trouble, right?” he said.
He was sitting in a chair near his uncle’s desk. He’d gotten to the office soon after Clement called him, and while Clement hadn’t explained anything over the phone, he’d mentioned to Wade that the sheriff wanted to talk to him.