by Bill Crider
He’d been treating all the crimes—Foshee’s death, Moore’s death, the drug dealing, the disappearance that wasn’t a disappearance, and the death of the person who’d left only a skeleton—as if they had nothing to do with one another, as if they were all separate. But they weren’t. They were all connected, and now Rhodes knew how. He might even be able to prove it.
Thinking about it now, Rhodes knew it could’ve been something Hack said that had made all the pieces come together. He wasn’t sure he’d mention that to Hack.
The breeze died away, and Rhodes got in his car. He knew where to go now, and what to do.
* * *
Brad Turner sat on his porch in the same battered recliner he’d been in when Rhodes had talked to him before. He was wearing the same baseball cap and the same clothes. He looked as if he might not have moved at all.
Rhodes stopped the county car in the same place he’d parked before and got out. Turner didn’t get up, but Rhodes didn’t expect him to. Rhodes went up on the porch and sat in the wobbly wooden chair he’d sat in, but this time he didn’t bother to ask permission. The chair still creaked when he sat in it.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Turner said. “Sure is a hot day.”
“It is,” Rhodes said. “Might get hotter by afternoon.”
“Usually does,” Turner said. “You ever lock up the mayor?”
“No, that didn’t happen.”
“Didn’t figger it would. The big dogs always get away with anything they want to.”
“Sometimes the little dogs do, too,” Rhodes said. “For a while, anyway.”
“Not usually, though,” Turner said.
He leaned forward, took off his baseball cap, and wiped his head, and Rhodes noticed that the tinfoil was gone.
“Not afraid of the brain cancer anymore?” Rhodes asked.
“Them radio waves have stopped botherin’ me for some reason,” Turner said, leaning back. “Don’t know why. Maybe the phone company’s found a way to make ’em safer.”
Rhodes didn’t think that was it, not at all. He had a feeling that something else had been bothering Turner’s head, but it was gone now.
“Did the tinfoil really help any?” Rhodes asked.
“Sometimes,” Turner said, putting his cap back on. “Not a whole lot, though.”
“Tell me some more about your wife,” Rhodes said. “Betty Jane, I think her name was. Ran off and left you, right?”
“That’s it. Ran off to Arkansas.”
“What was the name of the fella she ran off with?”
“Can’t remember,” Turner said. “It was a long time ago.”
“How’d you know she went to Arkansas? She leave you a note?”
“She might’ve. Or she might’ve called me. Can’t recall now. Long time ago, like I said.”
“You ever bother to divorce her?”
“Didn’t think about it. Figgered it didn’t matter.”
“I don’t guess it did,” Rhodes said, “considering that she never got any farther than the Moore house.”
Turner twitched a little at that.
“I found her in a closet in the attic,” Rhodes said. “Right where you put her.”
“I never,” Turner said.
“The way I see it,” Rhodes said, “the fella she was thinking about running off with was Ralph Moore. You decided to put a stop to it and killed them.”
“Way I remember the story, Moore died of a heart attack.”
“He had some bruises on him. Might have been in a fight or a struggle that triggered the heart attack. Maybe he was trying to keep you from killing Betty Jane. We’ll be getting the DNA tests back on her in a day or so. That will pretty much cinch it.”
The DNA wouldn’t come back for weeks or longer, but Rhodes didn’t think Turner would know that. For that matter, he might not even know what DNA was since he didn’t have a TV set.
Turner sighed. “Didn’t happen like that, Sheriff. You got it all wrong.”
“You might as well tell me what did happen, then. Before you do, though, I want to tell you that you’re not under arrest, but I’m going to tell you what your rights are, anyway.”
Rhodes gave him the Miranda warning. “You understand all that?”
“Sure do. Not too hard even for an old guy like me.”
“Good. Why are you going to tell me what happened now? You got away with it for a long time, but you must have known somebody would find out sooner or later. Why didn’t you just admit what you’d done?”
Turner scrunched down a little farther in his recliner. “Thought I’d be arrested the next day. When that didn’t happen, I thought it’d be pretty soon, so I just waited. Before long, I’d waited a year or more. Figgered I’d just keep waitin’.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I guess the wait’s over.”
Rhodes tried to imagine what had happened. It was easy enough. When Moore was found dead of a heart attack, no one had seen a need to search the rest of the house. Nobody knew Betty Jane Turner was missing, because if anyone asked Turner about her, he just said she’d run off to Arkansas with some other man. People in those days were willing to accept that kind of explanation. Probably still were. The Moore relatives never cared about the house and just left it closed up until people broke in and pretty much cleaned it out. Nobody had gone into the attic, or if they had, they hadn’t told about the skeleton because they didn’t want anybody to know they’d been looting the place. So the years just went by.
“Been a long time,” Rhodes said. “Forty years or so. What really happened up there?”
“We had a dog,” Turner said. “Betty Jane and I did. Name was Rover. Lots of folks called a dog that back in those days. Don’t know if they still do. Anyway, Moore, he didn’t like dogs, and he called us a time or two about Rover gettin’ in his yard. Then he shot him with his BB gun. Betty Jane went to tell him off, but I guess she didn’t. He sweet-talked her, maybe. ’Fore long, she was goin’ up there all the time. Took me a while to catch on, but I finally did. I got my pistol and went up there. I was plannin’ to shoot Moore. Betty Jane, too. Didn’t care what happened to me after I did it. Funny thing, though, I didn’t shoot either one of ’em. We got to arguin’, and I shoved Betty Jane down. Shoved her hard. She hit her head on the sharp end of a coffee table and caved it in. Her head, I mean. Made an awful sound. Killed her right then and there, I think. Moore jumped me, and I hit him a time or two. Not in the face or anything. He started stumblin’ around and tryin’ to get his breath. Fell down in the floor not far from Betty Jane, and there they were, both of ’em dead as doornails.”
“You didn’t try to help either one of them?” Rhodes asked.
“Nope. Knew they were dead. Figgered it was good riddance. Took Betty Jane up to the attic. She wasn’t very big, but it was a strain on me, you can bet. Stuck her in that closet and went home and went right on as if nothin’ had happened. Went to work, came home, waited for the laws to come and get me. They never did.” He looked at Rhodes from under the brim of his baseball cap. “Not till today.”
“If you hadn’t shot Neil Foshee, I wouldn’t have come at all,” Rhodes said.
“Yeah, I guess not, but he was calling too much attention to that house. I just wanted to talk to him, get him to go somewhere else before you and your deputies started lookin’ too close at that place. I went up there to wait for him two or three nights, but he didn’t show up. When he did, I was nice to him. I told him that he needed to find somewhere else to do his deals because this was a quiet neighborhood and we didn’t want him around.”
“He didn’t listen, did he,” Rhodes said.
“Laughed at me, is what he did. Called me an old man. I had my pistol with me, knowin’ how those drug dealers are, and sure enough, he had one, too. Pulled it on me. So I had to shoot him. He dropped down just like old Moore did that time. I took his pistol and his phone and got out of there.”
“Did you really think I’d arrest the mayor for killing him?”
> “Thought you might. The mayor was there. I saw that Alexis of his, just like I told you. He was probably gonna buy some drugs.”
“No,” Rhodes said. “It wasn’t even the mayor.”
“Sure looked like that big Alexis of his.”
Rhodes didn’t see any need to explain about the mayor’s Lexus. He said, “You must have known we’d investigate Foshee’s death. Maybe even find Betty Jane.”
“Wasn’t too sure you would. That other sheriff didn’t find her. It’s a funny thing, though.”
“What’s funny?”
“I been bothered for years by them radio waves, and a day or so ago, they just stopped.” Turner touched his baseball cap. “Best I’ve felt in years.”
“I don’t think it was radio waves,” Rhodes said, thinking of the electromagnetic waves measured by Seepy Benton and Harry Harris.
“What was it, then?” Turner asked.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Rhodes asked.
Turner gave a short laugh. “Not me. Once you cross over, you don’t come back. Ain’t that right?”
“I used to think so,” Rhodes said. “Now I’m not so sure.”
Chapter 22
Rhodes arrested Turner, took him to jail, and got him booked without any problems. Turner was compliant and resigned, which made it easy. The problems started after the booking, when Jennifer Loam came in.
“I heard on the scanner that you were bringing in a prisoner, Sheriff,” she said. “I thought I’d come by and see if you had a scoop for me.”
“He sure does,” Hack said before Rhodes had a chance to open his mouth. “Not only did he bring in the man who shot Neil Foshee, but he’s solved a murder that nobody’s even known about for forty years and found a missin’ person that nobody even knew was missin’. I’d like to see Sage Barton do that. He might have a matched pair of pistols, but he ain’t ever managed to do anything close to what the sheriff just did.”
“Amazing,” Jennifer said. “Is all that true, Sheriff?”
“Well,” Rhodes said.
“Sure it’s true,” Hack said, “and that’s just what happened. I got a mind like a steel trap, and not a bit of rust on it.”
Jennifer brought out her little video camera and aimed it at Rhodes. “I’d like to get a statement from you, Sheriff. Tell me a little about what you’ve done.”
“He can’t tell it as good as I can,” Hack said.
“He’s right,” Rhodes said. “I can’t. Turn that thing on him. He’ll fill you in.”
“Durn right I will,” Hack said, but he was prevented from telling the story when the phone rang. Hack answered it, and Jennifer smiled at Rhodes.
“Looks like it’s up to you,” she said.
Rhodes couldn’t see any way to get out of it, so he told the story as succinctly as he could. He didn’t make any mention of the strangeness he’d felt in the old house, and he didn’t say that Brad Turner no longer needed to line his hat with tinfoil. He certainly didn’t mention ghosts.
Jennifer didn’t let him get away with it. “Dr. Benton and Dr. Harris, our local version of the Ghostbusters, claim that you were led to the skeleton of Mrs. Turner by her ghost. Do you have any comment on that?”
Rhodes thought it over. “I didn’t see a ghost,” he said.
“They said that their instruments showed a ghostly presence.”
“I’m not an expert on those instruments,” Rhodes said. “I’ll have to leave that interpretation up to the good doctors.”
“Would you endorse their services?” Jennifer asked.
“As a county official, I can’t give endorsements.”
“You’ll have to admit that it was unusual for you to find a skeleton that had been undiscovered for forty or more years, won’t you?”
“I don’t think anybody else ever looked,” Rhodes said. “There was no reason to.”
Hack was motioning for Rhodes to pick up the phone, so he excused himself from the interview and did so. Wade Clement was on the line.
“I called to ask if it would be all right for me to leave town today, Sheriff,” Wade said. “Your dispatcher’s been filling me in on what’s happened, so I guess I can go. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Rhodes said. “The Foshee case is closed.”
“I’m glad to hear it. The whole thing was a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. In fact, small-town law enforcement is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. I’m going to write that paper I told you about, but I have a whole new perspective now. I want to thank you for that.”
“We’re here to help,” Rhodes said.
“Yes, I guess you are, and I appreciate that now. Thanks again.”
Rhodes hung up thinking that Wade was probably going to turn out all right. He wouldn’t be messing around in police business anymore, no matter where he was. Not for a while, anyway.
After Rhodes got off the phone, Jennifer Loam asked him another couple of questions and then left.
“Oughta be a good story on her Web site later today,” Hack said. “Would’ve been better if I’d got to tell it, though.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Rhodes said.
“I’d’ve put the ghosts in it.”
“That might’ve been too scary for her readers.”
“Shows what you know,” Hack said. “I’m one of her readers. We ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”
* * *
The rest of the day went by without anything strange or stressful happening. Rhodes even got to have lunch.
He got home that afternoon before Ivy did. He fed the cats, then took Yancey out back for some fun with Speedo. When Ivy came home, they went out for dinner, this time to the Jolly Tamale for Mexican food. It was a good day all the way around.
That evening when they were getting ready for bed, the telephone rang.
“It’s Hack,” Ivy said. “I know it is.”
Rhodes answered the phone, and of course Ivy was right.
“Got a problem,” Hack said.
“Why am I not surprised?” Rhodes said.
“Don’t try to tell me you were asleep,” Hack said. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”
“Just tell me the problem.”
“Vernell’s goats,” Hack said.
Vernell Lindsey was a local romance writer, and she had three pet goats named Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy. Sometimes they caused problems.
“What’s the matter with the goats?” Rhodes asked.
“They got out again. One of ’em’s already butted in the side of a car. I called Alton Boyd, and he said he’d meet you at the jail. You better come on down.”
“Why me?”
“He says he can’t corral those goats all by himself. Gotta have a helper. All the deputies are busy, so you’re elected.”
“All right,” Rhodes said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up and told Ivy what the trouble was.
“Are you sure you want to go after those goats in the dark? If one of them butts you, you could get hurt.”
Rhodes started to say something, opened his mouth, and then closed it.
“What is it?” Ivy asked.
Rhodes grinned. “I ain’t afraid of no goats,” he said.
About the Author
BILL CRIDER is the winner of two Anthony Awards and an Edgar Award finalist. An English professor for many years, he’s published more than seventy-five crime, Western, and horror novels. In 2010 he was inducted into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Alvin, Texas.
Learn more at www.billcrider.com. You can sign up for email updates here.
ALSO BY BILL CRIDER
SHERIFF DAN RHODES MYSTERIES
Half in Love with Artful Death
Compound Murder
Murder of a Beauty Shop Queen
The Wild Hog Murders
Murder in the Air
Murder in Four Parts
Of All Sad Words
Murd
er Among the O.W.L.S.
A Mammoth Murder
Red, White, and Blue Murder
A Romantic Way to Die
A Ghost of a Chance
Death by Accident
Winning Can Be Murder
Murder Most Fowl
Booked for a Hanging
Evil at the Root
Death on the Move
Cursed to Death
Shotgun Saturday Night
Too Late to Die
PROFESSOR SALLY GOOD MYSTERIES
A Bond with Death
Murder Is an Art
A Knife in the Back
PROFESSOR CARL BURNS MYSTERIES
… A Dangerous Thing
Dying Voices
One Dead Dean
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Books by Bill Crider
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.