Murder at Stake

by Constance Barker

  “Why are they bringing my boy in for questioning? We were all there – there’s no way he had anything to do with polishing off old Jonesy. They were always real good friends. They even went bowling together in Calhoun every month or so.”

  Red patted his buddy on the shoulder. “It’s just routine, Jake. You know how it is...the lawmen have to make it look like they’re doing something, so they make a show out of making the rest of us look like criminals. Then they pick the one the newspapers hate the most, arrest ’em, give ’em a phony trial, and hang ’em.”

  Babs punched Red in the shoulder hard enough to make him holler.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that old gas bag, Jake. He’s right that it’s just routine, though. Junior was the first one on the scene after it happened. He’s the one who found Jonesy’s body lying there, so they want to get all the details they can from him, that’s all. Now don’t you worry.” She kissed Jake on the cheek and then grabbed a piece of Red’s shoulder with her thumb and forefinger, giving it a good twist.

  “Yeowtch!” Red gave Babs a look, but he didn’t say a word, knowing he’d get something worse if he did.

  It was hard to watch Jake, on the verge of tears and not touching his donut or his coffee. I walked to the counter and grabbed his keys.

  “Come on, Jake. We’re going to the courthouse.”

  “But, Sheriff said I couldn’t go with Junior. I don’t know...”

  “I’ll take care of the Sheriff, Jake. Deloris, put his coffee in a go-cup with a lid, and give me a cup too.”

  Jake stood up eagerly and sniffled back a tear. “Give me the keys, Mercy. I’ll drive; it’s a long ways to Calhoun, and my truck’s a stick.”

  I had to smile. Calhoun is the county seat of McLean County, a whole seven miles from Paint Creek. “Not a problem, Jake. I won the Powder Puff Derby with a stick at the County Fair six years ago...drove a four-on-the-floor all through nursing school too. I think I can survive the ten-minute drive.

  I LEFT MY PURSE IN the truck and told Jake to empty his pockets. “We can’t take pocket knives or any other metal through the entrance, Jake...they’ll just confiscate it...um, they’ll take it away and keep it. Leave everything here.”

  “What about my Budweiser belt buckle, Mercy?”

  “They’ll wand us at the door, so you don’t have to take it off.”

  “That’s good, ’cuz without my belt my pants would end up around my ankles.”

  Thanks for the image, Jake.

  I walked up to the desk and asked for the Sheriff.

  “Sheriff Hayes is busy, ma’am. You can make an appointment across the lobby. Justine at the Register of Deeds office will be happy to help you.”

  The uniformed officer didn’t seem to understand. “Just tell him Mercy Howard and Jake Carter are here to see him.”

  “But...”

  I hollered toward the double doors at the end of the hall. “Bro-DEEEE!”

  That seemed to get everybody’s attention, including the Sheriff’s. He opened the door enough to stick his head through and waved for us to come.

  “What are you doing here, Mercy? We’re just about to start the interrogation.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re here. Jake and I are going to observe through the one-way glass.”

  “But...”

  “Come on, Jake.” I had been through the courthouse many times with my uncle, who had been an attorney when I was growing up. I knew the interrogation room was right around the corner. We went through the door to the small hallway gallery adjacent to the interrogation room. There was a row of eight or ten wooden chairs with a raised row of chairs behind it, but we opted to stand by the window, where we could see Jake Junior and a few others inside the room. We got inquisitive looks from the two men and one woman who were already at the window.

  Brody introduced us. “This is Mercy Howard, a medical trauma expert who was at the scene. She’s, uhhh, been deputized for this case. And this is Jake’s dad, Jake Senior. Umm...Junior’s family doctor recommended that he be here. These are detectives Ransford, Demetrius, and Hennessey.”

  Nice job, Brody! You’re a natural-born liar. Maybe too natural...

  “Tell my boy I’m here, Sheriff, will ya?”

  Brody nodded and joined several others in the interrogation room across the table from Junior, who was looking very pale and nervous. After the Sheriff whispered to him he smiled and waved at us through the mirror.

  “Hi, Pops!”

  We could hear him just fine through the little speaker above the glass.

  Jake looked a lot better now, and let out a relaxing exhale. “So, why didn’t you tell me that Doc Jessup wanted me to be here, Mercy? Here, I thought we were just kind of barging in like a couple of unwelcomed guests.”

  I blushed a little and just shrugged, not wanting to blow Brody’s fairly convincing cover story.

  A very tall, statuesque, and well-coifed woman in a fashionable tan business suit walked into the interrogation room, her Prada heels clicking on the marble floor as she walked to the chair directly across from Junior. Her shoulder-length blonde hair bounced like a model’s hair in a shampoo commercial as she floated through the room. This was a sophisticated big-city woman, maybe from the state Attorney General’s office in Frankfort. Junior looked like he had never seen a woman like her before, and he probably hadn’t. Her male secretary followed her, got her seated, and then sat in a chair in the corner of the room and opened his laptop. She nodded at the court reporter and cameraman to indicate that the interrogation was beginning.

  She put on her reading glasses and opened a folder in front of her. “Mr. Carter? I’m Alexandra Witherspoon, an attorney for the State of Kentucky. Do you know why you’re here today?”

  Junior was wide-eyed. His face reddened and his hand started to shake as he tried to answer. “Um, yes sir...ma’am...sir. I think so. Sheriff said he wanted to talk to me about old Jonesy getting killed out at his farm the other day. That’s right, ain’t it?”

  She licked her fingertip and turned to the next page of her notes. “Do you know what a deposition is, Mr. Carter?”

  “Uh...some kind of yoga position? Or...or, maybe some kind of drug from the drugstore? No! Jonesy’s death position was on his back. Is that what you meant?”

  “Mr. Carter...”

  Junior was desperate to look smart in front of these people and was thrown off by the pop quiz. “Or did you say depth perception? ‘Cuz I learned about that when I learned how to drive the big semi-trucks. That means, like, if you can tell if things are close or far away.”

  He seemed proud as he looked around at the stunned faces of the others around the table.

  “Yes...that’s right, Mr. Carter.”

  It was nice of Ms. Witherspoon not to embarrass Junior.

  “Today we’re going to ask you about things you saw, um, close up or at a distance, and your answers will be under oath – just as if you were testifying in court. You have to tell the truth. Do you understand? Do you have an attorney?”

  I was a little shocked to find out that this was a deposition and not just an interrogation by the Sheriff’s department. I had never heard of such a thing, except in civil matters like divorces and other law suits. Junior was sworn in and waived his right to an attorney. That seemed okay, because the questions didn’t seem to treat him as a suspect. They were just getting information.

  Junior admitted that he was standing over the body when the Sheriff and the rest of us got there, but Brody reminded them that the Medical Examiner had determined that Jonesy had been dead for at least an hour at that point. We learned that Jonesy was probably murdered before the tornado even happened. That was disturbing because it meant that he probably died as soon as he got home, just a few minutes after we talked to him at the diner. But it was good, because Junior was at Earl Rollins’ place before the tornado.

  But then the tone changed. One of the investigators or state lawyers pulled a large plastic bag out of
his briefcase and set it on the table. It contained a small sledgehammer like the one we saw next to Jonesy’s body. Alexandra Witherspoon continued:

  “Mr. Carter, is this your hammer?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “Uh, nope...or, well, I’ve seen lots of 6-pound sledges like that one. But mine’s pretty rusty and has an old beat up handle on it. That one looks pretty new – like the ones Ronnie sells at the hardware store.”

  “I see. Perhaps you bought a new one lately...from Ronnie. This one still has the price written in marker on the bottom of the handle.”

  Where was she going with this? I didn’t like it. Junior shook his head.

  “Nope.”

  She set her glasses down on the table and sat back in her chair, folding her arms as she nodded slowly. Then she leaned forward and pointed her pen right at Junior. “Can you tell me then, Mr. Carter, why your fingerprints are on this hammer, found at the scene – the same hammer which has been positively determined to be the hammer used to bash in the back of Mr. Jones’ head and then to pound the stake through the chest of the victim?”

  A small roar went up from the group inside the deposition room and in the hallway gallery where I was with Jake and the others. She was sounding very much like a prosecutor and not much at all like someone just gathering information.

  “Don’t answer that, Junior!” I hollered, banging on the glass, but he couldn’t hear me.

  Fortunately, he was too stunned to talk, and I rushed out of the viewing gallery, around the corner, and burst through the door to the interrogation room.

  “This deposition is over!” I declared.

  All faces turned toward me. I didn’t even remember going into the room, but I was committed now. Ms. Witherspoon addressed me.

  “Are you Mr. Carter’s attorney, Miss?”

  “I am not.”

  “Then...”

  “Junior, tell them right now that you want a lawyer before you say another word.”

  The room was silent, as all eyes fell upon a confused Junior – except for his eyes, which were fixed on me. I nodded for him to do what I had asked.

  “I want a lawyer before I say another word,” he said, without taking his eyes off me.

  I walked over to Junior. “Is he under arrest?” I asked the stunned lawyers and investigators. Only Brody was smiling, but he was trying hard to hide it.

  “Well, we haven’t...”

  “Good. Junior, let’s go! This whole state-run deposition lynch mob ambush is highly irregular in a criminal case to begin with, especially at this point. Sheriff, whose case is this anyway? Yours or the state’s? Come on, Junior, let’s get you out of this place.”

  He got up eagerly and with an exhale of relief. “Can I still get breakfast at the diner, Mercy?”

  That remark probably didn’t increase my status in the minds of the sophisticated state lawyers, but I didn’t care. I was mad, as we stopped to the doorway. “Damn right you can, Junior. I’ll make sure that Smoke has an Old School Hero Omelet waiting for you when we get back!”

  “With pancakes?”

  “With pancakes!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The East End Shopping Center was the closest thing we had to a strip mall in Paint Creek. Originally, it was just the Shell Station on the corner by the edge of town, but Arnie Coulson bought the adjacent lots when they started to develop the big hill nearby around the time I was born. That’s where I live now. He refurbished the old movie theater and added a few more storefronts, including Liz’s Hair Salon and Jonesy’s Butcher Shop. Ronnie Towns moved his hardware store out here last year too, I suppose since this is where most of the construction and renovation goes on these day. Plus, Towns’ End Hardware has a nice ring to it – and I’m sure Arnie made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  It was a sunny afternoon, so I said goodbye to Grace and Wizard and walked down to Arnie’s to check on my vintage Mercedes. My Dad had always dreamed of owning a Mercedes, and wanted that to be my name. But Mom was not going to allow her little girl to be named after a car. She wanted something more spiritual like Faith or Hope or Joy. Well, they finally compromised and named me Mercy. I’m happy with it.

  Arnie was under a car as usual. It was splattered with dirt, and the tires were caked with mud and grass. Probably from the storm. I stopped outside the big open garage door and called Arnie’s name.

  “Not yet, Mercy,” Arnie said, pushing himself out from under a blue-green sedan. “Had to order the axel from Germany. You’re lucky they went into the business of refurbishing their classic cars over there. You’d never find parts for it at a junkyard – least ways, not around here.”

  “Arnie, it’s been a week or more. What’s the hold up?”

  He stood up and grabbed a dirty shop towel to wipe off his greasy hands. “Well, that’s what you get for buying that 1957 Mercedes, Merse.”

  I looked across the lot at my 1957 300-SL Roadster convertible. The polished metallic silver blue paint job made it glimmer as waves of late-day heat rose off the hood and trunk. I loved that car.

  “Well, I guess when I bought the Old School Diner, I decided to go old school all the way, Arnie. And why did you order an axle?” I hadn’t heard him mention an axle before. “I thought you said it was a U-joint or something like that.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to worry you...”

  Yeah, ‘cuz I know what a U-joint is.

  “...but that front axle developed a stress fracture – and you need a U-joint too. You gotta slow down over those speed bumps at the bottom of the hill, young lady. Good thing you got it to me when you did. It would’ve messed up a lot of stuff if it had broken clean through while you were moving.”

  How does he know about stress fractures? That’s a medical term. Maybe it’s a mechanical term too.

  “So, you got any idea when you’ll get the parts?”

  He stepped outside, stood next me, and spit. Fortunately, he aimed it downwind. Then he shook his head. “Won’t be today.”

  Thanks for being so specific. “Okay. Stop in for lunch sometime. Haven’t seen you at the diner for a while.”

  He nodded. “Been baggin’ it lately, Mercy. Busy. You know how it is. When I get done changing the oil on the Pastor’s car here, I got a brake job to do for Sam and Ethyl and then put on a set of new tires for Charlene.” He smiled broadly.

  Selling a set of tires would make it a really good day for Arnie, I supposed. “Ya, it never ends. So why don’t you put the car up on the hoist to change the oil, Arnie? Seems like it would be easier.”

  “Easier? Naw. I just built this little ramp to get the front end of the car up a bit so I can get in there on my rolling rack. This way I can lay down while I work.”

  He had just enough of a smirk so I couldn’t tell if he was pulling my leg or just savoring the tire sale. “Well, I’m going to say hello to Liz at the salon. Stop in soon, Arnie. Smoke is making his split pea soup tomorrow, and I’ll have Deloris make her apple-cherry crisp.” That should get him in there.

  The row of stores was set back off the street to make room for parking in front. Jonesy’s car was usually in front of the butcher shop, but there was no car there today. The horrible event was still burned into my mind’s eye, and I said a little prayer for my friend, Carl aka Jonesy.

  There was one of those little red Smart Cars in the corner of the lot, which I had seen around town a few times. I wonder who that belongs to...That would be great for running errands around town.

  Junior’s little green SUV was parked in front of Liz’s salon down on the end, which struck me as a little odd, but I decided to poke my head into Ronnie’s. I’d been meaning to pick up a new latch for the hamster cage before it cut my finger off or before my babies escaped.

  “Hey! If it isn’t the prettiest lady in McLean County! What brings you in today, Mercy?”

  Ronnie was always a flatterer – and I loved it. I should hire him to be the voi
ce in my “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.”

  “Just need to fix the latch on my hamster cage, Ronnie.”

  He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait a minute, and ran off to one of the aisles to get it for me.

  “I’m just going to snoop around for a while, Ronnie,” I hollered to him.

  I walked past some saws and wrenches and screwdrivers, and then stopped to look at a pink plastic tool box with a few of the basics in it. I should pick this up for the diner...or maybe for the house, I thought. I took it by the handle and sashayed down the aisle. Then I stopped as something caught my eye, just as Ronnie walked up to me with several latches in hand.

  “Tell me which one you like, Mercy, and I’ll run up and put it on after I close up.”

  “One that’s easy for me to get in, hard for them to get out...and looks cute! Say, Ronnie...” I reached into the bin on the shelf next to me and pulled out a small sledgehammer. “...have you sold any of these lately?” I looked on the end of the handle, and saw “8.99” written in black marker.

  He looked in the bin and saw four more of the hammers. “Nope...but what the heck...I ordered a half-dozen of them a few weeks ago, so there should be six of them in there.” I handed him the one I was holding, and he put it back with the others. “But there’s only five of them here now. I wonder...”

  He paused. He had a very concerned look on his usually happy face.

  “What is it, Ronnie?” He shook his head and turned to walk back to the counter, but I had to know what had been such a cause of concern for him. I mean, if we find out who has the 6th sledgehammer, maybe we will know who the real killer is. It wasn’t easy to get him to talk, but he finally opened up.

  “Well, I guess there’s no one else in the store right now, Mercy, but this is not something that can end up in the Paint Creek gossip mill.”

  He was right about that. I kept my eyes on his and just nodded my honest agreement.

  “Well...” He leaned across the counter toward me and looked toward the door to make sure no one was coming. An old Ford pickup truck was just coming into the parking lot. “...the morning of the storm, it was kind of busy in here...a lot of people getting nails and duct tape and batteries and candles – supplies for the storm, I guess. I mean, Liz was here, Jonesy stopped in when he left the butcher shop, Hattie and Sandy stopped in, Vonnie bought some light bulbs while she waited for the reverend to fill up his gas tank and wash the car on the corner, and Pete Jenkins bought one of these disposable lighters and some chewing gum and said he was heading for the diner.”