by Bill Crider
“I got that much of it.”
“On the crane machine,” Hack said.
Rhodes finally figured it out. The assault hadn’t been on a person, a who. It had been on a machine. A what.
“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” he asked.
“I thought I did,” Lawton said. “What I said was, — “
Rhodes held up his hand. “Never mind. Just go on with the story. Who assaulted the machine?”
“The Methodist preacher’s kid,” Lawton said. “You know how that machine works?”
“You put in a quarter or two quarters or whatever and turn the crank. The crane is supposed to drop down and pick up a prize. If you turn just right, it drops the prize in the slot, and the prize falls out. Not too many people can do it right, though.”
“That’s what the preacher’s kid found out,” Hack said.
“He shoulda known,” Lawton said. “But maybe preachers’ kids don’t fool with those kinds of machines very much. Anyway, he took it pretty hard when he didn’t get the prize he wanted. The witnesses that called it in said the kid kicked the machine and said a few words a preacher’s kid ought not even to know.”
“That’s not much of an assault,” Rhodes said.
“That ain’t all,” Hack told him. “The kid —“
“I’m tellin’ this story,” Lawton said, and to Rhodes’ surprise, Hack didn’t dispute him. “Anyway the kid, his name’s Fisher, for Fisher of Men, prob’ly —“
“He was fishin’ around in that slot,” Hack said. “Maybe they named him Fisher for that.”
Lawton glared at Hack, who shrugged and began inspecting the fingernails on his left hand.
“What happened then,” Lawton said, “is that Fisher stood on some kind of a box and stuck his arm up in the slot, tryin’ to grab the prize.”
“And he couldn’t get it out,” Hack said. “His arm, that is. The prize, either. The box slipped out from under his feet, and he was sorta hangin’ there —“
“And that’s when he really started assaultin’ the machine,” Lawton said. “He was screamin’ and kickin’ and hammerin’ on the plastic around all the prizes with the hand that wasn’t stuck in the machine.”
“But he was trapped by the machine,” Rhodes said. “So it wasn’t so much of an assault as an attempt to escape.”
“You could call it that, I guess,” Lawton said. “If you wanted to.”
“Did they get his arm out?” Rhodes asked.
“Yeah,” Lawton said. “Ruth called in and said that someone got some oil from the popcorn machine and they used that to grease his arm up. They finally got it out. He wasn’t hurt much. Just a scraped arm.”
“Maybe he’s learned his lesson. Where’s Ruth now?”
“She’s on her way in,” Hack said. “She’ll be here in a minute.”
“Good. Who took the call about the Wal-Mart thing, anyway?”
“Well, that was Lawton,” Hack said. “He was sittin’ in for me for a few minutes.”
That explained why Hack had let Lawton tell most of the story. He hadn’t been there when the call came in.
“Had to see his sweetie,” Lawton said. “Had to go out to the cafe and have a little time together.”
Hack had been keeping company with Mrs. McGee, a woman of his own age whom he’d met in the course of one of Rhodes’ investigations.
“You’re just jealous,” Hack said. “Couldn’t get a woman to look at you even if you won the Lotto.”
“I’m better lookin’ than some people I could name. I could get me a woman in a minute if I wanted one. It’s just that I’d rather spend my time doin’ my job than sparkin’ some old lady.”
“Don’t you call Miz McGee an old lady,” Hack said, starting to rise from his chair.
Rhodes said, “I think you’d better go check on the prisoner, Lawton. We want to be sure Nellie’s comfortable during his stay here.”
Lawton scowled at Hack for a minute and then turned toward the door leading to the cells.
“Did you check on the computer about gun sales?” Rhodes asked Hack.
“You asked me to, didn’t you? But it didn’t do any good, just like I told you. Nobody involved with the coaches bought any guns. Here’s a print-out just in case, though.”
He handed Rhodes a piece of paper, and the sheriff glanced down the list of names and weapons. Hack was right. No one connected with the case had bought a pistol, and no one owned a .32. Everyone preferred a larger caliber.
He put the list aside as Ruth Grady came in the door. There was a dark stain on the front of her uniform.
“Popcorn oil,” she said when she saw Rhodes looking at it. “Did Hack tell you about the little incident at Wal-Mart?”
“Hack and Lawton,” Rhodes said. “Is the boy all right?”
“He’s fine, and maybe he’s learned a lesson.”
“You can’t count on it,” Hack said. “Those preachers’ kids are hard to deal with.”
“We’ll see about that later on, when he gets to be a teenager,” Rhodes said.
“He won’t be in town by then,” Hack said. “Those Methodists move their preachers around a lot.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to Bob Deedham and his wife?” Rhodes asked Ruth.
“I talked to him. She wasn’t around.”
“Did he say where she was?”
“No. Does it matter?”
“Not really,” Rhodes said, though it might. Especially if she was out at The County Line. But that could wait until later. Right now, he wanted to hear what Deedham had to say.
He asked Ruth to tell him.
Chapter Eleven
It wasn’t what Deedham had to say so much as the way he acted that interested Rhodes when Ruth gave her account.
Naturally Deedham had said there was no trouble between him and Brady Meredith. Rhodes wouldn’t have expected anything different.
And Deedham had said that there was no relationship between Brady and Terry Deedham that he knew of. Of course she was an attractive woman, and there were bound to be rumors, but Deedham wasn’t the kind of man who put any stock in talk like that.
Or so he said.
“He was nervous the whole time,” Ruth told Rhodes. “He couldn’t sit still. He’d get up and pace, and then he’d sit down for a minute. But he couldn’t stay in the chair.”
“Did he give any reason for being so jittery?” Rhodes asked.
“He said it was next week’s game. He needed to be getting ready for it instead of talking to me. He said something about Springville’s quarterback passing for three hundred yards last night and that he might be vulnerable to a blitz. He didn’t seem concerned at all about Brady Meredith being dead, except how it might affect the game with Springville. That’s pretty suspicious if you ask me.”
It seemed suspicious to Rhodes, too. It seemed to him that anyone would be more concerned about the murder of a colleague than a football game. Even in Texas.
“Did you ask him what he did after the game last night?”
“He claims that he worked at the field house until after one o’clock. He always stays to look at the game films after the other coaches have gone home. They all look at them together on Saturday morning, but Deedham watches them first. He’s obsessed with football, all right.”
Rhodes wondered if Deedham’s obsession grew out of his relationship with his wife or vice-versa.
“Anyone who can verify that he was there?”
“The managers were getting the gear stowed, he said, but they left before midnight.”
So Deedham didn’t have an alibi for most of the evening. Rhodes wasn’t surprised.
“I don’t suppose he mentioned where his wife was while he was at the field house.”
“No,” Ruth said. “I didn’t ask him that.”
“How about after he got home? Can she give us a time if we ask?”
“She was asleep when he got there. That’s what he claims, at least.
I got the impression that he didn’t really know where she was.”
Rhodes suspected that she had been at The County Line. He might be able to find out.
“Did you notice whether he smoked?” he asked.
“He didn’t light up when I was there, but there was an ashtray on the coffee table.”
Maybe Deedham didn’t smoke, Rhodes thought. But he wasn’t the only member of the household. Maybe Terry Deedham was the smoker. And maybe she even smoked Marlboros.
“Were there any butts in the ashtray?” he asked.
“No. It was clean.”
Too bad. Rhodes was definitely going to have to pay a visit to Terry Deedham. But not tonight. He’d talk to her tomorrow unless she was in church when he went by. Somehow he didn’t think she would be. From all he’d heard, she wasn’t the church-going kind.
Rhodes was getting dressed the next morning when the doorbell rang. His visitor was Jack Parry, the county judge, who, by virtue of his office presided over the Commissioner’s Court. He was, in effect, Rhodes’ boss, though he usually didn’t act like it.
“It’s a fine day, isn’t it,” Parry said as he stood in the doorway.
He was a stout, bald man who was always smiling. He had worn a beard for years, but he had shaved it off before the last election. Now that the election was safely over and he was established in office, he had let it grow out again. It made him look older, but looking older wasn’t a bad thing in his case. He was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and a striped tie. And as usual he was smoking a big cigar.
“It’s a fine day, all right,” Rhodes said. “Just about perfect.”
The clouds and rain of the previous day had disappeared completely, leaving the sky a pale, empty blue. The pecan trees in Rhodes’ yard cast sharp black shadows on the sidewalk and yard.
“Why don’t we talk outside, Dan?” Parry said. “I don’t want to smell up your house with this cigar.”
Rhodes didn’t mind the smell. It seemed to him much more pleasant that the smell of cigarettes, but Ivy might object.
“All right,” Rhodes said, stepping out on the porch. “What brings you by today?”
“I was just on my way to church, Dan, when I thought about stopping by to say hello.”
Rhodes didn’t believe that for a second. Parry had never stopped by to say hello before, and as far as Rhodes knew he went to church every week. It wouldn’t do to accuse the judge of lying, however, so Rhodes went along with him.
“That was thoughtful of you, Judge. I’ll tell Ivy you came by.”
“How is Ivy these days?” Parry asked. “You two happy? I’d like to think I tied the knot right.”
Parry had married Rhodes and Ivy in the courthouse. Rhodes hadn’t wanted any bigger ceremony than was absolutely necessary.
“You did a good job,” Rhodes said, wondering when Parry would get to the point.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Parry took a puff of his cigar and blew smoke out toward Rhodes’ lawn. He looked down at his suit and brushed the front of it. There weren’t any ashes on the suit that Rhodes could see.
“About this Brady Meredith thing, Dan,” Parry said.
Rhodes should have known. Parry was a big football fan. What else would have brought him by?
“What do you want to know?” Rhodes asked.
“Well, you know that I don’t like to tell you how to do your job. I’ve never meddled in any of your cases before, have I?”
“No,” Rhodes said. “You haven’t.”
“And I hate to start now.” Parry leaned out over the porch railing and tapped on his cigar. “But this is serious.”
“Most murders are,” Rhodes said.
Parry nodded. “Of course. But this one is a little different from most. This one involves the football team. You know that we have a good chance to get to the state finals this year, don’t you?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“That would mean a lot to this town, Dan. We don’t have much to be proud of these days, if you’ve noticed. Lots of stores downtown are closed; most of the place is just vacant buildings. Hardly any cotton farms left in the whole county. There’s the power plant down the highway, but that’s about it for industry. We need something to put some spirit back in this place, and the football team’s doing that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I’m sure you have. People are talking about it everywhere. Did you read Goober’s article about the game in the newspaper yesterday?”
Rhodes had read it after getting home. It was full of praise for Clearview’s “outstanding defensive play,” “quality linebacking corps,” “formidable offensive line,” and “strong-armed quarterback.” It was almost as if Vance typed it on a cliché machine.
“Wonderful stuff,” Parry said, puffing his cigar. “The town needs stories like that. But not stories like that other one.”
Rhodes knew which one Parry meant — the one about Brady Meredith’s murder.
“A real downer,” Parry said. “I’m afraid it might affect the morale of the team.”
Rhodes didn’t see how that could be avoided. Getting a group of teenagers to play together as a team required a delicate psychological touch, and the stability that Jasper Knowles and his assistants had achieved during the season was certain to be affected by Brady’s death.
“But if you could bring this to a quick conclusion,” Parry said, “then the team might get straightened out in time for the game next Saturday. How are things going so far?”
“It’s only been a day. I’m doing what I can.”
Parry brushed at his suit front again. “That’s not quite good enough, Dan. I’m talking about clues. Suspects. Things like that. We need to put out one of those bulletins that says something like ‘Sheriff Rhodes expects an arrest at any minute.’ ”
“We could do that,” Rhodes said. “But it wouldn’t be the truth.”
“Surely you have some ideas.”
“I do. But nothing solid yet. There are a lot of people involved, and several of them might have had motives to kill Meredith. In fact, I’m going to talk to the team later on today. Maybe one of them did it.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t say something like that! You don’t really believe that, do you?”
So far, Rhodes hadn’t turned up any evidence of steroid use by the team that might account for violent behavior by one of the players off the field, but there could be other motives he wasn’t yet aware of. However, he didn’t want to go into that with Parry.
“The truth is that I don’t know what to believe right now,” he said. “This could take a little time, Jack. You’ll just have to trust me to do it right.”
Parry puffed his cigar for a few seconds, then said, “I guess you’re right, Dan. I shouldn’t have tried to get mixed up in this in the first place. It’s just that this football team means so much to everybody.”
Rhodes wondered what Parry would say if he told him about the possibility that Meredith had been gambling on the team’s games and that the games might have to be forfeited. He probably wouldn’t say anything. He’d just have a heart attack and die right there on Rhodes’ front porch.
So Rhodes didn’t tell him. They talked for a few minutes with Rhodes continuing to assure Parry that everything would work out sooner or later, and then the judge left to go to church.
Rhodes figured that Hayes Ford would be a late riser, so he went to visit the Deedhams first.
Bob Deedham was already at the field house, going over the films again, according to his wife, Terry, who was at home. She came to the door in a purple housecoat and invited Rhodes in for a cup of coffee.
Rhodes didn’t drink coffee in the normal course of things, but he decided to make an exception in this case. It didn’t taste any better than he remembered. Besides that, it was hot and it burned his tongue. He would have much preferred a Dr Pepper.
“You don’t mind if I smoke, I hope?” Terry Deedham said.
&nb
sp; They were sitting in the kitchen at a square wooden table with four yellow plastic place mats on it. There was a little basket of artificial yellow flowers in the middle of the table. The bright morning sun streamed in through a window over the stainless steel sink.
“I don’t mind,” Rhodes said. “It’s your house.”
Terry pulled a package of cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket in her robe. Marlboros. She lit one and exhaled a long, thin stream of smoke.
“Bob doesn’t like for me to smoke in the house,” she said. “But I tell him it’s my house, too.”
She had masses of tousled blonde hair, big blue eyes, and thin white hands. She was quite pretty even though she wasn’t wearing any make-up, but Rhodes could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth and coarse-looking dark areas under her eyes.
“Your husband is really involved with the football team, isn’t he,” Rhodes said.
Terry grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth that made her face look more interesting.
“Tell me about it. I haven’t seen him for more than five minutes at a time since a month before the season started.”
“You don’t like football much yourself?” Rhodes said.
Terry put her cigarette on the saucer by her coffee cup and looked at Rhodes.
“Let me tell you something, Sheriff. I used to like football a whole lot. I was a cheerleader in high school. I was the homecoming queen. I never dated anyone but football players in high school or college. I watched football games on TV, college games and the pros, too.
“But all that was before I married Bob. I knew he liked football, but I didn’t know how much. He eats it and sleeps it. He never thinks about anything else. When he watches a game on TV, he tapes it so he can go over the crucial plays later on and analyze the way they worked. Around here, it’s football twelve months of the year. That can get pretty old after a while. Everybody needs a break now and then.”
She picked up her cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew out a plume of smoke.
“So now you know about me and Bob and football. But I bet that’s not why you came here.”