Booked for a Hanging

by Bill Crider

  She turned back and looked steadily at Rhodes. He waited, watching the screen door. It appeared that nothing happened very fast at the Appleby place.

  After about three minutes that seemed a lot longer, the two boys came out. The screen slammed shut behind them. They stood hulking on either side of Twyla Faye, who Rhodes assumed must be their sister. Her hair was darker, but they all had the same moon-shaped faces, the same blue eyes that were as faded as Twyla Faye’s jeans. All three of them looked at Rhodes vacantly.

  “I saw you boys over at the college building a while ago,” he said.

  The twins didn’t say anything. They just kept on looking at him. Their large hands dangled at the ends of long arms. Rhodes was beginning to wonder if the whole bunch was crazy. Or maybe they just couldn’t hear him. He didn’t relish the idea of walking across the yard.

  “You were up on the third floor,” he said, speaking louder. “You slid down the fire escape and ran back here.”

  “You can’t prove nothin’ on us,” one of the boys said. Rhodes didn’t know whether it was Claude or Clyde.

  “I’m not trying to prove anything right now,” he said. “I just wondered what you were doing over there.”

  “We work for Mr. Graham,” the other boy said. “Paintin’ and fixin’ up and all like that.”

  Rhodes couldn’t say much for the quality of their work. “You were painting the third floor?”

  “That’s right,” the boy said. “He was payin’ us good money.”

  The girl laughed. “Ten dollars a day. They ain’t too bright, Sheriff.”

  He wasn’t sure how bright the girl was, either, but he suspected they were all considerably smarter than they were trying to appear. It wasn’t unusual for people to play dumb when they were talking to the law, especially if the people didn’t have too high an opinion of the law to begin with.

  “A man died up there last night,” he said.

  There was no surprise on their faces. He hadn’t expected any.

  “We didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” Claude said. Or Clyde. “We don’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “You didn’t see anyone up there last night? Any strangers?”

  Claude and Clyde looked at one another. “We ’uz watchin’ TV last night. We didn’t see nothin’ else.”

  It was becoming quite clear that the Appleby family didn’t reveal anything to the law, not in the way of normal conversation at any rate, and Rhodes didn’t want to have to take anyone to jail, not just now.

  “Nice looking herd of cows,” he said, glancing back up the road.

  The three on the porch looked casually in that direction, too. Then they turned slowly back to Rhodes.

  “Yeah,” Claude or Clyde said.

  “When your daddy gets back from town, you tell him I dropped by,” Rhodes said. “Tell him he can come by the jail and talk to me about those cows.”

  “What about ’em?” Twyla Faye said. The vacant look had left her face. She seemed almost interested.

  “He’ll know,” Rhodes said. This time he didn’t wait for an answer. He got in the car, backed out of the gateway, and drove back toward Obert.

  On the way, he passed by the college again and looked toward Graham’s house. There were two cars parked there, as there had been when he left, a white Chrysler LeBaron, which he assumed to be Marty Wallace’s, and a dark green BMW, which he thought probably belonged to Rolingson. It just seemed like the kind of car Rolingson would drive.

  But what Rhodes wondered about was why Rolingson had not gone into town as he had said he would. Was it possible that he wouldn’t be staying at a motel after all? It was interesting to consider the possibilities, especially when you took into consideration the way Marty Wallace looked. And the fact that neither she nor Rolingson had so far shown the least sign of sorrow regarding Graham’s death.

  Both of them had surely wanted in that office, though, and Rhodes would not have been surprised if both of them weren’t up there right that second, going over the bookshelf with a fine-tooth comb.

  If they were, and he really didn’t care, he just hoped they wouldn’t find anything more than he had.

  Chapter 7

  Ruth Grady had finished her examination of Adkins’ property by the time that Rhodes got back to the jail, and she was talking about it to Hack and Lawton. Rhodes looked on his desk for Dr. White’s report of his findings on Graham’s death. It was sitting on top of all the other papers, and he looked it over quickly. There was nothing new in it, as far as he could tell, so he stepped over to listen to what Ruth had to say.

  It turned out that there were no tire tracks at Adkins’ gate because the rain from the Easter spell had effectively removed them. However, the grass was still mashed down where the thieves’ trailer had been driven into the pasture for loading the cattle.

  “I think I might have a lead for you,” Rhodes said. “Why don’t you get in touch with Mr. Adkins and take him out to the Appleby place.” He told her where it was. “There are six cows and four calves bunched up by the fence, right by the road. One of the cows is missing a left horn. Let Adkins have a look at them, see what he thinks.”

  Hack looked impressed. “That’s pretty slick detective work, findin’ those cattle so fast,” he said. “I guess you’ve solved the killin’, too.”

  “Not yet,” Rhodes said. He told them about his morning and that Graham’s death had indeed been a “killin’.”

  “I bet it was the Applebys that did him in,” Hack said. “I’m gonna check their criminal histories.”

  “While you’re at it, check Rolingson, Wallace, and Brame,” Rhodes said.

  Hack grinned. “Right!”

  “You’ve made an old man happy,” Lawton said. “He’s been itchin’ to do somethin’ like that all day.”

  “Do you really think the Applebys are involved in murder?” Ruth said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know enough about them yet, and I wouldn’t want to guess. Those two boys could be tough customers if they wanted to, though. They’re big enough. I haven’t met the father or the mother yet.”

  He was about to explain why when the door opened and Lamont Stanley, a thin man with thick glasses and graying hair, came in. He was the librarian at the Clearview Carnegie Library, and he was carrying a paperback book.

  “Sheriff Rhodes, I want to report a crime,” he said, ignoring the others in the office.

  “What crime?” Rhodes said.

  “Censorship!” Lamont said, his voice rising. “Censorship of the worst kind!”

  “That’s not exactly a crime,” Rhodes said.

  “If it isn’t, I don’t know what is,” Stanley said. “It’s an infringement of First Amendment rights, isn’t it?”

  “It could be,” Rhodes said. “It depends.”

  “The First Amendment is part of the Constitution, isn’t it.” Stanley was waving the book over his head now, as if it were a flag.

  Rhodes admitted that it was.

  Hack was paying no attention to the hubbub; his printer had started to chatter. Ruth went to stand by Lawton, and they were watching Stanley with amusement.

  “And the Constitution is the Law of the Land, isn’t it?” Stanley said.

  Rhodes admitted that, too.

  “Well, then,” Stanley said, satisfied that he had made his point. “I want an arrest immediately!”

  “Is that the evidence?” Rhodes said, indicating the book that Stanley continued to wave.

  Stanley looked down at his hand in surprise, as if he had forgotten what he was holding. “Yes,” he said, handing the book to Rhodes.

  Rhodes took it and got out his glasses. The book was something called Traces of Mercury, by Clark Howard. On the cover was the head of a man who appeared to be wearing a hair-net. The man’s head was flanked by the heads of a woman and another man. Beneath them were upside-down skulls. Pretty ominous stuff.

  Rhodes opened the book and looked at the first page. He didn’t see any
thing unusual about it.

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the problem,” he said.

  “Just look,” Stanley said. “Just look.”

  “I’m looking,” Rhodes said, peering at Stanley over the top rims of his glasses.

  Stanley snatched the book from Rhodes’ hand, flipped through the pages, and handed it back. “Look right there.”

  Rhodes looked. Stanley had opened the book at page fifty-four, where someone had used liquid paper to white out a word in a sentence near the bottom of the page. Rhodes read the sentence, which had a word whited out in the middle: “‘I know that, for sake,’ Madrigal said.”

  “You see?” Stanley said. “You see?”

  “Is that all?” Rhodes said, looking around at Ruth and Lawton for help. They didn’t offer any. Hack’s printer was still racketing along.

  “All!” Stanley said. “All?” He grabbed the book again and flipped more pages. “Look there! Page sixty-seven!” He thrust the book back at Rhodes.

  Rhodes looked at the sentence Stanley indicated, one word of which had been obliterated. “ ‘ ,’ Tay sighed.”

  “You see?” Stanley repeated. “You see?”

  “I see,” Rhodes said. “The whole book’s this way?”

  “The whole book. It’s ruined, of course. Just ruined.”

  “But it’s only a paperback,” Rhodes said.

  It was the wrong thing to say. “Only a paperback!” Stanley said. “And what difference does that make? It’s still a book, Sheriff Rhodes, and one of the patrons has complained about its mutilation. What if the culprit gets his hands on Faulkner and Hemingway? Would that make things any worse?”

  “Who is this culprit we’re talking about?” Rhodes said. “Do you have a name for me?”

  That calmed Stanley down somewhat. “Well, no, not actually. We don’t keep records of who checks out the paperbacks. We just write down the number that they take and check to see that they bring back the same number.”

  “Where do you buy the paperbacks?” Rhodes said. “This one looks pretty old.” He opened it to the copyright page. “Nineteen seventy-nine.”

  “They’re donated to us, actually,” Stanley said. “We don’t buy them.”

  “Donated?” Rhodes said. “Then how do you know this one wasn’t marked by the original owner? Do you go over each one as it comes in to the library to make sure it hasn’t been written in or that no pages are missing?”

  It was a few seconds before Stanley spoke again. Then he said, “No. Actually, we don’t. Go over the books when we receive them, I mean.”

  “So this one might very well have arrived in the library already marked.”

  “Yes,” Stanley said, drawing the word out. Then he thought of something else. “But even at that, it’s still censorship! I want whoever did this arrested at once.”

  “Who donated the book?” Rhodes said.

  “I don’t know,” Stanley said. “We don’t keep up with things like that, actually.”

  “And you don’t know who checked it out, except for the person who complained about it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then who do you want me to arrest?” Rhodes said. “Actually.”

  “Well, whoever did it, of course.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Why, how should I know?” Stanley was amazed at the question. He looked at Rhodes quizzically. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “All right,” Rhodes said. “Here’s the way we’ll work it. You go through all your paperback books and remove all the ones that have been censored. Then keep a close watch on the rest. Look over them when they’re returned. As soon as one comes in with words whited out, we’ll know who to arrest.”

  “But that means a great deal of work for me and my staff,” Stanley said. “We don’t actually have time—”

  “You want the culprit arrested, don’t you?” Rhodes said.

  “Of course I do, but—”

  “Then you’ll have to do the work,” Rhodes said. “If you care about the First Amendment, that is.”

  “Of course I care, but—”

  “Well, then,” Rhodes said. He handed Stanley the book and returned his glasses to his pocket.

  Stanley took the book. “We’ll do it,” he said. He threw his shoulders back, did an about-face, and marched out of the office.

  “He will do it, too,” Ruth said, walking back across the office.

  “Maybe,” Rhodes said. He didn’t expect the case of the self-appointed censor to amount to anything. It was probably just a one-time example of some over-zealous reader who happened to have some liquid paper at hand, something that was not likely to be repeated. Or so he hoped. He didn’t know what he’d do if Stanley insisted that the sheriff’s office set a watch on the homes of everyone who checked out a paperback book.

  “Let’s see what Hack’s got for us on that printer,” he said, and they all gathered around Hack’s desk.

  “Those three book folks are clean as a hound’s tooth,” Hack said. “Not countin’ a few movin’ violations.”

  “Things like that don’t amount to much,” Lawton said. “Could happen to anybody.”

  “I guess,” Hack said, glancing up at Lawton. “Never happened to me, though.”

  “What about the Applebys?” Rhodes said.

  “Well, now,” Hack said. “The Applebys are a whole different case.” He handed Rhodes the print-out.

  It was longer than Rhodes would have thought. The Applebys had been busy, in a lot of different places, or at least the father had. Cy Appleby, the father, had first been arrested at the age of eighteen, not counting any juvenile records that were closed to the computer, and he hadn’t slowed down since. He’d been picked up for burglary of a habitation, theft of services, assault, attempted murder, and even once for selling bootleg liquor.

  “Bet he made it himself,” Hack said.

  “No takers,” Rhodes said.

  Despite his wide range of alleged criminal activities, however, Appleby had served very little time in jail. Only one of the arrests had led to a conviction, and that had been the burglary charge. He’d served two years in the Texas Department of Corrections Ramsey I unit and been released only eighteen months previously. Since that time, he’d kept his record spotless.

  As juveniles, Claude and Clyde didn’t have records, and neither did Twyla Faye. Their mother, Ramona, had been picked up on several occasions for soliciting, but had never served time. The family had moved around quite a bit, too, having lived in Harris County, Bell County, Austin County, and Brown County before moving to Blacklin County.

  “Nice folks,” Lawton said. “Wonder why they decided to settle here?”

  “Prob’ly hadn’t heard about the quality of the law enforcement,” Hack said. “We already got ’em for cattle theft. Murder’s next.”

  “Don’t get in a rush,” Rhodes said. “We don’t have them on anything. Even if Adkins can identify those cattle, we can’t arrest anyone. It’s his word against the Applebys’ word. Remember, he didn’t brand those cows.”

  “We’ll get ’em some way,” Hack said. “Ruth’s on the case.”

  Ruth grinned. She knew as well as Rhodes what Hack’s first reaction to her had been.

  “Speaking of being on the case,” she said, “I’d better see if I can get Adkins out there to have a look. Those might not even be his cows.”

  “Bet they are,” Hack said.

  “No takers,” Rhodes said.

  It was past noon, so Rhodes went home to see if there was any of the meatloaf left. Ivy wouldn’t be there. She took her lunch to work and ate in the office. By doing so she was able to leave at four o’clock rather than five.

  There was meatloaf in the refrigerator, wrapped in aluminum foil, so Rhodes made himself a cold meatloaf sandwich with a slice of low-fat imitation cheese on oat bran bread, spread with mustard and low-cholesterol Miracle Whip. He didn’t go as lightly on the Miracle Whip as he would have ha
d Ivy been there. He got a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator and sat at the table going over everything that he knew or suspected about Simon Graham’s death.

  The murder, and he was sure that it was murder, seemed to hinge on the book by Poe. Everyone wanted it, but would anyone have killed to get it? Rhodes didn’t know much about book collecting, aside from his acquaintance with Ballinger, but it seemed that book collectors had a kind of intensity that might very well lead them to do some drastic things, maybe even kill someone.

  The open office indicated that someone had gotten in with a key. Had the key been taken from Graham? If so, who took it? Brame was the only one who admitted to being anywhere near Obert when the crime was committed. Ruth had called Marty Wallace and Mitch Rolingson to inform them about Graham’s death, and they had showed up. But he hadn’t asked Ruth whether she actually reached them. She might have left a message on their machines. It seemed that everyone had an answering machine these days. He would have to check that with Ruth.

  If they were not at home, they could easily have been in Obert. The fact that Miz Coates had not seen their cars didn’t mean a thing. There were several places out of sight of her house where they could have been parked. He remembered Miz Coates’ hesitation when he asked if she’d seen Claude or Clyde over at the college building the previous night. She had volunteered the information that she’d seen only one car, but he suspected that she had been holding something back. He’d have to talk to her again, too. It might be that she had seen the other cars but hesitated to mention them because she’d seen them before and knew who they belonged to.

  And then there were the twins, along with their father and the rest of the family. They were certainly big enough to have killed Graham. But why would they want to?

  Rhodes looked down at his plate. There was nothing left of the sandwich but a few crumbs. He thought for a minute about going into the other room and riding on the stationary bike for a few minutes, but he thought that he recalled reading somewhere that it wasn’t good to exercise so soon after eating. And even if that wasn’t true, he didn’t feel much like riding a bicycle anyway. He tried to put the thought of riding it out of his mind.