by K. Gresham
“Blanco, boy, you do your thing,” he said cheerfully to the white dog, then followed the ball of long fur as it led the way down the red brick sidewalk.
This was the reason he’d spent three years in seminary, he chuckled. The reason he’d learned Greek and Hebrew, the reason he’d endured countless hours of lectures on homiletics and theology. The reason he’d forsaken a career in law enforcement so that he could be in the business of life enforcement.
All those choices, all those commitments, all so he could walk an elderly woman’s long-haired, snowball-looking mass of fur on a freezing morning in the middle of a state where the people talked funny and the food bit your tongue before you could bite it.
At times like these, Matt truly believed the Almighty had a wicked sense of humor.
Blanco, having finished the necessities of life, headed back toward the mansion, and Matt followed cheerily along. He closed the kitchen door behind them, toweled off Blanco’s tiny paws, then made sure the dog had fresh food and water.
The air in the house was chilly, and Matt decided to make sure the furnace was back on after last night’s power outage. He searched the kitchen, then the hallway, walked through the dining room and finally found the thermostat located on the wall just outside the parlor. As he had suspected, the furnace had not come back on automatically when power returned.
Not wanting poor little Blanco to be too cold, Matt adjusted the furnace up to what he considered comfortable, then turned to leave out the front door.
The marble table that held the phone was still upended in the front hallway from when Miss Olivia had collapsed with her heart attack. Matt set it to rights. He picked up the phone, placed it on the table, then reached down and picked up Miss Olivia’s gloves and scarf. They were still wet from the storm. He looked around, found a closet tucked away beneath the main stairway, and opened the door. Everything was neatly ordered. Spring coat hung under plastic. Matching hat wrapped in plastic above it on the shelf. A light jacket hung to the side, a matching scarf around the hanger. Miss Olivia’s heavy winter coat, brown wool with a nice fur collar, hung in the middle. He placed the leather gloves on the shelf right above the coat to dry, and he hung the scarf around the coat’s hanger. He brought his hand away, wet. The fur collar from the coat was still damp from last night’s storm as well. Well, with the furnace now on, everything should dry quickly.
Matt walked back into the kitchen, tossed a scrap from the cookie jar in Blanco’s direction and then locked the door behind him.
Would that all his tasks as a minister were this easy. Something about the simple tasks of walking a dog and laying an old lady’s scarf out to dry appealed to the servant in him he wanted to cultivate. Christ had called him to be a servant, a job that was easy to do when the tasks were definable. He let out a heavy sigh in the cold air and headed back toward the clinic. Now it was time to return to the not-so-easy side of servanthood.
The reality of murder.
***
“Here you go, Sheriff,” Richard Dube said as he dumped all of the gas receipts from the Sinclair Station onto the hospital waiting room’s round Formica table.
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Matt asked, plowing into the receipts. He guessed that there had to be at least thirty credit-card slips before him.
“Alphabetize ’em and write ’em all down. If Tom saw somethin’, then chances are another customer might’ve seen somethin’,” James W. said.
“These are only the credit sales. What about all of the cash transactions?” Matt asked.
“We’ll start with these, and use ’em to get more names.”
“Want me to help, James W.?” Richard Dube was eager to get in on the investigation.
James W. considered. “Naw. You’d best get back to the office and mind the phone. With all this ice, there’s bound to be folks who need some help.” Richard was disappointed, but he pulled his coat back on.
Heaving a sigh, James W. returned to the pile of receipts. “We’ll begin with the ones that clocked in after Tom’s shift started at four o’clock.”
“Make it three o’clock,” Matt suggested. “Tom said he didn’t see anything on his shift. That suggests he might’ve seen something before or after.”
James W. nodded. “Three until eight, then.” He straddled the back of the plastic shell chair and grabbed up a fist full of receipts. “Let’s get started.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Another Yeck History Lesson
“Warren, you in here?” Matt called into the dark tin shed behind Grace Lutheran’s fellowship hall. Today was Thursday, Warren’s usual day for cleaning the grounds before the busy church weekend. There was Two or One Club on Friday nights for the young couples and singles in the church, confirmation for the junior high kids on Saturday mornings, and, of course, services on Sunday.
Warren Yeck raised his head from behind a row of gas cans. He held a buzz saw in one hand and a can of gas in the other. “You want me, Pastor?” came the janitor’s high-pitched reply.
“I’ve got James W. with me. We need to ask you a few questions,” Matt called.
“Be right there,” Warren said. He picked his way through the tool shed, mindful of the various implements and cans strewn along the way.
One thing Ernie Masterson had on Warren Yeck, Matt thought. Ernie kept a clean workshop.
The old man joined the sheriff and the pastor outside the shed. “Had some branches come down last night,” Warren said, gazing up at an old tree. “Thought I’d better get ’em all cleared up before someone gets hurt.”
“I appreciate it, Warren,” the pastor said. Warren Yeck might not have been the neatest caretaker in the world, but he sure was a hard worker.
“Saw where you bought some gas at Ernie’s Sinclair Station last night,” James W. said, immediately getting down to business.
“Filled the tank,” Warren agreed. “Television news cut in and said there was a bad ice storm headin’ this way. I’ve got people up in Kerrville. It hit there first. I was talkin’ to Emmy. That’s my cousin from—”
“Fine, Warren,” James W. said, cutting to the chase. Matt smiled. Warren would take all day to tell how he was related to the Kerrville Emmy if James W. let him. “What time did you pull into the station?”
Warren put down the gas can and thought for a moment. “Musta been around three-thirty. No, three-forty-five, I’d say. I’d turned off Andy Griffith. I really like that show. Always have. They run it every day on—”
“So it was after the Andy Griffith episode finished and time for you to get in your car and drive to the Sinclair.”
“Yes, sir.” Warren eyed the sheriff closely. Not many cut Warren Yeck off like that, but then again, not many were the sheriff of the town. “What’s this all about?”
“When you went to the service station yesterday afternoon, did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”
Warren peered even more closely at the sheriff, then put the saw down next to the gas can. “She’s finally done it,” he said with an approving nod.
“Who’s done what?” James W. adjusted his hat against the morning sun rising over the church’s roof.
“I’ve told her more than once to do somethin’ about him.”
Matt sent a questioning look James W.’s way, but the sheriff shrugged his puzzlement.
“Pearl finally filed a complaint against that man.” Warren put his hands together as if saying a quick prayer of thanks to the Almighty. “‘Bout time.”
“What are you saying, Warren?” Matt asked.
“I know he’s been a friend of your family’s for a long time, James W.,” Warren said. “It’s probably what kept Pearl quiet all these years. If you ask me, it’s been gettin’ worse lately.” The old man gestured toward a cement bench with Corinthian-style legs. “That’s a start for an old man,” he said, heading toward it. “Don’t mind if I take a seat.”
He lowered himself onto the bench, then studied the sheri
ff and the pastor. “So do you need me to be a witness, or what? I’ll do it.”
Matt started to speak, but James W. cut him off. “What exactly did you see at the gas station last night, Warren?”
“There’s plenty folks about that say Pearl and that Bo fella over at the Fire and Ice House have a thing goin’ on, but I don’t believe it. Not one bit. But you can bet Ernie believed it.”
“Bo. From the Fire and Ice House.” James W. repeated.
“That’s right. He was at the Sinclair buyin’ gas—same as me. All he did was go inside and pay for it.” Warren stood and faced Matt earnestly. “I’ll swear to that on a stack of bibles, Reverend.”
“What happened when he went inside?” Matt asked.
“Ernie came out of the garage and started throwin’ a fit. Yelled at Bo—called him every name in the book. But Bo didn’t say nothin’ to him. Not one word. He just gave the money to Pearl and got back into his car.”
“And that was it?” Matt asked.
“No, sir. That’s when Ernie backhanded Pearl. A good one. Right across the mouth.” Warren shook his head. “Bloodied her lip, he did. It ain’t the first time either. Probably won’t be the last.”
“Actually, it might have been the last, Warren.” James W. cleared his throat. “Ernie Masterson is dead.”
Warren stared at the sheriff a long moment. “When did this happen? How?”
“During the ice storm last night,” Matt said. “He was murdered.”
“Now, wait a minute there.” Warren stood. “You’re not tryin’ to say that Pearl had anything to do with murder, are you? There’s plenty in this town that’ll dance on that man’s grave.”
“Let’s go inside and talk a bit, Warren. Get some hot coffee,” James W. suggested.
Warren nodded. “Maybe we can find some good ole’ Czech schnapps to toast the passing of that sonuva—” he looked at Matt and reconsidered, “—gun.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Sheriff Visits the Ice House
“Bo, what are you doin’ here so early?” Dorothy Jo Devereaux looked up from the celery she was chopping as Bo walked in the Fire and Ice House’s kitchen door. He wore a navy plaid CPO jacket against the morning’s freeze, Dorothy Jo noted with approval. That boy rarely took good enough care of himself.
“Angie called. Said we needed a meetin’.” Bo leaned over her work area and picked up a celery stick. “To get here before the bar opened.”
“That’s for cooking.” Dorothy Jo shook her head but returned to her work. “Land sakes, son, when do you sleep?”
“Got to bed at two. Never could sleep past seven.” He chomped noisily on the celery and reached for another.
“You giving Bo a bad time, Dorothy Jo?” Angie entered through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Shadow peeked into the kitchen, then went to his corner by the bar’s wood stove. He wasn’t allowed near the food preparation area.
“Person’s got to get enough sleep,” Dorothy Jo mumbled, never looking up from her celery. “What’s this meetin’ about, anyway?”
Angie walked over to the industrial-sized refrigerator and grabbed out a gallon of milk. She poured herself a cup. “I’m wonderin’ if the two of you can handle things around here for a while. Alone.”
That brought Dorothy Jo’s head up with a snap. “Alone?”
Bo took the stool across from where Dorothy Jo worked. “Why?”
Angie drank the milk and rinsed out her cup. To Dorothy Jo it looked as if the simple act had exhausted the poor girl. “I need to do some thinkin’.”
“Thinkin’,” Dorothy Jo repeated. She put down her knife. “‘What about, honey?”
“‘Bout Mamma. What I need to do. Call it a vacation, I guess.”
Dorothy Jo nodded. “Lord knows you deserve a vacation.” The cook had been after her boss to take some kind of vacation for years.
“Where?” Bo asked.
“Corpus.”
Bo looked out the window over the sink. “It’s January,” he commented. “Ain’t much like beach weather.”
“I’m not goin’ there to swim.” Angie smiled. “Just walk.”
“And think,” Dorothy Jo finished for her.
“It’s gonna take a bit to get over your mamma’s dyin’,” Bo said.
“It’s not just her dyin’.” Angie’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I knew that was comin’. It’s a matter of deciding what I can live with and what I can’t.”
Dorothy Jo felt a twinge of dread. Angie looked so sad. “What’re you talkin’ about, honey?”
Angie studied her two friends closely. They were the only family she had left. “I was wonderin’ . . .” She paused, knowing the question she was about to ask would shock them as much as it would exhaust her.
Dorothy Jo and Bo looked at her expectantly.
“I was wondering if the two of you would be interested in buying the Fire and Ice House?”
The words fell like mud pies on the floor, leaving a sticky mess between the three that Angie wasn’t sure she could clean up.
“Buy it?” Bo echoed.
“What’re you gonna do?” Dorothy Jo asked simultaneously.
“I don’t have anything to keep me here in Wilks anymore.” Except you two, she thought. She swallowed hard. “There’s a lot of memories in this place. Bad ones. I think maybe it’s time for me to move on.”
“Where to?” Dorothy Jo demanded. “This is your home.”
“Home is where I decide it is. I’ve lived thirty-five years with people here callin’ me a whore or worse. That’s not real homey, if you ask me.”
“The whole town doesn’t feel that way,” Dorothy Jo argued. “Just those damned Wilks.”
“Somebody took Mamma eight miles out of town and dumped her on a deer lease so she could get shot.”
That was the real issue. She could stand living in a town where people thought she was something she wasn’t. She’d done that all of her life and snubbed her nose at them all. Heck, she’d even named her bowling team “The Hellraisers” so that the Lutheran Church would be forced to put a bad word in their bulletin every time the church team played hers. She’d learned later that Mrs. Fullenweider had shortened the name to “H-Raisers,” but everyone knew what it stood for just the same.
She couldn’t stand living in a town where someone had hated enough to kill her mamma. She wasn’t sure she could live with that fact without becoming an animal herself.
Dorothy Jo was stunned. “You’re really thinkin’ of leaving town.”
A gruff sound came from the direction of the swinging doors, and the three of them turned to find James W. standing in the doorway, Shadow wagging his tail traitorously at the sheriff’s heel. James W. rested one hand on the doorjamb, the other on the weapon which hung at his belt.
“I wouldn’t do that, Angie girl,” he said, his voice deep and officious. “Not yet, anyway.”
“What do you want, James W.?” Angie shook her head wearily. She was tired. Too tired for this.
“I’ll talk to Bo first. Then you.”
***
Sheriff James W. Novak kicked his boot up on the edge of the booth and looked hard into Bo’s face. He had to find a murderer, however, and Bo had already killed once. James W. couldn’t leave this stone unturned.
“I’ve got a problem I’m lookin’ into, Bo, and I need your help.”
“Horse manure, James W. You’ve got a murder and you need a suspect.”
James W. put down his boot with a thud. “How do you know I’ve got a murder?”
Bo shrugged. He liked James W. The sheriff hadn’t leaned on him once since he’d gotten to town. Bo figured those days of tolerance were over, though. “Word travels.”
“Not for everybody,” James W. said, thinking of Warren. “Somebody told you.”
“Maybe.” Bo studied the scarred surface of the table. He wondered if the sheriff knew the wood for the booths and tables was pilfered from the leftover pews when Grace renovated twent
y-five years earlier.
“You worked right across the street from the Sinclair Station last night,” James W. said reasonably. “I need to know if you saw anything. Heard anything.”
“Did anything,” Bo filled in for him.
“Did you do anything?” James W. turned the question.
“I pulled beers last night like always,” Bo said. “Turned on the generator for the freezer and TV when the power went out. Got out the candles. Folks could still buy the beers that were on ice. Closed up at one a.m.”
“So, other than the power going out, it was a normal night.”
“Normal.”
“Who were your customers?” James W. settled his weight in the booth across from Bo.
“The regulars. Harvey Moore from Thrall. Zach Gibbons.”
“Tom’s daddy?”
“Not much of a one,” Bo answered. He didn’t care for Zach Gibbons. He spent Tom’s paycheck from working at the Sinclair Station on too many beers.
“Harvey comes over from Thrall?”
“Every night. Thinks if he’s over here, no one over there will know he’s a drunk.”
James made a note to have a watch put once again on Highway 27 for drunk drivers. “You didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”
“Nope.”
“So you didn’t slip out between customers and knock off Ernie Masterson ’cuz he was slappin’ Pearl around?”
Bo kept his gaze steady on the table. “Nope.”
“Didn’t take out the man who was responsible for Maeve O’Day’s death?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t leave your bandanna in the home of the murdered man’s wife?” James W. took pleasure in the fact that Bo’s gaze hardened at that one. “Guess Pearl had more than one reason to not want Ernie around, huh?”
Bo took a measured breath. “Pearl’s a good person, James W.” He looked straight at the sheriff. “And you know it.”
“That I do.” James W. leaned forward. “Even nice people can be pushed into doin’ somethin’ bad if they think the situation warrants.”