Playing Catch-Up (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 4)

by A B Guthrie

  “Catch-up?”

  “Yep. Gracie Jones solved one murder for us, Mr. Stuart the other, and there we were, bringing up the rear.”

  “Think so, do you?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Instead of answering, he said, “I’ve been poaching on your territory, Jase. Doc Yak may keep mum about his patients, but druggists aren’t so scrupulous. I know who bought the saltpeter.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Mike Day. He made the first purchase a couple of weeks or so ago and another just recently.”

  “That muddies the water. Mike Day?”

  “One explanation is that he took it to counter senile concupiscence. There is such a thing as satyriasis. You are familiar with the terms?”

  “You haven’t lost me.”

  “I didn’t think so. Now what is—was—your opinion of Mike Day?”

  “Same as yours. He was a blowhard and a four-flusher.”

  “Capable of murder?”

  That was a foolish question, and he knew it. He would have answered that anybody was capable of killing, given enough provocation. But there was more in his asking than that. Now he was sounding me out. I said, “Mike Day couldn’t have killed Virginia Stuart.”

  “Why not?”

  “As if you didn’t know. Because there were no drag marks from the road to that little ravine where I found her. Some indistinct footprints but no drag marks. Day couldn’t have carried her that far, fleshy as he is and out of condition and getting along in years. No way.”

  “Exactly. Where does that leave us?”

  I didn’t answer. Presently he said, “Who could be so sure of the girl’s virginity? Exclude her father. He wasn’t in a position to know. Only examination or experience could tell for sure. I think the man spoke from knowledge. It’s in your reports.”

  “I remember.”

  He looked at his watch. “Eleven-thirty. Let’s go.”

  I knew without needing to be told that we were about to call on young Roland Day.

  We put on our rain gear, went to the car, and headed for the house that Mike Day had owned. Except for a light upstairs the house was dark. The way was dark, too. I took a flashlight from the glove compartment and led on. No one answered our knocking at the front door. I tried the knob. The door was locked. We splashed around to the rear. The back door opened. It was plain then why our knocks hadn’t been answered. From upstairs came the high whining and bass beat of what too many young people were calling music.

  With the help of the flash we climbed upstairs. Light shone around the edges of one door. We rapped, the music stopped, and Day opened it. “What now?” he said.

  “Just wrapping up loose ends,” Charleston told him. “Sorry we’re so wet.”

  “Come in then. Here.” He led the way to a bathroom. “Let your things drain in the tub.” I kept the flashlight in my hand, seeing no handy place to put it.

  The room was ample enough, what with a rocker, two straight chairs, a chest and a bed. A good carpet covered the floor. At least it looked good from what I could see of it. The place was lighted by no more than a 40-watt bulb. Day had taken off his dark glasses. I caught the flicker of his light blue eyes. He sat down in the rocker and motioned us to the straight chairs. With his pale face, in that dim and shadowy light, he might have posed as one of the non-dead.

  Seated, Charleston said, “We just thought it possible that in the absence of Mr. Stuart you could tell us something you hesitated to say in his presence. Some detail just for the sake of completion.”

  “I’m afraid not. His version was all right.”

  “Good.” Charleston took a thin cigar from his pocket, lighted it and took a slow puff. “Everybody will be asking what happens to the bank now.”

  Day said, “I haven’t had time to think about that.”

  “No. Of course not.” He went on pursuing the subject. “Your uncle wasn’t the sole owner?”

  “No. A majority interest. I suppose the directors will meet.”

  “Forgive me, it’s a highly personal question, but do you inherit?”

  “If he had a will, I haven’t seen it.”

  “But you’re next of kin?”

  “I guess so. That’s what he told me.”

  “He should have known.”

  “I don’t understand your questions. You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

  “No. No, indeed. A man so good to you. He gave you a good job and these quarters. I’m sure you appreciate his generosity.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  Charleston re-lit his cigar and puffed slowly like a man who had all the time in the world. Idly he asked, “Did you know your uncle was buying nitrate of potassium?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Commonly known as saltpeter. It is used to dull and diminish the sexual drive.”

  Day said, “Goddamnit,” at the end of a deep quick breath. “Saltpeter.” He took in another lungful of air. “The old devil.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said the powder would improve my complexion.”

  “You took it?”

  “He wanted me to sprinkle it on my food, but I’m careful about what I put in my body. I said I’d take it in water, so every day in the bathroom I’d flush some down the toilet.”

  “You fooled him.”

  “I made him think I was taking it.”

  “I don’t understand. What was his purpose?”

  Day put up a hand to shade his eyes. “It’s plain enough when you come to think of it. He wanted Virginia Stuart all to himself. He was crazy about her.”

  “And regarded you as competition? You were stuck on her, too.”

  “Where’s the harm in that?”

  “Was there any other reason for your uncle’s action? Anything at all?”

  “What could there be?”

  “That’s what I’m asking myself, but skip it for now. You were in college before you came here?”

  “Yes, sir. Minnesota.”

  “Majoring in what?”

  “Business administration.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Yes, sir. I was a good student.”

  “How far along?”

  “I was about to graduate when Uncle Mike offered me the job here.”

  I wondered how long Day would put up with Charleston’s questions. I wasn’t sure where they were leading myself. The sure thing was that Charleston would persist.

  “So you gave up your degree for a job?”

  “Good jobs are scarce.”

  “I would think your uncle could have waited.”

  “He didn’t want to.”

  Charleston thrust out the cigar like a pointing finger. “That’s nonsense. You’re lying. Why did you leave college?”

  Day had shrunk back in his chair. His eyes flickered wildly. “I told you.”

  “Not the real reason. Speak up.”

  “I swear to God …”

  It seemed time for me to do something besides finger the flashlight. “It’s a simple matter to call Minnesota and find out. I’ll phone in the morning.”

  Day had put both hands to his face. He was whispering, “You bastards. You dirty bastards.”

  “Spill it!” Charleston’s command cut through the whispers.

  “It was this way.” Day took time for a couple of breaths. “There was a girl there I liked, and one night I tried to make up to her. I guess I tore her clothes. She screamed, and the campus police came, but it didn’t amount to anything. I wasn’t tried or anything like that.”

  “Because the girl refused to testify?”

  “She knew I wasn’t really serious.”

  “Not serious, but they kicked you out of school.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “All this explains why your uncle wanted you to take saltpeter.”

  “He didn’t say so.”

  Charleston bent forward, his face grim. “If you had taken it, maybe you wouldn’t have kill
ed Virginia Stuart.”

  Day’s voice came out weak. “Who says I killed her?”

  “I do.”

  Now Day began sobbing. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just wanted her, and she wouldn’t have me. Can’t you understand? Something came over me. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “So you say. Come on. We’re taking you in.”

  Day got up, still weeping, and went to the chest, saying, “A handkerchief.” When he turned back he had an automatic in his hand. He waved it around, from Charleston to me and back. He said, “They can only hang a man once.”

  Charleston answered quietly, “You’ll never get away with it.”

  “By God, I can shoot myself.” The voice rose in hysteria. “Better yet, I’ll kill you two first.”

  The gun swung toward me. I flicked the flash full in his eyes. He jerked up his gun hand against the glare. Charleston dived at him from the side. I charged his front and grabbed the hand. We went down. The automatic fired. I yanked it away. Charleston’s voice came from the tumble. “Any damage, Jase?”

  “None. You?”

  “None.”

  Day had gone limp. He was mewing. We picked him up. We had no handcuffs, but I had the automatic. Charleston retrieved his cigar from the floor, and we all went down to the station and a waiting cell.

  24

  We were gathered again in Doc Yak’s office. Present were Doc, Felix Underwood, Bob Studebaker, Charleston and I. A bottle stood on the desk, thanks to Studebaker, who would argue that I. W. Harper was as fine a bourbon as Kentucky ever distilled. With the bottle were ice and a pitcher of water.

  Underwood, the last to arrive, mixed his drink, held it out, and said, “I drink to you, Chick. Hail to our sheriff.”

  “Better drink to Jase, here,” Charleston told him. “In a pinch he’s the man to have with you. I can testify to that.”

  Nothing would do then but that he tell about the phony grenade and the flashlight.

  A light breeze came through an open window, waving the tobacco smoke in the room. The rain had ceased by early morning and, walking to the meeting, I had thought that the whole earth was breathing soft thanks for refreshment. Doc got up to flick on a light.

  “All right,” Underwood said, “I’ll drink to you, too, Jase.”

  I felt uncomfortable. “Mr. Charleston overdoes it.”

  “I kind of feel sorry for that damn Roland Day,” Studebaker said. “With a face like a white-washed fence how was he going to get any pussy except by force?”

  I answered, “I imagine Madame Simone could have fixed him up.”

  That kind of talk didn’t please Underwood. “You talk like it was buying a pound of liver.”

  “Your morals are showing,” Doc told him. “But I would bet that bought sex wasn’t for Day. He’s young and unfortunate in appearance, and he must have had dreams, dreams about the right and willing girl. Voltaire, I believe it was, said romantic love was the embroidery of the imagination woven around the stuff of nature. Day went for embroidery. That’s my diagnosis.”

  “A sad thing all around,” Felix said, for the moment forgetting the business it brought him.

  “Amen,” Charleston answered. “More than sad enough. But you can feel sorry for young Day if you want to. When all’s said in the way of excuses and explanation, a bad actor is still a bad actor.”

  “Yeah,” Doc jeered. “Bring on the noose. A son of a bitch remains a son of a bitch. Huh?”

  “Words to that effect.” Charleston sipped from his glass. “It’s Mike Day you might feel sorry for.”

  Studebaker was quick to protest. “Why, that guy bounced a check on me, and it was to one of my distributors, and it was all the bank’s fault, and then later Mike Day tried to old-pal me.”

  “I know.” Charleston was nodding. “There were things we didn’t like about him, but let’s do him justice. At least give his memory credit for some decency.”

  “Where’d he hide it?” Underwood asked.

  This time Studebaker seconded him, “And I suppose you think he didn’t have an eye for that girl? He was as innocent as a lamb? No damn trace of sex?”

  “Of course there was sex, but what kind of sex? Where isn’t there? At least some elements of it? It affects, more or less, nearly all human behavior. Again, what kind of sex? Ask Jase here. He’s studied the subject.”

  He turned to me, but I said, “The floor’s yours.”

  “Not until I fix a drink.” He rose, replenished his glass and sat again. “Think on it. Some mothers find a pleasure suggestive of coitus in suckling a baby.”

  Underwood asked, “What’s coitus?”

  Doc told him, “Fucking.”

  “You would put it that way.”

  “You asked me.”

  “How do you know so much?” Studebaker asked Charleston. “You been interviewing milking mothers?”

  “It’s in reports of studies. I’m just trying to show some of the directions of sex. The father-daughter relationship is one aspect, and I’m not talking about incest. So is the father-son. The father may reject the son because he can’t stand another bull in the pasture.”

  Doc had to add, “And the son may hate the father because the father enjoys his mother’s favors.”

  I knew Doc would have his say. He was good at lecturing but not so good at listening.

  “That all sounds like bullshit to me,” Studebaker said. “Where does it take us?”

  “Sorry. I’ve wandered all over the place, but roundabout we come to Mike Day.” Charleston paused, gathering his thoughts, I supposed. Doc squirmed in his chair. The others sat waiting.

  “I’ll tell you two things,” Charleston went on at last. “The Stuart girl kept a diary. In it she said that Day sometimes drove her home after practice, but on this last occasion he stopped the car, pawed her and brought his face close, as if to kiss her. She broke out of the automobile and ran home.”

  “And that proves Day’s decency! For God’s sake, Chick,” Studebaker said.

  Charleston held up a finger. “Wait. Day’s last cry, before Stuart shot him, was, “You don’t know how I loved her.” He didn’t say how much he loved her, just how he loved her. To my mind there’s a difference.”

  “Now the logician speaks,” Doc said.

  Charleston ignored him. “Anything small, cute, innocent and vulnerable appeals to the sexual us.”

  “Not me,” Underwood said. “No pets.”

  “That’s why women and a good many men like to hold babies. That’s why we’re attracted to puppies and kittens. We like to stroke them, to speak baby talk, to coo, even to kiss them. Mike Day was calling the Stuart girl Pet. That, I feel sure, was how he regarded her, as a pet to be babied, as a small and appealing pet. The Stuart girl wrote that he pawed her. That’s wrong. In a clumsy way Mike was trying to pat her. That was natural, just as it was natural to want to kiss her cheek. That’s how he loved her.” Charleston repeated, “That’s how he loved her.”

  Underwood cut in with, “You’re talking against yourself. A minute ago you were throwing out explanations and excuses, and here you are excusing Mike Day.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing, Felix. And what I think can’t affect the outcome.”

  We were silent for a moment, then Charleston continued, “Mike wanted to protect the girl. That’s why he wanted the boy to dose himself with saltpeter. He knew the boy had had trouble over a girl and been kicked out of school. And he wanted to protect the boy, too, to save him from himself. Add Mike’s generosity to his nephew. He was ambitious for him and helpful to him. He couldn’t believe, couldn’t let himself suspect, that his nephew was guilty.”

  “Not with all that saltpeter in him,” Studebaker interjected.

  “It may be he offered the reward with some misgivings. I don’t know.”

  Studebaker questioned him again. “What would he have done if worst came to worst and his nephew was guilty?”

  “Accepted the fact. What else?”
/>   Doc asked, “Who gets the reward?”

  “With Mike dead, I doubt there’ll be a reward.” Charleston shook his head, and I read regret in his face. “I never thought I’d be sticking up for Mike Day, but I am. I wish I could apologize.”

  “Whatever the way of it was, Mike doesn’t care now,” Felix said.

  “Lecture over, thank God?” Doc asked. “Any rebuttals? No. Then let’s adjourn.”

  We broke up. On the sidewalk Charleston said to me, “Mike doesn’t care, but I do.”

  “You might spare some sorrow for Mr. Stuart. I pity him.”

  “So do I. So do I. Private justice gone wrong again.”

  25

  On invitation I had gone to Anita’s for dinner again. We had eaten and washed up, and Omar had left us. I had brought both wine and brandy but we had hardly touched either.

  I knew why I laid off. I was ready for keeps and had a proposition to make, and I didn’t want to be muddled. Watching her, seeing her fresh vitality, the blooming health, the play of the day’s last light on her face, I thought how beautiful she was. My opinion hadn’t changed since that day when I first saw her and knew she was the girl for me. She was lovely then, and I had dated her until circumstance put us at odds. She was even lovelier now, and nothing must come between us. Not ever.

  I had never been forward with girls. Reserved men, I thought, never totted up scores but surely escaped a lot of miserable regrets. I was thinking that as I looked at her. If my feeling was embroidery, then hurrah for it.

  I said, “I’ll be making pretty fair money in my new job.”

  “You’ve got over your doubts about the work?”

  “Entirely. That was just a lapse. Call it an aberration, a passing one.”

  “That’s good, Jase.”

  That subject seemed exhausted. I tried another one I had thought about. “A man wouldn’t want to ask you to give up the ranch?”

  “I’m really making a go of it.” She added, “With Omar’s help.”

  The shadows were gathering and she turned on a light. In any light she was beautiful.

  Another subject ended until she asked abruptly, “What man?”

  “Any man who put you at the top.”