Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 20 - Compound Murder (8 page)

Rhodes knew they weren’t going to get the front legs wrapped. There was just no way. Maybe if they’d had the defensive line of the Houston Texans with them they could’ve managed it, but he and Hannah weren’t up to the job.

Hannah had finished the wrapping, but Rhodes couldn’t let go. He said, “Call the sheriff’s department. When you get Hack Jensen, hand me the phone.”

“You have your hands full already,” Hannah said.

“Don’t worry about that. Just make the call.”

An old black handset hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. Rhodes wouldn’t have been surprised to see a dial on it, but when Hannah took the receiver off the hook, he saw the pushbuttons.

“What’s the number?” Hannah asked.

Rhodes gave it to her, speaking up to be heard over the squealing of the pig, and she punched it in. When Hack answered, she said, “Mr. Jensen, this is Hannah Bigelow again.”

She listened for a moment and then said, “Yes, the sheriff is here. He’s holding on to the wild hog right now, but he wants to talk to you.”

“Never mind,” Rhodes said as the pig surged to the side, pulling Rhodes right along. “Just ask him if anybody’s called in about a missing potbellied pig.”

“What’s a potbellied pig?”

“It’s what I have my hands full of. Just ask him, please.”

Hannah asked Hack, listened, and turned to Rhodes. “He says yes, someone’s just called in about a missing pig.”

“Ask who it was,” Rhodes said.

He was a little short of breath now, and sweating as much as he had when he’d chased Ike Terrell. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on to the pig.

Hannah asked Hack about the owner. “He says it’s Paul Wooton.”

Wooton lived not far from the Bigelow house, about a block closer to town.

“Have him call Wooton and tell him to come get his pig,” Rhodes said. “Tell him to bring a rope and to make it snappy.”

“My Lawrence used to say that. ‘Make it snappy, Hannah,’ he’d say.” Hannah’s eyes got a faraway look. “I haven’t heard that expression in years.”

Sweat ran out of Rhodes’s hair and down his forehead. “Just tell Hack.” The pig jerked him to the left. “Please.”

Hannah spoke into the phone again and hung up. “He says he’ll do it. He doesn’t know how long it might take Mr. Wooton to get here.”

Wooton couldn’t come too soon for Rhodes. He wasn’t going to be able to hold on to the pig for much longer. Wild or not, it wasn’t happy inside the trash can now. Rhodes had to try something different.

“Go open the back door,” he told Hannah. “I’m going into the yard.”

Hannah didn’t question him. “This way,” she said.

She opened the kitchen door and went out onto a screened-in porch. Rhodes followed her, holding the pig’s legs tight against his chest and pushing the trash can along in front of him on the vinyl flooring as if it were a wheelbarrow. Once on the porch, he saw the back door with the doggie door in the bottom.

“You should nail that thing shut,” Rhodes said, “or replace the whole door.”

Hannah gave him a sad smile. “My Lawrence would do that if he were here. He was handy with things like that. He’s the one who put the doggie door there in the first place. But he’s not here.”

She opened the door, and Rhodes pushed and dragged the pig out onto a small porch. He wasn’t sure he could bump the plastic trash can down the steps without breaking it, and if he did that, the pig would escape for sure.

Only three steps,
he told himself.
You can do it.

He did, but when he got to the bottom, he had to sit down on the steps while the pig struggled madly inside the trash basket as Rhodes clung to its legs.

Hannah stood on the porch above him. “What’s a potbellied pig?” she asked again.

“It’s a kind of miniature pig that people have as pets,” Rhodes said. “Lots of people have them. Not here in Clearview, but other places.”

“I never heard of such a thing. I thought it was a wild hog, like we have roaming all over the county. Why would anybody want a pet pig?”

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Wooton,” Rhodes said. “Why don’t you go out front and see if he’s here yet.”

Hannah walked down the steps, past Rhodes and the canned pig, and down the driveway to the front of the house. Rhodes sat on the step and thought about pork chops, baby back ribs, ham, and bacon.

He wasn’t sure how long it was until Wooton arrived, maybe five more minutes. Wooton was a small man with a wrinkled face and faded jeans that were too long for his legs. They drooped over the tops of his shoes and dragged on the ground. He held a loop of white nylon rope in his right hand. At the end of the rope was a metal clasp.

“That my pig you got in that trash can?” he asked.

“I hope so,” Rhodes said. “We can worry about the identification later. Let’s see if we can get it out of this thing.”

“Pig’s name is Susie,” Wooton said. “’Cause of how people call pigs. Soooooeeeeee. Like that. So I named her Susie. Name’s on her collar, if that’s her.”

“The pig has a collar?” Rhodes asked.

“Sure. So I’ll know it’s my pig if it happens to wander off.”

Rhodes wondered how many pigs Wooton thought wandered off in Clearview.

“You’re going to need a better fence,” Rhodes said. “We can’t have pigs strolling around the neighborhood.”

“Thought I’d locked my gate. Hadn’t. I’d pull that trash can off ’er, but you got ’er mighty stirred up. She might not know me.”

Rhodes didn’t think it mattered if Susie knew Wooton or not. As soon as the can was off, she was going to make a break for it.

“Her front legs aren’t taped,” Rhodes told Wooton.

“Figgered they weren’t. You hang on to the back ones, and I’ll snap this clasp on her collar. Then we’ll be all set.”

Rhodes had his doubts about that, but he didn’t see that he had much choice in the matter. He renewed his grip on Susie’s back legs, and Wooton pulled on the trash can. The pig was wedged inside tightly enough so that Wooton had to strain a little. When the can popped off, bits of paper scattered. There wasn’t much else left inside the can. Whatever had been in there was now inside Susie, who emitted a high-pitched squeal and tried to run as soon as her head cleared the trash can. Her front trotters didn’t get much traction on the driveway, however, so Rhodes was able to hang on while Wooton snapped the clasp to a silver ring on the metal-studded collar.

When the clasp was secure, Wooton wrapped the rope around his arm. He reached into his pocket and came out with a knife. He pitched it to Rhodes and said, “Cut the tape.”

Rhodes caught the knife in one hand, keeping one arm wrapped around Susie’s legs. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Go on. It’ll be okay.”

Rhodes let go of the legs. He opened the blade and sliced through the tape. Susie’s legs snapped apart, and she kicked backward, narrowly missing Rhodes, who’d quickly leaned to one side. Susie’s hooves hit the ground, and she plunged forward, jerking Wooton nearly off his feet.

Wooton held on to the rope and talked to Susie in what Rhodes assumed were supposed to be soothing tones as she dragged him along.

“It’s all right, Susie,” Wooton said. “It’s all right. The mean sheriff won’t hurt you any more.”

Rhodes folded the knife blade into the handle. He didn’t mind that Wooton wanted to calm Susie, but he did resent the “mean sheriff” crack somewhat. He stood up and watched the pig drag Wooton around the yard.

“What about my damages?” Hannah asked. “Who’s going to pay me for that?”

“That’s between you and Mr. Wooton,” Rhodes said.

“I’ll pay,” Wooton said. “You just send me a bill.”

He had Susie almost under control now and was guiding her down the driveway toward the front of the house. Or maybe she was dragging him. It was hard to tell. Rhodes followed along behind. Hannah was beside him.

“You heard him, Sheriff,” she said. “He’s going to pay. You’re my witness.”

“All right,” Rhodes said. “I’ll hold him to it.”

“You see that you do. My Lawrence would hold him to it if he were here, but he’s not. So I need all the help I can get.”

Rhodes thought Hannah did very well for herself and didn’t have any trouble getting help.

“I really thought that was a wild hog in my house,” she continued. “I never dreamed it could be a pet pig. Will wonders never cease.”

“I doubt it,” Rhodes said.

“You doubt what?”

“That wonders will ever cease. If you do get a wild hog in your house, you be sure to give us a call.”

“I’ll do that.” Hannah stopped and plucked at Rhodes’s sleeve. “Look. There’s another wonder.”

Wooton opened the door of his old black pickup and helped Susie climb inside by pushing her from behind. When she was on the bench seat she settled down and lay quiet. Wooton closed the door.

“Thanks for helping me out, Sheriff,” he said. “I’ll remember it next election day.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Rhodes said.

He handed Wooton his pocketknife. As Wooton put it away and got in his pickup, Hannah said, “I’ll remember, too, Sheriff. My Lawrence and I always voted for you. Every single time.”

“Thanks,” Rhodes said. “I need all the help I can get.”

“I can see that,” Hannah said. “I surely can.”

Chapter 7

Rhodes was closer to Wellington’s apartment building than he was to the campus, so he checked in with Hack.

“You catch that wild hog?” Hack asked.

“It wasn’t a wild hog. It was Paul Wooton’s pet pig. You know that.”

“It’d sound better on that Web site of Jennifer Loam’s if it was a wild hog. If it was Sage Barton doing the rescue job, that’s what it’d be.”

“It was a pet pig, and I’m not Sage Barton. I’m going to Wellington’s apartment. Did Buddy get Ike Terrell booked?”

“Yeah. The kid’s a model prisoner.”

“Good. Did he make any calls?”

“Just one, to his daddy.”

“You know what he said?”

“Nope. I’m just the dispatcher, not a spy. You want a spy, you go to the county and get me a raise.”

“I’ll see about that at the next meeting.”

“What meeting is that?”

“Never mind. I’m going to Wellington’s apartment. I’ll come back by the jail when I’ve finished searching it.”

“We’ll all be looking forward to seeing you,” Hack said.

*   *   *

The Forest Apartments on Pine Street weren’t located in a forest or anywhere near one, and in fact Pine Street wasn’t lined with pines. Rhodes had never seen a pine tree anywhere near it, and he thought that the street must have been named for someone named Pine, though he didn’t know that anyone named Pine had ever lived in town, either.

The apartments were some of the first ever built in Clearview, which meant that they were over fifty years old, just one long building, two stories tall, made of faded red brick. The social elite didn’t live in Forest Apartments or even come near them after dark.

The manager was Marty Sewell, and Rhodes had dealt with him only about a couple of weeks ago when someone had stolen the copper out of several of the apartment air conditioners in the wee hours of the morning. Sewell’s tenants weren’t known as model citizens of the town, and the place was a bit run-down. Maybe it was the best place Wellington could find on short notice.

Sewell’s thin brown hair was combed over his scalp in a vain attempt to cover its barren, speckled landscape. It reminded Rhodes of the thin spot on the back of his own head.

Sewell’s sunken eyes stared at Rhodes from above purplish bags. His big ears and pointy nose gave him the look of a sad weasel.

“What’cha want today, Sheriff? You caught those good-for-nothin’s that messed up my air conditioners? I’m still waitin’ for the insurance to pay off on those things.”

“Haven’t caught up to them yet,” Rhodes said, “but we’re still looking.”

Sewell didn’t appear thrilled with Rhodes’s answer, or with Rhodes himself, for that matter. He stood inside his apartment with the door about halfway open, and it was clear that he didn’t intend to open it any farther. A sour smell of greasy cooking and dirty laundry wafted through the opening.

“I need to get into Earl Wellington’s apartment,” Rhodes said.

“Wellington?” The possibility of scandal seemed to spark Sewell’s interest. “What’s he done?”

“Nothing, as far as I know,” Rhodes said. “Except die.”

“He died?” Sewell didn’t seem surprised, or maybe he just didn’t care. “What happened? Heart attack? He was a smoker, you know. They’re prone to heart attacks.”

“I don’t know the cause of death yet,” Rhodes said, which if it wasn’t exactly the truth was as much of it as Sewell needed to know. “I’d like to get a key to his apartment. Maybe I’ll find a clue.”

“Just a minute,” Sewell said.

He closed the door, but he was back in a few seconds with a key, which he handed to Rhodes.

“Here it is. Apartment 212. You bring it back when you’re through up there.”

Rhodes said he would and left Sewell standing there, staring at his back.

*   *   *

The first bad news that Rhodes got was that Wellington had a cat. Rhodes knew it even before he entered the apartment because he started to sneeze.

The cat greeted him just inside the door. It was small, probably not more than eight pounds, if that. It was black and white, a tuxedo cat. Rhodes thought about his responsibilities as sheriff. The cat wasn’t included in them. It was Alton Boyd’s job, but Boyd was probably still out herding cows, or off on some other mission.

It wasn’t just the cat that had made Rhodes sneeze. The apartment smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Wellington hadn’t bothered to go outside to smoke when he was at home.

The cat looked up at Rhodes and meowed.

“I’m sorry about your human friend,” Rhodes said, “but I can’t take you with me. I already have a cat at home, not to mention a couple of dogs. You and the dogs wouldn’t get along.”

“Meow,” said the cat.

“I know the smell is irritating,” Rhodes said. “It bothers me, too, but you should be used to it by now.”

“Meow,” said the cat.

Rhodes knew what would happen if he took the cat to the city’s animal shelter and nobody adopted it. He didn’t like to think about that. Surely somebody would adopt it, though. It was a good-looking cat, glossy coat, sparkly eyes, tail sticking straight up. Wellington had taken good care of it, except for making it live with secondhand smoke, and it was friendly, not in the least intimidated by Rhodes.