Guess Who's Coming to Die? (17 page)

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Authors: Patricia Sprinkle

BOOK: Guess Who's Coming to Die?
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Joe Riddley claims that folks usually save what they really want to say until you are walking out the door. Sure enough, I was actually standing on the porch and Wilma was in the doorway with her hand on the doorjamb when she said, “Of course, it certainly is convenient for MayBelle that Willena’s dead, isn’t it? Saves her the trouble of taking Willena to court.”
I stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Haven’t you heard? Oh—you’ve been out of town. Well, last month I sold MayBelle fifteen acres of bottomland down by the river, on the express understanding that MayBelle would use them for a park. Then MayBelle turned right around and applied to the county for permission to build another one of her subdivisions down there.” The way Wilma said
subdivisions
, I presumed she didn’t appreciate MayBelle’s developments. “When Willena found out, she was furious. She informed the county commission that those acres are wetlands and can’t be built on. Then MayBelle pitched a hissy fit and threatened to take Willena to court. Willena was fixing to call the Environmental Protection Agency this week, to come down here and back her up.” Wilma sniffed, reached into her pocket for a fresh blue handkerchief, and dabbed her nose. “I’m not accusing MayBelle, you understand, but it sure is convenient for her to have Willena out of the way.”
I could see how it might be. Without Willena’s passion for wetlands and her prestigious name, would the EPA care enough about a few acres in Hope County, Georgia, to spend its money and time on a lawsuit?
When I got to my car, I took out my list and added another item:
 
8. MayBelle: Lawsuit over land?
 
I would see if I could talk to MayBelle that afternoon.
15
I headed straight home to dinner from Wilma’s and arrived just before Joe Riddley. He came in tired from unloading sod and demanded, “Where in tarnation have you been? I called three times and Evelyn said you were ‘out.’ You promised to never go places without telling me where you’d be.”
“I told you where I’d be. I went to Wilma’s to deliver a casserole. And down to the detention center.” While he tucked into shrimp, grits, and Clarinda’s famous squash casserole, I hit the high spots of my visits with Wilma and Nancy. I didn’t bother him with my standoff with feral dogs on Dexter’s front stoop. I didn’t want to bore him with every tiny detail of my day.
After dinner, I figured I’d better stop by the store long enough to let Evelyn know I hadn’t run away with the payroll. “I’m going out again for a little while,” I told her, “but I’ll be back before closing time.”
“Will you be down at the jail? In case Joe Riddley asks,” she added. Color rose in her cheeks and one hand raked her hair. I knew he must have given her a hard time. On a few occasions lately when I’d gone out and not left word where I’d be, I had gotten myself in a little difficulty, and these days he worried. Joe Riddley used to be the most tolerant, kindly man you ever saw, but since he got shot his memory isn’t good and his temper can be uncertain. We’ve all had to make some adjustments.
“I’ll leave him a note,” I promised. I did, too.
Running errands all over town. Back soon.
Before tracking down MayBelle, I went to try to find Dexter again. I got back to his place around two. His car was still there, but again he didn’t answer my knock. It occurred to me that somebody might have killed him as well as Willena. Maybe I ought to summon a deputy to check out his place to make sure he was all right.
Heading back toward my car, I saw the same two boys I had talked to earlier. They were hanging out near the Mustang again and had been joined by a third who looked younger. The two older ones eyed me warily, poised to flee.
I walked down to where they were. “You all know where Dexter might be?” I asked.
“We seen him a while back,” the fat one acknowledged. “Just before you come the last time.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I demanded.
Chubby shoulders rose in a shrug. “You didn’t ask.” He watched the toe of his worn sneaker scuff the dust.
“Do you know where he went?”
“I axed where he was going,” the skinny one volunteered. “He said he was going to drown his sorrows.”
The third one snickered. “Somebody oughta drown him.” He looked like he might be eight, and had an air of hanging out with the big kids for the first time, wanting to show he was no baby.
The fat one jabbed him with one elbow. “Shut up! She’s a judge!”
The little boy gave me a quick, scared look.
“I’m not on the bench right now,” I reassured them. “Do you have any idea where Dexter might have gone to drown his sorrows?”
“Mad Mooney’s,” the skinny one said, as if anybody ought to know that. He pointed down the street.
I drove back to Mad Mooney’s and pulled into a dirt parking lot next to it. As I climbed out, I found myself peering around like I was doing something immoral or illegal. Actually, I was doing something extremely dangerous. If Joe Riddley found out about this, he would skin me alive and hang my hide on the barn.
The place was so small and dim, I had to pause in the doorway to let my eyes adjust. Also my nose. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, boiled peanuts, and unwashed bodies. When I could finally see, I felt right at home. I recognized everybody there. They had all been up before me on one charge or another.
Two men slid off their stools and sidled toward the back and I heard a screen door slam. Two other men who had been talking loudly lowered their voices. I’d refused bail for one of them the previous Saturday night for starting a fight and cutting somebody with a bottle. I was surprised he was out already. He slewed a glance my way, then bent over the table and started talking loudly about the power of different car engines. I hoped it wasn’t getaway cars he was discussing.
Dexter sat on the farthest of eight stools at the short bar, but he didn’t look like his normal snooty self. At the community center he worked in a gray uniform. For most functions he wore a white cotton coat over black pants. Today he sported a faded maroon T-shirt, a pair of wrinkled gray pants, and black lace-up shoes without socks. From the way he slumped against the bar, he’d been drinking awhile.
As I approached, he dispensed with his usual deferential little bow and “Evenin’, Judge. How you doing this fine day?” To some folks in the South, anything after noon is evening.
Instead, he waved both hands over the bar and shook his head. “I didn’t do it, Judge. I swear to God. No matter what they goan think, I ain’t killed Miss Willena.” He swayed back and forth on his stool, trying to establish his equilibrium. “Ain’t killed any of t’other ladies, neither, though it gets mighty temptin’ at times. You cain’t arrest me.”
“Judges don’t arrest people,” I reminded him. “I just want to ask you a few questions about Monday night.”
“Got nothin’ to say. Nothin’ a-tall.” He’d had enough drink to slur his speech and remove whatever wall he kept between his behavior and his true feelings, but not enough to dull the edge of what was bothering him. He noticed that his glass was empty and waved it toward the bartender again.
“You’ve had enough for now,” the bartender rumbled.
Surprised, I turned. “I know that voice! Hey, Clarence.”
The bartender grinned, his teeth a quarter moon in the dimness. “Wondered if you’d remember me.”
“How could I forget, with all those red suckers you used to come by the store for?”
Clarence Johnson was now a giant of a man, but he had been a chubby little boy who was a whiz at math. Joe Riddley and I had played math games with him all through his school years, and had tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade him to try for a college scholarship after high school. “I don’t need college,” he had bragged. “I’m gonna get rich.” I was sorry to see he had wound up tending bar in a place like Mad Mooney’s. He might have done so much better.
He leaned toward me and rumbled in a confidential voice as deep and sweet as honey, “It’s good to see you, Judge, but I hope you don’t mind my mentioning that your presence here is bad for business.” Two other men sidled out the front door as he spoke.
“I won’t stay long,” I promised. I slid up onto the stool beside Dexter and sat with my feet dangling. “Can I have a Co-Cola, please?” I was glad Clarence set it before me in a can with a straw. The notion of drinking from a glass in that place gave me the willies. The counter before me looked clean enough, but I had been surprised that my shoes hadn’t stuck to the floor when I hoisted myself onto the stool.
I turned my attention to Dexter. “Did anybody come in the center Monday night after the members of our group got there?”
“No’m, except’n Miz Harnett. She was late, as usual. After that I went on back to my room to wait until you all was finished, so I could lock up.”
“But you didn’t lock the front door after we were all inside?”
Dexter’s head lolled to one side on his scrawny neck. “Now, who been tellin’ you that? Course I locked it, like I always do. Miss Wilma would of had a fit if I hadn’t. She’s nervous about unlocked doors.”
“So who could have unlocked it afterwards? During our break several people went out. It wasn’t locked then.”
“Anybody can get out,” he said, his voice rising with disdain for my ignorance. “Fire department regulations. All dey gotta do is press down on the bar. Gettin’ in is another matter.”
“But they got back in, too.” I took a couple of swallows of Coke to let that settle into his befuddled brain. “You can’t get in unless it’s unlocked with a key, right?”
“I locked that door.” He pounded his fist on the counter. “Anybody says I didn’t is lyin’. Somebody else coulda unlocked it, but I doan know who it was.” He froze and looked like he was trying to remember something. “Mighta been Miz Harnett. She usually sneaks out for a smoke, and I smelt smoke in the hall when the po-liceman came. But no, that was in the back hall.”
He picked up his glass and banged it down on the bar to get Clarence’s attention. “I need something to kill my thirst here, Clarence.” He swayed as if trying to get me in focus. “I tell you de truth, Judge, whoever killed Miss Willena, it wasn’t me. I ain’t got no reason to kill
her
.” He emphasized the last word, then his voice dropped to a mutter, as if he was speaking his thoughts aloud. “Mighta killed Miss MayBelle a coupla times, always sayin’ the place needs moppin’ or a toilet needs fixin’ right this minute, actin’ like I got nothing else to do ’ceptin’ what she says. That’s a big place for one man to keep.”
I didn’t say a word, although Dexter and I both knew there was a whole crew who came in to clean after big functions.
“And Miz Harnett, strutting in late to every single meetin,’ makin’ me sit by that door waitin’ on her royal pleasure. Somebody oughta take her down a peg or two. Miss Wilma, too.” Dexter’s voice rose to a falsetto that wasn’t unlike Wilma’s. “ ‘Dexter, would you please run out in all that rain and tote in those milk jugs of punch from Willena’s trunk?’ ‘Dexter, do you mind if we close your door? Your television is so loud.’ ‘Dexter, would you carry in these boxes for me?’ ” His voice dropped even lower. “Never mind dat dem boxes weigh a ton. Had to bring that big silver punch bowl and all dem trays. The ones at the center ain’t good enough for her? And how come she gives Lincoln the night off when she’s got all that stuff to tote? You tell me that.”
I wasn’t interested in Wilma’s domestic arrangements. “Who says you killed Willena?” I took a drag at my Coke so he wouldn’t think the question too important.
He answered without looking up from the empty bottom of his glass. “Nobody yet, but I seen the way that po-liceman looked at me dat night. He’s waitin’ to pounce on Dexter. You wait and see. He’s waitin’ to send me up the river.”
I’d had too many fears of Charlie Muggins in my own time to tell Dexter he was imagining things. All I could do was assure him, “Nobody’s going to send you anywhere without a fair trial. And I haven’t heard anybody mention that you are a suspect. Those were terrible doings that night, though, weren’t they?” I took another drag at my Coke.
“Terrible,” he echoed. “If you ax me, the wrong woman got killed. They’s several others deserve it more. Clarence! I’m powerful thirsty, man. Get your ass down here!”
Clarence looked at me. I looked away. It wasn’t my business how much Dexter drank unless he committed a crime. When Clarence refilled the glass, Dexter gulped down the gold liquid like it was water. It was a sign of how drunk he was that he wiped his mouth on his forearm.
His dignity returned as the buzz hit his system. He sat up straighter and rubbed one hand along the fringe of gray fuzz that circled his shiny scalp. “Miss Willena was one fine woman. She surely was. She singing with the angels this evenin’, sure enough.”
If Willena sang like she did at church, the heavenly choir was now a trifle flat, but I didn’t say that. Given how drunk Dexter was, I decided to conclude my business before he got maudlin or passed out. “So as far as you know, nobody came into the center after we all arrived? Nobody who wasn’t in our group, I mean?”
He shook his head. “No’m, Judge. Not a single person after Miz Harnett got there. I was on the door the whole time, ’ceptin’ when Miss Wilma axed me to run out to Miss Willena’s car and bring in the refreshments and all that silver. She did come with me to hold the umbrella,” he admitted grudgingly, “and Miss Willena said she’d take care of the door while I was heppin’ Miss Wilma. She stayed right there until I got back.”

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