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Authors: Bill Crider

BOOK: Murder Among the OWLS
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RHODES EXPECTED HACK TO START QUESTIONING HIM THE minute he walked through the door, but the dispatcher surprised him. He didn't say a word.
Neither did Lawton. Both men were looking at Hack's computer monitor and pretending that they didn't even know that Rhodes had come into the room.
It was just a question of who would crack first, Rhodes thought as he walked over to his desk. The two men were invariably curious about everything that happened in Clearview, and they usually wanted Rhodes to divulge everything as soon as possible. On the other hand, they preferred to keep Rhodes in the dark as long as possible when they knew something he didn't. That much, at least, was normal.
When Rhodes sat down, his chair squeaked, and Hack looked up from the computer.
“I didn't think you'd be coming in today,” he said. He ran a finger
along one side of his thin mustache, which was mostly white with a little touch of brown. “It's getting on toward lunchtime.”
It was only a little after ten thirty, but Rhodes didn't bother to point that out.
“Might be a little hard to get lunch, though,” Hack continued.
“Depends on where you eat,” Lawton said. “Might not be so hard if you went to the Dairy Queen. This is bean day, ain't it? Beans got a lot of fiber, they say.”
“Fiber's good for you,” Hack said. “Cleans out your system.”
Rhodes didn't know where the discussion was headed, but that was often the case when Hack and Lawton got started. He knew they'd get to the point sooner or later. Most likely later, since they liked to draw things out as long as possible. It was their way of getting revenge on him for not always telling them all he knew.
“It's not bean day at the Dairy Queen,” he said. “That's tomorrow.”
“You still oughta go to the DQ if you want to eat anything about now,” Hack said. “You might not be able to get served at McDonald's.”
“That's right,” Lawton said, “not unless Buddy's got things straightened out down there.”
Hack glowered at Lawton, and Rhodes suppressed a smile. Lawton had spouted more information than Hack had planned, at least this early in the give-and-take.
“So there's a problem at McDonald's?” Rhodes said.
Lawton started to speak, but Hack gave him another glare. It was almost as if they were doing an Abbott and Costello routine, and they even resembled the comedians, a pair that Rhodes always liked to watch on cable, especially their movie that had them meeting Frankenstein's monster, Dracula, and the Wolf Man.
“Won't be a problem by now,” Hack said. “Not if Buddy's on the job.”
“Right,” Lawton said. “It's probably all taken care of. Nothing to worry about.”
Whenever one of them said that, Rhodes automatically began to worry.
“Tell me about it.” His tone didn't give them any wiggle room, so Hack gave in.
“I got a call a little bit ago from the McDonald's. It was some customer in the drive-through line. He said they wouldn't serve him.”
“Why not?” Rhodes said.
“Bad timin',” Lawton said. “He wanted a sausage biscuit, but—”
Hack swiveled his chair, the better to glower at Lawton, who gave him a hard stare right back. Hack, however, always won those contests. Lawton dropped his eyes after only a couple of seconds, and the dispatcher turned around to face Rhodes again.
“Like I was about to say before I got interrupted, this fella wanted a sausage biscuit. Just a plain one, no cheese, no egg, just sausage and a biscuit.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Rhodes said, knowing that there had to be a catch. “Sounds like a reasonable request.”
“Yeah, if had been made earlier, but it was after ten. They don't serve breakfast at McDonald's after ten. The fella complained, and they brought him what he said was an old leftover sausage biscuit with egg on it. They told him it was all they had left. That's when he called us.”
“Why?” Rhodes said.
“'Cause he didn't get what he wanted,” Lawton said, and before
Hack could turn to him, he looked up at the ceiling and started to whistle a tune that Rhodes thought might be “Jesus Loves Me.”
Hack waited for him to stop, which he did after four or five bars. Then Hack said, “The fella on the phone said that we were the law here and that it was up to us to protect him. ‘Protect and serve,' that's what he said. You got a duty to ‘protect and serve.'”
“What are we supposed to protect him from?” Rhodes asked. “The wrong breakfast?”
“That's what I asked him.”
“Did he have an answer?”
“Sure he did. He said we had to protect him from idiotic business practices. He wanted a sausage biscuit, plain, with no egg, and they could damn well make him one.”
“Did you tell him to take off the egg?”
“He didn't want to do that. Said it had already contaminated the sausages. Besides, the biscuit was cold. Said he wouldn't get out of the drive-through line until we came and made them obey the law.”
“You told him that the law didn't have anything to do with sausage biscuits, I hope.”
Hack nodded. “Sure did. Didn't make any difference, though. I could hear horns honking by that time, so I told him I'd send an officer. That's when I called Buddy.”
Buddy had a strong puritanical streak, and Rhodes could just imagine what he told the caller when he arrived on the scene.
“Have you heard from Buddy?” Rhodes asked.
“Nope. Soon's I hung up on the first guy, the manager of McDonald's called. He wanted us to send somebody over there to arrest the fella who was blockin' his drive-through lane. I told him
there was already an officer on the way. Kind of surprised him that we were so efficient, I think.”
“I'll bet,” Rhodes said. “See if you can get Buddy on the radio.”
“Won't need to. I talked to him just before you came in. He's on his way here.”
“Good,” Rhodes said, and turned to his desk. He had to write a report on Mrs. Harris's death, and he was still learning to use the new computer the county commissioners had bought for him recently.
It was quiet for about ten seconds. Then Lawton said, “You don't have anything to tell us?”
Rhodes turned back around and gave him a puzzled look. “Tell you about what?”
“You know what,” Hack said.
Rhodes could have toyed with them awhile longer, but instead he told them about the cat and about finding Mrs. Harris's body.
“That's too bad,” Hack said. “Miz Harris was a fine woman. Not afraid of hard work.”
“Some people wouldn't see it that way,” Rhodes said, thinking of Francine Oates.
“They'd be wrong, then,” Lawton said. “I like a woman who'll get out and do a little work. Shows you she's got character. How'd it happen?”
Rhodes told them that it appeared to have been an accident, but that he had his doubts.
“That's why you're the sheriff,” Hack said. “You can see things the rest of us can't.”
Rhodes was never quite sure if Hack was kidding when he said things like that.
“I'm not sure about it,” Rhodes said. “Either of you need a cat?”
“I like cats, but I don't need another one,” Lawton said. “I got two already.”
“I'm allergic,” Hack said.
“I've heard that's psychological,” Rhodes said.
Hack shook his head. “Maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know's that I sneeze when I'm around 'em, and at my age I don't like sneezin'.”
Rhodes wasn't sure how old Hack was, except that he could have retired years ago if he'd wanted to. He didn't want to, however. He liked his job at the jail, and Rhodes suspected that he also enjoyed tormenting Rhodes and Lawton.
Before they could get any further into their discussion of cats and allergies, Buddy came in. Rhodes was glad to see that he didn't have a prisoner with him.
“How'd things shake out at the hamburger place?” Hack said. “Have to shoot anybody?”
Buddy grinned a thin grin. Everything about him was thin, including his hair. He had hardly any hips at all.
“I wanted to shoot that fella who called,” he said, “but I didn't think I could get away with it.”
“Self-defense,” Lawton said. “Tell the judge he attacked you with a sausage biscuit.”
“With egg on it,” Hack added.
“I'm a peaceable man,” Buddy said, in what Rhodes thought was a barely passable imitation of John Wayne. “So I just told him to drive on into the parking lot where we could talk. That got the lane unblocked.”
“What'd you tell him?” Hack asked.
“I told him that there was no law that regulated when a business
served breakfast and that there wasn't a thing I could do for him. I told him to act like a grown-up and go talk to the manager and get his money back if he didn't like what he'd been served.” Buddy looked at Rhodes. “I told him that if he didn't like it, he could come down and talk to the sheriff.”
“Great,” Rhodes said. “I'm sure I can count on his vote in the next election.”
“I don't think so. He told me that talking to you'd be a waste of time because you'd just back up your hirelings.”
“He said
hirelings
?” Rhodes didn't think he'd ever heard the word used before.
“That's what he said. He was an educated kind of a guy. Probably teaches English at the community college.”
“Those English teachers are sensitive,” Lawton said.
“Anyway, he went in,” Buddy said. “I think he was a little ashamed of himself by that time. I waited outside, and when he came back, I asked him if he'd got it all sorted out. He said he had. He was carrying a little sack.”
“What'd he have in it?” Hack said.
“I didn't ask him.”
“You mean we went through all of that, and you didn't even ask him what he bought?”
“I didn't think it was any of my business,” Buddy said. “Should I do an incident report, Sheriff?”
“No crime, no report,” Rhodes said. “You can get back on patrol.”
As soon as Buddy was out the door, Hack said, “I can't believe he didn't even find out what that fella bought. After all that fuss, I'd kinda like to know.”
“Not any of our business,” Lawton said.
“It sure is our business. He called here, causin' a ruckus, and we got a right to know.”
Rhodes knew they could carry on like that indefinitely. The law enforcement business in Blacklin County might not be quite like it was on a TV show like
Law & Order,
but it was never dull. Rhodes shut his ears to the office chatter and started to work on his own report, which was considerably more serious than the one Buddy had just made.
The trouble was that he didn't know what kind of report to write. He thought it might be best to wait until he heard from Dr. White.
While he was trying to make up his mind, Ruth Grady came in with the folders from Helen Harris's desk. Hack and Lawton started to quiz her about the crime scene as she was copying the documents, but she put a stop to their chatter when she opened the folder labeled
Last Will and Testament
and said, “That's interesting.”
“What is?” Rhodes said.
Ruth held up the folder by the edge and let it flop open for Rhodes to see. It was empty.
“MAYBE SHE DIDN'T HAVE A WILL,” RUTH SAID. “SHE MIGHT have made the folder but never gotten around to writing a will. We could find out if she had a lawyer.”
“You don't need a lawyer to make a will,” Hack said. “You can just write one out longhand or get you a form from some computer software. That's what I did.”
“Yeah,” Lawton said, “but you don't have anything to leave anybody.”
“That's all you know. I got a house and a savin's account at the First National Bank.”
“Nobody to leave it to, though. Not chick nor child.” Lawton rubbed his chin. “There's always Miz McGee, I guess. She's prob'ly just waitin' for you to pass so she can get her hands on that savin's account.”
Miz McGee was the woman with whom Hack had been keeping
company for a while, and there was no better way to rile him than to make a slighting reference to her.
Rhodes spoke up before things got out of hand. “Do you have a will, Lawton?”
Lawton turned the smooth, bland face that belied his age to look at Rhodes. “I sure do. I got a boy lives up in Dallas. He'll get all my worldly goods.”
“Such as they are,” Hack said.
“What about you, Ruth?” Rhodes said, before Lawton could reply.
“I have one. I didn't think I needed to at my age, but my parents told me I should have one, just in case.”
“And I have one, too,” Rhodes said. “That makes it unanimous. So you think a woman as particular as Helen Harris might not have had one?”
Nobody thought it was likely.
“There are a lot of reasons the will might not be in the folder, though,” Ruth said. “She could have put it in a safe-deposit box or somewhere like that.”
“I think she'd have kept a copy,” Rhodes said, knowing Francine had witnessed a will.
“So you think somebody took the will?”
Rhodes said he didn't know what to think, and that was when Jennifer Loam walked in. She was a reporter for the
Clearview Herald
and, in fact, wrote most of the stories that appeared in the paper except for the ones on the sports page. She was young, blond, and determined. She was also an excellent writer, and Rhodes was a little surprised that she was still working for the
Herald
. He thought she'd have moved to a big-city paper by now.
“What will are you talking about?” she said without bothering to say hello. “Has somebody stolen one?”
“We don't know,” Rhodes said. “We were just talking about the possibility.”
“It wouldn't have anything to do with Helen Harris, would it?” Jennifer said.
One of her annoying habits, or at least annoying to Rhodes, was her ability to find out what was going on in town almost as fast as Rhodes did. Sometimes, even faster. He gave Ruth a warning glance, which was probably unnecessary.
“Mrs. Harris had an accident,” Rhodes said. “We were wondering about her heirs.”
Jennifer took a tiny digital recorder out of her purse and turned it on.
“I don't have anything for the paper,” Rhodes said.
Jennifer didn't turn off the recorder. “I heard that there was some suspicion of foul play.”
Rhodes thought it was no wonder he found her annoying at times. “Who told you that?”
Jennifer smiled. “You know we reporters never give up our sources.”
“I bet you're payin' off somebody with the ambulance service,” Hack said. “Either that, or you know the justice of the peace.”
Jennifer just smiled.
“Mrs. Harris had an accident,” Rhodes said. “But since she was alone in the house, we have to investigate it and make sure. Right, Deputy Grady?”
“Right,” Ruth said with a nod.
Jennifer held the recorder a little closer to Rhodes. “So you're
willing to go on the record as having determined that Mrs. Harris's death was just a household accident?”
Rhodes wasn't willing to go on the record about anything. “Not yet. But we don't have any reason to suspect that it wasn't.”
He wasn't being entirely truthful, but he knew everyone in the office would be happy to back him up.
“I don't believe you, Sheriff,” Jennifer said.
“People seldom do. I think it's my dishonest face.”
Jennifer stopped smiling. “You and I haven't had any problems before, Sheriff. I hope we're not going to start now.”
She had been involved in several of the county's recent cases, not because Rhodes had invited her to be involved but because of her tenacity. Rhodes suppressed a sigh. He figured she'd involve herself this time, too, regardless of what he did or said. Assuming there was anything to be involved in, that is.
“We're not going to have any problems,” he said. “I'd never offend the press.”
Someone muffled a snort of laughter. Rhodes was pretty sure it was Hack, but the dispatcher had a perfectly straight face when Rhodes looked in his direction.
Jennifer grinned and said she was glad to hear that the sheriff planned on being cooperative with her as the
Herald
's representative. “So when is the autopsy?”
“How did you know there'd be one?”
“An accident in the home, nobody present, a woman dies. Seems to me something like that would call for an autopsy.”
“Maybe you should run for sheriff next election,” Hack said. “You know the job already.”
Jennifer gave him a skeptical look, raising one eyebrow. Rhodes had always admired that skill.
“Are you joking?” she said.
“Not a bit of it,” Hack said with a straight face. “The sheriff needs some competition.”
“I've had plenty in the past,” Rhodes reminded him. “I don't need any more.”
“You don't have to worry about me.” Jennifer turned off the recorder. “I don't have any political ambitions. Just remember to let me know if Mrs. Harris's death turns out to be something more than an accident.”
Rhodes thought she'd find out anyway. With her sources, she might find out before he did. But he told her he'd let her know. She thanked him and left.
“Now,” Rhodes said to Ruth, “you can tell me what else you found out at Mrs. Harris's house.”
“Nothing,” Ruth said. “I didn't even know the will was missing until I got back here. I dusted for prints in the kitchen, and of course I found some. Some on the back gate, too. They probably all belong to Mrs. Harris, though.”
“You can't be sure.”
“No. I'll have a closer look later. I'm pretty sure there's more than one set. Right now I need to copy these lists for you.”
“The rest are all there?”
Ruth flipped through the folders. “They're all there. Red Hats, OWLS, Rusty Nuggets. Names and phone numbers of all the members.”
“Let me have the copies when you're finished,” Rhodes said. “Then you can take the originals back to the house. And notify the next of kin. There's a brother in Montana. Hack, see if you can locate a phone number for him. Buddy, you can tell Leonard Thorpe. He's her cousin. Lives at the Tranquility Park.”
“Right. Are you going to talk to all the people on these lists?”
“No. You're going to talk to some of them.”
“Who gets the Red Hats?” Hack said.
“We'll flip for it,” Rhodes told him.
 
The Clearview city dump, or sanitary landfill as it was called by the more sensitive sorts, wasn't one of the most attractive places in Blacklin County, but it was among the most scenic. More than once Rhodes had even seen seagulls flying around, scavenging for food, an unusual sight so far from the Gulf Coast.
There were no seagulls in sight when he stepped out of the county car that afternoon, however, and he didn't blame them for staying away. The odor was overpowering, and Rhodes imagined that he could see a haze of stink hovering over the dump site, which was a big hole in the ground, surrounded by trash of all descriptions. A big part of the stink seemed to be coming from the carcass of a large animal that Rhodes couldn't identify, partly because he was too far away to have a good look at it and partly because of its advanced decomposition.
The growl of a bulldozer came from behind a mound of trash, and Rhodes saw the pile start to move. A swarm of black flies rose from the carcass and hovered over it like a storm cloud.
After the pile of garbage and trash was pushed into the hole, it would all be covered over, except for the flies, who would no doubt fly away and find some other delicate morsel to feed on. The smell wouldn't be so bad for a while, not until more mounds of trash and garbage had accumulated.
A battered, old black Ford pickup sat not far from where the
bulldozer worked, and a man wearing a crumpled straw cowboy hat was picking through some of the trash. Rhodes wondered what he was looking for.
Rhodes hadn't come to the sanitary landfill for pleasure. He'd come to visit Billy Joe Byron, who lived there. Well, not
there,
exactly, but close by in a little, unpainted shotgun house with a dirt yard decorated by things Billy Joe had picked up at the dump: toilet bowls, a couple of broken deck chairs, a piece of a granite countertop, and a couple of lawn flamingos. A bottle tree made of a coatrack stood near the front door, and the red, blue, and green bottles caught the sun and threw it in patches on the bare wood of the house. A weathered picture of some poker-playing dogs was nailed to the wall.
Rhodes breathed through his mouth and walked up to the front door. It was shortly after noon, and he hoped that Billy Joe would be home.
The screen door hung askew in its frame, and Rhodes thought it might fall to the ground when he knocked. It didn't, but a screw came out and fell by his feet. He picked it up and was about to try screwing it back in when Billy Joe came to the door.
“Hey, Billy Joe,” Rhodes said.
Billy Joe looked at him for a couple of seconds before he spoke. “Hey … Sheriff.”
No one knew how old Billy Joe was. He'd been around Clearview for as long as Rhodes could remember, but the only real sign of his age was the gray hair at his temples and in the day-old stubble on his face.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Rhodes said.
“ … what?”
“Questions,” Rhodes said, knowing that he'd be lucky to get much information from Billy Joe, who wasn't the world's best communicator.
“O … kay.”
Rhodes knew he wouldn't be invited inside. The idea would simply never occur to Billy Joe, which was fine with Rhodes. He didn't think he wanted to see what was in there.
“Where have you been today, Billy Joe?”
“Been … here.”
Rhodes took a deep breath, trying not to smell too much. “Have you been anywhere else?”
“ … yeah.”
“Where?”
“Been … to town.”
Billy Joe went to town just about every day. He spent his time walking all over, and he could be seen on the streets or in the alleys smoking a cigarette and looking as if he might know a secret that no one else had figured out. He checked people's trash for things he might like, such as an old picture of some poker-playing dogs, and he took whatever he wanted. He never took anything that wasn't put out in the alleys, however, and he never intentionally caused any trouble. Billy Joe lived alone, got a small amount of some kind of government assistance money, and cared for himself in a minimal way. The house he lived in wasn't really his, and it was on city property, but no one minded as long as he didn't bother anyone.
“Where in town?”
“All … over.”
Rhodes didn't think it would do any good to ask about street names. He was sure that Billy Joe had no idea about things like
that. He just wandered around without ever seeming to have any goal in mind.
“You know where my house is?”
Billy Joe nodded and felt his shirt pocket. Discovering that he had a package of cigarettes there, he took them out and tapped one out. He stuck it in his mouth and dug in the pocket of his jeans until he found a butane lighter. He lit the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Were you close to my house today?”
“ … maybe.”
“Do you know Mrs. Harris?”
Billy Joe nodded. “ … nice … lady.”
“Were you at her house today?”
Billy Joe smiled, showing a few yellow teeth with lots of gaps between them. He exhaled smoke and nodded. As Rhodes knew, this was the way most conversations with Billy Joe went. He said only a couple of words at a time, and sometimes no words at all, using just a nod or a shake of the head to get his meaning across.

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