Murder at the Courthouse (14 page)

Judge Campbell spotted the sheriff in the doorway and came across the hall. “What's this that's not in Hidden Springs?” His voice was at normal boom level.

“I was just telling Mike here that if folks shoot one another in Hidden Springs, they generally have a pretty darn good reason, and I'm thinking we can be pretty sure whoever shot this Rayburn fellow is long gone from here.”

“You haven't found out anything then about who did it?” The judge peeked around the sheriff at Michael. “I heard you went to Eagleton today to meet with the victim's family. Did they know why the man was here in Hidden Springs?”

Michael shook his head, and the sheriff answered for him. “They neither one ever heard of Hidden Springs.”

“Neither one?” the judge said.

“The daughter and ex-wife,” Sheriff Potter explained. “But the ex-wife backed up what we already knew about Rayburn. He was up to his eyeballs in debt to folks what don't mess around if you don't pay up.”

“Then you think that's what happened.” The judge looked from the sheriff to Michael again.

“It's a possibility.” Michael shrugged a little. “But we're low on proof.”

“Well, proof is good if you're taking something to trial, but proof in black and white isn't all that necessary if you're just deciding what actually happened.” The judge looked back at the sheriff. “You've seen a lot of those kind of cases in your days, haven't you, Al? Ones where you knew who did it, but there wasn't any way you could get them convicted in a court of law.”

“Not so many.” Sheriff Potter's voice rose to match the judge's just in case some voters might be loitering out in the hall hearing their conversation. “We take care of our people.”

“Of course you do,” Judge Campbell said. “I wasn't suggesting that you didn't. I'm confident you'll get this cleared up in no time at all.”

“Michael's working on it.” Sheriff Potter's smile was back. “And the deputy always gets his man.”

When both the men at the door laughed, Michael managed a smile, but he wasn't sorry when the two men drifted on up the hall and out the door. The judge's every word was clear till the front door swung shut behind them.

“Thank goodness they're gone,” Betty Jean muttered. “The judge could wake the dead.”

“He does have a way of broadcasting anything we tell him to the rest of the town.” Michael got up and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I don't guess any of it's a secret.” Betty Jean looked up from her computer screen. “The investigation, I mean.”

“No, I don't suppose so.”

“Good.” She looked relieved. “I mean, you didn't tell me not to say anything, and the judge was over here earlier asking how things were going with the case.”

“Nothing unusual about that. The judge doesn't like anything going on in Hidden Springs that he doesn't know about.” Michael sat back down at his desk and looked at the phone. He'd have to call Paul whether he wanted to or not.

“I guess so,” Betty Jean said slowly. “But he seems extra interested in this.”

“So's everybody else.” Michael looked down at the little
stack of messages on his desk. Paul's number was on the top. He tried to ignore it. “Wouldn't you feel better if we knew who the murderer was?”

“I think it's like Uncle Al says. Whoever did it is long gone now. Besides, it had to be the mob. Everybody says so.” Betty Jean stared back at her screen. “But all this commotion doesn't help me get my work done. First Miss Willadean came in to see if it was safe for crazy old ladies to be out on the street. Then Hank Leland shows up, acting like I'm his favorite person in the world.”

“Poor Hank. I guess you didn't give him the time of day.”

“He's got a watch.” Betty Jean gave a little sniff and went on with her recital. “He was still hanging around, trying to overhear me saying something on the phone, when Stella Pinkston saunters on back here. Of course, it doesn't take a genius to know she's more interested in the investigator than the investigation. She didn't tarry long when she saw you weren't here. And all the time the phone's ringing. Folks must think I'm Hidden Springs's own information bureau.”

“You usually know what's going on.”

“Knowing and telling are two different things,” Betty Jean pointed out. “Anyway, then when the judge came in here acting like he's a real judge or something with all his questions, that was the last straw. I called Uncle Al and told him he'd have to come stay down here till you or Lester came in.”

“Sounds like a traumatic morning all the way around.” Michael grinned over at her. “Tell you what. If it'll help, I won't talk to you the rest of the day.”

“Promises, promises.” Betty Jean made a face at him. “Of course, when Lester gets here, he'll have to tell me all the cute things every kid did or said today.”

“Quit pretending to be cross about that. You wish at least a dozen of those kids were yours.”

“Only a half dozen,” Betty Jean said without smiling. “Now keep your promise, call Paul Osgood, and let me get my work done.”

Michael picked up the note with Paul's cell number, but didn't pick up the phone. When he felt Betty Jean watching him, he said, “I'll call him later. He might be resting just now.”

“Whatever.” Betty Jean shrugged. “Just don't try leaving this office without calling him. I've already talked to him once today, and once is my limit.”

“Okay.” Michael breathed out a sigh. “I promise I'll call before I leave. Any of these other calls anything I need to know about?” He waved the pink notes at her.

“You could try reading them yourself, you know. But Karen called. Said she couldn't get you on your cell. She would have texted you, but she was afraid you'd left your phone at home or forgotten to charge it up. Does she know you or what?” Betty Jean shot him a look. “Anyway, she says tonight is sort of dress-up, and she was worried you might show up in your uniform.” Betty Jean's fingers fell idle on the keyboard, and her eyes got dreamy. “It must be heaven to have a guy at your beck and call.”

“I thought you were working on a new boyfriend.”

“I'm not ready to let him know I'm interested yet and don't you dare say anything to anybody about it.” She gave Michael a warning look. “I figure I'd better lose another twenty pounds first. That'll shorten the odds of him saying no.”

“You're adorable the way you are, Betty Jean.”

“Then how come you're going out with Karen instead of me?” She began typing again. “Oh yeah, and Reece Sheridan
called. Said his niece would be in town tonight or tomorrow, and he really appreciates you taking her out to dinner while she's here.” Betty Jean glanced over at him with raised eyebrows. “Maybe while you're up there at that show in Eagleton with Karen tonight, you can get another set of tickets for tomorrow night.”

“Alex Sheridan is an old friend, Betty Jean. We used to play together when we were kids.”

“What'd you play? Doctor?”

Michael shook his head at Betty Jean and changed the subject. “I guess I might as well go ahead and call Paul.”

“Good.” Betty Jean laughed as he punched in Paul's number. Then in her best Sheriff Potter voice, she said, “Because you boys are just going to have to learn to work together.”

Paul Osgood had to hear it all slowly, and most of it twice. Michael could almost see him cranked up in the hospital bed, meticulously writing down Michael's every word on a yellow notepad.

Michael drew squares on his desk calendar and tried to be patient as he repeated the information. But there were limits, and his patience was wearing thin even before Paul started harping on how Michael had to find the murder weapon.

“It's all very well to know who the victim is,” Paul said. “But finding the murder weapon is vital to solving the case. You did search the grounds there at the courthouse, didn't you?”

“You know we did.” Michael drew a new square, darker than the others. “You were here.”

“Could be you missed something. Make another search right away.”

Michael pressed down so hard with his pen that as he drew a new line, the nib broke, but he kept his voice level. “Okay. Anything else?”

Betty Jean looked up from her computer, started to smile, thought better of it, and studied her screen again.

On the other end of the phone, Paul was speaking slowly. “I don't think so. It appears as if you've been handling things fairly well while I've been incapacitated, but I insist you make finding the murder weapon a number one priority.”

“Whatever you say.” Michael took a deep breath and relaxed his grip on the receiver. “But I sort of doubt it's just lying around waiting for us to find it. Whoever shot Rayburn probably carried it away with him.”

“Then he may have disposed of it somewhere else. What do you think are the possibilities?”

“Well, let's see.” Michael found another pen and began doodling again. This time he drew guns. “He could have put it in a trash Dumpster or maybe just stuck it under his car seat to use on the first policeman to pull him over. Who knows? Could be he pitched it in the lake.”

“That's an idea.” Paul sounded excited. “I'll bet that's what he did. The lake would make a perfect disposal place. He'd think we'd never find it there.”

“And he'd be right.”

“Not necessarily. We could get divers.”

“Paul, what kind of medication are you on?” Michael's patience was ready to snap the way the pen's point had moments ago. “We can't search the lake for a gun we aren't even sure is in there, and even if we were sure, we'd still never find it. It's a big lake.”

“We'll have to pinpoint the most likely disposal spot.” Paul was obviously not bothered at all by Michael's arguments.

“If the killer tells us where he pitched the gun in the lake, we won't need the gun. We'll have the killer.”

“That wouldn't negate the need for physical evidence.”

“Maybe you'd better talk to the chief. See what he has to say.” Michael gave up the fight. Then before Paul had time to come up with any other insane ideas, Michael said a quick “hope you feel better soon” and hung up.

Michael stared at the phone and wondered what the chances were of Paul needing some other kind of emergency surgery before next week. Slim to none, unfortunately. Instead, it looked like they'd have to figure out the easiest place to search the lake for a gun and make a show of it.

It would have to be done, crazy or not. Paul was like a pit bull when he got hold of an idea. He wouldn't turn it loose.

Michael stood up and told Betty Jean, “I think I'll go get a haircut.”

“Joe's not back.” Betty Jean kept her eyes on her computer screen. “I looked when I went out at lunch. They say his sister has cancer. I forget what kind, but it's bad.”

“Well, then maybe I'll get something to eat. I forgot about lunch.”

“I wish I could forget things like that.” Betty Jean sighed.

Out on the street, Michael looked over toward Joe's Barbershop. The handwritten note was still taped to the door. Maybe it was just because of his sister that Joe had gone to Tennessee. Maybe being worried about her was what was bothering Joe when Michael talked to him after Rayburn's body was found. Michael's need for some kind of lead might have him imagining something when nothing was there.

Michael didn't know why he needed a definite answer as to who shot the man. He needed to accept the obvious. Jay Rayburn had not paid his debts to the wrong people one time too many. They'd cut their losses, shot him, and got out of
town fast. Was Michael being like Paul, unable to let go of his own idea of what happened?

Michael smiled at that thought. He didn't have any absolute ideas of what happened to let go of. So why not let it be loan sharks?

As Michael passed the newspaper office, Hank Leland almost tore off the door getting outside. “Hey, Mike, wait up.”

Michael didn't stop walking but slowed down a little. “How's it going, Hank? Got enough news for next week's issue yet?”

“I think we're going to have to print three sections. A lot of stuff going on at the schools with just two weeks left in the school year.” Hank was panting from rushing to catch Michael. “Where you headed?”

“To the Grill to grab a bite.”

“Sort of late for lunch, isn't it?” Hank looked at his watch. “But what the heck? A piece of pie sounds good. Mind if I join you?”

At the Grill, the big round community table was practically full as the judge held forth about the latest happenings in the homicide investigation. The sheriff sipped his coffee and inserted a word here and there when the judge looked his way. Between them, the two men could get just about anything done in Keane County they thought needed doing.

“Here's the man now,” the judge boomed when Michael came in the door. “Pull up a chair.” He didn't notice Hank behind Michael.

“Got room for two?” Hank peeked around Michael to ask.

“Oh, hello there, Hank.” The judge's smile stayed firmly in place. “Sure, we can always make room for one more.”

“Never mind, Judge. We wouldn't want to crowd you.”
Michael got the judge off the hook. “Besides, I'm planning on ordering some of Cindy's special onion rings, and if I sit up here, every one of you would be wanting me to share.”

Sheriff Potter smiled with a little nod at Michael. While the sheriff claimed not to have anything personal against Hank, that didn't mean he was ready to talk to the editor unless he had to.

Just having Hank in the room put a damper on the conversation at the middle table, and before long a couple of the men headed back to their stores. A Realtor had some houses to show, and one of the insurance agents needed to make some calls.

By the time Michael was finishing up the last of his onion rings, even the judge and the sheriff had left and the only other customer in the Grill besides Hank and him was a retired magistrate up in one of the front booths, leafing through the Grill's copy of the
Eagleton News
.

When Cindy came out of the kitchen to fill up their coffee cups and offer Michael a piece of pecan pie, Michael apologized. “Sorry, Cindy. Looks like we ran off your business.”

“It wasn't you. It was old big ears here,” Cindy said, but she was smiling. “Actually I might give you coffee on the house if you want to come in every afternoon about this time, Hank. Those guys come in here and drink enough coffee to float a boat. They've got so they don't even order pie most of the time. All on low cholesterol diets or something. I don't know how they expect us to make a living.”

“But you're always trying to talk me out of pie,” Hank said.

“That's because the more I say it's bad for you, the more you want it.” She picked up Michael's empty dinner plate.

“Then tell me how bad ice cream is for me so you can plop a big scoop on top before you bring a piece of that pecan pie on over.”

After she brought their pie and left a fresh pot of coffee on the table, she disappeared into the kitchen to start on the dinner offerings before the after-school crowd stormed in for fries and sodas.

Hank attacked his pie and finished it off in record time, saying it wasn't as good if the ice cream melted. Then he sat back and fingered his notebook as he watched Michael eat more slowly. He'd already third-degreed Michael about Rayburn's family, and Michael had told him the basic facts without going into detail.

But Hank had obviously been doing some checking on his own. “I hear our guy was a big-time gambler.”

“I wouldn't say big-time exactly,” Michael said.

“What would you say?”

“That he liked to bet, but he wasn't very good at it.”

“You think he made one bet too many?” Hank asked.

“I think he may have had some financial problems, but I don't think that was anything new for him.”

“Nope. According to my sources . . .” Hank apparently enjoyed the sound of that so much he repeated it. “According to my sources, Rayburn was over his limit on his credit cards, and his bank laughed and hung up on him if he asked about loans.”

“You talk to somebody at his bank?”

“My source didn't want to be identified,” Hank said importantly.

“Come on, Hank. Get down off your source horse.”

The editor shook his head. “I can't tell you. Really. A
newspaperman has to protect his confidential sources. It's a matter of honor.” Hank looked almost sorry to hold out on Michael. “But I've already told you everything the person told me. You couldn't find out anything more by talking to him yourself.”

“I might know better questions to ask.”

Hank studied Michael's face. “Do you?”

Michael pushed away his pie plate and refilled his coffee cup before he admitted, “No.”

“So.” The editor sat up straighter and leaned a little toward Michael. “What do you think about it all? Why did this loser get dispatched on the courthouse steps?”

Michael's eyes went to the editor's notebook on the table.

“Okay. Off the record.” The editor picked up the notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. “You know I wouldn't do anything to antagonize the only person left in Hidden Springs who will drink coffee and eat pie with me.”

“Not unless you thought it would make a good story in the next issue of the
Gazette
.”

Hank clapped his hand over his heart. “You injure me.”

“Right.”

Hank grinned at him. “Okay. So you don't injure me, but give me a break, Mike. If I wanted to be a low-down, dirt-grubbing reporter, I wouldn't be here in Hidden Springs. I'd be writing for the supermarket tabloids and making enough money to pay for my kid's braces.”

“Why are you here in Hidden Springs, Hank?”

“Sometimes I wonder.” Hank laughed and brushed a crumb off the table.

“I'm serious.” Michael pushed him for a real answer. “You're good at what you do. Why not go where the money is?”

Hank's smile faded as he got a different look on his face. “I don't know. Maybe I like not having to answer to anybody but the folks who buy my paper. And maybe it's just because once a small-town kid, always a small-town kid. Hidden Springs is a lot like the little town where I grew up. I don't know why the courthouse crew has taken such a dislike to me. I don't aim to make anybody look bad.”

“Sure.” Michael shook his head. “I was swallowing your story up till that last line.”

“Okay, so not too bad. I just aim to keep them straight. We've got people here who have been in office so long they think they were born to it or something instead of being voted in.”

“Sometimes it almost seems that way.” Michael couldn't argue with that. “Take the judge. He's been judge executive ever since they had such a thing in Keane County. I can't remember when he wasn't calling the shots about whose potholes got filled. The sheriff's been in office almost as long, but they do their best for the people.”

“Sometimes they only do average. That's when I goad them up to a little higher level of public service by reminding them they are accountable even if they could win the next election without ever kissing another baby.”

“It would be a waste of time and money to run against them.” Michael took a sip of his coffee. “I don't think the judge has had any competition the last three terms.”

“Yeah. I thought about running once just to make it interesting, but I figured folks would take it wrong and cancel their subscriptions.” Hank grinned again before his face turned thoughtful. “Now it's my turn. How about you? What made you come back to Hidden Springs? You hanging around
hoping to run for sheriff when and if Potter ever decides he's tired of catching the bad guys?”

“Me? Sheriff? I don't think so.” Michael ran his finger around the rim of his cup.

“Why not?” Hank leaned on his elbows and studied Michael. “You'd make a good sheriff, or even better, you could take over for the judge if the rumor going around about him running for state representative is true. After all, you are a Keane. It would be like carrying on where your great—however many greats—grandfather left off.”

“It's Aunt Lindy who worries about that sort of thing. Not me.”

“You're here, aren't you?” Hank sat back and twirled his coffee cup around on the table a couple of times. “We both know it's not for the money a deputy draws down any more than I'm putting out the
Gazette
to get rich.”

Michael looked away from Hank out toward the front window. The sun glanced off the dirty window glass and hid the view outside, but Michael knew what was there. People in their stores and businesses going about their quiet, everyday lives.

“What's the matter, Mike?” Hank asked after a minute. “The question too hard?”

“Maybe it is.” Michael looked back at him. “I'm not sure why I came back except that this is where I belong. My roots are here. I want to raise my children here.”

“What children?”

“Someday, Hank. Someday.”