Murder at the Courthouse (6 page)

“Could be they're right, Mike. They know about as much as we do at this point. But it's better if we don't make a big mystery out of every little thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like those keys. Roy's getting old. In all likelihood he hung those keys on a different hook himself. Not that it matters. Can't see how that could have the first thing to do with that stiff out on the steps, can you?”

“I guess not.”

The sheriff clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Now go on home and get rested up so you can listen to a whole new bunch of theories tomorrow. Just think of the ideas folks'll be able to come up with after a whole night to ponder on it.”

At the time, Michael had managed to pull out the smile the sheriff had expected, but now as his cruiser bounced around a chughole in his lane, he groaned at the thought of more half-baked theories. He had about used up all his patience that afternoon, talking to people on the street and in the stores.

As hard as it was to believe, nobody had seen or heard anything. Not even from the three businesses across from the courthouse. Jim Deatin had come in to his auto supply store about eight o'clock, but he never opened up till nine. So he'd spent the time in the back figuring out his new order and hadn't even looked out when he unlocked the front door.

The yellow lines were already flapping in the wind over on the courthouse lawn when Reece Sheridan got to his office. Reece had come in a little earlier than usual because his secretary's little boy had an ear infection, but that was still after nine. He claimed nobody ever needed a will or a deed drawn up before ten o'clock in the morning anyway, and that was about the only kind of legal work Reece did anymore. His main job these days was puttering around the lake in his boat, catching fish.

Joe Jamison got to work early, same as any other day. Since his wife died a couple of years back, Joe drank his coffee and read the paper at his shop in case someone showed up early for a trim. Joe's Barbershop had been across from the courthouse ever since Michael could remember. When he was a kid, he hated getting his hair cut there, because no matter what he told Joe, the barber invariably cut his hair the same way. Some of his friends had talked their parents into taking them to Eagleton for haircuts, but Michael's father wouldn't even consider that.

“How would we like it if Joe went to Eagleton to church?” he asked.

At thirteen, Michael hadn't cared where Joe Jamison went to church. He just wanted a haircut that would make the girls notice him, and Joe's haircuts weren't doing the trick.

It had never happened. After the wreck, Michael had bigger worries than the right haircut. Such as his parents being gone, learning to walk when one of his legs didn't work right, and living up to Aunt Lindy's expectations. In fact, after the wreck, he had sort of liked going to Joe to get his hair cut, because at least that hadn't changed.

Joe still cut Michael's hair. However the haircut turned out, it was usually worth it in information, because a good portion of the men in Hidden Springs sat in Joe's chair one or two times a month.

Michael should have gotten his hair cut today. Joe always talked more when he was cutting hair. Instead Michael had gone in and sat in the waiting chair. Since he didn't have any customers, Joe had settled in the barber chair. His orange tabby cat that somebody had traded for a haircut several years back jumped up into his lap.

When Michael asked Joe whether he'd noticed anything unusual that morning, such as a man getting shot on the courthouse steps, Joe stroked the cat's ears and considered his answer for a long minute.

“Fact is, Mike, I was a little late this morning, and first thing, I cleaned out the litter box and put out some food for Two Bits. Then I made my coffee.” Joe looked up at Michael and then back down at the cat. “That's the way I always do it. Two Bits first, then coffee.”

Michael waited without prompting Joe with more questions. The little man sat ramrod straight in the chair and rubbed the cat's ears with the same precise strokes he used when he was working with his comb and scissors. Well into his sixties, he still had a full head of black hair that most folks figured he dyed, even though he wouldn't own up to it. But his customers forgave him almost anything because of the way he laughed at even the dumbest jokes.

There hadn't been any jokes or laughter that afternoon. Instead, the silence stretched out till the air in the shop was almost taut. Finally, Joe sighed. “It's a bad thing, Mike.”

Suddenly the barber stood up, spilling the cat out of his lap onto the floor. Two Bits landed on his feet with an indignant yelp and haughtily stalked into the back room. Joe paid the cat no mind as he rearranged his combs and scissors on the counter in front of the mirror that covered the back wall.

Again Michael was patient, and after a while, Joe said, “I didn't really see anything though. Like I told you, I was busy with Two Bits, and by the time I turned over the open sign, the man was already there. I saw him when I pulled up the shade, but I figured he was just waiting for the courthouse
to open up. You know, so he could buy his car license or something. I never gave a thought to him being dead.”

Michael went over to stare out the front window. A couple of boys were working their way up the walkway to the spot where the body had been discovered. Michael ignored the boys shoving and pushing each other toward the steps and made himself think about what Joe might have seen that morning.

“I guess it would be hard to see from here that he'd been shot.” Michael kept his eyes on the courthouse steps. “Miss Willadean passed right by him and thought he was drunk.” Michael turned away from the window as the two boys broke and ran, as if a ghost had risen up off the steps to chase them.

Joe smiled for the first time since Michael had come in his door. “Well, you have to make allowances for Miss Willadean, and it wasn't as if she was expecting to meet up with a dead man on her morning rounds.”

“That's for sure.” Michael smiled too. “Had you ever seen him before?”

“Even if I had known him, I couldn't have told who he was from here. The old eyes aren't what they used to be.” Joe glanced at Michael in the mirror and then turned his attention back to his combs. “I wish I could help you, Mike, but I just didn't see it happen.”

Now as Michael guided his cruiser around the last and biggest chughole, something about his talk with Joe kept nagging at him. He didn't know whether it was the way Joe had avoided his eyes or something Joe had said, but Michael had the feeling Joe knew more than he was telling.

Of course, Joe never looked at you much. He mostly kept his eyes on your hair while he worked, peeking at your face in the mirror now and again as he let out any news he might
have heard in tiny morsels to be considered carefully before the next morsel was offered. Michael would go get a haircut tomorrow even if he didn't need one.

He came around the curve and there, on the other side of the cedars, Aunt Lindy's car was parked in front of his house. Michael sighed. He'd have to put off the long shower and the solitude he'd looked forward to out on his back deck while he tried to make sense of everything. But it wasn't all bad. Aunt Lindy rarely came empty-handed.

He parked the cruiser next to the sporty red car she'd bought last fall and kept trying to lend him in case he wanted to use it for a date. When he reminded her that Karen didn't mind riding in his old truck, she told him somewhat pointedly that Karen Allison wasn't the only woman in the world.

Not that Aunt Lindy didn't like Karen. She did. Michael thought she even admired Karen for being the first female preacher Hidden Springs had ever had. The Presbyterian Church had called Karen straight out of seminary three years ago. Since the congregation was small, some of the less forward-thinking people in Hidden Springs said the church couldn't find a man willing to take on the pastorate. But Karen was sure the Lord had led her to Hidden Springs and had a purpose for her being there.

That might be what Aunt Lindy really couldn't stomach. That Karen Allison had paid attention to the Lord's calling when it was Michael she wanted to pay attention to the Lord's purpose in his life. She didn't think that purpose was to be a preacher's husband, even though she often said a woman had to be called to make a good preacher's wife.

Whatever the reason, she was dead set against Michael drifting into a serious relationship with Karen.

“Karen's very nice,” she told Michael last week when he took her a plate of food after Karen's church had a potluck meal. The words were more condemnation than compliment. “I suppose that's not altogether bad when you have a congregation to keep happy.”

“They all love her.” Michael set the foil-wrapped Styrofoam plate overloaded with food on the counter. It was more than Aunt Lindy would eat in a week.

“As they should. She's the best pastor they've had for years. She's not much of a preacher, but she's always there if they call her. As I said, she's nice.” Aunt Lindy made a face that didn't exactly fit with the word “nice.” “Church people need nice, but you need somebody to strike sparks off you. Somebody to wake you up. Somebody who can mother town founders.”

“I don't think there are any towns left to be founded.” Michael hadn't bothered to hide his smile.

“Your children will be pioneers in other ways. It's the Keane family tradition.”

“Not the Keane family I know,” Michael teased her. “We just sort of hide out in Hidden Springs and live a lot like the guy next door.”

“There are all sorts of ways to be pioneers.” Aunt Lindy lifted her chin defiantly.

“You call Dad following in his father's footsteps preaching at the Hidden Springs First Baptist Church being a pioneer?”

“It was his calling. The Lord used him to make the town better. And now it's your turn. You have responsibilities to Hidden Springs and to the family name. The important thing is keeping the Keane line strong and vigorous.”

“Karen's more of a pioneer than I'll ever be. A female preacher. Here in Hidden Springs.”

“And who knows where the Lord might call her next? A preacher has to listen to the Lord's calling, whether that preacher is a he or she.” Aunt Lindy poked Michael's chest with a bony finger. “The Lord, on the other hand, has brought you back to Hidden Springs for a reason.”

“If that's true, he hasn't let me in on the secret.” Michael stepped back before she could jab him with her finger again.

“He will. In his own time.” Her eyes narrowed with determination. “You young people are always in such a hurry you forget to notice what the good Lord is doing in your life. The Lord wants you right here in Hidden Springs.”

Michael knew when to give up arguing with her. Instead, he had smiled. “You should have gotten married and had kids of your own. They couldn't have helped being pioneers.”

“There was a man once a long time ago.” The sadness that had flashed across her face stopped Michael's teasing. “He got killed in the service, and I suppose I never really gave anyone else a chance after that. But make no mistake, I do know what love is supposed to be, Michael, and I don't want you settling for anything less, simply because it's convenient.”

Now Michael got out of his cruiser and slammed his door. The noise brought Aunt Lindy to the front door. He wasn't really surprised to see her there. She'd want to know what was going on, but she would never stoop to listening to rumors. Michael thought about Paul Osgood ordering him not to discuss the case with anyone, but Michael didn't know anything to tell her the rest of the town didn't already know anyway.

Michael's black Labrador appeared out of the night to bang into him. Every time he came home, Jasper greeted him as if he carried a dozen dog biscuits in his pockets, and every time it lifted Michael's spirits.

Tonight he rubbed Jasper's ears a couple of extra times just because he knew it would aggravate Aunt Lindy. Then with a grin, he went on up the three steps and across the wooden porch. He and Aunt Lindy were the ones who struck sparks off one another like steel on steel, and he wasn't sure which of them enjoyed it the most.

Aunt Lindy offered her cheek up to Michael for a kiss. “Dog got paw prints on your uniform again.”

“What can I say? He likes me.” Michael brushed at the dirt on his pants. “And his name's Jasper.”

Aunt Lindy pretended not to hear. She failed to find it amusing that Michael had named his dog after their town-founding ancestor, Jasper Keane, so she simply refused to acknowledge the dog's name. Jasper didn't mind. He loved Aunt Lindy only second to Michael. Not that he piled into her the way he did Michael. The dog would slide to a stop several feet away from Aunt Lindy, then slowly approach her with his tail madly flapping back and forth and his whole body quivering in anticipation of a pat on the head or any word of greeting Aunt Lindy might care to give him.

Now, without saying anything more, Aunt Lindy watched Michael unbuckle his holster belt and hang it on the hook just inside the door. While he always shed his gun as soon as he got home, tonight he felt doubly relieved to have the weight of the weapon gone.

Some of that feeling must have shown on his face, because Aunt Lindy asked, “You are all right, aren't you, Michael?”

Michael smiled down at her. She was so small, only a couple of inches over five feet, and just as her manner was always contained, so was her appearance. Years ago she must have looked in her mirror and decided beauty was not within her grasp so she had given up any pursuit of it. Yet the passing years had stolen none of the intensity of her blue eyes and had given her a certain dignity that was perhaps better than the fleeting beauty of youth.

“I'm fine, Aunt Lindy.” Michael touched her arm. “You didn't have to drive all the way out here to check on me.”

“I'm not so old that I can't drive out in the country at night if I want to.” She sounded cross, but he caught a glimpse of a smile lifting up the corners of her lips as she turned toward the kitchen. “I brought you some pot roast.”

With her customary efficiency, she set the food on the table while he washed up. Then she sat across from him and watched him eat, as she had hundreds of times in the past. He could almost see the questions she wanted to ask about the murder circling in her head, but instead she pretended this was a night like any other. “Karen called. Said you didn't answer your cell.”

“I'll call her back later.” She would have questions too. Everybody had questions he couldn't answer. He buttered a roll and waited for Aunt Lindy to start asking hers.

She chatted about everything but the murder until he finished off the last bite of chocolate pie. Then she got down to business. “Have you identified the victim?”

“Not so far as I know. Paul's in charge of the case. He may have found out who the man was and not shared that
information yet.” Michael looked over at Aunt Lindy. “He gave us all strict orders not to discuss the case with anyone.”

“That's sensible.” Aunt Lindy leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “The town's buzzing with rumors enough, without the police adding to them. By the time the last bell rang at school, some of the students were almost afraid to go outside. Why, I can't imagine. The killer wasn't likely to be hiding behind the bushes in front of the school.”

“And you, Aunt Lindy? What do you think? Do you believe he might still be hiding out somewhere in Hidden Springs?”

“What makes you think the murderer is a he?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

“I don't know.” Michael shrugged a little. “All I actually know for sure is that a man apparently got shot right in the middle of Hidden Springs without anybody seeing anything. As impossible as that seems.”

“You'll uncover some leads in due time.” She reached across the table to pat his hand. “Perhaps if you knew why the poor man was in Hidden Springs.”

“We might have a better idea of that once we find out who he is.” Michael pushed his empty plate away. “You're going to make me fat with these pies, Aunt Lindy. Did you make it?”

“Don't be silly.” She frowned at him as she stood up and reached for his dirty plate and saucer. “I bought it from Evelyn Higby. She enjoys baking.”

Michael blocked her hand with his. “I'll take care of these.”

She gave the dishes a look, as though sure they'd sit where they were until they took root, but she didn't reach for them again. Instead she picked up her jacket.

Michael came around the table to hold the jacket while she shoved her arms into the sleeves.

“You'll need to come by the house tomorrow night to talk to Anthony.” She looked around at Michael. “How did you know he wasn't at school?”

“I saw him in front of the courthouse this morning after the body was discovered.”

Aunt Lindy drew in a quick breath. “You surely don't think he could have anything to do with that.”

“No. Anthony does seem to chase after trouble, but I don't think he'd shoot anybody.”

Aunt Lindy buttoned up her jacket. “He's going to find trouble with me. He knows he's not to skip school. After school, I called his aunt, but she didn't know where he was or seem to care very much.”

“No surprise there. Anthony hasn't exactly been an easy kid to handle.”

“I suppose that's true.” Aunt Lindy sighed a little as she straightened her jacket collar. Then she reached over to touch Michael's cheek. “Not all aunts are so blessed with their nephews.”

Tender remarks were rare for Aunt Lindy, so Michael seized the moment to grab her in a bear hug and lift her off her feet.

“For goodness' sake, Michael. Put me down. I'm not your teddy bear.” Back on her feet, she smoothed down her hair and straightened her jacket. “Finding that body must have caused you to revert to adolescence.”

“That could be,” Michael admitted. “I guess I thought things like that wouldn't happen here the way they did in the city, and then some guy gets shot right on the courthouse steps. Why would anybody kill somebody there?”

“Why does anybody murder anybody anywhere?” Aunt
Lindy counted off the reasons on her fingers. “Fear, greed, jealousy, revenge, or perhaps simple meanness.”

“But why chance shooting somebody right in the middle of town? Why not somewhere out of town where there wouldn't be so much chance of witnesses?”

“Good question, Michael.” Aunt Lindy slipped into her teacher's voice. “Now find the answer.”

“I told you Paul's handling the case.”

Aunt Lindy raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “Pretend what you like, but we both know Paul Osgood couldn't catch a Peeping Tom if he saw one standing on a stepladder peering straight at someone's window, much less a murderer.”

Michael didn't see any reason to dispute that as Aunt Lindy went out the door. Like always, she had the “straight of it,” the way the judge had said earlier that day.

He watched her lights go out of sight up his lane and had to fight the urge to follow her to be sure she made it home safely. But if she spotted him behind her, he'd never hear the last of it. More than once, she'd told him, in no uncertain terms, that she had taken care of herself for years without his help and was capable of doing so for several more years to come.

He would have to content himself with calling her later. There was no real reason to worry about her. If anybody was safe in Keane County, it was Aunt Lindy. She'd taught almost everyone there at one time or another, and she generally remembered not only their names but the kind of student they'd been. No one would hurt her. No one who knew her, but there could be a stranger in town. One who was a murderer.

The thought barely slipped through his mind before he could almost hear Aunt Lindy's voice chasing after it.
What makes
you think the murderer is a stranger?

Michael shook the thought away, tired of thinking about any of it. He wanted to push aside the memory of the surprised look on the dead man's face as if his last thought was that this wasn't supposed to happen. That's how Michael felt. It wasn't supposed to happen. Not in Hidden Springs.

If only he could go back to yesterday when his biggest problem was figuring out who stole Bonnie Wireman's laptop. He really hoped it wasn't Anthony Blake.

He liked Anthony in spite of the boy's determined effort to keep him from it. What was it Buck had said about him? A hard-luck kid. That was true enough. Anytime there was a report of vandalism or petty theft, Anthony was first on everybody's suspect list. But surely he had nothing to do with the man on the courthouse steps.

Yet something bothered Michael about the way Anthony ducked out of sight when Michael spotted him. It was more than getting caught skipping school. Anthony would have simply dared Michael to do something about that, but this morning the boy hadn't looked defiant. Rather he'd looked . . . Michael searched his mind for the right word and was surprised when it came to him. Confused. The boy looked confused.

Michael carried the dishes to the sink. As he dumped them in, he caught sight of his own reflection in the kitchen window. Maybe when he'd thought Anthony looked confused, it was just his own expression reflecting back to him. Maybe murder was supposed to be confusing. Surprising, confusing, and frightening.

Then again, could be the boy had seen something. If so, Michael would have to find out what. Tomorrow. Till then he'd put it out of his mind and call Karen.

Karen did have questions, but when he didn't have answers, she just said she'd pray for the victim's family whoever they were. Then she talked about the play they planned to go see on Thursday night and if he'd be able to help with the youth picnic on Sunday.

As they talked, he pictured her honey-brown hair hanging loosely over her shoulders. She'd have on her slightly ratty red warmups while she studied for her next sermon. Her Bible would be there beside her and she would be skimming Scripture verses or making notes as they talked. It was a talent of hers, being able to think about two things at once.

Michael sometimes wished he could get all her attention, but even when they were alone together, she seemed to have some other thoughts in reserve that she wasn't ready to share. He told her that once. She hadn't denied it, but simply smiled a little sadly and insisted it was a fault they shared.

Perhaps she was right. He was fond of Karen, but he shied away from any talk of love or marriage. She never spoke of anything more than friendship between them either. No strings. No demands. Just easy companionship for a dinner out or a movie. Yet it seemed possible they might eventually drift toward a more serious relationship the way the whole town seemed to think they should. All except Aunt Lindy.

Later as the water flowed over Michael in the shower, he wondered if he should try to take that next step with Karen. After all, hadn't he come back to Hidden Springs looking for the kind of settled happiness he remembered his mother and father having? Happiness had almost radiated from them. They were in love with each other. They were pleased with Michael for a son. They were content with their church and the church people who were the same as family to them.
They were even happy with Aunt Lindy in spite of the way she tried to shake things up from time to time.

She accused them of being afraid to try new things. She claimed that simply wrapping oneself in happiness could be mind-numbing. Michael's father would smile at her and say there were worse things than being numb with happiness.

As the steam rose around him, Michael began to feel a little numb himself. He twisted the hot water faucet off and let cold water dash him awake.

His skin was still tingling when he went out on the deck, where the gentle sounds of the spring night surrounded him. With Jasper stretched out at his feet, Michael thought through what he knew about the murder, but nothing came one bit clearer. The victim was a John Doe. There were no suspects. No witnesses. No murder weapon. No leads.

All he had were two people who hadn't wanted to meet his eyes. By the time he and Jasper went inside, he was almost ready to believe the mob or maybe the CIA
had
done it. Never mind why they'd picked the Hidden Springs Courthouse steps to dump the body. That was one of those details regular folks ignored when they were working out their theories. Tonight he'd be a regular folk himself. Searching out answers that made sense could wait for morning.

The next day Michael went through the back door into the courthouse the same as every morning. But this time he paused in the hallway to listen.

In the sheriff's office, Betty Jean was making coffee. The container made a thud when she put it back in the cabinet. The clerks in Neville Gravitt's office were turning on their
computers, electronic beeps signaling the beginning of the workday. A phone rang in the judge's office, but no one was there yet to answer it. Somewhere in the back of the building, Roy's keys jangled on his belt.

Normal sounds. The same sounds he heard the morning before when a dead man was on the steps out front. Michael glanced at his watch and wondered if Miss Willadean would appear at the courthouse at nine sharp as usual. Of course after yesterday, she had probably taken to her bed with the vapors or was still on the telephone. Maybe both. Sixteen minutes from now, he'd at least know the answer to that particular question.