Murder at the Courthouse (8 page)

After the wreck, Alex had written him every day even before he came out of the coma because she thought somebody
needed to keep him up on the important things happening in the world. Not just the headlines but more obscure news about endangered panda bears, what color fingernail polish was all the rage, how the rain forest was disappearing, and which songs were number one. Old-fashioned handwritten letters. They were still at Aunt Lindy's house somewhere.

“Is Alex keeping things under control up in Washington, DC?” Michael asked.

“She says she's giving it her best shot.” Reece shook his head. “Don't tell her I said this, but I think all the politicking is getting to her. I told her to chuck it all and move down here. I'd hang out a new shingle. Sheridan and Sheridan.”

Michael laughed. “She'd have us whipped into shape in less than ten minutes. Then what would she do?”

Michael didn't say what he really thought. That Alex would never be happy in a small town like Hidden Springs. But then again, maybe people had said the same about him a couple of years back, and look at him now. Just about as content as Reece Sheridan.

“Sometimes things aren't all that quiet here in Hidden Springs.” The smile leaked off Reece's face.

“I guess that's true enough this week,” Michael admitted reluctantly.

Reece looked up at him from under bushy white eyebrows. “You think your little friend Karen would mind if you took Alex out one night while she's here? You know, just to show her a good time. I'm not much for the nightlife anymore, and I don't want Alex to get too bored.”

“Sure. Karen can go with us.”

“Well, that's an idea.” Reece tried to sound enthusiastic, but he couldn't entirely hide a flicker of disappointment.
Michael did his best not to smile at the thought of Reece matchmaking for him and Alex. He remembered Alex the last time he saw her. That was before he left Columbus to come back to Hidden Springs.

She told Michael in no uncertain terms he could do better than walk a beat as a police officer. It wasn't too late for him to study law himself. Then he could be a district attorney if he wanted to protect society. Her blue-gray eyes had flashed as she'd lectured him on his lack of ambition. After she was talked out, he simply smiled at her and told her she was going to be one fine trial lawyer. She surrendered the argument with the comment that she supposed he could work up through the ranks to police commissioner somewhere.

Michael's smile slipped out. There wasn't much to work up to in Hidden Springs. He was in for sore ears when he saw Alex. Maybe he really would take Karen along for a buffer.

Michael shook the thought of Alex away. He'd worry about that battle when she got to town. Right now he had other things to worry about.

“Did Joe tell you when he'd be back?” Michael asked.

“Said it'd be according to how his sister was doing.”

“Did he seem particularly worried about anything when he talked to you?”

“Other than his sister?” Reece frowned a little as he thought about Michael's question, then shook his head. “Not that I noticed.”

“Did he say anything about the man getting shot yesterday? I thought maybe he might be upset about that.”

“I'd say we're all upset about that. Somebody getting murdered right across the street from you can bother a man's sleep for a while. But I didn't notice anything out of the
ordinary about Joe, if that's what you mean. Why do you ask?” Slowly, as they talked, the lawyer's eyes had become thoughtful.

“I don't know. He just didn't seem to be his usual self yesterday when I talked to him. I wondered if maybe he'd told you what was bothering him. Everybody else in Hidden Springs does.”

“I guess I do have good ears. Not a bad thing for a lawyer.” Reece was quiet a minute as though replaying his conversation with Joe over in his head. “But no, Joe just talked about Two Bits and his sister. I can't recall him saying anything about the murder.”

As Michael walked up the street toward the Grill, he decided maybe that was the oddest thing of all. That Joe hadn't said anything about the murder. If so, he was the only person in Hidden Springs who wasn't talking about it.

The more Michael thought about it, the more his uneasiness grew. Joe knew something. Something he didn't want to tell. Maybe Joe had known Jay Rayburn. The next thought was too unbelievable, but Michael let it surface in his mind anyway. Maybe Joe had shot the man.

Michael shook his head. No way could he picture the barber even holding a handgun, much less firing it at someone. Besides, what reason could Joe have for shooting Jay Rayburn? Then again, what reason did anyone have for shooting Jay Rayburn? Michael didn't know, but he couldn't believe the mild-mannered barber was a murderer. He didn't care what people said about how you could never know everything about a person no matter how long you'd known them.

Michael caught sight of his face in one of the store windows and almost laughed. It was ridiculous to think that
Joe Jamison had shot someone and left the body on the courthouse steps. If Joe had shot the man, he'd have come straight into the courthouse to turn himself in and hand over the gun. He wouldn't have scurried back across the street, fed his cat, and started cutting hair as though nothing had happened.

Joe wasn't the murderer. While Michael was certain of that, the fact was, Rayburn was dead. Somebody had shot him, and it could be that whatever had happened wasn't going to make any more sense than some of the impossible ideas people in town were coming up with.

Michael wished he could pick the theory he liked best. If he could, he'd go with Duke Benson's. Duke stayed drunk more than sober, and yesterday he'd been well on his way to his favorite condition when he'd poked his finger into Michael's chest for emphasis and claimed aliens had done it. He'd seen it happen, and he'd be glad to testify.

The Hidden Springs Grill had been frozen in time for decades. The same dark green counter with matching stools where Michael's mother and father might have sipped sodas on their first date stretched down one side of the Grill. Booths the same green huddled against the other wall while tables covered with green checkered cloths filled the middle. It wasn't a pretty green, but folks who came there to eat were more worried about what pie was on special than what color the counter and tables were.

By the time Michael went through the door, the lunch crowd was clearing out. He only had to stop twice to let someone tell him who might have killed the John Doe on the courthouse steps yesterday morning. He didn't bother telling them the John Doe had a name now. He just acted like he was taking mental notes before he escaped to a back booth, where he hoped to eat in peace.

There was little chance of that. Michael had hardly settled in the booth before Hank Leland got off his stool at the counter and carried his coffee over.

“So you know who the John Doe is now.” Hank didn't
wait for an invitation to join him, just slid into the seat across from Michael without asking. “You should have given me a call. I could have taken a shot of you and Lester breaking into the car.”

“I planned to do that.” Michael smiled a little. “It must have slipped my mind.”

“No need for sarcasm.” Hank stirred another packet of sugar into his coffee. “Lots of reporters and policemen get along famously. They share leads, get shot at together, things like that. Don't you ever watch television?”

“I guess not the same shows as you. I thought the policemen were always shoving the reporters out of the way, telling them to take a hike and smashing their cameras.”

Hank took a loud sip of coffee and shook his head. “And after I put that nice picture of you right up on the front page when I could have used that other shot where you didn't look like you knew what two plus two makes.”

“You're probably saving that one for the next issue.”

“That's an idea. It's according to whether you catch the killer by then.” Hank grinned. “If not, I might just use it. How about this headline? ‘Bumfuzzled Deputy Doesn't Know Beans about Who Done What.'” He drew the headline out in the air with his hands.

“You won't catch me arguing with the truth.”

Cindy Tilford stepped up to the booth and set a cup of coffee down in front of Michael. She gave Hank a hard look and took up for Michael. “Now you quit picking on Michael, Hank. Go pester the sheriff with your questions and let Michael eat.”

“The sheriff never has much to say when I'm around,” Hank said.

“Wonder why.” Cindy raised her eyebrows at him, then turned back to Michael. “You doing the special, honey? Meat loaf? Or something else.” She hadn't bothered to bring him a menu.

Cindy, a big-boned redhead whose hair was beginning to show streaks of white, was the waitress, cook, and along with her husband, owner of the Grill. She didn't put up with the first bit of nonsense in her place, but at the same time she had a sympathetic ear for a hard-luck story. Michael had talked her into giving Anthony Blake a part-time job a couple of weeks ago.

When she slid the heaping plateful of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans under Michael's nose a few minutes later, Hank complained. “Hey, you gave him an extra slice.”

Cindy laughed. “Get used to it, Hank. He's cuter than you. Besides, look at your waistline. I was doing you a favor.”

Hank looked at her suspiciously. “You been talking to my wife?”

“Us girls have to stick together.” Cindy shrugged as she moved away to fill another customer's coffee cup.

Her husband, Albert, popped halfway out of the kitchen door to call across the room at Michael. “That boy didn't show up yesterday afternoon. He's not supposed to come today, but you tell him he don't show up tomorrow, he's history.”

“Now, Albert.” Cindy looked over at him. “The boy's got troubles.”

“So, who doesn't?” He scowled at Cindy and then Michael again. “The boy took the job. He's supposed to show up.”

“I'll talk to him, Albert,” Michael said. “Give him another chance.”

“How many chances you want to give that boy, Michael?” Without waiting for an answer, Albert went back through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

“Don't pay him no mind.” Cindy came back to their booth to freshen up their coffee. “Albert was just wanting to go fishing yesterday, and then when Anthony didn't show, he wouldn't go. I told him I could handle the dinner crowd without him. To get his pole and go fishing. But he wouldn't. Instead, he started banging pans around in the kitchen till the folks out here were almost afraid to stay and eat. They might not have, except they all wanted to compare stories about that guy getting shot on the courthouse steps.” She glanced at Hank. “Nobody wants to wait for the paper around here.”

“That's the trouble with a weekly paper.” Hank sighed and hung his head. “The news is old before it ever sees print.”

“But people still want to read what's in the
Gazette
. We sell out your copies every week. Can't say the same for the
Eagleton News
.” Cindy waved at the paper stand inside the door. “That paper is shrinking down to nothing.”

“They should try to up circulation by printing pictures of their subscribers' grandkids playing ball and winning science fair ribbons. That's how I keep my readers.” Hank grabbed another packet of sugar and tore it open. “Plus a murder now and again to spice things up.”

“I like the kid pictures best.” Cindy headed back to the kitchen.

Michael attacked the plate of food.

Hank watched him a minute, then said, “Are you going to give me the lowdown, or do I have to wait for a press release from Paul Osgood?”

“Paul's sick. Last I heard Caroline was thinking about taking him to the emergency room over at Eagleton.”

“You don't say. Nobody told me.” Hank fingered his coffee cup handle.

“You're the reporter. You're supposed to find out things on your own. Who told you about the car?”

“I have my sources,” Hank said noncommittally.

“How much do you know?” Michael took another bite of the meat loaf. The editor was about as good at evading answers as the politicians in town were at avoiding his questions.

“Not near enough, but I'm betting you can fill me in on the rest.” Hank pulled his little notebook out and flipped through it. “Name Jay Rayburn. Salesman. From West Chester up near Louisville. Worked out of New Albany. Company named TEKCO.”

Michael swallowed and stared at him. “Betty Jean's not on your payroll, is she?”

“Are you kidding?” Hank closed his notebook. “Betty Jean wouldn't give me the time of day if she was the only person in Hidden Springs who owned a watch.” Hank sipped his coffee and studied the faded cowboy print hanging over the booth as though he'd never seen it before.

“You must have bought Lester lunch.”

“That beanpole eats more than you'd think he could.” Hank brought his eyes back to Michael's face and grinned. “I guess you might say Lester was more appreciative of his picture in the paper than you were.”

Michael shook his head and went back to eating. “I'd have thought it would take more than his picture in the paper and a hamburger to break a dedicated deputy like Lester Stucker.”

Hank twirled his coffee cup on the saucer. “Well, as a
matter of fact, I'm working up a piece on how important the crossing guard is in protecting the children in our community. Something that needed doing anyway. Maybe a tie-in with school safety week, and I can print some more of those pictures of folks' grandkids.”

“You have no scruples, Leland.” Michael wasn't really upset. Lester had saved him the trouble of letting Hank pry all the same information out of him. Before the
Hidden Springs Gazette
was published again next week, everybody in town would know the dead man's name anyway. Could be they would have the killer in jail by then. Maybe Buck had run down some leads out at the campgrounds. He might even be bringing in a suspect. Buck liked to solo.

“I could pay for your lunch if Lester left anything out.”

“Nope. Sounds like you have pretty much everything I do. Except he was a printer technician and salesman. Worked on those big company machines.”

“Nobody in Hidden Springs has anything like that, do they?”

“Not that I know of, but his company is emailing a list. Once I've checked it out, I'll let you know.”

“That's the trouble with you, Keane. You want to wait till it's not news anymore and then tell me.”

“You'll have to keep a lid on what you've already found out until we get in touch with the next of kin. Betty Jean's tracking down a daughter now.”

“No problem. I don't owe the
Eagleton News
any favors. Let them dig up their own news.”

“I'd just as soon you told them.” Michael pushed his empty plate away. “One reporter stirring around is plenty.”

“Stirring a little sometimes brings things to the surface that you might never notice otherwise.”

Michael leaned back in the booth and studied Hank. There was something just a tad too pleased about the editor's face. “Have you brought something to the surface that I need to know about, Leland?”

“Now, you know I'd share the info with the proper authorities first thing if I uncovered anything I thought might be helpful in the investigation.” Hank opened his notebook again and leafed through it. “Nothing of interest to you here.” He was silent a few seconds, then asked, “But what was it you said was wrong with Paul?”

“I didn't. But the chief said it might be food poisoning.”

“Did Buck take him out to eat last night?” Hank asked innocently.

“You burnt your bridges behind you putting that picture of them in the paper, and if I were you, I'd be careful not to give either one of them an excuse to lock you up.”

“Do you think they would?” Hank looked genuinely excited. “Really? That would make a great story. Police harassment.”

“You'd better worry more about waking up to write your story if it's Buck who arrests you. He's been known to bash a few heads when folks don't surrender meekly. Mind, all of this is off the record and just a friendly little warning.”

Hank laughed. “Don't worry about me, Keane. I'm meek as can be when I need to be. Besides, I know how far to push them without going too far. They all hate me, but I get my stories.” Hank slipped his notebook back into his shirt pocket and stood up.

“How come you don't push me?”

Hank laughed again before he yelled over at Cindy to bring Michael a piece of that fresh apple pie. On him. Then he
looked back at Michael. “Don't you feel me pushing?” He smiled widely. “You will let me know when you've talked to the next of kin?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Good. Maybe I should go talk to some people over at the hospital in Eagleton. Find out what Osgood ate last night. You never can tell what might turn out to be important.”

After he left, Cindy brought over the pie and scooted into the booth across from Michael. Between them they took a poll of which stories going around about the murder were the most popular. The mob was still ahead about three to one, although the idea of a wife paying somebody to do the guy in was gaining and was her own personal favorite. Michael didn't spoil her fun by telling her there wasn't a current wife.

When Michael got back to the office, Betty Jean had Amy Cartwright's address and had already arranged to have someone from the local police department break the news to her. A little later when Michael got the daughter on the phone, he tried to keep it impersonal, but the girl sounded so small and sad he couldn't keep from asking if someone was there with her.

“My baby's here. He was a month old yesterday. Dad was supposed to come see him next week.” The girl had to stop and swallow back tears before she could go on. “Said he wanted to wait till Jason got big enough for him to hold without worrying that he might break him.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Cartwright. I know this has to be difficult for you.”

“I can't believe it's true. Why would anybody want to kill my father?”

“We don't know yet, but we're doing our best to find out.”
He gave her a minute to compose herself, but he had to ask his questions. “Is there anything you might be able to tell us about your father that would help?”

There was a long silence. Too long, and Michael wished he could see the girl's face. He was planning out how to phrase his next question when a door slammed in the background and a voice called the girl's name. At the sound, the girl began to sob.

An angry, strident voice came on the line. “Who is this?”

After Michael quickly identified himself, he tried to defuse the woman's anger by first apologizing, then explaining his purpose, and last, asking, “Are you Amy's mother?”

“I am, and Amy can't talk to you now.” No hint of grief or tears showed in the woman's voice.

“I understand, Mrs. Rayburn. She can answer any other questions we might have tomorrow. I've arranged to meet with her in Eagleton to confirm the identity of her father.”

The mother fell silent as if surprised by his words. Finally she said, “Is that really necessary?”

“I'm afraid so, Mrs. Rayburn.”

“Stop calling me Mrs. Rayburn.” Irritation was plain in her voice. “My name's Hawfield now. And you don't need to be bothering Amy about all this right now. Jay may have been a skunk, but he was her father.”

The muffled sobs grew louder and were joined by the sound of a baby crying. “I am sorry, ma'am, but Mrs. Cartwright is the victim's next of kin.” A long silence stretched across the line between them.