Murder Takes to the Hills (25 page)

“Sheriff,” Dave Spitz added, “Mr. and Mrs. Mellon did have guests last night. Maybe McCurry was coming up the trail as they were coming down and he made a drunken remark to one of the women and her husband objected and they fought. The husband was losing, so one of his friends picked up the rock and hit Mickey in the back of the head, just meaning to stun. And they took him down to the bridge where he was likely to be seen. We’ll have to interview Mellon and his guests before we start coming to conclusions.”

Johnson tightened his lips and shook his head. “Oh, we will do that, Dave, and we both know not a thing will come of it.”

I believe that was the first thing I had ever heard our
Jeffie
say that I heartily agreed with.

“Dave.” I leaned against the windowsill. “Did you say he was hit in the back of the head? I thought it was the top.”

“It was the back, but almost to the top—kind of where the crown of your hair grows. Why?”

“Wouldn’t that lead you to think the assailant was shorter than Mickey?
 
The short killer would have been swinging his arm and reaching up. If he were as tall or taller than Mickey, he would have lifted his arm and brought the rock down on top of Mickey’s head. Yes?”

Dave looked thoughtful, as if he were trying to visualize the attack. “I see what you mean. I’d have to check it out.”

Johnson sighed. “If we’re
goin
’ to spend the day with ‘what-if’s’ and ‘ain’t it
possibles
,’ let’s go sit down. These shoes are murder.” He laughed at his accidental humor. I uncrossed my feet and took a step toward the kitchen, when he held out his hand to stop me. “Now Ms. Peres, I bet those sneakers are comfortable. Would they maybe be Champion brand, the ones with the funny tread design?”

“They are Champions. I don’t know that the tread is unusual.”

“Oh, it is, it is. We’ve got some pictures and a cast of a shoe just like yours, even down to the size, I think, and the photos were taken right up where McCurry’s body lay. I’m going to ask you to let me borrow them, ma’am. What shoes would you like Dave to get out of your suitcase in the car?” Sugar wouldn’t melt in the bastard’s mouth, now that things were going his way.

“And that print, if it is from my shoe, could have been made any time in the last week.
 
Get my loafers, please, Dave.” I kicked off my sneakers and left them in the middle of the floor for
Jeffie
to pick up, and padded into the
kitchen,where
Cindy had started another pot of coffee. I could have used something stronger, but not now. I needed all the wits I could muster.
 

For example, Johnson had said
up
near Mickey’s body. And the deputies had earlier gotten all excited about something they found
up
the trail. Yet the body had presumably been found
down
near the main road. Were they confused? Were they not telling us something? Were they trying to get
us
confused? They had certainly succeeded, but I was damned if I would ask.

While Cindy poured us all coffee,
Jeffie
thought he’d found a gold mine with the guns in the mudroom. Dave didn’t even get up, he just called. “Break that shotgun and look down the barrel…and the .22 is worse.”

Johnson came back and took a chair. “It’s a shame to let weapons get in that shape.”

“Yes, it is.” I thought to establish a bit of rapport. “It’s a good shotgun, and the pump-action .22 is antique—probably a 1912 model.”

“You know your guns.”
Jeffie
looked interested. “You own any?”

“Several handguns,” I smiled. “All in my safe at home. If I go skeet shooting, which is rare, I borrow my brother’s shotgun.”

While
Jeffie
was still pondering my collection, Dave informed him why I had it. “Ms. Peres is a licensed private investigator,
Jeffie
, and her brother is a cop.”

Jeffie
tried hard to look cordially interested, while I would have bet he was regretting some of his morning’s actions that weren’t exactly according to the Police Officer’s Handbook.

But I had to give him credit: he was clumsy, he was also tenacious.

“Ladies, I would like to get your fingerprints, just for elimination purposes, on those three river rocks. Our killer may have hefted them all before he made a choice, and hopefully he didn’t wear gloves.”

“Don’t forget, your deputy handled them all,” I reminded him.

“Oh, I won’t forget.” His smile was sour. “And neither will he.” He raised his voice. “Bailey! Get the fingerprint kit out of my car and bring it in. And when you finish with the two ladies, remember to take your own.”

“Take my own?” The man looked confused, and then the light dawned. “Oh, yeah. Gosh, Sheriff, I’m sorry.”

“Now there you got it right. You are sorry. I guess now I’m
goin
’ to have to try to find Sayles and Emory. I know it takes some time to cover twenty acres of property, but they been gone long enough to have a picnic and a nap. I thank you for the coffee, Miss.”
 
He was back to the Policeman’s Handbook.

As he began to shuffle his obviously still hurting feet toward the back door, he was hailed through the kitchen window.

“Sheriff, can you please come out here? We don’t want to bring this mess into the house.” The missing officers were heard from.

“Stay right there!” Johnson bellowed, with a sideways glance at Cindy. “I’m on my way.”

His curiosity put a little speed in his step, and his face held a satisfied expression. What did he think they had found? Surely not another body!
 
A cold fire with scraps of burned clothing? I hoped so: any police lab would prove in a hurry they were not Cindy’s or mine.

The sheriff’s minions
had all followed him out. Cindy and I looked at each other, shrugged and mentally agreed we had as much—more—right in the backyard than anyone else, so out we went.

The two deputies were truly a sight to behold: they were nearly covered in mud for a base coat, sprinkled liberally with what looked like sawdust and dotted artistically with last winter’s leaves. They looked as if they had posed for some surrealistic Jackson Pollack painting, and their associates were enjoying one of those particularly satisfying laughs that say. “Better you than me, buddy!”

I was enjoying a laugh along with the rest, when I spotted what one man had clutched in his arms. It was a piece of dark clothing, and I thought—feared—I knew what it was.

“What you got there, Emory, and where in the name of God did you go to find it?” Johnson was still chuckling.

Emory gave an embarrassed grin. “Went nearly all the way up the path to the edge of Blackstone Farm. We found this just off the trail under an old pine log that was literally rotting apart…as you can see.” He brushed fruitlessly at his uniform jacket.

“You still ain’t showed me what treasure was worth ruining a uniform for.”

“Oh, sorry.” The deputy held the article of clothing out at arm’s length. Underneath all the forest detritus was a man’s blazer, dark green except where it produced a blue glint in the sunlight flickering through the small, early tree leaves. In addition to being decorated much like the men’s uniforms, it also held what I was certain was a large splotch of half-dried blood in the area of the right shoulder.

And I was almost certain where I had seen it last.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Well, well.” Once out of the house, Johnson had lit a cigarette and now took a satisfying puff. “Before it fell on hard times, I’ll bet this was someone’s handsome jacket, wouldn’t you say so, Ms. Hart?”

“Possibly, Sheriff. It’s hard to tell. But before you ask, I do not own—never have, as I recall—a green blazer. I have a green sweater, but it is a much lighter green and an entirely different weave. You’ll find it in the larger Coach bag in the car.”

“The Coach?”

“It’s the name of the luggage, boss.” Dave stifled a smile. “Want me to get it?”

“Not right now.” Johnson turned to me and pointed at the grime-covered blazer. “Ms. Peres, how about you modeling this piece of finery for us?”

“I wouldn’t touch it, much less put it on.
 
But if you have Deputy Emory hold it up by the shoulders, I can point some things out to you.” I picked up a small fallen limb to use as pointer.

I moved closer to the ruined jacket and began my lecture. “You will note that the shoulders are too wide for me, and the sleeves at least three or four inches too long. The body of the jacket is way too long for me, it would reach down around my knees. And I certainly do not own a jacket with a big splotch of blood on it.”

I turned to go back to the house. I was getting tired of every possible clue being manipulated to fit Cindy or me.

Remembering one last shot, I turned back again. “And the only blazer I brought with me is navy blue. It is also, like Ms. Hart’s sweater, a lightweight wool, not polyester, as I believe your dark green jacket will prove to be.”

Johnson fired off some order to his deputies, and they departed, having taken Cindy’s and my fingerprints.
 
I took it more or less as a necessary nuisance. But Cindy took it
very
personally. I wasn’t at all sure whether she was about to collapse into heartbroken sobs or pour boiling oil out the window over the lot of them. And I’m not sure which choice I preferred.

This left the three of us, standing on the back porch staring at each other.

 
“I got rid of my boys so we could talk in private, and I reckon your boy don’t gossip much.” He reached down and patted Fargo. I was surprised to see a tail wag.

“Assuming you’re not wired, Sheriff. What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“First,” he admitted. “I’m tired. I ain’t slept much lately. And I got a pint of the best first-run white
lightnin
’ from a copper pot still. You ladies may not be up on the details of making our Crooked Creek Mountain Dew—but you want a copper pot, and you want that first, smooth, sweet run. It’s a glorious experience I plan to share with you, if you got some ice and some Coke.”

I had to laugh. I had been dying to taste some good white
lightnin
’; I was exhausted both mentally and physically; and I figured this might just get the sheriff and me talking sense instead of
can-you-top-this?

“Sheriff, if you got the booze, we got the
mixin’s
.” I brought out three glasses, two cans of chilled Diet Coke, and put some ice in a bowl with tongs.
Jeffie
brought out an unlabeled pint bottle from his coat, shook it up and turned the bottle sideways.

“You see how them bubbles all float half above and half below the line of liquid? That means it’s one hundred proof, so I’ll let you mix your own.” He placed the bottle in front of me.

I poured about a shot and a half of the liquor, added about four ounces of coke and three ice cubes and let it set while Cindy made hers…about half the size of mine.
Jeffie
settled for more booze, less Coke and some ice.

We clinked glasses, and I said, “Here’s to better understanding and a fast, honest solution to this miserable case.”

The other two said, “Hear, hear,” and we drank.

I sipped my drink, and it went down like a dream. Then it kicked like a mule. It was Jack Daniels with attitude. I would watch my intake. Cindy took a tentative swallow and did her eyebrow trick.
Jeffie
had a thirsty swallow, with no obvious reaction.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s talk this out. Correct me if I’m wrong. Branch sold Advantage Construction on a development for summer people and maybe some year-round people, with time-share condos and houses of various sizes all along the private road and crest of Crooked Creek Mountain, going up around the tarn. The only holdback was getting easements to run a public road or two across various private properties.”