Pride v. Prejudice (10 page)

“Your hands aren't red.”

I stood up, the better to glare down at him. His cap gun wavered as he stepped back. “Do your grandparents know you're here?” I asked.

“Yeah, Grandma sent me over to invite Miss Sarah to dinner. What are you doing here?” He was dressed in full cowboy regalia, with a felt hat, a filthy bandana around his neck, a holster, and boots.

“I came to talk to Miss Sarah, but she's not home. Maybe she'll be here later.”

“Okay.” He lowered his weapon. “Is this where she killed Mr. Tuck? I don't see any blood or nothing. I'm sorry she has to go to jail. She makes good sugar cookies. Last year for my birthday she gave me a pair of binoculars so I can watch for dinosaurs and bears in the pasture. I saw zombies one time.”

“Really?” I said as I glanced at my watch. I was scheduled to meet with the sheriff after lunch, and I needed to leave myself time to purchase
é
clairs—assuming Caron and Inez were successful.

Billy's eyes filled with tears. “You don't believe me neither. Grandma and Gramps just laughed, but that mean old deputy got mad and said I'd get in trouble for telling lies. I wasn't lying. I did so see zombies the night Mr. Tuck got killed.”

My chin dropped in a most unbecoming manner. “The night Mr. Tuck got killed? What exactly did you see?”

“Zombies, over by the river. Bunches of them.”

“Let's go sit down so you can tell me all about it,” I said.

He gave me a wide smile as we left the barn and sat on the porch steps. He, like Miss Poppoy, was not the most credible witness, and I had only minute optimism that I would hear anything useful. At the moment, it would have to suffice. Dearly hoping that Sarah's pickup would not pull into the driveway, I said, “Did the loud bang wake you up that night?”

“Yeah, it was like a cannon. I jumped up and looked out the window to see if there was army men in the yard. There was someone sneaking around behind the barn. I figured he was stealing vegetables from Grandma's garden. I hate vegetables. My mom tries to hide them in spaghetti or macaroni and cheese, but I always find them and feed them to Lucky. Lucky's our dog. My dad says he's a mutt, but he's the best dog ever. He sleeps on my bed—”

“You saw a man behind your grandparents' barn? Could you see what he looked like?”

Billy gave me an exasperated look. “It was dark. I got my binoculars and leaned out the window to see where he was. That's when I saw the zombies way over by the river. They were wrestling with each other. Do zombies like vegetables? Maybe that's why the first one stole some from the garden, and the other zombie wanted them.”

“I'll have to do some research and get back to you on that,” I said absently. I could understand why the “mean old deputy” had failed to take Billy seriously. The child was obsessed with zombies and whatever other fictional brutes were cluttering up pop culture. My childhood monsters had been Dracula, Frankenstein's creation, ambulatory mummies, aliens from outer space, and psychotic humans with chainsaws.

“I did see them,” he said. “I really, really did. Grandma didn't believe me, but they were there. She took away my binoculars and told me to go back to bed. Soon as she closed the door, I got up and went back to the window. One of them had a flashlight.” He squeezed my hand as he gave me a beseeching look. “I didn't make it up. I swear.”

I was beginning to believe at least part of his story. I'd listened to more than anyone's fair share of fantasies from the nursery school set, but I'd never had a problem sorting out the tidbits of truth intertwined in Caron's fabrications. The mention of a flashlight qualified as a glaring anomaly. Unless, I thought with a sigh, I was completely out of touch with the current zombie mythology. Perhaps they drove Jaguars and wore Armani suits, ate sushi made with gray matter, and texted their friends who had not yet risen from the grave to stalk teenaged babysitters.

“Over by the river, you said,” I prompted him.

“Wrestling. I couldn't see them good because Grandma stole my binoculars. I had to eat peas
and
carrots
and
beets before she gave them back.”

“Brutal.” I realized it was past noon. According to Peter, the sheriff was an affable country boy, but we had parted without any promises to keep in touch or do lunch. Wessell's overtly hostile attack on my character had to be hot gossip in the courthouse mileu. I did not want to keep Sheriff Dorfer waiting for me. “I'd like to talk to you again, Billy. Do you think that will be all right with your grandparents?”

He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “I don't know. They were kind of sore at me when the deputy told them I lied about seeing zombies. It wasn't fair, because I did see them. I can't help it if they're stupid just like the deputy.”

“They're not stupid,” I said as I stood up. “Adults have small imaginations. It's too bad they didn't see the zombies, but they didn't.”

“Do you have a small imagination?”

“No one has ever accused me of that.” I patted his shoulder and told him I'd be back later in the afternoon or the following day. He gave me a twenty-one-cap-gun salute as I drove away.

*   *   *

The parking lot at the county jail was crowded. Suspecting the weekend was prime visiting time, I found a parking spot behind the courthouse and walked a half block to the yellow brick building. A sign informed me that cell phones were not allowed during visitation hours, which began at one o'clock. A woman with conical hair and heavy makeup looked at me from her desk.

“Stop here, honey,” she said. “You have to sign in before you can visit. Is it your husband enjoying our hospitality, or maybe a boyfriend?”

“I have an appointment with Sheriff Dorfer.”

She tilted her head. “On a Saturday afternoon? You must be thinking of another sheriff. Harve lit out of here two hours ago to spend the weekend fishing with his buddies. They're on the third or fourth case of beer by now. Come back on Tuesday, but wait until after lunch. He can be meaner than a polecat when he has a hangover.”

He also had no problem skipping appointments, especially with me. Then again, he was a politician. “He's gone for the entire weekend?”

“Maybe I can help you. My name's LaBelle, and I know most everything about what goes on here. I've been the dispatcher since before Harve won his first election. What's your name, honey?”

“Claire Malloy. My husband spoke to Sheriff Dorfer and made the appointment for me.”

LaBelle licked her cerise lips as she studied me. “Oh, yeah, you're the women who got kicked off the jury. I wish I could have been there. Tyrell's sister heard all about it from the court stenographer, who lives in the same apartment complex. Tyrell's a trustee, so he gets to talk on the phone. The other inmates are too stupid to figure out how to use the pay phone. Years ago when it was a rotary phone, some of them used to keep punching the holes until their fingers swelled up.” She centered a pad of paper on her blotter and picked up a pen. “Now why don't you tell me why you're here so I can type a memo for Harve?”

“May I speak to the deputy who's in charge?”

She sat back in her chair and gave me an annoyed look. “You said you wanted to see Sheriff Dorfer. What makes you think a deputy can help you?”

I wondered if salmon felt similar frustration as they battled the current to swim upstream. “I need to discuss an investigation.”

“Sarah Swift's, right? I bet you were so pissed after Prosecutor Wessell trashed you that you decided to help her. Well, let me tell you that this department conducted a thorough investigation before charging her with murder. Harve reviewed all the reports very carefully. The prosecutor hisself came over and the two of them went through a whole box of doughnuts that morning, as well as three pots of coffee. There's nothing in the file that ain't squeaky clean.”

“I'm sure the investigation was conducted with utmost professionalism,” I said, easing back in case mascara flew off her eyelashes. “May I please speak to whoever is in charge today?”

“You think Frankie's got nothing better to do than chat with a civilian? Two days ago we busted a truckload of illegal aliens from one of those Mexican countries, and the immigration service still hasn't picked them up. We've been feeding them tortillas and canned beans day and night, but they keep right on griping. They should be grateful to have a roof over their heads and bunks to sleep in. Did they think they could sneak across the border and order room service at the Holiday Inn?”

“I'll try not to waste too much of Frankie's time.”

“You've already wasted too much of my mine,” she said as she jabbed a button on the phone console. She kept an eye on me as she picked up the receiver and told Frankie that “some woman” was whining about seeing him. After a few seconds, she replaced the receiver and said, “Second door on the right.”

I could feel the onset of a headache, but I gave her a bright smile and headed down the hall. From somewhere inside the building I heard loud male voices and the excited yammering of a sports announcer. I wondered if they were watching football or
fútbol.
I knocked on the door and opened it. The man seated behind a desk appeared to be slightly older than Caron. His head was nearly shaven, as if he were a recruit on the first day of boot camp. His upper lip was curled, exposing small, irregular teeth. Powdered sugar on his chin and chest suggested that he'd met his quota of doughnuts for the day.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I began. “I was under the impression Sheriff Dorfer would be here.”

“Not a snowball's chance in hell he'd be here on a weekend,” the deputy said, his expression leery. “He left a note saying I should go ahead and talk to you. I'm Deputy Frank Norton. What can I do for you?”

I sat down and smiled. “My name is Claire Malloy, and I'm looking into the case against Sarah Swift. Her trial begins Tuesday, and there are a few—”

“You're the woman what got booted off the jury! I heard you got so hysterical you had to be restrained and forcibly removed from the courtroom. Good thing your husband's the deputy chief. Judge Priestly's real quick to throw folks in the slammer for contempt of court. She fined some sorry-ass lawyer five hundred dollars when his cell phone rang in the middle of a trial.”

“I was not hysterical, and I walked out of the courtroom without an escort,” I said with laudable restraint. “Ms. Swift's lawyer has authorized me to speak to the people involved in the investigation. I'd like to know which deputies arrived first at the scene.”

Frankie stiffened. “That would be me and Rick Harraldson. We took a look and called Sheriff Dorfer. He sent out the investigators. It's all in the report we wrote for the case file.”

“Did you interview Ms. Swift?”

“I talked to her, if that's what you mean. She was sitting on the porch swing when we pulled up. Deputy Harraldson ordered me to stay with her while he went into the barn to have a look. He was pretty shaky when he came out and got in the car to call for backup. He told me later that the black flies buzzing all over the body reminded him of when his dog got killed and he found the body two days later. I took a quick look from the doorway.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It was bad, real bad. It's a cold-hearted bitch that lets her husband bleed all night.”

“Sarah keeps her feelings to herself.”

“She sure as hell did that morning. I asked her what happened, and she rattled off a story about going to the barn that morning and finding his body. Said she didn't even know he was home on account of him saying that he was going fishing with a friend. Her voice was calm, like she was reciting a grocery list. You'd think she would have cried, but she was cool as well water.”

Frankie was going to make a fine witness for the prosecution. His voice had been far from calm, and his eyes were watery. I didn't know if he was more upset over Tuck's body or Deputy Harraldson's dog. “Then what happened?” I asked, my fingers metaphorically crossed that he wouldn't tell me that Sarah had offered to cook breakfast for them.

“I went inside the house and made sure no one else was there, and then came back out and asked her if she wanted to call a relative. She kind of laughed and said she didn't have family within a thousand miles. I didn't see why it was funny.”

“People can behave oddly when they're in shock.” Or when confronted with the imminent arrival of a mother-in-law.

“She wasn't too shocked to offer us iced tea while we waited for the backup team,” Frankie said. “Sheriff Dorfer would have skinned us alive if he drove up and found us sipping tea with the prime suspect.”

“Why was she the prime suspect? Her husband told her that he was going fishing, so she didn't expect him to be home when she arrived late that night. She had no reason to go to the barn. An intruder seems more likely.”

“We considered that,” he said as if he'd taken charge of the investigation. I doubted that Deputy Harraldson let him drive—or even navigate. He opened a folder and flipped a page. “There'd been a home invasion out that way a couple of months before, but it didn't match the modus operandi. There wasn't anything worth stealing in the barn. What were they going to do with a bunch of old tools and tarps?”

“Perhaps they didn't know there was nothing of value in the barn,” I suggested. “They were poking around when Tuck caught them. He'd brought the shotgun, and they got into a struggle. The shotgun went off and they fled.”

He glanced at me before he flipped another page and squinted at the print. “We considered that. The woman admits she got home at eleven. The blast was heard at midnight or thereabouts. You care to explain what happened during the hour gap?”

That was a bit of a poser, I had to admit. “They were holding him hostage when Sarah drove up. She went into the house and straight to bed. She was sound asleep when the struggle occurred.”