When Will the Dead Lady Sing? (27 page)

He held out his hand and I gave him the paper. He studied the picture, then roared with laughter. “I’d have guessed that even if you hadn’t told me. Burlin Bullock probably gets down on his knees every night to thank the Almighty he didn’t get stuck with you.” He swung his long legs out of the bed. “Now go get my breakfast. I’m heading to the shower.”

22

I’d almost forgotten I had traffic court in the south end of the county that morning. Joe Riddley and I considered the problem and agreed that if the rain was over, I ought to be able to drive. I’d need the wheelchair to get into the courtroom, but I could park in the handicapped place right by the front door and call on my cell phone for somebody to come get the chair out of my trunk.

The rain stopped before we finished breakfast, leaving the sky cloud free and a dazzling blue. The whole town seemed to sparkle. It was marvelous to be driving again, too. I felt like I’d been let out of jail. I’d have enjoyed the drive more, though, if Oglethorpe Street—which is also the federal highway through town—hadn’t been jammed because trucks emblazoned with various network symbols were parked every which way up and down the street. I inched along until I came to a cross street to a longer but faster route. As I turned off, I worried that I’d be late. Fortunately, my cast made what Joe Riddley persists in calling my “lead foot” even heavier. Instead of late, I was ten minutes early.

The only thing that keeps presiding over traffic court from being the most boring part of serving as magistrate is the creative excuses people give for speeding, parking improperly, or running into things. If you sat on my bench, you could think it was the nature of trees to leap in front of moving vehicles and of speed limit signs to randomly disappear. We have a lot of invisible ones in Hope County. Or a lot of drivers who think they can fool the judge.

That morning, I sat there trying to look interested and wondering why I hadn’t thought to use traffic court as an illustration when I’d talked to Tad about confession and forgiveness. Most of the defendants could have saved us both a lot of time by admitting they were wrong and accepting their fines. I wonder if the courtyard of heaven will be crowded with people who will choose to spend eternity stuck in a long line, waiting to explain to St. Peter that nothing was really their fault.

As you have guessed, my happy mood dissipated in the courtroom. Maybe that’s because some attorneys and a few of the accused thought they could smirk at the judge who’d got her picture in the paper twice that week with Burlin Bullock. They left sorrier than they came in.

Finally, we were done. I didn’t want to tackle the Oglethorpe Street gridlock, so I decided to swing around and come up along the railroad tracks, approaching Yarbrough’s from the back. Since the water tank was on my way, I might as well see what the police were up to over there.

I might have known I wouldn’t find Chief Muggins. All the reporters had abandoned the tank. It had served its purpose: to introduce the story. But squatting like a bloated blue spider above the skyline, it was too faded and ugly to hold media attention long. Two days of rain, particularly yesterday’s storm, had also destroyed any evidence the police hadn’t found. The only remaining signs of the murder at the weed-grown lot were a bedraggled strip of crime tape wound around the hedge and Burlin Bullock, head thrust back to peer up at the tank. I’d have left him to his ruminations, except he looked so alone.

Hoping I wouldn’t shred a tire in a jagged pothole, I headed his way, rolled down my window, and called, “How are you, with all this?”

He turned without even a shadow of his usual smile. “Numb. Disbelieving. Trying to drum up grief and finding none. It’s hard to resurrect somebody and bury them again in the same day. My feelings have shut down.” He looked younger than he was, in white jeans and an emerald polo shirt, but as he turned and strolled toward my car, I saw webs of weariness around his eyes. “I’m sorry about that picture, by the way.” He looked both ways. “We seem blessedly free of cameras at the moment, but don’t count on our luck holding.”

I squinted, looking straight into the sun. “Notoriety seems to be one of the hazards of being friends with the Bullocks. How did you elude the reporters? They’re crawling all over town like maggots.”

“Nasty, but apt.” He obligingly put himself between me and the glare, then jerked a thumb toward a green roof almost lost in trees a block away. “We’re staying just over there. I sneaked out the back way.”

“Oh. I never realized that the back of Annie Dale’s is so close to the tank. Her granddaddy, who built it, was retired from the railroad and wanted to be close to the trains, but I’ve always approached the house from the front. She has a lovely big garden.”

“That’s because the house is built at the back of the lot.”

I knew why we were talking about houses and lots. Neither of us wanted to talk about what had happened at the tank. I felt sorry for Burlin this morning. He looked absolutely exhausted. I wished I could offer sympathy, but didn’t want it misunderstood. I said, “I didn’t know if you all would still be in town. You’ve canceled the rest of your meetings in the area, I presume.”

“By mutual consent.” He rested one arm on my win dowsill. “We couldn’t get five people to show up to discuss the election, but we could fill a stadium to talk about the murder.”

Since he’d brought it up, I asked, “Do you have any theories about who killed her?”

He shook his head, then grinned briefly. “I guess I’d be at the top of your list, huh? But I didn’t have any reason to kill her. Heck, I buried her twenty years ago. That’s what I told the police chief when he showed up bright and early this morning. ‘Charming Charlie,’ Georgia calls him. I also told him I’ll give ten thousand dollars to anybody who provides information that leads to the apprehension of the killer. Maybe that will bring somebody out of the woodwork.”

“That was so dumb!” I pounded my steering wheel with both fists.

Burlin drew back and stared. “What’s your problem? You told me the other day to improve the local economy. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“Lance got a note from Sperra Monday, right?” I barely waited for him to nod. “The man who delivered that note has the sharpest nose in town for easy money. I’d be willing to bet that ten minutes after word of the reward hits the street, he’ll be in Charlie Muggins’s office. Half an hour after that, the chief’s new cruiser will be sitting in front of Annie Dale’s.”

He stared at me like I’d cut his oxygen hose.

“Georgia told me this morning about the note,” I added, figuring I might as well spell it out, “and that Lance can’t prove where he was after the meeting.”

“Lordy, lordy, lordy.” Burlin kicked a pebble halfway across the parking lot. “Annie Dale said she found the note on a front porch rocker. We figured Sperra had left it there. We never imagined anybody else knew about it. How did you find out?”

“My grandson camped out with Sperra for a couple of days in Hubert’s barn. He told me she’d written a letter and given it to Hector. I spoke with Hector yesterday and he said he didn’t look to see who it was addressed to—Hector
can
read, but he doesn’t. It’s a matter of principle with him. But he said he propped it on Annie Dale’s rocker. Once she says she found it there, it’s a clear chain of evidence.”

He was pale under his tan, his eyes bleak. “They’re gonna think my boy killed her, aren’t they?” When a daddy says that, it doesn’t matter if he’s wearing a Rolex or overalls, it tears your heart out.

“It would help if he could prove what he was doing for a couple of hours after the meeting. Was he talking on the phone? Sending a fax? Writing e-mail? Did he speak to anybody on the street? He needs witnesses. From what Georgia says, you all do.”

“Help us, Mackie.” Tears stood in his eyes. “We don’t even know what questions to ask. Georgia and Abigail said they asked you to help, but you wouldn’t. I am begging you. Please?”

“I don’t have the vaguest idea who might have cause to kill Sperra. The only thing I am pretty sure of is that Hubert wouldn’t kill somebody that way. So I’ve already done what I knew to do—find proof that he didn’t do it.”

“Do that much for Lance. Clear him. That’s all I ask. I know he didn’t do it. He couldn’t. He’s—gentle, he cares for people.” He sighed. “Abigail keeps telling me he isn’t ruthless enough to be a politician. She may be right. I know he wouldn’t kill anybody—especially his mother. But I don’t know how we can prove it.”

“Call a private detective, or one of your high-powered lawyers. You must know some of them.”

“By the time they get here, Lance could be in jail. At least come talk to us, won’t you? Everybody’s over at the house right now, glum and feeling like prisoners. Come have a cup of coffee and ask us some questions. Maybe just telling you what we know will help us. Please?”

I had never seen Burlin so raw and unsure of himself. I liked him better that way. “What about all the reporters?”

“I’ll handle them. I promise.”

“A cup of coffee, then,” I agreed. “But if Chief Muggins finds me there, he’s going to accuse us all of conspiracy.”

“He can accuse me of anything he likes, so long as he doesn’t arrest my son.” He came around and climbed in the passenger seat. “It must feel good to drive again.”

“Freedom,” I agreed. He had been right earlier: We were often on the same wavelength. I’d never tell him, though.

As I turned out of the lot, I asked, “How many of you knew Sperra was in town?”

“Just Lance, so far as I know. He didn’t tell us about the note until last night.” He hesitated. “But from something Renée said before the dinner Monday night, she knew he was planning to go somewhere after the meeting. He may have told her where, and who he planned to meet. But he says he didn’t meet Sperra. We hadn’t counted on the meeting going so late, you see—Hubert sprang the question and answer session on us. Lance says Sperra told him to meet her between eight thirty and nine, and he didn’t leave the meeting until after nine. Well, here we are. Park over there. And stay in the car until I open your door.”

Two reporters were at the car before I turned off the engine. Burlin got out, held up both hands, and said, “Folks, as you can see, this is Judge Yarbrough. But this mistake about the judge, here, and me has gone on long enough. She is a friend of my sisters. I don’t know who started the other rumor, but any more misleading pictures or innuen dos, and you are likely to find yourselves hauled into court for libel. Understand? She’s come here to see my sisters. Please go away now and come back for a press conference at two. Okay?”

They babbled questions, but he shook his head. “Not now. We have an appointment.” He fetched my chair, pushed me through Annie Dale’s gate, and clicked it behind us—slick as soap on a shower floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the reporters heading for their cars.

I eyed the six steps leading to Annie Dale’s wide front porch and I pointed to the side yard. “See that gazebo over yonder? We’ll need to meet there. I’d never make it into the house without crawling up the steps. And don’t look at me like that. You aren’t going to carry me, if that’s what you were thinking. But you’ll have to push. Even though it looks like Annie Dale’s had her grass cut this morning, I don’t think I can get myself over there.” He obeyed. As I got out of the chair, I said, “Why don’t you ask Annie Dale if she’ll serve coffee out here? She does that sometimes. And tell her I’d rather have iced tea, please.”

He gave me a mock salute. “Aye, aye, ma’am. But you know something I’ve just realized? All these years, I’ve told myself that if I’d married you, I could have been governor. I was wrong. If we’d gotten married?
You
would have been governor.”

23

Annie Dale’s gazebo had been designed for pleasant relaxation. Six comfortable wicker chairs surrounded a large round table covered in a flowered vinyl cloth. Beyond the waist-high railing, bees and butterflies enjoyed an autumn feast of zinnias, sedum, and nicotiana.

I managed to hop up the single step and took the nearest chair. The Bullock clan came out like Noah’s animals, two by two.

Georgia and Edward came first. She wore black pants and a black shell with the same chunky black-and-silver jewelry she’d worn to Gusta’s Saturday Do. I didn’t know if she was dressed for mourning or just didn’t feel patriotic that morning. Above the black, she was so pale, I was afraid she might faint. Edward wore navy slacks and a light blue sports shirt like a man who would rather be in a black suit, and he seemed to have more frowns than suits. Monday night, he’d given Burlin the “Why don’t you give in and agree with me?” frown. Today’s was a “Why are we wasting our time?” frown.

To confirm that, he greeted me with, “I don’t know what Burlin thinks this can accomplish.”

I wanted to say “Hello to you, too.” Instead I said, “Neither do I. Maybe reciting your alibis to me will be good practice for giving them to Chief Muggins later. My guess is the chief is talking right now to the man who brought Sperra’s note here.”

That shut him up, at least for the time being. He took the chair directly across from me and pulled it up close to the table, ready for business. Then he sat frowning and drumming his fingers in a series of four beats with the accent on the third. To me, it sounded like “Didn’t
do
it. Didn’t
do
it.” I figured he was waiting to find the best spin to put on their stories. Edward did not look like a man who gave up an election until the polls had closed.

Georgia went behind me and sat down to my left. She adjusted her chair so it faced me slightly, then reached out to take my hand. Hers was cold as death. “You said you wouldn’t help us,” she said in reproach. I didn’t know if her problem was that I’d turned her down earlier or that I had changed my mind.

“I said I didn’t think I could. I still don’t, but Burlin wanted me to at least come hear your stories about that night.”