A Lonely Way To Die - Art Bourgeau Read online

  We went outside to check the footprints under Jessie's window, but Sunday night's rain had done a good job of washing them away.

  I had a beer for the road and started back to town. Jessie had been a lot more civil after she found out that F.T. and I had been watching her house every night.

  Chapter 23

  Truman's truck was parked in front of the First National Bar & Grill. I stopped in. Truman was the only customer in the place. I sat down next to him at the bar. Virgil opened me an Old Blue.

  "Where's Flo?" I asked.

  "She had to go to Winchester to return a dress or something. She'll be back later," said Virgil.

  "The other day she was giving me hell for not noticing her wedding ring. To be honest, I didn't even know she was married. When did she get married?" I asked.

  "About a month ago. She took off for a few days, and when she came back, she had the ring. Everybody asked her who she'd married, but she wouldn't tell us. She just said we'd all know it when the time came," said Virgil.

  "That's just like Flo," I said.

  "Yep, crazy as a fucking loon," said Virgil.

  Truman and I finished our beers and left.

  "Was Virgil telling the truth about Flo getting married?" I asked.

  "Yeah, why?" asked Truman.

  "I was just curious, that's all," I said.

  We stopped at Truman's house long enough for me to make a phone call. I called Jessie.

  When she answered, I said, "Did Cindy go away any time in the past month or so?"

  She thought for a minute and then said, "Yes, about a month ago. Why?"

  "I was just curious. Where did she go?" I asked.

  "Nashville, to visit her aunt," she said.

  "Do you know her aunt's name?" I asked.

  "Yes, Mrs. Ophelia Peters," she said.

  "Thanks," I said and hung up.

  Truman was waiting for me.

  "Let's go," I said.

  "Where to?" he asked.

  "Manchester. I have a mad craving for Mexican food."

  "You want to drive all the way to Manchester for Mexican food," he said.

  "Yeah, and I'm buying," I said.

  "That's different. Let's go," he said.

  The drive took about forty-five minutes.

  Manchester was the county seat of Coffee County. As a Tennessee county seat, it was entitled to a town square, a run-down old court house, a Civil War canon, some benches, and some old men to sit on them. It had them all, but they were just for show. In real life, Manchester was a thriving industrial town of about twenty-five thousand, which was working like hell to keep up with its counterparts in California, Wisconsin, Connecticut, Florida, or any one of a million other places. We made a quick pass around the square and headed out to the main drag, which was a straight stretch of highway lined with fast-food chains on both sides. There were McDonald's, Ginos, Colonel Sanders, Minny Pearl, Arthur Treachers, Long John Silver, Dairy Queen, Dairy Delite, Dairy Barn, Roy Rogers, Arbys, Shoneys, Pizza Hut, Shakeys, and Burger King. Food was big business in Manchester.

  At the very end of restaurant row was a yellow and white electric sign with black removable letters. It was mounted on a trailer and looked home-made enough to plug into any convenient wall outlet. The sign read, "Cisco's Southern Tacos." We pulled into the gravel parking lot. It was the only parking lot on the whole row which wasn't asphalt. T. Tommy Tucker's "Cisco's Southern Tacos" was nothing more than a pile of rubble and some twisted metal. T. Tommy Tucker had been the victim of a fire. We got out and looked through the rubble. The fire must have been fairly recent, because none of the metal had rusted yet.

  We asked the neighbors where T. Tommy Tucker lived. They gave us directions to the Blue Top Motel and Trailer Court.

  T. Tommy Tucker's place was not a mobile home on concrete blocks with a little flower garden in front. It was an old beat-up trailer that had seen some miles. I wondered if T. Tommy Tucker had covered those miles looking for his fortune or running from it.

  I knocked on the door. Inside the trailer, I could hear the noise of a television. It sounded like he was watching a game show. I heard him coming and stepped back. Trailer doors always open outward.

  T. Tommy Tucker wasn't at all what I expected. With a name like his, I expected a big, beefy, good old boy who was going bald, but T. Tommy Tucker fooled me. He was in his forties, about five-nine in height, and on the thin side. He looked like an over-the-hill hustler. He was wearing an emerald-green golf shirt, plaid slacks, and boots with a zipper up the side. He had black hair and a pencil-thin mustache, and he smelled like he'd been tarred and feathered with Brut.

  I told him we were friends of Jessie, and he let us in. He left the television on, but he did offer us a beer. It was a Schlitz. Truman and I sat on the couch. He sat in the chair in front of the television.

  The "Newlywed Game" was on. The host asked four men to tell the most embarrassing thing their wives did in public. Two of the four said their wives picked their noses in public. They were right. It was embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as being married to a man who was a big enough asshole to say it on ea coast-to-coast television program.

  "I only watch this fucking show to see how low people will go to win some luggage and a bunch of measly fucking appliances they have no use for. I can see telling the audience about your wife picking her nose if you stand to win a Cadillac car, but not for a fucking set of Samsonite luggage and a Waring blender," said T. Tommy Tucker.

  T. Tommy Tucker and I were in agreement.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked.

  "Like I said, we're friends of Jessie, and she told us about your restaurant, so we decided to come over for some Mexican food," I said.

  "If you've been out to the restaurant, you can see we aren't serving any Mexican food today," he said.

  "We saw what's left of it. Then we thought we'd better come over to make sure you're all right, and find out what happened so we can tell Jessie. What did actually happen?" I asked.

  "The place burned," he said.

  "How did it start?" I asked.

  "Something in the kitchen, I guess. It started about two in the morning and burned to the ground," he said.

  "When did it happen?" I asked.

  "About two weeks ago," he said.

  "I hope you were insured," I said.

  "Not a chance. Who was going to insure a restaurant made out of two old house trailers?" he

  asked.

  "What are you going to do now'?" I asked.

  "I haven't decided yet. My rent's paid up till next week. Then I guess I'll be moving on," he said.

  We wished him good luck and left. I was sorry about his bad luck, but one man's bad luck is another man's good luck. Any motive Virgil might have had for wanting to kill Jessie had gone up in smoke two weeks ago.

  Chapter 24

  When we got back to Cannibal Springs, Truman dropped me off at the goat shed and left. It was only midafternoon so I went for a short swim. The water felt good, and I swam until I was tired. Afterward, I stretched out in the sun and dropped off to sleep.

  I woke with a start at the sound of a car approaching. It was Dawn and F.T. They had a couple of bags of groceries with them, so I assumed we were dining at the goat shed.

  F .T. started the fire. Dawn kept busy puttering around with the food at the picnic table, and I lay on my mattress and enjoyed watching.

  The meal was hamburgers, potato chips, and corn on the cob. The hamburgers were good. They were cooked rare, and we ate them with lettuce, dill pickle, and large slices of onion and tomato.

  After dinner I brought them up to date on my conversation with Jessie and the trip to Manchester.

  When I finished telling about T. Tommy Tucker, F.T. said, "Looks like it was his turn in the barrel."

  "What do you mean by that?" asked Dawn.

  "It's just an old joke," said F.T.

  "Tell me," she said.

  "All right," said F.T. "A fellow ge
ts put in jail. He's never been in jail before so he gets an old convict to show him around. After awhile, the new guy says, ‘What do you do about sex around here?' The old convict points to a barrel with a knothole in the side, and he says, ‘See that barrel. That's what we use here. You just screw that knothole. It's not as good as the real thing, but it's not bad. You can screw it any night but Thursday.' A couple of days go by, and the new guy tries it and likes it. Later he sees the old convict and says, ‘Hey, that barrel isn't too bad, but why can't I do it on Thursday?' The old convict looks at him and says, "That's because Thursday is your night in the barrel."

  "I don't think it's funny," said Dawn.

  "Neither did the new convict," said F.T.

  "It's getting about time to get going," I said.

  "All right, I'm coming," said F.T.

  "I'm coming, too," said Dawn.

  "No, you're going home. It's not good to leave your mother alone at night," said F.T.

  Dawn didn't like it, but she did it anyway.

  We walked to Jessie's and took our usual hiding place. I spread my poncho on the ground and made myself comfortable. F.T. did the same. Even though it was early, the grass was wet with dew.

  "Okay, now that we have eliminated Virgil, who do we have left?" said F.T.

  "Lou Young, Hulan, Flo, and Buford Whaley," I said.

  "Which one do you think did it?" asked F.T.

  "I really don't know. Today Jessie gave me motives for each of them except Hulan," I said.

  "Does that mean you're going to eliminate Hulan?" he asked.

  "No, I'm keeping Hulan as a suspect," I said.

  "Why?" he asked.

  "Because this could have been done by a psycho, and Hulan is our best bet in the psycho department," I said.

  "What are we going to do next?" asked F.T.

  "We're running out of time. The election is Saturday. Today is Tuesday. We've got to get our killer fast. Tomorrow we're going to work on Buford Whaley. I don't think it will take long to find out whether he's guilty or not," I said.

  "You have a plan in mind?" asked F.T.

  "I do," I said.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  Before I could answer, I heard a noise. F.T. heard it, too. It seemed to come from somewhere to our right, but it was too dark to make anything out.

  "Well, he's finally come," I whispered.

  "It looks that way," whispered F .T.

  "Got any ideas?" I asked.

  "Yeah, follow me," said F.T.

  We headed out in a crouch, moving as quietly as possible. The noise was not repeated, but we moved in its general direction. We had gone about fifty yards when F.T. stopped us. We waited. I strained my ears listening, but the only thing I could hear was my heart pounding.

  F.T. put his lips close to my ear and whispered, "I think he's in that clump of bushes a little closer to the house."

  "What now?" I whispered.

  "On your stomach. We'll crawl up there. It's only about fifty feet. Take your time. Don't make any noise. We're not in any hurry," he said.

  That was fine for him to say, but I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a factory full of rocking chairs.

  We took our time, moving one limb at a time until we finally stopped about ten feet from the bushes. I was sweating, partly from work and partly from fear.

  I could make out a human shape in the bushes. F.T. gave me the sign to go ahead, and away we went. We dived headfirst into the bushes. A short fight ensued. I swung a few times, connecting with something that felt like a face. It was all over in a few seconds, and we had him.

  Only it wasn't the killer. It was Truman.

  "What are you doing here?" I said.

  "Watching Jessie's house," he said.

  "Why?" I said.

  "It's Tuesday. If the killer is going to try again, it's got to be soon," he said.

  "Let's go back to our spot. It looks like time to coordinate our activities," I said.

  We made ourselves comfortable, and Truman took the first watch.

  Chapter 25

  Morning came. With each passing night on stakeout, I was feeling more and more like the old gray mare. I was glad of two things: that we now had Truman to help us with the nightly stakeout duty, and that the election would be over on Saturday.

  In summer, the early morning hours in Tennessee are beautiful. Everything has a crisp, sharp, bright look to it, and if you're up early enough, no one else is around. Everything is quiet. There are no sounds. Just silence. But if you've been up all night, even with all this beauty and quietness, there is a feeling of heaviness, of tiredness, like you weigh three hundred pounds, and you're too dead-assed tired to move it.

  We walked up the hill to Jessie's house and knocked on the back door.

  She must have known it was us because she yelled, "Come on in."

  We went in and sat down at the kitchen table.

  "I'll be there in a second," she yelled.

  While we waited, I looked over the troops. F.T. and Truman looked as red-eyed and bedraggled as I felt. Jessie came in, wearing a light summer dress, looking fresh as a rose.

  She took a look at us and said, "Y'all look terrible. How about some coffee while I cook breakfast?"

  "You look great today," I said.

  "Why thank you. Last night I had my first good night's sleep since this thing began," she said.

  "Where's Dawn?" asked Truman.

  "She's still in the shower. She'll be out in a minute," said Jessie.

  We were finishing our coffee when Dawn came in.

  "Good morning. What's up for today?" she said.

  "After breakfast we're going to bed, and then this afternoon we have to take care of some business," I said.

  "Need a hand with the business?" she asked.

  "No, not this time. This is something we'd better do alone," I said.

  "What is it?" asked Dawn.

  "Never mind," said F.T.

  After breakfast we went back down the hill to where Truman had hidden the truck. He dropped us off at the goat shed and headed home. I was asleep before his dust had settled.

  Around two, Dawn showed up and woke us. It made me mad. I wasn't ready to get up, and I didn't want Dawn hanging around today. F.T. didn't say much, but from his expression, I could tell he agreed with me.

  Dawn didn't have a bathing suit, so F.T. and I went swimming just to spite her, but the youth of today are not easily put off. She watched for a while, and then stood up and began to slowly undress. That took my mind right off swimming. She didn't stop until she was stark naked. Then she came in for a swim. I'll have to say her little show had certainly warmed up the water, at least around F.T. and me. She swam with her head out of the water to keep her hair dry, but she made it look pretty.

  Afterward, we sunned ourselves for a while to dry off. F.T. and I gave Dawn a little rubdown. Sometimes it's disgusting the lengths a man will go just to get his hands on what's below a pretty face. We dressed, and Dawn gave us a lift into town. I told her to drop us off at the First National Bar & Grill.

  "That's a great idea. I'm starved," she said.

  That wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

  "Are you twenty-one?" asked F .T.

  "No, I'm just twenty," she said.

  "Then I'm afraid we'll have to go by ourselves," said F .T.

  "Don't be silly. If I'm old enough for what y'all were thinking while we were swimming, I'm old enough to go in the First National," she said.

  She was right.

  The three of us ordered bar-b-ques and Old Blue. Virgil knew Dawn wasn't twenty-one but served her anyway. The First National Bar & Grill didn't get many women customers.

  After lunch we went outside, said goodbye, and watched her drive away.

  "They grow up all too soon," I said.

  "Ain't it the truth," said F.T.

  We stopped at Lou Young's for a couple of six-packs and started walking to Truman's house. We heard the stereo long before we got the
re. Truman was playing a Johnny Winter album. The music was a wall of sound rolling out the front door. I don't think I've ever heard him play it that loud before. Maybe his hearing was starting to go.

  "What the hell are you doing?" I yelled.

  "Thinking," he yelled.

  "Well, turn that goddam thing off so we can do some thinking,"' I yelled.

  I handed him a beer.

  "We came down to bring you up to date on the plans for tonight," I said. I hadn't told F.T. about the plans either, but that didn't really matter.

  "Okay, shoot," said Truman.

  "Tonight, we're going to break up into two groups until midnight. I want you to take the first watch at the stakeout. Is that all right with you?" I said.

  "It's fine with me. What are y'all going to be doing?" he said.

  "I can't tell you," I said.

  "No problem," he said.

  "We do need to borrow a few things from you," I said.

  "Sure, what do you need?" he asked.

  "Your truck, a shovel, two sheets, two pillowcases, a shotgun, and some rope," I said.

  "That's no problem either. I've got it all," he said.

  We went out to the back porch to choose our weapon. We took a Remington twelve-gauge pump. It held three shells. We took a few extras, just in case.

  The rope was also on the back porch. We took a fifty-foot length and a second piece about three feet long. There was a cardboard box on the porch. I tore off one of the flaps.

  The pillowcases were easy, but the sheets were tougher. Truman had plenty of sheets, but only two were white, and they were fitted sheets with elastic in the corners. All his other sheets had big red and blue flowers on them.

  We started for the truck. I noticed a wire milk crate on the front porch. I tossed it into the back of the truck with the shovel.

  The keys were in the truck. We left Truman the balance of the first six-pack, kept the second for ourselves, and drove off.

  We had to drive around for an hour or so to find the perfect spot, but we found it. It was an unused part of the sand and gravel plant about a quarter mile from the road. There was a gravel access road the dump trucks used to go to and from it when it was being mined. It was just a flat open area with no vegetation except for an old maple tree with a thick horizontal branch about ten feet off the ground. I put the milk crate under the branch and leaned the shovel against the trunk. Then we left.