A Lonely Way To Die - Art Bourgeau Page 6

  Lou Young stopped them and asked about any developments. Buck Hill gave the report. His eyes were red and he smelled of bourbon. His voice had a singsong quality that was not usually there. I almost laughed. He sounded exactly like one of those damn answering machines people have for their telephones. "Hi, I'm Buck Hill, and I'm not home, but my machine is. So please leave your name and number and a brief message at the tone, and I'll get back to you." He said that apparently a person or persons unknown had entered the beauty parlor sometime between closing last night and seven o'clock this morning by breaking the glass in the rear door. And that same person or persons had deposited three diamondback rattlers, A minus rattles, in the towel drawer of a cubicle normally operated by Jessie. And that Cindy had arrived early to open the shop, and that in the process of getting everything ready for the day's business, she had opened the drawer and was bitten by all three snakes, had gone into shock, and died. Lou Young said that it sounded like the snakes were meant for Jessie. Buck Hill agreed. He said that he had questioned Jessie about it, and that she had finally told him what had happened. Then he paused for a second.

  I know that I could never pass a lie detector test, because right then my little gland dumped about a quarter of adrenalin in my bloodstream. My heart was pounding so hard I didn't know whether to shit or go blind. For a moment I hated F.T. for looking in that cabin window, and I hated myself for being so horny that I let it get me into trouble. But I have to give Jessie credit. She didn't tell him about the cabin or about us. She had told him about the phone calls and the stolen gun, and had given him the threatening note, which he showed us, but that was all she had told him. I breathed easier, but I still had a strong burning sensation in my stomach. I guess stress and Tabasco don't mix. Lou Young asked Buck Hill if he had any leads.

  Buck Hill said that they had none at the moment, but a lab team from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation was coming from Nashville, and he hoped they would turn up something. It looked like someone was going to a lot of trouble to make sure Jessie didn't win the mayor's race.

  I ordered another round, and Buck Hill and Jim Henry headed for the back to have their lunch at a table. I had been drinking hot and heavy, and the numbness was starting to set in. It felt good. I went over to the jukebox and played Waylon Jennings's "Lonesome, Onry, and Mean." That's just how I felt.

  Chapter 16

  Truman took us back to the goat shed, where I slept it off. I woke around sunset, feeling mildly hungover and wishing I could drop out of the whole goddam human race. I think that feeling is what psychiatrists call depression. I lay there for a while, but I couldn't go back to sleep. There was no place else to hide, so I got up. F.T. was still lying down, but he wasn't asleep either. Neither of us said a word. We each had our own private hangover. It was not a nice feeling.

  I took my soap and waded into the stream. For once, the cold water felt good. I took my time, swimming and bathing both. F.T. watched for a while and then joined me. This was a good time of the day to be at the goat shed. The sun had dipped below the trees, making everything a combination of copper and gold shadow. We finished bathing and got out to dress.

  "How often do you get a murder around here?" asked F.T.

  "This is the first one that has ever happened in my lifetime," I said.

  "Who do you think did it?" asked F.T.

  "I haven't got the slightest idea," I said.

  "You know we owe it to Cindy and Jessie to catch the bastard that did it," said F.T.

  "How are we going to do that? It could have been anyone in town," I said.

  "That's not true. Now settle down. You're not thinking straight. Remember what Sherlock Holmes said—"

  "What did Sherlock Holmes say?" I asked.

  "When you eliminate all the shit, whoever you're left with has got to be it," said F.T.

  I don't think Sherlock said it quite like that, but this was no time to split hairs over a quotation.

  "Okay, how do we go about eliminating the shit'?" I asked.

  "Use your mind, jarhead. You said that it could be anyone in town. That's not true. You grew up here. Without any trouble at all, I'm sure you can eliminate half to three-quarters of the population by reason of age alone. Either they were too old or too young. So now we're starting off with maybe two hundred suspects instead of a thousand," said F.T.

  "Granted, but how are we going to do all this eliminating?" I said.

  "Easy, you know everybody in town. Right?"

  "Yeah, I guess I still know just about everybody."

  "Good. Then all we have to do is get a phone book, go through it, and cross out everybody who isn't a suspect. The ones we're left with are suspects until we eliminate them in some other way. And it's not even a big job. Hell, the phone book for a one-horse town like this can't be more than six or seven pages long," said F.T.

  F.T. was right. The phone book was so small that it didn't even have a yellow-pages section. It was just six or seven mimeographed pages stapled along one side.

  Further detecting was postponed by Truman's arrival. He was dressed in a baggy black suit with narrow lapels. The pants had a crease where they had hung too long on an unpadded hanger. He was wearing a white wash-and-wear shirt and a dark, narrow tie. His face was slightly flushed from the tightness of the collar. On the whole, he looked damned uncomfortable. F.T. and I were wearing summer khakis. They were a damn sight more comfortable than a suit. Since this was a special occasion, F.T. was wearing his ribbons, and the area above his left pocket was a blaze of bright colors. Each of the little multicolored strips of cloth represented lives saved or lost in Vietnam; some ours, some theirs.

  We piled into the cab of Truman's truck and headed for Winchester. It was a pleasant twenty-minute ride. The street lights were on by the time we arrived. Their light gave everything a purplish hue. We drove around the town square. There were three or four old men sitting on benches near the Civil War cannon. The tips of their cigarettes glowed like fireflies on a warm night. We drove east on Collins Street for a few blocks and parked at a parking meter.

  Hall's Funeral Home was located in an old Southern mansion whose white columns stretched the full two stories to the roof. The balcony had a wrought-iron railing which looked new. Chains connected to the railing held up Hall's electric sign.

  The long front porch on the first floor had rocking chairs lined up at regular intervals. They gave the place the feeling of an old hotel or traveler's rest. In a sense I guess that's what it was. Lodging for your last night above ground.

  Inside, a long hallway ran the length of the house, ending at the steps leading to the second floor. The floor of the hallway was highly polished hardwood covered in the center by a red rug with what appeared to be oriental designs on each edge. On each side of the hallway were rooms whose original use had been as parlors. Now they were used as viewing rooms. Cindy was in the large room on the left.

  Her coffin dominated the far end of the room. The flowers sent by mourners had been arranged in a semicircle around it. The rest of the room was taken up by rows of wooden folding chairs with Hall's Funeral Home stenciled on the backs. On the outer wall was a boarded-up fireplace. A picture of Jesus praying in the garden hung over the mantelpiece.

  The room was crowded. We took seats in the rear to get our bearings. I looked the crowd over. Jessie and her daughter, Dawn, were sitting near the front. Lou Young, Flo, Jim Henry, Buck Hill, Hulan, and Virgil were all there. Even the man F .T. had punched was there. He looked uncomfortable, sitting next to a woman with a new hair-style and an old dress. I took her to be his wife. It looked like he had taken Lou Young's advice about the new hairstyle. Flo saw us and came back.

  I wondered where her elusive husband was tonight.

  "Aren't you going to come look at her?" she asked.

  There didn't seem to be any way out of it, so Flo led the way and we followed.

  "Doesn't she look good?" whispered Flo.

  "She looks great," I whispered back, bu
t to be perfectly honest, what was in that coffin looked about as much like Cindy as a piece of waxed fruit in a pink satin crate. Her right hand was covered with pink satin and flowers. That must have been where she was bitten. And they had left off those ugly glasses, which was something at least.

  We turned to go back to our seats, and I saw the crowd in a new light. Someone out there was a murderer. Before that afternoon at the cabin, I couldn't have given two shits whether Cindy lived or died, but now the four of us, Cindy, Jessie, F.T., and I, were in it together. And like F.T. had said, we owed it to her to find out who had killed her.

  After awhile I thought I was going to gag on the stench of the dead flowers in the room, so we went out for a breath of air. Jessie's daughter, Dawn, was smoking a cigarette on the front porch. This was the first time I had seen her in four years. The time had treated her well. The last time I had seen her she had been a budding sixteen-year-old, barely old enough to wear makeup, unpadded bras, and drive a car. That was all changed now. At twenty she was the picture of self-confidence. She was nearly as tall as her mother but much leaner. Her brown hair was shoulder length, parted on one side, and curled slightly at the bottom. She wore glasses in an aviator style of frame which made her look slightly like Gloria Steinnem. I couldn't help but think how much prettier Cindy would have been in a set of glasses like that. Truman stopped to talk, so I introduced F.T. to her. She had just finished her cigarette when Jessie came looking for her. They said goodnight and started for their car.

  Only a couple of minutes passed before Jessie was back alone. I could see that something had really shaken her. She handed me a note. It read, "Make peace with God. Tonight is your last night to live."

  It looked like our killer was not giving up. The three of us walked her back to her car, where Dawn was waiting with a puzzled look on her face. I told Jessie to explain things to Dawn while we checked out the car to make sure things were all right. She did, and Dawn had the decency not to ask how F.T. and I fitted in the picture. Maybe she had already figured it out for herself.

  Truman brought a flashlight from the truck. Everything checked out. There was no bomb in the car. The brake lines seemed fine. All four wheels still had all their lug nuts on them, and there were no snakes under the seats, so Jessie and Dawn started for home. We followed them in the truck until they turned left into the subdivision, and then we headed for the goat shed. We hadn't been there five minutes when Jessie and Dawn arrived.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "Someone's been in the house," said Jessie.

  "How do you know?" I asked.

  "When we left, I left the back porch light on. Now it's off," she said.

  "Did you go in?" I asked.

  "No, we just came straight here," she said.

  "I guess we'd better go have a look," I said. I hoped I looked calm on the outside, because I was scared shitless inside.

  Chapter 17

  We drove back to Jessie's house. This time I rode with Jessie and Dawn while F.T. and Truman followed in the pickup truck. The ride only took about five minutes, but I spent the whole time thinking what a hell of a way this was to spend a Saturday night.

  We parked in the driveway, leaving plenty of room for Truman to park behind us. Jessie's house was an L-shaped, brick rancher with an attached garage. What she referred to as a back porch was, in reality, a breezeway connecting the house and the garage. There were three ways to enter the breezeway: from the house, from the garage, and from the outside. When Jessie and Dawn had left for the funeral home, they had left the breezeway light burning. Now it was out. I hoped that it was just a blown bulb, but I knew that it wasn't.

  F.T. had the most combat experience in the group, so he took charge of the operation. First we checked the area for the enemy. F.T. and I circled the house, checking behind all the bushes. There was no sign of anyone. We returned to the driveway. Truman watched the back door of the house while F.T. and I circled the house again, this time with Jessie and Dawn, to determine if anything had been disturbed. Nothing had, and we returned to the driveway.

  Following the same procedure again, F.T. and I set out to search the garage while Jessie and Dawn waited with Truman. It was a two-car garage with twin doors which opened outward and upward. We entered through the open door, keeping very low to the ground. F.T. kept a lookout in the darkness while I groped my way up the wall beside the door until I found the light switch. I flipped it. Nothing happened. We were still in pitch darkness. My heart started to pound like a Buddy Rich drum solo.

  "Christ," I thought. "That sonofabitch is out there in the dark waiting for us, and here I am without a gun or even a knife. I wish I was in the rear with the women and children."

  F.T. tapped me on the arm and whispered, "I'm going to take the other side. You wait until you hear me cough, and then start to work your way toward the other end of the garage."

  "Right," I said, and then he was gone. Ten or fifteen seconds later I heard him cough softly. I knew he was in position, so I flattened myself against the wall and started to work my way slowly through the garage. This was when the entire operation came unglued. I had only advanced four or five steps when I stepped on a rake someone had left lying on the floor. The handle flew up and hit me in the face, giving me a good crack which knocked off my glasses. I yelled from the surprise, and Truman and F.T. came running to my rescue. Truman arrived first and tripped over me on my hands and knees, searching about for my glasses. He fell into the wall, knocking down some old picture frames hanging there. They made a hell of a racket, and F.T. was on him before he could get up. F.T. landed two solid rights to the head before Truman could identify himself. Then the lights came on, and the brightness almost blinded me. I saw my glasses on the floor, put them on, and surveyed the scene. Jessie and Dawn were standing by the door. I was still on my knees. Truman was on his back, bleeding from the nose and covering his left eye with his hand. F.T. was on his feet, but he was nursing his right hand. Damn if we didn't look like the Three Stooges. Dawn started to laugh, then Jessie, and then F.T., Truman, and me. It broke the ice, but it was a hell of a way to do it. When I finally got to my feet, I went over to check out the light switch. There were two switches. The one I had flipped was to an outlet for power tools. So much for commando tactics.

  F.T. took command again, and we entered the breezeway. He tried the door to the house. It was locked. I got the keys from Jessie, and on the third try I found the right one. F.T. went in first, and I followed. We were in the kitchen. Without turning on the light, I could make out everything. The table and chairs under the window of the wall nearest the driveway. The window was open. The sink, stove, and counter were against the outer wall. A drain tray filled with dishes was beside the sink.

  As we approached the living room, I could see a light on, and it scared me. The light was where I knew he would be waiting, sitting there with his feet propped up, having a drink, and waiting. Waiting to finish what he had begun. I took a deep breath and went around the corner. The living room was empty. An imagination like mine is not a good thing to have in the detective business. We went through the living room and down the hall to the bedrooms. The first room on the right was a den, furnished with two couches, an easy chair, and a console television. It was empty.

  Across the hall was the bathroom, also empty. Dawn's bedroom was on the right. She had a canopy bed with a frilly bedspread. There were stuffed animals, pictures, and high school mementos everywhere. It was a room that had stopped growing when its owner had gone away to college.

  The other bedroom was Jessie's. She had a modern double bed with a green spread. The end tables, dresser, and bureau all matched the bed. It looked like what furniture people call a bedroom suite. There was a chair in one corner. A bathrobe had been thrown across it. Between the bed and the wall was a portable television on a wire stand.

  We checked all the closets and looked under the beds. The place was clean. No dirt, no dust balls, and no murderer. We turned on all the
lights and went back for Truman, Jessie, and Dawn.

  "It's safe to come in. There's nobody here but us chickens," I said.

  "Has anybody been here?" asked Jessie.

  "It doesn't look like it, but we're going to have to go through things carefully to be sure. Remember, it doesn't take much room to hide a snake," I said.

  We divided the house. Truman took the kitchen and the living room. Jessie and I took the bathroom and her bedroom. F .T. and Dawn took her bedroom and the den.

  "Open every drawer, look in every cabinet, check every box," I said. We searched high and low. There was no sign that anyone had been in the house. The only interesting thing I noticed was Jessie's underwear drawer. I mentally scolded myself for having sexual fantasies while I was supposed to be trying to stop a murder attempt.

  We regrouped in the kitchen. No one had found anything.

  "Mom, I think we at least owe these hard-working detectives a drink," said Dawn. Her tone was warm but condescending in a "boys will be boys" manner. I could see that it was going to be tough to get any respect as a detective. Bogart wouldn't have taken it. He would have flipped a cigarette right in her puss, and then she would have followed him to hell or Los Angeles, whichever came first. Unfortunately, I don't smoke.

  Jessie brought out a bottle of Jack Daniels. I could tell from the way the liquor level dropped in the bottle that I wasn't the only one who had been scared. If we were going to have a second round of drinks as strong as the first, we were going to need a new bottle. We sat around the kitchen table, relaxing and talking. A cool breeze was blowing through the open window. Dawn appeared to be taking a liking to F.T. from the way she kept steering the conversation toward him.