An Owl's Whisper (46 page)

“Now Eva, this is important. You sure Harry didn’t slip out for a few minutes while you were busy? Did he go for the mail?”

“No, his place is so petite, I would’ve noticed. And I took him the mail when it comes.”

“It’s just that there was bad blood between Harry and the Conroys. I’m tryin’ to find out if Harry could have been involved in Crickette’s death.”

Eva looked surprised. “But you said Crickette suicides herself?”

“Now I’m sayin’ maybe not, Eva. Got some evidence pointing to murder.”

She was quiet for a time, lost in thought. Finally, a trace of recognition shimmered across her face. “Clever!” she whispered.

Jess looked at her quizzically. “Clever?”

Eva blinked like a student caught daydreaming. “I…I mean clever-you, missing nothing.”

“That’s my job.” He winked.

Eva gazed out the window. “I suppose it’s better for Max…better for everyone.”

Jess cocked his head, as if it might help him understand. “What’s better?”

Eva shook her head slowly, sadly. “During the war we used to say,
the good doesn’t exist, there’s only the better
. The less bad. Pain is like war—it changes the rules. It can make death better than life.” She folded her arms and shivered. “When I spent Saturday and Sunday morning with Crickette, I saw pain enough for that. But she couldn’t tell Max how it was for her—how much she suffered.” Eva stepped close to Jess and whispered, “She was desperate. Enough to mention suicide. But it wasn’t possible. Because of Max. She needed something else.”

“She talked about suicide? Must’ve been hard.” Jess bit his lip. “All Max knew was something was eatin’ on her. Something she wouldn’t tell him. Guess she could tell you.”

“Jess, can’t you see her situation was impossible? Perhaps murder resolves everything.”

“’Round here, murder’s murder. Plain.” Jess glanced at his watch. “Look, I came for the dope on Harry, and I got that, so I’m gonna make tracks.” He put on his hat and stepped toward the door, then turned back to Eva. “Say, Crickette told Max about a drifter on the road Saturday. On Monday, you see anyone around where you and Max found Crickette?”

Eva glanced up. “We did…see a stranger in the distance. On the road. Saturday.”

“Yeah, looks like that was the Platt boy walking home from work.”

“The Platt boy?” Eva looked troubled. “Mickey? I don’t know about that. But on Monday, driving there, I saw nothing. Not even Crickette’s body. With the snow, all I could think of was the road, I suppose. Even when I stopped to get their mail, I didn’t see…her.”

“Oh, you got the Conroy’s mail? Fixin’ to bring it down to them?”

“Yes, I took it from the box through the truck’s window. If only I’d looked, I might have seen her. Perhaps while she was still…. But the snow was heavy. And I didn’t expect….”

“No, ’course not. And from her wound, time you got there, Crickette was already gone. Don’t you blame yourself. Listen, Eva, I’ll clear out of your way now.” He tapped his hat brim. “You take care.”

Eva walked him to the door. “Sheriff Jess, wait. I don’t think it was Mickey Platt we saw on Saturday. Mickey is a nice boy. The man we saw looked…dangerous.”

“But you said you saw him at a distance, right? That’d make it tough to tell.”

“I only say, Jess, that if it’s not suicide and if Harry was at his home, it
must
be a stranger.”

“The killer?” Jess smiled and patted her hand. “Don’t you worry, Missy. Ol’ Jess is on the case. I’m lookin’ into every possibility.” He tipped his hat and left.

Jess stopped at home and asked Carrie to ride with him to the scene of the shooting. He said he wanted to look around some more, but what he really wanted was to talk.

Sailing down the snow-packed road, Jess tapped his ring on the steering wheel. “I’m figurin’ the stranger Crickette saw on the road Saturday was Mickey Platt, walkin’ home from work, and on Monday he was in Wayne Hatcher’s mail truck at the time of the crime. So all I’ve got is Scurfman, and Eva claims he wasn’t out of her sight long enough to pull off a murder.” He shook his head and sighed. “Leastwise, that’s what she
thinks
. S’pose she could be wrong. That’s what my gut’s saying—that it’s gotta be Harry. Too bad that ain’t enough to make an arrest.”

“Hmm,” Carrie murmured.

Jess banged the wheel with his fist. “Damn it, dearie, what am I missin’?”

Carrie scowled. “Harry’s a varmint alright. And he had it in for the Conroys. But his alibi seems tight. His story may unravel, but in the meantime, you’d best consider other suspects. Look, you have a victim who is dying. Why murder somebody who’s about to die anyway?” She tugged on her ear lobe. “If you want motive you’ve got Crickette herself. Pain’s as big of a motive as there is.” She nodded for emphasis. “But you seem dead set on ruling suicide out.”

“Funny you mentioning pain. Eva talked about it, too.” Jess sighed. “As to suicide, dang it, I ain’t dead set on ruling anything out. It’s evidence that’s turnin’ me toward murder.”

“OK, OK, don’t get all riled up. You asked my opinion. It’s just that the simplest, most obvious explanation usually ends up being right. But there are other possibilities. Like the killer who doesn’t know she’s dying. That’s your drifter. There’s someone wanting to stop her suffering.” She looked hard at Jess. “That’s Max. Or someone else who loved her. And last, I guess there’s the killer who wants to silence her. Don’t know who that could be.” She placed her hand on his arm and squeezed. “You keep plugging-away. Ask yourself,
Who murders a dying woman?
Keep a ready mind. The key’ll pop up when you least expect it.”

“I s’pose. It’s just that waitin’ makes me feel weak.”

With Crickette gone, there was little to keep Max in Hooker County. He decided to take his wife to Chicago to be buried and then move back there himself after he could get things settled.

Three days after her death, a memorial for Crickette was held in Mullen. But covered with the pall of homicide, the service brought closure to no one. Men tougher than boot leather, men who’d stared down their own death were bowed. Women who’d lost children to whooping cough or scarlet fever were bowed, too. Everyone knew killer storms and disease stalked the Sand Hills. Knew it and accepted it. But a human killer in their midst—maybe even one of them—that was new. Folks took to speaking in hushed tones. Locking doors. Childe Cavendish, who ran the American Dream saloon in Mullen, told Jess he felt guilty at how good business was.

Jess felt guilty, too. Folks were counting on him, and he was letting them down.

Whiskey in the Afternoon

The morning after Max returned from Chicago it snowed again. Jess was in his office pondering Carrie’s
who murders a dying woman
question when Max walked in.

“Lo, Jess. Came to town for groceries, so I figured I’d drop this off.” Max took a fat, rubber-banded envelope from his pocket. “It was in a cigar box in the parlor desk.”

Jess leaned towards Max. “Whatcha got, pardner?”

“Notes Crickette jotted after she got sick. Appears to be. Busted me up—just couldn’t get beyond the first couple words. Dunno if it’ll help.” Max looked like he hadn’t slept much. His suspenders hung from the waist of his pants like they’d slipped off his stooped shoulders. He tossed the envelope onto Jess’s desk and fidgeted with a button on the cuff of his sleeve. After a moment of silence, he blurted, “Anything more on that son-of-a-bitch?”

“You mean Harry, I reckon?” Jess said.

Max nodded sharply.

Jess crossed his arms. “Like I told you, Max, Harry’s got an alibi. Now I’m still kickin’ at it, lookin’ for holes ’cuz…well, Harry is Harry. But a snake that’s somewhere else can’t do no strikin’, and right now it appears Scurfman was at home when your wife…died.”

“Fuck his alibi. We both know he killed Crickette. Just don’t know how he done it. Bastard’s holed-up in that shack of his, laughing at us, figuring he got away with murder.” Max bit his lip. “What if I say he was hanging ’round our place that morning? That be enough to lock him up?” He stepped close to Jess and growled, “Give me an hour with the SOB—I’ll beat the fucking truth out of ’im.”

“That ain’t the way I do things around here, Max. No sir. If Harry killed your wife, I’ll trip him up, and you’ll get a chance to see him swing.” Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Now you listen up, son. Keep away from Scurfman. You let me handle this. Hear?”

Max pounded the desk and scowled. He snatched his checkerboard plaid coat and thrust his arms into the sleeves. He stormed to the door and yanked it open. With the wind howling behind him, he glared at Jess. “OK, sheriff, we’ll do it your way for now, but I warn ya, a man with nothing more to lose won’t sit on his hands forever.” He disappeared behind the door’s slam.

Jess decided to ignore Max’s threat, counting on the whipping wind to thin it to nothing.

Jess considered doing what he’d never done. He took out the bottle of whiskey he kept in the bottom right drawer of his desk. Sure, he did take it out occasionally, but only on Saturday afternoons, when the opera was on the radio, or on some evenings when it was especially hot or cold outside. Never on a weekday and never before 2 p.m. And this was both of those. For a moment he stared at the friendly amber liquid in the bottle. Murder, Harry, Max—it was a helluva lot for a man used to Hooker County as it had always been. In the end, he put the bottle away.

Jess picked up the envelope Max left and slid off the rubber band. Inside was a small spiral-bound notebook with a grimy cardboard cover. A faded sepia photograph was stuck inside like a bookmark. He held it in the light to see it clearly. A couple holding a baby. Jess turned it over and read the caption.
Fritz und Birgitta mit Hille. 1924.

The first dozen pages of the notebook had been filled years ago, according to the dates. There were penciled shopping lists, drawings, numbers summed-up, and so on. Everyday things. Then came the
Whiskey in the Afternoon
pages Max mentioned. Recent. Pages that amounted to a journal of thoughts, each page dated and written in pencil or blue ink. Dates starting with November 19, 1956, the day Doc Fletcher gave Crickette her death sentence. As he flipped through the pages, Jess saw ink streaks on several of them—plainly made by teardrops. He’d never cried over a crime, but holding the tear-tracked notes in his hand, feeling Crickette’s despair, that about did it. The dozen recent pages were mostly about pain and worry. Then came two mid-January entries that leaped out and grabbed him. Scared the hell out of him. Made him retrieve the whiskey bottle and the stubby glass from the desk drawer. He poured a stout drink and tossed it down.

She’d written,
Today I woke up knowing it. The time has come. Must make my plan.

The next page was dated two days later, January twentieth. The first lines were scratched in pencil.
Pain getting worse and worse. I thought
OUR
dirty black secret was a trump card, but Eva threw it in my face. Was a blinding flash so much to ask? Henri, I remember NBH.
After some white space, the next lines were neatly printed in bold blue ink.
TODAY EVA THREATENED TO DO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO SILENCE ME.

It was the last entry. The next day Crickette was dead.

Jess’s hands shook as he stuck the picture into the notebook and shut it. He stuffed it back in the envelope, as if that might make it go away. He didn’t know what
dirty black secret
could mean. But reading about Eva and threats set his mind careening like a pebble pitched down a well—bumping off walls, getting darker every inch it went, and nothing good to come at the end of the ride. He poured a second glass of whiskey and gulped it down.

Jess threw on his coat and stormed from his office. It was snowing, and he was hatless, his coat unbuttoned. He didn’t feel the cold or at least it didn’t matter. He didn’t know where he was walking. He just had to get away from Crickette’s notes. From what they implied. Because, like having a pistol poked in your face, it’s not the poking that weakens the knees. It’s the implication. And that notebook’s implication sure as hell was weakening his.

In the wind’s howl, his conversation with Carrie kept kicking at him like a stark-loco stallion.
Who murders a dying woman? Someone who wants to silence her.

By the end of his walk, something—perhaps the stinging sleet, perhaps the soothing rye—had calmed Jess. He phoned Max. “What’s the story on this notebook?”

“Came across it this morning, Sheriff. Crickette had stuck it in an old White Owl cigar box, like I told ya. Left it in the top desk drawer, right under the checkbook. Where I couldn’t miss it. You saw the old snapshot inside, right? Couple holding a baby? I never seen it before. Probably friends of Crickette’s from the old country, s’pose.”

“Did you read the notebook, Max?”

“Couldn’t stand to read the part after she got sick. Just couldn’t do it.”