Hot Enough to Kill (21 page)

"Your brother? Do I know him?"

"I'm sure you've heard of him," Susan said. "Dewayne Schuman. He builds houses around here."

I groaned; couldn't help it. Amy's girlfriend Susan was the sister to murder suspect and ATF-most-wanted Dewayne Schuman. Small world. Entirely too small if you asked me. I had a bad feeling that this was going to make nasty complications for somebody, most likely me. "But your name is Miller," I argued, hoping it would somehow magically change the facts.

"Yes, Miller was my married name," Susan brushed a curly strand from her cheek. "I decided to keep my former husband's name for business reasons."

Married. Another curve ball. Both Amy and Susan had been married--to men--but were now attached to each other. And in the open-minded capital of the world, no less. Wow. Being bold enough to make that choice and live with it in this county was amazing enough, and I admired them for following their hearts. But honestly, being public about that kind of relationship around here was like enrolling in the kamikaze school of pilot training. The intent might be admirable, but the end result was going to be painful, to say the least. Not that I could say things would be that much better for them where I live. As much as I like to believe folks in Colorado are, for the most part, a higher evolved species, the various national headquarters for willful intolerance down in Colorado Springs prove over and over that it's just not true. I guess the difference is that I can live my life without ever having to deal with it directly there. Not so in Kickapoo.

Getting back to the presumed point of the visit, I said, "So why are you worried about Dewayne?"

"You probably know he was arrested."

"And released," I said, nodding. "But yes, I happened to be at the Dairy Queen when Leroy made the announcement."

"That idiot," she muttered, and I wasn't sure if she meant Dewayne or Leroy, although they both apparently qualified. She sighed heavily. "Then I presume you know about the ATF problems as well."

I knew a few things that I'd pieced together from Leroy's delirious prattling and Jerry's brief factoids. I was assuming they were fairly correct since Detective Rick hadn't seen fit to correct any of my assumptions. "I've heard a little, primarily just that they were called in."

"Well, the feds aren't here for alcohol or tobacco reasons, in case you missed that part of the story." She frowned and tapped her fingers on the flat iron armrests. "Dewayne certainly isn't the only one involved, but he's going to be the one to take the fall for it."

"Sounds serious."

"The feds don't waste their time otherwise, "Susan said. "I think they'd been watching the house for a while. Who knows what they would have done if he hadn't been arrested when he was. I'm actually surprised they didn't just storm the place and shoot him."

Well, now, that did not sound good at all, but how did it play into anything else, specifically the various shootings and twisted politics in Kickapoo? Whether it did or not was really beside the point, because it sounded like there was a Ruby Ridge or Waco kind of thing in the making and that was plenty bad enough. I still had plenty of questions for Dewayne Schuman, but it looked like I'd have to get in line. "This really sounds bad, Susan, but I don't know what I can do about any of it."

"No, there's nothing anyone can do about the guns. The feds are going to nail him on something, that's a given. He's not the only one who's guilty, but he's guilty just the same. But, he did not kill Mayor Bennett. I'm certain of that."

Susan sounded wholly convinced, emphatic even, so I decided to see what else she had strong convictions about. "I guess he didn't shoot Jerry or at me either then."

"I knew about Jerry, of course, but somebody shot at you?" Her voice lilted upward in surprise. "

I really figured gossip moved faster than that, and I was truly amazed that she didn't know about the brick-shattering incident. "Well, it was nothing really," I said, not wanting to say something that official types would take exception to. "Anyway, how do you think I can help Dewayne?"

She kept staring at me, apparently debating whether to ask me about the shooting. After a moment, she shook her head and said, "Dewayne isn't acting like himself lately. Getting arrested for murder and having the ATF confiscate everything he owned has made him a little crazy. I'm afraid he's going to do something stupid. Frankly, I think he's suicidal."

I had to think on that one. The last time I'd seen Dewayne, which was also the first time I'd seen Dewayne, he looked quite jovial. Those two psyche classes in college didn't qualify me to make any mental health evaluations, but chuckling away at a funeral did not point to take-your-life despondency. I suppose it didn't preclude it either.

My mind raced through the possibilities. If he was the killer, and now faced the reality of a death sentence, well, it could have sent him over the edge. Still, he'd been let go so he had to know there was no good evidence against him, at least so far, but maybe he knew it was coming. So did that mean he was the killer? Maybe. Or maybe getting crossed up with federal gun laws might have been the last little straw that broke the carbine's back, so to speak, and he snapped. Maybe. There were entirely too many maybes.

"I realize things don't look so great for your brother about now, but what makes you think he'd kill himself over it?"

"My brother is not a strong man, Jolene. Physically, of course, he's a bull, but he can't stand up to much mental pressure. When his wife ran off with a hairdresser from Redwater, he slammed his fist through every wall in his house, then piled her things in the yard and had a bon fire. Sat on the front porch with a cooler full of beer and his chin propped on the barrel of a shotgun for three days. He finally got over it."

Lovely. Just lovely. Susan was painting a very demented picture of her brother, and frankly, I didn't doubt a word of it. Still, I had a little trouble mixing that image with what I'd seen at the funeral. Dewayne had looked reasonably normal, if a little crass, for chatting and chuckling with Gifford during the service, although I was one to cast stones on the chatting business.

"When I talked to him a couple of hours ago," Susan continued. "He was going on and on about wishing he was dead, and how he'd rather die now than be dragged through a trial and locked up on death row. Swore he wasn't going back to the pen no matter what. He was drinking too. Heavily."

I didn't feel too many pangs of empathy for the demented drunken arms dealer who specialized in automatic weapons, but I had to agree it sounded rather grim for old Dewayne. Why that needed to be my problem was beyond me. Finally, I got to the main thing that bothered me about this situation. "Why don't you go check on him?"

Susan sighed and shook her head. "Oh, I've checked on him several times, but we had a big fight. I might be the older sister, but he's not going to listen to anything I say. He made it clear I better not come back. I don't really think he'd shoot me, but when he's drinking, he gets weird. He absolutely refuses to let me help him. And, as you saw with that Harper creep, the sheriff's department isn't going to do anything."

Nobody else will go see about poor old Dewayne so dear sweet Amy sends her girlfriend to me for help? When did I ever give anyone the impression that I was Mother Teresa or even Doctor Laura? "Look, Susan, I'm no good at talking anybody into or out of anything. When my kids were little, I couldn't even convince them to wear matching socks, so talking somebody out of killing themselves is a little out of my league. This sounds like a job for one of the police shrinks. Have you talked to Pam Marshall? She seems pretty competent."

Susan snorted. "You mean Deputy Spock? She listens to logic and reason, and there's not much of that to go around where Dewayne's concerned. Besides, being Jerry's right-hand man, I don't think she likes me very much."

I nodded, that little biting jealous bug asking me just how close Jerry was with his "right-hand man." I put aside my petty doubts, telling myself Jerry wouldn't be so thrilled to see me if he were involved with his deputy. Besides, I was certain--pretty certain, anyway--that he'd consider an intra-office fling unethical. Didn't mean he wasn't attracted to her, the nasty little bug chirped. Telling myself that I am entirely too mature for such childish speculation, I made a mature--and helpful--comment. "I could try talking to her about the situation. She seemed professional when I spoke with her earlier."

Susan shrugged. "Do what you want, but I'm telling you nobody takes this seriously, including Deputy Marshall. I've called everyone I know to call. Only a couple of them actually laughed in my face, but they all might as well have. Besides, I think you have a chance with Dewayne. He might listen to you since you're not from around here, well, anymore anyway."

"That's an interesting theory, but there's one little problem. I don't want to get shot, thank you very much. I've developed a nasty aversion to gunfire of late."

"Dewayne's not going to shoot you. He doesn't have any guns. The feds took them all. He couldn't shoot if he wanted to."

Yeah, right. And just how long would it take a local black market arms dealer to find a gun? Three, four minutes, maybe?

Granted, it kept occurring to me that if I did go over and talk to Dewayne, and actually lived to do so, I could ask him a few questions about the shootings, the garage/carport fiasco, Gifford, Fletch and whatever else I had on my list. The opportunity to get some answers was enticing, but only to a point. I am nobody's idea of a hero or a martyr, but I pretty much earned the "all around sucker" award, because in spite of how deranged Dewayne might be, I still wanted to talk to him. I'd wanted to talk to him since the funeral and this would just give me a good excuse. It might even be that in his emotional state he'd spill his guts--as opposed to spilling mine. Too bad I couldn't round up Gifford Geller and Calhoon Fletcher, not to mention Velma Bennett at the same time. "Okay. I'll go check on him. Where does he live?"

"On Walnut Street. Go past the Dairy Queen and turn left. Then go about six or eight blocks. It's on the right. Shabby looking place with a big elm in the front yard and a rickety shed in the back. Can't miss it. Sits between two mobile homes."

I nodded. "If he kills me, I'm coming after you."

She smiled and stood. "Don't worry. He's harmless." She trotted off the porch and toward into the Vette. "Thanks a million, Jolene. I really appreciate it."

She hopped in, started the car and was zipping down the road before I could ask her if she wanted me to call her after I talked Dewayne out of killing himself. Guess not.

I turned back toward the house and wandered to the side by the garage where Larry still sat. Maybe Susan was just exaggerating about Dewayne. It couldn't be as bad as what she was making it out to be, but just in case it was, a guard dog couldn't hurt. Okay, it could, but it seemed better to have one than not. "Here's the deal, Larry. I need to go check on somebody and I need you to go with me."

Larry laughed, a coarse, wet chuckle, then spit again. "That dyke got you convinced old Dee-Wayne's ready to kill himself, don't she?"

I didn't say anything, just frowned. This was going nowhere and I knew it. I wasn't going to get anything but trouble from Spitter Boy, and I might as well not waste my breath trying.

Larry worked his chaw around in his mouth a little, then said, "She's been calling in to dispatch every other hour, whining about wanting somebody to check on her little brother. Like anybody gives a shit. Hell, I wouldn't walk across the street to check on either one of them, much less drive across town."

That famous Harper compassion gave me warm fuzzies all over. Make that hot prickles. I suddenly wished I carried a purse--or perhaps a baseball bat--with which to smack him. Since I didn't, I kept my hands occupied with rubbing my temples. Obviously Larry was not going to mobilize the troops and check on Dewayne, so that left but one alternative. Meaning me. Big surprise.

Without another word, I tossed my good sense aside and left it in the shade of the pecan tree with Larry, then went back into the house and got my car keys. By the time I got the Tahoe's door open, Larry was at my side. He'd moved pretty fast, considering his size and the heat.

"You ain't to leave the place, Jolene," he said, spitting for emphasis. "I got my orders. I'm guarding you and you ain't going nowhere."

"You know, Larry, I am. Now, you can hop in and go with me or you can step aside and leave me alone. I really do prefer one option over the other, but I'm willing to compromise."

"You ain't leaving," he repeated, sliding his hand down to his gun.

I laughed. "Oh, right, you're going to shoot me for driving my car out of your sight. I don't think so. I'm not under arrest here, so get out of my way."

I climbed inside the car and jerked the door closed even though he was standing in the way.

As the door slammed against him, he yelped and jumped back.

I locked the doors, started the car and backed up. Larry waddle-ran over to his patrol car and got on the radio to tattle on me. I was soon to be a hunted woman, a protective custody escapee run amok. "Dangerous outlaw on the run" had a nicer ring to it, but since I'd left my mother and her purse at home, I couldn't really be considered armed--or very dangerous. My movie trailer notions flickered out and I got on about my business.

As I drove toward the DQ, the landmark needed to locate Dewayne's house, second thoughts--and third and fourth ones--bombarded me. What was I thinking? I had a better chance of getting information out of Ethel Fossy, and I wasn't nearly as likely to get shot in the process, probably. What would Dewayne think when a strange car--a dark four door "could be the feds again" type of vehicle--pulled up in front of his house? "Shoot," I muttered to myself. I didn't mean it in the "oh, darn" sort of way either. I meant shoot, as in bang-bang, he'd shoot me.

With the Dairy Queen looming ahead as an oasis, I headed straight for the last spot of shade on the east side of the building. I figured if I had to face death and Dewayne, I at least deserved a last drink of good old Texas iced tea.