Murder at the Courthouse (15 page)

“Have you told Karen?” Hank raised his eyebrows at Michael.

“Someday doesn't have to be tomorrow. It's better to take things like this slow.”

“Nah, it's better to jump in with both feet.” With a laugh, Hank reached over and poked Michael's hand. Then he turned thoughtful again. “Sometimes I think that's why you're here, Deputy, because you like having all the answers before you start. And you think you can have the handle on those answers here.”

Michael frowned. “You don't know what you're talking about. I've had times when I didn't have any of the answers.” A familiar flash of uneasiness shot through Michael as he thought of all the answers lost forever in the quicksand of his mind. Sometimes he had the weirdest feeling that something important, vital even, was trying to struggle to the surface, but it never made it out.

“Maybe that's the reason you like having the answers now,” Hank was saying.

“It's my job to find the answers.” Michael smoothed out his napkin and began folding it into accordion pleats. “But could be you're right. I didn't like it much in Columbus where I didn't even know what questions needed answers. It feels better here. Safer.”

“At least it did before Tuesday, right? That guy getting shot within shouting distance of the sheriff's office had to put a chink in your armor, I'd say. In all our armors.” Hank peered at him over the rim of his cup. He took a slurp of the coffee and put his cup down. “I hear Clay Turner sold completely out of locks yesterday. 'Course he probably only had two in stock.”

“Folks can get in a panic easy. It's probably like the sheriff says. The murderer is probably long gone from Hidden Springs.”

“Do you believe that?”

Michael looked straight at Hank and turned the question back at him. “Do you?”

Hank thought a minute, then sighed. “I wish I could, but I don't know. There's just a bad feel to it somehow, if you know what I mean.”

“Come clean, Hank. Do you know something about all this I don't?”

“Me? I was practically the last person in town to even know the guy got shot. I'm always two steps behind.” Hank shook his head. “No, this is just a hunch. A reporter's hunch. My granddaddy was a newspaperman back in Hampstead when I was a boy. The paper was going busted even then, but my granddaddy liked to dream I'd take it over someday, and I guess so did I. Anyway, he used to say a hunch to a reporter is like a fleck of gold to a prospector. Once he sees that first little sparkle no matter how tiny it might be, he wants to keep digging to turn up some real nuggets.”

“Where are you digging?” Michael asked.

“That's the trouble with this particular hunch.” Hank kept his eyes on his cup. “Nobody left behind a map, and it's sort of like the fleck of gold floated down out of thin air. I don't have any idea where it came from, so there's no way to know where to dig.”

“So what do you do?”

“Go around dipping in my shovel here and there to see what I might turn up while I keep a real close watch on where other folks are digging.” He looked up at Michael. “You for one.”

“I haven't turned up much.”

“I figure more than you're letting on. Cops can have hunches too.” Hank fingered the notebook in his pocket,
but didn't pull it out. “One thing for sure. You aren't telling me everything.”

“I've told you the facts. You can't print hunches anyway unless you do decide to work for those supermarket tabloids. What is it you're always saying? The truth makes the best story.”

“The only story,” Hank corrected. “Another of my granddaddy's lessons. Integrity and fairness in reporting the news, community service, and some stories to make them smile. That's what makes up a good hometown paper. Throw in a body on the courthouse steps and everybody wants to buy a copy. I printed a hundred extra copies but still sold out yesterday.”

“You didn't shoot Rayburn just to up circulation, did you?”

“I hope that's not one of your hunches.” Hank's smile was a little uneasy.

“Hey, I'm joking.” Michael laughed. “Don't look so nervous. You'll make me suspicious.”

“Just don't go joking like that with Little Osgood or Buck. They'd have me in the slammer before you finished saying ‘circulation,' because you were right about that picture in the paper. Little Osgood called me from the hospital as soon as he came out from under anesthesia to raise Cain about it. He wants a retraction.”

“How do you print a retraction of a picture?”

“I haven't figured that out yet.” Hank twisted his mouth as he thought about that. “Maybe I could get them to pose shaking hands or catch a shot of Buck taking Paul flowers at the hospital.”

“You've got more chance of finding real gold on Main Street.”

“Yeah, that's what I figured. So guess I'll just have to take the
heat.” The editor's grin was back. “That's another thing my granddaddy taught me. Learning to take the heat was high on Granddaddy's list. Right up there with trusting your hunches.”

All the way back to the office, Michael wished he had some hunches to trust, or maybe he wished he didn't have any hunches. That he could just let Rayburn's murder slide into that great pit of unsolved crimes. What was it they said? If there wasn't a suspect in custody within forty-eight hours, the murderer might never be apprehended.

Michael would keep trying to find out what happened, but it might be good to also start thinking about ways to make folks feel safe in Hidden Springs again.

Betty Jean looked up from listening to Lester's school crossing stories when Michael came in the office. “Paul called again. You owe me. I didn't give him your cell number.”

“What now?”

“He wanted to know if you'd searched around the courthouse and parking lot again yet or figured a place to drag the lake.” Betty Jean's lips twitched as she barely kept a smile off her face. “Says you know the lake better than him from living on it and so he wants you to say where. He has some people lined up to start in the morning.”

“The man's nuts.” Michael rubbed his forehead as though to get rid of a headache. A headache named Paul Osgood.

“You won't get any argument from me,” Betty Jean said. “But you're still going to have to come up with a place to start. What you figure? You can get over the whole lake in a year, give or take a few months.”

Michael sighed and looked at Lester. “You go fishing a lot, Lester. Where's an out-of-the-way place but one that's close to the road? No need making this too hard to start.”

Lester thought a minute. “How about that spot out on Perry Lane? The lake's real deep there, and you can park right by the road on top of the cliff in this little pull-off. You could fish right out of your car if your line was long enough. 'Course, it's steep down to the lake, but not so steep you can't climb out with your fish.”

Michael knew the place. While it wasn't on the main road out to the interstate, it wasn't far off it. “Sounds as good a place to ditch a gun as any. Tell you what, Lester. You go on out there tomorrow morning after your crossing duty and supervise things.”

“You mean it, Michael?” When Michael nodded, Lester stuck out his chest and fingered his holster flap. “Well, then you bet I will.”

Michael bit his lip to keep from smiling and told Betty Jean to let Paul know the location.

“You know they aren't going to find anything.” She gave him a look as she picked up the phone.

“They can not find something there as good as anywhere.” Michael turned back to the door. “And tell Paul I'm searching the grounds right now.”

She started to punch in the number, then stopped. “Wait a minute, Michael. Reece Sheridan called.”

“Alex cancel her visit?” Michael tried to tamp down the disappointment that rose up inside him at that thought.

“He didn't say anything about her. He wanted us to check on Joe's cat. Said he wasn't feeling so hot and Janelle's still home with her little boy. He's worried he didn't put out enough food for Two Bits. He said Joe's spare key is up on the top brace of his barbershop pole. I would've done it, but I can't reach that high.”

Joe's cat started yowling as soon as Michael put the key in the lock. The sound raised the hairs on Michael's neck, and he pushed the door open quickly, figuring Two Bits must be hung in something or hurt somehow. Joe would be heartbroken if anything happened to that cat.

The smell hit him in the face, but he still couldn't quite believe it. Joe was slumped on the floor in a pool of blood between his barber's chair and the sink, a pair of scissors sticking out of his neck. The cat stood on Joe's legs, blood on his paws and his fur ruffed up as he yowled again.

Michael stared at Joe's body and wanted to yowl along with the cat. Nobody was going to feel safe in Hidden Springs for a long time to come.

Finding a body on the courthouse steps had been bad, but Rayburn had been a stranger. His murder was little more than a puzzle in need of a solution.

Joe was one of them. That changed everything. Michael would still have to solve it or at least try, but now he dreaded the answer he might find. Whoever stuck those scissors in Joe's neck was also one of them.

With a heavy heart, Michael pushed the door closed behind him and moved carefully across the shop to squat down beside Joe. Two Bits stopped yowling and fixed mournful eyes on Michael.

Joe stared at him too, his eyes set, vacant. Michael should have been able to stop this. He should have made Joe tell him what he knew about Rayburn's death, but now whatever answers the man had were forever lost to Michael.

“I'm sorry, Joe.” Michael touched the man's arm. It was cold. The killer must have been waiting for Joe when he came in that morning, but how did he know Joe would be back today? Even Reece hadn't known that. Unless Reece was the murderer.

Michael jerked back from the thought. Reece could no more have stuck those scissors in Joe than Michael could have himself. But somebody had. Somebody Joe knew. Michael shut his eyes a moment and tried to quell the sick feeling rising inside him. He wanted to go back to rumors about the mob.

He covered Joe with the black plastic cape the barber kept draped across his chair waiting for his next customer. The cat stepped onto it and circled twice. The plastic crackled under his feet before the cat curled up on the cape.

Michael pulled his eyes away from the body and surveyed the room. Bloody paw prints crisscrossed the worn floor, but there were no shoe prints. In fact, nothing was out of order except Joe and his bottle of combs and scissors, which were spilled down in the sink. Even the cat was where he liked best to be. In Joe's lap.

Joe's fingers peeked out from under the black cape. They grasped no bit of cloth or paper that might supply a clue. No name or initials had been traced out in blood on the floor. There was nothing.

Michael looked up at the ceiling. He wanted to say a prayer for Joe. For them all. Death seemed to demand it, but he didn't know what to pray. It would do no good to pray what he wanted, and that was to see Joe sitting in his chair stroking Two Bits the same as any other day. A terrible sadness swept over Michael as he looked back down at Joe's body.

“God help us,” he whispered.

At the sound of Michael's voice, Two Bits looked up at Michael and mewed pitifully as if the cat realized Michael wasn't going to be any help after all.

“If only you could talk, Two Bits,” Michael said softly.

Michael unclipped his radio and called it in.

This time was different. The sheriff was there in two minutes, his face rigid and grim as he barked out orders to Betty Jean on the radio. Chief Sibley showed up minutes later and slumped down in one of Joe's waiting chairs, a sickly green cast on his face.

When Betty Jean came over to get Two Bits, tears streamed down her cheeks. Michael wanted to hug her, but he had his hands full, holding on to the frenzied cat.

“He's not happy,” Michael told her. “And he needs his paws washed.”

Betty Jean stared at the blood on the cat's fur and Michael's uniform. “This can't be happening.”

“What can't be happening?” Judge Campbell stepped up beside Betty Jean.

With a sudden yowl, Two Bits twisted and jerked free of Michael's hold, hurled through the air, and landed on the judge's chest with all his claws extended.

“What the . . . ?” The judge knocked the cat off him.

The fall dazed Two Bits, and Betty Jean scooped up the cat before he recovered enough to run away. She cooed at him. “There, there, baby. It's going to be all right.” She glanced up at Michael. “I better get him away from here.”

“Right.” Michael nodded at her, then looked at the judge. “You all right, Judge?”

“What got into that cat?” The judge dabbed at a scratch on the back of his hand with his handkerchief. “I never saw Two Bits act like that.”

“Joe's dead.” Michael didn't know any easy way to say it. “Murdered.”

The judge opened his mouth, then shut it without saying anything. He moved past Michael to peek through the door at
Joe's body. All the color drained from his face, and he didn't even look at Michael or make the first booming comment. Instead, he headed straight back over to the courthouse.

Sheriff Potter came out of the barbershop to watch him cross the street. With a sad shake of his head, he said, “The judge and Joe were good friends.”

That was the problem. Joe was everybody's friend.

Even Hank looked truly distressed when he came running down the street, this time with camera in hand. He took a picture or two of the outside of the barbershop, but he didn't even attempt to get a picture when Michael and Buck helped Justin load Joe's body into the hearse.

Justin's face was a funny gray color and his hands trembled so much he had to try three times before he got the hearse door closed and locked.

The coroner looked over at Michael. “I haven't felt this bad about carrying somebody off since I took in your mama and daddy after the wreck. There are some things that just shouldn't happen.” He shook his head. “Tell Alvin I'll get him the report as soon as I can, but the cause of death is pretty evident.”

“How evident?” Hank asked Michael after Justin drove the hearse away.

Michael didn't see how it could hurt to tell him. Everybody in town would know before the next issue of the
Gazette
came out anyway. “Scissors in the neck. Hit the jugular, I'd say.”

Hank blanched a little. “I always did tell Joe he kept those scissors too sharp. 'Course, I was worried about me losing a piece of ear. But a murder weapon? No way.”

Michael didn't say anything. What was there to say or even do? Joe was dead, and Michael didn't have the first clue as to who did it or why.

“Where's Two Bits?” Hank fingered his camera.

“Why?” Michael gave him a hard look.

“Oh, I don't know. I might take his picture. People like cats.”

“I can't believe you, Leland. You'd do anything to sell papers.”

“Not anything, but I'd take a picture of a cat.” Hank peered toward the barbershop door.

Michael blew out a breath. No need getting mad. Hank was just being Hank. “Two Bits isn't here. Betty Jean came and got him.”

“I don't guess you could ask her to bring him back over.”

“No.” Michael stared Hank down.

“Just a thought. I'll find something else to shoot. The barber pole maybe.” Hank raised up his camera. “Folks expect pictures, but it just isn't fun this time, is it? Two murders and the week's not even over yet. A fellow has to wonder who's next.”

Hank snapped some pictures of the front of Joe's shop and the people gathering on the sidewalk. The same as last time, the storekeepers had abandoned their posts to check out what was going on. Some men out of Earl Lee's pool room next door still held their pool cues as they silently, almost reverently watched Justin take Joe's body away. A sprinkling of kids who must have been hanging out at the Grill after school was there too.

Then the same as before, Michael spotted Anthony at the back of the crowd, but this time the apron hanging around his neck proved he was where he was supposed to be.

Seeing the kid there made Michael uneasy. Michael had had a hunch Joe knew something about the murder, and
now Joe was dead. Michael didn't just think Anthony knew something, he was certain of it. Did the killer know that too?

What had Hank said? Who's next?

Michael jerked his eyes back toward where he saw the boy, but Anthony was headed back up the street. The boy slowed down in front of the car parts store, but if he was tempted to lift something from the deserted store, he overcame it. He went on toward the Grill. Maybe Aunt Lindy was having some effect on the kid after all. Now if Michael could keep him alive.

When he canceled out on Karen for the play that night, she said of course she understood. She promised to pray for him and for Joe's family. She could get one of her church members to go to the play with her and maybe they could get together the next night. Michael forgot all about his promise to entertain Alex for Reece until after they said goodbye. He started to call her back but decided it could wait. Who knew what would happen by tomorrow night? He might have to break that date too.

He spent the rest of the afternoon talking to anybody and everybody who might have seen or heard anything. They all wanted to help, but nobody knew anything. He came across only a couple of wild rumors, because the townsfolk were having a hard time fitting Joe, a friend as comfortable as a pair of old shoes, into any of their theories.

By the time he got back to the sheriff's office it was nearly dark. The courthouse was empty except for Betty Jean rocking Two Bits back and forth in the sheriff's chair the way she might have a baby.

“What are you doing still here?” Michael frowned at her. “You should have locked up and gone home hours ago.”

“I didn't know what to do with Two Bits. I thought about sticking him back in the evidence room, but I was afraid he'd freak. Poor kitty.” She ran her hand over the cat.

Michael supposed the cat was the closest thing to evidence they had since no fingerprints were found on the scissors.

Betty Jean was still explaining. “So I asked Burton if he could keep him up in the jail, but he says he's allergic to cats. And I couldn't take him home. My cat does not share territory with any other animals.” Betty Jean looked at Michael. “Can you take him home with you?”

“Jasper might be as bad as your Sandy. He's never been around cats.” Michael sank down in his chair. He couldn't even solve the problem of what to do with a cat.

Betty Jean creaked the sheriff's chair back and forth a couple more times. “How about Reece? He sounded worked up over the cat this afternoon.”

“Did you call him and tell him about Joe?”

“No, but I must've had to tell everybody else in Hidden Springs.” She looked over at Michael. “Even after I've said it a hundred times, I still can't believe it. I don't want to believe it.”

“I know what you mean.” Michael took Two Bits from her. “Anything go on here after I left?” The cat settled down in his arms without a fight.

“Not much. The chief left to go home and lie down awhile. And you know Buck. He has to be on the move looking for something, even if he has no idea what to look for.”

“None of us know what to look for. So I guess the sheriff and the judge had to hash it out alone.”

“The judge didn't come over.” Betty Jean frowned a little.

“At all?”

“Nope. I never even saw him until after Uncle Al left. I thought he must have already gone home, but then I saw him going toward the back door. He didn't poke his head in to see why I was still here or anything. I don't think he even said boo to Roy, who was sweeping out in the hall.”

“Maybe I ought to go by his house and make sure he's all right.” Michael ran his hand over Two Bits. “You notice anything else out of the ordinary? Anybody you talk to on the phone act as if they knew something?”

“Nope. Nobody even knew Joe was back.”

“Somebody did,” Michael said.

“But who?”

“I don't know.” Michael kept rubbing the cat. Two Bits was calm now, content to let them do what they willed with him. “But I aim to find out.”

“I hope so, Michael. And soon.” Betty Jean stood up and picked up her purse. “Oh, by the way, Paul's had a setback. Some kind of secondary infection. I don't know exactly what. I talked to him, but he wasn't very rational. Still raving about finding the murder weapon and dragging the lake, so Uncle Al said you'd better go on and let the divers play around out there tomorrow morning even if it is a waste of the county's money.”

“All right. If I'm not here when Lester comes in from the school, remind him to go on out there.”

They were to the door when the phone rang. Michael hesitated, but Betty Jean flipped off the lights. “If it's important, Sally Jo knows how to find you, and truth is, I can't talk to one more person today about Joe. Not even one.”

“Okay.” Michael shifted the cat to one arm and pulled the door shut on the insistent ringing.

The hallway was dim with only a couple of lights on over the exit doors and all the offices dark. “Maybe we should keep more lights on out here,” Michael said.

“The place is spooky after hours.” Betty Jean shuddered a little. “Fact is, that Blake kid scared two or three years off my life tonight.”

“Anthony?” Michael was surprised.

“Yeah. I had to go to the ladies' room, and when I went out in the hall, there he was hanging around in the shadows. Gave me quite a start.”

“What was he doing here?”

“I didn't have a chance to ask. He was out the front door before I got my breath back, but then later I saw him again.”

“Where?”

“Just passing by the office. I had the door open. I think he went out the back way. Roy might have chased him out so he could lock up because it was late. Just after the judge left.” Betty Jean looked up at Michael. “I figured maybe he was hanging around to see you.”

Michael stowed Two Bits in the backseat of his cruiser and then made a quick turn around the courthouse in case Anthony was still hanging around. But there was no sign of him. Maybe Joe's death had frightened the kid enough to make him ready to come clean about whatever it was he knew about Rayburn getting shot.

Michael hoped that was it as he drove toward Reece's house. He'd tried to run the boy down earlier, but Anthony told Cindy he had something he had to do and left the Grill early. It was odd that his “something to do” was hang around the courthouse.