Murder Takes to the Hills (23 page)

And so the night went. We moved from the kitchen to the living room couch and took turns dozing, and finally all three of us fell asleep, tumbled together like a litter of overgrown puppies.

Sometime before we all faded out last night, Cindy had set her little travel alarm for seven a.m., and had put it on the dining area table so one of us would have to be up and moving to shut it off.
 
It woke me with a surprisingly loud noise that sounded almost like a siren.

I worked myself free from pillows, Cindy and Fargo and staggered toward the clock. When I got near it, I saw the time read six fifteen. While I was puzzling that out, I realized the sound I had heard really had been a siren at the foot of the mountain, where the little private road met the main road into town. And it now sounded like two police cars and the whoop-whoop of an ambulance. There must have been an accident—and apparently a serious one.

Beulaland’s
finest would have to handle it without my oversight. I made it to the bathroom and turned on the cold water. A face-wash and tooth-brush would have to be enough until I had some coffee and maybe something solid in my stomach.
 
When I looked in the mirror I recalled that my headache was not entirely due to Ken’s brandy. I had a sizeable, colorful shiner, and my cheek was sore as hell. It even hurt when I brushed my hair.

Just as I poured the coffee and took my croissant out of the micro, Cindy and Fargo arrived. Their timing was always good. I opened a door for one and poured coffee for another.

“Why are we up so early?” she asked plaintively. “Oh, your poor cheek!” she added.

“There was some sort of accident down on the main road. The cop sirens woke me, and I thought it was the alarm clock.”

“Should we go down?”

“The cops are there. Leave it to the pros.”

At that moment there was an authoritative knock at the front door. As I reached the living room, I could see through the window: our guests were the sheriff and Deputy Spitz.
 

“It’s the cops,” I called over my shoulder and heard Cindy scamper for the bedroom. I figured they were looking for possible witnesses to the accident, but I did quickly shove the pistol under a couch cushion as I passed. I opened the front door. Fargo scooted in, the two men stood like statues.

“Good morning Sheriff, Deputy. May I help you with something?”

“We hope you may have some helpful information. May we come in?” Johnson looked about as untidy as I did. His clothes were rumpled and sagging, his hair had been hastily combed and his eyes were bloodshot. Dave Spitz looked like a recruiting poster.

 
“Come on in the kitchen, there’s coffee and some pastry if you like.”
 
I didn’t want them in the living room.

We sat at the kitchen table, and I poured coffee.
Jeffie
refused a pastry, which surprised me, and Spitz could hardly have one if the boss-man didn’t. So I had my second.

“That’s a nasty bruise, Ms. Peres,” Johnson remarked.

“It feels nasty, and my own dog is to blame. He startled Ms. Hart last night, and when she turned around she accidentally clocked me with a coffee mug.”

“Really?” Spitz asked me neutrally.

Johnson didn’t bother to comment, but asked. “Is she here? Ms. Hart I mean.”

“She’s dressing. I imagine she’ll be here in a minute.”

And she was, looking fresh and well-groomed. I now felt doubly grungy.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I understand there was an accident at the foot of the hill earlier. I hope it wasn’t serious.”

“Well, it may have been an accident. We haven’t
entirely
ruled that out.” Johnson gave a wolfish grin. “But it was certainly serious, all right. In fact it was fatal.”

“Damn!” I took a sip of coffee. “That’s too bad…
helluva
way to start your day.”

Cindy looked concerned. “Was it anyone we would have known?”

“Well, now, I don’t know. We aren’t sure of his identity ourselves.” Johnson sounded almost coy, as he removed several credit cards and what looked like drivers’ licenses from his shirt pocket and began to read off the names on them. “Do either of you know a Michael Cully of Galveston, Texas?” As we each shook our heads, he moved on to the next. “A Michael Sullivan of El Paso, Texas? A Michael McNulty of Gadsden, Alabama? A Michael McCurry of Rome, Georgia?”

“Well of course, we know a Michael—actually Mickey—McCurry.” Cindy stated. “But I thought he was from Knoxville. Is
he
dead
?
” She was not a good poker player; she looked as relieved as one who has just learned that the giant meteor is going to by-pass the Earth by ten miles.

“Is there really a Rome, Georgia?” I asked. “I guess I stopped with Venice, Florida.”

“There is a Rome.” Johnson looked irritated. “And Mickey is dead.”

I lit a cigarette before replying, and Johnson looked at the pack hungrily. I did not offer one. I figured a senior police officer on an official call should not smoke a cigarette. Especially one of mine.

“Then, of course, we know the man called Michael McCurry. I assume they are all the same man—he stuck with Michael to have a first name familiar to him, and since all the last names are Irish I imagine that’s what he really is. Of course any one of the names—or none of the names—could be his real one. Same with the towns.
 
Did he have a car here?
 
The only car I ever saw him in was Branch’s. Strange.”

Johnson was frowning. Obviously he hadn’t figured on the licenses being fraudulent with regard to the cities as well as the names. And I doubted he had picked up on the Irish surnames.

“Car? Yes, he had a car,” Spitz put in. “In fact, it’s parked at the bottom of the road. Have you any idea when he parked it there?”

“No.” Cindy answered. “There were three cars parked at the intersection when we came home. I didn’t pay attention to them—I just assumed one of our neighbors was having a party. I’m sorry, I don’t remember. I do recall one of them was light-colored.”

“Yes, well,
hmmn
…could have been his. Now, moving right along. Could you ladies give my deputy here your names and home addresses and where you work, while I just have a little look around?”

What the hell was he trying to pull?
 
“Sheriff, we’ll be glad to give you our proper names and home address. I don’t believe our places of work would be of any value to you. Neither Ms. Hart nor I own or rent this property. We are guests here. While Ms. Hart is a cousin of the owner, neither she nor I have the authority to allow you to search it. To ‘look around’ the outside grounds or the interior of the house, you’ll need a warrant. And just in case you want to shuffle through my car—you’ll need a warrant for that, too.”

Cindy put her coffee mug down with a bang that made my cheek hurt all over again. “Furthermore, Sheriff,” she announced, “neither of us saw a thing. We were both asleep until your sirens woke up Alex. So we have no idea who was at fault in the accident. But I’d be willing to bet you find that Mickey—your Michael McCurry was driving while drunk.”

“I may find that he was drunk.” The sheriff gently placed his empty mug near hers. “But he wasn’t driving anything. He parked on the main road by the turnoff and got out of the car. Then somebody bashed the back of his head in with a rock and tossed him in the creek.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I looked out the living room window as Johnson’s car backed out. Spitz’s stayed parked, with him leaning against the hood.

“He’s obviously making sure we don’t take off, or remove anything from the car or house. Well, by the time
Jeffie
gets back and takes the house apart, we’ll never get out of here today. Damn!” I gave the door a kick.

“Alex, I don’t care if it’s two in the morning, we’ll drive twenty miles up the road and find a motel. I’m beginning to hate this place.”

“You hate the sheriff and you hated Mickey. The place is still nice.”

“Sometimes you irritate the hell out of me, my sweet.” Cindy scowled. “Don’t you see, that sheriff is getting all ready to blame this on us. That way he won’t have to arrest a local who might vote for him next year. Clearly, he’s been lousy at the job, but if he makes an arrest right away, he’ll be a hero—especially if it’s a
furriner
.
 
Sometimes you are too damn trusting, Sherlock. You’d do better to figure out who really did this.”

“Clay,” I said. “Or Branch. Or more likely Clay
and
Branch.
 
If Mickey was as drunk as Branch said he was last night, he probably was passed out at his motel. They tied him up and dumped him in a small horse trailer, one of them drove Mickey’s car out here and parked it so it would look as if he were coming here and/or to Sara’s. The other drove the trailer. They bopped him one and tossed him in the creek to suggest he fell off the bridge. That guardrail is low; he could have overbalanced. They drove home in the trailer, hosed it out, put down new straw. Case closed,” I said.

“Not bad,” Cindy said. “If he wasn’t passed out, but was actually here or at Sara’s, why did he leave his car down by the main road?”

“He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see him driving to this place or Sara’s and parking nearby.”

“Pretty nifty. Now, if you can just convince
SuperCop
. Where are you going?”

“Only to the living room,” I reassured her. “Even
SuperCop
might find a big revolver under a couch cushion. I want to get it back in the holster.”

“Sure. But really what difference does it make? He wasn’t shot. Certainly not by that gun.”

“Our
Jeffie
is liable to say we planned to shoot him—which we did—only the opportunity to kill him down by the road somehow presented itself first.”

“See how clever you can be? Now, make us a Cosmo and I’ll set the Scrabble up on the deck.”

“A Cosmo? It’s nine o’clock in the morning!” I was shocked.

“Oh, all right. Make it a double.”

I actually won two games. Cindy pleaded exhaustion and fell asleep in the sun. I was dead tired but jumpy. I walked to the edge of the deck. Three deputies had arrived at some point and run yellow crime-scene tape all over the place and were now walking slowly
up
the path. Two of them literally had out large magnifying glasses and occasionally one of them would stop, pick something I couldn’t see off a bush and put it in a glassine envelope. The other had a camera and took shots here and there.

Then there was great pointing and gesturing and picture taking. Spitz even risked leaving his squad car and trotted up to where the path and creek made a left turn and disappeared up the side of the mountain. Eventually the men all came back down and all but Spitz left.

I was thoroughly confused. Johnson had clearly said Mickey was found near the intersection, which was
down
the mountain from Ken’s cabin. Had Mickey walked past our cabin and gone on up to Sara’s? Had her guards belted Mickey in the head and brought him to the foot of the road?
Were
she and Tommy all right?

I picked up the phone. Sara was as relieved as the rest of us that Mickey was dead, though she tried not to sound too happy. No, they had had no sign of a trespasser during the night. She was horrified at my tale of the sheriff and his men.

“Watch
Jeffie
,” she warned. “He thinks everyone considers him the fat, stupid country cop from the movies. The fact that it is true has not yet dawned on him. And he particularly dislikes people who are not locals. You might want to call Peter Minot. He’s not a criminal lawyer, but even if he went to Podunk U., he could go circles around
Jeffie
.”

She did not offer to come down, and I was glad. I don’t think I could have stood kindness and pity at that point. Instead, I went out the back door, so as not to wake Cindy, and strolled down to where Dave Spitz stood at his lonely outpost.