Of All Sad Words (24 page)

“Not that he mentioned. Didn’t leave any report, either.”

Rhodes thought he might as well make the short drive and see what Michal had to say. It might not be a bad idea to talk to Hamilton again while he was there. If Larry Crawford had been dealing with Jerry Kergan, Hamilton might know something about it.

“What about Benton?” Rhodes asked. “Any calls from him?”

“Not a word.”

Rhodes would stop by Dooley’s on the way to Obert. Benton and Muller might still be there, trying to find something on Kergan’s computer. He would have thought they’d have found something by now, as eager as they’d seemed to get to work on the little project Rhodes had assigned them.

Benton’s car was parked in the same place in the Dooley’s lot where Rhodes had last seen it.

Rhodes glanced in the back window and noticed that the guitar case was missing. When he opened the restaurant door, he heard Benton’s voice and the sound of the guitar. The math teacher was singing something to the tune of “The Ballad of Davy Crockett,” but Rhodes distinctly heard the words “Sheriff Rhodes” in place of the name of the famous defender of the Alamo.

Benton stopped his picking and singing when Rhodes walked into Kergan’s office. He was in Kergan’s office chair, the guitar case lying on the floor beside him.

Mel Muller sat at the computer desk. She wasn’t looking at the computer, however. She appeared much more interested in Benton than in Kergan’s accounts.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Benton said. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

Rhodes pointed out that
soon
was the wrong word. “I’ve been gone three hours,” he said.

“Time flies when you’re having a good time,” Benton said, smiling at Mel.

“I guess it does,” Rhodes said. He hadn’t been having as much fun as Benton. “What’s that song you were playing?”

Benton looked down at the guitar as if he hadn’t known he was holding it.

“Just a little composition of my own,” he said. “It’s not quite finished. I was working on it, with a little help from Mel.”

“I think I recognized the tune.”

“You probably did. Sometimes I do parodies. You know, like Weird Al Yankovic.”

Rhodes wasn’t sure who Weird Al was, but he didn’t ask. Benton was weird enough for him.

“I thought I heard my name mentioned.”

“It’s a tribute song,” Benton said.

“A parody tribute song?”

“You could call it that. It’s ‘The Ballad of Sheriff Rhodes.’ You want to hear it?”

“It’s pretty good,” Mel said. “Seepy’s very clever at writing lyrics.”

So it’s
Seepy
already, Rhodes thought. Move over, Dr. Phil.

“I
am
good at lyrics,” Benton said. “I write a lot of my own songs.”

“I know,” Rhodes said, “but I’m more interested in what you found out about Kergan’s accounts.”

“Oh,” Benton said. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen already,” Mel said. “We did a thorough search. There’s nothing on that computer we haven’t seen.”

“He didn’t use it much,” Benton said. “He didn’t download music, didn’t have an eBay account, didn’t even use his Web browser for anything more than checking the weather report now and then.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Mel said.

Rhodes was disappointed. He’d hoped for something that would lead him to Rapper or Crawford, and all he had was a few figures that didn’t really mean anything.

“Seepy and I are going to work together again,” Mel said. “He’s going to help me design your Web site.”

“For free,” Benton said. “Just another little part of my service to the community.”

“How soon do you think you’ll have it up and running?” Rhodes asked.

“It won’t be long,” Benton said. “Not with me helping.”

“That’s good news. Mikey Burns will be happy.”

“Not that we care,” Mel said.

Benton looked at her, but she didn’t elaborate.

“You two had better leave now,” Rhodes said. “I’ll lock the place up.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to hear ‘The Ballad of Sheriff Rhodes’?” Benton said.

“I’m sure,” Rhodes told him.

First a book, and now a song, Rhodes thought. Before long, he was going to be the most famous person in Blacklin County.

Benton shrugged off Rhodes’s refusal and turned to Mel. “It’s almost time for dinner. We didn’t take a break for lunch. Would you like to go to the Jolly Tamale?”

“I love Mexican food,” she said.

Rhodes loved Mexican food, too, but having sneaked the Quarter Pounder at lunch, he knew he wouldn’t be eating Mexican food for a while.

Benton put his guitar in its case, and he and Mel left. Rhodes looked around the office, saw nothing of interest, and went out, locking the door of the restaurant behind him.

Chapter 28

MICHAL SCHAFER SAT IN AN OLD ICE-CREAM-PARLOR CHAIR IN front of her shop, fanning herself with an old cardboard fan printed on one side with an ad for a funeral home in Arkansas. Rhodes sat in the chair next to her. A small round-topped ice-cream-parlor table was between them. The chairs and table had been painted with white enamel.

After Rhodes admired the table and chairs, Michal told him about the activity at Jamey Hamilton’s shop, which was closed at the moment. An old wooden awning that hung over all the stores along the block shaded them from the late-afternoon sun.

“Remember that I said something about how many customers he has?” Schafer said. “And how fast he got them out of there?”

Rhodes said that he remembered.

“I started thinking about that today. You might have noticed that I don’t have a lot of customers myself, so I have time to think about things like that. Anyway, one reason he was so fast was that some of them looked just the same when they came out as they did when they went in.”

“Which means?”

“Which means they didn’t get haircuts, and if they didn’t get haircuts, what did they get?”

Rhodes had an idea, the same one that Buddy had suggested, but before he could tell her what it was, she went on.

“I do have a few customers, and some people drop by just to talk, so I’ve heard a few things about Mr. Hamilton today. About his cousin, mainly, and you know what I think?”

“You think Hamilton was selling bootleg whiskey out of his barbershop.”

“You must be a mind reader, Sheriff.”

“No. I was just thinking the same thing.”

Hamilton’s place was a small barbershop in an out-of-the way town, in a building located right on a highway. It was the perfect place to sell the whiskey. People from other counties could find it easily, and there was almost no risk involved in the buying and selling.

“I didn’t know people still went in for that kind of thing,” Michal said.

“Everything makes a comeback sooner or later,” Rhodes said. “Otherwise, you antique dealers would be out of business.”

“I’m about out of business anyway. You wouldn’t want to buy this nice table and chair set, would you? I have two more chairs in the back of the store to make the set of four. I can give you a good price.”

“I’ll have to pass, but sooner or later someone will want them. Have you seen Hamilton today?”

“He hasn’t been in. He’s had a few customers come by looking for him.”

“Did they stop or just drive on by?”

“A couple of them stopped. I asked if I could help them. They didn’t say anything. They just left.”

Rhodes got up and walked over to the barbershop. He looked in through the big plate-glass window, but all he could see was the empty shop, with its two barber chairs, its shelf of lotions and hair tonics, its big mirrors on both side walls. He wondered if anybody ever got an actual haircut there.

“Oh, yes,” Michal said when he asked. “I’ve seen Jamey cutting hair every day. People seem to like his work.”

Too bad he didn’t stick with it, Rhodes thought, instead of taking up a sideline.

“I’m going to drive out to his house,” Rhodes said, walking back over to the round table where Michal sat. “If he happens to come into the shop, it’s all right if you mention that I’m looking for him.”

“You don’t think he’ll flee the country?”

She meant it as a joke, but Rhodes was reminded of Rapper and Nellie, who had fled not only the country but the known universe.

“I hope he’ll stick around,” Rhodes said.

Larry Crawford’s rust-colored pickup sat under the chinaberry tree, where Rhodes had last seen it. The tree’s leaves were already yellow, and the ground around it was littered with yellow berries.

This time, there was another pickup at Hamilton’s house, a red Ford, parked next to Crawford’s, so Rhodes figured both men were there.

Rhodes parked the county car, and when he stepped out, he heard people talking behind the house. He also smelled meat cooking on a grill.

He walked around the house and saw Crawford standing by a big black propane grill. The top of the grill was open and Crawford poked a long-handled fork into the steaks that sizzled above the low flames.

Hamilton sat in the shade of a pecan tree in a green plastic lawn chair, the kind that cost a couple of dollars at Wal-Mart. The tree was infested with webworms. The grayish webs were thick along most of the limbs. The worms, along with the drought, will kill the tree if Hamilton doesn’t do something about them, Rhodes thought.

Hamilton didn’t appear to be concerned with the webworms or with anything else. He held a glass of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A low table beside him held another can of beer and an ashtray. A second chair stood on the other side of the table.

Hamilton saw Rhodes and raised the beer can in a kind of toast.

“Living the good life, I see,” Rhodes said.

Crawford turned from the steaks. He wore a stained white apron that said LICENSED TO GRILL on the front in big black letters. He didn’t look like a man lost in grief.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he said. “Too bad we don’t have enough for you, or I’d ask you to stay. Might be another beer in the fridge, though. How about it, Jamey?”

“Nope,” Hamilton said, flicking ashes onto the dry grass beside the chair, not seeming to care if he caused a fire. “We just had the two.”

Rhodes suspected he was lying, but he didn’t care. His drink of choice was Dr Pepper.

“You come to tell me you caught the son of a bitch that killed my brother?” Crawford said. He turned the steaks over and closed the top of the grill. “Five more minutes and those’ll be just right. Well, Sheriff? How about it?”

“I might know who did it,” Rhodes said.

Crawford waved the fork. “You got a name? You tell me the name, and you won’t have to worry about making an arrest. I’ll take care of the son of a bitch for you.”

Rhodes wanted to ask if Crawford planned to gut the killer with the meat fork, but he refrained.

“I can’t tell you yet. What I want to talk about is that whiskey you and Terry were making.”

Crawford grinned. “Now, come on, Sheriff, you know better than that. I already told you it was Terry who was making the whiskey. I’m the one tried to get him to stop, remember? Even the land’s in Terry’s name. You ask my lawyer, and he’ll tell you the same.”

Rhodes was sure of that. He said, “Let’s say I believe you. I guess if Terry was making the whiskey, Jamey wasn’t cutting you in on any of the profits he made from selling it out of his barbershop.”

Hamilton ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, set his beer can down on the table, and stood up.

“Are you accusing me, Sheriff?” he said.

“That wasn’t an accusation. Just a statement. I have a witness.”

Rhodes knew that nothing Michal had told him could be considered evidence. He’d just wanted to see how Hamilton would react.

“Probably that old bat that has the antiques next door to me,” Hamilton said. “She never has liked me. Anyway, it’s her word against mine. You won’t find any whiskey in my shop. Maybe you’ve already looked. That’d be an illegal search, and I’ll have my lawyer file on you in a New York minute.”

Rhodes had often wondered why a New York minute was supposed to be any shorter than a Clearview minute, or a Philadelphia minute. Or any other minute at all, for that matter.He didn’t think this was the time for a philosophical discussion of the topic, however.

“I haven’t been in your shop. Michal Schafer will vouch for that.”

Hamilton sat back down in the green chair. “It’s a good thing you didn’t go in. You gotta have a warrant for that. I know my rights.”

According to the records, Hamilton had never been incarcerated, but he already sounded like a jailhouse lawyer to Rhodes, who was now convinced that Hamilton had been selling whiskey. Not much, maybe, but certainly enough to get him jailed if he’d been caught at it.

Crawford opened the grill and smoke rolled out.

“Looks like these steaks are ready. Time for you to be on your way, Sheriff. Jamey and I’ll be going inside to eat.” He turned off the propane supply, and the flames in the grill died. “Like I said, we’d invite you to stay, but there’s no more beer and just the two steaks.”

He walked over to Rhodes and waved the two-pronged fork under his nose. A small piece of overcooked steak adhered to one prong.

“You hear what I’m saying, Sheriff? Don’t make me have to stick a fork in you to prove you’re done.”

Rhodes was tired of listening to Crawford, and Hamilton, too, for that matter. And he didn’t like being threatened. He grabbed the fork and jerked it out of Crawford’s hand. The sudden movement made both his shoulder and chest twinge, but he didn’t mind.

“You know what you need?” Rhodes said as Crawford stared at him openmouthed. “You need a chef hat. One with some kind of funny saying on it. Something like ‘Kiss My Grits.’ What do you think?”

“You took my fork,” Crawford said.

Rhodes looked at the fork. “Sure enough. You weren’t threatening me with it, were you? Because if you were, I’d have to arrest you.”

Crawford started to say something, but Rhodes put up his empty hand to stop him.

“I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say ‘I’ll call my lawyer.’ But you can save your breath. I’m not going to arrest you. I’m not even going to keep your fork.”