Of All Sad Words (9 page)

Added to those questions were a few that Rhodes had about the truck. Who’d been driving it, and why had he been there? Was there some connection to the academy class?

Max Schwartz and Jackee had a good reason to be angry with Terry, as Rhodes had seen that afternoon. Had their anger led to something more?

As usual, Rhodes knew that he’d have even more questions once he started digging into Terry’s life. It might not be like chasing a serial killer, but it would no doubt cause quite a stir in Blacklin County before it was all over.

Rhodes stood up and got the Ol’ Roy sack from the back porch to feed Speedo. While the dog was eating, Rhodes put fresh water in his bowl as Yancey yapped and danced around him.

When Speedo came over and lapped the water, Rhodes went back inside for his bath. Yancey followed him, keeping a watchful eye out for the cat.

Chapter 10

SUPPER THAT EVENING WAS TO BE EGGPLANT PARMESAN, ONE OF the new recipes that Ivy was trying out. She told Rhodes that eggplant had very few calories, was high in fiber, and was delicious when spiced up a little.

“I can grill it instead of frying it,” she said. “That way, there’s no fat from the oils.”

Rhodes kind of missed fat, to tell the truth, though he didn’t see any need to mention that. He asked Ivy what she knew about the Crawfords.

“Not much. I would never have guessed that they were making whiskey.”

“I wonder where they were selling it,” Rhodes said.

“I’ve been thinking about that while you were in the yard. I heard that you could buy whiskey at Dooley’s.”

Dooley’s was a roadhouse that had opened just outside of town, down the highway from the community college. The owner, Jerry Kergan, had owned a little diner in Thurston, a small town in the southern part of the county. The diner hadn’t done too well, mainly because Thurston was too small to support it, and Kergan had told people that he thought a new location was what he needed to make a success of things, a place where there were more people. So he’d moved to Clearview, bought an old building, and converted it into a restaurant with a bar and a dance floor.

The bar served only beer, and the dance floor didn’t get much use except on Saturday nights, when Kergan brought in a live band to perform.

Or the bar was
supposed
to serve only beer. Rhodes told Ivy that he hadn’t heard the rumor about the whiskey.

“You should have mentioned it,” he said.

“It was just something I heard in passing at the office,” she said. “I didn’t ever think of it again. I didn’t believe it, and I just put it out of my mind.”

Rhodes looked over at Sam. The cat was watching him with its yellow eyes, its tail moving slowly back and forth. Yancey was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in another room, wishing the cat would disappear—permanently.

Rhodes stifled a sneeze.

“It makes sense that the Crawfords were selling whiskey in big amounts,” he said. “They’d have to if they wanted to make any money. Just having people drive up and buy a bottle wouldn’t be profitable enough.”

“I’d have told you about Dooley’s if I’d thought it was important,” Ivy said.

“I know you would. I wonder if anywhere else in town is selling whiskey.”

“I didn’t say that Mr. Kergan was. I just mentioned a rumor.”

“It’s something I’ll have to check out. If you hear any more rumors, let me know.”

“I will. Shall I start grilling the eggplant?”

Rhodes noticed that she hadn’t changed clothes. He wasn’t any Sage Barton when it came to women, but he could take a hint. He said, “Why don’t we eat out tonight.”

“Good idea,” Ivy said. “I wonder why I didn’t think of it. I’ll put on my shoes. Where do you want to go?”

“I was thinking about Dooley’s,” Rhodes said.

It was nearly nine o’clock when they got started toward the roadhouse. They went in Rhodes’s old Edsel, a car he drove only often enough to keep the battery charged. It’s fish-mouthed body style always attracted attention when he got it out of the garage.

“Do you think you’ll be getting into any gunfights tonight?” Ivy said as they drove along.

“You’ve been thinking about Claudia and Jan’s book,” Rhodes said.

Like him, she’d read the manuscript. She’d told Rhodes that she thought it would sell very well.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go to the signing tomorrow,” Rhodes said. “I’ll be working on the Crawford murder.”

“You have to go. This is a big deal for Jan and Claudia. It’s their launch party.”

The women had explained to Rhodes that because they both had full-time jobs, they couldn’t take time to go on a real tour across the country like the big-name writers did, but they planned to sign in as many places as they could on weekends. They hoped to cover most of Texas and maybe even get into Oklahoma.

“If the book does well, they might get a real tour next time,” Ivy said. “Maybe they can even quit their jobs and write full-time.”

“How often does that happen?” Rhodes said.

“According to Claudia, not often enough.”

That pretty much confirmed Rhodes’s suspicions.

As they passed through the downtown area, or what was left of it, Ivy said, “Randy Lawless does all right for himself, doesn’t he?”

They were at the stop sign where one of the town’s two red lights had once been. There wasn’t any need for lights now. Most of the traffic had followed Wal-Mart out to the east side of town.

Across the street, where an entire city block of buildings had fallen down or been demolished, sat the immaculate new law offices of Randall Lawless & Associates. It was a big white building, and while it didn’t occupy the entire block, it sat in the middle of it and took up plenty of room. The rest of the block was a parking lot, except for a small rock garden. People around Clearview had taken to calling the new building “the Lawj Mahal.”

“I have a feeling a lawyer like Lawless makes more money than the sheriff,” Rhodes said.

“I didn’t marry you for your money,” Ivy told him.

“Why did you, then?”

“Because you’re clean.” Ivy slid across the wide seat to get close to him. “As a weasel.”

“I knew you had a good reason,” Rhodes said.

The building that housed Dooley’s had once been a restaurant that was part of a national chain. For some reason, people in Clearview hadn’t liked the food, or had preferred the local restaurants like the Jolly Tamale and the RoundUp. Dooley’s, however, seemed to be doing all right. There were ten or twelve cars in the asphalt parking lot, which Rhodes thought was a good number for that time of night. Even on Friday, people in Clearview ate early and went home. If some of them were still around after that, Dooley’s must have something to attract them. One of the cars was a red Chrysler convertible, and Rhodes wondered what Max Schwartz was doing there.

When he got out of the Edsel, Rhodes found out what the attraction was. A sandwich-board sign stood by the front door of the restaurant. It said LIVE MUSIC TONIGHT. ORIGINAL SONGS BY C. P. BENTON.

“Wasn’t he in your academy?” Ivy asked.

“He was, but that’s not where he learned to play the guitar.”

“I didn’t think it was. I wonder what his original songs are like.”

“We’re about to find out,” Rhodes said.

He pulled open the door and they went inside. A podium stood nearby, and a man behind it asked them if they’d like to eat or go to the bar.

The man was stout, with a round face and graying hair parted in the middle. Rhodes had never met Jerry Kergan, but he assumed this must be the owner.

“Are you Mr. Kergan?” he said.

The man nodded. “That’s me. And you are?”

“Dan Rhodes. This is my wife, Ivy.”

“You’re the sheriff,” Kergan said, showing no signs of worry or dread. “It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“Thanks,” Rhodes said. “We’d like to eat. Maybe we’ll visit the bar later.”

Kergan didn’t have any objections. He took a couple of menus from a stack on a stand beside him.

“Would you like to be seated near the entertainer?” he asked.

“Sounds good,” Rhodes told him, and Kergan led them into the dining area, a large open room with well-spaced tables around the hardwood dance floor.

C. P. Benton sat on a stool on a small elevated stage near the back wall. He wore his hat, of course, along with black pants and a T-shirt that said I
♥
MATH. He didn’t really have the build to wear a T-shirt, in Rhodes’s opinion, but then neither did Rhodes.

A microphone stand and mike stood in front of Benton. He was tuning his guitar, paying no attention to the diners, and he didn’t see Rhodes.

Kergan led Rhodes and Ivy to a vacant table near the stage and put the menus on it. “Is this all right?”

“It’s fine,” Rhodes said.

Before he sat down, he looked around the room. Max Schwartz and his wife sat across the room. They were the only people in the room that Rhodes recognized. Schwartz raised his hand for an unenthusiastic wave.

Kergan pulled out a chair for Ivy. As she sat, he said, “Your waiter will be with you in a minute.”

He walked away, and Ivy said, “He didn’t seem intimidated by the handsome crime-busting sheriff.”

“He just doesn’t know how dangerous I am,” Rhodes said.

Just as he finished speaking, C. P. Benton tapped on the mike and said, “Is this thing on?”

“It’s on,” someone yelled.

“Good. I’d like to begin my show by playing one of my own compositions and a favorite of mine. I call it ‘It’s Your Birthday, So Wear your Birthday Suit.’”

Ivy leaned toward Rhodes. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

Rhodes wasn’t sure, either, but the song turned out to be fairly amusing. Benton’s voice was deep and not exactly suited to carrying the melody, but Rhodes didn’t mind. Benton’s playing wasn’t on a professional level, either, any more than his singing was, but Rhodes didn’t care about that, either.

After the song, Benton told a couple of jokes, or Rhodes figured that’s what they were supposed to be. It seemed to him that it took Benton a lot longer than necessary to get them told. Then Benton launched into another song, this one entitled “The Enemy of My Enema is My Friend.” Or Rhodes thought that was the title. He wasn’t quite sure.

The server came and took their order. Rhodes went for the chicken-fried steak. He figured he might as well live dangerously, because he was sure to get the grilled eggplant sooner or later.

Ivy got soup and a salad, but even that didn’t make Rhodes feel guilty. He looked around the restaurant. No one was drinking anything stronger than tea or coffee. There was no sign of anything like moonshine.

Ivy saw him studying the patrons. She said, “I think that rumor was all wrong. I don’t see any sign of hard liquor being served here.”

Neither did Rhodes. It would have been a risky proposition so close to town, with someone almost sure to report any untoward incident. The college crowd might have been interested, but Dooley’s didn’t attract the college crowd. The students were all commuters who left the campus as soon as their classes were over. Some of them might have eaten at Dooley’s at lunchtime, but not in the evenings.

He wondered, however, about Schwartz and Benton. Here they both were at Dooley’s, and there was that rumor about the whiskey. Maybe there was some connection after all.

The server brought their food, and Rhodes ate his steak, enjoying the cream gravy and mashed potatoes that went with it. After the table had been cleared, the server asked if they wanted dessert. Rhodes thought about apple pie with cheese on top, or maybe vanilla ice cream, but he didn’t want to push his luck, so he asked for the check.

Benton finished his short set to mild applause and set his guitar against the wall. He stepped down off the stage and walked over to Rhodes’s table.

“Good evening, Sheriff,” he said. “I thought I saw you out here. How did you like the songs?”

“A little odd for this town,” Rhodes said. “But I liked them.”

He introduced Ivy. By that time, they’d been joined by the Schwartzes, so Rhodes had to make further introductions.

Everyone found a chair, and soon they were all chatting like old friends. Rhodes asked Benton how it was that a college math teacher came to be singing in a roadhouse.

“I just do it for fun,” Benton said. “I’m a versatile guy. Did you ever hear of Tom Lehrer? He taught math at Harvard, but he was famous for his satirical musical recordings.”

Rhodes said he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of Lehrer.

“Well, that was a long time ago,” Benton said. “I have a CD of his material, though.”

“You’d be better off listening to the Kingston Trio,” Schwartz said. “Now that’s what I call music.”

“I can do ‘Scotch and Soda,’” Benton told him, and Schwartz recoiled in mock horror, his dark eyes large behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Don’t,” he said. “Just don’t. No one should sing that except Bob Shane.”

Benton looked hurt, as if he thought his voice was just as good as anybody’s.

Jackee changed the subject. She said, “Have you caught Terry Crawford’s killer?”

“No,” Rhodes said, “but it’s early yet. I have a few ideas.”

“Anything you can share?”

“No, not now.”

“Are we suspects?” Schwartz asked. “You can say so. It won’t hurt our feelings.”

“You’re suspects,” Rhodes said.

Schwartz looked crestfallen, as if his feelings were hurt.

“I’m sure you can account for your whereabouts this morning,” Rhodes said to cheer him up. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

Schwartz looked at Jackee, who looked at the floor.

“You
can
account for your whereabouts, can’t you?” Rhodes said.

“Sure, sure,” Schwartz said. “We were at the store. Isn’t that right, Seepy?”

Seepy?
Rhodes thought. Then he got it.
C. P.
had become
Seepy.

Benton’s eyes betrayed his confusion. “I’m sure you were,” he said. “I have to go do my closing set now.”

He stood up and went back to the stage.