The Huckleberry Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery (7 page)

“Where’s the farmhouse?”

“It’s a few miles down the road from my own little house, on the other side of Cow Creek. As for cashing Social Security checks belonging to someone else, I have no idea.” Marge
put her hanky back in her purse. “His Social Security checks didn’t amount to that much.”

“How much?”

“About fifteen hundred dollars. Not enough for somebody to murder a person for.”

“Marge, people get murdered for a whole lot less than fifteen hundred dollars. Take my word for it.”

“Really? It seems so little for a human life.”

“Yes, it does. I guess the value goes down pretty fast if it’s somebody else’s life. In any case, Marge, I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I know something.”

“Thanks, Bo. Is it okay if I call you Bo?”

“You bet. You can call me anything you like, Marge. Oh, I understand Orville was quite the fisherman.”

“Good heavens, no! Orville hated fishing. Said it was the most boring excuse for a hobby he could ever imagine. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just something I heard.”

AFTER MARGE LEFT, Tully drove over to Crabbs. Etta was just getting out of her car when he arrived. She was dressed in what, to Tully, looked like sailcloth pants, the legs spreading into little flares slightly below her calves. She wore a little black jacket that also seemed to have an ancient naval look to it, although maybe it was just basic New Yorky, something she had picked up at Saks Fifth Avenue. Ever since Susan, he had made a point of being attentive to what women wore.

“Hey, Bo!” Etta cried. “We have perfect timing!”

As with almost everything Etta said, Tully wondered if there weren’t something subliminal he was supposed to pick up on. He had never known a woman who made him quite as nervous as this one. Having enough trouble with his present world, he had little tolerance for people who claimed a
knowledge of some other world. He hoped Etta wasn’t one of those. She had impressed him as a person of few pretensions. The outside of her house displayed only cracked and peeling paint, a rickety porch, a yard that made Lennie Frick’s beer-can pile look like a landscaper’s display piece, and a set of stairs and handrails in serious need of warning signs. If she ran a business out of her house, she needed a visit from OSHA. Now he noticed that she drove a rather modest Buick LeSabre with several dents and dings, and in need of a wash. On the other hand, everything in the interior of her house had been strictly upscale. Something weird was going on with Etta Gorsich.

“Hey, Etta!” he called back.

She gave him one of her sexy but amused smiles. “I hope I’m not taking you away from your work.”

“Actually, you are,” he said. “And I’m profoundly grateful.”

Etta responded with a throaty laugh. “I’m pleased, then. I’ve never dated a sheriff before. But maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe it’s only a business lunch.”

“I prefer to think of it as a date,” Tully said. “Crabbs, by the way, is the best restaurant in all of Blight City.”

Etta smiled. “Sad, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Its strongest point is proximity. Crabbs’s motto should be ‘We’re here.’ ”

“Perfect!” she said. “You should be in advertising, Bo.”

“You really think so?”

“No, I think you’re perfect as the sheriff. People love you, particularly the women.”

Tully took her by the arm and turned her, so he could look her in the eye. “You’ve been talking to my mother, haven’t you, Etta?”

“Your mother? Good heavens, no!”

“Come clean. I’m a sheriff, you know. I can spot a lie three blocks away.”

She put on an exaggerated pout. “Well, if your mother is a fascinating woman named Rose, it’s entirely possible I may have met her on some occasion.”

Tully rolled his eyes. “Just as I thought! My mother is Gossip Central in Blight City and surrounding points. I happen to be the main topic of her gossip. You should never believe a single thing she says.”

Etta pretended to be extremely serious. “But isn’t it true, Bo, that all the women love you?”

“Well, that’s true, of course. I mean all the other stuff.”

“I’ll say only this about my conversations with Rose: the other stuff is extremely interesting!”

Tully let his chin drop down onto his chest.

Lester Cline, the manager, showed them to a table. Tully watched as he spread a napkin on Etta’s lap. She ran her eyes down the menu.

She looked up. “I’d love to go with the beef dip but I’m afraid I’d drip the
jus
all over me.”

“You obviously have sophisticated tastes, Etta. I usually order the beef dip myself.” He nodded at the manager.

“Yes, sir?” Lester said. “The usual?”

“One for each of us, please.”

Lester hurried off. Etta leaned across the table toward Tully. “Didn’t you just hear me say I was afraid I’d drip
jus
all over me?”

“I did, indeed. Ah, here comes Lester.”

“Already?”

Lester came up behind Etta and tied a plastic bib around her neck. It went all the way down her front and covered her lap. For a moment, she seemed shocked. Then she burst out in a raucous laugh, much to Tully’s relief. Lester then tied a bib around Tully’s neck. Etta now laughed so hard she seemed in pain.

Lester took a pad from his pocket. “And what dressing would you like on your salads?”

Etta appeared incapable of speech. “Blue cheese on both, Lester,” Tully said.

•  •  •

He tried to steer their conversation over lunch in a sensible direction. Etta was eating the beef dip with appropriate gusto and had an attentive expression on her face. Then suddenly she exploded with wild laughter, holding her napkin in front of her face, struggling to maintain a certain propriety.

“Am I correct to assume you don’t usually wear bibs at your New York restaurants?” Tully asked.

Etta stretched the napkin like a curtain in front of her face. Her eyes peered over the top, full of tears and pain. She shook her head slowly back and forth—then broke out laughing again.

By the time the waiter took away their bibs and plates and returned with cups of coffee and a small plate of chocolates, Etta looked as if she were headed out for trick-or-treating. Streaks of mascara ran down both cheeks, but she had finally settled into an enduring calm.

“I hope you’re sorry,” she said.

“I can’t believe you’ve never used a bib before.”

“Not since I was about four years old. And don’t you dare set me off again. The other customers in here probably think I’m crazed.”

Tully held up his hands as if claiming total innocence. “I’m sorry. I had no idea a bib would have such an effect. In any case, I have an important question I need to ask you, in all seriousness.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. When I left your place the other day, you called after me from your porch, ‘Look under the house.’ What did you mean?”

Etta frowned. “I didn’t call after you, ‘Look under the house.’ At least I certainly don’t remember doing so. Why would I say something like that? I’ve never even seen your house.”

“Not my house. Somebody else’s house.”

“Somebody else’s house? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bo.”

Tully shook his head. “Here’s the thing, Etta. It seemed to refer to a case I’ve been working on.”

“Bo, I know nothing about your cases. If I were actually a
psychic, I probably could solve all your cases for you, but I’m not. My expertise is financial counseling. I can assure you I didn’t call out anything to you.”

“Forget I asked. Please! It was stupid of me.”

Etta turned sober. “I will tell you something, Bo. I really don’t have answers to anything. I’m not a psychic. Not a fortune-teller. I barely know what I’ll be doing from one day to the next, let alone managing to predict the future for someone else. But occasionally an odd image will flash in my mind for no reason at all. Maybe I did blurt something out. If I did, it meant absolutely nothing.”

Tully didn’t know what to say or do. “Etta, it isn’t important. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“I hope I haven’t ruined our lunch, Bo. By the way, please tell me this really is a date. I’m badly in need of a date.”

“Me too. It’s definitely a date, Etta. I hope we can have another one soon.”

“You don’t think I’m weird, Bo?”

“Well, yeah.”

It was a test. Etta passed. She laughed.

TULLY GOT BACK to the office in early afternoon. Lurch called to him as he came in. “Hey, boss, Susan says she’s recovered three bullets from the vics. All three are .22-caliber shorts. I’ve got a theory about that.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I think the shooters used silencers.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The fact the bullets were .22-caliber shorts. You want to kill somebody dead, you don’t use .22 shorts. You’re trying to hold the sound down. You want to really hold it down, you use silencers.”

Tully scratched his head. “Interesting theory, Lurch. If the shooters used silencers, we’re dealing with serious criminals. Our local boys wouldn’t know a silencer from a bass drum. Susan sending the bullets over?”

“I told her I’d pick them up.”

“Good. Too bad silencers don’t leave marks. We may turn some up, though. Did you get the prints on the vics?”

“Yeah, but no matches, boss.”

Tully headed back to his office. “Weird. I was hoping we might at least get a lead.”

He stopped at Daisy’s desk. Without looking up she said, “I know this can’t be good. Besides, I smell a woman.”

“You must be psychic.”

“So, how was lunch with Etta Gorsich?”

“Not bad. Couldn’t hold a candle to lunch with you, though.”

Daisy checked her notepad. “I bet not. But to get back to business, Brian called. Said he wants you to meet him at three at Slade’s Bar and Grill.”

“Pugh say why?”

“He said it had to do with the killings up on Scotchman.”

Tully frowned. “Slade’s is in a rough part of town.”

“Criminals seem fond of the place. Actually, he said to meet him across the street from Slade’s.”

“Probably wants me to watch his backside.”

Daisy smiled. “I think the expression is ‘watch his back.’ ”

“Is that it? I’m always getting my cop expressions mixed up.”

•  •  •

Pugh was sitting in his blue Ford pickup across the street from Slade’s. Tully drove up behind him in an unmarked department
car. He walked up and climbed into the passenger seat of Pugh’s truck. “What’s the plan, Brian?”

“There’s a hooker works out of here. Some guy beat her up pretty bad the other night. A small-time hood by the name of Jack Foley hangs out at Slade’s. Deals some drugs and has a two-bit fencing operation. I could have busted him half a dozen times, but a year in jail would seem like a resort vacation to him. He tells me there are three very serious dudes in town. Been hanging out here all summer. The other night one of them cracked Bev—that’s the hooker—up alongside the head with a pistol. Rang her bell pretty bad. The three guys have been sitting at her table about every evening they come in. I suspect Bev spouted out something she shouldn’t have, probably something she heard from one of them.”

Tully tugged thoughtfully on the corner of his mustache. “So, what do you need me for, Brian? This looks like a place I could get seriously hurt.”

“Yeah, it is, boss. I thought you might like to come along to keep me from killing some of the patrons.”

“I see. Well, I suppose I could do that.”

They got out of the pickup and walked across the street. Tully pulled his Stetson low over his eyes and peered into the darkened interior. He could make out half a dozen figures moving around in the back. He and Pugh walked in and sat down at the bar. The bartender approached, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Two double shots of whiskey,” Tully said.

Pugh gave Tully a look.

Tully winked at him. “Might as well enjoy this, Brian. Besides, I need something to settle my nerves.”

The bartender brought their drinks. “Listen, fellas,” he said in a low voice. “The guys here usually don’t care for strangers dropping by. Be a good idea to finish your drinks and clear out.”

Tully leaned across the bar and whispered, “We’re actually pretty tough. Particularly my partner here. Sometimes I have to restrain him, keep him from going too far, you know what I mean?”

The bartender shrugged. “Just giving you some free advice.”

Tully glanced at the group playing pool at the far end of the room. “It’s Friday afternoon,” he said. “Doesn’t anyone in here have a regular job?”

“Yeah,” the bartender said. “Me.”

“Is Bev around?” Pugh asked.

“Yeah, she’s sitting at the table over in the corner. She isn’t feeling so good. A fella gave her a pretty rough time the other night and she’s closed for business. Her, uh, boyfriend is that big guy shooting pool in the back with the guys. It’s always a good idea to talk to him first, before you talk to Bev.”

“Really,” Tully said. “Well, we don’t usually ask permission to talk to anybody, right, Bud?”

Pugh was studying the big guy.

“Bud!” Tully said, nudging Pugh in the ribs.

“Oh, yeah, right.”

They picked up their drinks and walked over to Bev’s table. She was holding an ice bag against the side of her
head. As Pap might have said, she looked rode hard and put away wet.

She peered up at them with the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. “I’m out of commission, guys.”

Tully pulled out a chair and sat down. Pugh took the chair next to him. Tully said, “We need to talk to you, Bev, about the guy who smacked you with the pistol.”

“You better talk fast, then,” she said, “because here comes J.D.”

A second later the huge man was looming over them. Tully and Pugh looked up at him.

The monster said, “I guess you guys don’t know the rules, so I’ll tell you. Clear out now, before I throw you out.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Tully said, “but we were talking to the young lady.”

“You ain’t talking to nobody! Now out!”

Tully smiled at Pugh. “Your turn or my turn?”

“I think it’s yours. I’ve had the last dozen. But I’ll take it, boss. Hospital?”