Tumbleweed Weddings (20 page)

She looked at Miss Penwell’s hand, so thin with blue veins crossing under the skin. Her fingernails looked dry, and her index finger—

“Murray, I just remembered something.”

“What is it?” He strode to her side.

Callie showed him Miss Penwell’s hand. “When I picked up her wrist to check her pulse, there was a lot of dirt on her index finger.”

“Wasn’t her hand resting in the flower bed?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s why it was dirty.”

“But, Murray, I think she dug this finger in the dirt.” She looked at him. “We should go to the library and see what that soil looks like.”

He shrugged. “Sure, we can look, but the sheriff already combed the entire area. He didn’t find a thing.”

Callie laid Miss Penwell’s hand down on the bed. “I’m going back.”

At the library, Callie ducked under the yellow police tape that crossed the front of the building. She knelt beside the marigolds. “Her hand was right here.” She parted the flowers carefully.

Murray hunched down beside her. “I doubt if you’ll find anything suspicious.”

She looked at him. “That’s the trouble with you, Murray. You’ve never had any imagination. You were always content to just look at the surface of things instead of digging deeper—like Miss Penwell evidently did.”

His blue eyes widened, and he spread out his hands. “What have I done now?”

“I’m sorry.” She breathed out a sigh. “I’m just frustrated, I guess.” But it did feel good to vent. “I’d better keep my mind on our investigation.” Peering beneath the marigolds, she caught her breath.

“What is it?” He leaned closer.

“It looks like two initials.” Callie studied the tiny furrows in the soil.

“This first one is definitely a C, and this one is a—”

“
D
, maybe?”

“I think it’s a
B
. Yep, that’s it.
C. B
. I bet Miss Penwell thought she was going to die, and she was pointing out the murderer.”

Murray sat back on his haunches. “Why, Callie Brandt! Those are your initials.” A stern gleam pierced his eye. “And you had a good motive to kill her, too. Once she was out of the way, you would become the head librarian by default.”

“Murray! I didn’t shoot her!” She couldn’t believe he would even consider that.

“Okay, maybe not.” He grinned. “But who else has those initials?”

Callie thought for a moment before she grabbed Murray’s arm. “Chance Bixby! And I visited him this afternoon. He was acting awfully strange.”

“I can’t imagine Chance shooting Miss Penwell.” He glanced at Callie. “But maybe I should use my imagination for once.”

She laughed. “That’s the idea.” Then she thought of something else. “He has a gun collection. I saw it in his living room.”

Murray stood. “I’ll radio Sheriff Krause and see if he wants me to visit Chance.”

“And I’m going to the jail to visit Lane.” Standing, she dusted her hands off.

He cocked his head. “You really like him, don’t you?”

She smiled, thinking of the few kisses Lane had shared with her. “Yes, I do.”

“Remember when we were kids and I told you I’d marry you someday?” He gazed at her a moment. “I tried, Callie, but it looks like you’re going to end up with Hutchins. And so …” He shrugged. “I wish you all the best.”

“Oh, Murray!” She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick hug. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, well …” His face turned red, and the color crept all the way up to his red hair. He straightened up to his full height and sniffed. “Guess I’d better crack down on Bixby. Have to uphold the law, you know.” He strode off toward his patrol car.

A smile lingered on Callie’s lips as she watched him go.
I wish you all the best, too, Murray
.

L
ane paced his jail cell, which was hard to do since it was so small. Of the four walls, three were made of bars, and a hard cot was anchored into the cement-block wall at the back. The only other cell was unoccupied. His supper, which consisted of a cold chicken leg, Styrofoam mashed potatoes, and waxy green beans, lay untouched on a tray on the cot.

The other half of the building contained a small office. Sheriff Krause sat behind his desk. Lane had never seen such a strange specimen of humanity. The sheriff’s head sported a few hairs slicked down, and his sagging jowls resembled those of a bloodhound. He was a huge man who looked like he wore a life preserver around his waist. He’d probably eaten one too many doughnuts through the years. Right now he was leaning back in his chair, his hands folded over his wide girth.

He’s certainly no Andy Taylor
.

The front door opened, interrupting Lane’s musings.

“Lane!” Callie burst into the office and ran up to his cell.

He gripped the bars. “Callie! Man, am I glad to see you.”

“Now, Callie.” The sheriff’s chair groaned as he sat up. “If you want to visit one of the prisoners, you have to sign in.” He stared at them.

“In a minute, Sheriff.” Callie laid her hand over Lane’s. “I’ve missed you.”

“You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed you. I’m so bored—and depressed, too.” He might as well admit it.

“I’m sorry, Lane.” She gripped his hand. “I have some good news.” She glanced at the sheriff. “Did Murray call you about the flower bed?”

“Yep, he told me.” The sheriff got up from his chair, which creaked in protest. He stood beside Callie, making her look like a little girl, and hiked up his pants.

Lane frowned. “What does a flower bed have to do with anything?”

“Well, I visited Miss Penwell, and—”

“Did she come out of the coma?” Sheriff Krause placed his hands on his hips—or, at least, somewhere below the middle of the life preserver.

“She hasn’t snapped out of it yet.” Callie gazed up at Lane. “Really, I don’t know if she’s going to make it. But I remembered when I picked up her hand to check her pulse that there was a lot of dirt on her index finger. Murray Twichell accompanied me to the library this afternoon, and Miss Penwell had dug the initials
C. B
. in the flower bed where she was shot. Murray and I think she was trying to point out the shooter.”

“
C. B
.?” Lane frowned. “Those are your initials, Callie.”

“Yes, but also Chance Bixby’s.” She glanced at Fred. “Did Murray tell you about my visit to Chance?”

The sheriff shook his head. “What happened?”

She related the curt reception Chance had given her. “So it could be that Chance is the culprit.”

“That don’t prove anything, Callie.” The sheriff walked back to his chair and sat down. “I’ll admit that maybe—
maybe
—Lucille was trying to write something in the dirt, but you’ve got to have better evidence than that.”

Callie folded her arms. “You don’t have much evidence to hold Lane.”

A siren sounded in the distance, coming closer.

The sheriff glanced out the window. “That’s a highway patrol car. Must be Murray.”

The siren’s wail died. A few moments later, the front door opened. Chance Bixby, his wrists handcuffed behind him, walked in. He scowled at the sheriff before he spotted Lane and Callie.

Murray was right behind him. “Here’s another suspect, Sheriff.” He took out his keys and unlocked the cuffs. “Okay, Mr. Bixby.” He placed a chair in the middle of the room. “Sit down. We need to ask you some questions.”

Chance fell into the chair. He folded his arms and glared at his captors.

The sheriff stood, hiking up his pants from several places at the waistband. “Chance Bixby, where were you Thursday night, August 28?”

“Working at the library.” His answer came out as a snarl.

“Did you see who shot Lucille Penwell?”

Chance opened his mouth and then closed it. He pointed at Lane. “Lucille and that man there had a real fight, Sheriff. They were yelling at each other at the top of their lungs.”

Lane bowed his head.
How long will I have to relive that night?

Callie squeezed his hand, and he looked up.
I love you
, she mouthed.

That brought a smile to his face. Someday he would marry Callie—if he didn’t spend the next fifty years in jail.

The sheriff hiked up his stubborn pants. “I asked if you saw who shot Lucille.”

Chance glanced around the group. “Well, I don’t know …”

Callie left Lane’s side and knelt in front of the janitor. “Chance, please, if you know anything, tell us.” She motioned back to the cell. “Lane is an innocent man.” She paused. “If you saw someone shoot her, we need to know.”

He stared at Callie for a few seconds. “Okay, I admit it.” He looked at the sheriff. “I shot Lucille.”

Callie sat back on her heels with a gasp. “You did?”

The sheriff and Murray seemed as surprised as Lane felt.
That was an easy confession
.

Chance glanced around. “Yeah. Well, I’m only admitting it ’cause my conscience is bothering me terrible and ’cause of Callie.” He motioned toward Lane. “I can see you like this boy, and he’s suffering for something he didn’t do.”

“Thank you, Chance.” Callie squeezed his arm, right on his anchor tattoo.

“You’ve always been a good friend to me.”

He blushed. “Aw, Callie …”

“You did the right thing, Bixby,” the sheriff said.

Callie stepped back to Lane’s side.

He grabbed her hands through the bars. “Callie, you’re wonderful,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Wistfully, she gazed into his eyes. “I love you, too.”

“… a very serious charge,” the sheriff was saying. “If Lucille dies, you will be a murderer.”

Chance ran his finger around the inside of his T-shirt collar.

The sheriff nodded to Murray. “Take a few notes, Twichell.”

Murray pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “Tell us what happened, Mr. Bixby.”

“If I have to.” He sighed. “Lucille was in a bad mood. Probably because …” Chance motioned toward Lane. “When it was time to close up shop, I told her I was staying for a few hours to clean.”

“Do you do that often?” The sheriff paced in front of him.

“Yeah, about once a week, and it’s usually on Thursday night.” He blew out a breath. “But Lucille wouldn’t stand for it. She said she didn’t trust me alone in the building.” Chance spread his hands out. “What was I gonna do? Steal a bunch of books?”

Sheriff Krause folded his arms. “So you shot her?”

“Well, not then. We kept arguing, and she forced me out the door.” Chance slapped his leg. “I got so mad—I had it up to here with that woman. I took out my pistol and pulled the trigger.”

Callie leaned closer to Lane, even though the bars were in the way. He snaked his hand through the bars and patted her shoulder. He was breathing easy now.

“Do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon, Mr. Bixby?” Murray never looked up as he continued writing.

“Sure thing! And I got it legally from the attorney general several years ago. I double as a security guard at the library, you know.”

“Tell me, Bixby.” Sheriff Krause stepped forward. “Did you feel any remorse for shooting Lucille Penwell?”

“Not on Thursday night. When she fell, I thought she got what she deserved.”

Callie shook her head.

“But later, Friday morning, I felt bad, real bad. What had I done?” Chance’s shoulders slumped. “And now I can’t even sleep at night. I hope she doesn’t die.”

Lane actually felt sorry for the man.

The sheriff took a large ring of keys from the wall. “Okay, Bixby. Let’s get in the cell.” He paraded Chance past Lane’s cell and opened the other one. When the door clanged shut, Chance slumped to the cot and dropped his face in his hands.

The sheriff’s keys jingled as he opened Lane’s cell door. “You’re free to go, Mr. Hutchins.”

“Thank you, sir.” Feeling magnanimous, Lane shook his hand. Then he stopped to shake Murray’s hand as they made their way to the door.

“Sorry about that, Hutchins—uh, Lane.” Murray nodded toward Callie. “Hope everything works out for the two of you.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Murray.”

They walked outside. The sun was just beginning its descent in the early evening sky. Lane drew in a deep breath. “Oh, Callie, it’s great to be free. Liberty is not praised enough.”

She dug in her purse. “I can’t believe you had to go through all that.” Pulling out his car keys, she handed them to him. “It’s sad that you had to suffer because of Chance’s hot temper.”

“I’m glad it happened.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “You’re glad you ended up in jail?”

“Sure.” He threw his arm around her shoulders as they walked to the car, and she looped her arm around his waist. “I can get some good book material out of this experience. Maybe I’ll write a book about the history of jails in America.”

“Oh, Lane.” She laughed. “That’s worse than the
Gunfights
book.”

He grinned as they stopped at the car. “Maybe I could interview every inmate in America who’s been incarcerated on false charges.” He drew his brows together. “You know, all those men who claim to be innocent?”

“There are probably a million of them.” She smiled, shaking her head. “You’re crazy.”