Dead Soldiers

by Crider, Bill

  “Carl, shame on you. You don’t think I would tell a lie, do you?“

  “I didn’t say you lied. I said you might have exaggerated.“

  “Well, I never!“

  “I’m not saying I blame you. For exaggerating, I mean. You were just trying to throw suspicion on someone besides Neal Bruce. You knew he collected soldiers, and you were afraid someone would suspect him of taking the ones that were missing. You were protecting him. I can see that.“

  Mason’s demeanor changed. “I said before that you weren’t as nice as you seemed, and now you’ve tricked me again. First you lure me here to this park and pretend you like being alone with me, and then you accuse me of lying.“

  Burns was so taken aback that he couldn’t answer for a few seconds. After he gathered his thoughts, he said, “I didn’t lure you here. I followed you. You’re the one who did the luring, if anybody did.“

  Mason stood up. “Of all things! I never heard of anything so ridiculous. I don’t have to listen to you any more. I’ve been insulted enough for one day.“

  She turned and stalked to her Cadillac, got in, and drove away, spinning the tires so that gravel flew up and clicked against the side of Burns’s Camry. He walked over to look for chipped paint, but he didn’t detect any.

  Mason hadn’t admitted a thing, but as far as Burns was concerned, she might as well have. He was convinced that he was right about her lying to protect Bruce. Burns felt that he should have known all along that it was a mistake to believe her. After all, Dr. Partridge had told him that Mason was capable of anything. However, it was Partridge who had called him and had him listen to Mason’s story, so maybe Partridge had thought there was something to it in spite of its source. In the end, it had proved to be just another dead end. Worse than that, it had messed up any case that Burns had been making against Stilwell, who was probably in the clear, an innocent victim not of jealousy but of Mason’s being protective of her new lover.

  The depressing thing was that Stilwell wasn’t the only one in the clear. So was everyone else unless Napier had found out that Ball had lied about his rifle.

  And then there were Rex and Suzanne Cody. Maybe they were the guilty parties. Burns was sure Napier had talked to them, though he hadn’t mentioned it. Since they were part of the college family, Burns was sure he was expected to have a chat with them.

  He looked at his watch. It was still early afternoon, so he could drive by their house, which, as it happened wasn’t too far from the one owned by the Balls. It could, however, have been on a different planet, for as nice as the Balls’ house was, the Codys’ was nicer. In fact, nice wasn’t the word to describe it; neither was house. Mansion would have been more appropriate, and it was by far the largest home in Pecan City.

  Burns decided that he’d pay it a visit.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Driving through the downtown area, Burns saw that Mason’s pink car was parked just down the block from Stilwell’s antique store.

  Burns thought about the conveniences of living in a small town. Mason could apologize to Stilwell, walk a short distance, and tell Bruce what had happened. You couldn’t do that in Houston. Well, you could, but it would be unlikely that the buildings would be so close together. And Burns was willing to bet there weren’t a lot of antique stores in downtown Houston.

  He stopped at the college and went up to his office to tell Bunni where he was going and to ask if he’d had any calls or visitors.

  Bunni told him that, as usual, there had been none of either.

  “I won’t be back this afternoon,“ he said. “If anyone calls, just take a message.“

  Bunni said she would and asked if the baseball game was still on for Saturday.

  Burns hadn’t thought about it, but with the injury to Elliott, the faculty team wasn’t at full strength. And it might not be safe to play, what with someone sitting around to pick off members of the team. Even if Napier had the metal building guarded, there was always a chance something could happen.

  “I’m not sure,“ Burns said. “Maybe not.“

  He didn’t add that he sincerely hoped not. He wouldn’t have to humiliate himself in front of Elaine and everybody else.

  “I’ll find out,“ he said, feeling better about things for the first time all day.

  The Cody house, or mansion, sat at the top of Thrill Hill and looked down on all the other lesser homes around. It was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence. A sign attached to the fence said “The Cody’s“ in old English script, and Burns reflected on the sad fact that even having millions of dollars didn’t protect people from the egregious misuse of the apostrophe.

  There was an electronically operated gate beside the sign, but it was open, so Burns drove through it and onto the grounds. The drive was paved, and it curved around in front of the house so that Burns was able to park almost at the door. He was prevented from getting really close by the wide concrete porch and the steps that led up to it.

  The house was a wonderful example of conspicuous consumption. It was modeled on the antebellum mansions of Mississippi, and Burns almost expected to see someone sitting on the veranda, wearing a white suit and a planter’s hat, sipping on a mint julep. At the very least he expected the doorbell to play “Dixie.“

  If it did, he couldn’t hear it. The house was too well insulated for that.

  Or maybe the bell didn’t work, because no one came to the door in response to it. Burns pushed it again and waited. Still no one came. Burns was a little surprised. He’d more or less expected a liveried servant to appear. The Codys were a little too democratic for that, he supposed.

  Because of the open gate, Burns knew that the Codys must be at home. Maybe he should have known the people of his station entered a place like this only through the back door. He walked down off the porch and started around the house on a little graveled path that wound among the trees on the close-clipped lawn. When he got near the back, he could hear the sounds of people talking, and he soon saw that the Codys were enjoying the pleasant weather in their back yard on their own private putting green. Burns looked around, and he was disappointed to see that there were no mint juleps anywhere around.

  “Excuse me,“ he said.

  Rex Cody, who had been lining up a putt, straightened and turned around. Suzanne looked at him with curiosity, as if he might have wandered in from the slave quarters in some trashy plantation novel. If Burns had been wearing a hat, he would have taken it off and twisted it in his hands.

  “I hate to bother you,“ Burns began, but Cody interrupted him.

  “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any.“

  “I told you we should have that gate fixed,“ Suzanne said.

  She was in her late thirties, Burns thought, and she looked trim and fit in the white shorts and shirt she was wearing. Her husband was a little older and not as fit. His stomach pushed out his polo shirt and obscured the waistband of his golfing shorts.

  “I’m not selling anything,“ Burns told them, and Cody interrupted again.

  “That’s what they all say, buddy. Now get on your horse and ride on out of here.“

  “Actually I’m in a Toyota.“

  The Codys exchanged glances, as if to say, “How plebian. And a smart-ass, besides.“

  “I teach at the college,“ Burns continued. “My name’s Carl Burns, and I’m the chair of the English Department. Dean Partridge asked me to come by and visit with you.“

  “Oh,“ Suzanne said. “Then we beg your pardon. We didn’t know you were here on college business. I’ve contributed quite a bit of money to the school, as I’m sure you must know.“

  “Oh, yes,“ Burns said, wondering if he should curtsy. “The college is very indebted to you for the furnishings in the student center, among other things.“

  Suzanne smiled, and Burns could see that she appreciated the acknowledgment.

  “Why don’t we sit down,“ she said, leading the way to a white metal table shaded by a large cloth
umbrella, also white.

  Rex looked reluctantly at the golf ball at his feet. He sighed, flipped the club, caught it by the handle, and followed his wife. Burns trailed along behind.

  When they were seated at the table, Rex said, “Make it snappy, Dr. Burns. It is doctor, I presume.“

  “It is, but just call me Carl.“

  “Fine. You know who we are, and we know you. Now that we’re all cozy, state your business and let’s get this over with.“

  Burns wondered if Cody dealt with everyone the same way, or if he treated only those he regarded as his underlings with disdain.

  “I’m here because someone stole some toy soldiers from Dr. Partridge’s house,“ Burns said.

  “Jesus Christ,“ Rex said. “And you interrupted my putting practice for that?“

  “She thinks you might have stolen them,“ Burns told him.

  He didn’t know why he said it. It was uncharacteristic of him. He decided that he’d been hanging around Napier for too long.

  “The nerve of that woman,“ Suzanne said. “We’ll just see how long it takes us to get her ass fired.“

  Burns couldn’t hide his smile. “Did you say ass?“

  “What the hell difference does it make?“ Rex said. “She can say whatever she damn well pleases. I’m not going to have anybody call me a thief and send some second-rate English teacher to my own house to question me.“

  The golf club was leaning against the table, and Burns wondered what would happen if he took it and bent it over Cody’s head. Probably he’d be thrown in the Pecan City jail, where Boss Napier would work him over with the bullwhip.

  “If we’re going by the salary that I’m paid, I’m more like a third-rate English teacher,“ Burns said.

  “Whatever you’re getting, it’s more than you deserve.“

  Things had gone bad fast, Burns thought. Maybe it was just a case of instant mutual dislike, or maybe Cody was guilty of something. Whatever the case, Burns wasn’t going to find out anything at this rate. Time to change tactics and get back to being the real Carl Burns instead of some disrespectful imposter.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,“ he said, trying to sound contrite. “I seem to have implied something that’s not true, and I don’t blame you for being upset.“

  “Upset?“ Rex said. “Am I upset? Do I look upset, Suzie?“

  He looked like a man about to have an apoplexy, Burns thought, but Suzanne said, “Not at all, Rex. You look very calm to me.“

  If that was true, Burns didn’t want to see him when he was actually upset.

  “At any rate,“ Burns said. “I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot with you. When I told you that Dr. Partridge thinks you might have stolen her soldiers, I was exaggerating. I should have said that you and your wife were among the only people who were in her house on the day they disappeared. Dr. Partridge hoped that you might have seen or heard something that would help us find out who took them.“

  “It sure didn’t sound that way to me,“ Rex said, and Suzanne said, “Me neither.“

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry about that.“

  “You damn well should be. I’ve a good mind to have your ass fired.“

  He could do it, too, but at the moment Burns didn’t even care. He was just sorry he’d ever let Partridge talk him into this. Partridge and Napier. It was all their fault.

  “You’re pretty defensive,“ he said, feeling the imposter slipping out again. “Is it because you’re guilty?“

  “Hell no, I’m not guilty. If I wanted any toy soldiers, I’d buy them myself.“ Rex waved a hand to indicate his house and grounds. “Do I look like someone who needs to steal some crummy toy soldiers?“

  “No,“ Burns said. “You certainly don’t.“

  “And I didn’t, either.“ Rex stood up. “So you can leave now.“

  Burns sat right where he was. “I have another question for you.“

  Rex picked up his golf club and ran his left hand down the shaft.

  “I’m wondering if you or Mrs. Cody saw anybody else with an undue interest in the soldiers. Anybody who might have lingered in the room to be alone with them.“

  “There was no chance of that,“ Suzanne said.

  Rex continued to finger the shaft of his golf club. Burns wondered if Rex knew the Freudian implications of that action. Probably not.

  “There were students there,“ Suzanne said. “Bustling around, telling us that we’d come in the wrong way, showing us out. We weren’t in there long enough to have taken anything, and neither was anyone else.“

  “What about Matthew Hart?“ Burns asked. “How well did you know him?“

  “What the hell does he have to do with anything?“ Rex said.

  “I was just wondering.“

  “Hart was a bastard,“ Rex said. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t like him. We played bridge with him and his wife now and then. You, on the other hand, I don’t like much at all.“

  “I’m not much of a bridge player,“ Burns said.

  “Probably not much of anything. Now why don’t you take a hike.“

  Burns didn’t think he was going to get anything more out of the Codys. He stood up and said, “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.“

  “You shouldn’t barge in on people,“ Rex said, fondling the club. “They don’t like it.“

  “I apologize,“ Burns said. “But when the dean speaks, I obey.“

  “Maybe you’re not all bad, then,“ Rex said, but Burns could tell he didn’t really mean it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As Burns drove around the curving drive, he reflected that he could see most of Pecan City from the Codys’ lot. It wasn’t a bad little town, he thought. He could see the college, the Main Building standing out from the others by virtue of being the only one with more than two storeys. He could also see the downtown area and Neal Bruce’s bank, which stood out for the same reason Main did. Burns wondered if Bruce and Mason would ever really get married or if Bruce was just another in a long line of her conquests.

  Looking in the direction of the baseball field, Burns noted that he could see it quite well, and the metal building where the shooter had been positioned sparkled in the sun. It wouldn’t have been all that tricky for Cody to fire the shot that hit Don Elliott and then get back home, if he had the stamina to walk up Thrill Hill. He looked in rotten shape to Burns, who thought climbing the stairs in Main had conditioned him enough so that he could get up the hill on foot if he’d wanted to try it, which he didn’t. Better to think that he could do it than to be disillusioned by the reality.

  Thrill Hill, which was quite steep, had been named by high school students of generations long past. When there had been nothing more than a dirt road to the top, they had driven up there in their jalopies, turned around, and driven back down as fast as they could go. When the road leveled out at the bottom, it ran straight for a quarter of a mile after its junction with the main road, and so there was plenty of time to slow down, assuming there was no one coming along to get in the way and prevent the crossing.

  As he pulled out of the Codys’ drive, Burns wondered if Rex Cody had always been an asshole or if he’d become one only after he got rich in the oil business. Burns remembered what F. Scott Fitzgerald had said about the very rich: “They are different from you and me.“ Hemingway hadn’t thought much of that idea. He believed the only difference was that the rich had more money. Burns wasn’t sure who was right, but Rex Cody was different from Burns, and if it was money that had made him that way, Burns wanted no part of it.

  But, Burns told himself, he’d never become like Cody. If he had money, he’d be kind and generous and beloved by the community. He’d use his wealth for the benefit of all. No question about it.

  Burns stared down the hill, his head filled with all the wonderful things he would do, not to mention all the civic awards he’d receive, so that at first he didn’t notice the car that was coming up the hill. When he did notice,
he saw that it was coming straight for him.

  The road was paved, and there was plenty of room for both cars. But the driver of the car headed up was taking his half of the road right out of the middle.

  The sun dazzled off the car’s windshield, and Burns couldn’t see who was driving or whether he was even looking in Burns’s direction.

  Probably some jerk talking on a cell phone, Burns thought and honked the Camry’s horn. The result was disappointing. Say what you might about the old gas-guzzler that Burns’s ancient Plymouth had been, it had a real horn on it. It had honked with gravitas and authority. It had moved people out of the way with its stentorian tones.

  The horn on the Camry didn’t have anything like the same resonance or force, and it sounded to Burns about as authoritative as the little squeeze-bulb horn that had been on the Huffy bike he’d gotten when he was five years old.

  If the driver in the other car heard it at all, he gave no sign. The voice on his cell phone was no doubt louder than the horn.

  Burns glanced to his right for some way to escape. There was really no place for him to go. There were no houses on the hill other than the Cody mansion, so there were no driveways or yards that offered a convenient turn-in. There was just a slight drop-off onto the rough and rocky shoulder in which only a few weeds grew, and the shoulder itself was narrow, no more than a couple of feet wide. A drainage ditch ran along beside it, and beyond that some scrawny mesquite bushes and a few runty oaks stuck up behind the barbed wire fence that went all the way down the hill.

  Even worse, right ahead there was culvert underneath the road, and on each side of the road there was a large concrete abutment. Burns had literally nowhere to turn.

  Burns slowed down. The other driver didn’t, and he seemed to have no intention of moving out of the middle of the road.

  As a teenager, Burns had heard about the game of chicken. He hadn’t thought about it in years, however, and he’d certainly never taken part in it.

  Well, he thought, he hadn’t taken part in, but he was taking part in it now, and it didn’t take him long to decide that when it came to being chicken, he had few peers. Better to try to miss the abutment than to hit the other car head on. As the driver barreled closer, Burns threw on the brakes and turned off the road.