by Sharon Short
Owen put his hand over mine. “Then I saw you—but you didn’t see me. After class, I came home to think. I’m worried that Billy’s mixed up in something that’ll get him in trouble.”
I was too. Before going home, I’d drive out to the Red Horse Motel and see if Billy was still there. But for the moment, I didn’t want to leave Owen and his room full of books. He started telling me again how great my hair looked and then we started smooching—just nice, gentle, smooching.
Still, when he suggested that—what with Tyra and all—I should stay with him, I said no, because as much fun as smooching was, I wasn’t ready for spending the night. But we smooched some more. After a while, Owen walked me out to my car.
As I pulled away, I thought I saw movement by the fourth garage over. Probably just a deer, I told myself, and headed over to the Red Horse Motel.
I was tired, so I took Licking Creek Lake Road, a short cut to the Red Horse from Owen’s. It goes right by the Rothchild wooded land once considered for the antique mall development.
And right by that stretch of land, I saw two vehicles parked alongside the road. I recognized them both, one being Elroy’s (because he has the only tow truck in town) and the other being Lewis’s (because he has the only newer black Cadillac in town).
I pulled up behind Lewis’s Cadillac. It’s real dark in southern Ohio countryside at night, so I got my flashlight out of my glove compartment, turned on the flashlight and then shut off my car’s engine and my headlights. Then I got out of my car.
The tow truck and Caddy were both empty. There was nothing weird in either of them—just chip bags and soda cans in Elroy’s tow truck. The tan leather interior of the Caddy was spotless.
I checked all around the Caddy—no flat tires, no skid marks—plus the tow truck was not hooked up to the Caddy, so my first guess—that something had happened to Lewis and Elroy was out here to tow him—didn’t seem likely.
So I went back up to the tow truck itself. Maybe, in a weird role reversal, Elroy had needed help and Lewis had stopped to help him. But there were no signs of that, either.
Maybe, I thought, Lewis and Elroy had come out here to meet and talk—but that didn’t seem right, either. They weren’t exactly friends.
On the other hand, it was hard to imagine they’d both ended up here by coincidence. And they were the only two Paradise business owners missing from Tyra’s “soirée” at my apartment.
Then, I heard singing. I tensed, thinking of Tyra and her show tunes. But it was a man, off key, warbling “Amazing Grace.”
Elroy came crashing out of the woods. At first, I had the shocking thought that always-somber-and-sober Elroy was drunk.
“Elroy,” I hollered. “Over here, by your tow truck.” He was now skipping up and down in the middle of the road.
He stopped. “Who’s there?” he called out in a singsong voice.
I trotted over to him, calling, “Elroy, it’s Josie. What are you doing out here?” Then I stopped shy of him when my flashlight picked out the handgun tucked in his waistband.
“Josie,” he said slowly, as if trying to remember who I was. Then, all at once, he brightened. “Josie! This—this is a miracle! This is a sign! That you would show up, right now—”
“Elroy,” I said, eyeing the gun nervously, “What are you talking about?”
“You said there might be some reason other than the tuna sandwiches, why the businessmen went away and didn’t ever buy this land for the antique mall. So, I came out to look, and sure enough, you were right! There was something! It wasn’t my tuna sandwiches at all!”
I sighed. “Elroy, let’s get you home—”
Elroy giggled. “It was the mushrooms! Mushrooms, Josie!”
He ran off into the woods. I was, I realized, expected to follow him. So, I did.
I stumbled along after Elroy, keeping my flashlight trained on his back so I didn’t lose him, while he hollered, “they must’ve eaten the mushrooms . . . ooh, watch out for that big white rabbit!” Elroy dodged to the left, then to the right. “. . . They were too mad to come back, maybe . . . or something . . . but it’s as good a reason as the tuna . . . ooh, another big white rabbit!”
I groaned, realizing that Elroy had taken me seriously when I carelessly threw out the idea that something at this site might have been why the businessmen left. He actually found rare spring mushrooms and figured that mushrooms had made them sick, not his tuna, then tested the theory by eating the mushrooms. God only knew how many he’d eaten, but obviously they were poisonous and making him hallucinate—or else I was blind to the wild huge white rabbits of southern Ohio.
Elroy had gotten ahead of me, out of sight. I needed to catch up with him, get him up to the hospital in Masonville. I could find out later about why Lewis’s caddy was here too and about Billy at the Red Horse.
I caught up with Elroy, all right. He stopped and I ran right into him. As we fell, I feared his gun would go off when we hit ground. But either the gun was unloaded, or we got lucky, because the only sounds as we landed were the thuds of Elroy hitting the ground, then me, landing on his back.
Elroy grunted, with me still on his back, and I pushed a bit of brush out of my face. I looked around with my flashlight—we had landed in a tiny clearing, which sure enough had mushrooms. Hundreds of tiny white ones, all over the place. And there was something else, too, in the clearing.
Two bodies—one was Lewis Rothchild, and he’d been shot in the chest. He was slumped against a tree. And lying on the ground, maybe 20 feet from him, was Tyra Grimes, not moving.
Elroy groaned. “They weren’t here before. . . just the mushrooms . . .”
And with that, he passed out, right underneath me.
6
Now, it’s times like those—not that I often find myself late at night in the woods surrounded by poisonous mushrooms and three bodies—that I really wish I had a cell phone.
But I just had a flashlight. I scrambled up off of Elroy, turned my light on him. His face was an unhealthy, pasty, shiny white, sweat beaded up all over his forehead. He was quivering, his breathing ragged and raspy.
Then I went over to Tyra. Except for a nasty lump on her forehead, she looked, well. . . artful. Like an actress playing the part of someone who’s passed out. Unlike Elroy’s, her breathing was smooth and even. She had a nice rosy color to her cheeks and her auburn locks were spread delicately on the ground, fanned out around her head. Even the way her arms and legs were spread out was prettily posed.
And then there was Lewis. His chest was a gaping open wound. There was no doubt—he was dead. I thought worriedly of the gun Elroy had. I’ve seen dead people before, but always fixed up, in caskets, laid out at Lewis’s funeral home. This was the first time I’d seen death in its natural state, not all prettied up, and what surprised me was, it didn’t seem horrible. No awful expression of fear was frozen on Lewis’s face. But it didn’t seem peaceful either—no beatific expression. Lewis just looked—dead. Empty. It wasn’t like looking at Lewis at all.
The whole thing—checking the three bodies, checking the area—took me maybe a minute, give or take. I was out of ideas about what to do.
So I sat down and cried.
I’d like to say I cried because of Lewis—especially Lewis—and Tyra and Elroy. But the truth is I was crying because I felt really sorry for myself.
Now, I know that sounds terrible. But I’ve noticed that the maw of self-pity tends to open up and slurp you down at the worst of times—like when you’re out with three bodies and poison mushrooms in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. It whispers, “of course you don’t know what to do, you idiot! And if you hadn’t gotten all high and mighty, thinking you could get Paradise back on the map just because you know a thing or two about stains, this wouldn’t have happened. You think you’re so smart because you’re a stain expert? Why, a truly smart person would only need a paperclip and, say, a ketchup packet and maybe some dryer lint to rig up a radio device to fetch
help . . .”
And so on, like that. But fortunately, my self-pitying despair lasted only a minute or so. It just felt like forever, as these terrible moments do. Then it struck me that someone like Tyra probably had a cell phone in her purse.
I trotted over to Tyra’s big black purse and began emptying its contents into a pile on the ground. There was the usual stuff, like what I carry in my purse—a wallet, only leather; a comb, only sterling silver; pen, only the fancy gold kind you have to twist so the tip comes up through a hole. And a used, wadded up tissue. Nothing fancy about that. I guess some things you can’t dress up. And a cell phone.
I held the flashlight with one hand, shining it on the cell phone, figured out I had to press the “Power” button first, then tapped in 9-1-1. Then I began talking to someone—well, I kind of shouted into the phone to explain the situation, since the mouthpiece seemed so far away from my mouth. I was reassured that help would soon be here, and I should just stay put.
So I turned off the cell phone and started to put everything back into Tyra’s purse. I saw something I hadn’t noticed before, a silver compact. It had popped open and revealed two pictures—on one side, a faded, old, black and white picture of a young, wistful looking girl between what I guessed were parents—a sour-looking man and a sad-looking woman. The other picture was of two young girls—but it wasn’t really a picture. It was a magazine clipping, no words to identify who the girls were. I closed the compact and put it back in Tyra’s purse, wondering about those pictures. They didn’t seem to fit with Tyra at all.
A retching sound—half gasp, half cough—snagged my attention. Elroy. He sounded like he was choking.
I don’t know what I thought I would do, but I wanted to get over to him, try to help somehow, so I quickly dropped the cell phone into Tyra’s purse and started to stand up. But suddenly Tyra grabbed my arm, and I went back down on my knees.
I twisted around with the flashlight and pointed it at her. Tyra was sitting upright, looking scared and confused.
“What,” she rasped, “are you doing in my purse?”
“I used your cell phone to call for help . . . I was putting everything back in your purse . . .” I stammered to a stop, feeling guilty, somehow, for the peek I’d had at her pictures. Then I shook my head. This was ridiculous. This woman had just come to, in the middle of the woods in Ohio, between a dead man and a retching man, and her first question was about what I was doing with her purse. “Look,” I said, wrenching my arm free of her grasp, “just what are you doing out here? And with Lewis Rothchild and Elroy Magruder, of all people? I thought you were back at my place, at your party?”
She stared past me, lost in her own world. Then she pressed her eyes shut for a second, opened them again, and looked around like she was just now opening her eyes.
“Where—where am I?”
“You’re okay,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I believed that. “Do you know what happened?”
“I was at the party at your apartment, having a lovely time, and it ended, so I—I decided to take a walk, and . . . and . . .”
Elroy let out with another long, retching gasp. Tyra grabbed my arm again, only this time she was shrieking, “That man! That man! He attacked us!!”
She shook me and pointed at Elroy. “Him! That man there! He attacked us—oh, it’s coming back to me now—he knocked me down, started arguing with poor Lewis, and the last thing I heard as I was passing out was a shot, and Lewis moaning, and that terrible, evil man laughing! Josie, keep him from me. . .”
I stared at poor Elroy, who—gagging and writhing about in his bright yellow windbreaker—looked like a ridiculously large goldfish out of its bowl. I said, “What? Elroy? Evil?”
That’s when it started to drizzle. The three good weeks of spring weather—for which Paradise was named by its settlers—had come to an end.
“Oh, it was just awful. I was just taking a walk after the party at Josie Toadfern’s humble abode, because I was so overwhelmed by the simple, homey sweetness of the good people of Paradise who had come to meet me and learn from the stores of my knowledge of elegant living—really, their adoration was touching, and I do so wish you could have been there, John—I may call you John, mayn’t I?”
Tyra stared up at Chief John Worthy, her eyes big and wide. Chief Worthy nodded solemnly. I was hopping up and down, trying to get Chief Worthy’s attention.
We—that is, Chief Worthy, Tyra, and myself, although Chief Worthy and Tyra didn’t seem to realize I was right there—were all on the edge of the clearing, just yards away from where the county coroner and other officials were taking stock of Lewis and the area around him. Big lights were set up, so we could see each other, in a shadowy kind of way. Elroy had already been taken away by ambulance, the gun he carried bagged as evidence. I wished I could go over and watch the investigation—I’d never seen a murder investigation before, except on TV—but I figured that’d get me thrown out, and I needed to talk to Chief Worthy.
But all his attention was on Tyra. I swear, he was so entranced, he was practically purring.
Tyra went on. “I was taking a nice evening walk when Lewis Rothchild stopped to check on me—he was such a nice man, so kind to stop and check on me, and I was grateful, since I’d gotten lost and wandered far from the town. Then out of nowhere came that—that evil man—” Tyra shuddered and pointed toward where poor Elroy had been just ten minutes before, moaning and groaning, while the paramedics hoisted him up on a stretcher to take him up to Mason County General Hospital.
At least they’d listened to me—and taken me seriously—when I explained that Elroy had most likely eaten quite a few of the mushrooms in the clearing. One of the paramedics had even bagged a few mushroom samples to take up to the hospital. Elroy, she’d told me, would most likely be okay after getting his stomach pumped—but he was lucky I’d come along when I had, or he’d probably have died from mushroom poisoning.
It seemed that that was where his luck was going to end, because now Chief Worthy was saying, “Don’t worry, Ms. Grimes—”
“Oh, John, please just call me Tyra, won’t you?”
I swear, the man blushed. “Uh, well, Tyra, I was just going to say you shouldn’t worry—we’ll keep an eye on him at the hospital and as soon as he’s released, question him down at HQ.” His chest puffed out a bit when he said “HQ.”
“Oh, you’re so brave,” Tyra gasped. “I mean, that man just came charging at us, knocked me in the head, and as I was going down, I saw him. . . saw him start to hit poor, dear Lewis—who put up a brave fight, but that man was just like a raging bull. He pulled out a gun from somewhere and shot poor old Lewis, right in the chest. I—I wanted to help—” Tyra paused long enough to hiccup out another sob—“but I just passed right on out.”
Just then, another ambulance pulled up. “Here’s the ambulance—let’s get you up to the hospital, just to make sure you didn’t get a concussion.” John guided Tyra around the crime scene and toward the ambulance. I walked right behind them.
“Oh dear, do you think I’ll have to stay the night?”
“That’s up to the doctors, but it’s likely. I assure you, Ms. Grimes—uh, Tyra—you’ll get the finest medical care.”
“I’d better call Paige and let her know what’s happened.” Tyra whipped out her cell phone and started punching numbers as the paramedics helped her into the ambulance.
“Thank you for your statement,” Chief Worthy called, with a little wave, as a paramedic shut the doors. Our last view that night of Tyra was of her kicking off her high-heeled pumps.
Statement? Chief Worthy had written nary a note of Tyra’s comments—and he certainly hadn’t questioned a single thing.
But I had a lot of questions.
First of all, who wears high-heeled pumps to take a walk at night on a country road?
And second of all, even if Tyra had been taking a walk, why would Lewis stop to help her? He’d made it clear he hated her.
Thi
rd, how could anyone believe Elroy would shoot anyone?
I thought these questions needed asking, so I tapped Chief Worthy on the shoulder.
He turned, looked at me, and sighed. “What do you want?”
“To give you my statement, just like Tyra Grimes.”
He stepped away from me, at the same time shaking his head dismissively. “You gave your statement to Officer Niehaus.”
I’d barely gotten to tell Joe Niehaus how I’d seen both Lewis’s and Elroy’s vehicles by the road, got out to investigate, and what had happened next, before Chief Worthy had told him to go see if anyone needed extra flashlights or coffee or something. Then he’d told me to go home, but I’d stayed around, even though he kept ignoring me.
But I wasn’t going to be ignored now.
I jumped right in front of him. “Look, there’s a lot that Tyra’s leaving out. Like, how could Elroy just sneak up on Lewis and Tyra with a tow truck, for pity’s sake? And if Lewis was just checking on Tyra, how’d they end up back here? I mean, why would they take a walk in the woods together? And if Elroy’s this mad killer, why didn’t he kill Tyra too, since she allegedly,” I paused, licked my lips, repeated the word since it seemed so powerful, with all its lawyerly innuendo, “Allegedly witnessed him killing Lewis?”
Chief Worthy stepped around. “Probably because Elroy was confused by the opiate effect of the mushrooms he’d eaten.”
I trotted after him. “C’mon, now, you know Elroy couldn’t have killed Lewis—Elroy’s a big old softy.”
“Lewis was always making fun of Elroy for those tuna sandwiches. Murders have been committed over lesser motives than that. Maybe Elroy’d had enough. And Elroy had a gun. Look, Josie, just leave the investigation to the professionals, okay?”
I had to admit, it certainly looked like Elroy had killed Lewis. And he did have years of resentment built up against him. Maybe the effect of the mushrooms had pushed him over the edge? Still, I felt I ought to stick up for Elroy.
