Hot Enough to Kill

by Paula Boyd

  My mother isn't known for being a gourmet chef, or even a semi-enthusiastic cook, so I ate a whole lot of TV dinners when I was growing up. Just one more facet of the "good old days" that I didn't want to relive now. What I really wanted was one of those tasty chicken baskets. Yes, with gravy, and every blessed fat globule and calorie it contained.

  It took a little expert negotiating with Deputy Marshall, but I managed to recruit a deputy, who was sweltering outside in day number 37 of triple-digit heat, to scurry up to the DQ for me. When he returned, he was much more cheerful, and I suspected he'd had his own snack and iced tea while he was at it. With food and drink in hand, I was also feeling better, at least until he told me the temperature outside, and I quote: "One hunnerd seventeen and hot enough to kill."

  This local phrase was not my favorite at the moment, for obvious reasons. "What happened to the old 'fry an egg on the sidewalk' thing?" I asked, just a tad peevishly.

  The deputy grinned. "Kickapoo doesn't have any sidewalks." Well, no, it didn't. But it surely did have a killer.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke the next morning to the nostril-burning smell of fingernail polish and hair spray. The spray hovered in the hallway like a toxic cloud, raising the urge to cough, as well as my suspicions. Lucille was hauling out the big guns in personal care products for a reason--and that worried me.

  I dragged myself out of bed, sauntered down the hallway and leaned against the bathroom door to watch her layer on another coat of helmet-in-a-can. Frivolous Fawn wasn't moving a micrometer today.

  "I'm glad you're up," Lucille said, setting the can of hair spray back on the shelf. "I've convinced the deputy that came on duty this morning, his name is Tim and he seems like a very nice young man, to take us to the funeral this morning."

  Funeral? Oh, BigJohn. I felt a little foolish--and guilty--that I'd forgotten all about the very reason I'd been summoned to Kickapoo. The man had been murdered in his own home and I'd just forgotten about it. No, I hadn't for a minute forgotten the event, but I surely hadn't thought much about the man, at least in human terms.

  "There should be a huge turnout," Lucille said. "Not that they're coming for the right reasons, of course, but I expect most of the town will be there. A good many from Bowman City and Redwater, too."

  She'd made it sound like going to BigJohn Bennett's funeral was some grand outing, an exciting event that I should just be all aflutter over. I wasn't. Even if I hadn't developed the nasty habit of shaking at even the thought of attending a funeral, I wouldn't be interested in going to this one. "I don't care anything about going to BigJohn's funeral. I didn't even know the man. And you probably shouldn't go."

  "Nonsense, I'm determined to go. Not that I'll shed any tears, but I don't want to sit in this house all day doing nothing. At least at the funeral I'll get to see some of my friends."

  Uh huh. "And cause a stir."

  She shrugged. "It should make things interesting."

  To say the least. Mr. Married Mayor's girlfriend, wife and political opponents--apparently there were no allies--would all be in attendance. "Nobody actually liked the guy, but they're all going to his funeral?"

  She patted a curl and it held firm. "It's the right thing to do."

  Lucille selected a pencil and tube from her makeup collection and expertly lined and filled her lips in a deep cherry color then smacked and dabbed with a tissue. She then snapped on a pair of matching red ear clips, which, incidentally, also matched the new color of polish on her plastic nails. It looked like an awfully good paint job to have been done with her "bad hand," but I didn't mention it. Satisfied that she was ready for the ball, she slipped off her housecoat and hung it on the rack. Wearing a cherry-red, two-piece suit with white trim and a shiny belt, she looked quite spiffy.

  "Wow," I said, words being my forte. "You look terrific."

  "Why, thank you, Jolene. I guess your mother still has it when she needs to." Waving me into the other room, she said. "I've laid out that sleeveless navy dress with the gold belt I bought you that you never wore. Help yourself to whatever jewelry you want. I have a pair of navy heels that should fit. They're too small for me and I've been meaning to give them to you anyway."

  Right then and there I thanked whatever superior being watches over me that she didn't offer me one of her wild purple things and glitter sandals, not that I would have, but there is a price to pay for rejecting Lucille. "Thanks. I'll hurry." Then I paused. "Wait a minute. I just told you I don't want to go."

  "Sure you do, Jolene. How else are we going to figure out who's trying to kill us? You're supposed to be asking questions, remember? What better place?"

  "I can name several better places to interview possible suspects."

  "Killers always go to the funerals of the people they killed. Happens every single time. I guess they come just to make sure the job is really done."

  I groaned. "Maybe on television, but--"

  "I know the killer will be there, Jolene. I'm just sure of it. I don't get these intuitions often, but when I do, I'm always right. Now hurry up."

  I have my own share of intuitions, and the meter had been set on disaster since I reached the city limits of Kickapoo. Still, I guessed she had a point. It would be good to get out of the house, and it might even be better than sitting at home watching the thermometer rise.

  * * * *

  Once again, I was wrong. I'd have rather watched the little red line of mercury until my eyes crossed than endure a military funeral. I jabbed my mother with my elbow and growled, "Why didn't you tell me he was a veteran?"

  Lucille lifted her hand to her mouth and whispered, "Because I knew you wouldn't come."

  She was damned right about that. I glanced at the casket with the American flag draped over it. Oh, she was going to pay for this one. She very well knew I wouldn't take this well--and I wasn't. In my mind, every single casket with a flag on it was my dad's. Just looking at the thing was making my throat choke up. At least I'd had the forethought to wear dark glasses to hide at least part of my face. "I'm leaving," I muttered.

  Lucille let out a little sniff and grabbed me by the arm as if she needed me for support. Oh, please, like anybody who even casually knew Lucille would buy that. "Let go of me, Mother. You know I don't do well at these things."

  "Of course, I do. I also know it's past time you got over it, Jolene. People die and funerals are a part of life."

  Oh, I was not happy. Not at all. Not only had she tricked me into coming to this thing, but now she was telling me it was for my own good. The only saving grace in this whole thing was that if I was mad, I wasn't crying. Still, it was just a matter of time. I couldn't stay mad and distracted throughout an entire funeral--at least I hadn't in the last two years.

  Technically, I guess that wasn't true since I hadn't actually cried at my own father's funeral, which was the crux of the problem--I couldn't. I'd had to be strong for my mother, who was nuts enough for us both, so I stuffed all those emotions away and kept my eyes off the flag-draped casket and on the floral arrangements. There were sixty-seven red carnations, forty-three white ones, thirteen lilies, nine blooms I couldn't identify and six blue spider mums. Let's not forget the eleven potted plants, two of them ivy. I don't remember that much about Dad's funeral, but I remember the flowers.

  I felt myself choking up again and knew a different distraction was in order so I began estimating crowd size. There were probably more than two hundred people present at the elaborate graveside service that the supposedly-grieving widow, in her infinite wisdom, had chosen to have. I suspected that having the funeral outside during the hottest part of the day was most likely a spite-related decision, and I kind of had to admire her for that. She was showing everybody she was in control, if only for a few minutes. Still, if several attendees didn't drop dead from the heat it would be a major miracle.

  The cemetery people had set up three big tents for shade and they'd turned on two high pressure sprinklers upwind from the service to cool
the air blowing in our faces. Best I could tell, the makeshift swamp cooler was about the only heavenly thing present.

  The preacher was probably fifty-something with steel-rimmed glasses and a graying ring of fluff encircling his head. Apparently, he was from the mayor's church, but he was no dummy. Knowing full well that he'd go straight to hell for lying, he hadn't tried to canonize BigJohn. In fact, he didn't spend much time at all on the eulogy. He just stepped right up on his rather high and mighty soapbox and delivered the loving and forgiving message I remembered all too well from my childhood: Come to Jesus or rot in hell.

  He could have been insinuating that the former mayor was currently aflame for his wickedness, but I tuned out rather quickly as this type of preaching has the effect of a bucket of ice water on my emotions-or maybe that's a box of matches--just depends. I tried to suck in a deep breath and hold it, hoping that would stave off my tendency to hyperventilate in such situations.

  I have good reason for this reaction. Reasons, actually. Many of my fondest childhood traumas surround the First Baptist Church of Kickapoo. I vividly recall a stern Sunday school teacher who terrified me more than all the fires of hell and devil business they could think up. For years I was terrified that horns would pop up out of the ground and snatch me away for being inherently wicked. I don't think that old woman ever smiled. She did, however, get a gleam in her eye when she rapped my knuckles for not knowing the assigned Bible verses. But I digress.

  Wishing I had a paper bag in case I really did start to hyperventilate, I turned my attention back to my conniving mother who had gotten me into this mess, make that messes. Not that she was concerned about me and my little hysterical mental escapades. Oh, no, she had other things on her mind. Like having a glaring war with her ex-boyfriend's official next of kin. The dark shades didn't hide where Lucille was staring. She was giving Velma Bennett the eye--make that the evil eye.

  "Just look at her," Lucille hissed, covering her mouth with her hand and leaning toward me. "Sitting up there like a queen in her plain old black dress and that silly-looking basket hat, acting like she cared about him. That woman never cared about anything but his money and his name. They never even really lived together and I think she was out doing more carousing than he was. I wonder if her lover's here."

  Interesting thought. I scanned the crowd, looking for what, I'm not sure, but I looked. Getting worked up over religion was a little better than getting worked up over the be-flagged casket--and unresolved grief--but trying to guess which of the men lurking in the crowd was Velma Bennett's lover was almost amusing.

  "Jolene," Lucille whispered, distracting me from my almost-fun. "Look over there. That's Dee-Wayne Schuman standing in the middle of that little group." She bobbed her head in the general direction of a cluster of men and I picked out the one who looked most like a gorilla. It wasn't as easy as it sounds. "That white-haired old man next to him is the mayor now, Gifford Geller," she added. "I didn't know he and Dee-Wayne were friends, but they sure are looking chummy today."

  Yes, they surely were. Gifford was the acting mayor now and Dewayne was the one needing a certain city permit issue forgotten. "Is Gifford still making Dewayne change his carports to garages?" I whispered.

  "Good question. Maybe you ought to go ask him."

  "Maybe I will," I grumbled back. "Maybe I'll ask them both separately. You sure they don't know each other?"

  "Well, I'm sure they know one another, Jolene. Everybody around here knows everybody else. But that doesn't mean they were friends or ought to be hanging around together."

  Someone behind us cleared his throat, which I took that as a definite sign somebody actually wanted to hear what the preacher was saying--or at least not hear what we were. I mumbled my apologies at being raised in a barn and nudged my mother toward the edge of the tent where a little pocket of empty space waited. We didn't have as good a view of the pulpit, but I wasn't complaining.

  "Look there," Mother said, nodding back at Dewayne and Giff. "They're laughing about something."

  They were probably laughing at us looking at them, but I didn't say so. Finally getting my wits about me, sort of, it occurred to me that the white car that had been nothing but a blurry cloud in my bullet-sprayed vision might very well be parked here somewhere. Odds were if the killer was here, his car was too--maybe.

  The cemetery was laid out in random-shaped patches of plots with circular loops of pavement leading from one to the other and around. Cars lined the snaking roads as far as I could see. And, at least half of the vehicles were white. White sedans, a few white compacts and plenty of white pickup trucks--all with gun racks. "What kind of vehicle does Dewayne drive?" I whispered to Mother.

  "I think it's one of those pickups with the four doors and a big old toolbox in the back. I see him at the Dairy Queen sometimes."

  "What color?"

  "White."

  A shot cracked out across the cemetery.

  I jumped, snapped around toward the sound and managed to catch myself before I fell to my knees. Apparently while I'd been busy looking for my assailant's vehicle, the preacher had finished his sermon and the honor guard had been called to arms. I turned and watched the smartly dressed crew with shiny shoes and white gloves finish their snappy drill. Impressive, always. I made certain I didn't even flinch for the next two volleys.

  Lucille looked a little shaken by the gunfire also, but she was doing a better job of not letting it show than I was. She straightened her lovely red suit, this way and that, smoothing it down over her shapely hips with great dignity, or at least as much dignity as she could with her arm in a sling and her nerves on edge.

  A couple of old ladies in the seats next to where we stood were snickering behind their Bibles and I was highly tempted to tell them that they might be a little gun-shy themselves if they'd been shot at a time or two in the last few days. I mean really. My mother had stitches in her arm from a shot through her window and I'd had a bullet an inch from my nose, not to mention that I'd seen my oldest and dearest friend nearly killed in my mother's kitchen. It was a wonder we both hadn't hit the dirt instantly. And in truth, I'd been closer to doing just that than I wanted to admit. Deciding they needed a little lesson in manners, I took a step in their direction.

  Lucille caught my arm. "Don't waste your breath, Jolene."

  She was right. There was no point. No matter what I said to the self-righteous biddies, it wouldn't change a thing. I turned back toward the front of the tent to see the honor guard present the flag and bullets to the official widow.

  I was trying to peer over and see if she'd mustered up a tear or two when, off to my right, I noticed Dewayne Schuman edging away from main attraction and toward the back of the crowd. Then I realized there was someone in front of him, a woman, with her back to me. The dark curly-haired woman had Dewayne's full and undivided attention, and he was shaking his head "no" and backing up quicker by the second, so quick in fact that he looked in danger of tripping over himself. She wasn't a physically large woman but she was sure putting the fear into Dewayne. Interesting.

  I started to get Mother's attention and tell her we should go check it out when I saw a flutter of ebony bobbing through the crowd. When it finally broke out into the open, I could see that it was a little gray-haired woman dressed all in black, scurrying from the funeral like a cockroach fleeing light. She had a dogged brisk step that rang a familiar bell, but not loudly enough for me to put a name to it. I made a quick look back for Dewayne and couldn't find him, which was curious. There'd be time to ask about that one later, so I nudged Mother and nodded in the direction of the black apparition hustling herself away. "Who's that?"

  Lucille glanced at the woman and said, "Oh, that's just old Bony Butt. Good Lord, I bet she's hot in that get up. Wonder why she's running off before it's over? That's rather rude, even for her."

  Yes, why? And what was going on with Dewayne Schuman? Where did his pal Gifford go, and how did any of it relate to the shootings?

/>   I watched Ethel Fossy, aka Bony Butt, double time it across the freshly cut grass and flat headstones, not bothering to see who she was stepping on. For an old lady, she was really moving fast, faster than I could have in this heat, that was for sure. Bony Butt kept up her brisk pace until she reached the driver's side of an old Chevrolet Caprice four door, late seventies model, but still in decent shape, and yes, it was white.

  Ethel tried to kill me? It made perfect sense, and it didn't. Even considering Bony Butt's fanatical bent, she wouldn't have shot me for what I'd said at the Dairy Queen, would she? Lucille, sure, but probably not me, and definitely not BigJohn. Bony Butt was his biggest fan, and she was also bosom buddy to wife Velma . Still it seemed like there was a link to something there that I couldn't quite grasp. Just for curiosity's sake, I turned back to Mother. "What kind of car does Velma Bennett drive?"

  S

  95

  he bristled at the name, but answered anyway. "The old goat bought her a brand new Lincoln Town Car not two weeks ago--as a coming home gift, I guess. Or maybe as a bribe for putting up with his sorry self."

  Before I could ask, Lucille said, "Yes, Jolene, it's white."

  Well, now, weren't they all.

  Chapter 10

  The rest of the funeral had been fairly routine, which was plenty fine with me. I'd had enough excitement to keep my unruly emotions in check, although I did get a little teary on the way out when we passed near my father's plot with the tasteful bronze marker and military emblem. Naturally, I did my best to make certain no one noticed my traitorous leaking eyes. Naturally, I failed.