Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  She was so speechless, she didn’t think to answer—just stared at the ring.

  I got up, an’ she took the ring outta the box an’ put it on her finger, holdin’ her hand out so she could admire it.

  It fit, too, thanks to Martha Rooney. She’d took Nina window shoppin’, once, to scout out what kinda ring I oughtta get.

  Nina swung her legs over the counter an’ jumped down right in front of me. She grabbed me by the shirt pockets an’ pulled me to her, startled the wits outta Handy Taylor, who was just comin’ through the door.

  Outta the corner of my eye, I could see his jaw drop—like to unhinge it—just before Nina kissed me full on the mouth.

  I could feel Handy’s eyes drillin’ into me, but I couldn’t help myself—I kissed Nina back.

  When we finally come up fer air, Handy stammered, “I’ll jest wait outside.”

  I felt myself get all hot; Handy backed out the door.

  Nina laughed. “Bound to get out sometime.” She shrugged an’ walked back around her counter, still admirin’ her new ring.

  I put on my hat and said, “Best I get back to work.”

  “Stop by fer dinner later. Bring Skip.”

  “I’d love to, but I’m on duty tonight. Probably be pretty late ’fore I can get a break.”

  “Well, then, stop by pretty late fer dessert.”

  • • •

  Handy followed me back to the office, an’ I took his statement regarding John Doe. Right after he left, Rye come in. His timin’ was so good, I figured he musta been waitin’ outside fer Handy to leave.

  Rye took off his hat an’ sat down in my visitor chair. “What do I gotta do, Homer?”

  I fished out a pen an’ a job application, an’ told to him fill it out. Which he did.

  “You gotta have a physical an’ a background check—”

  “Background check! You already know more about me than God does!”

  “You got a point there. Not to mention a checkered background. Guess we can skip that step. But you will have to let Doc look you over, and you’ll need to take the State Cops’ Gun Safety Course.”

  “Pshaw! I could teach that!”

  “No doubt.” I reached him down a couple books from the shelf over my desk. “You gotta read these, too.”

  Rye looked like he used to on the first day of school, when teacher passed out the text books. “I gotta learn all that?”

  “Naw, just the parts underlined.”

  When I took Festus on, I knew he’d never get through all the how-some-evers and where-ases in the State Criminal and Traffic Codes, so I went through the books an’ underlined all the parts I figured pertained to West Wheelin’ or Boone County.

  In most of the books Rye ever come up against, the parts underlined was the sally-a-shus parts. He’d never had trouble ’memberin’ them. Now he flipped through the books, noddin’. “I guess I can do that.”

  “Come back when you got it down. Meantime, I’ll call Doc, and Sergeant Underhill over at the state cop shop, an’ set you up.”

  Rye put his hat back on an’ tucked the books under his arm. “Be seein’ you.”

  I was just reachin’ fer the phone when Martha Rooney come on the radio. “Homer, you still ten-eight?”

  Martha’s been sheriff’s dispatcher since her kids went off to school. She keeps the radio an’ phone number books in a big old roll top desk in her kitchen.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wilma Netherton just called. She’s hysterical. I couldn’t understand a word she said. Could you swing by an’ see what’s up?”

  “Ten-four, Miz Rooney.”

  • • •

  “Rats!” Wilma said. “You got to do somethin’, Sheriff. The place is crawlin’ with rats!”

  I looked around. Half a dozen cats’n three dogs was lyin’ on the porch. The yard was so tidy, you’d never know it was a farm. I said, “Where, ma’am?”

  Wilma pointed out at the road. “Cross the road. That woman’s harboring rats!”

  It took me a while to get her to settle down an’ start over. Seemed a stranger had moved in across the road an’ started collectin’ trash, storin’ it in the yard. Rats had taken up residence an’ were spillin’ over into Wilma’s yard. So far, the cats an’ dogs had kept on top of the problem, but Wilma was sure it was just a matter of time ’fore she had rats comin’ in her kitchen.

  I allowed as I could mebbe look into it. An’ I moseyed across the road to do just that.

  • • •

  The name on the mailbox was “M. Lincoln,” an’ the post was sunk into a tub of yellow flowers. I pulled up to the front steps of the house, right next to a old, orange Ford pickup. The truck had runnin’ boards and a winch in the back for slingin’ heavy stuff into the bed.

  I got outta my cruiser an’ put on my hat, takin’ my time so I could have a look around.

  Since the SOLD sign had been removed from the property, there’d been considerable changes. I didn’t see no rats, but there was a lot of places they could be hidin’. Like the piles of stuff—old glass bottles, neatly sorted by color; a small mountain of old tires; assorted car parts; firewood an’ scrap lumber; bricks, an’ bikes, an’ old TVs. An’ lots of other junk. All of it was neatly stacked an’ fairly clean.

  Pretty soon a tall, handsome woman strolled out the front door. She was wearin’ a man’s blue work shirt, with flowers stitched on the collar an’ pockets; a pink flowered apron over her overalls; an’ steel-toed boots. She wiped her hands on the apron an’ held out her hand to shake. “Good morning, Sheriff. I’m Mary Lincoln.”

  I shook her hand. “Mornin’ Miz Lincoln.”

  “Call me Mary, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

  “You startin’ a junk yard here, ma’am?”

  “Good Lord, no!” I waited. “I just can’t throw away anything useful. And this is all good for something.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You bring it all with you?”

  I meant, when she moved in. When the place was sold, it was empty as a politician’s promises.

  She understood. “Oh, no. I picked it all up along the highway. Could I offer you a cup of coffee, Sheriff? Or some tea?”

  West Wheelin’ don’t take quick to newcomers, an’ somethin’ in her voice made me think she must be lonely. So I said, “Coffee’d be nice, if it ain’t no trouble.”

  “None whatever.” She waved at the rockin’ chair on the porch. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  While I waited, I sorta took a inventory of the junk. There musta been three 5-yard loads of stuff—more’n the County Highway Department crew would pick up in a year.

  When Miz Lincoln come out of the house, she had a TV tray with coffee an’ fixins, an’ a plate of chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies. I stood up an’ settled the tray fer her while she went inside fer another chair.

  The coffee was good’n strong, an’ the cookies was quite tasty. After I’d had three, I asked her where she’d moved here from.

  “Chicago, Illinois, Sheriff.”

  “Call me Homer, ma’am. Everybody does.”

  “Okay, Homer. I used to be a trauma nurse at Cook County Hospital. County is where they bring all the gunshot and burn victims. It’s unbelievably busy. One day I just had too much. I’d put in enough time to retire, so I did. I came here because I thought it would be peaceful.”

  I nodded. “Is it?”

  “Oh, wonderfully.”

  I pointed to her piles of trash. “How’d you come to pick up all this stuff?”

  “In Chicago, I used to run to keep fit. You have to run in Chicago—to stay ahead of the panhandlers and muggers.

  “Here, I walk. But when you slow down, you notice things more. In my case, litter. I’ve made picking up litter part of my exercise routine. When I find something too heavy to carry, I come back for it in my truck. The trash, I dump. But all of this—” She waved, takin’ in the whole yard. “Is a waste of landfill space.”

  I couldn’t dis
agree. Miz Lincoln ’peared to be quite a asset to our community. Still, there was the problem of them piles of junk makin’ a perfect breedin’ ground fer rats. Somethin’ would have to be done about that.

  Some folks swears by traps or poison, but for my money, nothin’ beats a good rat dog fer keepin’ vermin under control.

  “You got any dogs, Miz Lincoln?”

  “Why, no, Sheriff. Homer. I had one years ago, but it was such a wrench when he died, I couldn’t bring myself to get another.”

  Which was a good sign. All I’d have to do would be to get her close enough to a dog to get attached to it, an’ the rat problem’d be solved.

  But that raised another problem. Where was I gonna get a good rat dog?

  Martha interrupted my wonderin’ when she called me again. “Homer, get over to the Truck Stop, pronto! Charity Nonesuch just called to say all Hell’s broke loose out in the parkin’ lot!”

  wild horses

  When I got to Hardsetter’s there was a ruckus goin’ on out back where the semis park. A couple locals had the driveways blocked off but they let me through right off. Once I got past ’em I seen why. A big ol’ stock truck was center stage in the lot with its doors open an’ ramp down. Mebbe two dozen skinny horses, paints an’ bays an’ duns, was millin’ around, tryna find a way out. Hardsetter has a woven-wire fence around the lot to discourage local used vehicle parts entrepreneurs from preyin’ on his customers. That fence an’ the driveway patrol was all that was standin’ between the herd an’ freedom.

  Charity Nonesuch was standin’ out behind the restaurant with her hands on her ample hips. When she spotted me, she bustled over to fill me in.

  “Good thing you’re here, Homer. I was sure we were gonna see murder done.” She pointed to where a truck driver—big as your average pro defensive lineman—was faced off against a small, feisty female.

  The lady was wearin’ a Grateful Dead T-shirt under a pair’a bib overalls, an’ pint-sized work boots. If her hair’d been red instead’a light brown, you coulda took her for Little Orphan Annie—she weren’t much bigger’n a ten-year-old kid.

  The two of ’em spotted me about then, an’ come rushin’ over, both talkin’ at once. I held up my hands an’ yelled, “Whoa!” over the racket.

  They shut up.

  “S’posin’ you start, ma’am,” I tol’ the woman.

  ’Fore she could get a word out, the truck driver yelled, “This bitch turned my stock loose!”

  I gave him my best State-Trooper stare, an’ he shut up.

  I turned to the woman. “That right, ma’am?”

  “I’ve been following him all the way from Nebraska. Those poor horses haven’t had any food or water since he left there!”

  I wondered was she one of those animal rights nuts, though she didn’t seem daft. ’Sides, we got laws about interstate livestock transfers. I turned back to the driver. “You got your shippin’ papers?”

  “In the truck.”

  I followed him over to it. The trailer was knee deep in muck an’ smelled ferocious. There was two horses down in the back; one looked dead. And way up front, near the cab, I could just make out the outline of a pony-sized critter with ears like a mule.

  I went round to the cab, an’ the driver gimme his papers. After studyin’ ’em a while, I said, “Says here you’re headin’ for Grover. Seems like you mebbe missed your turn-off.”

  He got all red an’ started puffin’ up like a hedge-hog fixin’ to make a stand. I raised a eyebrow. He musta thought better of startin’ somethin’, cause he backed off, lookin’ sheepish. “Guess I’m not much on geography.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You mind if I look in your truck?”

  “What for?”

  “I dunno. You got somethin’ to hide?”

  “No, but I know my rights.”

  I held my hands up like ‘I surrender.’ “I’m real sure you do.” Then I closed the truck door an’ fished my han’cuffs outta their case. “Put your hands on the truck.”

  “What?” He held his hands out to the side like he didn’t know what to do with ’em.

  “What I said. Put your hands on the truck.”

  He did, but all the time I could see him lookin’ fer a way out. “What’d I do?”

  I put the cuffs on him. While I patted him down, I told him, “Since you know your rights, you know you got the right to remain silent.”

  “WHAT’D I DO?”

  “Ain’t what you did. It’s what you ain’t did. You ain’t give them critters any water lately. They’s laws against that.”

  “The hell, you say! I watered them this morning.”

  “That musta been some trick. You ain’t got a bucket in the truck, or nothin’ else big enough to water one horse, much less a herd.”

  “I want a lawyer!”

  “In due time.”

  “I got a right to a phone call!”

  “Just hold yer horses.”

  He ’bout gagged on that, an’ I took the opportunity to finish recitin’ Miranda. I put him in the back seat of my squad an’ buckled the seat belt ’round him. Then I deputized one’a the driveway patrol, to keep a eye on him.

  “What’re you gonna be doin’, Sheriff, while I’m watchin’ your priz’ner?”

  “Well, I got to make arrangements fer these horses, an’ get some infermation from the witnesses.”

  While I was tellin’ him that, Charity’d hauled out half a dozen milk crates an’ lined ‘em with plastic garbage bags. She was fillin’ ’em with water from the hose they use to wash down the back, an’ them horses was linin’ up eager as pigs at a trough to empty ’em.

  One of the fellers standin’ ’round, bein’ entertained by all this, was Mars Boone, biggest farmer in Boone County. “Don’t give ’em too much water at once, Miss Charity,” he said. “They might founder.”

  Charity reached the hose in his direction an’ batted her eyes at ’im. “Maybe you should do it, Mars honey. I don’t wanna hurt the poor beasties.”

  Pure moonshine. Sweet Charity.

  Mars wasn’t much of a tippler, though. He fell for it like he was pole-axed. He blushed all the way up to the roots of his red hair an’ damn-near tripped hisself runnin’ over to take the hose.

  I caught Charity’s eye’n said, “Call Doc Clydesdale, will you, ma’am? See if he can’t do somethin’ for them horses in the truck.”

  Emmet Clausen piped up, “That there little one ain’t a horse, Sheriff.”

  Everyone laughed, thinkin’ mebbe I don’t know a horse from a jackass.

  “That’s right, Emmet,” I said. “Ain’t in need’a no health care, neither.”

  Emmet changed the subject by pointin’ at the truck. “Speak a the devil—”

  We all looked. The small jackass Emmet was talkin’ ’bout had got up the nerve to squeeze past the sick horses an’ was standin’ at the top of the ramp. He threw up his nose an’ opened his mouth to sing. “Hee haw haw haw. Hee hawwww,” trailin’ off like a bag-piper that’s run outta air.

  Most of the two-legged by-standers started laughin’ fit to bust. The horses flat-out panicked. They took off runnin’ ’round the lot, bouncin’ off cars an’ each other, scatterin’ the people like bowlin’ pins on a good night.

  Havin’ cleared hisself a place at the trough, the jackass skittered down the ramp an’ bellied up to the water bar.

  jackass

  I hung around an’ dickered with Mars Boone over how much he’d charge the county to round up all them critters and park ’em ’til I got the situation worked out. Mars’n me settled on four bucks a head per day fer storage. That pretty much meant Mars’d drop ’em off in a back pasture somewhere an’ keep a eye out fer horse thieves. From the looks of ’em, I didn’t think that’d be much of a job neither. They’d be hard to steal ’cause they was skittish as ruttin’ squirrels, an’ not worth the effort ’cause they was mustangs. Roy Peterman piped up in the middle of our negotiations, offerin’ to store the horses fer three
dollars a head, but I said no. Fer four bucks, Mars’d feed ’em.

  The main witness in the case was the lady in the overalls. After the jackass got done stirrin’ things up, I cornered her an’ got her statement. She didn’t want to give her name at first, but eventually she did—Alice Bowne.

  After I let Ms. Bowne go, I took the prisoner over to the State Police lock-up, bein’ as West Wheelin’s too small to have much of a jail. They took his prints an’ pi’ture, an’ ran his name through their computer fer any wants ’n’ warrants. After they give him his phone call an’ showed him to a room, I headed back to the truck stop to see how the round-up was proceedin’.

  Mars an’ his hands had backed a truck into the exit drive. An’ them mustangs—’fer all they was wild animals—musta been used to bein’ run into chutes an’ herded onto trucks, cause they was all in Mars’ big stock truck, starin’ out through the slats like so many carnival-ride ponies.

  The jackass, on the other hand, was givin’ them good ol’ boys a run fer their money. Every time they got him near the ramp, he’d stampede on past, or he’d wait til they was right up on him, then dodge ’n’ feint, or turn around an’ start kickin’. Mars was red as a sailor’s sunrise an’ sweatin’ like a Derby winner. When he come up to me, I could see he was mad enough to shoot the damn critter. “Deal’s off, Sheriff,” he told me. “I quit!”

  “Aw, Mars. Cool off. Jus’ take the horses. I’ll figure out somethin’ else to do with the jackass.”

  Mars took a deep breath an’ clamped his jaws shut. He nodded. Then he an’ the boys closed up the truck an’ took off.

  Which left me to deal with the donkey—me an’ five other jackasses that had nothin’ better to do. We chased ’im round the parkin’ lot another twenty minutes, then decided to give up. Soon’s everybody stopped chasin’ him, the jackass wandered over to the perimeter fence an’ started prunin’ the grass along the base of it. He didn’t pay no more attention ’less folks got within kickin’ range—which they mostly didn’t after one feller got too close an’ had the legs knocked out from under ’im.