Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  He said, “We get to keep it, Homer?”

  I give him a stern look.

  Rye said, “Sorry. Sheriff. Just kiddin’.”

  I sighed an’ shook my head. Then I looked over the license an’ got out my note book. I ripped out a blank sheet an’ wrote Received from Mr. Austin Glenlake $200 confiscated for evidence.

  I gave the receipt to Glenlake an’ he about shit a brick. “What’s this?”

  “What it says,” I told him. “A receipt for yer two hundred dollars. There ain’t no law against bein’ a fool, so I’m chargin’ you with tryin’ a bribe a peace officer.

  “An’ I still need to see your registration an’ proof of insurance.”

  Austin Glenlake

  Austin Glenlake’s driver’s license seemed genuine enough. The registration also seemd to be the real deal—said the Beemer was his own. The insurance card, from a reputable company, told me he was covered for the next three months. So Glenlake offerin’ me a bribe to overlook a speedin’ ticket seemed kinda crazy. Made me wonder what he was wanted for.

  The state police station was closer’n my office, an’ they got a fingerprint set-up lets ’em run prints through N.C.I.C. in under a hour. So me an’ Rye hauled Glenlake over to the state cop shop fer processin’. Trooper Yates managed to keep a straight face while he took Glenlake’s pi’ture and run his prints. Watchin’ the show, Rye got to shakin’ so hard—tryin’ not to laugh—that I had to send him out to wait in the car.

  I wrote Glenlake a ticket fer speedin’ an’ did the paperwork fer the bribery arrest. All the while he was blowin’ up like a toad. When I was done, he posted the whole $1050 bond hisself—outta his wallet.

  Sergeant Underhill come in as Glenlake was drivin’ outta the parkin’ lot.

  “Deters, you get anything from Loomis’s lawyer?”

  “Loomis’s lawyer?” I pointed towards the road. “That guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’n’t somebody tell me?”

  “Nobody can tell you anything, Deters.”

  I set a record gettin’ out to the cruiser. Rye had it runnin’—he was amusin’ hisself listenin’ to the state police calls on the radio—so I just climbed in the passenger seat an’ told him, “Follow that car.”

  “He excape, Homer?”

  “More like failed to tell the whole truth an’ nothin’ but.”

  With Rye drivin’, it didn’t take long to run Glenlake down again.

  “This is harassment,” he snarled when I come up to his car.

  “No, this is a murder investigation, an’ you got information I need to solve it.”

  “You’re crazy! I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “Never said you did. But you represent Sam Loomis.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “A.k.a. Henry Ames.”

  Glenlake looked like he thought I’d lost my mind, so I added, “Truck driver you got out on bail a couple days back?”

  “Oh, him. What about him?”

  “How long you represent him?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He called me at my office. Said he’d been arrested on a trumped-up charge and asked me to help him out. I arranged to have him charged and released on bond. That was it.”

  “How’d he come to call you?”

  “Got my name from the phone directory? I don’t know.”

  I give Glenlake my best State Trooper stare.

  “He told me he was a victim of police harassment. And I can certainly see what he was talking about. If you’re not going to arrest me again, I’m leaving. I’ll see you in court.”

  Billy Bonds

  I figured there was no use wastin’ more time on Glenlake—he’d just claim attorney privileges. But bail bondsmen don’t have ’em, so I’d get more outta the guy that bailed Loomis out.

  Rye’s got a arrest record nearly as long as US-41, but to the best of my knowledge, he’s never spent a night in jail. I could see where he might know a bit more’n me about local bondsmen. Soon’s I was back in the car I axed him, “You familiar with a feller named Billy Bonds?”

  Rye’s ears got two shades redder. “Why’d you ask?”

  “He bailed Loomis out.”

  “She.”

  “She who?”

  “Billie Bonds is a she.”

  “You know where we can find her?”

  Rye just turned on the flashers and stepped on the gas.

  • • •

  He pulled over into a little strip mall that’d sprung up next to one of the exits from the interstate. It’d started out as a Shell station with a sign high enough to be spotted from the highway. Somebody’d opened a convenient store, then a cell phone shop and a bait an’ ammo emporium. They was all doin’ so well, some entrepreneur added four more little storefronts, three of which was still vacant. The fourth had burglar gates over the windows an’ door, an’ a sign that said, “Bail Bonds.”

  Rye stopped the car an’ cut the engine. “I’ll just wait out here an’ keep a eye on things.”

  I undid my seat belt an’ said, “Might as well come clean.”

  Rye didn’t look at me. “We got history.”

  I waited.

  Rye kept lookin’ straight ahead, at Billie Bonds’s front door. “Used to do occasional business with her old man—meaner’n a skunk he was—back when I was young an’ inexperienced.” He stole a sideways look—I guess to see how was I takin’ his yarn—then he looked ahead again. “After he passed, Billie took over—she’s a hard woman. I only done business with her once. Didn’t turn out good.”

  I waited some more. But that was all he was willin’ to part with.

  “Guess I’ll have to get the story from her, then.”

  Rye grinned an’ undid his seat belt. “I’d like to see that.”

  We got outta the car an’ went inside.

  • • •

  The woman behind the desk was a looker—hair black as anthracite, big doe eyes, pert nose, an’ lips like Angelina Jolie. What I could see of the rest of her—behind the desk an’ under her Levis jacket an’ boot-cut jeans—was likewise easy on the eyes.

  When we come through the door, she took her scuffed cowgirl boots off the desk an’ sat up straight.

  “What can I do for you, officers?” Then she musta noticed one a the officers was Rye, ’cause her eyes got big as saucers.

  “There’s a first,” Rye said. “Billie Bonds speechless.”

  She proceeded to make a liar outta him by lettin’ out a string a cuss words that’d make a Jackson blush. Then she reached in her desk drawer for a Dirty Harry pistol.

  I stepped sideways to her an’ grabbed the barrel of the gun, twistin’ it back at her, ’fore she had time to think. The pressure on her wrist made her let go.

  I broke open the .44 Magnum an’ emptied the chambers. I put the gun on her desk an’ the cartridges in my pocket.

  “Any reason I shouldn’t run you in fer threatenin’ a peace officer?”

  “Him?” She pointed at Rye, then looked at me. “Who’re you?”

  “Sheriff Deters.”

  I could see by her expression she knew she’d made a mistake.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Why’n’t we just let bygones be bygones?” Rye interrupted. “I’m sure if the sheriff knew the whole story he’d understand.”

  She looked from Rye to me, an’ her look changed to mad, then scared. She said, “Ah—”

  “But we ain’t got time fer ancient histr’y,” Rye said. “We’re on a case an’ we need yer help.”

  “If I can.” She seemed about as happy as a cat facin’ off against a big dog.

  “Good,” Rye said. “What is it we need to know, Homer? Sheriff.”

  I said, “Who bailed Sam Loomis out?”

  She gimme a blank look. “Who?”

  “A.k.a. Henry Ames.”

  She thought for a minute. “Truck driver?”

&
nbsp; “Yeah.”

  “Arrested in Boone County for animal abuse?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Got no clue.”

  “You just put up his bail ’cause he asked you nice?”

  She gimme a don’t-be-stupid look. “Not for my own mother.”

  We waited.

  “Somebody called and said he needed bail and I’d get my fee directly, then I should go bail him out.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Long as I get the money, I don’t need to.”

  “What if Loomis don’t show up for court?”

  “He’s gonna wish he was dead.”

  At that, Rye broke out laughin’—like to bust a gut.

  I said, “Much obliged, Miz Bonds,” an’ hustled Rye out ’fore he got her riled up enough to kill him.

  rat dog pups

  On the way back to town, Rye wasn’t no more forthcomin’ ’bout his dealin’s with Miz Bonds. I didn’t push it. I dropped him at the Grassy-ass to get some lunch while I went on my own to take care of other county business.

  Owen Rhuddlan was a good old boy farmer, knowed fer breedin’ the best rat-dogs in the state. When I pulled up, he was settin’ on his porch, scarfin’ down lunch.

  I got outta the car an’ put on my hat to give ’im time to stow anything I wasn’t s’posed to see.

  Owen put down his dinner pail an’ said, “What brings you to these parts, Sheriff?”

  “Martha told me you might have a pup you’d part with.”

  “You’re in luck. I just happen to have one of Jack Daniels’s get I ain’t sold. Had some interest, though.”

  Jack Daniels is Owen’s Jack Russell terrier that’s a lush. He got his name as a pup when he drank antifreeze. They give him Jack Daniels fer a antidote, an’ he got hooked.

  Owen’s bitch ain’t a purebred, but she comes from great huntin’ dogs on both sides, too.

  “How much you askin’?”

  “Two hunerd.”

  Some folks’d think two hundred dollars was way too much fer a mutt—’specially since you can get ’em free most anywhere. But a dog as talented as a Willis was somethin’ else. I figured I could talk ’im down if I didn’t rush, so I jus’ nodded. “It weaned yet?”

  “Barely.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  We went out to the barn, where Owen had turned one of his box stalls into a kennel. When I leaned over the door, the bitch got between me an’ her litter an’ growled like a momma bear for all she was no bigger’n a possum. Owen told her to lay down, which she did, still growlin’. Then he went into the stall an’ come out with a puppy small enough to fit in your pocket an’ cuter’n a baby duck. Owen handed him to me an’ he settled into the crook of my arm like I was his mother.

  I knew Owen wasn’t gonna let me have this two hundred dollar dog for the fifty I had in my pocket without I promised him a favor of some sort, so I said, “What’d I have to do to get you to come down on your askin’ price?”

  “You offerin’ to take a bribe, Sheriff?”

  “You know I ain’t. But there must be somethin’ else you need.”

  He thought about it an’ nodded. “Get someone to take my niece out on a date an’ you can name your price.”

  “She must be homely as a hyena if it’s worth that much.”

  “No. She ain’t. She’s just shy an’ innocent.”

  I wondered did he mean skittish an’ simple. “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “She still in school?”

  “When she ain’t helpin’ out at home.”

  “It might take me a while to think of somebody who ain’t got a record or a serious drinkin’ problem. An’ I only got fifty bucks.”

  “I hear that. Gimme the fifty an’ your word, an’ you kin take the pup with you.”

  “What’s this niece’s name?”

  “Cheryl.”

  “Your sister’s kid?”

  He nodded.

  Owen’s sister was a handsome woman and her husband wasn’t bad lookin’. I figured their offspring couldn’t be too homely. I shifted the pup over to my other elbow an’ offered Owen my hand. “You got a deal.”

  We shook on it, an’ I paid ’im. Then he walked me an’ the pup back to my cruiser.

  “Hear they’re thinkin’ a puttin’ a new Cheap-Ass Likkers here in West Wheelin’,” Owen said, as I was settlin’ the pup on my front seat.

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “I been in one of them stores. Sell stuff so cheap you’d think they didn’t have to pay for it.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “How’d you s’pose they do that?”

  “I’d have to think on that. Much obliged fer the pup.”

  He just nodded. “What’re you gonna call him?”

  “I ain’t sure. Mebbe Priceless.”

  • • •

  Mary Lincoln come out on her porch an’ offered me coffee same as last time. A few minutes later, when we was settin’, dunkin’ home made doughnuts, she axed, “What can I do for you today, Homer?”

  “I ain’t sure if you can do anything,” I told her, “seein’ as how you don’t want to get attached to no dog.”

  She waited fer me to get to my point.

  “Thing is, ma’am, I got this orphan pup needs a home. An’ I can’t take him home with me ’cause I got a mean jackass at my place’d trample him to death as soon as he look at ’im.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find someone to take it. You must know hundreds of people in the county.”

  “I reckon—”

  At that point, right on schedule, Priceless got tired of bein’ by hisself an’ started lettin’ me know what he thought about it.

  “What on earth is that?” Miz Lincoln asked.

  I got up an’ got Priceless outta the car, holdin’ him like I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t break him. “This is the pup I was tellin’ you about.”

  Like I figured, Miz Lincoln couldn’t stand to watch me manhandle a baby dog. She charged right up an’ took him from me, holdin’ him like a human baby, talkin’ baby talk. After a couple minutes of that I put my hands out to take him back.

  “I got to be on my way, ma’am.”

  She give me a suspicious look, then nodded like she’d figured it out. “You thought if you could sucker me into holding this puppy, I’d offer to adopt it.”

  No use denyin’ it. “Guilty. The way you talked about your old dog, I figured you’d do right by this one if you’d just give him a chance.”

  She looked like I’d just tried to stick her up. “You take me for a sucker?”

  I felt my heart sink. If she wouldn’t take the dog I’d have to give it to Nina. Or worse yet, Skip.

  “No, ma’am. Just someone with a soft heart.”

  Priceless seconded my opinion by lickin’ her face an’ waggin’ his whole body.

  The look on her face softened. “It just so happens…”

  I held my breath.

  “… you guessed right this time. I’ll take him.”

  “I can’t tell you—”

  “Don’t bother. And don’t even think of trying it again.”

  • • •

  My next job, ’fore I could get back to real crime solvin’, was to stop by Wilma Netherton’s an’ set her mind at ease about the rats.

  “Wilma, I think we got your rat problem licked. Miz Lincoln’s got one of Jack Daniels’ get.”

  “Well,” she said. “Well. The place still looks like a dump.”

  I shrugged. “Mebbe, but none of it’s garbage. Most of it’s material people’d pay money for if they needed it.”

  “Well, ain’t it against the law to run a material yard on a farm?”

  “That’s something I’d have to look into.”

  “See that you do.”

  evidence by the carton

  When I picked Rye up at the Grassy-ass, I got me a sandwich to go, an’ we headed back to the office. There was a fell
a waitin’ out front in a car you could tell a mile off was undercover law enforcement. I parked the cruiser in the sheriff’s spot, an’ he got out with a great big Charmin toilet paper carton. Rye an’ I got out to see what was that about.

  “Sheriff Deters?” the strange cop said.

  “Guilty.”

  “You were looking into the death of Henry Ames?”

  “Yessir.”

  He nodded. “I’m from the Oraville Police Department. We checked out Ames’s residence per your request.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We found his landlord cleaning out his room, getting ready to toss all his stuff. The Chief thought you might want to look it over.” He handed me the carton.

  “Much obliged.”

  I passed the box to Rye, an’ the Oraville cop gave me a chain of custody sheet. “According to the landlord, Ames didn’t have any next of kin,” he said. “When you’re done with his stuff, you can pitch it.”

  I nodded. He started towards his car an’ we turned to go into City Hall.

  “Hold on a minute,” the cop said.

  I waited.

  “That’s not all.” He went back to his car an’ dug out another carton, which he handed to me. I peered in his window an’ seen two more Charmin cartons on the back seat. The officer seen me lookin’ an’ said, “That’s right. And there’s more in the trunk.”

  I shook my head an’ put the box I was holdin’ on top of the box Rye was holdin’. “Why’n’t you take these up to the office an’ keep an eye on ’em?”

  Rye said, “Sure thing,” an’ took off.

  The Oraville officer stacked the cartons from the back seat on the curb next to my cruiser an’ opened his trunk. Sure enough. There was three more boxes—smaller, but heavier—in there. He took ’em out, one by one, and handed ’em to me. Then he closed his trunk an’ stuck out his hand.

  I put down the last box an’ shook, an’ he got in his car.

  As I watched him drive off, I wondered how was I gonna get the five boxes up to the office without losin’ sight of any of ’em. I finally had to deputize two passersby to help.