Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Dan laughed. “Long story, son. One you’d best ask your dad to tell you. Next time you got insomnia.”

  Loomis’s stash

  Tuesday mornin’, right after I dropped Skip at school, I headed over to Okra, West Wheelin’s white trash sister city, to follow up on my promise to check out Loomis’s pickup. The place was remarkable tidy for a Okra establishment—red brick with new roofin’ an’ fresh-painted doors, clean windows, a yard clear of trash, an’ a parkin’ area without derelict vehicles. Leonard was out front jumpin’ the battery on a Chevy Tahoe. Tall guy—six -one or -two, brown hair, red face, an’ clean navy coveralls. He didn’t seem to notice my cruiser till he got the Tahoe started an’ come up for air. Then he said somethin’ to the kid who was helpin’ ’im and ambled over to my car.

  “You must be Sheriff Deters.”

  “Guilty.”

  He didn’t introduce hisself, didn’t need to, ’cause his coveralls had Leonard stitched above the left breast pocket. “Guess we might as well get it over with,” he said—didn’t say what, just turned an’ headed towards his buildin’.

  I got outta the cruiser an’ followed him into a shop as clean an’ orderly inside as out.

  He pointed to a ten-year-old Ford F-150 that didn’t show any evidence of pride. “All yours, Sheriff.”

  ’Sides bein’ covered with mud from some off-road excursion, it was rusted where it’d been scraped an’ dented. The windshield was cracked, the rear bumper hangin’ on outta habit, an’ the license plate sticker expired.

  Leonard shook his head like he didn’t understand, either, how a man could drive such a wreck. “Keys’re in it,” he said. “Just gimme a receipt fer anything you take.” He wandered off as I pulled out my latex gloves an’ put ’em on.

  The truck bed was full of empty cans—beer, Red Bull, an’ soda, as well as assorted rubbish an’ tools so old an’ rusty nobody’d bother to steal ’em. Inside, the cab was littered with more empties plus fast food trash an’ crumpled cigarette packs. After lookin’ it over, I backed out an’ dragged one of Leonard’s trash bins over to the door, started shiftin’ the trash into it. I checked out all the crumpled store bags for receipts that might clue me to where Loomis shopped—Cheap-Ass Likkers, Safeway, an’ various truck stops an’ fast food places along the interstates. There musta been another bushel of trash under the seat. Behind the seat was rubber boots, a ratty jacket, a shovel, an’ half a dozen unmatched gloves. In the jacket pocket, along with loose change an’ stale cigarettes, I found a cash register print-out from a sportin’ goods store for a box of 9 mm ammo. So far, I hadn’t found a gun. I put the jacket, boots an’ gloves on the floor of the front seat, an’ the print-out in a evidence bag.

  Without the trash, the search went easier. I emptied the glove box into one of the paper sacks I carry in my cruiser for evidence collection—’cept for the registration. I noted the particulars on that ’fore I put it back where it come from. I checked under the seat with the mechanic’s mirror I carry for vehicle searches. It’s a little round thing mounted by a swivel on the end of a metal rod. It let me see the 9 mm pistol Loomis had tucked into a holster wired to the under side of the driver’s seat. The gun went into a evidence bag, too, an’ the evidence bags went into the trunk of my cruiser.

  I was about ready to turn the truck over to Leonard, when I noticed a crumpled paper sack wedged against a support strut under the seat. I eased it out, smoothed it up, an’ opened it. Found I’d hit pay dirt! Inside was a crumpled bank deposit receipt, stained with what looked like coffee from a cup it must’ve shared the bag with. But I could still read the bank name an’ account number. Bingo!

  • • •

  The bank was in Okra, too, an’ the bank manager told me I’d have to get a court order ’fore he could even confirm that Sam Loomis—or Henry Ames as they likely knew him—had a account there. I didn’t argue.

  I beat feet back to West Wheelin’ an’, right after lunch, I walked into the chambers of a very understandin’ judge with all the necessary paperwork. Judge asked me to summarize the case—which I did. Then he signed the warrant with a flourish.

  “Just be sure you let me know what you find, Homer.”

  • • •

  The bank manager held up his hands and said, “I told you, Sheriff, you have to have a warrant.”

  When I handed it to him, he got a look on his face like somebody’d farted. The warrant was for the bank records of one Henry Ames, also known as Sam Loomis, or a Samuel Loomis, any an’ all accounts, and the contents of his safety deposit box.

  “There’ll be a fifty dollar fee for opening the box,” the manager told me, “because we’ll have to call a locksmith.”

  “Happens I got the key.”

  • • •

  As it turned out, Loomis had a savin’s account with $253.17. One of the tellers printed me off copies of the last year’s statements, then turned me over to the lady in charge of the box vault. Loomis’s key worked just fine to get the box open, an’ the vault lady was good enough to find me a cardboard carton to haul away the contents—$150,500.00 in bundles of fifty dollar bills, an’ a handful of lottery tickets. She made me sign a receipt for the stuff, an’ I asked her if she remembered Loomis.

  “Mr. Ames is not a nice man. He’s rude, and crude, and very impatient.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll be troublin’ you again.”

  I stopped on my way outta the bank to have one of the tellers check the cash—to be sure was it genuine.

  It was. Which answered one of my questions—what had Loomis done with all the cash he’d been makin’? But it posed a couple questions more. Who was payin’ him to do what for all that money? An’ what was I gonna do with it now that he was dead?

  Nina meets two jackasses

  When Skip an’ me come outta the house next mornin’, Nina’s truck was in the drive but she was nowhere in sight. Didn’t take long to find her—out back, makin’ friends with our new pet, feedin’ him a sandwich she musta got outta her lunch. The jackass was just eatin’ it up. An’ rubbin’ his head against her, gettin’ hair an’ slobber all over her uniform. She didn’t seem to mind.

  She said, “Mornin, boys.”

  I give her a peck on the mouth.

  Skip got all red an’ muttered, “Mornin’, Miss Nina.” To me he said, “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Soon’s he was outta sight, I give Nina a proper hello. Didn’t come up fer air till the jackass tried to take a bite outta my duty belt.

  Nina said, “Whew! Guess you’re glad to see me.”

  “When ain’t I ever?”

  The jackass started nibblin’ on my gun butt. I slapped him, an’ he backed up fast.

  “Don’t hurt him, Homer! He’s just jealous.”

  “You belong to me now. He ain’t got the right to be jealous.”

  Nina blushed an’ changed the subject. “Homer, where we gonna live?”

  “Well…we could move in with you an’ Grampa.”

  Nina didn’t look too pleased.

  I said, “Out with it.”

  Seemed like she was gauging what I’d think ’fore she said, “Grampa ain’t too fond a teenagers.”

  I knew she was thinkin’ of the time Angie Boone stayed with ’em—stole Grampa’s twenty-gauge. An’ that wasn’t all Grampa weren’t fond of. “Or Jacksons,” I added.

  Nina knew I wasn’t gonna throw Skip to the wolves by sendin’ him back to his natur’l family. Not even to marry her. So I said, “We’ll just have to get our own place.”

  She brightened.

  I said, “’Cept who’d take care a Grampa?”

  She frowned an’ thought on that.

  Jackass helped me out by head-buttin’ me up against her. I let my fingers wander up her arms, to her neck, an’ down… Nina blushed an’ pushed me away, then looked around to see was anyone watchin’.

  I grinned. “Mrs. Shaklee won’t gossip much.”

  “Homer, be serious! I’m tryna
think.”

  So I put my hands up an’ stepped back, an’ while she was thinkin’ I got the jackass fresh water an’ a half a bale of hay.

  “He’s cute,” Nina said. “What ever made you keep a jackass fer a pet?”

  “He ain’t mine. An’ he ain’t a pet. An’ we ain’t keepin’ ’im.”

  “Well, don’t get all bent outta shape.”

  “You think of someone who could stay with Grampa?”

  “Matter of fact, I did.”

  • • •

  Lunchtime, I called Nina to see if she wanted to join me at the Grassy-ass, but she told me she was busy. I hung up an’ looked out my office window to see just how long the line was at the post office. No line. Nina’d put her Out to Lunch sign on the front door, an’ her truck was gone from where it’d been parked earlier. I figured she’d tell me what that was about when she was ready.

  I was just walkin’ toward my office door when Hazel Wrencock, the real estate lady, come through it.

  “Sheriff, Nina Ross told me you’re lookin’ to move. Soon. That true?”

  “It is if Nina says so.”

  “What kind of place are you looking for?”

  I thought about Mrs. Shaklee an’ said, “Somewhere there ain’t no close neighbors.”

  “Rent or buy?”

  “Buy, if it ain’t too much.”

  “How much is too much?”

  “What’s available?”

  “Why don’t we go over to my office and look at the listings?”

  “I’m kinda workin’ today.”

  Hazel looked around like she might see somethin’ in the office that’d make me change my mind. She spotted my computer an’ her eyes lit up. “Or we could just go on line and check a few listings on your computer.”

  • • •

  Time my lunch break was over, I hadn’t got anything to eat, but I’d looked at listings for every place for sale in Boone County.

  “Well, Sheriff,” Hazel said, “have you seen something you like?”

  “Yeah, but Pappy Jackson ain’t gonna sell it to me.”

  “Ash Jackson’s place?” The one Pappy’d inherited when his son Ash bought the farm. “Why ever not?”

  “Pappy an’ me been on opposite sides of most everything long’s as I can remember. An’ he holds it against me that I didn’t arrest the person that shot Ash.”

  “Well, if you have the money to buy the place outright, he wouldn’t have to know until you took possession.”

  “What do I gotta do to set that up?”

  • • •

  I didn’t have to hunt Nina down after work. One minute after I watched from my office window as she closed up the P.O., she come through my office door like a firefighter on a rescue mission. So it wasn’t surprisin’ that she started in the middle without so much as a “howdy.”

  “Homer, Hazel Wrencock said you fixed on a place, an’ you’re ready to sign! That true?”

  I figured Nina’d been spendin’ too much time with Hazel—she was startin’ to sound just like her. But I didn’t say so.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, hooray!”

  I held up my hands like ‘I give up.’ “’Fore you get all excited, it’s Ash Jackson’s place.”

  She thought on that a minute, then said, “Well, we can have it fumigated. An’ mebbe Father Ernie can perform one a those exor-circumcisions.”

  “You mean a exorcism?”

  “What I said.”

  “You ain’t bothered by it used to belong to Ash Jackson?”

  “Heck no. I allus thought it was wasted on Ash. An’ it’s got a nice big yard. An’ shade trees.”

  “But it ain’t real big.”

  “It’s got two bedrooms, so Skip won’t have to sleep on the couch. An’ when we have kids, we can add on.”

  “How come you’re so damn obligin’?”

  “Don’t swear. I ain’t obligin’, just ready for us to have our own place.” She moved real close—close enough to get a rise outta me, if you get my drift.

  Don’t know where that woulda took us if my radio hadn’t come to life all of a sudden.

  “Homer, where you at?”

  I took a deep breath an’ backed away from Nina. Slow an’ careful. I picked up the radio mic. “That’s, ‘what’s your 10-20?’ Rye.”

  “I’m down in the parkin’ lot.”

  Nina clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  I just shook my head an’ said, “10-4.”

  “I’m fixin’ to punch out,” Rye added. “You need anything ’fore I take off?”

  “No, Rye. Have a nice evenin’.”

  I put the mic back an’ wrote myself a note on a Post-it to go over radio protocol with Rye sometime soon. Nina read it over my shoulder.

  “What’s sometime soon, Homer?”

  “That’s after I figure out who killed Harlan an’ Sam Loomis—a.k.a. Henry Ames—an’ nail them truck hijackers; an’ unload the jackass an’ the mustangs; an’ nail the turkey that left the Injun bones in Silas Hanson’s ditch. Oh, an’ buy a house an’ move in.”

  “You’re stallin’.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All them Post-its you got stuck on your filin’ cabinet—your to-do list—none of ’em ever get done.”

  “Those’re why I ain’t makin’ any progress—too many to keep track of. An’ some of ’em ain’t solvable.”

  “Like which?”

  “Wilma Netherton is never gonna be happy ’til I run Miz Lincoln outta town. Which I ain’t gonna do.”

  She nodded, like that was perfectly reasonable, an’ laughed. “That reminds me. Hera Latham asked me to ask when you’re gonna do somethin’ about that gypsy.”

  “That what you come in here to tell me?”

  “No. Damn! I almost forgot.”

  “What?”

  “To tell you my cousin Elsie’s comin’ to live with Grampa.”

  “That’s good of her.”

  Nina give a sarcastic grin. “More like shrewd—she won’t be payin’ room or board. How soon can you get the deal done for Ash’s place?”

  “What’s your rush?”

  “If I have to live with Elsie, you’ll have another murder on your hands.”

  • • •

  “You an’ Skip comin’ for dinner tonight?” Nina asked me after we’d finally said a proper hello, then come up for air.

  ’Fore I could answer, my phone rang. I held up my pointin’ finger, said, “’Scuse me,” an’ picked up the receiver. “Sheriff’s office. Deters.”

  Skip’s voice said, “Pappy, can I go bowlin’ with the cousins?”

  “May I go bowlin’.”

  “Huhn?” I waited ’til he got the point an’ said, “May I go bowlin’?”

  “There gonna be adult supervision?”

  “Aunt Penny. An’ she said I could stay over after.”

  “Okay. Have fun.” I didn’t have to ask about his homework. I knew Penny was usin’ the bowlin’ expedition as a incentive fer her kids to do theirs.

  Skip said, “Thanks, Pappy,” an’ hung up.

  I turned to Nina. “Where were we?”

  “You was about to tell me if you’re comin’ over fer dinner.”

  “I’m workin’ tonight.” Nina looked like her dog just died so I added, “Don’t mean you can’t ride along.”

  “Thought you gotta be law enforcement.”

  “You’re still deputized but I can do it again if you don’t feel official.”

  Nina hauled on the gold chain around her neck, an’ dangled the ring I’d give her in front of me. “I ain’t gonna feel official till we find Rye a girl, an’ I can wear this on my finger.”

  • • •

  Nina went home to change, an’ I called the state cops to see if they’d made any headway tracking down the gun I’d brought ’em yesterday or convincin’ the hijackers we’d caught Monday night to give up their bosses.

  No joy on ei
ther count, Sergeant Underhill told me. The gun’d been bought legally at a gun show in Virginia by a feller who’d since passed away. Virginia state cops were tryin’ to track down how it came to be in Loomis’s hands. The hijackers wasn’t talkin’. They’d been arraigned an’ would have to post one million dollars for bail. Each. Judge musta been gettin’ tired of hijackin’ cases. Needless to say they’d be on ice fer a while.

  “Good,” I told Underhill. “Mebbe the chill’ll loosen up their tongues.”

  “One can only hope,” he said. Then he hung up.

  • • •

  Nina was rarin’ to go when I picked her up half a hour later. Time we’d made one circuit of the town, she was bored with law enforcement, ready to tackle somethin’ else.

  “Homer, you had a chance to talk to Rye yet?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “Women.”

  “It’s all I can do to talk to him about deputy-sheriffin’.”

  “Well, you need to ask him what kinda woman he’s lookin’ for so we kin help him find her.”

  I shook my head. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  ’Fore she could come back on that, I spotted a semi pulled over up ahead an’ said, “Hold on a minute.”

  Nina looked to see what was important enough to interrupt us solvin’ Rye’s problems.

  The truck driver was leanin’ one elbow against the curb-side of his trailer, facin’ the truck cab an’ holdin’ a cell phone up to his ear.

  I put on my pull-over lights an’ stopped the cruiser right behind him.

  Nina said, “Homer, what—?”

  “Stay in the car.”

  I grabbed my sheriff’s hat and got out, put on the hat an’ started towards the driver. I seen exactly when he noticed someone comin’ up on ’im. He jumped—like someone poked him with a cattle prod—an’ turned around real fast.

  I said, “Evenin’. You havin’ trouble?”

  He said, “Later,” into the phone, then turned it off an’ put it in his pocket.