Courtin' Murder in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  • • •

  I located Bello in Mars Boone’s back pasture, leadin’ one of the mustangs around like a pet dog. When he seen me drive up, he sauntered up to the fence an’ tied the mustang to it. The horse snorted and pawed, then started trimmin’ the grass. Bello leaned on the fence while I got out of the cruiser. When he said, “Afternoon, Homer,” I guessed I was back in his good graces.

  “Bello. How’re they comin’ along? They gonna be ready?”

  “Yeah, like I told you. Cheryl’s been helpin’ me gentle ’em. She’s a natural.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “An’ a keeper.”

  I took that as a hint to hand him one of Nina’s flyers. “You wanna keep her, best show up at Oktoberfest an’ let her catch you.”

  • • •

  I deputized Rye to pass out the rest of the flyers, made a point to tell him to give one to Mary Lincoln, an’ Don Firenzi, Madam Romany, Alice Bowne, an’ several of the women Nina an’ I’d discussed. I figured the women’d get the idea to show up if they was interested in Rye. And he needed to see any eligible woman he might want to get caught by.

  “You ain’t gonna tell me to give one to Billie Bonds, are you?” he said. “’Cause I ain’t gonna do it.”

  Made me really wonder what was up between the two of ’em. But all I said was, “If you feel that strong about it, I’ll give her one myself.”

  “She don’t need to know ’bout this, Homer.” He waved the stack of flyers. “She’s got enough men to run down with all them bail jumpers an’ felons. Don’t be encouragin’ her to go after innocent men—she might take a fancy to you. ’Sides, ain’t you got a murderer to catch?”

  a Injun protest march

  The day Oktoberfest rolled around was cool an’ sunny, with a few leaves driftin’ down from trees as bright an’ colorful as fireworks caught on film. I shined my shoes an’ put on my dress uniform. Skip put on his favorite T-shirt, the one that said Knowledge is Power/Power Corrupts/Study Hard/Be Evil. We fed an’ watered the jackass an’ got in my cruiser to head over to the fairground. I waved to Mrs. Shaklee as I backed down the drive.

  “You got one week to get outta here, Sheriff,” she yelled.

  I just nodded an’ waved again.

  “What’re we gonna do, Pappy?” Skip asked.

  “Worry about it tomorrow, son.”

  He shook his head but he dropped the subject.

  When the radio squawked, Skip beat me to the draw. “This is Deputy Deters,” he said into the mic. “Over.”

  Rye’s voice come outta the speaker. “Don’t you have to be eighteen to be deputized?”

  “What d’you need, Rye?” This time Skip’s voice sounded more like me than I do.

  “Looks like we got a Injun uprisin’ on our hands, Homer.”

  I took the mic from Skip. “Where are you?”

  “In front a City Hall.”

  • • •

  When we got there, the mayor was faced off against Stanley Redwine and his band along with three women an’ half a dozen teen-aged boys. ’Cept for the lawyer, they was all dressed in outfits looked like costumes from a old-time western.

  “Sheriff!” Mayor half shouted. “Tell these people to disperse!”

  “We got a right to protest,” Stanley insisted.

  Mayor looked ready to blow a gasket, but I knew Stanley an’ his bunch thought they had a point. An’ it come back to me—my momma’s lecture on why the geniuses that wrote the Constitution added all the bits about freedom of speech an’ assembly an’ so forth. “Homer,” she’d told me, “people who can’t have their say are like boilers with no safety valves.”

  So I said, “They got a point, Mr. Mayor. An’ a right to state their grievances.”

  “But—”

  “Long as they keep it peaceful.”

  I give Stanley Redwine a look, an’ he nodded like a bobble head.

  Mayor’s mouth opened an’ closed—made me think of a stranded fish.

  I looked hard at Stanley. “You ain’t plannin’ to take no scalps or occupy no buildin’s?”

  Stanley put his hands up like “I surrender” an’ shook his head. “’Course not.”

  “I got your word on that?”

  Stanley looked a tad insulted but he made a X over his chest.

  “Good. Then in the interest of public safety, I’ll provide you with a police escort.”

  Stanley’s jaw dropped an’ he looked at his high-priced lawyer. Lawyer shrugged.

  “An’ my deputies’ll make sure nobody interferes with your right to state your case.”

  “They can’t have a march without a permit,” Mayor chimed in.

  I give him a stern look. “We’ll take care of the paperwork later.”

  Mayor’s mouth opened an’ closed one more time ’fore he figured out what I was up to. Then he sighed an’ nodded.

  Which is how I come to be in my cruiser, with four-ways an’ pull-over lights flashin’ as a band of Injuns marched down Main Street in full-feathered outfits wavin’ protest signs an’ tomahawks.

  When they passed the post office, Nina stepped out in her post-mistress uniform, locked the front door, an’ got in at the back of the line. An’ Rye an’ Festus waved everybody who come to gawk in behind Nina. Time we got to the fair grounds, just outside town, I felt like the Pied Piper leadin’ the parade.

  Oktoberfest

  Volunteers had gussied up the fairgrounds with punkins, corn shocks, fall flowers, an’ strings of colorful gourds. Just for good measure, Halloween decorations—cardboard witches and black cat cutouts—was stuck here an’ there. As the Injun parade marched in, early-bird fair-goers was stragglin’ past where the Chamber of Commerce had set up—rafflin’ a new Prius—an’ Mayor’s secretary was handin’ out programs for the day’s events.

  I pulled off to the side an’ let the parade march by, then parked. Lotta the cars in the lot had outta state plates or municipal stickers from nearby cities, an’ I noticed folks from Okra an’ other neighborin’ towns minglin’ with the West Wheelin’ residents.

  While I waited for Nina to grab a program from the mayor’s secretary, Sergeant Underhill wandered up. He was outta uniform, an’ had a handsome blonde on his arm. A strawberry blond teenage girl tagged along behind ’em. Made me do a double take.

  He said, “Morning, Vergil. I’d like you to meet my wife and daughter.” Underhill a family man!

  To them, he said, “This is Sheriff Deters.”

  “Mornin’, ladies,” I said, an’ tipped my hat.

  Mrs. Underhill returned my good mornin’. The girl just smiled an’ blushed. Underhill told me he’d see me later and steered them in the direction of the raffle.

  Nina come back with a program an’ we studied it together. First off was a post-season baseball game. We didn’t have enough police for a team, an’ too many volunteer firemen, so the Baptists was takin’ on the Catholics with the Evangelical Congregationals supplyin’ umps an’ score keepers.

  After that there was a 1-K marathon around the dirt track, an’ games for the rug rats—ring tosses an’ sack races. Then the turkey shoot an’ lunch, then the horse auction. I noted that the Sadie Hawkins race was the last event of the day. “How’d you figure on that?” I asked Nina.

  “Well, most of our volunteers is entered in the race,” she said. “An’, just in case the winners feel like celebratin’ afterwards, we wanna have most of the heavy liftin’ over an’ done with.”

  “Good thinkin’.”

  “Father Ernie’s idea. He’s in charge of keepin’ things on track, an’ he’s had lotta experience with volunteers.”

  We started down the concourse where all three churches had raffles goin’—fer quilts, home-made preserves an’ gift cards from places like Target an’ Walmart. The church ladies was sellin’ apple products—home-made pie an’ cider. People was crowdin’ around, snappin’ ’em up.

  Just about every business in town had a booth with free sam
ples or coupons. Madam Romany had her table up with the little cards an’ “tells.” Maria Lopez wasn’t there, but her husband Jesus sat at one of his hand-crafted tables, on a matchin’ chair, handin’ out sweet treats he called dulces. Little José Lopez was playin’ under the table with a wooden truck his Pa’d made an’ jabberin’ in Spanish to his new baby sister. He dropped the truck an’ screamed, “¡Abuelos!” then went runnin’ towards them when Martha Rooney wheeled Ben in our direction. Nina hurried up to hug ’em hello. I grinned an’ said, “Mornin’, Martha. Sheriff.”

  “It is a good morning, Homer,” Martha said. Ben just gimme a crooked smile an’ bobbed forward an’ back in his wheelchair until José climbed on his lap an’ patted his cheek. At that point, Nina an’ I resumed our patrol.

  Traffic was gettin’ heavier. Men, women an’ kids, teenagers and retirees, yuppies an’ rednecks rubbed elbows an’ other parts, crowdin’ ’round the booths an’ tables, watchin’ the free show. Three local Bozos clowned with a genuine-lookin’ mime, while a balloon-animal guy passed out giraffes an’ wiener dogs. An’ a juggler on stilts stepped carefully between the rug rats. Nina an’ I kept movin’.

  The Injuns had set up a teepee with a card table in front so they could hand out flyers. “Educational brochures,” Stanley Redwine called ’em.

  Farther along, Truck Towing had a spot where Dwayne Truck’s model-pretty wife was signin’ people up fer next semester’s school bus service, an’ handin’ out coupons for free oil changes—filter extra.

  I was surprised when we come to Mary Lincoln’s orange Ford pulled up, tailgate open, with a fair sample of the junk from her collection laid out neatly. A sign on top of the cab said, “SEE IT? NEED IT? TAKE IT.” Mary was nowhere in sight, but Priceless was doin’ guard duty from the cab, barkin’ at anybody who come near the half open windows.

  Don Firenzi’s plaid truck was parked along side Mary’s with what looked like overflow—a neat pyramid of matchin’ bricks, a pile of like-new plumbin’ brass, an’ gently used pipes of assorted lengths an’ bores.

  At the far end of the concourse, Bello Willis an’ Mars Boone had set the mustangs up in the stock pen closest to the action, an’ a sign invited all comers to “PICK YOUR PONY. AUCTION WILL BE HELD AT 2:00 P.M. SHARP. ALL SALES FINAL.”

  Nina an’ I was admirin’ the herd when Rye showed up in a borrowed horse trailer with the jackass.

  “What’s he doin’ with your pet?” Nina demanded.

  “He ain’t mine and he ain’t a pet. An’ I’m hopin’ some fool’ll think he’s cute an’ bid on ’im.”

  Rye backed the trailer up next to us an’ got out. I pointed at the jackass. “How’d you get him to go in?”

  Rye grinned. “Bribed Bello to load him.”

  “Well, see if you can find Bello and bribe him to off-load him.”

  “Yes, sir. Then I’m takin the rest of the day off.”

  “You gonna be around.” I wasn’t askin’.

  “Is a jackass stubborn?”

  “If there’s trouble, I expect you to help me out.”

  Rye looked hurt. “Don’t I always?”

  I didn’t answer ’cause nine times outta ten he does.

  Rye took off to look for Bello, an’ Nina kissed me on the cheek. “I’m gonna help the Chamber of Commerce sell tickets,” she said. “See you later.”

  She went, an’ I ambled around lookin’ out for pick-pockets an’ under-age drinkin’, enjoyin’ the day. By 10:00 a.m. I had the feelin’ God was in heaven an’ all was right with West Wheelin’. Shoulda knocked wood.

  One of the decoration punkins come flyin’ out between the Baptist Church booth an’ Jesus’s table. The basketball-sized vegetable just missed a passin’ teenager, splattering his shoes an’ pants legs, makin’ him jump backwards like a spring-loaded booby trap, then charge forward.

  Jesus jumped, too, towards the source of the punkin toss. He come back draggin’ a kid big enough to play varsity football an’ old enough to know better. Same time, the victim drew back for a punch that woulda took Jesus out if I hadn’t grabbed the kid’s fist an’ yanked. Kid landed flat on his back.

  I stepped around him an’ relieved Jesus of his prisoner. “Much obliged, Jesus.”

  He nodded an’ helped the other kid up.

  “You wanna press charges?” I asked the victim.

  He looked at the bully, then looked around, then shook his head.

  “Then get along.”

  He looked like he wanted to say somethin’, but finally just shook his head again and skedaddled.

  I turned to the offender. “I’m gonna let go of you, son, but don’t try to run. I know where you live.”

  He gulped an’ stood still.

  “Let’s go this way.” I pointed towards the stock pens.

  “You takin’ me to jail?”

  “I might. If you don’t do exactly what I say.”

  We got to the livestock area an’ I located a shovel kept there for clean-ups. I handed it to the kid. “You made a mess; now clean it up.”

  We went back to where people was steppin’ carefully ’round the pumpkin puree. I directed traffic while the kid scraped up the mess and dumped it in a trash bin. I had him return the shovel, then I herded him down to the other end of the concourse an’ handed him over to Nina.

  “This young man’s got a twenty minute time out to serve. An’ I’d be obliged if you see he serves it.”

  Nina blinked, but nodded.

  I pointed the kid to a nearby foldin’ chair. “You sit here until this lady tells you you can go. An’ next time you make trouble, you are goin’ to jail.”

  • • •

  Didn’t take long for more trouble to find me. With Rye’s help.

  Rye pointed me out to a fat, red-faced man, in a business suit an’ tie, who charged up wavin’ one of Chamber of Commerce’s programs. Rye followed him, bustin’—I could see—with curiosity.

  “You the sheriff?” the man demanded.

  “Guilty.”

  “This says you’re planning to auction off twenty-two mustangs.”

  Rye shook his head.

  I nodded. “An’ a jackass.”

  “You can’t. They’re U.S. Government property.”

  “And you’d be?”

  “William Smith.”

  “From the BLM?”

  “Yes. And I’ll get an injunction to stop you, if I have to.”

  “Good luck with that.” I pulled a folded-up copy of his fax from my pocket an’ handed it to him. “You can keep this.”

  He read it an’ stalked away fumin’. When he got to his car, he burned rubber headin’ away.

  “What if he gets the injunction, Homer?” Rye asked. He wasn’t too keen on the auction idea an’ was likely hopin’ the BLM guy would just take the horses off our hands. But he’d donated a gallon of White Lightnin’ to the cause, to lubricate the bidders, and he didn’t want to see it wasted.

  “He ain’t gonna get much sympathy from the court.” Judge is a good ol’ boy from the next county. We may have our differences, but we’re pretty much united against the feds.

  Just to be safe, soon as I got back to my cruiser, I called the court clerk on my cell phone to ask what was goin’ down.

  “Oh, that BLM guy’s come ’n’ gone, Homer,” she said. “Judge told him if he could prove the horses were his—which he’d have to do in court, he’ll have to pay their bill. He just said, ‘Forget it,’ an’ walked out.”

  • • •

  The turkey shoot, which was next on the agenda, come off without a hitch. An’ without anything gettin’ shot but the turkeys on the targets.

  Nina took the prize—as usual. An’ two of the Willises come out second an’ third. Nina donated her turkey, which was as big as a goat, to the local food pantry, an’ that took away the sting of nobody else havin’ a shot at winnin’. But Willy Donner, who couldn’t’ hit the broad side of a Target truck, followed me around the rest of the afternoon, whinin�
�� that he’d of won if only he had his gun back.

  the horse auction

  After lunch—which was more like a banquet with fried chicken an’ mashed potatoes; biscuits an’ gravy; greens an’ black-eyed peas; three kinds of pie: apple, sweet potato, an’ pecan; ice cream an’ sweet tea—Nina wandered off to check out her competition fer the Sadie Hawkins race. Like she really had any. I headed to the stock pens to check on preparations fer the auction. I’d got about halfway down the fairway when Alice Bowne come tearin’ out of a herd of city visitors like a border collie comin’ after a stray sheep.

  “Sheriff! What’s he doing here?” She pointed toward the BLM guy huffin’ an’ puffin’ towards the stock pens.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “No. But I know he’s up to no good.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s a friend of the truck driver who was abusing those horses.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I saw them having dinner together at a truck stop. The night before the driver came here. They were drinking together—toasting something or other. Thick as thieves.”

  “You willin’ to sign a statement to that effect?” She nodded. “Then I’ll look into it an’ get back to you.” I tipped my hat an’ hurried to catch up with Smith.

  • • •

  “Mr. Smith!”

  Smith paused and turned. When he spotted who was talkin’ at him, he scowled. “I don’t want to speak to you, Sheriff.”

  “You get your injunction?”

  “You know I didn’t. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d get justice in this town.”

  I shook my head. Smith turned an’ stalked away.

  I thought about goin’ after him, but decided I had enough on my plate fer one day. I could deal with Smith tomorrow.

  • • •

  There was a good-sized crowd millin’ around the stock pens—lots of local folks an’ plenty of, at a guess, city folk. Rye’d changed outta his uniform an’ was handin’ out samples of his best brew, in Dixie cups, to anyone who looked old enough to vote. The auctioneer, Leroy Vandyke Willis, was conferrin’ with Bello an’ Mars Boone.