“Not if he turned his head to the left before he fired.”
“I guess.”
“You been reading again, haven’t you?”
“Never stopped.”
Wilbert smiled. “Too many of those mystery novels’ll make you think all sorts of things. Maybe you should put Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes aside.”
“Agatha’s pretty clever and Sherlock is about as smart as smart gets.”
“You know those stories are made up. Right? And Sherlock Holmes weren’t even a real person.”
“He was based on one.”
“That right?” Wilbert asked.
“Dr. John Bell. Arthur Conan Doyle knew him—was one a his students. Bell had a knack for looking at crimes and seeing what others skimmed over.”
“Like Sherlock?”
“Exactly.”
“They’re still stories, Billy. Not real life.”
“You can learn a lot from stories.”
“How so?”
“Lot’s of stuff,” Billy said. “Like the Bible. It’s mostly a bunch of stories.”
Wilbert chuckled. “Better not let your mama hear you say that.”
“Ain’t that the truth. She’d box my ears in for sure.”
“That she would,” Wilbert said.
“But I read other stuff, too. Real stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Edmond Locard and Hans Gross. A guy named Goddard.”
“Who’re they?”
“Crime experts. Locard was French and Gross was from Austria. They more or less changed everything when it came to murder investigations.”
“Murder? We ain’t got no murder here. Carl was simply down in the dumps and made a poor choice.”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, Sherlock, tell me why you’re talking about this?”
“Two things. First, like I said, that’s not exactly a comfortable position to shoot yourself from.”
“Is there a comfortable one?”
Billy smiled. “You know what I mean. To do this, Carl’s hand would’ve had to be all twisted around.” Billy made a hand pistol pointing his index finger barrel behind his own ear, cranking his elbow way back to create the right angle. “See? Not easy to do.”
“Again, unless he turned his head.” Wilbert rotated his own neck as if working out a kink. “That’s what it looks like to me.”
“Plus that, Carl was left-handed.”
“So what?”
“I think most folks shoot with their best hand. Carl would’ve used his left.”
Wilbert eyed him. “You’re a smart boy. Always was. But I suspect someone committing suicide ain’t overly concerned with what hand they use.”
“That’s what I’m saying. He’d of done what was natural. Use the left one.”
Wilbert gave him a fatherly smile.
“And there ain’t no powder burns on his head or neck,” Billy said.
“So?”
“If the muzzle was near his head there’d be powder burns on the skin. And his hair.”
“That so?”
“That’s what the books say.”
“Maybe he held it back a few inches?”
“Couldn’t do that.” Again, Billy aimed his hand pistol at his own head. “Arm ain’t that long.”
Wilbert rubbed his chin. “Look, as sad as it is, Carl took his own life. That’s a fact. And I damn sure ain’t going to stir up a mess of hornets by suggesting otherwise.”
Billy nodded. “You’re probably right.”
“I been at this for a while. And I do know what I’m doing. Your books aside.”
Billy sat at the dinner table with his mama. He ate one pork chop, not his usual two, and only a spoonful of pintos and greens. Not a single yam.
“You okay?” she asked.
He took a bite of cornbread and looked up. “Sure.”
“Don’t look like it to me. You hardly ate nothing.”
“Not hungry.”
“That’s what I mean. Your father, God rest his soul, was the same way. Whenever something lay heavy on him he didn’t eat.” She smiled. “I could always tell.”
“It ain’t nothing.”
“That’s what he’d say. Weren’t the truth though.” She eyed him. “It’s Carl Draper, ain’t it?”
Billy nodded.
“It’s a pure tragedy. I’m here to tell you. I can’t imagine what Cora’s going through. I mean, losing your father was bad. And he died of the cancer. But Carl taking his own life? That’s got to be hard for her.”
“If he did,” Billy said.
She dropped her fork on her plate. A sharp clank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You telling me someone killed Carl? Who? Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s crazy talk.” She stood, collecting her plate, then Billy’s, ferrying them to the sink. Over her shoulder she said, “I know you, Billy Whitehead. Don’t you go making no waves. Talking nonsense. You hear me?” She turned and looked at him.
“I won’t.”
In his upstairs bedroom, Billy pulled his books off the shelf. He opened the collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He adjusted the lampshade so the light fell over the bed, stretched out, and began reading.
Carl Draper’s visitation was held the next day in the large room for such events at Scoggins’ Funeral Home. Must’ve been 150 folks. The mood was mostly somber, visitors knotted into small groups, some smiling, even laughing softly, probably sharing some remembered story about Carl. The brushed-bronze casket rested on a white pedestal along the far wall and Billy made his way in that direction. Carl lay nestled in the cream-colored satin lining. He wore a blue suit, white shirt, lighter blue tie. His Bible lay near his left hand. Wilbert had done his usual good job.
“He looks good, doesn’t he?”
Billy turned to see Cora next to him.
“He does.” Billy studied her for a few seconds. “How’re you doing?”
“Not well.” She reached down and clasped her husband’s hand. “I just don’t understand why he did it.”
“It sure shocked me. Last time I saw him, just a couple of days ago, he seemed more or less like his ownself.”
She stared at her husband’s face, unmoving for nearly a full minute before finally letting go of his hand, as if reluctant to do so. “Don’t know what I’m going to do now.”
“Anything I can help with?”
She shook her head. “Not sure anyone can help with this.”
“Maybe I can pitch in at the store,” Billy said.
She turned and gave him a weak smile. “You’re a good man, Billy Whitehead. But you have your own life, your own job, to tend to.”
“I got the time.”
Tears collected in her eyes.
“Tell you what,” Billy said, “I’ll drop by Monday morning and we can talk about it.”
She sighed. “If I can just get through the funeral tomorrow.”
“You’ll do fine, Cora. You’re tough.”
“Don’t feel that way right now.”
Billy pushed through the front door of Draper’s Hardware just after ten on Monday morning. Sunday had been a beautiful day, clear and bright. The funeral, attended by well over 300 people, had been a mournful event, but Cora held up well, clutching her Bible to her chest, eyes watery behind the black veil. During the night, weather had blown in and today, rain whipped down in sheets and thunder rumbled above the hills to the west. Billy stamped water off his shoes and shook more from the canvas satchel he carried over his shoulder.
Raymond Eldridge looked up from behind the counter. “Billy. You look like a drowned cat.”
“It’s coming down pretty good,” Billy said.
Raymond, late forties, thin, long neck, big Adam’s apple, graying hair, had worked for Carl and Cora for more than a dozen years. Mostly stocking the shelves and making s
ales. He had also taken over the bookkeeping when Billy left.
“What can I do for you?” Raymond asked.
“Is Cora here?”
Raymond shook his head. “No. I told her to stay home. She ain’t in no shape to work today.”
Billy nodded. “I wanted to see if I could help out.”
“I appreciate it but not much to do. I already shelved the stuff that came in Saturday and I suspect there won’t be too many folks traipsing in with all this weather.”
Billy nodded.
“I stopped by and talked to Cora this morning,” Raymond said. “She’s thinking of selling the place.”
“To Olsen?”
Robert Olsen owned a couple of businesses in town—the drugstore and a nursery—and had repeatedly offered to buy out Carl and Cora. Pestered them as far as Billy could see. But, nothing ever came of it.
“Yep.” Raymond leaned his elbows on the counter, hunched over. “I think Cora’s heart ain’t in it anymore. I suggested she wait a few weeks. Get her head right. Then decide.”
“Makes sense.”
“Don’t know if she’ll change her mind though.”
“What will you do? If she sells?”
Raymond straightened. Shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Maybe try to stay on with Olsen. If he’s the one what buys it. Maybe I’ll mosey on up to Morgan City. Work for my brother. He could use the help, for darn sure.”
Billy scratched an ear. “You got any idea why Carl would’ve done it?”
“He’s been down lately. Things haven’t been going too well.” Raymond’s gaze roamed around the store, toward the stocked shelves, the stand of brooms near the front door, finally back to Billy. “Costs have climbed up there but prices sure ain’t. We been on a razor’s edge here for a couple of years.”
“I don’t understand how,” Billy said. “This is a good business.”
“It ain’t like it was when you worked here. Cash flow has been pretty slow.”
Billy nodded. “Well, let me know if I can help out.”
Billy braved the rain for the two blocks to the courthouse, where Sheriff Blake’s office nestled in one corner of the first floor. He debated the wisdom of talking with Blake all the way over. Was he making too much of this? Was he seeing it all wrong?
Blake, sorting through a stack of papers on his desk, looked up when Billy rapped a knuckle on the door frame.
“Got a minute?” Billy asked.
“Sure. Come on in. Take a load off.”
Billy sat in the chair that faced Blake. “I got a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Did you see Carl’s body?”
“Sure did. Why?”
“Anything seem off to you?”
Blake leaned back, folded his hands over his ample belly. “Like what?”
Billy explained his concerns. The angle, the gun in the right hand, the lack of powder burns.
Blake’s brow furrowed. “What exactly are you getting at?”
“Maybe Carl didn’t do it.”
“Come on, Billy. You believe that?”
Billy reached inside his satchel and removed the Holmes book, opening it to the page he had marked with a torn piece of paper. “Let me show you something. It’s from a Sherlock Holmes story. ‘The Reigate Squires.’” He slid the book across the desk toward Blake. “A man named William Kirwan, a coachman on the Acton estate, got hisself shot, apparently wrestlin’ with a burglar. That according to a guy named Alec Cunningham who saw the fight. The Actons and the Cunninghams were in some property dispute. Anyway, Holmes said that the lack of powder burns on the victim meant the shot couldn’t’ve been fired at close range like it would’ve been in a situation like Alec described. Sort of like what we have here.”
“So this concern of yours is based on a made-up story?”
Billy reached over and turned a couple of pages. “Read this part here.” He tapped a finger to indicate the passage.
Blake read. Billy waited.
Finally, Blake looked up. “You do realize this is a fictional tale.”
“I do. But Sherlock always seemed to find just the right clue. And here it looks like what happened to Carl.”
“The gun was Carl’s. You know that? Right?”
“I didn’t but I knowed he had one.”
“Kept it right there in his desk,” Blake said.
“I knowed that, too.”
Blake shook his head. “So someone came in the store, at night, while Carl was working, took his gun out of the drawer, shot him, and left the gun lying there so it’d look like Carl shot himself?”
Hearing it that way did make Billy think a minute. But still. “That’s surely possible.”
“But does it seem likely?”
Billy had no answer.
“It sure don’t to me,” Blake said. “So, let me ask you, who would do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can snoop around and see.”
“Billy, Carl ain’t even cold yet. Cora’s a mess. And I damn sure ain’t going to dig into something that don’t need digging into.” He closed the book and handed it back to Billy. “Not based on some story.”
Billy lay awake, staring at the ceiling above his bed. It was spidered with cracks in the paint, every line familiar. How many times had he lay right here, thinking on stuff? Like now. But, right now, his mind seemed to twist in the wind and rain that battered the window.
Who would’ve killed Carl? Why would they? His mind sorted through all the stories and books he had read. Why’d people kill? Rage? Jealousy? Money? Was the killer a robber? If so, how’d he get Carl’s gun from the drawer and use it on him? Wouldn’t Carl have put up a fight? There weren’t no overturned furniture or stuff knocked all to hell like a struggle had broke out. And from what he’d heard, the cash register hadn’t been messed with. Nothing was missing.
Why would the killer leave the gun behind? Make it look like Carl did hisself in? Why not just run?
No, someone wanted Carl dead. And didn’t want no one thinking Carl didn’t do it. Who would gain from such a thing?
He sat up on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. Rain pecked at the glass panes, thrummed the roof. He stood and walked to the window. Wind buffeted the crab apple tree just beyond, its branches scratching against the side of the house.
The only thing that made sense was Carl knew something. Something that could bring trouble down on another person—the one that killed him. But what could Carl’ve known? Who could he have had friction with? Carl had no enemies. He was a good man. Never said an unkind word. Never harmed anyone.
“Let it go, Billy,” he said out loud. “You’ll only make trouble for yourself.”
Lightning pulsed, backlighting the tree. Billy mentally counted. Four seconds before the thunder grumbled.
What would Sherlock think? How would he figure this out? If it indeed needed figuring out. One thing Billy knew for sure, Sherlock would try to connect the evidence in some logical fashion.
What exactly did Billy know? That Carl was shot in the head. That Carl might’ve done it, but the angle and lack of powder burns surely looked like someone else must’ve. That Carl had been depressed by his money troubles. Which, to Billy, made no sense at all. Carl and Cora ran a good business.
So, how did all this fit together? Did Carl’s money woes figure into this? If so, how?
Billy knew he shouldn’t stir anything up, but ignoring his gut feelings wasn’t something he could abide. Truth be told, every time he did, he later regretted it.
So, again he braved the rain and walked the six blocks to the hardware store. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the answer lay somewhere inside.
It was nine at night and the town, as usual for this hour, slept. Not a soul on the street. He still had his key and came in through the rear door. He didn’t turn on any lights as he looked around, using the meager glow from the streetlamps outside the front windows to navigate. Everything seemed normal. Nothing out of pla
ce. The cash register stared at him. He popped open the drawer. About eighty bucks and some change inside.
He walked into Carl’s office, pulling the door closed behind him. The room had no windows so he turned on the desk lamp, brass with a dark green shade. He sat in the chair where Carl’s body had been found, facing the entry door across the desk. If someone came in and shot Carl it was someone he knew. No way to sneak up behind him.
The desktop was neat. Lamp, phone, “In” and “Out” trays, letter opener, a pen, two pencils, and a smudged rubber eraser. Billy slid open the middle drawer. More pens and pencils, a role of tape, a ball of rubber bands, a couple of note-books. The left drawer held neat files of receipts. Each vendor block printed on the file’s edge. Billy’s printing.
In the right drawer rested the current year’s ledger book. Thick and heavy. Like the nine others that stood like soldiers along the top shelf of the bookcase to his left. Each labeled by the year. Also, Billy’s work.
Carl had been great with people, and a good businessman, but he hadn’t been much for keeping records. Stuffed receipts and other papers into paper bags and shoved them here and there. Most of his transactions were in cash—both the customers paying him and he in turn paying his suppliers. He rarely wrote checks.
When Billy began working for Carl, during his junior year in high school, he’d organized the receipts and set up the ledgers. Took the better part of two months but in the end he’d created a workable file system and annual ledger books that kept track of expenses and income. He smiled. He never could get Carl to use checks though. Never could shake his comfort with cash business. Old dogs didn’t like new tricks.
Billy lifted the ledger from the drawer and flipped it open. Columns of expenses and income. He remembered sitting in this same room and showing Raymond how to add entries, total columns, do all the things needed to keep everything in line. Looks like Raymond had continued the same system after Billy left.
Billy leafed though the pages. It took twenty minutes before he realized the income columns read as they had five years earlier but the expenses had risen. He didn’t remember ten penny nails going for that much.
Over the next two hours he went through four years of ledgers. The cost of supplies began to increase about two and half years ago. And, when he dug through the receipt files, he found the ledger entries and the actual invoices didn’t match. The cost of five pounds of ten penny nails hadn’t budged but the entries in the books showed they had. Same for screws, shovels, rakes, rawhide strips, hammers, everything.
For the Sake of the Game Page 17
