The Huckleberry Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery

by Patrick F. McManus

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You know our bad guys are pussycats compared with what’s running around in the big cities.”

  Tully tugged on the corner of his mustache and thought about this. “What you’re telling me, Brian, is that maybe some really heavy dudes have moved into town?”

  “That’s the feeling both Ernie and I get. Usually we don’t have any trouble shaking loose a few tidbits of info, but now we’re getting nothing. We even offered to drop some possession charges, but still nothing.”

  “You’re right, our criminals usually don’t refuse a deal.”

  Pugh took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “Where does Daisy get this stuff anyway?”

  “Straight from China, at fifteen cents a pound. So don’t be picky. You think the three dead guys I found up in the huckleberry patch yesterday might have something to do with it?”

  “The coffee? Yeah, they were probably the importers. Serves them right.”

  “No, the fact you can’t pry any info out of your snitches.”

  Pugh nodded. “That did occur to me. But why would they kill three huckleberry pickers?”

  “Maybe the pickers had stumbled onto somebody’s secret patch. Who knows? Actually, there were four intended victims. The fourth one got away. I think he was nicked in the arm by one of the shooters. Dave tracked him down the mountain for a mile and only found a few spots of blood. So he couldn’t have been hit hard. Brian, I want you to drop everything else and find this guy. I’m pretty sure he will know who the shooters are.”

  Pugh stood up and retrieved his coffee cup. “You’re probably right about that. You got any idea where I can find this picker?”

  “George Henderson gave the kid a ride off the mountain in his logging truck and dropped him off just across the tracks where the Scotchman Peak Road comes into Blight. You know George?”

  “The logger? Sure, I know who he is.”

  “Good. George should be able to give you a description of the guy. The kid probably isn’t over twenty and hasn’t had a shower in a few months. I checked the hands on the dead victims and they were all rough and callused, like they were farmworkers. So this guy probably resembles the other vics, but a little smarter.”

  Pugh smiled. “A dirty, young, smart farmworker. Shouldn’t take me any time at all to find him.”

  “Don’t be a wise guy, Pugh. The fact that the other vics hadn’t come in contact with bathwater in a year probably applies to him, too. Even if he was only slightly nicked by a bullet, the wound would get infected. If it does, he’ll probably show up at the hospital emergency room to get it treated. The kid isn’t stupid. Otherwise, he’d be dead.”

  Pugh stood up to leave. “I know a nurse who works emergency. I’ll check with her.”

  “The cute redhead?”

  “How did you know, boss?”

  “Maybe I’m psychic.”

  Pugh laughed. “Yeah, I bet. I’ve got my eye on her myself. Any other leads on the shooters?”

  “Lennie Frick.”

  “Frick! You’ve got to be kidding me, Bo! If Frick went to swat a fly, the fly would take the swatter away and beat him with it!”

  Tully shrugged. “But who knows what evil dwells in the heart of any man?”

  “Hunh? I think you need to take a few days off, boss.”

  “You’re probably right, Pugh. I need to relax a little. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of phoning a beautiful fortune-teller and inviting her to lunch.”

  Pugh shook his head. “I’m not kidding, boss. You need some time off!”

  8

  TULLY DROVE OVER to 405 East Sharp. It was a tiny, ratty-looking house, scarcely big enough for the rats, let alone Frick. Parked out front was a battered red pickup truck with a blue door, the door no doubt salvaged at night from a wrecking yard. In the front of the house was a pile of empty beer cans taller than Tully. It appeared as if each can was the same brand of beer, Acme, the worst beer he had ever tasted but also the cheapest. He knocked on the front door. A voice inside called out, “Who is it?”

  “The police, Frick. And don’t try running out the back, because I’ve got men out there who will beat you senseless for the fun of it!”

  The door opened a crack and Frick peeked out. “Oh, it’s only you, Bo.” He unhooked a chain and opened the door the rest of the way. “Come on in.”

  Tully preferred his criminals to have more fear of him. “No, Lennie, you come out.”

  Frick stepped out. He was wearing a dirty T-shirt, grungy jeans, and a pair of wire-rim glasses taped together over the nosepiece. His hair appeared to have been cut with a lawn mower. He nodded at the pile of beer cans. “What do you think of my collection, Bo?”

  “Very nice, Lennie. All the same make of beer, I see.”

  “Yeah. I’m kind of a perfectionist. Me and my buddies emptied them all ourselves. I wouldn’t let anybody toss on anything but an Acme can.”

  “I can see that. But occasionally you treat yourself to a Dos Equis, don’t you, Lennie?”

  “Jeez, how’d you know that?”

  “Because we found a Dos Equis bottle at a crime scene and it had your prints on it.”

  Lennie looked as if he was about to faint. “I-I-I didn’t do nothing to nobody, Bo!”

  Tully smiled. “I know you didn’t, Lennie. But if you tell me one itty-bitty lie, you’re going to jail for it. Now, when you were up on that old logging road on the Scotchman, did you see anything unusual?”

  Lennie was silent. Tully could almost hear the brain cells grinding together as he sorted through all the petty crimes he had committed in the last week. “No, nothing. There’s a huckleberry patch in there a ways, pretty well picked over, and I got a gallon for my mom.”

  “Good for her. Did you notice anything unusual about the huckleberry patch?”

  “Like what?”

  “Three dead bodies.”

  Lennie’s jaw dropped. “No! I didn’t see no bodies!”

  Tully tugged on the corner of his mustache as he stared coldly at the perfectionist. “Okay, I believe you, Lennie. Now tell me exactly when you were up there.”

  Lennie frowned. Tully could see his fingers down along his side, counting. “Three days ago.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. I dropped the berries off at my mom’s and she baked me a pie. I picked the pie up yesterday.”

  “So what time did you drive back down from Scotchman?”

  “Jeez, it was pretty late. Maybe about four. Still mighty hot, though.”

  “Did you see anybody when you were driving back down the road? Any other pickers, for example?”

  “Naw. Oh, there was one big white pickup parked at a turnout on the road when I was coming down. It had a bunch of young guys sitting in the bed. The pickup looked brand-new.”

  “Anything unusual about it?”

  “Yeah, it was one of them dualies. That’s the kind of pickup I’m going to buy next.”

  “You’re saying it had dual tires on the rear, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Anything else unusual about it?”

  “Only the folks inside. A bunch of stuck-up rich guys. I waved when I drove by but not a one of them waved back. Then it occurred to me maybe they were having car trouble. So I stopped and backed up. The driver rolled down his window and I asked him if he needed any help. He said, ‘Beat it!’ and called me a nasty name. I would have said something back just as rude but he didn’t seem like the kind of person you want to be rude to. So I just drove on.”

  “You think you could pick that guy out of a lineup?”

  “Yeah, I’ll never forget that face.”

  Tully gave Lennie his cold stare again. “Now, listen to me very closely. First, get in that red truck of yours with the blue door and park it in that little garage you’ve got out back. Don’t drive it anywhere, until you hear from me.”

  “You’re scaring me, Bo.”

  “I intend to. Now, do you rem
ember how many people were in the cab?”

  “Yeah, there was three of them, all in the front seat. The backseat was empty. It was still blistering hot out, and they had these other guys riding in the bed. All four of them could have fit into the backseat. You can bet the cab was air-conditioned.”

  Tully smiled. “You’ve done good. Just remember now, for once in your life, Lennie, you can’t be dumb. Let me repeat, you can’t be dumb! Don’t drive that pickup anywhere until you get that blue door replaced and until you hear from me.”

  “How come, Bo?”

  “Because somebody will kill you, Lennie, that’s why.”

  9

  BACK AT THE courthouse, Tully walked directly into his office. He thumbed through his phone book. No luck. He punched a button on his phone and got Daisy’s extension.

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Daisy, work some of your magic and find Etta Gorsich’s number for me.”

  “Why? You need your fortune told?”

  “No! Just get me her number!”

  A few minutes later Daisy came in and handed him the number on a piece of paper.

  “That was fast. It’s not in the book. Where did you find it?”

  “I called your mom.”

  “Ma had it?”

  “Of course. She keeps track of all the gossip, in this world and the next.”

  “I should have known.” He hung up and dialed the number. Etta Gorsich answered.

  “Etta, it’s Bo Tully.”

  “Bo! So good to hear from you! I would love to!”

  “Uh, how do you know what I have in mind?”

  “Whatever it is, Bo, I would love to.”

  “Well, that’s, uh, great. What I have in mind is lunch at Crabbs. Can I meet you there in an hour?”

  “Perfect. See you there in an hour, Bo.”

  Scarcely had he hung up the phone when Daisy buzzed him. “Marge Poulson is headed your way. Are you in?”

  “Daisy, how can I not be in? This office has glass on three sides.”

  “Last time you hid under your desk.”

  “I’ll see her! Show her in.”

  He walked over and opened the door for Mrs. Poulson. She was in her early sixties, a few years younger than her ex-husband, Orville. She was one stern lady, a ranchwoman who had grown up in hard times, and all nonsense had long ago been washed out of her. She came directly to the point.

  “Sheriff, when are you going to arrest Ray Crockett for the murder of Orville?”

  “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.

  “No, I simply want you to answer my question.”

  “As I’ve told you before, Mrs. Poulson, we have no evidence that Orville is even dead. We obviously can’t arrest someone simply on your suspicions.”

  Her shoulders seemed to slump.

  “Please sit down,” he said, putting his arm around her and edging her toward the chair. She sat. Tully walked around his desk and sat down across from her.

  The woman seemed tired and a little dazed, but something caught her attention. “Why is that window painted over, Sheriff?”

  Tully turned and glanced at the window. Good question. “Well, one of our local criminals tried to shoot me through it a while back.”

  “Oh, yes, I read about that in the paper. I’m sorry, Sheriff, I know you have lots of problems, and I shouldn’t be such a bother, but the murder of Orville weighs on me something awful. We have been divorced for five years but we were married for nearly forty. I don’t know about other people, but just because Orville and I couldn’t stand living with each other anymore doesn’t mean we stopped caring. I know your wife died ten years ago, Sheriff, and you’ve never married again. You understand about attachment.”

  Her words caught Tully off guard. He felt a sudden constriction in his throat and hoped his eyes hadn’t teared up. “Yes, I do, Marge.” He cleared his throat. “I want you to know I haven’t for a minute forgotten about Orville. What I’m about to tell you is between the two of us. If you breathe a word of it to anyone, it could get me in a lot of trouble and we might never find out what happened to your husband. So give me your word.”

  “You have it, Sheriff.”

  “I went out and met Ray Crockett the other day. He’s a pretty smooth customer and seems like a pleasant enough fellow. Nevertheless, I suspect he did Orville in, just as you suspect. More likely, he had somebody else do it. But we have to find the body. And a body can be hard to find if the person isn’t even dead.”

  Marge took out a hanky and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Orville could be buried anywhere out there. That ranch is over a thousand acres. Do you even have a clue where he might be?”

  Tully didn’t want to tell her he had a lead, because he didn’t even know if he had one. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Crockett told me he mails Orville’s Social Security checks to a post office box in Spokane each month. If, in fact, Orville has been murdered by him, Crockett must then go to Spokane, pick up the checks, and cash them. I’m not sure how difficult it is for someone to cash Social Security checks belonging to someone else. By the way, Marge, are you having any financial problems because of Orville’s disappearance?”

  She laughed. “You don’t have to worry about me, Sheriff. I’m well off. Orville gave me half the money from his sale of the stock. Then I rented out the old farmhouse I inherited from my folks. The renters don’t farm but say they like the isolation. There aren’t any neighbors within miles.”

  “Where’s the farmhouse?”

  “It’s a few miles down the road from my own little house, on the other side of Cow Creek. As for cashing Social Security checks belonging to someone else, I have no idea.” Marge put her hanky back in her purse. “His Social Security checks didn’t amount to that much.”

  “How much?”

  “About fifteen hundred dollars. Not enough for somebody to murder a person for.”

  “Marge, people get murdered for a whole lot less than fifteen hundred dollars. Take my word for it.”

  “Really? It seems so little for a human life.”

  “Yes, it does. I guess the value goes down pretty fast if it’s somebody else’s life. In any case, Marge, I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I know something.”

  “Thanks, Bo. Is it okay if I call you Bo?”

  “You bet. You can call me anything you like, Marge. Oh, I understand Orville was quite the fisherman.”

  “Good heavens, no! Orville hated fishing. Said it was the most boring excuse for a hobby he could ever imagine. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just something I heard.”

  10

  AFTER MARGE LEFT, Tully drove over to Crabbs. Etta was just getting out of her car when he arrived. She was dressed in what, to Tully, looked like sailcloth pants, the legs spreading into little flares slightly below her calves. She wore a little black jacket that also seemed to have an ancient naval look to it, although maybe it was just basic New Yorky, something she had picked up at Saks Fifth Avenue. Ever since Susan, he had made a point of being attentive to what women wore.

  “Hey, Bo!” Etta cried. “We have perfect timing!”

  As with almost everything Etta said, Tully wondered if there weren’t something subliminal he was supposed to pick up on. He had never known a woman who made him quite as nervous as this one. Having enough trouble with his present world, he had little tolerance for people who claimed a knowledge of some other world. He hoped Etta wasn’t one of those. She had impressed him as a person of few pretensions. The outside of her house displayed only cracked and peeling paint, a rickety porch, a yard that made Lennie Frick’s beer-can pile look like a landscaper’s display piece, and a set of stairs and handrails in serious need of warning signs. If she ran a business out of her house, she needed a visit from OSHA. Now he noticed that she drove a rather modest Buick LeSabre with several dents and dings, and in need of a wash. On the other hand, everything in the interior of her house had been strictly
upscale. Something weird was going on with Etta Gorsich.

  “Hey, Etta!” he called back.

  She gave him one of her sexy but amused smiles. “I hope I’m not taking you away from your work.”

  “Actually, you are,” he said. “And I’m profoundly grateful.”

  Etta responded with a throaty laugh. “I’m pleased, then. I’ve never dated a sheriff before. But maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe it’s only a business lunch.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a date,” Tully said. “Crabbs, by the way, is the best restaurant in all of Blight City.”

  Etta smiled. “Sad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. Its strongest point is proximity. Crabbs’s motto should be ‘We’re here.’ ”

  “Perfect!” she said. “You should be in advertising, Bo.”

  “You really think so?”

  “No, I think you’re perfect as the sheriff. People love you, particularly the women.”

  Tully took her by the arm and turned her, so he could look her in the eye. “You’ve been talking to my mother, haven’t you, Etta?”

  “Your mother? Good heavens, no!”

  “Come clean. I’m a sheriff, you know. I can spot a lie three blocks away.”

  She put on an exaggerated pout. “Well, if your mother is a fascinating woman named Rose, it’s entirely possible I may have met her on some occasion.”

  Tully rolled his eyes. “Just as I thought! My mother is Gossip Central in Blight City and surrounding points. I happen to be the main topic of her gossip. You should never believe a single thing she says.”

  Etta pretended to be extremely serious. “But isn’t it true, Bo, that all the women love you?”

  “Well, that’s true, of course. I mean all the other stuff.”

  “I’ll say only this about my conversations with Rose: the other stuff is extremely interesting!”

  Tully let his chin drop down onto his chest.