by Melissa Rees
Otis remained silent, staring out the window, watching the dry scenery fly by.
Annoyed at Otis's silence, Wagner leaned forward and turned the radio on. Not finding a classical station he liked, he reached up and pulled a CD from the visor. Pushing it into the CD player, he adjusted the volume. Leaning back, he stared straight ahead, furious at Otis's weakness. He thought Otis's squeamish behavior about killing Warren Jones was ridicules. The man was blackmailing them. He was a threat to their very way of life. Although Otis was his partner, personal and professional, Wagner sometimes felt at a loss at his behavior. It hadn't been fun to kill Warren Jones but it had been necessary. When he glanced at his partner again, he saw tears trickling down Otis's cheeks and drop onto his light pink Polo shirt.
"Otis, get a hold of yourself. It's over and done with."
"He looked so sad." Otis said, his mouth trembling, his lashes thick with tears.
"Of course, he looked sad." Aaron Wagner snapped. "He knew he was about to die."
Hurt at Wagner's tone, Otis turned in his seat and stared out at the huge fields of cotton.
Wagner shook his head at Otis's back and turned the music up. What was he supposed to do? The man was dead. His threat eliminated. No one could place them in Mississippi. Everyone thought that they were on a buyer’s trip to New York. He sighed and snuck a glance at Otis. Otis had always been a softie. He cried at sad movies and bought things they didn't need, to keep from hurting any one’s feelings. That had been one of many reasons Aaron had initially been attracted to Otis. Otis was such a good guy. He reached over to pat Otis lightly on the shoulder and said softly. "If anything like this ever comes up again, I will handle it by myself."
Otis began sobbing in earnest and grabbed Wagner's hand, resting it against his cheek.
Chapter 7
Miss Pettybone watched intrigued as Beatty, Mississippi's finest scurried around the small farmhouse. They had already staked bright yellow strips around the property and had placed keep out posters in strategic positions. She doubted that even these measures would keep the truly curious away for very long. Even at her age, she figured she could hop over the strips with not a lot of trouble. And the keep out posters were used more as information than a warning for the folks that lived in Beatty.
Most of the people she knew were related in one way or another to someone in the police department. Consequently, a goodly number of people did pretty much as they pleased in regards to warning signs.
She could still remember twelve years ago when the Thomas bought and moved in the old McPherson farm after he died. They were constantly calling police when people jumped the fence and fished in Snake Pond. When Police Chief Dwight Caruthers's wife and daughter were caught, there had been a long talk with Mr. Thomas. There had been no more calls about Snake Pond.
Some people believed the sheriff had threatened the Thomas's, but Miss Pettybone knew for a fact that he had just pointed out how small the community was and how lonely they would be if no one liked them.
She watched the uncoordinated efforts of the local police and smiled. All of them were having a grand time investigating the murder. Every few minutes someone would shout and everyone would rush over to see what he found. She mentally counted the officers that were rushing about the property. All but one officer was accounted for. She was most likely stuck back at the station manning the radio. They probably all wanted to tell their kinfolks that they were first on the scene.
She wiped the sweat off her face with the back of her arm and thought about Warren Jones. After backing out of the room, she had decided to search the inside and outside of the house before calling the police. She found, unfortunately very little.
The man's name, she knew, because of his mail. Everything except the registered letter at the post office had been a bill. There was little else in the house that identified who he was.
From what she could judge, he wasn't all that old, maybe mid- thirties. Tall and lean, he had black hair that was thinning on the sides, at least the side of his face that hadn't been blown away. He had no suitcase that she could find, only two medium size duffel bags that had been thrown in the corner of the bedroom closet. No personal papers, and only a few magazines and newspapers lying about. Nothing really to entertain himself with except an old television that sat in front of the sofa. Of course, there were plenty of empty liquor bottles. That was a clue in itself. The man had certainly liked to drink.
She had searched the house, then hurried out and tried his car but found it locked. Miss Pettybone thought that strange, not very many people locked their car doors in Beatty.
She hadn't been able to bring herself to search his trousers for the car keys. She could tell when she lifted his head with her toe, that he was as stiff as her grandma’s petticoat used to be. So he must not have been dead long.
She slid her sunglasses on to watch Bob Butler, for some unknown reason, measuring the distance between the carport and the pump house.
Bob sure was a handsome man, she reflected. His shiny black hair fairly glistened in the sun. Fertile too, she mused. He and Marie had made eight babies in as many years. She sighed for all those babies and then felt instantly cheered. A lot of people around Beatty felt sorry for Miss Pettybone. Thought older woman and no children were something to be almost ashamed of.
Miss Pettybone enjoyed her life. She came and went when she wanted, ate when she pleased and had traveled to many interesting places she had truly enjoyed.
Sure, sometimes she wondered what having a husband might be like. But then she thought of all her friends who were married. All those gripes and groans about husbands and husband's families. Who needed that? Too much maintenance for Miss Pettybone. She was a simple gal, she enjoyed simple pleasures. And she never thought cleaning up after any man that she ever met would be pleasurable.
Annoyed at the wait, Miss Pettybone ran her hands down the side of her shorts. The heat bouncing off the mail truck was stifling. She decided she would give the sheriff a few more minutes and then she was out of there.
What a sorehead the sheriff had been! He certainly had been none to pleased with her when he arrived at the farmhouse. When he discovered she had been snooping around the dead mans house, he had gone ballistic. His face had turned a bright red and had stuttered throughout his observations and objections. He yelled at her, she felt, in a most unbecoming and completely unnecessary way, especially when he pointed out how much danger she could have been had the murderer still been in the house.
Miss Pettybone had then patiently pointed out to him how bad the flies had been how hot the room was and how disgusting the scene looked. She tried to explain that she seriously doubted that even the most desperate of murderers would have stayed in the room voluntarily.
The Sheriff had rolled his eyes at her explanation and reluctant apology, and then commanded her to stand quietly and listen carefully. He then informed her that if he had a mind to, she could be arrested for tampering with evidence. He quoted police procedure and rules and regulations the average citizens were supposed obey should they find themselves unfortunate enough to find a dead body. He explained how dangerous people are who commit murder. He said that as far as he was concerned she could be a suspect in the murder.
Not the least bit effected by his tirade, she had sighed and raised her eyebrows at him, then shook her head sadly at the spectacle he was making of himself.
Furious, he had stalked off, telling a gawking Deputy Greg Adams to watch her.
She shrugged and grabbed a warm bottle of water out of the mail truck, then took a drink and glanced at her watch. She glared at Greg for good measure, then leaned back against the mail truck and fumed. Five more minutes, she would wait five more minutes and she would leave, no matter what anyone said.
***
After ten minutes of sitting in her mail truck, ten minutes of arguing with Greg and another five minutes trying to think of something horrible to do to Dwight, she saw the sheriff come bounci
ng towards her. "We are dusting for fingerprints on the vehicle and someone suggested that I should ask you if you touched the victim's car?"
When she glanced down at the ground and remained silent, still very annoyed at him, he roared at her in anger, then bounded off.
She took off her sunglasses and grabbed a small towel off the front seat of her truck. Wiping her eyes with it, she glanced at her watch. She would normally be pulling in the post office for lunch about right now.
She reached for her purse and dug her cell phone out. Punching the post offices number in, she waited for someone to answer the phone.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself. Where you at?" Billie June Thomas asked, leaning against the back counter of the Post Office, watching as her boss talked to a customer.
"I just called to tell you that I'm running late."
"Oh no, Loraine, the truck overheated again?"
"No, not the truck. A body."
"A body?"
"A dead body."
The one thing that grated most on Miss Pettybone’s nerves about Billie June was that she thrived on drama. She was not surprised when Billie June gasped, shrieked and screamed for their boss.
Lynn Cooper was Postmaster in Beatty and her boss. She had also been her best friend for the last thirty years.
Miss Pettybone listened impatiently as Billie June's voice reached a high squeak, before she remembered to ask who died.
"Not just died, murdered."
"Murdered?" Billie June said, now excitedly jumping up and down in front of the glass partition that separated the front of the office from the back. Unable to get Lynn's attention, Billie June grabbed a small stapler and knocked on the window. When Lynn looked up, Billie June wildly waved her arms and pointed to the phone.
"Where's Lynn?" Miss Pettybone asked, annoyed.
"She's coming. So, who was murdered?" Billie June asked, excited.
"Remember the guy who lived in Motel Six, until he rented Zeb's old place four months ago?"
"Yeah."
"He's a very dead fellow. Half the guy's face is missing."
Lynn grabbed the phone from Billie June, pushed speakerphone, and then put the receiver back in its cradle.
"Loraine, its Lynn. Start over."
Taking the phone away from her ear, Miss Pettybone rubbed it against her shorts, sweat leaving a damp spot on the gray material. Darn heat.
"All I said was I will be late because of a dead gentleman. The whole side of his face is missing. Well, not really missing. Most of his brains are on the wall."
"How do you know half his face is missing? Did you see him?" Lynn asked, growing concerned, knowing her friend's growing state of boredom the last several years.
"I know half his face is missing because I'm the one who found him."
"You didn't." Billie June gasped, turning pale. "Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?"
"An ambulance! Don't you dare send an ambulance for me, Billie June. I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I did some good old-fashioned sleuthing before I called the police."
Lynn rolled her eyes at Billie June and grabbed the phone. "I know what you're thinking, Loraine Pettybone, but you just get that thought right out of your head. You are not Miss Marple. You do not know how to solve murders. Do you hear me?"
"Lynn, do you remember one time asking me why I never married?"
"Yeah." Lynn answered slowly.
"Do you remember what I said?"
"You said you didn't want or need a boss."
"That's right. But that also includes my friends telling me what to do."
"Loraine, I am your boss."
"You're my boss at work."
"Where are you right now?" Lynn asked, leaning a slim hip on the counter.
“I'm at work. Okay, good point. I'll be in when the sheriff finishes with me. That is, if he ever manages to tear himself away from the inside of the house."
Miss Pettybone snapped, pushing the end button on her phone.
Lynn placed the phone back into the receiver and looked at Billie June. "We are going to have a hard time keeping Loraine away from that murder."
Chapter 7
Aaron Wagner pulled off the interstate onto a smaller highway, and then peered out of the windshield of his pick-up truck, looking for a decent hotel. All he had seen for miles was rows and rows of cotton on each side of the highway. He marveled that anyone in their right mind would live in a state filled with nothing but beans and cotton. He was bored to tears just looking at the stuff as they flew by.
He considered the danger of stopping for the night but he was tired. Never having visited Mississippi before, he was equally worried about how well their hotels were maintained. He and Otis were fanatics about cleanliness. He sighed and shot Otis a quick glance. After making up, another fight had erupted when Aaron had said he was pleased that Warren Jones was dead and probably residing in Hell. Otis took this as speaking ill of the dead and had clammed up again. He and Otis had driven in complete silence for four hundred miles.
Aaron was more then ready to find a nice hotel to stay for the night. He needed a break from Otis and the scenery. He pulled up and parked in a Holiday Inn parking lot, then turned the engine off. Twisting so he could look at Otis, he snapped. “I'm renting a room. You can stay here and bake in the truck if you want too." Taking the truck keys out of the ignition, he pushed himself out of the vehicle and walked towards the front of the hotel. The sound of the truck door slamming behind him made him smile. He knew Otis would not sit in the hot truck for long. He stepped back and pulled the hotel's front door open and watched as Otis walked through, then stepped inside the cool foyer himself.
Sauntering up to the customer service desk, he asked for a room with two double beds. They usually only got one but he wasn't counting on Otis being practical.
After a few minutes, the front desk clerk handed him the room keys. He slid a glance in the direction of Otis and saw that he was still standing in the entrance hall. God, the man was impossible! Shaking the cards in his direction, he waited until Otis walked up. "I reserved a room with two double beds."
When he saw the pained look on Otis's face, it afforded him a small victory. Now Otis knew he was very angry to. They walked into the elevator, side by side, without looking at each other. He pushed the button and stood beside the still silent Otis as the elevator glided up to the third floor. Annoyed, he strode out of the elevator, with Otis trailing behind him. He opened the door and waited until Otis walked in. He shut the door firmly, then walked over to the bed and sat down. He waited patiently for Otis to speak.
Still determined to ignore him, Otis hurried over and lay down on the other bed. Turning his back to Wagner, he lay still.
More aggravated then he could ever remember being at Otis, Wagner jumped up and stalked out of the door. Taking the elevator down to the lobby, he followed the signs to the bar. He found a booth and ordered a drink. He was growing tired of Otis and his drama. He did what he had to do to protect both of them. He would do it again. Warren Jones had been a parasite. Sucking money off of them had been an atrocity as far as he was concerned. Of course, he would never make Otis believe that. Otis had wanted to continue paying the bastard.
Aaron held up a hand to signal he wanted another drink, and then sighed deeply.
After a few minutes, he gave the bar a quick perusal and spotted a nice looking man in a gray business suit looking his way. The man raised his glass to Aaron, motioning for him to share a drink.
The man was good-looking, in a course kind of way. He had thick dark hair with a bushy mustache and a slim athletic body that might have appealed to him, at another time and place in his life. Although it would serve Otis right if he took him up on his offer, Aaron thought belligerently. Otis was behaving badly in his opinion. He should go over and have a drink with the man, see how it went.
Aaron signed. He couldn't do that, he decided. Unfortunately for him, he loved Otis. Hated his drama, certainly, but loved h
im never-the-less. He looked down at his drink, deep in thought. He had actually killed a man. Shot him in the head. How did that make him feel, he wondered, giving himself some time for any emotions to spring forward. None did. He was glad Warren Jones was dead. He decided to spend most of the night in the bar and picked up the menu. He looked through it and settled on a seafood platter. Aaron raised his hand for the waitress. When she came hurrying up, he gave her his order, then sat back enjoying his drink.
***
After Aaron left the room, Otis sat up and looked around. He and Aaron spent a lot of time in various hotels. They always tried to stay in nice ones as Aaron was so particular about beds. This one was okay but not the best they had ever stayed in. He struggled off the bed, then walked into the bathroom and washed his hands. He knew it wasn't possible but his hands felt sticky, like they were covered with blood. He avoided looking into the mirror, instead checked out the cleanliness of the bathroom. It looked okay, he decided. Walking back to the bed, he lay down and thought about Warren Jones.
Warren had actually been a lot braver than Otis thought he would be. Giving them the finger had been such a defiant thing to do. That had just made Aaron furious, of course. Aaron hated such crude gestures. He wondered where Aaron was. Knowing him, he was probably at the bar drinking.
Otis had been so scared. He had never been so frightened in his life when Aaron had pulled the trigger. His heart literally felt like it jumped into his throat, choking him.
Mentally trying to clear his brain of the aftermath of Warren's face, Otis felt fresh tears gather in his eyes and flow down his cheeks. He very much feared he would never erase the image of what happened to Warren. He pulled the bedspread tight around his body and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
***
Aaron pushed the full plate of food away, and then motioned for the waitress to take it away. He couldn't eat. He kept thinking they had forgotten something important.
