Miss Pettybone's First Case

by Melissa Rees

  Dwight gave Zeb a knowing look and popped the trunk, then lifted out a cooler, setting it on the ground. "Your reputation precedes you, Zeb."

  "What, my reputation as a cheap bastard?" Zeb asked, snickering.

  "That's the one." Dwight agreed, reaching into the trunk and lifting out hammers and crowbars.

  Dwight handed the hammers and crowbars to Kooter, and then looked at Zeb.

  Chuckling, Zeb led the way. Unlocking the door, they stepped into the kitchen and looked around. Everything looked just how they left it. The dirty dishes were still in the sink.

  Randal shook his head and groaned at the heat.

  "Don't get any better in the rest of the house." Zeb pointed out cheerfully. "You're just soft, deputy. This will do you some good. Unless you have a heart attack from the heat, that is." He amended.

  Randal threw Zeb an angry glance and stalked off.

  “I think we can handle things from here." Dwight announced.

  Zeb laughed, and then turned to walk out. He stopped and twisted his head. "Lock up when you're done, Dwight. Those damn kids are treating this place like it's their very own haunted house."

  "Okay, Zeb. I’ll take care of it." Dwight promised, watching the old man hop in his truck. Backing up, Zeb was gone in a cloud of dust.

  Dwight walked into the living room looking for his deputies. He followed their voices to the bedroom where Warren Jones was murdered. Wandering over, he stood beside Randal and Kooter. "We'll each take a room." He said. "I’ll take this one. Rip up anyplace that looks suspicious. Any place that might have been touched within the last year."

  Dwight watched the men turn and walked unhappily out of the room. He stood a couple of minutes thinking about the dead man. The man had obviously been running. Scared, but not scared enough to keep on the move. He wondered if he had any family or friends who were missing him.

  Deciding it was useless to speculate about Warren Jones, he shook his head, and then looked around. He would start with the bed.

  ***

  After two hours of tearing the bedroom apart, Dwight was ready for a break. Pulling his shirt over his head, he laid it over the headboard to dry out. He ambled wearily into the living room and watched Kooter Brown on the living room floor, a crowbar in his hands tearing up the last of the baseboard.

  "Let's take a break." Dwight suggested, watching as Kooter stood and stretched, wiping his neck with a red handkerchief.

  "This is damn hard work, Sheriff. I think Randal and I should get extra pay."

  "Okay. Then of course, I can decrease your money when you all are sitting on your ass in your squad cars." Dwight answered, walking towards the kitchen.

  He heard a muttered curse from Kooter and grinned. He didn't blame them for complaining. It was hotter than hell in the house.

  Dwight spotted Randal's generous butt hanging out of the bottom kitchen cabinets. "Randal, you ready for a break?"

  Randal scooted backwards and sit up, his butt resting on the balls of his feet. His face was beet red, sweat rolling off his chin and neck. "I could do with a break." He said, pushing himself off the floor.

  Dwight grabbed the cooler. The three men walked slowly to an enormous oak tree and sat down in its shade. Dwight distributed the ice-cold water and they sat silently, to hot to speak.

  After ten minutes, Randal looked at Dwight. "There are signs that someone was in the cabinets recently. Dust disturbed that kind of thing."

  “Maybe the guy had groceries down there." Kooter suggested.

  “Maybe." Randal agreed.

  "I know I didn't find one single thing in the bedroom and I tore the hell out of it." Dwight admitted.

  "He was a strange duck, wasn't he?" Randal asked, feeling cooler.

  "He was running from someone." Kooter pointed out.

  "You boys searched his car well, didn't you?" Dwight asked.

  "You've asked us that before." Randal said. "We told you, we tore it apart. All we found was cigarette butts and empty whiskey bottles."

  Dwight leaned back on his hands and studied the sky. "I know he must have had some paperwork. Everybody has some stuff lying around, somewhere."

  Randal and Kooter nodded their agreement but didn't speak.

  "Well, let's get back to work. I’ll take the bathroom. You all continue with your rooms." Dwight said, pushing himself off the ground.

  Kooter and Randal nodded unhappily, then rose and walked back into the house.

  ***

  After an hour of pulling the tiles off the wall, Dwight paused, and then frowned.

  Reaching into a hole behind a ceramic tile that had been leaning against a water line behind the toilet, he pulled out a plastic K-Mart bag. Rolling it open, he pulled out bundles of money. Whistling softly, he counted the stack of bills. A whole lot of money.

  He stood and called Randal and Kooter, showing them the bag and bundles of money.

  "All right." Randal whooped pleased to find something, more pleased that he could stop working.

  "Holy Mother of God." Kooter exclaimed, looking at the wad of money in the sheriff's hand. "How much do you think is there?"

  "A couple of hundred thousand, I think." Dwight said, handing the money to Randal. "Count it, and then bag it. Get a receipt book from the car and sign it."

  Dwight walked into the living room and sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He pulled out a handful of papers.

  Kooter sat down next to him and watched as Dwight unrolled a birth certificate. "Warren Iverson Jones, born February sixteenth nineteen hundred and seventy-three." He read. "Born in New York City to Wendell and Ruth Jones." Relieved that he found something, Dwight grinned. Unrolling the next bundle, he saw pay stubs from the famous Antique Home Show. Handing them to Kooter, he ordered. "Tag and bag them."

  Kooter reached for them, then stood up and headed outside.

  ***

  Hours later Dwight had forgotten all about his dusty truck at home waiting to be washed. He was on the phone for the second time that afternoon with a police department in New York City. He was having little luck finding someone who was the least bit interested in a little murder in the state of Mississippi.

  He signed as he was transferred again.

  “Hello.” The voice on the other end of the line had a smoker’s rough tone.

  “Hello, my name is Officer Dwight Caruthers. I am calling from Mississippi.”

  “What’s this about?" The detective's name was Wally Henderson. He could remember reading about Mississippi in geography class but that's as far as his knowledge went concerning the state.

  "We had a murder down here a week ago. His name was Warren Jones. We found some paperwork that confirms he worked for the Antique Home Show in New York City."

  "I'm not following you. If he was killed down there, then why are you backtracking here?"

  "I have some evidence that makes me believe he was running scared from someone in your city."

  "You don't have any killers from around your parts?"

  "I don't think the murderer is from around here. This guy flew into my town about five months ago. Stayed at a local hotel until he rented an old farmhouse outside of town. Kept a low profile, only hitting town for food and whiskey."

  The detective propped his feet up on his desk. He thought about all the cases he had going, then sighed. "Tell me why you think he was running." He invited.

  Satisfied the detective was showing some interest, Dwight began. "He pulled in here around January, stayed at a local hotel until about four months ago. Must have not felt too safe because, he rented an old farmhouse out of town. He stayed pretty much to himself, as far as we can tell. Wouldn't allow any mail to be delivered to his rental, picked up his mail sporadically. No phone, no visitors."

  "How old was he?" Wally asked absently, drawing an old farmhouse on the back of a used pizza box.

  "The coroner said he thinks he was in his early thirties. And we found a birth certificate that puts him at thirty-three."
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  "Okay, he’s thirty-three. Go on."

  "When his body was discovered, we searched his car and the house he was staying in and found nothing. No personal papers at all."

  “So maybe he was a rolling stone." Wally suggested, having found a fair amount of them in New York City.

  "No, we went back in where he bought it and tore the place apart today. We found his stash today. Probably a couple of hundred thousand dollars in a hole behind the toilet."

  Whistling Wally sat up. "Blackmailing?"

  "That's our guess."

  "What do you need from me?"

  “I’ve been trying to find out why he left the Home Show and ran in this direction."

  "Have you called them?"

  "Yes, I tried a couple of times. They won't give out any information on him."

  "Okay, it's too late today. They are probably closed. I’ll run by there in the morning and see what I can dig up."

  “Thank you." Dwight said, relieved he had someone who was willing to help. Giving the detective his name and telephone number, he hung up and watched as Randal walked in and sank down in the chair opposite the desk. "I took the money to the bank. I had Lester count it and give me a receipt." Randal said, leaning over to put the receipt on the desk.

  "I finally got a hold of a detective that is going to do some checking at the Home Show tomorrow morning." Dwight said, leaning back in his chair, stifling a yawn.

  "You think he was blackmailing someone?"

  "That's an awful lot of money to be sticking in a hole in the bathroom." Dwight pointed out.

  "With that kind of money, I could pay my house off and build a fourth bedroom the wife has been wanting."

  "Yea, it's a lot of money." Dwight agreed, getting to his feet. “I’m headed over at the cafe for dinner. You want to come?"

  "No, I've gotta be heading home. The wife will have dinner waiting."

  Dwight nodded and walked around the desk. When he noticed Randal hadn't move, he raised his eyebrows in question.

  "The wife was wondering if you wanted to come over for some dinner." Randal said awkwardly, wishing she hadn't insisted he ask.

  could tell that his deputy was uncomfortable. He smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "Tell the misses thanks, but I’ll just stop in and pick something up at the cafe."

  “Okay, sheriff. I’ll tell her."

  Dwight watched Randal shuffle out of the room and sighed. He was very much afraid that this was only the beginning of wives and wives dinners.

  He walked out of his office and pulled the door shut. Locking it, he walked out the back door and decided to forgo the cafe. The last thing he wanted was some Good Samaritan wanting to talk to him about his love life.

  Chapter 39

  Miss Pettybone pushed herself awkwardly out of bed and hobbled to the phone. Cradling it gingerly, she ordered a Diet Pepsi from room service. Picking up her watch from the dresser, she checked the time. Ten-thirty at night in Savannah, Georgia and the only thing that looked good to her was her bed. How depressing was that?

  Twenty-four hours earlier, she and Lynn were having a wonderful time at Roosters. Now she was so sore she could hardly move and Lynn was scared and ready to run back to Mississippi.

  She turned on the television and sat gently down on the bed. Flipping through the channels, she paused at a local channel. The Antique Home Show was on and the host was telling the viewers how wonderful Savannah was.

  Well, it was wonderful, Miss Pettybone thought. It was not the town she was angry with. It was the two antique dealers on the show.

  When she heard the knock at the door, Miss Pettybone struggled slowly up. Walking carefully to the door, she opened it to room service. Signing the bill, she closed the door and took a drink of her soda. She stretched out on the bed, then propped herself up with pillows. She sipped her Diet Pepsi through cracked, dry lips. She couldn't imagine why her lips were sore.

  It was possible that she had fallen face down the sidewalk when the car came at her but who knew. The whole thing was a blur.

  She frowned when she saw Wagner's distinguished image come onto the screen. His face was calm and gracious as he talked to a small rotund woman holding a candle-holder.

  Miss Pettybone studied the man on the television screen. No one would ever think he was involved in anything as horrible as murder.

  But he was, she was sure of it. But she needed to prove it. It was a good thing that Mildred and Louise were due in Savannah tomorrow. At least they would be able to identify them. The bad thing was what they should do next.

  When she heard a knock, she struggled up and walked to the door. Opening the door, she stepped aside for Lynn. Closing it, she turned to study Lynn's furious face.

  "So what did Edgar say?"

  "About what? The fact that we are in Savannah or that you were almost killed again. Or that he heard that Mildred and Louise are joining us?"

  "Oh."

  "Yeah, oh."

  "So, what's the verdict?

  "He expects me on the next flight out. I am to be in Mississippi tomorrow afternoon."

  "Okay, that’s not so bad. You can probably catch a flight out in the morning."

  "I could do that if I had a mind to. Which I don't"

  Exhausted, Miss Pettybone waved her friend to a chair, and then sat carefully down on the bed. "Lynn, be reasonable. If it's going to cause trouble between you and Edgar, then you should probably go home."

  "I would have gone home if he would have asked me. He didn't, he told me to come home."

  "He's just worried about you." She pointed out, trying to be fair.

  "He told you to come home too." Lynn snapped, raising her eyebrows at best friend.

  “He, he can't tell me what to do." Miss Pettybone said, offended.

  "Well, he did."

  Miss Pettybone thought about Edgar for a few minutes. "I see your point." She said slowly.

  "So it's you and me, babe." Lynn said scowling.

  "You, me, Louise and Mildred Bartlett." Miss Pettybone said, sighing.

  ***

  Miss Pettybone pushed herself slowly upright. Grabbing the bedpost, she clutched the wood and inched herself to a sitting position. Her back hurt and her legs felt heavy and sore. She could hardly move. Sending a swift glance at the mirror, she moaned. No amount of make-up was going to cover the scrapes and bruises on her face.

  She placed her hands on either side of her legs and hoisted herself upright. Swaying weakly beside the bed, she grabbed the back of a chair and tugged it in front of her. Pushing the chair a few steps ahead, she walked painfully towards the bathroom.

  All through the agonizing trip across the room, she promised revenge on Wagner and Keel. They would pay for this. Somehow, she would make them pay for this.

  When she arrived beside the shower, she turned the knob on high. Adjusting the water to a reasonably hot level, she shrugged out of her pajamas and stepped inside the stall. The water felt wonderful. Closing her eyes, she allowed the searing water to beat down on her head and slide down her body.

  She didn't really want to and had been warned from infancy about the dependency on drugs, but she would take the pain pills the emergency room doctor had given her. Otherwise, she would not be going anywhere.

  She let the steam flow around her, soothing her sore muscles. The night before had been a nightmare. She couldn't turn over without pain. And trying to get to the bathroom had been a miserable experience. She yawned and leaned back against the shower stall, then thought about Wagner and Keel.

  They were the weakest kind of men, she decided. Killing an unarmed man and trying to run down a defenseless woman was just plain out and out cowardly.

  She turned the hot water off and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her body. Using the chair again, she shuffled to the bedroom and took clean underwear from the dresser drawer, then pulled some clothes from the closet.

  After drying herself off, she dressed slowly in white shorts and a light blue blo
use, and then belted her watch onto her wrist. Two hours until Mildred and Louise landed.

  She grabbed the phone and ordered a Diet Pepsi, then sat down stiffly at the small table beside the window. Picking up the pain pills, she eyed them distastefully. She knew she had little choice. She would have to take one or she would never be able to make it out of the room, much less make it to the airport.

  She thought of Lynn but decided against calling her. Lynn would go but she would hate it. No, she wouldn't do that to her friend. Lynn was only here because she was her best friend. Besides, she was probably still sleeping.

  She would go meet Mildred and Louise alone. It was probably better that way.

  Lynn had been in a foul mood last night. And, Lynn was not given to foul moods.

  When she heard the knock on the door, she stood up and walked painfully across the room. Opening the door to room service, she signed the bill and wondered briefly how much she had charged thus far.

  She shuffled back to the table, eased herself down on the seat and took a drink of Diet Pepsi, then picked up the medication. She shook a pill out and swallowed it. After thinking about the trip across town and out to the airport, she shook another pill into her hand and gulped it. If one was good, two was bound to be better.

  She carefully settled against the back of the chair and drank her soda. At half past nine, she stood up and headed for the airport.

  Chapter 40

  Cecil slipped suspiciously into the vast building and gazed around, looking for the other roadies. He couldn't understand where everyone was. The note in his box said to be at the warehouse at ten o'clock the next morning. The warehouse looked empty and deserted.

  He glanced at the old Timex he had strapped to his wrist and noted that it just turned ten o'clock.

  He walked cautiously around the different skids loaded with antique furniture and thought about Aaron Wagner.

  He had felt uneasy since the day he walked out of Wagner's office. Some sixth sense that he didn't even know he had, told him to run. He headed towards the back of the building and gazed around, looking for the red tags that were usually attached to any furniture that was headed to the showroom.