A Deadly Affair at Bobtail Ridge

by Terry Shames

  After he takes off, I sit around and drink another cup of coffee and wonder why his comment about hiring a new chief doesn’t thrill me as much as it ought to.

  The word is that Careen Hudson, the ex-teacher who had a fondness for young high school boys is spending every day this week at the fairgrounds in Bobtail showing vendors around and taking applications for those who want to work the state fair in early September. I go over to the fairgrounds to see if I can have a word with her. It’s in a big field out east of town.

  The grounds look a lot bigger without all the concessions, rides, and crowds. There are several permanent structures on the grounds—the ticket booths, now shut up tight; a huge barn where the livestock part of the fair is held; a big arena with concrete bleachers for the rodeo; and entertainment stages.

  I head down to one end where I see cars parked in front of a couple of small wooden buildings. Over the entrance to one is a brass plate that says “Bobtail County Fair Headquarters.” It’s eleven in the morning. I came at this time, figuring Careen Hudson would be taking a lunch break and she might have time for me.

  Several people are waiting in the outer office. I go over to a desk that holds four stacks of papers—information and applications for vendors and general fair jobs. Hearing my footsteps, a man who looks barely twenty years old comes from around a screened-off area. He’s tall and muscular, with a dark head of curls, intense blue eyes, and a strong chin. “Vendor or general work?” he says.

  “Neither. I’m here to see Careen Hudson.”

  “She’s tied up—all these people are waiting to see her.” He tilts his chin in the direction of the waiting supplicants.

  “It’s a police matter,” I say. “Couple of questions I need to ask her. I can wait.”

  He frowns, and I see he doesn’t quite know how to handle this wrinkle in the day’s business. If I were to guess, he was hired because of his looks rather than for his brains. “You have a card?” he says.

  He takes the card and starts toward another door, but the door opens and Careen Hudson steps out. The men in the waiting room come to attention. It’s been thirty years since she was a teacher, but time has been good to her. In her school picture she had full lips, dark eyes, and long, lustrous hair. Her hair is shorter, the eyes have a few lines around them, and she may have a few more pounds than she’d like, but she looks good. And she is dressed to take advantage of her assets. She’s wearing high heels and a short skirt that shows off shapely legs, a red blouse with enough of the top buttons left undone to give a peek at fine breasts, and a gold necklace that stops an inch short of nestling between them. This is a woman to be reckoned with.

  Her assistant hurries over and hands her my card and says a few words to her. She looks at her watch and says something to him.

  He comes back and says, “Careen is going to try to fit two more applicants in and then she’ll see you while she eats her lunch at her desk.”

  The assistant calls the next applicant in, a burly man whose face has gone bright red at the prospect of being in the same room with the bombshell.

  Thirty minutes later I’m ushered into the office. Careen is sitting at a wooden desk in a straight-backed chair and she gestures for me to sit in the same kind of chair across the desk from her. It’s hot in the office and she is fanning herself. When I sit down she picks up a tissue and blots her nose and forehead. “Every year I promise myself I’m going to get an air-conditioner for this office.” Her voice is low and has a trace of humor in it.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I’m too cheap. The fair barely makes ends meet as it is, and since I only use this office a few weeks out of the year, I can’t justify the expense. That was before I hit the change of life.” She gives me a knowing wink, and I can’t help laughing. “Good, at least you’ve got a sense of humor,” she says. “Some of these poor people are so desperate for a job that they wouldn’t know a joke if it pounded them on the head.” She lifts the vee of the blouse away from her and fans herself, and I find myself wishing for the first time in many a year that I was twenty years younger and looking for a challenging woman. “Now what kind of questions can I answer for you?”

  “I’m trying to find out if you remember a kid you had as a student back when you were teaching.”

  The humor leaves her face. “If you mean that incident that got me fired, I don’t have anything more to add.”

  “I don’t mean that,” I say. “This is about a boy by the name of Eddie Sandstone. Somebody said you were one of his teachers and might remember him.”

  She lifts an eyebrow at me. “What I remember may not be very helpful to you. Eddie was a very attractive young man. I was only a few years older than him, and let me tell you, he was one hunk I would like to have gotten to know a little better. Cocky as hell, but I like boys that way.” She shifts in her seat and fans her chest again. I imagine what it must have been like for adolescent boys sitting in a classroom with her.

  “I heard he had a temper,” I say.

  She pauses, speculating, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she liked that in a man, too, but if she does, she keeps it to herself. “I heard that, too. And there was something else. I’m trying to remember exactly what it was. Something that happened with his sister that upset her.”

  “You have any idea what it was?”

  She shakes her head. “You know how kids are. They’ll blab every little thing about stupid stuff—but when something important happens, they clam up. And quite frankly I wasn’t all that interested in the drama that high school girls get up to.”

  “Any idea who might know something about it?”

  She pouts her lips. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  “He’s not in any trouble that I know of. But I’m curious to know why you’d think so.”

  She shrugs. “He was one of those kids who likes to be the big cheese, and he had a way of butting heads with people. I suspect he hasn’t changed all that much. He had a couple of good friends back then, but I can’t even remember their names.”

  I thank her for her trouble and start to rise, but she gestures for me to sit back down. “I don’t have to get back to work just yet. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? How long have you been chief in Jarrett Creek?” She leans forward, propping her arms on her desk and offering a little more view. I’m sorely tempted, but the reality is she’s not my type, and more to the point, I doubt I’m hers either—she just wants the practice.

  Otis Greevy is only ten years older than Eddie Sandstone, but his face is as lined as an alligator. His light-brown eyes are sunken back in his head, only their friendly look saving him from looking reptilian. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like a word with you concerning something that happened a good while back.”

  “Come on in. I don’t have long. My wife is out and when she gets back we have to go see a man about a dog.” Seeing the look on my face, he gives a snort of laughter. “No, I mean that for real.” He leads me into the living room. “Our dog died a couple of months ago, and my wife has her heart set on a little cocker spaniel. I’d rather have a real dog myself—a nice hound or a Labrador retriever or something like that. But she’s the boss. Set down there. Can I get you some iced tea?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He’s back quickly with the tea. “You take lemon?”

  “No. This is fine.”

  As soon as I take a sip of it, I regret not asking for the lemon because it’s too sweet.

  “What questions do you think I have an answer to?”

  “This goes back a ways. Apparently you had a little dust-up with Eddie Sandstone, and I’d like you to tell me about the incident.”

  Otis Greevy tugs at the collar of his shirt as if it’s suddenly too tight. “That is going back a long time. What in the world do you want to bring up that old business for?”

  “I don’t want to pry if it’s something you’d rather not discuss.” Words designed to make sure he�
�ll talk to me.

  “No, it’s not a problem. Just seemed like a lot of water under the bridge since then. I haven’t seen Sandstone in a heck of a long time.”

  “Can you tell me what led to him attacking you?”

  “Well, it’s not something I’m proud of. I guess you’d have to say we were both at fault.” Looking embarrassed, he clears his throat and drinks some tea.

  “We was all workin’ under Curly Fogarty as carpenters and whatnot. Building a bunch of new houses. I was a carpenter—still am—and I worked alongside Eddie Sandstone’s daddy. All of a sudden one day his daddy didn’t show up for work. I didn’t think much about it at first, but we had more work than we could do, so after a few days of him not coming in I asked Eddie where his daddy was. Eddie was sort of a gofer. You know? Go fer this, go fer that?” He laughs at his stale joke.

  “What did Eddie say?”

  “He said he didn’t know where his daddy was.” Greevy sighs. “That’s where I made my mistake. I thought I was pretty funny back then. Good sense of humor. Like to make everybody laugh.” He looks to me for confirmation.

  “I hear you,” I say.

  “I said, ‘Eddie, has your daddy run off with Alice Blackman?’” Alice sang in the choir with Howard and she was a good-looking woman. Somebody had told me he had a crush on her. I didn’t take it seriously, but I guess Eddie did. He picked up a shovel and knocked me upside the head with it.” Greevy has a good head of hair and he moves a bit of it aside and leans forward for me to take a look. “I’ve still got the scar. Bled like a pig. Had to have a bunch of stitches.”

  “But you didn’t press charges?”

  “I was going to. It’s not right hitting me with something. If he’d used his fist, that would be one thing, but using a weapon? No, sir. But then his mamma came around to talk to me. She said Eddie had had a hard time of it since his daddy left and could I see my way clear to drop the charges. She was worried that her son would lose his scholarship with an assault conviction on his record. She was a sweet lady, and by that time the wind was out of my sails and I told her sure. Didn’t do any good though. He lost the scholarship anyway.”

  “Did anybody else have trouble with Sandstone?”

  “Not at the job site they didn’t. He quit at the end of the week and went to work on somebody’s farm. No great loss, if you ask me.”

  I hear a back door open and the rustle of grocery sacks, and a cheery voice says, “I’m home! Let’s go get us a dog!” A short, chunky little woman with snappy blue eyes comes barreling into the room and stops short when she sees me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know we had company.”

  I stand up. “I was just leaving. I won’t keep you from your business. Thank you for the iced tea.”

  “Hold up,” Greevy says, rising. “Elaine, would you give us a minute?”

  “I sure will. I’ve got to put the groceries away.”

  As soon as she walks out Greevy says, “Why are you asking about Howard after all these years? It was a funny business that he walked out like that. Have you had word of him or something?”

  “I don’t know if you knew it, but Vera Sandstone died last week. She had asked me to find her husband and I’m following through on that.”

  “I see. I can tell you I don’t know anything about that.”

  “The woman in the choir he supposedly was interested in,” I say. “Alice, you said her name was? Is she still around?”

  “There wasn’t anything to those rumors. She stayed around here. Although, some said maybe he felt like he had to get out of town before he made a fool of himself over her.”

  “I wouldn’t mind talking to her, to see if she has any idea where he might have gone.”

  “Let me ask Elaine. She’ll know.” He disappears into the kitchen and comes back with her. She’s wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “Alice? She’s still around. I don’t think she sings in the choir anymore though. She had breast cancer and she dropped out of choir after that.”

  Greevy’s cheeks pink up. Some men can’t even hear the word “breast” without getting all flustered.

  Stubby Clark looks like he’s likely to follow his former boss to an early grave. He’s as wide as he is tall and huffs and puffs as we walk across the field to his office. It’s late afternoon, and he’s been looking over his crop of football players for next fall. He has had them doing sprints, and I don’t envy them. In late April it gets over ninety in the afternoon. Needless to say, Stubby isn’t going to show them how it’s done. He tells his assistant that he’ll be back in a half hour. I have a feeling he’s happy to get out of the sun. His face is a dangerous shade of red.

  “I’m going to ask you to go back a good while,” I say. “I’m interested in a boy you coached back when you were just getting started, Eddie Sandstone.”

  I’ve borrowed a yearbook from Mollie Cleaver and I open it to the pages that show the football seniors. He barely glances at it, and I notice that he stiffens ever so slightly before he sits back in his chair and folds his hands over his belly. “What kind of interest do you have in him?”

  “I just need to contact him. His mamma passed away.” A vague explanation will be enough. Anything to get him talking.

  “I heard that Vera passed. But I haven’t really kept up with her son.”

  “He was a pretty good football player?”

  He looks at Eddie’s picture and then off into space, then back again. There’s a subtle change in his face as he remembers something. “Pretty good.” He’s frowning.

  “Good enough to get a scholarship to SMU, I understand.”

  He nods again, sits back, and says, “If they could have tamped down that mean streak, they might have made something of him.”

  “Mean streak? Everybody I’ve talked to seemed to think he was pretty popular.”

  “Yeah, he was popular, all right, as long as nobody crossed him. But a few times people did, and he had a way of getting back at them. And then he ended up attacking somebody. I don’t remember the details, but he lost that scholarship.” I’m intrigued by the look of satisfaction that settles on Clark’s face. “I warned the folks at SMU that he might give them some trouble, but they had a crying need for a middle linebacker and they said those boys were always a little mean.” He snorts. “But I could have told them even as young as I was that there’s mean on the field and then there’s just plain mean.”

  “For example?” If I’m not mistaken he’s harboring a grudge against Eddie Sandstone, and I’ve stirred up some uncomfortable memories. Exactly the kind of thing I was trying to pry loose.

  “He’d play pranks on his teammates for no good reason and then act all innocent. Stuff like making out with somebody’s girlfriend and then bragging about it in front of everybody. And if the guy got upset, he’d claim he thought they were broken up or some such nonsense.”

  “That was asking for trouble.”

  “Yeah, except he had his little group of friends, and if anybody acted like they were going to mess with him they closed ranks. I don’t mind telling you I didn’t like him.”

  “Stubby” Clark. A short, wide man with a nickname that must have been easy for a kid like Eddie Sandstone to make fun of. From the pictures in the yearbook, Stubby was smaller than most of the boys he coached. And thirty years ago, starting out as an assistant coach, he’d have been sensitive to gibes from the players.

  A father who disappeared and a popular son with promise who went off the rails after that. The more I dig into the matter, the more I wonder what happened to make Jenny despise her brother, and if it all has something to do with his daddy leaving home. Something happened around that time, and for Jenny’s sake, I want to know what it was.

  CHAPTER 19

  When I go down to the pasture behind my house to see to my cows the next morning, I take the time to give myself a good, stern talking to. Jenny’s on the mend—from her mamma’s death and from her accident. It’s time I sit her down and insist on findin
g out what’s behind her problems with her brother. It may be nothing but old grudges, but it also may be something serious enough to have made him try to run her car off the road. A while back I lost a friend because I didn’t take the danger to her seriously, and I’m not going to let that happen again. The problem is I dread the confrontation. Jenny is not a person to push around. She’s determined to fend for herself—how that came about I don’t know, but it’s deeply ingrained.

  As if reading my mind, the phone rings. It’s Jenny. “You planning on coming to the hospital today?”

  “I was just fixin’ to call you. You want me to come over now?”

  “Yes, but I need you to come in some kind of conveyance besides that truck of yours so you can take me home. No way I can climb into the truck.”

  “They’re letting you out? That’s good news.”

  She tells me they’ll release her at noon. I call to see if the highway patrol is finished with her car, but they say they need to keep it a little longer, so I go down to headquarters and clean out one of our two squad cars. It’s not a luxury vehicle, but it’ll work well enough for bringing Jenny home.

  I expected Jenny to be excited to come home, but in her hospital room she’s subdued. I worry that she’s in pain, but she says she’s feeling fine and speaks so curtly that I figure it might be better to give her a little room to be surly. It’s always an ordeal getting out of the hospital. It’s hurry up and wait time. They act like they want you out right away, but then when you’re ready they make you wait to sign papers and then talk to the head nurse and anybody else they can think of to get into the action. And then they have to scare up a wheelchair because God forbid that you walk out on your own, even though as soon as you get home you’ll be on your own.

  When we finally get into the car and on our way, Jenny still hasn’t said much. But as soon as I turn out of the parking lot, she says, “Do you mind if we go by Mamma’s house on the way home?”