Who Invited the Dead Man?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  My head still spun and sweat trickled down my backbone. Breathing wasn’t easy yet, either. I put one hand to my mouth and forced myself to inhale. My knees felt pretty rubbery. Gusta called in her gravelly old voice, “MacLaren, are you having a stroke?” Once again everybody in the room turned to stare.

  I was particularly aware of Slade’s dark eyes at Meriwether’s shoulder. Any second he’d be sidling over, snooping for a story.

  “No, Gusta, I’m fine. Can I get you anything to eat?”

  “No, thank you.” Disappointed I wasn’t having a medical emergency, she turned to greet Sheriff Bailey Gibbons, who was coming in the door.

  I took a step toward Buster myself. I was mighty glad to see him at that moment. But Charlie tightened his grip like he thought I was planning to escape and jerked his head toward the screen. “Did you kill him?”

  I have told you that Charlie looks like a cross between a polecat and a chimpanzee, with the least attractive features of each, but I failed to say he is also pigheaded, prejudiced, and apt to make up his mind without reference to facts. Having him smirk at me right then was not improving my nerves, nor did I deserve to be accused of murder in my own dining room.

  I spoke indignantly but softly, so nobody could hear me above the din. “Of course I didn’t kill him. Poor Hiram.”

  “He the brother of the kook who claims the Confederate treasury is buried on his property?”

  “He might not be kooky.” With Charlie, I was willing to defend even Hector. “There’s been a rumor since the War that the treasury is buried around here somewhere.”

  “Well, this feller certainly ended your party with a bang.” Charlie chuckled at his own bad joke, but didn’t sound the least bit sorry about the party. “You need to send these people home.”

  It shows how overwrought I was—and how new to law enforcement—that I begged, “Can’t you wait a little while? I know you want to get on with your investigation, but Hiram isn’t going anywhere for the next hour or two, and you know how uncertain Joe Riddley’s mind is right now. If he even suspects there’s somebody dead in here—”

  Suddenly I had a hopeful thought. Maybe Hiram wasn’t really dead. His idea of a great practical joke would be to lie there for hours with dried ketchup on his head, on the off chance he could scare the pants off one nosy guest. Looking around quickly to be sure nobody was watching, I put my mouth close to the edge of the screen and called softly, “Hiram?” I waited for him to open one eye, give me a wink, and let out a guffaw they could hear in Macon. Seeing Charlie’s expression, I explained, “Just checking.”

  “You’re crazy. Any fool can see he’s dead.”

  He was right. Death has a smooth, finished-with-life look nobody can fake.

  Nobody could fake the signals my stomach was giving, either. I needed fresh air badly.

  Clarinda bustled out of the kitchen already talking. “That child tells me—” What she read in my expression alarmed her. “You havin’ a spell?” she asked softly.

  I shook my head and gestured toward the corn on the floor, but she’d already noticed the shifted screen. “Who’s been moving that? Folks know better’n to look back there.” She turned a formidable frown on Charlie. Working for a magistrate all these years, Clarinda has lost any fear of officers of the law.

  As she reached over to straighten the screen, he hissed, “Don’t touch that!”

  But she’d already seen Hiram through the crack and transferred her anger to him. “What you doin’ back there, playin’ the fool?” I tried to shush her, but she wasn’t paying me one speck of attention. Clarinda tends to get a mite testy when she’s got two hundred people to feed.

  I grabbed her plump arm. “He’s been shot,” I whispered.

  “Shot?” She whispered, too, but loudly, shocked wide eyes roving back to the crack. “You mean, he’s dead?”

  Several people looked our way. A couple of curious guests started drifting over. I shooed them away like late-summer flies. “Chief Muggins is making fun of all the junk mail in my corner.”

  “You know better than that,” one man warned him with a playful shake of his forefinger. “Mac’ll kill anybody who looks behind those screens.”

  At the moment, I could have done without that particular joke.

  But the second man came closer, teasing, “What you got back there? Gonna let us peek?”

  One of the reasons I value Clarinda is her common sense. “I’m gonna kill the first person to track buttered corn over my carpet.” She glared at my guests, arms akimbo. They gave her apologetic smiles and retreated. She bent and started picking up corn.

  “I don’t want Joe Riddley to know,” I pleaded with Charlie.

  “Absolutely not,” Clarinda agreed without standing. She reached over and twitched the screen back to its former position before he could stop her. “Just leave him be ’til folks go home. He’s not goin’ nowhere.”

  “I can’t—” Charlie began.

  “You leave him be ’til folks go home.” She stood with two fistfuls of corn and spoke in a loud, reassuring voice. “I think we can get the grease out of the carpet, Miss MacLaren, but don’t let nobody walk on it ’til I get back. And you go on outside,” she added to Charlie as she headed for the kitchen. If Hollywood ever steals her from me, Clarinda is sure to win an Oscar.

  Chief Muggins, however, tightened his grip on my arm and warned, “Don’t you move. I’ll be back in a minute.” Before I could protest, he was worming his way through the crowd toward Sheriff Gibbons.

  9

  Sheriff Bailey “Buster” Gibbons and Joe Riddley met in kindergarten. Buster’s one of our best friends, but law officers don’t look like friends when you’ve got an unexplained corpse in the corner.

  I was actually nervous as Buster sauntered my way. He looked like a bloodhound, but those sad eyes and hanging jowls went with the brain of a fine law officer. He asked as he reached me, Charlie at his elbow, “Something the matter, Judge?” In public and even in our offices, Joe Riddley and I always called Buster “Sheriff” and he always called us “Judge.”

  Before I could speak, Chief Muggins jumped in, pitching his voice to a low growl. “She’s concealing a body behind that screen. May have killed him herself. Knows who he is, anyway. Since it’s outside city limits, it’s in your jurisdiction, but I stand ready to render any assistance you may require.” Specifically, he stood between me and the door in case I tried to flee.

  Buster peered behind the screen.

  Clarinda bustled back with a thick roll of paper towels and elbowed him in the ribs. “You all get outta the way, now. I gotta sponge up all that grease.” She waved the two lawmen away like they were grandchildren. “Miss MacLaren, you look plumb pooped. Why don’t you go over yonder by that window and sit down a while? Rest your bunions.”

  I don’t have bunions, but my legs were wobbling. Buster noticed and steered me to a chair by an open window. I more fell than sat in it. Meanwhile Clarinda spread paper towels down on the rug and surrounded them with a wall of dining room chairs that guaranteed nobody else would touch that screen. Charlie watched her with a buzzard’s stare.

  Buster dragged over another chair and sat near me. “Rest a spell, Chief. I need to talk to the judge a minute before I call in my team.”

  I hoped he’d see reason where Charlie hadn’t. “We’ve got to keep this from Joe Riddley. You know how unpredictable he still is. He rants at the dog, snaps at me and the boys, and sobs like a child if he spills peas off his fork. The doctor says it’s all normal after a head wound, and he should get better, but I work so hard trying not to let anything upset him. And now, Hiram—”

  At that moment I was glad buzzard Charlie hovered over me. At least nobody else could see me crying. “When did you last see the deceased?” he barked softly.

  I reached in my pocket for the tissue I always carry, and blew my nose. “Day before yesterday. He wanted to know if I needed any odd jobs done around here, and I said I could use him ye
sterday morning to mow for the party. He never showed up, though. Ridd finally did it yesterday afternoon, with everything else he had to do. I could have throttled Hiram—” I broke off, seeing the gleam in Charlie’s tawny eyes. “But I didn’t. Didn’t shoot him, either. I am not in the practice of shooting people who disappoint me, nor am I dumb enough to kill somebody and hide the body in my own dining room where any fool could find him.”

  Buster put a hand on my shoulder to stop my tongue. “It’s probably my fault Hiram didn’t come. I pulled him over yesterday morning down near your turnoff for an expired sticker on his truck. After I pointed that out to him, we talked a little. He told me it was a real shame about Hizzoner getting shot, and he was on his way to your place to show Hizzoner and Mizzoner he still bore no malice about the warrant.”

  “Warrant?” Charlie’s eyes positively glittered.

  Buster stroked one jowl. “You don’t know about that, Charlie? I guess it was before your time.” Charlie had only been hired three years ago, a major mistake on the part of our town leaders. Buster said briefly, “An officer caught Hiram trying to pour vinegar in the town water to protect us from aliens. Joe Riddley signed the warrant for his arrest.” He turned to me. “Didn’t I hear that Hiram went up to Atlanta to be near Jed after he got out?”

  “Drat!” I started to my feet. “We need to call Jed—and Hector, too.”

  “Calm down.” Buster caught my arm. “We’ll notify Hector and ask somebody from Atlanta to notify Jed.”

  “Ask if he owns a gun.” That was another of Charlie’s asinine suggestions. Jed couldn’t come to town and kill Hiram without being recognized. But the word gun sent a cold poker up my spine. Joe Riddley had a case of guns in the back room. It was always locked, but what if somebody broke into it? As soon as I got everybody out of the house, I’d go check.

  “What was this feller doing in Atlanta?” Charlie asked Buster.

  “He told me yesterday he’d been doing yard work and maintenance for an apartment complex. Jed knew the manager and got him the job. But Hiram said the alien situation got so bad up there that he decided to come on home.”

  “Poor Hiram.” I had to swallow tears. “He should have stayed in Atlanta.”

  Maybe Buster could tell I was about to bawl, because he gave a little chuckle. “Apparently the aliens followed him back. Hiram swore he saw one on Oglethorpe Street Thursday. He was so riled up about it, I had a time steering him back to his expired tag. But finally he promised, ‘I’ll see about that right away, Sheriff.’ He turned the truck then and there and headed for the tag agency. Sorry, Mac. My guess is that he was so rattled about getting stopped he plumb forgot your mowing.”

  Charlie moved closer to my chair. “Thereby inciting Judge Yarbrough here to anger. . . .”

  “I didn’t kill him!” My voice was a hoarse, desperate whisper. I raised my eyes to Buster, stricken by a sudden thought. “I didn’t even invite him to the party!”

  “Somebody did.” Buster’s eyes roamed the crowded rooms.

  “It’s time to send everybody home, Judge.” Charlie positively gloated at spoiling my party. “Get their names and addresses and tell them to go.”

  “I have their names and addresses,” I said hotly. “But you don’t think anybody killed Hiram since this party started, do you? This house has been fuller than a well-fed pup since before noon.”

  “So who was around earlier?” He waited for me to tell him who killed Hiram.

  “Clarinda came at nine-thirty to get started in the kitchen. Walker and his kids came soon after to set up the tables and chairs he and Ridd brought from the church last night. We stored them in the barn in case there was a heavy dew. The florist came at ten to decorate the tables, and Ridd and Bethany followed her in with corn they picked real early. The kitchen crew came soon after that to start shucking. A lot of other people started coming around eleven, to set up the music system and televisions and to mark off the parking lots. Dad’s BarBeQue brought the food at eleven-thirty, and the place has been a madhouse since.”

  “But until ten it was just you, Joe Riddley, Clarinda, and Walker.”

  I didn’t remind him about Walker’s two kids. Charlie was using the fingers of one hand to count on the other, and he doesn’t have six fingers on either hand. But I wanted to smack him. “When the Sam Hill do you think any of us would have had time to kill Hiram? Besides, nobody was even in the dining room until the florist brought flowers for the table.” I nodded toward them, a larger, nicer arrangement than I’d ordered, which she’d said was a gift.

  “What about Joe Riddley? And what were you and he doing before Clarinda arrived?” Charlie’s eyes drilled me like I was soft wood.

  “I went to the beauty parlor at seven-thirty. Phyllis opened early especially for me. I got home a little before nine. Joe Riddley was still asleep, so I woke him and helped him dress. Then we ate breakfast. We were finishing when Clarinda got here.” And fussed about us messing up her clean kitchen. I didn’t mention that. I also didn’t mention that I’d locked our kitchen closet. Mama always locked closets before a party, so folks wouldn’t snoop. I didn’t lock most of ours, but I didn’t want folks seeing the ratty clothes we kept there for working in the yard.

  “What did Joe Riddley do while you all were working so hard?”

  Oh, he nipped in here on his walker and shot Hiram Blaine.

  I didn’t say it, but I came within a hair. “He sat out on the porch and watched everybody work.” And barked orders that didn’t make sense, nearly driving us crazy. I didn’t say that, either. I saw no point in clouding either Charlie’s or Buster’s mind with details that didn’t have a thing to do with Hiram.

  “So Joe Riddley was here alone the whole time you were gone, apparently sleeping.”

  “Not apparently sleeping, he was sleeping. I had the dickens of a time waking him up.”

  Buster spoke mildly. “We don’t need to worry about who was where until we know when Hiram died. It’s highly unlikely he died after eleven. It could even have been last night.”

  “No, it couldn’t.” I hated to correct him and help Charlie build a case against the rest of us, but I owed it to Hiram to be as helpful as I could. “I didn’t set that screen up until just before I left for the beauty parlor at seven. Its paper was torn, so I glued it last night. Whoever killed Hiram had to do it while I was at the beauty parlor and Joe Riddley was asleep. He sleeps now in the den in back of the living room, with the blinds shut and an old wall-unit air conditioner on. It makes such a racket, he wouldn’t have heard a thing.

  “Two more things,” I added. “I didn’t lock the back door when I went to get my hair fixed, in case Ridd brought the corn or Clarinda got here early. And I left Lulu in the kitchen, but when I got home, she was out in the bird dog pen. I didn’t think much about it at the time. It was just one less thing I had to do. But somebody was here while I was gone.”

  “Or the judge got up.” Charlie was like a tenor who only knows one aria.

  “The judge can’t walk.” I felt my blood pressure rising. “He could no more get that dog across the backyard and inside the pen than he could fly.”

  Buster looked at the press of people milling around the room. A few gave us curious glances, but at a party that size nobody cares who the hostess is talking to, so long as there’s food on the plates and drink in the cups. “I’m sorry, but these rooms do need to be cleared, to—”

  I’ve been around police work long enough to know what he needed to do. I even appreciated that we couldn’t wait for my guests to decide to go home. But I couldn’t help saying sadly, “It’s been a nice party until now.” I felt sorry for myself and a whole lot sorrier for Hiram.

  Buster’s hand was warm on my shoulder. “It’s your best party yet, and Joe Riddley’s had a great time. Can you tell folks he’s getting tired, and ease them out?”

  I had a spurt of hope. “If I get them outside, do we have to send them home yet? I wanted to plant a tree in Joe Riddle
y’s honor.”

  “Where did you have in mind to plant it?”

  “Down the drive where that poplar blew down last spring. And we haven’t had cake and ice cream yet, either. Clarinda’s been baking all week.”

  Charlie scowled. “We can’t delay a murder investigation for cake and ice cream.”

  Buster, however, understood how important this party was. “Any outside evidence is wiped out already. Can you keep everybody out there so we can work in here? And will you head them home right after the cake?”

  “Sure. Lock the front door and close off the front of the house. We’ll serve cake and ice cream outside and steer folks needing a bathroom through the kitchen. With everybody who’s been in that kitchen, it’s unlikely you’d find any evidence in there, either. Fair enough?”