“Come with me, Charlie, to hold the other dogs.”
Joe Riddley’s dogs knew Buster’s scent. He could reach down and scoop Lulu up without any problems. But I appreciated his taking Charlie with him—although I suspected it was for Charlie’s own protection. I don’t like guns, but I do know how to use them.
Lulu came prancing in to greet me like she’d been exiled a month. As I reached down to quiet her, Buster touched his hand to his hat and said, “I’ll get back to you in the morning.”
“We’ll both get back to you in the morning.” Charlie made it sound like a threat.
Too keyed up to sleep, I sat in our bedroom rocker by an open window where I could hear country night sounds and catch a breeze. Lulu dozed contentedly at my feet.
Instead of Hiram, I found myself thinking about Helena. She’d never dated that we knew, and her only woman friend was another single mother who worked over at the courthouse and helped Helena get a birth certificate for Jed when he started school. It was typical of Blaines to keep worthless books and lose birth certificates. It was a wonder they survived.
Poor Helena didn’t survive for long. She died of cancer when Jed was a freshman at Mercer. He must have inherited his grandmother’s smart genes, because he won a full scholarship.
At the end, Helena started to ramble. She got all worried about Jed and a sackful of something, but we couldn’t understand her. Jed finally remembered his one brief encounter with the law, when he’d stolen a pack, not a sack, of seeds off our rack. Joe Riddley made him work to pay for them. “Mama was real grateful you didn’t take her job,” Jed said ruefully.
Joe Riddley had cuffed him gently. “Our boys did worse things than that.”
Suddenly Helena opened her eyes. “Watch over my brothers and take care of Jed. Give—” She squeezed Jed’s hand, then she was gone, a lot more peacefully than her brother died.
Lulu stirred at my feet, raised her head, and whined. I listened but didn’t hear anything. I wasn’t frightened to be down at the end of a road by myself, but I’d have been a lot happier if Joe Riddley had been snoring gently in our bed instead of lying vulnerably downstairs. I started to get up and make sure he was all right, but when Lulu laid her nose down on her paws again, I took that for a sign that everything was all right. You don’t get much past a beagle.
I took several deep breaths of clean country air and wondered if I’d seen Hiram’s murderer when I went to get my hair fixed that morning. I’d met Ridd in his pickup with Bethany as I drove out, but he wasn’t on his way to kill anybody. He’d rolled down his window and called, “Goin’ for the corn.” He’d experimented with a late variety of sweet corn, and wanted to show it off at the party. Ridd’s always got an eye out for advertising.
Slade’s green Lexus had been in front of the newspaper, and Pooh’s Cadillac was creeping down Oglethorpe Street. Otis was alone and didn’t see me. I hadn’t recognized anybody else.
I left Phyllis’s thinking about toilet paper. How much could two hundred people use in one afternoon? I sure didn’t want to run out. I decided to stop by Bi-Lo for two more eight-packs. As I turned into the parking lot, I nearly ran into an abandoned truck sitting smack in the driving lane. I meant to report it to the manager, but forgot.
I ran into Kelly Keane inside the Bi-Lo, and saw Alice Fulton sitting in her little white car when I came out. I figured Gusta had run out of something crucial, like butter for her grits. Gusta made up for being sparing with her money by being generous with other people’s time.
As I drove away, I’d been in such a hurry, I nearly side-swiped the same truck—
Truck! That was Hiram’s purple truck, with Joe on the dashboard. I’d muttered, “Next time you break down, Hiram, push the danged thing out of the way.” Was the truck still there? Had anybody rescued Joe?
I wouldn’t sleep until I found out, so I padded to the phone and called the sheriff’s office. Nobody there knew a thing about a truck. “Would you send somebody to Bi-Lo’s parking lot to see if it’s still there? Especially see if the parrot’s there. He could be suffering.”
I finally climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and slept like a baby.
Until I heard shots.
12
Lulu bayed at the bedroom window, a silhouette in the darkness. My clock said two-thirteen. Who the Sam Hill was shooting what in our yard?
I heard another shot, then a wild yell. “Hiya!”
Lulu bayed again. Joe Riddley’s dogs answered frantically in their pen.
I flew out of bed and ran barefoot downstairs, muttering threats against whoever was bothering Joe Riddley at that hour.
A halogen security light between our house and the barn did funny things with colors and made us all look like creatures from Mars, but it also flooded the backyard with light. I hurried to the back door and peered between the curtains.
Joe Riddley stood in the brightest part of the light. He’d turned his walker around and propped himself against it like it was a seat. He had his shotgun on his shoulder, aimed straight at our barn. And he was naked as the day he was born.
He pulled the trigger and yelled again. “Hiya!”
We just used the barn for lawn equipment, camping gear, and the fishing boat, so I wasn’t worried he’d hit any living thing. But Lulu, who was trained to hunt and who would formerly have been in a frenzy to join the fun, cringed against my leg and trembled. That made me so mad, I forgot my training about treating Joe Riddley with care and patience. I flung open the door, dashed out onto the porch, and yelled, “What the heck do you think you are doing at this hour of the night? You’re scarin’ Lulu to death, and you’re gonna bother the neighborhood.”
Hubert and Maynard Spence were a quarter mile away, of course, but Maynard was a light sleeper. I didn’t want him coming down to see my fool husband standing out in the backyard in his birthday suit shooting his own barn.
When he didn’t even turn my way, I added, “Where’s your pajamas?”
He looked down, uninterested. “I wet ’em.” He turned back, propped against the walker again, steadied the gun on his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. A bullet whizzed, then plunked in the side of the barn. “See that, Little Bit? Who you sayin’ can’t shoot?” His dogs yelped their approval and excitement. For all they knew, they and Joe Riddley were heading after quail. He lowered the gun and peered toward the barn. “Can you see that? Right through the heart.”
The heart he referred to was a red one Bethany painted on the old brown barn in a fit of teenage determination to fancy up the place before her friends came to the party. She’d painted a couple of flowers, too—one blue and one yellow—before the futility of the task caught up with her enthusiasm. Hitting that heart with a shotgun didn’t take any particular skill. The thing was nearly three feet tall. But I didn’t say so. I’d finally woken up enough to remember Joe Riddley’s mind was sick and I was supposed to treat him gently.
I also remembered a year before, when Joe Riddley came in second in a county-wide shooting match. Despair rolled over me like an icy wave at the beach. “Oh, God help us,” I begged, looking at my naked husband out in the chilly night with a loaded gun.
But you can’t give in to despair when something goes on day after weary day. You have to buck yourself up and keep facing it. I brushed tears off my cheeks and took a deep breath to calm my voice. “That was good, honey, but you need to come in now. You’ll have Buster’s deputies roaring down the road. And it’s a tad cool to be out there without a sweater.”
He finally turned, angry. “Don’t you tell me what to do, Little Bit. I gotta practice. Me ’n’ Buster’r goin’ huntin’, an’ I gotta practice. You go on back inside, now. You hear me?” The way he was slurring his endings was a dead giveaway he wasn’t thinking straight. As if I needed more proof, the gun barrel made loopy motions in the air, and when it grew still, it was aimed straight at my breastbone. I was taller than the painted heart on the side of our barn, and Joe Riddley a
lot closer to me. There was little chance he’d miss if he pulled that trigger.
When I faced down Pooh, I’d been mostly worried about the officer behind me. Pooh was forgetful, not malicious. But who knew what anger Joe Riddley harbored after forty-one years of marriage? Married folks do a lot of things to make their partners wish they could shoot them. Common sense, good manners, and breeding restrain most of us. But Joe Riddley’s good sense, manners, and breeding were lost in a fog somewhere in the depths of his injured brain.
My feet stuck to that porch floor like it was a block of ice on a cold wet morning. I could never reach our door before he pulled the trigger. I’d have to talk him down, but I wasn’t sure my lips would move.
They barely did. “Joe Riddley, put down the gun. You’re pointing it straight at me.”
“Then you get back inside. You hear me, Little Bit? Do as you are told. I gotta practice. Goin’ huntin’.” He looped the barrel in the air again, still facing in my direction.
“You’re shooting real good,” I assured him, backing slowly toward the door. “Why don’t you lay down the gun and come on in for now?”
“Can’t.” He turned away again. I sagged against the doorjamb in relief, but his next words chilled my very soul. “Gotta practice. Like I told Hiram yesterday, I’m a good shot, but you gotta keep in practice.” He propped his bare rear on the walker.
My knees grew so weak I had to hold on to the porch railing to keep from sliding to the porch’s gray floorboards. “Hiram? When did you see Hiram?”
“Came by yesterday afternoon after my nap, lookin’ for you. Said he’d promised to mow, but got detained. I told him I do our mowin’. He’ll have to find another job.”
“Oh.” It came out a squeak of relief. “You mean Friday afternoon.”
“No, I mean yesterday.” He sighted along the barrel.
“Yesterday was your party, honey. You didn’t have a nap. You must mean Friday.”
“Don’t you tell me what I mean.” He started turning my way again.
Mindful of the gun, I scooted into the kitchen behind the screened door, ready to dash to safety if necessary. Lulu whined at my ankles. Still, I couldn’t leave the conversation there. “But it was afternoon when Hiram came?”
“Morning, afternoon, I don’t remember. What’s the difference? Woke me up. I told him if them aliens bother him, I’ll shoot ’em for him.” He gave a chuckle that sounded wicked to my terrified ears. “Right in the middle of their foreheads.”
I was so faint I scarcely noticed when he added, “Told him I do our mowin’. I do, too. Now go on back to bed and leave me be. I gotta practice.” He sighted along the barrel and shifted his position.
“Honey,” I persisted, “are you positive you saw—”
I didn’t get to finish. Joe Riddley had miscalculated the walker’s balance. It toppled, carrying him back with it. The gun flew from his grip, made two loops in the air, and landed on its butt in the grass not ten feet from the door where I stood. I dropped to the floor, arms over my head.
Hearing no shot, I climbed gingerly to my knees and peered out. Joe Riddley sprawled on his back, looking puzzled. “Gun didn’t go off. Musta used both shots.”
“You did,” I remembered. My heart thundered a rapid thankGodthankGod. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” Joe Riddley peered into his ammunition box. “Little Bit, run get me more shells. I’m out. You know the ones I mean?”
“I know the ones you mean, but I’m not getting them. You’ve done all the shooting you’re going to do for one night.” I held on to the door and managed to get it open, but my legs quivered like I was a hundred and fifty. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t get me down the steps. I went down the ramp instead, holding tight to the handrail. By the time I reached the grass I felt stronger, but nowhere near strong enough to haul Joe Riddley to his feet.
“I’m going to have to call Ridd,” I told him, panting.
“Call Maynard. He’s closer. And get this infernal walker out from under me. It’s lumpy.”
I removed the walker and hurried in to dial the familiar number.
Maynard’s voice was slurred with sleep. “ ’Lo?”
“Maynard, Joe Riddley’s gotten himself into the backyard and fallen, and I can’t get him up. I hate to call you, but—” I stopped the way folks are apt to when they need a favor but don’t like to come right out and ask.
“I’ll be right there.” Maynard dropped the phone into its cradle and I saw an upstairs light come on across the watermelon patch. I was grateful he hadn’t demanded, “Was that him doing all that shooting?” Time enough for explanations later. First, I had something else to do.
It’s amazing how embarrassment can strengthen and speed a person’s legs. I managed to hurry in, find a fresh pair of pajama bottoms, and get back outside before I heard Maynard’s car start. “Let’s get these on you, honey. I don’t want Maynard seeing you like this.” I knelt and awkwardly tugged the pajamas over Joe Riddley’s feet and ankles.
For a wonder, he didn’t protest much. Oh, he gave a couple of kicks and grumbles, but he helped me by raising his hips so I could slip the pajamas up. I gave him a smile and smoothed back his hair. “I hear him on the road already.”
He smacked my hand. “I’m not gettin’ my picture made. Don’t fuss.”
I gave an exasperated huff and stood to wave at Maynard, who was out of his car almost before it stopped.
Maynard had come home months before from a good museum job in New York City to help his daddy after Hubert’s heart attack. From the gentle way he raised Joe Riddley and supported him across the grass, I saw he had learned how best to help a feeble man without injuring either the frail body or the delicate dignity.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” he suggested, steering Joe Riddley toward the ramp. “Mac, you could do with a bathrobe and slippers. It’s chilly out here tonight.”
I looked down and was glad our halogen light did make colors funny. At least Maynard couldn’t see how red I’d turned. I’d been so worried about Joe Riddley’s modesty, I’d forgotten my own. There I stood in a flimsy gown without a robe.
Maynard tactfully turned away as I hurried up the steps and toward the stairs. That blasted gun could stay out there until it rusted, as far as I was concerned.
Joe Riddley was starting to snore by the time I got back downstairs. Maynard stood watching him at the door. When he saw me, he motioned me to follow him to the kitchen. “What were you all doing out there at this hour?” he asked softly.
“Didn’t you hear him shooting? He’s got some fool notion about going hunting with Buster this fall, and he was practicing. Woke me up. I’m surprised it didn’t wake you, too.”
“I’ve bought a white noise machine. I can stand New York, but I can’t take the frogs down by Daddy’s pond. I didn’t hear a thing until the phone rang.”
“I hope it didn’t wake Hubert.”
“It didn’t. He doesn’t hear much without his new hearing aids and I took the phone out of his bedroom.” He gave me a worried look. “The way Joe Riddley is these days, you’d better get those guns out of the house.”
“Especially after Hiram—” I stopped, appalled. I had no business talking about Hiram until the sheriff’s office released a formal statement about his death.
Maynard gave a grunt of disgust. “I could shoot that old bugger. He came into the museum Friday afternoon eating a hamburger and got ketchup all over one of our upholstered chairs. I had the dickens of a time getting it out without leaving a stain.” He shook his head at the memory.
I knew Maynard hadn’t shot Hiram—or at least I was pretty sure he hadn’t—but still, I warned him, “Don’t go around saying you could shoot somebody. It can get you in trouble.”
He chuckled. “Spoken like a new judge. But seriously, you need to get rid of those guns.”
I heaved a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know where to take them. Neither Walker nor Ridd has a safe place to keep them, wi
th their children around.”
“Want me to take them to our house? I can put them in one of our spare rooms upstairs. Daddy doesn’t climb steps anymore, so he won’t mess with them.” What he meant was, Hubert wouldn’t be tempted to think he could go out in the woods alone after a squirrel or rabbit, like he used to before he had a bad heart.
“I’d be very grateful,” I admitted.
He got a sudden gleam in his eye. “Any more antiques among them?”
When Maynard first got home, he nearly drove everybody crazy asking for things we used every day and claiming they had “historical value.” He’d slacked off some, but he still kept his eyes and ears open for antiques for that museum.
I owed him, though, for getting him out of bed. “I don’t think so, honey, but you take a look. If there’s something you want for the museum, I’ll see what I can do. Ridd and Walker sure won’t mind. None of us but Joe Riddley has ever cared a thing about guns. It used to be a real sorrow to him that the boys refused to hunt, but he finally accepted it.”
Who Invited the Dead Man? Page 12
