Who Invited the Dead Man?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “My family lives here,” he called back, “in case you hadn’t noticed. And my uncle got murdered, so I came home for the funeral. You certainly know how important family can be.”

  Meriwether lifted her chin and slammed her door so hard I fully expected the window to break. “Come on, Slade.” She marched toward the bank.

  Jed threw back his head and laughed.

  21

  I didn’t have time to stand around watching those two put on a performance. I had to decide what to do about the gun in my kitchen closet and talk to Sheriff Gibbons about the one missing from Alice’s shelf. Which should I do first?

  When things are in a real muddle and I don’t have an earthly idea what to do about them, I do what Joe Riddley calls “real straight talking with the Boss.” I went to my office, told my workers I did not want to be disturbed, and sat at my desk. “Things are in a real mess right now,” I said out loud. “I don’t know if the gun in my closet is Joe Riddley’s or Pooh’s, and I don’t know a good way to find out. If I ask him and it’s his, that probably means he shot Hiram. I’ll have to tell Buster. And Joe Riddley’s gonna want to put the gun back in his cabinet, and I don’t want him having a gun in the house right now. Even if I ask him and it isn’t his, he’ll be reminded of his and want me to start looking for it. And if it’s not Joe Riddley’s, chances are real good it’s Pooh’s, and Darren put it there. I can’t believe he shot Hiram, either, because he’s a nice kid, in spite of his hair. . . .” I stopped. I was heading off track, fast. “Anyway, what I need to know is, how do I go about this? What should I do first? Any help will be greatly appreciated, and I’m open to suggestion. Thank you. Amen.” Having delegated responsibility, I turned on my computer to start working on accounts.

  Answers to prayers come in many forms. Mine came in a very small package that bounded into the office, flung its arms around my neck, and squeezed so hard I couldn’t breathe. “Not so tight, Crick,” Ridd admonished. “We want to keep Me-mama around for a few years.”

  “What’s he doing here?” I reached in my bottom drawer for the lemon sucker Cricket knew was there.

  “I told him I was going to use the forklift, and he wants to drive. Did you check on the Christmas trees?”

  “Yeah, they’ll be here in three weeks. Say, could I borrow Cricket for a little while?”

  “Sure. For what?”

  “It’s a secret.” I couldn’t think of a single explanation Ridd would accept for why I’d hidden a gun in my closet for nearly a week without telling the sheriff. I couldn’t think of an explanation the sheriff would accept, either.

  Cricket chattered happily as we headed to the house, and he let Lulu give his face a good washing when we got there. “Where’s Pop?” he demanded.

  “Pop has occupational therapy Thursday afternoons.”

  “What’s pational therpy?”

  “He’s learning to scramble eggs, cook bacon, and wash dishes.”

  Cricket chortled at the silliness of grownups. “Dat’s not pational therpy, Me-mama. Dat’s cookin’.”

  “Yeah, but you have to do one thing at a time, in order, and Pop’s not real good at that right now.” I felt a sudden surge of anger that Cricket wasn’t getting to know the same granddad the other grandchildren had. No point thinking about that right now.

  I got the boot from the closet and put a dishtowel on the table. “I want to show you something and I want you to tell me if you ever saw it before.”

  “O’ course I saw dat before. Dat’s de boot Pop wears to mow de lawn and clean de dog pen.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something in it.” I gently turned the boot upside down and the gun fell onto the dishcloth.

  “Don’t touch,” I warned, afraid he’d mess up prints.

  Cricket shook his head. “I doesn’t touch guns ’less Pop says so.”

  I took a deep breath to steady my voice so I could ask, “Is this the gun Pop lost?”

  “Pop didn’t lose any guns. You gibbed dem to Maynard.”

  “But what about the little missing one? Is this it?”

  He looked at me, obviously baffled. If he’d already forgotten the small gun, I had little hope he’d be able to identify it, but I made one more try. “You told us there was a little gun that went up in the top of Pop’s cabinet. Is this it? Can you tell?”

  He gave a big sigh of disgust. “O’ course dat’s not it. Pop gibbed dat little gun to Maynard, to put in the me-see-um. It’s weal old.”

  I stared. “Are you sure?”

  “O’ course I’m sure.” His brown eyes flashed with indignation. “I went wif him. Pop tole Maynard he can hab it now, but if I wants it when he’s dead, Maynard must gib it back.”

  I sent Cricket and Lulu to the backyard and called Maynard. Waiting for the ring, I remembered something he’d said as we loaded the guns in the car late that night: Any more antiques among them?

  “Hello, Maynard, it’s Mac. I need to ask you a real funny question. Did Joe Riddley give you a gun for the museum recently?”

  “Not real recently. It was before he got shot—about a week before. Why?”

  I sank into a chair in relief. “What kind was it?”

  “A silber derringer twenty-two,” Cricket told me at the kitchen screen, still indignant.

  “A silver derringer twenty-two,” Maynard echoed. “Joe Riddley said his great-grandpa carried it in the War. Is there a problem? He was fine when he signed the donation papers.”

  “No problem. I had just missed it, and Cricket said Joe Riddley gave it to you.”

  Maynard chuckled. “Gave it to me with the written stipulation that if Cricket wants it when he grows up, he gets it back.”

  “That’s what Cricket said, too. Thanks a lot. Oh, any more news on your house?”

  “They’re working on it. It’s going to be real pretty.” Poor Maynard. Who wouldn’t sound discouraged to know the house of your dreams would soon be ready for you, and you couldn’t live in it with your sweetheart?

  I gave Cricket a cookie, locked the gun back in the closet in the boot, left Lulu in the pen, and drove to the store feeling about fifty pounds lighter. Ridd was driving the forklift, loading sod into a waiting pickup. He, like Joe Riddley, really enjoyed the hands-on part of the business. Walker and I preferred the clean-hands part in the back office. I didn’t know if the boys would run the store when we were gone, but it was nice to know they would make a good team.

  “You said I could do dat!” Cricket clamored even before I let him out. Ridd stopped and took him onto his lap.

  “One mystery solved,” I informed him before he restarted the motor. “I found a gun in your daddy’s yard boots, and thought it was the one we were missing, but Cricket says that’s not ours. He even told me where the missing one went. Tell Daddy, honey.”

  “Pop gibbed it to Maynard for his me-see-um.” Cricket was far more interested in the forklift levers.

  Ridd held his hands away from them. “Why didn’t you tell us that before?”

  “You didn’t ask.” Cricket pushed his hand away so he could play with the levers.

  I mentally ran over the conversation we’d all had by the gun cabinet. “We didn’t. We asked if he knew which gun went there, but we didn’t tell him it was missing.”

  “Dey were all missing,” Cricket reminded me. “Now Maynard has dem all.”

  He happily helped Ridd restart the forklift. I went back to my office, walking very slowly. Maynard didn’t have quite all the guns. I still had one in a boot in my closet.

  I dialed the sheriff’s number, wishing I was calling to make an appointment for a root canal. “Hey. It’s Judge Yarbrough. Have you talked to Alice Fulton this week?”

  “No.”

  She must have chickened out. “Well, I’ve got something in my closet you need to see, and something you need to hear.”

  When he got there, I pointed to the old boot and stood back so he could examine it. “Look inside. And don’t put all the dust in your rep
ort.”

  He grunted and shone his flashlight into the boot. “Got a dish towel handy?”

  He gently lifted the boot and tested it for weight, then dumped it onto the dish towel. The silver gun lay between us. He shone his light over it. “It’s been wiped clean of prints.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Didn’t say you did. Is this the one Joe Riddley is missing?”

  “No, he gave his to Maynard for the museum before his accident and forgot he’d done it. When I found this one, I brought Cricket over this afternoon to see if he could identify it. He couldn’t, but he said Pop gave his own little gun to Maynard. Maynard verifies that.” It was all true, if you allowed for a week between some of the events.

  Buster took a pen from his pocket and poked the gun, lifting it to examine it. “Got any notion whose this is?”

  “From something Alice Fulton told me, I think Pooh gave it to Gusta years ago. Pooh said Fayette gave her the gun for protection when he was away, but she bought Bowser and gave the gun to Gusta.”

  “Bowser—you mean that old St. Bernard they had?”

  “That’s what Pooh told me this afternoon.”

  He shook his jowls with a mournful frown. “If that gun’s been lying around Wainwright’s all these years, anybody in town could have taken it at one of their parties or meetings.”

  “No, it was there a few weeks ago.” I told him what Alice had said. I still didn’t tell him Darren could have taken it. There was absolutely no proof that he had.

  He took a plastic bag from his pocket and carefully put the gun in it.

  “At least you know Joe Riddley didn’t kill Hiram.” There, I’d finally spoke my fear out loud.

  “Never thought he had.” Buster stood and reached for his hat. “You never went hunting with him, did you?” I shook my head. “He won’t shoot anything he can’t eat, and he’s the only man I ever hunted with who whispers before he pulls the trigger, ‘Forgive me, fellow.’ ”

  My lower lip began to tremble. “Will he ever hunt again, Buster?”

  His hand was warm and firm on my shoulder. “Believe it, Little Bit. Just keep on believing it. That’s all we can do right now.”

  He hurried out, but not before I’d seen his own eyes were shiny with tears.

  22

  Sheriff Gibbons called the next morning. “It’s the gun that killed Hiram. It’s also Pooh’s gun. She, Otis, and Meriwether have all identified it. Meriwether confirmed she kept it on the closet shelf, and Miss Fulton gave us the dates when she saw it and found it missing. The way Miss Gusta locks up even when they are home, it had to be taken by somebody who has been a guest in the house this fall.”

  “She’s had umpteen meetings and at least one chamber-music party,” I reminded him. “Anybody could have nipped up there and taken it.”

  “Only if they knew it was there. Miss Fulton reluctantly admits Hernandez knew it was, and had opportunity to take it. He did it, Mac. I firmly believe that. But proving it could be hard. He was smart enough to come back to your kitchen after the party to make sure his prints were all over the place.”

  I hated to think about that. Thank goodness I was too busy to think much right then. Our chief magistrate was down with flu, so I had to hold a lot more probable cause hearings than usual as well as sign more warrants and go to the jail for more bond hearings. The store was holding its pre-Halloween sale, doing a brisk business in pumpkins and cornstalks. The nursery was getting ready to receive hundreds of Christmas trees and poinsettias. And Joe Riddley still went to therapy twice a day. I spent so much time in my car, I kept expecting to meet myself.

  I ran in to Otis at the grocery store one day and told him I felt guilty for neglecting Pooh. “Why, she’s doin’ fine, Miss MacLaren. Jed Blaine has been coming by to see her every afternoon, and it’s doing her a world of good. A world of good.”

  I wished somebody could do Darren a world of good. Shadows were developing under his eyes and his smile was a little more strained each day. He hadn’t dyed his hair in a while, either. It was electric blue with brown roots.

  “Are you still going out with Kelly and or Alice?” I teased halfheartedly one morning.

  “Mostly Alice,” he said with a faint grin. “She’s a lot of fun when she gets out of town. Keeps me from thinking about—you know.” He gestured with one hand. I could tell she hadn’t told him what she’d had to tell the sheriff.

  I hated to think he could kill a man, though. He was so dedicated to helping people get better. Joe Riddley adored him, and even Joe now greeted him with a squawk—which was more than I got. Joe still had no use for women, merely tolerated me as a necessary evil. The feeling was mutual.

  Speaking of mutual, Jed and Meriwether seemed to have a mutual attraction just then that neither sought or wanted. Granted, Hopemore isn’t very big, but I can go days without running into members of my own family. It was uncanny how Jed and Meriwether kept running into each other. Every meeting, of course, was faithfully reported around town.

  Jed went to buy a paper at the drugstore. Meriwether ran in for a new lipstick and didn’t see him until they were both heading to pay. He asked if she’d followed him in. She got so mad—she paid, then stomped out without her lipstick.

  Meriwether stopped by the Bi-Lo for paper towels, and only one register was open. Jed came to the line to buy a candy bar just as she discovered she had forgotten to bring her wallet. When she rooted around in the bottom of her purse, she was a dime short. Jed handed the cashier a dime with a wide smile. “Here, I’ve got plenty of money.” The cashier said later she thought Meriwether was going to level him with the towels.

  Jed wheeled Pooh into church to sit with Gusta, and sat down beside her. Meriwether, coming in late, made Slade take her to a different pew.

  Ridd took Jed to play golf over at the country club and reported, “You’ll never guess who was playing ahead of us, Mama. Slade and Meriwether. Slade offered to make it a four-some, but I’ve got at least a little bit of sense.”

  “How was Jed’s game?”

  “Terrible. He bogeyed almost every hole. Meriwether was better, but over par.”

  “How do you know?”

  He grinned. “Jed jotted her shots on our card. He swore she was missing shots to let Slade win, and it made him furious. You should have heard him.”

  A couple of nights later, Walker and Cindy took me to her birthday dinner at a new restaurant down by the river. Sadly, we all agreed it would be an easier occasion without Joe Riddley, so I asked Darren if I could pay him to come down for the evening. Joe Riddley was delighted to write “Darren coming” in his log. As I climbed into Walker’s Infiniti, I hoped I hadn’t asked Darren to return to the scene of his crime.

  There were twelve of us at dinner, including several single friends of Cindy’s. Jed had been invited, too, and I could tell that two young women, at least, could fancy themselves as an Atlanta lawyer’s wife. The only time I got to speak to him alone was briefly while we waited for the hostess. He sidled over to me and said, “I want to talk to you sometime about Pooh. She needs a legal guardian. Do you know who her lawyer is?”

  I pressed one hand to my mouth in dismay. “I meant to find out, but I plumb forgot.”

  “I wish you would. Somebody has to take care of her. I wish I lived close enough.”

  The hostess arrived then to show us to a large reserved table by a big plate-glass window overlooking the water. I was already in my seat before I noticed Slade and Meriwether at a small table beyond ours. It only seemed neighborly to speak. If I’d been hosting our party, I’d have invited them to join us. However, Walker gave Slade a curt nod and sat next to me, with his back to him.

  Slade didn’t seem especially anxious to talk to us, either. All his attention was on Meriwether, who was gorgeous in black velvet. Seemed like she’d been getting even prettier recently.

  Jed amiably sat between Cindy’s two beautiful friends. He also steered them to seats where Meriwether could
see them real well.

  She wasn’t looking. She was gazing at Slade like he’d personally carved the full moon outside the window and painted its reflection on the gently flowing water.

  Since I was sitting where I could see both Jed and Meriwether, I watched to see if they’d start giving each other little probing looks, asking silent questions like, “Are you happy?” “Are you eating right?” Instead, they both seemed utterly content. I opened my menu and reminded myself we didn’t live in Hollywood. In Hopemore, not every story has a romantic ending.

  After we’d ordered, Slade called to our waiter and asked for more dressing for his salad. Apparently the waiter brought the wrong kind, because as he scurried off to replace it, Slade told Meriwether, “Half the people in the world are below average, sweetheart, and most of them are waiters.” He hadn’t spoken loudly, but our tables were so close that Walker and I heard him.