AHMM, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Satisfied with his beginning, Sheriff Huck moved on to calling up our tug-of-war team, starting out with Wattle McFee, who had a hard time planting his bottom on the witness chair—too much bottom, not enough chair. Once squeezed in the chair, Wattle sat with hands on knees, unable to quit sneaking looks at me. The last time he'd seen me I'd been dead. Every time he answered one of the sheriff's questions, at least one of his three chins wobbled, sometimes two, occasionally all three.

  "Do you remember the steamer ride down here?” the sheriff asked.

  "Yes, sir,” Wattle mumbled.

  "Do you remember the Britches boys being on the same boat?"

  "I think so."

  "What do you remember about them?"

  "How handsome they was."

  The crowd tittered, which made Wattle grin for having said something witty.

  "Anything else?” the sheriff asked, gentle like, as if trying to coax a wild horse.

  "They sure had themselves a good time."

  "How'd they go about doing that?"

  "Arm wrestling,” Wattle said, not quite sure what the sheriff was driving at. “Some leg wrestling too."

  "Ever see them hit each other?"

  "Oh, regularly,” Wattle said, relieved to be on firmer ground as to the sheriff's wants. “Saw Paxton break a chair over Palmer's head."

  "What'd Palmer do about that?"

  "Busted a bottle over Paxton's head."

  And so on. The fact that the Britches boys loved brawling was well known in our neck of the woods, though news of it did seem to liven up the courtroom. People were itching something fierce to find out what the sheriff was up to, so I wasn't surprised when he dragged everything out for all it was worth.

  One by one he called the other members of our team up to the witness chair and repeated the same questions, getting pretty much the same answers, though the Reverend Farley staggered the sheriff backwards by remembering that Penrod hove a hatchet at Paxton.

  "Hit anything?” the sheriff asked once he'd regained his balance.

  "Barrel of molasses."

  "See them throw anything else?"

  The reverend scratched his bearded chin a bit before saying, “Other than the time they all ganged up on Pericles and pitched him overboard?"

  "Other than that,” the sheriff agreed.

  "Can't say as I did."

  After the Reverend Farley had said his peace, the sheriff stood before the judge, thumbs locked in vest pockets, and cogitated out loud.

  "That pretty much sums it up, Your Honor. There doesn't seem to be much doubt who done in Tully Britches."

  "And whom might that be?” Judge Hooker said, none too pleased with the grandstanding.

  "Why, one of his own brothers with a knife they bought at the fair. Probably accidental, what with the way they were always roughhousing about, but maybe not. Could be that some deep, dark family secret started it all, something they don't want the public to know anything about."

  This last part sounded like a veiled threat, which was Sheriff Huck's favorite sort, and he gazed straight at Pericles Britches while letting it fly.

  The Britches boys were all standing by then, nostrils flaring, breaths pounding. One or two of them was pawing the courtroom floor, but in the end Pericles raised a hand to hold them back. That gesture started whispers rolling all over the place.

  The prosecutor put a stop to that by calling out, “What about those fingerprints?"

  The whispers dried up on the spot. Was I the only one who noticed that the prosecutor had lost his stutter?

  "The ones found on the murder weapon."

  "That British folderol?” Sheriff Huck guffawed. “Bunch of nonsense, you ask me. Oh, we all got fingers, but the rest of it sounds pretty sketchy. Next thing you know, these same fellas will be wanting us to believe we're descended from apes, the way that Darwin fella claims. Matter of fact, I heard tell it was one of Darwin's cousins who started up all this fingerprint business anyhow."

  If there was one thing the sheriff had a talent for, it was painting over the truth. He almost got away with it too; the crowd wasn't too keen on this talk of apes. Even Judge Hooker was snuffling some about it.

  Everything changed lickety-split when ex-Deputy Tom climbed up on a chair to have his say. “Hold on now. You might like to hear what I saw the night that Tully Britches passed."

  * * * *

  Quick as could be, Judge Hooker whipped ex-Deputy Tom into the witness chair and had him sworn in. The Bible smoked a bit when he took his oath, but I was the only one who noticed.

  "T-tell us what you saw that f-fateful night.” The prosecutor was sounding like a man who was thinking about running for public office.

  "I was dry as a bone,” ex-Deputy Tom started out, which was a line I'd heard him spread out many a time before, “and had my eye on Injun Joe there. You might remember he was supposed to be dead himself, just a few days back."

  Heads were nodding everywhere to that, letting each other know they hadn't forgotten that tidbit.

  "So when I first saw him, I thought I'd come across a ghost. Then I saw him throw down two of them new Dr. Pepper drinks. Figuring that a ghost wouldn't have that kind of thirst, I guessed that meant he was still among the living, so naturally I took up his trail. He ain't so hard to pick out in a crowd, and pretty soon he led me down to the lake, where all them pointy boats with flowers are tied up..."

  That would have been the night I passed on eating dog.

  "...and whilst he was mooning around there, I noticed Sheriff Finn pecking around in the same general vicinity, and being a curious fella..."

  "News to me,” Sheriff Huck piped up.

  The gavel.

  "...I sort of slide on over to see what he might be up to."

  "W-were he and Mr. Two-shot there together?” asked the prosecutor.

  "Not so's I could tell, though they could have been ‘cause I lost track of both of them for a short spell. When I found one of them again, it was the sheriff, and he was leaning over a body with a knife poking out of it. That's not the kind of work he usually does himself. Most days, he leaves that kind of thing to his deputies, like Injun Joe there."

  By then the crowd was falling all over itself for a look-see at how the sheriff and me were handling these revelations. Without a blink, I'd say. We had the advantage of having heard ex-Deputy Tom's tales before. The buzz behind us just kept on growing though, and Judge Hooker had to lay into his gavel hard enough to knock together an ark.

  When he had some quiet, he pounced on ex-Deputy Tom with these words: “And you're just getting around to mentioning all this now?"

  "Well,” Tom drawled, tugging at his collar, which had suddenly gotten tight, “after such a sight as that, I'm afraid I heard the jug a-calling. But sitting here listening to all this gibber-jabber, it struck me that if you ink up Sheriff Finn's hands, you're liable to find some fingerprints that match the others on that knife."

  The prosecutor was all for it, and even Sheriff Huck didn't put up much of a squawk. I was remembering how he always seemed to be wearing white gloves whenever I saw him in the vicinity of a knife. You could hear the clock on the wall hammering away while Sergeant Reilly did his duties.

  After a bit, the sergeant straightened to announce, “No match."

  That didn't slow ex-Deputy Tom down a bit; quick as a rattler, he struck up a new lie.

  "All right, all right. I'd been hoping I wouldn't have to pin all this on the poor redskin alone, on account of he never does a thing but what the sheriff tells him to..."

  I felt something rising fast in my throat.

  "...but just before the sheriff was leaning over the fella with the knife sticking out of him, I seen Injun Joe jabbing that knife into a shadow. At least at the time, I was hoping it was a shadow, but I can see now that I had my blinders on, ‘cause shadows don't usually bleed anywheres near so much."

  I started to stand up as ex-Deputy Tom went on. “What I was really seeing was the knif
ing of Tully Britches."

  I wasn't the only one standing by then. The whole tribe of Britcheses had joined me. There's no telling what might have happened if the bailiff and Sergeant Reilly and a couple of others from the crowd hadn't tackled them. A chair or two got broken, and a woman in back screamed before fainting, though pretty soon the judge got everyone settled down. By then Judge Hooker was puffing pretty hard, and the jury looked set in stone. Though the judge didn't have the heart to order the Britches boys removed from their own brother's murder trial, he did happen to remember that rope they had brought with them. He ordered the brothers tied into their chairs with it.

  "Things aren't looking too good for you, sir,” the judge said to me once everything had settled down. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

  "He's a quiet sort,” Sheriff Huck said when I didn't speak right up.

  "Not that quiet,” I called out. “There's a witness or two I'd like to call, Your Honor."

  * * * *

  First off I had the knife peddler come back up front. He was more than pleased to take the witness chair again and clearly state his name, his business, and where it was located. Such publicity was worth its weight in gold to him, so he was a might disappointed when I only had one question for him:

  "What kind of knife did you sell Sheriff Finn?"

  "Oh, it was one of them bowie knives. He bought it right after that bunch over there—” He pointed at the Britches clan. “—bought theirs. It was the last one I had in stock.” Raising his voice so everyone could hear, he added, “But I've got more ordered. Should be in any day now."

  After the peddler, I called Sheriff Huck himself as a witness. Soon as I said his name, it sounded like the room was full of a flock of pigeons pumping for the rafters. The judge put a stop to that by calling out, “I'd like to hear what he has to say myself."

  "Long as you don't believe any of it,” said Pericles Britches from the chair he was tied to.

  Judge Hooker offered to gag the Britches—and anyone else—who couldn't keep quiet. After that, if there'd been pins dropping anywhere, you could have heard them.

  "Sheriff Huck,” I said, once he'd been sworn in, “would you mind explaining to everyone what you asked me to do about three days back?"

  "Are you talking about that practical joke we played on the boys?” he said.

  So that was how he was going to play it. As usual, there wasn't a bashful bone in his body as he went on to explain what a knee-slapper he thought it'd be if I pretended to be dead. He was the only one laughing though.

  "And the knife you poured that pig's blood over, did it look like that one over there?” I pointed to the knife lying on the prosecutor's table.

  "Could be,” he said. “The old eyes ain't what they used to be."

  "Do you remember my bringing it to you after we played our joke?"

  "Sort of, maybe."

  "So my prints would have been on it from then?"

  "If you believe in such foolishness, I suppose so."

  "And you were wearing gloves when you handled it, am I right?"

  "It's possible. My arthritis has been flaring lately."

  Of all the ailments plaguing Sheriff Huck—boils to pleurisy—this was the first time arthritis had reared its head.

  "So that would explain why your fingerprints aren't on the knife?"

  "Don't prints go right through a glove?” the sheriff asked, all innocent and waiflike.

  "He knows they don't,” someone announced from the back of the courtroom.

  The voice belonged to a stern-looking fella who was smothered in tweed and identified himself as a constable from Scotland Yard.

  "Your Honor,” the constable said, “if it please the court, I might be able to shed some light on these affairs."

  Judge Hooker was all for light. He ran Sheriff Huck out of the witness chair without a thank you and had the Brit sworn in as if he was visiting royalty.

  "And what do you have to tell us, sir?” asked the judge.

  "I have been offering fingerprinting demonstrations to the public at your World's Fair, and I'm here to report that your Sergeant Reilly isn't the only lawman in this courtroom who took an interest in them."

  A murmur rose from the gallery. Judge Hooker quieted everyone with a look, then said, “Go on."

  "The sheriff who's trying to blind us,” the constable said, leveling a hand at Sheriff Huck's white suit, “he showed up at my demonstrations a couple of times. Chock full of questions, he was. In particular, I recall him wanting to know the effect of gloves on fingerprints."

  The way that news swirled up the courtroom left Judge Hooker gasping for breath by the time he was done exercising his gavel. The Britches boys looked about to burn through the ropes holding them down, and the rest of the courtroom was starting to smoke a little too. Once the judge had the floor again, he thanked the constable and ordered Sheriff Huckleberry Finn back into the witness stand.

  "Try to remember that you're still under oath,” the judge told Sheriff Huck, “and tell us what you have to say for yourself now."

  "Well it's like you pointed out earlier, Your Honor, a lawman has to keep abreast of the times, unless he wants to be a laughingstock."

  That was pretty much the last straw for the judge, but disgusted as he was with the answer, he also saw the lay of the land pretty clearly: Getting one up on Sheriff Huck wasn't going to be any easy rowing. Many a man who'd traded barbs with the sheriff has found himself in the same predicament. Taking in the courtroom, the judge saw that his reputation as a jurist was on the line, and much as it galled him, he decided it might be better to hand the witness off to someone else—namely me.

  "Mr. Two-shot,” the judge said, “do you have any further questions for this witness?"

  "A couple."

  "Let ‘em fly,” he advised.

  With a nod, I turned to Sheriff Huck and asked, “So what happened to the knife after I turned it over to you?"

  "You know,” the sheriff said, scratching his chin in thought, “I sort of lost track of it for a while."

  "Until it wound up stuck in Tully Britches?” I asked.

  Seeing the sheriff's reaction to that question almost made being put on trial for murder worthwhile. He sat there slack jawed and sleepless. His eyes had a slight glaze. But after a few seconds I'd had my fill of his squirming. He'd done me a good turn or two over the years, when he wasn't busy lording it over me, and besides, it looked as though the Britches boys might actually bust loose any second and string him up right there in the courtroom.

  I broke everyone's trance by saying, “So now all we need to do is figure out how that knife got stuck in Tully. For that, I've got a special witness to call. Would Alfred Moore come forward?"

  A short, barrel-chested man wearing a straw boater marched to the front of the room, made a small bow to the crowd, tipped his hat to the judge, and once Sheriff Huck got led back to my table, got sworn in.

  "Would you tell us what you do for a living, Mr. Moore?"

  "Oh, many a thing, many a thing."

  "How about three nights ago?"

  "Singing in one of those Italian gondolas, down to the Great Basin. The best tips are at night."

  "And why would that be?” I asked.

  "Oh, the romance, I suppose. The water's all so black, and the palaces around it are lit up like fireworks. And when there's love in the air, the coin purses, they loosen up."

  "Is that the only reason they loosen up?” I asked.

  "That and the fact that I know how to keep a secret."

  "Except when you're under oath,” Judge Hooker prompted.

  "That's right."

  "And the secret?” I said.

  Alfred Moore coughed in his hand and started to answer, but he was speaking so softly that the judge interrupted him and asked to start over, louder.

  "Well,” Alfred Moore said, “at night, most of the lovers I pole around the basin, they're pairs of men who are afraid to be seen with each oth
er in the light of day."

  The crowd got powerfully restless with this news. People were either exchanging looks or staring up at the ceiling as if they couldn't bear to look at anyone else. Some were digging fingers in their ears as if they couldn't have heard right. Off in a corner of the room, standing on a chair so that he could take everything in, was the reporter who'd first told me why Tully Britches had probably been in that gondola, for what went on down to the Great Basin at night wasn't so big a surprise as everyone was pretending. I nodded my thanks to him for rounding up Alfred Moore for me, and he nodded back with satisfaction—he was one of the fellas who had to sneak out on those gondolas to have a little time with his boyfriend. But the surprises weren't all mine that afternoon.

  Sheriff Huck raised his voice to say clearly, “It's your skeleton, Pericles. I'd say this is about your last chance to keep her in the closet."

  When I glanced over toward the Britches boys, I saw them lined up in a row, heads hung low, shoulders slumped, too weak to say much of anything. So the sheriff had known all along what this was about. He'd either been trying to spare the Britches boys some suffering, or was hoping for something to hang over Pericles Britches's head during future encounters. Knowing the sheriff, it was the latter. Since there was a noose waiting for me, I didn't give Pericles long to answer.

  To Alfred Moore I said, “Was Tully Britches one of the men who came there to be with other men?"

  "Sure. I wouldn't forget a big tipper like him. Four or five nights running he came boating, always with a different fella."

  A scream cut through the courtroom with that. Twisting about, I saw Wattle McFee standing a little to the right of the Britcheses and looking as though he'd just had a layer of skin ripped off him. Between me and Wattle sat Sheriff Huck, slumped down in his chair same as the Britches boys, so maybe I'd been overly harsh on his motives. Maybe, just maybe, he'd been trying to protect someone he felt responsible for, seeing as how he was the reason Wattle had come to St. Loo in the first place.

  After Wattle managed to drag down a breath or two, he blubbered, “He said he loved me. And then I saw him down there with another man."

  "What happened?” I asked softly.