Murder in the Air

by Bill Crider

  Rhodes wished he could be so unconcerned about things going on around him. He thought about his morning’s adventure. He didn’t have much to show for it other than a few scrapes on his hand and wrist, not unlike those on Hamilton’s wrist, except that Rhodes’s had really been made by a catfish and not a rope. He also had a belt loop from a pair of jeans. That was it, if you counted only the physical items.

  He had, however, one other thing, a theory about how Hamilton might have been killed.

  The theory, of course, involved another person, which was a problem Rhodes hadn’t quite worked out. That didn’t matter. He was certain someone else had been at the rock pit, and that someone—whoever it was, however he’d gotten there, however he’d gotten away—had killed Hamilton.

  The killer had been in the water with Hamilton, probably serving as his backup in case of emergency. Rhodes understood the necessity for a backup better now than ever, and Hamilton wasn’t stupid. He’d have had someone with him, especially if he’d been hoping to catch a legendary giant catfish. He wouldn’t have taken any chances by going it alone.

  Whoever had killed Hamilton had been a friend, which was odd since Hamilton didn’t have any friends. That was something to think about.

  The friend might have gone to the rock pit early or even days ahead. He would have hidden his rope in a convenient spot, maybe in the big hole that Rhodes had seen under the rock. Under the guise of helping Hamilton, he’d have slipped the rope over his wrist, pulled it tight, and kicked away, pulling Hamilton down and looping the rope over one of the jutting rocks, of which there were plenty.

  Maybe the killer had used the same rock that Rhodes had hooked his feet under to save himself. He wouldn’t have had to keep Hamilton under the water long. Rhodes wondered if Hamilton had panicked or if he’d kept trying to save himself. Rhodes hadn’t panicked, but he’d been pretty sure he was going to drown. Maybe Hamilton had been the same, but not giving up until the last second.

  After Hamilton was dead, all the killer had to do was remove the rope and leave. Somehow. Rhodes would keep working on that.

  He’d have to keep working on how the killer got there and got away, too. There had to be a way.

  The dryer on the porch dinged. Rhodes went out there and got his clothes. The warm cloth felt good, and he gathered it to him as he went back to the bedroom to change.

  When he bent down to strap on the ankle holster, Yancey stuck his head out from under the bed.

  “I thought you were a dust bunny,” Rhodes said, looking him in the eye.

  Yancey looked back at him with a pained expression.

  “You shouldn’t let that cat bully you,” Rhodes said. He straightened. “You’re bigger than he is.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, but Rhodes was sure Yancey didn’t have any idea about relative sizes. He certainly wasn’t afraid of Speedo, who was much bigger. His fear of Sam had to do with the old cats versus dogs problem. Some kind of instinct kicked in, and Yancey couldn’t overcome it.

  Rhodes returned to the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. He wasn’t going to have time for a fancy lunch, and peanut butter would have to do. He would have preferred bologna, but Ivy didn’t like having it around. She thought it wasn’t healthy.

  Rhodes washed the sandwich down with some Dr Pepper. When he’d finished, he picked up his pistol from the table. It smelled of gun oil and lube. After he put it in the holster, he gathered up the newspapers and took them outside to the recycle bin in the garage.

  He was careful not to get rid of the one with Jennifer Loam’s article. He might want to read that one again.

  11

  Harvey Stoneman, the pastor at the First Baptist Church, had the right voice for a preacher, the kind of voice that could reach the back of the balcony without the aid of a microphone, if there’d been anybody in the back of the balcony to reach.

  He was short and stout, with a head of thick black hair that he combed straight back. Rhodes had once had thick hair like that, but it had been a while. Longer than he liked to think about.

  A dark maroon carpet covered the floor of the pastor’s study, and bookshelves hid the entire wall behind his desk. The shelves were filled with books, not the kind that Clyde Ballinger liked, but serious hardcover tomes whose spines bore titles like The Life and Letters of Paul and In Search of the Historical Jesus. Rhodes couldn’t see the covers, but he suspected they wouldn’t be anywhere near as lurid as the ones on Ballinger’s preferred reading material.

  Stoneman and Rhodes had already gotten through the preliminary discussion of what a shame it was that Lester Hamilton had died, and now they’d arrived at the reason for Rhodes’s visit.

  “You couldn’t say Lester had any real friends in the church,” Stoneman told Rhodes in answer to the sheriff’s question, his voice filling the entire office. “He did at one time, but they’ve pretty much deserted him now.”

  Rhodes thought that was pretty unchristian of them, but he didn’t want to get into a theological discussion with the minister.

  “Who were his friends before he started the chicken farm?” Rhodes asked.

  “Calvin Terrall was one of them. Their land joined, and they’d both lived in Mount Industry most of their lives. They sure had a falling-out about the farm, though.”

  “Did Terrall ever go noodling with him?”

  “That’s illegal, Sheriff. They wouldn’t tell their pastor about that.” Stoneman smiled. “He might overhear them talking about it, though, and I did once or twice. Calvin liked fried catfish a mighty lot.”

  Rhodes tried to get Stoneman to say more, but Stoneman insisted that was all the information he had to offer. He wouldn’t meet Rhodes’s gaze. Rhodes thought the preacher was holding out on him.

  “Lester was friendly with that professor out there, Qualls, too, before he moved to town.” Stoneman said. He frowned. “Qualls isn’t a godly man. I’m not judging him. It’s just the truth. Lester said Qualls cursed him out more than once after Lester started his farm.”

  Rhodes hadn’t known that Qualls and Hamilton had been friends at one time. It was something to think about.

  “Why are you asking about Lester’s friends, Sheriff?” Stoneman asked. “I’m sure it’s not because you’re wondering if there will be enough of them to serve as his pallbearers.”

  Rhodes wasn’t ready to answer Stoneman’s question. He asked, “When’s the funeral?”

  “I haven’t heard anything about arrangements,” Stoneman said. “Lester didn’t have any close kin around here, and he might have wanted just a simple memorial service. I expect he did. He didn’t like a lot of fuss being made over him. Maybe he won’t need any pallbearers. I should hear from Randy Lawless soon enough, and then I’ll know.”

  Rhodes wasn’t surprised to hear Lawless’s name. “Lawless was his attorney?”

  “That’s right. He’s a member here, too, and I’m sure he made Lester’s will. Lester was always one to plan ahead, so there’s no doubt he left instructions for what to do after his demise.”

  Rhodes didn’t think he’d ever heard anybody use the word “demise” in conversation before.

  “I’ll check with Lawless,” Rhodes said, thinking that the will was his business now.

  Before he want to Lawless to talk about the will, Rhodes would have Ruth Grady see if it was on file at the courthouse. It should have been. The will might not have anything helpful, but it would at least name Hamilton’s heir or heirs. Sometimes that was a clue.

  “You still haven’t said why you’re so curious about this sad affair,” Stoneman said. “I don’t think the sheriff comes around asking questions if there’s not something fishy going on.”

  “It might be that Hamilton had some help drowning,” Rhodes said. “If he did, I want to find out who did the helping.”

  Stoneman didn’t appear too surprised. “You didn’t ask me if Lester had any enemies.”

  “I can think of plenty of those on my own,” Rhodes said
.

  Stoneman shook his head. “I don’t doubt that you can. Lester didn’t endear himself to anyone over the last several years. He always supported the church, though. He was a good man, no matter what people think of him.”

  People didn’t always equate supporting a church with being a good person, Rhodes thought. Sometimes they expected a little more. Being a good neighbor would have helped.

  “What about you?” Rhodes asked. “Were you his friend?”

  “I was his pastor. I like to think I was his friend, too.”

  “The way a pastor’s a friend to everybody in the church, or more like a real friend?”

  “A pastor always strives to be a real friend,” Stoneman said in a hurt tone.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Rhodes said. “I mean, were you the kind of friend who went fishing with him.”

  Stoneman got that evasive look again. “What do you mean by that, Sheriff?”

  “I mean did you ever back him up when he was noodling?”

  “No,” Stoneman said. “I never did.”

  He sounded like he was telling the truth, but Rhodes wasn’t satisfied.

  “You know who did, though. You might as well tell me now, save us both some trouble.”

  Stoneman was quiet for a while. The silence stretched out, but Rhodes didn’t mind. He could wait.

  “Calvin Terrall,” Stoneman said.

  “What about him?”

  “I hate to say. It’s just something I heard once, not anything that was told directly to me.”

  “Better go ahead. It might be something I need to know.”

  Stoneman sighed. “I don’t like repeating gossip, but this is something I overheard.”

  He seemed to overhear a lot of things, Rhodes thought.

  “Calvin and Lester talked about noodling one day after church. Calvin used to go with Lester, but that was before they fell out with each other. I don’t think Calvin would go now.”

  He might, though, Rhodes thought, if he wanted to see to it that Lester didn’t get back home.

  “Do you really think someone killed Lester, Sheriff?” Stoneman asked.

  “Looks that way,” Rhodes said.

  He still thought Stoneman was holding something back. If that was the case, Rhodes would find out sooner or later.

  He always did.

  Rhodes drove to Mount Industry. When he got to Garrett’s store, he stopped. Might as well have a cold Zero. After all, he hadn’t had much lunch, just a sandwich, and that hardly counted.

  Garrett was in his usual spot behind the counter with his feet propped on it. Rhodes wondered if he sat that way all the time or if he changed positions now and then.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” Garrett said.

  “Still busy, I see,” Rhodes said.

  “Busy as usual, anyway. You after another Zero?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Help yourself,” Garrett said, as he always did, and Rhodes went to the refrigerator.

  “No Dr Pepper this time?” Garrett said as Rhodes unwrapped the candy bar.

  “Already had one today.”

  “Could have another.”

  “Better not.” Rhodes took a satisfying bite of the Zero. “You ever hear about Calvin Terrall going noodling with Lester Hamilton?”

  “You trying to get the game warden’s job, Sheriff?”

  “I’m satisfied with the job I already have. I was just wondering.”

  Garrett laughed. “You’re the sheriff. You’re never ‘just wondering.’ ”

  “Sometimes I am. In this case, maybe not. I’d like to know, either way.”

  “You’ll just have to ask Terrall about it, then. I don’t have any idea. You ever tried it? Noodling, I mean?”

  “Once,” Rhodes said.

  “You know it’s against the law.”

  “I know. Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances. And I didn’t much like it, if that makes any difference.”

  “Don’t blame you for not liking it. Too damn dangerous. I guess Lester found that out.”

  “I guess he did.”

  Rhodes finished the Zero and disposed of the wrapper. He paid Garrett and started to leave.

  “You didn’t ever go noodling with him, did you?” he asked as he reached the door.

  “Not me,” Garrett said. “It’s illegal, remember? I’m a law-abiding citizen myself.”

  “Just like everybody else in the county.”

  “Most of ’em,” Garrett said. “Not all.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Rhodes said.

  12

  Calvin Terrall’s place was on down the road from the store, and Rhodes didn’t have to take the turn that led by the cemetery. As he neared Terrall’s, he began to see hand-painted signs nailed to fence posts. All of them advertised Terrall’s wares: peaches, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, corn, persimmons, and other produce. Each sign had a picture of the particular item being touted. To Rhodes the pictures looked as if they’d been drawn by six-year-olds. Maybe they had. Terrall’s whole family was involved in his business, from his children to his grandchildren.

  Terrall’s house was set back from the road, and with good reason. His big front yard served as a parking lot for visitors to his produce stand, an open-front building with long tables in front.

  At different times of the year, different items sat on the tables in bushel baskets and cardboard boxes. It was long past time for peaches, but Rhodes saw reddish orange persimmons, bright red tomatoes, brown potatoes, onions, and green beans. He figured that the tomatoes, for sure, were trucked in from elsewhere and not grown on the farm.

  Rhodes parked his car and got out. There was plenty of room, as Terrall had no customers. The smell from the chicken farm wasn’t quite as bad as it had been the previous day, but it was still a palpable presence in the air.

  Calvin Terrall and his wife, Margie, sat in metal lawn chairs behind one of the tables. Calvin stood up when Rhodes approached.

  “Need you some tomatoes today, Sheriff?” he asked.

  Terrall was a rawboned six-footer a little past sixty, with a tanned face and faded blue eyes. He wore a Western-style white straw hat, a blue work shirt, and jeans that were tucked into the tops of a worn pair of boots.

  “I don’t think so,” Rhodes said.

  He wasn’t fond of tomatoes, at least not raw ones. Cooked or made into sauce, they were all right, but Rhodes couldn’t just sit down at the table, slice a tomato, and eat it.

  “How about some persimmons, then?” Terrall asked.

  Rhodes shook his head. He’d eaten persimmons once or twice, but they were a little too tart for his tastes. The thought made his mouth pucker.

  Margie Terrall stood up and joined her husband. “You could get your wife to bake you a nice persimmon cake. Or make you some chutney, maybe.”

  Rhodes didn’t know the Terralls well, but he liked Margie. She always seemed cheerful, or she had in the past. There wasn’t much trace of cheer in her face today.

  “I didn’t come to buy anything,” Rhodes said.

  Margie waved a hand at the empty parking lot. “Neither did anybody else. I guess you know why.”

  Calvin didn’t wait for Rhodes to answer. “It’s the smell from those chickens. People don’t like to think about eating fruits and vegetables when the place where they buy ’em smells so much like an open sewer. Can’t you do anything about it, Sheriff?”

  “Not a thing,” Rhodes said. “That farm’s a hundred percent legal.”

  “Legal, maybe, but it’s a crime against everybody who lives around here.”

  “Things might change now that Lester’s dead,” Rhodes said.

  Terrall snorted. “No, they won’t. Somebody else will just take over, and it’ll be exactly the same. That is, if it doesn’t get any worse. Seems to me like you could shut the place down for smelling like that.”

  “You’ll have to take that up with the Commission on Environmental Quality,” Rhodes said.
“It’s a legal operation, so I can’t do a thing.”

  “We’ve tried the commission. We’ve about reached the end of our rope. It’s our living we’re talking about here.”

  Rhodes looked past the house at the orchards. Most of the persimmon trees were still hung with fruit. Terrall saw where Rhodes was looking.

  “We used to have people coming in here by the busload, picking their own fruit, having a good time. Some of ’em would bring their lunches and have picnics here. Now we’re lucky if we get more than a carload a week stopping by, and they don’t stay long, believe me.”

  Rhodes believed him.

  “Me and Margie can’t hardly stand it ourselves,” Terrall continued. He was getting worked up, his eyes turning mean. “It’s not right, Sheriff.”

  “You and Lester used to be friends,” Rhodes said.

  “Used to be, maybe. Not now. Anyway, he’s dead, and I’ll dance a jig on his grave.”

  Margie hit her husband on the arm with a small fist. “You hush that kind of talk, Calvin. Next thing you know, the sheriff will think you drowned Lester.”

  “A catfish drowned him, is what I heard. I’d like to shake that fish’s hand.”

  “Fish don’t have hands as a rule,” Rhodes said.

  “I’ve shook hands with a couple.”

  “So have I,” Rhodes said. “Well, one.” He held out his wrist so Terrall could see it. “Today, in fact.”

  Terrall and Margie looked at the scratched wrist. Terrall nodded.

  “Catfish can do that, sure enough. Lester and me went noodlin’ a time or two. I’ve seen how they hold on.”

  “It’s against the law,” Rhodes said.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t stop anybody if they want to do it. I never heard of anybody being arrested for it.”

  “They could be arrested if they drowned somebody.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Terrall said. He looked genuinely puzzled. “You talking about a catfish being arrested, or what?”

  “Not a catfish. I think somebody drowned Lester Hamilton, somebody he knew.”