When Will the Dead Lady Sing?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  Joe Riddley didn’t notice that he’d frozen me to the sofa. He swiped up the last of his eggs with his toast and added, “Burlin’s as nice in person as he is on television, but after that sorry speech Lance made last night, I don’t think he expects his boy to win any elections. Burlin was drinking last night like a man drowning his sorrows.”

  12

  I spent the rest of the morning in miscalculation.

  First, I miscalculated how busy Phyllis would be on a Tuesday. With celebrities in town, women were getting their hair done twice that week. I told her I’d come as early as she liked, but she informed me that she had two of the Bullock women to do that morning and couldn’t possibly work me in until after four.

  I also miscalculated the medical profession’s reaction to a sprain. Because Joe Riddley insisted, I allowed him to carry me to “Doc in a Box”—a minor injury center—but I knew what a doctor would do: wrap the ankle in an elastic bandage, tell me to keep my foot up all day, and prescribe something for pain. But if it would make Joe Riddley happier to pay for that advice than to let me doctor myself, I was willing to go. I was hurting so bad, I’d have agreed to anything.

  All the way there, Bo perched on Joe Riddley’s shoulder and assured me, “Not to worry. Not to worry.”

  Less than hour later, a doctor who looked like a tenth grader had encased my foot and leg in a cast to the knee, told me not to put weight on the foot for a week, given me a pain shot and a prescription, and handed me crutches that, within minutes, did more injury to my armpits than jumping off the water tower had done to my ankle. When Bo saw Joe Riddley wheeling me back to the car, he flapped his wings and squawked, “Sic ’em, boy! Sic ’em!” I wished I could.

  Joe Riddley wanted to take me home and dump me on the sofa for Clarinda to take care of. I pointed out that I could sit at my desk and prop my foot up, and if somebody didn’t finish our taxes, Uncle Sam would get downright nasty. I was getting a bit foggy by then, but figured I could function so long as Joe Riddley kept bringing me cold co colas. If I went home, Clarinda was sure to make more noises about those boxes stacked in the guest room. I’d rather work.

  At the store, I couldn’t climb the four steps from the parking lot to our office, so Joe Riddley drove along the old-fashioned double sidewalk to our front door, letting the whole town know something was the matter. I hopped in like some show-off kid while behind me, Bo perched on Joe Riddley’s cap flapping his wings and yelling, “Little Bit! Little Bit!” He sounded so much like Joe Riddley that everybody laughed—everybody except me. My left leg wasn’t used to hopping, or to supporting my whole weight. Sweat ran into my eyes and down under my arms, and I felt like I’d hopped a mile when, halfway through the store, my left leg started trembling, then gave out. I’d have fallen if a quick clerk hadn’t grabbed a plastic lawn chair and shoved it behind me. I was so grateful, I forgave her for saying, “Oopsy daisy” in that silly tone grown-ups use when toddlers are learning to walk.

  Joe Riddley and another clerk carried me the rest of the way in that dratted chair. They banged my other knee on the doorjamb going in, but I forgave them, too. They didn’t do it on purpose. I refused to think about having to be carried back out at the end of the day. Or to the bathroom in an hour or so.

  But I had miscalculated Joe Riddley’s devotion. He fetched a five-gallon bucket for my bum foot, padded it with a small bag of potting soil, and informed me he had urgent work to do down at the nursery. “I’ll walk over to Pooh’s and fetch my car first.” He took Bo and left me steaming. I looked at my poor bare toes sticking out of the cast and promised them I’d have Phyllis’s manicurist put on a lick of polish. But how could I get to Phyllis?

  I also miscalculated Chief Muggins’s devotion to solving the murder of a homeless man. The chief gets right there when a wealthy person is robbed, but normally he could have found a hundred things to do before he bothered to investigate the death of a tramp. That week, however, with crime slow and the Bullocks in town, he called me before I’d booted up my computer. “I thought I told you to run by here to make a statement.” Chief Muggins seldom employs those gentle introductory phrases with which most Southerners wade gently into conversation—how are you? how’s your mother? how’s your first cousin twice removed?

  “I’m not running anywhere,” I said, forgiving myself for a trace of smugness. “My ankle’s in a cast to the knee. If you want a statement, you’ll have to take it over the phone.” I reflected that I was sure forgiving a lot of folks that morning. Painkillers seemed to be good for the soul. I thought I’d discuss that with Martha later—which reminded me of the single silver lining in my cloud: at least I wouldn’t have to walk around the track for a while.

  I’d forgotten that Chief Muggins was on the other end of the phone until he snapped, “I’ll come over there.” As I hung up, I looked down at my jeans and wished I’d changed more than my torn shirt before we went to the doctor. I like to look nice at the office. Still, Chief Muggins had already seen me that morning, and Mama used to say a true lady can entertain anybody, no matter how she’s dressed, and make them feel that what she’s wearing is the correct attire. This was as good a time as any to test that theory. I gave my hair a quick combing, added some lipstick, and greeted Chief Muggins like I lived in jeans every day—so why ever didn’t he?

  He brought a deputy I didn’t know very well, who hovered in the doorway and waited for me to invite him in while Chief Muggins took Joe Riddley’s leather desk chair. Then the deputy settled on the edge of the wing chair like he didn’t plan to stay very long.

  Our office is large enough for two big desks, several filing cabinets, and the wing chair, but it always feels small when Chief Muggins and I are both in it. He may have felt the same way, because he dangled his cap between his knees and got right to the point. “How did you come to find that body, again? Take notes, Jack.”

  I explained once more about taking Lulu for a walk, her wanting to run in the big lot, her barking, and my pushing through the bushes to see what she had found.

  “Did you leave anything at the scene?”

  “No. I took only a cell phone, a dog, and a leash, and I carried all of them out.”

  “May I see your right shoe please?”

  I indicated my cast. “I don’t have much use for it right now. I think it’s still in the back seat of Joe Riddley’s car, out in the parking lot. Why do you need it?”

  “Where’s Joe Riddley?” He peered around the office like he thought I was hiding him in an oversized file drawer.

  I sighed. This could be a very long interview if Chief Muggins started suspecting not only me, but Joe Riddley as well. “He’s gone to the nursery, but he takes one of our trucks down there because the trails stay muddy from irrigation and he doesn’t like to mess up his car. Why do you want my shoe?” I reckoned it was time to get back to the matter at hand.

  “We found footprints from a woman and a man who had been walking around the place. I need to see if one of them’s yours.”

  “It’s not. I saw them, too. But you can get my shoe if you like.”

  “You got keys?” the deputy asked.

  “The car’s not locked.”

  His face made it clear what he thought of that, but almost everybody is casual about locking cars in Hopemore. Car theft is not one of our major industries.

  The deputy headed out, but stuck his head back in almost at once. “Er—what kind of car?”

  “Silver Town Car,” I told him. “In the spot by the back door marked ‘J. R. Yarbrough.’ ”

  When the deputy brought back my shoe, it looked lost and a bit shabby dangling from his hand. I sat there feeling so sorry for the shoe, it took me a minute to realize Chief Muggins was speaking to me. He sounded more impatient than before. “Judge? I asked if this is your shoe.”

  I had trouble connecting an answer to that question. Finally I said, “ ’Course it’s my shoe. What other woman would leave her shoe in my husband’s car?” It was when I sta
rted giggling that I realized the painkillers weren’t just making me forgiving, they were seriously impairing my ability to function. I felt so soft and cuddly, in another minute or two I’d be putting my head on Chief Muggins’s blue shoulder and snoring like one of Lulu’s pups.

  That enlivened me enough to point to Joe Riddley’s bottom drawer. “Take a couple of quarters from the cup in there and bring me a Coke. Take more quarters and bring everybody one.” I laid my head on my desk and waited for somebody to obey.

  A hand shook my shoulder. “Here’s your Coke.” It was the deputy, thank goodness. I’d hate for Charlie Muggins to lay a hand on me. Some kinds of slime are hard to wash off.

  There’s nothing like a cold co-cola to wake you up for whatever you have to face next. But I miscalculated Chief Muggins’s ability to winkle information out of me. The only excuse I can give is that I was seriously T. U. I.—thinking under the influence.

  “So what happened again after you got through the hedge?” he asked, signaling for the deputy to take notes.

  “I saw the dead man—”

  “Would you repeat that, please? Be sure you get this verbatim, Deputy.”

  “I saw the dead man. He was lying on his stomach with one hand over his head and the other out to the side, and he had been hit hard on the back of the head. I could see that because his hat was lying off to one side. I also saw a long iron bar—a rusty bar—that looked to me like it could have been the weapon. I didn’t touch it.”

  “Had you ever seen the victim before?”

  I nodded, but it made me so woozy, I decided not to do that again. “Saturday afternoon. He was in our alley when Joe Riddley and I went—” I stopped. Chief Muggins hadn’t been at the party, and the way he sucked up to important people, if he’d had an invitation, he’d have gone. I was feeling muzzy enough not to want to hurt his feelings. “We were going to an affair.”

  He snickered. “From Sunday’s paper, sounds like it wasn’t your first.”

  I glared. “That was not funny.” I turned to the deputy. “Please write down his remark, verbatim, in case I sue for defa—defa—” Waving my hand didn’t clear my brain, and “defamation of character” was beyond my tongue at the moment. “Oh, you know.” I waited while he wrote something before I went on. “We were going to a party, and saw the man in our alley. Joe Riddley told him to go to Myrtle’s for some dinner.” That was so sad, I started to sniffle.

  “So you actually spoke to the victim. Interesting.” Charlie Muggins has a polecat’s sharp nose and bright, suspicious eyes and a chimpanzee’s flat face and wiry limbs. Right then the polecat was in the ascendency. His eyes almost glittered. “Did the two of you meet or speak before or after that?” He leaned forward like he was about to pounce.

  I started to shake my head again—which was not a good idea—then I remembered. “Yes, he came by Gusta’s during the party. I was on the porch and waved.”

  “Anybody with you? Burlin Bullock, for instance?”

  “I’d throw something at you, but I wasn’t raised in a barn. The people with me were Lance Bullock and Hubert Spence.”

  “Hubert, eh? Did he talk to the man?”

  I swear, it was the painkiller that made me say, “He yelled at him and chased him down the block. But when the buffalo ran into a car, the tramp disappeared.” Seeing that Chief Muggins looked confused, I hurried to add, “It was because the man was sleeping in Hubert’s barn, and Hubert couldn’t sell his house.”

  Chief Muggins leaned closer. “And Hubert was pretty anxious to get the man out of his barn?”

  “Sure. It’s hard to sell a house with a tenant in the barn.”

  “And Hubert threatened the victim.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Did he or didn’t he?” In another minute, if he kept leaning forward, that chair was going to pitch him. I could hardly wait.

  “Not exactly threatened. Just waved his arms and yelled. You know.” I demonstrated.

  To my disappointment, Chief Muggins leaned back and clasped his hands on his round little stomach. “I don’t know what you know, Judge. That’s why we’re having this little chat.”

  “I know you found a matchbook from Hubert’s store at the scene, but he’ll have an explanation for that.”

  “He’d better.” Chief Muggins’s voice had an edge to it. “He’s not giving those matchbooks to anybody, not even his old poker buddies, until his anniversary celebration next month. Which means he was at the scene of the crime. What did he say to you privately last night? And before you answer, you need to know I have two reliable witnesses who will testify that Hubert came to your table and said something about that man. What was it?”

  Chief Muggins had the gleam in his eye of a polecat about to make a terrific stink. The deputy sat with pen poised, waiting for my answer. As an officer of the court, I was bound to tell the truth. “He said for me not to worry about the bum in his barn—those were his words—”

  “Why were you supposed to be worrying about the bum in his barn?” Chief Muggins interrupted.

  “Because Hubert asked me Saturday to see if I could find the man and convince him to leave town. But I’d been too busy, with the fire and Tad disappearing.”

  He snickered. “And being in the paper? So what did Hubert say Monday night?”

  I sighed. “He said he was taking care of the situation.”

  Chief Muggins slapped both hands on his thighs and stood. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Somebody else thought that’s what he said, but wasn’t quite sure. Thank you, Judge. I suspect I’ll be needing you down at the sheriff’s detention center sometime today for a probable-cause hearing. I hate to ask you to sit when the defendant is a close friend and former neighbor, but the other two magistrates are both out of town.”

  “I’m not supposed to put any weight on this foot for at least a week,” I informed him. “You can slow down a bit and think things through before you rush into this.”

  “I’ve done all the thinking I need to do. But I’ll leave you with something to think about until I see you again. That dead man you found and say you talked to? He was a woman.”

  13

  After Charlie left, I tried to concentrate on the numbers on my computer screen. Instead, I kept seeing a person face-down under the water tank. My mind’s eye roved over the long gray ponytail, the stocky body in the old gray suit. A woman? No wonder she had such small feet. What brought her to our town to die?

  When the phone rang, I hoped it would be Charlie saying he’d found another suspect. Instead, it was Martha. “Have you heard from Tad?” I asked at once.

  “Not a word. Ridd’s coming home at lunchtime and we’re going to call Walker and Cindy. But what’s that I hear about you spraining an ankle? That’s a pretty drastic way to get out of walking.”

  “I was desperate. How on earth did you hear that all the way down there?”

  “Ridd sent me to the nursery this morning for chrysanthemums, and I saw Pop. He told me about it and said you are ensconced in your office like a queen, eating bonbons.”

  “Stuck here helpless as a baby is more like it, without a single bonbon in sight. I can’t even get to the bathroom, and that’s gonna be a problem in a little while.”

  “Didn’t they give you crutches?”

  “I can’t get the hang of them. Besides, my left leg isn’t used to carrying all my weight, and I’m not real good at hopping.”

  “You’ll get used to them.” That was the nurse speaking, not my sweet daughter-in-law. “Don’t you put weight on that ankle, now.”

  “I won’t, but I just thought of something. Back in the storeroom behind the utility room, there’s a wheelchair J.R. used until he got his prosthesis.” An accident crushed Joe Riddley’s father’s right leg below the knee a few years after we got married. He’d had a wheelchair especially fitted up to support his stump while he waited for it to heal, and one of the advantages of living in the same house generation after generation is that you tend to
hang on to things because somebody is likely to need them again. Joe Riddley’s parents hadn’t bothered to clean out the attic or store room when they left the house, and neither had we.

  “Will you find it for me?” I asked Martha. “Then, can you come take me somewhere?”

  “You don’t need a wheelchair. You can get used to the crutches.”

  “I could probably get used to Chinese water torture, but what’s the point? It’s just a week, and hopping is a skill I don’t plan to need again. Will you look for that chair and come get me?”

  I have often said Martha was God’s best gift to this family. She proved it half an hour later when she showed up with a newly dusted wheelchair and asked, “Where to, madame?”

  When she heard where I wanted to go, and why, her eyes widened. “Chief Muggins is gonna nail both our hides to his office wall.”

  “Maybe so,” I admitted, “but I’m not going to touch anything, just look. Come on.”

  We headed back to Hubert’s place. I pointed to a tractor track leading to the back of his barn. “There’s a little side door down there. Pull as close to it as you can get.”

  As she came around the car to get me, I heard a scrambling inside.

  “There’s somebody in there,” I whispered. “It’s not Charlie, because his car’s not here.”

  Her face brightened with hope. “You think it’s Tad?”

  “Could be. The little dickens, he could have been in this barn the whole time. Why didn’t we think of that?”

  “Ridd searched the place Sunday night and Buster’s folks looked once, too. I guess he hid in the woods while they were here. Let me go in first.” Martha abandoned me and went to the door. As she opened it to poke her head in, I heard a whinny. “Hello, Starfire,” she said. “Tad? It’s Aunt Martha. Where are you?” She listened, then repeated, “Tad? I know you’re here.” She stepped inside.

  I waited for what seemed an eternity before Martha came back through the door holding Tad, defiant and filthy, by one elbow. His hair was littered with straw.