When Will the Dead Lady Sing?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Hey, Me-mama.” His tone was sullen, and he was more interested in the tops of his shoes than in looking me in the eye.

  “Hey, yourself,” I told him. “Looks like you could do with a bath and a good meal.”

  He shuffled his feet. Before we could say anything else, we heard a car barreling down the road. Since it dead-ends into fields, it doesn’t get much traffic. “I’m afraid I know who that is,” Martha murmured.

  Chief Muggins’s cruiser roared up the drive and turned to block her car. He pulled off his sunglasses as he climbed out. “Well, well, well. What have we here?” Thumbs in his belt, he swaggered over to look Tad up and down. “I heard you were missing, boy. You been sleeping in this barn?”

  “Yessir.” Tad still hung his head. “A couple of nights.”

  “You have company?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “My mama’s horse. He’s still in there.”

  “That all?”

  He jerked his head toward the door. “You can look.” He still didn’t look him in the eye.

  Chief Muggins gave him a sharp look. “Well, it’s a clear case of trespassing. We’ll need to run you in and call Mr. Spence.”

  “Wait!” Martha and I said in unison.

  “This isn’t your jurisdiction,” I added quickly.

  Charlie had already turned to the deputy who came with him. “Cuff him, Jack, and call a sheriff’s deputy to come pick him up. No need to bother Sheriff Gibbons.”

  He knew as well as the rest of us that Buster would never arrest Joe Riddley’s grandson for sleeping in a neighbor’s barn.

  The deputy left off the cuffs and shoved Tad gently toward the car. Tad threw me a terrified look over his shoulder. “Don’t say a word until we get a lawyer there,” I called to him. “Not one word except your name.”

  He nodded as the car door closed behind him.

  Charlie turned to me. “Now, what was it you wanted down here, Judge?”

  “My grandson. He ran away after the fire, and we learned he was here.” That was true—I merely neglected to mention that we’d learned it after we arrived. “My daughter-in-law’s horse is still inside. May we take it on down to Ridd’s?”

  “Leave it for now. From what I understand, you all don’t have a barn to keep it in.” He raised his voice. “Jack, back the cruiser to let the judge out. She’s leaving.”

  Martha took me to their house. We both needed a strong glass of iced tea. Thank goodness she and Ridd had left the ramp in place at the back steps, from when Joe Riddley couldn’t walk the year before. Otherwise, I’d have had to wait in the yard.

  Calling Walker and Cindy to tell them to hire Tad an attorney was one of the worst calls I ever had to make. I called Walker’s cell phone from the kitchen, with Martha backing me up on the den extension. He answered all elated, because they’d gotten tickets to a matinee they’d thought was sold out. They were on their way to lunch, and he sounded rushed. “Everything going all right down there?” he finally thought to ask. It went downhill from there.

  First I had to explain that Tad was in jail because he’d been staying in Hubert’s barn. Then I had to admit Tad had been missing for two days and we hadn’t let them know. Then I had to explain that the child had burned down the barn and run away.

  Walker said just before he hung up, “Not what I’d call one of our better family chats.” That summed it up pretty well.

  “He’s probably pounding the side of a skyscraper right now,” Martha said as she came back to the kitchen.

  “But he’s going to call a lawyer,” I consoled her. “That was the important part, and he’s coming home on the first available plane.”

  “Ridd’s going to die. We’ve worked with kids all our lives and never had a problem like this. Maybe Ridd was too hard on Tad about the smoking.”

  I touched her arm. “It’s not all bad. Tad hasn’t done anything illegal except spend a couple of nights in a barn, and I doubt Hubert will press charges, so Tad will get out as soon as a lawyer and judge talk it over. And maybe it will sober him a little—grow him up. If so, it may be one of the best things that could have happened to him.”

  She circled my neck with a hug. “I know you’re just trying to make me feel better, but thanks.”

  I wished I could make me feel better. My ankle was throbbing, and Chief Muggins and his men were swarming all over Hubert’s barn, looking for evidence that he’d killed the homeless woman who had been living there. I wondered what Tad might know, but there was no way I could find out right then. I just hoped he’d remember what I said and not tell Chief Muggins a thing until his lawyer arrived.

  “Honey,” I told Martha, “I need you to do me one more favor. Run me up to Hubert’s store. It’s real important. But can I have a glass of water before we go?” I fumbled in my pocketbook for my pain pills.

  While she ran upstairs to brush her hair, I waited at our old kitchen table for the pill to kick in, but I didn’t feel better. If anything, I felt worse. Heaven only knew what means Chief Muggins would try to use on Tad before the sheriff’s deputy or the lawyer arrived. And the chief would kill me if he found out I was talking to Hubert. But I had to. I could not believe Hubert had killed anybody.

  Everybody knew he was a hothead, of course. When he was little, my daddy used to say, “God sure missed a good opportunity to put red hair on that child’s head.” But if Hubert had killed everybody he’d yelled at or poked in the chest over the years, the town would be strewn with corpses. Folks knew he had a temper, and made allowances. You make a lot of allowances in order to live in harmony in a small town.

  I liked Hubert, in spite of his temper and past spotty hygiene. He could be real sweet. For instance, his hobby was growing watermelons in a patch between our house and his. We’d never bought a watermelon in our whole married lives. Every day or two all summer we’d find one on our back porch. We had even found a couple left on our new front porch. We’d never paid full price for an appliance repair, either. And when Joe Riddley was recuperating from getting shot, Hubert showed up one day with a big-screen TV for him to watch in bed and wouldn’t take a penny for it.

  I grabbed a tissue and swabbed my eyes. I wouldn’t let anybody arrest the old buzzard if I could help it.

  But I knew that any minute Chief Muggins would call to say, “Hey, Judge, I need you down at the sheriff’s detention center for a probable cause hearing in this murder case. I know you can’t drive, so I’ll swing by and get you. You can have another ride in my fancy new car.”

  If I could think of any other pressing business—a sudden debilitating virus, a handsome stranger swinging by on a motorcycle to take me away in his sidecar—I would refuse. But when you get sworn in as a judge, you agree to put your personal preferences on hold and do what the law requires, so I’d probably have to let Charlie come get me and drive to the jail—which is what it is, no matter how many fancy signs they put up reading SHERIFF’S DETENTION CENTER. I would not, however, let him help me into the car.

  I sniffed and mopped my eyes some more. Poor Hubert!

  When we got to the jail, I wouldn’t be able to stand on the box I use behind the bench. I couldn’t stand at all. So I’d have to sit behind a table in my wheelchair, and poor Hubert would face a judge with bare toes sticking out of a cast under her robe and her hair sticking up in all directions, because Phyllis couldn’t fit me in until after four.

  My ankle would probably be throbbing again by then, too, because I wouldn’t be able to take any more pills if I expected Charlie to call. You can’t have a judge presiding under the influence. What a dismal affair that hearing would be.

  I tossed a wad of tissues into the wastebasket and grabbed some more.

  Hubert would be furious, of course. He’d glare at me when I introduced myself and asked for his name and address, even though I am required to do that for the record. Maynard would come with his checkbook, expecting to sign away his house to get his daddy home for the night, and he wouldn’t be real h
appy when I told him, “A magistrate can’t set bail in a murder case. I am just here to be sure your daddy understands the charges against him. Then I’ll write the superior court up in Augusta and they’ll send a judge down next week to hear the case and set bail.”

  Hubert would splutter and squawk like Bo. “Next week? Who’s gonna mind my store?” Except Hubert would use words that would make me have to threaten him with a citation for contempt unless he calmed down. Joe Riddley never tolerated swearing in court, and I don’t, either. But I’d hate to cite Hubert for being Hubert.

  My pain pill must finally be kicking in, because I had a happy thought. Chief Muggins might jump in and tell Hubert, “Wait until Joe Riddley hears what you’ve been saying to his wife,” and I could threaten to cite him, too, if he spread a word of the proceedings beyond the courtroom. I could even threaten to lock him up. Maybe I ought to call Ike and ask him to lock Charlie up right now. That could solve a lot of—

  That’s the last thought I remember until Martha shook my shoulder. “You ready to go?”

  I swam up from deep underwater. When I opened one eye, my cheek lay on the table, creased by the handle of an iced-tea spoon, and the clock over the sink had jumped half an hour. “Are you sure you don’t want me to run you home?” she asked in her nurse’s voice.

  “No, get me to Hubert’s. I can wheel myself back to the store.” I hoped that was true.

  Hubert’s store was a lot like ours—high and dim, lit by dangling flourescent lights. The only daylight came in through plate-glass windows up front. It still had its original punched-tin ceiling and the wide unfinished floorboards his granddaddy had put in when the place was first built as Spence’s General Store.

  Hubert was behind his counter, ringing up a sale. When that customer left, he turned to help a young couple who looked younger than twenty and who both looked like they would jump if he said, “Boo!”

  The woman murmured a soft question about used freezers. Hubert shook his head. “Not right now. Come back later in the season and I might have one or two.”

  The man pointed toward a far corner. “What about that dusty old thing? I’ll give you twenty-five dollars cash.”

  “Sorry.” Hubert shook his head. “It’s broken. I keep meaning to fix it, but I haven’t gotten around to it. How about a new one, a little down and a little a week?”

  The man and woman looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. “Not this week. Thank you,” she said in a pale, tired voice.

  I felt so sorry for them. They were mighty young to be weighed down by that much worry.

  Hubert ushered them out the door, then came toward me with a disgusted look on his face. “Doesn’t anybody want a new freezer this fall?” His disgust turned to malicious delight as he saw my ankle. “Boy, I’d sure like to see the other woman.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he warned, “I only got a few minutes. I’m running down to Wrens for a political meeting. What you need?”

  “You’re getting mighty political, all of a sudden. I guess Abigail Bullock will be there?”

  “Probably. I’m driving Miss Georgia down.” He rubbed his hands together. His nails, I saw, were clean. “Her husband had to go down early, and she needs a ride. We fixed it up at dinner last night.”

  I clearly remembered that Georgia had driven herself to Gusta’s, and it seemed to me I’d seen as many Bullock cars as Bullocks in the past few days. They traveled as if afraid one of them might get abandoned somewhere with no escape. Still, Hubert’s budding transportation service was not what I wanted to discuss. “I came to warn you that you’re in a peck of trouble. Do you know that?”

  He sat down in a customer chair and slapped both palms against his thighs. “I’m not in any trouble. I haven’t done a thing. In fact, the only trouble I had has been taken care of.”

  “Not by you, I presume?” When he didn’t reply, I said, “I guess you’ve talked to Chief Muggins today.”

  “Yep, he dropped by earlier to say that the bum who’s been living in my barn got hisself killed last night. No skin off my nose.”

  “It was more than skin off my nose. I found him and sprained my ankle.” I held out my cast. “Chief Muggins asked me what you meant last night when you told me to forget the situation down at your barn, that you’d take care of it yourself. I said I didn’t know.”

  When Hubert didn’t enlighten me, I added, “I found myself wondering, though.”

  He huffed. “Okay, nosy. I meant that I’d bought a padlock. I’m going down on my way to Wrens to put it on the back door to the barn even though all the bums are gone.” He glared from under bushy brows. “I understand Tad’s been camping out down there, too. I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the county living in that barn.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Tad,” I begged.

  He smoothed back his hair. “Hadn’t planned to. I already told Buster I don’t aim to press charges. And I plan to tell Ridd he can leave the horse there until Walker can make other arrangements. But I am gonna put on a padlock and give him the key. I don’t want folks sleeping in my barn.”

  “That’s fair. Did Chief Muggins ask where you were last evening?”

  “He did, and I told him—at the same meeting you were. Lots of people know that.”

  “Did he ask about one of your matchbooks lying near the body?”

  “Yep. I told him how it might have gotten there, too. He strutted and huffed a bit, but if you played poker with Charlie, you’d know that the worse his cards, the bigger his bluff.”

  “He might not be bluffing this time. How did that matchbook get there?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I went for a little walk before the meeting and must have dropped it. I told you, I keep a pocketful. Besides, I have a witness.” He smoothed back his hair and preened a little. “Miss Georgia was with me.”

  “Not Abigail?” No wonder Binky had looked sad last night. She wasn’t even a glimmer next to her shining big sister.

  “No, she had to wash her hair, and Miss Georgia said she’d like some fresh air.”

  “So you took her down to the water tank? It’s not exactly one of the attractions in our Chamber of Commerce brochure.”

  He gave me a smug little smile. “We weren’t paying much attention where we were going, to tell you the truth. We were talking. Georgia is a highly intelligent woman, knowledgeable on a wide range of topics.”

  By which I figured she had let him do most of the talking.

  “We wandered down by the tracks, and when we got near the tank, she said she hadn’t been that close to one before. I told her I hadn’t been near it myself since—” He had a sudden fit of coughing.

  I glared. “Was it you who climbed that tank in high school and painted Joe Riddley’s and my initials up there with a heart around them?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been so long, I forget.” A smile flickered at one corner of his mouth.

  “I ought to call Chief Muggins right now and tell him to lock you up. You old reprobate. You know good and well the only reason I’ve put up with you all these years is because I liked your wife and felt sorry for Maynard.” I calmed down enough to add, “I can’t believe you made Georgia climb through that hedge, though.”

  “She didn’t mind,” he insisted. “That woman is game for anything. But she didn’t get scratched. I held the branches back for her.”

  Once again I wondered if Gusta and Pooh were conducting manners classes, but I didn’t want to discourage progress by commenting on it. I said, “And you were smoking again?”

  “I been smoking again ever since they started building that superstore. It’s gonna shut me down, Mac. Folks already take the interstate up to Augusta to buy their big appliances. I can’t compete with chain-store prices. I only sell to those few folks who don’t have a truck and want something delivered, or to folks who need something right away. What’s keeping me open right now is repair work and sales of little stuff—televisions, radios
, music equipment, stuff like that. Once the superstore opens and undersells me on that, what am I gonna do?” He looked around the store like he was watching all his stock go up in smoke.

  “Retire,” I suggested. “Maynard doesn’t want or need the store, so you don’t have to pass it along. Hold an enormous sale, rent out the building, and grow watermelons. I’ll bet you could grow one big enough and sweet enough to win a prize at the county fair.” When he brightened a bit, I teased, “You could travel, too—like up to Atlanta to visit the Bullocks. We don’t have to work until we die, Hubert, just because our parents did.”

  He didn’t say he would retire, but he reached over and gave my hand a little pat.

  We were having a good old time until I went and spoiled it. “What about after the meeting last night? Where were you then?”

  He snickered. “Ask Joe Riddley.”

  “He said some fellows took Burlin Bullock out, and the two of you tried to drink each other under the table.”

  He slewed his eyes my way. “I could have beat him, too, but I decided to quit. Didn’t want to embarrass a guest.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it. And it sounds to me like there’s some time unaccounted for between the time you dropped Burlin off to change clothes and the time you went back to pick him up. The reason I’m here right now—and Chief Muggins will have my hide if he finds out I came—is to warn you that he’s gonna want a pretty careful description of your actions during that period. If you can find any witnesses to where you were, line them up.”

  “I was closing up the building. That takes a while.”

  “Not half an hour. Where else did you go?”

  I expected him to say he’d dropped by his house for something. Instead, he jumped to his feet, his eyes turned pink, and he lapsed into the countrified talk he grew up with—a sure sign he was getting his dander up. “I was takin’ care of bidness, that’s where I was. Nobody saw me, and I didn’t see them.” He stood up and shook his finger at me. “You’ve always been a meddler, MacLaren, and I’m sick and tired of it. You stick to your bidness, and I’ll stick to mine. Now, I’ve got to go pick up Miss Georgia. You can wheel your own meddling self home.”