Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  Harry shook his head. “I wanted to hear more about prospecting, so I kind of hung around while him and Mr. Simms was drinking and the prospector was telling him all about the find.”

  Tom broke in. “He didn’t say nothing like that to me. Just that he found a few specks while panning in Sour Creek.”

  Frank looked at one and then the other. “Does seem kinda strange that he would have barricaded himself in that way and kept a loaded revolver by his side, if all he was guarding was twenty-odd dollars and two old saddle bags.” The Sheriff got up and added, “Come along, son. You and me are going to tear that room apart. There has to be something more in there somewhere.”

  “Aw, c’mon Sheriff,” Tom sputtered, “there ain’t no need for that. The old coot didn’t own nothin’ more valuable than that nag of his back in the barn.”

  Frank grinned. “Quit worrying, Tom. We’ll have your room back in order and you can have it by tomorrow, for sure. I’ll even dip into some of the spare cash at the jailhouse and pay Morty to fix up the door. How’s that?”

  Tom still looked angry but shrugged and went off to the reception desk.

  The Sheriff surveyed the room after they’d broken the seal and opened the shattered door. The search wouldn’t take long. A bed, two chairs, a commode with a pitcher and wash basin, a large mirror above the commode and a picture of a sunset on the opposite wall. A chamber pot. A stand-alone chifforobe. Two rugs. Far fancier than the bare bedrooms upstairs, but hardly luxurious surroundings. Frank told Harry to go through the bed, being sure to check under the mattress and to feel it for any odd items that might have been stuffed into it. The boy took on the task with a will.

  Frank rummaged through the commode, then explored the chifforobe. While half supervising the bed search, he inspected the window to be sure the seal was still intact. The ceiling looked unpromising, being made of solid wooden decking. He went on to inspect the floor and was on his knees peering under the bed when Harry exclaimed, “Gee, Sheriff, look at this.” He was holding one of the rugs up in one hand and with the other pointing to a ring imbedded in the floor.

  The hiding place was a clever one. No more than a foot square, there was still ample room for four bags of gold dust. They were explanation enough for the room occupant’s paranoia.

  “Damned if I can figure out how he found my vault,” Tom said, following the discovery. “I haven’t kept anything there for years. I guess he just stumbled across it.”

  The sheriff looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Looks like he’s the one who did in that other prospector. I’ll have to have Halfbreed Jake take a look at him.”

  “That’s it, Sheriff. He must have had a guilty conscience, killing his partner in cold blood like that. He just up and committed suicide.”

  Frank looked skeptical but said nothing. Suicide, accidental death—neither seemed very probable. But a room locked and barred securely from the inside made the only other possible explanation seem even less probable.

  “You know, Sheriff, it was a full moon last night. People do crazy things when the moon is full. Bet that’s it. He just went crazy.”

  “Maybe. C’mon Harry, let’s you and me go off to the jailhouse and pack this stuff away in the safe. I want to talk to you some more about the prospector.”

  As Harry went down the street with the Sheriff, his one wish was that school was out so that some of his chums could see him helping the Sheriff with an important case.

  ***

  Somehow, Tom knew the Sheriff wasn’t coming back just to open up the room. There was something about his stride as he worked his way across the muddy street that indicated trouble was brewing. Tom didn’t much care to think about what the trouble could be.

  His suspicions were quickly confirmed. “I’m arresting you for killing the prospector, Tom. Get your coat.”

  “You must be crazy Sheriff. Why would I want to kill him? How could I have gotten into that room to turn on the gas?”

  “Well, Tom, the way I figure it is that you found out he had hit it big. You probably had him pretty well liquored up by the time you took him off to his room. You warned him to take precautions, probably scared the hell out of him. Showed him where to hide his stash. Told him to be sure to lock up good before he went to sleep. Even insisted he keep the gaslight on. You must have scared him damn good to have made him put a chair under the knob and then go to bed with a loaded gun.”

  “You’re outta your mind,” Tom repeated.

  “Maybe that’s not exactly how you managed it, but I think I’ve hit it pretty close. Then you figured on getting the gold dust after I’d cleared the body out of the room.”

  “Yeah? So what did I do, blow out the light through the keyhole?”

  Frank laughed. “If there had been a keyhole in the door, you might have tried to do it that way. Nope, there was a much easier way, and Harry’s the one who tipped me off.”

  “Harry?”

  “Yup, Harry. He was mighty impressed with that prospector and especially with the big tip he got from him. After he got home he decided to be a prospector some day himself. That’s when he figured on coming to the hotel after supper and talk to him some more. So he slipped out of bed around ten and came back over here. He said he saw the light burning in the prospector’s room and was about to go in and knock on his door. That’s when he saw you come out.

  “There was no mistaking who it was, what with the full moon. And that’s when Harry saw you go up to the main valve by the side of the hotel. In a few seconds the light went out. He didn’t think much of it at the time, just figured the prospector was turning in for the night. So he decided to head back home.”

  The sheriff looked down at his muddy boots and seemed to be worrying about the dirt he’d tracked in. “I guess there’s more than one way to blow out a gas light.”

  THE BLESSING

  It had been a long time since the Reverend John Fitzpatrick had been asked to bless a house, and it was even more unusual to get any kind of a religious request from someone who wasn’t from his own parish.

  Why Borislov Chesnik had come all the way across town to ask him to do the blessing was also something of a mystery. Most European men who’d migrated to America—and Borislov’s accent indicated he was a recent arrival from Eastern Europe—probably went to church only for the three great religious events in life: baptisms, marriages and funerals. “Maybe he’s afraid his own priest will try to shame him into attending church in return for the blessing,” speculated Father Fitz. In any case, the petitioner was tenacious, indicating that his old mother was really the insistent one because a series of untoward incidents—broken dishes, lost articles, a pan of fat that had blazed up on the stove—had convinced her that there was a curse on their home.

  Father Fitz’s tired body told him to turn the whole matter over to his young assistant, Father Cronin. But that would only lead to a long lecture about how we should not cater to the superstitions of the ignorant. The lecture would include at least one snide comment to the effect that Father Fitz might as well start practicing up on exorcisms. That, from someone who’d introduced banjo music into the mass and who would undoubtedly be willing to officiate at the marriage ceremony of two rabbits, especially if they were of the same sex.

  Father Fitz sighed and agreed to perform the ritual at high noon. He only hoped his arthritic hip would stand up under the trip across town, and that the failing air conditioner in their old Dodge would survive long enough in this hot and humid summer day to make the trip and prevent him from turning into a fritter.

  In fact, the air conditioner gave up the struggle long before he arrived at his destination. But somehow, in spite of the heat, he still managed to find the street with little difficulty. His good fortune surprised him, since he hadn’t been in this part of town for years. The homes had changed. Once an affluent neighborhood, every block now showed the same signs of middle-class flight to the suburbs that was responsible for the dwindling number of Father Fitz’s own parishi
oners. One familiar sight was Sean O’Bannon, but instead of the old blue uniform, he was wearing plain clothes these days. And, sitting in his unmarked car near the corner, even he seemed different, not returning Father Fitz’s wave, and acting almost embarrassed at the sight of him.

  The heat was too unbearable, and there was too much to do to wonder about O’Bannon’s apparent snub. Borislov was waiting for the priest and signaled him along into the empty carport next to the house. Father Fitz was duly grateful, knowing what an oven the old Dodge would have turned into if it were to sit an hour or so under that midday summer sun.

  Old mother Chesnik was much what Father Fitz had expected. Stooped, wrinkled, toothless, dressed in an ill-fitting black dress that trailed on the ground and wearing a scarf drawn tightly over her head, she seemed the caricature of a gnome. Though he tried to prevent her from doing so, she kneeled painfully before him and kissed the ring on his hand. Incomprehensible though the words were that she was speaking, the tone clearly indicated undying gratitude.

  While far more reserved, the rest of the company was quite surprising. It consisted of a half-dozen young men, whose names indicated they were not of the immediate family. In fact, though Father Fitz hardly considered himself to be an expert in Balkan ethnic nomenclature, he was almost certain that the family and its company were Serbs rather than Croatians or Slovenes. “They’re probably all Orthodox,” the priest thought, then decided that the ecumenical movement had probably infected these schismatics as well as his own Church. In any event, he saw nothing wrong in going through with the ritual, certain that Mama Chesnik would be more than satisfied.

  Incense and holy water, indispensable adjuncts of the ceremony, helped to evoke the proper mood for the occasion. Father Fitz remembered to be especially careful to include a generous sprinkling of the latter on all the windows. Through much of the ceremony he slipped into the familiar old Latin, mentally asking John XXIII to forgive him for the lapse, but also feeling a certain pleasure at this small rebellion against Vatican II.

  And everyone thanked him effusively afterwards. For a moment, Father Fitz had the horrible feeling that Mama Chesnik was prepared to follow him out of the house on her knees. Only two of the sturdier males were able to restrain her pious enthusiasm.

  Borislov, over his protests, was pressing a hundred-dollar bill into his hands when the explosion occurred. It was somewhere in the neighborhood. Through a recently-blessed window, Father Fitz could see the few pedestrians streaming off in the direction of the noise, along with the prowl car occupied by O’Bannon, his old acquaintance. At least one other vehicle, with yet another policeman he recognized from the past, roared off toward the scene of the blast.

  Though a crowd gathered, the excitement quickly passed. The sound of a fire vehicle approaching in the distance could be heard, but the word was soon out that some children had dropped a bunch of firecrackers left over from the Fourth into a trash can, and the results had exceeded even their expectations.

  The trip back proved scorchingly hot, but was otherwise uneventful. Parking in the garage next to the presbytery, Father Fitz wouldn’t have noticed the shopping bag behind the driver’s seat if it hadn’t been for his bad hip. Painfully squirming his way out of the car, he saw a piece of lap robe caught under the rear door. He opened the door to straighten it out, and that was when he spotted the bag. The heft of it decided him to leave it for younger hands. “Must be something young Cronin forgot. Something from the morning’s grocery shopping.”

  It wasn’t from the morning’s shopping, and young Cronin hadn’t forgotten it. But he was curious enough to go out to the garage to retrieve it.

  Father Fitz had hardly settled his tired body into a dilapidated old recliner, the one chair in the presbytery that afforded him relief, when an excited Father Cronin came in carrying what was obviously a very heavy shopping bag.

  “Do you know what this stuff is, Father Fitz?”

  Father Fitz had no inkling, and not much interest. But his attitude changed as Father Cronin quickly volunteered the information.

  “I’m sure it’s dope. I think, heroin. I’m calling the police.”

  A return call from the grateful O’Bannon cleared up the mystery.

  “Yes, Father Fitz, you became a mule, without knowing it. We’ve been watching the Chesnik house for two weeks, now. We knew that they’d gotten a twenty-kilo shipment of heroin. We got a search warrant and even used dogs, but couldn’t locate it anywhere. They’ve been living there for years, so they have some perfect hiding place for it. We checked all the cars that left there, and even used every excuse we could think of to shake them down when they went out to make sure it wasn’t leaving in small packets. Nothing!”

  Father Fitz shook his head over the deceitfulness of mankind. “So that’s why they decided to have a blessing, so they could smuggle out the drugs in my car!”

  “Right. You were absolutely perfect. No officer in his right mind would ever stop you and search your car for drugs.” O’Bannon chuckled at the thought.

  “They had it all planned way ahead of time. Getting you to park in the carport was the major part of the plan. But stashing the drugs in the car without being noticed was a bit of a problem. That’s why they set off the trash can explosion, so that Mike and I would be distracted and they could stuff the drugs into your car without either of us seeing what was going on. Whatever else you might say about that crowd, they were darn clever.

  “We’ll stake out the presbytery tonight because you’re sure to have visitors—someone interested in your garage. In the meantime, I’ll send a couple of the boys by in a commercial truck to pick up the drugs. How about if we have a pizza delivered there?”

  Father Fitz agreed, but he did have a concern. “What’s going to happen to that poor woman?”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Chesnik.”

  A guffaw rattled through the phone from the other end. “Vera Chesnik!! Hell! Excuse me Father. But she’s the one in charge of drug traffic for most of the Coast. We’ll see to it that she’s taken care of for the rest of her life.”

  Father Fitz took a moment to digest that information, then asked, “Can you make that with sausage, bell pepper and onions?”

  THE CASE OF THE MISSING DEATH CERTIFICATE

  “And what great and glorious happenings have occurred here today?” Homicide Detective Sergeant Lawrence Devlin had managed to leave work a few minutes early in order to drop by the Loxburg County Records Office before closing time. The records weren’t his interest. Record keeper Katherine Deneuve was. Not for the first time, he asked himself what Charlie Deneuve could have found more interesting and attractive than slender, dark-haired Katherine. He only hoped he could somehow convince her to stop carrying a torch for the departed Charlie. Devlin most certainly was not carrying any torch for his ex-wife.

  Katherine smiled at the tall, dark-haired sergeant standing on the other side of the counter, pushed back a lock of black hair with its few strands of gray and said, “Really not much. A grade-school student came by this morning and told me he was working on a paper. He wanted to know how many people in Loxburg County owned dogs.”

  “Well, he knew where to start looking. Smart boy. Did you tell him how many dog licenses have been issued?”

  “Yes, and I almost didn’t have the heart to tell him that most dog owners never bother to buy a license. He was really disappointed I didn’t have the actual number at my fingertips. Oh, yes, there was something else. Two of those Mormon missionary boys came by and wanted to look through the old records. Nice boys.”

  “Did they try to convert you?”

  “Of course. But when I told them I was a practicing Catholic and didn’t plan on changing, they went back to the files.”

  Katherine’s religion was definitely part of Lawrence Devlin’s problem. She didn’t believe in divorce, so even though Charlie had severed the marriage bond months before, she still felt uneasy about establishing a serious relationship with
the sergeant. So far, a few rather unsatisfactory dates, including dinner—as they had planned for tonight—were pretty much the extent of their mutual social life. Another swift peck on the cheek at the end of this evening was about all that Devlin could expect.

  “Ready for the chef’s special at Tammy’s? I can drop by and pick you up at six. That will give us plenty of time to sit and have a drink beforehand.”

  She checked her watch. “It’s past closing time,” she commented, then added, “There was something else today, something different. I got a letter from a woman in Baxter who wanted a copy of her mother’s death certificate. Actually, I know the woman who wrote—or knew her. Eleanor Dryden. My family lived a few houses away from hers: the Larkins.”

  “What’s so different about wanting a death certificate?” he asked, as he swung open the half-gate for her to emerge from behind the reception desk.

  “Well, the mother isn’t dead.”

  It wasn’t until much later that evening, in fact not until dessert time, that the subject of the missing certificate again came up. The two of them, as usual, seemed to have more than enough other matters to talk about, but the mystery finally resurfaced. “I didn’t get around to asking earlier,” Devlin commented, “but how do you know the mother isn’t dead?”

  Katherine laughed. “I did some detective work on my own. I called her.”

  “Did she claim the report of her death was greatly exaggerated?”

  “She didn’t report anything. Eleanor’s younger sister, Margaret, answered the phone. She was amused and a bit irked at hearing about Eleanor’s letter. She said her sister is suffering from Alzheimer’s and heart trouble, is in a nursing home in Baxter, and just comes up with all sorts of strange ideas. Actually, Eleanor must be in her seventies by now.”

  “The mother must be pretty far along in years, then.”

  “She was old when I knew her. I remember a frail old lady sitting and rocking on the porch. I’m sure she’s in her late nineties. Margaret says she’s mostly bedridden these days but, according to the doctor, she’s in pretty good shape for her age.”