Barbara Graham - Quilted 04 - Murder by Vegetable

by Barbara Graham

  Just as he entered the building, his radio crackled, interrupting his musing. Dumb. He was just superstitious enough to feel as though he'd brought problems on himself. Rex's voice had dropped into an unnaturally calm tone. Tony felt the muscles in his back tighten in response. This could only mean the tanker disaster was growing for some unknown reason, or somewhere in the county something else bad was happening.

  “Sheriff? There's a silent alarm going off at the bank, and everyone else is out at the tanker spill.”

  “Have you been able to contact anyone inside?”

  “No, sir. I've dialed several numbers. The phones are ringing, but no one answers,” Rex said.

  Tony knew silence could mean the worst had happened, or it could merely mean the presumed robbers told the bank workers not to answer the phones. “I'll try the manager's personal cell phone. He coaches Jamie's baseball team.” Tony punched some buttons.

  “Yes?” Howard Halfpenny answered. His voice a bare whisper.

  Tony spoke very softly so the sound wouldn't carry far from the earpiece. “This is Sheriff Abernathy.”

  Before he could say more, Halfpenny, the bank manager, interrupted, speaking in a slightly louder voice.

  “Yes, you do have to be at can-can practice tonight.” Halfpenny laughed, sounding almost normal, and said, “No excuses accepted. If I have to do it, you do too.”

  “How many?” Tony always wore a protective vest under his brown uniform shirt, but he reached for the heavier, bulkier one standing in the corner of his office. It looked like black nylon stretched over a bunch of bricks and wasn't much more comfortable.

  “One.”

  “Is anyone hurt?” Tony slapped the vest straps in place and headed to his gun safe. “Are there hostages?”

  “No sprains, no breaks. You show up at the south ball field and we'll work something out.”

  Tony grabbed a shotgun and shells on his way to the rarely used side exit from the law enforcement center. He gave Rex a running commentary on his radio. He could see the bank's south door a half a block away from him. He hoped there were not many customers at this hour. Nearing the door, he pressed his back against the wall, making himself as small as possible. A rattletrap sedan sat empty in a no-parking zone just outside the bank door. Tony knew the owner, and it still surprised him the man had passed a driving test. Tony waited.

  He heard a car slowing to a creep behind him. Turning his head slightly, he recognized the driver, Mom Proffitt, and signaled for her to keep driving. She did.

  Next to him the bank door began opening. Tony felt a surge of adrenaline hit him, and he inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. Slow Osborne, Jr., tiptoed toward his ancient car. The man was a little younger than Tony but much smaller. He was as mentally challenged as his father, Slow Osborne. Junior carried an antique Colt .45 Peacemaker in one hand, pointing it at the sky and clutched a plastic grocery bag, presumably holding cash, in the other. Slow Jr. stopped behind his car, where there should have been a rear bumper.

  Tony thought the man was trying to figure out how to open the door with his hands full and made a judgment call. If he spoke, Slow might panic and try to fire the pistol, so Tony just took a long stride toward him, reached out with his left hand, grabbed the gun by the barrel and jerked hard like he was pulling a lever. Thrown off balance, the thief tripped over the sidewalk curb and landed in a heap in the gutter. “Owww.”

  “Hush.” Tony said. Now holding two guns and having only two hands, he tapped the thief with his foot. “Stand up and put your hands on the car.”

  Slow Jr. sniveled and whined as he did as he was instructed. “Ya don't have to act so mean. The gun ain't loaded.” He rested his hands on the mud encrusted trunk of his car.

  Tony glanced at the revolver. It was dusty and ancient but there were at least two bullets in the cylinder. Better to be lucky than good, he thought, and placed it carefully on the roof of the car before reaching for the handcuffs on his duty belt. Slow Jr. didn't protest and stood still while Tony slipped them around his skinny wrists. Tony talked to Rex on the radio. “Ask Ruth Ann to bring a camera and come here. No one else is available.”

  Moments later, his secretary/assistant Ruth Ann appeared. She wore a big grin on her cocoa colored face and facial tissue stuck to the bright blue nail polish on her left hand. She carried a camera, a ruler, and a stack of yellow plastic numbered cards. “You point and I'll click.”

  It didn't take long. Starting with the paper bag containing 4,212 dollars in currency, they took pictures inside and outside and several shots of the Peacemaker, including one showing the bullets. The bank staff took turns popping out the door to chat. Tony shooed them inside. “I'll want to talk to each of you in a few minutes. Please don't talk among yourselves.”

  Leaving Ruth Ann with her photo project, Tony marched Slow Jr. to the law enforcement center and left him in the holding cell, locked up the revolver, and put away his shotgun. He went back to the bank to take statements. There weren't many employees and their statements were brief. All agreed that Slow Jr. had walked in carrying the revolver, put the bag on the counter, and demanded all the money in the bank.

  Tony notified their county prosecutor, Archie Campbell, and the public defender, Carl Lee Cashdollar. And then he called Slow Jr.'s mother, Bernice.

  The four of them needed to talk together before anyone interviewed Slow Jr. Tony didn't know where the line should be drawn between the ability to form intent and/or understand consequences. He wanted everyone to be on the same page. Bernice was the last to arrive, coming from work. Tony thought she looked even more tired and downtrodden than usual. Tears in her eyes were magnified by the thick lenses on her old-fashioned glasses. The woman's entire existence had to be work and worry. She and Slow had produced eight children. Most possessed average intelligence. Junior was the offspring most like his father.

  “Where'd you get the gun?” Tony asked Slow Jr. He'd waited long enough to find out what inspired this morning's excitement.

  “Found it in Grandpa's old trunk.” Slow Jr. looked proud. “I'm going to be just like Billy the Kid.”

  “What do you know about Billy the Kid?” Tony asked.

  “I saw a movie onest. Billy carried a gun and banks gave him money when he needed it.” Slow smiled. “The banks have lots of money and won't miss none. They just churn it out when they need it.”

  “Do you mean making it, as in printing it?” said Carl Lee.

  The man nodded.

  Shaking her head, his mother wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  Prosecutor Archie Campbell said, “I don't have a choice. Premeditation and use of a firearm.”

  Carl Lee cleared his throat. Everyone looked at the public defender. “I'm advising my client to remain silent.”

  Slow Jr. opened his mouth again, and his mother quickly placed her hand over it. “Hush, baby.” For the first time, he seemed to recognize he'd made a serious mistake. Tears flooded his eyes.

  Tony thought if Slow Jr. had once thought it would be fun to rob a bank, he knew differently now.

  Carl Lee Cashdollar stopped in Tony's office doorway. He stood there making an odd humming sound.

  “What's up, Carl Lee? Is Archie having second thoughts about sending Slow Jr. home until his trial?” Tony smiled and leaned back in his chair. Carl Lee wasn't wearing his lawyer face. He looked unsettled, so Tony waved the defense attorney into his office “You all right?”

  Carl Lee shook his head as he sat down facing Tony. “I'm not sure.”

  Tony felt a jolt of curiosity mixed with concern.

  Carl Lee said, “What do you do when you know someone has committed a crime and you don't have any proof?”

  “I keep digging until the shovel breaks or until I have to work on something else. I don't mark the case closed.” Tony leaned forward. “What's happened?”

  “Don't laugh.” Carl Lee's eyes flickered to the floor and up. “My wife's cat is missing, and I think Hairy Rags killed it and disp
osed of the body.”

  Tony did not feel like laughing. He believed the lawyer's story and similar ones he'd heard over the past few months. The game warden, Harrison Ragsdale, had long had an unsavory reputation, but recently there had been an exceptionally high number of missing pets in Park County. “Tell me.” He reached for his notebook. In spite of more reports, they had not found more animal bodies than usual.

  Carl Lee sighed heavily and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a photograph of a beautiful Siamese cat and handed it to Tony. “Two Bit.”

  “Two Bit?” Tony did smile then. “Looks like a fifty-dollar cat to me.”

  “When the previous owner gave it to my wife, he said the cat wasn't worth two bits. He was wrong.” Carl Lee paused. “My wife adores the cat, and I'm almost as fond of it as she is. A few weeks ago, Two Bit followed me outside as usual, while I was putting the trash can out for Claude. Anyway, it was dark and there's a lot of trees and shrubs blocking the view, and I saw Two Bit lunge into a shrub and knew she was after a bird, but the bird flew away and at the same time I heard a car engine rev up and the cat was gone, and I'd swear the car making the turn belonged to Ragsdale.”

  “No cat body?”

  “That's the only part I can't explain, but, we haven't seen her since.”

  Tony was still thinking about the cat and the bank robbery and the oil truck when Sheila tapped on his door frame. He waved her in, hoping she wasn't bearing bad news. “What's up?”

  “You know I'm involved in an after school homework program for kids with problems?” Sheila settled on the chair and relaxed.

  Tony nodded, relieved that Sheila didn't look upset. His only female deputy was smart, efficient, and a pleasure to work with. She could also shoot the antennae off a June bug from some ridiculous distance, one where he'd be lucky to even see the insect.

  “Alvin Tibbles is my student. He's trying to be a good kid but Alvin's mom is a frequent flyer in the jail.” Sheila paused. “Candy Tibbles is his mom.”

  Tony saw Candy's name on arrest reports frequently. She had a long record—mostly for drunk and disorderly. “Is there a problem with Candy?” Tony thought the homework program was a good one. It connected kids on the brink with positive role models. “Or do you think Alvin would do better with a male mentor?”

  “I don't think so. Alvin and I actually get along pretty well. I'd like to see him have emancipated status.” She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “He's so old for his age he doesn't fit with any so-called normal family, but that's not why I'm here.”

  Tony felt his eyebrows lift.

  Sheila continued. “What I came to ask you is for your permission to take Alvin on a tour of the jail, let him see what it's really like, where his mom sleeps when she's here and that she's not abused. He's her caretaker and he worries.”

  “Where does Alvin sleep when she overnights here?” Tony hoped it was some place safer than the backseat of an abandoned car.

  “He's old enough to stay at home by himself, but I usually take him out to my folks' house.” Sheila smiled. “My mom dotes on him, and he likes Dad.”

  “Bring him in any time. I'll escort both of you and he can ask me anything he wants.” Tony thought in the long run it might save two lives, Alvin's, and his mother's.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Theo made it up the stairs to her office without dropping anything. Success. She was elated. Not only was she feeling stronger every day—her recovery from the twins' births was taking longer than she'd expected—but she was getting the hang of juggling. She knew her ability to carry both girls together wouldn't last long. The babies were growing like weeds, and she'd better rest while she could. Once they started scooting around on their own, she probably wouldn't get to sit down again until they went to school.

  Gretchen, her only full-time employee at the shop, charged up the stairs behind them and stopped at the top, a pen and small notebook clutched in one fist and the mail in the other. “Jane's already called eighteen times.” As if conjured by her announcement, the telephone on Theo's desk rang, and Gretchen trotted over to answer it. She claimed Theo had not arrived yet and would definitely give her the message. She disconnected. “Why is Jane calling the shop instead of your cell?”

  Theo pulled her cell phone out of the diaper bag. “I turned this off.” She did not turn it on. “Jane's afraid she'll wake the babies so she won't call the house phone. What does she need?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “She won't tell me. She just wants you to call her.”

  Theo was torn. The twins were asleep, so she considered waiting until she'd gotten some work done on the can-can skirts and maybe even her new quilt pattern before returning Jane's call, but guilt won out. She dialed Jane's number. Her mother-in-law was a sweetheart, but disaster followed her and her sister Martha around like their shadows. Any guardian angel assigned to either of them was probably exhausted after one day. The two ladies were never without a plan for doing something bizarre. At least they had given up the idea of traveling around the state singing in bars, a scenario that had created many conversations and sleepless nights for Tony and his siblings.

  “Oh, Theo dear, it's you.” Jane didn't give Theo a chance to say a word. “I really hope you are planning to be a part of the quilting demonstration at the Ramp Festival on Saturday?” Theo shook her head at the voice. Jane, not seeing the gesture, of course, charged ahead. “I know you are busy these days, but really, it would be so sweet if you'd come and help for a little while and teach something simple. We'll find someone to cover for you at the ticket table.”

  Theo shook her head harder. She could feel her curls bounce and couldn't imagine her mother-in-law couldn't hear them. Four-month-old twins, plus two boys in elementary school, a shop to run, and a house and a husband sucked up every last second of each twenty-four-hour period. Wasn't working at the entrance table enough? Especially since she was sure her duty there would include dealing with people who didn't want to pay the fee. All that whining and complaining would wear down a saint. When would she have time to set up a demonstration? Where did Jane get these ideas?

  “I really can't.” Theo tried shoving the words out of her throat. They eventually came out, but sounded like “all right, if you need me” even to her own ears. She was sunk. Jane was ecstatic. How could she retract her words now?

  Theo stared at the window, her thoughts immediately turned to what kind of quilting project she could demonstrate. She certainly didn't want to use any of her good fabric, especially since whatever she took would stink by the end of the day and need immediate washing or throwing away.

  Ramps were intensely smelly wild members of the onion and garlic family. Whatever possessed Jane and her sister Martha to celebrate the coming of spring at their folk museum by having a Ramp Festival? They planned food booths involving the odoriferous vegetables. Soups, pies, snacks, everything would contain ramps. Everything would smell vile. Theo imagined even the food not containing ramps—the hamburgers, hot dogs and desserts—would end up with a vaguely garlicky onion aftertaste. Guilt by association.

  Wasn't having the food enough? No. Not for those ladies. There was to be music all day, everything from bluegrass to rock and roll. Once they came up with the initial idea, they couldn't seem to stop. A quilt show, of course, and now a demonstration featuring Theo. Other demonstrations planned involved weaving, dyeing yarn with roadside plants, and making birdhouses out of gourds. Rumors Theo had heard suggested the ladies planned games, storytellers, a horseshoe toss, pony rides and, for something even more exciting, a display of vegetables as projectiles. Earlier in the morning she hadn't connected Quentin's practice blasting potatoes through a cannon with the full event schedule. Now she recalled others planned to celebrate with more ancient forms of weapons to attack the designated target with vegetables, even a catapult.

  Jane and Martha's minimally paid assistant and newlywed, Celeste, looked like she'd aged twenty years the last time Theo had seen her. As Ce
leste had hurried past, she'd murmured, “You did warn me. Help.”

  The two women planned to import volunteer workers from all parts of their tiny county. The ladies fully intended to have as close to the total county population in attendance as they could. The senior citizens weren't immune to their recruiting plan either. Unable to outrun the sisters, seniors had been drafted as food server assistants; even the frail elderly like the Bainbridge sisters, Portia Osgood, and Caro, had been given jobs. Maybe they couldn't hoist a plate filled with a slab of pie, but they could hand out napkins and plastic cutlery. Poor blind Betty would probably be sitting in a corner telling stories to children or being the designated toothpick holder.

  Theo moaned again. Trapped.

  In the portable crib set up in the family corner of her office, Kara and Lizzie chortled and waved their hands and feet in the air. Pretty sad; it looked like even the infants thought their mother screwed up this time and were laughing about it.

  It wasn't much past ten o'clock in the morning, and Tony felt ready to go home for the day. He hated the senselessness of traffic accidents. Slowing down by five miles an hour around Dead Man's Curve would not make a huge impact on anyone's timetable, certainly not near the delay being in an accident added.

  He served his county's residents to the best of his ability. Today, he felt torn between the laws concerned with crimes involving guns and the sheer misfortune of Slow Jr. The man had committed a felony. He was competent to stand trial according to the rules. He knew right from wrong, the prosecution from the defense. He knew what the judge's role would be in a trial. Earlier, his office had been filled with a sense of impending doom. Nobody wanted to prosecute, yet they couldn't ignore the crime.

  At least he'd finally managed to shower and change into a clean uniform. Maybe he could go to Ruby's Café and have a piece of Blossom's pie. Not only would it make him feel better because it would taste divine, but it would guarantee he put in his hour in the workout room in the basement of the law enforcement center. Sometimes he needed a little extra incentive to make sure he did his time on the treadmill and weights.