Murder Comes by Mail

by A. H. Gabhart

  “Probably not. I was thinking more of a murder weapon or two.” Michael should have looked around his house instead of just waiting for sirens. In fact, now when he thought about it, he wondered why he’d waited at all. He should have gone straight to Aunt Lindy’s. They could have tracked him down there to arrest him. “After you take me in, will you go by and check on Aunt Lindy?”

  “You don’t think the guy would go after her?” Buck sounded shocked.

  “I don’t know. Alex got the pictures. Julie Lynne’s pictures. At her office in Washington.” Michael rubbed his forehead. “I should have told Whitt that. He’ll say I was concealing evidence or something.”

  “Whitt’s a jerk, but he’s not stupid. He’ll come to his senses by morning and let you go.”

  “But what about till then?”

  “You mean what will the real murderer do?” Buck was quiet as he pulled out on the highway. “If the guy is trying to pin this on you, he won’t do anything as long as you’re in jail.”

  “I hope you’re right, Buck.”

  “Then again, he may not know you’re in jail.”

  “I think he’ll know.”

  “How?” Buck flicked on his flashing lights but left the siren off.

  “I don’t know that.” There was too much Michael didn’t know.

  “Who do you think it is, Mike?”

  “As Detective Whitt has already deduced, there’s nobody out there who could possibly be a suspect except me.” Michael stared out at the blue lights reflecting off everything they passed.

  “We know it’s not you. So there has to be somebody else out there.”

  “But who?”

  The question chased along with them as Buck sped toward Hidden Springs. Who?

  They roused Burton Fuller out of bed to open the jail. After he jerked on a pair of floppy brown pants and stuck his feet into untied shoes without bothering with socks or a shirt in the July heat, he led the way to the booking area of the jail.

  He yawned, scratched through the wiry gray hairs on his chest, and looked at Buck and Michael. “Okay. I’m awake. Where’s my customer?”

  “I guess that’s me,” Michael said.

  Burton frowned. “I mean the guy you want me to lock up.”

  Michael pointed at Buck. “He’s the arresting officer.”

  “Come on, boys. An old man like me needs his sleep. Now go get whoever it is you want me to lock up so we can get this over with.” Burton’s frown got fiercer.

  Buck put his arm around the jailor’s shoulders. “It’s a long story, Burton, and one that doesn’t make enough sense to tell. So just do all of us a favor and let Mike here sleep in one of your rooms tonight. I’ll come back in the morning and get everything straightened out.”

  Michael took the change and his pocketknife out of his pockets. His gun and badge were back at the house. Whitt’s techs had probably stuck them in plastic evidence bags by now, along with his antique gun collection. He should have unlocked the gun cabinet for them. Not that it mattered. He had more to worry about than a splintered cabinet door.

  “I need to make a telephone call,” he told Burton.

  Burton rocked back and forth on his feet, still looking like he thought he was in the middle of some kind of practical joke. He ran his hand through the few strands of hair left on top of his head. “You call anybody you want to, Michael. You know where the phone is.”

  Michael looked at the clock. A few minutes past midnight. He hesitated, then dialed the number. Aunt Lindy answered on the first ring to tell him of course she hadn’t gone to bed not knowing where he was or what was happening. And yes, she was safe inside with every door locked, the windows bolted, and straight chairs wedged tightly under the doorknobs for insurance. Yes, she had called Reece, but he must have already turned in for the night because his infernal machine picked up on the second ring. She’d even left a message. Not that it would do any good if he was asleep, but Reece was an early riser. She’d call him at first light. No, she hadn’t heard from Alexandria. And where exactly was he?

  “At the jail,” Michael said. “Things are a little strange right now. I’ll explain in the morning. Just remember if anybody tries to get in the house, shoot first and worry about who they are later.”

  “Don’t you think that might be a bit drastic, Michael?” Her voice wobbled between concerned and skeptical.

  “Not tonight, Aunt Lindy. And aim to kill.”

  The skeptical won out. “I’m perfectly safe, Michael. From the sound of your voice, you best worry about yourself.”

  After Aunt Lindy hung up, Michael held the phone a moment and wondered if he should call anyone else. But he didn’t know where Alex was and what could he tell Betty Jean that she didn’t already know. Maybe Buck was right. As long as Michael was behind bars, the monster wouldn’t kill again.

  Michael put down the phone and walked back down the hallway to the first cell. He stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The lock clanged shut and monster laughter echoed inside his head. It could be he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

  Buck looked through the bars. “Hang in there, Mike. We’ll get it worked out in the morning. And don’t worry about Miss Keane. I’ll make a sweep by there on my way out of town to check out the neighborhood.”

  After Buck left, Burton frowned and raked his fingers through his hair again. He jerked up his pants. “I guess I’ll just sleep out there on the cot in the front room. So holler if you need anything.” He started away, then looked back at Michael. “I ain’t got my calendar mixed up and this is really April Fool’s Day?”

  “Don’t worry, Burton. You’re in the clear. Doing your job the way you were elected to do.”

  “That’s what I’ve always tried to do.” Burton shoved his hands in his pockets. “But I always thought you did too. It just ain’t right seeing you behind them bars.”

  “It’s like Buck says. We’ll figure it out in the morning, but that bigshot detective from Eagleton wants me locked up tonight.”

  Burton still hesitated. “This ain’t the way things is supposed to be.”

  “I know, but you can’t tell those big-city cops anything. There’s no explaining things to them.”

  With a last sad shake of his head, the jailor shuffled on back to the front office. The cot squeaked as the man settled in it. A few minutes later, he was snoring.

  Michael glanced at the prisoner’s cot. No way he could sleep. He paced the few steps back and forth across the cell, did some deep-knee bends, but nothing kept him from wanting to bang his head into the bars. He shouldn’t have locked himself in here. Burton wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t let him. Michael had done nothing but make mistakes since he pulled Johnson back from the railing of the bridge.

  But it wasn’t Johnson doing this. It had never been Johnson. That man had just been the poor down-on-his-luck derelict that he’d looked like. But if not him, who? No suspects came to mind. Nothing made sense. Not since the first envelope of pictures landed on Betty Jean’s desk.

  He had to stop trying to figure things out in a rational way. Instead he needed to think like the monster. What would the murderer do next? Could be he might just move on, laughing at the wreck he’d made of Michael’s life. Michael let that thought rise up inside him like an unspoken prayer. But somehow, Michael didn’t think that was going to happen. He had the awful feeling the monster was on the prowl in Hidden Springs.

  But if the killer was going to pin the blame on Michael, he couldn’t do anything while Michael was locked up in jail. Michael tried to cling to that thought, but it was like grasping at a silky ribbon whipping in the wind. And somewhere the monster laughed.

  He was about to shout to wake up Burton and convince him to unlock the cell when somebody started pounding on the outside door.

  The cot squeaked as Burton got up and headed for the door, muttering dark words Michael couldn’t quite make out.

  “Wait, Burton,” Michael called. Wha
t if it was the monster tracking Michael down to finish things off? The voice through the door sounded familiar, but then the monster could be someone he knew.

  “Hold your horses, Michael. I got to see who’s at the door.” Burton shuffled away.

  Michael had never felt as helpless in his life. Locked up. With no options but pleading for God’s mercy. Aunt Lindy would have told him that should have been his first option. Michael shut his eyes and sent up a silent prayer.

  Burton pulled open the door. “Leland? What are you doing here? Can’t the news wait till morning?”

  Hank sounded excited. “Thank goodness, you heard me. I was passing the courthouse and I think I saw smoke coming out of the clerk’s office. I couldn’t get inside to check it out. The front door’s locked, but you have keys, don’t you?”

  “You really saw smoke?”

  “I’m not sure, Burton. That’s why I didn’t call the fire department. I didn’t want to wake everybody up to bring out the truck for a false alarm. But I think you should check to see for sure, don’t you?”

  Burton started to say something, but Hank pushed his words out ahead of the jailor’s. “We can’t be wasting time. What if it is a fire? All those old deed books. Up in smoke.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Burton’s voice faded as he headed down the steps toward the back of the courthouse.

  Then Hank was in front of Michael staring at him through the bars. “He said you were in here, but I really didn’t believe it until now. And me without my camera.”

  32

  “Is the courthouse on fire?” Michael asked.

  “Nah. But I had to get in somehow, and you know Burton would slam the door in my face this time of night. A fire was the first thing I could think of. He said you’re in for murder. That can’t be true, can it?”

  “Right now I’m in temporary custody until I can be interrogated, but Whitt seems to think I might be the killer. Who is this ‘he’? Buck?”

  “Buck Garrett call me?” Hank slapped his hand against his chest. “This cell has affected your thinking.”

  Michael stepped closer to the bars. He wanted to reach through and grab Hank, make him tell him what he needed to know. “Then who called you?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. The voice was weird. Like something computer generated. But the good news is, he said you wouldn’t have to worry. That by daylight, everybody would know you didn’t do it, and you’d be off the hook.”

  Michael grabbed hold of the bars and felt sick. “Get me out of here, Hank. Now!”

  Hank looked a little scared as he stared at Michael. “What’s wrong with you? I thought I was bringing you good news.”

  “Think, Hank.” Michael forced himself to stay calm. “He’s going to kill somebody.”

  The color drained out of Hank’s face. “Who?”

  “How do I know?” Michael couldn’t keep his voice from rising. “Just get the key and unlock this door.”

  Hank grabbed the key off the hook where Burton kept it just inside the door in the front office. He stuck it in the lock, his hands shaking so badly he could barely turn it. “Can they put me in jail for this?”

  “Helping a prisoner escape. Of course they can. But this should keep you out of trouble.” Michael pushed open the door, then grabbed Hank and shoved him into the cell where he fell against the cot.

  “Wait, Michael. You might need help.” Hank scrambled up to rush the door, but Michael had it shut and locked.

  “I did, and I thank you.”

  Michael ignored Hank’s ongoing protests. He found Burton’s gun under his cot and waited until the jailer climbed back up the steps, grumbling under his breath. Michael stayed out of sight until the man was through the door. Then he stepped in behind him. “I’m really sorry about this, but things have changed. I can’t let you keep me in jail after all.”

  Burton frowned. “How’d you get out? The door was locked, wasn’t it?”

  “It was locked.” Michael kept the gun down at his side, pointed at the floor. “Now you need to head on back and get in the cell.”

  “I’m not going to let you lock me up.” Burton frowned with a shake of his head. “It don’t look good, a jailer getting locked up in his own jail.”

  “It’ll look better than you letting me walk out of here without stopping me. Trust me on this one, Burton.”

  “Why can’t you just wait till morning?” Burton wasn’t budging.

  “I can’t. Aunt Lindy might be in danger.”

  “Then why don’t we call for help?”

  “Because they might not believe me and make you lock me back up.” Michael nodded toward the cells. “I can’t take that chance. Not tonight.”

  Burton’s gaze went to the gun Michael still had pointed at the floor. “I ain’t afraid of that gun, Michael. You wouldn’t shoot me.”

  Michael raised the gun up and looked at it. “You’re right. I won’t shoot you, but if I have to, I’ll hit you. So just go on and get in the cell. You can sleep the rest of the night back there. I’ll come let you out first thing in the morning. Nobody will ever know except you and me and Hank.”

  “If Leland knows, everybody in Hidden Springs will know. Sending me on a wild-goose chase like that. Where is he anyhow?”

  “Where I was, and if nothing happens before the night is over, he won’t write it in the paper. I’ll see to it. And if something does happen, he’ll make you a hero in the piece.”

  Burton looked at Michael for a long moment, then gave in and walked back to the second cell. He glared at Hank as he went in and pulled the door shut. “I can’t remember the last time both of these had somebody in them.”

  Hank paid no attention to Burton. Instead he grabbed the cell door and tried to push it open. “Listen to me, Michael. If you’re right, you’re going to need help. Let me go with you.”

  Michael didn’t answer him as he headed toward the door. Hank called after him. “If you won’t take me, call Buck. He’ll believe you. This whole thing could be a trap.”

  With his hand on the door, Michael hesitated. Hank was right. The monster was probably still thinking three steps ahead of him. He went back to Burton’s desk and called Sally Jo, the night dispatcher. In a flat voice that revealed none of the emotion roiling through him, he asked her to call Buck and tell him to check out Aunt Lindy’s house. Buck would know something was up, but maybe if the monster was monitoring the police scanner, he would think Michael was still behind bars.

  Hank stopped shaking the cell door. “Be careful, Michael. This guy, he’s some kind of a . . .”

  “Monster,” Michael finished for Hank as he went out the door.

  Just as Michael hoped, Hank’s keys were in the ignition of his old van. He slipped behind the wheel and was relieved when the motor rumbled awake. Hank was badly in need of a new muffler, so Michael let the car sputter to a stop at the end of Keane Street. Michael wanted to go in silently to check for anything out of the ordinary before he went to the door.

  The neighborhood was quiet. No lights on except for a soft nightlight here and there. Nothing gave the smallest hint of anything wrong as Michael slipped through the familiar backyards. Even so, Michael stayed hidden in the deep shadows away from the streetlights.

  When he made his way through the yard next to Aunt Lindy’s house, Miss June’s dog was yapping for all he was worth somewhere in the house. But the little dog was always yapping at something. Nobody ever took much notice of his barking. Not even Miss June. Still, Michael stopped at the end of her hedge and studied the area around Aunt Lindy’s house. He’d heard the dog before he stepped into Miss June’s yard.

  The warm, silky night air carried the scent of roses from Aunt Lindy’s and Miss June’s gardens. Light from the streetlights spread a glow out on the sidewalk and road. No car moved, and no unknown vehicles were anywhere in sight. A car moved past out on Broadway, but it didn’t slow to make the turn onto Keane Street.

  Everything looked the same as al
ways. Peaceful. Ordinary. The only noise was the dog yapping behind him, and even that was so commonplace, it wouldn’t sound any kind of warning to anybody in the neighborhood. Yet, alarm bells were clamoring inside Michael’s head.

  He crept up the driveway and across the yard to the porch that stretched across the front of the old house. The porch was stone, so no creaking boards betrayed his presence. He fished out the door key that Aunt Lindy hid under a loose piece of chinking between the stones.

  Miss June’s dog stopped barking. In the suddenly ominous silence, Michael’s breathing sounded too loud. He held his breath as he peered through the side panels beside the solid wood door, but he couldn’t see through the etched glass window. He turned the key in the lock. Aunt Lindy should be shooting at him by now or at least demanding to know who he was. Then again, if she was in her bedroom in the back of the house, she probably wouldn’t hear him.

  He quietly turned the knob and pushed gently on the door. It didn’t budge. The chair Aunt Lindy had propped under the knob held. Michael ran around to the back door where the glass storm door was locked. All the windows looked secure. Unless the man went down the chimney, Aunt Lindy had to be safe inside.

  He stopped worrying about making noise and banged on the back door. Nothing. He knocked again, even harder, but no lights came on. She must be sound asleep. He went back to the front door and rang the doorbell. Even through the door the chimes sounded loud. She had to hear that. His heart started beating faster as he listened for her footsteps inside. Nothing.

  “Aunt Lindy, it’s me, Michael. Open the door.”

  His voice broke the silence of the night, and Miss June’s dog started yapping again. No sound came from within the house. No light flicked on. The lack of an answer pounded against his ears.

  He pulled the gun out of his belt and turned the doorknob. The chair had been moved. The door swung open easily.

  Aunt Lindy was tied to a chair directly in front of him, visible in the light spilling in from the streetlight behind Michael. A wide piece of clear tape covered her mouth. Anger warred with panic in her eyes.