by Bill Crider
She was even more wrapped up than she had been the last time Rhodes saw her. She still wore the knit cap, but the afghan had been replaced by several sweaters and a heavy black coat that dragged the floor. Rhodes could see the sweaters because Mrs. McGee hadn’t buttoned the coat in front. She looked like a stuffed doll with too much stuffing. The heat in the room was almost stifling. Rhodes had to resist the urge to take off his down jacket.
“I understand there was a little shooting out here,” he said.
“Sit down, sit down,” Mrs. McGee said.
Ruth and Ivy sat on a small couch. Rhodes and Mrs. McGee sat in the rockers, while Rhodes pulled his back from the fire.
“About that shooting, now,” he said.
“Told you I could take care of myself,” Mrs. McGee said. “Prowlers come snoopin’ around here, they better watch out. I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t think it was a prowler, Mrs. McGee,” Rhodes said.
She looked up at him from under the low rim of the knit cap. “Shows what you know about it. It was prowlers, all right.”
She seemed very sure of herself. Rhodes asked her why.
“Came creepin’ down the road in the dark, that’s why. Who else would it be, anyhow?”
“The burglars had a van,” Rhodes said. “You didn’t see a van, did you?”
“It was dark. But I heard a car door slam, and when I looked out there was somebody slippin’ up on the house. It was a prowler, all right.”
Rhodes nodded. “I can see why you might think that, but you can’t just open fire on everyone who comes toward your house after dark. This time you made a mistake. You almost killed one of your neighbors.”
Mrs. McGee seemed to shrink inside her wrappings. “I thought it was a prowler,” she said. “You aren’t going to have to run me in, are you?”
“Not this time. But if you hear any more prowlers, try to make sure they really are prowlers. We don’t need any more shootings out here than we have already.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
“You didn’t. This time. But next time might be different.”
“It won’t happen again,” she said. “But it’s not easy to tell who’s creepin’ up on you. If I hadn’t seen those red and blue lights, I might’ve even shot at you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Rhodes said.
“I am, too, I’d hate to shoot the sheriff or his lady friend.” She glanced at Ruth. “Or his deputy.”
“You don’t have more than one handgun lying around here, do you?” Rhodes asked.
“No,” she said, too quickly. “Just the one.”
“I’m not going to take your protection,” Rhodes said.
Mrs. McGee didn’t say anything.
“The man you almost shot was named Washburn,” Ruth Grady said from her seat on the couch. “Do you know him?”
“Humph,” Mrs. McGee said. The look on her face indicated that she was acquainted with the man but didn’t consider him a friend.
“Has he been to your house before?” Rhodes asked.
“I wouldn’t let him in if he came,” Mrs. McGee said. “Just as well I took a shot at him, if it was him I shot at.”
“Why?” Ruth said.
“Humph.”
“You’ve seen him around the Clayton place, I bet,” Rhodes said. “Is that right?”
Mrs. McGee looked at him shrewdly. “How do you figure?”
“It’s no big secret that he and Mrs. Clayton . . . uh, liked each other,” Rhodes said.
Ivy stifled a laugh. Rhodes looked at her sideways, but she had assumed a serious expression. Or maybe she hadn’t almost laughed after all.
“I knew they did,” Mrs. McGee said. “I told you I’d never seen those Claytons, but I guess I lied. I’ve seen her over there, and that Washburn sneakin’ around like he hoped there wasn’t nobody watchin’ him. But there was, all right.”
Rhodes was beginning to think that Mrs. McGee saw a lot more from her porch and her windows than she had let on at first. He wasn’t surprised. Living all alone, away from the town, she might have become more interested in the comings and goings of her neighbors than in the daily soap operas on television.
“So you knew they were . . . ah, fooling around?”
Again the stifled laugh. Rhodes resolutely kept his eyes on Mrs. McGee.
“I knew, all right. It wasn’t any of my business, but I knew. They had a fallin’ out not so long ago, though.”
“A falling out?”
“A fight. It was a loud one, too, or else I wouldn’t’ve heard it all the way over here. What with the trees and all, you can hardly ever hear what’s goin’ on around you. But I heard this one.”
“What was the trouble?” Rhodes asked. It was getting very, very hot in the room. He felt a rivulet of sweat trickle down from his hair to his cheek just in front of his right ear.
“I can’t tell you that. They were loud, but all I could tell was that they were yellin’. Couldn’t make out the words, but I could tell they were mad at each other.”
“How about Mr. Clayton. You told me you never saw him either.”
“Never did. Hardly ever saw her, for that matter, so I didn’t lie too bad. Just once or twice, out in the yard. Never saw him though.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“About this argument between Mrs. Clayton and Washburn. When was that?”
“I told you. Not so long ago.”
“I meant, how long. A month? Two months?”
“It might’ve been around New Year’s. I don’t know for sure. I don’t keep up much with the days anymore.”
If she was even close, it meant that both Washburn and Clayton had argued with Mrs. Clayton around the same time, one of them in Dallas, and one of them here. And that shortly after the arguments, Mrs. Clayton had been killed and wrapped up in duct tape. Washburn was definitely taking on the aspect of a serious suspect in the case.
While Rhodes was thinking about that, Mrs. McGee looked over at Ruth and Ivy. “I hope you two ladies are warm enough,” she said.
“Oh yes,” Ivy said. “We’re fine.”
“I have a throw in the other room,” Mrs. McGee said. “You could wrap up in it if you wanted to.”
“No, thank you,” Ivy said. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Don’t see how you could be, in that skimpy little coat. This is the kind of weather that calls for something heavy.”
“I guess I’m just warm-natured,” Ivy said.
“I was, too, when I was younger,” Mrs. McGee said.
Rhodes was not following the conversation. He was wondering about Mrs. Clayton and why she had been stripped after she was shot—or before she was shot—and about the duct tape. It didn’t make any kind of sense.
“I guess that’s all I need to ask you about tonight, Mrs. McGee,” he said. “Just don’t go shooting at anybody from now on. Give my office a call, and we’ll get someone out here to deal with any prowlers you hear creeping up on you.”
“You better get here plenty fast,” she said.
“Don’t worry. We will.” Rhodes got up. Ivy and Ruth followed suit.
“I hope you all don’t catch your deaths in those outfits,” Mrs. McGee said. “You ought to wrap up better in this weather.”
They thanked her for the advice as she ushered them quickly out the door and shut it firmly behind them. The outside air, after the time spent inside the nearly suffocating heat of the room, had a bracing effect, and they all inhaled deeply, pulling the cold into their lungs.
“Wow,” Ruth said as they walked to the cars. “I thought I’d die in there. I’d hate to have to pay her gas bill.”
“She told me that your blood thins out when you get old,” Rhodes said. “Maybe she’s right. Who knows?”
“Do you think it’s safe to leave her there with a gun?” Ivy said.
“I hope so, but I never thought she’d actually shoot at anyone in the first
place. Guess I was wrong.”
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to take her gun, then? And I think she has another one, or more than one.” Ivy sounded very concerned.
“I think you could be right about that,” Rhodes said. “But look at it this way. If I take her gun, what security does she have? There have been a lot of burglaries in the neighborhood lately and one murder. She’s an old woman living alone, no one close by, no relatives anywhere around.”
“There are lots of people in that situation,” Ivy said. “She’s not unique, and I’ll bet most of the others don’t have guns. Besides, you have patrols in the area, don’t you?”
“That’s not the point,” Rhodes said. “She needs that gun to think she’s safe. It’s like the security blanket that kid in Peanuts carries. If we parked a car in front of her house, she wouldn’t feel as safe as she does with that gun.”
“Nobody ever got shot with a security blanket,” Ivy said. Rhodes looked at Ruth, who gazed off at the waters of the lake, which were reflecting the light of the stars.
“I’m getting cold,” he said. “Let’s go back to town.”
They got in the cars and left.
“What’s on TV tonight?” Ivy asked as they drove back toward Clearview.
“The Black Swan,” Rhodes said. “Tyrone Power at his best.”
“Does he play the swan?”
“He plays a pirate,” Rhodes said.
“Is this one of those good pirate movies, like the ones we used to see when we were kids? Swordfights, cannons, and all that?”
“Exactly.”
“Colorized?”
“No, thank goodness. This one was filmed in color to begin with. You’ll be able to tell the difference, I promise.”
“Good.” There was a long pause. “You know, you look a little bit like Tyrone Power. Did I ever tell you that before?”
Rhodes laughed. “Nobody ever told me that before.”
“Well, you do.”
“Watch the movie, then tell me that again. Tyrone doesn’t have a single gray hair, and he doesn’t need to watch his waistline. He even has a mustache.”
“Well, you look like Tyrone Power when he didn’t have a mustache.”
“Keep it up,” Rhodes said. “I might even start to believe it.”
“I’m sorry I said that about the security blanket,” Ivy said. It sounded like a change of subject, but Rhodes knew that it wasn’t. Not really.
“Don’t be sorry. You had a valid point. I know I’m taking a risk. It’s the same one I took the first time I saw Mrs. McGee with a pistol. Washburn almost got killed because I let her keep it then. I’m just hoping that she’s learned a lesson.”
“The first time?”
“I knew she had that pistol earlier. Ruth and I saw it when I talked to her about the burglaries.”
“What if she’d killed someone with it?”
“I would have been guilty of really bad judgment. But I’d do the same again. In fact, I just did. I don’t see her as the kind of person who’d kill someone.”
“Unless it was an accident.”
“That’s right, unless it was an accident.”
“Well, you’re the one who has to live with his judgments.”
Rhodes let it go at that. It had been a long day.
Ruth would have let Hack know the outcome of their trip to the lake, but during a commercial break in the movie, Rhodes called the jail. There was always the chance that Burl and Lonnie had confessed or that there was some other minor matter that might need his attention. Hack didn’t like to bother him if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Ivy was in the kitchen making popcorn. Rhodes had bought a dry popper, one that required no oil and no butter. The popcorn didn’t taste like much, but at least he knew he wasn’t getting any calories or cholesterol.
No one had confessed, however, and there wasn’t much going on.
“We did get a call from one of the honky-tonks,” Hack said.
Rhodes had explained to Hack more than once that there was no such thing as a honky-tonk anymore. There were clubs—like there were no trash collectors anymore, just sanitary engineers. Hack paid him no attention.
“What was the trouble?” Rhodes said. On the telephone, Hack was usually more forthcoming about matters than he was in person.
“Twila Faye Eckert called in about a man rumagin’ around in her purse. Said she caught him red-handed.” Twila Faye was a well-known local character, one who spent more time on the inside of the various “clubs” in Blacklin County than she did on the outside of them. In one way or another, her name figured in several complaints over the years.
“Who took care of it?” Rhodes asked.
“Buddy went out. He’s dealt with Twila Faye before.”
Buddy was a solid deputy, and Rhodes was confident he had handled things well.
“Any arrests?”
“Nope.”
“Any trouble?”
“Nope. Turned out that Twila Faye had cold-cocked the guy already. He was laid out on the floor when Buddy got there. She hit him with a bottle of Coors Lite, right behind the ear.”
“How badly was he hurt?”
“He was okay. He came to while Buddy was there. Turned out he had good reason for goin’ through Twila Faye’s purse.”
“Well?”
“They been livin’ together for five months in her house. He wasn’t feelin’ too well and wanted to go home, so he started lookin’ through her purse for the house key. She wanted to stay and have a good time. Said all he cared about was watchin’ TV, and she wanted to have a little fun while she was still young.”
Rhodes knew that Twila Faye was forty-five if she was a day. “Did anybody want to file on anybody else?”
“Nope. The old boy said he’d stay and have another beer if Twila Faye’d go home after that. She said she would, so they were all friends again when Buddy left.”
“And that’s it for the night?”
“It’s Monday,” Hack said.
“I’m going to be busy for a while in the morning, but I’ll see you before noon,” Rhodes told him. “You can reach me at Ballinger’s if there’s trouble.”
“All right,” Hack said. “See you then.”
Rhodes hung up and went to eat dry popcorn and watch Tyrone Power win the love of Maureen O’Hara. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass of a door as he passed.
Maybe there is a vague resemblance, he thought. Then he shook his head. No way.
Chapter 13
“She really makes a nice corpse,” Clyde Ballinger said as he and Rhodes stood looking at Ivy. “You’ll notice I didn’t skimp on the casket, either. This is one of our best. The finest steel.” He knocked against it with his fist. “And that’s real silk she’s lying on. Not any of that polyester stuff that you get in the cheaper boxes.”
“We don’t want the sales pitch,” Ivy said. She still had her eyes closed, but the fact that she had spoken spoiled the illusion she had created after Rhodes had helped her climb into the coffin. She had looked quite dead. With just the right amount of makeup—too much—and the appropriate pose, her hands crossed on her breast.
Rhodes took the folding chair that Ivy had climbed on and put it back with the others. “How long can you hold your breath?” he said.
“You should have asked me that sooner,” Ivy said. “But I can probably do it long enough.”
“Remember that no one’s going to try to hurt you,” Rhodes said. “They think you’re dead already. And Clyde and I will be right here.”
“I just want you to know that I like this even less than I thought I would,” Ivy said.
“I really appreciate your doing it,” Rhodes said.
“Probably not enough,” she said. “You owe me one.”
“Who’s keeping score?”
“I am.”
“You remember what to do?”
“I remember.”
“It’s nearly eight o’
clock,” Ballinger said. “Tom’ll be opening the door soon.”
“Let’s go,” Rhodes said. “We’ll be watching,” he called to Ivy.
There was no answer from the coffin.
Rhodes and Ballinger moved to the right side of the room, which was not a wall but a folding soundproof curtain. It could be folded back for really big crowds, but more often it was used as a wall between two smaller rooms.
Ballinger pushed the curtain a foot or so and they squeezed by. Then he pushed it up to the catch, but did not complete the connection.
“Let me stand there so I can see,” Rhodes said.
Ballinger moved aside, and Rhodes pressed his face to the small crack. He had a good view of the dais and the coffin. As he watched, the recorded music came on. The song was “How Great Thou Art.”
“When did you start that stuff?” Rhodes asked.
“It’s very soothing,” Ballinger said. “Besides, it saves money if the family doesn’t want to hire an organist or singer.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Rhodes said. “When my time comes, I want a piano player. I don’t even want this stuff turned on.”
“I guess that can be arranged,” Ballinger said. His tone showed that his feelings were slightly injured.
“I want all fast music,” Rhodes said. “Things like ‘I’ll Fly Away,’ ‘Beulah Land,’ ‘The Rock that is Higher than I,’ ‘When They Ring those Golden Bells for You and Me.’ And make sure the piano player gets them up to speed. None of that dragging like some of them do at funerals.”
“I’ll try to remember,” Ballinger said. “It might be a while before you get here.”
“I hope so. Maybe I better write it down.”
“Somebody’s coming in,” Ballinger said. He pressed up next to Rhodes so that he could see through the crack.
An old woman entered the room. It was hard to say how tall she might have once been because her back was bent and she walked as if she were leaning over to look for something on the floor. She had on a black dress that reached low enough to cover the tops of her shoes and a crocheted black shawl. Her hair was white and thin, and she wore it combed close to the top of her head and caught in a knot at the back.
“Sammie Woods,” Ballinger whispered. “She hasn’t missed looking at a body in the last twenty years.”
