Death on the Move

by Bill Crider

  “Sounds like you been readin’ Nero Wolfe books,” Hack said.

  Rhodes stared at him. “I didn’t know you read mystery novels,” he said.

  “Don’t anymore. I used to, a long time ago when my eyes were better and I could see that little print. I guess you don’t look much like Nero Wolfe, though.” Hack gave a significant glance at Rhodes’s waistline. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Rhodes seemed to recall that Wolfe weighed in the neighborhood of a seventh of a ton. He thought again about the exercise bike that was gathering dust at his house.

  “It might be interestin’, though,” Hack said. “Gettin’ all the suspects together right here and all. I don’t recall you ever doin’ that before.”

  “We never had a situation exactly like this one before,” Rhodes said. “Washburn’s driving in on his own, but we’ll have to pick up Mrs. McGee.”

  “You could have Washburn do that.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rhodes said.

  “Why not?”

  “We don’t need to have two of the suspects riding together.”

  “You goin’ to pull some trick that gets one of ‘em to confess?” Hack said. “Nero Wolfe always had that police guy or that Goodwin fella ready to grab the guilty party.”

  “I’m not expecting a confession,” Rhodes said. “If there is one, you can grab the culprit.”

  “I’m not grabbin’ anybody. That ain’t in my job description.”

  “Maybe Lawton would do it. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Never mind,” Hack said. “If you need any help, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I thought you might.”

  Clayton was early, the first to arrive. He was smoking a Marlboro and seemed a little upset by the whole thing.

  “I hope you got me down here to tell me you’ve caught the killer,” he said.

  Rhodes asked him to have a seat. “We haven’t caught anyone,” he said then, “But I think you could say we’re narrowing down the possibilities. And you’re going to get most, if not all, of your furniture and things back.” He told Clayton about the burglary ring and about the van full of loot at the flea market.

  Clayton looked around until Rhodes brought out the ashtray. “That’s good news, I guess,” Clayton said. “I was just about to file an insurance claim on that stuff.”

  “Well, you’d better wait a while. As soon as Hamilton releases it, you can claim what’s yours, and I think we’ll find a lot more in that house where they were living.”

  Just then, the door opened and Washburn walked in.

  “What’s he doing here?” Washburn said.

  Clayton put his cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. “He’s the one, isn’t he?” Clayton said. “He’s the one who killed my wife.”

  On the other side of the room, Hack was leaning out of his chair, ready to grab someone, when the door opened again.

  Mrs. McGee, thoroughly garbed against the weather, walked in, followed by Ruth Grady. Rhodes thought he heard Washburn mutter the words “old snoop” under his breath. Ruth got Mrs. McGee a chair and asked if she wanted to take off her coat. She didn’t.

  “I don’t know why you all keep it so cold in this place, but I suppose it is a jail, after all.”

  Rhodes felt uncomfortable after they were all seated. He wished he had thought to ask Hack what Nero Wolfe said in similar situations. He had no idea how to begin, and he certainly wasn’t going to say, “I suppose you’re all wondering why I called you here.”

  Mrs. McGee came to his rescue. “Deputy Grady said you wanted to talk to me about that dead woman,” she said.

  “I want to talk to all three of you,” Rhodes said. “I think I know who was responsible for everything now.”

  “About time,” Clayton said, looking at Washburn. He got out another Marlboro and lit it.

  “I wish you wouldn’t smoke,” Mrs. McGee said. “It’s a terrible habit.”

  Clayton ignored her.

  “I thought you might have killed her at one time, Mrs. McGee,” Rhodes said.

  The old woman looked at him resentfully from underneath the knit cap she always wore. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sheriff.”

  “I probably should,” Rhodes said, “but you were a little trigger-happy there for a while.”

  “And with good reason,” she said. “Mr. Washburn came creeping up to my house, for one thing. And then someone shot at me.”

  “We need a section of your wall to get that bullet,” Rhodes said. “It might be important evidence.”

  “I didn’t shoot at myself, if that’s what you think,” she said.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Rhodes said, looking at Washburn.

  “Don’t look at me,” Washburn said. “I’m the one who called you to let you know it was happening. You don’t think I’d do the shooting and then call it in, do you?”

  “Ha,” Clayton said.

  Mrs. McGee looked at him and waved her hand in front of her face as if to clear away the smoke.

  “That’s what I thought for a while today,” Rhodes said. “In fact, I thought that you had done it and then called up Clayton here to give yourself an alibi. You could blame the shooting on him, if you told him what I think you did.”

  “I told him that he was a lowdown rat for trying to pin things on me,” Washburn said. “That’s what I told him.”

  “You didn’t happen to mention that Mrs. McGee was a snoop?”

  Washburn glanced at the old woman. “Well, yes, I might have said that.”

  “Humph. I never heard such a thing,” Mrs. McGee said.

  “It’s what he thought,” Rhodes said. “I told you that, myself.”

  “You didn’t say who,” she said.

  “No, I didn’t. I thought he might have been trying to eliminate you because he thought you had seen too much. He said that you sneaked around and saw him and Mrs. Clayton once.”

  “I didn’t sneak.” Mrs. McGee was disdainful. “I was just walking around and heard something. So I had me a look. That’s all there was to it.”

  “And what did you see?” Rhodes asked.

  “They were just arguing. I’ve seen worse.”

  “You walk around a lot, then?”

  “Some. I can’t sit on the porch all the time.”

  “That might worry someone who didn’t know exactly what you might have seen,” Rhodes said.

  “Then it didn’t worry me,” Washburn said. “I knew exactly what she’d seen, all right.”

  “Of course it would be easy for me to check that phone call with the local office,” Rhodes said. “I could check to see when it was made, whether it came before or after the shooting.”

  Washburn thought about it. “It was before, I’m pretty sure.”

  “So what,” Clayton said. “He could have called before and then gone to do the shooting.”

  “It would have been smarter that way,” Rhodes said. He turned to Mrs. McGee. “What does Mr. Washburn look like to you?”

  “What do you mean?” she said.

  “I mean, what kind of person.”

  “Oh. Well, he looks like a hippie, with that beard.”

  Rhodes wondered how long it had been since he’d heard anyone called a hippie. “He doesn’t look like an insurance salesman? A greasy and slimy one?”

  “Well of course not. He could do with a shave, though, I’ll say that for him. Otherwise, he seems very clean.”

  “Now why do you think anyone would call him greasy?” Rhodes said.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Me either,” Rhodes said, “unless it was an attempt to prejudice me.”

  Clayton blew smoke. “Hey,” he said. “So I don’t think he looks good. So what?”

  “Nothing,” Rhodes said. “Unless I think that you came down here and tried to kill Mrs. McGee after that phone call. Not knowing what an old snoop might have seen, you decided to get her out of the way.”

  “You’re crazy,” Clayton said. He butted the cig
arette in the ashtray.

  “Maybe. Or maybe you still have the pistol. You didn’t get rid of it after you shot your wife with it, did you? A bad move if you didn’t.”

  “I don’t have any pistol. Come on. You’re making all this up.”

  “There’s another thing,” Rhodes said. “The first time you were in this office, you told me that you’d been to your house at the lake, searching for your wife. Isn’t that right?”

  “I guess so. I don’t remember.”

  “I do. And you said—before you accused Washburn—that maybe the burglars had killed her.”

  Clayton appeared relaxed. “So?”

  “If the burglars had been there before the murder, which they hadn’t, don’t you think you might have noticed that everything in the house was missing? I know you were looking for your wife, but still, a thing like that . . .”

  Clayton leaned forward in his chair, his fists clenched on his knees. “That’s thin, Sheriff. Really thin. Why would I just leave my wife dead in the house?”

  “It’s better than having her dead at your house in Dallas, which is where you probably shot her. I suspect you were tired of her affair with Washburn, even if she did try to patch things up.”

  “That’s right,” Washburn said. “She told me that she was going back to talk to him. He didn’t listen. That’s when he did it.”

  “You’re full of it,” Clayton said.

  “I don’t think so,” Rhodes said. “I think you killed her there, wrapped her in the tape, maybe to confuse things like time of death or maybe in the hope that she wouldn’t putrefy too soon. You brought her back in her own car, the Ford Escort, then drove it back to Dallas yourself. I imagine you parked it in a convenient spot and left the keys in it, so no telling where it is now. I suppose you hoped that the body would be found and that Washburn would get the blame. Or if not Washburn, anyone except you.”

  Clayton leaned back and laughed. It wasn’t much of a laugh, but it was still a laugh. “You sure do use the words ‘think’ and ‘imagine’ a lot, Sheriff. If you could prove a word of that, I might be worried.”

  “You’re right,” Rhodes said. “That’s what I believe is the truth, but you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Right,” Clayton said.

  “What you have to worry about is the fingerprints.”

  Clayton sat forward.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “On the duct tape,” Rhodes said. “All over it.”

  Clayton came out of his chair like a shot, pushing Rhodes aside, bowling over Mrs. McGee, and stiff-arming Washburn as he made for the door.

  As quick as he was, Ruth Grady was quicker. She didn’t bother to pull her sidearm. There were too many civilians around. As Clayton reached for the doorknob, she grabbed him by the collar and jerked backward. Clayton made a gagging sound, and his head snapped back. As he stood there choking, Ruth spun him around and sank a hard right into his stomach. Clayton sat on the floor, hard, making sounds like a gut-shot mule.

  Washburn was on his feet again. “I knew he did it, the son of a bitch.”

  “Watch your language,” Hack said. He was helping Mrs. McGee off the floor and back into her chair. “There are ladies present.”

  Rhodes recovered himself and walked over to where Ruth stood by Clayton. She had her pistol out and pointed at his head.

  “I think he’s harmless now,” Rhodes said.

  Clayton had his hands at his throat and was alternately gagging and trying to suck in a breath. There was no likely way he could get up and cause anyone any harm.

  “I woulda got him,” Hack said. “But I wasn’t close enough. Nero Wolfe always has that Goodwin fella right by the chair where the murderer is sittin’.”

  “You did fine,” Rhodes told him. “You, too, Ruth. Thanks.”

  “I declare,” Mrs. McGee said. “This has certainly been an unusual experience. It’s better than anything I ever saw on television.”

  “It’s not quite this lively all the time,” Hack said.

  She looked at him closely. “Aren’t you Hack Jensen?”

  “Yes’m, that’s me.”

  “You used to be friends with Fibber,” she said.

  “That’s right, sure enough,” Hack said.

  “Are you married?”

  “Uh, no ma’m.”

  “Well, you might still come for a visit. You’re a fine-looking man.”

  “Uh, well, we’re usually pretty busy here at the jail,”

  Hack said weakly. Rhodes thought he might be blushing.

  “I’m sure the sheriff would give you some time off. Wouldn’t you, Sheriff?”

  “I think it could be arranged,” Rhodes said.

  Hack glared at him.

  “I might even start a pool,” Rhodes said.

  “What’s that, Sheriff?” Mrs. McGee said.

  “Oh, nothing,” Rhodes told her, looking at Hack. “Just a private joke.”

  “Speakin’ of private jokes,” Hack said when everyone was gone and things had calmed down considerably. “When do you reckon we’ll get the results of the fingerprint tests back from that lab?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhodes said. He smiled. “It might be another week or two. They always are a little slow.”

  “Think there’s gonna be evidence of any prints when it does come back?”

  “You never can tell,” Rhodes said.

  Chapter 20

  Rhodes fixed chili that night and thought that it turned out very well, considering the fact that Ivy wouldn’t let him put the beans in it.

  “You’re not supposed to put beans in chili,” she told him. “You can have beans on the side if you want to, but you never put them in the pot while the chili’s cooking.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me that I can’t put ketchup in it,” he said.

  “You can do that, but not while it’s cooking. Afterward, when you’re eating it, it’s all right. At least it is with me. Some people wouldn’t agree.”

  “How about the crackers?”

  “Everyone eats crackers with chili. It’s practically required.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean, can I crumble the crackers up and drop them in the bowl?”

  “It seems sort of messy, but I understand that’s what all the most knowledgeable chili eaters do.”

  “Good,” Rhodes said. “That’s the way I like to do it. You’re sure about the beans?”

  “I’m sure.”

  As it turned out, Rhodes liked the chili without the beans, though he managed to slip a few spoonfuls into his own bowl when Ivy wasn’t looking. “It’s supposed to be made with chili meat,” he said, “but I like it just fine made with this ground chuck, don’t you?”

  Ivy agreed that she did, even if the texture wasn’t quite right.

  “Who’s going to do the cooking after February twenty-seventh?” Rhodes asked.

  “We’ll see. Maybe we can take turns. Did you put any jalapeños in this?”

  “A few,” Rhodes said. Actually, he couldn’t say for sure how many of the peppers he’d put in. He’d had only nacho slices, so he just dumped in whatever was in the jar. “Is it too hot?”

  “Just right. Could you get me another glass of water?”

  Rhodes put more ice in the glass and filled it with water.

  “Thank you,” Ivy said when he handed the glass to her.

  She drank half of it at one swallow, then put the glass on the table. “Are you glad the murder case is solved?”

  “It’s solved, but it’s not over,” Rhodes said. The chili seemed just right to him, too. “We’ll get an indictment, but after that, things get shaky.”

  “Don’t you have a good case against Clayton?”

  “Only if the lab actually finds fingerprints on that tape. Otherwise, it’s all speculation.”

  “It’s hard to convict on speculation.” Ivy took another bite of chili and another long drink of water.

  “We have one other good chance of
pinning it on him. The Dallas police will be getting a warrant to search his house. I’m willing to bet that they’ll find the murder weapon, and that it’ll also be the gun that fired the shots at Mrs. McGee. Ruth brought in that section of wall and we got the slug out of it. I’m sure the ballistics tests will show it was fired from the murder weapon.”

  “Do you think Hack likes Mrs. McGee?”

  Rhodes put down his spoon and grinned. “I think she likes him. I’m not sure that old guy will ever take the hint and go for a visit.”

  “What about all those other people in the jail?”

  “We do have a crowd,” Rhodes said. “It would be even worse if Hamilton would let us have the Stephenses. Anyway, they’ll all make bond before long and then we’ll have to try to keep track of them. Burl and Lonnie don’t have much to lose. It’s a first offense, so they’ll probably stick around. The others, well, they’re used to living off the fat of the land and they might try to get tricky.”

  “What about all those other burglaries that Stephens admitted?”

  “We’ll be getting some inquiries, you can count on that. But it’s like I told Joe. If Stephens is convicted here, the other states won’t bother with him as long as he’ll tell what he did and let them clear the books. It’s not as if he’s dangerous. He’s proud that all he does is steal.”

  “Then things ought to calm down for a while.”

  “They should. Why?”

  “I was just thinking.” Ivy put down her spoon and looked at Rhodes. “February twenty-seventh seems like such a long way off.”

  All at once the inside of Rhodes’s mouth felt hot and dry. Sure enough, he had put too many jalapeños in the chili. He took a deep drink of water, so fast that he almost choked.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He got up from the table and walked over to the sink, turned on the tap, filled his glass, then drank it down.

  “Your face looks red,” Ivy said.

  “Chili got too hot all of a sudden,” he said.

  “You’re sure it was just the chili?”

  “Sure I’m sure. What else could it be?”

  “That’s what I was wondering.”

  “Well, that’s what it was. Do you hear the dog scratching at the back door? He probably thinks I’m not going to feed him tonight.”