A Hopeless Game

by Daniel Carson

  Fireman Bob just took another sip of his beer and laughed. “If my dog was here, he would eat it all up.”

  I didn’t know what I was expecting exactly, but usually when you spill crap all over someone’s floor, you make an attempt to clean it up.

  I stood. “But your dog’s not here, so… do you mind?”

  “Not at all. If you’d like to clean it up, have at it.”

  Seriously?

  “Have you heard of a vacuum?” I said.

  “Sure, but I try as hard as I can not to use them. Again, that’s what the dog’s for.”

  “Wait a second, are you telling me you never use a vacuum?”

  “Of course I do. I just try to use them as little as humanly possible.”

  So as Fireman Bob returned to the mystery of turning lamb placenta into a five-star dessert, I went to my closet, grabbed my vacuum, plugged it in, and started cleaning up the mess.

  “Whoa!” Fireman Bob yelled. “Can you keep it down a little?”

  I shook my head as I vacuumed under his feet. All he did was lift his feet in the air and crane his head like a rooster so he could still see the television.

  Men.

  Then I stopped myself. Some men were neat. Some men, like Alex, were even courteous enough to help out with the vacuuming from time to time. But not most men. Most men didn’t clean. Most men didn’t vacuum.

  And then I remembered something Susan Mossback said. They had an agreement. She and Randall had strict roles in their marriage. He won football games, and she kept up the home. He was too obsessed with being a football coach to have time for cleaning.

  Excited, I turned off the vacuum. “Fireman Bob, time for you to go.”

  “Already?”

  “Sorry, I have a big day tomorrow and have things to do. But thank you very much for the food and the company. I really do appreciate it.”

  “You were serious about the making out thing? Not tonight?”

  “Definitely not tonight. What with my terrible burrito breath and all.”

  “Hey, remember what I told you? It’s like a kiss plus a snack. I consider it a bonus.”

  I patted him on the shoulder and ushered him toward the door. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that.”

  He nodded. “Cool. Date number four’s a solid spot for the makeout session anyway. Wish I still had my Camaro from college. That thing was smoking.”

  “You really had a Camaro?” I stopped myself. “Don’t answer that. Of course you did. Well, thanks again, Fireman Bob. Until next time.”

  I shut the door before he could say anything else. Then I ran to my phone and called Sheriff Kramer.

  “Hey, Hope, what’s up?”

  “Remember when you helped vacuum when I was watching Katie’s kids? Be honest. Do you vacuum a lot at your home?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Then why did you vacuum that night?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, honestly.”

  “I was trying to impress you.”

  “How often do you vacuum your apartment?”

  “I’d rather not answer that question. Hope, what’s going on?”

  “Most men don’t vacuum. And Coach Mossback definitely didn’t vacuum. Not only was he clearly not that type of guy, his wife said they had an arrangement where she did everything around the house and he focused on football.”

  “Okay…”

  “Alex, in the coach’s man cave, the vacuum was sitting out like it had just been used. Susan Mossback saw it and took it upstairs where it no doubt belonged. And the carpet in the basement looked freshly vacuumed. So here’s exactly what I’m getting at. Let’s say you’re Coach Randall Mossback. Your wife is the one who does all the cleaning. Not you. So why, on the night you decide to kill yourself, why on earth would you pick that night to vacuum?”

  Alex paused. “You wouldn’t.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Which means…”

  “Which means someone else vacuumed that carpet. Someone else was at the Mossback house. And maybe, just maybe, that someone else killed Randall Mossback.”

  Chapter 11

  Sheriff Kramer called Mrs. Mossback on Tuesday morning to let her know we would need access to the crime scene in order to tie up a few loose ends. When she let us in, she told us she was off to meet with Pastor Leif, to make preparations for the funeral. “How long will Dr. Bridges take to examine the body?” she asked before she left.

  “I’m hopeful it won’t take long,” Alex said. “But I’ll be speaking with Dr. Bridges later today, and I will be sure to let you know.”

  She left us to our own devices, and Alex and I went down to the man cave. The beige carpet was nice and thick. The type that makes footprints every time you step.

  I knelt down. “While you and Dr. Bridges were examining the body, I had myself a look around. I remember noticing how nice and neat and clean everything was, except for the area where Coach Mossback had been working. And I distinctly remember noticing that the carpet looked freshly vacuumed—you see, it’s the kind of carpet where you can easily tell. And then Mrs. Mossback grabbed the vacuum right over there, near the bottom of the stairs, and wound up the cord.”

  “It doesn’t look freshly vacuumed now. There’s footprints and all sorts of marks,” Alex said.

  “And there were yesterday as well, but even now they’re confined mostly to the path between the couch and the mechanical room, where we were going back and forth.”

  “I don’t know, Hope… it seems a little thin.”

  “I’m telling you, Alex, someone vacuumed down here. And it wasn’t Coach Mossback.”

  Alex scratched at his chin. “Okay, then walk me through what you think happened.”

  “Well…” I hesitated. “Okay, I don’t really know what happened. I just think I know what the vacuum was for.” I walked over to the couch and pointed down at the empty beer cans. “Coach Mossback is a man of very strict routines. Coach Duncan told me that after every Friday night game he would return to his man cave, drink beer, and start preparations for the next game. Without exception. There are four empty beer cans here, and he was also drinking beer at Granny’s after-game party. I think at some point, Coach Mossback passed out. Or just fell asleep. My guess is that’s not unusual—that he always fell asleep right here on the couch. He was a creature of habit.”

  “And if it was a habit, other people might have known that’s what he did.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “Okay, then what?”

  “This is where it gets fuzzy. Our alleged killer comes down to the basement and drags Coach Mossback to the mechanical room.”

  “Wait a second. How would our killer drag him to the mechanical room without Coach Mossback waking up?”

  “Like I said, fuzzy. Maybe he gave him a sedative. Knocked him out?”

  Alex frowned, considering the possibility, and instead of telling me I was stupid like I expected, he took out his phone, dialed a number, and put it on speaker. “Morning, Dr. Bridges. Something I want you to look at today. We want you to run a tox screen. We know Coach Mossback had alcohol in his system. I want you to pay special attention to anything else in his body.”

  “Anything in particular?” Dr. Bridges asked.

  “Anything that might cause him to fall asleep, stay asleep, go unconscious.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “Ultimately, I know you will decide for yourself whether or not the physical evidence points to suicide, and I don’t want to influence that conclusion. But I would like to ask you to look carefully for… well, anything that strikes you as different from a typical suicide.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh, and Dr. Bridges… when will you have something for me? Mrs. Mossback wants to plan the funeral.”

  “I’m afraid it’s still hard to say at this point.”

  “Okay, well, tell me when you know.” Alex ended the call and pointed to me. “Keep going,
Hope.”

  “Right. So the killer drags Coach to the mechanical room, puts him into a noose, pulls him up into position, and… and that’s it.” Kind of a weak ending, but there really wasn’t much more to my theory.

  “Then the killer puts a chair in there to make it look like a suicide,” Alex added.

  “And prints out a simple suicide note and sets it on the laptop.”

  Alex didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t challenge me on it. “Okay, let’s get to the key point. Why the vacuum?”

  I bent down and ran my hand across the carpet. It instantly changed color, leaving a mark. “If you were to drag a body across this carpet, it would be obvious that someone had just dragged something across the floor… something like a body.” I stood up and stepped down hard, leaving a print. “And footprints too. I’m guessing the killer saw these and panicked. Went upstairs, grabbed the vacuum, and vacuumed over everything that left a mark all the way to the bottom of the stairs. And then… uh… and then our killer just… forgot to put the vacuum away?”

  Again, Alex didn’t make fun. He seemed to sincerely be considering my theory. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the floor. “He wouldn’t be the first killer to make a dumb mistake. But still… there’s a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “I keep coming back to the fact that Coach Mossback wasn’t small. Dragging over two hundred pounds of dead weight across the floor like that? Not easy. And then hoisting him up in the air? That would take some real strength.”

  “So we’re talking about a man here,” I said.

  “Maybe. Man or woman, they’d have to be very strong.”

  “Okay, what else is bothering you?”

  “Well, why go to all this trouble?” Alex said. “Why do all of this when you could just shoot him? Or hit him on the head and make it look like an accident? Or any number of things that are far easier than making it look like he hanged himself? And then there’s motive. Specifically, we have none.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Hope. Unless I hear something different from Dr. Bridges, I’m still considering this a suicide.”

  “But you’d change your mind if I could suggest a motive and a suspect?”

  “Hope… you’re not going to start accusing random people around town of murder again, are you?”

  I put my hand to my chest. “What, little ol’ me? Would I do such a thing?”

  Alex narrowed his eyes. “If you come up with a suspect, please come to me. Please.” He paused. “Wait. Do you already have a suspect in mind?”

  “No, but I’ve got the next best thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  I smiled. “A very good place for breakfast.”

  Just then Alex’s phone rang, and when he answered, his eyebrows arched upward. “Yes, Madam Mayor, I understand. Be there in five minutes.” He ended the call and looked at me. “Not the way I wanted to start my morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “A fight downtown. It seems your friend Debbie Rutledge just punched Mayor Jenkins.”

  We found Debbie Rutledge and her husband Cal standing outside of Stank’s Hardware. Mayor Jenkins was a safe twenty feet away, talking angrily into her phone. I spotted the big red mark on her cheek even before I got out of my car.

  As Sheriff Kramer got out of his truck, I decided to hang back and watch the festivities. Given my history with Wilma Jenkins, it was probably for the best that I let the sheriff handle this one.

  The mayor ended her call and pointed to the Rutledges. “Arrest that animal, Sheriff Kramer. Arrest her now.”

  Sheriff Kramer held his palms up. “Wait just a minute, Mayor Jenkins. How about you start with what happened.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened!” Debbie yelled.

  Sheriff Kramer turned and cut her off. “I asked Mayor Jenkins.”

  “It’s simple, really,” said the mayor. “I was in Stank’s, picking up some plastic ties for my yard signs, and all I did was politely ask Mrs. Rutledge if she’d thought any more about my offer to buy her cabin. Then the filthy animal attacked me!”

  “Thank you, Mayor.” Alex turned to Debbie. “Okay, Mrs. Rutledge, would you like to present your side of the story?”

  Debbie folded her arms. “No. That’s pretty much what happened.”

  Sheriff Kramer hesitated. “Seriously? So you’re admitting to this?”

  “I was defending myself,” said Debbie.

  Wilma shook her head. “Defending yourself. That’s rich.”

  “How exactly were you defending yourself?” Alex asked.

  “Listen, Mayor Jenkins can deny it all she wants, but we all know what’s going on around here.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Alex.

  Debbie pointed at Wilma. “She’s working with that psycho Ms. Jones, who murdered Clowder’s goat, then murdered our dairy cow. She did it to make people afraid so they’ll sell their places to her. And let me tell you something, Sheriff. If you murder someone’s cow, you had better be prepared to get punched. Law of the jungle.”

  Sheriff Kramer was in a tricky spot, and I could see the stress of it all over his face. He turned back to the mayor. “Mayor Jenkins, is any of what Mrs. Rutledge says true?”

  Wilma rolled her eyes. “I’m not even going to dignify those accusations with a remark. Now arrest this woman already.”

  “Mayor, if it’s proven that you’re connected with this Ms. Jones, I’d have to admit that’s a pretty good reason to punch you.”

  Sheriff Alex Kramer surprised me. There was a time, not so long ago, when he didn’t care what “pretty good reason” a person had to punch another person. Like if a certain intrepid local reporter punched a certain man-stealing vixen who kissed said local reporter’s not-yet boyfriend during their not-quite-a-date date.

  Hypothetically.

  Perhaps Alex was learning a thing or two about keeping the peace in Hopeless, Idaho.

  The mayor seethed. “Check yourself, Sheriff Kramer, and remember who put you in this position. Now arrest her at once—and that’s an order!”

  “Mayor Jenkins, you are the mayor, and you’re part of the board that appointed me to this job, but that does not give you the power to order me. It’s up to the good people of Hopeless to decide if I keep this job during the next election. Until then, I will serve those people according to the law.”

  Wilma’s face twisted in anger. “But she hit me!”

  “Which she should not have done.”

  Wilma stomped on the ground. “So arrest her!”

  Alex hesitated. He looked at Mayor Jenkins. He looked at Debbie. Then he looked—just for a moment—at me.

  Was he thinking about what happened with Gemima? When he arrested me?

  “I’m not going to do that, Mayor Jenkins.”

  “And why not!” Wilma shrieked.

  “Because think about what will happen. The moment I arrest Mrs. Rutledge, she will call every news station in Boise to tell them a story. The story of a small-town mayor who was so power-hungry that she colluded with some bad people. People willing to resort to violence to scare good taxpaying folks off their land just so you could buy it up and turn it into your own development. Of course,” he said quickly, forestalling the mayor’s objections, “none of that is true. But here’s the thing about stories, Mayor. They don’t have to be true. They just have to be well-told. And from what I’ve heard about Debbie Rutledge, she’s quite the storyteller.”

  Wilma shook her head. She looked at me. Then back at Sheriff Kramer. “So this is how it’s going to be?”

  Alex smiled. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  She stood up tall and straightened her jacket. “Well. I was hoping a young sheriff like yourself might have a bolder vision for our community. And for his own career, I might add. I can see that I was mistaken.”

  Then she climbed into her BMW and sped away.

  Debbie came over and shook Sheriff Kramer’s hand. “Than
k you, Sheriff. You can be my wingman any day.” Then she turned to her husband. “Take me home, Cal. I’m feeling sassy.”

  As the Rutledges drove off, Alex raised an eyebrow at me. “I don’t want to know what she meant by ‘sassy,’ do I?”

  “I expect you’re right about that,” I said. “Alex, you do realize you made yourself an enemy today?”

  “Yeah, I realize that. It’s a risk I was willing to take.”

  He didn’t smile when he said it. Didn’t attempt to flirt. He said it matter-of-factly. Like he really meant it. Somehow, that meant more.

  “Do you also realize you earned yourself something?” I said.

  Alex smiled. “Your respect?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m talking breakfast, Sheriff. You earned yourself breakfast. Come on. I’m buying.”

  Chapter 12

  As we entered Buck’s Diner, the early breakfast crowd was mostly gone. The only patrons were an old couple sipping coffee at a small table and a heavyset middle-aged man with a Pioneer seed cap reading a newspaper at the end of the counter. Buck was behind the counter, dishrag over his shoulder, doing a crossword puzzle. He stood as we walked up.

  “Hi, Hope, Sheriff.”

  “Hi, Buck.” I pointed. “Could we get that booth over there?”

  Buck grabbed two menus. “Sure thing.”

  “And we won’t be needing those. Two Hangover Specials and all the terrible coffee that’s fit to serve.”

  Buck sat us at the far corner booth and poured us each a cup of coffee. “Two Hangover Specials coming right up.”

  “The Hangover Special?” said Alex. “Sounds serious.”

  “I don’t eat my breakfast often, but when I do… I take it seriously.”

  “I can tell,” said Alex. “Apparently it’s the next best thing to identifying murder suspects. Or so I’ve been told. Dare I ask what you meant by that?”

  “Oh, right. So, Granny and I have a little tradition that’s started up with all the dead bodies that have been popping up around Hopeless these days.”