Death in West Wheeling
by Homer Deters
(Not to be confused with the Greek feller who wrote war and adventure stories)
as told to
Michael Allen Dymmoch
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2000 by Michael Allen Dymmoch
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition July 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-819-4
Also by Michael Allen Dymmoch
The Fall
M.I.A.
The Cymry Ring
Caleb & Thinnes Mysteries
The Man Who Understood Cats
The Death of Blue Mountain Cat
Incendiary Designs
The Feline Friendship
White Tiger
For Clifford D. Grandt
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters depicted are products of the author’s imagination. If they resemble real persons, it is because humans are more alike than different; realistic characterization reflects this. Homer Deters is not related (except, perhaps, in spirit) to Gary Deters, Associate Professor of Law Enforcement at Oakton Community College, to whom the author is grateful for much technical assistance. Also in order are thanks to Richard A. Schaefer (from whom I stole some great lines) for advice on rural life and expressions; to Joe Falasco and the gang at Falasco’s Automotive; to James O’Shea, Law Enforcement Chair, Oakton Community College; Instructor Dennis A. Ramsey, and James G. Schaefer. I’ve taken liberties with the information given me. Any errors are my own.
Thanks also to the reference librarians at the Northbrook Public Library, Northbrook, Illinois; Judy Duhl and her staff at Scotland Yard Books, Winnetka, Illinois; Janis Irvine and her staff at The Book Bin, Northbrook, Illinois; Teresita, Soon Ja, and Chong at the U.S. Post Office, Northbrook, Illinois; and the Red Herrings of Scotland Yard Books. All of you helped me bring West Wheeling to life.
MAD
“I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, an’ nothin’ but the truth, so help me, God. For the record, my name is Ajax Deters—though I mostly go by Homer—and I’m sheriff of Boone County. An’ if you want I should tell you how I come to arrest the defendant for murder, I reckon I oughtta start at the get-go …”
how it all begun
The back of Grandpa Ross’s house faces down a south slope that’s been cleared of pines an’ brush. So it only has big ol’ trees with branches low enough to make shade, an’ high enough so they ain’t in the line of fire. Grandpa gener’ly sits in the kitchen, leanin’ over his elbows an’ breathin’ like a horse with heaves. He’s got what the docs called emphysema, an’ his whole body sways forward an’ back. An’ he’s thin as a fence rail—so thin his pants won’t stay up without suspenders, an’ he can’t weigh more’n 130 pounds for all he was six feet tall once. Grandpa’s got sparse white hair an’ a dirty gray beard that he combs through, from time to time, with his fingers, which’re yellow from smokin’. He allus sits under a light that makes his face look like death warmed over, with his hands hangin’ down ’tween his knees, an’ a cigarette hangin’ from his fingers by sheer habit. Keeps his coffee, or shine or whatever he’s havin’, in a old Stagecoach Cafe mug on the floor ’tween his feet.
The way the kitchen’s laid out, Grandpa kin sit with his back to the windows an’ watch the yard in the big mirror over the sink. At the time the trouble started, he must’ve been sixty or so, but with the hard years he had on him, he looked closer to eighty. Folks all think he’s wiser than anyone. Maybe he is—he’s mostly got the sense to keep his mouth shut, so nobody knows for sure.
Anyway, the day it all started, he was parked in his usual spot. Rye Willis (no relation to Bruce, though he is related to damn near every livin’ soul in Boone County) had stopped by with a sample of his latest batch of shine in a mayonnaise jar, to get the old man’s opinion an’ fill him in on all the local news. With both of ’em smokin’, you could’a cut the air with a knife. Nina was there, too. It was late afternoon Saturday, so she was off from the post office. She was prob’ly the real reason Rye showed up. Seemed like he was rackin’ his brain for any recent event he could think to tell the old man, anythin’ to stretch his stay. Everyone knew he needed a wife an’ he was sweet on Nina. Fat chance he had with her, even if he wasn’t fifteen years older. Nina’s the smartest of the old man’s get, too smart to settle for the likes of Rye, too smart to smoke even. She was near twenty that summer, for all she’d been runnin’ the post office goin’ on three years. She was samplin’ Rye’s brew, too, out of one of those little half-size Mason jars. I was the only one holdin’ back ’cause I was on duty. (My boss didn’t cotton to havin’ his deputies roll up smellin’ like a still.)
Anyway, it ’peared Nina was startin’ to get bored with Rye’s idea of current events when he threw out his ace. “That lay-brother-religious-fellow finally threw in the towel.” Rye sounded surprised.
“Left town?” I said.
“Ash Jackson run him out,” Nina opined. “Been fillin’ the heads of all the young ’uns with ideas of education.” Not that Nina was opposed to schoolin’.
“Why’d Ash give a damn?” Rye demanded.
“One of ’em’s Angie Boone,” Nina said. “Ash’s sweet on her.”
“But she’s his cousin,” Rye said. “An’ she can’t be but fifteen or so.”
“Lotta that runnin’ round in Ash’s family,” Nina told him.
Rye shook his head an’ changed the subject. “When’re you gonna give in an’ go out with me, Nina?”
“How ’bout January 26, 2102?”
I grinned. I could tell by the look she shot me that she appreciated there wasn’t two dim bulbs lightin’ up her life just then. The old man got it, too, almost killed hisself laughin’ ’cause it started him on a coughin’ fit.
“When’re you gonna go out with Homer?” Rye axed her when Grandpa’d got his breath back. Rye meant me, Ajax “Homer” Deters (though nobody’s called me “Ajax” since I broke Ash Jackson’s jaw for makin’ fun of me in the second grade).
Anyway, Nina give me a sizin’-up look, then said, “When he gets done his schoolin’.” I could feel myself go red down to the soles of my feet. Nina added, “You’ll have to ask him when that’s gonna be.”
I was saved from further embarrassment by the ruckus that broke out next. Nina’s cat come streakin’ through the room an’ knocked over the jar of shine, causin’ Grandpa to sit up an’ grab behind him for his twenty-gauge. Rye swung a kick at the cat that would’ve killed it if he’d connected. He hates cats anyway, an’ the waste of all that good liquor gave him a excuse to go after this one. Fortunately for the cat, Rye don’t move a lot faster than he thinks; the critter ’scaped back the way it come. Nina grabbed the twenty-gauge from Grandpa an’ would’ve perforated Rye with it, but I took it away from her an’ removed the shells.
Grandpa wheezed, “Homer, you gimme my gun.”
So I stuck it back in the corner an’ tole him I’d run him in if he didn’t stay out of it.
Nina ducked out the back door an’ took off runnin’. Rye hit the door
jamb on his way out after her, an’ that slowed him enough to let him see he hadn’t a prayer of catchin’ up. He stopped just outside the door, an’ the two of us watched her disappear round the side of the house. She was pretty as a half-growed doe, but I personally would’a rather messed with a momma bear.
postal regulations
Nina was in the middle of settlin’ a labor dispute the next Monday when I come into the post office, just after nine in the mornin’. She an’ Len Hartman—he’s one of West Wheeling’s two mail carriers—was faced off across the counter.
Nina was sayin’, “You’re lucky it’s just two streets an’ they’re short an’ close together. It could be two long streets on the opposite ends of town.”
“Where’s it say in the rules I gotta take on more work ’cause Ed’s gettin’ too old to cut it anymore?” Len meant Ed Smithson, West Wheeling’s other mailman.
“I’ll show you where.” Nina reached for somethin’ under the counter an’ I thought she was goin’ for the twelve-gauge she keeps there to discourage payroll robberies. Len must’a thought so too, ’cause he turned white an’ took a step back. But Nina just come up with her ratty old copy of the Gideon’s Bible. She slapped it on the counter with a crack like a .22 shot, an’ flipped it open an’ paged through it. “There!” she said, pointing. “‘Of everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required.’”
Len scowled. “Don’t it also say somethin’ about the laborer bein’ worthy of his hire?”
“Luke, chapter ten, verse seven,” Nina said. “I could also quote Matthew twenty, one through sixteen. What’s yer point?”
“I ain’t gonna do it!”
“Fine! Then I ain’t gonna sign your paycheck. What d’you think of that?”
Len got real red an’ walked out before he could say what he thought.
Nina seemed to forget him soon as he was outta sight. “What kin I do for you, Homer?”
I was lookin’ at the stack of wanted posters Nina had push-pinned to the wall next to the counter. There ain’t room to post ’em all individual, so she rotates the stack from time to time. The current featured felon was Henry Highmoor. Nina’d highlighted his face, name, an’ description, child molester, with yellow, an’ penciled in: “This guy is armed an’ dangerous. Shoot first. Call Homer later. An’ for God’s sake don’t miss!”
“You sent for me,” I said.
“Oh. Yeah. There was a guy from the city here earlier askin’ about that religious fella that Ash Jackson run off.”
“That’s the second time you’ve made that allegation. Did you see Ash run that fella off, or are you just spreadin’ malicious rumors?”
“It’s logic, is all.”
“Well bein’ as I’m a representative of the law, I need somethin’ more’n logic. Some kind of evidence would be nice.”
Nina shrugged.
“What about this city fella?”
“He was here askin’ for the religious fella’s forwardin’ address. I told him I couldn’t give it to him without a court order. He went away, but I figure he’ll be back once he’s been out to the mission an’ didn’t get nothin’ more outta them.”
“How d’you know he needs a court order to get someone’s forwardin’ address?”
“Regulations.”
I pointed to the Bible. “You gonna quote more outta that?”
“Nope.” Nina put the Bible back under the counter an’ reached a big, dark blue book off the desk behind her. “I’m gonna quote you outta this.” It was the U.S. Postal Regulations.
I didn’t doubt she had that memorized, too. Workin’ in the post office, she’s got a lot of time to read. I said, “I’ll take your word for it. What if a peace officer should want to know about this religious fella’s forwardin’ address?”
“A peace officer’d need a court order, too. But I can tell you. He didn’t leave no forwardin’ address.”
“What you been doin’ with his mail?”
“Nothin.’ It’s all here. If he shows up or sends me a forwardin’ address, I’ll see he gets it.”
“Why couldn’t you just tell the city fella that?”
“What business is it of his? Which reminds me. You might want to be here to back me on this’n. Him bein’ from the city, he might not take it well if I have to draw down on him to get him to listen to reason.”
I guessed not. Particularly as there seemed to be a permanent open season in post offices. “You want I should tell him not to worry, seein’ as you postal employees only shoot each other?”
“Ain’t you the comedian today? You gonna help me out?”
How could I refuse Nina anything? But why’d I be fool enough to tell her so? I said, “I s’pose. Why’n’t you give me a ring if he comes back?”
“Oh, he’ll be back. Thanks, Homer.”
I nodded. As I was leaving, I spotted Nina’s hand-lettered sign on the porch: ALL SNAKES ON THIS PREMISES ARE THE PROPERTY OF THE WEST WHEELING POST OFFICE—DON’T MESS WITH ’EM. It was a pretty safe bet that city fella wouldn’t understand.
how I met Nina
First time I laid eyes on Nina was the winter I got outta the service. She was jailbait then—not more’n fifteen. She was washin’ school busses for the now defunct United Transit Corp. I come in lookin’ for work an’ get invited to have coffee an’ donuts in the shop with my ol’ grammar school buddy, Dwayne Truck. Dwayne was shop foreman at the time. Anyway, we’s standin’ round the coffeemaker, shootin’ the breeze, when somebody notices a suspicious bunch of men collectin’ out on the road near the driveway. When two of ’em breaks off from the group an’ heads for the office, Dwayne calls up front to see what’s brewin’. He comes back lookin’ like a storm fixin’ to break out, an’ says, “Sheriff’s come to take the stock. Seems like somebody had a lien on ’em an’ got a court paper to take ’em away.”
Just then, Nina comes in, an’ I spot her without really noticin’. She’s got her hair up in twin pony tails an’ she’s wearin’ hip boots, an’ a short raincoat, an’ tight jeans. She looks about twelve years old, so it seems kinda funny her helpin’ herself to coffee’n standin’ there with the guys to drink it. An’ nobody but me takes any notice.
Dwayne says, “Boss’s on the phone to his lawyer, try’na git a court order to stop ’em, but he’ll have to go to court an’ that’ll take hours. By that time, the sheriff an’ his posse’ll be outta state with them busses.”
Just then, Nina pipes up. “D.W., what’d happen if a bus just happened to stall in the driveway in front of the office? I mean, the owner of that car that’s parked there’s gone for the day, ain’t he?”
We all look out. Richard Truck’s old, rusty white Caddy is sittin’ T-crossed to the driveway, stickin’ out in the in-bound lane because of the half-assed plow job the snow crew’d done.
Richard, Dwayne’s younger brother, is standin’ right next to Dwayne. “I shore am,” he says. “May not be back ’til tomorrow sometime.”
Dwayne thinks about it for all’a thirty seconds, then says, “I dunno. Lemme ask the boss.” He gets on the phone for a while, then comes back an’ tells Nina, “Go fer it.”
We-all watch as she opens the front garage door an’ starts up the bus she just washed. It’s a pusher, one of them flat-fronted things with the engine in back. She weaves it down the driveway, towards the street, like she don’t quite know which way she’s goin’ with it, then—just about even with the office—she gets in the right lane an’ cuts left, ’cross both lanes of the drive. When she’s just past Richard’s old Caddy, she starts backin’ up, jerkin’, like she’s got it in the wrong gear. Then she stalls it. The bus’s a old diesel; Nina must’a hit the emergency cut-off switch, which disconnects the fuel line, ’cause she spends the next five minutes crankin’ the starter an’ wearin’ the battery down without turnin’ it over.
’Bout the time she gives up an’ gets outta the bus, the boss comes outta the office, trailin’ the sheriff. We hear him ask, “What
happened?” all the way in the shop. From where we’re watchin’, we can see her give a little shrug, like she’s embarrassed. The boss says, “Get in there an’ tell Dwayne to fix it.” He sounds mad, but nobody could’a planted a roadblock better than that bus was parked.
Nina walks back to the shop head down an’ scuffin’ her boots on the blacktop like she’s goin’ to a funeral. As she comes through the doorway, though, I notice her shoulders shakin’, an’ she barely gets inside ’fore she busts out laughin’.
“You’re on, D.W.,” she says.
Dwayne gets a handful of wrenches from his tool box an’ goes out to make sure nobody can move that sucker ’til the boss gives the word. It ain’t long ’fore he has engine parts laid out all over the drive. The boss comes out an’ does some armchair quarterbackin’ for the sheriff’s benefit—that we can hear all the way in the shop. Pretty soon, Dwayne starts throwin’ his tools down like this tail-bitin’ is the last straw. “If you don’t like the way I’m doin’ it,” he tells the boss, “fix the damn thing yourself!” Then he turns round an’ stalks back to the shop, where we-all give him a round of applause.
“Dwayne, what’s to keep the sheriff from callin’ someone to come fix it?” Patrick Truck says.
“Nothin’,” says Dwayne. “But he’ll have a hell of a time fixin’ it without these.” He holds up a handful of small parts he’d took out. “Don’t guess Call an’ Haul carries spare bus parts in their rig.”
“Hey, Dwayne,” someone says. “Here comes the boss.”
Boss comes in without the sheriff. He hands Dwayne a fifty-dollar bill an’ says, “You-all go to lunch. An’ if anybody asks, I’m a son-of-a-bitch an’ you’re lettin’ your union rep work all this out.”
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