Death in West Wheeling

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Nina’s eyes showed her surprise. “Ransom Thomas?”

  He chuckled.

  “You could’a saved yourself the trouble,” I tole him. “That pi’ture was twenty years old. Even I’d’a had trouble recognizin’ you.”

  “I couldn’t take the chance, could I?”

  He shoved me hard at the wall where the posters was pinned. I hit it with my right shoulder, an’ it took fast footwork to keep from goin’ down. I turned to face Thomas.

  He snarled, “Enough of this horseshit!” an’ pointed the gun at my left leg.

  There was a loud BANG! The room filled with the smell of smokeless powder. My leg felt like it’d connected with a Louisville slugger in the hands of Joe DiMaggio. ’Fore I could shift my weight, the leg went out from under me. Without my arms free to break the fall, I dropped, smashin’ my left shoulder an’ the side of my head agin the counter. Thomas followed through with a kick aimed at my teeth. I scooted far enough back—pushin’ with my good leg—to save my head, but there was a crack like a twig snappin’ when he connected with my collarbone.

  At that point, Nina lost it. “Don’t kill him!” she screamed.

  Thomas cocked the gun an’ pointed it at me. “The next one’s gonna be higher up an’ in the middle.”

  The pain in my leg didn’t distract me none from the queasy feelin’ that give me.

  Nina actually cried. “Please don’t! Please don’t kill him! I’ll do anythin’ you want. Please!”

  We both stared at her, an’ my faith in her ingenuity was restored. She threw a look at the door to the back room, then looked at Thomas like she was tryin’a figure whether he’d seen her lookin’ at the door. Then she scurried over to her desk. “I’ll get you the address. Anythin’ you say.”

  Her plan worked. Findin’ out what she didn’t want him to see in the back room was suddenly more important to him than havin’ Ash’s address. He went to the door.

  “Please, Mr. Thomas. Don’t go in there.”

  If I didn’t know better, I would’a been convinced.

  Thomas grinned an’ said, “What’s in there?”

  “Just A.B. She ain’t involved in this.”

  “Who’s A.B.?”

  “Angie Boone. She’s been stayin’ here since her folks threw her out, sleepin’ in the back.”

  “With all this noise?”

  “She’s deef.”

  Thomas laughed an’ shifted the gun to his left hand so he could open the door with the other. It was dark inside. He reached in an’ flipped the switch next to the door. “Come on out, Angie,” he said. Nothin’ happened. It was clear he was of two minds. He couldn’t check out the back room without takin’ his eyes off Nina for a second, an’ he’d finally got smart enough to see that was a dumb thing to do.

  Still, “Angie” wasn’t comin’ out. He was shiftin’ the gun back to his right hand when two things happened at once: Nina threw the postal regulations at him with all the force she could put behind it. An’ Genius let out the most God-awful yowl ever been heard in Boone County.

  Between the flyin’ book an’ the racket, Thomas let go the gun, which went sailin’ into the back room. He was about to go in after it when he must’a spotted Genius. He backed out the doorway fast, an’ slammed the door. There was a loud thud as Genius hit the other side of it, then a roar like the MGM lion.

  Thomas called Nina a “effin’ bitch” an’ pulled my gun outta his belt.

  Nina backed off as far as she could, into the little space behind me, against the wall, ’tween the counter an’ the desk. Neither of them paid me any mind.

  Thomas snapped back the hammer an’ took a step towards Nina. I shifted on my left side an’ hooked my left foot behind his. When he threw his weight forward on the foot, I cocked my right leg back an’ put everythin’ I had into shovin’ my boot heel through his knee. My left foot kept his foot from budgin’, There was a satisfyin’ crunch as my boot connected. Then there was a scream, followed by a second crunchin’ sound as Nina come down on his gun hand with both her boots.

  Thomas passed out.

  I managed to keep it together a while longer, even after he landed on top of me. Pretty soon faces started to show over the side of the counter. Nina kneeled next to me, in the blood, an’ lifted my head an’ shoulders on her lap.

  I grinned up at her an’ said, “‘Lady, shall I lie in your lap?’” Nina went from snow white to rose red. “‘I mean, my head upon your lap?’”

  She started yellin’ for the paramedics, like my mind was what was hurt. Everybody else seemed to be yellin’, too, but I couldn’t get about what.

  “Nina!” I said. I felt myself goin’ down for the count an’ had to get somethin’ settled ’fore I passed out.

  “What is it, Homer?” She was scared pea green.

  I took a minute to ’member what, durin’ which time she an’ everyone else seemed to be holdin’ their breath. I nodded at Thomas. “He’s under arrest. If he comes to, you read him his rights.” I couldn’t get out my Miranda card with my hands cuffed behind me. Luckily, Nina figured it out an’ found the card. “… An’ tell Rye … to find that city fella … Peter. Don’t let him leave town.”

  The last thing I ’member was seein’ Skip Jackson starin’ down at me in slack-jawed wonder, an’ Nina sayin’, “Homer, if you die, I’ll never speak to you agin.”

  a heavenly angel

  I woke up in heaven. At least, I was surrounded by bright light an’ feelin’ no pain. An’ there was a angel holdin’ my hand. I blinked an’ noticed she’d been cryin’—her nose an’ eyes was all red.

  “What’s a matter, angel?” I sounded drunk.

  “Homer, you’re alive!” she said, with Nina’s voice.

  “Nina?”

  “Jus’ take it easy, Homer. I’ll get the nurse.”

  Next time I come ’round, I knew I’d been found out an’ sent where I belonged. I was burnin’ up, dyin’ of thirst, an’ even my hair hurt. Satan hisself was watchin’ for me to open my eyes. I said, “What’d I do to deserve this?”

  “Tried to knock down one too many windmills with a broom handle.” Rye’s voice. He grinned.

  I seem to ’member tellin’ him, once, about Don Quixote. “What happened?”

  “Don’t you ’member?”

  “Yeah. But I wanna hear your version.”

  He told me. An’ as he did, it all come back to me.

  “What day is it?” I axed.

  “Thursday.”

  I’d been out cold two days.

  “Nina said you tole Ransom you knew where Ash’s hidin’ out,” Rye said. “That true?”

  “I dunno, mebbe. Nina give you my message about Peter?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well?”

  “We got ’im detained at the post office.” I waited, an’ Rye went on. “When we took you to the hospital, we sprung Mr. Worth an’ had him get his tiger outta the back room. Damn thing’s tame as a pet dog. Then we hosed out the cat shit an’ put Mr. Peter in there for safe-keepin’.”

  “You read him his rights?”

  “Yup. Only we ain’t figgered out the charges yet.”

  “Obstructin’ justice, for one. Tell the DA to start with that an’ we’ll see how cooperative Mr. Peter is ’fore we decide on other things. He must be madder’n a sack full of cats.”

  “Well, he carried on for a time, but we told him we was makin’ a fortune off him—chargin’ folks to peep at the crazy man through the back winda. He pretty much clammed up after that.”

  I tried to nod, but it hurt, so I said, “Do me a favor?”

  “If it ain’t too outrageous.”

  “Go out to Ash Jackson’s an’ have a look ’round. Take Nina an’ arrest anybody you find don’t belong there.”

  “Who’re you expectin’?”

  “A killer, mebbe. So be careful.”

  “What if we don’t find nothin’?”

  “Then go over to the Motel Six an’ ax Lucy to let yo
u into George Arnold’s room—same thing as with Ash’s place. If you don’t find nobody there, try Peter’s room.”

  “You gonna tell me what this’s about?”

  I escape

  I’d had it with the hospital, but even I ain’t crazy enough to try an’ drive home with a three-day-old bullet hole in my leg. So after Rye left, I called Martha an’ axed her to scare me up one of our two unofficial cabs.

  “What for, Homer?” she axed.

  “I’m fixin’ to blow this pop stand, an’ my wheels are at the town hall.”

  “They can’t be releasing you so soon.”

  “They got nothin’ to do with it.”

  I said I’d be ready in a half hour; Martha said she’d see what she could do. Then I rung for the nurse an’ axed for my clothes. I got two nurses, who come in empty-handed.

  “You can’t get up,” the first one said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “That explains why I feel like a quart low.”

  But that weren’t the case, the nurse tole me. “When folks heard you needed blood, Sheriff, they just flocked in to donate. You must be related by blood to half the county now.”

  That weren’t nothin’ new.

  “Yeah,” the second nurse said. “You even got some colored blood in you.”

  “What color?”

  “Why, red of course.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” That seemed to confuse her. I turned to the first nurse an’ said, “You gonna get my pants, or do I have to walk outta here buck nekked?”

  She blushed, an’ they scurried off. When the first nurse come back, she was carryin’ a set of those blue pajamas doctors wear in the operatin’ room. “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she said, an’ she really did seem sorry. “The state police took your clothes for evidence. Since you’re bound an’ determined to get up, you can borrow these.”

  I thanked her an’ told her to clear out an’ let me have some privacy. After a bit of back an’ forth, she did.

  By the time I was dressed, the nurse come back with reinforcements. The doctor repeated what she’d tole me, an’ when I tole him I was still leavin’, axed me to sign a paper promisin’ I wouldn’t sue him or the hospital if I died from leavin’ against their advice.

  Think about that.

  They insisted on wheelin’ me out the front door in a wheelchair—it give me a new perspective on Ben’s state of affairs. Martha was waitin’ in the van she drives Ben around in. She had Haysoos with her.

  I axed her, “Where’s Ben?”

  “Maria’s watchin’ him for a while.”

  I was feelin’ pretty ropey by the time they got me in the van. Martha tole me she was takin’ me to her house to convalesce; I was too far gone to argue. I closed my eyes an’ tole her to wake me when we got home.

  But there’s no rest for the wicked. We hadn’t got outta the hospital driveway ’fore Rye came on the air to ask Martha to get in touch with me.

  I got on the radio. “What is it, Rye?”

  “Homer, you’re sprung!”

  “That’s right. What do you need?”

  “Nina an’ me followed your orders an’ we got two prisoners in custody. What do we do next?”

  “Bring ’em to Rooney’s.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “An’ Rye, swing by the post office an’ fetch that city fella, too.”

  “Ten-four.”

  By the time we got to Rooney’s I was ready to go back to the hospital. I noticed there was some new outdoor furniture in the yard—half a dozen Adirondack chairs. An’ a matchin’ chaise newly made outta old cedar boards. I remarked on it, an’ Martha told me Haysoos was a carpenter. “He’s been earnin’ his keep fixin’ things an’ makin’ us these nice chairs.”

  I axed could I maybe try out the chaise ’til Rye an’ Nina got there.

  Martha said, “Just make yourself t’home.”

  early retirement

  When I woke up, it seemed like a rerun of Sunday—without the chickens. The yard’d filled with cars an’ trucks, an’ Martha an’ Maria was layin’ on a spread that’d do any restaurant proud. Most of the main players from Sunday’s comedy was onstage, too—Father Ernie an’ the two reverends, Rye an’ Nina an’ the Truck brothers, Ben an’ the Lopez family, an’ the mayor. Even Skip an’ Grandpa’d turned up.

  Martha noticed I was awake an’ came bustlin’ up with a glass of lemonade. “How’re you feelin’, Homer?”

  I sighed. “I been better. But I guess we’d best get this show over with. Looks like everybody’s here but the state police.”

  “Oh, they’re on their way. Sergeant Underhill called to ask that you not start without him.”

  At that point, Rye noticed I was conscious an’ brought his prisoners over for my inspection. One of ’em was Angie Boone, lookin’ teed-off an’ surly. The other was a man I’d never met. I said, “Roger Devon, I presume.”

  He blushed an’ nodded.

  “What do you got to say for yourself?”

  “I think I should talk to a lawyer.”

  “We seem to be havin’ a epidemic of that lately.”

  Then there was a flash of red an’ white light, an’ sun gleamin’ off chrome. The state law had arrived. Sergeant Underhill parked his car an’ sauntered over. Somebody give him a chair. To me, he said, “Nice uniform.”

  I let that one go.

  Then folks all pulled up chairs or sat around on the grass. Even Mr. Peter folded his arms an’ stood within earshot, though he pretended not to be listenin’. When everybody’d got settled, Underhill said, “You can commence.”

  “This all started,” I said, “when Roger Devon come to teach at the mission school, where he met Angie. They got to be good friends. That pissed off Ash Jackson.” I looked round an’ felt like Jessica Fletcher at four minutes to eight. Everybody was waitin’ for my explanation, even Devon an’ Angie. Just to build suspense, I thought I’d stall a little. I turned to Devon an’ said, “You gonna make a honest woman of her?”

  He turned red an’ scowled. “We’ve been married three months.”

  “Good for you. Well, feel free to jump in any time I misspeak.

  “Anyway, Ash took it in his head to eliminate the competition—kinda like that fella in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow—he figgered to run Roger off.” To Roger, I said, “An’ you tole him why that wouldn’t work.”

  Angie jumped in. “We showed him the paper.”

  “Which made him mad enough to kill.”

  “He was gonna shoot Roger. He said if I was a widow, I’d be back on the market.”

  “Why’d you dump him in Goode Swamp?”

  “I didn’t want to be lynched,” Devon said. “He had a lot of relatives.”

  “I think you underestimate our population,” I said.

  Devon said, “Angie told me—”

  “Young wives are often sure they’re right, when they ain’t, but it’s a moot question.

  “So you decided to lay low ’til the heat was off ’cause you weren’t leavin’ without your wife, an’ if you an’ Ash an’ Angie all disappeared at once, there’d a been a posse raised.”

  “Yes.”

  “An’ you figgered since Ash didn’t need his house no more, you might as well use it.”

  “I was inside when you came around and left that note.”

  “Were you there when the house got trashed?”

  Devon nodded. “The lunatic kicked the door in and started going through the place like a hurricane. I barely got out before he saw me.”

  “So you was forced to find somewhere else to stay.” I frowned at Mr. Peter.

  “Yes,” Devon said.

  “An’ you found him hidin’ out at the Motel Six,” I said to Rye.

  “That’s right,” Rye said. “Along with Angie.”

  “I guess that accounts for everybody,” I said. “Any questions?”

  “Where does Ransom Thomas fit in?” Underhill axed.

  “Well, they neve
r recovered the money he took in the bank job. My guess is, he left it with Ash. An’ when he got out …” I left the sentence unfinished.

  Folks had started to drift into conversations of their own, when the mayor sidled up to me. “Aren’t you gonna arrest him?”

  I was gettin’ tired. I sighed. “I done already, mayor. ATF’s got him.”

  “I meant Devon—for shootin’ Ash.”

  I had to laugh out loud. “Devon didn’t shoot Ash. Devon probably couldn’t hit the side of a barn he was leanin’ against. Angie shot Ash. An’ if it wasn’t self-defense, it was husband defense, which in my book is justifiable homicide.”

  The mayor turnt bright red before Martha could bail him out by changin’ the subject.

  “Mr. Mayor,” she said. “Ben an’ I have been talkin’ it over. An’ we’ve decided to take early retirement. Effective immediately.”

  Everyone looked at Ben, who gave a lopsided grin an’ nodded with the whole upper half of his body.

  The mayor was flustered. “But what’ll we do for a sheriff ’til the next election?”

  “Why, you’ll appoint Homer, of course.”

  “Good choice, mayor,” someone said. Someone else whistled.

  Which is how I come to be sheriff. Then I went to sleep.

  how it all come out

  Nina an’ me was settin’ on Grandpa Ross’s back porch a few weeks later with a quart of Rye’s best brew, enjoyin’ the full moon an’ celebratin’ me solvin’ my first homicide. Nina was wearin’ short, tight cutoffs an’ a man’s white dress shirt with the tails tied together in front so she looked like Daisy Mae.

  Admirin’ her legs, I could feel my blood pressure rise—among other things. As far as I could tell—she wasn’t noticin’ any part of my anatomy, much less admirin’ it.

  “Homer,” she said, “you ever been drunk?”

  “Why’d you ask?”

  “Just occurred to me, I never seen you outta control. Never even heard mention of you bein’ drunk. Ever.”

  “What’s the difference?”