by Jeff Abbott
I shook my head. I suddenly realized that Candace was not there.
Junebug saw my face. “She’s outside. I’ll talk to her in a minute.” Junebug’s voice is always slow and languorous, like he just woke up. I couldn’t imagine him yelling at an arrestee; he’d probably thank them once he locked the handcuffs. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Okay,” I said blankly, but I stared at the pack in his pocket. “I’d really, really like a cigarette.”
“Here. I’m quittin’.” He tossed his pack on the table between us and I retrieved an ashtray from my office. It was an ugly misshapen glazed-clay expression of thirteen-year-old angst that Mark had made in an arts class. So much for quitting smoking. I lit and dragged hard, telling myself what a filthy habit it was. Just one. I’d have just one.
Junebug eyed me. “I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here.”
“I’m not. But I don’t care and you probably don’t either right now,” I answered. He let it go and began taking my statement.
His first question was simple: what had happened that morning? He wrote down my story in a battered notepad he’d produced from his pocket.
I made my answers short and distinct. I was still in shock over my grisly discovery. Just try finding a corpse in your workplace and see how you handle it. Have the body be someone you know. My hands weren’t shaking and I was glad of that. My voice shook a little and if Junebug hadn’t known me he might not have noticed.
“I suppose that Miz Harcher had a key to the library?” Junebug asked.
“No. She used to have a key, because she was on the library board up until February. She tried to ban some books—real bits of trash like The Color Purple, Huckleberry Finn, and The Scarlet Letter—and the board got fed up with her. They booted her out. She turned in her key and I had the locks changed.”
“Y’all always do that when a member leaves the library board?” Junebug raised an eyebrow at me.
“No, of course not. But I felt that, considering the … uh, extremity of her views regarding certain books here, it would be appropriate to limit her access to business hours.” God, I sounded like an official report.
“That’s interesting. We found a key in her pocket, separate from her key ring.” He pulled a plastic bag from a large paper bag next to his feet. “Is this a library key, Jordy?”
“Yeah, looks just like mine.” I produced my key from my pocket.
“I wonder how she got this,” Junebug said, thinking aloud. He did that back in school and used to drive our teachers nuts.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Not from me.”
Junebug gnawed at the end of his pen. “I understand you had a little run-in with her yesterday.”
My gut churned, as if I’d just narrowly avoided stepping into an elevator shaft. Before I knew it I was sliding my palms down my jeans, drying them of sweat.
“Miz Harcher threw herself a hissy fit in the library over what she considered porn and whacked me upside the head with a book. She left, or rather was shown the door.”
“Made some comments, didn’t she? About shutting down the library?”
“Look, Junebug, you already seem to know the answer to that question. You’ve already heard the gossips’ version. Yeah, she did just that. How’d you know and what’s your point?”
“I have my sources,” he said loftily. “And my point is I got a dead woman here. You argued with her just yesterday, Jordy. I have to ask these questions.”
My temper decided to make an appearance. It’s one of the finer Poteet family traits. “You can’t seriously think I killed her, can you? For God’s sake!” My voice sounded alien to me, still deep and drawly, but saying words I never thought I’d say.
“Jordy, I have to ask. Would you like an attorney present?”
I swallowed. “You can’t think I killed her, Junebug. That’s crazy.”
“Do you want an attorney now, or will you answer further questions?”
I bristled. My Uncle Bid was an attorney, but summoning him might be more unpleasant than being hauled off to jail. I made myself calm down. “Go ahead. I have nothing to conceal and I want to cooperate, Junebug.”
Junebug sat and stared at me for a full minute. It was unnerving, but I resolved not to let it bother me. I pulled my blanket of outraged innocence closer about me. He pulled a loose page from his notepad. It was light blue stationery.
“This list mean anything to you?”
He handed me the paper, and I saw his eyes dart to see if my hands were steady. I willed them to stillness. The list was written in Beta’s spidery handwriting; I recognized it from the notes she used to send the library when she was on the board. I tried not to drop the paper as I reached the end of the list:
Tamma Hufnagel–Num. 32:23
Hally Schneider–Prov. 14:9
Jordan Poteet–Isaiah 5:20
Eula Mae Quiff–Job 31:35
Matt Blalock–Matt. 26:21
Ruth Wills–2 Kings 4:40
Bob Don Goertz–Judges 5:30
Anne Poteet–Gen. 3:16
Mama? What the hell was she doing on a list written by some religious zealot who’d been murdered? Names with Bible quotes next to them. What was this list even for? Invitees to a revival meeting? I didn’t think so. I took a long draw on my now-stubby cigarette and committed the names and quote numbers to memory as best I could. I used to do that with sales figures on my books at the textbook publishers’ before I had to confer with my jerk of a boss, so I had a quick memory.
“The list doesn’t mean anything to me,” I said. “But I know all these folks. Miz Quiff, Miz Wills, and Mrs. Hufnagel were here yesterday when Beta made her scene. Hally Schneider’s family is distant kin to me and they live on my street. Matt Blalock and Bob Don Goertz—well, everyone knows them. And I’ve no idea what my mother and I are doing there. I don’t know what significance the Bible quotes have. She wasn’t quoting the Good Book when she was here yesterday. Where’d you find this?”
Junebug narrowed his eyes at me but kept his voice soft and slow. “It was stuffed down her shirt. She’d hidden it there, I guess.”
“Or someone planted it,” I suggested. “Maybe to confuse the issue.”
Junebug appeared unwilling to grant such cleverness to a local murderer. He watched me fish another cigarette from his pack and light it. I resolved to keep the amount smoked to a prime number, to give myself some leeway.
“You ever see that bat before? The one that killed her?”
My stomach sank to somewhere near my ankles, and I’m sure my cigarette shook. “Oh, God, yeah. And I’m sure my prints will be on it, unless the killer wiped it clean. I found it yesterday in the softball lot when I was coming back to the library.”
“I see.” He jotted on his pad and eyed me like I might make a sudden move.
“And so did everyone else who was in there, Junebug! A roomful of people saw me carrying that stupid bat. I put it in my office.”
“Well, Jordy. This is all very interesting. You know what I learned at the police academy?”
I bit back my first reply, which involved mastering how not to leave a piss stain on your pants. Junebug wasn’t acting like a childhood friend. I couldn’t believe he imagined I had any connection to this.
“That most murders are awful simple. You just got to worry about motive, opportunity, and access to a weapon.” He looked up at me with the eyes of a stranger. “Sounds to me like you got all three, buddy.”
“Please. The woman hit me with a book, made a spectacle of herself, and stormed off. That’s not a motive for murder. Plus, do you honestly think I could kill anybody?”
Junebug didn’t answer that question; instead, like a Socratic teacher, he posed me another one. “Did you have any other dealings with Miz Harcher aside from yesterday?”
I looked him dead in the eye.
“Like I said, she got thrown off the library board. She didn’t approve of the city council hiring me and she
’d been trying to get certain books off the shelf for ages. I had to deal with her through the library board. She lost and I won. So my feud was over with her, as far as I was concerned.” A rational thought fought its way through my shock. I stubbed out my cigarette and snatched the list back from Junebug, who didn’t look at all pleased.
“The library board,” I said. “Ruth Wills and Eula Mae Quiff are both on it. So’s Hally Schneider’s mother and Tamma Hufnagel’s husband. And Bob Don Goertz replaced Miz Harcher when she was taken off.”
“What about Matt Blalock?”
“He’s not on the board, but I let the county Vietnam vets support group meet here.”
“So who all has keys to this place?”
“Well, me, of course. And Candace. The board members: Eula Mae, Ruth, Adam Hufnagel, Janice Schneider, and Bob Don Goertz. Matt Blalock has a key because the vets’ group meets after hours on Thursday, which is our short day.” I tried unsuccessfully to dredge up more names. “I think that’s it.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Junebug’s quiet drawl dripped with accusation.
I raised my palms in mock surrender. “I don’t know what that list means. She was a crazy, bitter old woman who believed she was doing God’s work when all she did was piss folks off. But nobody on that list is a murderer.”
Junebug stared back at me with the look he’d used to try to psych me out before basketball tryouts. “There was a dead woman here this morning, and I can’t find a single shred of evidence that points to a break-in. She had a key on her. Where’d she get that key or a copy? Narrows the field a tad, don’t it?”
“I should tell you,” I said, “that I was here last night, around ten, for about three minutes. And something creepy happened.”
That brought him forward on his haunches and I explained about forgetting Mama’s medicine.
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“No. Nothing. I just came in, got the pills, and left. I can’t explain it—but I just had a funny feeling that someone was watching me. I just thought it was nerves.”
Junebug judged me with his eyes and scribbled in his notepad. “I want you to come to the station with me, Jordy, and sign a statement. Okay?” His tone was almost friendly again.
“Sure. Let me tell Candace—”
“She’ll be at the station. I’ll need a statement from her too.”
I paused. “So who do you think did it? You have to be pretty damned cold-blooded, killing someone with a baseball bat.”
Junebug smiled a know-it-all smile. “Lots of people are cold inside. We just never see it.”
I myself felt a little bit frosty and I didn’t argue.
“Your mama’s keeping you in town for a while, right, Jordy?” Junebug sounded more casual than he meant.
“Yes, she is.” My voice was like stone.
“Good. I don’t think you should go anywhere till this is all over.”
Before we left, I sat in my car, found a gasoline receipt, and scribbled down the list of names and Bible verses. I thought I’d gotten them right. I hoped so.
As I followed Junebug’s car the two blocks to the police station at the corner of Loeber and Magnolia, I thought about that list. Why did Beta hide it on her person? She wouldn’t have wanted someone to see it, perhaps. And why did the list exist anyway? Why those eight names? I’d give my statement, then get home as quick as I could. Mama kept a Bible at her bedside, although she didn’t even look at the pictures anymore. And maybe, if the foggy veil lifted from her mind for a while, she could tell me why Beta Harcher would have her on such a list. That wasn’t likely, though.
Providing my statement was easy. I was finished in twenty minutes. Then I waited for Junebug’s secretary to type it up. The whole time Billy Ray Bummel looked at me like I was a cross between Jack the Ripper and Joseph Goebbels. (I’m giving Billy Ray far too much credit in knowing criminal history. He probably thinks Jack the Ripper is someone with a gas problem and Joseph Goebbels is a turkey tycoon.) Despite his law degree (undoubtedly granted by one of the finer mail-order institutions), Billy Ray has carried on the fine Bummel tradition of denseness. Education doesn’t erase high-quality stupidity like Billy Ray’s; it just makes it more dangerous.
Junebug’s secretary, Nelda, announced to him that she’d reached Beta’s niece in Houston. Junebug got up to take the call. I signed my statement. Billy Ray took the document and examined it critically, as though hoping to spot a confession somewhere in there. His black eyes, larger than most, widened as he caught what looked like a clue. It must have been waving to him. He set his bony, knobby hands on his beer belly and chewed his bottom lip. I’ve seen cows masticate in the exact same fashion. Cows aren’t bright either.
“So you were there last night after ten? Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s about the time the coroner says Miz Harcher met her dee-mise.”
I gave him the withering look that Mama and Sister taught me when I was young. You narrow your eyes, raise your brow, and flare a nostril like there’s a rank smell. It’s also important to maintain a demeanor of indifference to what the other person’s saying. “Excuse me, Billy Ray, but you ought to wait until you have a few more facts before you start making accusations.”
“You had the murder weapon. You run the place where she was killed. And you had both opportunity and motive.” Billy Ray must’ve had a pit bull at home for inspiration.
“You’re being ridiculous. She had a key. She could have let her murderer in.”
“I don’t think so. And don’t fool yourself that knowing Junebug for so long will help you any. I’m watching you, Mr. Jordan Poteet. You’re my number one suspect. And I’m gonna nail your skinny ass to the wall.” For dramatic effect Billy Ray ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. It only took half a second. You think all the sun his head gets would help his brain grow, but his mind isn’t fertile ground.
I felt scared and mad at the same time. I didn’t want either emotion to show. “You’ve got my statement. You haven’t charged me with anything. May I go?”
Billy Ray smiled officiously and gestured toward the door. “Go on ahead. Be sure and let us know if you intend to leave town.”
I walked without hurry to the front door. I didn’t look back at Billy Ray. The sunshine was bright and cheery, but my skin was ice-cold. I hadn’t killed Beta Harcher, but at least one member of the local authorities considered me guilty as sin. Think about it. Think about being at the top of the list of suspects of bashing in a woman’s head, and see if you don’t have a bit of trouble swallowing.
Candace’s Mercedes was still in the parking lot; she hadn’t yet given her statement to Junebug. I considered waiting for her, then imagined her hanging around me like a stray cat behind a restaurant. I didn’t want that right now. I’d call her later.
First things first. I wanted to talk to Mama and to find me a Bible. I needed to know why Beta Harcher thought of me in connection with a verse from Isaiah.
IT WAS ABOUT ELEVEN-THIRTY WHEN I reached my house. Nothing seemed different from when I’d left, except that I could smell skunk on the late-morning air. Sometimes the critters wander in town looking for food, get scared, and let fly with their chemical defense. Then they scurry back to the woods. Just like Beta Harcher. Come in, raise a stink, get out of the picture, but leave an an noying reek behind. It was the meanest thought I’d ever had in my life. By the time I got inside, I was sullen with guilt over it.
Mama sat in the den, watching All My Children on a whispering TV. Since she’d gotten sick, she couldn’t stand loudness, although it never bothered her before. She’d sit for hours, simply watching actors move their lips. I couldn’t hear what trauma the pretty blonde on the soap was enduring. I had my own to fret about.
Sister was still in her robe, yawning and reading the Austin newspaper over coffee. She saw my face and bolted to her feet.
I told her quickly what happened. Sister of course was horrified. I spoke in low tones of having disc
overed the body, so Mama wouldn’t hear. I described the list that Junebug had found and produced my copy. I confessed to having forgotten Mama’s medicine and going to the library at what now seemed like a mighty inopportune moment At the end, Sister sank into her chair.
“And so Billy Ray told me I’m the number one suspect. Me! Can you believe the nerve?”
Sister shook her head. “They can’t be serious. I mean, Junebug’s known you forever. He knows you wouldn’t kill a tick, much less Miz Harcher.” She stood. “We have to call Uncle Bid.”
“There’s no need. I haven’t been arrested for anything and I’m sure Junebug’ll find whoever did this.” Plus I didn’t want to have any unnecessary contact with Uncle Bid. I’ve always contended that Uncle Bid should be belled like a leper so you’d know when he’s coming. I don’t believe there’s a more unpleasant old fart of a lawyer in Texas.
I went into the den. Mama watched the TV screen intently as a very quiet argument raged. I switched off the set. Mama kept staring at the screen without changing one muscle in her face.
I knelt before her. “Mama? Look at me.”
She turned her face and gave me a shy, uncertain smile.
“How are you today?” I asked gently. I sensed Sister hovering nearby.
“Fine, thank you.” Etiquette was no longer a certainty with Mama, but today, at least, she hadn’t forgotten her manners.
“Mama, I want you to think. Do you know a lady named Beta Harcher?” I enunciated the name carefully, as though that would help Mama fight through the choking mass of abnormal nerve cells the disease spawned in her brain.
“Who?”
“Beta Harcher.”
Mama looked blank. I asked again; she looked blank again.
“Maybe she’ll remember later,” Sister offered.
“She probably won’t remember this conversation later,” I snapped. Sister looked wounded and I said, “Sorry. I’m stressed.”
I took a deep breath. Try association. “She was real active in the Baptist church, Mama. She’s short, dark hair, kind of frumpy. Sort of bossy?”
