Do Unto Others

by Jeff Abbott

  “You knew Beta?” I asked, wishing I could wipe my palm.

  “I wasn’t on speaking terms with her,” Bid offered congenially, “but I knew her when she was younger. An eye-popper, that girl was. And knew how to have a good time.” Uncle Bid thoughtfully gyrated his pelvis so I wouldn’t miss his point. Beta? Bob Don had said she didn’t get religion until she was in her twenties. What kind of woman was she before then? Bob Don’s description of wild had been vague.

  “You and Beta?” I asked, incredulous. Imagining oddities from the Kama Sutra was easier than conjuring up an image of my uncle and Beta Harcher coupling.

  “Oh, Lord, no, Jordy. I never dated her. I wouldn’t have soiled my reputation by doing so. Funny how people turn out, though. Such a wild thing in her youth, then such a dried-up old church hag.” He shook his head.

  “Bob Don said she was pretty when she was younger.”

  Bid frowned. “You stay away from Bob Don Goertz. He’s nothing but a dirty liar.” God only knew what brought that on. I didn’t know Bid and Bob Don knew each other.

  “I’ll be going. Remember what I said, and you call me if you run into trouble. Give my best to Arlene, Mark, and your mother.”

  I nodded, not wanting to argue again. Beta Harcher, party girl turned keeper of morality. I wondered if Uncle Bid was trying to make his own metamorphosis.

  Candace had nothing new to report. I told her about Ruth witnessing the fight between Bob Don and Beta, didn’t mention Ruth’s offer of sexual solace, and concluded by telling her that apparently my prints were the only ones on the baseball bat. At the last tidbit, she gasped.

  “My God! Maybe they will arrest you.”

  “I don’t know. It seems odd that I would have the only prints on it. Say the killer wore gloves. If a kid left it in the field, it should also have his or her prints. Why doesn’t it?”

  “The killer wiped it clean,” Candace prompted.

  “And missed my prints? I don’t think so. I was the only person to handle that bat when it came into the library.” I closed my eyes, remembering. “I brought the bat into the library. I put it in my office. No one else went near it, until the killer used it to bash Beta.”

  “The only explanation,” Candace said slowly, “is that it was wiped before you handled it. A kid wouldn’t do that; there’s no reason to. Unless—” she stopped.

  “What?”

  “Oh, God. Unless the killer planted it there, already wiped clean of prints, and waited for you to pick it up.”

  “That’s crazy, Candace,” I coughed. “Doesn’t that seem like putting a lot up to chance? That I’m the first person to walk by the bat, that I notice it, that I pick it up, that I even take that path at any given time of the day?”

  “Jordy,” Candace’s tone was flat. “You’re far more a creature of habit than you realize. You always cut through the field on your way to the pharmacy.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t go to the pharmacy on a regular basis. Whenever Mama needs her medicine.”

  “Maybe the killer knew when that would be. When you’d be going next.”

  “My God!” I exclaimed. Pictures unraveled in my mind, like a grainy, old-time newsreel. “You’re onto something, Candace. Imagine you’re the killer. You want to frame me for this murder. You want to get my prints on the murder weapon. You want to put me at the scene of the crime near the time of the murder, or you want to kill Beta Harcher at a place where only I—and possibly a few others, including you—have access. You can’t use a conventional weapon like a gun or a knife, because how could you explain getting me to touch it? ‘Please leave your prints on that registered weapon, Jordy, and I’ll be on my way.’ So you decide to use as your weapon something I might handle. But there’s nothing in the library that’s lethal enough. I don’t have a heavy paperweight on my desk. I don’t have an antique sword hanging over the card catalog. But there is a softball field right by the library. So you decide to use a baseball bat. You know—or learn—that I cut through the softball field when I head toward the pharmacy or downtown in general. So you find out when I’m planning on going to the pharmacy, watch me leave, then leave the bat there on the path for me to find when I return. If I pick it up, you’re set. If I don’t, maybe you have an alternate plan.”

  Candace sighed on the other end of the line. “A lot of ifs there.”

  I clutched the phone in excitement. “But say it’s true. That could narrow the field down even further. Who would know that Mama needed her prescription refilled and that I would go down the path that day?”

  “Maybe that’s not the key,” Candace suggested. “Maybe they just were in the library when you left to go to the pharmacy and then put the bat out for you to find when you got back. Maybe your mother’s medicine had nothing to do with it.”

  Leave it to Candace to make simplifying conclusions. Simple seemed better. “Okay, let’s take that tack. So who was around that morning?”

  Candace hummed slightly on the other line. “Let’s see. You. Me. Old Man Renfro, of course—he’s always there. Eula Mae and her lot were just starting to arrive when you left.” She harrumphed. “Ruth Wills was there, looking up something. Probably home cures for venereal disease.” She paused. “Tamma Hufnagel—no, she came in after you got back, right when the fight started with you and Beta.”

  “Maybe she was outside the library and saw me go.”

  “Maybe so. And maybe anyone else could’ve been too,” Candace agreed. “Bob Don came in to return a book that his wife’d checked out. There was a whiskey spill on one page and he offered to buy the book. That was about ten minutes before you left. I took care of it.”

  “Bob Don again,” I said. “His name pops up more than a jack-in-the-box.”

  “There were a few others at the library. Older folks. That nerdy Gaston Leach. I can’t imagine any of them as Beta’s killer.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I’ve got to go, Candace. I’ve got some folks to see. I’m afraid that Junebug knows that we know about Beta’s deposit. It kind of slipped out this morning.”

  She sighed, disappointed in me. “Oh, well. Mother will just have to forgive me. After all, it’s for a worthy cause. Saving your butt.”

  As soon as Sister was awake, I told her about Junebug’s visit, Uncle Bid’s offer, and my theory about the murder weapon.

  “Uncle Bid? Being nice?” She wiped sleep from her eyes as I sat on the corner of her bed. “I’m fast asleep, right?”

  “Nope. And I’m not working today. The library’s still closed.”

  She blinked green eyes at me, rimmed with dark. Those eyes said she’d been working too much. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re not going to volunteer to stay home with Mama?”

  “There’s some people I’ve got to see.”

  “Look, Jordy. You’re trying to clear yourself before they’ve even arrested you—”

  “How would I clear my name from a jail cell? I wouldn’t count on Uncle Bid to hire a decent private investigator. I’ve got to do this now, prove I’m innocent.” I leaned back on the bed. “I called Dorcas Witherspoon. She said she’d stay with Mama if you needed to run errands.”

  “Okay.” Sister knotted the sheets around her. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt that said RICE UNIVERSITY. God, I’d given that to her my senior year in college and she still slept in it. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe anyone thinks you’re a killer.”

  “I have you on my side, though. And Candace.”

  Sister squeezed my hand. It was the first legitimate sign of affection she’d shown me in weeks. I think we were both just too tired to bother most of the time, too caught up in feeling sorry for ourselves, too worn down from dealing with Mama, too frustrated at our own powerlessness in the face of her disease. We’d been close once. I wanted to be close to her again.

  I offered to bring her some coffee in bed and she giggled. “You?” she asked.

  I drew myself up to my full height “I too can be sensitiv
e and caring. We just got a book about it at the library.”

  I brought her milky coffee, the way she liked it. She sipped it as daintily as an English lady being gently roused in the morning by a roomful of servants. I told her about my dinner with Ruth and what I’d found out yesterday. She listened for once, and did not interrupt me. A rarity for my big sister.

  When I was done, Sister finished her coffee before she spoke. “Well, I can fill in one gap. Bob Don did used to be friends with Mama and Daddy.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, when I was real little. Before you were born. He came over quite a bit. I remember he loved to toss me up in the air and catch me. I’d squeal everybody deaf. And he and Mama and Daddy played cards some evenings, I remember that. But he and Mama and Daddy had some big falling out. I think it was over him marrying that nasty Gretchen. I don’t think Mama and Daddy liked being around her. She’s a real bitch.”

  “Candace says that Bob Don returned a library book that’d had booze spilled on it.”

  Sister huffed. “Then she’s also a real drunk bitch. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit. Have you ever seen that woman, Jordy? Course she doesn’t get out like she used to. But I know a drunk when I see one. She must just be getting worse and worse. Poor Bob Don. Maybe he really does want to help, make up for the rift between him and Daddy and Mama.”

  “Maybe so,” I said thoughtfully.

  I offered to make Sister some breakfast, but she said she’d get her own. (She wasn’t willing to take a chance on my cooking.) So I got on with my work. There were people to see and stories to be checked out. I decided to strike close to home first.

  The Bavary/Mirabeau phone book listed three families named Hart. I got lucky the second time around. The lady who answered had a daughter named Chelsea.

  “May I ask why you want to speak with her?” the woman asked. Her voice was nasal but polite.

  I fidgeted. “Actually, she’s dating my cousin, Hally Schneider. I thought she might assist me in planning a surprise party for him.” I couldn’t think of anything else and hoped that I wouldn’t actually have to plan a social function for a teenager to cover my tracks.

  The woman warmed. “Oh, yes, Hally and Chelsea did go out the other night. Such a handsome young man.” Her voice faltered. “I—I didn’t know that he was really interested in Chelsea.”

  “Oh, talks about her constantly,” I chirped. Well, he’d mentioned her once. That counted for something. Mrs. Hart directed me to LuAnne’s Bäckerei, a little German bakery in downtown Mirabeau. I thanked her and hung up. I could stop off and chat with Chelsea on my way to see Reverend Hufnagel, Bob Don Goertz, and Eula Mae. And when I got back, down-the-street neighbor Janice Schneider and I were going to have a little heart-to-heart as well.

  THE WARM AROMA OF FRESHLY BAKED KOLACHES enveloped me as I stepped into LuAnne’s Bäckerei. Kolaches are a Czech pastry, a warm, square roll with a fruit or sausage middle and topping. Every small town in east-central Texas boasts a kolache bakery, even some left over from the earliest Czech immigrants. Kolache and coffee together are the ultimate in comfort foods; the smell alone brought back memories of my grandmother Schneider’s kitchen, a tray of hot kolaches being set before Sister and me—with a gentle warning to let them cool so we wouldn’t burn our mouths. Today’s batch smelled of apple, peach, and heaven.

  I didn’t know LuAnne or any of the staff; there was one stout, matronly woman in the back on the phone and a trio of young girls brewing coffee, pulling fresh kolaches out of glass-fronted ovens, and ringing the cash register. If LuAnne’s had a morning rush I’d missed it. Two plump ladies in stretch polyester pantsuits sat by the door, laughing merrily over steaming cups of coffee. A circle of older men slumped by a table, watching the women chat. One man, a Dallas Cowboys cap perched on his head, held court, talking and smoking his cigarette. The other men munched on their kolaches, and it was hard to tell if they paid the slightest attention to him. They had probably heard whatever story he was telling a hundred times already.

  I approached the counter, bought two apple kolaches and a coffee, laced with milk and sugar. The girl who rang up my purchase smiled prettily. I thought she was just Hally’s type.

  “Excuse me. Are you Chelsea Hart?”

  “No, she is.” The girl jerked her head toward the ovens.

  A girl I never would have pictured with Hally Schneider extracted a tray of steaming peach kolaches from the oven. She wasn’t pretty and I’m not being unkind. She just wasn’t Her face was bony to an extreme, gaunt and sallow. Her nose and chin were small, but sharply pointed, like a cartoon witch’s. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail of dirty-blonde hair, with a front tuft moussed to defy gravity. A short-sleeved blouse showed arms like rails. I moved down the counter and spoke to her, aware of the cashier’s eyes on me.

  “Excuse me? Chelsea?” I said.

  Chelsea Hart gave me an apathetic glance and moved her chewing gum to the other side of her mouth.

  “Yeah? Can I help you?” she asked in a nasally drawl.

  “I’m Jordy Poteet. Hally Schneider’s cousin. Could I talk to you for a second?” I motioned toward a table.

  Chelsea blinked brown eyes at me. She glanced back at the heavy woman, who chirped into her phone, waving a lit cigarette for emphasis. She turned to me. “Sure.”

  I went to a corner table with my kolaches and coffee and Chelsea followed, dragging her feet along the ground. She sat across from me, propping up her bony face with bony fingers.

  “Kolache?” I offered her one of my apple pastries.

  She made a sour face, which didn’t help her cause any. “God, no. I get enough of them, believe me. What did you want?”

  I still hadn’t come up with a better excuse than planning some party for Hally. “Well, I understand you’re dating my cousin.”

  She laughed, and it was too hollow and empty to come from a teenage girl. “I don’t think one miserable evening counts as dating.”

  “Oh.” I was at a loss. “Sorry. I’m planning a party for Hally, and I hoped you could help me. I thought—”

  “That I was Hally’s girlfriend?” She laughed, shaking her head. “Wrong. You must not know your cousin very well. I wouldn’t be the person to help you plan a party for Hally.”

  I took immediate refuge in the kolache, chewing it slowly to gather my thoughts. Chelsea looked bored. I swallowed and said, “But you were out with him night before last, right?”

  “Yeah, I was. My evening with Prince Charming. Right.” She leaned forward and I could smell, mixing with the fragrance of coffee and fruit, a cheap, sticky perfume. “You tell your cousin something for me, okay? I don’t get asked out that often, and it don’t bother me. My own company suits me fine. But when a guy wants to spend time with me, I expect him to be with me, not off in his own world. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about being with me; it was just like he was killing time.” She leaned back. “I was surprised when Hally asked me out. He ain’t exactly the kind of boy that goes out with me. But I figured it out. I’m not stupid. He ain’t been dating anyone in school, so I figure here’s a chance for me, even though he asked me at the last minute. When we were together, he didn’t even know I was around. Just kept checking his watch all through our hamburgers. Told me the same football story three times and didn’t realize it. Even parked down by the river and he just wanted to talk. If I want to talk I can stay home and listen to my sister.” Chelsea Hart smacked her gum emphatically. “He probably thought he was doing me some damn big favor, just breathing the same air as me. Well, I don’t need that. If he was out with me just to make some other girl jealous, he can kiss my ass.”

  “Can I ask you one question?” I interjected. Enough pretense. She shrugged bony shoulders.

  “When did he bring you home?”

  “Midnight. I got a curfew. I was ready to go home hours earlier, though, but he insisted on sitting and talking. Christ, what a bore he was. And if you’re having some stupid party for him, cross m
y name off the invite list. I don’t need him.” With that, she stormed back to the counter, leaving me with a kolache halfway to my mouth. Hell hath no fury and all that.

  I finished my coffee. Chelsea Hart might be as ugly as the day was long but damned if she wasn’t her own person. That would help her in life far better than comeliness ever would. Why was Hally spending time with a girl he had no apparent interest in? Where was his mind when he was on the date from hell?

  I had a sinking feeling that Hally was more concerned with providing himself with an alibi for Beta’s murder than with winning Chelsea’s heart. Why had my cousin gone to the trouble? What did he have to hide? I hurried out of the warm smell of the bakery, the dull throb of suspicion beginning in my heart.

  Matt Blalock was the last person I expected to see at the First Baptist Church, but there he was. Adam Hufnagel was helping him into his Taurus, storing the folding wheelchair and putting it in the back seat. I pulled up next to Matt. The good reverend and Matt ignored me. By the time I was out of the car, Matt’s exhaust churned in the air and he tore out of the parking lot.

  I blinked at Reverend Adam Hufnagel. He smiled thinly at me. I don’t think he was pleased to see me.

  Adam Hufnagel was a tall, rangy man, thinner from his bout with cancer last year. He was a tough old bird and he’d beaten the disease. His hair was iron gray, the color that gives a man the look of resolve. Strong-featured, he looked more distinguished than handsome, the ideal father figure. I wondered if his wife Tamma thought of him that way.

  Brother Adam slipped on his smiling parson’s face for me. “Jordan!” He came forward, shaking my hand in the warm, intimate way that all clergy use. “Good to see you, son. How are you doing?” His voice, a rich-timbred instrument, oozed just the amount of concern a Southern gentleman would permit himself.

  “Fine, Reverend, considering what all’s happened in the past couple of days. Do you have a minute to talk?”