Karen G. Berry - Mayhem 01 - Love and Mayhem

by Karen G. Berry

  Memphis had seen that within moments of his arrival, of course. No puddle to speak of. No, wherever the Reverend met his end, it wasn’t on Sweetly Dreaming Lane. “How about fibers?”

  “He had a little dirt on him, especially at the knee, but not much.”

  “What kind of dirt?”

  “It’s the dirt that’s all over this county, that yellow dust that blows into your teeth if you drive with the window open. We’ll analyze it more, but so far, nothing extraordinary. Other than that, he was so clean that he might as well have been vacuumed off.”

  “How about the nails?”

  “That’s the funny thing. He had kind of long nails for a man. It looks like he had them professionally done. With the length of them, there’d be skin under the nails if he was in a fight. But he doesn’t seem to have fought at all. No bruises on his knuckles, no one’s blood but his own on his clothes.”

  “Was there anything caught in the Reverend’s rings?”

  “What rings? He didn’t have any rings on.”

  Memphis slammed the phone down in a most unmannerly way. How had he neglected to notice it? The moonlight, the headlights, the flashlight. He should have noticed.

  The Reverend’s rings were missing.

  OH, MEMPHIS FELT sick as he got himself one more cup of coffee, paced the halls of the small office. He had checked over the body, seen that the Reverend’s wristwatch and wallet were there, the wallet with almost three hundred dollars cash in it, so he had mentally ruled out robbery as a motive. He was getting old, or maybe whatever was happening to his brother Tender was happening to him.

  Hiram sat at his desk him with his big, happy, eager face. “How’s that coffee, Sheriff?” The coffee, made by Hiram, could have been used to de-grease engine blocks.

  “Why, it’s just as wonderful as usual, Hiram. Is our guest still in there?”

  “Yes sir. I still got Gator in the interrogation room.” Hiram was eager to have done well.

  “I’m glad he’s still there.” Somehow Gator might have slipped away, he thought, turned into slime and oozed under a door. Memphis looked in the business-side of a two-way mirror at Gator, sitting there in the interrogation room in a hard wooden chair. About six feet tall, average weight, brown hair, brown eyes, glasses. He was what, fifty? Fifty-five? He looked like an average white man. Memphis stared at the almost blank neutrality of the man before him. No, thought Memphis, there’s not a thing in the world to distinguish Gator Rollins from the rest of humanity.

  Except his lack of it.

  “Gator.”

  “Sheriff.” They sat for a moment, regarding each other. Memphis wished he had some reason to put Gator in a line-up. He liked to stand him up there whenever he could. Once, Gator stood up against the wall-sized ruler with five tall black men in their twenties. Another time he stood up there with two nervous Japanese tourists, a Hmong tribesman, and Cambodian twins.

  “So, what brings you to the park, Gator? You’re based somewhere in Arizona, aren’t you?”

  “Well. Sometimes a man wants to check out other opportunities.”

  “And you feel that the Francie June Memorial Trailer Park is a land of opportunity.”

  “We have to make our own opportunities.”

  “Is that why you’re living with the Reverend?”

  “We’ve known each other for years, Sheriff. We grew up together in Arizona. I’m just staying here temporarily.”

  “And why is the Reverend letting you stay here?”

  “Out of Christian charity, I think you could say.”

  “You’re getting ready for the talent show.” Memphis frowned. “I wonder if you’ll be in the talent show after all.”

  “I better be. I paid the entry fee and I have a fine group backing me up. The Reverend introduced me to some men from Bone Pile.”

  Memphis nodded. “Whoever they back usually wins. Then they don’t go to Nashville, because they’re never part of the deal, and then it all goes nowhere because those boys are the real talent.”

  “The Reverend has an in with that community. He’s planning to be our personal manager. And now, I’d appreciate it if I could see a lawyer.”

  “Are you paying for a lawyer?”

  “No. The court will appoint one for me.”

  “Well, that’s right. But first, you’ve got to get to court.”

  “I’ve been to court before. I’ve never been charged with a thing.”

  Memphis stared at him. “If I had my way, you’d be dead right now.”

  Gator’s eyes narrowed. “If I was scared of you, I might worry about that.”

  Memphis reminded himself that he’d yet to discharge his gun in the line of duty and perhaps this room might be a poor place to start.

  This scene in the interrogation room was a sham. Gator had no reason to kill the Reverend. Exploit him, steal from him, maybe, but killing him would be too obvious, and not Gator’s style. Nope. However this one shook down, Memphis doubted that Gator Rollins would be the murderer. “We’d like a look at your clothes.”

  “My clothes? What for?”

  “The Reverend is dead, Gator.”

  Finally, the man’s eyes widened. “Dead?”

  “Dead. Looks like foul play.”

  Gator sat for a moment, calculating, absorbing, deciding. Then he stood up and unsnapped his satin western shirt, slipped it off, pulled a white undershirt over his head, exposing his womanly chest. He folded both shirts and placed them on the table. He took off his snakeskin boots and set those next to the shirt. He removed his long black nylon socks, rolled them neatly and tucked them into a boot. He undid the belt, a handsome piece of tooled leatherwork with successively stretched holes that told the tale of his spreading gut. He folded his Wrangler Pro Rodeos along the crease and set them on the table, tucked his undershorts in the empty boot. He removed a clean white hanky embroidered with “GR” in the corner from one of the back pockets of his jeans and spread it out on the chair. Then he sat his bare behind down on it. “I have absolutely nothing to hide, Sheriff. My life is an open book.”

  Memphis carried the clothing out past a baffled Hiram. “Take him a jumpsuit and some shower shoes,” he barked as he put the clothing into a plastic evidence bag. “And get somebody at the county lab to look at these, would you? Immediately.”

  Hiram stopped shooting rubber bands and looked vaguely guilty. “Yes Sir, Sheriff LaCour.”

  Memphis was angry, and Memphis was so very rarely angry. He sat down to a desk full of reports to write. Why am I doing this? he thought. I know there’s nothing on his clothes. There is nothing on those boots.

  He thought of his brother’s bare feet. He knew he had to ask some more questions. But the thought of who needed to answer just made him feel tired and hopeless.

  AND SO, HE’D decided to spend as much time as he had to with the one person he could think of who would know every detail of the what led up to the murder. Rhondalee.

  She sat across from him at her desk. Every time he had to face her, he felt like he was being scrutinized, weighed up and measured. Of course, that’s exactly what had happened all those years back. And he gave thanks to God she’d chosen as she did. He faced those fierce little eyes. “Just anything you can tell me about yesterday, Rhondalee. No detail is too small.”

  Did he have any idea what he was in for?

  She settled a bit, in a manner that reminded Tender of a small biddy hen preparing to squeeze out an egg. Perched on the very edge of a chair, her bony knees crossed, she said nothing for a moment, gathering her thoughts, her nerve, and an arsenal of cliché. Rhondalee poured it out.

  This was the long version.

  When it was finally over, he breathed deeply and looked out the window. The sun had set while Rhondalee had told him the tale of the community meeting. It was night, and the waning moon would soon be rising.

  “That’s it, Memphis. That’s all I can remember.”

  “So Tender left the house, and you didn’t s
ee him again until I came to the door and woke you both?”

  “He was asleep in bed. I was in my recliner.” She blushed a bit at this admission. “Memphis? Are you telling me that he’s a suspect?”

  “Of course not, Rhondalee. But if he was out and about, he might be able to tell me something about what happened.”

  “Not in his condition, Memphis. He was pickled up like a California relish mix.”

  Memphis got the idea, if he didn’t quite follow the metaphor. But his brother had never had a drink in his life.

  So far, as far as usable leads that might go somewhere, he had exactly squat.

  ANNIE LEIGH WAS put to bed early after an afternoon with her mother. They’d walked around a little, but everywhere they went, someone had wanted to talk about the murder. Yes, she’d been right. That red spot in the road had leaked out of none other than that Right Reverend Henry Heaven, a man she’d looked at once and known she should avoid. And it was all anybody was talking about.

  News of the murder spread pell-mell and hurly-burly through the gravel streets and paved lanes of the Francie June Memorial Trailer Park. It blew through like the wind of the last few nights, gathering the momentum of fictional detail. The story swelled as it passed through pressboard walls that might have kept out the wind, but were permeable to gossip. The Right Reverend Henry Heaven was killed and re-killed. He was stoned, slaughtered, skinned, shot, stabbed, strangled, lynched, decapitated, disemboweled and drowned.

  Everywhere they went: the Diner, the Blue Moon, even just walking down the street, her mother was questioned as to the condition of the Reverend’s body.

  “You found him where?”

  “He was already dead?”

  “How bloody WAS he?”

  Annie had watched her mother handle it as cool as Clint Eastwood. “I am not allowed to comment, seeing as I’m a ‘person of interest’ in this case.” She had said the same thing to every person who asked.

  They had walked back toward home, Annie mimicking her mother’s steps in her new boots. Boots were tricky. They threw you forward just a tiny bit, and made you move your hips when you walked. “Everyone treats you like you’re famous.”

  He mother’s face showed the faintest flicker of irritation. “Doesn’t that suck.”

  “It don’t suck! I want to be famous.”

  “Do you now.”

  “Oh sure. On stage? Everybody watching me? I’d love it.”

  “You just think you would.” Her mother had put her arm around Annie’s shoulders, and held on just a little tighter than she ever had before. “Hey Tadpole? Anybody at the park ever try anything funny with you?”

  “You’re talking about perverts?”

  “Yup.”

  “I can tell who they are, Mom. I stay away.”

  Raven kept her arm tight. “Just, listen, Tadpole. Anyone tries anything, you tell me. If you tell Pop, he’s liable to kill somebody and have to go off to jail. Uncle Memphis, well, he’s the law, and that’s useless. You tell Rhondalee, she’ll make it all your fault, somehow. So you just tell me. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll tell you. But the Reverend never tried anything on me, Mom. So you didn’t have to kill him, if you did.”

  “Well, I didn’t kill the Reverend, Annie Leigh.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  Annie had felt just a little bit disappointed.

  They’d ended up back at the rig. Levi opened his screen door and waved a dead fish at them. Annie Leigh could smell it from where she stood. Her mother waved back. “Hey there, Levi. I’m wondering how bad the fishing’s got round here, if somebody wants that mounted.”

  He’d looked down at the fish in his hand and smiled a toothless smile. “This here’s dinner!” He slapped the crappie on his thigh. “Hey Raven, you hear the one about the fella goes to the doctor and says his dick is turning orange?”

  “Nope, Levi, and something tells me I don’t want to.” She’d looked down at Annie Leigh. “I’m beat. I need sleep. How about you run on back to your grandmother’s, now, and get you some dinner. I’ll be by in the morning.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “You won’t leave in the night?”

  “I’m staying for the Talent Show, Tadpole. Now scoot.”

  She’d high-tailed it back to her grandmother’s house, where she’d been given a tunafish sandwich and a good talking-to about roaming the streets in search of gossip. Then she’d been sent to her room. Her grandma had proceeded to do the dishes and cuss out that no-good silver-eyed mongrel who was BACK up at the bar, as USUAL, why, she cursed the day she met him, as well as the day she’d given birth to that alley cat of a silver-eyed daughter, and the day that cat had dumped off her no-good silver-eyed Hell kitten to be raised, why it was like trying to raise a wild thing, what in the world could the world expect of her, not that she was old, but she WAS getting on in years, and the strain on her heart and her patience, not to mention her checkbook, why the least Raven could do was kick in a bit more money for groceries, not that she could get the child to EAT anything, but where did all the SNACKS go, no wonder the child didn’t eat at the table, with all the SNACKS she seemed to go through.

  Then she’d taken off her apron and gone on up to the Clubhouse.

  Annie Leigh had lay there for a bit, picking her nose and thinking about the week ahead. Her mother, who was rarely around for more than a day, had promised to stay the entire week, up to and including the talent show next Saturday night. She’d dozed off while thinking about that.

  But now, she was awake. It was the excitement of seeing her mom wore her out, she decided as she stood on her bed and peered out into the night, deciding which way to head. The moon hung high, just a little thinner than last night’s full. She hauled out the old case and sent it first. When it landed, strings jangled and complained like it had some form of instrumental rheumatism causing it pain.

  She slid noiselessly down behind it. “You hush up.”

  She stopped at Fossetta’s, first. She stood on the case and peeked in. The window was open, and the steamy hot air smelled of sweetness. Fossetta rarely cooked, but when she did, it was sweet. Baked squash topped with marshmallows, bread pudding spiked with bursting raisins, cups of creamy, thick-skinned custard. If she bothered with meat, it swam under a generous helping of sugar-tangy BBQ sauce. Fossetta moved to the table and set down a chipped ceramic plate with a large helping of creamed corn pudding. She ate with tiny bites, then helped herself to another. Leaving the plate on the table and the pot on the stove, she padded to the back of the house.

  The sound of water thrummed through the asbestos walls. The smell of heat and vanilla and honey, mixed with the delicious odor of freshly washed female hair, reached Annie’s nose through the window. She sighed. Annie could have moved to the bathroom window and looked, since the Contac paper that was supposed to screen it had peeled away in key places. But she’d seen Fossetta naked a million times or so, and tonight, these smells were all she wanted.

  Annie Leigh admired Fossetta’s collection of honey pots, a multi-colored line of ceramic hives on her kitchen counter. She even had a cookie jar to match—a pale pink hive that glowed, pearly as her bottom, in the kitchen’s soft light. “I bet she’s got good cookies in that.”

  The case hummed, sending up vibrations into her feet. “Hush, you old stubborn thing. Here she comes again.”

  Fossetta appeared in an ancient kimono, so old that the silk had cracked under the arms. It shone with pink, green, puce, the iridescent colors of a shucked pistachio nut. She had tied it shut with a necktie that featured the hand-painted design of leaping trout. The case made a sound that swelled and shrank. “Oh, I just bet you wish you could see. It’s real pretty, let me tell you.” The case groaned a little more under her feet, and she finally shook her head, stepped down and slung it up by the handle. “I never.”

  The park was too busy around her, restless because of th
e murder. She headed out across the highway because she had to find a place where she and the case could be alone. They had business to attend to.

  She walked for at least a mile before she felt far away enough from the clatter and bustle of the park to sit down on a rock. Her hands were small and strong, but the latches gave her trouble. She threw back the lid like raising the lid on a coffin.

  The big black National gleamed like oil in the moonlight.

  Her left hand ached with the force it took to wrap it around the neck and bring the necessary pressure to bear on the frets. “I wish I had hands like Memphis,” she whispered. The guitar sighed in agreement. “Oh shut up. I’ll grow.” She strummed the strings into a grudging submission.

  For the rest of the night, it was her, the big black National, and the gently waning moon.

  Monday

  AROUND HIM, EVIL built to a treacherous whine. It jeered him, mocked him. It ruled the sky through noise and motion. Light poles shook and hummed, antennae surged in a vibrato of delight, and the wires by the highway offered up an electrical chorus of gleeful agreement.

  Asa rose in darkness and pressed his palms flat against a trailer wall. His eyes went blank, his ropes of hair stood on end. But he could not complete the circuit. He let his arms fall, exhausted and alone, head and eyelids fallen, defeat caving him in.

  He was slow in his movements as he went outside in the dark, pulling the battered cardboard box full of letters from under the trailer as if the weight of it would get the best of him, selecting each translucent square with great thought, lifting it with great effort.

  If a wicked man turns from his wicked ways, and does what is just and right, he will save his life.

  —Ezekiel 18:27