Death in Living Gray

by John Clayton

Fanny grunted, sneezed, and took a swig. “Why would Cassie do that?”

  “Money and all that blond hair—plus you’ve met Pickerill, haven’t you?” I said.

  Fanny took another snort, not deigning to answer, agreeing only that I should pick her up again about ten. It would be dark by then.

  After dropping Fanny, I was half-relieved, half-depressed that Jack Senior was apparently absolved—at least of the burglary. But he was still sort of guilty for having no faith in me. And really guilty of calling my mother.

  ***

  I put on the burglar outfit I’d used for the raid on Old Oilhead’s, being careful this time not to get the lamp black in my eyes. A couple of flashlights and I was ready. Looking in the mirror, there was a little twinge of gratification. I certainly needed to make myself a couple more outfits in basic black. I looked at my watch. Nine thirty. With luck, we could find the stuff and get the sheriff over to the farm within a couple of hours.

  I was heading toward the door when the phone started ringing. It was Tillie Tuttle.

  “He came. That feller, Timothy Morrison—only we didn’t tell him we knew his name—from Danville. He’s gonna come back tomorrow with the money. You got to fix the china cabinet tonight.”

  Damn “Can you put him off for another day?” I asked. “I’ve got something planned for this evening.”

  “No. He’s all anxious,” Tillie replied. “If he waits another day he might try to renegotiate with Cousin Doris. He wanted to go out to the Baptist home and see her in person, but we talked him out of it.”

  I hummed. Trying to organize a plan.

  “We could let him have it with that fake board still there,” Tillie volunteered.

  “We can’t do that,” I answered. “He has to buy what he said he’s buying.” The aesthetics of retaliatory lying demanded it. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll be there.” I said before breaking the connection and calling Fanny to say that I’d be about an hour late to her house.

  ***

  Actually, it took fifteen minutes to get to the Tuttles, where the front porch light was already on, awaiting my arrival. I got my screwdriver, hammer, and glue from the truck and headed up the stairs.

  Tattie was waiting next to the china cabinet as Tillie came out the door all a-twitter. “He fell for it. He’s gonna buy your Gustav Stickley china cabinet for one thousand dollars.”

  “It’s not Gustav Stickley. It’s an old beat-up piece of junk,” I grunted, still annoyed at the timing of the entire thing.

  “It’s worth one thousand dollars,” Tattie said.

  “Cousin Doris convinced him to pay that,” Tillie chirped

  “You don’t have a cousin Doris,” I growled.

  Tattie spun a big grin in my direction, “That may be true. But Tillie was so afraid of what Cousin Doris would do if we didn’t get enough money that young Timothy gave right in.”

  Tillie explained, “You know how Cousin Doris used that old cherry dining room suite as kindling, don’t you?”

  “When she couldn’t get what she thought it was worth,” Tattie added

  “They don’t have a fireplace over at the Baptist home,” I growled again as I was fiddling to take the plugs out.

  “But they do a big bonfire every year at Christmas.” Tattie didn’t miss a beat.

  “Young Timothy made us call her, but she was out doing aerobics in the exercise room and then she was going square dancing.” They were both laughing, slapping their thighs.

  After the plugs were out, I loosened the screws and pried the bottom board loose. Then I remembered that I didn’t remember what I’d done with the original board. Damn. I surreptitiously looked around.

  “Oh, you left the old board right out here on the porch.” Tillie’d picked up on my look.

  “But we thought he might see it,” Tattie added.

  “So we put it back in the kitchen in the firewood box so nobody would notice.”

  “I’ll get it,” Tattie offered.

  But before she could turn her big body, I was through the door. Firewood. Of course, it was almost summer and they wouldn’t be burning a fire in the old wood stove, since they had a nice new circa 1935 electric range. There it was! An innocent board, lying scrunched amongst the lightwood knots and miscellaneous chunks of old lumber. Intact.

  On my way back to the porch past the circa 1956 Frigidaire, I remembered that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The Tuttles could certainly afford to front me a piece of their famous apple pie and lemonade. Only the lower part of the refrigerator was completely stuffed. I decided not to search for the pie but did manage to pour a glass of lemonade from the pitcher that I extricated from the top shelf.

  On the way back to the front, I tried to take a sip from the glass, but had difficulty holding it steady. I was suddenly engulfed by a sense of the fragility of all life—and of my life in particular. I stopped in the hall and used the sisters’ phone to leave a message on my answering machine at home, explaining where I was going. Jack Senior generally checked it when he came in, even though most of the calls were for Victoria or me. Whether he would do anything about the message was hard to forecast, but if things went badly, he’d at least know what I’d set out to do. It might be important evidence at my postmortem.

  ***

  Back on the porch I felt calm enough to take a long swig of the lemonade. Leaning down, I started putting the old board in place so I could talk without looking at the sisters, “There’s a dead dog in your refrigerator.” I mumbled.

  “What?” asked one of the sisters. I couldn’t tell which.

  So I said it again. Louder this time. “There’s a dead dog in your refrigerator,” I winced, looking carefully at what I was doing.

  “Oh, that’s Double X,” Tillie explained. “He died sometime last night.”

  “We put him there until we can give him a proper burial,” Tattie added.

  I had slipped the board in, tightened the screws, and had the plugs back in place. My watch indicated that I was just about on schedule as I ran down the steps to get some red clay to rub over the plugs, all the while trying to think of something polite to say about the demise of Double X, But it was difficult because of the recurring image of his cooling body there in the refrigerator. “I’m sorry,” I finally managed.

  “That’s OK,” Tattie said. “He’d led a full life.”

  “But there is just one little thing,” Tillie opened.

  Allowing Tattie to continue, “You know how Double X used to love to ride on the back fender of that old tractor while I was plowing. The one we sold you.”

  “Could you make a little coffin from that piece of metal?” Tillie asked, a big tear rolling down her sparrow-like face.

  “That way he’ll be at home with what he loved to do best.”

  “I know you’ve done right by us with the Gustav Stickley china cabinet.”

  “But we did sell you the tractor cheap.”

  “And we still got the combine to sell.”

  “It wouldn’t take a lot of your time,” was the last beseechment.

  I had picked up my tools and the fake Gustav Stickley board, so that young Timothy—as he had come to be called—wouldn’t see it in the morning, and had edged my way out to the truck, ready to head to Fanny’s and then the pig farm. “Tomorrow,” I called as I closed the door. Well, what else could I have said?

  Chapter 14

  Fanny had been sucking on her flask of bourbon all the way over—building up her nerve, she said. But when it got time to get out of the car, all I got from her was a snore—too much courage, I supposed. Well, I hadn’t spent the evening building up my own resolution to quit now. “Here goes nothing,” I whispered to nobody in particular.

  Leaving Fanny with the unsaid job of guarding the van, I worked my way across the road. Clear in both directions. There shouldn’t be many people out here this time of night, but you never knew. The Pickerill truck was still parked right where it had been in the afternoon. Moonlight was refle
cting off the tin roof and windows of the farmhouse, but there was no other light. I crossed the road and moved down behind the privet hedge just like I’d already done earlier. Through the shadows, I could barely make out a Doberman lying next to the back fence. Both of them were probably still tied where Maurice had left them earlier. Wetting my finger, I tested the air. A small breeze seemed to be coming from the back of the farm, so it shouldn’t blow my scent to the dogs as I passed the side yard, and when I got to the back, it should be masked by the odor of the pigs. Things were going pretty well, considering.

  ***

  The pigs were asleep in and around the shed, their bodies shimmering indistinctly in the moonlight. Finding the stick where I’d left it on my earlier foray, I propped the wires apart and slipped into the lot. No noise from anything. I wouldn’t be turning on the flashlight until I was down in the hole. Since I’d searched the ground before, it was likely that if there were jewels hidden in the area, they would be buried underneath some rubble at the bottom of the pit, probably in an innocuous-looking old paper bag.

  After tying the rope to a fence post, I dropped the coil next to the edge of the hole. That way I’d be able to pull myself out if necessary. The plan was to slide Maurice’s harrow blockade back a little so that I could replace it when I was through. It didn’t happen that way.

  As I grabbed one of the muddy metal bars, it got away, sliding down into the hole, completely blocking the path down. I tied the rope around a corner that I could still reach and started to pull. It was moving up slowly, but the tines kept grabbing onto exposed roots that ran from the oak trees along the back of the fence. The trick was to flip it out a little, disengage the tines, and bounce them over the roots. But I yanked too hard and the harrow twisted over onto an old washing machine that lay in the middle of the pile, causing a raucous clatter and plunging me, sliding feet first, down into the void. By the time I got my head back up to look around, dogs were barking, pigs were squealing, and lights were coming on in the house. Maurice was at the middle back upper window, talking into a small telephone handset.

  Damnation. But maybe Maurice wouldn’t investigate this far. I heaved and wiggled the harrow back from the center of the pile to where it had been earlier. If I kept my head down, nobody would be able to see me unless they were looking straight into the ice hole. Unfortunately, Maurice was conscientious. By the time I had the harrow in place, I could see him coming out of the back door, holding a shotgun in one hand, while a big flashlight in the other was scanning the pig lot. The first place he would look was the place where he’d hidden the jewels.

  I tugged on the rope and pulled myself out of the hole, shinnying awkwardly over the harrow, stopping only once to unhook my bra-strap from a protruding piece of angle iron.

  If I could untie the rope and get back to the woods, everything would look just like Maurice left it. He’d go back inside. But my fingers were thumbs. And I had no fingernails from hefting my welding rig. The knot was starting to come loose. Maybe one more wiggle—when a deafening blast engulfed my world. So much for rose-colored glasses, I thought calmly, just before I plunged myself face down in the mud, raising my eyes barely enough to see Maurice coming down the side of the yard, cutting off an exit in that direction. The sweep of the flashlight was almost close enough for him to see the hole and me lying behind it. So I grabbed my own flashlight and slithered off toward the other side of the lot, heading generally toward the pig shed to lose myself in the dark, milling throng of hogs, hoping he wouldn’t notice. If he searched back up across the yard, I could head around the other side of the farmhouse and hide in the shadow of the Pickerill truck.

  I guess he saw the rope tied from the post to the harrow, because he set out in a circular pattern, coming up toward the shed from along the back fence. It was time for Plan B: running like hell, hunched over as near to the ground as possible. If Maurice did see me, he probably wouldn’t shoot for fear of hitting a couple of piglets, or worse yet, making one of the sows mad enough to attack.

  I’d just gotten to the front wheel of the truck when a figure jumped from behind the tailgate and started running toward the back of the lot. Damn, cut off again. I let instinct take over from sense, shot out a leg, and sent the figure sprawling into a pile of hog manure and mud. Swinging my flashlight up, I jumped on top of the struggling figure, planning to put the person out of action before he could sound the alarm. Except that the figure had managed to roll partway over. Through the muck I could see a bow tie and pencil mustache. Now, there was only one person in Mason County who dressed that way, so I just held him down, knowing from previous experience that once on top I could control Mr. Clarence P. Yancy, sometimes, in private, called Old Oilhead.

  “How did you get here?” I screamed at the lowest level that it’s possible to scream. “Where’s Jack Senior?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, as he spat mud from his mouth. “I got the message on your answering machine.”

  “How?” I asked. And what had he been doing in my house?

  “Last year,” he spluttered. “I watched you dial your remote answering code.”

  “You what?” I said raising the flashlight again.

  “You never can tell when a lady might get a distressing phone call and be in need my sympathy,” he said, wiggling to get himself free, trying to grin through the mud.

  He’d done that to all his women, I thought. So I pounded him on the left forehead as hard as I could and was raising the flashlight to strike again when a ping echoed against the hood of the truck. Still straddling Old Oilhead, I leaned around and looked out from under the fender. A figure with an automatic pistol was standing in the middle upstairs window of the farmhouse, taking aim again. Pickerill. He was in on it.

  Damn. Double damn. Cut off at both ends. And I was just sitting there holding the flashlight I’d forgotten to swing at Old Oilhead. But I’d loosened my legs and was suddenly heaved by a twisting wrench from underneath. Old Oilhead was free, grabbing my hand and running as hard as he could toward the back of the lot. A couple of feet from our path, a little puddle erupted just a split second before another bang echoed through the tumult. Pickerill could see us in the moonlight.

  Without any consultation, Old Oilhead and I both broke off and headed toward the shed, scattering piglets as we ran. Maurice was in this direction but so was cover and darkness.

  Which is probably why I tripped. Flying in a slow arc until my face smashed into the dry dirt under the shed roof. Hurt like hell. But I muffled the scream. Which came anyway. From somebody else.

  As I tried to scramble back up, I put my hand down on a leg stretched out on the ground. Oil Oilhead must have fallen and let out the noise. But the leg wasn’t moving. Knocked himself out. “How would I get him out of there?” passed into my consciousness just before a hand grasped my shoulder and pulled me the rest of the way up. I spun, raising my arm to strike, but through the darkness I could make out the mustache. Old Oilhead was up. I flipped on the flashlight and took a look at the blob on the ground. Maurice, his wrists securely tied to one of the roof-supports. He raised his head just enough to squint into the flare of light before letting it loll back over, looking distinctly put out.

  ***

  Somebody was helping. Maybe Jack Senior. But there was no sign of anyone nearby. Jack Senior could take care of himself since there was only one pistol up at the house. But now we had the opportunity I wanted. With Maurice out of action, I could get to the ice hole before J. Augustus did. He’d probably stay up in the house—for a while anyway. I grabbed Old Oilhead and pushed him toward the front side of the shed to check on the Pickerill situation. He was to wave when the coast was clear and I could run from the back side to the ice hole.

  Except, before Old Oilhead had gone two steps, he came bouncing backwards, landing in a squealing bunch of piglets. His face smeared with mud, Jack Senior stepped out of the shadows and stooped to pick him up.

  “Sorry. I thought you might be one of them,�
� he said, and then seeing me, he continued, as if we were in our kitchen talking, “We can get out the back and around to the cars before Pickerill can figure out that Maurice is down.” He was brushing the worst of the mud off Old Oilhead who now had a big bruise on his cheekbone to match the one I’d given him on his forehead.

  I didn’t know whether Jack Senior had hit him on purpose. Maybe he really did know about our affair and had waited for an appropriate opportunity to retaliate. But maybe not. Or maybe he knew and didn’t care, and it was just what he had said: a defensive move against Pickerill.

  Then the impact of Jack Senior’s plan sunk in. “We can’t leave now.” I muffle-screeched. “I have to get the package out of the ice hole, If we leave, Pickerill will get it and then pretend it wasn’t there all along—and we might even get charged with trespassing.”

  Jack Senior snorted. “And with disarming a man who was just protecting his employer’s property,” he said, nodding in Maurice’s direction. “Right now, we’re not equipped for this kind of operation. Let them have the package. We can say we were having drinks together someplace private. Who’ll dispute it? This guy?” He tapped Maurice with his foot. The latter looked up and half grunted, half snarled.

  Jack Senior was right. If they made an accusation, we three could say we were someplace else, Fanny’s, maybe, and since they hadn’t seen her, she wouldn’t be included in any complaint. She’d be a neutral witness.

  But there was more at stake. There was something in that hole that was wanted by the person who had accused me of burglary, and I wanted to know what it was. Looking up sideways at Jack Senior, and then Old Oilhead, I mumbled, “I’ll do it alone.”

  Jack Senior was stone faced, but Old Oilhead opened his mouth, closed it, grimaced, looked at me, and then said, “I’ll help.”

  I turned and saw there was still a figure silhouetted against the middle upstairs window. But it wasn’t taking aim. If we moved fast we could make it to the lip of the ice hole before Pickerill could open fire again. I was about to explain the strategy to Old Oilhead when a figure stumbled out of the shadows along the back of the house and started toward the hog lot—Fanny, damn it. I ran to the front edge of the shed, waving frantically and shouting, “Get Back!”