Too Late to Die

by Bill Crider

  Kathy didn’t deign to answer, and Rhodes went into the bathroom.

  As he soaked in the tub of lukewarm water, Rhodes wondered again if Kathy’s staying in Clearview was the right thing. He’d been severely depressed when Claire died, but time had taken care of the worst of the pain. It wasn’t easy getting used to the absence of a face and voice that you’d known intimately for twenty-five years. They’d married just after he’d gotten his associate of arts degree from Kingsley Junior College over in the next county, and she’d stayed with him through his brief stint as an officer on a big-city force, which he’d hated; through his jobs, both of them, as police chief in small towns; and through his tenure as sheriff of Blacklin County after his three years as chief in Clearview.

  There were many county sheriffs, and Rhodes knew some of them, who were really politicians—men who liked the title, but not the job; men who turned all the work over to their deputies and spent their time in the drugstores drinking coffee with the rest of the good old boys. Men like Ralph Claymore. Rhodes had never been like that, and he never could be.

  That meant that his job brought with it certain pressures, which could be smoothed over by a slick talker and dresser like Claymore but which Rhodes had to deal with through action. Claire had understood this and had understood that Rhodes would never keep regular hours, would always be on the job. There weren’t many women who could have put up with his way of life, which was why so many of the good lawmen he knew were either divorced or separated from their wives.

  And Claire had done a fine job with Kathy. If Claire were only here now, Kathy would be in the city in a job worthy of her talent instead of teaching in a small-town school. It was true that there were some fine young men in Clearview, and Johnny Sherman was probably one of them, but Dan had hoped for a better life for his only child.

  As the bath began to relax him, Rhodes turned his mind to the problem of Jeanne Clinton. Bill Tomkins had found the body and hadn’t hesitated to imply that Hod Barrett had an interest in the victim and had maybe visited her house after most folks in Thurston were long in bed. Could Tomkins be trying to shift suspicion? And Elmer had insisted almost too strongly that his wife had had no visitors at all. Could it be that Elmer knew that his wife was fooling around and, instead of telling her to stop, had taken more certain measures? Elmer had punched in and out at work, but maybe he hadn’t stayed there all the time. Rhodes thought he’d better check. And then there was Billy Joe Byron, and that bloody shirt. He wished he knew the blood type right now, but he’d bet that it was the same as Jeanne Clinton’s. If it was, things didn’t look so good for Billy Joe. Of course Hod Barrett didn’t look any too clean either. He’d seemed awfully worried that Rhodes might talk to his wife.

  Rhodes knew that he had a busy day ahead of him tomorrow, and then there was the forum that night. The forum reminded him of the attentive Mrs. Wilkie. He was going to have to do something about that woman, and do it soon. If it were at all possible she would rumor him into marriage with her. Too bad that Claymore was already married or Rhodes would have tried to switch her affections to his challenger. Claymore might have married her just to get her vote.

  He knew that Claymore’s little speech at the forum would be much better than his own. Rhodes rarely was able to express his real feelings about an issue, and the Jeanne Clinton thing would be impossible to comment on. Claymore would no doubt put a lot of emphasis on it. He hated to have to listen. The only good thing he could think of was that there would be lots of other candidates for other offices there, so the speeches would be mercifully short, by necessity. There was some comfort in that.

  As his mind began to drift, he heard a car in the driveway. Then there was a knock on the door.

  “Bye, Dad.” He heard Kathy’s voice call out. Then the door slammed and he was completely alone with his thoughts.

  By then the water was cold, so he pulled the stopper from the drain and stepped out on the mat, drying himself with the big, rough towel.

  He thought about shaving, but then he thought again about Mrs. Wilkie and decided against it. No need to tempt fate.

  Chapter 4

  Milsby was no longer really a town. It had been a town once, with stores, a barbershop, a drugstore, a bank, and even a movie theater. Now there was nothing left except a few scattered homes. The buildings that had formerly made up the town had all been demolished and the brick had been sold. The only structure of any size that remained was the schoolhouse, which was no longer really a school.

  Milsby was, in fact, referred to these days as “the Milsby community” rather than as a town, and the old school served as the Milsby Community Center. Most of the residents who lived near the place remained fiercely loyal to the idea that they were part of a real geographical place on the map, and they tried to have as many activities in the school building as possible: community dances, bingo games (just voted in by the precinct, and as legal as marriage), church suppers, and candidates’ forums with cake auctions.

  Classes had long since disappeared from the former learning center. When the number of Milsby graduates per year had finally shrunk to one or two—three at most—the town fathers had realized that the tax burden was no longer worthwhile. They could consolidate their school district with Clearview’s and save money. Their children would have to be bused, but that was a small sacrifice. Many of the local residents regarded the day of consolidation as a day of infamy, and it ranked right up there with December 7, 1941, as a topic of conversation whenever sneaky maneuverings were brought up. It was their impression that Milsby had begun to die the day the first students were bused to Clearview.

  The town had begun to die long before then, of course, about the time that many of the men on surrounding farms found that they could make plenty of money just by putting their money in the soil bank and not farming a lick. Their families had nothing to tie them to the land, and they left for the delights of the big cities and easier jobs than the daylight-to-dark work required by farming.

  But the old schoolhouse still remained. Built in the early part of the century of sturdy red brick, the building was not pretty at all. It was, however, serviceable. Despite the generations of careless youngsters that had subjected it to all kinds of abuse, its rooms still could be used for the activities of Milsby, especially the cafeteria, where the forum was to be held.

  Rhodes pulled the county car into the dusty parking area and looked around for a good spot. He had deliberately arrived late, knowing that Ralph Claymore would do the same. At forums like this one, the candidates were not given an opportunity to speak according to the office for which they were running. Instead, as each one entered the building he was given a list to sign. The names were called from the list, the candidates speaking in the order in which they arrived. Claymore liked to arrive late, believing that speaking near the end gave him an advantage.

  Rhodes didn’t necessarily share Claymore’s belief. He was pretty sure that nobody ever recalled a thing that any of the candidates said. He was convinced that the main purpose of the forum was to sell cakes, which wasn’t a bad cause, since the money would go to the upkeep of the building. But on the off chance that Claymore was correct, Rhodes had decided to speak near the end also. At least there was the chance that he would get to speak after his opponent and answer any charges that were made, even if it wouldn’t do much good.

  Rhodes parked by a Trans-Am, owned no doubt, by one of the other candidates. Surely no one in Milsby drove such a car. He got out and walked to the back door of what had once been the school boiler room, went through the room, and turned left into the hail where the cafeteria was located.

  Mrs. Wilkie was waiting for him.

  Her hair was spectacular. Rhodes was certain that he’d last seen a similar color and style worn by Carol Burnett in a skit parodying The Little Foxes. Otherwise, Mrs. Wilkie bore no physical resemblance to the svelte Ms. Burnett; tonight she had her formidable girth swathed in something resembling a Hawaiian tent.
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br />   “Why, good evening, Sheriff,” Mrs. Wilkie cooed breathily. “You’re just in time for the auction. But don’t forget to sign in first.” She handed him a yellow legal pad and a pen.

  Rhodes was glad to see that Claymore’s name was only one person above his own. “Good evening, Mrs. Wilkie,” he said. “You’re looking mighty spruce tonight.”

  Mrs. Wilkie simpered and took back the legal pad.

  Lord, Rhodes thought, what a man won’t say to get himself elected.

  “You just go on in, Sheriff, and have a seat with the other candidates,” Mrs. Wilkie said. Rhodes started for the cafeteria door. “My cake’s devil’s food,” she called after him in a stage whisper.

  The cafeteria was brightly lighted by long fluorescent tubes. To Rhodes’s left, the candidates sat in metal folding chairs lined up along the institutional-green wall. On the other side of the room, the Milsby crowd mixed and mingled in conversation. Rhodes didn’t take a count, but it seemed likely that the crowd didn’t outnumber the candidates by many. He turned to his left to look for a seat.

  Ralph Claymore was sitting between a candidate named Peter Something-or-other, Rhodes couldn’t recall, who was running for county clerk and Ivy Daniels, who was running for justice of the peace in precinct 4. The clerk candidate was stoutly built, with sandy hair, and in his navy blue suit he looked like a young senator more than a small-town boy. Rhodes had heard good things about him and hoped he’d win. Ivy Daniels didn’t look small-town either. Her short black hair had flecks of gray in it, but her tailored suit revealed the curves of a still youthful body. Naturally, Ralph Claymore was giving none of his attention to the young senator. He was talking animatedly to Ivy Daniels.

  And he’s a married man, Rhodes thought. Well, at least Ivy was unattached, or had been the last he’d heard. He wouldn’t have minded talking to Ivy himself, but he didn’t have too much time for that sort of thing. He walked over to the end of the row of chairs and sat next to Jack Parry, a candidate for county judge.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” Parry said, putting out his hand. He was a big, folksy man, bluff and bald, with a full beard and a cigar always in his mouth—that or a dip of snuff.

  Rhodes shook Parry’s hand. “How you doing, Jack?” he said.

  “Fine, but I’d a hell of a lot rather be having a quiet drink somewhere else right now. How about you?”

  “Sure enough. Think we could have skipped out?”

  Parry smiled around his cigar. “Not a chance. We might lose only a couple of votes from this crowd, but they’d tell everybody they know which ones of us didn’t show up. No telling how many votes that would be.”

  Just as Rhodes was about to answer, a man walked to the front of the cafeteria to a makeshift podium fitted with a juryrigged sound system. “‘Good evening, y’all,” he said. On the second word, there was an electronic scream from the speakers near him, but it died away and he went on.

  “I’m Jerry Bob Tyler, and I want to welcome ever’ one of you to the annual Milsby cake auction and candidates’ forum. I know you all look forward to hearing what the electioneers have to say just as much as I do”—which meant not at all, Rhodes thought—”but first we’ve got a real treat for you. Len and Belle are goin’ to do a little of their famous pickin’ and grinnin’.”

  Len and Belle tottered out from somewhere in the Milsby crowd. Len, who looked to Rhodes to be about ninety years old, with a fringe of very white hair outlining a pink and liver-spotted skull, held a fiddle. Belle, just as old, and with almost as little hair, carried a mandolin. They stood tentatively by the podium for a second or two, they twanged a few strings. Seemingly satisfied, Len stamped his foot on the floor four times, and they broke into as spirited a rendition of “Soldier’s Joy” as Rhodes had ever heard. It was hard to believe that the fingers of two people so old could be so nimble.

  The crowd on both sides of the cafeteria began tapping their feet and clapping their hands in time with the music. The first song ended in a furious crescendo of fiddle and mandolin harmonies, and before anyone could draw a breath Len had stamped his foot again and begun “The Orange Blossom Special.” By the time that one was over, the old man’s head was completely red, and Belle’s face wasn’t much better. But they looked happy.

  The old couple was replaced by a boy who looked like he might possibly be in the first grade. The guitar he carried was a cheap black Stella that almost hid him from the audience. Rhodes didn’t catch his name; it sounded like “Tinker.” Whatever his name was, the little boy knew three chords and sang “Sea of Heartbreak” in an alarming monotone that was just enough off key to set Rhodes’s teeth on edge. Nevertheless, he got quite a round of applause.

  “Ain’t he cute?” Jerry Bob Tyler yelled over the crowd noise. “He’s gonna be a real star someday, you mark my words.” He raised his hands over his head and applauded loudly, the Milsby audience joining in with renewed fervor. “Now then,” Jerry Bob said when things had quieted. “It’s time to get to a real important part of this evening’s business. The big cake auction!” He waved his right hand to indicate the area behind him.

  A few yards behind the podium, on the back wall, panels began to slide up. Where there had once been a serving table for the Milsby students there was now a counter loaded with cakes of all kinds: chocolate, angel food, coconut, pineapple upside-down, devil’s food, sheath, three-layer, and several kinds that Rhodes didn’t even try to identify.

  Jerry Bob walked back to the cakes and picked up one of the angel food concoctions. “This here one’s light as a feather, folks, handmade right from scratch if I know anything about cakes, and I’m an old cake eater from way back. What’m I bid on this little beauty?”

  “Five dollars,” called out the young senator-type, and the bidding was on.

  When it was all over, Rhodes was the possessor of a devil’s food cake for which he’d paid thirty-five dollars. He had no real idea what had made him bid on a devil’s food cake, and he sincerely hoped that it wasn’t Mrs. Wilkie’s. She might expect him to drop by her house to cut it.

  Then the speeches began. About the only one that held any interest for Rhodes, except for his own and Claymore’s, was Ivy Daniels’s. Women didn’t usually run for the position of justice of the peace, and her opponent had made any number of subtle references to the fact that the JP was often called upon to leave the house at night, to be present at the scenes of sometimes gruesome accidents or even murders, and to perform other tasks that just weren’t fit for a lady. Ivy didn’t hesitate to counterattack. She felt that women were just as strong as men, and maybe stronger, she told the audience. She’d like to see any of the brave men she knew carry a baby for nine months and then deliver it. Then she’d know just how brave they really were.

  Rhodes thought it was a good point, but most of the applause when Ivy sat down was merely polite, nothing more. Ralph Claymore, when his turn came, looked more than ready. He’d already removed his hat, in deference to whatever old-fashioned ladies were still living—and there weren’t many, because it was now quite common to see men who fancied themselves to be cowboys eating in any restaurant in Clearview while wearing a hat or a cap—but he still looked just like a sheriff should look. He was tall and slim, and his Levi’s Saddleman jeans fit him to double-knit perfection. His tapered western shirt had just the right amount of color in it, and his belt buckle tonight was a huge brass armadillo. He stood behind the podium as if he owned the building.

  When he spoke, his voice was deep and pleasing. “I know that most of you people here know Dan Rhodes, my opponent in the sheriff’s race,” he began. “Well, I know him too, and like most of you I think he’s done a fine job while he’s been our sheriff. Not many fellows could have done half as well as he has. Why, I’d bet that violent crimes, crimes against persons, aren’t up in our county by more than ten or twelve percent.”

  Nine point eight six percent, thought Rhodes, not counting Jeanne Clinton. Here it comes.

  But it didn’t co
me.

  “Yep, Sheriff Rhodes has done real well. And the only reason that I’m here tonight is that I think I can do a little better. I’d like to see us have a new jail, for one thing. Not one that is a country club like those Federal pens you read about, not one of those. Just a jail that doesn’t have rats in it, and one that lets an accused man live like a man and not some kind of animal. I don’t mean to treat the prisoners better than I’d treat some of you, but imagine what it might be like if your son or even your daughter got arrested for speeding and had maybe had a little too much to drink and had to spend a night in that jail we’ve got now. . . .”

  Claymore went on, his voice deep and confident, his tone reassuring, while Rhodes’s mind raced ahead unbelievingly.

  What was going on here? Claymore had a valid spot to attack him—the first murder in the county in nearly two years. But he wasn’t saying a thing about it. Instead he was talking about things over which Rhodes had no real control. It was true that the sheriff could use his influence, whatever that might be, and it usually wasn’t much, with the county commissioners; but that was all. The sheriff couldn’t build the jail. He could staff it, see that it was run right and according to all the State and Federal rules that were laid down. He could treat the prisoners fairly. He could see that they were fed properly and got the required exercise. Rhodes had always done this.

  “ . . . And that’s why I’m asking for your vote in the Democratic Primary on May 4,” Claymore concluded. He smiled and dipped his head slightly to the applause.

  Rhodes walked to the podium for his turn in a sort of daze. He had no idea what was going on here. True, there weren’t many votes represented by this crowd, but a reporter from the Clearview Herald was in the audience. Claymore could have counted on a fair summary of whatever he said being in the next day’s paper, and he said nothing that Rhodes wasn’t going to refute easily.