by Bill Crider
He looked at the bandstand, which was draped with red, white, and blue streamers. There was no band on it yet, just as there was no one on the softball field. Later in the afternoon the historical pageant would be held there, with, Rhodes supposed, Vernell Lindsey as the narrator.
The barbecue cooks were already hard at work. Rhodes could smell the aromatic smoke from the various kinds of wood that they were burning in their cookers. Some used mesquite, some used oak, and others wouldn’t tell what kind of wood they used. The secrecy was an important part of the mystique. The smoke would have smelled better to him, he supposed, if he hadn’t inhaled so much of it the previous day.
When the wood was burned down to coals, the actual cooking would begin, with the meat being basted by all kinds of secret barbecue sauces, the recipes having been handed down from fathers to their children for generations. People in Texas took their barbecue seriously. As far as most of them were concerned, barbecue couldn’t really be called barbecue if it was cooked in any other state.
While Rhodes watched, a yellow-and-black school bus pulled up near the bandstand. When it stopped, the door opened and students filed out. A truck loaded with instruments drove up beside the bus, and a pickup with a bed full of folding chairs wasn’t far behind.
Before long, the folding chairs were set up on the bandstand, the players were sitting in them, and the strains of Sousa marches drifted out over the park. Rhodes had always liked marches, not that he was very good at marching. He just liked the sound of the music. He could identify “Stars and Stripes Forever,” “King Cotton,” and a few others. He had a feeling he’d be hearing them a lot that day.
Someone from the local radio station, KCLR, or K-Clear as the announcers liked to call it, was working around a sound truck, getting set up for live broadcasting. Rhodes figured that the listeners would get tired of marches before the day was over and might tune out before the historical pageant.
There were flea market booths set up all along the street that ran through the park, and Rhodes thought he ought to check out a few of them just to see what was there.
He was in the fourth or fifth one, looking over a stack of rusty tools that the owner was offering to sell Rhodes for what he said was a fraction of their real value, when James Allen came up and asked if Rhodes would like a Dr Pepper.
“Anytime,” Rhodes said, leaving the tools behind without regret.
He followed Allen to a tent where the band parents were selling soft drinks. In cans. But Rhodes supposed a canned drink was better than nothing, and Allen was buying, so he couldn’t complain.
“Help yourself,” the man behind the counter said when Allen paid him.
“What’ll you have?” Rhodes asked Allen, who said he’d take a Pepsi.
The cans were kept in a tub of ice, so Rhodes plunged his hand in, shoving ice around and looking for a Dr Pepper and a Pepsi. After a few seconds, his hand was nearly frozen, but he located the cans and pulled them out.
Allen took the Pepsi and brushed off a couple of small pieces of ice that were still clinging to the can. Then he handed Rhodes a paper towel to wrap the Dr Pepper in. The towel soaked up the cold water on the can, and Rhodes could hold it without losing all the feeling in his fingers.
He and Allen walked out under the elm trees and stood in the shade, drinking their drinks, listening to the band, and smelling the smoke from the barbecue cookers.
The cookers were nearly all homemade from black sheet metal, and there were large cookers and small ones, mostly large, most of them so large, in fact, that they were hauled in trailers. Some, even larger, were on wheels, and they were the trailers.
Rhodes saw Jennifer Loam interviewing one of the women who was carefully basting a brisket with some of her specially made sauce. Rhodes figured Jennifer’s heart wasn’t really in it. Covering a barbecue cook-off wasn’t nearly as exciting as breaking a big story about corruption in county government.
Another truck drove into the park while Rhodes and Allen were watching. The cooker behind it was trailing sparks like the tail of a comet. Rhodes thought of the fireworks stand.
“Must’ve started the fire early,” Allen said, “so it’d be cooked down to coals by the time it got here.”
“I don’t like the looks of those sparks,” Rhodes said, and almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, they heard the fire sirens.
Rhodes tossed his empty can in a recycling bin and headed for his car. When he drove out of the park, he looked into his rearview mirror.
Jennifer Loam was right behind him.
At first Rhodes was afraid the whole town might be burning, but it turned out that only the grass in some ditches near some vacant lots had caught fire. There was no way to say for sure that the cooker Rhodes and Allen had seen was the cause of the fire, but Rhodes figured there wasn’t much doubt. If it didn’t rain soon, they’d have to consider banning barbecue cookers unless people could use a little common sense.
Chief Parker’s men were able to get the fire put out before it did much damage, though it did scorch a couple of big trees near the ditches.
Rhodes managed to have a few words with Parker during a lull in the fire-fighting, and Parker told him that the preliminary report indicated that the accelerants used at Grat Bilson’s place had indeed been alcohol and gasoline.
“Did you send that bottle off for fingerprinting?” Parker asked Rhodes.
Rhodes looked around for Jennifer Loam, who was too far away to hear. She was writing in her notebook and not even looking in Rhodes’s direction.
“We did the printing,” Rhodes told Parker. “We don’t have a report yet on whether there are any matches in the files for the prints we got. We sent the bottle off for testing to see if there were any traces of hair or blood on it. We didn’t see any, but that doesn’t mean there weren’t some there.”
“I’m sure Grat’s are on there.”
“There were two sets. Maybe we’ll find out who the others belong to. Or maybe we won’t.”
“Good luck,” Parker said.
Rhodes admitted that he’d need it.
When Rhodes returned to the park, James Allen was still standing in the shade of some elm trees not too far from where Rhodes parked. But this time Rhodes had to park in the sun. All the shady spots were taken.
“You don’t look any the worse for wear,” Allen said when Rhodes got out of the county car.
“The fire department didn’t need any help,” Rhodes said. “What’s been going on here?”
“Not much. That fire reminds me, how’s your investigation going?”
“I don’t know,” Rhodes said. “I have plenty of suspects and plenty of motives, but no good answers.”
“What do you think about Beaman?”
“Beaman?”
“He and Grat never did get along. Grat was snooping around more than he had any right to, and Jay didn’t like that. He was afraid Grat would find out too much.”
“What was there to find out?” Rhodes asked.
“You know. What we were talking about the other day.”
“I don’t think the reporter has any proof of that.”
He looked around the park for Jennifer, but he didn’t see her anywhere. She was probably at the newspaper office, working on a story about the fire.
“The only reason there’s no proof is because Grat’s dead,” Allen said. “I think I’ll go see if the barbecue’s ready. See you later.”
He walked away, and Rhodes saw that one of the barbecue cookers was Ralph Oliver. Oliver was wearing a chef’s hat and a white apron. His wife was with him, but she wasn’t wearing a hat or apron. Oliver waved a sauce brush at Rhodes, who waved back.
Allen went over and started talking to Oliver, while Rhodes went to look for Ivy. He hoped she’d make it in time for the rib-eating contest. He thought he might enter this year.
Ivy arrived in plenty of time, and Rhodes told her his plan.
“You’ll do better in that contest than yo
u would have in the fun run,” Ivy said.
There was a long table set up on the shady side of the bandstand so the barbecue-eating contestants could listen to “The Washington Post March” while they ate. Although Rhodes liked marches, they weren’t exactly his idea of music to aid digestion.
He sat down at the table in a metal folding chair that had been so hot from standing in the sun that it almost took the hide off his rear end. There was a stack of paper napkins in front of him, and after unfolding one and tucking it into his shirt collar, he used another to mop some of the sweat off his face.
“You ought not to do that,” Ivy said. “You’re going to need that napkin later.”
“I needed it now,” Rhodes said.
Jennifer Loam walked up.
“Are you going for the championship?” she asked.
“I think I have a chance,” Rhodes told her.
Jay Beaman came up and said, “Don’t count on it. Nobody’s been able to beat me yet.”
Jennifer ignored him, and he sat down by Rhodes. He was still wearing the same cap he’d worn the previous day. Or maybe he’d never taken it off.
“Ee-yow!” he said. “That chair’s hot!”
“The barbecue might be even hotter,” Rhodes said.
“I didn’t know you were a big eater, Sheriff,” Beaman said, tucking a napkin in his collar as Rhodes had done.
“I’m not,” Rhodes said.
Ivy laughed. “Not unless he gets a chance.”
The band stopped playing, and Jennifer moved away from the table. There was scattered applause for the band, and Vernell Lindsey went to a microphone on the bandstand. It whistled and shrieked when she tried to talk, but someone finally got it adjusted. First she thanked the Clearview High School Catamount Marching Band for the music, and then she explained the rules of the rib-eating contest. The rules were fairly simple: the rib bones had to be cleaned.
“No leaving meat all over them,” Vernell said. “The person with the most bones piled up at the end of fifteen minutes is the winner.”
“You don’t have a chance,” Beaman told Rhodes, and the band started playing again, a repeat of “El Capitan.”
The barbecuers brought paper plates heaped with ribs to the table. They set them down, and Rhodes started eating. The different kinds of sauce were all so tangy that after a few minutes his mouth was seared on the inside and he couldn’t distinguish one from the other.
There was a glass of ice water by the plate where he was piling the bones, but Rhodes didn’t want to take time to drink. Beaman was already pulling ahead. In fact, he’d eaten nearly twice as many ribs as Rhodes had, and the contest had hardly gotten started.
By the time Ralph Oliver brought the last little plate of ribs and set it down by Beaman, Rhodes knew that he’d lost. Jay Beaman was going to be the undisputed champion unless there was someone down at the end of the table who’d eaten more. Rhodes didn’t see how that could be possible. He pushed his plate aside and drank the whole glass of water.
“I knew you didn’t have a chance, Sheriff,” Beaman said. He threw down the last rib bone onto the plate and licked his fingers. Then he belched lightly into a napkin. “You’re just an amateur when it comes to eating.”
“You’re right,” Rhodes said, deciding it was time to push Beaman a little and see what happened. He looked around at the crowd that had gathered to encourage them in their endeavors. “But you must be a little disappointed. I don’t see your personal cheerleader here.”
Beaman’s face was covered in drying barbecue sauce, and he was busily wiping his fingers with the paper napkins.
“What personal cheerleader?” he said.
“Linda Fenton,” Rhodes said. “You remember her, don’t you?”
Beaman threw the napkins on the table and said, “I told you yesterday I didn’t know her. I still don’t.”
“She was clerking at one of your fireworks stands yesterday,” Rhodes said. “She’s driving a pickup registered in your name. She was at your house last night. So I think you know her, all right.”
“Fireworks stands?” Beaman said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. And so will the rest of the county when I tell Jennifer Loam about them.”
“You bastard,” Beaman said.
He stood up, kicking his metal chair back and away from him. It landed with a clang, and Beaman grabbed Rhodes by the shoulder.
“Get up,” Beaman said.
People all around were looking and pointing. They couldn’t hear what was being said because the band was so loud, but they knew something entertaining was about to happen.
Rhodes stood up and said, “I think Grat Bilson knew about the fireworks. I think he was going to tell the reporter.”
He might have said more, but that was when Beaman hit him.
24
RHODES STUMBLED BACKWARD AND FELL AGAINST THE TABLE, WHICH collapsed beneath him. Bones and barbecue sauce scattered in all directions, with plenty of both landing on Rhodes. He could feel the sauce soaking into his clothes.
He didn’t have time to feel much else because Beaman took hold of his shirt front and pulled him to his feet. He would have hit Rhodes again, but Rhodes didn’t give him a chance. Rhodes hit first, slamming Beaman in the stomach with a right and then a left.
Beaman sagged and let go of Rhodes’s shirt. Rhodes just had time to think big, but soft when Beaman stood up to his full height. It would have been an imposing sight even if Beaman hadn’t been holding the metal chair in both hands.
“Fight fair!” someone yelled.
Rhodes wondered who it was. Maybe it was Ivy.
“Yeah,” someone else called out. “This ain’t the pro rasslin’.”
Beaman didn’t seem to care about fighting fair, or maybe he just wasn’t listening. He swung the chair like a club.
There wasn’t much Rhodes could do except try to take most of the force of the blow on the arm and side. Luckily for Rhodes, Beaman hit him with the flat of the chair instead of the edge, which might have caused real damage.
It caused enough damage as it was, knocking Rhodes sideways into another chair. He tangled with the chair for a second and then fell down on the collapsed table.
A voice from the crowd called out, “Somebody call the law!”
“That’s the law that’s gettin’ the hell beat out of him, you dumbass,” someone replied.
Beaman still had hold of the chair, and he was advancing on Rhodes with it held high over his head. In the background Rhodes could hear what he always thought of as the “web-footed duck” section of “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
The show must go on, he thought, and wondered if anyone would come to his rescue.
No one did.
Beaman brought the chair down in a blur of motion, and Rhodes rolled out of the way. The chair smashed into the table with a loud crack. Rib bones, paper plates, and plastic utensils bounced up into the air and fell back down.
Rhodes stood up, but he put his foot into a puddle of sauce on the table and slipped right back down.
“I’ll get you this time,” Beaman said, swinging the chair up over his head for another swat.
Rhodes saw Ivy run out of the crowd behind Beaman. She jumped up, grabbed one leg of the chair, and pulled down with all her strength. She was no match for Beaman, but she did surprise him and throw him off balance.
When he turned to see who was behind him, Rhodes got into a crouch and ran at him.
Beaman let go of the chair and stood like a stone pillar, his arms stretched wide. Rhodes stopped while he was still a couple of feet away. He didn’t want to get into a hugging contest with Beaman, who would crush him like an aluminum can.
“Shoot him, Sheriff,” someone yelled.
Rhodes had his pistol, or he thought he still had it. He wasn’t going to reach for it and find out. He wasn’t going to shoot anyone.
While Beaman was eyeing Rhodes, Ivy swung the folding chair and wha
cked Beaman in the back of the head with it.
It clanged against his cap but didn’t appear to bother Beaman much. He just turned around and grabbed the chair, yanking it from Ivy’s hand as if she were a five-year-old.
Rhodes took a step forward, but Beaman wheeled back around, swinging the chair through the air so fast that it whistled.
It was then that Rhodes realized that the band had stopped playing and the crowd had grown very quiet. It was as if they had all stopped breathing while they waited for Beaman to finish Rhodes off.
Beaman didn’t seem to think he’d need the chair to do it. He tossed it aside and advanced on Rhodes.
Rhodes waited for him to get close enough, then kicked him in the knee.
Beaman’s knee didn’t crack, but he was hurt. He said, “I wish you hadn’t done that, Sheriff. You’re about to make me mad.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that,” Rhodes said. “It’s still not too late for you to give up.”
Beaman laughed. “You always did have a sense of humor, Rhodes.”
“If you stop now, I won’t file charges on you for this. We can go to the jail where it’s air-conditioned, and you can answer a few questions for me.”
Beaman wiped a hand across his forehead and flicked sweat drops to the ground.
“What’s the matter, Rhodes? You scared of taking a beating?”
“I don’t think I’ll have to take anything,” Rhodes said, and kicked Beaman in the other knee.
Beaman bent over this time, and Rhodes gave him a hard openhanded slap across the chops, snapping Beaman’s head to the left and bloodying his mouth.
Beaman spit blood, smiled with his split lips, and hit Rhodes in the chest with a fist like a sledge.
Rhodes stumbled backward across the table and into the stone wall of the bandstand. Beaman followed him, still smiling, trampling rib bones under his feet.
Was having your back to the wall supposed to be good or bad? Rhodes couldn’t remember, but he was pretty sure that in his situation it was bad.
