by Amy Metz
“Go on,” Jack said. “Wanna tell me who we’re talking about? Hey, by the way, did y’all find T. Harry?”
“Yeah, Beano and that detective from Nashville brought him a few hours ago. He’s over to the station percolating, but I don’t think he killed his brother.”
There was a commotion at the door of the diner, and the men looked up to see Skeeter Duke rushing toward them.
“Chief! Hank says the detective arrived and T. Harry’s ready to talk. You’d better get over there right quick.”
“Aw, criminy. I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve got to go. Will you be around later?”
Jack sighed heavily. “Yeah, just give me a call. I’ll be home.”
As Johnny slid out of the booth, Jack said, “Don’t suppose you could give me a name instead of keeping me in suspense.”
Johnny grinned, slapped his friend on the back good-naturedly, and said, “Negative, buddy, but I’ll say this: it will surprise the fire outta you.”
“I’ve not known you to be a cruel man until now.”
T. Harry’s red hair was mashed down on one side and stuck straight out on the other. Dark circles underneath his bloodshot eyes, on an otherwise pale face, almost made him look like he had two black eyes.
The minute Johnny walked in, T. Harry growled, “I shoulda knowed he’s behind this. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Well, that’s just too damn bad, Applewhite,” Detective Squires said. Johnny pulled out a chair and sat down beside him.
“I want a lawyer,” T. Harry shot back.
“Sir,” Rusty leaned toward him, “you’re not under arrest for anything except being loaded up on loud-mouth soup. That’s a fact, and no lawyer in the world can get you out of that rap. Right now, we simply want to ask you a few questions. Are you telling us you’ve done something for which you need a lawyer?”
“I ain’t done nothing. Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
“Mr. Applewhite, do you know a Mr. Joe Bob Mossbourn?”
T. Harry stared at him. “Yeah, I knew him. That man didn’t have the sense God gave an animal cracker.”
The detective scribbled on the paper in front of him. “How do you know Mr. Mossbourn?”
“We were acquaintances, that’s all.” T. Harry’s chin jutted into the air.
“How were you acquainted?” Rusty pressed.
“I don’t recall,” he said, studying his fingernails.
“Can you explain why you keep referring to the man in the past tense?”
T. Harry’s eyes nervously darted around the small, dingy room. “Well . . . well, you were talking like that.”
“No sir.” Rusty sat back. “I never said anything of the kind. You’re the only one who has talked about him in the past tense. I think that’s because you know the man’s dead.”
“He’s dead?” T. Harry tried his best to act shocked and surprised.
“I wouldn’t count on a career in motion pictures,” Rusty said. “Now admit it. You knew he was dead, and maybe the reason you knew he was dead, was because you killed him.”
“Aw, no. Hell no. You ain’t gonna get me to admit no such thing.”
Rusty said nothing. He and Johnny stared at T. Harry, which had the desired effect. T. Harry began babbling away.
“I’m telling y’all, I didn’t kill nobody. Besides, I was here in Goose Pimple Junction. I couldn’t have killed him.”
“I don’t recall saying when the man was killed,” Rusty said with a grin.
“See, I’ve been here for a few weeks now, so whenever it was, I was here.”
“T. Harry.” Johnny stood and pushed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. “You said you came to Goose Pimple Junction the day before your brother’s funeral. That’s only a little over a week.”
“I– I–” T. Harry stammered.
“Because if you were here in town when your brother was killed,” Johnny moved beside T. Harry, towering over him, “I might have to look hard at why you didn’t tell anyone and why you felt the need to pretend you had just came to town. I’d say that’s mighty suspicious behavior right there, wouldn’t you, Detective?” He turned from the detective back to T. Harry. “Maybe you killed your brother.”
“Now that’s just a bald-faced lie.”
“I think Mr. Applewhite here is in what you call between a rock and a hard place. Either he was in Nashville and he killed Mossbourn, or he was here and he killed his brother,” Rusty said. He leaned toward him and got within an inch of his face. “Which is it, hotshot?”
“Okay, okay, here’s what happened. I was in Helechewa for a few weeks before Lenny died.”
“Why were you in Helechewa? Why would you be in a town just thirty minutes away and not tell your brother or your sister-in-law?”
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but I want immunization.”
Johnny sat back into his chair and looked up at the ceiling as if praying for help. He brought his gaze back to T. Harry. “You want a flu shot?”
“No. I want—you know, that thing where’s I tell you something but I don’t get persecuted for it.”
Rusty shook his head at T. Harry’s stupidity and said to Johnny, “I’ll bet he inspired the slogan, ‘A mind is a terrible thing to waste.’“
“That would be a pretty safe bet,” Johnny said. “I think he’s right, though. I think he needs immunization. Immunization from stupidity.”
“What say I take him back to Nashville with me tonight? I got a witness who can identify him.”
“Wait! I’m trying to confess, if y’all will just pipe down long enough. I didn’t kill nobody, and I wasn’t in Nashville because I been in Helechewa for a few weeks on account of needing to be near Goose Pimple Junction so’s I could woo Martha Maye. I’ve been leaving presents for her. Just ask her.”
In your life, you’ve got to eat a peck of dirt.
~Southern Proverb
“It was you?” Johnny shot up and lunged for the man.
T. Harry jumped up and backed into a corner, shrinking away from the mountainous police chief. Rusty stepped in front of Johnny before he got to T. Harry.
“Everybody just simmer down,” the detective said, waving off Johnny and pushing T. Harry back into a chair. “Simmer down, now. Let’s hear him out.” They all settled into their seats, and T. Harry ran his hands through his hair, taking a relieved breath and letting it out melodramatically.
“Yeah, it was me. And last time I checked, it wasn’t against the law to leave presents for a woman. Lookit, it’s like this: when Lenny told me Martha Maye had left him, I rejoiced.” T. Harry swiped a hand under his nose and sniffed. “He wasn’t good enough for her. When he told me he knew where she and Butterbean had gone, I thought it was my chance to win her heart. I’m good at romancing a woman.” He looked straight at Johnny, an arrogant expression on his face.
“So I came to Helechewa and scooted on over to Goose Pimple periodically so’s I could leave her presents. I wanted her to feel flattered.” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “I wanted to spoil her, create an air of mystery about a secret admirer. I was planning on revealing it was me and telling her how I felt about her.” His face hardened. “Then Lenny told me he was trying to win Martha Maye back, but I knew he didn’t deserve her. So I started sending them other gifts, so’s she’d think it was Lenny, and she’d be mad at him, and she’d go through with the divorce.”
“So you sent a woman a bunch of presents–big deal,” Rusty said. “Why do I care about that?”
“Because that means I was in Helechewa, and not Nashville,” T. Harry said, as if the man were a waste of skin.
“Gimme the dates and the name of the hotel,” Rusty said, sounding bored. He slid a sheet of paper and a pen across the table.
T. Harry scribbled on the paper and slid it back.
“Sit tight.” He left Johnny and T. Harry alone in the small, windowless room.
For the entire five minutes Rusty was gone, Johnny sat with his arms c
rossed, stone-faced, glaring at T. Harry.
T. Harry alternated between glaring back at Johnny, picking his nose, and studying his nails. He sighed in relief when Rusty came back into the room.
“Dates don’t add up, Applewhite,” Rusty said. “Right now, I’d say you look awful good for Joe Bob—”
“And the stalking, and your brother,” Johnny added.
Rusty tossed the notepad on the table. “You can prove you were in Helechewa before your brother died, but that’s all you can prove. Joe Bob was killed before that. It looks to me like you killed him and had to get the heck outta Dodge, so you came to Goose Pimple Junction to woo your sister-in-law, or maybe that was just a ruse. Maybe you’d planned on that being your alibi all along, but since you’re a T1 line of pure stupid–or you think we are–it didn’t work out quite like you planned.”
“And when Lenny sued for custody of Butterbean,” Johnny cut in, “you saw how upset Martha Maye was, and you set him up and killed him. Is that how it went down, T. Harry?” Johnny demanded.
T. Harry leaned back, balancing the chair on its back two legs. “No. Don’t think I’m not dumb.” He let the chair tilt forward to fall on all four legs and leaned toward the men, pointing. “I didn’t kill nobody, and you ain’t gonna make me say I did. I can prove my whereabouts the night Lenny died. I was at Humdinger’s all night.”
“You know, you keep coming up with stories, and we’re just going keep checking them out and proving you wrong,” Rusty said. “Why don’t you just stop this foolishness right now and save us all some time? I’ve got a witness who says he saw you and Joe Bob arguing the night before he was murdered, and I’ve got another witness who will testify that you were more than an acquaintance of Joe Bob’s. He will also testify that you hated the man because he bullied you.”
“Oh, for crying out—”
“You know what I think? I think he was more than just an acquaintance. I think your drinking buddy humiliated you on a daily basis and you’d had enough.” Rusty’s voice got louder as he got in T. Harry’s face.
“I’ll even allow that Joe Bob was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” the detective continued, “But you coming here and killing Lenny, that definitely sounds to me like premeditated murder.”
T. Harry’s face drained of what little color it had. His disheveled red hair looked like it was on fire on top of his stark white face. His eyes darted from man to man, and he jiggled his right leg nervously.
“I know you did it, Applewhite,” Rusty said.
“You don’t know squat,” T. Harry said. They glared at each other.
“I know you’re going to get the chair, and when you do, I want you thinking about what Joe Bob lived in his final moments when you had that bag wrapped around his face, cutting off his air supply. Think about his slow, painful death as he struggled with you—”
“I can prove I didn’t do it,” T. Harry blurted out. “Check when Martha Maye got the first present. That’ll prove I was here and nowhere near Nashville.”
“I still don’t recall telling you the date of Joe Bob’s untimely death.”
“Uh . . . It don’t matter. I know I didn’t kill him, so I had to be here. Check the dates with her. Ask her when she got the first present.”
Rusty shook his head several times like he was trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. “You had to be here when? You’re trying my patience with your stupid talk.”
Johnny got up and said, “Sit tight. I’ll call. I’m in danger of secondhand idiocy, breathing too much of his air. I’ll check out Humdinger’s, too.”
Johnny left the room and went to his office, where he called Martha Maye and asked her for the dates when she first received a gift from her secret admirer. She promised to call him back when she’d pinpointed the date.
He picked up the phone and dialed again.
Forty-two minutes later, Johnny walked back into the room where they were questioning T. Harry. He handed the detective a piece of paper, sat, folded his arms across his front, and smiled a cheesy grin at T. Harry.
“Well, well, well, Applewhite,” Rusty said. “Sounds like you thought we were all icing and no cake. I guess you didn’t count on FTD records.”
T. Harry’s face showed a hint of surprise but quickly changed to a frown, as if he didn’t understand the detective’s meaning.
“The date of the first gift is irrelevant.”
“Huh?” T. Harry looked genuinely confused.
“The first gift was a bouquet of flowers. Sent by FTD. They have things called records.” Looking bored, Rusty doodled on a pad of paper.
“Uh—”
“Yeah, ‘uh.’“ Rusty talked conversationally now, as if they were just shooting the breeze. “The flowers were ordered, not delivered by you personally, so they don’t give you an alibi for Joe Bob, and no one remembers seeing you at Humdinger’s, which means you’ve got no alibi for either murder.”
“Maybe you were mad at the way he treated her. Maybe you confronted him on her lawn and things got out of hand. Maybe it was premeditated, maybe it wasn’t,” Johnny said.
“Unless you’ve suddenly remembered something else you were doing at the time of those murders.” Rusty tapped his pen on the table. “You’d best start saying your prayers, son, because you’re looking guilty as sin.” He got up, placed both hands on the table in front of T. Harry, and leaned toward him.
“I think you’ve been wasting our time here. I think you did know when Joe Bob was murdered because you killed him, and I think it was premeditated, and I think if you killed one man, what’s another? I think you killed your brother, too, which means the prosecutor will most likely go for the death penalty. I think—”
“I did not!” T. Harry blurted, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I only killed Joe Bob.” He looked up, startled. “I mean, I mean—”
“That,” Johnny said to the detective, over T. Harry’s backpedaling, “is an example of how the dinosaurs survived for millions of years with walnut-sized brains.”
If you buy a rainbow, don’t pay cash for it.
~Southern Proverb
“How’d it go with T. Harry?” Jack asked, as Johnny stepped past him into his house that night.
“He’s the one’s been leaving those gifts for Martha Maye.” Johnny said, reaching down to pet Ezmeralda.
“Seriously?” Jack had been leading the way to his kitchen but stopped dead in his tracks and turned toward Johnny.
“Yep. Says he started out with the intent of establishing an alibi and also trying to woo her. Kill two birds with one stone, pardon the pun. He fancied himself a Romeo. Thought she’d be flattered.”
“Good night, nurse.” Jack whistled, then turned and headed again for the kitchen. Johnny and the dog followed.
“Then when Lenny showed up trying to win her back, he worried about them being reunited. Thought she’d assume the good gifts were from Lenny. So he switched to distasteful gifts, thinking she’d suspect they were from Lenny, too, which would cause her to go ahead with the divorce.”
“Ha! He didn’t count on Lenny being his own worst enemy. You said something about an alibi?” He motioned for Johnny to take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Yeah, that’s the best part.”
“What’s the best part?”
“Turns out he killed somebody up in Nashville. The detective pelted him with accusations, and T. Harry thought he was digging himself out of a hole. He thought by admitting to the gifts, he was helping his case. When the detective accused him of doing the murder in Nashville and his brother’s, too, and when he mentioned the death penalty, T. Harry blurted out a confession. Once the syrup was out of the bottle, he couldn’t get it back in.”
Jack whistled softly. “His lips probably moved faster than his brain.”
“Easy to do. A turtle could walk faster than he can think.”
“Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Johnny shook his head. Ezmeralda stood right in
front of him, her tail wagging so hard her butt moved with it, her big sad eyes pleading for more attention.
“You think he killed Lenny?” Jack took a seat across the table from Johnny. He snapped his fingers, pointing to Ezmeralda to sit down and leave Johnny alone.
Johnny shook his head and rubbed Ezzie’s big velvety ears, both of them ignoring Jack’s command. “No, he told enough lies to ice a wedding cake, but his alibi holds up on that, although I did a bit of bluffing and told him nobody saw him there. The bartender over at Humdinger’s says he was there all night. Came in early and left late. Played pool and darts and drank himself purt near under the table. I’ll ask for a few more people to corroborate, but he didn’t do it.”
“So are you ever going to tell me who you think did kill Lenny? You left a fool in suspense, you know.”
“Jack, I don’t see how I can prove it, but I’m more sure than ever that I’m right.” He sat up from petting Ezzie and leveled his gaze at Jack, radiating seriousness. “I think it was Estherlene Bumgarner.”
“No way.” Jack sat back as if he’d been slapped. “What kind of Halloween candy you been eating?”
“I’m as serious as a five-alarm fire, Jack.”
Jack’s eyes were huge as he let the theory settle in. “What on earth brought you to that conclusion? What did she have against Lenny?”
“A few things.” Johnny stood and began pacing the room. “First off, on the night of the murder, she said she didn’t see anyone or anything outside, but that doesn’t add up. You know how she sits in that front window and watches over the street like a sentinel. She knows everything that happens on Marigold Lane. How come that one night she didn’t see a thing? She was there, and she was awake. I don’t buy for one thin second that she was in the bath that long.”
“Okay, that’s a little odd—”
“Another thing,” Johnny interrupted, pacing to the doorway and back, “is the other day she suddenly remembered seeing a car the night of the murder and said it looked like T. Harry’s.”
“How can you be so sure it wasn’t?”
