Do Unto Others jp-1

by Jeff Abbott

  32:23

  Hally Schneider-Prov. 14:9

  Jordan Poteet-Isaiah 5:20

  Eula Mae Quiff-Job 31:35

  Matt Blalock-Matt. 26:21

  Ruth Wills-2 Kings 4:40

  Bob Don Goertz-Judges 5:30 Anne Poteet-Gen. 3:16 Mama? What the hell was she doing on a list written by some religious zealot who’d been murdered? Names with Bible quotes next to them. What was this list even for? Invitees to a revival meeting? I didn’t think so. I took a long draw on my now-stubby cigarette and committed the names and quote numbers to memory as best I could. I used to do that with sales figures on my books at the textbook publishers’ before I had to confer with my jerk of a boss, so I had a quick memory. “The list doesn’t mean anything to me,” I said. “But I know all these folks. Miz Quiff, Miz Wills, and Mrs. Hufnagel were here yesterday when Beta made her scene. Hally Schneider’s family is distant kin to me and they live on my street.

  Matt Blalock and Bob Don Goertz-well, everyone knows them. And I’ve no idea what my mother and I are doing there. I don’t know what significance the Bible quotes have. She wasn’t quoting the Good Book when she was here yesterday. Where’d you find this?” Junebug narrowed his eyes at me but kept his voice soft and slow. “It was stuffed down her shirt. She’d hidden it there, I guess.” “Or someone planted it,” I suggested. “Maybe to confuse the issue.” Junebug appeared unwilling to grant such cleverness to a local murderer. He watched me fish another cigarette from his pack and light it. I resolved to keep the amount smoked to a prime number, to give myself some leeway. “You ever see that bat before? The one that killed her?” My stomach sank to somewhere near my ankles, and I’m sure my cigarette shook. “Oh, God, yeah. And I’m sure my prints will be on it, unless the killer wiped it clean. I found it yesterday in the softball lot when I was coming back to the library.” “I see.” He jotted on his pad and eyed me like I might make a sudden move. “And so did everyone else who was in there, Junebug! A roomful of people saw me carrying that stupid bat. I put it in my office.” “Well, Jordy. This is all very interesting. You know what I learned at the police academy?” I bit back my first reply, which involved mastering how not to leave a piss stain on your pants.

  Junebug wasn’t acting like a childhood friend. I couldn’t believe he imagined I had any connection to this. “That most murders are awful simple. You just got to worry about motive, opportunity, and access to a weapon.” He looked up at me with the eyes of a stranger. “Sounds to me like you got all three, buddy.” “Please. The woman hit me with a book, made a spectacle of herself, and stormed off. That’s not a motive for murder. Plus, do you honestly think I could kill anybody?”

  Junebug didn’t answer that question; instead, like a Socratic teacher, he posed me another one. “Did you have any other dealings with Miz Harcher aside from yesterday?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Like I said, she got thrown off the library board. She didn’t approve of the city council hiring me and she’d been trying to get certain books off the shelf for ages. I had to deal with her through the library board.

  She lost and I won. So my feud was over with her, as far as I was concerned.” A rational thought fought its way through my shock. I stubbed out my cigarette and snatched the list back from Junebug, who didn’t look at all pleased. “The library board,” I said. “Ruth Wills and Eula Mae Quiff are both on it. So’s Hally Schneider’s mother and Tamma Hufnagel’s husband. And Bob Don Goertz replaced Miz Harcher when she was taken off.” “What about Matt Blalock?” “He’s not on the board, but I let the county Vietnam vets support group meet here.” “So who all has keys to this place?” “Well, me, of course. And Candace. The board members: Eula Mae, Ruth, Adam Hufnagel, Janice Schneider, and Bob Don Goertz. Matt Blalock has a key because the vets’ group meets after hours on Thursday, which is our short day.” I tried unsuccessfully to dredge up more names. “I think that’s it.”

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Junebug’s quiet drawl dripped with accusation. I raised my palms in mock surrender. “I don’t know what that list means. She was a crazy, bitter old woman who believed she was doing God’s work when all she did was piss folks off. But nobody on that list is a murderer.” Junebug stared back at me with the look he’d used to try to psych me out before basketball tryouts. “There was a dead woman here this morning, and I can’t find a single shred of evidence that points to a break-in. She had a key on her. Where’d she get that key or a copy? Narrows the field a tad, don’t it?” “I should tell you,” I said, “that I was here last night, around ten, for about three minutes. And something creepy happened.” That brought him forward on his haunches and I explained about forgetting Mama’s medicine. “Did you see or hear anything unusual?” “No. Nothing. I just came in, got the pills, and left. I can’t explain it-but I just had a funny feeling that someone was watching me. I just thought it was nerves.” Junebug judged me with his eyes and scribbled in his notepad.

  “I want you to come to the station with me, Jordy, and sign a statement. Okay?” His tone was almost friendly again. “Sure. Let me tell Candace-” “She’ll be at the station. I’ll need a statement from her too.” I paused. “So who do you think did it? You have to be pretty damned cold-blooded, killing someone with a baseball bat.” Junebug smiled a know-it-all smile. “Lots of people are cold inside. We just never see it.” I myself felt a little bit frosty and I didn’t argue.

  “Your mama’s keeping you in town for a while, right, Jordy?” Junebug sounded more casual than he meant. “Yes, she is.” My voice was like stone. “Good. I don’t think you should go anywhere till this is all over.” Before we left, I sat in my car, found a gasoline receipt, and scribbled down the list of names and Bible verses. I thought I’d gotten them right. I hoped so. As I followed Junebug’s car the two blocks to the police station at the corner of Loeber and Magnolia, I thought about that list. Why did Beta hide it on her person? She wouldn’t have wanted someone to see it, perhaps. And why did the list exist anyway? Why those eight names? I’d give my statement, then get home as quick as I could. Mama kept a Bible at her bedside, although she didn’t even look at the pictures anymore. And maybe, if the foggy veil lifted from her mind for a while, she could tell me why Beta Harcher would have her on such a list. That wasn’t likely, though.

  Providing my statement was easy. I was finished in twenty minutes.

  Then I waited for Junebug’s secretary to type it up. The whole time Billy Ray Bummel looked at me like I was a cross between Jack the Ripper and Joseph Goebbels. (I’m giving Billy Ray far too much credit in knowing criminal history. He probably thinks Jack the Ripper is someone with a gas problem and Joseph Goebbels is a turkey tycoon.) Despite his law degree (undoubtedly granted by one of the finer mail-order institutions), Billy Ray has carried on the fine Bummel tradition of denseness. Education doesn’t erase high-quality stupidity like Billy Ray’s; it just makes it more dangerous. Junebug’s secretary, Nelda, announced to him that she’d reached Beta’s niece in Houston. Junebug got up to take the call. I signed my statement. Billy Ray took the document and examined it critically, as though hoping to spot a confession somewhere in there. His black eyes, larger than most, widened as he caught what looked like a clue. It must have been waving to him. He set his bony, knobby hands on his beer belly and chewed his bottom lip. I’ve seen cows masticate in the exact same fashion. Cows aren’t bright either. “So you were there last night after ten? Wouldn’t surprise me if that’s about the time the coroner says Miz Harcher met her dee-mise.” I gave him the withering look that Mama and Sister taught me when I was young. You narrow your eyes, raise your brow, and flare a nostril like there’s a rank smell. It’s also important to maintain a demeanor of indifference to what the other person’s saying. “Excuse me, Billy Ray, but you ought to wait until you have a few more facts before you start making accusations.”

  “You had the murder weapon. You run the place where she was killed.

  And you had both opportunity and motive.” Billy Ray must�
��ve had a pit bull at home for inspiration. “You’re being ridiculous. She had a key.

  She could have let her murderer in.” “I don’t think so. And don’t fool yourself that knowing Junebug for so long will help you any. I’m watching you, Mr. Jordan Poteet. You’re my number one suspect. And I’m gonna nail your skinny ass to the wall.” For dramatic effect Billy Ray ran a hand through his rapidly thinning hair. It only took half a second. You think all the sun his head gets would help his brain grow, but his mind isn’t fertile ground. I felt scared and mad at the same time. I didn’t want either emotion to show. “You’ve got my statement.

  You haven’t charged me with anything. May I go?” Billy Ray smiled officiously and gestured toward the door. “Go on ahead. Be sure and let us know if you intend to leave town.” I walked without hurry to the front door. I didn’t look back at Billy Ray. The sunshine was bright and cheery, but my skin was ice-cold. I hadn’t killed Beta Harcher, but at least one member of the local authorities considered me guilty as sin. Think about it. Think about being at the top of the list of suspects of bashing in a woman’s head, and see if you don’t have a bit of trouble swallowing. Candace’s Mercedes was still in the parking lot; she hadn’t yet given her statement to Junebug. I considered waiting for her, then imagined her hanging around me like a stray cat behind a restaurant. I didn’t want that right now. I’d call her later. First things first. I wanted to talk to Mama and to find me a Bible. I needed to know why Beta Harcher thought of me in connection with a verse from Isaiah.

  3

  It was about eleven-thirty when I reached my house. Nothing seemed different from when I’d left, except that I could smell skunk on the late-morning air. Sometimes the critters wander in town looking for food, get scared, and let fly with their chemical defense. Then they scurry back to the woods. Just like Beta Harcher. Come in, raise a stink, get out of the picture, but leave an an noying reek behind. It was the meanest thought I’d ever had in my life. By the time I got inside, I was sullen with guilt over it. Mama sat in the den, watching All My Children on a whispering TV. Since she’d gotten sick, she couldn’t stand loudness, although it never bothered her before. She’d sit for hours, simply watching actors move their lips. I couldn’t hear what trauma the pretty blonde on the soap was enduring. I had my own to fret about. Sister was still in her robe, yawning and reading the Austin newspaper over coffee. She saw my face and bolted to her feet.

  I told her quickly what happened. Sister of course was horrified. I spoke in low tones of having discovered the body, so Mama wouldn’t hear. I described the list that Junebug had found and produced my copy. I confessed to having forgotten Mama’s medicine and going to the library at what now seemed like a mighty inopportune moment At the end, Sister sank into her chair. “And so Billy Ray told me I’m the number one suspect. Me! Can you believe the nerve?” Sister shook her head. “They can’t be serious. I mean, Junebug’s known you forever. He knows you wouldn’t kill a tick, much less Miz Harcher.” She stood. “We have to call Uncle Bid.” “There’s no need. I haven’t been arrested for anything and I’m sure Junebug’ll find whoever did this.” Plus I didn’t want to have any unnecessary contact with Uncle Bid. I’ve always contended that Uncle Bid should be belled like a leper so you’d know when he’s coming. I don’t believe there’s a more unpleasant old fart of a lawyer in Texas. I went into the den. Mama watched the TV screen intently as a very quiet argument raged. I switched off the set. Mama kept staring at the screen without changing one muscle in her face. I knelt before her. “Mama? Look at me.” She turned her face and gave me a shy, uncertain smile. “How are you today?” I asked gently. I sensed Sister hovering nearby. “Fine, thank you.” Etiquette was no longer a certainty with Mama, but today, at least, she hadn’t forgotten her manners. “Mama, I want you to think. Do you know a lady named Beta Harcher?” I enunciated the name carefully, as though that would help Mama fight through the choking mass of abnormal nerve cells the disease spawned in her brain. “Who?” “Beta Harcher.” Mama looked blank. I asked again; she looked blank again. “Maybe she’ll remember later,” Sister offered. “She probably won’t remember this conversation later,” I snapped. Sister looked wounded and I said, “Sorry. I’m stressed.” I took a deep breath. Try association. “She was real active in the Baptist church, Mama. She’s short, dark hair, kind of frumpy.

  Sort of bossy?” This complimentary description of Beta didn’t penetrate far. “I don’t know,” Mama said. She looked down into her lap. “I don’t know,” she repeated, her voice wavering. “It’s okay, Mama. Don’t worry. You watch your show now.” I stood and switched the TV back on. “Try again later,” Sister suggested. I leaned down and kissed Mama’s cheek. Her hand came up to my head, unexpectedly, and her fingers tangled in my thick hair, so close to the strawberry-blonde color of her own. I held the embrace for a moment, then turned back to Sister. “Her Bible still up in her room?” “I think so,” Sister answered. “C’mon, Mama, let’s have a glass of iced tea.” I left them in the kitchen and bounded up the stairs. In my room I got paper and pen, then walked down the hall. Mama’s room was quiet and comfortable, with Irish lace curtains and an antique oak bed that had been her aunt’s. Pictures of Sister and me as children, joined by the more recent photos of Mark, dotted the walls. I sat on the quilted bedspread and opened her Bible. It occurred to me that I didn’t know which translation of the Bible Beta had used to select these quotes; I could only hope that I got the gist of the meanings from the same verses in Mama’s Bible. I smoothed out the folded list and considered it. Beta had written it, then hidden it. Why? It was a diverse roster.

  Each person had a connection with the library, although some were more tenuous than others. I decided to treat it as a list of folks that Beta Harcher had a gripe with. I knew the people on the list weren’t her friends and she didn’t want us to be. Certain folks and certain verses. There had to be a reason. Mama and me first. I looked again at the verse next to my name: Isaiah 5:20. I flipped through the Bible till I found it: Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil. I said the words aloud. Did the woman think I had my sensibilities reversed? Considering I kept books in the library that she considered objectionable, I suppose so. I looked up the quote indicated by Mama’s name. Genesis 3:16: In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children. I didn’t retain much from the Sunday school classes that my parents made me attend, but I did recall that verse referred to Eve’s curse of blood and painful childbirth. Good God, what did that have to do with my mother? She’d had two children and plenty of pain in the process due to our large Poteet heads. But why would Beta Harcher write this down? Perhaps Beta considered bearing a heathen like me to be the utmost in maternal agony. I copied my makeshift list into a notebook and then copied the verses. I started through the rest of the list, writing down each corresponding verse by each name. It made for interesting reading. I sat back on the bed. The police would surely be talking to these people. Junebug and Billy Ray were probably conducting their own version of the Spanish Inquisition right now.

  Then I heard Billy Ray’s words: I’m going to nail your skinny ass to the wall. Maybe their questioning of the others was going to center around me. I had access to the scene; access to the weapon; and I’d fought with the deceased. I shut my eyes, remembering how a libraryful of folks had overheard me say I could’ve killed Beta. God! Sometimes the police didn’t need to look beyond that, if the district attorney thought there was a case. My motive seemed slim to me, but I played devil’s advocate. Beta had threatened to close the library. What if the police postulated that I believed her and feared she’d cost me the only job I’d been able to land? Would someone kill for a job? Maybe not, but Junebug might surmise I’d kill for my mother. My position at the library allowed Sister and me to keep Mama at home. It was common knowledge that I’d returned to Mirabeau from a good-paying job up North to keep Mama out of an institution. How far would I go to maintain that arrangement? I swallowed. I wondered that my self. I knew I would
n’t resort to murder, but I would have fought tooth and nail to keep the library safe from Beta Harcher. I think folks in town, such as the chief of police, knew that too. And Mama. Why was she on the list? Never mind the library-what if Beta had threatened my mother in some way? If Junebug assumed I could kill once to protect my job, protecting my mother might induce me to a tri-state slaying spree. I sounded paranoid, even to myself. Mama wasn’t going to be much help, I thought. I scanned the names again. Perhaps one of them knew a perfectly logical reason for this list. The library was closed, and Sister was here until eight tonight. I could ask some questions of my own and maybe find out why Beta Harcher had ended up on the wrong side of batting practice in the library.

  The First Baptist Church of Mirabeau is one of the ugliest buildings that’s trying to be pretty that I’ve ever seen. It’s built of beige brick with purplish windows, smeared with white to give the windows a marbled effect. I’ve seen birdshit that exact color. Even God would call this church ugly. It sat on the corner of Alamo and Heydl Streets on the south side of Mayne. Like most churches in town (and there aren’t many-the Baptists, Catholics, and Methodists have just about everyone covered), First Baptist has an announcement sign, with a black felt background with big white letters that stick into the felt. Each sermon here gets treated like a blockbuster summer movie, at least for its one week of fanfare. Tamma Hufnagel knelt in front of the announcement board as I pulled up. A box of letters rested in her lap and she was posting the theme for next Sunday’s sermon. I opened my notebook on my lap and reread Tamma’s verse, which was Numbers 32:23: Be sure your sin will find you out. Whoa! Sounded juicy. I wondered what sin mousy Tamma could have committed in Beta’s eyes. Dancing? Playing cards? I only knew Tamma Hufnagel to say hello, but I did know her husband a sight better. Brother Adam Hufnagel’s preaching wasn’t exactly fire and brimstone; more like a light grilling. I’m surprised Beta tolerated such slackness on his part. My dealings with Brother Adam on the library board had been polite if distant. He’d been Beta’s biggest supporter in her censorship stances but had tried to get her to soften her hysterics. He hadn’t fought too hard when Beta got punted from the board; I think he knew it was a losing cause, and he didn’t want to put his own position in jeopardy.