by Bill Crider
“What?” Rhodes asked. “What was just a mistake?”
“The dead body,” Hack said.
“Dead body? There was a dead body?” Rhodes found his voice rising a little. Then he looked at Ruth Grady, who was suppressing a smile.
“No, no,” Hack said. “There wasn’t no body. She just thought there was.”
“I see,” Rhodes said, though he didn’t.
“It was her little boy that found it,” Hack said.
“Found what?” Rhodes asked. “The body?”
“Wasn’t no body. I just told you that. It was what he thought was a body.”
Rhodes had never allowed himself to become exasperated with Hack, and he wasn’t going to start now. “Fine,” he said. “What was it?”
Hack looked at Ruth, who was looking away. Rhodes had the distinct impression that she was trying not to laugh.
“Buddy checked it out,” Hack said. “You know that dirt road that joins Stem to Bud Street in about the 1500 block? Well, the Wheelis boy was walking down that road, kickin’ a can or somethin’, when he spotted it in the ditch.”
Now they were getting somewhere, Rhodes thought. “Spotted what in the ditch?” he asked.
“What he thought was a body,” Hack said. “His mother thought so, too. She went down there and looked before she called us.”
Ruth apparently couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. “It was a doll,” she said.
“A doll?” Rhodes was even more confused.
Hack was blushing. “It was one of them, what you call ‘em. . . .”
“An inflatable doll,” Ruth said. “I think they call them ‘sexual aids.’ Apparently it was fairly anatomically accurate.”
“Oh,” Rhodes said.
“Trash,” Hack said. “The whole world is just full of trash these days. Who’d throw a thing like that on the road where a kid might run across it? Can you tell me that? Trash, that’s who.”
Rhodes wasn’t sure, now, whether Hack’s ears were red from blushing or from anger. He tried not to laugh. “Did Buddy . . . ah . . . take care of the problem?”
“I think he stuck a hole in it,” Hack said. “He didn’t like it no better than I did. He’ll be bringin’ it in, I guess, for evidence.”
“Never a dull moment,” Rhodes said.
Hack snorted and turned back to his radio. Rhodes walked over to Ruth Grady. “Now what’s the information you have?” he asked.
“It may not be too important,” Ruth said, “but I found out something about motorcycles. It has to do with a woman named Wyneva Greer.”
“Let’s go over and sit at my desk,” Rhodes said.
After they were seated, he asked, “What did you find out?” He was careful not to ask from whom the information came.
“Well, from what I hear, the Greer woman came to town seven or eight months ago. Not too long after that, she moved in with Bert Ramsey. The interesting part is, I think she used to be the old lady of a member of a motorcycle gang. The words Los Muertos were mentioned.”
“That’s interesting, all right,” Rhodes said. He leaned back, and the chair squeaked. Hack looked up.
“I’ll be right back,” Ruth said. She stood up and walked to the door.
“What’s she up to?” Hack asked, having turned around now.
“I don’t know,” Rhodes said, but by then Ruth was back, with a can of WD-40 in her right hand. “I carry a can of this stuff in the car,” she said.
She knelt down and looked under Rhodes’s chair. “Lean up,” she said. Rhodes leaned up, and as he did Ruth gave the chair’s spring a shot of the lubricant, which hissed out of the thin, red plastic tube stuck in the white plastic top. “Now lean back again.”
Rhodes leaned back, and the chair squeaked only a little. He went forward, and the squeak was gone.
“That’s good stuff,” Hack said. “I was gettin’ mighty tired of havin’ to listen to that noise every time the sheriff sat down.” Rhodes could tell that his respect for Ruth had risen another notch.
Ruth put the can down on Rhodes’s desk. “Now,” she said. “I think my information’s accurate. I think Wyneva Greer is a hanger-on of the Los Muertos boys, and besides, before she took up with Ramsey, she was seen here and there with some real heavy-leather boys.”
“Apparently, they’ve been around,” Rhodes said. “I don’t know why nobody told me about them.”
“Maybe they kept a low profile,” Ruth said. “My informant doesn’t exactly hang around places where sheriff’s deputies spend their time, and she certainly isn’t the type to call up this office to tell us there’s a gang member in town.”
“I guess not,” Rhodes said. “I wonder where Wyneva Greer knew Bert Ramsey from?”
He didn’t expect an answer, and Ruth didn’t have one. “I don’t know,” she said. “My informant wasn’t close to her. She was just telling me something she’d seen and heard.”
“I understand,” Rhodes said. “And thanks, Ruth. You’ve given me something to think about.”
“What about the various body parts found lying around the county?” Ruth asked. “Have you managed to get rid of them, yet?”
“Not yet,” Rhodes said. “But I think Clyde Ballinger is going to take care of things. I talked to him and the doctor from Houston this morning, and I think they worked something out.”
“I hope so. I hate to think of things like that lying around unburied. It’s just gruesome, or something.” She paused. “I wonder why Bert Ramsey didn’t just burn them?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing,” Rhodes said. “There was something funny going on with Bert, obviously. Why would he call attention to himself by reporting those boxes? Why not just keep quiet?”
“Unless what he was involved in wasn’t so bad,” Ruth said. “I mean, not as bad as severed body parts.”
“It was bad,” Rhodes said. “It got him killed.”
“I see what you mean. It’s worrisome, though.”
“It certainly is. Obviously I need to have another talk with Wyneva Greer.”
“You’ve met her?” Ruth sounded disappointed.
“I’ve met her,” Rhodes said. “But I haven’t talked to her. I guess I misled you. I talked to the man she’s living with, but not to her. She didn’t say a word. Thanks to what you’ve told me, though, I can see that she probably has a few things she could tell me.”
“Maybe I could talk to her,” Ruth said.
“No, I’ll talk to her myself. I’ve already been out there once. I don’t want her and Buster Cullens to think I’ve assigned every officer in the county to them.” Rhodes knew that he was telling only half the truth. He also didn’t want Ruth Grady getting involved in a murder case, not when he suspected that Buster Cullens was the killer. I’m almost as bad as Hack, Rhodes thought.
Heavy black clouds were massing in the northeastern sky when Rhodes left the jail just before nightfall. He thought that he detected a hint of a cool breeze. Maybe the dry spell was about to break.
He got in the county car. He had told Ivy that he would come by, and he felt a little chill up his spine. He’d necked with her just like a schoolboy, and he hadn’t been a boy in a lot of years. He knew that to many people a little necking didn’t mean a thing. Times had changed a great deal since he was a high school kid. But he hadn’t changed, try as he might. He was still an old-fashioned man, with old-fashioned ideas, at least about a lot of things. One thing was women. In his way of thinking, you didn’t lead women on, not women like Ivy. You were honest with them, and you declared your intentions.
Unfortunately, he still wasn’t quite sure what his intentions were. Did he want to get married again, or not? Was it worth the risk of doing again? There was a lot to gain, but there was a lot to lose, as he had already discovered once, the hard way.
If Kathy were there, she would have told him to marry, he was pretty sure. When she’d taken the teaching job, she had said that she knew she was leaving him in good hands. There was no
mistaking her meaning. She clearly expected him to marry Ivy, and she just as clearly approved. Rhodes was pretty sure he approved, too. Last night, he’d been absolutely sure. Now, he was wavering again. I didn’t know I was so wishy-washy, he thought.
Ivy came to the door wearing jeans and a checked shirt. She’d had a haircut, and her hair was very short. She’d done nothing about the gray that flecked the blackness, and Rhodes approved.
“Notice anything?” she asked.
“Besides the haircut?” Rhodes asked. “I like it, by the way.”
“No, not the haircut,” Ivy said, tilting her head. Rhodes saw the gold ball on her left earlobe.
“My lord,” he said, “you’ve had your ears pierced.”
Ivy took his hands and pulled him into the house. “That’s right,” she said. “I just thought, better late than never. They do it right there at the beauty parlor. It was an impulse, I guess. I think I’ve always wanted pierced ears, but I never had the nerve to get it done. What do you think?”
Rhodes was feeling like a kid again, and he wasn’t exactly sure what to say. When he had been young, “nice” girls weren’t the ones with pierced ears. But that had been a long time ago. Surely he wasn’t that old-fashioned, was he?
“I like it,” he said. And he did. “I’ll have to get you a pair of earrings with diamonds.”
Ivy was pleased. “You’re sure? You don’t think I’m a hussy?”
Rhodes laughed aloud. Ivy looked so young, and made him feel so young, that he kept forgetting that she was nearly his own age. She must have had the same thought he had. “Of course not,” he said. “How could anyone think that? It never entered my mind.” A good thing no one can arrest the sheriff for lying, he thought. Anyway, it’s just a white lie.
“Liar,” Ivy laughed. She led him over to the couch, a not-very-comfortable model covered in thick gold cloth.
“Well, maybe the thought did cross my mind,” Rhodes said. “You know, a man of my generation. . . .”
“Never mind,” Ivy said. “Tell me all the hot gossip of the county.”
Rhodes told her about the doll that the Wheelis boy had found in the ditch. “Buddy’s not the most liberal-minded man in town, you know. Not too long ago he tried to charge a couple with adultery. I’d bet that by the time he turns in the evidence, it’s flatter than a pancake and rolled into a little ball.”
Ivy laughed at the story, but she wanted to know about the murder investigation. Rhodes told her about the four men at the Gottschalk place, and he told her that Bert Ramsey’s funeral would be the next day.
“I’d like to go,” she said.
Rhodes was surprised. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I feel sorry for Mrs. Ramsey. She seemed so sad when we talked to her.”
“Can you get off work?”
“I think so. What time?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“Can you pick me up, or shall I go by myself?”
“I’ll pick you up,” Rhodes said. “I’ll be there on official business, but there’s no reason I shouldn’t let you go with me.”
“Fine. I’ll be ready.”
Just at that moment, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, lighting up the darkness outside. It was followed almost at once by a tremendously loud roll of thunder. The lights flickered and went out.
“Must have hit a transformer,” Rhodes said lamely.
“Where was Moses when the lights went out?” Ivy asked.
“I remember that one from the eleventh grade,” Rhodes said. “From Huckleberry Finn. He was in the dark. Just like us.” The eleventh hour, he thought. Oh, lord. He put his arm up on the back of the couch. He could barely see Ivy, but she was there. Oh, lord, he thought again.
Chapter 10
Rhodes was sure of two things the next morning. One was that he was not making much progress in finding out who had killed Bert Ramsey. The thought of attending the funeral brought that fact home, hard. So far, Rhodes had talked to Buster Cullens for a few minutes and learned nothing. He had also talked to four members of Los Muertos and learned even less.
Why would Los Muertos want to kill Ramsey, anyway? Rhodes had no idea, and he certainly had no hard evidence that they were involved in any way at all. Mrs. Ramsey had heard motorcycles. That was it.
And what about Buster Cullens? Again, he had Mrs. Ramsey’s story that Buster was now living with Bert’s old girl friend, along with Mrs. Ramsey’s strong feeling that Buster was guilty. And that was all. There was nothing to link the two men in any other way.
What bothered Rhodes most was the money in Bert’s house, along with all the evidence of a lot of spending. Bert hadn’t earned all the money by doing odd jobs.
The other thing that Rhodes was sure of was that he was now an engaged man. Or maybe he wasn’t. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but it seemed to him that he’d made some pretty definite promises. He was engaged, all right. Of course, they hadn’t set a date or anything like that. He wished he could remember his exact words.
It didn’t really matter, however. Rhodes still felt like a teenager, and he also felt inordinately pleased with himself. He’d have to call Kathy and let her know.
He had a bowl of Grape Nuts, got dressed in khakis, and rode down to the jail. There was not much going on. A nursing home patient was missing, but he had wandered off before, and no one was really worried yet. There had been a bit of vandalism at the high school, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Rhodes caught up on his reports and then went to pick up Ivy.
Ivy was dressed in a dark gray suit, and Rhodes was once again impressed with her trim figure. She made no reference to the previous night, and neither did Rhodes. It didn’t seem like the proper time.
The rainfall had settled the dust and greened up the grass, and the northerly breeze that had pushed in behind it had cooled the weather down to an almost bearable temperature. The cemetery would be muddy, but probably not too bad.
They arrived at Ballinger’s. Rhodes parked in front, this time, and they went in. They signed the register and sat in the back of the small chapel. Rhodes didn’t like funerals.
The organist played a series of the slowest, most maudlin tunes imaginable—”In the Garden,” “Sunrise,” “The Old Rugged Cross.” Rhodes was going to make out a list of upbeat numbers for his own funeral and request that they be played at top speed. He was considering “The Uncloudy Day” and “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder” when the rest of the small crowd began to trickle in.
Rhodes recognized some of them, people for whom Ramsey had worked, for the most part, except for old Tink Lindsey and his wife. Attending funerals was their only form of entertainment, and Clyde Ballinger had once told Rhodes that the Lindseys hadn’t missed a funeral at his establishment in the last fifteen years.
The minister came in and stood beside the open casket. Then the family came in and was seated in an alcove just off to the left of the main section of the chapel. There were Mrs. Ramsey and two men. Rhodes didn’t know the men, but he assumed they were uncles or cousins. The minister had just begun to speak about “the dear departed” when Wyneva Greer came in. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a faded blue shirt. She walked down near the front and took a seat.
The minister began talking about how he had searched for a scripture appropriate to the life of a man like Bert Ramsey, someone who’d made his livelihood by helping others. “In the course of my search,” he said, “I came across Chapter 4 of Ephesians, in which Paul says . . .”
It was at this point that Mrs. Ramsey looked up and saw Wyneva Greer. “Get that woman out of here,” she said, in a stage whisper.
The preacher stopped abruptly in his talk. “Preach on, preacher,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Get that woman out of here,” she hissed to one of the men beside her.
The preacher, unable to figure out just exactly what was happening, remained silent. “Preach on, preacher,” Mrs. Ramsey said again.
The minister
tried to pick up the thread of his talk. “Ah . . . now in Ephesians, Paul speaks of how people have different abilities, and of how some are put here for service . . .”
Neither of the men by Mrs. Ramsey had made a move, so she hauled her bulk up and squeezed herself out between the narrow pews, heading for Wyneva. The minister stopped again.
“Preach on,” Mrs. Ramsey said over her shoulder. The minister stood with his mouth open, but nothing came out.
Wyneva sat stolidly, watching Mrs. Ramsey approach. Ivy’s elbow touched Rhodes lightly in the ribs. Rhodes had had a bad experience at the last funeral of a murder victim he’d attended, one which he wasn’t eager to repeat. He got up, and he started for Wyneva Greer.
Mrs. Ramsey got there first and reached for Wyneva’s shoulders with her huge hands. Before she could get a solid grip, Rhodes brushed her arms aside, took Wyneva’s arm and pulled her into the aisle.
“I got a right to be here,” Wyneva said.
“You ain’t got no rights at all, you godless hussy,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Bert wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. Get on out of here, right now!” She turned back to the minister. “And you get on with your preachin’,” she said.
Rhodes noticed the Lindseys, who were sitting with rapt expressions on their faces. He would have bet that they were enjoying this funeral more than any one they’d attended in the past fifteen years. He increased his pull on Wyneva’s arms, and she reluctantly gave ground. By the time Mrs. Ramsey got turned to face them again, Rhodes had backed Wyneva nearly all the way to the rear of the chapel.
Mrs. Ramsey appeared satisfied. Rather than working her way back to the family section, she sat in the nearest pew. “Get on with it, preacher,” she said.
The preacher cleared his throat, and as Rhodes was pulling Wyneva through the back door the message was beginning again.
Clyde Ballinger, who had come around from his spot near the family, was waiting for Rhodes and Wyneva when they left the chapel. “I swear I never saw anything like that,” Ballinger said. “That old woman was on a real tear.”
