“Guess we’d better get to it, Wayne,” he said. “I want to hear his story.”
He stepped through the door the warden had opened, Wayne on his heels. But they weren’t going to hear Bragg’s story, at least not from Bragg.
Stretched out on the porcelain-topped table in the center of the room was a man’s body, fully clothed. The front of his blue work shirt was soaked with blood, and there was a single bullet hole in his left shirt pocket. An old Colt single-action six-shot revolver lay on the table between his feet.
“Jimmie Bragg,” Wayne said, under his breath.
“Blast and damnation,” Buddy said fervently.
They stood staring for a moment, then Buddy stepped forward and unbuttoned Bragg’s shirt. The man’s skin was cold to the touch, and the blood was dried. Buddy raised one arm, feeling the resistance. He’d been dead several hours, Buddy guessed. To Wayne, he said, “Get Richards.”
The sergeant was a swarthy man, barrel-chested, with dark hair and a bushy black moustache. The story, as he told it, was a simple one. He’d been on his way back to the cabin where he stayed weeknights. He took a shortcut around the automotive maintenance barn and stumbled over Bragg’s body. The man was dead, obviously of a self-inflicted gunshot. The gun, a revolver, lay on the ground beside him. Richards had found a typewritten note in his pants pocket. He handed it over. It read:
To whom it may concern, I caused the accident that killed Mr. Whitworth. I was driving behind him last night and I got to going a little too fast on the downhill and hit his car in the rear. It was an accident and I thought maybe I could get away without anybody knowing it, but my conscience won’t let me off the hook. Tell the widow I’m sorry. I’m really not that bad of a guy, just a little careless is all.
The note was signed with a rough scrawl: “J. Bragg.”
There was a long silence. “So,” Buddy said finally, “Nobody saw him shoot himself?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Nobody we could find. Happened just like I said. He was dead when I stumbled over him. I went and got the warden and we brought him here. The trusty who works as a medic—we don’t have a reg’lar doc out here—pronounced him dead.”
“I suppose you picked up the gun,” Buddy said, thinking about fingerprints.
“Well, I wasn’t going to just let it lay out there on the ground, was I?” the sergeant said stiffly. “Warden said you could take it if you want.”
“I will, then,” Buddy said, although if the warden was giving them the gun, it wasn’t likely to be of much use. He added, “Does Bragg have family around here? Where’s he from?”
“Warden said his mother lives in Monroeville,” the sergeant replied. “Reckon we’ll send him over there.”
Buddy looked back down at the body. “Tell the warden we’ll take that little job off his hands. I’ll call Noonan to come out here and pick him up tonight.” He fielded Wayne’s quizzical look with a short nod. “That way, his mother won’t have cause to complain that it’s not all done proper. I’ll need her name. Address, if you’ve got it.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” Richards said. “The warden will prob’ly be glad he don’t have to fool with it.”
Wayne cleared his throat. “Burford said you’d show us the damage to the car.”
“Sure, I can take you out to the car, if you’re done here.” Richards nodded at the note in Buddy’s hand. “Warden said to tell you to keep that, too. Kinda wraps everything up for you, don’t it?”
“I reckon it does.” Regretfully, Buddy glanced down at the note, then took one last look at Jimmie Bragg, who wasn’t ever going to tell his side of the story—if it was different from the story in the note, that is, and from Sergeant Richards’ story.
He sighed. “I reckon we’re done here. Let’s go get a look at that car.”
Back at the sheriff’s office an hour or so later, Buddy watched while Wayne chopped an onion and cooked it with some other stuff in a skillet, then stirred in four sliced hot dogs and a can of beans. He got a couple of bottles of Jax beer out of the icebox, and the two of them sat down to a late supper. On the table in front of them: their plates, the beer, the note, the rusty old Colt, and the Beast, who watched with attention as they dug into their food.
“This thing doesn’t seem right to me,” Wayne said around a mouthful of beans. “I was out there this morning when we hauled that Pierce-Arrow up the hill, and Bragg was as chipper as a kid at a baseball game. If his conscience was giving him trouble, he sure didn’t show any sign of it.”
Buddy forked up a big bite of beans and hot dog chunks. “I’m with you. This whole thing smells fishy to me. That’s why I wanted Noonan to—Whoa!” He spit his mouthful of beans back onto his plate and grabbed for the Jax.
“Too hot for you?” Wayne asked. He fished around in his bowl and held up a limp strip of something red. “It’s this, I reckon. I got to liking chili peppers when I was out in Texas, and I put ’em in just about everything. The hotter they are, the better I like ’em. I got these from those garden club ladies. They’re growing ’em in that garden at the corner of Camellia and Rosemont. Fish ’em out if you don’t like ’em.”
Buddy had never in his life tasted anything with the firepower of those peppers. He cooled off his burning tongue with another swallow or two of beer, then forked out all the hot pieces he could find and dropped them onto a saucer. Other than that, he thought, the beans were just fine—certainly better than the cheese and baloney sandwich he would have had on his own.
When he’d finished eating, he pushed back his bowl and said, “I’m feeling like we’ve gone about as far as we can go with this Whitworth thing, Wayne. We’ve got an eyewitness who identifies the car and the driver and says it was a deliberate hit, twice. We’ve got the car—the warden’s car—with a dented front bumper and cream-colored paint flecks on one fender. Plus, we’ve got a dead body and a suicide note.” He paused. “Am I leaving anything out?”
“Nope.” Wayne took out his cigarette makings. “Neat little package, I’d say. Want me to wrap it up that way on the report?”
Buddy thought for a minute. “Before you do that, why don’t you see if you can pull any fingerprints off the gun and the note. If there’s anything recognizable, I want you to go to the funeral parlor in the morning and get Bragg’s prints, then go back out to the prison farm and get prints from Richards, Burford, and anybody else who might have handled either the gun or the note. You’ll want mine, too. I had my hands on both.”
“Sounds right,” Wayne said, filling his cigarette paper with tobacco. “We might also ask Doc Roberts to dig out that bullet before we send Bragg’s body to his mother.”
Buddy drained his Jax. “You’re thinking that maybe—”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Wayne said flatly. “Let’s just get it and see what we’ve got.”
Buddy nodded. “I’ll finish it myself. I’ll use what you have and add whatever we learn tomorrow. We can call the case closed—for now, anyway.”
“For now?”
“For now.” Buddy turned his empty beer bottle in his hands. “We know how Whitworth died and who was involved, but we don’t know why. Why did Bragg ram that car? Ram it twice, according to Hawkins. And what was Whitworth doing out there on the Jericho Road on a Sunday night, anyway? Bodeen Pyle swears he wasn’t on his way out to the moonshine camp. Was it just bad luck—wrong place, wrong time?”
Wayne rolled his cigarette between his thumbs and middle fingers. “And that business out at the prison farm was a little too pat for me,” he said. “My gut tells me something is going on out there. I’d like to know what.”
Buddy looked at the clock on the wall. It was after ten. “Well, it’s too late to bother Mrs. Whitworth tonight. I’ll go over to her house in the morning and let her know what we’ve found out so far. You talk to Doc Roberts and get those prints, and we’ll see where we are. You okay with that?”
“Yeah,” Wayne said. He finished rolling and
licked the paper to seal it. “There are a couple of rounds in that Colt. I’ll test-fire it. Maybe we can check it against the slug Doc Roberts digs out. See if it matches.” He lit his cigarette.
Buddy stared at him. He had never heard of such a thing. “You can do that?”
“Dunno whether I can or not.” Wayne reached up to the shelf over the table and took down the copy of Popular Science he’d been reading at lunch. “Some people can.” He flipped to a page headed “Who Did the Shooting?” and pushed the magazine toward Buddy. “In fact, the guy who wrote this article—Calvin Goddard—claims he can. He says every gun leaves a fingerprint on a bullet. Some people don’t believe him, but it kinda intrigues me, you know?”
Buddy looked down at the magazine. The caption declared New Scientific Methods “Fingerprint” Bullets and Firearms. “Do we have the right equipment?” he asked.
“No, but I’ve got a microscope,” Wayne said. “That’ll get us started. If we find anything interesting, maybe we can get some help from Goddard. He’s running a crime lab up in Chicago.” He pulled a fleck of loose tobacco off his lower lip. “Something to consider, anyway.”
Buddy gave him an approving glance, once more congratulating himself for having the sense to hire Wayne Springer. Personally, he doubted that matching a bullet could be done, but if it was the kind of thing they were doing in big-city police departments, he was willing.
“Sure,” he said. “Give it a try, Wayne. Can’t hurt, you know.”
“Thanks.” Wayne looked at the saucer of chili peppers bits that Buddy had fished out of his beans. “If you’re not going to eat these, can I have them?”
Buddy pushed the saucer toward him. “Oh, you bet. What are you going to do with them? Put them in your eggs in the morning?”
“Nah.” Wayne shook his head. “The Beast likes peppers. Gobbles ‘em up like they’re candy or something.” He put the saucer on the floor. “It’s all yours, Beastly, my friend.”
Buddy, watched, disbelieving, as the cat cleaned up the saucer—with no smoke coming out of his ears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE DAHLIAS AND THE LUCKY FOUR CLOVERS
Friday, October 26, 1934
“Is this our table?” Ophelia asked, looking around the large dining hall at the Academy.
People were lining up in the hall for the pie supper that followed the Dixie Regional Barbershop Competition, and the Dahlias were hurrying to set up their table, one of several arranged around the room. The ticket table was beside the door, with Miss Rogers seated behind the cash box. Pie was fifteen cents a slice and coffee was a nickel a cup. And yes, people could buy as many tickets as they pleased—until the pie ran out. The proceeds from tonight’s event would go to the Darling Blessing Box.
“This is it,” Lizzy replied, smoothing the white tablecloth she had brought. “Aunt Hetty is bringing some chrysanthemums and asters for a centerpiece. We have thirteen pies coming, already sliced into eight pieces and ready to serve. Fannie Champaign is still in New York, but all our other members contributed.” She set her green tomato pie on the table, with a small white card that included the name of the pie and her own name.
“Well, I’m sure the Clovers appreciated the turnout,” Ophelia said. “It looked like a full house tonight—every seat was taken. I’m so glad they won!”
For they had won! The Lucky Four Clovers had charmed the panel of judges, as well as the entire audience. At the end of the evening, they were named the top men’s barbershop quartet in the entire Dixie region.
Ophelia was looking around the table, where several pies were already in place. “Liz, where do you want me to put this buttermilk pie? Anywhere special?”
“You could put it there, Opie,” Liz suggested, “between Alice Ann’s sweet potato pie and Miss Rogers’ vinegar pie. Be sure your card is with it.”
“Wasn’t that a wonderful evening?” Bessie Bloodworth said, hurrying up with her pineapple pumpkin pie. She set it down next to Liz’s green tomato pie. “Our Clovers did us proud, didn’t they?”
“Oh, they did!” Aunt Hetty Little exclaimed, putting a vase of flowers on the table, along with her pecan pie. “And it’s a marvel, too, considering how unlucky they’ve been in the past couple of weeks.”
Liz glanced at Aunt Hetty’s card. “You didn’t mention that you added your secret ingredient?” she asked with a chuckle.
Aunt Hetty twinkled at her. “No, dear. But I’ll be right here, if anybody wants to ask. And after all that time in the oven, nobody’s going to get tipsy, no matter how many pieces they eat. The only thing left of Cousin Rondell’s brandy is the flavor.”
“I’ll say they’ve been unlucky!” It was Earlynne Biddle, with her cherry pie. “Can you imagine—losing Mr. Ewing and Mr. Whitworth, both, in one weekend? Why, that’s fifty percent of the whole quartet! Replacing them both took a miracle, if you ask me.”
“Half of the miracle was my Hank,” Beulah Trivette said proudly, and a murmur of agreement went through the group around the table. Hank Trivette had replaced Mr. Ewing, after Dr. Roberts had told him that the pimples in his throat would never heal if he continued to sing. Hank had stepped right in and sang lead just as if he had done it forever. He had even acted as the group’s master of ceremonies, as well. He wasn’t as funny as Mr. Ewing, but he was good in his own way.
“Hank did a wonderful job, Beulah,” Mildred Kilgore said. She moved Earlynne’s cherry pie to make room for her lemon icebox pie, and a few graham cracker crumbs fell onto the tablecloth. “You would never in the world guess that he was new.”
“The other half of the miracle was Deputy Springer,” Lucy Murphy said, holding up her contribution. “Peach pie, Liz, with the peaches we canned last June from Bessie’s tree. Where does it go?”
“Right there,” Lizzy said, pointing. She added, “Deputy Springer was a wonderful surprise, don’t you think?”
Verna Tidwell nodded enthusiastically. “Amazing, really. Nobody had a clue that he had such a fine voice. Everybody’s talking about him—and about everything that’s happened.”
Verna was right. Darling was still buzzing over the remarkable events that had occurred in the past two weeks. Mr. Whitworth (a very unlucky Clover, some said) had been killed in that freak automobile accident on Spook Hill, when he was hit from behind by Mr. Bragg, who worked for Warden Burford at the prison farm. And then poor Mr. Bragg had been so overwhelmed by anguish for what he had done that he had shot himself!
Everybody said this was a double tragedy and of course simply heartbreaking for both men’s families. Darling had talked of nothing else for a whole week, and the whole town had turned out for Mr. Whitworth’s funeral. Mr. Noonan did a stellar job with the service, which was just beautiful, and Mrs. Whitworth was deluged with condolence cards—so many, DessaRae said, that she had to get a bushel basket out of the garage to keep them in.
Unfortunately, the only people in Darling who knew Mr. Bragg were the ones who had run into him at Pete’s Pool Parlor. But Darling folk were always generous with their sympathies, extending them even to neighboring towns. They had nodded approvingly when they heard that Warden Burford had sent an enormous spray of calla lilies to Mr. Bragg’s funeral in Monroeville, and had written a letter expressing his sorrow to the Monroe Journal.
But Darling’s grief at this double loss had turned to pleased surprise when it was learned that the new deputy, Wayne Springer, would be taking Mr. Whitworth’s place among the Clovers. It was said that the suggestion was made to the other members of the quartet by Sheriff Norris, who had heard his new deputy singing “Old Man River” and thought he had quite a remarkable bass voice. The three Clovers had auditioned him and approved his selection on the spot, then got down to business practicing for the Dixie Regional.
“I hope I’m not being disloyal to poor, unlucky Mr. Whitworth,” Verna went on, “but I honestly believe that Deputy Springer—and Hank, too, of course—has given the Clovers a new lease on life.” She set down
the shoofly pie she had made. “This is Bettina’s recipe,” she added.
“Speaking of Mr. Whitworth,” Ophelia said in a low voice to Lizzy, “I saw the new Widow Whitworth out driving with Frank Harwood last night. You don’t suppose …”
“Ophelia,” Lizzy said in a warning tone.
“I know,” Ophelia sighed. “None of my business. Still—”
“Ladies, I have wonderful news!” Myra May Mosswell hurried up with a pie in each hand. “I’ve just been talking to Mrs. Whitworth. She has inherited her husband’s share of the Exchange—and she says she’s willing to put in the money to help us buy a new switchboard. Our telephone problems will be solved! Isn’t that swell?”
“That is terrific!” Lizzy exclaimed, and pointed. “Your banana cream pie goes here, and your mom’s lemon meringue over there.”
Myra May put the pies where Liz directed. “She says she’s also going to help Mr. Dunlap get a new heater for the Five and Dime, so we won’t all freeze to death in the winter, while we’re shopping.”
Lizzy nodded. She had already heard that news from her mother, who was delirious with joy over this development. And from Mr. Moseley, she had learned that Mr. Whitworth had moved some of his wife’s inheritance to a bank in Mobile, so not all of her money had disappeared. She had a generous spirit and seemed eager to help out the two businesses in Darling in which her husband had invested—but not, she said, Bodeen Pyle’s bootlegging business. Mr. Pyle would have to get along without her money.
At the same time he told her this, Mr. Moseley had also shared something rather unsettling about the death of Jimmie Bragg. “The sheriff seems to believe that there’s reason to believe that Bragg didn’t kill himself.”
“Didn’t kill—oh, my goodness!” Lizzy had gasped. “But that means …”
“Yes,” Mr. Moseley said. “But don’t say anything about it, Liz. Buddy is keeping the case open—quietly—and he and Deputy Springer are taking a closer look at some of the physical evidence. I suspect there may be some further developments.”
The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover Page 24
