Who Left That Body in the Rain?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  She sank into her daddy’s big chair and burst into tears, holding the papers and that little white box on her lap. Joe Riddley stood there wishing he was anywhere except where a woman was bawling. I hurried over to pat her on the back with one hand while, with the other, I rummaged around in my pocketbook for a tissue. I also took a quick peek around for a scarf, in case Marilee hadn’t been lying, but I didn’t really expect to see one, and I didn’t.

  When I handed Laura the tissue, she sniffed, blew, and managed a watery smile. “Thanks. I guess we’d better call the police.” With a sigh, she reached for the receiver.

  “Don’t use that phone,” Joe Riddley ordered. “It may have fingerprints.”

  “Right.” Laura hauled herself to her feet, dropped the papers on the desk, pocketed the little white box, and followed him.

  I stood there looking at the telephone, wondering why people always say that. How often do burglars make a phone call from the scene of a crime without gloves on? Chances are, most of them have cell phones anyway.

  I was running through a scenario in my head—“Hello, Ma? This is Bill. I just rifled the safe down at MacDonald Motors. Need any groceries from the Bi-Lo on my way home?”—when Joe Riddley called, “Little Bit, what are you doing in there?”

  He thought I was detecting, and few things make him madder. “Talking to myself,” I called back. “We were having a right interesting conversation.”

  Laura was talking on the phone at Nicole’s desk, rubbing a wisp of hair across her bottom lip. Catching my eye, she dropped it.

  As soon as she’d finished talking, Joe Riddley jerked his head toward three big “Skye blue” leather chairs set next to the plate-glass windows so customers could admire the merchandise in comfort. “You all go sit down. We might as well drink that coffee. I’ll get it.”

  “I’ll get it.” Laura turned toward the coffee room, but he waved her back.

  “Sit down, woman. Enjoy being waited on whenever you get a chance.”

  “He is such a treasure,” she told me, wiping her eyes with one sleeve.

  “Most days,” I agreed, rummaging for another tissue.

  “Thanks.” She blew her nose. “I don’t cry very often, but this—this is too much.” She collapsed into one chair and let out her frustration in a long breath. “Everything is such a mess. The house is full of people, Mama can’t think straight and keeps wanting Skell to come home, the undertaker wants all sorts of decisions made, and now this.” She spread her hands, then let them fall to her thighs with a plop.

  Joe Riddley came from the back with three steaming cups on a tray, the whole can of cookies, a box of sugar packets, and a small carton of half-and-half. “You even remembered stirrers and napkins,” I congratulated him.

  He handed me a mug. “Been drinking coffee longer than you’ve been born. I know what goes with it.”

  “Stop it, you two,” Laura said tolerantly. She knows that picking at each other is one way we show affection.

  We were so comfortable, sitting in butter-soft chairs drinking coffee, warm and toasty when it was so chill and gray outside, I could have persuaded myself for a few minutes none of the bad stuff had happened if Laura hadn’t observed sadly, “All I wanted to do was count the money and drop it in the overnight depository. Was that too much to ask?”

  Something had been bothering me. “Why do you all have cash on the premises? I mean, selling cars isn’t like selling bags of feed and tomato plants, and even at Yarbrough’s we don’t take in much cash anymore. Folks use credit or debit cards, or checks.”

  She took a swig of coffee and nodded. “Car dealers don’t get cash as a rule, but we take in some in the service department and down at Sky’s the Limit, some people come in and pay cash for a car. Recently we’ve even started selling a few on a layaway plan. That was my bright idea.” Her mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “It’s a lot more trouble than it’s worth, but we have so many folks in the county who need transportation and don’t have credit, so I persuaded Daddy and Skell to let people pick the car they want and pay ten percent down, then come by after payday each week and pay a little more. In most families, several members pitch in to help. When they’ve paid fifty percent, we let them take it home and keep paying.” She finished her coffee and set the mug down by her chair. “Daddy didn’t think it would work, but it has so far. Most folks don’t want to lose a car they’ve already got half paid off, and you have to have a car around here.”

  She was right about that. Public transportation in Hopemore was limited to school buses.

  “Most of them pay on Friday or Saturday,” she continued, “so Skell goes to the bank Friday for change; then he makes a deposit Friday night and Saturday afternoon. Yesterday, when we closed early, I threw all the money in the safe without counting it. I hadn’t even counted out their Friday take, because I was waiting for him to come back and tell me how much he had on hand Friday to start with.”

  “We ought to see how somebody got in,” I suggested.

  Joe Riddley waved me back to my chair. “Leave that to the police.”

  I rummaged around in my head for something else we could be doing instead of sitting around. “You might call Ben and see if he heard anything here last night,” I suggested. “He didn’t leave until late.”

  “That was Friday,” Laura corrected me. “We closed yesterday before four.”

  “I know, honey, but Ben and his men came back.”

  Her mug stopped halfway to her mouth. “Came back?”

  “Yeah. We ate pie with him last night—at least, we had pie, he had supper—and he said he told the mechanics to pretend to leave, then to come back and finish the cars promised for yesterday. He didn’t leave here until he called you last night.”

  Laura sipped coffee and digested that. “Ben’s the best thing that’s happened to this business in years.”

  I hated to burst her balloon, but my own mind was on another track. “Can he get into the safe? If he was here alone toward the end, you don’t reckon—?”

  I hated to even suggest such a thing. Business owners have to trust our managers. If we didn’t, we’d all go crazy. Yet every one of us knows that for all the wonderful employees we have, there’s the odd bad one.

  Laura was a good businesswoman. She should have at least taken time to think it over, but she didn’t take a second to make up her mind. “Ben wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t.”

  “Could he get into the safe?” Joe Riddley asked again.

  She nodded. “Daddy—” Her voice stopped and she had to clear her throat before she could go on. “Daddy gave him the combination when he made Ben manager, so he could put away the money when we were all out of town. We didn’t generally leave much in there,” she added. “Daddy usually went by and made a night deposit on his way home. But he didn’t like me carrying money around town, so the nights I closed, I left it overnight and we made the deposit the next day.”

  Joe Riddley set his cup down on the floor beside his chair with a click. “What about Skell? Could he have borrowed the money before he left town?”

  Laura took longer to consider her brother than she’d taken to consider Ben, but her conclusion was the same. “I don’t think so. Back when he was in college, he took money from the safe once, and Daddy told him if he ever did it again, he was finished here.”

  I shivered in the warm air. I could think of one set of circumstances under which Skell would have felt safe taking the money: if he knew his daddy was dead. The way Joe Riddley was suddenly fascinated with something outside the window, I knew he was thinking the very same thing—and probably afraid I’d mention it.

  In our silence, Laura’s eyes filled with tears again. Angrily she swiped them away. I handed her my third and last tissue and realized I’d have to fetch toilet paper if she kept crying. Come to think of it, I needed to go back to the ladies’ room anyway.

  She sniffed hard and stood up. “I ought to go wash my face before the police arrive.”

 
; That answers the question for people who wonder why women always go to the bathroom in pairs. Most of us wait to go until somebody else suggests it.

  Washing my hands reminded me of what I’d overheard on Friday. “Did your daddy and Ben fight a lot?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  Laura turned to me in surprise. “Not a lot, no. Daddy spouted off some—you know how he is. But Ben didn’t fight. He’s—” She seemed to be searching for the word.

  “A totem pole?” I suggested.

  I was both surprised and delighted when she laughed. “Exactly.” She drew herself up, scrunched herself together at the sides, and spoke without moving her lips. “All wood with an expressive face.” She relaxed and gave me an impish smile. “It was three months after I got here before he would reply when I said hello. It took a year before he’d speak to me first, and it’s just recently that he’ll come to me with a question before he’s tried everyone else in the place. I’ve been back from grad school two and a half years, and I don’t think we have exchanged more than three sentences about anything except the business. But I’d trust him with my life. He’s honest, reliable, loyal, patient with his men—”

  “A real Boy Scout.”

  “Yeah. A Boy Scout totem pole.” She splashed water on her face and grabbed a paper towel to dry it.

  I nodded toward the mirror. “Friday, when I was in here washing my hands, I heard your daddy and Ben through that wall. It sure sounded to me like a fight. Ben was fixing Perez’s brakes and your daddy wanted him to finish Joe Riddley’s tune-up first.”

  “They argued some,” she admitted. She unfastened her hair clasp, ran her hands through each side, and dragged the hair back again. “Daddy liked to micromanage. Wanted to run every little thing himself. Ben likes to make his own decisions. I kept telling Daddy to let him run the service department as he sees fit—Ben always gets cars ready for folks close to the time he’s promised them, and people are real satisfied with his work. But Daddy couldn’t help meddling from time to time, just to show he owned the place.” She gave a watery little laugh. “I don’t mean to criticize him, or anything—”

  “I knew your Daddy before you were born,” I reminded her. “You don’t have to explain him to me.”

  As we left, she looked back toward the sink with a thoughtful expression. “We ought to insulate that wall”—she huffed a sad little sigh—“if Skell doesn’t decide to sell the place.”

  “He wouldn’t.” I stood still, shocked.

  “He might. He’s never liked selling cars, and Daddy always said he was going to leave the place to Skell.” Her voice was gruff and dreary in the dim hall. As we stepped into the showroom, her eyes roamed around all its shiny cars with a look I’d seen in Joe Riddley’s when he stood in Yarbrough’s. Laura might sleep across town, but this was home.

  I couldn’t think of a single comforting thing to say.

  We’d barely rejoined Joe Riddley in the chairs out front when a siren wailed up the street and a police cruiser skidded into the small no-parking zone right in front of the door, ignoring empty parking places on each side. Chief Muggins himself climbed from the cruiser, settled his hat on his head, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, and swaggered up the walk. His intent, I guess, was to terrify any burglar who might still be lurking around. Heck, he almost terrified me. Laura shuddered. “I’m so glad you all are here. I couldn’t have stood talking to him by myself.” She moved forward to open the door for him.

  He was walking in when the courthouse clock chimed three. As the carillon followed, a half-minute late as usual, I muttered, “That’s the perkiest rendition of ‘Come, Labor On’ I ever heard.”

  Joe Riddley grunted. “It’s a lot more likely to inspire folks to join God’s workforce than the usual tempo.” I looked at him in surprise. Maybe the speed of those chimes wasn’t accidental. Could the church, like Laura, be trying to appeal to a younger customer?

  “Didja hear we know who killed Mr. MacDonald?” Chief Muggins greeted us, wiggling his hips a little to show he was the man in charge.

  Laura, who had been locking the door behind him, turned white and grew still.

  Joe Riddley asked, “Who was it?”

  “Garcia fellow—the one who opened that new restaurant.”

  “No!” I exclaimed.

  Charlie ignored me. “We got a tip this morning that he got lit at the end of his opening night, and bragged, ‘If that MacDonald lays a hand on my daughter, I will kill him.’ ”

  “No.” Laura’s face was screwed up in the same disgust I felt. “Daddy wouldn’t . . .”

  Charlie shrugged. “Probably not, but you know how those people are—hotheaded, always shooting somebody.”

  “Those people,” I said, emphasizing each word just like he had, “are just like everybody else. Some have hot tempers and some don’t. And Skye wasn’t shot, he was run over.”

  “You wear blinders, Judge. That’s one of your problems. It’s him, all right. We’ve talked to several witnesses who heard him threaten MacDonald. I’ve got men out right now looking for him. He killed in cold blood, and he’ll pay for it—if he hasn’t already escaped back to Mexico.”

  I counted to ten to control my temper, and gave it up as a lost cause. “Do you have any real evidence against Mr. Garcia?”

  “Not yet, but we’ll get it. When the paper comes out with its annual crime report in two weeks, we won’t have an unsolved violent crime in Hope County for these past six months.”

  So that’s what his hurry was.

  I wanted to say, “By all means, then, let’s arrest somebody—just anybody—to make that report look good,” but Laura was looking real queasy, and I didn’t want to prolong the conversation.

  Joe Riddley asked in a mild voice, “Has Mr. Garcia disappeared?”

  “Folks say he’s gone down the road to church, for what that’s worth.”

  “He’s probably Catholic,” I said, a mite tartly. “It’s a good thirty miles to the nearest Catholic church. They aren’t real thick on the ground around here, you know.” Joe Riddley reached over and poked me between my ribs.

  “We’ll find him,” Chief Muggins assured me. He gave what he may have thought was a lordly wave. Looked more like a polecat swatting flies. “So, what’s going on down here now?”

  You’d have thought Laura was creating a crime a day just to annoy him.

  With admirable clarity and restraint she explained.

  “I see.” He strolled into Skye’s office. We all followed. “You all stay back, now. Don’t contaminate the crime scene.” As if he weren’t doing that very thing. “What was in the safe?” He peered inside.

  “Just those papers and checks on the desk. The cash was gone.” Laura didn’t mention the little white box. I only thought of it because she touched her pocket as she spoke.

  “How much money was stolen?” Chief Muggins was peering into the safe like that empty hole could say anything at all to his naked eye.

  Laura explained again about throwing the money in uncounted both Friday night and Saturday. I could tell he didn’t believe her. “You got records of sales, haven’t you?”

  “Sure, but it will take time to compare them with the register receipts, and I’ll have to call the bank tomorrow to find out how much Skell withdrew on Friday.”

  He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and stomped around peering at plaques and pictures. “You think maybe the burglar left a photograph of himself on the wall?” I suggested.

  Joe Riddley pinched me where the shoulder meets the neck. I glared at him, but he shook his head. I knew what he was saying: “Don’t antagonize him.”

  I pulled away and went over to examine a green convertible. Maybe I ought to get me a convertible. Some sporty sunglasses, too. Maybe I ought to look for a man who wouldn’t pinch or poke me, somebody who would respect my opinions and give me credit when I deserved it. Maybe I ought to find a man who would be willing to admit that Charlie Muggins was a—
>
  “Jackass,” muttered a voice at my shoulder. “Little Bit, that man doesn’t know a crime scene from a hole in the ground. You stay here with Laura. I’m going to talk to Isaac and see if they’ve really got anything on Mr. Garcia.” I hoped he’d remember where he was going long enough to get there.

  “Where’s he off to?” Charlie demanded, coming to the door of the office.

  I shrugged. “You know how men are. They take all sorts of notions and just leave.”

  “What I don’t understand,” he said in that smarmy too-friendly voice he uses when he’s about to say something nasty, “is what you are doing here, Judge. Returning to the scene of the crime?” He threw back his head and emitted the gargle that passes for his laugh.

  “I asked her to be with me while I spoke to you,” Laura informed him.

  “Laura’s had a rough weekend and doesn’t need to be badgered,” I added. He narrowed his eyes, but before he could think of a good reply, I jerked my head toward the chairs. “Is it okay if we sit over there while you call your deputies to come look for fingerprints?”

  He stared at me for the several seconds it took him to process that reasonable suggestion, then nodded. “Sure.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number, keeping one eye on us the whole time to make sure we didn’t attempt a quick getaway.

  14

  Before we sat down, I turned our chairs so they faced outside. Scudding clouds and debris hurtling down the street before the wind were a marked improvement over Charlie Muggins’s face. As Laura and I watched, a fine hard rain began spitting against the window.

  My spirits were as cold and gray as the view. I liked Humberto Garcia. Had he really killed Skye in the middle of hosting his grand opening? And why had he thought Skye would be interested in his daughter? Sure, Skye often hugged women, but he didn’t mean anything by it. He was a big teddy bear, a born flirt.