Hard Case Crime: The Murderer Vine

by Rifkin, Shepard

  I felt the back of my neck tingle.

  “What’s a dry-land moccasin?”

  “You fellers up No’th call ’em copperheads. Now you take a look at these here beauties.”

  He slid open the door of the barn. He had backed in an old flatbed truck. He had spread straw over the bottom and set melons on it.

  They were beautiful melons, if all I wanted out of life was a beautiful melon. I had thought he’d take me up to the melon patch, where I could amble around, rejecting this one and that one, finding another one somewhere else in the patch that I preferred, rejecting that one upon close examination, and finally picking one after I’d gone over the whole patch.

  By then I’d have seen where there was any seriously disturbed ground.

  It was a good plan, but that wasn’t the way it was working out. There was nothing wrong with the melons on the flatbed. If I were still to insist upon looking through the patch, he would get thoughtful. He would know damn well what he had planted up there besides melons.

  I might have tried it and gotten away with it if I had built up a reputation for being an eccentric. If I had pushed the absent-minded professor bit, always demanding perfection from the gas-station attendant, demanding super-cleanliness from the landlord, super-service from the shops — I might have gotten away with the search for the super-melon.

  But I had carefully built up a picture of myself as a real sweet, reasonable kind of guy. No. I would have to work out something else.

  He cut out a hunk from one end of a melon and gave it to me. I ate it. It was superb. I bought the melon, paid him sixty cents, shook hands, and drove away. There was one consolation. There were no dogs around the house.

  I drove home slowly working out my next step in the campaign. By the time I turned into my block, I had solved everything. I came upstairs whistling. Kirby was out shopping. I cut a big chunk off one end and put the melon in the refrigerator. It was still so big I had to cut it in three pieces to be able to slide them in.

  I sat down and cut my end into one-inch-thick slices and began eating. They were warm and still oozing with the sweetest pink juice I had ever had in a melon. I spat out the black seeds into an empty plate. I spread out the Okalusa Star-Clarion and bypassed the editorials denouncing the invasion of the state by a gang of Northern long-haired radicals who had come down under the guise of bringing freedom to Mississippi Negroes.

  At the bottom of the editorial column was a little box listing the moon phases, sunrise and sunset, moonrise and moonset. I studied them all carefully. I needed the information for some early morning navigation.

  30

  Sunrise was at 5:47. I put the paper down, ate some more melon, and studied some more. Moonrise was at 8:11. Moonset, 11:47.

  Kirby came home twenty minutes later. I cut her a slice of melon and put the groceries away as she ate.

  “Pack a small overnight bag for yourself,” I told her. “We’re leaving tonight for Jackson. You better go and tell the Garrisons you’re going to take in the sights in Jackson while I get my tape recorder fixed in New York.”

  She went downstairs. I packed my big leather camera bag with the Leica, the special lenses, the tripod, and a bellows extension. The Leica was loaded with light-sensitive film. I packed a small bag with a couple of shirts, underwear, and socks. Kirby came upstairs and said, “All right, boss. What’s next?”

  “Next is we’ll be leaving about nine tonight. I’m going to be up all night and so will you. We’d better catch a couple hours’ sleep.”

  I took a shower, put on my pajamas, and lay down on the couch to try and grab three hours. I heard the water drumming for her shower, put the image of Kirby soaping herself out of my mind, set the alarm for 8:45 P.M., and fell asleep.

  The alarm went off. I shut it off and padded into the bathroom for a quick shave. Kirby had heard the alarm, turned off the light in the bedroom, and had just as promptly fallen asleep. I kicked her mattress as I went by. She opened her eyes, smiled, and swung her long legs over the side of the bed.

  She stretched her arms as far as they could reach, and then yawned. I was shaving and the door was open. The pale blue cotton of her nightgown was stretched tight across her nipples. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

  She said very softly. “Well?”

  I said curtly, “We won’t have time for coffee. We’ll eat on the road.” Then I closed the door and cut my chin shaving.

  We went downstairs quietly. I carried the Kim. The Garrisons heard us coming down and came on the porch to wish us a nice vacation down in Jackson.

  “Don’t know it they c’n fix that tape recorder in Jackson,” Garrison said.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I have a feeling I might have to take it to New York. At any rate, Mrs. Wilson can sightsee down there if I have to go to New York.”

  They told her what to see in Jackson. A good conversation. He would remember it.

  I stopped at a roadside restaurant south of Okalusa. We sat in a quiet corner booth. We ate country ham and black-eyed peas and grits. The ham was thick and succulent and had been fed on fallen nuts. It was nine-thirty. Over two hours to moonset.

  Kirby told me of an uncle of hers who raised mash-fed hogs. He was a bachelor who collected empty thread spools and slipped them over nails hammered into a wall of his house. When he had filled the whole wall with spools over the nails, he set an old-fashioned sewing machine in front of them. The sewing machine was operated by a foot treadle.

  He ran a cord from the machine in and out of those thousands of spools and led it back to the machine. Then he sat down and pumped the treadle. He was perfectly happy for hours as he watched all those spools revolve.

  I told her my uncles were famous only for drinking up their paychecks on Friday nights. I told her that didn’t make anyone eccentric in my neighborhood; it made you normal.

  She leaned back and laughed. She stopped short and came up to meet my mouth. I put a hand on her breast and she strained against me. If I would have had a couple drinks, I would have pushed her in the car and driven back fast. I probably would have torn off her blouse in the car and ripped off her skirt going up the stairs and we would hit her bed stripped.

  Instead I took a deep breath and pushed her into her corner. I slid away and drank a glass of ice water. I filled up the glass again from the pitcher and drank again. Somewhere I had once read that any passion could be extinguished by quickly drinking five glasses of water. I was pouring out my third glass and beginning to see the truth of the proverb when she spoke.

  “I had no idea I got you heated up so bad,” she said.

  A little drop of blood was running across down her lower lip. As I watched, it fell onto her blouse. I had kissed her so hard that one of her upper teeth had cut into her lip. I dipped my napkin into the pitcher and reached across to rub out the bloodstain.

  She took the napkin. “Better stay away, boy,” she said. “I don’t want you goin’ up in smoke.”

  I crossed my arms and watched. I felt my face getting red. This blow hot, blow cold was not my style.

  “What you goin’ to do now?”

  I looked at my watch. Thank God, the moon would be setting in fifteen minutes.

  “Let’s go.”

  I paid the check while she got into the car. The waitress took the money and brought the change with that relaxed courtesy which always came as a pleasant shock after New York.

  I came outside putting my wallet away just as the big gray Olds pulled in. I cursed under my breath. I walked straight ahead, not looking at it, hoping he wouldn’t notice me in the darkness. But he saw me. He was sharp.

  “Want an escort to town?” he called out.

  “And take you away from a cup of coffee? Not me.”

  “Had my coffee. Saw your car and thought you might like an honor guard.”

  “No, Sheriff. We’re going to Jackson.”

  “Pretty late to be drivin’ a hundred sixty miles,” he observed genially.
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br />   “When I want to go somewhere,” Kirby said, “I want to go somewhere. Immediately if not sooner. I want to wake up in a nice air conditioned room. I want to sleep late. I don’t want to hear dishes bein’ rattled downstairs or hear a nice ol’ man clearin’ his throat an’ spittin’. Now, honestly, Sheriff, I do like the Garrisons, but they’re the noisiest damn people I ever did see. My husband thinks he’s back to N’York to repair that silly damn tape recorder of his, but he’s really givin’ me a two-day vacation jus’ sleepin’ late an’ eatin’ in a good French restaurant, which I hear Jackson has got.” She leaned over and nibbled at my ear.

  “Mrs. Wilson, if I could work it, I sure wish we ’llowed ladies to come down to our club.”

  “I’d be jus’ as pleased. But I’d be in the way there. I’d want to start scrubbin’ the filthy mess you men always make of housekeepin’, an’ then I’d order ever’one to start shavin’ and sayin’ ma’am to me. Honey,” she went on, turning to me, “I’m gettin’ so sleepy, I’m goin’ to curl up in the back seat. You drive careful, y’ hear?”

  “She wears the pants,” I said. I waved goodbye to the sheriff while she got in the back seat. I pulled out and headed south, toward Jackson. And away from Ryerson.

  I drove five miles, checking the rear-view mirror. No one was following. I pulled over, got out, took out the jack, and put it by the rear end in case anyone became curious. I took a dime from my pocket and loosened the screws holding the glass in place over the light above my rear license plate. I unscrewed the bulb just enough. I put everything back in place and got in. Kirby woke up as I was turning the car around.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. I just want to tiptoe north. I think I’ll take a few side roads. I want to bypass that son of a bitch.”

  “He’s a puffectly nice man,” she said.

  “He is,” I said without sarcasm.

  As long as you’re not a civil rights worker. I’d feel pretty safe in my house knowing he’s out there riding around in that big Olds of his. If I had a kid who’d get drunk in some highway bar, I’d feel pretty good that the sheriff would see he got home all right without driving. I’d feel confident he’d know when to relax the law and when he could step outside it. You don’t challenge the political structure of this county and you get pretty good protection. But every once in a while I wonder what he’d do to me if he found out what I was really up to. Or what his friends would do after he’d arrest me, for, say, not having my rear light working. He could very easily remove my gun and then drop me outside my house. And guess who’d be waiting down the block in a car without lights? Some of those guys from the Catfish Club. And guess who would investigate the crime? It’s pretty near perfect. Every time I thought about it, I felt my spine roll up like a window shade.

  She got into the front seat and watched the dark road a while. Then she fell asleep again. Her head slid across the back of the seat till it rested on my shoulder. She had handled the situation well. I met only two cars on the back roads, and when I was a mile from the Ryerson farm, I woke her up. She slid behind the wheel.

  I told her I was getting out soon.

  “Remember the exact location where you’re dropping me,” I said. “The sun rises at five forty-seven. You drive south on this road to the crossroad. It’s two miles south. Make a right and go three and a half miles. That will put you on the main highway. Make a right and go north, away from Jackson.”

  “Why do I go north?”

  “That’ll take you away from Okalusa and the chance of seeing our friend. You be back here exactly at five forty-seven.”

  “Taking pictures?”

  “I’m a big one for nature studies a little before sunrise.”

  “An interesting hobby.”

  “A good shot of a cross-grained red-bellied pushover will gain me fame and fortune. I’ve worked out the time. If you stay at a steady thirty-five, you won’t attract attention and you’ll be back here just right. Wear my hat. Put your hair underneath and take off your make-up. Turn out the dashboard lights and a casual look at you will give the impression you’re a man.”

  “But I’m not.”

  And didn’t I know that.

  But I let that remark pass.

  “Joe,” she said, “wouldn’t it be simpler for me to find a little road and just park till it’s time to come back?”

  “It would be very simple. But suppose someone sees you and pulls over to see what the matter is? People are helpful around here. Suppose some kid thinks no one is around and stops to strip the car, and finds you inside? You keep movin’ at a normal speed on a highway and no one’ll give you a second look. It’s cars on these back red-clay roads that attract attention. And don’t stop moving. Don’t go to a ladies’ room. You went to the ladies’ room in the restaurant.”

  “You’re terribly observant.”

  “So you won’t have to go again.”

  “Ladies have enormous tanks. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay. Let me out here.”

  She stopped. I got out and told her to push in the headlight beams. I didn’t want those powerful lights sweeping over the Ryerson farm as she made a U-turn.

  “Take care, y’ hear?” I nodded and closed the door gently. I watched her turn. A good girl. A clever girl. She handled the meeting with the sheriff very nicely. We made a good team. If I were to stay in the private detective business, I would have used her a lot. A few months ago a millionaire had come in. His ex-wife used to get drunk and allow herself to be blackmailed by gigolo after gigolo across Europe. Hotel after hotel overcharged her. Paris jewelry shops sent padded bills. What he wanted was a very shrewd woman operative to keep her out of trouble. He would have paid very well, and I regretfully declined the job. I had no one who could handle it. And all the time I had Kirby typing fifteen feet away!

  I watched the car disappear down the road. I nursed the bitter wisdom of hindsight. I sighed and turned toward the dark mass of the pines.

  31

  I walked upward through the pine grove, dodging the branches that whipped at my face after I had pushed through them. The needles were fragrant, and so thick that it was like walking on a luxurious wall-to-wall carpet. Occasionally I broke a dead twig. It made much too loud a snapping noise. I thanked God that Ryerson didn’t like dogs. I bumped into several trees, but my sense of direction was pretty good. In five minutes I came out on the farm just below the melon patch.

  I walked back and forth through the cultivated rows between the melon vines. Nothing. I got on my knees and felt carefully at the ground. It just felt cultivated. Nothing. And there I was with a fifteen-dollar pair of slacks being ruined on the damp ground. There were no cleared areas. Full-grown melon vines that had taken months to reach their growth. And you can’t transplant melon vines without a severe cutback being necessary. All the vines looked full-grown and healthy.

  There went a perfectly good theory. Shot to hell. I began to think I must have misunderstood what they were saying back in the club about manure on the melon patch. I had been drinking quite a lot. Probably I had misunderstood what had been said.

  I was about to call it off and go sit down in the pine woods till sunrise and wait for Kirby when I realized that in the center of the patch was a pile of weeds about two feet high. It looked as if someone had pulled all the weeds in the patch, saved them, and then had thrown them on top of the pile. But the pile measured about eight by four feet. Thirty-two square feet. You could grow a lot of melons in thirty-two square feet. It seemed a shame to lose all that valuable space just to get rid of some weeds. Why didn’t Ryerson walk a few more feet and throw the weeds under the pine trees?

  I had the time, I had the place. I had nothing to do till sunrise anyway. I kneeled down and carefully shifted the pile of weeds to the nearest open row. I wadded big clumps in my arms. I was smart enough to take off my jacket, so all I ruined was my shirt. My pants were already filthy. In five minutes I had the plot all cleaned up.

  By
now my eyes had adjusted to the starlight. It was enough for me to see that the soil underneath had been freshly turned over. I got on my knees and began shoveling the dirt away with both hands. Four inches down I smelled the same penetrating stench I had not smelled since Korea.

  The Chinese had made a mass grave in the next valley which we took in an offensive three weeks later.

  I began breathing through my mouth. That way I avoided smelling. The stink was something you finally got used to in Korea but only after a few days on the line. But I wasn’t going to get any few days here to adjust. I would only have till sunrise, which was now only thirty-five minutes away.

  After two minutes of this primitive digging, my hand struck something smooth. I braced myself and slid my fingers along it. It was a shoe.

  I slid my fingers upward. The shoe was attached to a foot. I reversed my position and began digging where the head would be.

  Two minutes more and I had a face.

  I took a fountain pen flashlight from my jacket, bent over the face with the jacket over my head to shield the light, and turned it on.

  It was the face of a white man. It looked as if it had been beaten with a heavy iron chain. All the front teeth were loose. Everything else was a mess. In five minutes I had all three bodies side by side. Two blacks and a white. The blacks had not been beaten. But three weeks in the damp soil was a lot of time. I turned aside and vomited up my dinner.

  I opened the camera bag. I took out the Leica and attached it to the focusing bellows. I had practiced a few times. I screwed the Leica into the tripod attachment. I straddled the tripod over the face of the white boy. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in democracy. It was just that the kid’s father was paying for everything. Let him be first.

  As I worked, I could hear Farr’s voice droning on as if he were giving a lecture to the three dead boys.

  “Here’s a lens designed for available-light photography. It uses aspheric lens elements which eliminate all spherical aberration. This job we have here is very interesting. I consider it a challenge. Now, notice the lens. It has an angular field of forty-five degrees. It has six elements. It’s got a click-stop diaphragm with half F stops. Forget it all. Just take a reading all over the thing to be photographed — ” “Thing” is right.