Dead Weight

by Steven F Havill

  Taffy Hines shook her head with impatience. “And so you imagine that half the neighborhood would hear the ruckus up at the Sissons’?”

  “That’s what bothers me.”

  “Well, from what I’m told, it happened in the evening, not a whole long while after dark. Folks are still up, televisions are on, kids are playing…all that stuff. This is a whole different world, right now.”

  “I guess,” I said. “Is that your dog?”

  She turned quickly, looking down the street in the general direction of my gaze. “What dog?”

  “No, no. The one you were walking earlier this morning. At about two or so. I think he’s a chow.”

  Taffy Hines crossed her arms over her ample chest. “My goodness,” she said with more good humor than I would have been able to summon had I been in her shoes, “such efficient surveillance. You people must know all my dark secrets by now.”

  “Please, Taffy. Give us a break. You make it sound like Jackie Taber and I are members of the secret police from some third world country with this ‘you people’ nonsense. There’s been a questionable death, as you apparently already know. What do you want us to do, sit in our offices and hope that someone comes in and confesses out of a sense of good citizenship?”

  “Sheriff,” she said, and her tone softened, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. In fact, I almost came out to offer Jackie a cup of coffee. But I didn’t, you know, because I wasn’t sure just what she was doing and I didn’t want to interfere.”

  “To pass the time and stay alert, she was drawing pictures,” I said, then added, “in her most creative secret police style. That’s how I knew about the dog. She saw you, obviously, and included you and pooch in the drawing she was doing.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Taffy said. “And the dog’s name is Rufus, by the way. He’s one of the sweetest dogs on the planet.” She laughed. “And probably one of the dumbest, too.”

  “Is he yours?”

  “No. He belongs to the Sissons. I’ve been taking care of him. I asked Gracie just a bit ago if they’re ready to take him back, but…”

  She shook her head. “That poor family.”

  “Did Deputy Mears, or any of the others, talk to you Tuesday night?”

  “No,” she said. “Nobody came by.”

  I turned and calculated the distance. Taffy Hines lived eight houses south of the Sisson property, hardly close enough to be considered an immediate neighbor.

  “When did you hear about Jim’s death?”

  “Gracie called me early yesterday morning, just before I was going to work. She could hardly speak, poor thing. She asked if I could drive her to her parents’ house in Las Cruces.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. She drove herself. I was all ready to go, though. I’d called Sam at the store and told him that I wouldn’t be in until probably midmorning sometime, and he said that was fine, to go ahead and take my time. But then Gracie called back and said she’d be fine, that she was going to drive herself and the kids. That the kids would keep an eye on her.”

  “So she drove herself.”

  “Yes.”

  “The deputies understood that a friend had taken them.”

  “That was the plan originally. But as far as I know, she drove herself. Now I could be wrong.”

  “Huh.”

  “Whoever killed Jim could have parked in the lane behind the Sisson property, you know,” Taffy said. “No one would see or hear anything if they did that.”

  “We’ve considered that. We hoped for some tire tracks, but the rain took care of everything except some fresh dog tracks, compliments of Rufus.”

  “Yuck,” Taffy said. “He loves to be out, but what a mess he can make of everything.” She stood on her tiptoes, stretching. “You want a cup of coffee or something? I’ve got some cinnamon rolls that are out of this world.”

  “That would be delightful,” I said. As we strolled across the street to her house, I wondered how many sets of eyes were peering out around curtains, watching yet another episode that would be instantly forgotten should the wrong person ask.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Taffy Hines was right. The cinnamon rolls were outstanding, their aroma graced by freshly ground coffee far better than any I ever made.

  “Do you start every day like this?” I asked around a mouthful of melted butter and roll.

  “I try to,” she said, and pointed at the small framed motto on the wall next to the refrigerator. “If that’s right—if each day is a gift—then I think it’s nice to mark it in some way. This is the best time of day to do that, before it’s spoiled somehow after the sun comes up and people start moving around.”

  Her kitchen was a pleasant place to be, even at that early-morning hour. Splashes of color marked the painted cabinets, with artfully rendered vines and flowers running up the doors, the painted tendrils laced around hinges and handles.

  I bent over and regarded the floor, a swirl of color and pattern that threatened to induce vertigo. The floor vinyl was an impressionist’s blurred idea of a flower garden, the vibrant colors spotted here and there with shiny black insects that crawled between the washes of flower petals.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” I said.

  “Neat, huh?” Taffy said.

  A light, tentative scratch on the door by the kitchen range turned my head. “Rufus?”

  She nodded. “He smells the rolls. But it’s a dog’s life. He doesn’t get any. He’s fat enough.”

  “Me, too,” I said, and sighed. I watched as she refilled my cup. “Thanks. So tell me,” I said, and waited for her to return to her chair. “Do things get a little hectic around the store as Election Day rears its ugly head?”

  Taffy Hines coughed a sharp burst of laughter and pushed the pack of cigarettes and the lighter that rested on the table in front of her another few inches away. She hadn’t lit up yet, and I was just as glad not to have to endure yet another temptation heaped on top of the rich food and wonderful coffee.

  “Most of the time, Sam behaves himself,” she said. “Most of the time. I guess I kind of like all the political hubbub. It gives him something to think about. Keeps him out of my hair.”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  “This will be my nineteenth year.”

  “I knew it had been a long time.”

  “Sometimes too long. But you know all about that, I suppose.” I nodded. “I’m sort of surprised that you’ve stayed on.”

  “So am I, sometimes,” she said, but she managed to say it with a smile. “I like the store, I like the customers.” She sipped the coffee. “I like knowing people, you know what I mean?”

  “Sure.”

  “I see the same faces, week in, week out. The same faces, buying the same things. It’s comfortable. Live alone like I do, and it’s important.” She paused and shrugged. “At least to me it is.”

  “Not that it’s any of my business,” I said, “but what do you think about Leona Spears? What’s your prediction there?”

  “If she’s going to win the election, you mean?” Taffy chuckled.

  “What a kook.”

  “That means ‘no,’ I take it.”

  Taffy frowned and gazed down at the flower garden linoleum. “I don’t know why she’s even interested in your job, Sheriff. I mean,” and she held up both hands, “what qualifications does she have?”

  “Interest, I suppose.”

  “Sam goes on and on about her.”

  “Does he.”

  “Sure. You’d think by the way he talks that if someone other than his brother-in-law wins the election, the whole county is going to go to hell, pardon my French.”

  “Well, we’re on the way, it seems sometimes,” I said.

  “Well…” Taffy started, then bit off the words as she changed her mind.

  With my finger I drew designs on the place mat for a moment, then looked up to regard Taffy Hines. “Has he been minding
his own business lately?” I saw her eyebrows knit together and, so she wouldn’t misunderstand me, added, “About you, I mean. Has he been leaving you alone? No more calls?”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m just a piece of the store furniture to him now,” she said. “And I guess that’s better than being pawed or panted over.” She looked hard at me. “He’s a foolish old man, Sheriff. Well, not so old, either, I guess. I’m surprised that his wife hasn’t either left him or shot him long before this.” She managed a tired laugh. “I just don’t know.”

  “It’s his life to ruin as he chooses,” I said as I admired the last bite of the last cinnamon roll that I planned to allow myself.

  “He seems to like to include others in his misery,” Taffy said, then shrugged as if to dismiss the whole subject.

  “Did Sam happen to mention to you anything about a letter that he received?” I wasn’t sure what prompted me to ask Taffy about the Pasquale letters, except that I agreed with her—Sam Carter wasn’t the soul of discretion, and it was hard to believe he’d be able to keep such a juicy tidbit close to the vest…especially when he might stand to gain more than he’d lose if the letter’s contents went public.

  “Which letter might that be?” Taffy asked. She wasn’t playing coy—or if she was, she would have made a wonderful poker player.

  “Sam showed me a note that indicated one of the deputies might be involved in some shady dealings—”

  She interrupted me with a loud laugh. “Oh, God…that thing. The one that says Tommy Pasquale is stopping Mexicans and extorting money from them?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I told Sam that if he was going to send some piece of trash like that, he’d better get himself a damn good lawyer.”

  “You what?”

  She shrugged. “When he showed it to me, my very first thought was that he was going to send the letter. That he’d written it himself. Then he set me straight, told me that he’d gotten it in the mail.” She made a face.

  “You don’t think he did?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I get the mail most mornings, and I even slit open each envelope so His Highness doesn’t have to. But I don’t look inside. Maybe it was there, maybe not. If there’s something that looks really personal, I don’t even open the envelope.”

  “So you still think that Sam might have circulated the letter himself?”

  Taffy Hines reached across and pointed at my cup. “Some more?”

  “No thanks.”

  She picked up the cup, rose, and walked to the sink. “He’s capable of it. But so are a lot of other people. He made it sound like he didn’t want the story to get out until you’d had a chance to do something about it.” She turned away from the sink and looked at me. “And I remember thinking that if he was so all-fired concerned about spreading rumors, then he shouldn’t have shown the letter to me in the first place.”

  I sighed and pushed myself to my feet. “Taffy, thanks a million for the breakfast.” I glanced at my watch.

  She smiled. “Give you a break from the Don Juan,” she said.

  “Ah, another of my secrets shattered,” I chuckled.

  “It’s a small town, Sheriff. There aren’t too many secrets left.”

  I grimaced. “Just a few little naggy ones,” I said.

  As I collected my hat and started to move toward the door, Taffy held out a hand, stopping just short of touching my arm. “You’re doing the right thing,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Keeping a discreet eye on Grace,” Taffy said. “She told me last night about your visit with her down in Las Cruces and how the cops had followed her all the way home. She was pretty steamed.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “Well, I told her it was for her own good. We’ve been friends for years, and there’s nothing I’d say about her behind her back that I wouldn’t say to her face. She’s had her share of troubles and heartache, and I think she’s going to need some time before she’s thinking straight. There’s just no telling right now what she’ll do from one minute to the next.”

  We were close enough that by lifting my head I could focus Taffy Hines’s face in my bifocals, and I regarded her with interest.

  “What are you telling me, Taffy?”

  She didn’t flinch or backpedal. “I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know, Sheriff.”

  “You’ve known Grace Sisson all this time,” I said. “Was there some family trouble that might be behind Jim’s death? Something with the kids, or some affair Grace was having behind Jim’s back that he found out about? Or vice versa? Something like that?”

  A ghost of a smile creased Taffy Hines’s face. “Let’s not ruin such a beautiful morning by going down that road, Sheriff. Like I said, Grace might have her faults, but she’s a dear friend.”

  I nodded, wondering how one went about becoming a “dear friend” with someone who flailed with a barbed-wire tongue.

  “Can I ask one more favor of you?” I asked.

  “Maybe.” She grinned.

  “This letter business has been bothering me, and if I get the time, I’m going to do my best to track it down. I have Sam’s copy of the letter, the one that he handed you. Since he did that, I assume your fingerprints are on it.”

  “I would think so.”

  “Would you stop by the office sometime today if you get a chance and have Gayle fill out a print card on you, so we can eliminate your prints from any others?”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Will I have black fingers for the rest of the day?”

  “Probably. But I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  At ten minutes after five that Thursday morning, feeling just a tad bloated from one too many cinnamon rolls, I settled back into the patrol car and rummaged for the cell phone.

  Deputy Thomas Pasquale picked up on the second ring. He’d been off-duty for five hours but managed to sound alert.

  “Thomas, this is Gastner,” I said. “Sorry to bother you at home. Have you got a few minutes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I glanced at my watch again. “Can you meet me at Sam Carter’s place at five-thirty? You know where he lives?”

  “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

  “In uniform, Tom. A chance for a little overtime.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I redialed and listened to half a ring before the phone was snatched up by an eager Brent Sutherland. He’d hit the flattest part of the shift, and I could imagine his youthful desperation.

  Less than three minutes after my call, Deputy Jacqueline Taber’s patrol unit slid into place behind mine. I raised a hand out the window in salute, tapped the mike transmit key twice, then pulled 310 away from the curb, leaving the deputy to draw more neat pictures as the neighborhood came to life.

  A single car passed eastbound on Bustos, and I recognized Cal Wheeler on the first leg of his commute to his job at the truck stop west of Las Cruces on the interstate.

  If my timing was right, Sam Carter would be just about half-shaved, ready to sit down to the morning paper from Albuquerque and his first cup of coffee. Thus prepped, he’d walk into the supermarket shortly after six, and by then Taffy Hines would have the place up and running. The teenagers who worked as stockers would have the first round of cartons filling the aisles as bottles and cans clanked onto the shelves.

  I didn’t much like interrupting someone’s comfortable routine, but Sam Carter had lied to me. That made him fair game.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sometimes appearances send a powerful message, and that’s what I was hoping would happen when we showed up on Sam Carter’s doorstep. I’d known Sam for years…I’d never liked him, and he probably had reciprocated.

  He’d been a county commissioner for more than fifteen years, and during the countless meetings where I’d watched him in action I’d developed some assumptions about his character—or lack thereof. I knew, for instance, that whe
n he thought he had the power on his side, he could be a bully, sometimes rude to citizens during public meetings who tried to speak counter to his views. He knew how to pinch pennies, stretching the budget further than it needed to be stretched just on general principles.

  He could glad-hand with the best and knew how to pin someone in a corner for a nice, personal chat. I’d been in one of those corners on various occasions, and I’d learned just to let Sam Carter rattle on. He was one of those curious souls who figured that if you didn’t say anything, then you agreed with him.

  I also had developed the impression that, when forced to stand alone, Sam Carter was probably pretty much a coward.

  What Sam Carter had told me about his receiving the letter was so counter to Taffy Hines’s version that alarm bells were ringing in my head far louder than the normal tinnitus.

  The early morning hours are a good time to pay house calls. People tend to be vulnerable then. They haven’t had hours to plan their day or time to brace themselves against the outrages, large or small, that will drift their way.

  Shortly after 5:30, I rolled 310 to a stop in front of Sam Carter’s home on Ridgeway Avenue, one block off North 10th Street. I parked facing eastbound on the wrong side of the street, so that my driver’s side window opened to Sam’s manicured front lawn.

  Deputy Pasquale arrived a minute later from the east and parked his unit nose-to-nose with mine.

  I got out with a folder in hand that contained photocopies of all the letters, Carter’s included.

  “Sorry to haul you out again,” I said to Pasquale as he approached. “I’ve got me a little experiment going here, and I need your backup.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pasquale said, glancing at Carter’s house and then at the ones on either side. “What’s up?”

  “There are a couple questions I want to ask Sam Carter about these letters.” I tapped the folder and lowered my voice. “I thought it might unsettle him just a bit if you’re standing right in his face.” I grinned, and Pasquale looked puzzled. “I’ll explain later, Thomas. Right now I’m going to ask that you let me do the talking. If Carter asks you a specific question, just answer truthfully, yes or no. No elaboration. Just yes or no. All right?”