by Bill Crider
Rhodes thought about Hayes Ford. And he thought about the fight between Meredith and Jasper Knowles. Meredith had wanted to kick the point instead of going for two. Could that mean that Meredith was aware of some sort of bet on the game? Or could Meredith himself have made a bet? It didn’t seem likely, but anything could happen.
“What about Meredith?” Rhodes asked. “Do you think he might have bet with someone?”
Vance gave it some thought. “Maybe. But if he did, I didn’t know about it.”
The implication was that Vance knew most of what went on, but if Meredith had been betting on the team, he would have kept it very quiet.
Vance changed the subject. “And then there’s Meredith’s wife,” he said.
“What about her?” Rhodes asked.
“Kind of drab for the wife of a big-time football coach, wouldn’t you say?”
Rhodes hadn’t really thought about that, but it was obvious that there was more to the story. It was also obvious that Vance was going to tell him about it.
“Brady married her when they were in college. She was a cheerleader then, but she’s lost a little spark in the years since. Brady thought he could do better.”
“Who with? Anybody I should know about?”
“You catch on quick, Sheriff.” The toothpick danced. “No wonder you’re such an effective lawman.”
Rhodes couldn’t tell whether Vance was paying him a compliment or being sarcastic.
Vance said, “Ever seen Bob Deedham’s wife?”
Rhodes said that he hadn’t. Faye Knowles had been the one ringing Nancy Meredith’s doorbell.
“Name’s Terry. Now there’s somebody who still looks like a cheerleader. Blonde, big hair, big eyes, big pom-poms. The works. The kind of woman that Meredith would go for.”
Rhodes wasn’t sure how to take the “pom poms” remark, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Deedham’s attitude was beginning to make more sense than it had earlier.
“And there’s one other thing,” Vance said.
Rhodes waited.
“Did you notice anything about the team last night? Did they seem especially aggressive to you?”
“They were fired up, all right,” Rhodes said.
“There’ve been some rumors about that,” Vance said. He took out his toothpick and replaced it with a fresh one. “You might have heard them.”
“No. I’m always the last one to hear rumors.”
Vance looked as if he doubted that, then shrugged. “Maybe so. What do you think could hop up a team like that?”
“I’m not very good at guessing,” Rhodes said. “Why don’t you tell me.”
“Steroids,” Vance said. “Ever hear about them?”
Rhodes had heard about them, all right. “You say it’s just a rumor?”
“But worth checking out. Steroids can do funny things to a kid. If one got mad enough, he might even shoot his coach.”
“Would any of them have a reason to do that?”
“They wouldn’t need much of a reason. Let’s say someone identified pretty strongly with the head coach and you took a poke at him. That might be enough. It’s worth checking out.”
Rhodes agreed that it was. “Do you have anything else for me?”
“That’s about it,” Vance said. “I’d think that was enough to give you a start.”
It was more than enough. Vance was a veritable Geraldo when it came to dishing the dirt. Rhodes had plenty to think about: The County Line, Hayes Ford, Bob Deedham’s wife (not to mention Deedham himself), and steroids.
“You know that this is the kind of stuff that’ll never get in the paper, don’t you?” Goober asked.
Rhodes knew it. The Clearview newspaper’s editorial policy was one that advocated praising local politicians whenever possible, boosting the local economy by running free “shop at home in Clearview” ads when space permitted, letting everyone know whose aunt from Dallas was in town for a visit, giving generous space to all weddings and funerals, supporting the football team, and ignoring anything at all that might make Clearview look anything less than the most idyllic place to live in the state of Texas.
“But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to know the outcome of all this,” Goober said. “I may not be able to write it, but I like to know what’s going on around town anyway.”
“If there’s anything I think you should know, you’ll hear from me,” Rhodes said, not so sure that he wanted to give Vance anything more to gossip about. He thanked the reporter for his time and stood up. “And if you hear of anything else that might help me, let me know.”
“You can count on me, Sheriff,” Vance said. “Always glad to cooperate with the Law.”
He was already turning back to the monitor before Rhodes was out the door.
Hack and Lawton were deep in conversation when Rhodes walked in the jail. They looked up expectantly but didn’t say anything, which was a bad sign. Rhodes thought it might be easier just to ignore them. He put the cigarette butt in the evidence locker, which was really just an old black safe, then sat at his desk, put on his reading glasses, and started doing the paperwork on the Meredith death.
“He ain’t gonna talk to us,” Hack said behind his back. “Too busy, I guess.”
“Sure,” Lawton said. “I save his life at the game last night and then he slights me. That’s the thanks I get.”
Rhodes swiveled around and looked at them. “I appreciate it that you saved my life,” he told Lawton. “And I’m not too busy to talk if there’s anything to talk about. Is there?”
“We thought you might want to tell us if it was Brady Meredith in that car or not,” Hack said. “And then you might ask if there’s anything else goin’ on around here that you oughta know about.”
Rhodes sighed and took his glasses off. “It was Meredith, all right. Somebody shot him. I don’t know who it was yet.”
“You oughta talk to that Goober Vance down at the paper,” Lawton said. “He knows ever’thing that goes on with that football team.”
“I talked to him. He had a lot of hints, but no real facts. I’ll have to find those out myself.”
“That figgers,” Hack said. “I expect you’ll be gettin’ a lot of hints, considerin’ how interested everybody is in gettin’ this murder solved and out of the way so the really important stuff can go on as usual.”
“What important stuff?” Rhodes asked.
“Football,” Lawton said. “That’s what all the calls have been about.”
“Calls? Nobody mentioned any calls.”
“That’s ’cause you were so busy when you came in,” Hack said. “You didn’t ask about any calls, so I didn’t mention ’em. Didn’t want to bother you, seein’ as how you were so busy.”
“Tell me about the calls,” Rhodes said.
“There was a lot of ’em,” Hack said. “Seems like ever’body in town already knows for sure that Brady’s dead. Except me and Lawton, of course. Nobody told us. Not until we asked, anyway.”
“But I told you then,” Rhodes said, wanting to get on with it. “What about the calls?”
“Like Hack told you,” Lawton said. “There was a lot of ’em. Phone like to rung off the hook.”
Rhodes slipped his glasses in his shirt pocket. Hack and Lawton were always that way. It took forever for them go get to the point. Rhodes was used to it, and he knew there was no way to hurry them.
He tried, however. “What were the calls about?”
“Football,” Lawton said. “I told you that.”
“That’s right,” Hack said. “He did.”
“What about football?”
“About how they want this taken care of immediately,” Hack said.
“If not sooner,” Lawton added.
“You got a call from the mayor,” Hack said, looking at a note pad. “And two from the county commissioners, and one from the high school principal. Then you got about twenty more from just your ordinary citizens.”
“And they wa
nt the murder solved today,” Rhodes said.
“That’d be nice,” Hack said. “But tomorrow’d be OK. Just as long as it’s taken care of quick and doesn’t interfere with the game next Saturday. They had some suggestions for you, too, about where to start lookin’ and all.”
“And where was that?”
“Garton,” Lawton said. “Lots of folks say it musta been somebody from Garton that was sore about the win. Like that lady with her hair and face dyed. You remember her?”
Rhodes said that he did.
“Well, she’d hafta be crazy to paint herself up like that. So maybe she was crazy enough to kill somebody. You know about that lawsuit?”
“I’ve heard about it,” Rhodes said.
“Well, don’t that prove they’re crazy?”
Rhodes wasn’t sure. “Maybe they’ll win.”
Lawton snorted. “No way. Judge’ll throw it out in a New York minute. If they got away with that, half the schools in the state’d be goin’ to court after every game, tryin’ to get bad calls overturned. It’ll never fly.”
Rhodes had to admit that Lawton had a point, but before he could say so, the phone rang.
“Prob’ly another call about the game,” Lawton said as Hack answered it.
“If it is, just say I’m not here,” Rhodes said.
“Sheriff’s not here,” Hack said after listening for a few seconds. “He’s out workin’ on the case right now. But I’ll be sure to tell him what you said.”
He hung up. “That wasn’t exactly what you thought it was gonna be.”
“What was it, then?” Lawton asked. “Sure sounded like somebody callin’ about the case.”
“You ought not to listen in on official business,” Hack told him. “You’re just the jailer.”
“I guess you think the jailer ain’t just as official as you are. I guess you think — “
Rhodes cut in. “Never mind that right now. What was that call about, Hack?”
“That was Miz Wilkie,” he said. “Your old sweetie.”
Mrs. Wilkie had never been Rhodes’ “sweetie,” though she had certainly been interested in him before his marriage to Ivy. Rhodes had done his best to avoid her then, and he didn’t go out of his way to see her now, though occasionally he had to in the course of his job. She was working for James Allen, one of the county commissioners, as a secretary.
“What did she want?” Rhodes asked.
“Maybe she just wanted to see you again,” Lawton said. “I bet you don’t drop in on her very often these days.”
Rhodes ignored him. “Hack? What did she want?”
“She wants to talk to you. But it’s not about the murder. Or maybe it is.”
“What did she say?” Rhodes asked.
Hack gave him a lopsided grin. “She said she’s been hearin’ motorsickles.”
Chapter Six
Before going to see Mrs. Wilkie, Rhodes drove to the funeral home. He’d missed lunch, and he would have liked to go home for a bologna sandwich, but Ivy insisted on buying low-fat bologna, which Rhodes suspected was made from turkey and which didn’t taste like real bologna even if it wasn’t. She also bought low-fat Miracle Whip, which didn’t taste like much of anything. So Rhodes didn’t figure he was missing much by skipping the meal. At least his waistline was shrinking a little.
He could have slipped by the new McDonald’s and gotten something satisfyingly full of fat grams, but he didn’t really have the time. He wanted to do as much as he could in as short a time as possible. It wouldn’t be long before Hack couldn’t hold off all the callers. They’d be calling him at home, at the jail, and anywhere else they thought he might be.
Clyde Ballinger was in his office in the small building in back of the funeral home proper, sitting at his desk, surrounded by the old paperbacks that he liked to read and collect, but he wasn’t reading one when Rhodes walked in. He was looking at an issue of Texas Football.
“Did you know that Garton was picked to win state this year?” he asked, dropping the magazine on his desk.
Rhodes said that he’d known that. It had been in every article Goober Vance wrote about the team for the past week.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But we beat them. I figure that means we’re the favorites for the title now. That is, we are if we don’t let this business with Brady distract us.”
Rhodes had noticed that a lot of sports fans talked the way Ballinger did when referring to the teams they supported. It was never “they.” It was always “we,” as if the speaker were actually suiting up, taking the field, and playing in the games.
“How did the Catamount Club take the news?” Rhodes asked.
“I don’t know. We didn’t hear about it at the drugstore, and I haven’t heard from any of them since we left. I don’t expect they’ll like it. Nobody will.” He stood up. “You got any idea who did it or why?”
“Not a one. Is Dr. White through with the body?”
“He sure is. He left a report for you. You want to go have a look at it?”
Rhodes said that would be a good idea, and the two of them went over to the funeral home. Before reading through the report, Rhodes looked through Meredith’s clothing, but there was nothing there of any help. Just a wallet, a few coins, a pocket knife, and a comb.
The report had more useful information than the clothing. Meredith had been dead approximately ten hours, meaning that he’d been killed sometime around midnight. He’d been shot with a .32, and the bullet had been recovered. That was a bit of evidence that Rhodes could do a little checking on. He got the bullet, which Dr. White had bagged and tagged. Then he thanked Ballinger and started to leave.
“You ever read anything by Charles Williams?” Ballinger asked.
Rhodes hadn’t, but he’d seen books by Williams in Ballinger’s office.
“He wrote one about a football player that got mixed up in a murder,” Ballinger said. “A Touch of Death is the name of it. You think any of our players are mixed up in this one?”
“I hope not,” Rhodes said. “What do you think?”
“Football builds character,” Ballinger said. “Those boys wouldn’t have anything to do with something like this. Besides, they’re just kids.”
“Kids have killed before.”
“Not this time,” Ballinger said. “I’d bet on it.”
“Speaking of betting,” Rhodes said, “what can you tell me about Hayes Ford?”
Ballinger looked uncomfortable. There was no one else in the room with them, but he said, “Maybe we’d better go back to my office if we’re going to talk about that.”
Ballinger didn’t say anything as they walked across the parking lot. When they were in the office, Ballinger closed the door and walked behind his desk.
“Sit down, Sheriff,” he said.
Rhodes sat on a couch and looked around at the books on Ballinger’s shelves. Most of them had come from garage sales. You couldn’t find the kind of books Ballinger liked in the stores.
“What did you ask me about Hayes Ford for?” Ballinger asked, sitting at his desk. “I hope you don’t think I’d bet on a football game.”
“I don’t know about that,” Rhodes said. “I know you’ve been in a card game or two.”
Ballinger looked as if he might deny it and then thought better of it. “I’ve played poker once or twice. Just friendly games, here in town. Not with Ford, though. I don’t even know if he plays cards. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with a friendly card game, is there?”
“Not unless you’re gambling,” Rhodes said. “Then it’s against the law.”
“Lots of things are against the law. Football pools, for one, but there’s a football pool in every business in Clearview. At the high school, too, I bet. You haven’t busted any of them, not that I’ve heard of.”
“I haven’t busted any of the card games, either, but I will if they get out of hand. That’s not what I’m interested in, though. I’m interested in the betting on the football games. How
much money do you think might be involved?”
There was a low rumble of thunder that shook the windowpanes in the office.
“Weather’s not getting any better, is it?” Ballinger said. “I hear it might get colder tonight. Along with some rain that would be real miserable.”
“Sure would,” Rhodes agreed, though he wasn’t interested in talking about the weather. “Now, you were just about to tell me your thoughts on the betting.”
Ballinger twisted around in his chair as if it were hurting his spine.
“I don’t know that it would be a good idea to talk about that.”
“You and I have been friends for a long time,” Rhodes said. “You know that you can trust me to keep a confidence. Nobody’s going to know you said anything to me about this.”
“All right,” Ballinger said, not sounding as if he really meant it. “How much do you know about Ford?”
“I’ve checked into him,” Rhodes said. “We’ve tried to put a stop to the gambling before.”
“But you didn’t catch him. He’s one slick character, but you know that.”
“That’s right. I know that. So tell me something I don’t know. Like who bets with him. I almost caught him with someone last night, but I didn’t get a good look at whoever it was.”
“I don’t know who he bets with! Just because I’ve been in a card game or two doesn’t mean I know all about the gambling in Blacklin County.”
“I thought that some of the card players might have mentioned Ford. Just in passing.”
“Maybe they have. But I can’t tell you who they are.”
Rhodes knew that the Catamount Clubbers got together occasionally for cards and drinks. They were the ones that Ballinger played cards with, and Ballinger didn’t want to incriminate his friends. Rhodes didn’t really blame him.
There was another rumble of thunder and the first drops of rain began to fall.
“What about it?” Rhodes said.
Ballinger picked up the football magazine, dropped it, and said, “All right. I’ll tell you what I know. But it isn’t much.”
“That doesn’t matter. I just want to get an idea of some amounts. You don’t have to name any names.
