by Bill Crider
Rhodes wasn’t so sure that killing yourself was ever simple, but he smiled. “Answer those two questions, and you’ll have it all wrapped up.”
He was wondering the same things himself, of course. He was also wondering about Brame, who had been adamant about wanting to return to the scene. Rhodes had not allowed him to do so, despite Brame’s loud insistence.
“There are things you might not understand,” Brame had said. Then, realizing how that sounded, he said, “I mean, I’m a dealer in rare books, like Simon was. I can help you with your investigation.”
“If I need your help, and I’m sure I will, I’ll call on you,” Rhodes told him. “In the meantime, you should get a room at a motel for the night. We can talk again tomorrow.”
Brame persisted for a while, but it eventually became obvious to him that Rhodes was not going to let him back inside the building. He finally got into his Volvo and drove away.
It was much later than Rhodes had thought it would be when he left Obert for home. He drove through the tiny town and made the wide curve that led down the hill. It was too dark to see the bluebonnets that were just beginning to bloom on the roadside.
On the way back to Clearview he passed a deserted service station/grocery that a sign proclaimed to be THE KOUNTRY STOAR. He wondered briefly what had happened to Miss Bobbitt, who had once been engaged to the store’s owner. She had left Clearview two weeks previously, without telling anyone where she was going. Good riddance, as far as Rhodes was concerned.
He looked at the dashboard clock. It was after midnight. He wondered if Ivy would be waiting up for him.
Chapter 3
When Rhodes’ first wife had died of cancer some years before, he had thought he would never marry again, if he thought of marriage at all. Meeting Ivy Daniel in the course of a murder investigation, however, had changed his mind. It had taken a while, but he had come around to accepting the fact that getting married again might not be such a bad idea after all.
Even then, he had not married immediately. Ivy had a few doubts of her own, especially about his job. Nights like this one were one cause of those doubts.
Rhodes pulled the county car into his driveway. There was light coming from the living room, which meant that Ivy had not gone to bed. He didn’t know whether that was a bad sign or a good one.
Rhodes parked and walked through the back yard. There were almost as many weeds in it as there were around the college buildings. Rhodes hated yard work, and he wondered if he could find a high-school kid to do the mowing.
While he was wondering about that, Speedo, whose real name was Mr. Earl, bounded up and put his paws on Rhodes’ chest. Speedo could always be counted on for a friendly greeting, no matter how late Rhodes came home. He was another relationship that Rhodes had established in the course of the same investigation during which he had met Ivy, though Speedo had moved in long before Ivy did.
Rhodes gave Speedo’s head a good rub before pushing him aside; then he checked the food and water bowls before going in the house.
Ivy was sitting on the couch in a maroon velour robe. She was watching a late movie, and Rhodes glanced at the TV screen as he entered the room.
He recognized Gail Russel in a scene from Angel and the Bad Man. It wasn’t the colorized version.
“Hi,” Ivy said. “Does the name of this movie give you any ideas?”
“Maybe,” Rhodes said. “Which one of us is supposed to be the bad man?”
“I thought that was obvious,” Ivy said, standing up and walking over to him.
It was. On their honeymoon in Cozumel, Ivy had looked better in her bathing suit than most of the women half her age. Rhodes, on the other hand, had spent a lot of his time wishing that he had ridden his stationary bike more often and wondering how high above his waist he could reasonably pull his own suit. If he pulled it high enough, he could almost fool himself into believing his stomach was flat. The tape on his damaged ribs hadn’t helped things any, either.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he said.
“Why? I knew you were a minion of the law when I married you. Want a Dr Pepper?”
Rhodes realized that not only was he thirsty, he hadn’t eaten supper. “Sure,” he said, thankful that there was no problem, and they went into the kitchen.
One thing that had bothered Rhodes about remarrying was the memories connected with this house and the rooms in it, memories of the way Clare had smiled, of things she had said, of the way she had moved through the house. He had worried that those memories might interfere with Ivy’s happiness, and maybe even with his own.
That had not turned out to be the case, however. The memories were there, of course, and most of them were good ones, but they were not overpowering. They lingered in the back of his mind, always there, but they were only memories, a part of the past. Ivy was the here and now.
She opened the refrigerator and got out a Dr Pepper in a twelve-ounce glass bottle. That was one big change in his domestic arrangements, right there. While living alone, Rhodes had bought his soft drinks, when he remembered to do it, in two-liter plastic containers or in cans. He much preferred the taste of Dr Pepper out of glass bottles, but you couldn’t get them in convenience stores, and it was too much trouble to actually shop for them, at least for him. Ivy didn’t seem to mind.
“Have you eaten anything?” Ivy said. She had become familiar with Rhodes’ catch-as-catch-can eating habits.
“Nope,” Rhodes said. He took a swallow of the Dr Pepper.
“I didn’t think so. I’ll warm up some meatloaf.”
That was another big change. Rhodes had for years lived mostly on Dr Pepper, bologna sandwiches, cheese crackers, and whatever fast food he could pick up. It had always puzzled him that he could gain weight on such a diet, but he had managed to do it. He had bought a stationary bicycle with the honorable intention of getting more exercise, but he rarely had a chance to ride it.
He was sure that he was going to gain even more weight now, since Ivy actually cooked occasionally. She had a job of her own in an insurance office, and she had no intention of giving it up, but neither did she intend to adapt her own eating habits to Rhodes’ unhealthy ways. She even had him eating high-fiber cereal for breakfast. At least she hadn’t made him give up Dr Pepper.
While Rhodes was eating the meatloaf, he told Ivy about the night’s events. She wasn’t quite accustomed as yet to talking about things like suicide and/or murder over warmed-up meatloaf, but as usual she was interested in Rhodes’ job and ready to discuss it with him. And as it turned out, she knew a lot more about Simon Graham than Rhodes did.
“He’s not very well-liked in antiquarian book circles,” she said, sitting across from him at the round oak table. “Most of those people really love books. He’s thought of as more of a wheeler-dealer who could just as well be selling used cars or insurance. And some people think he might be a little on the shady side.”
Rhodes pushed back his empty plate. “How do you know so much about him?” he said.
“There was a profile of him in one of the Sunday supplements a few weeks ago,” Ivy said. “I read it.”
Rhodes nodded. He didn’t have time for much reading, though he always tried to read the comics section. He thought it was at least as relevant to life as the front page. Maybe more.
“Tell me more about the ‘shady’ part,” he said.
Ivy looked up and off to the left, remembering. “There was something about forged books,” she said. “Could that be right? I know that people can forge checks, but how could anyone forge a book?”
Rhodes didn’t know. “Why would anyone want to?” he said. That was something he’d have to talk to Brame about.
“Because they’re worth a lot of money, some of them. Not the ones you can find on the rack at Wal-Mart, but the old ones, and even some fairly recent first editions, like some of the early Stephen King books.”
“And that’s how Graham made his money, selling Stephen King books?”
“By dressing like a drugstore cowboy,” Rhodes put in. He knew about that.
“That was part of it,” Ivy agreed. “But there was more to it than that. He knew how to spend money, too. He gave a lot of parties, served the best food, poured the best drinks, and invited all the best people.”
“He didn’t invite me.”
Ivy laughed. Rhodes liked the sound of it.
“He probably would have invited you if he’d had the parties around here, but he didn’t. He had them in Houston. That’s where he lives, after all. Or where he did live, if that was really him you found tonight.”
“I had the impression he lived in Obert,” Rhodes said. “On the old college grounds.”
“He has a house there. Had. Whatever. But he lived in Houston most of the time, not in Obert. Houston’s where he had his bookstore. You can’t be a big-time antiquarian book dealer in a place like Obert.”
“Not even if you have your own personal college?” Rhodes said.
“There was something about that in the article, too. Some people said that buying the college in Obert was just another one of Graham’s big publicity schemes and that nothing would ever come of it.”
“Another one? What were some of the others?”
“He was connected to horse racing in some way. He was one of the backers of a track that was supposed to get organized out in Harris County. It never happened.”
Rhodes didn’t see anything unusual in that. Since the state legislature had approved pari-mutuel betting in Texas a couple of years before, only one track had gotten underway. That one was in a small town out near Brownwood, and it had gone bankrupt.
“Some people think he lost a lot of money in that deal and a few others,” Ivy said. “There were rumors that he was almost addicted to gambling and that he bet heavily at some of the Eastern tracks and lost just as heavily. He loved playing blackjack in Las Vegas and Atlantic City.”
Rhodes remembered the bumper sticker he had seen on the vehicle in Graham’s garage.
“There was some question as to whether he was as rich as people thought he was,” Ivy went on. “People said he owed so much money to the bookies and to the casinos that he would never be able to pay it all.”
So Graham might have had reasons to kill himself, Rhodes thought. Money was always a reason, and the rumors about forgery might be reasons as well. People in high positions, either in society or business, did not like to see their reputations shattered by accusations of wrongdoing. Especially if the accusations could be shown to be true.
“Did he ever do anything right?” Rhodes said.
“He did manage quite a few coups in his book dealings,” Ivy said. “I don’t remember all the details, but I think some of those deals were suspect because of the forgery angle.”
“I guess we’ve thrown away the paper that had that article in it,” Rhodes said.
“Probably. But the library would have a copy. Do you want any more meatloaf?”
Rhodes looked at the clock on top of the refrigerator. Nearly one-thirty. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Time for bed. I’ve got to get an early start in the morning.”
“How early?”
“Not that early,” Rhodes said, smiling.
Rhodes went by Ballinger’s Funeral Home before going to the jail the next morning. He wanted to talk to Ballinger about the body of Simon Graham.
The Easter spell had blown itself out, and the sky was a brilliant clear blue. It was going to be a beautiful day, not the kind of day to be worrying about a murder. But then, what day was?
Ballinger was an early riser, and he was sitting in his office in the small building behind the funeral home when Rhodes drove up. He did not fit the general public’s stereotyped idea of a funeral director who spent his life in a state of perpetual gloom, and he met Rhodes at the door with his usual smile.
He was holding a paperback book in his left hand, and that wasn’t unusual, either. He frequented the local garage sales looking for old paperback mysteries. Rhodes looked down at the book and tried to read the title.
Seeing where Rhodes was looking, Ballinger brought the book up to eye level. “Shoot It Again, Sam,” he said. “Michael Avallone. He wrote just about everything—books about The Man from U.N.C.L.E., books about somebody called ‘The Satan Sleuth,’ hell, he even wrote books about The Partridge Family. You oughta read this one, though, as much as you like old movies. I think this Avallone fella must like ’em, too. There’s this private eye, see, named Ed Noon—”
“What about that man that was brought in last night?” Rhodes said. He hated to interrupt Ballinger, but if you let him get started on his favorite topic, he was likely to run on for hours.
“Simon Graham,” Ballinger said, lowering the book. “You better come on in.”
They went inside the office. There were shelves lined with paperbacks, and Rhodes wondered if Graham had ever collected books like that. Probably not.
“Dr. White came by,” Ballinger said, sitting behind his desk and putting the paperback down on it after marking his place with a slip of paper. “You’ll be getting a report.”
“I know,” Rhodes said, sitting in a chair facing the desk. “But you talked to him, didn’t you?”
Ballinger not only had his office in the small building they were in; he lived there, ready for any emergency, day or night. He would have known when the body came in.
“Sure,” he said. “I talk to everybody.”
“What did you find out?”
“Well, he didn’t die easy, that’s for sure. You know, when they hung you in the old days, they’d spring the trap and you’d drop down, and that noose would break your neck. That’s why it’s tied that way and why the hangman had to get the knot just in the right place by your ear. Supposed to be a kind of merciful way to go if it was done right. But if you just strangle to death, which is apparently what happened to Graham, well, you don’t go so easy.”
“Dr. White thinks that’s what happened? Graham strangled?”
“Looks that way. There’re some scratches on Graham’s face and neck where he tried to get the rope off, and there was some skin under his fingernails. Probably his. His hands and fingers were a little raw, too. Tried to hold himself up, take his weight off the rope. Shirttail all pulled out. No doubt that he strangled.”
“He didn’t kill himself, then,” Rhodes said.
“Dr. White didn’t say that. Even a man who kills himself can change his mind at the last minute.”
“Dr. White kept the fingernail scrapings for me?”
“They’re here. Tagged and bagged. I’ll get ’em for you before you leave. They’re all ready to go to the lab if you want to send ’em.”
Ninety-nine chances out of a hundred, the skin under the fingernails did indeed come from Graham’s own neck and face, but Rhodes would send the scrapings to the lab anyway, just in case.
“What about the time of death?”
Ballinger told him. The time that Dr. White estimated fit the facts as Rhodes knew them so far.
“Anything else?” he said.
Ballinger shook his head. “Not that he told me. You’ll get it all in the report, though.”
“Thanks,” Rhodes said, standing up.
“I’ll walk you to the car, get you those bags,” Ballinger said, standing also. “You know, Sheriff, this is likely to be a pretty big case. Graham was a wealthy man, and he was pretty well known over the state. This is going to get coverage in the big-city papers.”
Just what I need, Rhodes thought. “I hope they haven’t found out about it yet,” he said. “We’re still trying to locate the next of kin.”
In fact, Ruth had been supposed to call two people the previous evening. Neither of them was related to Graham, but their numbers had been in his wallet. One of them was a woman named Marty Wallace; the other was a man, Mitch Rolingson, who was Graham’s business partner. There was no way Rhodes could control what those two might have done.
“I haven’t called anybody, if that’s what you mean,” Ballinger said. His feelings were hurt. “I’d never do a thing like that, call the reporters about a death.”
“Not even Red Rogers?” Rhodes said. Rogers was the name used on the air by a local radio reporter, Larry Redden.
Ballinger smiled. He knew that Rhodes had experienced a run-in or two with Redden in the past. “You know better than that.”
Rhodes nodded. “Just checking. Let’s go get those bags.”
“The boys from the eight-seven would eat this up,” Ballinger said as they went outside. Another of his enthusiasms was Ed McBain’s series of books about the lives and jobs of the cops in a mythical big city much like New York. “A deal like this, I bet the Deaf Man would be in it some way. If he murdered somebody like that, he’d do a good job of making it look like suicide or something.”
“Did Dr. white say anything about murder?” Rhodes said.
“No,” Ballinger said. “I was just thinking how the Deaf Man would do things.”
Rhodes had heard about the Deaf Man from Ballinger before. “Isn’t he the one who sends clues for the police to figure out?”
“That’s the one,” Ballinger said.
“Then he’s not involved,” Rhodes said.
Chapter 4
When Rhodes got to the jail, he opened the door carefully, but to his surprise the pneumatic opener worked just exactly as it was supposed to do.
“Ruth fixed it,” Hack said. He was looking at the monitor. Lawton was sweeping the floor.
