by Bill Hopkins
such things happening in your adopted land.”
If Ollie had rolled his eyes any harder, he’d have fallen over. As it was, suppressing his laughter made him wobbly. Rosswell put his finger to his mouth, hoping to shush Ollie.
“Judge Carew,” Edgeworth said, “it’s bloody beastly, pardon the foul language.”
“I appreciate your time. Thank you.”
Edgeworth hung up without saying good bye.
“Press release?” Ollie said. “Britisher?”
“You’re not supposed to say Chinaman anymore. I didn’t think Englishman was still politically correct. I had to think fast.”
“The British don’t use the term Britisher.”
“Tough. We’re in America and we won that war.”
At this point, Rosswell had come up with exactly one clue. The only thing he knew now that he didn’t know when he spotted the corpses was that the bodies had been arranged in a way that mimicked semaphore signals. And he had no idea why the killer had the bodies signaling an E and a Y. Or a Y and an E.
“Judge, maybe they’re not letters.”
“What do you mean they’re not letters? Y and E are letters.”
“Maybe the clue isn’t using those letters as letters, but as part of a symbol or picture.”
“Yes.” Ollie’s mind worked differently than Rosswell’s. Speaking of clues, Rosswell didn’t have one when it came to understanding what Ollie was talking about. “I was thinking along those lines. You go ahead and elaborate.”
“Let me draw my guesses.” For two or three pages’ worth, Ollie scratched stick men, strange symbols, and gibberish. Eventually he threw down the pencil. “This is crap. Let’s put that idea aside for now.”
“How many people do we have on the really good suspect list?”
“Counting the names we put on there today?”
“Yeah.”
“None.”
“I’m a crappy detective.”
I’m a damn good detective. Ollie knows that. He’ll back me up. He’ll make me feel better.
“Yes, you are one lousy private eye.”
Well, at least he didn’t say, Agreeing here.
Rosswell said, “I’m giving up. I’m going to find Frizz.”
“Frizz already told you to give up.”
“I want to tell him the semaphore clue. Then I’m giving up.”
“I’m going back to Merc’s. I could be missing a lot of juicy gossip.” Rosswell was locking the outside courthouse door when he heard a small voice say, “Sir, may I talk to you about signaling?”
Rosswell turned around to find Ollie staring down at a young Boy Scout. The round-faced scout had no rank on his uniform, which meant he was a Tenderfoot. Rosswell recognized him as being one of the boys under the tutelage of the Eagle Scout at the mirror and semaphore demonstration.
“Sure,” Rosswell said. “Talk away.”
“Bobby doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” The kid’s uniform was immaculate and his short brown hair was perfectly combed.
Ollie said, “Who’s Bobby?”
The kid stared up at Ollie, probably amazed that human rats could talk. “The Eagle Scout.”
Rosswell said, “What’s your name?”
“Franklin Pierce Hillsman.”
Another glacial coldness slugged Rosswell in the gut. “Are you Hermie’s son?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rosswell was stunned into silence. Ollie proved to be the better man than Rosswell because he said, “We’re sorry about your daddy.”
“Thank you, sir.” Franklin drew himself to attention, clicked his heels together, and saluted. “I miss my daddy. He helped me a lot.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.
What is the child doing here? Hermie’s funeral isn’t until Monday. There’s no nice way to ask.
A woman dressed in black from neck to shoes strode up to the boy. “I’m Emma Borland Hillsman.” She stuck out her hand to shake hands with Ollie first, and then with Rosswell. “I’m this young Scout’s mother and proud of him.” Her pale red hair and square head gave testimony that she was indeed Neal’s sister.
Rosswell was astounded. This woman’s husband had been murdered yesterday, yet here she was at a street fair with her son. He said, “I’m sorry about Hermie. He and I had some long talks.”
“One talk you didn’t have with him, Judge Carew.”
“What was that, Mrs. Hillsman?”
“Our ancestry. We come from good Scots stock, Hermie and I do. We landed in Virginia in the seventeenth century and made our way in a wild land.”
Rosswell, although naturally proud of Scots folks making good in the world, was baffled. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Hillsman.”
She continued. “We fought disease and the British. We nearly froze to death in the winter. We came close to starving several times. We crossed half this country to settle in these hills a hundred and twenty- five years ago, our families did. I’m going to bury my husband on Monday, but if he were standing right here, he’d tell Franklin that he should be doing his flags because Franklin comes from good stock.”
Ollie said, “Wow.” Rosswell made a mental note that he needed to keep Emma Borland Hillsman in mind the next time Ollie needed a good lecturing. Hearing her warmed the cockles of Rosswell’s heart.
Wait. What’s a cockle?
Franklin said, “My momma said that my daddy would want me to participate today, especially since he and I had been practicing our flags.” He wiped his eyes and straightened his neckerchief.
“Your momma is right.” Rosswell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, not bothering to remove his trifocals, wiped his face. “And, thank you, Mrs. Hillsman, for raising such a fine son. I know Hermie was proud of him.” Rosswell prayed for forgiveness because he knew no such thing for sure, and besides, he added to the prayer, he hoped young Franklin never touched booze.
Two girls walked by, toting huge sticks of cotton candy that carried a cooked sugar smell. The hamburger guy poured freshly cut onions on the grill, their sizzle sending out sharp scents. Four or five Harleys started at the same time. The noise level made hearing the boy difficult.
Emma said, “Franklin needs to tell you all something about Bobby.”
Ollie said, “Franklin, what was it you wanted to tell us?”
“A lady gave money to Bobby when she saw you all coming.”
Rosswell said, “A lady? What lady?”
He directed their attention to the crowd. “That lady right over there.”
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday morning, continued
Rosswell’s eyes followed where Franklin Pierce Hillsman’s finger pointed. Rosswell would never fire a gun in a crowd, but the woman could be dangerous. A murderer. Patting his .38 to make sure it was still in his pocket, he prayed he’d never have to use it. Especially in public.
Rosswell said, “Which woman?”
Ollie craned his neck to search the crowd. Being taller than Rosswell, he might’ve been able to spot the woman in question before Rosswell did, who couldn’t see who the boy had pointed out. Ollie gave no sign that he saw her either.
Franklin shook his head. “She’s gone.”
Rosswell asked him, “What does she look like?”
“Big. Old.”
The boy would be 12 next week. Anyone over 21 years of age would look old to him.
Ollie said, “What color hair does she have?”
“I’m colorblind,” he said.
Rosswell said, “Was it dark or light hair?”
“Medium. Maybe gray.”
Candy doesn’t have gray hair. The kid’s colorblind. Candy’s dirty blonde hair could’ve looked gray to him.
Ollie lined up next to Rosswell. “Was she as tall as I am or as tall as the judge?”
Franklin studied the two men. “In between.”
Rosswell said, “Franklin, this is really important.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rosswell said, “What was she wearin
g?”
The boy thought for a moment. “Blue jeans. But not the tight kind. The kind that’s loose and floppy. And a sweatshirt and a ball cap and sunglasses.” Franklin closed his eyes, perhaps envisioning the woman. His eyes popped open. “One more thing. She had a big bracelet. Maybe two or three bracelets on each wrist.”
Ollie said, “That’s a good description. Your daddy would be proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Rosswell said, “Anything else?”
“She smelled funny.”
“What,” Ollie said, “did she smell like?”
“Vegetable oil.”
Rosswell said, “Franklin, you’re quite observant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The young scout shook Rosswell’s hand. Franklin’s small hand, warm and sweaty, still managed a firm grasp on Rosswell’s hand. The boy gave the handshake of a man.
Rosswell said, “Do you know why the lady gave money to Bobby?”
“She wanted him to lie to you.”
“We need to know something.” Ollie cleared his throat. “What did she want Bobby to lie about?” Ollie began rubbing his head, a sure sign of nervousness. He was a hound dog on a hot scent.
“What the semaphore signals meant.”
The lady murderer had bribed Bobby, an Eagle Scout. Or at least an Eagle Scout got bribed by someone who knew about the murders. An Eagle Scout accepting a bribe! The world was spinning out of control. The bribery of an Eagle Scout will never make my report. I don’t want anyone knowing that an Eagle Scout could stoop so low. Wait. Report? What report? I’m not making a report because I’m quitting this nonsense.
But.
Rosswell couldn’t help but wonder how the murderer knew where he and Ollie would be. The answer was simple. Without a doubt, he was being tailed. And so was Ollie. Why hadn’t the murderer, using a gun with a silencer, simply sneaked up on them and popped them in the middle of
