Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  “And what he does remember is scary. His father and brother being killed. Some guy called Rutledge—”

  She jumped when a firm hand pressured her shoulder from behind. She spun around to find James W. standing at the kitchen half-doors. His face was grim. “Angie, I don’t think you want to be talking about this.”

  His gaze wasn’t angry exactly, she noted, but the message was clear. She’d said too much. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  The sheriff shifted his scrutiny to the three employees who stared at Angie, mouths agape. “You didn’t hear any of that.”

  “Not a word,” Bo agreed, then, without skipping a beat, asked, “You want an iced tea or something stronger?”

  “Iced tea. For now, anyways.”

  Dorothy Jo turned swiftly toward the stove while Chelsea grabbed her waist apron and followed Bo back into the bar.

  James W. guided Angie out the kitchen back door to sit among the crates and empty kegs. “What happened?” he asked, his tone softening.

  “Hard to stay at his side when the man you love doesn’t remember a thing about you.” She quieted while Bo brought two iced teas then immediately retreated. “Matt’s so different. He’s...” She searched for the right word. “Worldly.”

  James W. edged closer. “We both knew he’d been around the block a few times. A cop in Miami? He wouldn’t be alive today if he didn’t have street smarts.”

  “I know.” Again she felt the tears threaten and she ran her hand across her eyes. “There’s something more.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “What is it?”

  She searched her brother’s face, willing him to understand what she was about to say. “I don’t think he believes in God,” she whispered. There. She’d said it. And the sound of the actual words sickened her to the core. “That’s a big part of who my Matt is. He loves others because he loves God.” A tear escaped, and she wiped at it. “If he’s not calling on some sick old lady, he’s burying someone’s father or baptizing a baby. He’s teaching all of us how to be kind to each other—not just his congregation.” Her eyes were rounded in fear. “He’s so full of hate now.”

  “The man’s had a head trauma,” James W. said. “Chances are—”

  “Chances are what?” Angie felt a surge of anger replace the despair. “You don’t know that any more than I do.”

  James W. gave Angie’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’re right. But don’t forget you believe in God, honey. And He’s still on his throne.”

  Angie stared at James W. Though her half-brother was a church-goin’ man, she’d never considered him very spiritual. Yet, what he’d said was profound. She inhaled deeply, and realized her breath was steadier than it’d been only a moment before. “Yes,” she said, feeling the truth of his words warm her insides. “God is in charge, isn’t He?”

  “Yep. Apparently this Rutledge fellow doesn’t know who he’s really up against.”

  Angie heard footsteps coming around the fence, and she waited to see who might be using the back entrance to her bar. She was surprised when the very skinny, very grimy teenage boy rounded the corner. “Tom Gibbons,” she said, standing taller. “What are you doin’ here.” She made sure it wasn’t a question but a challenge.

  The teenager pushed the Ranger’s baseball hat back on his head, revealing a sweaty patch of dark brown hair. “I thought I was workin’ for you,” he said. “Bo called and offered me a job as dish boy. You want me or not?”

  “Bo? Hired you?” Her impression of the boy had never been a good one. He was a high school dropout who didn’t know what the inside of a bathtub looked like. For all the trouble he caused in his short life, Angie figured his only goal was to be a liar and a drunk—just like his dead father.

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  Angie sighed. Leave it to Bo to root for an underdog. She didn’t want the kid anywhere near her place, but she could not deny the teenager’s complexion was pale, so pale in fact she could see blue veins around his eyes and forehead. She wondered when the last time was he’d had a good meal. “You will not touch one drop of my liquor. You understand me?”

  Tom’s mouth creased with anger, but he nodded his agreement.

  “And you’ll call me ma’am, and Bo sir. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Bo’s inside,” she said. “Might as well get to work.”

  Tom pulled his hat back over his face and headed for the kitchen door.

  “And tell Dorothy Jo to feed you somethin’,” Angie called after him. “I don’t want any more employees passing out on my dime.” Angie arched her eyebrow after Tom disappeared inside. “Why in the world would Bo do a thing like that?”

  James W. pursed his lips. “I mighta had something to do with that. Mind if I talk with the kid before he starts his shift?”

  “What for?”

  “I got word that the medical examiner’s releasing Zach’s body. I don’t think Tom knows it yet.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Bo knew I was looking for the kid. Mighta been why Bo offered him a job. Felt sorry for him, maybe.”

  “I forgot all about Zach. Well, at least that explains it.” She nodded toward the kitchen. “Let the kid finish his supper first. Getting news like that on an empty stomach—well, let’s say he needs to eat.”

  James W. stared at the kitchen door, then nodded. “Well, I must be out of the doghouse ‘cuz Elsbeth decided to turn on the stove. I’ll go home and get some supper.” He hugged Angie’s shoulders. “But I’ll be back. And I don’t think it will be pretty.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Bad Night All Around

  “Pastor?” A woman’s voice called to Mike from the dark nothingness of his exhaustion.

  He fought the notion of waking up. He was so tired. “Go away,” he murmured.

  “Sorry, Pastor,” this time the woman’s voice carried a stern edge. “It’s Nurse Meg. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  Roused to frustration, Mike slanted a glance at the chubby nurse. Damn. What happened to the redhead who’d been a pleasure to look at? She was the only one who could make him feel better. “Where’s—” He stopped. What was her name again?

  “Angie,” the nurse supplied. “She had to go home for awhile.”

  Oh, yeah. That was it. Angie with the flowing red hair and the husky low voice. He wanted her back.

  The nurse stepped closer and placed a firm hand on his head.

  Mike closed his eyes tight, knowing exactly what that hand hold portended. He felt the inevitable tug at his eyelid, then heard the dreaded click of the flashlight. “Ow!” A beam stabbed through his eye to the center of his skull.

  “Pastor Hayden, try to relax,” she said from behind the piercing instrument of torture. “It looks like the blood thinner is having some effect.” She allowed his eye to close, then performed the same brutality on the other eye. Finally he heard her move away and he raised his lids enough to see her checking the monitor over his head. “And you’re ICP is down. Good.”

  “What’s an ICP?”

  “Your intracranial pressure. It was nineteen. We had to put you on a blood thinner.” The nurse went to the small computer she wheeled from patient to patient and began tapping at its keyboard.

  “Blood thinner?” he asked. He remembered she’d said something about that before, and she’d been angry with him.

  “Yes, Pastor. We told you not to play with your bed controls. And you didn’t listen, did you? Every time you raised your head above a ten-degree angle, you created pressure on your brain, which caused more bleeding.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t remember the bleeding part. But the part about raising his head, he knew darn well he’d done. “Lying flat sucks.”

  “Ten-degree angle. That’s all your head can handle. Not one inch more. Not one inch less.”

  He heard a rustle in the room and opened his eyes enough to see the blonde, haggard-looking Dr. Ryan walking in. “How’s he doing?”


  Nurse Meg closed her lap top. “He’s been on the blood thinner for about six hours now. Looks like it’s working.”

  “I’ve called the electrician.” Dr. Ryan stepped forward, taking her flashlight from her pocket.

  Oh, God. He slammed his eyes shut. Not again.

  The brutalization this time was actually longer in duration. What the heck was with these people? And where was Angie? None of this crap happened when Angie was around. “Where’s Angie?”

  “You ran her off,” Nurse Meg reminded him.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, maybe he’d been a little difficult.

  Dr. Ryan finally clicked off her flashlight and straightened. She looked at the ICP monitor. “We’re down to sixteen. Looks like you dodged this bullet, Pastor Hayden. At least that makes one.” She gave a nod to the nurse. “We’ll start decreasing the Mannitol. I’ll put in the orders. We’ll see how it goes.”

  After she left, Mike cast a glare the nurse’s way. “What do you need an electrician for?”

  “He’s going to disable your bed controls, Pastor.”

  “No way,” he protested.

  “It’s all for the best.” Her smile was smug. “And everyone here is praying for you, I promise.”

  Mike ground his teeth. He was sick of this praying crap. “For what?”

  “That you’ll snap out of this irritable mood you’re in. That’s a symptom from the bleeding you have in the brain.” She headed for the curtain. “And believe me, you won’t be getting those controls back any time soon.”

  ***

  James W. walked into the Ice House shortly after seven, patting his full belly. Elsbeth, showing further signs of forgiveness and routine, had cooked up a fine pot of spare ribs and noodles. He surveyed the space, saw all the tables were full of customers, then headed to a far corner to wait for business to slow down. No reason to pull Tom Gibbons from the work force when he was needed most.

  He slid into a booth and settled in to watch the citizens of his town come and go. The make-up of Wilks was changing. At least in here it was. Millennial-looking young professionals dressed in plaid shirts and sporting nyloned buns atop their heads lined the bar. And the trivia team! Even five years ago James W. would never have imagined two retired farmers still fond of wearing overalls, an Hispanic gas station owner whose permanent scent was eau de gasoline, and members of the Ladies of Grace Bible Study yelling trivia answers at the top of their lungs, all the while having a ball. In the old day the tables and booths had been littered with losers whose elbows were callused from hefting liquor to their lips. Now the booths were filled with couples out on a date night.

  The Fire and Ice House was becoming civilized.

  When exactly had the transition started? He took a sip from his iced tea and pondered the question. Musta been back in January. Angie’s mother had gone missin’ and Matt Hayden had taken to his pulpit to rally the town to help find the sick old woman. Without realizing it, the preacher had broken down a glass wall that had separated his congregation from the rest of the community. He’d asked folks to care about a missing bar owner, the same bar owner who’d been falsely accused of running a whorehouse in the upstairs of her establishment. After that, the “they’re all bad, we’re all good” had slowly begun to fade away.

  Well, not for his wife, Elsbeth, of course. Bless her heart.

  He pulled out his phone and called the security man on guard at Matt’s bedside to check how things were going in Austin. All clear. Then Richard Dube stopped by his booth to brag over the fact he’d pulled over a reported stolen car and arrested the driver all by himself. James W. patiently nodded through the shop talk. Whether he was at his desk, in a bar or sitting in a pew he was always on the job.

  A full hour passed, the placed quieted down, and he knew it was time for him to talk with Tom Gibbons about his dad. He heaved himself out of the booth and headed for the kitchen.

  Tom was loading a rack of dirty dishes to be pushed through the washer. He didn’t look up from his work, even when James W. came to a stop right beside him.

  “Tom? Gotta minute?” James W. knew the next few minutes were going to be hell.

  “No,” Tom said. “I’m workin’.”

  “Stop what you’re doing, and let’s go outside, son.”

  Tom’s nostrils flared with contempt, as he looked James W. square in the eye. “I ain’t your son.”

  “No, you’re not,” James W. allowed. “But we’re still going outside.”

  The two walked out into the quarter moon night. Tom sat on an empty keg and crossed his arms defensively. “What.”

  James W. decided the fewer words said between them the better. “I got a call from the medical examiner today. They’re ready to release your father’s body to the family.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Done cuttin’ him to pieces, hunh?”

  “I need to know what you want done with his body.”

  Tom swallowed hard, then upped his chin in defiance. “How the hell should I know?”

  “Do you want him buried? Maybe a funeral of some kind—”

  Tom jumped to his feet. “Ain’t nobody gonna go to his funeral. Everybody in this town is glad he’s gone. Especially you and the preacher.” He shoved a finger in James W.’s chest.

  James W. stepped back. “Look, son—”

  “I ain’t your son!”

  James W. sucked in a calming breath. “Look, Tom, you’ve got to make some decisions here. What do you want the medical examiner to do with your father’s body?”

  “Burn him in effigy for all I care. That’s what you’d like, isn’t it? You and that preacher man say he killed those two girls ten years back. You bag of self-righteous shit. If you ask me, your son had way more motive to get rid of Melinda and Diane. They knew what a degenerate he was.” Tom took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Like father, like son. Everyone knows why you hired my mother to be your secretary. You get into watching homosexual orgies right in the jailhouse, I’ll bet.”

  James W. clenched his teeth until the urge to knock the kid solid between the eyes passed. “I need to bring you up to speed on a few things, boy,” he finally said. “Now sit down on that keg or I’ll shove it up your ass.”

  Grudgingly Tom sat.

  James W. rested his hands on his gun belt, and stared down at the lad. “Now here’s what you need to know. I think your dad was murdered.”

  The kid didn’t look surprised, which had James W. thinking the boy hadn’t heard him right. “The same gun that shot the pastor fired the killing bullet into your father’s head.”

  “I know all that. It’s why you thought my father committed suicide after he shot the preacher. Like he’d have a guilty conscience about offing Hayden?” He snorted. “My daddy wouldn’t shed one tear over killing that holier than thou sonuvabitch.”

  “You’re not hearing me, boy. Your father was too drunk to have shot the pastor. Plus there wasn’t any gun powder residue on his hand, which means he didn’t shoot himself either. We’re investigating your father’s death as a homicide.”

  “Investigating. Right.” The sarcastic tone confirmed what James W. had suspected. Tom already knew that his father had been murdered. But how? “I’ll bet you don’t even have a suspect.”

  “I’m working on it. In the meantime I need you to tell me what to do with your father’s body.”

  Tom shook his head, then stared at the ground. “I don’t have no money. I can’t bury him.”

  James W. sighed. “I can see if there’s some kind of fund or somethin’—”

  “I don’t want your charity.” Tom’s head came up defiantly. “And if you’re lookin’ for who shot my dad, take a peek at your own son.”

  “Jimmy Jr.?”

  “My dad’s the man who told the newspaper man about your son diddlin’ that girl ten years back.”

  James W. felt a fire begin to burn in his belly. He stepped back to keep himself from throwing a fist into the teenager’s smug face. He t
ook a long, settling breath before he continued. “I don’t blame you for turnin’ out the way you did.” He forced his tone to be measured and slow. “Your dad was a mean sonuvabitch and that’s a fact. He’s gone now, but you’re still amongst the living. From now on, everything that happens to you, everything you say, everything you do, it’ll be your choice. You alone. And I’ll hold you responsible for it.”

  “You threatenin’ me now, Sheriff?” Tom stood.

  “I’m promisin’ you. Stay out of trouble. For your own sake.” James W. shook his head. “You’ve got a job now. You don’t have to work to pay for your father’s bad habits. You don’t have to live in that hell hole any longer. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. Take this chance to make yourself a decent human being.”

  Tom’s lips curled in a sneer. “You gonna do the preachin’ while Hayden’s in the hospital?”

  James W. shook his head in disgust, then stood tall to finish his task. “I’ve told you what’s what. It’s up to you to make your choices.” He turned to head back into the Ice House.

  “What about my dad’s body?” Tom called after him.

  James W. didn’t turn to deliver his answer. “You’ve got twenty-four hours. After that we’ll take matters into our own hands.” He slammed through the back kitchen door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kodak Arrives

  Angie shoved the cash register drawer shut and surveyed her empty bar. Midnight had come and gone, and it was time to close the place down.

  She pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Dorothy Jo stood at the prep table, pulling saran wrap over a pan of Texas sheet cake. She looked completely worn out. Angie turned her attention to Tom who was in the back corner, rinsing out a gravy pot. “Tom,” she called to him.

  He scowled. “Yes, ma’am?”

  At least he’d called her ma’am. “How much is Bo paying you?”

  “Ten dollars an hour.”

  “I’ll pay you twenty for your last hour if you clean this place up so it shines. I don’t want Dorothy Jo lifting any pans or messing around with the equipment. She puts the food away. That’s it.”