1981 - Hand Me a Fig Leaf (15 page)

"What was that?"

"I forget to mention it but Harry Weatherspoon is taking a bath in the frog-pond. He's very dead, and the frogs seem to resent it," and I hung up.

I went back to the cabin, sat on the bench in the shade and waited.

An hour later, the sheriff s car came up the narrow lane with Bill Anderson driving and Sheriff Mason and Dr. Steed seated at the back. The car was followed by an ambulance, containing the two coloured men I had seen before, and two big white men, wearing dungarees and waders.

I walked over to them as they all got out of their cars.

Sheriff Mason was as a little unsteady on his legs and stank of Scotch. Dr. Steed looked a little older, if that was possible, and worried. Bill Anderson was pop-eyed.

"Take a look in there first, gentlemen," I said and waved to the cabin. "Mr. Weatherspoon is in no hurry."

Looking suspiciously at me, the sheriff and Dr. Steed entered the cabin.

"Better take a look, Bill," I said. "It's a nice piece of destruction."

He joined the other two.

One of the coloured ambulance men looked hopefully at me.

"We got another customer?"

"That's right. He'll be wet, so, if you have a mackintosh sheet, bring it along."

The three men came out of the cabin.

"Tech! Tech!" Dr. Steed said. "Vandals! Kids these days! They've no respect for anyone's property!"

"What do you think, Sheriff?" I asked.

Mason blinked, then nodded his head.

"Yeah . . . vandals."

"Doesn't it look as if someone came up here looking for something?"

"Vandals," he repeated.

"What's this about Mr. Weatherspoon?" Dr. Steed demanded. "Are you saying he is dead?"

"I would say so, but you might think he's just fooling." I turned to one of the men in waders. "You'll need a grappling-hook."

He gave a wide grin.

"Got one." and he produced a long boat-hook from the ambulance. The other man in waders produced a big mackintosh sheet. At least. Bill Anderson had been efficient.

I led the way.

Sheriff Mason had difficulty walking along the narrow path to the pond. One of the men in waders had to help him.

The frogs were back, using Harry Weatherspoon as a raft. They all vanished into the pond as we arrived.

I moved into the shade and propped myself up against a tree while the rest stood around, gaping.

Finally Dr. Steed said, "Poor fella. Terrible! All right, boys, get him out."

The ambulance men spread the sheet and the two men in waders moved into the pond and with the boat-hook drew Weatherspoon's body towards them. They got him up onto the sheet, then stood back, looking mournful.

I looked at the body from where I was standing. Weatherspoon’s mouth and nostrils were clogged with green weed. In his right hand, he clutched a blond, hairy object that was wrapped around his wrist.

"Jesus. Larry!" The sheriff gasped, moving forward and staring down at Weatherspoon. "What happened?"

"Give me a couple of minutes, Tim," Dr. Steed said calmly. He knelt and examined Weatherspoon’s head, then he sat back on his heels, stared around, then nodded.

"Accidental death, Tim," he said. "It's as plain as the nose on your face." Since the sheriff s nose resembled a large, overripe tomato, I thought this was a tactless remark. I moved over to join Dr. Steed.

"What's that he's clutching?" I said, knelt, took the blond object and gently disentangled it while Dr. Steed stared, watching me. "It's a goddamn wig!" I exclaimed, shaking the wet blond tresses and holding the wig up so the hair fell straight.

And a wig it was: a cheap wig, sewn on net: the kind of wig you can buy at any self-service store.

"Never mind that," Dr. Steed said. "The poor fella is dead."

The sheriff lumbered closer. "Sure it's an accident, Larry?"

"Certainly. Look over there." Dr. Steed pointed to a tree with bare roots that crawled down into the lake. "There's a bad bruise at the back of the poor fella's head. He must have slipped, hit his head on one of those roots and he drowned. Oh yes, it's accidental death all right."

The sheriff heaved a sigh of relief.

"No State police, huh?"

"Not for accidental death," Dr. Steed said firmly and stood up. "All right, boys, take the poor fella to the mortuary. I'll be along in a while."

"Don't rush it," I said. "Better check his pockets."

"We can do that at the mortuary."

"Better have witnesses, Doc." I looked at Anderson. "Check his pockets."

Anderson hesitated, then, as the sheriff said nothing, he knelt beside the body and quickly emptied the pockets: they didn't produce much: a sodden pack of cigarettes, a silver lighter and a wallet that contained two hundred dollars in small bills.

Anderson made a note of the items, then handed them to Dr. Steed.

"The wound is consistent to falling and hitting that tree-root?" I asked.

Dr. Steed nodded.

"No doubt about it."

"Not someone sneaking up behind him and hitting him with blunt end of an axe?"

There was a long pause, then the sheriff said, "You heard what Dr. Steed said. Let me tell you, he's been in the business before you were born. I don't want any of your smart remarks. What are you doing here anyway?"

"Looking for Johnny Jackson. Sheriff," I said. "Have you asked yourself what Weatherspoon was doing up here?"

"He was interested in buying the farm," the sheriff said, his eyes shifting. "I guess he came up here for another look around. That's natural, ain't it?"

"Yeah. He came up here with an axe and did have another look."

The sheriff snorted.

"Go away! You have no right to be here. You're a goddamn trouble-maker."

"Ask yourself how Weatherspoon got here," I said. "There's no car. Think he walked?" Then turning, I headed back to the cabin, leaving the sheriff and Dr. Steed staring uneasily after me.

I reckoned they would be some time wrapping and carrying the body, so once out of their sight, I broke into a run. Reaching the cabin, I went in. I should have looked for the axe before: it could only have been an axe to have done all this damage. It took me two or three minutes to find it, hidden under the stuffing from the chairs. It was a short-handled axe with a glittering blade. Using my handkerchief, I picked it up by the blade and examined its blunt end that told me nothing. Then I saw a small label on the handle on which was printed: Property of Morgan & Weatherspoon. I put the axe where Anderson could see it, then, leaving the cabin, I went around to the back. There, standing in the shade, was a Honda motorcycle. I guessed it belonged to Weatherspoon and explained how he had reached the farm. It seemed clear to me he had come up, armed with the axe, and had systematically taken the interior of the cabin to bits. What was he looking for? Apparently, the only thing he had found was a blond wig.

The wig didn't puzzle me. I remembered Abe Levi telling me he had seen a girl up here with long blond hair. I had been told that Johnny was a homo. I knew some queers have an urge to wear drag.

Johnny could have bought the wig in Searle, and, when old Fred had been out of the way, Johnny had worn it and Levi had caught him wearing it.

That explained the mysterious girl. Wally Watkins had been right when he had told me that if Levi had seen a girl up here it could only have been Johnny. The wig also confirmed what Be-Be Manse had told me when she had said Johnny was a raving queer.

As I started down the narrow lane to my car, a thought dropped into my mind. Maybe Weatherspoon had found more than the wig. Maybe someone watching him had murdered him. Maybe the same killer who had murdered Fred Jackson.

I got in my car and started the engine.

I knew I should drive straight to Miami and give the whole story to the State police. If I did that, I would be off the investigation. It would then be their business. I hesitated, then decided I would keep digging until Colonel Parnell was back, then I would give him all the facts and let him make the decision.

Back in Searle, I pulled up outside the Quick lunch-bar and walked in. It was crowded. Everyone stared at me as I edged my way up to the counter. The buzz of conversation died. The dozen or so men munching looked hopefully at me.

I ordered a chicken-and-ham sandwich and a Danish to take away.

The man behind the counter started putting the food in a sack.

"Bad thing about Mr. Weatherspoon," he said.

All the men, munching, leaned forward to listen.

"We come and we go," I said, not surprised the news had already reached Searle. I paid for the sandwiches.

"Excuse me, Mr. Wallace," a little man said, his mouth full of food. "I hear you found Mr. Weatherspoon."

"Well, if it wasn't him, it was someone wearing his trousers," I said and left.

I drove to the Morgan & Weatherspoon's factory, left the car outside the high gates and Walked across the courtyard to the processing-shed. Here I found Abe Levi, eating from a tin of beans. The smell in the shed made my stomach cringe. The five coloured girls were busy at the messy bench, dissecting frogs. They all looked at me with round black eyes. Abe waved.

I sat beside him.

"You like those beans or would you share my lunch?" I asked, opening the paper sack.

"Bread? Not for me," Abe said. "I like beans. I've eaten beans for lunch for the past twenty years, and look at me."

I regarded him, decided the beans hadn't done much for him and began to eat the chicken-and-ham sandwich.

"So the boss fell into the frog-pond and drowned himself," Abe said, digging into his can with a spoon.

"Yes. So what happens to the factory?”

"That's one thing that doesn't worry me. I'm about to retire. I've had enough of lifting frog-barrels. I have a nice wife, a nice little home and a bit put by, so why should I care what happens to the factory?"

"Was Weatherspoon married?"

A cunning look came into his close-set eyes.

"You looking for information, Mr. Wallace."

I said I was.

"Well, twenty bucks will buy you an earful."

Time was running out so I took out my wallet and gave him a five-dollar bill.

"Let me hear what you call an earful."

"You asked if the boss was married . . . right?"

"Come on, Abe, don't play hard to get. You'll get your twenty if you come up with anything of interest. Was he married?"

"No, but he played around. He and Peggy Wyatt had it off together. She thought he was going to marry her, but he wasn't the marrying kind, so she took to the bottle."

"Any idea who will inherit the factory?"

"No one, I guess. Weatherspoon was a loner." He ate more beans. "This factory is worth of pile of money. When the boss took over from old man Morgan, he started a line in canned frogs. That, and supplying all the swank restaurants with frog saddles, must have done him a lot of good."

"Canned frogs? I didn't know you canned frogs," I said, suddenly alert. "You freeze frog's legs, but you don't can them."

"You know something, Mr. Wallace? Women these days are goddamn lazy. They feed their men out of cans. Not that I have anything against canned food. I live on beans myself.”

"So he started a line in canned frogs?"

"My job was to collect the frogs, but over there there's the canning-shed. It's run by a smart coloured girl. She's been at it since the boss took over. She has a couple of coloured girl helpers." He eyed me, then asked, "Want more, Mr. Wallace?"

"It'll have to be more if you want the other fifteen," I said.

He finished his can of beans, stared into the empty can, burped, then said, “The boss was a real sonofabitch. I ain't shedding a tear. He was always after the dollar. He was in some kind of racket." He again looked at me "Why did he go off every Thursday on that Honda of his and come, back here with a leather box strapped to his machine? I often saw him go and, when I was unloading, saw him return.

“Every so often a Mexican used to come up here and they got into a huddle in the boss's office. Some racket."

"This Mexican?"

Abe shrugged.

"A tough-looking greaser with a little moustache. He came here every month. Then there was a guy who came here in a Jag car. I only saw him once. I was fixing the truck, late. I just caught a glimpse of him, but I wondered who he was. It was around nine o'clock. I heard him shouting at the boss."

I handed over another ten dollars.

"What did he say?"

"I don't exactly remember, Mr. Wallace. Something about money. He was shouting 'the pay-off, then he quietened down. I wasn't interested, you understand. I was busy fixing my truck."

"This coloured girl in charge of the cannery," I said. "What's her name?"

"Chloe Smith. You thinking of talking to her, Mr. Wallace?"

"Why not?"

"Don't offer her money. For a coloured girl she has class."

"Okay, Abe." I parted with another five dollars. "If I think of anything, I'll talk to you again."

Leaving him, I walked across to another shed at the far end of the courtyard.

I pushed open a door and entered a long narrow room. By the window was a long bench on which stood a number of empty cans. Facing the windows was a big electric cooking-stove on which stood two small cauldrons and a deep-fry cooker.

In a corner there was a can-sealer with a stack of lids.

A tall coloured girl came out of another room and regarded me. She was a real looker, her skin ebony black, slim, with half-pineapple-shaped breasts. She wore a floral red and white T-shirt and black cotton slacks. Her head was covered with a red and white cotton scan. She would be, at a guess, in her late twenties.

"Miss Smith?" I said, giving her my wide, friendly smile. She moved out of the shadows and into the sunlight coming through the windows.

"We are closed," she said in a low, musical voice.

"I wanted to ask you a, question or two. I'm Dirk Wallace."

She nodded.

"I don't have to tell you the bad news, Miss Smith. News of any kind travels fast in Searle."

Again she nodded.

"Did you ever meet Johnny Jackson?"