A Romantic Way to Die (15 page)

“The voters will probably tell me when it’s time for a new job,” he said.

“You don’t have to wait for them to tell you.”

“I know that, but I sort of like what I’m doing.”

“You like getting blown to bits?”

Rhodes was about to point out that he was still all in one piece, but the truth was, he felt a little scattered.

“I don’t like that part of it,” he said. “But I do like some of it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as enforcing the law.”

“Someone else could do that.”

“I know it. And maybe even better than I can.”

Ivy looked at him in surprise.

“You know better than that. I don’t ever want to hear you talk that way. You’re the best sheriff in the state.”

“If I’m so good, why should I quit?”

“If you don’t understand,” Ivy said, “then I can’t explain it to you.”

She stalked out of the bathroom, and Rhodes grimaced at himself in the mirror again.

The next morning Rhodes dragged himself out of bed an hour later than usual. It had been almost time to get up before he’d gotten to sleep, and he was running on a serious sleep deficit. His body was aching in places that he didn’t even know could ache.

But his mind felt perfectly lucid, unlike the previous evening, when he knew he’d been thinking some pretty strange things. And when he held up two fingers, he could see them clearly.

Time to get back in the game,
he thought.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Hack said when Rhodes came in through the front door. “Me and Lawton were beginnin’ to think we were goin’ to have to run the county all by ourselves today.”

“I’m sure the county would’ve been in good hands,” Rhodes said.

Hack was sitting at his desk, and Lawton, as usual, was leaning against a wall. Rhodes tried to remember the last time he’d seen Lawton sitting down. He couldn’t.

But that didn’t stop Rhodes from sitting. He didn’t care if Lawton never sat in a chair again.

“Bein’ blowed up must not agree with you,” Hack told him. “You don’t look so hot, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

Rhodes settled into his chair and said he didn’t mind. He knew how he looked.

“So I guess it’s all right that you stayed in bed a little longer than usual, you bein’ all beat up like you are,” Hack said, sounding a little peeved. “Bein’ in a fire and all.”

“Is there some particular problem that you two have run into this morning?” Rhodes asked.

“Just the one,” Hack said.

“Which one would that be?”

“You couldn’t really call it a problem,” Lawton said. “Not for us, that is.”

Rhodes repressed a sigh and said, “Who was it a problem for, then?”

“Old Tige Barker,” Hack told him.

Barker wasn’t all that old, as Rhodes recalled, probably not as old as Hack. He was a retired mail carrier who lived in a well-kept little house on a shady lot just a few blocks down the street from the jail. He led a quiet life, taking care of a little garden in the spring and fall and keeping to himself most of the time. Rhodes couldn’t imagine what kind of problem he might have. He knew that Hack and Lawton would tell him, though. Eventually.

“I remember when old Tige used to carry the mail on this route,” Hack said. “Walked every step of it, winter and summer, rain or shine. Didn’t ride in those little Jeep-lookin’ carts that they run around in these days.”

“Be in even more trouble if he was havin’ to do that now,” Lawton said.

Hack gave him a look, but it was too late. Rhodes grasped at the hint.

“Did something happen to Tige so that he can’t walk? Is that it?”

Hack was still looking at Lawton, who refused to meet his eyes.

“Well?” Rhodes said.

“I guess you could say he might have a little trouble walkin’,” Hack told him reluctantly.

“Why?” Rhodes asked.

“Toe problems,” Hack said.

“Something’s wrong with his toes?”

“Just one of ’em,” Lawton said, drawing another look from Hack.

“Which one?” Rhodes asked, not sure that it mattered but certain that he wanted to stay on the subject.

“Big one,” Hack said, taking control of the story before Lawton could answer.

“Left big one,” Lawton added.

“What does Tige Barker’s left big toe have to do with us?” Rhodes wanted to know.

“Well, it’s not like he hurt it himself,” Lawton said.

“Somebody else hurt it?”

“That’s right,” Hack said.

Rhodes felt like he was getting close to the answer now.

“Who hurt it?” he asked.

“His wife,” Hack answered. “Midge.”

“Hit it with a hammer,” Lawton put in before Hack could.

Rhodes thought for just a second that Hack might get out of his chair and give Lawton a punch, but he didn’t. He just took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Lawton stood casually, hands in his pockets, rocking a little on his heels and admiring his friend’s self-control.

“Why?” Rhodes asked.

“That’s what Tige wanted you to find out,” Hack said. “He wanted you to come and ‘investigate the crime.’”

“What is there to investigate? We already know who did it.”

“Motive,” Hack said. “He wanted you to question his wife and find out the motive.”

“Don’t need it,” Rhodes said. “In Texas, you don’t have to prove motive. There are people on death row who could tell you that.”

“They don’t ever show that on TV,” Lawton said, surprised.

“They don’t have a lot of crime shows set in Texas,” Hack said. “Just that one with Chuck Norris playin’ a Texas Ranger.”

“You ever watch that one?” Lawton asked Rhodes. “I don’t think there was ever a Texas Ranger looked as scruffy as that. I think they’ve got a dress code or something.”

“Me, too,” Hack said. “They’d never hire anybody as hairy as that Chuck Norris. If you ask me—”

“Hold it,” Rhodes said. “Let’s get back to Tige Barker. His wife hit him with a hammer, and he wants me to find out why?”

“Not anymore,” Hack said.

“Why not?”

“Because I sent Ruth Grady to investigate. She’s just a deputy, so she got to work on time this mornin’, not an hour or two late like the high sheriff.”

“All right,” Rhodes said. “I’m sorry I’m late. But I’m not required to punch a time clock. Now tell me what happened.”

“Tige was eatin’ breakfast. Cheerios. And he was readin’ the paper. Not the Clearview paper. The Dallas paper.”

“Is that why his wife hit him?”

“Depends,” Hack said.

“On what?”

“On how you look at it,” Lawton said.

“Wasn’t because it was the Dallas paper,” Hack said. “It was because all Tige ever does at breakfast is read the paper. Won’t talk to Midge.”

“She got tired of him sittin’ there, readin’ and not talkin’,” Lawton said. “So she went to the toolbox and got the hammer.”

“Teach Tige to go barefoot at the table,” Hack said. “I think she hit that toe pretty hard. Tige says the toenail’s gonna turn black and come off.”

“Got old Tige’s attention, though,” Lawton said. “It surely did that.”

“Doesn’t sound like a criminal case to me,” Rhodes said.

“Assault,” Hack said. “That’s what Tige called it. But he didn’t much care if we arrested Midge or not. He just wanted to know the motive.”

“Why didn’t he just ask Midge?”

“He did,” Lawton said. “She wouldn’t tell him.”

“Wouldn’t talk to him at all,” Hack said. “Just picked up the sports section and started starin’ at it. That’s what I’d call a clue if I was the sheriff.”

“But Ruth got it all sorted out,” Rhodes said.

“I think so. She came back here and said she had to get out to Obert and go over the crime scene again. You gonna be goin’ out there, too?”

“Maybe,” Rhodes said. “If there aren’t any other toe emergencies for me to look into.”

“I think the one was all,” Hack said. “So. You goin’ to Obert?”

“No,” Rhodes said. “I’m going to Wal-Mart.”

“Wal-Mart?” Hack said.

“Sporting goods department,” Rhodes said, getting out of his chair. “If you two have any more problems you can’t handle, give me a call.”

21

T
HE WAL-MART PARKING LOT WAS CROWDED, BUT NOT NEARLY as crowded as it had been when Rhodes had visited the store for the signing. He was able to get a parking spot no more than fifty yards from the door.

He went inside and walked past the clothing department, past stacks of twenty-can cartons of Dr Pepper, past stacks of twenty-five-inch TV sets, past piles of DVD players, past the jewelry department, past the displays of videos for sale, past the furniture and the dog food and the cat food and into the sporting goods department.

Claude Appleby was behind the counter, wearing a blue Wal-Mart vest with his name tag pinned to it. He was taking payment for a hunting knife when Rhodes walked up.

Rhodes passed the time until the transaction was done by looking at the display of exercise equipment, not that he was in the market for any. There were treadmills and stair-steppers and a couple of stationary bikes that made the little Huffy that Rhodes sometimes worked out on look like a child’s toy.

“Thinking of getting in shape?” Claude Appleby asked at Rhodes’s elbow.

“Not today,” Rhodes said. “I need to talk to you, Claude.”

“I’m due for my break,” Claude said. “Let me make sure I got the counter covered.”

Claude disappeared for a minute, then returned.

“Eddie’s got it,” he said. “We can go in the stockroom if you want to.”

Rhodes said that would suit him just fine.

Rhodes hadn’t been able to talk to Claude after the rescue because he hadn’t felt like it and because they’d both had to spend time being treated by the paramedics who arrived in the ambulance. By the time that had been done, it was far too late, or too early, depending on your point of view, to do an interview. And Rhodes had been very tired, not to mention slightly addled.

The fire had not been as bad as Rhodes had feared it might be. The old fire truck was a lot more reliable than it looked, and there had been a fire hydrant not too far from the burning building after all. Clearview’s trucks had come out as well, and though it had taken a while, the volunteers had gotten the fire under control.

The damage from the explosion was severe, but only to the kitchen. The other rooms were not going to be usable for a while, however, because of all the smoke and water damage.

And Rhodes wasn’t too sure about the structural soundness of the building after the explosion. Chatterton was going to have to get it inspected before he could have any more conferences there, if he ever wanted to have another one after the way the first one had gone.

Rhodes had managed to do one thing after the paramedics checked him out and before he’d headed home. He’d called Ballinger, rousing him out of sleep, and told him not to release Terry Don Coslin’s name to anyone until Rhodes gave him the word. Rhodes knew Ballinger couldn’t hold off for long, but he also knew he wasn’t going to be able to deal with the press in his current condition. He didn’t like dealing with them in any condition.

Ballinger had been easy enough to persuade. He was still worried about what was going to happen when people found out that his clients were getting their fingers cut off by people who wanted to smoke them.

So Rhodes wouldn’t be dealing with the press for at least another day. He was hoping he could wrap things up by then, no matter how unlikely that seemed to him now. And the first step toward doing so was going to be his interview with Claude Appleby.

There was someone standing out on the loading dock smoking a cigarette, but the stockroom was empty of people except for Rhodes and Claude. It wasn’t empty of things, however. It was stacked high with cardboard boxes full of just about everything imaginable. The room smelled vaguely of Old Roy dog food, a smell with which Rhodes was intimately familiar, and there was a soft-drink machine standing next to a candy machine.

“You want a Coke?” Claude asked.

Rhodes knew that Claude didn’t really mean Coca-Cola. That was just the generic word for soft drink.

“No, thanks,” he said, looking at the machines.

Rhodes could remember when machines like those simply required that you put in a coin and punch a button or pull a handle to get what you wanted. Now they looked as complicated as the control panel for the Starship Enterprise.

“I want to thank you for what you did last night,” Rhodes told Claude. Rhodes’s sore muscles protested as the two of them settled down on a low stack of boxes. “I don’t think I could’ve made it out of there on my own.”

“I’m just glad I could help,” Claude said.

“I’m glad, too,” Rhodes said. “But there’s something that’s been bothering me.”

Claude looked away from him. The man outside on the loading dock flipped his cigarette butt away and came back into the stockroom. He walked by Rhodes and Claude, said “Hey” to Claude, and disappeared into the store.

“You know what’s bothering me, don’t you?” Rhodes said when the man was gone.

Claude still wouldn’t meet Rhodes’s eye. Rhodes knew why. Claude and his twin brother had been known to wander around where they had no business being. They had a habit of looking in people’s windows, and they’d occasionally even been known to pick up things that didn’t belong to them, like a copy of a very rare book. Rhodes had once briefly suspected that the twins might have been involved in a murder he was investigating, but he’d finally decided that they were pretty good kids at heart and that most of their problems stemmed from their father.

But even with their father in prison, the twins, or maybe just Claude, still seemed to see more than their share of the sights around Obert. Claude was the one who’d seen the naked woman, though his mother didn’t know that he had.

“I know what you’re thinking, Sheriff,” Claude said. “And I can’t blame you. Besides, I guess you’re right. I’ve been backslidin’ a little, you might say.”

“What have you been up to?” Rhodes asked.

“Nothin’ much. And my brother hasn’t been with me, not a single time.”