Barbara Graham - Quilted 04 - Murder by Vegetable (16 page)

Tony could have happily lived the rest of his life without seeing, talking to, or smelling Angus again. He could order Sheila to confront the man, but wouldn't. Sheila could handle Angus if she needed to, but why force the issue. At the very least, he'd send two male deputies with her. In truth, Angus was mean, ugly, and potentially very dangerous. Tony himself preferred having a partner when they visited.

Wade came into his office while he was considering the Angus problem, and Tony showed him Sheila's note. Wade's eyes narrowed and the muscles in his cheeks grew noticeably tighter. “I've seen her handle big and angry men, drunk or sober, with ease—but Angus is different—whether from hate or fear, she gives him a wide berth.”

Tony silently agreed. “Can you imagine growing up in the Farquhar family?”

“I'd rather not.” Wade leaned against the door frame. “You'd have to either become just like them or turn your back on them like his sister did. By the time she died, I'd guess there were few people who knew of their family relationship.”

“Is his brother still at the penitentiary in Nashville?” Tony dreaded the day the vicious man was released.

“Yes, thank the Lord.” Wade straightened. “He made Angus seem quite polite and refined.”

Tony didn't disagree. “Those nephews ought to be sent to join their father. I know of many people, including my aunt, who tried and failed, to change the path they followed. They are going to kill someone eventually.” Tony hoped he was wrong. “I want to pay Angus a visit, and you get to come too. Get your heavy vest; he's always surrounded with an arsenal.”

Mumbling under his breath as he left Tony's office, Wade looked and sounded less than enthusiastic about the planned trip up the mountain to Angus's home. Tony thought he heard the deputy threaten to resign, but shrugged it off as an echo of his own desires.

A half hour later Tony and Wade arrived in Tony's Blazer, careful to park it where Angus would have trouble hitting it with either his truck or a bullet. Wade stuck the bullhorn out the window. “Angus Farquhar. This is Deputy Wade Claybough. Sheriff Abernathy and I are here to talk.” He glanced at Tony. “I feel dumb.”

Tony couldn't disagree. He also knew it was a bad idea to sneak up on Angus. Angus definitely preferred to shoot first and check to see who his visitor might have been later. Tony took the bullhorn and stepped out, staying behind the vehicle. “Angus?”

“Come on up, Sheriff.” The voice was slurred. “I hope you brought the pretty deputy.”

Tony didn't answer but trudged up the path with Wade on his heels. In the clearing in front of Angus's cabin sat the most miserable looking pickup in the history of vehicles. After the ceremonial greeting with Angus, they walked about the truck, giving it a cursory examination. The peeling paint was accentuated by a series of bullet holes. There didn't appear to be any extra damage to the front end, but it was protected by a dented steel grid, like the surface of an old barbeque grill. The rear bumper didn't have a square inch of undented surface.

As seemed to be his habit, Angus sat on the porch steps in his undershorts. An arsenal of guns rested on the warped wood next to a bottle of whiskey. He scratched his big pink belly and watched them, his piggy eyes not blinking. He lifted the bottle. “Drink?”

Wade shook his head.

Tony said, “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Angus took a deep swig from the bottle.

“There was an accident in the parking lot near the museum.” Tony watched. No reaction. “Someone thought they saw your truck involved in it.”

“Do tell.” Angus spat into the dirt, barely missing Tony's feet. “Boys?” He pounded on the warped wooden frame surrounding the door behind him. “Get out here.”

It took a few minutes, but finally the Farquhars' three “darlin” boys joined their uncle. Jocko, Geordie, and Shawn were Angus's brother's boys. Each was dumber and meaner than the other. Lined up behind Angus, they created a truly menacing appearance.

Tony didn't take his eyes off them, but he heard Wade quietly giving a running commentary through his radio to the dispatch desk. If they were gunned down, someone would know what had happened.

Angus said, “Any of you boys know about an accident with my truck? At the mus-ee-um?”

With the precision of long practice, the three spoke in almost perfect unison. “No accident.”

Tony realized they were not denying the actions, just the intent. Without an impartial witness, his knowledge was useless. He could arrest them, but they'd get away with it. A glance in Wade's direction verified his thoughts.

“I haven't seen you boys around town lately.” Tony knew he was fishing without bait, but he guessed they were behind the recent outbreak of burglaries. “Been off visiting the city?”

“What's it to you?” said the one in the middle of the line. Tony studied a little patch of whiskers on his chin, or rather on his neck about where his chin would be if it merged with his Adam's apple.

Tony tried a shrug and hoped he could maintain a casual attitude. What he really wanted to do was grab the little snot and put him in a dark hole. “Just curious.” He didn't expect an answer but asked anyway. “Which one are you? Jocko, Shawn, or Geordie?”

“Geordie.”

Surprised he'd answered, Tony asked the one on the left the same question.

“I'm Shawn.”

Tony nodded and started to turn away.

“Don't you want to know my name?” The third brother's eyes flashed with anger.

“Nope,” Tony said. “You're Jocko.”

“How'd you know?” Jocko's nasal voice came through the trees.

Tony kept walking, climbed into the Blazer and sat staring at the Farquhar estate. He let out a big sigh and turned the ignition key. Next to him, Wade couldn't seem to stop laughing.

As they drove back down to Silersville, Wade finally managed to control himself. “Do you think Jocko's figured out yet how you knew his name?”

“Sheriff?” Doc Nash's voice poured into his ear. “I'm calling about the scratch marks on your victim's neck.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess, you think he was clawed by a bear? Everyone is still looking for Baby.”

“I hope you find Baby for Roscoe's sake. The man has become quite enamored with her and frankly, I'd like to examine her claws just for fun, but you're wrong.” The doctor sounded positively genial. “I love being the one bearing—no pun intended—the news.”

“So what are they from?” Tony reached for the pen and notepad on his desk.

“If I'm right they're definitely human. This is just a guess, but the idea came to me over lunch. You'll need confirmation from the pathologist doing the autopsy.”

Tony remembered the narrow furrows dug deeply into the flesh of Ragsdale's neck. Tony studied his own fingernails, pretending to scratch himself. If he dug hard enough to draw blood, they would leave wider and shallower marks. Maybe Ragsdale had encountered a woman with smaller hands and longer nails. “Are you thinking they'll find nail polish?”

“Nope. Not a woman.” The doctor's attitude had gone past “genial” and he suddenly began laughing out loud. A real gut buster. “Give up?”

“Yes.” Tony's imagination failed him, and it made him a little surly. “If you can quit laughing long enough to tell me, I'd love to know.”

“A male musician who files the fingernails on his pickin' hand to a point. It's not everyone's manicure of choice, but I've seen some like it.” Doc Nash cleared his throat. “Nor is it the most savory looking manicure.”

Now that the doctor described it, Tony remembered seeing someone at the festival with fingernails matching his description. A male musician whose partner was a woman. Tony would be able to get the name from his aunt or mother. His initial elation over having a clue shattered with the reality of talking to those two women. “Thanks, Doc, I'll follow up on your clue as soon as possible.”

Predictably, Tony found Jane and Martha together in the museum office. When Celeste met him at the door she had whispered, “See if you can cheer them up.”

“Ladies?” He thought he'd try for a pleasant beginning.

Two unhappy faces turned in his direction. Silence. Okay, he'd better change tactics. “I hope you two are not trying to take personal responsibility for the death of Harrison Ragsdale.” He frowned. “Unless you either finished him off or hired a hit man.”

Martha responded. “I'm not sorry Hairy Rags is dead, but honestly, Tony, couldn't he have waited until he got home to die?” Her disgusted attitude seemed to awaken his mom from a coma.

Jane opened her hand and pulled out a wadded up tissue. She smoothed it more or less flat and then folded it very neatly into fourths. “I simply do not understand what happened.” Looking up at him, she sighed. “Everyone was having a wonderful time. The food was good. The music was good. Roscoe and Quentin and Professor Veronica and her friend were the hits of the day.”

Tony noticed her flinch when she said “hits.” “In case you're concerned, the potato hitting him did not injure Ragsdale. The exact cause of death has not been established, but all the early reports say he was not harmed by the spud.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I know poor Quentin has been frantic, thinking his cannon might have actually killed someone. Even if it was Hairy.” Jane had to pause and wipe more tears away. “I'm so relieved.”

Martha handed her sister a fresh tissue. “Did you come to tell us this?”

Tony shook his head. “I actually came to ask about one of your musical acts.” Both women stared at him. “Specifically, I need the names and contact information for male string musicians.”

“What do you want with them?”

“I think one of them might have left some scratches on Ragsdale's neck.”

“Like these?” Martha extended her arm, displaying a strip of narrow gouges in her arm. “Someone grabbed my arm for a fleeting moment and left a mark.”

Tony nodded. “I don't suppose you remember which musician did that?”

Martha thought about it. Then shook her head. “Sorry.”

Silently, Jane's mouth opened and closed, making her look like a goldfish that had leaped from its bowl onto a table. Leaving her sister gasping, Martha walked to a nearby file cabinet and retrieved a folder. Inside, each musical act had a separate form, including contact information and releases from liability.

“Thank you.” Tony pulled out several forms and handed them to his mother. “I don't suppose you can make copies.”

Jane managed to get to her feet, took the papers and headed for a small copy machine.

Tony spoke softly to his aunt. “Is she going to be all right?”

Martha's shoulders rose and fell before she answered in her school-teacher voice, the one she used to get attention in the back row. “My sister has always delighted in taking responsibility for issues she didn't create.” In a softer voice, she spoke only to him. “I don't know. This seems to have hit her harder than I would have guessed. After all, she detested the man.”

“I don't—didn't detest him.” Jane returned and handed Tony the papers he needed. “He wasn't all bad.”

As lies went, this one was fairly obvious. Tony knew his mother rarely had anything openly harsh to say about anyone. “Coarse.” Was as close to total condemnation as she could usually manage. He'd once heard her describe a serial killer as “not a very nice person.”

“Okay, what wasn't bad about him?” Martha managed to blurt out her question before Tony got his mouth open.

“Give me a minute to think.” Jane went quiet, holding her hand up, palm forward to insure they didn't interrupt. “Well, he did yard work for his elderly parents, but that was before they died, of course.” She flashed Tony a motherly smile, one clearly taking note of his not ever even mowing her yard for her.

As a distraction, Tony considered it masterful. “You always say you don't want me to touch anything in your yard.”

“True. And I haven't changed my mind.” Jane was magnanimous in her victory. “Oh, and I've seen him working with a group helping do repairs on homes belonging to our needy, mostly elderly citizens. The ones without pets.”

Tony realized she was right and admitted it. “I have seen him at work on a few projects. It just isn't how I usually think of him.”

Jane's smile was brilliant, and she shrugged just a bit, taking the edge off her victory. “Frankly, I don't either.”

Monday, Tony began working through the list of musicians who had performed at the festival. Thankfully they lived either in Park County itself, or one of the neighboring counties. He and Wade decided to tackle them in alphabetical order, just to have some kind of plan. The “may we see your fingernails” or “may we scrape under your nails” did not seem like a request particularly designed to make friends or gain much cooperation. If the scratcher was smart, he'd have clipped his nails off the second he left the grounds, if not before. Unless, of course, the scratches were on his neck before Ragsdale arrived at the festival and Tony was just running in circles.

Randal Byers was first name on the list. Tony wasn't familiar with the man or the name. He assumed Mr. Byers was either new, or law abiding, or both. When they knocked on his front door, a little girl opened it, just a crack. She stared at his uniform.

Tony smiled at her. “Is Randal here?”

The little girl glanced over her shoulder and back at him. She chewed her lower lip for a moment before saying, “My daddy's at work.”

When faced with the question of where dad worked, she was clearly out of her area of expertise. She vanished and returned with an elderly woman.

The woman listened to their question politely enough then said, “Randy works at the fertilizer plant. He's my grandson. They moved in here with me, and I stay with the girl.” Having delivered her statement, she closed the door in their faces.

Wade made a note on their paper. “Okay, do we go to the next name or to the fertilizer plant first?”

Tony supposed being sheriff gave him the responsibility of making these incredibly difficult decisions on the fly. “Geographically, what or who is closest to our current location?”

Wade studied the list. “A who. Pops Ogle.”