Dead Weight (25 page)
Taffy Hines opened the door on the second knock, and if she was surprised to see the three of us on her doorstep, it didn’t show.
“Well, now,” she said, holding open the door. “Party time! Come on in.” She was wearing a loose flannel jogging suit that looked more like pajamas. The outfit was complemented by a pair of rabbit-headed slippers. “And I don’t know you, I guess,” she said to Gayle.
“Gayle Torrez. I’m the undersheriff’s wife.”
“Ah,” Taffy said. She clasped her hands together, and I saw the tremor there. She looked expectantly at me. “So. What can I do for you all?”
“I think you know why we’re here,” I said.
“Well, I know that Jennifer Sisson is home with her mother, and I’m glad about that.”
“You were at the store all day?”
“Sure.”
“But you heard about Jennifer’s little trip nonetheless?”
“Sure.” She smiled, but there was another little quiver at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were sad. “Let’s sit. I’m tired.” She led us into the kitchen. The table was clean, no cinnamon rolls this time. The coffeepot was clean and dry, sitting under the drip unit. The kitchen counters were bare, polished dry. The place looked as though the owner was making preparations for a long trip.
Gayle and I sat down with Taffy. Bob Torrez remained in the doorway between kitchen and living room, hands hooked in his belt.
“You heard about Sam,” I said. “Or maybe ‘heard’ is the wrong way to put it.”
She laughed a quick, nervous little laugh. “Listen,” she said, and closed her eyes for just a moment. “This is going to be hard, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes.” I reached across and patted the back of her hand.
“You want me to make some coffee or something?” She started to get up.
“No. Thanks.”
“Let me tell you why,” she said, and then watched as I pulled the small recorder out of my pocket and set it on the table.
“Before you say anything, Taffy, let’s get the formalities out of the way,” Torrez said, and the undersheriff opened his black vinyl clipboard and extended a form to Taffy, along with a ballpoint pen.
“Mrs. Hines,” he said, and she looked up, grinned a brave little smile at his formality, and corrected him.
“Miss Hines,” she said. “Or Taffy is just fine. It’s actually Tabitha, but heavens, who wants to manage that?”
“Miss Hines,” Bob said, “you have the right to remain silent. If you understand that right, would you please say so for the sake of the recording, and then initial in the space provided after the statement I have just read to you. That’s number one.”
She did so, and Bob continued, “Do you understand that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law? If you understand that, initial after number two.”
“Heavens,” she said. “I thought this was the sort of thing you just mumbled off a little card and that was that.”
“In some cases,” I said.
“But not this time, eh?” she replied. “How times are changing.”
Bob continued on, leading Taffy Hines through each statement, finishing with her signature at the end.
I nudged the small tape recorder. “Now, we’re formal, Taffy.”
“Am I actually charged with anything?”
“You’re about to be.”
She shrugged helplessly. “Where would you like to start?”
“First things first. Where’s the weapon?”
She started to rise, but I held out a hand. “Just tell us.”
“In the bowling bag by the front door.”
Torrez turned and left the kitchen, returning with a gold-and-blue vinyl carryall. He hooked the tip of his pen in the zipper latch and pulled it open, then reached in and hooked the pen through the trigger guard of the snub-nosed revolver. He held it up.
“That little thing was my father’s,” Taffy said. Torrez sniffed the barrel and raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, it’s been fired. But it’s not loaded now. I took the shells out. They’re in the bottom of the bag, too.”
“Taffy, what happened?”
“Grace called me at the store. Normally Sam closes on the slow days and I close up on the weekends. But he asked earlier today if I’d mind closing. I said, ‘Sure.’ What’s it to me? Grace called just about six, to tell me that Jennifer was missing and that Sam had taken her, and that you folks were looking for her. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I mean, you know, she and I had talked and talked over the past month or so about Jim, and about her, and about the affair she was having with Sam. But you know…” she said, and stopped.
“Know what?” I prompted.
“Well, I’ve had my share of trouble with Sam’s hormones. As you know perfectly well.” She smiled and looked heavenward. “I just had this nasty feeling that Sam Carter was the one who killed Jim Sisson.”
“What made you think that?”
“People are creatures of habit,” Taffy said. “That’s what I figure. Sam is one—was one—of the world’s biggest gossips. He’s forever talking about what’s going on in the town. But the morning after Jim Sisson was found dead? Wednesday, I guess it was? Sam spent most of it in the office. I asked him if he’d heard anything, and all he said was,
‘Well, the village and the county are working on it, and between the two of ’em, they’ll botch things up just fine.’
” She glanced over at Torrez.
“That seemed a typically ugly Sam Carter thing to say, even for an election year. And then I wondered afterward why he’d say that at all about something that everyone said was just a careless accident. I mean, unless he already knew otherwise, what would there be to botch up? Even if you did, which obviously you didn’t.” She laughed. “If you follow.”
“What reason would Sam have to kill Jim Sisson?” I asked. “That’s a hell of a risk.”
She ticked off on her fingers. “Get Jim out of the way. If Jim’s got insurance and it looked like an accident, then that’s a plus. Maybe it’s even double indemnity, or whatever you call it, for accidents. I don’t know. And Jennifer is pregnant, and Sam knows he can’t get close to do anything about that if Jim is alive. If he tried and Jim found out, that would be the end of old Sam, for sure. Oh, I can think of all kinds of reasons. We could even go to fantasyland and imagine that Sam Carter went over to have it out with Jim, to say, ‘Look, I’m taking your wife, so deal with it.’ But Sam going face-to-face is probably the least likely.”
I frowned. “Then tell me something, Taffy. If that’s the fantasy, why would he bother to go over there at all that night? Face-to-face with Jim? For what reason?”
“That’s typical, crafty Sam,” Taffy said. “Why did he use his son’s Jeep a couple of hours ago? Same crafty reason.”
I regarded her in silence.
“I can choreograph the scene just fine.” She affected her version of Sam Carter’s West Texas twang. “‘My boy done wrong, Jimbo, and I’m here to see just what we can do about it.’” She leaned her head on one hand and closed her eyes. “And how’s poor Kenny going to deny it so that anyone believes him?”
“And Jim Sisson goes ballistic,” I said. “Maybe he takes a swing at Sam, or threatens him. When his back is turned, some hard object comes to hand and then clever Sam has a real problem on his hands and has to cover his tracks. The backhoe is idling with the massive tire hanging by a chain.”
“Maybe that’s the way it happened,” Taffy said. “Remember when we talked last?”
“Sure.”
“And I asked you to be mindful of Grace? I was sure, just sure in my heart of hearts, that she had nothing to do with Jim’s death, other than in weak, confused moments maybe wishing it might happen. I just thought that if you kept her in sight all the time, then Sam would trip up somehow. And if you were watching her, then she’d be in the clear.”
“You knew Jennifer was pregnant?”
“Sure. Grace told me that some time ago, and that she didn’t know what to do.”
“Did she think that Kenny was to blame?”
“At first. At least that’s what she wanted to believe. But, Sheriff, when she called me at the store and told me that Sam had taken Jennifer somewhere, I was just in such a state. I wanted to do something but didn’t know where or how.
“Anyway, it was a few minutes after six. I had locked up, just in a swivet about what I should do—what I could do—and I was taking the day’s receipts out of the last register when I heard Sam going up the stairs in the back. At least, I assumed it was Sam. Fast-like. Now maybe it wasn’t any of my business, but…well, yes, it was my business.” She dipped her head in emphasis. “It was my business. I went to the back, and the door to his upstairs office was open. I could hear him talking on the phone. What I heard him say was that the girl was at the motel, and he gave the room number, two-oh-seven, and that everything was all set.”
“Do you know who he was talking to?” Torrez asked.
“No, sir, I don’t. But Sam did ask whoever it was if he thought that there would be any complications, and he used the phrase ‘with it being so early on, and all.’ I distinctly heard him say that, and I knew damn well, excuse my French, that he was talking about an abortion for that poor child.”
“And then what?”
“And then he said something like ‘well, that’s good.’ And then I made a mistake, maybe. I saw red. I admit it. I went charging up the last two steps and I heard Sam say, real quick-like, ‘Wait a minute. I’ll call you back. Just hang on.’ When I walked into his office, he was just putting the phone into the cradle. And boy, did we have a go-around.”
“Physically, you mean?”
“No. But I called him every name in the book, and told him that by the time I was through with him, he’d be in the state pen for a hundred years for statutory rape and murder, and anything else I could think of. He got all blustery and said I didn’t know what I was talking about. I said, ‘We’ll see about that,’ and went back down the stairs. He followed me, the both of us shouting at each other. What a scene that would have made, if we’d had an audience.” She grinned apologetically.
“How did it end up in a shooting?” I asked.
“I was halfway up the side aisle there by the drink coolers. I don’t know where I was going, except maybe to the telephone by the checkout. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was so angry. Too angry to be scared, and I guess with him, if I’d had any common sense, I’d have been petrified.”
“Why didn’t you just run straight up the first aisle you came to, the one directly opposite the door?” Torrez asked.
“Who knows?” Taffy said. “He’s following me, shouting, and I guess ducking and dodging some just comes natural when you’re being chased. He’s shouting all of a sudden about how I live all alone and did I think anyone was going to miss me. That little shit. Excuse me again. All of a sudden, he’s threatening
me,
for crying out loud. After all he’s done. But he knew damn well I’d do something. I mean, after all, I filed a complaint against him last year with you folks, didn’t I?”
“And what did you do then?” I asked when her torrent of words subsided.
“Then I lost my temper altogether. I still had the dumb money bag in my hand, and it’s my habit to carry that little gun when I have to go make bank deposits. Just habit all these years. Anyway, I turned on him before he had a chance to grab me, and pulled that out, and it was worth the price of admission to see his eyes. Big as cheap pizzas. He kind of backpedaled, and turned, and I didn’t know what he was going to do. But the gun went off just then. I don’t know if I meant to pull the trigger or not. I really don’t. The thing was just clenched in my hand, and
bang.
Down he went, and what a mess. I just stood there for the longest time, sure I was going to faint.”
“And then you left.”
She nodded. “That’s not what I should have done, of course. I should have just gone to the phone and called you, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes. But instead you decided to make it look like a robbery.”
“The receipts are in the bowling bag, too,” she said, and Torrez nodded. “It was just a dumb idea.”
I sat back. “Taffy, these photos,” and I opened the manila envelope that had been lying on the table at my elbow, “show your shoe prints, where you stepped in the beer.”
She leaned forward with interest, and I handed the photo to her.
“We have a warrant from Judge Hobart. We’d like to see those shoes.”
“For heaven’s sakes. I didn’t even think about that. I didn’t know you people could even do such things.”
“We people can,” I said gently.
“They’re in the hall closet,” she said. “First pair on the left. And I have to apologize, Bill. In the past few hours, I came to the conclusion that I could live pretty easily with what I did, if your department could never solve Sam’s death. I mean, he was a real first-class skunk. And he threatened me. If I’d just blabbed it all out a day or two ago, when you were sitting right there eating cinnamon rolls, then Sam might still be alive.” She tried a grin. “Not that that’s necessarily such a good thing. But I could have saved you some time and work.”
I shrugged. “Saving us work isn’t what’s important,” I said.
“So,” Torrez said. “Let me make sure I understand all this. You felt, number one, that Sam Carter may have been responsible for Jim Sisson’s death?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But you didn’t have any certain proof of that. Nothing he said, or anything like that.”
“No.”
“And number two, you had information that led you to believe that Sam Carter was in the process of arranging for an illegal abortion for Jennifer Sisson, a minor well known to you?”
“Yes.”
“And number three, you felt that Sam Carter had threatened you? In fact, threatened your life?”
“Yes.”
“And that had he continued in his pursuit of you, you might have been in physical danger?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Hines, are you in the regular habit of carrying a loaded weapon when you carry the store’s receipts at night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you realize that carrying a concealed loaded weapon is against the law in the state of New Mexico?”
“No, I didn’t know that. Or care, I guess, would be more like it.”
“Did anyone else know that you carried a weapon in that bag as a matter of habit?”
“Sure. Even Sam Carter knew that. He thought it was funny.”
