Do Unto Others (7 page)

Junebug and Billy Ray said nothing further to me as I walked out and shut the door. I went past the still fuming Bernadette, who was muttering about the poor manners of civil servants. I emerged into the heat of the afternoon.

Bob Don Goertz, unaccountably, was acting like my ally. But even though he had been forthcoming, he hadn’t seemed comfortable. Did I make him nervous? I’d half-expected him to point a finger at me and tell the officers that I was prying into Beta Harcher’s death. But he hadn’t. And I thought I knew why.

I’d asked if Beta was the type to dig up dirt on people; his immediate response was
She’s not blackmailing me.
It seemed an odd answer for a smooth talker like Bob Don. Not a “Yeah, she was the type to do it” or “No, she was a good Christian woman who’d never commit extortion.” He just said
he
wasn’t being victimized. I wondered if that was a slip of the tongue, if Bob Don had been so jumpy that he’d logically leapfrogged ahead a couple of questions. Was he being blackmailed by Beta, or did he know of someone else who was? I was getting ahead of myself, I thought. But I’d definitely take him up on his offer of further discussion. He hadn’t said where he was last night. I felt that honest Bob Don wasn’t being entirely so.

It didn’t make me want to buy a car from him.

The smell of marijuana hung faint in the air as I sat on Matt Blalock’s screened back porch. I wasn’t surprised that someone in Mirabeau would be toking up, but I found it disconcerting that a Vietnam vet sneaked a puff while staring out at the lush, dense growth of mossy woods that came up to his property like alien jungle. It seemed too much like a scene from an Oliver Stone picture.

Matt Blalock wheeled back onto the porch, balancing a lap tray with iced tea glasses with little mint sprigs (I hoped they were mint) topping the tea. I’d have offered to help, but I knew from experience Matt liked to do everything himself.

Stopping at the low table in front of me, he handed me a glass of tea and set one down for himself. He deftly whipped the tray around and tossed it onto another table. The tray clattered, but didn’t fall.

“Good aim,” I offered.

Matt shrugged. He wasn’t a big guy; only five feet six or so, but his arm muscles bulged massively from years of acting for his legs. He kept his black hair cut military short. Matt’s uniform these days was jeans and some cause-related T-shirt, using his big chest to advertise saving the whales, disarming the populace, or promoting world peace. Today’s shirt invited us to plant a tree. His other nod to calculated Bohemianism was a perfect little trimmed triangle of beard that sprouted on his chin, pointing downward. It was like a small medal of hair pinned to his face. His eyes were dark, quick, and intelligent—without the haunted look one hears vets have. All I really knew about him was that he did occasional computer consulting for software companies in Austin and that he was involved in the Vietnam veterans movement.

“Your farm’s looking good,” I offered by way of conversation.

He shrugged again, an odd motion that evoked French schoolgirls more than burly veterans. “Credit my dad and my brother. They do all the work. I just live here.”

I couldn’t imagine my family letting me do drugs on the porch, but maybe the Blalocks figured Matt had earned special privileges.

“I hope they’ll be reopening the library soon,” Matt observed in his lazy, drawling voice. “I don’t want to have to move our vets meeting on account of that bitch.”

I loathed Beta Harcher, but even I wouldn’t have said something that insensitive. “She’s dead, Matt. Have some respect.”

“Ding-dong, Jordy,” Matt laughed. “The witch is dead. Look, I’m not one to render tears or even one moment of fake sympathy over someone I despised. She hated me and I hated her and that was fine.” He turned his wheelchair to face me.

“You may not think it’s fine now, Matt,” I answered. “You had a key to the library. You obviously didn’t get along with her. The cops have got your number.”

He shrugged again. My shoulders would get tired if I only had one gesture to rely on. He kept his hands, wearing fingerless gloves, near his wheels. “They’ve already been out here. Chief Moncrief and that snot-nosed prosecutor of his. Those two are useless. Whoever killed Bait-Eye is going to outfox them, I’ve no doubt. Junebug’s used to dealing with offenders who show him their monogrammed belt buckles when he asks for ID, and Billy Ray Bummel walks his kid to school ’cause they’re in the same grade. Jesus!” He laughed, a dry, rustling sound deep in his throat.

“So. We’ve got us a clever killer?”

“Yep. Someone got her into the library, conked her, and isn’t leaving a trace. Anyway”—he sipped tea—“it had
to be planned. Can you imagine ol’ Bait-Eye causing a crime of passion?” He slapped his leg in amusement.

“I’ve always thought of you as one of the smarter people in town, Matt.” I smiled. “Maybe you did it.”

He considered the possibility. “Maybe I did. Although I heard she got it with one blow. I’d have been slower. Lots.”

I wondered if he’d seen slow killing before. The look on Matt’s face made my throat tighten.

“You heard what that woman said to me at the board meetings, Jordy. When I came to talk on behalf of library patrons.” I had, and I looked at the overgrowth on his property, embarrassed. As blunt and unlikable as Matt could be, Beta’s cruelty toward him had been unbelievable. When he spoke against her censorship stand, she brought out her most vicious artillery. I saw the scene in my mind’s eye: a red-faced Beta screeching and spitting at Matt, calling his veterans’ newsletter unpatriotic and saying it was best he was crippled, since he couldn’t be as seditious from a wheelchair. I do hate venom. Even Adam Hufnagel and his wife, Beta’s strongest allies, had begged her to stop. I’d seen Matt’s hands grip the arms of his chair, his knuckles bleached of blood, fighting for control. I think I had realized then exactly what sort of twisted person I was dealing with in Beta Harcher. The next meeting, the board removed her.

“She even called here at the house a couple of times.” Matt scratched at his funky patch of beard. “Told my father he should just push me out into the countryside and leave me to die.” He laughed. “Daddy told her I’d survived worse than the Mirabeau scenery and she could kiss his big white ass.”

“I’m sure that mended fences.”

“Screw her,” he said, his voice sounding loose and a little drunk. “I’m glad she’s dead.”

“Were you this open with the police, Matt?”

“No. I wasn’t this open,” he answered—and I knew why. He’d rolled the joint I’d smelled after the visit from Junebug. Matt was a little high and a little more talkative.

I considered Matt. He appeared completely forthright, unlike Tamma and Bob Don. I decided on unmitigated honesty. “Did Junebug mention a list of Beta’s that they found?”

“Yeah, he did. Allowed I was on some list of hers, didn’t say who else was on it. I told him it was probably her shit list ’cause she sure wasn’t doing her early Christmas shopping for me.”

“Well, I’m on the list too. Along with others who have connections to the library.”

“So? She was pissed at everyone at the library. Tell me something new.”

“Each name had a Bible quote next to it, Matt. Would you like to know what yours is?”

That threw him. He actually moved back slightly in his wheelchair. “Not that it matters, but yeah, I would.”

“It’s appropriately a quote from Matthew. A famous one. ‘
Verily I say unto you that one of you shall betray me.
’” I paused. “What do you think she meant by that, Matt, putting that quote by your name?”

His fingers tented over his mouth, containing his laughter. “How could I betray that bitch? I sure wasn’t on her side. You can’t betray an enemy.” Matt gestured with his tea, sloshing some of it on the porch floor. He ignored it and smiled at me, like a general at untrained troops. “And what was your quote, Jordy? Something about keeping objectionable library materials? I’m not up on my Bible. Never had much use for all that claptrap anyway.”

I set my tea down and repeated my quote about good
and evil. Matt laughed again. His merriness gave me the creeps. I thought he might keep laughing and just not stop.

“Je
sus
! I wish I had so much spare time to muck around in other peoples’ lives. Making lists with fucking Bible quotes—what total horseshit!”

“Where were you last night, Matt? Around ten or so?”

He quit laughing and glared at me. “I think I resent you even asking me such a question.”

“I’m sure Junebug and Billy Ray asked you.”

“Oh, they did. But they were more interested in you.” He didn’t need to put the extra stress on the last word; it hit me like a rock.

“Is that the purpose of this little social call, Jordy? To start pointing fingers of blame at everyone else to get the heat off yourself?”

“I don’t need to point fingers,” I retorted. “I didn’t kill her, but I want to know who did. I don’t care much for being implicated in a murder. You hated her and you had keys to the library.”

“But I’m in a wheelchair,” he said mockingly.

“Don’t you hide behind it, Matt. Those arms of yours are plenty powerful. I’m sure you could hit a home run with a bat or bash in Beta’s head, just as easy as pie.”

“But I was here, Jordy,” Matt whispered with a smile. “I was here, with my family to back me up. Is your alibi that good?”

It wasn’t, and it made me feel mad. I stood. “Alibis can be broken, Matt. I’m sure when Junebug interrogates everyone else involved in the censorship fight, the hatred between you and Beta will become an issue. I may have to mention it to him myself.” With that, I turned for the door. Matt didn’t permit me the last word.

“Don’t interrupt him, Jordy. He’ll be busy reading you your Miranda rights.” Then low, bitter laughter.

I slammed the porch door and headed for my car.

A BRILLIANTLY SPLITTING HEADACHE HIT ME after my confrontation with Matt. As I drove back into town from the Blalock farm, I massaged my temples and reviewed my predicament.

I’d always rather liked Matt, although I didn’t know him very well. He had a reputation in the town for being a smart aleck and a loudmouth, but I’d seen him face down Beta’s abuse without ever sinking to her level. What surprised me was the depth of his venom; he abhorred Beta Harcher as much as she did him. I’d thought he’d be above that, with his concern for baby seals and whatnot. I wondered what the autopsy on her body would show; could the blow have come from someone seated? If so, Matt made a prime candidate.

I turned from the farm road onto Mayne, still a bit outside the city limits. I wasn’t making too spectacular a debut as an investigator. I had some possibly meaningless Bible verses and a list of suspects: a Baptist minister’s wife who seemed too mousy to say boo (but maybe wasn’t); a used-car salesman who wanted to protect me (but maybe didn’t); and a bitter, antagonistic activist (no doubt there). I didn’t place any of them above suspicion. Unfortunately no one was understudying my unwanted role of prime suspect.

I hadn’t eaten lunch, so I swung toward home. I took
the long way around; instead of going right onto Lee Street for the straight shot I turned early, driving down Gregg Street. Beta Harcher’s house sat at the end of the road. Gregg would have gone farther, but a hundred yards beyond Beta’s backyard the land tumbled down to the Colorado. I drove slowly past the house, deciding to look like any gawker. A TV van from one of the Austin stations was parked by the curb. An immaculately groomed blonde with a microphone chatted with a heavy, elderly woman who’d put on her Sunday best for the cameras. In olden days, vultures attended sudden death; today we have the media.

On impulse, I U-turned and headed to the library. There were a couple of official-looking cars there, but no cameras or lollygaggers. I steered homeward, hoping that there wouldn’t be cars I didn’t want to see.

I wasn’t entirely lucky. Candace’s Mercedes was perched in the driveway. I sighed, parked, and went in.

Mama was animated, telling a politely nodding Candace about her marriage. Nuptial bliss wasn’t Candace’s favorite topic of conversation, at least in public. Candace had changed clothes, wearing a stylish Banana Republic T-shirt, faded (and nicely snug) jeans, and a fancy belt studded with silver conchos. She looked gorgeous and I reminded myself again that she was a co-worker. As I walked in, she jumped to her full if diminutive height.

“And where the hell have you been? Excuse my language, Mrs. Poteet, but I’m mad at your son.”

Mama assured herself I was her son with a glance and seemed satisfied.

“Uh—Out,” I answered. What was I supposed to say? Sleuthing? Interrogating suspects?

“Well, I want you to know what I’ve had to go
through to protect your good name,” Candace said archly.

I raised a hand to fend off the oncoming torrent. “Where are Sister and Mark?”

“They’ve run to the grocery store,” she paused. “The police called Mark to confirm you were here last night. I came here ’cause I got tired of hunting you down and—I needed to see you, after this morning’s shock.”

I swallowed. She
needed
me? I deflected a blush by asking a question. “What happened at the station?”

“You’ll be delighted to know I wasn’t body-searched,” Candace huffed, “although I wouldn’t put it past Billy Ray. Honestly. I told them what little I knew, and that nasty Billy Ray kept trying to hint that you’d killed Miss Harcher. I repeatedly—mind you, repeatedly—told him that was utterly ridiculous, but he didn’t get the hint. What a moron! Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if his family tree didn’t fork.”

“He’s still trying to implicate me?” I wanted details.

Candace threw her hands up in the air. “Tried, but I set him straight. I gave him a piece of my mind and then some.”

“Thanks, Candace,” I said, happy that she was on my side. She smiled then and I felt a bit awkward. I didn’t want to encourage her. After all, she’s my assistant and we have to keep our relationship professional, not personal.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Mama said, looking to Candace.

Candace heaved air, horrified at what she’d said in front of my mother. “Now, Mrs. Poteet, don’t you worry about Jordy, I’m going to take care of everything. The police are just misguided. It’ll all get settled.” She patted Mama’s hand. “Would you like some lunch?”

Mama shook her head. “No. I want a nap.”

Candace volunteered to take Mama upstairs and get her settled, so I made turkey sandwiches, with lots of mayonnaise, tomato, and lettuce on wheat bread. I dumped a small bag of corn chips on each plate and popped two cold cans of Dr Pepper. I put the plates on the table and sat down with my lunch and my ruminations.

Holding true to the rule that I get little peace in my home, Candace rejoined me before I was half through. “Now, Jordy,” she said, pulling up a chair, “I want the truth. Where have you been?” She dug into her sandwich and, after the first bite, smiled. I guess I’m not a bad cook for a bachelor.

I told her about my interviews with Tamma Hufnagel, Bob Don Goertz, and Matt Blalock. Candace was quite prepared to be my Watson.

“Aha! That Tamma Hufnagel. Probably a crazed killer. You always have to look out for the quiet ones,” she asserted.

“She acts timid, but I think there’s a toughness underneath. Maybe she’s too quiet.”

“My point exactly. Or there’s Bob Don. I’d never buy a car from that crook.”

“You’d never buy American, Candace, and he doesn’t sell imports.”

“Well, if I get the sudden urge for a Chrysler, I’m going to Honest Ed’s in Bavary,” Candace announced.

“He seemed to have a secret, but he also seemed inclined to help me.” I finished my sandwich.

“Of course.” Candace slapped her forehead. “He wants to find out how much you know ’cause he’s the killer. Makes perfect sense. Stay away from him, Jordy.”

“Bob Don didn’t get nearly as upset as Matt Blalock.”

“Warped by his wartime experiences,” Candace intoned. “Poor guy. Beta made him snap and he saw her as a Vietcong. Probably called her Charlie right before he whacked her.”

The phone rang and I reached for it, grateful for the interruption.

Candace grabbed it away. “Reporters,” she hissed, as though there were lepers on the line. She spoke guardedly into the receiver: “Poteet residence.”

A moment’s silence, then a “May I ask who’s calling?” Was it suddenly cooler in here or was it just me?

“Let me see if he’s available.” The cold front swept through, as swift and sure as one from Canada. “Ruth Wills for you.”

I took the receiver, hoping the frostbite would be minimal. “Thanks, Candace.” She made no move to give me privacy.

Ruth sounded amused. “I see you have an answering service these days, Jordy.”

“Um, yes. Just for today.”

“I’m not surprised you’re screening calls. I hear you discovered the late Beta Harcher this morning. Are you okay?” The amusement left her voice to be replaced by husky softness, a murmur to be heard on the next-door pillow. Not a voice you’d expect to hear inquiring about your emotional well-being.

“Fine, thank you. Did you hear that from Junebug?”

“Yes, I did. He stopped by the hospital this morning to talk with me.” She paused again. “I need to speak to you. In person. Could we have dinner tonight?”

I was a little taken aback. Finding Beta dead and Ruth Wills asking me out? Fortune’s wheel was spinning every which way today. “I don’t know—”

“Please say yes, Jordy. Look, I’m still on duty. I wanted to see you sooner, and not under these circumstances,
but please, please meet me tonight.” The voice had me, like a pipe enchanting a snake.

“Okay. When?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Candace stiffen.

“Seven? Meet me at Rosita’s?” That was a nice Mexican restaurant in Bavary.

“Fine,” I said. “Thanks.” She hung up without a goodbye, and I replaced the phone in its cradle.

“What did Ruth want?” Candace examined the last of her corn chips with profound absorption.

“She wanted to discuss some … library business with me. Maybe regarding Beta.” I shrugged. “No big deal.”

Candace measured me on some internal scale. She tented her cheek with her tongue and looked at me again. I felt awkward. Why did she always do that to me? It was damped annoying. Suddenly I wanted her gone.

“I have some other matters to attend to today,” I said, but Candace didn’t let me finish.

“You go and do that. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on your mom.”

“That’s not necessary, Candace. Really. I’ll wait for Sister to come home.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll watch TV. Arlene should be back soon. Go talk with Ruth or whatever it is you have to do.”

I decided not to mention that Ruth invited me to dinner. Best to beat a diplomatic retreat out of my own house. Leaving, I shook my head at my own cowardice.

  A tall, bronzed teenager who was my third cousin tended the dense flower beds that made up most of Eula Mae Quiff’s lawn. He was almost hidden in the wild explosions of rhododendrons, roses, daisies, and every
other odd mixture of flower that Eula Mae favored. Her garden had as much order and as much color as her novels.

Hally Schneider, his tan face damp with sweat, looked up and favored me with a friendly smile. “Hey there, Jordy. You lookin’ for Miz Quiff?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s inside getting me a drink. She oughta be right back.”

Like a stage cue, Eula Mae appeared on her porch with a glass of iced tea. She came down the stairs, her baggy dress hanging about her bony, fortyish body and fluttering in the breeze. Her hair was its usual explosion of red curls, pulled into a semblance of order with a paisley scarf. She wore large earrings that looked like they were handmade in Africa. Her hands were elegantly bejeweled and her nails were long and lacquered; I wonder how she typed on her keyboard.

I’d known Eula Mae a long time; her daddy and my daddy had been friends. Since she was a little over ten years older than me, we hadn’t been close when I was a kid. But when I moved back to town, she’d been my staunchest supporter in the library wars with Beta. She handed Hally the drink and favored me with a sly eye.

“Here you go, Hally, dear. Drink up.”

“Thanks, Miz Quiff,” Hally said, gulping down the tea. I saw Eula Mae ogling him, her avid eyes locked on where his thick neck met his broad shoulders.

I coughed. “I’m sorry to interrupt your labors, Eula Mae, but I need to speak with you.”

“Of course, Jordy. Where are my manners? Come sit on the porch with me and have some tea.”

I turned to Hally. “You going to be here for a while?”

He nodded. “Still got a fair amount of weeding to do.”

“Okay. I’d like to talk with you when I’m done visiting with Eula Mae.”

If Hally seemed surprised, he didn’t show it. He just nodded and knelt back to his gardening.

Eula Mae and I walked up the long path to her gracious home. It reminded me of a shrunken antebellum mansion, one you might find on a Hollywood lot. She’d lived there alone since her terminally shy sister Patty died ten years ago. I’d always wondered if Patty simply succumbed to Eula Mae’s ego.

She gestured languidly toward a porch chair and went inside. Loose pages, lying on a wicker table, caught the breeze at their corners and gently turned up. Printing and red marks covered the paper. Eula Mae’s latest. I leaned forward to peek, and one of Eula Mae’s multitude of cats yowled at me from a white whicker chair. I stuck my tongue out and the cat raised its head snidely.

My hostess returned with another glass of tea and handed it to me. Absently, she shoved the cat out of the chair. The cat mewled in protest at the declining social standards on the porch while Eula Mae kept an eye on her gardener.

“Jesus, Eula Mae. Why don’t you just go out there and undress the poor kid?”

She looked at me with reproach. “Simply because I find your cousin aesthetically pleasing doesn’t mean I want my way with him. Please. I’m doing research.”

“Research?”

The displaced cat growled again, and Eula Mae scooped him into her lap. She stroked his fur contritely, and he allowed her to place her cheek on him while she spoke. “Yes, Jordy. That boy is going to be the hero of my next work. Well, someone very like him in form.”

“What about in mind?” Hally was a good kid and a great athlete, but not a straight-A student.

“My hero will have a bit more on the ball than Hally, but nothing more in terms of physical endowment,” Eula Mae answered. “We must always look for inspiration and never turn it away. He’d look divine painted on the cover of my next novel.”

“I think you could find all sorts of inspiration round here if you were writing a murder mystery,” I observed dryly.

“I was working up to that,” Eula Mae answered, “but I didn’t know your mental state. You over your shock, sugar pie?” She patted my knee in a friendly way. The cat glared balefully at me.

“The shock of finding her body? Yes, for the time being. The shock of being suspected of killing her? Not quite yet.”