Gone Crazy (13 page)

I flushed. I knew I was being silly, not that it stopped me.

“Sorry,” Jeff muttered. “I just meant.. I mean…”

Tom intervened. “All right, you’re home, you see everyone, and…”

“I asked Davis what was going on. He said he doesn’t know, nobody’s talking to him. He even tried talking to Honey, that’s how bad it is. Even Laura hung up on him.” Jeff shrugged, half-smiling. “I figured my chances weren’t any better, but I tried talking to Rob. We usually get along okay. He slammed the door on me.” Jeff scowled. “He had that look he used to get when Mama was on him about something. Like he wasn’t happy doing it but he wasn’t going to do anything else.”

That was interesting but not terribly relevant to my purposes. I went for the direct approach. “How’d you come to point a shotgun at me?”

It was Jeff’s turn to go red. He suddenly couldn’t look in my direction. “I got nervous. Davis said he was worried they were going to blame this all on him or me or both. Well, I was getting the same idea. So I thought maybe I should turn myself in. Only when I tried, down in Gilfoyle…” His gesture this time was easily understood. “They tried to kill me. Shot at me!”

Tom swelled up with outrage even faster than I did. “The county boys shot at you? In town? With civilians around?”

Jeff Collier nodded. “I was walking down the street, and I was maybe half a block away from the police station, and all of a sudden I hear someone hollering, ‘Hey, he’s wanted for murder!’, and I see this fat guy…”

I didn’t quite groan. Chief Rucker strikes again.

“And then someone’s shooting at me.”

Boris’s tail lay quiet. He was washing a paw, utterly unconcerned. Either he trusted Jeff Collier, or Aunt Marge was right, and his tail wasn’t worth a damn as a lie detector.

“I ran like hell and I figured you wouldn’t shoot first and ask questions later.” He scratched nervously at his stubble. “I didn’t know the car, I thought it was a county cop waiting for me, I am really, really sorry about that.”

Boris looked up, tongue protruding, then went back to his toilette.

Tom cleared his throat and tried to look intimidating. “Where’d you get the shotgun?”

“It’s mine,” replied Jeff. If he was lying, I couldn’t tell, and if he was nervous or guilty, he was hiding it better than most. “I didn’t think I should be going around…‌Well, hell, I didn’t think. I just didn’t want the county cops…‌I just thought…” More anxious scratching. Finally he looked incredibly hangdog and said, “I’m a Collier. Someone shoots at me, I guess I gotta shoot back. Y’know?”

We did know. I looked at Tom. We nodded slightly. I turned back to Jeff Collier. “What about Buck and Marilee?”

“What about them?” he immediately responded, then hastily amended, “I mean, they’re not even here. They didn’t even come to the funeral.” He tried to smile, and failed spectacularly. “Look, I know this is bad, and I’ve been stupid, but I didn’t kill Mama. I didn’t even hate Mama. I just…” He turned pinkish again. “I avoided her. It was easier.”

I looked at Tom, and he smiled a little. “Jeff, I got to ask. The name ‘Grenville’ ring any bells?”

“Who?”

“It’s a what,” I said gently. “Worth about a million dollars.”

He looked from me to Tom, and back again. “What?”

“Grenville is land,” said Tom. “Your mother owned it.”

Jeff Collier shook his head, half-laughing. “Mama didn’t own anything but the house and all that crap in it.”

“And Grenville,” I reminded him. “And whatever money she buried in the yard.”

“I don’t know about any land,” said Jeff Collier. He got up and stretched. I heard his spine crackle. “But I know Mama’s gotta have hundreds of dollars buried around the place. I figured that yard would look like a bunch of moles been at it by now. Everybody in the hollow knows she buried pickle jars full of dollar bills. She’s done it since we were kids. Hell, could be thousands.”

I made a note to tell Harry to tell whoever had the bad luck to be named executor of Vera’s estate.

In the cell, Jeff Collier walked in tight circles, hand scrubbing at his face, his scalp. “You sure Mama got killed for land?”

I could not tell a lie. At least, not that minute. “Could be.”

He barked a hard laugh. “Doesn’t that figure. Not get killed for being mean but for…
money
.” He said the word like it tasted sour. He stared at us. “You know who burned the house?”

I didn’t let him know the state police had that case. “Not yet.”

He sat back down, hands dangling limp. If you ever wanted a picture of a guy who wished he’d been born an orphan, this was it. I have to say, time around the Colliers was more and more convincing me I was lucky to be an only child.

I gave Boris a good scritch under the chin so he’d let me have my pen back. “Who’d know about your mother’s affairs?”

“Mama.”

I didn’t tell him not to be a smartass, mostly because I suspected he had no idea he’d come off sounding like one. “Ken?”

“I dunno!” he exploded. “We don’t talk about that kinda thing!”

“What have you talked about?” I asked sharply. “Sports?”

“Yeah,” he snapped. “And what to do about Mama, sometimes.”

He looked suddenly stricken and sick. We waited.

I leaned forward. Boris slunk down, irked. “What did you want to do about Mama?”

He slumped. “The whole thing‌—‌with her heart and all‌—‌we started thinking maybe we should see about getting her in a nursing home. Or maybe hire in someone to sit with her. We didn’t talk about it every day,” he went on miserably, “but it came up. Y’know. Christmas. Ken’s big Fourth of July picnic.” He considered, added, “Probably more, but that’s the only times I’m around them more than a minute or two.”

“Who had these discussions?”

“I dunno. All of us. Mostly it was about who’d pay for it, that kind of thing.” He took a deep breath, choked on it. “We weren’t really serious, I don’t think we were serious. We mostly just didn’t want to have to take care of her ourselves.” He had the character to look ashamed. “You must think we’re…”

“Your mother had a reputation for being difficult,” I soothed. “Jeff, I have to ask you. Who’d know where your mother kept things? Important papers and all that?”

“I don’t know. May and Eileen and Laura mostly went in to box up all that crap. They’d know, I guess. But I don’t know. The way Mama hid her money, she wouldn’t let anyone see something big like her papers.”

“Did you know Ken claims she had stock.”

His head lifted. His eyes were wide, pained. “What?”

“He told me he saw stock certificates when he went looking for your father’s squirrel rifle.”

“He never told me,” said Jeff bitterly. “He got that gun to teach me to shoot back when I was about eleven years old, so he’s had time.”

“Mr. Collier,” I said formally, “you’re still a person of interest. I’ll see if Harry Rucker plans on filing any charges, but if he doesn’t, you’ll be free to go as far as I’m concerned.”

I dragged my chair back to my desk, and dumped Boris off Tom’s just as Kim breezed in. She didn’t spare Jeff Collier a glance. “Guess who asked me out to dinner?”

“No idea,” I said, wishing Tom wasn’t in earshot. The poor guy looked like he’d lost his teddy bear.

“Len McDonough.”

I tried, for Tom’s sake. “Isn’t he a little too artsy for you?”

“Well, dating rednecks ain’t working,” said Kim saucily. She flipped her hair, newly streaked by Bobbi, like a superstar model working the runway, and vanished into the lunchroom.

I turned to tell Tom it was okay to go home, but he was already going. I sighed. Then I planted my hat on my head, picked up Boris, and headed out before my day got any worse.

13.

T
o most people, Memorial Day is a day off. For me, it’s just another day. I woke early and got in a long walk while Boris slept in, then went to work like always. I even parked in my speed trap by the garden center, although most of Crazy was still in bed. It was peaceful, watching the leaves rippling in the breeze. I’d drifted into a state somewhere between a meditative trance and sleep when the crunch of tires on gravel startled me. I looked over to find Maury, or more accurately, the big trash truck with Morse Sanitation & Disposal painted bright yellow on its dark green sides. Trash is like crime. It doesn’t take vacation days.

“Morning, Maury,” I said cheerfully. I stepped out into a breeze that promised a return of our heat wave, but I didn’t care. “Much damage from the storm the other day?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Just bits of trees and all. Look, Lil, I hate to do this to you.”

My stomach dropped, then bounced nervously. That’s not a good feeling. “Did Ruth decide to put term limits on sheriffs?”

Maury’s laugh wobbled. “Um. No. She is up to something, but that woman’s got so much devil in her there’s extra room in Hell, if you’ll pardon my saying.”

I scratched my cheek, where a mosquito had grabbed breakfast. “So what’s got you hunting me down?”

Poor Maury. He looked downright miserable. “Del.”

“What’d he do?”

“He’s gonna file suit against the town.”

It was too early for these kinds of mental gymnastics. “What? How? You work for the town!”

Maury shuffled in place. “Damn it, Lil, I know that, but…” He shrugged broadly. “You know Del. He’s all upset about his tattoo. Doesn’t look the same since Boris had at him.”

It was also too early in the day for rage, but I got ambitious. “He hit me, what’d he think he’d get, a medal?”

Maury hastily backed up, hands up and out from his body like he worried I’d shoot him. Man watches too much TV. “Lil, I tried, but he’s got his stupid hat on.”

“Does he own any other?”

Maury didn’t reply, deeming my remark too low to notice. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “He’s claiming damages on his ‘body art’.”

That was going too far. Del’s tattoo was of a woman posing suggestively along his forearm, with breasts like watermelons. It missed being porn by about two square centimeters of strategically placed ink. “Art?” I squeaked, high enough that Boris perked up his ears and pawed the window, probably thinking there was a chipmunk out there. “You’re kidding me!”

I’d seen faces like that a lot in my life. It was the expression of a man who wished he could do a little cleaning in the gene pool. “I wish I was. Look, just be prepared, okay? I’m sure it’ll come to nothing once the judge hears why he got ripped up.”

I fumed. Until the judge tossed it‌—‌assuming the judge did‌—‌I would need a lawyer. “Dammit, Maury! I don’t get paid enough for this!”

Maury couldn’t meet my eyes, never a good sign. “You know Del doesn’t think you really gave up all that money last year.”

If I hadn’t braided my hair up, I’d have grabbed it and torn it out in pure frustration. As it was, I had to crush my hat to keep my temper under control. “Del doesn’t think. No offense.”

Maury let it pass. He’d said worse about his brother. “Well, Andy and I had better get goin’. Gotta get on down to Gilfoyle before it gets hot. Supposed to hit ninety today.”

More bad news. I scowled my way back into my cruiser and pulled Boris close for a cuddle. He resisted until he realized he’d lose, and gave a miffed little snort, his tail thumping against my ribs. If only I had a tail to lash. I’d probably feel a lot better.

***^***

I’d just let Hal Johnson go with a warning about his floppy tailgate‌—‌held on by twine, duct tape, and a coat hanger‌—‌when my radio squealed. I snatched at it in surprise. I didn’t think Kim would be in before noon on a holiday. Not if she could help it. Her parents must’ve been particularly annoying that morning. “What’s up, Kim?”

“Got a disturbance at Bob Shifflett’s. House, not garage.” Bob Shifflett owned and operated his own gas station and service station, thus the distinction. “Where you at?”

“Three minutes out,” I said. I’d stopped Hal Johnson at Elk Creek Apartments. “Who called it in?”

“Tammy Lynn.”

One of our many Bradys, but more smart than vicious as a rule. She was one of Maury’s secretaries. His other was his daughter-in-law Linda. You’d think there wouldn’t be enough paperwork for two, but Maury saw to the trash removal and sewage of just about everyone in two counties. The man was up to his bald spot in permits and red tape.

I hit my bubble light and siren and floored it. Bob lived on Third Street, and when I pulled in just under four minutes later, I could hear the shouting and yelling for myself. The Shifflett family dog, a clumsy mutt, galumphed over to make friends with Boris, and I left Boris to educate him as to his folly. I saw Mike Spivey and his parents across the street on their porches, not moving, and Tammy Lynn waving at me with relief from her yard next door. I raised my hand in reply, and she pointed vigorously toward the back. I nodded and set off at a careful jog.

Domestic calls are the thing I hate most about being a cop. I didn’t get them when I was a fed, and if I miss anything about the Bureau, it’s not getting domestic calls. You never know what you’re going to find. It could be a screaming match or a bloodbath. No matter what it is, the police are usually not welcomed with open arms. Fists, sometimes, and occasionally a gun, and often a big pile of steaming BS, but not happy smiley faces.

I came around the back, avoiding Bob’s vegetable garden, and stopped cold in my tracks.

Heather Shifflett was hanging out her bedroom window‌—‌it opens over the deck‌—‌and was screaming, “Daddy, no! Daddy!” Her little brother Doug was pressed against the sliding glass door, watching with his mouth sagging open from the relative safety of the kitchen. Darren Mitchell was pinned up against the big fancy gas grill, so pale I thought he’d pass out. Bob Shifflett had a shotgun pressed to the kid’s chest. An old double-barrel. His face was red and his shoulders and arms were so tense they shook. You could tell he was thinking what any father thinks when he catches a boy near his nubile daughter. After all, he’d been a boy himself once, and knew what boys that age think about.

Heather saw me and stopped screaming. She flopped out the window onto the deck and ran over to me. “Sheriff!”

“Easy does it,” I said. I had to peel her off me. “What’s going on here?”