Hot Enough to Kill (14 page)
"Miz Jackson," Deputy Marshall said, slightly less monotone. "I have worked with Sheriff Parker for four years now, so I am well aware of your relationship with him."
Was that so? And just how did she know something I didn't? I started to ask, but managed to restrain myself.
"He's a good man and an excellent sheriff. I will do everything in my power to see his assailant brought to justice."
"I hope that happens soon. But I still want to see him."
She gave me a quick, curt nod that did not scream "rival," and I am pretty good about picking up on that sort of thing. "I will make a request for an exemption on the visitation restrictions."
After our chatty little group had sipped about half our drinks, Deputy Marshall pulled out a notebook and began the pop quiz portion of our show.
Nothing terribly enlightening emerged from the grilling, but I did at least feel this particular public servant would follow up on all the leads we'd given her--unlike Leroy or Kimberlee. It wasn't much, but it was something.
* * * *
We arrived back at Mother's house to find the place crawling with deputies and other official non-uniformed types. Deputy Marshall tried to rush us into the house, but I lingered behind, trying to overhear what the people digging in the side of the house were saying. I didn't catch much except the words "probably thirty-eight caliber."
After Deputy Marshall made an obligatory sweep of the house and pronounced it clean, I decided a little casual conversation was in order. "Wonder why our shooter isn't using the shotgun anymore?"
Deputy Marshall stopped and turned toward me with her unemotional stare. "A pistol is both easier to conceal and hold, particularly while operating a vehicle. Logical choice of the two, although a higher caliber automatic weapon would be more effective than either a twelve-gauge shotgun or thirty-eight caliber pistol."
Well, I'd had my lesson in logical thinking for the day. "So, Deputy Marshall, what next?"
She checked her watch. "A deputy will be assigned to stay here with you."
I could have mentioned that having a deputy or sheriff here with us hadn't been a real great help so far, but to my credit, I did not.
"My shift here ends approximately two hours from now. I will be monitoring all phone calls and visitors. Other than that, you should behave as if nothing is amiss."
"Nothing is amiss?" Lucille shrieked behind me. "I did not ask for a babysitter and I don't want you people lurking around my house spying on me. I want you to go lock up whoever's doing these awful things!"
"Ma'am," Deputy Marshall said, without a hint of emotion or fluster, "events of the last two days indicate that one or both of you are at risk of injury or death from an unknown assailant."
"It seems to me," Lucille said, just as logically if not as unemotionally, "it's the deputies who are winding up in the hospital."
"That is considered as well."
Lucille pointed a fingernail from her good hand in Deputy Marshall's direction. "Well, I'll tell you what, missy, there had better be somebody actually working on solving this case. I don't plan to live the rest of my life in a prison camp."
"Yes, ma'am," Deputy Marshall said simply, turning toward the kitchen to set up shop at the kitchen table.
I almost smiled. I liked it when somebody besides me was getting a what-for. And I did admire my mother, giving them a dose of reality. Plywood still covered the windows so the risk of another bullet coming through with any precise intent was unlikely. My stomach growled and I realized that not only had I missed breakfast, I'd missed lunch as well. I was more than a little lightheaded and nauseous to boot, so knew I had to get some food quickly.
My mother isn't known for being a gourmet chef, or even a semi-enthusiastic cook, so I ate a whole lot of TV dinners when I was growing up. Just one more facet of the "good old days" that I didn't want to relive now. What I really wanted was one of those tasty chicken baskets. Yes, with gravy, and every blessed fat globule and calorie it contained.
It took a little expert negotiating with Deputy Marshall, but I managed to recruit a deputy, who was sweltering outside in day number 37 of triple-digit heat, to scurry up to the DQ for me. When he returned, he was much more cheerful, and I suspected he'd had his own snack and iced tea while he was at it. With food and drink in hand, I was also feeling better, at least until he told me the temperature outside, and I quote: "One hunnerd seventeen and hot enough to kill."
This local phrase was not my favorite at the moment, for obvious reasons. "What happened to the old 'fry an egg on the sidewalk' thing?" I asked, just a tad peevishly.
The deputy grinned. "Kickapoo doesn't have any sidewalks." Well, no, it didn't. But it surely did have a killer.
I awoke the next morning to the nostril-burning smell of fingernail polish and hair spray. The spray hovered in the hallway like a toxic cloud, raising the urge to cough, as well as my suspicions. Lucille was hauling out the big guns in personal care products for a reason--and that worried me.
I dragged myself out of bed, sauntered down the hallway and leaned against the bathroom door to watch her layer on another coat of helmet-in-a-can. Frivolous Fawn wasn't moving a micrometer today.
"I'm glad you're up," Lucille said, setting the can of hair spray back on the shelf. "I've convinced the deputy that came on duty this morning, his name is Tim and he seems like a very nice young man, to take us to the funeral this morning."
Funeral? Oh, BigJohn. I felt a little foolish--and guilty--that I'd forgotten all about the very reason I'd been summoned to Kickapoo. The man had been murdered in his own home and I'd just forgotten about it. No, I hadn't for a minute forgotten the event, but I surely hadn't thought much about the man, at least in human terms.
"There should be a huge turnout," Lucille said. "Not that they're coming for the right reasons, of course, but I expect most of the town will be there. A good many from Bowman City and Redwater, too."
She'd made it sound like going to BigJohn Bennett's funeral was some grand outing, an exciting event that I should just be all aflutter over. I wasn't. Even if I hadn't developed the nasty habit of shaking at even the thought of attending a funeral, I wouldn't be interested in going to this one. "I don't care anything about going to BigJohn's funeral. I didn't even know the man. And you probably shouldn't go."
"Nonsense, I'm determined to go. Not that I'll shed any tears, but I don't want to sit in this house all day doing nothing. At least at the funeral I'll get to see some of my friends."
Uh huh. "And cause a stir."
She shrugged. "It should make things interesting."
To say the least. Mr. Married Mayor's girlfriend, wife and political opponents--apparently there were no allies--would all be in attendance. "Nobody actually liked the guy, but they're all going to his funeral?"
She patted a curl and it held firm. "It's the right thing to do."
Lucille selected a pencil and tube from her makeup collection and expertly lined and filled her lips in a deep cherry color then smacked and dabbed with a tissue. She then snapped on a pair of matching red ear clips, which, incidentally, also matched the new color of polish on her plastic nails. It looked like an awfully good paint job to have been done with her "bad hand," but I didn't mention it. Satisfied that she was ready for the ball, she slipped off her housecoat and hung it on the rack. Wearing a cherry-red, two-piece suit with white trim and a shiny belt, she looked quite spiffy.
"Wow," I said, words being my forte. "You look terrific."
"Why, thank you, Jolene. I guess your mother still has it when she needs to." Waving me into the other room, she said. "I've laid out that sleeveless navy dress with the gold belt I bought you that you never wore. Help yourself to whatever jewelry you want. I have a pair of navy heels that should fit. They're too small for me and I've been meaning to give them to you anyway."
Right then and there I thanked whatever superior being watches over me that she didn't offer me one of her wild purple things and glitter sandals, not that I would have, but there is a price to pay for rejecting Lucille. "Thanks. I'll hurry." Then I paused. "Wait a minute. I just told you I don't want to go."
"Sure you do, Jolene. How else are we going to figure out who's trying to kill us? You're supposed to be asking questions, remember? What better place?"
"I can name several better places to interview possible suspects."
"Killers always go to the funerals of the people they killed. Happens every single time. I guess they come just to make sure the job is really done."
I groaned. "Maybe on television, but--"
"I know the killer will be there, Jolene. I'm just sure of it. I don't get these intuitions often, but when I do, I'm always right. Now hurry up."
I have my own share of intuitions, and the meter had been set on disaster since I reached the city limits of Kickapoo. Still, I guessed she had a point. It would be good to get out of the house, and it might even be better than sitting at home watching the thermometer rise.
* * * *
Once again, I was wrong. I'd have rather watched the little red line of mercury until my eyes crossed than endure a military funeral. I jabbed my mother with my elbow and growled, "Why didn't you tell me he was a veteran?"
Lucille lifted her hand to her mouth and whispered, "Because I knew you wouldn't come."
She was damned right about that. I glanced at the casket with the American flag draped over it. Oh, she was going to pay for this one. She very well knew I wouldn't take this well--and I wasn't. In my mind, every single casket with a flag on it was my dad's. Just looking at the thing was making my throat choke up. At least I'd had the forethought to wear dark glasses to hide at least part of my face. "I'm leaving," I muttered.
Lucille let out a little sniff and grabbed me by the arm as if she needed me for support. Oh, please, like anybody who even casually knew Lucille would buy that. "Let go of me, Mother. You know I don't do well at these things."
"Of course, I do. I also know it's past time you got over it, Jolene. People die and funerals are a part of life."
Oh, I was not happy. Not at all. Not only had she tricked me into coming to this thing, but now she was telling me it was for my own good. The only saving grace in this whole thing was that if I was mad, I wasn't crying. Still, it was just a matter of time. I couldn't stay mad and distracted throughout an entire funeral--at least I hadn't in the last two years.
Technically, I guess that wasn't true since I hadn't actually cried at my own father's funeral, which was the crux of the problem--I couldn't. I'd had to be strong for my mother, who was nuts enough for us both, so I stuffed all those emotions away and kept my eyes off the flag-draped casket and on the floral arrangements. There were sixty-seven red carnations, forty-three white ones, thirteen lilies, nine blooms I couldn't identify and six blue spider mums. Let's not forget the eleven potted plants, two of them ivy. I don't remember that much about Dad's funeral, but I remember the flowers.
I felt myself choking up again and knew a different distraction was in order so I began estimating crowd size. There were probably more than two hundred people present at the elaborate graveside service that the supposedly-grieving widow, in her infinite wisdom, had chosen to have. I suspected that having the funeral outside during the hottest part of the day was most likely a spite-related decision, and I kind of had to admire her for that. She was showing everybody she was in control, if only for a few minutes. Still, if several attendees didn't drop dead from the heat it would be a major miracle.
The cemetery people had set up three big tents for shade and they'd turned on two high pressure sprinklers upwind from the service to cool the air blowing in our faces. Best I could tell, the makeshift swamp cooler was about the only heavenly thing present.
The preacher was probably fifty-something with steel-rimmed glasses and a graying ring of fluff encircling his head. Apparently, he was from the mayor's church, but he was no dummy. Knowing full well that he'd go straight to hell for lying, he hadn't tried to canonize BigJohn. In fact, he didn't spend much time at all on the eulogy. He just stepped right up on his rather high and mighty soapbox and delivered the loving and forgiving message I remembered all too well from my childhood: Come to Jesus or rot in hell.
He could have been insinuating that the former mayor was currently aflame for his wickedness, but I tuned out rather quickly as this type of preaching has the effect of a bucket of ice water on my emotions-or maybe that's a box of matches--just depends. I tried to suck in a deep breath and hold it, hoping that would stave off my tendency to hyperventilate in such situations.
I have good reason for this reaction. Reasons, actually. Many of my fondest childhood traumas surround the First Baptist Church of Kickapoo. I vividly recall a stern Sunday school teacher who terrified me more than all the fires of hell and devil business they could think up. For years I was terrified that horns would pop up out of the ground and snatch me away for being inherently wicked. I don't think that old woman ever smiled. She did, however, get a gleam in her eye when she rapped my knuckles for not knowing the assigned Bible verses. But I digress.
Wishing I had a paper bag in case I really did start to hyperventilate, I turned my attention back to my conniving mother who had gotten me into this mess, make that messes. Not that she was concerned about me and my little hysterical mental escapades. Oh, no, she had other things on her mind. Like having a glaring war with her ex-boyfriend's official next of kin. The dark shades didn't hide where Lucille was staring. She was giving Velma Bennett the eye--make that the evil eye.
