The Rivers Webb (3 page)

“And how did you figure that out?”

For the first time, Roy smiled.

“A splinter in his thumb. The Parrott River Bridge is one of the oldest bridges in the county, and it has one particularly interesting thing that makes it special. It is the only bridge—hell, the only thing in Coweta County—constructed entirely out of California Redwood.”

“So, you pulled a redwood thorn out of his thumb? How do you know that he didn't just pick that up earlier?”

“Well, it was about an inch long. I don't know about you, but I know I'd be in a hurry to pull somethin' like that out before movin' on.”

Though he didn't like it, John had to admit that he had a point. And you didn't get a splinter like that from casual contact. It was the kind of thing you got when you grabbed for some kind of support, during distress. It was good police work.

“That's why we're here,” Roy continued. “We figure that we're at the best possible place for a man to hide until Carl passed along the bridge. Once your uncle was in sight, he took aim, and shot him.”

John looked off to where the bridge lie, a good 50 yards in the distance. He did a little quick figuring in his head, and then looked back at his father. So much for good police work.

“Deputy…Dan, wasn't it?” he asked politely. He only nodded in response. John's natural antagonistic personality was going to get him in trouble, especially with this one. But he just couldn't help himself.

“Are you a decent shot?” John asked. Dan snorted with a smile in response.

“He happens to be the best shot in the county,” Roy beamed, proudly.

John smiled at that. The “son he never had.” Any thoughts he might have had about taking it easy on this poor fellow just went out the window.

“If you look over there, about 40 yards away, just over the rise, where your other deputy is looking around, can you see that beehive?” It was a big beehive, about the size of a head, and Deputy Dan had no problem finding it.

“Great. Do me a favor, and put a hole in it.”

Both Dan and Roy looked at him like he had just turned into a monkey.

“Humor me. Let's call it an experiment. Just take aim, squeeze the trigger, and shoot the damn thing. Dead center, please.”

Dan took a moment, looked over at Roy, who just shrugged and motioned for him to go ahead. Seeing that John was serious, and the sheriff had no problem with it, Dan shrugged, then took out his service .38 and carefully, slowly took aim, and fired.

The shot went wide about a foot to the left. A little embarrassed, Dan took aim again. He gave himself a little extra time to check the wind, braced and locked his legs to keep him rock-steady, then fired again. This time, it was just a few inches off, to the right.

John had seen enough. He motioned him to put the weapon down. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pulled out his own snub-nosed and fired a single round dead center into the hive.

It was childish and rude, and probably did more harm than good. But John just couldn't resist.

“As it happens, I'm considered one of the best shots in New York. Now, if it isn't too much trouble, have your other deputy down there go and fetch that hive—once the bees have settled down, of course.”

“Other than a trophy, what purpose would it serve?” Roy asked, belligerently. He was clearly angry that this upstart Yankee had just shown up his prize deputy.

“It's a new science we've been using at the NYPD. It's called ballistics.” John was rewarded with blank looks all around. He had figured as much.

“Simply put, we've figured out that bullets react the exact same way when fired from the same gun. Now, I'm not actually an expert, so I can't tell you as much as one of those lab guys could, but I can definitely tell that a human head is a lot denser than a damn beehive. And I can already see from here, that my bullet is still rattling around in there.”

The expressions on the two faces were still giving him nothing. John sighed at the thought of having to dumb it down for them even more, but what choice did he have?

“The gunshot that killed Carl Rivers went into his temple, and left a nice big hole on the other side of his head,” John said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

“So it stands to reason that, if your theory about a stranger hiding in the bushes, all the way down here, was at all accurate, then A, he would have to be a better shot than anyone in the county, and B, his bullet would still be lodged in Uncle Carl's head.”

Deputy Dan still hadn't connected the dots, but Roy got it.

“Whoever shot him was on the bridge with him,” Roy muttered.

“Which means it was probably someone he knew,” John added.

“That makes things complicated…”

“Why?” John asked, honestly. Roy smiled sadly, yet truthfully.

“Your uncle wasn't exactly the wallflower type. On top o' bein' rev'rend o' the biggest church in three counties, he's on the plannin' committee for Coweta, and travels up to the state capital two or three times a year to talk with the governor's office. Everybody knows him.”

John looked off into the distance, as if allowing these thoughts to absorb for a moment. The truth was, the sheriff didn't have to tell him about his uncle's involvements. It wasn't anything he didn't already know, but he saw no point in telling him that. Despite his innate desire to irritate and annoy his father, he knew he would have to work with the man in order to find Carl Rivers' killer, and that was simply more important to him, right now.

“So, where does that leave us?” John finally asked.

“With a lot more suspects,” Roy spat in agitation.

“Believe it or not, this woulda' been a whole lot easier if it
had
been a random stranger. Folks around here ain't used to people ‘just passin' through.' I coulda' got a complete description of anyone that weren't local. Car. License plate. Full description. In less than a day. I'd a had the son-of-a-bitch.”

“The problem is…you would have had the wrong son-of-a-bitch.”

Chapter 2

Tuesday, May 24th, 1942

You know it's going to be an interesting day when you get up, walk outside, and find a peacock sitting on the hood of your car. Certainly for John, this seemed to have all the makings of a classic omen of some kind, though what type of omen exactly, or what it might be pointing to, he couldn't even venture a guess.

And yet, here he was in his best suit, at 7 a.m. on his second day in Coweta County, staring blankly at the bright blue and green bird squatting contentedly on the hood of the Studebaker he'd been lent by his estranged aunt so that he could investigate the murder of his uncle…

Actually, if he decided to take a good hard look at his situation, it shouldn't really seem that odd at all. Still, it caught John off-guard. It was only after a few moments that he broke out of his reverie long enough to wonder what people might think of this very odd scene, should anyone see him. But not quite soon enough…

“I suppose they don't have peacocks in New York?”

John turned with a start. He hadn't heard anyone coming up, and felt more than a little embarrassed. Normally he might have tried to mask it, but the bird had already unnerved him, and he was unable to do anything but point and look stupid. Fortunately, the woman that had found him didn't seem to notice.

“There's a…” Still flustered, John couldn't finish his own sentence.

“A peacock on the hood of your car. Yeah. I don't know why, but they seem to like car hoods in the mornin'.”

“I didn't know that peacocks were wild in Georgia.”

“Oh, only in Coweta County,” the woman said matter-of-factly.

John's blank stare was apparently enough to tell her that more explanation was necessary.

“There was this traveling circus that came through town about twenty-five years ago,” she continued. “Actually, ‘circus' is kind of a generous word…there were a couple of clowns, some horses, a monkey, and peacocks. Lots of peacocks, in fact. That is, until George Rivers thought it would be funny to see them let loose all over town. His mama nearly blew her own house down yellin' at him. Well, you know how your aunt Wilhelmina can get. He was just 10 years old back then, but I'll bet if you ask him, he'll still remember that whoopin'!”

There were a lot of reasons why John just stood there dumbfounded throughout the whole story. But probably the most relevant one was the simple truth that he still had no idea who this woman was that had appeared at this, his most embarrassing hour.

“So, anyway, that's how come we got wild peacocks all over the place now. Twenty-five years of open space and plenty of breedin' room have done pretty well for them birds.”

John was still staring. She was a rather attractive woman in her mid-forties, with a broad smile and eyes that seemed to challenge you not to like her. John instinctively felt like he ought to know who she was, but couldn't put his finger on it. Apparently, his discomfort was showing.

“Oh my gosh, would you take a look at me! Yammerin' away like we're old friends and I haven't so much as introduced myself.” She stuck out her hand in an oddly formal way, as if mocking the entire notion of introductions. “Annie Ruth Stovall. I was real close with your mother, once.”

Realization, relief, and a strange blend of conflicting emotions ran through John's mind as he took the offered hand, but he managed to recover quickly.

“It's good to finally meet you. I've had the opportunity to read through several of your letters. Mom was quite fond of you,” John finally answered. Uncharacteristically, Annie Ruth blushed at the kind words.

“I was real fond of her, too… I'm sorry to just jump on into your mornin' like this.”

“It's okay. I was just walking across the street to stretch my legs, when…” John nodded over to the peacock, still contentedly sitting on his hood.

“Yeah, we've had them around for so long, I guess I never realized how strange somethin' like that would be if you weren't expectin' it,” she said with a slight laugh. Then she paused for a moment, getting a little more serious.

“But if you don't mind, Detective Webb, there was a reason I stopped by.”

Fifteen minutes later, John was in his car, now peacock-free, with Annie Ruth in the passenger seat. They were headed toward Mulfry, Georgia, where Annie Ruth would introduce John to one Doctor Posey, who supposedly had information about the case. Annie Ruth wouldn't say any more, only that he was a distant cousin that she had known since she was just a little girl, and that he was trusted by every man, woman, and child in three counties

When he asked her what sort of information he might have, Annie Ruth just smiled with a sense of old country wisdom.

“Doc Posey knows everything.”

John only had about another hour before his aunt would be sending the car for him, but Annie Ruth assured him that this would just take a few moments. And sure enough, before John could even register that they had left Sales City, they were driving down Main Street Mulfry. Annie Ruth pointed down one narrow dirt road that led to a modest little brick home just a hundred feet from the railroad tracks.

“Is the man deaf?” John asked, only half-joking. Annie Ruth looked at him as if she didn't understand, so John expounded.

“This close to the tracks, your Doctor Posey must either be deaf, or have the loudest radio in town.”

“Actually, I just know when the train's coming, so I know when to make my trips into town,” came a booming voice from the front door. John turned to see a man that, despite the countless wrinkles and bleach-white hair, seemed to transcend age. There was a strange timeless quality to him that made John uneasy and wary.

“Annie Ruth, it's so nice to see you. And this must be John…” Doc Posey stepped toward them robustly, despite the obvious limp that belabored his movements.

“Sam Posey. Good to meet you.” He grabbed John's hand in a firm, strong handshake, then paused for the briefest of seconds. The moment was barely noticeable, but John saw something reflected in the man's dark grey eyes that unsettled him. Without fully understanding why, John suddenly had the feeling that he had been judged—critically—and been found to be in need of something.

Sam Posey led them into his home, and led them to sit at his kitchen table. John didn't want to be rude, but he was in a bit of a hurry, and he hoped that the man would be forthcoming soon about why he had been dragged out here.

“Doctor Posey…”

“Sam. Please. It's one thing when the folk around here want to hang some kind'a title on me, but I'll only give my arrogant pride so much room with strangers.”

“So, you aren't a doctor?” John asked, beginning to wonder what kind of expert help this man might have to offer.

“Certainly not! I barely made it through grade school, let alone college and medical school. No, ‘Doc' is purely honorific. It's just somethin' they pinned on me years ago.”

“Still, I'm sure your wife is very proud,” John said, noting the many pictures on the mantle of a fair-haired, beautiful woman. At this, Sam went a little stiff.

“No, I'm afraid I never got married. Came close once. That's Eleanor in the pictures. I was all set to propose thirty-seven years ago. Had the ring and everything—but I just couldn't go through with it.”

“Thirty-seven years, and you still have her picture up? Seems like maybe those fires are still burning, if you don't mind me saying. You ever hear from her?”

Sam got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. John's trained eye couldn't help but make note of the way his hand shook as he did.

“No,” he said flatly. “No, she died six months later. Her heart gave out on her.” Sam seemed to lose himself for the briefest of moments, as his glance fell on to one of the many pictures of Eleanor. It should have been an awkward, uncomfortable moment, but something in the wistful longing in the old man's eyes placed that odd drama in a light that was above such childish emotional displays. It was almost a disappointment when he broke off and returned his gaze to John.

“Well, I know you got the funeral, and you probably are wondering what kind of thing Annie Ruth would have dragged you out here for…so let's get down to the point, huh?”

John could tell that the man desperately wanted to change the subject, and since it got him what he wanted, he was happy to oblige.

“Yes, sir. Anything that you know could be very helpful.” John had his little notepad out, and was already writing down the man's name, the date, and the time.

“Well, first off, you're gonna have to work out your feelings about Roy. Nothing's gonna happen if you aren't able to put some o' them demons to rest.”

“I'm sorry…” John held up his hand and put his pencil down.

“Don't think of it as me gettin' into your business, it's just that we're dealin' with a lot o' them mixed up feelin's—that's just gonna get in the way.”

Sam's gaze was level and unrelenting, as if he had just issued a statement of inescapable fact. Sighing heavily, John closed his notebook and returned the man's look without even a hint of blinking.

“Mr. Posey, I don't mean to be rude, so if it comes out that way I apologize, but I thought I came down here for information, not a counseling session about my father.”

There was a moment of very palpable silence as both men looked confused, and Annie Ruth looked guilty.

“Annie Ruth?” Sam asked sternly, “What, exactly, did you tell Mr. Webb you were bringing him here for?”

“I didn't have a choice, Doc. I knew if he met you and heard what you had to say…”

“What is going on here?” John demanded.

“Mr. Webb…John, I think you've been brought here under false pretenses, and I am sorry.” Sam set his coffee down on the table, as if signaling that this meeting was, indeed, concluded.

“Wait just a damn minute, here. You're telling me you have no information about Carl Rivers' death, whatsoever?”

“What I am telling you is that the information I have, you may not want.”

“And why is that?”

“Because what I know, I saw…in a dream”

John didn't quite know how to respond to that.

“It was three nights ago, under a full moon. I was watching your uncle walk across the Parrot river bridge, and then it went dark like the blackest Georgia night you ever saw, but I could still hear things. I heard the gunshot, then suddenly I could see again, and I saw the reverend fall into the water.”

John got up.

“There's more—you need to know it.”

“I've heard enough.”

“John, wait, please.” Annie Ruth was trying to get him to sit back down.

“I'll be damned if I'm going to listen to some two-bit hustler hand me a nice big piece of obvious-pie.” He was furious. Beyond furious.

“I've seen too many of your kind where I come from for you to expect me to swallow anything you have to say. You'll pardon me, but I've got things to do.” John was halfway out the door when Sam called out after him.

“I'm sorry I appear to have wasted your time, Mr. Webb.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Rather, I think you're more disappointed that I wasn't blind and stupid enough to take your psychic ramblings to heart,” John retorted.

Sam Posey stood and extended his hand. “I am sorry you feel that way. I truly am. But if you'll allow me to offer a bit of helpful advice, Mr. Webb, you'll do well to consider the possibility that the answers you're lookin' for ain't gonna be found the way you're lookin'.”

“I doubt seriously I'm going to find Uncle Carl's killer in a clump of tea leaves, or at the bottom of a deck of tarot cards, if that's what you mean!”

“What I mean, Mr. Webb, is that the killer you're looking for isn't going to be found by herdin' in half the county, or by runnin' stiff interrogation—you'll find your killer when you figure out who in this county knew the good reverend well enough to know what he had done that was bad enough to kill him for, and who in this county would have been so unwilling to forgive him that they couldn't stand to have him around anymore.”

John turned and left the house, without accepting the proffered hand. He pretended not to have heard those last words, but they kept running through his head all the way back to Sales City.

Though it seemed much, much longer, the whole trip, interview included, took just over 45 minutes. John still had time for a few sips of coffee to settle his nerves before the Rivers' limousine came by to gather him up. The ride to the graveside was stifling. Not the heat—it was actually a rather cool day. It was the company. Aunt Wilhelmina and his father were the only two faces he recognized, but he could take a stab at the rest. The prissy, timid woman in her early fifties would have to be the younger sister, Opal. Her dress was plain and modest, but carefully stitched. John was sure if he listened closely, he would hear her tell everyone who could stand to listen how she had had it shipped in from Paris, or Spain, or perhaps just a modest San Francisco boutique. She said nothing, now, as she clutched her small matching purse to her, as though she feared that he might mug her for it before they reached the cemetery.

There were two other men in the car. One, with the well-tended paunch and stiff posture of a man of “big business,” had to be Arnold Rivers, Roy's youngest brother. Arnold, he knew, had dutifully taken over the Rivers' many business interests since his father's death. As the oldest son, it was actually Roy's responsibility, but he had chosen to play policeman instead. Since Carl had found God, he was certainly in no shape to run a company, so it fell to Arnold. From what John had already learned, it seemed a good fit. Arnold had managed to move a great deal of the family wealth into national companies that had shown promise, and the return had been significant. There was also a good bit of evidence that he had discovered a few “less than upright” business avenues that John was certain Wilhelmina had no idea about.