Hot Enough to Kill (18 page)
Still smiling at that thought, I had another bite of my authentic and tasty Texas-style barbeque sandwich. As much as I like to poke fun at my hometown, I really do have a lot of fond memories of the place. As amusing as it would be to replay the good old memories, I had to go make some new bad ones. Like it or not, it was time to locate my mother. Yippee.
I left Burt's parking lot and headed toward Redwater Falls' one and only indoor mall. It's fair-sized with one big fountain and three anchor stores. It does not have an upper level, but it makes up for this deficiency by having two highly popular cafeterias and three cosmetics stores. I doubted I'd spot Lucille on my first walkthrough, but the place was small enough that I figured I'd run into her eventually.
Turning into the north parking lot, I realized the place was packed. Middle of the day in the middle of the workweek and it was wall-to-wall cars. Why? Belatedly I recalled that shopping is the number one physical sport around here, not to mention that it's nice and cool in the mall. I wound my way around to the south side, hoping to find the parking lots a little more sparsely populated. They were, but there was also a crowd of people at one of the entrances. Probably some shoplifter being subdued. I started to swing wide of the commotion when something caught my eye--namely a bobbing ball of Frivolous Fawn and a black handbag swinging in the air.
"Oh, shit."
I slammed on the brakes, backed up and headed for the scene of the crime, meaning an assault on someone, likely a law enforcement official, by my mother. I parked illegally by the yellow curb, shut off the car, jumped out and ran toward the center ring of the circus. "Let me through," I said, shoving spectators aside. "That's my mother. Let me through."
By the time I got to the inner circle, I saw that my mother did not need my help so very much. Others, however, certainly did. Lucille was flailing her weapon of choice this way and that, and folks were giving her a wide berth. A uniformed security officer and a man in regular clothes were trying to get a hand on her, but neither was having much success.
I edged as close as I dared. "Mother! What are you doing?"
Lucille stopped in mid-swing and looked at me, giving the uniformed security guard an opening. He grabbed her purse and the other man gripped her good arm. She tried to jerk away and wailed. "Now, look what you've done, Jolene!" she howled, sounding not so much like a wounded animal as an enraged one. "They've got me now!"
I hurried up to the security guard. "What's going on here?"
Mother answered for him. "This goon was following me," she said, nodding to the man in plain clothes as she tried to pull away again. "Creeping around after me like I was some hoodlum. I tried to get away and now they got me!"
"Miz Jackson," the man in question said. "I'm Deputy Bob Travers. Sheriff Parker sent me over to protect you. I was just giving you a while to shop before I told you. I was trying to be nice."
"Nice, my hind foot," Lucille sputtered. "Just how'd you know I'd be out shopping at the mall anyway? Nobody knew I was going to be here except Jolene."
She shot me an evil glare to which I responded with an appropriately innocent shake of my head. This was not my fault and I wasn't willing to take the wrongful blame. "Hey, I didn't squeal."
"Then you had to be stalking me," Mother said, turning back to Deputy Bob. "I've been stalked by that bony-butted fool Ethel Fossy long enough to know when I'm being stalked. I also darn well know it's against the law, now you get your hands off me."
I was torn between trying to help my mother and protecting the rapidly thinning sheriff's department employees from their captive. Seeing a third option, namely that somebody needed to disperse the masses, I settled for being the designated crowd controller. I held my hands up like a seasoned evangelist and called out to the swarm. "Listen up, people. This was just a misunderstanding. You can all go on about your business. Move along, now."
Not a soul did.
"Oh, for godsakes," I muttered, trying to think of a better plan. "The woman has Alzheimer's…and AIDS. Hang around it you want to, but don't be crying to me when she spits on you." I've never been that great at extemporaneous speaking. "Or worse."
In a swirl of gasps and scuttling, the crowd evaporated instantly.
When I turned back around, the mall security guard and Deputy Bob had released Lucille, but each still had a cautious hand ready to nab her if need be. She shot venomous glares to each of them in turn. Apparently, she hadn't heard what I just said because she was still busy giving them a what-for.
"You get away and leave me be! This is a violation of my civil rights," she said, waving her good arm for emphasis. "It's a mighty sad case when a little old woman who wouldn't hurt a flea can't go to the mall for a little recreation without being trailed around by a goon and treated like a common criminal. Why, it's just horrible, and I'm gonna file a complaint with somebody. If that Jerry Don Parker weren't shot to pieces, he'd give you two a what-for about this. He wouldn't stand for you treating me like this."
I was amused that Mother was throwing Jerry's name around, particularly since her earlier reference involved a highly unflattering comparison to a post. Mother had always thought Jerry hung the moon, to use her words, but now her opinion apparently depended on what kind of trouble she was in--and wanted to wrangle her way out of.
"Sheriff Parker's the one who sent me out here, Miz Jackson," said Deputy Bob repeated, trying to soothe her. "I'm here as a personal favor to him. This is my day off."
Lucille snorted at his above-and-beyond the call sacrifice.
But before she could elaborate, the mall cop stepped toward the deputy. "You need me anymore, Bob?" he said, rubbing his shoulder.
Deputy Bob looked at Lucille then at me then back at the guard. "Now that her daughter's here it should be okay," he said, trying to convince himself it might be true.
It wasn't, of course, but we could hope. And she did actually calm down, but only after announcing that she would be finishing her shopping before she went anywhere. I'd had no idea she was completely out of fingernail polish, lipstick and cologne, not to mention the fact that she needed a new slip and bra. I had a nagging suspicion that these last two purchases were for pure spite, but I had the decency not to say so. Besides, I wasn't looking forward to being imprisoned again either. Eventually, we headed home, Lucille leading the way and Deputy Bob following close behind.
As we turned the corner onto Mother's street, I caught my breath. The place was covered with official vehicles, flashing lights and yellow crime scene tape. Yes, new tape and new flock of cars.
A sheriff's car and a van were in the driveway, but Mother pulled in as well, leaving the back half of her car sticking out in the road. Deputy Bob had parked across the street and was sprinting toward Lucille.
I muttered and cursed as I found a spot for the Tahoe. I know I should have raced over to see what was going on, but my pesky friend Denial was perched on my shoulder screaming, "You don't really want to know."
Gathering up my ever-present paper cup of tea, my keys, billfold and courage, I flicked the pesky voice off my shoulder and hustled myself toward the fray. Yes, it had occurred to me that nobody was sprinting out to escort me inside, and it did kind of hurt my feelings.
By the time I got to the house, Deputy Bob had already zipped Lucille inside and was back talking with another deputy. He turned toward me as I walked up. "There was a package left on the back porch while you were gone, Miz Jackson. We'll need to talk to you about it."
"Did you know about this when we were at the mall?"
He nodded. "They found it when they came to clear the house." He smiled a little. "It was easier to let her stay at the mall while we checked things out."
That made sense. What was going on here now, however, didn't. "I assume this package was not a floral arrangement, a fruit basket or a box of cosmetics."
"No."
I'd managed to verbalize my clever remark, but my heart wasn't in it. I knew good and well we weren't having a deputy convention over FTD, Chiquita or Avon, which meant it had to be bad--really bad. Visions of dead bodies and sundry body parts danced before my eyes, and my stomach did a triple somersault at the gory image clips. I swallowed hard, my bravado sliding down as fast as the bile surged in my throat. "What is it?"
"A shotgun."
Oh, no, I knew where this was going. "Dad's."
Bob nodded.
The shotgun's reappearance brought a whole bunch of the old unpleasant issues right back into the foreground. Specifically, did this confirm what we had all guessed? Had my father's favorite shotgun been used to kill my mother's boyfriend? And why was it now being flaunted in our faces? The killer's boldness scared me almost as much as the bullets--almost.
"You ain't gonna want that gun back, Jolene," Leroy's gravel-like voice boomed from behind me as he marched up and broke into our cozy group. "Bertram would be fighting mad, I reckon, seeing's how the stock on that thing is just plumb ruint."
I ignored Leroy and looked at Deputy Bob. "Tell me."
"It would be best if I didn't," he said apologetically, then turned to glare at Leroy. "This new piece of evidence is vital to the case and we need to keep it out of the newspapers."
I didn't take offense at the remark, at least from him. I kind of liked Deputy Bob, and I knew he wasn't implying anything about the moronic article I'd been an unwitting--or maybe that's witless--party to. He even started to say as much, but I waved away the concern. He was also right about keeping the facts of the case out of the paper, but I still wanted to know what had been done with and to my father's gun--and why.
"Slut," Leroy said, snickering.
My head snapped toward him. "What did you say?"
Leroy tucked his thumbs in the top of his pants and grinned. "Slut. I said slut."
What stupid thing was he up to this time? "Good for you, Leroy, you learned a new word. Do you want me to spell it, tell you the definition or give you a pat on the back for being one?"
He scrunched up his good eye and puffed out his chest. "Slut. It was carved into the stock of your old dad's gun, Jolene. Bertram's probably turning over in his grave right now." He paused and got a smug look on his face. "Guess we all got the message pretty clear, huh? Slut," he repeated, laughing. "Kinda funny, ain't it?"
Lucille, who had apparently slipped out of the house in time to hear the slurs, didn't think it was funny at all and promptly whacked him in the head with her purse. The blow landed in the vicinity of the bandaged stitches. He wailed and howled, but I didn't much care. Apparently neither did any of the on-duty deputies since they turned their backs and left Leroy screaming in the driveway while they escorted us into the house.
The Redwater forensics guys finished doing their thing with the gun, the back porch and the outside areas while Mother and I chatted inside with the deputies. We were no closer to knowing the identity of the killer, but returning the shotgun had fairly well cleared up any confusion about the target. It also had renewed the issue of matching up someone on the mayor's hate list with my mother's--or mine. I still couldn't see how I'd had time to offend too many people in four days. I'm good, but generally not that good, although I supposed it was possible. Still it was heartening to see them officially pursuing something.
And, let's not forget the slut thing. Carving up the gun in order to slander my mother wasn't a prank or a joke--it was premeditated viciousness. It sort of discounted a heat-of-passion killing as well. Someone had gone to great lengths to steal the gun, plan and execute a murder, hack up the stock on the shotgun, then return it while no one noticed. Very clever. Or at least very determined to make a point.
The Redwater Falls detective Jerry had told me about was the latest arrival on the scene. Having already chatted with Deputy Bob and Deputy Marshall, I was less than enthused about covering the same ground again, particularly with the blond-haired beach boy walking into the room.
Detective Richard "you can call me Rick" Rankin was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, tall, lean, well-tanned and very blond with a stylish cut that just screamed "waiting to be discovered by Hollywood." Detective Rick looked like he belonged at the beach perched on a surfboard rather than in my mother's kitchen in Kickapoo, Texas, flashing a badge.
After dispensing with the introductions, we got down to the business of rehashing what was obviously old news for us both. "Look, Rick," I said, after about fifteen minutes. "This is getting us basically nowhere. How about I tell you what I know, have heard rumored or have just plain guessed at, and then we'll get back to the old news, okay?"
Detective Rick Surfer Dude set his pen aside and leaned back in his chair. "Okay, Jolene," he said, sounding just a little too friendly--and arrogant--for my tastes. "Just what has your investigative reporting uncovered?"
I declined to mention that I hadn't actually investigated much of anything--now or previously--for reporting purposes or otherwise. Those were just technicalities, of course, and they didn't keep me from having an opinion, so I proceeded onward. I ran down my own list of suspects and their respective pros and cons. There was no shining star in the group, but I did note that Velma Bennett's name had been cropping up in conversation an awful lot, and there was that new white Town Car to think about. She had plenty of reasons to kill her husband and my mother, but my theory couldn't explain why she'd want to kill me--or Leroy or Jerry if those options were still on the table.
As I rattled off my ideas, Detective Rick nodded and smiled like a politician who didn't give a damn, but wanted you to think he did so you'd vote for him. He did perk up when I mentioned the fact that the brick to Leroy's head had loosened his tongue, and the trip to the hospital had been amusing, if not particularly coherent. Leroy's ramblings hadn't made sense at the time, but combined with what my mother had told me and the tidbits Jerry had shared, I'd pieced together a fair guess at Dewayne Schuman's troubles--and they went far beyond building permits and carports. Once I started telling what I thought I knew, Rick started quizzing me in earnest. As we went along, I smoothed off the edges of my speculation and guesses and came up with a pretty good overview, if I did say so myself.