Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 07 - Murder Most Fowl (15 page)

“We haven’t had any fights in here tonight that I know of, Sheriff,” Griffin said, leaning across the bar so he could be heard over the music. “If you got a call, it was just some kid calling in for a joke.”

“What about last night?” Rhodes asked. “Have any fights then?”

“Coupla guys got into an argument over whose turn it was to buy a pretty lady in tight-fittin’ jeans a longneck. Didn’t amount to much. One guy knocked the other one down and went off with the lady. She seemed pretty satisfied that he was the winner. That was about it.”

Rhodes nodded and then brought up the night he was really interested in. “And night before last?  Were you on duty then?”

“Yeah, I was here.”  Griffin thought for a minute. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“What’s that?” Rhodes asked.

Griffin leaned closer. “Lige Ward was in here night before last.”

“I thought he might’ve been. Who else was here?”

Griffin straightened up and looked around the room, taking in the size of the crowd. “Are you kidding me, Sheriff?”

“You know what I mean,” Rhodes said.

Griffin leaned down. “I guess I do at that.”

“So?” Rhodes said.

“So, yeah, Lige got into a little scuffle.”

“And you just happened not to get around to letting me know.”

“Hey, it was nothing,” Griffin protested. “You know the Palm Club likes to cooperate with the law. We run a family-type business here.”

Rhodes hadn’t noticed any families. “When a man gets killed, it’s not nothing.”

“I didn’t mean about Lige getting killed. I was sorry to hear that. I mean the fight, if you want to call it that. It was nothing. You know I’ve called you more than once about Lige when things got out of hand.”

That was true, but Griffin’s definition of things getting out of hand didn’t necessarily agree with Rhodes’. With Griffin, getting out of hand meant a near riot.

“Tell me about the little scuffle,” Rhodes said.

“It was like the one last night,” Griffin said. “There wasn’t much to it.”

Rhodes wasn’t anywhere near satisfied by that explanation. “Be more specific,” he said.

“Hey, Lige didn’t even start it,” Griffin said. “Somebody else did. Lige just jumped into the middle of it. I guess you could say he was the one that stopped it.”

“Who was involved?”

“Bunch of kids,” Griffin said. He hesitated. “And one other guy.”

“Who?”

“You might know him,” Griffin said. “Comes in here every now and then. Name’s Wally Henry.”

Chapter Eleven

B
efore he went home after his visit to the Palm Club, Rhodes made the short drive out to Obert. The little service station that sold bread and milk was closed. Rhodes got out of the car and checked the hand-printed sign inside the glass door.

SUMMER HOURS

OPEN 6:30 A.M.

CLOSE 8:30 P.M.

That pretty well meant that Press Yardley hadn’t been getting any groceries after dark in Obert. So where had he been?

Rhodes thought about going by Yardley’s house to ask, but it was getting late, Rhodes’ ankle hurt, his ribs hurt, and for that matter he pretty much hurt all over. He decided to wait until the next day. He got back in the car and drove home, thinking about Lige Ward and Wally Henry.

The way Burl Griffin described the fight, Wally had been arguing with some young men, probably about who was supposed to be sitting at what table. Lige was sitting by himself at a table nearby, not paying much attention until Henry lunged across the table at the men, trying to brain one of them with a beer bottle.

“Lige was just sitting there most of the night,” Griffin said. “Sunk in the blues like he is most of the time. But the fight got him interested. I was glad to see it, to tell you the truth. I don’t like to see a fella sitting there broodin’ all evening. That’s the kind that can cause you real trouble.”

Rhodes knew what Griffin was getting at. “Real trouble” to the bartender meant guns or knives. Or both. There had been real trouble at the Palm Club more than once.

“So Lige pulled Henry off,” Rhodes said. “Then what?”

“They scuffled around a little, but that was all. Nobody got hurt.”

“What did Lige do after that?”

Griffin considered the question. He had obviously lost interest in the fight as soon as it was over.

“I think they left together,” he said finally.

“Who?” Rhodes asked.

“Lige and Wally. They went out together. I thought they might’ve been going to finish the fight outside in the parking lot, but they didn’t. They were looking pretty friendly.”

“What about the others?”

Griffin didn’t remember. “They must’ve gone right on drinking beer. Otherwise I’d have noticed them.”

“Did Lige and Henry come back?”

“Hey, you’re right. I didn’t think of that. Wally didn’t, but Lige did. He came back after about a half hour and sat down with those fellas that Wally jumped on.”

“What happened then?” Rhodes asked.

“Nothing that I remember. I guess the fellas thanked Lige for what he did. Maybe they bought him a few beers. Who knows?  They didn’t cause any more trouble.”

“What did they look like?”

Griffin waved a hand at the dancers and the table-sitters. Everyone in the Palm Club was dressed pretty much the same:  cowboy hats, boots, Western shirts, jeans.

“Take your pick,” Griffin said.

It was no help at all, that it was the best Griffin could do. Rhodes would have given a lot to know who the three men were. It was possible they’d been the last ones to see Lige alive. He would also have liked to know what Lige and Henry had talked about in the parking lot. He’d have to ask Henry about that tomorrow, before he talked to Press Yardley again. And he had to see Nard King about that bill of sale for the emus. Might as well keep questioning him. Maybe he’d cave in and admit that Lige had stolen them for him.

But Rhodes didn’t really think so.

B
ecause of all the strenuous exercise, or maybe because of the heavy meal, Rhodes overslept the next morning. Ivy had left him a note, reminding him to eat his shredded wheat, which he did in penance for having eaten at the Jolly Tamale the night before. He gave Speedo some Old Roy dog food and some water before leaving for the jail.

Ruth Grady was waiting when he got there. She had come up with what Rhodes considered the final proof that Lige Ward had stolen Yardley’s emus.

“There’s not any doubt about it?” he asked.

“Not a bit,” Ruth said. “This cast is a perfect match for the shoes Clyde Ballinger gave me. See this notch in the heel?”

She pointed to what appeared to be a V-shaped cut.

“I see it,” Rhodes said.

“With something like that, it’s almost impossible to make a mistake. Lige Ward was at those pens. I can’t prove he took anything out of them, but he was there.”

“That’s good enough for now,” Rhodes told her. “What about that GMC truck of Wally Henry’s?  Did anybody around Obert see it out there the morning Mrs. Ward was killed?”

“I haven’t found anybody yet who did,” she said. “I’ll keep looking.”

“Don’t spend too much time on it. Keep as much as you can to your regular patrol. But ask whenever you get the chance.”

Ruth said that she would and left. Rhodes went upstairs to have a little chat with Wally Henry.

Henry was in a pretty good mood, having been fed the jail’s regular breakfast of sausage, eggs, and toast. But he still wasn’t doing any talking about the cockfight. In fact, he still wasn’t admitting that he’d been there.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Sheriff,” he said. “I told you yesterday that I just raise roosters, and that’s all I do. I don’t have a thing to do with fightin’ ’em.”

“Maybe so,” Rhodes said. “But you were seen talking to Lige Ward at the Palm Club after the fight. Seems like the two of you were downright buddy-buddy.”

Henry, who was sitting on the bunk, leaned back against the wall.

“I don’t know who told you a thing like that, but they must’ve mistook somebody else for me.”

Rhodes looked at Henry’s pigtail and wondered how the man could think anyone could make a mistaken identification of him.

“There wasn’t any mistake,” Rhodes said. “It was you, all right. You were about to swat somebody with a beer bottle before Lige pulled you off.”

Henry crossed his thick arms in front of his chest and narrowed his small eyes.

“I don’t recall anything like that,” he said, but he was plainly lying. “Just never happened.”

“After that, you and Lige went out into the parking lot,” Rhodes said. “I’d like to know what you talked about.”

“Never happened,” Henry insisted. “Whoever told you that story’s got me mixed up with somebody else, that’s all.”

“I was told by an eyewitness.”

“Who?”

“Never mind who. He saw you and Lige. You might as well tell me about it.”

“Can’t tell you what didn’t happen.”  Henry uncrossed his arms and leaned forward on the bunk. “Tell you one thing, though. You bring this witness in here and let him look at me. Then we’ll see if he tells the same story.”

Rhodes didn’t think Burl Griffin would be afraid of Henry, but he was also pretty sure that Griffin wouldn’t want to testify against any of his customers. Rhodes was going to have to break Henry down some other way. Maybe he could locate one or two of the men Henry had jumped. They would be a lot more willing to testify against him than Griffin.

“I’ll think about it,” Rhodes said. “You might do some thinking, too.”

“I won’t have to think long. I’ll be bonded out of here pretty quick.”  Henry paused. “You take care of my stags last evenin’?”

Rhodes told him what he’d done.

“I ’preciate that,” Henry said.

“I’m going to find out about you and Lige,” Rhodes said.

Henry smiled. “Sure you are,” he said.

W
hen Rhodes got back to the office, Hack was practically bouncing up and down in his chair. Rhodes didn’t know why, but he knew that the dispatcher had something he wanted to say. He wondered how long it would take him to get Hack to say it. He went on over to his desk.

“What about it, Hack?” he said, indicating the cast that Ruth had left there. “Pretty good police work, right?”

“It ain’t bad,” Hack acknowledged, which was about all the praise Rhodes had expected. Hack hadn’t liked the idea of a woman deputy at first, though he had come to appreciate Ruth nearly as much as Rhodes did.

“I can tell you somethin’ better, though.”

“What’s that?”

Hack patted the computer monitor. “You remember how long I had to tell you we needed this before you finally gave in and got it?”

“I remember.”  Rhodes hoped they weren’t going to get into that old discussion again.

“Well, you just never know how much you might need a thing until you get it. It can pay off in a big way sometimes.”

Rhodes wondered what Hack was getting at, but there was nothing he could do except play along.

“You’re right about that,” he said. “You even got rid of Red Rogers with it.”

Hack smiled. “That ain’t all I got.”

“OK,” Rhodes said. “Tell me what else.”

“You remember you told me to get in touch with the fella in Wichita Falls that owned the murder gun?”

Rhodes remembered, but he hadn’t thought much about it. He didn’t think it would lead to anything.

“Well, I called him,” Hack said. “Didn’t get him, though.”

Rhodes didn’t see what good the call had done if Hack hadn’t talked to anyone.

“Got his answering machine,” Hack explained. “Told it why I was callin’ and told it I wanted the fella to call me back.”

“And did he call?”

“Just a little while before you come back from the cells.”

Rhodes waited, thinking that Hack might go on. He should have known better. Hack always had to be asked.

“What did he have to say?”

Hack settled back in his chair, always a bad sign. “Turns out that he’s a law-abidin’ citizen. The gun wasn’t stolen or anything. Turns out he sold it on the up-and-up.”

Just as Rhodes had suspected, not that it made any difference. The pistol had probably travelled through flea markets all over the state before winding up in Blacklin County.

“I guess that’s the end of it, then,” he said.

“No it ain’t,” Hack said.

Rhodes waited. Hack sat there in silence.

“Why not?” Rhodes asked finally.

“He kept a record of who he sold it to.”

Now that was a first. Rhodes could never remember anything like that happening before.

“Who was it?” Rhodes asked, knowing that if the answer was Wally Henry, the case was the next thing to closed.

“It was a legitimate gun dealer,” Hack said. “Up in Dallas. Seems like this fella in Wichita Falls buys and sells guns all the time, but he mostly deals in .357s and .44s, which is why he remembered that little .38. He had the serial number and all, though, so it’s not just his memory we’re goin’ on here.”

Rhodes was glad to hear that, he supposed, but he didn’t know what good it did them to know that a dealer in Dallas had bought the pistol. He said as much to Hack.

“What good it does us is that the dealer sold it to somebody else,” Hack explained.

Now they were finally going to get to it Rhodes thought. “Who bought it from him?”

“You ain’t gonna believe this,” Hack said, drawing it out as long as he could.

“Try me,” Rhodes said.

“Press Yardley,” Hack told him.

H
ack’s news about the pistol had set Rhodes back for a minute. It seemed that his theories about Wally Henry might not be correct after all.

It was easy enough to create a narrative in which Press Yardley was the villain. He could have come back home from buying groceries, or wherever he had been, as Lige was driving away with the emus, followed Lige to Nard King’s place, and shot him. Yardley didn’t look big enough to have put Lige in the portable toilet, but Rhodes couldn’t rule out the possibility. Yardley could have dropped the pistol at the toilet, and Michael Ferrin and his buddies could have found it. Somehow Rayjean Ward might have found out about what Yardley had done, confronted him, and gotten killed herself.