Death in West Wheeling Read online

  Dwayne says, “Sure thing. But how’re we supposed to get out with that bus blockin’ the drive?”

  The boss was halfway out the door by then. He says, “Call an effin’ cab for all I care. Just get lost for a couple hours.”

  Which is what we done. We all piled into my van, ’cause it was the only vehicle that wasn’t trapped by the bus, an’ went to KFC. By the time we got back, the sheriff an’ his posse was gone. Dwayne fixed the bus, an’ Nina backed it up—all the way round the shop building.

  While we was watchin’ her park, Dwayne said, “Homer, you got any sense a-tall, you’ll marry that gal. I’d do it myself, but I already got a good woman.”

  “Be kinda robbin’ the cradle, wouldn’t it, Dwayne? What is she, fifteen?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ this week, man. But she’s definitely worth the wait.”

  John Peter

  When the city fella come back, I was sittin’ on the front porch of the post office with my feet up on the railin’, doin’ my best Deputy Redneck imitation. I could see right off why Nina’d made him for a stranger. Only lawyers, insurance salesmen, an’ undertakers wear suits in town on weekdays. ’Fore he noticed me, he stopped to stare at Nina’s sign. She posted it after she caught a couple of local geniuses tryin’a set fire to a nest of baby garter snakes. Nina’s no more partial to snakes than the next person, but she’s smart enough to know snakes eat rats an’ mice an’ usually don’t bother people unless they’re messed with.

  The man give his head a little shake—like he was tryin’a wake hisself up—then looked at me. He pointed at the sign an’ said, “What’s that about?”

  I told him the story. By the time I’d done, I could see him lookin’ for snakes outta the corners of his eyes.

  “You mean they keep snakes to control vermin?”

  I shrugged. “Cheaper’n Decon, an’ you don’t have to clean up dead critters.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “You didn’t come all this way to criticize our extermination methods.”

  He pulled hisself together an’ said, “I’m a private detective. I—”

  “No foolin’? You got a license an’ everythin’?”

  “I have a license …”

  He went to reach somethin’ outta his inside pocket, an’ I said, “Hold it!” He froze. “You got a gun in there?”

  He gave a little sigh an’ said, “No, just a wallet.”

  I give him a nod an’ he pulled it out an’ took out his license. John Peter, I read off it. “What brings you to West Wheeling, Mr. Peter?”

  “I’m looking for Roger Devon.” The way he said it rhymed with heaven.

  “The missionary fella?”

  “Yes. He’s been missing a month. His parents are frantic. They’ve hired me to find him.”

  “How old’d this Devon be?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Last time I looked ain’t no law says a twenty-six-year-old fella has to account for his whereabouts to his folks.”

  “He’s a devoted son. And it’s quite out of character for him to let a whole month go by without contacting them, at least to let them know he’ll be away.”

  “Ah-hunh. How come nobody’s filed a missin’ person report on this guy? Or checked the local hospital or jail?” I didn’t add, Or the coroner, but it occurred to me.

  “That’s what I’m here to do. I thought I would check to see if he’s having his mail forwarded, but I ran into a little opposition from your …”

  “Postmistress?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Yeah. Well, if you want that information, you’re gonna have to go to court an’ convince a judge he’s really missin’ an’ you’re workin’ for who you said.”

  “Oh, please. Who else would I be working for?”

  I shrugged. “He might be a protected witness, an’ you might be workin’ for the mob.”

  “I think you’ve been watching too much TV, Sheriff.”

  I didn’t dignify that crack with a answer.

  Peter said, “How do I go about filing a missing person report?”

  “Consider it filed.”

  “And where do I go to get a court order?”

  I pointed out the town hall an’ axed him where’d he be stayin’.

  “Have you a Motel Six around here?”

  “’Bout halfway back to the highway.”

  “I’ll stay there.” He started to walk away.

  “One more thing, Mr. Peter.” He stopped. “Any snakes you might encounter anywhere in Boone County other’n the post office premises are the property of the department of conservation. Leave them be, too.”

  He just walked away, shakin’ his head. I went inside to tell Nina she’d had a reprieve.

  Father Ernie

  West Wheeling’s a pretty civilized place. All the major thru-fares bypass downtown, so you can cross a street without fear for your life. We don’t have a park district, but we got a nice little village green with shade trees an’ park benches an’ a Civil War statue for the pigeons. Facin’ the park is the post office, where I prefer to hang out. Across the street is the town hall, which houses the mayor’s office an’ my office, an’ the local branch office of the County Aid. The public library is in the town hall basement. We got nearly a thousand books. The Congregational Church uses the council room for Sunday service, an’ the grammar school uses it for school plays.

  I mostly don’t pry into folks’ business ’less they make trouble, or they ax me to, or unless they do somethin’ odd enough to rouse my curiosity. The missionaries never made trouble or axed me for nothin’, an’ nothin’ in the religion business in Boone County was out-of-the-ordinary enough to be called odd. But a missin’ person is somethin’ we don’t get every day. Just the allegation was enough excuse for me to go out an’ ax questions at the mission.

  The town ain’t real big, but we got a Saveway an’ a Shell station. Also a generic drug store/dry goods, a bank, a feed store, a restaurant, a doctor, a dentist, two lawyers, a undertaker, a grammar school, three churches, an’ four bars. Three of West Wheeling’s bars got satellite TV, so you can place a friendly bet on any sports team on the planet. We’re not big enough to have a high school, so the kids get bussed to County High. Halfway to Okra, the next closest town, we got a Wal-Mart an’ a Best Buy. The nearest hospital is only twenty minutes away. In order to conduct a proper missin’ person investigation, I’d have to canvass every one of them places, but first I thought I’d better head out to the Pine Ridge Mission an’ talk to the missionaries, maybe get a photo so I knew what the fella I was lookin’ for looked like. It’d be the first time I’d been there in the two years since they opened.

  Lotta times, you can learn most about somebody from his competition, which is why I decided to drop in on Father Ernie ’fore I headed out. Ernie’s the pastor of our local Catholic church, but he’s a Vietnam veteran an’ he was married for a time so he ain’t a ordinary priest. He’s probably got more horse sense than book learnin’, which is sayin’ a lot because he’s got a Ph.D. in somethin’ or other. Ernie won’t tell people’s secrets—somethin’ to do with “the sanctity of the confessional”—but he’s more’n willin’ to share his observations about ’em with his friends. His take on Roger Devon was “a little green. Young and probably overoptimistic, but profoundly decent.” Devon could’a took that reference to the bank.

  Father Ernie never talks about his former life—it almost seems like the bishop cut him full-growed off a priest bush. No one’d ever accuse him of bein’ naive. He’s near as cynical as most cops, but my ma calls him a closet romantic. Rumor has it he joined the Church on the rebound—after a romantic disaster.

  “Anythin’ else?” I axed him.

  “For instance?”

  “Like any signs of insanity or unstability?”

  “Not that I’ve seen or heard.”

  “When was the last time you seen him?”

  “Over a month ago, maybe six weeks. It was my u
nderstanding that he resigned and went home.”

  “His family’s filed a missin’ person.”

  “I see.”

  “What can you tell me about the mission an’ their reverend head honcho?”

  “You know what they do out there?”

  “Yeah, but gimme your version.”

  “You planning to sign up?” I give him a look, an’ he shrugged. “They run a boarding school for disadvantaged boys and day classes for girls, ditto. The best thing they do is give kids with no hope for a future enough education to get a toe-hold in the modern world. At worst, their brand of fundamentalist Christianity is out of touch with the present century.”

  I nodded. “What about the reverend?” I meant the Reverend Alfred Moody, the mission CEO.

  “He’s good-hearted and sincere, and I’m sure he believes every word he utters. I’m just not sure he ever thinks about what he’s saying.”

  the Pine Ridge Mission

  The Reverend Alfred Moody reminds me of baby mice—pink an’ nearly hairless, with puffy slits for eyes an’ a little sucky mouth. An’ his hair an’ whiskers’re so white an’ fine they look almost see-through.

  The head missionary was just about as useful, an’ not a whole lot more helpful than Rye Willis’s rumors. He pretty much repeated what Peter’d told me. Moody weren’t worried so much as annoyed by the defection of one of his staff. He sounded like a man who wasn’t unsure of his facts very often. An’ he was puzzled.

  “It’s not that he just disappeared,” the Reverend tole me. “He left a letter of resignation. What’s strange is that he didn’t resign in person. He didn’t say anything to anyone—just folded his tent, so to speak, and vanished overnight. Very inconsiderate, I must say.”

  “He take his things?”

  “Most of them. That’s odd, too. He took his clothes and car, but left his books—even the Bible his parents gave him. And he didn’t mention them in his letter of resignation. I don’t know if he meant us to keep them or if he plans to send for them.”

  I axed him what kind of car Devon drove—an old gray Escort—an’ the name an’ address of his next of kin—Mr. an’ Mrs. Ansel Devon of Illinois. He didn’t know nothin’ about Devon’s friends or extracurricular activities.

  “He got along well with the children. In fact, some of them are quite upset about his leaving.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Well … You’ll have to ask them—you won’t frighten them?”

  “Why’d I wanna do that?”

  “Well … er … Some of them have been brought up to fear representatives of the law …”

  “Gotcha. How ’bout if I leave my gun an’ badge in the car an’ jus’ tell ’em I’m a friend of Roger’s?”

  “That would be acceptable. As long as you don’t lie.”

  I shrugged. It takes all kinds.

  “The children will be breaking for lunch soon. I’ll ask the teachers to cooperate fully with your … uh … investigation.”

  “’Preciate that, Reverend. Jus’ one more thing?”

  “What is it?” He set down in the chair behind his desk, an’ I could see he was dyin’ to wipe the sweat off his face, only he didn’t want me to notice he could sweat.

  “D’you have a pi’ture of Devon? It’d be a damn—er, pardon—a heck of a lot easier to find him if I knew what he looked like.”

  I left my sidearm an’ badge in my squad car, locked in the glove box, an’ the pi’ture—Devon holdin’ a guitar, between a kid with a fiddle an’ one with a banjo—on the passenger seat. For good measure, ’cause there prob’ly ain’t fifteen people over the age of ten in Boone County who can’t slim-jimmy a car open in twenty seconds flat, I put my stuffed rattlesnake, Clyde, on the seat on top of Devon’s pi’ture, where anybody thinkin’ to trespass’d see him an’ have second thoughts. Clyde looks pretty convincin’ if you throw somethin’ over the dog-bite holes in his middle, which I did. On the way back to the schoolyard, I cut a couple a switches off the Reverend’s willow tree. In the yard, I found me a seat in the shade an’ proceeded to cut the switches into sticks the right size for whistles. Pretty soon, I had the first whistle done an’ was testin’ it. The kids started swarmin’ around like I was the Pied Piper, elbowin’ each other out of the way, an’ pesterin’ to know who I was an’ how to “make them worthless sticks sing.” I told them I was a friend of Mr. Devon an’ I’d be obliged if anyone could tell me where to find him. Nobody could, but I hung around ’til all the kids had more or less got the hang of makin’ whistles.

  Sheriff Rooney

  I figured my next stop—’fore I headed out to Best Buy—ought to be the sheriff’s house, to fill him in on the investigation. Sheriff Rooney’s been pretty much housebound the last two years, after his stroke. That didn’t stop folks reelectin’ him last year. Mrs. Rooney—Martha—an’ I campaigned for him with the slogan IF IT AIN’T BROKE, DON’T FIX IT. It probably helped that there’s almost no crime in the county, an’ the sheriff’s main competitors were Rufus “Ruthless” Groggins, head of our local KKK chapter, an’ Diamond Jim “I’ll cover all bets” Bradley. They split the block of voters likely to elect a crook between ’em, so Sheriff Rooney won by a West Wheeling landslide—twenty votes. Both Ruthless an’ DJ called for a recount, but the town council, which is also the county board, don’t like to waste their time or money on lost causes.

  Martha let me in the kitchen door with a cheerful, “Good to see you, Homer. You’re just in time for lunch.”

  I hung my hat on the peg by the door an’ said, “Mornin’, Sheriff,” to Ben, who was sittin’ in his wheelchair by the table.

  The sheriff didn’t say nothin’ back. Since the stroke, he can’t move his right side or talk worth a damn, but he’s developed into a world-class listener. I filled him in on recent events an’ gossip while Martha put a couple more pork chops in the skillet an’ peeled a few extra taters. In no time, she’d laid out a spread made me feel I’d died an’ went to heaven. Ever since my ma moved to Florida for her arthritis, Martha’s got my vote for best cook in the state. Odd thing is, she’s also a dead shot with any kind of weapon. Ben an’ Martha’s been married nearly forty years. They had three sons. The oldest was killed in ’Nam. The other two grew up, married, an’ moved away. They don’t come to visit much.

  Ben can feed hisself pretty well if Martha cuts the food up for him. She did, an’ we set to packin’ it away. After we finished, I helped Martha clear the plates. While she made another pot of coffee, I took out the pi’ture the Reverend Moody’d give me an’ tole Ben, “I plan to run this by Merlin Willis, over at Best Buy, see if he can’t blow it up into one of those ‘Have you seen this man?’ posters.”

  Ben grunted like he thought that was a good idea. Martha just smiled. When I finished my coffee an’ took my leave, the Rooneys were just sittin’ down to watch Marty Stouffer on their satellite TV.

  Merlin Willis

  Rye Willis’s youngest brother got his job at Best Buy ’cause of his name. Folks figured with a name like Merlin, he had to be some kind of wizard. As a matter of fact, all the Willises are pretty talented, one way or another, from Rye, who can make a magical brew outta damn near anythin’ edible, to San Antonio Willis, who can fiddle the birds outta the trees. Merlin’s a wizard with anythin’ electronic. He hadn’t been workin’ at BB six months when he had computers down cold. You’d never know it to look at him, either. He looks like the captain of the high school football team or some state police rookie. He’s also a cracker-jack salesman ’cause he tries to find out what you need somethin’ for ’fore he tries to sell it to you.

  “Merlin,” I said, as I handed him the pi’ture Reverend Moody’d give me. “What can you do with this?”

  He looked it over. “I could scan it into the computer and give each of these good ol’ boys a surfboard; or put Vanna White in the lineup; or dress ’em all in Federation uniforms and move ’em to the bridge of the Enterprise.” He handed me back the pi’ture.<
br />
  “What I had in mind was more like a re-run of this pi’ture, an’ a dozen or so eight-by-ten head shots of the guitar player.”

  Merlin pretended to sniff. “Waste of my talent. The drugstore in West Wheeling could do that for you.”

  “I need ’em today. I’m willin’ to pay ten bucks.”

  Merlin held out his hand. I give him back the pi’ture an’ a ten-dollar bill from my wallet. Then I played video games on one of his demo machines while he did what he does to fill my order. He uses a computer an’ color printer instead of a photo-processin’ rig. He printed out a eight-by-ten of the whole pi’ture, then played with it on his computer screen ’til he had a blow-up of just Devon. Without bein’ axed, he put a frame around the face an’ Wanted under it. “What’s he wanted for, Homer?”

  “Maybe you’d better make that missin’,” I said. It weren’t a bad idea. I gave him the particulars—missin’ since, an’ whatnot, an’ he added them to the bottom with the sheriff’s phone number in case anybody wanted to make a report. Then he printed out a dozen of the posters, an’ a couple plain eight-by-tens. He wished me luck on my manhunt, an’ finished up with, “Don’t be a stranger, Homer. I’m gettin’ in a dozen new PCs next week and some dynamite new games. I could make you a real sweet deal.”

  I allowed as I’d give it some serious thought.

  An’ I aim to.

  Skip Jackson

  When I come outta the mission, after returnin’ the reverend’s pi’ture, there was a tow-headed kid sittin’ on the middle of my hood. He didn’t bother to git off my car as I got near, either. When I was close enough, he pointed in at the seat an’ said, “That a real snake?”

  “Yup.” I unlocked the car door. “You got a name, young man?”

  “Young man?”

  “You prefer I call you boy?”