Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 33, No. 1, January, 1988

Miss Amy and the Law by Lee Somerville

The first time the professor saw Miss Amy Betts was in June. That was June sixth, three days before he killed her brother Jim. On that morning, with Jim and Amy both still alive, “Professor” J. C. R. Scoggins and I drank coffee and ate Danish rolls in the Branding Iron in Caton, Texas. Our current caper was a land promotion deal.

“We will get the options, Mr. Gaines.” Professor Scoggins leaned across the table, stared at me with cold, ash-gray eyes. “The corporation expects us to deliver. We will, won’t we?”

I shook my head. “The Betts family won’t sign.”

“Betts?”

“Jim Betts and Amy Betts. Old bachelor brother and—” I hesitated, since Amy was only two weeks younger than I was. I remembered sandpile days, sixty years ago. I remembered the barn loft and hot times on the verandah in the 1930’s. Then I made myself say it, “—old maid sister. The Betts family holds the key to the land our corporation wants. The family has land on both sides of that road.”

“Since you are a native of Caton County; the Betts family is your assignment, Mr. Gaines.”

“I visited them last night. Jim won’t sign.”

“His sister?”

I shook my head. “Amy has been reading Gone With the Wind again. Every time she reads that book, she assumes the character of Scarlett O’Hara, determined to hold onto family land despite poverty and difficulties.”

Scoggins smiled and beckoned the waitress. “More of these wonderful Danish rolls, my dear,” he said in cultured, pear-shaped tones. Stroking his dyed mustache, he gave the waitress the benefit of his beaming, synthetic smile.

She wiggled her fat rump in a middle-aged revival of the sex urge. Professor J. C. R. Scoggins, his title as phony as his smile, had that effect on women. That’s why the corporation had teamed us together. I knew the country, but over the years I had lost a lot of drive. I’d been inside too many jails, had experienced too many failures. Once, years ago, I might-have been as good a con man as the professor. All the corporation expected now was that I would guide him to the natives and let him close the deals.

“If Miss Betts plays the roles of fictional heroines, we have no problem, Mr. Gaines,” the professor decreed. “Apparently you do not understand the traumas and desires of once-wealthy gentry. Gentlefolk have Achilles’ heels. Now, in the interests of psychology, tell me about Jim and Amy Betts.”

Jim’s old high-cab farm truck pulled to the curb outside as if on cue. Scoggins’ dyed eyebrows rose and his lantern chin dropped. “Who is that?”

“Jim and Amy Betts.” I took the rolls from the waitress, pointed with my thumb. “Jim brings eggs and produce to the Branding Iron on weekdays.”

Scoggins looked past Jim’s lean, bony frame. I drew a controlled breath, tried to keep from showing my memories. Amy looked like a plump little Kewpie doll. Barely more than five feet tall, she was dressed in a pink and white flowered dress and a years-ago white hat trimmed with artificial flowers.

“Very eccentric,” Scoggins whispered.

Maybe so, but to me she looked as fragile and delicate as a fine piece of Dresden china. Cute little white curls, done in the style I had liked back in the 1930’s, poked from under that ridiculous hat. Even at age sixty-seven, her cheeks still had that peaches-and-cream complexion. She nodded at everybody in sight on the street, smiling myopically from behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

Maybe it was that shortsighted stare from behind those old glasses. Maybe it was her perpetual play-acting, her perpetual dream world. But the expression on her face was gentle and helpless, just as it had been years ago. Anybody looking at her would know she was wonderfully innocent and untouched by the 1980’s. It was a look so sweet, so naive, that it would be hard to describe.

I rubbed my forehead, unconsciously fingering the scar she had put there when we were eight years old.

“Eccentric,” Scoggins repeated. “Ah, this will be easy. All we have to do is play on her feeling of history and family pride. Like taking candy from an infant.”

She stopped daintily in front of the Branding Iron door, waiting. Tod Tull, the owner, almost broke his neck running to open that door for her. She waited until Jim got a box of eggs and started inside. She nodded graciously at Tod, stepped inside his restaurant like a queen entering a ballroom.

The fat waitress said something, and Amy nodded. She smiled at me, then veered to a table on the other side of the room when she saw Scoggins. The waitress brought iced tea and cakes.

Clearly, from all this service and respect, Amy was still Queen Bee in Caton County, Texas.

Scoggins drummed long fingers on the tabletop. “Does Jim Betts always bring produce to the front door?”

“No Betts ever went to anybody’s back door, professor.”

He forgot his cultured pose. Grinning like a desert lobo, he showed a long gold tooth under that dyed-brown mustache. “Ah, Mr. Gaines, we have an advantage. Psychologically speaking, no man can afford more pride than money. This will be easy.”

Three days later, he stopped smiling. We had had success up to a point. We had convinced some of the landowners along that dirt road that their worn-out Caton County land was of little value. Give us options to buy at this figure, we had said, and we’ll try to interest a development firm we know into buying the entire block of land. We’ll have to get options on the entire block, of course. Scoggins had smiled and talked fast, and like I said, he had a few signatures.

Most of those who hadn’t signed had said they would do so when Jim and Amy Betts gave options on their land. And since their land was essential to the block we had to secure, our success or failure depended on Betts signatures.

We phoned, made an afternoon appointment. Jim was stiffly formal, more regal in overalls and brogans than most men would have been in tuxedos. Amy was sweet Southern hospitality right out of Margaret Mitchell. No servants now, except a hired man for Jim, so she served iced tea herself on the east verandah.

Scoggins turned on the charm. Looking at the antiques cluttering the place, he asked about a Captain Betts who had come from Virginia to Texas to form his dynasty here.

Amy gasped in pleased surprise. Jim nodded and said that Betts had started with the grant of a league and a labor of land, a considerable amount. He’d added more, of course, but the Civil War had temporarily halted Betts operations. Amy broke in, excited, talking about her grandfather’s war record.

“Ah, yes.” Scoggins stroked his mustache and went further into his act. If we could secure options on the desired land, he said, this firm in Dallas would create a development here. One of the requisites of any such project would be the naming of streets. A street would be named for their grandfather, of course, and another for their father. Other streets would honor deceased members of the Betts family.

Jim’s eyes narrowed as they used to do when I sat too close to Amy. Apparently Jim knew a con man when he heard one.

Amy didn’t. “I just love to talk about history!” she said in her little girl voice. She sat on the rattan couch, fanning herself with a palmetto fan, cool and composed in the ninety degree afternoon heat. “Professor, when you return to university teaching, you must research all the history of our county. Did Bob tell you that steamboats used to ply up and down the Red River near here, taking Betts cotton to New Orleans?”

Bob — that’s me — hadn’t mentioned it. Scoggins placed the tips of his long fingers together and nodded. His eyelids blinked slightly, but he smiled and nodded again. “Most interesting, Miss Betts. Most interesting.”

Jim reached for a pencil and pad on a nearby table. “I need information, professor. First, the name and address of this organization you represent. Second, I need your full name and the name of the universities where you used to teach. And third, I have a question: You are a licensed realtor, are you not?”

Scoggins blinked again. Still smiling, he gave the name and address of our organization in Dallas. Then he rose, said he would bring papers tomorrow to show his academic record.

We both knew Jim had put us on thin ice. We kept up appearances as we walked to the professor’s small car. We waved courtly goodbyes to Jim and Amy, and said we would return at ten in the morning.

Scoggins headed his car west, driving too fast for the narrow dirt road.

“Blind turn ahead,” I reminded him. “Slow down before we hit Betts Corner.”

He accelerated to show me he was boss. We went into the Woods Road, temporarily blinded by the change from glaring sunlight to gray shade. Huge oaks, protected by Betts patriarchs for almost one hundred and fifty years, barricaded Betts land with their heavy trunks, forming a green-brown roof overhead with interlocked branches. It was like being in a tunnel. The road twisted a sharp ninety degrees from west to south and sixty degrees southwesterly from there. Blackberry vines, heavy with yellow dust from the powdery road, reached for us.

Scoggins grazed a scarred trunk as the car went into the shallow ditch on that blind turn. He swerved hard left, slowing the car to regain control.

When we left that clump of woods, he parked on the narrow shoulder of the open road, facing the hot sun.

“This is a very backward country, Mr. Gaines.”

“Is Jim Betts the first man to doubt your academic record, professor?”

He retaliated by cutting off the motor. With it, of course, went the car’s air conditioner. Hot Texas wind seared my cheeks as I rolled down the car window. Sweat poured from every bit of my body.

“Somewhere in Jim Betts’ makeup there are weaknesses,” Scoggins said in a flat, cold voice. “Weakness we must exploit. Remember: the individual can be understood only through a complete synthesis of all data about him.”

“Cut out the doubletalk. We’re alone now, remember?”

“You are ignorant of psychology, Mr. Gaines. We will explore human foibles, hoping for a solution. Talk, damn you! Tell me about Jim Betts!”

I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I couldn’t, though. All these years I had worked alone, doing con jobs here, promotions there, and I had practically nothing to show for it. Nothing except memories of roachy hotels and occasional small town jails. Luckily, I had never been convicted of embezzlement, but that was due to lack of my own nerve and because I always tried to operate within a semblance of legality. The professor worked the same way, of course, but he worked a lot smoother. He was still in his early fifties, younger than I was, more vital and with a better con man record. And because of him, I had a chance to work with this land promotion group, this organization in Dallas. If we could get the options we needed, we’d split ten thousand dollars.

“I’m waiting, Mr. Gaines.”

Taking a damp cigar from my sweaty pocket, I lighted it and added to the heat. “Old Man Betts lost a fortune in cotton futures in the crash of 1929,” I began. “He stayed stiff-necked and proud the rest of his life. Even in August, with Texas temperatures well over a hundred degrees, I never saw him without a suit and a tie. He walked Caton County like a king, living off his credit. Jim put on overalls and kept the family going. He worked hard. He made money off soy beans after cotton prices fell. Old Man Betts died, and Jim became the boss of Betts property. Then Old Mrs. Betts came down with cancer. All this time, Miss Amy—”

“Stay with Jim Betts.”

“Old Mrs. Betts lived three years, mostly in hospitals. They had to sell much of the land. Jim insisted that they sell only to people who would treat the land right. Caton County has been on the downhill drag since the 1920’s, so land didn’t bring much. Jim is in his mid-seventies now. Most of the young people have gone from Caton County — left to find jobs in towns. No really cheap labor is left here, so Jim makes do with one regular hired hand, and he’s old. Jim owns some cattle, but his farming is restricted to raising a little produce for local markets and selling eggs.”

“Not much money in that.”

“Not when you’re old. You saw his truck. Old thing is at least twenty years of age, and far too heavy for his current needs.”

Scoggins reached into my shirt pocket, helped himself to one of my cigars. “What about vices? Does he drink? Chase wanton women? Gamble?”

I had to laugh. “Not that buzzard. He was straitlaced and sober even when he was young. His only vice is that he protects Amy — he has always spoiled her and protected her, and he still thinks she’s a cute little baby sister. He never really let her grow up.”

Scoggins blew cigar smoke, thinking. “Interesting weakness, Mr. Gaines. Hardly time to explore that avenue, however.”

Even while baking in that hot car under the Texas sun, I thought of cool nights on the verandah with Amy wriggling closer and closer to me when we had been in our teens and early twenties. She had been hot to death in those days, a spoiled kid who was ready to elope any time I gave the word. I thought of how Jim had supported both his parents when they refused to give us permission to marry. Of how Jim always sat near the window next to the verandah, acting as chaperone. After he caught us wrapped too closely around each other one night, he cornered me in a clump of woods. He had split my lip and bloodied my nose and ordered me to leave Caton County.

I left the county the next day. Even then I had a phobia against the sight of blood. Especially my blood.

“Talk, Mr. Gaines. Does Jim have a hobby?”

“He likes to fish. Years ago, when he was upset about something, he’d stop work and go fishing in that stock pond across from the corner with all the trees. He’d fish for an hour or two, then go back to work. I understand he fishes every day this time of year. He’s a punctual son of a gun. Always goes by the clock.”

“You mean he has a psychological adherence to time?” Scoggins stared at me with those ash-cold eyes.

“One of the neighbors said you can set your watch by the time he crosses the road every afternoon. At five, he stops work for a while. At five ten he crosses the road, pole in hand. Promptly at six, even if the fish have just begun to bite—”

Scoggins started the motor. “Let’s go drink beer, Mr. Gaines.”

Hot as I was, I downed two beers before I noticed he drank Coca-cola. Scoggins’ big weakness was liquor, so I knew he was thinking. Hell, his brain cells went click-click all the time. Cold brain cells, aloof, impersonal, hiding behind that phony mask of culture and good will.

At a few minutes of six, he nodded and seemed pleased with himself. “Time to return to Caton, Mr. Gaines.”

“One more beer for me.”

“No. We have business at hand.”

With the afternoon sun low behind us, we drove at normal speed on the dusty road. A jack-rabbit jumped from bois d’arc trees ahead of us, ran along the road for a while before darting into sumac.

We approached Betts Corner cautiously.

“Place was okay a hundred years ago,” I began as we headed into the shade of those giant oaks. “Now with automobiles — watch out — ahead of us!”

True to habit, Jim Betts had started toward home and supper. He turned in the dim shade, a string of perch in one hand, his cane pole in the other. His head jerked, startled, then he moved fast. Stretching his long legs, he jumped for the south side of the road.

Scoggins tromped the accelerator, aimed the car directly at the old man. The motor roared and the wheels kicked dust. The car caught Jim at the south edge of the road as he jumped a second time. There was a whop! of metal against lean flesh and bone. The fishing pole rose high in the air. Fish smashed against the windshield.

Jim bent over the hood, fingers spread wide on both hands, reaching. His false teeth popped against the windshield, shattering as his tongue stuck out and his mouth gaped wider and wider.

We pulled out of the south ditch and lurched to a stop. Jim’s body straightened from the hood, revolving slowly. Then he crashed down, scattering yellow dust as he bounced in the blackberry vines.

I got out of the car and vomited all over my side of the road.

Scoggins made sure he was dead. Then he came back to me. His long fingers gripped my arm, cutting off the circulation. “Unavoidable accident, Mr. Gaines.”

“You killed him.”

“You have no will power, Mr. Gaines.”

I made myself glance at Jim, saw his blood pool in the grass at the bottom of the blackberry vines. I vomited again.

“You are part of this.” Scoggins grabbed my hair and pulled my face upright so that I had to look into his eyes. “You have just guzzled five beers, and I am cold sober. What will the court do if I say you were driving?”

That explained the Coca-cola. Sure, somebody back at the beer joint might swear Scoggins was driving when we left that place. But maybe nobody had noticed. There had been no witnesses when we hit Jim.

Clearly, Professor Scoggins had planned this to the minute.

A car approached, loaded with natives.

“An accident, Mr. Gaines,” Scoggins emphasized. He released his hold on my hair. “Unavoidable. Continue to be sick, while I do the talking.”

I staggered through the small gate onto Betts property. As soon as I cleared that clump of trees, I saw Amy in the yard. Probably it was the first time in years Jim had been late for supper.

I must have looked like a ghost as I ran toward her. Her peaches-and-cream complexion drained to a pasty white. She stood quietly, her body rigid, waiting while I gulped great breaths of air.

“It’s Jim, isn’t it, Bob?”

My hair flopped as I nodded.

“Take me to him.”

“Amy, you can’t—” But she did. She helped load him in the ambulance. Even though he was dead, she bent over him, petted him, on that useless ride to the hospital. She was not play-acting now. She was still small and chubby, but she was very much a Betts, very much in control of herself.

At the inquest, Judge Miller blamed the county road commissioner for letting trees grow unchecked around that blind comer. The commissioner wasn’t called to testify. His defense would have been that the Betts family hadn’t wanted the trees cut, years ago. Everybody local always went cautiously, usually honking a horn and often turning on lights before making that turn.

Judge Miller lambasted Scoggins for careless driving. He admitted there was legally no violation on speed. Sheriff Hulen nodded and whispered something to a deputy. The deputy’s hard cheeks creased with a pleased grin. I wondered if the sheriff had read the signs left in the dust, if he had figured out that Scoggins actually gunned his car as he chased Jim.

“I tried to keep from hitting the poor man,” J. C. R. Scoggins lied. Taking his white handkerchief from a hip pocket, he blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “He was in front of me before I knew it. Homo sapiens is an inferior specimen, your Honor. Human vision does not adjust rapidly. Going from bright sunlight to shade, I must have blinked, and there Mr. Betts was, right in the middle of the road. I swerved to miss him. Just as I swerved, he jumped in front of my car. I—”

Here Scoggins pretended to break down completely. It took. a couple of minutes and a lot of loud nose-blowing before he pretended to regain control. Finally he went on. “Ah, tragedy! Tragedy most foul! I must have missed the brakes and hit that gas pedal. I must have! I was trying so hard to stop, and the car seemed to roar and jump instead of stopping. I must have hit the gas by mistake. I almost turned over, trying to stop. It happened so fast, and I was so excited—”

Sheriff Hulen’s mouth twisted in a sarcastic grimace. The deputy said something under his breath. Scoggins mopped his eyes again, peered at them over his handkerchief. His admission had just blown any evidence the sheriff had against him.

Judge Miller decreed that Jim’s death was an unavoidable accident.

Back in our hotel room, Scoggins celebrated with scotch and soda.

I drank carefully. Every time I looked at his long face, I could feel icy prickles up and down my spine. I wondered if he would kill me. After all, I had been the only witness to Jim’s death. I’d be safe for a while, of course. He wouldn’t dare put two “accidental” deaths back to back.

Scoggins stared at me, his ash-gray eyes unblinking. “There is a right way to do things, and a wrong way. Stay within the appearance of the law, and you always come out clean. Right, Mr. Gaines?”

I tried to ignore him.

“Trouble with you, Mr. Gaines, is that you do things halfway. No nerve. You’ve chased the Almighty Dollar for years, but what do you have?”

“I’ve never killed.”

“You are a sentimentalist, Mr. Gaines. A soft-hearted, sentimental slob. But if we get all the options, the organization will pay us ten thousand dollars. Right? So tomorrow, Mr. Gaines, you will call on Miss Betts.”

“She is in no mood for business.”

“You will console her. You will talk softly of youthful days. Judging from her clothes and hairdo, I assume Miss Betts has a psychological hangup about youthful days.”

“If I go, I refuse to talk business.”

“Of course, Mr. Gaines. However, as soon as the estate is settled and Miss Betts declared to be the only living heir, you will get her signature on that option.”

She wasn’t home the next day. On the day after that I found her in the far pasture, driving Jim’s old truck around and around. I didn’t believe it at first, but the hired man told me she was serious.

I lured Quiz Kid Scoggins into the Branding Iron at nine o’clock the next morning. Jim’s old truck jolted past and stopped at the courthouse. The hired man got out from under the steering wheel and opened the door on the passenger side.

What looked like a space kid stepped out. Or a kid playing spaceman. It was Amy, a big crash helmet covering her head, boots protecting her small feet and legs, an incongruous chest protector — an old baseball umpire’s chest protector borrowed from somewhere — shielding her short, plump, female figure.

Scoggins choked on his orange juice. His face purple, he pointed a rigid digit.

I got up and joined Tod Tull at the window. “That’s Amy?” I acted as if I didn’t know for sure.

“Miss Amy,” Tod corrected me. His voice was cold and distant. People in Caton County are clannish. I wasn’t a stranger, but I had brought the professor into this town. He had killed Jim, and nobody wanted to associate with us. Their attitude would wear off, but it would take a few days. “Miss Amy Betts, left all alone now, wants to carry on. With only a hired man to help around that farm, she insists she will get her driver’s license for that truck.”

“She can’t deliver eggs and produce.”

“Can’t, but don’t never underestimate a Betts. Back in 1821, when Captain Betts came from Virginia, a group of wild Indians—”

“That was years ago. Amy is several generations removed and she is spoiled by too many soft years.”

“A Betts is a Betts. I told Miss Amy she could buy a new pickup truck, a few tons lighter than that antique, but she wouldn’t listen. She said it was Jim’s truck, and she wouldn’t part with it. You know how Miss Amy is about old things.”

I knew. All those antiques in the Betts home would bring a fortune if she would sell.

The fat waitress said the shock of Jim’s death had driven Miss Amy over the ragged edge. She had always dressed funny, but she had always been real feminine. And now look. Why, Miss Amy must have lost her mind.

Tod told her to get back to work. Judge Miller came in and joined our group at the window. The fat waitress appealed to him. “Don’t you think Miss Amy’s marbles have scattered?”

Judge Miller reserved comment. Down the street, the driver’s license examiner helped Amy into the truck. It started with a series of small explosions.

“Miss Amy is scared to death,” the waitress persisted.

“Scared, but game,” Tod defended her. “She’s scared, of course. That’s why the crash helmet. She had Cunningham add seat belts, shoulder belts, and extensions to the pedals so she can reach them with her little short legs. She had him strengthen the front bumper and grill of that truck, making it mighty like a tank. Even if she runs into a tree, she’s safe as a bird in a nest.”

“You can stop her from driving,” I appealed to Judge Miller. “First thing that happens, she’ll go up a wall.”

Scoggins came up behind me and placed a cold hand on my shoulder. “Let it be, Gaines. Miss Betts has a phobia concerning normal automotive traffic, but let it be. I feel sorry for the poor woman.”

Tod and the waitress backed away, as if Scoggins had leprosy. Judge Miller stood firm. “I go by the law. By the law, understand. Until we have definite proof that her mind is affected, she drives if she passes her test.”

She passed the test. Then she left town, still driving, headed toward home.

Scoggins could hardly wait until he whipped his little car onto the road. When we topped Dimple Hill, the truck was ahead of us. He deliberately gunned the motor and cut loose with his horn. Amy went into the ditch. He cut sharp in front of her, laughing.

“You bastard!” I exclaimed.

“Just testing her nerves, Mr. Gaines.”

“Word of this gets around the county, nobody will do business with us.”

“First things first, Mr. Gaines. Psychologically Miss Betts is where I want her. She’s about to break. She hates me, but she likes you. I’ll keep her upset, while you pretend to be her friend.”

“Not me.”

“Ethics, Mr. Gaines? Do you remember a land deal in Ruidoso, New Mexico? And what about the name you used when you sold silver stock in Arizona for a mine that didn’t exist?”

“You—”

“Exactly, Mr. Gaines. The corporation — or certain people who helped form the corporation — have known about you for years. You will cooperate, Mr. Gaines.”

“You can go to hell!”

“No. But we will return to Caton, and you will get in your car and visit Miss Betts. You will offer tender loving care and you will do everything possible for her. She doesn’t need to haul eggs in that truck because you will offer to haul them in your car. Psychologically, Miss Betts is very depressed and irrational. This is the perfect time for you to offer comfort. And romance, if there is any romance left at your age.”

He turned around at the first intersection. The hired man, driving the truck now, shook his fist as we met.

When I called on Amy, I apologized for what Scoggins had done. Her face was puffy from crying about Jim, but she was composed. She was in no hurry to gather eggs or do any of the myriad things she had told the neighbors she would do. We sat on the west verandah, away from the morning sun. She objected slightly when I put my arm around her, but she didn’t move away.

I looked at the book lying on the floor. A drawing of Joan of Arc on its open pages made me chuckle.

“Bob?”

“Laughing at you. This morning, dressed in boots and crash helmet and all that gunk, you were Joan of Arc riding into battle.”

Picking up a flower vase, she swung at me. I ducked. “I like you better when you play Ramona or some other little girl in love.”

“Oh, Bob, this is no time for such.” Then she giggled.

At noon, she conned me into washing the leftover breakfast dishes. Even at sixty-seven, she was still spoiled, still the little girl used to having her own way.

“How long will you work for this fake Professor Scoggins, Bob?” she asked seriously after a while.

“I don’t know.” The idea that he knew all about me, that he would probably kill me. someday if I stayed with the corporation, had been constantly in the back of my mind. He’d try to blackmail me into staying, but I couldn’t do that.

“Did he send you here to make love to me?”

I hesitated I couldn’t lie to her. “He’s at String Town now, probably getting drunk,” I evaded. “Look, Amy, that man is ruthless. There’s no limit to what he might do. Why not sign that option before he resorts to pressure?”

“Like he did with Jim?”

“The judge called that an accident.”

“What did you call it, Bob?” She stood near me, looking up, her eyes still soft behind those old fashioned spectacles, her appearance deceptively gentle. I rubbed the scar on my forehead and remembered she could be rough at times.

“Now he wants you to romance me into signing that option.” She seemed to be deliberately picking a quarrel. “Good day, Bob. It was a nice try, wasn’t it?”

Her voice changed from soft music to almost shrill. “Maybe I’ll sign and maybe I won’t. But if I do, you won’t be in on it. Much as I hate him, I’ll do business with him instead of you.”

Her last words were, “Don’t come back here. I mean it.”

The townspeople should have seen her then. Gentle, shy Miss Amy screaming like a fishwife.

All the way to String Town, I envisioned myself hitting Scoggins on his long, high-arched patrician nose. I knew I wouldn’t, though. If I tried it, he might hit back.

He was half drunk when I entered the beer joint. He might as well drink for a few days. Nobody in Caton County would do business with him until they forgot about Jim Betts.

He made matters worse when he saw me. He leaned across his table, leered at a blonde woman who had seen too many beers, then focused on me. “Hey, Gaines, you do any good with that old biddy?”

I ordered a beer and sat on the other side of the room.

“Gaines does not unnerstan’ psychology,” he told the blonde in his grand manner. “He’s a failure all his life. All his life. Does not unnerstan’ psychology of women.”

Giggling, she said something. They both laughed.

The phone rang just as I started to leave. Somebody called Scoggins. Drawing himself slowly erect, he lurched up and stood weaving while he talked into the phone. Wobbly but erect, he beckoned for me to meet him outside.

“Your old sweetheart, Gaines. You mis’h boat, but ol’ professor scores again.”

“The hell you say!”

“She wantsh to sign papersh. Said absolutely not bring you. Said she leaves onna bus to visit cousin in Dallas. Abs’lutely not let you come with me, but she leaves in few minutes. I gotta hurry.”

He staggered to his car, fumbled for his keys. When I yelled at him to wait for me, he gunned the motor and sprayed me with gravel as the car skidded onto the dirt road.

I followed in my own car. When he slowed down, I honked and blinked my lights and waved for him to stop. He outran me, of course.

I slowed to a speed compatible with the road. All around me this dusty green country had a curiously quiet and peaceful appearance. Aside from the distant roar of Scoggins’ car, there were only sounds of peace and love. Mourning doves called from nearby pastures. Calves bleated to other calves. A cow made a soft moo, reminding her frisky offspring it was time for supper.

Far ahead — the impact muffled by the trees and underbrush of Betts Corner — I heard a whump! of metal on metal. Then, just as I cautiously touched the gas, I heard a long-drawn masculine scream.

It was as I knew it would be. Jim’s old truck blocked the road at the blind spot on the corner. Pieces of Scoggins’ car had scattered against oak trees and blackberry vines. Most of the small car was still against the heavy bumpers and reinforced grill of the truck.

He screamed again as I ran past him. Amy’s chubby little body was cocooned inside the truck cab, trussed in a seat belt and a shoulder belt and further protected by the crash helmet and that ridiculous chest protector.

She held her breath while I checked her heartbeat and pulse. Looking inside her crash helmet at her tightly closed eyes, I noted she had removed her gold-rimmed spectacles before the crash.

I found them in her purse. “Put these on right now,” I ordered. “People know you can’t see to drive without these glasses.”

Her blue eyes opened wide and blinked as I adjusted the glasses.

“Bob?”

“Save your innocent look for the inquest. You’ll be okay. Thanks for mentioning that cousin you do not have in Dallas. I might have been in the cab with him if you hadn’t mentioned that fake cousin.”

“You wouldn’t have,” she insisted. Unbuckling her two belts, she peered over the high dash of the old truck. Scoggins screamed twice more, then slumped forward.

She blinked. “I don’t dare get out for a better look?”

“Dammit, no! Stay in the cab. When help comes, act confused and addled. Act like you fainted and don’t know what happened.”

“I want to know.”

I made myself look. “He’s caught in some twisted metal,” I reported. “Blood — ugh! — blood is spurting all over his thigh. I might save him, but I’d get sick. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

Small ladylike lips curved in a pleased smile. Twin dimples deepened.

“Neither can I,” she lied in her little girl voice.

Waiting for Scoggins to die, I thought of how little he understood his favorite topic, psychology. At age eight, Amy had clobbered me with her toy shovel. Bright blood had gushed from my forehead, from that place where I carry a scar even today. I had danced and yelled in sheer panic. She had stood before me with that prim, satisfied smile, her blue eyes fascinated just as they were now.

When you move in on any spoiled, helpless-appearing female, whether she is eight or sixty-seven, beware. I wanted to give this bit of wisdom to that son-of-a-bitch “Professor” Scoggins, to tease him with it before he died. But before I got nerve enough to do it, he was dead. Legally dead as a result of what the Caton County authorities happily called an “accident.”