Bootlegger’s Daughter

26 hell stays open all night long

Dwight had read through the files on Janie Whitehead’s death when he took over the detective division at the sheriff’s department, but he’d been in the army both when she died and when the SBI reworked the case seven years ago. Even if he’d been here, the SBI wouldn’t have let him read their files, so I had to explain the significance of Janie’s slicker.

By this time, I was getting a little confused myself. “What makes it crazy is that Howard Grimes was so right about seeing Janie wearing this, yet got it mixed up about where they were parked.”

“Howard Grimes… he any kin to Amos and Petey Grimes?”

I wasn’t sure. “Their uncle, maybe?”

Dwight shook his head. “Their daddy’s the only one I knew. Howard Grimes. He died a few years back, didn’t he?”

“Yes, just about the time the SBI reworked the murder. I asked Dr. Vickery about him last week and he said Grimes really did have a bad heart.”

Even as we talked about him, we were both being real careful not to touch the slicker Howard Grimes had described any more than we could help. Such a shiny surface would hold fingerprints. Dwight lifted off the heavy cloak and I hung the coat, still on its hanger, on a nearby hook.

It was cheaply made and unlined. Slick red vinyl backed with some sort of white cheesecloth to give it shape. Dwight was interested in an ugly brown splotch on the inside and he used the eraser ends of two pencils to hold the front open.

“No fold marks,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“If this had been folded up in a box for eighteen years, it’d have deep creases. It’s already starting to have some from being squashed inside the cloak. See?” It was an A-line garment and I pointed to some longitudinal folds where the skirt part had been constricted. “But look at the shoulders. That’s odd. Permanent wrinkles across the upper sleeves?”

Dwight stepped back and watched as I lifted a sleeve with his pencil until it was extended straight out horizontally from the shoulder. The wrinkles fell into place naturally.

“It was stored flat?” Dwight asked.

Despite the warm evening, I felt the hair on my arms stand up. “You could say that. I bet if you turn the hanger around though, you’d see a deep little dent at each elbow.”

Dwight reached out and turned it.

I was right.

“Picture this hanging on a wall,” I told him, “with a three-foot oak dowel running through the sleeves to hold them out, and the dowel resting on two pegs. It would look like a cross, wouldn’t it?”

“Crimson as the blood of Christ,” he said. “Splashed with Janie Whitehead’s blood. Jesus! Was he crazy?”

“Define crazy,” I said, feeling infinitely weary. “Only north-northwest, probably. Every time I ever saw him, he could tell a hawk from a handsaw.”

Dwight smiled. “Tired?”

“A little. What time is it?” I looked at my watch. Not yet midnight. It felt much later. “I guess it’s too late to call Terry Wilson?”

He scowled.

“Don’t be like that,” I said. “You know you’re going to have to sooner or later. Scotty Underhill, too.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I was thinking it might be nice to let the Vickerys get their son buried before we tell everybody he was a killer.” He went back to the table and sat down on the edge with his milkshake. “Still got a lot of unanswered questions. Who killed Michael? Why’d he bring the raincoat over here and hide it?”

“That wasn’t Michael, that was Denn.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because when I thought it was a tapestry panel missing, he very obligingly made up a dove and some lilies, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He held out his empty cup as I uncapped the chocolate milkshake Denn hadn’t touched. I poured him half and took the rest for myself. Most of the ice cream had melted, but it was still cool and sweet on the tongue.

“There must have been a spare key to Michael’s room, so when Denn called me, he knew he was going to bring the slicker as proof. And I bet he stopped off here first on his way to Raleigh because he wouldn’t have wanted his friend to see it.”

“Makes sense.” Dwight slurped his straw and tossed the cardboard cup into the wastebasket. “Three points,” he crowed, and I saw a lanky teenager in his grin.

“Two,” I said. “Your foot was inside the circle.”

He stood and stretched with his hands clasped over his head so that the thin fabric of his summer jacket tightened across his chest. Then he shook himself out and finished summing up.

“So Michael goes upstairs, suddenly realizes the thing’s missing. He can see his whole life hitting the fan. He might not know where Denn’s gone with his truck, but Cathy King’s told him where he’s going to be at nine o’clock. And who’s McCloy planning to meet? The same little ol’ busybody lawyer who’s been poking around about Janie Whitehead’s murder.”

“Michael lied to Denn about the mill, you know. Will and Seth did meet him at the end of the lane that morning.” I was suddenly sobered. “Was I a catalyst, Dwight? Did I cause somebody else to figure it out first and is that why Michael was killed?”

“You can’t start second-guessing everything you do, shug,” he said. “Anyhow, Janie’s got no brothers to avenge her and her daddy’s dead. ’Course Jed’s still living.”

And Will, I thought.

And who knew who else might’ve had reason?

“Doesn’t have to be a man,” I said. “There’s her sister, for instance.”

“Well, it sure enough doesn’t take much skill to hit somebody with a shotgun,” Dwight agreed.

“Chauvinist. A lot of women shoot as good as a man. You taking the slicker now?”

He nodded. I found a hanger for the red velvet cloak and he put it back on the top rack. Then we turned out the lights, he locked up, and we walked down the slope to my car. As he carefully laid the raincoat on the backseat, Dwight said, “I know you’re tired and it’s out of the way, but you reckon we could run by the Pot Shot a few minutes? I’d like to see where this was hanging and maybe get that dowel before it goes missing.”

“You sure it can’t wait till morning?” I grumbled. “I’m really not up to another session with Denn.”

Dwight undipped his walkie-talkie from his belt. “Well, I suppose I could call Jack to come back.”

“Oh, get in,” I said crossly. “You know good and well you’re not going to haul any baby birds out of bed when I’m here to cart you around.”

At that hour, most of Cotton Grove was sleeping and Front Street was deserted. We headed south on Forty-Eight, and in less than ten minutes, I was turning in at the Pot Shot sign, then through the narrow lane, past the shrubbery, and into the farmyard. Lily met us at the gate, barking loud enough to wake the dead.

Well, no, actually, it wasn’t quite that loud.

“Stop!” Dwight yelled, but I was already stomping on the brakes.

Denn lay right where he must have stepped out of the pickup. The door on the driver’s side was still open and the cab light was still on.

This time, the killer had aimed the shotgun at Denn’s chest.

Baby Bird got hauled out of bed after all.

So did Terry Wilson.

I didn’t get to go home till almost four.