Shotgun Saturday Night

Chapter 10

Rhodes was sure of two things the next morning. One was that he was not making much progress in finding out who had killed Bert Ramsey. The thought of attending the funeral brought that fact home, hard. So far, Rhodes had talked to Buster Cullens for a few minutes and learned nothing. He had also talked to four members of Los Muertos and learned even less.

Why would Los Muertos want to kill Ramsey, anyway? Rhodes had no idea, and he certainly had no hard evidence that they were involved in any way at all. Mrs. Ramsey had heard motorcycles. That was it.

And what about Buster Cullens? Again, he had Mrs. Ramsey’s story that Buster was now living with Bert’s old girl friend, along with Mrs. Ramsey’s strong feeling that Buster was guilty. And that was all. There was nothing to link the two men in any other way.

What bothered Rhodes most was the money in Bert’s house, along with all the evidence of a lot of spending. Bert hadn’t earned all the money by doing odd jobs.

The other thing that Rhodes was sure of was that he was now an engaged man. Or maybe he wasn’t. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but it seemed to him that he’d made some pretty definite promises. He was engaged, all right. Of course, they hadn’t set a date or anything like that. He wished he could remember his exact words.

It didn’t really matter, however. Rhodes still felt like a teenager, and he also felt inordinately pleased with himself. He’d have to call Kathy and let her know.

He had a bowl of Grape Nuts, got dressed in khakis, and rode down to the jail. There was not much going on. A nursing home patient was missing, but he had wandered off before, and no one was really worried yet. There had been a bit of vandalism at the high school, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Rhodes caught up on his reports and then went to pick up Ivy.

Ivy was dressed in a dark gray suit, and Rhodes was once again impressed with her trim figure. She made no reference to the previous night, and neither did Rhodes. It didn’t seem like the proper time.

The rainfall had settled the dust and greened up the grass, and the northerly breeze that had pushed in behind it had cooled the weather down to an almost bearable temperature. The cemetery would be muddy, but probably not too bad.

They arrived at Ballinger’s. Rhodes parked in front, this time, and they went in. They signed the register and sat in the back of the small chapel. Rhodes didn’t like funerals.

The organist played a series of the slowest, most maudlin tunes imaginable-”In the Garden,” “Sunrise,” “The Old Rugged Cross.” Rhodes was going to make out a list of upbeat numbers for his own funeral and request that they be played at top speed. He was considering “The Uncloudy Day” and “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder” when the rest of the small crowd began to trickle in.

Rhodes recognized some of them, people for whom Ramsey had worked, for the most part, except for old Tink Lindsey and his wife. Attending funerals was their only form of entertainment, and Clyde Ballinger had once told Rhodes that the Lindseys hadn’t missed a funeral at his establishment in the last fifteen years.

The minister came in and stood beside the open casket. Then the family came in and was seated in an alcove just off to the left of the main section of the chapel. There were Mrs. Ramsey and two men. Rhodes didn’t know the men, but he assumed they were uncles or cousins. The minister had just begun to speak about “the dear departed” when Wyneva Greer came in. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a faded blue shirt. She walked down near the front and took a seat.

The minister began talking about how he had searched for a scripture appropriate to the life of a man like Bert Ramsey, someone who’d made his livelihood by helping others. “In the course of my search,” he said, “I came across Chapter 4 of Ephesians, in which Paul says. .”

It was at this point that Mrs. Ramsey looked up and saw Wyneva Greer. “Get that woman out of here,” she said, in a stage whisper.

The preacher stopped abruptly in his talk. “Preach on, preacher,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Get that woman out of here,” she hissed to one of the men beside her.

The preacher, unable to figure out just exactly what was happening, remained silent. “Preach on, preacher,” Mrs. Ramsey said again.

The minister tried to pick up the thread of his talk. “Ah. . now in Ephesians, Paul speaks of how people have different abilities, and of how some are put here for service. .”

Neither of the men by Mrs. Ramsey had made a move, so she hauled her bulk up and squeezed herself out between the narrow pews, heading for Wyneva. The minister stopped again.

“Preach on,” Mrs. Ramsey said over her shoulder. The minister stood with his mouth open, but nothing came out.

Wyneva sat stolidly, watching Mrs. Ramsey approach. Ivy’s elbow touched Rhodes lightly in the ribs. Rhodes had had a bad experience at the last funeral of a murder victim he’d attended, one which he wasn’t eager to repeat. He got up, and he started for Wyneva Greer.

Mrs. Ramsey got there first and reached for Wyneva’s shoulders with her huge hands. Before she could get a solid grip, Rhodes brushed her arms aside, took Wyneva’s arm and pulled her into the aisle.

“I got a right to be here,” Wyneva said.

“You ain’t got no rights at all, you godless hussy,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “Bert wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you. Get on out of here, right now!” She turned back to the minister. “And you get on with your preachin’,” she said.

Rhodes noticed the Lindseys, who were sitting with rapt expressions on their faces. He would have bet that they were enjoying this funeral more than any one they’d attended in the past fifteen years. He increased his pull on Wyneva’s arms, and she reluctantly gave ground. By the time Mrs. Ramsey got turned to face them again, Rhodes had backed Wyneva nearly all the way to the rear of the chapel.

Mrs. Ramsey appeared satisfied. Rather than working her way back to the family section, she sat in the nearest pew. “Get on with it, preacher,” she said.

The preacher cleared his throat, and as Rhodes was pulling Wyneva through the back door the message was beginning again.

Clyde Ballinger, who had come around from his spot near the family, was waiting for Rhodes and Wyneva when they left the chapel. “I swear I never saw anything like that,” Ballinger said. “That old woman was on a real tear.”

Wyneva jerked her arm free of Rhodes’s grip. “Crazy old bat,” she said. “I got as much right as the next person to sit in there.”

“You have a right,” Rhodes said, “but I have a feeling that if you go back in there, there won’t be much of a service.”

“You can walk around with me and listen by the family section,” Ballinger said.

Wyneva shook her head. “That’s all right. I guess it was a mistake for me to come here. I’m going outside for some air.” She started for the big double door in the front of the building. Rhodes followed along.

“Mrs. Ramsey really has it in for you,” Rhodes said when they were outside on the long cement porch. “Do you have any idea why?”

“Sure I do,” Wyneva said. “She thought I corrupted her precious boy. Well, she’s sure wrong about that.” She stopped. “Buster said I wasn’t to talk to you, though.”

“Buster doesn’t have anything to do with this, does he?” Rhodes asked.

“I can’t say.” Wyneva stepped off the porch and started down the walk. When Rhodes followed, she began to run. She was faster than he would have thought, and he really didn’t want to leave Ivy alone. He could talk to Wyneva later, so he let her go.

He went back inside the funeral home, but he didn’t enter the chapel. He’d never liked the end of the service, where everyone had to walk down the aisle and take a last long look at the dead. He’d seen enough of death in its natural state, but he thought that the efforts of morticians did little to improve things. If anything, the distortion of life that they produced repelled Rhodes as much or more than the real thing. Not that he’d ever tell Clyde Ballinger that.

While he waited, he decided to go to the graveside service, which was to be held at the little cemetery by the Eller’s Prairie Baptist Church. After the service, he could go have another talk with Wyneva and with Buster Cullens.

Rhodes walked out to his car and got Hack on the radio. “Call Buddy off the funeral traffic detail,” he said. “I’ll work it myself.”

“Roger,” Hack said.

“What?”

“Roger,” Hack repeated.

“Oh,” Rhodes said. “Over and out.” Hack must have been talking to Ruth Grady again. He wondered if she’d brought in another cake.

The first mourners, if that was the proper term, began to leave the funeral home, and Rhodes went back up on the porch to wait for Ivy. “Did the rest go all right?” he asked when she came out the door.

“As right as those things go,” she said. “Who was that poor woman?”

“I thought Mrs. Ramsey was the one you felt sorry for,” Rhodes said.

“Not anymore. Who was that?”

“That was Wyneva Greer, former live-in girlfriend of the late Bert Ramsey.”

“Oh,” Ivy said.

“I’m going on to the graveside,” Rhodes said. “Do you want me to run you by home first?”

“I have the whole day off,” Ivy said. “I don’t mind spending a little more time with you. It’s never dull.”

“It usually is,” Rhodes said. “Just wait till you’re around me all the time.”

Ivy looked at him closely. “I’m actually looking forward to that a lot,” she said.

Rhodes blushed. “Let’s get in the car,” he said.

While the hearse was being loaded from the rear of the chapel, Rhodes and Ivy drove to the only intersection of Clearview that would need traffic control. Rhodes stopped the car and got out, and as the short funeral procession approached he held up a hand to stop the cars on the side street. There were only three, two on one side of the intersection and one on the other, and they would probably have stopped without Rhodes’s being there.

There were only seven cars in the procession, counting the hearse. When they had passed, all with their lights on, Rhodes got back in with Ivy, turned on his own lights, and followed along.

When they were only about a mile out of Clearview, Rhodes heard the motorcycles. There were four, and they came roaring up behind the procession at more than fifty miles an hour. Rhodes could hear the thunder of their pipes even though he had the windows up and the air conditioner on.

There were four bikes, all in a single line. As they zipped by the car, Rhodes had no time to look closely at the riders, but he figured he knew who they were.

The bikes sped by all the cars in the procession, and luckily there was no one coming in the other direction.

When each rider drew even with the long, black hearse, he did a wheelie, gliding past the hearse with the front wheel of the bike in the air. As the front wheel touched the road again, each rider gunned his engine and swung back into the right lane of the road. Rhodes couldn’t see them after that, but the diminishing sound of their exhausts told him that they were rapidly pulling ahead.

“Aren’t you going to arrest those hooligans?” Ivy asked.

“Nope. They saw me just as clearly as we saw them,” Rhodes said. “And they know I’m not going to disrupt this funeral procession to go chasing after them. It’s just their formal salute to a departed member, I guess. Nothing to make a fuss about.”

“It seemed awfully dangerous to me,” Ivy said.

“Dangerous for them, yes. Not for anybody else, as long as the lane was clear.” Rhodes didn’t mention that he suspected the four riders of crimes a lot more serious than reckless driving. “Their day will come. Maybe I can get them for jaywalking.”

“Maybe,” Ivy said, but Rhodes could tell she didn’t like it.

The burial site looked like a picture from a magazine. The rain had freshened the grass, and the tombstones looked newly cleaned, sparkling white in the late morning sun. The little church was white too, and so close by that with its white steeple it added a note of gravity to the scene. The ground was still wet from the rain, but not muddy enough to be a bother to the men. The women in heels had a problem, however.

Everything was arranged by the time Rhodes and Ivy got to the graveside. The minister read from Ecclesiastes about the sun also arising and began his brief remarks.

Rhodes heard the motorcycles. He looked over his shoulder and saw them coming down the muddy country road.

The preacher, heeding Mrs. Ramsey’s advice from the chapel, preached on as best he could over the noise.

The motorcycles stopped beside the cars, their engines idling.

“Moreover,” the minister was saying, “though Bert Ramsey is not with us, yet his spirit lives. For God is the God of the living; He is not the God of the dead.”

Rapper’s voice cut through the air. “That’s what you think, preacher. Once you’re one of Los Muertos, you’re always one of Los Muertos. And Ramsey was sure one of us!”

Everyone had turned to watch Rapper. The four bikers revved their engines and skidded away, slinging mud from the spinning rear tires.

The minister stared after them with his mouth open. Rhodes looked at Mrs. Ramsey. Her mouth was a tight, white line in her puffy face. He looked at the Lindseys. They could hardly contain themselves. Whatever they’d seen in the last fifteen years, nothing would ever come up to this day.

The preacher finally recovered himself and finished as quickly as he decently could. The casket was being lowered into the open grave as Ivy and Rhodes made their way back to the car.

“I really wish you could do something about those men,” Ivy said when they were in the car.

“I’m not sure what I can do,” Rhodes said.

Ivy didn’t say anything.

“Since we’re so close, I might ride down and say a few words to Buster Cullens,” Rhodes said. “He might know those guys. Want to go along?”

“Do I have a choice?” Ivy was not being sarcastic. She was obviously curious.

“Sure. I can take you back to town.”

“Too much bother. I’ll just stay in the car and you can do all your interrogating.”

“Wyneva may be there. I thought she’d come back here after she left the chapel, but I guess she’d had enough.”

“I wouldn’t blame her,” Ivy said.

“I wonder how she got there?” Rhodes said. “I didn’t see hide nor hair of Buster Cullens.”

“Maybe she walked.”

“Not from here; this road’s a mess.” Rhodes wasn’t exaggerating. The road had been dusty before, but the rain had rutted it with mud, which, though not deep enough to cause a real hazard, still made driving difficult. Rhodes held the car firmly in the ruts to avoid sliding sideways into the ditch.

Rhodes saw the motorcycles in Buster Cullens’s yard before he turned in at the open gap. “Looks like Buster and Wyneva have company,” he said. He stopped the car and got out. The soil of the yard was of a different consistency from that of the road, blacker and stickier. It slopped up over Rhodes’s shoes.

“You better wait,” Rhodes told Ivy.

“That’s what I planned to do, remember?”

“Yeah.” Rhodes started toward the dilapidated house, slopping through the mud. He stopped outside the front door beside the motorcycles. “Cullens!” he yelled. “You in there?”

There was no answer. The day suddenly seemed to get warmer and more oppressive as the silence lengthened. “Cullens!” Rhodes called again. “Rapper! Who’s in there?”

There was still no reply, and Rhodes took another step closer to the door, his feet lifting from the mud with a sucking sound.

“Cullens? If you’re in there, sing out. Otherwise, I’m coming in. I don’t like standing in the mud.” Rhodes wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of going inside the house, not knowing just where Rapper was located or what, if anything, was happening to Buster Cullens.

Then Rhodes heard a high-pitched groan and the sound of something falling to the floor. He didn’t wait any longer. He stepped up on the porch and opened the screen door. When he stepped into the house, his short-barreled.38 was in his hand. The dog! he thought. What about the dog? Then something hit him on the back, hard, and he was on the floor. The gun was no longer in his hand, and something hit him again.

“Kill him!” someone yelled. “Kill the sonofabitch!”

It was Rapper.