Twice Buried

4

By ten the next morning, we had a fair-sized convocation at Anna Hocking’s. It was too bad that she had to be dead to receive all that attention.

I hadn’t minded the long hours. I could recharge my batteries with a couple minutes of sleep a night. If I got that much I considered myself lucky. But Linda Rael, the young reporter, was among the walking dead. The dark circles under her eyes made her look like she’d been popped twice by an angry boyfriend.

By dawn, Linda was content just to sit in the car, bravely trying not to let her eyelids crash shut. I still refused to let her into the house. The last time we’d talked, her temper was beginning to fray. That made Sheriff Martin Holman nervous. To him, nothing was worse than angry press.

“I think we’re about finished, don’t you?” he asked. He’d cornered me on the back porch, about as close to the inside as I’d let him go. He never seemed to know what to touch and what to leave the hell alone.

“Eddie Mitchell is still dusting for prints in the kitchen. When he’s finished there, we can concentrate on finishing up outside.”

Holman gazed out through the porch screen at the yellow crime scene ribbon that circled the little house-and that included the driveway and the yard. Deputy Tony Abeyta, two months on the force and scheduled to begin academy training the next week, strolled around that circle, eyes watchful. So far, Linda Rael was the only newshound present, but as the word got out others would show up.

Sheriff Holman was unimpressed with my theories. As more of a tip of the hat to his office than his person, I’d taken him down into the cellar briefly and explained what I thought had happened. Holman was no cop-he’d sold used cars before his election first to the county commission and then later as sheriff-but he was smarter than I usually gave him credit for being.

He did have a perfect talent for knowing what to say to the media.

“I can’t tell Linda that we think we’ve got a murder because of some cobwebs and a little dust on a mop.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

“I mean, brooms and dustmops are supposed to have dirt on them.”

“Uh-huh. The lab’s going to tell us that the dirt on that mop came from the cellar floor.”

Holman looked pained. “Come on, Bill. This whole hillside is the same dirt. You sweep the living room floor and you get that dirt.”

I shook my head and fumbled for a cigarette. The pocket was empty. “Nope. That would be blow sand…or light blow dirt. This is old adobe dust, the kind of stuff that sifts gently over the years. Fine as silt.”

“So she swept her cellar.”

I shook my head again. “She hasn’t even been able to go down in the cellar for months.”

“And you’ve found no other evidence?”

“No. Just the mop, the lack of footprints, the disturbed cobwebs, and the open back window.”

Holman took three steps to his right and looked at the offending window. “That’s probably been open for years, Bill.”

“Probably.”

He was about to say something else when Robert Torrez walked quickly along the side of the house to the back porch.

“Sir,” he said, “Gayle wants you to call her.”

“Right now?”

“She said it was important.”

“Excuse me, Martin.”

“And speaking of calls, Glenn Archer called me early this morning,” Sheriff Holman said.

“I’ll bet he did.”

“He wasn’t too happy.”

“I’ll bet he wasn’t,” I said and went inside the house to use the old black telephone in the living room.

The dispatcher answered on the second ring. I said, “What’s up, Gayle?”

“Sir, Carla Champlin called.” I groaned. I didn’t want to see Carla Champlin that morning, any more than I wanted to see Glenn Archer. “She wants to talk to you, sir.”

“What about, did she say?”

“She wouldn’t tell me much, sir. She just said that I should tell you that she wants to file a complaint against an old friend of yours.”

“An old friend of mine?”

“That’s what she said, sir.”

“When did she call?”

“About four minutes ago.”

“And she didn’t want anyone else?”

“No, sir. She said you’d know just what she meant.”

“I don’t know what she means. But call her back and tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hung up and turned to see Martin Holman inspecting one of the living room windows. He was running his finger along the middle framework as if he were a butler checking for dust instead of ruining prints, which is what he was doing.

“Problems?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Carla Champlin wants me for something.”

“Lucky you.”

I grunted and glanced at my watch. My first inclination was to put Ms. Champlin on hold. But I knew that Bob Torrez was competent. He and the other officers would finish up. I could trust them to be careful and thorough. I glanced at my watch again. The night before, I’d let two hours slide by after Anna Hocking’s call when five minutes might have made a vital difference to the old woman.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the post office,” I said.