2 Heroes & Hooligans in Goose Pimple Junction (29 page)

Velveeta sat on a bench and made note of what she’d just heard. She watched leaves fall to the ground like brightly colored snowflakes, then she walked to the hardware store. She wanted to hit all the businesses in town. The bell over the door jingled as she entered.

“Good afternoon.” The man behind the counter was short, fat, and gray, with round eyeglasses that made him look like an owl. He wore an apron with the words “Doc’s Hardware.”

“Good afternoon to you, too. I wondered if you could tell me if you knew Lenny Applewhite.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I could say I knew him, but I knew
of
him.”

“Oh? Did he come in here a lot?”

The man sat down on a stool behind the cash register, smoothing his mustache. “No. Now that you mention it, he was in only once.”

“What did he come in for? Did he make a purchase?”

“No. No purchase.”

“Then what makes you remember him?”

“You see . . . he had . . . sort of an altercation.”

It would be easier getting answers from a wooden man.

“An altercation? With whom?”

“With the police chief.”

“Chief Butterfield?” She was so surprised she almost dropped her pencil.

“Yep.”

“What happened?”

“He called him Chief Gutterfield and Chief Mutterfield and whatnot.”

“Is that it?”

Could the man be any more obtuse?

“Well, he might have accused the chief of sleeping with his wife. I guess the chief got real angry with him and told him what for.”

“What do you mean ‘told him what for’?”

He scratched his head. “Oh, I don’t really remem—”

“I do,” a man in overalls said. He stood in the paint aisle about eight feet from Velveeta. He walked over to her. “I remember ‘zactly what he said.” The man’s head bobbed up and down. “He said one day he would be off duty and he’d teach him a thing or two. Can’t say’s I blame him. Lenny was talking lower than a mole’s belly button on digging day.”

“Do you think he was serious? The chief?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess it was just posturing. Two males after the same female. They gotta butt heads. It’s nature’s law.”

“But he definitely threatened the deceased?”

“The who?”

“Lenny Applewhite,” Velveeta clarified.

“Well, yeah. They was both threatening each other, like two bucks vying for a doe.” The man scratched his stomach underneath his overalls.

“Okay, sir. Thank you. And your name is?”

“Chester White.”

“Okay, Chester White.” She wrote his name in her book. “If you remember anything else, you be sure to call me, all right?”

“Sho’ ‘nuff.” Chester shuffled back to the paint aisle.

Velveeta turned back to the man behind the counter, who was now arranging keys on a display. “I’m sorry to say I don’t know your name, sir.”

“Who, me?” The man pointed to his chest.

“Yes, you.”

“You ain’t from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m new to town. I’m Officer Witherspoon. And your name is?”

“Doc.”

“Doc.” She wrote the name in her book. “Do you have a last name, Doc?”
Do you have a family tree that forks, Doc?

“Hardy,” Doc said, more interested in the keys on the swivel display than in the officer or her questions.

“Okay, Doc Hardy. Thank you kindly. You be sure to call me if you remember anything else.” Velveeta walked back out into the sunshine thinking Doc was doing well if he remembered to breathe.

She reviewed her notes. So nobody liked Lenny Applewhite, but did anyone really have a motive to kill him? He’d gotten a lot of good guys riled up. Is it possible one of the good guys had been provoked enough to commit murder?

She studied her list of suspects:

Martha Maye: Contentious divorce, custody battle, no real alibi.

Jack Wright: Disliked victim? Threatened him. Wanted to protect Martha Maye
?

She tapped her pencil against the notebook, then put the eraser end between her teeth. She stood in the shade of the hardware store’s awning, thinking, wondering, hypothesizing. Then she added another name to her list.

Chief Butterfield: Resentful? Protective? Angry
?

No concrete alibi.

Rheumatism and happiness both get bigger if you keep telling folks about them.

~Southern Proverb

“A
w no, I wouldn’t say the chief hated Lenny,” Skeeter said, clueless as to the point of his conversation with Velveeta. “He was just an ornery old cuss, and the chief wanted to put him in his place. Make him tow the line. You know how it is.”

“Put him in his place,” Velveeta repeated. They were at the Muffin Man, eating donuts and drinking coffee. Skeeter clearly thought they were just chatting, but Velveeta was actually pumping him for information. After talking with the men in the hardware store, she wanted to know more about the chief’s relationship with the deceased.

“Uh-huh.” Skeeter looked out the window behind Velveeta, searching for words. It was a pretty autumn day, and the gingko trees on the town square were a vivid yellow.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“See, there was the time he set him up to get a speeding ticket.” Skeeter slapped his leg and laughed. “Oh law, that was a goodun. See, Lenny had been following Martha Maye all over town, and he followed her to that restaurant out on Route 42 where she met Johnny for dinner. You know the one—the Buttermilk Hill Inn. And then he wouldn’t leave. He just sat across the room, staring at them.”

“So what did the chief do?” Velveeta wrestled with herself, fighting her motherly instinct to wipe the powdered sugar off Skeeter’s face.

He shoved the last of his jelly donut into his mouth, chewed, and then dusted off his hands over the table, the powdered sugar still on his lips.

“He called us—me and Hank—and then he set him up.”

Skeeter told her about the gravy mishap, the speed trap, and how they gave Lenny a speeding ticket when he crossed into the city limits.

“I have the feeling that it didn’t end there.” Velveeta’s eyes dipped to Skeeter’s lips and the donut residue. She swiped at her own lips, but he didn’t get the hint.

“Naw.” He wadded up the donut papers, the crinkling momentarily drowning out a little girl’s whine at the next table. “Lenny was waiting for him up at the station the next day.”

“What did he do?” Velveeta shot a look at the mother a table over, whose daughter was throwing a tantrum.

“Aw, it was all posturing. Lenny had to try to reclaim his manhood.”

“How did he go about doing that?” She swiped her mouth again. Seeing the powdered sugar on his face made her feel like she had some on hers.

Skeeter continued grinning. “He said we were harassing him and trampling on his civil rights. Can you believe that? His
civil rights
.” He shook his head. “With that man, there are biscuits on the griddle but the stove ain’t on. Know what I mean?”

“I suppose I do. Is that all he did?”

“No, he called the chief some names, told him to stay away from his wife, said he was giving him fair warning.” Skeeter poked his finger toward Velveeta, punctuating each word, imitating the way Lenny had acted. “Then the chief told Lenny that Martha Maye didn’t want him around her and he should stay away from her or Johnny would be on him like stink on a pig.”

“And?” Velveeta raised one eyebrow.

“Hell, of course Lenny had to go and say the chief was threatening him, said he had witnesses, but he was just running off at the mouth, is all.”

“How do you know that?”

“That Johnny wasn’t serious?” Skeeter’s eyebrows tented.

“Yeah. Maybe he was angry at Lenny for the way he’d been behaving. How do you know the chief wouldn’t be all over him, if he thought he had to protect Martha Maye?”

He thought about it for a minute, pursing his sugary lips left then right, then out like a fish. “I guess he might’ve wanted a dustup with him, maybe, to make sure he stayed away from Martha Maye.” His eyes snapped to Velveeta, realization finally dawning on his face. “Aw, no. Hell, no. You don’t think the chief killed Lenny, do you?”

“Well—”

“Because that dog won’t hunt, missy. Johnny’s the police chief, galdernit. He sees that the laws of this town are upheld, and he upholds them himself. He’s the most decent, honest man I know, believe you me.”

“Yeah, we know how Goose Pimple Junction police chiefs always uphold the law.”

“Hey now, that’s not fair.” His frown turned into a smile when he greeted a woman coming in with her young son. “Hidee, Mizz Rayann.”

Velveeta smiled politely and returned her gaze to Skeeter. “How long have you known Johnny?”

“Okay now, I take your point. It hasn’t been that long, I’ll give you that, but I know these things.” Skeeter tapped his temple. “I can tell about people. I have the touch. And I can tell you, Johnny ain’t no killer.”

Velveeta looked at him skeptically. He stared back at her defiantly. The mother in her overcame the cop in her, and she said, “Oh, good grief, Skeeter, you’re a cop, not a clairvoyant.” She couldn’t hide her annoyance as she stood to go. “And for heaven’s sake, wipe that powdered sugar off your kisser.”

Velveeta knocked on Jackson Wright’s front door. As it opened, the first thing she saw was a big black nose followed by the head and then the body of a white and light-brown basset hound, whose tail wagged her whole body as she stood at Jack’s ankles. She let out one lone bark.

“Ezzie, hush your mouth.” Jack’s eyes went from the dog to Velveeta. “Well, if it isn’t the Junction’s newest law officer.”

“Hello, Mr. Wright.” She stuck out her hand. “Officer Witherspoon.”

“I remember you.” He nodded, shaking her hand.

“Do you have a moment? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure, c’mon in.” He held the door open, admonishing Ezzie to get out of the officer’s way.

He led her into the living room, Ezzie sniffing Velveeta’s feet. She sat down on the couch, and the dog jumped up with her. Ezzie charmed the officer, earning some head pats.

“Ask away,” he said, sitting in a chair to her right. “Just say the word if she bothers you.” He nodded at Ezzie, who put her head on her paws, her big droopy eyes pleading with him to let her stay where she was.

“I’m investigating the murder,” she began, looking directly at him. “I don’t see any sense in beating around the bush. First off, do you have an alibi for that night?”

“I do.” He nodded his head. “I was at the Oktoberfest with Tess, among others, all night.”

She scribbled in her notebook. “What was your opinion of Lenny Applewhite?” she asked, still writing and not looking up.

Jack didn’t skip a beat. “If stupid could fly, he would have been a jet. A rusty, dirty old jet.”

Her head snapped up. “The man is dead, you know,” she reprimanded him.

“Sorry. May he rest in peace.” Jack didn’t look particularly sorry.

“What was your impression of his relationship with Martha Maye?”

Jack crossed his leg and brushed some lint off his pants as he thought about her question. “I didn’t exactly see it firsthand, so I’m only going on hearsay, but I’d say it was about like you’d expect for two people going through a divorce. But did she kill him? No, ma’am.”