An Owl's Whisper (45 page)

Jess stroked his chin. “Ain’t bad advice for any of us.”

“Reckon not.” Max wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Anyway, last Saturday Eva came over like I said. I was dozing in and out. Gals went outside and talked in the workshop. Later they walked up together to get the mail when the light come on.”

“And you said Eva came over Sunday, too?”

“Yeah, Sunday, too. With Eva, nothing was too much to ask. Though after she left, Crickette was real shook up.”

“So maybe I should talk to Eva about something eatin’ on Crickette?”

Max looked out the window. “I’ll tell ya, she adored Eva. I ’member one evening, looking at Life Magazine, reading about that King Farouk of Egypt. You know? Had all them beautiful wives? I joked to Crickette, ‘If I could be anyone, guess I’d choose old Farouk.’ She got real serious. ‘I’d be Eva,’ she said. ‘Everyone admires her. Loves her…and she has daughters.’ Not sure if you knew, but Crickette couldn’t have children. Always envied Eva that. But mostly just loved her. Told her stuff she’d never tell me.” His big shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Jess stared at his coffee. “I’ll ask Eva about Crickette bein’ upset. Tell me ’bout yesterday.”

Max rocked on his chair. “Postal light came on. 11:00 or so. Crickette put on her coat. I said, ‘Weather bad as it is, the mail can wait, you know.’ But she wanted to go. Said, ‘I’m expecting to see Eva.’ Made a big deal outta that. Guess she looked forward so much to seeing her. And she liked the snow—liked its feel on her cheek. Called it a sign that life still stirred in her. Mentioned having a last laugh at her cancer. She was a fighter, Jess.”

“She was that, for sure.” Jess kneaded his shoulder. “She headed up alone, eh?”

“Yeah, with her black Lab, Nickel. She called, ‘Back in a jiff, Maxie,’ as she stepped into the gale. I heard the door slam and hauled myself up to the window to wave to her. Blew me a kiss as she passed by. ‘Back in a jiff’ was the last thing she said to me, Jess.” Max’s voice cracked. “You don’t expect that.” He was crying again.

Jess stirred his coffee. The clinking sound of the spoon on the cup reminded him of a buoy at sea—a warning. “Odd choice of words for a woman thinkin’ to end her life.”

For a moment Max could only nod. “Last view I got, she’s trudging into the blizzard with Nickel romping around her. I can picture it clear—snowflakes spattering the top of her red wool scarf. Reminded me of the snowy day we met. November 1944. She was sweeping in front of the
boulangerie
she worked at. Some village in eastern Belgium—I forget the name. But I’ll never forget her frisky beauty that day. For me it was love at first sight.”

Jess hated his job. Hated having to suspect Max. “You didn’t see her again? Not alive, at least?” As he said it, he knew it was a dumb choice of words.

Max shook his head. He choked up again.

Jess looked away. “Take your time.”

Max pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. It sounded like a bull buffalo’s trumpet. “I figured she’d be back in ten minutes. Inauguration Day like it was, I had the Philco on to hear Ike. So, I’m listening and there’s Nickel, barking outside. I climb up to the window, figuring Crickette’s back. But all I see is the dog running back and forth, barking, jumping up and down like a danged grasshopper. Just a black dog in a sea of white. Right away, I know something’s wrong.” Max rubbed his forehead then slid his hand over his bald spot to the back of his neck.

Jess drank the last of his coffee.

“Another cup, Jess?” Max seemed relieved for a break from his story.

“Sure.”

Jess watched Max hobble over to the percolator on the stove, leaning on the counter as he went. His cast clunked on the linoleum. And, like a thunderclap, it came to Jess: There was no way this man could have gotten up that hill to pull the trigger. Not with that foot of his. No matter how much he might have wanted to end his wife’s suffering. It was the first shred of good Jess felt since Eva’s call about Crickette.

Max returned with the coffee and pushed the cup across the table to Jess. He stared at his folded hands. “I knew I’d need help to save Crickette. Tried the phone, but it was dead. I was on stormy seas in a leaky lifeboat, man. Then I remembered Crickette saying Eva’d be swinging by. Thought I had a lifeline.” Max shook his head grimly. “Ten minutes later here’s the Chandlers’ tan GMC pickup lumbering down the drive. I felt like the cavalry was riding up, Jess.”

Jess raised a finger to interrupt Max. “So Eva must’ve passed Crickette’s body up by the road, but she didn’t see her?”

“Way it was snowing, you wouldn’t see anything you weren’t looking for.”

“Yeah, reckon so. Anyway, Eva drives up. Then what?”

“Well, the truck’s door swings open and out steps Eva—her yellow curls spilling from that navy beret she wears. Only Crickette don’t get out the other door.” Max cracked his knuckles. “The rest is kind of a blur. I get my coat on and Eva drives us up the hill. When we get to the mailbox , there’s Nickel standing by a snow-dusted silhouette—barking,
Hurry up!
I go tumbling out of the truck and next thing I’m cradling Crickette’s head in my hands. I can still see her face.” Max looked up at Jess. “Sounds stupid, but made me happy seeing her pain-free at last. Peaceful. Looking so alive, snow melting on her still-warm lips. Those green eyes of hers—wide-open, like she’s surprised.” Max rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. “She was looking up, Jess. Right through me, up to heaven.”

Jess got up and put his hand on Max’s shoulder. Something Eva would do. It felt right. And it felt like the time to show his cards. “Max, there’s circumstances make me doubt suicide here. I’m lookin’ into the possibility of foul play.”

Tears welled up again in Max’s eyes. He blubbered, “I knew she wouldn’t leave me alone. Wouldn’t give up fighting. And the way I found her, looking up at heaven like it was welcoming her, I just knew she hadn’t damned herself.” A dark look came over him. “Crickette never did nothing to nobody that’d make ’em want to hurt her.”

“Max, no matter what happened, I’d never claim any of this was Crickette’s fault. But if someone did hurt her, I want to get ’em. And to do that, I’ll need your help.”

Max relaxed a bit. He seemed ready to listen.

“When’s the last time you saw your scatter gun in the shed?” Jess asked.

“Dunno. Maybe last summer. Can’t remember. Made a big deal of it when I first bought the thing but hardly ever noticed it since. Only fired it a few times—in the first week I owned it.”

“So it coulda been there yesterday or maybe not since July. Or any time between?”

“I s’pose.”

“Had any suspicious mail or phone calls. Strangers hangin’ around?”

Max shook his head. “Naw, nothing.…Wait a minute! Crickette and Eva saw a stranger walking along the road. Must’ve been Saturday.”

“A stranger? I’ll ask Eva about that. Anyone have anything against Crickette?”

“Nobody.” Max scratched his head. “Not against her particularly.”

“Against you? Maybe a business deal gone sour?”

“Naw. Only old man Scurfman, and he’s got something against everybody.”

That hit Jess like a mule’s hind legs.
Harry! Can’t believe I didn’t think of him.
His mind whipped back to the time Harry stole a shotgun out of Butch Webster’s barn. Jess felt like he’d had too much coffee. “Had any run-ins with Scurfman lately?”

“No, not since the mailbox deal. When he said I stole his idea for letting ya know when the mail’s in the box. Don’t see much of him, ’specially this time of year.”

“Harry’s sure not one to forget a grudge. Let me look into it. By the way, I’ll need to test fire your 20 gauge. Can I take some of them green-hulled deershot shells?”

“To be honest, Sheriff, I don’t know what’s there. Take whatever you find.”

“OK, Max, I’ll have a look, then I’m gonna head back to town. I’ll be in touch.”

Max nodded. Jess squeezed the man’s massive shoulder. He didn’t look up.

Jess was glad to slip outside, where the cold air rang with life and possibility. Glad to leave the stifle and choke of death inside.

In the shed, he found an open box of the green shells and took it with him. That afternoon, he test-fired the snake gun into cardboard sheets, covering muzzle-to-cardboard distances from point blank to ten feet with five blasts. Three feet of distance blew a hole sixty mm in diameter.

Jess called Fletcher. “Doc, I fired Max’s gun. Looks to me like you’d need to be almost three feet from the muzzle to make a wound the size you found.”

“Say three feet muzzle to victim and a foot and a half of barrel—no one’s arms are long enough to reach the trigger like that. Don’t look like suicide to me.”

As Jess hung up the phone, he pictured a noose tightening around Harry Scurfman’s neck. “Son of a bitch!” he hissed.

The next morning Jess called Wayne Hatcher, the mailman. “See anything unusual on the road around the Conroy place Monday, Wayne? A stranger? Or Harry Scurfman, maybe?”

“No. Did see the Platt boy, Mickey, walking. Gave him a ride home, weather like it was. He’s been footing it to and from work at the Grangers the last week. Car’s broke down.”

“Picked him up where?”

“Oh, let’s see, just this side of Granger’s. I recollect he was with me when I delivered to Scurfman, to Conroy, and to Hill. Dropped him off with the family’s mail at his place.”

“OK, Wayne. And what about Harry Scurfman? You see him?”

“Naw, never see the old coot in weather like this.”

Jess spoke to Mickey Platt. His story meshed with the mailman’s. He told Jess he had walked home early Saturday afternoon, passing right by the Conroy place. Jess wrote in his notebook,
Probably was Mickey that Crickette and Eva saw on the road
Saturday
.

Jess cleaned and loaded his revolver. He told Carrie, “I’m headed out to Harry’s. Call the State Patrol if you don’t hear from me by noon.”

Carrie scowled. “You take a patrolman along with you, Jessie Garrity. Folks say that man sleeps with a loaded six-gun under his pillow.”

“Naw, I’ll go alone. Don’t want to spook Harry. I’ll play up the drifter idea. Ask if he’s seen anyone suspicious. Playin’ dumb’s a specialty of mine.” Jess winked.

Jess rolled up to Harry’s shanty about 11:00 a.m. He knocked. Waited. Pounded on the door. Waited. Finally, the curtains shimmered. “Hey Harry,” he yelled, “want to ask you a few questions. Open up.” Jess kept his hand on his pistol as he waited.

The door opened a crack. “What do you want, Garrity?”

“Like I said, I want to ask a couple of questions. Seen anything unusual in the last week? Hey, it’s cold out here. Let me in so we can talk, then I’ll be on my way.”

The door creaked open a bit more. From down low, Harry’s knit cap-covered head peered out. So low that it surprised Jess. He’d forgotten how short Harry was.

Figuring that was all the welcome he’d get, Jess pushed through the opening. He stomped his feet on the mat and took off his hat. “Damn, it’s cold.”

Harry shoved the door shut. “Colder’an a nun’s tits on Good Friday.”

“So, Harry, you heard about Crickette Conroy, I s’pose.”

“I heard nothin’ about that bitch. Why would I?”

Jess grimaced. “Mrs. Conroy’s got herself shot. I’m workin’ on the idea that a drifter mighta done the shootin’.”

Harry took his time before frowning. “So?”

“So I thought you mighta heard or seen somethin’.”

“Well you’d be wrong, Garrity.”

“This was Monday. Midday or so.”

“Like I told you, I heard nothing. Don’t go out much in winter. Too fuckin’ cold.”

“So Monday you were home? All day?”

“That’s right. Indoors. All day.” Harry’s tone was sassy. “Monday and Tuesday I was sick. Bed sick. Like I said, I don’t know nothin’ about no drifter shootin’ no bitch.”

“Keep your shirt on, Harry. I’m just goin’ around, askin’ folks.”

“Well, you’ve done that—” Harry licked his lips. “—so now you can git.”

“Guess there’s no one can confirm you were home all Monday? You telephone anyone?”

“Got no use for a fuckin’ phone.” Harry’s mouth bent into a sneer. “Ain’t got one.”

“OK. That’ll do for now, Scurfman. May need to talk with you again, though. Ya think of anything I should know, get back to me.” Jess turned to leave.

“Sheriff, if I was you, I’d be lookin’ at that galoot of a husband of hers.”

Jess went out the door without looking back. He was on the porch steps when Harry called from the doorway. “If you need to check my story, talk to that Chandler woman. She was here taking care of me most the morning. Came over snow and all. Only decent soul in the whole stinkin’ county.”

Who Murders a Dying Woman?

Jess swung by the Chandler place to talk to Eva the next day. Sitting in the parlor, she replied to his questions about the morning of Crickette’s death. “I suppose it was 9:00 or so when I got to Harry’s home. It must have been because I’m dropping the girls with Carrie at 8:45. And I was there until I left to see Crickette. At noon or so. Max may have a better memory of the time. But yes, Harry was home all morning. Sick in his bed. His fever measured 101°. I think it’s
la grippe
—flu, as we say here. I brought his heart medicine and a little pot of potato soup. I did some cleaning in his kitchen.”