Barbara Graham - Quilted 04 - Murder by Vegetable (2 page)

“I'm on my way.” Tony disconnected the call and handed Kara off to Chris, who had already finished his cereal and stood close at hand. No longer starving, Kara gave her big brother a toothless grin which earned her a tickled chin. Shocked he'd been able to sleep through the sirens and apparent chaos on the highway, Tony took the stairs two at a time, understanding the seriousness of the situation. Not bothering to shower first, he dressed as quickly as he could.

Minutes later, Tony opened the front door just as the cannon boomed again in the distance. He carried a new jumbo jar of antacids, guessing he'd need all of them on a day beginning with a big accident. Not expecting to be able to see anything didn't keep him from glancing at the mountain. “What is Quentin shooting at up there?”

As Tony approached the blocked section of highway, his attention focused for a moment on a roadside cross constructed of two branches tied in the center with a leather bootlace and placed, like so many similar ones, at the site of a fatal collision. Tony remembered several deaths at this particular place, years earlier. Over time, many less serious accidents had occurred in the nearby area. What really caught his attention was realizing weeds growing around the cross had been mowed and daffodils were blooming, presumably planted in the fall. Someone's grief seemed unabated. A nearby pair of white wooden crosses had not received the same treatment.

The vision farther up the highway drove the memorials out of his thoughts. A small red heating oil tanker lay on its side. Because Park County was the smallest Tennessee county, the volunteer firemen were few in number but huge in willingness to pitch in. Their contribution to the community went far beyond extinguishing chimney fires. This morning Tony saw them hauling and stacking hay bales and doing what they could to limit the amount of oil going into the river. A heavy duty vehicle with a winch and a crane, presumably to set the tanker back on its wheels, eased past vehicles parked on the narrow shoulders. Tony recognized his deputy, Mike Ott, standing on the center line, directing traffic with flashlight and neon orange flag. There was a small crowd standing around watching, so Tony assumed his deputy was also receiving many unwelcome or unnecessary suggestions.

He parked his Blazer well out of the roadway and walked to the scene. Along with the firemen, the entire contingent of daytime deputies was hard at work—Mike Ott, Sheila Teffeteller, Darren Holt, and the one he normally worked with, Wade Claybough. Wade saluted with the shovel handle and went back to digging a narrow trench. Darren wielded a sledge hammer, pounding long wooden stakes into the hay to keep the bales in place on the slope. Sheila stood next to the driver, maybe for his protection, and was talking into her radio. The driver had a towel pressed to his face and bloodstains on his hands, but appeared to need no further medical attention.

Tony grabbed a shovel and started digging, working his way toward Wade.

Theo managed to load the children into her shiny yellow SUV in record time. Fifteen minutes. There was no such thing as doing it fast. Even with the boys carrying diaper bags and their school backpacks, it was an awkward series of events as she juggled her purse, two babies, and her keys.

She loved her new car. Its doors unlocked when she pressed the remote. It started every time she turned the key. The radio worked. The heater worked. She never got all the kids into it only to have to get out again and call the Thomas Brothers' Garage. The amazing yellow paint made it visible even on foggy mornings. Tony didn't love it because it had been a gift to her, and for some odd reason, she found his irritation entertaining as well.

She heard Quentin's cannon boom again. The sound echoed through the valley. This part of East Tennessee was filled with mountains, rocks, trees, and vegetation. Rather than requiring more water, in a normal year it required a Bush Hog to keep part of it mowed into submission. It also made determining the origin of sounds difficult. Now wide awake and knowing it was Quentin firing potatoes from a cannon, she recalled hearing that his friend Roscoe was involved with a trebuchet, a medieval siege weapon, and his plan was to have it hurling vegetables instead of stones. She had no idea what a trebuchet looked like but even the rumors involved “flinging” rather than “shooting.” Theo couldn't wait to see their demonstration at the upcoming Ramp Festival. In the past, Roscoe's obsessions had ranged from his deep and abiding love of Dora-the-vending-machine to rescuing, illegally, an orphaned bear cub named Baby. Theo didn't know if the new siege weapon would replace Dora-the-vending-machine in his affections or if it had frightened away Baby-the-bear or if they were all one big, happy, bizarre family.

Theo liked Roscoe. He was honest, hardworking, and a free spirit. He pretty much lived on his own planet. A very interesting planet, but not one she dreamed of visiting.

Theo dropped the boys off at school and headed to her quilt shop. She hoped there would be minimal interruptions at the shop because she needed to work on the can-can skirts she had been volunteered to make. Clothing construction was not her strong suit, and creating dance skirts to fit six of the county's biggest men, including Tony, required miles of ruffles and acres of black taffeta. The six dancers, representatives of the sheriff's department and some volunteer firefighters, had been selected for their size, not their dancing ability, as part of a fund-raiser. They would be performing the can-can at the Ramp Festival.

Theo's contribution to the costumes began and ended with the skirts. She hoped. Some other wife was in charge of the wigs and bonnets. Instead of the standard dancer's bodice, the men would wear black sleeveless undershirts. She learned from Tony that footwear had been discussed endlessly. Only two men could find high heeled shoes that fit. Tony was not one of them. His footwear would be hiking boots. A couple of the firemen planned to wear their firefighting boots.

With such classy accessories, Theo didn't think the skirts needed to be special, just very full and round so they could be swished—black on the outside with rows of colorful ruffles on the inside. Miles of colorful ruffles for her to sew. She couldn't decide if she was looking forward to their costume fittings or not. She didn't want to laugh at the men, but couldn't imagine she would be able to keep a straight face under such difficult conditions. As small as she was, it might look like a mouse dressing a cat.

With the tanker situation more or less under control, Tony climbed into the Blazer and managed a three point turn on the narrow road. Cars, motorcycles, and small trucks were parked on the road, waiting for it to reopen. The occupants thereof were surprisingly calm. Many waved to him as he passed, so Tony assumed the more impatient drivers had turned and headed to town and would continue to their destinations the long way around.

The tanker truck was back on its wheels, and more volunteers had arrived to help clean up the, thankfully, fairly small spill. There was nothing he could add to the chaos on the highway. He thought he'd take a shower at the law enforcement center and put on a clean uniform. This one had started soiled and ended up covered with mud, oil, and non-specific grime. His hands weren't likely to be clean until he grew new skin.

It had been months since anything more serious than burglary, bar fights, and bad behavior had involved his department. Winter kept many people inside with the doors and windows closed. Even his desk was fairly orderly.

Just as he entered the building, his radio crackled, interrupting his musing. Dumb. He was just superstitious enough to feel as though he'd brought problems on himself. Rex's voice had dropped into an unnaturally calm tone. Tony felt the muscles in his back tighten in response. This could only mean the tanker disaster was growing for some unknown reason, or somewhere in the county something else bad was happening.

“Sheriff? There's a silent alarm going off at the bank, and everyone else is out at the tanker spill.”

“Have you been able to contact anyone inside?”

“No, sir. I've dialed several numbers. The phones are ringing, but no one answers,” Rex said.

Tony knew silence could mean the worst had happened, or it could merely mean the presumed robbers told the bank workers not to answer the phones. “I'll try the manager's personal cell phone. He coaches Jamie's baseball team.” Tony punched some buttons.

“Yes?” Howard Halfpenny answered. His voice a bare whisper.

Tony spoke very softly so the sound wouldn't carry far from the earpiece. “This is Sheriff Abernathy.”

Before he could say more, Halfpenny, the bank manager, interrupted, speaking in a slightly louder voice.

“Yes, you do have to be at can-can practice tonight.” Halfpenny laughed, sounding almost normal, and said, “No excuses accepted. If I have to do it, you do too.”

“How many?” Tony always wore a protective vest under his brown uniform shirt, but he reached for the heavier, bulkier one standing in the corner of his office. It looked like black nylon stretched over a bunch of bricks and wasn't much more comfortable.

“One.”

“Is anyone hurt?” Tony slapped the vest straps in place and headed to his gun safe. “Are there hostages?”

“No sprains, no breaks. You show up at the south ball field and we'll work something out.”

Tony grabbed a shotgun and shells on his way to the rarely used side exit from the law enforcement center. He gave Rex a running commentary on his radio. He could see the bank's south door a half a block away from him. He hoped there were not many customers at this hour. Nearing the door, he pressed his back against the wall, making himself as small as possible. A rattletrap sedan sat empty in a no-parking zone just outside the bank door. Tony knew the owner, and it still surprised him the man had passed a driving test. Tony waited.

He heard a car slowing to a creep behind him. Turning his head slightly, he recognized the driver, Mom Proffitt, and signaled for her to keep driving. She did.

Next to him the bank door began opening. Tony felt a surge of adrenaline hit him, and he inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. Slow Osborne, Jr., tiptoed toward his ancient car. The man was a little younger than Tony but much smaller. He was as mentally challenged as his father, Slow Osborne. Junior carried an antique Colt .45 Peacemaker in one hand, pointing it at the sky and clutched a plastic grocery bag, presumably holding cash, in the other. Slow Jr. stopped behind his car, where there should have been a rear bumper.

Tony thought the man was trying to figure out how to open the door with his hands full and made a judgment call. If he spoke, Slow might panic and try to fire the pistol, so Tony just took a long stride toward him, reached out with his left hand, grabbed the gun by the barrel and jerked hard like he was pulling a lever. Thrown off balance, the thief tripped over the sidewalk curb and landed in a heap in the gutter. “Owww.”

“Hush.” Tony said. Now holding two guns and having only two hands, he tapped the thief with his foot. “Stand up and put your hands on the car.”

Slow Jr. sniveled and whined as he did as he was instructed. “Ya don't have to act so mean. The gun ain't loaded.” He rested his hands on the mud encrusted trunk of his car.

Tony glanced at the revolver. It was dusty and ancient but there were at least two bullets in the cylinder. Better to be lucky than good, he thought, and placed it carefully on the roof of the car before reaching for the handcuffs on his duty belt. Slow Jr. didn't protest and stood still while Tony slipped them around his skinny wrists. Tony talked to Rex on the radio. “Ask Ruth Ann to bring a camera and come here. No one else is available.”

Moments later, his secretary/assistant Ruth Ann appeared. She wore a big grin on her cocoa colored face and facial tissue stuck to the bright blue nail polish on her left hand. She carried a camera, a ruler, and a stack of yellow plastic numbered cards. “You point and I'll click.”

It didn't take long. Starting with the paper bag containing 4,212 dollars in currency, they took pictures inside and outside and several shots of the Peacemaker, including one showing the bullets. The bank staff took turns popping out the door to chat. Tony shooed them inside. “I'll want to talk to each of you in a few minutes. Please don't talk among yourselves.”

Leaving Ruth Ann with her photo project, Tony marched Slow Jr. to the law enforcement center and left him in the holding cell, locked up the revolver, and put away his shotgun. He went back to the bank to take statements. There weren't many employees and their statements were brief. All agreed that Slow Jr. had walked in carrying the revolver, put the bag on the counter, and demanded all the money in the bank.

Tony notified their county prosecutor, Archie Campbell, and the public defender, Carl Lee Cashdollar. And then he called Slow Jr.'s mother, Bernice.

The four of them needed to talk together before anyone interviewed Slow Jr. Tony didn't know where the line should be drawn between the ability to form intent and/or understand consequences. He wanted everyone to be on the same page. Bernice was the last to arrive, coming from work. Tony thought she looked even more tired and downtrodden than usual. Tears in her eyes were magnified by the thick lenses on her old-fashioned glasses. The woman's entire existence had to be work and worry. She and Slow had produced eight children. Most possessed average intelligence. Junior was the offspring most like his father.

“Where'd you get the gun?” Tony asked Slow Jr. He'd waited long enough to find out what inspired this morning's excitement.

“Found it in Grandpa's old trunk.” Slow Jr. looked proud. “I'm going to be just like Billy the Kid.”

“What do you know about Billy the Kid?” Tony asked.

“I saw a movie onest. Billy carried a gun and banks gave him money when he needed it.” Slow smiled. “The banks have lots of money and won't miss none. They just churn it out when they need it.”

“Do you mean making it, as in printing it?” said Carl Lee.

The man nodded.

Shaking her head, his mother wiped the tears from her cheeks.