Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder (7 page)

“Maybe she just wanted to see you again,” Lawton said.  “I bet you don’t drop in on her very often these days.”

Rhodes ignored him.  “Hack?  What did she want?”

“She wants to talk to you.  But it’s not about the murder.  Or maybe it is.”

“What did she say?” Rhodes asked.

Hack gave him a lopsided grin.  “She said she’s been hearin’ motorsickles.”

Chapter Six

B
efore going to see Mrs. Wilkie, Rhodes drove to the funeral home.  He’d missed lunch, and he would have liked to go home for a bologna sandwich, but Ivy insisted on buying low-fat bologna, which Rhodes suspected was made from turkey and which didn’t taste like real bologna even if it wasn’t.  She also bought low-fat Miracle Whip, which didn’t taste like much of anything.  So Rhodes didn’t figure he was missing much by skipping the meal.  At least his waistline was shrinking a little.

He could have slipped by the new McDonald’s and gotten something satisfyingly full of fat grams, but he didn’t really have the time.  He wanted to do as much as he could in as short a time as possible.  It wouldn’t be long before Hack couldn’t hold off all the callers.  They’d be calling him at home, at the jail, and anywhere else they thought he might be.

Clyde Ballinger was in his office in the small building in back of the funeral home proper, sitting at his desk, surrounded by the old paperbacks that he liked to read and collect, but he wasn’t reading one when Rhodes walked in.  He was looking at an issue of
Texas Football
.

“Did you know that Garton was picked to win state this year?” he asked, dropping the magazine on his desk.

Rhodes said that he’d known that.  It had been in every article Goober Vance wrote about the team for the past week.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.  But we beat them.  I figure that means we’re the favorites for the title now.  That is, we are if we don’t let this business with Brady distract us.”

Rhodes had noticed that a lot of sports fans talked the way Ballinger did when referring to the teams they supported.  It was never “they.”  It was always “we,” as if the speaker were actually suiting up, taking the field, and playing in the games.

“How did the Catamount Club take the news?” Rhodes asked.

“I don’t know.  We didn’t hear about it at the drugstore, and I haven’t heard from any of them since we left.  I don’t expect they’ll like it.  Nobody will.”  He stood up.  “You got any idea who did it or why?”

“Not a one.  Is Dr. White through with the body?”

“He sure is.  He left a report for you.  You want to go have a look at it?”

Rhodes said that would be a good idea, and the two of them went over to the funeral home.  Before reading through the report, Rhodes looked through Meredith’s clothing, but there was nothing there of any help.  Just a wallet, a few coins, a pocket knife, and a comb.

The report had more useful information than the clothing.  Meredith had been dead approximately ten hours, meaning that he’d been killed sometime around midnight.  He’d been shot with a .32, and the bullet had been recovered.  That was a bit of evidence that Rhodes could do a little checking on.  He got the bullet, which Dr. White had bagged and tagged.  Then he thanked Ballinger and started to leave.

“You ever read anything by Charles Williams?” Ballinger asked.

Rhodes hadn’t, but he’d seen books by Williams in Ballinger’s office.

“He wrote one about a football player that got mixed up in a murder,” Ballinger said.  “
A Touch of Death
is the name of it.  You think any of our players are mixed up in this one?”

“I hope not,” Rhodes said.  “What do you think?”

“Football builds character,” Ballinger said.  “Those boys wouldn’t have anything to do with something like this.  Besides, they’re just kids.”

“Kids have killed before.”

“Not this time,” Ballinger said.  “I’d bet on it.”

“Speaking of betting,” Rhodes said, “what can you tell me about Hayes Ford?”

Ballinger looked uncomfortable.  There was no one else in the room with them, but he said, “Maybe we’d better go back to my office if we’re going to talk about that.”

B
allinger didn’t say anything as they walked across the parking lot.  When they were in the office, Ballinger closed the door and walked behind his desk.

“Sit down, Sheriff,” he said.

Rhodes sat on a couch and looked around at the books on Ballinger’s shelves.  Most of them had come from garage sales.  You couldn’t find the kind of books Ballinger liked in the stores.

“What did you ask me about Hayes Ford for?” Ballinger asked, sitting at his desk.  “I hope you don’t think I’d bet on a football game.”

“I don’t know about that,” Rhodes said.  “I know you’ve been in a card game or two.”

Ballinger looked as if he might deny it and then thought better of it.  “I’ve played poker once or twice.  Just friendly games, here in town.  Not with Ford, though.  I don’t even know if he plays cards.  Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with a friendly card game, is there?”

“Not unless you’re gambling,” Rhodes said.  “Then it’s against the law.”

“Lots of things are against the law.  Football pools, for one, but there’s a football pool in every business in Clearview.  At the high school, too, I bet.  You haven’t busted any of them, not that I’ve heard of.”

“I haven’t busted any of the card games, either, but I will if they get out of hand.  That’s not what I’m interested in, though.  I’m interested in the betting on the football games.  How much money do you think might be involved?”

There was a low rumble of thunder that shook the windowpanes in the office.

“Weather’s not getting any better, is it?” Ballinger said.  “I hear it might get colder tonight.  Along with some rain that would be real miserable.”

“Sure would,” Rhodes agreed, though he wasn’t interested in talking about the weather.  “Now, you were just about to tell me your thoughts on the betting.”

Ballinger twisted around in his chair as if it were hurting his spine.

“I don’t know that it would be a good idea to talk about that.”

“You and I have been friends for a long time,” Rhodes said.  “You know that you can trust me to keep a confidence.  Nobody’s going to know you said anything to me about this.”

“All right,” Ballinger said, not sounding as if he really meant it.  “How much do you know about Ford?”

“I’ve checked into him,” Rhodes said.  “We’ve tried to put a stop to the gambling before.”

“But you didn’t catch him.  He’s one slick character, but you know that.”

“That’s right.  I know that.  So tell me something I don’t know.  Like who bets with him.  I almost caught him with someone last night, but I didn’t get a good look at whoever it was.”

“I don’t know who he bets with!  Just because I’ve been in a card game or two doesn’t mean I know all about the gambling in Blacklin County.”

“I thought that some of the card players might have mentioned Ford.  Just in passing.”

“Maybe they have.  But I can’t tell you who they are.”

Rhodes knew that the Catamount Clubbers got together occasionally for cards and drinks.  They were the ones that Ballinger played cards with, and Ballinger didn’t want to incriminate his friends.  Rhodes didn’t really blame him.

There was another rumble of thunder and the first drops of rain began to fall.

“What about it?” Rhodes said.

Ballinger picked up the football magazine, dropped it, and said, “All right.  I’ll tell you what I know.  But it isn’t much.”

“That doesn’t matter.  I just want to get an idea of some amounts.  You don’t have to name any names.

The rain started to fall harder.  Rhodes could hear it splattering against the window panes.

“It could be pretty big money,” Ballinger said, “if you added it all up.  But I don’t think anybody really bets all that much at one time.”

Rhodes knew that already.  Ford didn’t take any big bets.  Just a lot of small ones.

“Where do they bet?” Rhodes asked.  “I know money changes hands at the games, but not a lot of it.  The people we’re talking about wouldn’t be caught dead near Hayes Ford at a game.”

“They sure wouldn’t.  Or anywhere else.  Hayes runs a little book with an unlisted number he’s got.”

So that was it.  Pretty simple when you thought about it.  It might even be enough to put Ford out of business.

“How does he pay off and collect?”

“I don’t know about that part of it.  I don’t bet, and I don’t ask.”

“But as far as you know, no one has made a large bet with him?”

“Not enough to kill anybody about, if that’s what you’re getting at.  Never more than forty or fifty dollars at a time.  It’s just in fun.  But some people might bet more.  I wouldn’t know.  Anyway, I imagine Ford takes bets on lots of other games.  Colleges, pros, basketball, too.  It all adds up.”

Rhodes wondered if it all added up to murder.  He stood up.

“Thanks, Clyde.  I’m not going to mention this to anyone.”

“I sure hope not,” Ballinger said. “I’d never be able to go to the drugstore on Saturday morning again.”

T
he drive to the commissioner’s office was cold and uncomfortable because Rhodes had gotten wet on his short jog from Ballinger’s office to the county car.  The rain continued to fall, sluicing across the windshield as the wipers whipped it aside.

The precinct office where Mrs. Wilkie worked was a long metal building, only the front part of which served as the commissioner’s office.  The back was a warehouse and garage for the heavy equipment used in keeping up the county roads in the precinct.  Rhodes could see a bulldozer and a maintainer through the curtain of rain as he trotted from his car to the office door.

Mrs. Wilkie looked up when he entered.  Rain was dripping from his hair and running down the neck of his shirt.  Without saying anything, Mrs. Wilkie opened a desk drawer and brought out a box of tissues.  Rhodes pulled several from the box and dried his face.  He thought that he’d be better off if he could bring himself to wear a Western-style hat, like every other sheriff in Texas.

“Thanks,” he said when he was finished.  He handed her the box.

“Certainly,” she answered, putting the box back in the drawer.

She was always formal with him now that he was a married man, and she no longer dyed her hair the amazing shade of orangey red that it had once been.  It was brown, with quite a bit of grey in it; she was at least ten years older than Rhodes, not that she would have admitted it.  She was wearing a dark blue suit with a white blouse.

“Are you here about my telephone call?” she asked.

“That’s right.  I understand that you’ve heard motorcycles again.”

The first time motorcycles had cropped up had been not so long ago, when Rhodes had been dealing with a man called Rapper.  Rapper was still around somewhere, Rhodes supposed, though it hardly seemed probable that he would be back in Blacklin County.  His first experience there hadn’t turned out very well for him.

The only reason that Rhodes was visiting Mrs. Wilkie himself was that there might possibly be a connection between motorcycles and Brady Meredith.  The County Line was about the only place nearby where bikers hung out, and then only when they were passing through.  It was a tenuous connection, but Goober Vance had also mentioned steroids.  Rapper was probably a lot of things, all of them unsavory, but dealing in drugs was one of his specialties.  If a coach wanted black-market steroids, Rapper could no doubt supply them.

Besides, Rhodes thought, the fact that Rapper seemed to have turned up in Blacklin County again right at the time someone had been murdered was suspicious in itself.  Rhodes didn’t much believe in coincidence where murder was concerned.

“I hear them at all hours of the night,” Mrs. Wilkie said.  “It’s a terrible racket.  I can never get back to sleep after they wake me up.  I think they must be hanging around at the Gottschalk place again.”

Rapper and his friend Nellie had been camping out near a lake on their last visit to the county.  They might be there again, as unlikely as at seemed.  It wouldn’t hurt to drive down there and look around.

“What about last night?” Rhodes asked.

“Oh, yes.  I was at the game until about ten-thirty, and I know you were there, too.  I thought you handled things very well.” 

She gave Rhodes what she probably thought was a coy look.  He much preferred her formal approach.

“Thanks.  I was just doing my job.  What about the motorcycles?”

“They came by late and woke me up.  It was just after one.  I looked at the clock.”

That would have given them plenty of time to have been involved in killing Brady Meredith, assuming that Dr. White’s estimate of the time of death was correct.

“I’ll check it out,” Rhodes said.  “If they’re still there, I’ll see that they don’t bother you anymore.”

“I’d appreciate that.  I need my beauty sleep.”

Rhodes started to tell her that he was sure she did, but somehow that didn’t seem like the right thing to say.

“I think it’s just terrible about Coach Meredith,” she went on.  “Do you think these motorcycles have any connection to his death?”

Rhodes said that he wasn’t sure.  “But you never can tell.”

“I know.  That’s why I called.  Not just because I can’t sleep, but because I remember the last time.”

Rhodes thanked her for being a public-spirited citizen and turned to go.

Mrs. Wilkie called him back.  “Mr. Allen wants to see you before you go.  He’s in his office.”

Uh-oh
, Rhodes thought.  There could be only one reason that the commissioner wanted to see him, and he didn’t really want to discuss Meredith’s death with anyone right now.  There was no way to avoid it, however.

“I’ll just let him know you’re here,” Mrs. Wilkie said, picking up her telephone.

The door to Allen’s office was just behind and to the right of Mrs. Wilkie’s desk.  Allen opened the door and motioned for Rhodes to come in.  

When they were both inside and seated, he said, “What progress have you made on the Meredith killing?”