Midnight Crossroad (Midnight, Texas #1) (15 page)

B
obo was by himself the next morning when Sheriff Smith came in. Normally, he’d have taken Monday off and let Teacher work in his place, but he’d missed enough work, he figured. And he didn’t have anything better to do. He’d perched on the stool behind the high counter with a large mug of coffee. He was looking at a piece of jewelry that had been mended, apparently the night before, by Lemuel. The clasp had not worked on the brooch since it had been pawned twenty years before (Bobo had looked it up once in the ancient ledger), but now it did, and the brooch was in the display case that formed the counter, with a new tag on it in Lemuel’s curious handwriting. It read, “Twenty dollars. Will be called for.”

Bobo held it out, and the sheriff bent over the counter to look at it.

“If you have a lady in your life, she might enjoy something like this, Sheriff,” Bobo said. “If she’s old-fashioned.” The brooch was hand-painted with a picture of yellow flowers in a pale green vase, set against a gray-blue background. The frame was gold, set with tiny pearls.

Bobo wondered if he was about to be arrested. His heart pounded furiously, but he did his best to sound calm.

“I have a wife, my third,” Smith answered. “But she doesn’t like anything but modern stuff.”

“Not a traditional woman, then,” Bobo said.

“Not in the best sense of traditional,” Smith said. “But traditional in the way that means she expects me to provide everything for her while she sits at home on her butt.”

“Children?”

“No, she doesn’t even have children to look after,” Smith said. “I have a child by another marriage, but she lives in Georgia with her mom.”

“I guess you don’t get to see her often,” Bobo said. “That’s sad. What can I do for you today?”

Bobo found himself on the receiving end of one of Arthur Smith’s concentrated looks. Sheriff Smith didn’t blink much, so the stare was pretty effective.

“You can tell me more about your history with Aubrey Hamilton,” the sheriff said. The sheriff turned Bobo’s favorite chair to face the counter and settled himself in it. He looked quite at ease. “And by the way, she wasn’t shot. Someone wanted us to think she was, or someone was trying to put the blame on you. But we hired a specialist to look at the remains. The hole in her chest was not from a bullet.”

Bobo let out a long, unsteady breath.

“You don’t seem to be regarding me as a prime suspect in her death any longer,” Bobo said, manfully accepting the fact that the sheriff was sitting in his favorite chair. After all, the guy wasn’t arresting him for murder. He could have the damn chair. “And since I’ve already been into the police station once, you’ve searched my place, you’ve told me she wasn’t shot so I’m in the clear on the gun, and I have a lawyer on speed dial, I’m wondering what my status is now.”

“For the time period in which Ms. Hamilton—well, Mrs. Lowry—must have died . . . if we accept the testimony of Fiji Cavanaugh and your tenant . . . your presence in Dallas has been confirmed,” Smith said, sounding neither pleased nor displeased. “We could drum up a charge based on the fact that that gun was supposed to be here and secure, not laying on the ground by a river, but of course we can’t prove you were negligent enough to leave it there. It could have been stolen from here, though in that case your security needs some tending. Or your employees Lemuel Bridger or Teacher Reed could have taken it out. Unless more evidence turns up, you’re in the clear.”

“Wow,” said Bobo, as he absorbed this information. “Well, I feel relieved, of course.” He shifted around on the stool, not sure where to look.

“You don’t sound as happy as I expected.”

“I’m not happy,” Bobo said. “I loved Aubrey, and she’s dead. Not only did I lose her, but I’ve found out our whole relationship was a lie.”

“You believed everything she told you?”

Probably the sheriff was trying to sound neutral, but Bobo caught a hint of incredulity. “You seem to be a skeptical kind of man,” he said. “I guess in your line of work, that’s inevitable. I have a sister and a mother. They aren’t really pleasant women, or very smart . . . but they do tell the truth, as they see it. I know a lot of truthful women. And I guess I’m not conceited enough to imagine women making up elaborate schemes to meet me, like you say Aubrey did. My family’s had trouble enough in the past. I don’t need any more.”

Both men turned to the front door as it flew open.

Fiji came in, skidding to an abrupt stop when she realized both men were sitting calmly. “Oh!” she said. “Ummm, I saw your car outside, Sheriff . . . and I wondered if everything was okay over here.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” Smith said mildly. “How do you feel, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Call me Bobo. I’m feeling okay, the way things are now,” Bobo agreed. He smiled at Fiji, who’d been all wound up to attack and now was floundering to deal with the rush of adrenaline. “You’re so great to come to my rescue, Feej. I have the best neighbors.”

“We feel the same way about you,” she said, almost at random. She’d caught her breath, and now she drew herself up with some dignity. “Okay, you obviously don’t need me, so I’ll get back to work.”

“Hey, let’s go to the diner tonight,” Bobo suggested out of an obscure sense of obligation. He was relieved when Fiji nodded and spun around to leave, her long skirt swirling around her legs as she pushed out the front door. A gust of wind turned her curly hair into a tornado around her head.
She’s a woman full of movement,
he thought.

“Monday. It’s not open,” she said over her shoulder.

“Then we’ll go to the Barbecue Shanty in Davy.”

“Okay, come by when you’re ready to eat,” she called over her shoulder. She obviously wanted to say more, but she bit down on the words.

“Thanks,” Bobo called, loud enough for her to hear as the door swung closed behind her. “And that’s why I live here,” he told the sheriff.

“Because everyone loves you?”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all,” Bobo said. “But we do help each other out.”

“To the extent that one of your buddies might kill Aubrey Lowry if they discovered that she was exploiting you?”

Bobo looked stunned. “No, of course not! That’s so drastic. Besides, no one knew Aubrey’s background until you told us.”

Smith looked skeptical, but he didn’t press his question. “What was Aubrey like? Did she ever express any extreme political views to you?”

Bobo resigned himself to a painful conversation. “Aubrey was . . . she loved the outdoors. She loved shopping on the Internet. She liked cowboy boots and blue jeans, and she was a barrel rider in her teens. She grew up on a ranch. At least that was what she told me. Was that true?”

Smith nodded. “True.”

Bobo looked away for a moment. “Okay, good. Of course, she also talked about her dead parents, and you tell me they’re alive. She told me a lot about her nonexistent sister, not a word about the brother you said she actually has. Had. But she never discussed politics. Never said anything extremely right-wing. That would have been a red flag, for sure.”

Bobo climbed off the stool and opened a little refrigerator on the floor behind the counter. He asked Arthur Smith if he wanted a Coca-Cola, and Smith said, “No, thanks.”

After Bobo got back on his stool and popped the tab on his drink, he said, “I’m assuming you know all about my grandfather.”

Sheriff Smith didn’t answer. He’d taken off his hat and was twirling it slowly, his fingers working their way around the brim.

“So you do,” Bobo said, nodding gently. “Well, I’ve definitely swung the other way. I’m pro–gay marriage, pro-choice, pro-environment, pro-whales and tuna and wolves and every damn thing you can think of.” He put the mended brooch back in the case in front of him and regarded the other man very seriously. “If there’s anything in my life I wish I could erase, that time I spent listening to my grandfather spitting out hate would be what I’d pick.”

The sheriff looked down at his hat as he said, “You know it’s all over the Internet hate groups that you have some fabulous cache of guns and grenades and rocket launchers hidden away somewhere. That you can’t get rid of ’em and you can’t destroy ’em, so you’ve hidden them. And all those hate groups feel that you owe them that cache, because of your grandfather’s martyr status.”

“His legend is bigger than he was,” Bobo said, with a kind of sad anger. “I can’t show you any such treasure cave.” He sighed. “I can’t imagine why they think I’d hold on to such a stockpile.”

Arthur Smith stood. He was not a tall man, but he was a serious man, and his presence was large. “All right, Bobo. You take care. I’m sorry we had to search your place.”

Bobo shrugged, in an unhappy way. “That’s okay. I know you had to do it. Her parents have all her stuff?” Two days ago, two deputies had shown up with a warrant to remove Aubrey’s belongings. Since they’d all been boxed up and in the pawnshop storage closet, that had been quick enough; but they’d had to comb Bobo’s apartment in case he’d forgotten anything.

“Yeah, they’ve filled out the paperwork. There wasn’t anything you wanted?”

“Nah. I’ve got pictures and memories, and none of her stuff ever belonged to me in any sense. She didn’t bring any furniture or appliances, other than the toaster and the air filter and her grandmother’s sewing machine. I made sure that went with the other stuff.”

“Okay, then. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks. Do you know when the funeral will be?”

“Her parents don’t really want you to know, and they don’t want you there. I don’t know any nice way to tell you that.”

Bobo felt like he was shrinking moment by moment. Everything of hers was gone. They’d take her memories from him if they could. He wasn’t a person who’d cared about Aubrey, not to them. He was the person who’d ended her life. He shook his head to dispel the sensation. “Well, I won’t try to go since they don’t want me,” he said. “But . . . they know I’ve got an alibi that held up, right?”

“I made sure they knew,” the sheriff said. He seemed sympathetic. “Their good sense hasn’t caught up with their grief and anger.”

Bobo nodded. He could understand that. “Okay, then. I hope you find out who did this.” He didn’t think he’d really breathe deeply again until Aubrey’s murderer was caught and imprisoned.

Arthur Smith concentrated on his hat brim. “For what it’s worth, I believe you. But I have to investigate, and I have to be impartial, and I have to evaluate the evidence on its own. So far, the evidence says you’re telling the truth. But if anything I find contradicts that, I’m going to come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

“And I’d expect that. Hey, we’re bonding.” Bobo smiled.

The sheriff smiled back, albeit reluctantly. “You people who live in Midnight. You’re all marching to the beat of a different drummer.” Hat back on his head and tugged into position, he half turned, ready to leave.

Bobo smiled more broadly. “You hit the nail on the head. We are different, Arthur Smith. I’m the most average person you’ll meet here.” The smile faded.

The sheriff thought of another question. “And now I’ve got to go bother some of your neighbors. Is Olivia Charity around? I understand she has an apartment below the store?”

Bobo said, “Yeah. You can see if she’s awake, but please knock softly on the door marked B. The guy who rents A works nights, so he sleeps days. That’s why he wasn’t on the picnic.”

“Lemuel Bridger? I haven’t met him yet. I definitely need to talk to him. I’m interviewing everyone who knew her. I guess that would naturally include him since he lived in the same building.”

“Yes, he knew Aubrey, though I don’t think he knew her well. But you’ll have to wait until it’s dark. He really can’t wake up when he’s deep asleep.”

Sheriff Smith looked at Bobo, a little skeptically. “Even if I pound on his door, he won’t wake up?”

“You really don’t want to do that,” said Olivia, and the sheriff jumped.

She’d come into the pawnshop from the door that led onto the landing. Her feet were bare, and the rest of her was swathed in a pair of blue fuzzy pajamas decorated with sheep. “I’d be glad to talk to you right now, Sheriff. Did you want to come down to my place? I’m sure Bobo’s got things to do.”

“That’d be fine.” The sheriff followed her to the door to the stairs. He turned before he went through it. “Oh, Bobo? One more thing you ought to know. Aubrey’s brother, Macon. He’s pretty upset about Aubrey. If you meet him, watch out.”

After the door had closed, Bobo said, “Thanks, Sheriff. ‘Hey, Bobo, there’s this guy who wants to kill you because he thinks you killed his sister. So you watch your step, now!’”

Bobo got off the stool. The sheriff had left the velvet chair facing the counter, so Bobo turned it to face the street door, its proper position. He retrieved a Craig Johnson novel from a nearby piecrust table and settled down to read, the Coca-Cola on a coaster on the table beside him. Somehow, his conversation with Arthur Smith had cleared his mind. He was officially not a suspect. He was not going to be arrested for murder. On the other hand, the publicity about Aubrey’s death had resurrected all the gossip about his grandfather, and Aubrey’s family hated him, including Aubrey’s unknown brother.

“Two steps forward, one step back,” Bobo muttered out loud. He glanced up just as a car paused at the stoplight outside, and he smiled as he remembered Fiji dashing to his rescue. It would be nice to go to dinner with her tonight, resume his normal life.

Not his old normal in which the woman he loved had left him because he’d done something awful that he couldn’t fathom, the old normal in which he waited to hear from her every day.

It would be the new normal; the world in which Aubrey had never loved him, had told him many lies, and had vanished through violence.

T
he next night, at the diner, the Rev preached after his dinner. He finished his food, patted his lips with his paper napkin, and stood up, turning to face the round table.

In a surprisingly deep, sonorous voice, he began to give them the Word as he interpreted it. Bobo put down his fork and folded his arms across his chest, prepared to listen. Olivia looked down at her plate regretfully and followed suit. On her left, Manfred was just beginning to cut his meat, but Olivia laid a hand on his arm. “Nope,” she whispered, not turning her gaze away from the Rev. “Respect.”

Another mysterious Midnight rule. Manfred resigned himself to waiting until the Rev was through, but he was peeved. He’d come in late, and he’d just gotten served—sadly, not by Creek, but by Madonna. His food was hot and smelled delicious, but here he sat, still and hungry.

As he listened, Manfred became interested despite himself. This was not the fire-and-brimstone message he’d been expecting, but an elaborate explanation that began with the Garden of Eden, detailing how God had created creatures that combined the features of animals and man, the were-creatures so feared today. The Rev believed that key verses had been deleted from the Bible so that bad men could repress the were-creatures, so that they would be humbled away from their pride in their superiority. The Rev believed that men only had power over the two-natured because of their vast numbers and their willingness to kill what they didn’t understand.

It was confusing but fascinating, even though Manfred’s mouth was still watering over the baked chicken and green beans with new potatoes that were cooling on his plate. The Rev certainly knew his Bible, and he knew a lot of extra scripture besides, verses that had been “left out.” Manfred now heard a few of those verses. “I’m amazed at how convincing that sounds,” he whispered to Joe on his left. To Manfred’s embarrassment and surprise, Joe seemed offended at his skepticism. Again, Manfred was at a loss.

For five more minutes the Rev rambled, and even Madonna stood behind the counter at attention during the impromptu sermon. Abruptly, the small man came to the end of what he had to say, and he concluded with “Amen!” His congregation echoed the word with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The Rev gave a decided nod, as if he were satisfied with the response. Then he stalked from the diner, his hat firmly planted on his head, his back straight as a ramrod.

“How often does he do that?” Manfred asked, hoping it was okay to inquire.

“Not often. Usually means he’s worried about something,” Joe said. “I didn’t mean to go all righteous on you, but the Rev believes what he says, and we go along with him. You don’t want to upset him.”

Manfred said, “Of course I don’t want to be rude to him . . . but you sound almost scared.”

“You would be, too, if you ever saw him angry,” Joe said, and then firmly turned the conversation in another direction. “Bobo, I saw the sheriff’s car at your place yesterday. Everything okay?”

“The sheriff said they’re satisfied with my alibi. Apparently, I’m in the clear.” Bobo didn’t look particularly happy, though. “And here’s another thing,” he said. “The gun, the one they found? It was from the shop, which I knew when they held it up. That day we found her.”

Everyone around the table froze for a moment. But Manfred got the distinct impression this was not news to several of the people at the table.

“But Smith said she wasn’t shot,” Bobo added.

Manfred said, “Great, man. Congratulations.” Then he realized that this was not the happiest wording, and he ate another bite of chicken.
This is one of those nights I wish I’d stayed at home and opened a can of soup,
he thought.

“What happened to her?” Joe asked Bobo. “Did the sheriff say?”

Manfred glanced up in time to see Bobo shake his head.

“So, you’re in the clear. Why are you so grim?” Olivia asked bluntly.

“Her family doesn’t want me at the funeral.” Bobo looked down at his plate. He mauled a potato with his fork.

Olivia went steely. “They can’t stop you if you want to go,” she said. “We’ll all go.”

Joe leaned forward, looked at each person at the table in turn. His eyes were very serious. “Do we want to make a terrible day worse for them? If Chuy were here, that’s what he’d be saying.”

There was an awkward silence. “No, we don’t want to do that,” Olivia said. “But if Bobo’s been cleared . . .”

“Smith told me he had let them know I didn’t kill her, but that they were still bitter,” Bobo said.

No one had a response to that. Manfred was able to finish his meal in peace.

Lemuel had not come in to sit with them that night. Fiji had taken home enough leftovers from her barbecue meal the night before that she was having her dinner at home. Chuy was visiting his brother in Fort Worth, so Joe had brought Rasta with him to the diner. The dog sat quietly in a compact circle by Joe’s chair. Joe was rigid about no one feeding him from the table.

Shawn Lovell had come in to get three to-go meals, and he’d given everyone a casual wave before carrying the bag of take-out containers back to the service station. Only Manfred, Bobo, Olivia, and Joe were left after the preacher exited.

As he finished his meal, Manfred wondered how Madonna managed to keep the diner doors open. But he was sure glad she did.

“I’m going to Fiji’s class on Thursday night,” he said. “I couldn’t say no. Anyone else want to try it out?”

“Sorry, I’m just not in the mood for strangers,” Bobo said, and Manfred felt a stab of envy that he had a good excuse.

“I have to pack,” Olivia said. “I have an early flight Friday.”

“Chuy is coming back on Thursday,” Joe said. “Sorry, buddy, seems like you’re flying solo.”

“Great,” Manfred said. He had already been kicking himself for agreeing to go to Fiji’s class, which would undoubtedly be all mystical kumbaya and talk of every woman’s inner goddess.

On Thursday evening, Manfred was kicking himself even harder. The women gathered in Fiji’s store ranged in age from twenty-one to sixty. A couple of the younger women had made an effort to look “witchy” in black dresses or leggings, heavy black eyeliner, and dyed black hair—Goth with pentagrams, he told himself. The older women tended to the scarves-and-skirts style of witchiness, though one lady in her early forties was cinched into a black leather bustier and a black lace skirt, with huge silver earrings swaying from her multiply pierced ears. Manfred felt like he’d come to a bad costume party, especially when the women stood to form a circle and held hands to begin their meditation. “The full moon will make tonight an especially favorable one for self-enlightenment,” Fiji told the group before she began the invocation.

Manfred had never linked his psychic ability to witchcraft, and he had no particular religious beliefs. Fiji’s directions to implore Hecate to help those present develop their powers left him just a bit bored and faintly contemptuous. He had no idea who Hecate was. Only his certainty that Fiji herself possessed real power kept him in the store and holding the right hand of the forty-something would-be hottie and the left hand of a white-haired grandmother in a sweeping skirt.

While Fiji implored and invoked, Manfred did the mental math about what he’d clear that month, and then abruptly his brain took a left turn down a dead-end road. He found himself catching a glimpse of the awful corpse of Aubrey Hamilton. As Fiji’s singsong voice went on and on, Aubrey’s skull, with its hanks of ragged hair, rotated toward him. The darkened teeth moved under their remnants of flesh and muscle. Horribly dead Aubrey said, “I truly loved him. Tell him.”

Manfred’s eyes flew open and he looked up to meet Fiji’s. She was looking at him steadily, as if she knew he’d had a true and direct communication. She smiled. And then her eyes shut and her head dropped again, and Manfred was left to compose a grocery list for his next trip to Davy to stave off any other unwanted revelations. As long as he told himself over and over again that he needed orange juice, bread, and peanut butter, plus lightbulbs, he could keep the dreadful vision at bay.

After those few seconds of freezing fear, he was bored silly. Two of the gray-haired women employed the Ouija board, which told them they were never too old for love. After that, there was a round of dream interpretation, though Manfred figured cynically that most of the dreams had been constructed well after the sleep session. If there was anyone approaching Fiji’s talent there that night, Manfred could not detect it. Since he always watched the money flow, he’d noticed right away that Fiji kept a pretty blue bowl on the counter, and he also noticed all the women dropped twenty dollars in it discreetly before they paraded out the door, chattering excitedly about astral projections and ley lines.

Fiji stood on her porch smiling after them, pleased with the evening and with herself, as far as Manfred could tell.

“Was that a typical class?” Manfred asked, making sure his tone was polite and respectful.

Possibly he hadn’t succeeded, because Fiji looked a bit taken aback.

“I would say so,” she said. “You got a true reading, didn’t you?”

“I had a vision,” he said, reluctantly. “At least, I guess it was a vision.”

“Tell me about it, if it wasn’t too personal.”

“It wasn’t personal at all. It was a message for someone else.” He described the brief scene. When Fiji heard about Aubrey’s corpse talking, she shuddered.

“Do you think I should tell him?” Manfred asked.

“Of course,” Fiji said immediately. But she looked anything but happy. “If you have a true vision, you should tell the person involved. He’ll be glad to hear that . . . if he believes you.”

“People mostly believe what they want to,” Manfred observed. “My whole business is based on that principle. How do you square this class with that piece of truth?”

Fiji’s round face was sad, and Manfred felt at once as though he’d kicked a puppy. After a moment, she returned to the easy chair she’d occupied during the “class.” She crossed her legs, and her boot-clad foot swung back and forth. “It’s like teaching ballet,” she said. “Or piano.” She looked very serious.

Manfred laughed. “You mean, ninety-nine percent of the students have no aptitude at all, but you keep doing it for the one student who has talent?”

“Exactly,” she said. She thought that over and nodded some more. “Plus, it gives them something to do, something to think about besides the here and now. That’s not a bad thing, either.”

“You sound like they were all fuzzy kittens,” Manfred said. “Don’t you ever worry about them doing harm with what you’re teaching them?”

“Meditation? Planchette work? Dream interpretation?”

“Witchcraft? Spells? Blood magic?”

“I don’t teach them that,” Fiji said indignantly.

“But it’s the next step. They’ll look at your books, ask you questions about your own spells, your own beliefs, and next thing you know . . .”

He could tell from the way she hunched her shoulders that this had already happened. “The next thing I know,
what
?” she snapped.

“You’ll have a dead husband or an enslaved boyfriend,” Manfred said, speaking what he knew to be the unpleasant truth. From the corner of his eye, he saw the marmalade cat with the stupid name leap up from its cushion to stare at him. “I like you, Fiji, and I hope we’re getting to be friends . . . but if you don’t think about the next step, you’re being irresponsible.” He shrugged and opened the front door. “Thanks for inviting me. See you later.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Fiji didn’t open her mouth. After a moment of standing there feeling like a fool, and a jerk, Manfred left.

As he crossed the road, which was shockingly visible under the full moon, he chewed over his last pronouncement to Fiji. Though he was sorry they were at cross purposes, he still believed he’d spoken the truth. He gave a mental shrug, shoving the problem to the back burner. He noticed that Olivia’s car was gone from the rear of the pawnshop, and he was surprised she wasn’t home packing for her trip. Then he noticed that the pawnshop was closed. Lemuel ought to be in there. Well, that was strange but none of his business. As he was unlocking his front door, he glanced back to see Mr. Snuggly sitting at the edge of the yard, watching him.