Phantom Nights (34 page)

Another deputy brought four men to Bobby's office. Three lawyers—or more like four and a half considering Gipson Culverhouse's reputation, a weighty man with a weighty name in Southern legal circles. The other lawyers were there to carry things and learn from the sage himself. Leland Howard wasn't wearing his trademark ice-cream suit, looking more like the banker he once was in dark blue and pinstripes, high collar in spite of the heat, and a fat necktie.

Introductions. Coffee, anyone? Sure. Three of his visitors took seats while Gipson Culverhouse remained standing behind Leland Howard's chair, which was squarely in front of Bobby's desk. He dominated the office, looking down on everyone.

Bobby got started.

"Mr. Howard, I greatly appreciate your taking time off from a busy campaign, sir, to be here today. I wanted to ask you a few questions relating to the death of Mally Shaw."

"Well, I'm certainly—"

Lawyer Culverhouse held up a hand to interrupt.

"Are we proceeding here with the understandin', Deputy Gambier"—Culverhouse had placed a faint but slighting emphasis on "deputy"—"that this will not be a formal interrogation?"

"That's right."

"Then with due apologies to your charmin' stenographer"—Culverhouse beamed at Mary Wingfield—"I see no reason for her continuing presence."

Bobby glanced at Mary. She packed up and left. Leland Howard stroked his upper lip with a forefinger and watched her go. Mary in polished cotton slacks was powerfully appealing.

"And now if I may read a brief statement of Mr. Howard's that will be given to the members of the press gathered outside the courthouse this afternoon, it might save us a good deal of time. And none of us have eaten lunch."

Bobby nodded. Culverhouse reached to his right without looking, and the typed one-paragraph statement was placed in his hand. He took his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.

"'I knew Mally Shaw as a dedicated and tireless professional nurse who provided care and comfort for my beloved father, Priest Howard, during his last days. I spoke to her only on one occasion, which was the afternoon that my father passed away. I was deeply shocked to hear of her untimely death. Mally will always have a special place in my heart for what she meant to all of our family.'"

Bobby held out a hand, and the statement was passed to him. He put it on his blotter, looked at Leland Howard for a few seconds, looked at Gipson Culverhouse, who was receiving another document.

"What I have here, Deputy Gambier, is a full, voluntary confession by Mr. James Giles of his involvement in Mally Shaw's death. Giles has acknowledged complete responsibility for the unfortunate circumstances that led to her being mauled by the Catahoula hounds owned by Mr. Howard, hounds which you have impounded."

"You must have done some good detective work," Leland commented. Culverhouse looked for a moment as if he wanted to swat his client on the back of the head.

J. B. Garretson, still by the window, cleared his throat with a fist against his mouth, watching Bobby, who was smiling in disbelief.

"When did you obtain this confession?"

"Half an hour ago, in his room at the hospital."

"If you please, sir."

Bobby was handed a copy of the confession, which he read through carefully. Jim Giles stated that on Saturday night, August the first, he acted on an impulse to have a little fun and called on Mally Shaw at her home. There he forced her to have sex with him. Subsequently, he drove Mally to Leland Howard's farm, where she jumped out of the car and ran from him. He was well liquored up and not thinking clearly when he turned the Catahoulas loose to track her down. Just having a little more fun. By the time he caught up to the dogs, he was too late to help Mally. It had never occurred to him that bitches in heat could be a danger to a panicked female human being on the run. Thinking a little more clearly by then, he sought to cover up what he'd done by moving her body from a field south of the farmhouse to the Little Grove cemetery. After that he turned a hose on the dogs to wash off most of the blood and changed his clothes. By seven o'clock Sunday morning, he was driving the unsuspecting Leland Howard to Knoxville, as he was paid to do.

Bobby put the two-page confession, duly signed by three witnesses and notarized, on top of Leland Howard's statement. As if he needed more time to think, he had a couple of sips of cooling coffee. He ignored Leland Howard and raised his eyes to Leland's lawyer, who was nodding almost imperceptibly with a look of savor and a twinkle in his eye.

"You'll be giving this to the press too, I imagine," Bobby said.

"Yes, they'll be eager to run it, along with those photos of the Catahoula hounds that somehow the
Tri-State Defender
got hold of early this morning. Quite a little scoop for them."

Bobby leaned back in his swivel chair. "Mr. Culverhouse, my father was high sheriff of Evening Shade for twenty-three years. I learned a lot from him. Learned more as a military policeman; and I have been a deputy in this department for almost five years. What I'm getting at, sir, I can smell a crock of shit when it's right under my nose."

Culverhouse's nodding became more pronounced; he smiled amiably. Leland did some twisting in his chair. J. B. Garretson cleared his throat again.

Bobby said to Leland Howard, "I suppose you'll have another statement about how terrible you feel, the way Giles betrayed your good faith and trust in his paroled ass."

Culverhouse pulled a round gold watch from the front pocket of his trousers and opened the initialed cover.

"If we have finished here—a good meal has long eluded us this day—"

"Not quite finished," Bobby interrupted. "I still need to hear from Mr. Howard, a few questions on my mind."

"As you wish." Culverhouse folded his arms over Leland's blond head, steadfast and stem as a personal god. Bobby smiled at the pose, softly cynical.

"Mr. Howard, can you account for your whereabouts Saturday last?"

"Yes. I was in Evening Shade, burying my father, sir."

"After that?"

"I didn't care to spend the night in my boyhood home, so I had Mr. Giles drive me to the farm."

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Giles on Saturday night?"

"He asked my permission to use the car. That was about nine o'clock."

"Was Mr. Giles drinking before he left the farm?"

"No."

"Before he took your car, did you warn him that if he dropped into a juke to hoist a few beers he would be in violation of his parole?"

"I never thought it was necessary. In the months he worked for me, James never gave reason for me to be concerned about his behavior."

"So on this particular Saturday night he goes off the deep end, rapes a woman—"

"I just can't account for it."

"Who he brought back to the farm with him, after which there was considerable commotion going on. Did you hear your hounds?"

"I was sound asleep. I'd read the papers, had a couple of whiskies—"

"A hunting man knows the voices of his dogs, Mr. Howard. They wake him from his deepest dreams. No matter how tired or drunk he is."

Culverhouse said sharply, "Mr. Howard was not drunk."

"Yet he claims to have slept through the night totally unaware of what, according to Giles's confession, must have been one hellacious uproar on his farm."

Leland said, "You have no idea how exhausted—"

"I lost both of my parents several years ago. A drawn-out death for my mother. It was an ordeal, and I certainly sympathize with you in your time of grief. But I don't believe your story. I don't believe this confession either. I do have reason to believe you went to Mally Shaw's house last Saturday night. Giles won't give you up, because what good does that do him? He's going back for a full stretch anyhow—"

Culverhouse stiffened and lit into Bobby with his eyes. That cooking-the-goose radiance he employed to finish off a flummoxed witness.

"Mr. Howard does not have to deal with any more of your questions or your allegations!"

"No, he doesn't. He's here voluntarily."

"Then if there is nothing else, we will be leaving, sir."

"Just one more thing, and thank y'all for your time," Bobby said. He looked thoughtfully at Howard. "You were at one time employed by your father's bank?"

Howard was half out of his chair. He sat down again, reluctantly.

"Yes. In the trust department."

"Uh-huh. Well, I was wondering if you could tell me"—Bobby rolled back in his chair far enough to pull open the middle desk drawer; he took out a manila key envelope, opened it, shook out a little fine ash along with a blackened steel key onto his desk blotter—"what this looks like to you, Mr. Howard."

No one but Bobby could see Leland's reaction. A puzzled moment, a flash of apprehension, a tightening of the bold blue eyes.

"It's a—yeah, could be a safe-deposit-box key."

"We found the key this morning while sifting through the remains of Mally Shaw's burned-out house. Burned out by some Molotov cocktails, according to Chief Sheffer." Bobby tapped a finger on the papers to one side of his blotter. "I wonder why that wasn't in Giles's confession too?"

"Sir, do I need to remind you—"

"Hold on, Mr. Culverhouse," Bobby said, not looking at him. All of his attention was on Leland. "Only one bank in town since Farmers and Merchants closed up shop. Then it's likely, don't you think, that this key is to a box at West State Bank? You can still make out the number on it if you care to have a closer look."

Leland shook his head slightly. He wiped at perspiration in the hollows beneath his eyes.

"I gave Joe Rollander at the bank a call about an hour ago," Bobby said. "Mally never had an account at West State, and she didn't have a safe-deposit box either. The same was true of her late husband, William. So if this is a key from your, I mean your
daddy's
bank, wonder how it happened to turn up where we found it? In the morning I'll obtain a court order—justified by the suspicious nature of the fire that destroyed Mally's home—and we'll find out who rented the box and have a look at the contents."

Leland nodded as if he'd been asked a question, but there was a tragic vacancy in his eyes for a few moments until Gipson Culverhouse gripped him by the shoulder from behind.

"We're finished here."

No one else spoke. Leland rose from his chair. J. B. Garretson coughed into his fist. Bobby, still watching Leland, put the key back into the envelope.

"Thank you, Mr. Howard. That is all I need from you. For now. Mr. Culverhouse, gentlemen—a pleasure."

Leland turned to look at his lawyer. He had the expression of someone trying to turn on the energy, rev up the manly confidence, the flair, that championship swagger. Reporters were waiting, and in tomorrow's press he would be absolved of any possible wrongdoing in Mally Shaw's death. But the smile he had for Gipson Culverhouse failed with a tremor, like the exhausted wings of a dying moth. Culverhouse's controlling hand slid down Leland's sleeve to his elbow. Before walking his client out of the office, he looked once more at Bobby with his own smile, lean and respectful, no more patronizing amiability for a hick deputy. He nodded. Bobby nodded back.

When they had all cleared out Garretson said to Bobby, "Your Daddy could do that."

"Do what?" Bobby said, bouncing the lightweight envelope and key in the palm of one hand, smiling abstractedly.

"Turn loose hell with your stare." Garretson took a sack of tobacco from his shirt pocket to roll one, ambled over to peer like an owl at the seat of the chair Leland Howard had occupied. "Like that cowboy actor he resembled, you know, Tim McCoy."

"What are you thinking about, J. B.?"

The deputy looked up from the chair seat. "Well, now, ol' Leland went out of here looking like Mr. Soft Cock in a bedful of naked Miss Americas. Thought he might have left his balls behind."

"He didn't have any when he walked in," Bobby said. "Something's eating him real bad, and I don't mean Mally Shaw. He's got moral termites. You can smell 'em before you see 'em."

Mary Wingfield's voice came over the intercom.

"Bobby, line two. It's the hospital."

A
lex Gambier didn't know beans about women's clothes. The dress he eventually picked out for Mally to wear that night looked very nice to him. It wasn't silk; the department store on Courthouse Square didn't carry anything that expensive. But it was tomato red with hem- and neckline ruffles in a darker shade of red. And an extra helping of high style, as the shopgirl helpfully pointed out to Alex, were sparkly little mirrors of assorted sizes called pailettes. The shopgirl, Sylvia Blocker, a first cousin of Francie Swift's, said she wished they'd gotten in that dress in her size. She was a fourteen.

"Fall off your bike?" Sylvia asked Alex, looking again at the bandage over his ears and Mercurochromed scratches like warpaint on his face and neck.

Alex selected the dress in Cecily's size and charged it. He thought Mally and Cecily were about the same size. After Mally wore the dress tonight for her—what had she called it?—
rendezvous
, Bobby could give it to Cece later on as an anniversary present.