4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4 by Frederick Ramsay Page B

killed his dog. So, yeah, it could work.”
    “Thanks, Norbert. Do me a favor, let me know if anybody comes in here asking for shells for a Webley, or wants to sell you one, will you?”
    “You bet I will. Say, if you-all want to upgrade weapons, I can get you a deal on a Glock 31. You’ve been lugging that Smith and Wesson around for years, Sheriff. Nice lightweight Glock’d be better. The thirty-one fires a .357 round, same as your S and W but it’s lighter and a whole lot easier to handle. Make you a good deal.”
    “I’ll think about it. Thanks.” Ike paused and turned back to Norbert. “Has Jonathan Lydell stopped by here lately?”
    “The stuffed shirt that’s restoring his house over in Bolton?”
    “Yes.”
    “No. Wait a minute. Yes, he was…about a week ago, maybe two. He wanted to know about security systems. He wants to burglar proof that dump of his. Like, what’s the chance of that?”
    “That all? He didn’t want to buy shells for a pistol, did he?” It didn’t seem likely.
    “No, but he did rummage through that box of old keys, and bought one.”
    “Okay, well, thanks, try to behave, Norbert. I’d hate to run you in.”
    “Never happen, Sheriff.”
    ***
    Three miles away, and in what could pass for another century, the object of their conversation sat at his desk fretting. Lydell had not written a word for days and he wanted to finish his last book in time to teach at Callend. That ridiculous Ms. Harris may have put him off, but if the rumors were true, she wouldn’t be in a position to say much one way or the other, soon enough. The contractor who promised to have the log structures up by Friday, this Friday, had dropped off the face of the earth. And his papers were still missing. That fact bothered him the most. The papers were important to the future, and Bellmore. He searched the surface of the desk, as if it might provide a clue as to their whereabouts. His hand brushed the blotter and the edge of one of the documents peeked out from beneath it. He lifted the blotter and found the rest. His relief was short lived. Some were still missing, the important ones, and he knew for a certainty that he had not put these there. No one else…he paused. The only persons who would know he sometimes slid papers under the blotter were Mrs. Picket, the cleaning woman, and Martha Marie.
    The Picket woman had a son in the sheriff’s office. But she didn’t figure to have done it. Simple woman. He felt as if he were suddenly surrounded by police relatives. Martha Marie…what had she said? We’ll see… something. But she was drunk, as usual. He drummed his fingers on the mahogany, subconsciously beating out the rhythm to Dixie… land o’ cotton. Mostly soy beans nowadays.
    “Martha Marie, where are you?” he shouted. Probably still in the shed. He stood and walked to the side board. Lydell did not drink much. The drinks table served more as a prop than a functioning service. At least it had until Martha Marie came to live with him. He poured several inches from the decanter, with the sterling silver Bourbon hanger on it, and drank. He coughed and raced to the porch and spat over the rail. Mrs. Antonelli who had just stepped out for air, gaped. He heard a chuckle behind him.
    “It’s apple juice,” Martha Marie said.
    “What…what’s that you say?”
    “You heard me. It’s apple juice. Now you know my secret.”
    “Secret? What secret? I don’t understand.”
    “Well then, I’ll explain. I don’t have my mother’s cast iron stomach and frankly, whiskey can give me the hangover, before it gives me the drunk, lately…bad liver from too much partying in my misspent youth. I can manage one, maybe two or three drinks at a time and that’s it. I have to space them out, you see?” She strolled to the divan and sat down, squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “But to keep you off my back I, like Mother before me, find it easier to be drunk. You are nasty when I’m that