Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 07 - Murder Most Fowl by Bill Crider

him feel even sadder about Rayjean Ward than he had at first.
    He put everything back as it had been except the catalog, which he stuck deep into a black plastic bag that lined a trash can under the kitchen sink. He pushed it under old newspapers and orange rinds where he was sure that Rayjean’s sister would never see it. Then he went back outside and drove down to the cockpit. His ankle was still hurting, and he didn’t feel much like walking.
     
    B y the time the ambulance had come and gone and the J. P. had done his duty, Rhodes had gone over the cockpit thoroughly. He hadn’t found anything of interest there either, however.
    He had also looked over Lige Ward’s pickup. There was nothing of interest in the cab, but the camper was littered with feathers that looked a lot like the one Rhodes had picked up at Ballinger’s the previous evening. There didn’t seem to be much doubt that Ward had been hauling some kind of fowl in his truck, and Rhodes was convinced that the fowl had been emus. He would have Dr. Slick come to examine the truck just to make certain.
    He stopped at the Ward’s house and called Slick, who confirmed that the feather Rhodes had given him had come from an emu, and Rhodes told him about the truck.
    “Don’t worry about the yellow ribbon,” Rhodes said. “Just walk right under it and look in the pickup camper. Anytime today will be all right.”
    Slick said he’d try to get there but that he had a lot of sick cats coming in that morning. “Some kind of virus. They just lie around all day like wet noodles.”
    Rhodes said, “I thought cats did that all the time anyway.”
    “You might have a point there,” Slick admitted. “But the owners of these cats are mighty upset.”
    Rhodes told him that the camper was important, and Slick said that he’d stop by after his office hours if he couldn’t get away before then. Rhodes thanked him and hung up the phone.
    It was time to pay a visit to Brother Alton and the Free Will Church of the Lord Jesus.
     
    B rother Alton’s full name and title—The Reverend Alton Holmes—were painted in flaking black letters on a lopsided sign in front of the church building located just outside the Clearview city limits.
    The building itself wasn’t in much better shape than the sign. It hadn’t been painted in a good many years. It sat on concrete blocks and leaned slightly to Rhodes’ left as he faced the front door. The black composition shingles were peeling off the top of the steeple, and one of the windows had a missing pane that had been replaced by a piece of cardboard held in place by silvery strips of duct tape.
    Brother Alton’s car was parked on the shady side of the building near the entrance to a small room that stuck out from the side and that looked as if it had been added as an afterthought.
    The afterthought was Brother Alton’s office. There was a set of prefab concrete steps in front of the unpainted door, and Rhodes mounted them before he knocked.
    “Come in,” Brother Alton called from inside.
    The doorknob hung uselessly in its socket, but Rhodes gave it a couple of turns for luck before pushing open the door.
    Brother Alton sat behind an old desk coated with dark varnish that was peeling off in long strips. There was no electricity in the room; the only light came in through the dirt-streaked windows. Pages of paper, some of them crumpled, covered the desktop, and a large leather-covered Bible lay open in front of the preacher, who looked up at Rhodes through his rimless glasses.
    “Good morning, Sheriff,” Brother Alton said, looking quickly back down.
    “Working on your sermon?” Rhodes asked.
    Brother Alton didn’t look up again. “Um, yes. Working on my sermon. My little flock is eager for the Word.”
    Rhodes had to take only a step from the door to the desk. He put a finger on the open Bible. “Anything in there about cockfights?”
    “Um, cockfights?  That’s … um … a topic that the Lord’s Word don’t