a woman died in Ochre River County, she usually died at the hands of a man she knew. “Those are good questions, Minah. I’m out here looking for answers, and it helps to have the right questions.”
Minah patted his hand. “I guess the best we can hope for is that we’ll get the deaths we deserve.” Sheriff LaCour rose to his feet, turning her ideas around in his head.
As she showed him to the door, she offered some antacids and reassurance. “I won’t be talking about this at Coffee Klatch. This is the kind of news that can wait, don’t you think?” His relief must have shown on his face. She smiled. “Good news, I’d tell it in a minute. But bad news keeps.” He stepped over a sleeping tabby, and she shut her aluminum screen door. He smoothed down his mustache and checked his wristwatch. Almost six o’clock. He ate a Tums and thought about the idea of people having the deaths they deserved. If Minah Bourne had the death she deserved, she would ascend to heaven on crocheted wings, a radiant trail of maple sugar coffeecake crumbs falling behind her.
Lord Bless her.
MEMPHIS SPOKE TO Garth on the radio to verify that the five boys from Bone Pile hadn’t been out of his sight. “No sir, Memphis, they haven’t. Not one of these characters has left the room.”
“And none of them have made any phone calls.”
“There’s no phone here, Sheriff. They sat here and polished their boots, and then they got drunk on that wine they make, and then they played a few songs, and they all took turns pissing in the kitchen sink because I wouldn’t let them go to the bathroom. Now they’re cooking something. And you really don’t want to know what it is they’re cooking.”
“Then it’s a fine thing that I never asked.”
“Sheriff? How long do I have to stay here?”
“Just keep them there until nine. I’ll head over to the service for the Open Armers, and I’ll break the news. You can let those boys come on over there about 9:15 if you want to, they’ll probably want to talk with the rest of the congregation about losing their pastor. After that, you come on in to the office. And don’t fall asleep, now.”
“All right, but there’s nothing to do. No TV, not even a radio.”
Memphis thought for a second. “Polish your boots, Garth. I know they have shoe polish there.”
“Sheriff? I don’t know what it’s made out of.”
MEMPHIS LEFT HIS car in front of his brother’s home and began to walk because there was no way to do this except on foot. He checked the bumpers and fenders of every car and truck, space by space, omitting from his perusal only those vehicles on blocks. He counted forty-two fender dents, but none were fresh. Most were rusty. None were bloody.
Well, of course not. No one hit the Reverend in the face with their car.
His cell phone rang. “Morning, Sheriff. I have a preliminary report for you.” Phineas Border, the coroner, got to the point in his usual brusque tone. “Cause of subject’s death, blunt force blows to the head causing cerebral hemorrhage. Subdural hematomas at throat and internally on larynx and trachea indicate asphyxiating holds applied, though subject did not die of asphyxiation.”
“Weapon?”
“Pointed but relatively giving instruments. Not wood, not metal. I’m still counting points of impact.”
“Boots?”
“Of course it was boots, Memphis.”
Memphis closed his eyes and saw that gory face. The eyes ruptured, sockets empty of all but connective bundles of nerves and blood. The nose completely flattened. One ear kicked off. It might be satisfying to kick a man in the ribs or the back, but it was rarely lethal. If you were mad at a man, you’d kick him where it hurt. If you planned to kill him, you’d just work on his head or his throat. Which shows me one thing, thought Memphis. I’m dealing with murder in the first degree. “Was he kicked anywhere else besides the head?”
“Throat.”
What a way to die, thought Memphis. But is
Minah patted his hand. “I guess the best we can hope for is that we’ll get the deaths we deserve.” Sheriff LaCour rose to his feet, turning her ideas around in his head.
As she showed him to the door, she offered some antacids and reassurance. “I won’t be talking about this at Coffee Klatch. This is the kind of news that can wait, don’t you think?” His relief must have shown on his face. She smiled. “Good news, I’d tell it in a minute. But bad news keeps.” He stepped over a sleeping tabby, and she shut her aluminum screen door. He smoothed down his mustache and checked his wristwatch. Almost six o’clock. He ate a Tums and thought about the idea of people having the deaths they deserved. If Minah Bourne had the death she deserved, she would ascend to heaven on crocheted wings, a radiant trail of maple sugar coffeecake crumbs falling behind her.
Lord Bless her.
MEMPHIS SPOKE TO Garth on the radio to verify that the five boys from Bone Pile hadn’t been out of his sight. “No sir, Memphis, they haven’t. Not one of these characters has left the room.”
“And none of them have made any phone calls.”
“There’s no phone here, Sheriff. They sat here and polished their boots, and then they got drunk on that wine they make, and then they played a few songs, and they all took turns pissing in the kitchen sink because I wouldn’t let them go to the bathroom. Now they’re cooking something. And you really don’t want to know what it is they’re cooking.”
“Then it’s a fine thing that I never asked.”
“Sheriff? How long do I have to stay here?”
“Just keep them there until nine. I’ll head over to the service for the Open Armers, and I’ll break the news. You can let those boys come on over there about 9:15 if you want to, they’ll probably want to talk with the rest of the congregation about losing their pastor. After that, you come on in to the office. And don’t fall asleep, now.”
“All right, but there’s nothing to do. No TV, not even a radio.”
Memphis thought for a second. “Polish your boots, Garth. I know they have shoe polish there.”
“Sheriff? I don’t know what it’s made out of.”
MEMPHIS LEFT HIS car in front of his brother’s home and began to walk because there was no way to do this except on foot. He checked the bumpers and fenders of every car and truck, space by space, omitting from his perusal only those vehicles on blocks. He counted forty-two fender dents, but none were fresh. Most were rusty. None were bloody.
Well, of course not. No one hit the Reverend in the face with their car.
His cell phone rang. “Morning, Sheriff. I have a preliminary report for you.” Phineas Border, the coroner, got to the point in his usual brusque tone. “Cause of subject’s death, blunt force blows to the head causing cerebral hemorrhage. Subdural hematomas at throat and internally on larynx and trachea indicate asphyxiating holds applied, though subject did not die of asphyxiation.”
“Weapon?”
“Pointed but relatively giving instruments. Not wood, not metal. I’m still counting points of impact.”
“Boots?”
“Of course it was boots, Memphis.”
Memphis closed his eyes and saw that gory face. The eyes ruptured, sockets empty of all but connective bundles of nerves and blood. The nose completely flattened. One ear kicked off. It might be satisfying to kick a man in the ribs or the back, but it was rarely lethal. If you were mad at a man, you’d kick him where it hurt. If you planned to kill him, you’d just work on his head or his throat. Which shows me one thing, thought Memphis. I’m dealing with murder in the first degree. “Was he kicked anywhere else besides the head?”
“Throat.”
What a way to die, thought Memphis. But is
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