Chapter 7
The women started screaming. The men crowded in around Tim and me. The movie was forgotten.
"Stand back," Tim ordered, squatting down. He reached for a wrist. He shook his head. He stood up again. "Okay," Tim yelled, "open all the drapes. We're going to have a head count."
"What do you mean?" Pete asked.
"Just that. Is everybody here? So each of you couples get together and all of you line up over there along that wall."
There was a lot of mumbling and grumbling. But each man found his wife and the couples lined up along the wall.
Tim nodded. "Okay, we're all here. But that's not the half of it. We're going to stay here until we get some answers."
"You're not the law," Dick Padgett said. "You certainly look like a bereaved husband," Tim told him. "What do you know about this?"
"Nothing."
"What was Millie sulking in the corner about all afternoon?" Tim asked Dick.
"She wasn't sulking. Doc Crocker in Broken Tree says it's depression." , "What was she depressed about?" Tim asked.
Dick shook his head. "Damfino. It's been coming on for nearly a year."
"Are you trying to say that Millie committed suicide?"
"It could be," Dick said. "She's talked about it lots of times."
"Why couldn't Millie have died from natural causes?" Pete asked.
"She could have," Tim admitted. "Or it could have been poison. We've got a problem. We've got to get that body dressed. And that could be a job. Because we've got to get the law out here."
That set off a hubbub. Tim held up his hand for silence.
"I'm an attorney. I know the law. I know what has to be done. And I know what will happen to all of us if we don't report it."
"Why can't we call Doc Crocker and tell him Millie fell out of her chair while we were having a movie, and after the movie was over we found her dead?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," everyone chorused.
Tim hesitated. "Okay, we might get away with that."
"Sure," Pete said, "why jump to the conclusion that she was poisoned? Maybe it was something else. But if you call the cops and say that Millie has been murdered, they'll ask you how you know that. And if it turns out that she died of natural causes...."
Tim nodded. "Okay, let's round up her clothes. You women get out of here. We'll get her dressed."
"I'm not leaving," I said. "You men don't know how to dress a woman. I do."
"Yeah, and you'll conk out in the middle of it," Tim said.
"No I won't," I told him. "Let's get going."
I went over to the corner of the room where the women had piled their clothes. I turned around. "Okay, all you women, come over and claim your clothes. What's left should be Millie's. But Dick, you know what is hers."
"I think so," Dick said. "But I'm not sure."
The women came over and pawed at the clothing as if it were a rummage sale. Panties and bras and skirts and blouses and dresses were flying in the air and being grabbed by some woman. Then all the women left the room, followed by the men. Only Tim and I were left.
It was a gruesome job. But ten minutes later we had the body clothed. It was beginning to stiffen.
"We've got to hurry," Tim said. "We want the body back in the same position we found it."
A few minutes later we back away and Tim looked down at the body. He nodded.
"Isn't it possible for the doctor to set the time of death?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Well, we've wasted a half-hour now. It'll be another hour or more before the doctor can get out here."
"We'll just say we had a long movie," Tim said.
Tim went to the doorway and into the kitchen. Pete was building drinks for everyone. They were gulping them down and asking for refills.
"Now don't get drunk," Tim warned. "That's the worst possible thing. So shut down the bar, Pete. Get out the coffeepot. We've got to have everybody sober. Where's the phone?"
Pete pointed. "Over there on the wall. There's another one in the last bedroom."
"This will do," Tim said. "Where's the directory?"
"There on the counter somewhere," Pete told him.
Tim went to the counter and found the directory. He dialed. He apparently was talking to the doctor. He finally hung up and turned around.
"Where's Dick?" Tim asked. "Around here somewhere," Pete said. "Then find him," Tim said.
He came over to the butcher block. "I'D have one and only one," he told Pete. He looked at me. "Want one?" I nodded.
Pete fixed two drinks for us. He handed them to Tim and me.
"Put on the coffeepot, Delia," Pete said.
Delia was a slat-thin brunette with a pug nose. I hadn't even noticed her before. But she filled the coffeepot and put it on the range'.
"Will you get me a sheet, Delia?" Tim asked.
Delia nodded and went down the hall. She soon came back and handed Tim a sheet. I trailed Tim into the living room and he covered the body. Then Tim got a cigarette going for both of us. He stood there staring out the front window, dragging on his cigarette, and sipping his drink. We were alone in the room.
"What do you think?" I asked. "Was she murdered?"
"Who knows? I saw a guy with his face screwed up like that after dying of a heart attack."
"I wonder where Dick Padgett is," I said.
"Good question," Tim said. "Let's go look for him."
We scouted the house. He wasn't there. We returned to the kitchen.
"What kind of a car or truck does Dick drive?" Tim asked Pete.
"An old blue pickup." He went to the window and leaned out. "It's gone."
"Goddamn him," Tim said. "Why did he shove off like that? I'm going after him."
Tim strode through the living room and out the front door. I was at his heels.
"Want me to go along?" I asked.
"Yes. It'll be more pleasant for you."
We climbed into his convertible. Tim gunned it out of the lot and up the hill. He was grim and silent. He was staring straight ahead and fighting the curves. So I retreated back into my corner of the seat and stayed clammed.
When we hit the top of the hill and the main road, Tim turned right, away from town. The big car roared down the grade, stood on its nose, and skidded around every curve. I was scared. So I finally said, "Perhaps he didn't go home."
Tim nodded and said nothing. His jaw jutted forward. His eyes were brooding. I didn't like to see him that way.
The road finally leveled off and ran straight as a ribbon. Tim shoved his foot to the floor. The car roared and everything around us was a blur. He suddenly hit the brake and the tires screamed. He leaned on the wheel and the car jolted over a bumpy road. He was forced to go slower now.
The road turned left and down a slight hill. Ahead was a ramshackle house. Beside it was a blue pickup.
Tim stopped near the truck. "Stay here," he said.
Tim started toward the house. A rifle cracked. Tim ducked. He ran and crouched behind the pickup.
"What's the matter with you, Dick?" Tim yelled.
"You ain't goin' to take me in," Dick called.
"Nobody's trying to take you in," Tim said. "You're her husband. You're the only one with authority to call anyone. And if you didn't kill her, what are you scared of?"
"Everyone will say I killed her," Dick said. "Everyone knows we haven't gotten along. Everyone knows she was threatenin' to leave me."
"So what? Let people talk. I'm an attorney. I deal with facts, not with rumors. If you say you didn't kill her, I believe you. It won't cost you a cent and I'll be your attorney."
"Do you really mean that?"
"Sure," Tim said. "Put down that rifle and come on out. Doc Crocker says for you to call a mortuary in Broken Tree. They'll call him. He'll examine the body."
There was a long silence. There was only the wind rustling the trees to break the stillness.
Dick finally appeared in the doorway. Tim stayed down behind the truck.
"If you've got a revolver on you," Tim said, "forget it. You say you have not committed murder. So you're in the clear. But if you kill both of us, you'll really go to the gas chamber. So be smart and get smart."
Dick hesitated for a moment. Then he pulled a revolver from his trouser pocket.
I shuddered. Tim was smart. If Tim hadn't said that, we both might have been dead.
Dick turned and tossed the revolver back into the house. Then he came on out to the pickup. Tim stood up.
"What mortuary do you want?" Tim asked.
"I don't know. I ain't got no money to bury her."
"Don't worry about that now," Tim said. "We used to hunt rabbits with Fred Newhall. I hear he's now running the family funeral home. Want to call him?"
Dick nodded.
"Okay," Tim said, "get in your truck and head back up to Pete's. We'll tail you. We'll call from there."
Dick climbed into his truck and started it. The truck bounced around in a wide arc and headed back up the hill. We followed. But we went back much slower than we had come down.
Dick stopped his truck near Pete's house. He climbed out as we parked.
Tim got out and went over to Dick. "Now say nothing in there. It's none of their business why you left."
Dick nodded and started for the door. We followed him inside.
The living room was deserted. Everybody was crowded into the kitchen or standing around in the hall.
Tim went to the counter and picked up the directory again. He turned and dialed. He soon hung up.
"Okay," Tim called, "let's go back into the living room. I want to talk to all of you."
They slowly filed into the living room. They were certainly a somber quiet bunch.
"Okay, now, listen to me," Tim said, standing in the middle of the room. "I'm willing to be attorney for all of you. But each of you will have to do as I say. If you don't I don't represent you. Is that clear?"
Everybody nodded.
"Okay. First of all, you go ahead and act perfectly natural and follow your usual routine. Tomorrow's Sunday. If you usually go to church, to to church. If you don't go to church, then don't show up in church. If you usually go fishing on Sunday, go fishing. See what I mean?"
Again everybody nodded.
"And the same goes for Monday," Tim went on. "If you have to go into Broken Tree for something, go into Broken Tree. Be natural. But for Crysake, don't any of you suddenly take off for L.A. or San Francisco. That's the worst goddamn thing you could do. Are any of you planning on such a trip next week?"
Everybody shook their heads.
"Okay. It's settled. Go about your business, but don't take off. And that goes for you, too, Dick. I know you're broken up. But we've all got to be handy, in case it was not a natural death. Now if the cops try to talk to you, tell them you're saying nothing unless I am with you. It's now the law that staying silent is not an admission of guilt. Oh, I know they'll try to bully you around. But just get on the phone to me. My phone is to be installed Monday morning. But you can always call Sy Perkins. He or his wife are always home. They'll get hold of me. Is all this clear?"
Everybody nodded again.
"Okay," Tim said. "Now everybody except Dick and Pete and Delia get out of here. Connie and I will stay with you, too, Dick. It's okay for you to act broken up over Millie. That's normal. But don't any of you start saying that you think she was poisoned. You have no reason to think that. Got it?"
Again they nodded.
They all trooped out the door. They didn't even take the time to tell Pete and Delia that they had had a good time. But, under the circumstances, that was natural.
The cars in the yard whirred and roared. One by one they wheeled around and started up the hill. The yard was soon empty, except for Dick's pickup and Tim's car and two that belonged to Pete.
Pete put away the movie projector and the screen. He and Delia began to tidy up the house. Nobody said anything.
Tim was sitting in a big chair, chain smoking, and staring straight ahead. I didn't bother him.
It seemed like a century, but it was probably only an hour or so, before the hearse arrived.
A big broad-shouldered guy with blonde curls came to the door, followed by a short stocky man with a black crew cut.
Pete went to the door. "Hi, Fred," Pete said. "Come on in."
He shoved the screen open. The two men came in. Tim got up and came over.
"Hi, Fred," Tim said. They shook hands. "What happened?" Fred asked. Tim told him.
Fred frowned and lit a cigarette. "You mean you found her there on the floor like that after the movie?"
"Yes," Tim said.
Fred turned to the shorter man. "Will you wait in the hearse, Tom?"
The shorter man nodded and went out the door. We stood there watching him go and climb into the hearse.
Fred turned back. "Okay. Now what was going on? Swapping?"
Pete and Tim nodded.
"Just like when we were in high school," Pete said.
"Yeah. I wish I could get away long enough to join you sometime. Ten years in the same hole is too long. I need some strange stuff, too. But now go on. Was it a French movie?"
Pete nodded. "And when it was over, we found Millie lying there on the floor."
Fred went over, squatted down, and pulled back the sheet. He stared at the contorted face. "She was in agony when she died."
"Yeah," Pete said.
Fred stood up. "Could she have been poisoned?"
"I doubt it," Tim said. "Hell, why would you think that?"
Fred shrugged. "Look at that face."
"Yeah," Tim agreed. "But I saw one like that after a heart attack."
Fred nodded. "Could be. But I'll have to get hold of the coroner."
"Doc Crocker said for you to call him as soon as you got the body back to town." Fred frowned. "Why?"
"Because he's been treating Millie."
"What for?"
"Dick says for depression," Tim said.
"Was she acting strange this afternoon?" Fred asked.
"She was withdrawn," Tim said. "But I wouldn't say that she was acting strange. She just stayed to herself in the corner."
"Did she join in?" Fred asked.
"Yes. One go-round," Tim told him. "Then she went back to her corner."
"I think I'd better call the coroner " Fred said....
"You call Doc Crocker," Tim said. "Leave Carl Reiner out of this. You know what a sonofabitch he is. If it's poison, Doc Crocker will know it. But I don't trust Carl."
"Okay," Fred said. "I'll play it your way."
"It's perfectly legal," Tim told him. "Doc Crocker is the family physician. He was treating her. Why shouldn't he be called in? But if you get any static, call Sy Perkins. He'll get hold of me. I'll straighten it out."
"You mean you'll take the heat?" Fred asked.
"Right. There's no reason to call in the coroner. Not unless Doc Crocker thinks something was wrong."
Fred nodded and went to the door. He whistled. The other man climbed out of the hearse and came in.
"Come on," Tim said, heading into the kitchen.
We followed him.
"Let's have a drink apiece," Tim said. "We need it."
Pete built the drinks and we stood there sipping them. Fred came to the doorway.
"Will you come down in the morning, Dick?" Fred asked.
Dick nodded. But he said nothing.
Fred turned and disappeared. We heard the screen slam. We went back into the living room. We saw the hearse pulling away.
"I think we'd better be going, too," Tim said, taking my arm.
I nodded and we started for the door.
Tim turned. "Now don't put on an act, Dick. If you and Millie had trouble and she was going to leave you, and you didn't care, then don't put on an act that you're sorry she's dead. By that I don't mean jump up and down for joy. But act natural about it. If everybody knows you didn't give a damn for Millie, don't try to put on a show now."
Dick nodded. "Millie and I had our fights. But, believe me, I'm sorry she's dead."
"That's the ticket," Tim said. "Be sincere. Play it square.
Don't play it phony?' He turned to Pete and Delia. "Thanks for having us down. I'm sorry it turned out this way."
"We are, too," Delia said. "I wonder now if we'll ever get together again."
"Oh, sure we will," Pete said. "But it may be a month or so."
Tim waved and I followed him out the door and to the car. He helped me in, then gunned it out of the lot.
We climbed up the grade in silence. His face was still grim and brooding. I left him alone with his thoughts.
"Fred's in a tight spot," Tim finally said. "If Doc Crocker finds poison, Carl Reiner will raise hell with him for not telling him first."
I let it hang. He suddenly shoved his foot to the floor.
"Want to go to Broken Tree with me?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "I always like to go where the action is."
He nodded. "We'll probably see plenty of action."
At the top of the grade he turned left and we rolled down Main Street. He wheeled into the filling station. Sy came out.
Tim climbed out. "Hi," he greeted. "Fill it up. I've got to go to Broken Tree." Sy frowned. "What for?" Tim told him.
"Do you think she was poisoned?" Sy asked. "Who knows?" Tim said. "It could have been a natural death."
Sy shook his head. "I don't think so. They haven't been gettin' along."
"Dick says Doc Crocker was treating her for depression."
Sy nodded. "She's been threatenin' to kill herself for a long time now."
"Then if it was poison," Tim said, "it could have been suicide. But she had no purse. I found no bottle in her pocket. I didn't find any bottle anywhere around."
"Maybe itwas a powder," Sy said. "If she was determined to die, she could've chewed up the paper envelope."
Tim nodded. "There'll have to be an autopsy. We won't know until then. But I don't trust Carl Reiner down there."
"Me neither," Sy said. "I think you're smart in going down." Sy looked at me. "Are you going, too?"
"Yes," I said. "I don't want to go over there and sit all alone."
"Don't blame you," Sy said. "Especially the way the town is now. Some are for you, and some are against you. I'm doin' all I can for you."
"Thanks," I said.
Tim slid under the wheel and started the motor. We glided away from the pumps. Then we headed down the other side.
Again Tim drove silently and his face was once more grim. I knew he was trying to figure every angle.
Once more he shoved the car down the grade, standing it on its nose, and ripping it around each curve. I hung on, hoping we wouldn't land in a canyon.
We screeched around a hairpin turn. The hearse was pulled off to the right, damn near scraping the rock wall that went straight up. A police car teetered on the brink, headed uphill, with its left wheels on the road. There was barely ten feet between the police car and the hearse. Two cops and Fred were standing just behind the hearse.
There was nothing to do but go through. Tim gripped the wheel and he leaned forward. Metal clinked as we went through.
"That will be a ticket for you," I said, as Tim fought the car around a curve.
Tim nodded but said nothing. He hit the brake. He wheeled into a side road. He got turned around and headed back up the hill. He parked behind the police car.
The cops came over. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" the taller cop asked.
"To Broken Tree. Why did you stop that hearse?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'm an attorney," Tim said. "Hey, Fred, what's the problem?"
Fred came over. "Somebody must have called in. These cops want to take charge of the body."