Sharyn McCrumb - Sick Of Shadows

“To his ex-wife’s trailer,” said Taylor promptly.

“Right. And when the statue of the pioneer is missing from the high school lawn, where do we look?”

“All over the grounds of Milton’s Forge High.”

“Right.” Rountree chuckled. “Remember the time we found him on the fifty-yard line? But this case is in a class by itself.”

“Looks like it’s going to take a while,” mused Clay.

“That reminds me,” said Wesley, lifting the telephone and extracting the phone book, which he kept underneath it for quick location. “You and I are going to be tied up and out of the office for most of the day tomorrow, so I’d better call Doris and tell her we need her here to keep the office open.”

“On Saturday?” Clay whistled. “Don’t hold the phone too close to your ear.”

“And I’ll call Hill-Bear Melkerson, while I’m at it,” said Rountree, ignoring Taylor’s last remark. “He can take the car out on patrol while you and I are conducting this investigation.” He was dialing the number as he talked. “Hello, let me speak to Hill-Bear. This is Sheriff Rountree calling,” he said into the phone.

When people heard the name Hill-Bear Melkerson, they usually expected to meet an American Indian, but this was not the case. Hill-Bear, a squat and solid Anglo-Saxon, had picked up the name in his French class at Chandler Grove High. He had previously been known by his given name, which was Hilbert. For seventeen years he had endured life as Hilbert, occasionally squashing adolescent comedians who teased him about it, but in high school French all that changed. On the first day, the teacher had assigned everyone French names: John became Jean and Mary, Marie. When she came to Hilbert, the teacher informed him that his name was already French, but that in class it would be pronounced “Hill-Bear.” Hilbert Melkerson had been so delighted with the sound of this sobriquet that he had insisted on being called that ever since. By that time, he was a 230-pound tackle on the Chandler Grove varsity squad, so he got his way. Hill-Bear he became.

“Hill-Bear, is that you?” Rountree cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder, while he scribbled on a notepad in front of him. “I’m fine; how ’bout yourself? That’s good. Listen, Hill-Bear, we’re gonna need you to work tomorrow if that don’t interfere with your plans too much. Oh, just regular patrol in the squad car. Doris will be here in the office, keeping an eye on things. No, I won’t be off. Fishing? I wish I was. No, I’m afraid something pretty serious has happened out at the Chandler place and Clay and I will be investigating. No, it wasn’t a break-in. Listen, Hill-Bear, I don’t want to be talking about this on the phone. When I see you tomorrow morning, I’ll fill you in. Okay. Around eight. All right. ’Bye now.”

“He’s coming in?” asked Clay.

“Oh, yeah. He’ll be here at eight.” Rountree flipped through the card file on a metal stand beside the phone. “Hill-Bear’s a good old boy. You can always count on him.”

Hill-Bear Melkerson was not a full-time employee of the sheriff’s department as Taylor was. He worked for Rountree part-time on an as-needed basis, when he wasn’t on his regular job at the paper mill in Milton’s Forge. He usually handled the parking at Chandler High football games or at the county fair, and filled in for Rountree or Taylor on their days off. He was good for New Year’s Eve road patrols, too. No one was ever drunk enough to argue with Hill-Bear.

“Guess I better call Doris,” Rountree groaned. “I sure do hate to ask her to come in tomorrow.”

“You can’t be that concerned about spoiling her weekend, Wes,” said Clay.

“No, the fact is I’m not,” Rountree admitted. “But if I ask her to come in, she’ll want to know why, and if I tell her, it’ll be all over the county by morning.”

Geoffrey had been cutting tuna fish sandwiches in resolute silence for several minutes. Elizabeth had not talked to him, partly because she was preoccupied and partly because she didn’t know what to say. Any expression of sympathy might provoke either tears or an outburst of mordant wit, neither of which she was prepared to deal with. She had confined her utterances to basics: pass the mayonnaise, is there more bread? The rest of her mind retraced the sequence of the day’s events and tried to make sense of them.

She stole a glance at Geoffrey, still working like an automaton on the pile of sandwiches. “Do you think this will be enough, Geoffrey?”

“What? Oh. I suppose so. I won’t be eating any. Are you hungry?”

“Just a little,” Elizabeth admitted. She was starving.

Geoffrey set the last sandwich precariously on the heap. “I guess we’re finished. I seem to have run out of things to do.”

“Geoffrey, listen, about Eileen-”

“I’ll just carry the tray into the library,” he said quickly. “Then I’m going to my room.”

Elizabeth put away the bread and mayonnaise, lingering over her self-appointed task of cleaning the kitchen. Mildred would take care of it tomorrow when she arrived. To hell with Mildred, Elizabeth thought, she needed something to do right then. She tried to decide why she was so reluctant to join the family in the study. Because I feel like an outsider, she thought. Geoffrey’s grief and the fierce restraint of the others made her awkward. She couldn’t pretend, but to exhibit a lack of bereavement within the family seemed unnecessarily rude. The best course would be to go to her room, but she needed to talk. She felt that if she could hear herself talk, things would sort themselves out. She rinsed the tuna fish bowl and washed the knives while she considered the matter further.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth picked up the yellow wall phone by the refrigerator. “Long distance, please.” Soon she was connected with the proper city.

“Hello, Brookwood Apartments? Are you the manager? I’m calling long distance. My brother is a tenant of yours. In Apartment 208, and he doesn’t have a phone, but there has been an emergency in the family. A death, in fact, and I must speak to him.”

Elizabeth paced the length of the phone cord while she waited for Bill to be fetched from his lair. If he didn’t feel like listening to her in the manager’s apartment, which was probable, maybe he could call her back from a pay phone. She decided that it would be very comforting to talk to Bill, as long as they got it straight right from the beginning that he was to listen to her as a brother, and not as a student of criminal law. I know I have the right to remain silent, she quipped to herself; I waive that right just now. She heard the phone being picked up.

“Hello?”

“Bill! I have to talk to you. It’s urgent. Don’t interrupt. Can you talk or shall I give you the number here? You can call me back collect, just-”

“Uh-Elizabeth? I’m sorry, but Bill isn’t here right now.”

“He isn’t? Who is this?”

“Milo.”

“Milo! Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m looking forward to meeting you.” Even in an emergency, we don’t forget our manners, Elizabeth thought grimly. “But listen, we have a sort of family emergency, and I really need to talk to Bill. Where is he?”

“What’s the matter? Where are you?”

He sounded quite concerned, as though he were ready to throw down the phone and come to her rescue. Elizabeth felt slightly better. “I’m all right,” she assured him. “I’m at Chandler Grove for my cousin’s wedding. At least, there was supposed to be a wedding, but she’s dead. The sheriff has been called in, and they’re investigating. They seem to think it was murder, but-” She was about to launch into the whole story, when she pictured Milo standing uncomfortably in a strange apartment, with the manager glaring at him. “I’m so sorry to be going on like this, Milo. I’ve never even met you.”