Bill Crider - Too Late to Die

“You never drove,” Rhodes said softly, “but you walked. People in town know, Hod. I think your wife knows, too.”

Barrett leaned tensely forward and whipped his fists out of his pockets, waving them futilely in the dim light of the storeroom. Rhodes wondered just how much damage those fists could do to a woman if Barrett were angry enough to attack her.

“I didn’t tell her, Hod,” Rhodes said. “I don’t think anyone told her. Women just know things like that.”

Barrett sat down abruptly on a case of canned pineapple chunks. “You don’t know what it’s like, Sheriff,” he said in a strangely subdued voice. He hung his head and looked at the grimy, cracked concrete floor, worn smooth and black with the years of boxes being piled and moved and slid across it. Somewhere above, a fly buzzed as it looked for a way out.

“I haven’t slept with my wife for three years,” Barrett said. “I’m not sure what the problem is; she’s not the kind of woman you can talk to about things. I sort of tried, at first. I even tried to get her to go to that new woman’s doctor over in Clearview. It didn’t do any good.”

Rhodes said nothing. Barrett clasped his hands and studied them intently. The buzzing of the fly died away as it found a crack in the wall.

After a minute Barrett went on. “Jeanne Clinton came to the store a lot, she was friendly. You know. Not flirting, just friendly. I liked her, and she liked me too, I think. Anyway, it had gotten so that I was taking a walk at night, just to get out of the house. One night I saw the Clintons’ light on.”

“You mean you saw Jeanne’s light on,” Rhodes said. “You knew that Elmer worked at night.”

“This wasn’t that late,” Barrett said. “Elmer was still there. I just went up to the door and knocked. They invited me in and we talked a while. Harmless talk.” He paused again.

“And that’s all there was to it?” Rhodes said.

“Naw, that’s not all. That was all at first, but then I got to waiting a little later to take my walk. After Elmer had gone.”

“How long had this been going on?”

“A few months, that’s all.” Barrett’s voice began to regain its vehemence. “But there was nothing shameful about what I did there, Sheriff. Jeanne Clinton was a fine girl, not the kind to do anything wrong. Sure, she let me in after her husband had left, but all we ever did was talk. She had a way of talking that made me forget what was wrong at home; she made me laugh.”

Rhodes was skeptical. “Did Elmer know you were visiting over there after he went to work?”

“Probably not,” Barrett said, quiet again. “We weren’t doin’ anything wrong, but he might not have understood that. There was no harm in him not knowing.”

Rhodes had several doubts about that, but he had another question to ask. “How about the night she was killed, Hod?”

“I swear to God, Sheriff, I had nothing to do with that! I’ve told you the truth. Surely you couldn’t believe that I. .”

“I’m not saying what I believe or don’t believe, Hod. What I want you to tell me is if you were over at the Clintons’ house the night she was killed.”

Barrett’s answer was interrupted by a voice calling from the main part of the store. “Hod! You better get out here. You got customers climbin’ the walls! Some of ‘em want to check out!”

Rhodes walked around the toilet tissue boxes and stuck his head out the storeroom door. “He’ll be out in just a minute, folks. Hod’s store got robbed the other night, and I have to conduct an investigation.”‘ He went back to where Barrett sat on the pineapple.

“Well, Hod?”

Barrett nodded wearily. “Yeah, Sheriff. Yeah. I was there.”

He’d gone over about twelve-thirty, maybe a little earlier, made the usual jokes with Jeanne about his insomnia (the reason he gave for being out walking so late; he’d never told the real one), had a soft drink, and walked back home.

“That’s all it was, Sheriff. That’s all it ever amounted to. We’d just talk, have a Coke, and I’d go home. I never laid a hand on her, never.”

“And your wife knew about-this?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been sleeping in the spare bedroom for so long, I don’t even know if she was awake. She goes to bed and reads her Bible and turns off the light pretty early. I think she’s been asleep when I’ve left the house.”

Rhodes thought for a minute. “All right, Hod. You go on out there and wait on your customers. I haven’t got any reason to hold you now. Just don’t think about making any trips to Mexico in the near future.”

Barrett got up and started out of the storeroom. “I’m not going anywhere, Sheriff. But I didn’t kill Jeanne. And I didn’t rob my own store. You forget that there was more than one crime here in Thurston that night?”

“No, Hod, I haven’t forgotten. And if you’re thinking that there might be a connection between them, you may be thinking right. We’ll see. I may be slow, but I usually get the job done.”

Barrett had recovered some of his antagonism. “Save that for the campaign speeches,” he said. “I go by results, myself.”

So do I , thought Rhodes, so do I. I just wish I had some .

It was shortly after noon when Rhodes got back to Clearview, so he drove by his house for a sandwich and a glass of milk. Attached to the door of the refrigerator by a magnet that looked something like a pregnant ladybug with red wings and a black head was a note from Kathy, written in her precisely formed characters:

“ Ivy Daniels called this morning before I left for school. She wants you to call her back when you get a chance. She didn’t leave any other message. Think she wants a date? ”

There was a phone number at the end.

Rhodes smiled at his daughter’s question. It was hardly likely that Ivy Daniels wanted a date with him. She probably had a busy enough social life without having to look for men on her own.

He wondered what she did want, though. Maybe it had something to do with what had happened at Milsby last night.

Rhodes opened the refrigerator and got out a plastic jug of low-fat milk, a package of thin-sliced bologna, and a jar of Gulden’s mustard. He’d hoped for a slice of cheese, but there was none in the usual spot. Kathy had forgotten to buy it. He made a sandwich with whole wheat bread and poured a tall glass of the milk.

After he ate, he would call Ivy Daniels.

After Ivy Daniels’s husband had died in an automobile accident in another state, she’d immediately found a job. The husband had been a salesman of farm implements, had earned a good salary, and had been well insured; but Ivy was not the type of woman to sit around the house and live off insurance payments. She had an active mind and wanted to feel useful, which was also why she was running for justice of the peace.

Finding a job had been easy. She had happened to remark to Stan Pence, the owner of the independent insurance agency who had handled her husband’s policies, that she would like to go to work. Pence, who had been looking for a second secretary, hired her virtually on the spot. Ivy had been working for Pence for three years, and he secretly hoped that she would lose her political race. He would have a very hard time finding someone to replace her, because her efficiency and quick intelligence had made her almost indispensable to his office.

The office was where Rhodes reached her after he finished his lunchtime sandwich. “My daughter left a note asking me to call,” he explained after the first secretary had put him through to Ivy.

“Yes,” she said. “I. . I don’t really know how to put this, Sheriff, but it’s related to what happened at the forum last night.”