James Henderson: Family Thang

“Well?” Leonard signaled by raising an eyebrow.

“You have any idea why anyone would want to harm your father?” Leonard shook his head. “Let me rephrase that. Who do you think poisoned your father?”

Leonard let out a nervous laugh. Who’s the detective here? “You’re asking me? I don’t have a clue.” Then he remembered: “The damn money!” he said to himself.

Sheriff Bledsoe sat up straight. “Excuse me? I didn’t catch that.”

“The money.”

“What money?” Sheriff Bledsoe picked up one of the coffee cups, flipped the lid with a thumb, put the cup to his mouth, stopped and put the cup down. “What money?”

“Daddy worked at Hillard Catfish Farm forty-three years, started when Robert Earl was a baby. He invested his money in the company’s stock, accruing a rather hefty sum, most of which he put in his will. Daddy was parsimonious, extremely stingy. When we were kids Daddy didn’t give us money, he loaned us money and we had to pay—”

“How much?”

“—him back with interest. Thirty percent. He charged a penalty if—”

“How much?”

“—we didn’t pay him back on time. Why I was shocked when I heard Daddy had willed his money to his family.”

“How much?”

A thin smile played on Leonard’s lips. “One-point-three million dollars.”

Sheriff Bledsoe whistled. “Everyone in your family knows about this?”

“I’m afraid so. Mother told Robert Earl, the mouth of the south, about the money. Mother telling him was her way of ensuring all her children got the news. He called me at three in the morning and told me.”

“Has the family received this money yet?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure how it works. I guess the money won’t be doled out until we find out who murdered Daddy.”

Sheriff Bledsoe shook his head. “You’re thinking insurance money. As long as your father was of sound mind when he made out his will and had three witnesses, he determines the whenever and to whomever his estate is to be issued. Who’s the executor of your father’s will?”

“I don’t know.”

“The name of the beneficiaries?”

“Mother, Ruth Ann, Shirley, Robert Earl and me.”

“Have you seen the will?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Hmmm. Do you often fly home for family barbecues?”

“No. The barbecue was planned as an early celebration of my parent’s golden wedding anniversary. Shirley and Ruth Ann scheduled it to accommodate my vacation week.”

“I see. Anyone you know, friend or family member, who held a grudge against your father?”

Leonard stared at the floor, concentrating. “Daddy aggravated people. Snide comments, name-calling, insults. He’d raise holy hell if you didn’t pay his money back. If he borrowed from you, he got amnesia, then got testy if you insisted reciprocation. One time Daddy took a rather nasty whooping over an unpaid debt.”

“From who?”

“Joe Hill. A long time ago, and after Joe whooped Daddy, Mother paid him. I doubt Joe still holding a grudge.”

“You sure it was Joe? I know Joe, he’s not the fighting type.”

“Borrow thirty dollars from Joe and don’t pay him back, then tell me what he won’t do. I was there when he ran to the house, smoke blowing out his nostrils.”

“Joe Hill whooped your daddy at your daddy’s house?”

“Not inside the house. When I yelled, ‘Joe’s coming,’ Daddy ran out the back door. Joe caught him in the backyard.”

“Anyone else whom your father disagreed over money.”

“There was a tiff between Daddy and Robert Earl, but Daddy didn’t owe Robert Earl money.”

“A tiff? A disagreement or a fight?”

“I wasn’t there. Shirley told me about it. According to her, Robert Earl went to Daddy and asked for an advance on his share of the money, fifty thousand dollars, if I’m not mistaken. Daddy, as usual, feigned amnesia, told Robert Earl he’d lost his one and only marble. Robert Earl called Daddy a tightwad. They pushed and shoved each other, but it didn’t get dirty.”

“Sounds to me Robert Earl needs money in a bad way. He’s having financial problems?”

“No more than anyone else. You see, Robert Earl dreams of opening a combination snake farm and gas station.”

Sheriff Bledsoe arched an eyebrow. “Snakes?”

“I’m afraid so,” wondering if Sheriff Bledsoe thought his entire family was insane.

“Here in Dawson?”

“Yes.” Leonard sighed. “Right here. Robert Earl stopped at a gas station displaying snakes when he was in Arizona. It definitely made an impression on him; he’s been talking about it for years.”

“Has Robert Earl—”

Leonard cut him short. “Robert Earl is not a murderer. He’s a snake lover, a blowhard, a coward, a nut—he’s not a murderer. He’s also a homophobe, though I’m sure you wouldn’t hold that against him.”

Sheriff Bledsoe ignored the slight. “I didn’t say he was a murderer. Money brings out the worst in people, good and bad people.” He paused and looked Leonard straight in the eye. “I have to ask you this. Did you murder your father?”

“I said it once and I’ll say it again. I did not murder my father.”

“You willing to take a polygraph?”

“Yes,” Leonard snapped. “Day or night.”

“When were you planning to return to Chicago?”

“Today, just as soon as I leave here.”

Sheriff Bledsoe shook his head. “Uh-uh. I prefer you didn’t, not until we clear this up.”

“I can’t stay!” Leonard said, raising his voice. “I have a job, a life, in Chicago.”

“Your father was murdered during a family gathering. And not only were you there, you threatened him.”

“I didn’t threaten him. Who said I threatened him? Who?” He waited… Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond. “No way can you construe what I told my father as a threat. Please! I just told you we, Victor and myself, arrived late. Everybody knows that. This is a waste of time!”

“I’ve got plenty of time, Mr. Harris.” Leonard stood abruptly. “If you leave town prematurely, Mr. Harris, I will issue a warrant for your arrest.”

Leonard stared at him. He wanted to say high cholesterol makes rational thinking difficult, doesn’t it? Instead: “This is ridiculous!”

“Maybe so. Here in the country we treat murder seriously.”

“How long will it take you to complete your investigation?”

Three creases appeared on Sheriff Bledsoe’s forehead. “Not too long,” he said, and Leonard detected a tinge of doubt.

“I heard a murder investigation runs cold if the perpetrator isn’t caught within the first forty-eight hours. My father’s murder is, what, four-days-old? You’re not sure how long this investigation will take, are you?”

Sheriff Bledsoe didn’t respond.

Leonard crossed his arms and scrunched up his nose. “I’ll stick around for as long as it takes. I’m not the litigious sort, but if I lose my job before you realize I did not murder my father… well, as the old saying goes—”

“I will see you in court,” Sheriff Bledsoe finished for him. “You’re free to go, Mr. Harris.”

Leonard walked to the door, opened it and then stopped. “Have you ever lost a family member to murder?” he asked. He didn’t wait for a response. “Words can’t describe it. Numb, anguish, pain—don’t even come close. Then to be suspected—”

A black truck drove by, a rebel flag in the back window. Leonard lost his train of thought. “Have a good day, Sheriff,” and stepped out into the afternoon’s heat.

Along Highway 10, two miles east of Dawson’s city limits, a mile or so short of a vacant lot where Robert Earl planned to build a gas station and exotic snake farm, stood the Blinky Motel. The only building before a ten-mile stretch to the next town, Hamburg, it lit up the sky for miles around.