The Genuine Article (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  “Grimsley, he blamed Breedtown. Yes?”

  “For cattle rustling. Yes, pretty much.”

  “And the killings, they come home, too, home to Breedtown.”

  Framboise shifted in his chair. “Make-believe,” he said. “Goddamn make-believe.” It took me an instant to realize something had got under his skin. Realizing it, I could imagine that his eyes smoked and that a rise of blood made his dark face even darker. “Make-believe Breedtown, it’s to blame. All the time blame damn Injun. Blame no-good breeds. White blood we got in us, most of us, but no. It’s Injun blood bad.”

  Charleston held up his hand. “Whoa, now, Louis! I don’t think that way. Neither does Jase. It might be someone at Breedtown. It might not. We have to start there, that’s all. It’s someone somewhere, and it’s our job to find him whatever his blood. Got that?”

  Pambrun’s gaze went to Framboise, then to Charleston. He said, “Yes. We are sorry.”

  “All right. That’s all, men. Thanks for your help.”

  On the way out, Framboise turned to me. “I didn’t mean you,” he said. “Pete and me sometime want to buy you a drink.”

  After they had gone, I said what I had been bursting to say. “Those red hairs! Two more. What do you make of them?”

  “If we went to the state lab,” Charleston told me, his speech and eyes thoughtful, “we’d have the state investigator on our necks.”

  It turned out we’d have him anyway, but now I said, “Why the state lab?”

  “Jase, I can’t tell. No equipment for it. But they might not be human hairs.”

  That night I dreamed about apes, great apes with long heels of hands that could crush a man’s skull at a blow. They were all red and all hairy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Mr. Jesus is here,” Halvor Amussen said, wagging his thumb toward the inner office. He stood by Jimmy’s chair and had come in to report, I supposed, before setting out to ensure peace and quiet.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy chimed in. “The second coming has done come about.”

  They both grinned, waiting for me to catch on. I already had, or felt sure I had.

  So, entering the inner office, I was prepared to see Cotton Mather, alias Inspector Gewald of the state attorney general’s office. I had made his acquaintance two summers before and knew him to be a stern man with no sympathy for any offenders of the least letter of the law. At that time it had been our work, not his, that exposed a murderer.

  He sat facing Charleston, his face somber and set. Charleston had just lighted his first cigar of the day. I knew it was the first because he didn’t allow himself one until his workday began.

  Charleston said, “You remember Inspector Gewald, Jase. He’s here to help us.”

  Gewald shook my hand, not getting up. He had a no-nonsense grip. “How do you do, young man?”

  I answered, all right, thinking I would be righter if he hadn’t shown up.

  “Glad you’re here, Jase,” Charleston said. “I was about to give Mr. Gewald a run-down on our crime wave.”

  “Just tell me what you can remember,” Gewald asked. “I can see your written reports later.” He eyed me. “I assume they’re complete and up to date.”

  “They are.”

  Charleston settled himself in his chair, took a puff on the cigar and told the story.

  When he was finished, Gewald asked, “That’s all, is it?”

  “My memory’s pretty good.”

  It hadn’t been, though. He had forgotten the red hairs. I interrupted, “But there’s—”

  Before I could say more, Charleston broke in. “Oh, yes. Perhaps I haven’t emphasized sufficiently the hatred that old Mrs. Gray Wolf seemed to have for Eagle Charlie.”

  I knew enough then to shut up.

  “I’m going to see those women,” Gewald told Charleston. “I’ll need your kid here.”

  “If you mean me,” I said, “forget it.”

  Charleston hid with his hand what I hoped was a grin.

  “Besides,” I went on, “it wouldn’t do any good. You can’t get anything out of those women today. They’re grieving. They’re preparing for a funeral. It wouldn’t be decent to break in on them now.”

  “Talkative,” Gewald said to Charleston.

  “When he needs to be.”

  “All right.” Gewald got up. “We’ll postpone that trip, waiting on the kid’s sense of decency. I suppose you won’t mind if I nose around some?”

  “Nose all you want,” Charleston replied. “Who am I to object?”

  Gewald went out, not answering, his hat set straight and tight on his head.

  It dodged into my mind as he closed the door that he was a solitary figure, a lonesome character, set as he was against all manner of human frailty. His rigidity set him apart from the common run, who needed some little margin for antics.

  Charleston said, “You were about to let the cat out of the bag, eh, Jase?”

  “About the red hairs, you mean? I thought you had forgotten.”

  “He’ll find mention of them if he ever reads your reports. Meantime, let’s keep our small secret.”

  “You’ve concluded the hairs are important, then?”

  For a reason unknown to me, unless it was that he didn’t want me too hot on a trail that might prove cold, he evaded my question. “What isn’t important?”

  I gave up on that subject. “What’s on my plate today?”

  “A break-in, for one thing. Roscoe Cromwell’s summer cabin up on the Rose River. He usually moves there in July. Guy Jamison took a sashay by there and reported by telephone. Kids, probably, and long gone, but we have to investigate.”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Then this afternoon you can relieve Jimmy again, or Halvor, if he wants some time off. Their shifts are too long. You know that. Any idea for an addition to the force?”

  “I’ve thought about Tad Frazier.”

  “Studebaker will howl his head off if we hire his bartender away, but sound Tad out, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “While you work, I plan to vegetate.” He opened a drawer and took out a book.

  I asked, “Vegetate or cogitate?”

  “College-man talk,” he answered with his good smile. “I’m empty, and they say that reading maketh a full man.” He let me see the title and author. I didn’t pay much attention. The book was about cowboys, and the author’s name was Ellison. I saw, too, the word “Mogollon.”

  “Back to the feud country, are you?” I said.

  “Kind of. And one book leads to another.”

  “And to Dave Becker?”

  “Who knows?” He leaned back and opened the book.

  Through the outside door I saw rain was beginning to fall, so I took a slicker off its hook and threw it in the office car.

  It turned out to be a sure-enough rain before I was long on the road. Good for crops—a dry June meant scanty harvests or no harvests at all—but not so good for deputy sheriffs. Yet I was pleased with it. A predictable climate was no climate for me. What if we were having a late spring or, rather, a late early summer? What if the pasque-flowers had come and gone? The gold of balsamroot was showing and the purple-blue of lupine, and other blooms would follow. The rain ensured that prediction.

  I drove up along the Rose and visited the cabin, the slicker draining off some of the rain. A side window had been broken and the sash lifted. I entered that way. Inside was, if not a shambles, then a mess, in the kitchen particularly. Boxes and cans, pots and pans had been taken from cabinets and shelves and thrown on the floor. But things of ready value, like binoculars and rifles, had been left hanging. Kids’ work, all right, and the kids were probably hunting for booze. Not knowing the inventory, I couldn’t tell whether any had been stolen. Fingerprints wouldn’t help me, or footprints, either. How check out every youngster in town or be sure local kids were involved?

  On a bench were a hammer, nails and a saw and, outside, some discarded planks. It might not h
ave been in the line of duty, but I boarded up the broken window, through which the rain had started to blow. Maybe the owner would thank the office for keeping out pack rats, water and dust.

  My work surely justified lunch on the house. I found crackers and a can of sardines.

  Not until early afternoon did I get to the Bar Star. It was a dull hour, and Tad Frazier had nothing to do except polish glasses he’d already polished. I told him there might be a job for him in the sheriff’s office.

  “How much?” he asked, looking interested.

  “You’ll have to talk to Sheriff Charleston about that. I’m not making an offer. It’s just a possibility.”

  “I’ll see him,” he said. “You know I couldn’t go to work right away. I’d want to give proper notice. I hope the sheriff will understand?”

  “He will. He’ll take due notice as a recommendation.”

  We had got that far, which was far enough, when Halvor Amussen came in. I asked him if he wanted relief.

  “That’s nice, Hawkshaw,” he said. “Maybe tonight. No, tomorrow night. This job gets in the way of my private business.”

  I knew he meant he had little time to court his true love.

  I drove to the office to relieve Jimmy. “Got his nose in a book,” Jimmy said with a glance toward the inner office. “Good thing the taxpayers don’t know how busy we are.”

  There were only three or four calls, none important. One was from the old lady who was always hearing hounds howl. Not so this time. A couple of them had got stuck in her front yard. She didn’t use those words, but that’s what she meant. I told her someone would be along within half an hour. I didn’t tell her that nature would remove the disgrace in the meantime.

  At five o’clock Jimmy and Inspector Gewald came in together. Gewald marched to the inner door and opened it without knocking. I followed him, hoping Charleston had put his book away. He had.

  “Well, Mr. Gewald,” Charleston said as Gewald took a chair, “I hope you found something to help us.”

  “Very little,” Gewald answered, holding his hat tight in his lap. “Nothing to do with the present case or, rather, cases.”

  “But?”

  “You are allowing a house of prostitution to operate.” The words came out as an indictment. He could be talking only about Jessie Lou.

  “Is that so? You have the evidence? Witnesses, including yourself? A base for a charge?”

  “Naturally not. A little vigilance would establish the fact. I said fact.” The fact revolted him. It made his mouth small.

  “We are involved in murders, Mr. Gewald.”

  “All crime is important.”

  Charleston bent forward over his desk, his expression humorless. “You are a member of the attorney general’s department. The house, if there is one, is the proper concern of the county attorney, you must know that much. See him.”

  “I’ll do just that, and tomorrow I’m going out to interview those two squaws.”

  “You might. I won’t,” I said. “Tomorrow’s the day of the funeral.”

  Charleston told him, “You’ll be on your own.”

  Gewald clamped on his hat, rose and marched out.

  I knew what Charleston was going to say before he said it. The word was “pisswillie.”

  Mother had fixed fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits and a salad that night. Her fried chicken was better than any other, home-done or commercial, and she considered it a disgrace if even one lump were found in her mashed potatoes.

  My father was in a good mood, partly from the food and partly, I imagined, because Brother Sam had folded his tent the week before. After eating, the three of us stayed in the kitchen and talked about this and that, including the fact that, from appearances, I might never have been clobbered by Luke McGluke.

  “You know,” I said during a pause, “I think I’d like to take some courses in criminology, if I can find any.”

  “And become a policeman?” Father asked.

  “A detective, maybe.”

  “Or a small-town sheriff?”

  “Not so much, but I wouldn’t mind being like Mr. Charleston. He’s more than a sheriff.”

  Father smiled his little, twisted smile of agreement. “He certainly is.”

  Mother said, “Whatever you do, you’ll be a good man, Jase. Mr. Charleston certainly is no bad example.”

  We left my suggestion there.

  Father went into the living room and found the book he had started. I helped Mother with the dishes and thought about refreshing my neglected knowledge of fingerprinting, but decided not to. We had no case that seemed to call for that skill. So I took a bath and changed clothes.

  At ten-thirty I was lounging in the neighborhood of the Commercial Cafe, trying not to be conspicuous while I waited for Jessie Lou to finish her shift. It had quit raining, and the air smelled of summer hope. I had to linger for half an hour.

  She didn’t see me at first or anything else but her shoes and the sidewalk. One step and another, leading to nowhere. She seemed startled when I said, “Jessie Lou.”

  She lifted a tired face. “Oh, hello, Jase.”

  “Do you mind if I walk you home?”

  “For what?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  She turned. “We’ll walk the other way, then.”

  Except for some voices sounding from the Bar Star, the street was silent. No one but us walked along it.

  After a while she said, “When you and the others were at lunch, I gave you a look. Did you know I wanted to see you?”

  “I guess maybe so, but the shoe’s on the other foot now.”

  “Meaning?”

  I plunged right in. “There’s a state snoop in town. He knows about you and your house. It’s none of his business, the damn buttinsky, but he’s out to get you.”

  “He’s been listening to ancient history.”

  It was my turn to ask what was meant.

  “I gave it up, Jase. I’ll keep slinging hash. I’ll sling hash the rest of my life.” There was such despair in her voice as to wring any man’s heart.

  So I was gruff. “Gave it up? Gave it up when?”

  “If you have to know, it was right after our date, if you want to call it that. No more, I said to myself.” Her words came slow, forlorn but somehow firm, as if she had had to pick one of two bad choices and had done so, knowing the cost. “No more it has been, and no more it will be. Not for money. Never again.” She looked up, and in the darkness I could see she was trying to smile. “That’s that.”

  “So you didn’t and don’t need my warning?”

  She didn’t answer, and we walked on, stepping slow. I heard her take a breath. She said, “But there’s still what I wanted to tell you about.”

  “Please do. What is it?”

  “Dave Becker.”

  “Becker? He’s out of town.”

  “He wasn’t. He followed me home last night and tried to force himself on me. I wouldn’t do it, Jase. Whatever I’ve been, I couldn’t bring myself to. That man! To go to bed with him? It would have been—well, I thought it would be like the touch of oysters on the skin.” She paused. “He roughed me up some, but he didn’t get what he wanted. I’m proud of that.”

  I said, “I’m proud of you, but I don’t see what I can do. I don’t see that it gets us anywhere much.”

  She went on in that small, sad voice. “But that’s not all. I’m not quite sure of what I’m going to say. I couldn’t really swear to it. But while he was arguing with me and mauling me, I got an idea. He didn’t say it in so many words, not out and out, but my idea was that he was trying to deal with Eagle Charlie so as to sleep with Rosa once in a while.”

  “All the same Grimsley?” I said. “Just what did he say?”

  “Jase, I was being shouted at and knocked around, and how can I remember exactly? I know he mentioned Eagle Charlie, and I know he mentioned Rosa, pitting her against me, I guess you could say. He was mad, and he didn’t talk t
oo much sense.”

  “If he did make a deal—”

  “But he didn’t. That’s the important thing. That’s what I gathered. That’s what made him sore, one of the things. Maybe Rosa objected. Maybe they couldn’t agree on a price. I think it was price. I know that Becker was damning Eagle Charlie to hell.”

  I said, “Oh, boy!”

  “Does it help? Tell me.”

  “Maybe more than you can imagine. Thanks isn’t a good-enough word.”

  “Then I’m glad.”

  “Now can I take you home?”

  “Just down to the crossing, Jase. No farther, please.”

  At the intersection I gave her a quick kiss and said, “Thanks, and be proud, Jessie Lou.”

  I watched the small figure retreat down the street. It looked lonely and friendless and without hope. A hasher, forever?

  What I had learned was too good to keep, I thought. The time was midnight, but still I called Charleston from our street telephone booth. He answered at once. The man might seem relaxed, but he never seemed sleepy.

  I told him what I had learned, not mentioning Jessie Lou by name. I heard the intake of his breath.

  He said, “Things move along, Jase, thanks to you and your secret operative. See you in the morning. It was your operative, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jase, you didn’t—?”

  “I did not.” I spoke with force, but ended on a fool note. “Besides, she’s not doing it anymore.”

  “Good boy,” Charleston said, “and good night.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charleston was on the phone when I pushed into the inner office the next morning. “Yes, Mrs. Lindstrom,” he was saying, “we’ll certainly try to find her. I’ll notify surrounding authorities and the newspaper. Two or three days, you say? If you could bring in a picture of your daughter, it would help. Her age? Yes, I have it. Sixteen.”

  He said to me as he put the phone back. “Missing girl, name of Linda Lindstrom, juvenile. Parents! They’re not even sure how long she’s been gone. How she was dressed.”

  He had hardly hung up when another call came, relayed through Jimmy. He listened, got up abruptly and said, “Come on. A bad wreck on the Titus road.”