Family Thang Page 15

  Sheriff Bledsoe shook his head.

  Robert Earl started to speak, but didn’t.

  Irritated, Sheriff Bledsoe said, “At this rate, Social Security will dry up. Robert Earl, why don’t you get to the heart of the matter, okay?”

  “We made a deal and I gave her the money upfront. Before she made good on her end she snuck off with my pants and wallet. I couldn’t get back on base without my ID card.”

  “So you caught up with her?”

  “Yeah, though it wasn’t as easy as it sounds.”

  “And you killed her?”

  Robert Earl started coughing and patted his own back. “I’m not sure I did or didn’t. I was drunk and very whizzed off. I mighta punched her a couple times. Her eyes weren’t open, but that don’t mean nothing. She mighta been faking.”

  “Was there blood?”

  Robert Earl nodded.

  “You can’t fake blood, Robert Earl. The Marines never said anything to you about this?”

  “Uh-uh. I got an Honorable Discharge, too.”

  “I can’t believe you did something like that,” Sheriff Bledsoe said, for lack of anything else to say. “I’m shocked. I just can’t believe you did something like that.”

  Robert Earl crossed his arms and rested his chin on his chest. Talking to the floor: “You think I’ll get the electric chair?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe studied the top of Robert Earl’s head, in search of a lobotomy scar. Nothing except a receding hairline and a bald spot in the middle. Robert Earl didn’t have enough lights on in his head to plot and execute his father’s murder.

  “Robert Earl, I’m going to do something I shouldn’t do. I’m going to give you a pass on this one. If I ever hear your name in trouble again, a misdemeanor or anything, you’re going to pay for old and new. Do you understand?”

  A tear dropped from Robert Earl’s face and landed in the top pocket of his overalls. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 22

  For the first time in months, perhaps years, Shirley felt light on her feet. A good thing, too, because the walk from her house to the jail was almost three miles. The sun, a white orb against a blue-and-white canvas, magnified heat on the back of her neck.

  A swarm of gnats hovered a few feet above her head, one occasionally breaking off to perform reconnaissance missions on her face and neck. Shirley waved them away and maintained her brisk pace, her open-toe sandals click-clocking on the hot asphalt.

  Cars and eighteen-wheelers zipped by in both directions; several drivers tapped their horn, yet no one stopped and offered her a ride. The sandals were a bad choice for a stroll to town.

  Shirley didn’t mind, her thoughts were elsewhere. She was in love, and the man whom she loved had gotten on his knees and asked her to marry him. She smiled to herself as she veered around an offal, a possum or a coon, buzzing with flies.

  Yes, Mr. Eric Barnes had asked her, Miss Shirley Harris, to marry him.

  She swatted a gnat on her neck and picked up her pace. Her life was moving forward. Finally, thank God. And if Sheriff Bledsoe would get off his butt and find out who murdered her father, she could start scratching off items on her wish list with the inheritance money.

  Eric and she would have a grand wedding, a spectacular wedding, with a band. She would buy Eric a new truck, maybe one that could be switched to a SUV. She would buy Paul a computer and new clothes. A new car for Mrs. Avery and an anonymous deposit in her savings account.

  She would treat her mother and Ruth Ann to a mall trip in Little Rock, buy them each new shoes and purses, or whatever they desired, then take them to the Loony Bin, a comedy club.

  Up ahead, a van was parked on the shoulder. A prison crew, eight men wearing striped orange-and-white jumpsuits, sat on the ground in the van’s shade. Shirley crossed over to the opposite side of the street.

  Passing the van she saw the officer sitting in the front seat, all the windows rolled up. She then realized that her navy blue culottes, decorated with red and white daisies, were drenched with sweat. She kept walking, her thoughts traveling to Red Lobster. She hadn’t been there in years.

  She’d order a Caesar salad with all the trimmings: American cheese, cottage cheese, cucumbers, tomato slices, bacon bits, fresh peaches, raisins, all under a pool of Ranch dressing.

  The town proper came into view. Three blocks of non-descript, flat roof brick buildings, circa Civil War, a few vacant, all in need of major restoration. Most were clothing and antique stores struggling to see financial daylight inside the far-reaching shadow of the Wal-Mart Super Center on the other side of town.

  Recent additions were a Subway restaurant, a Quik-Print and not one but three pay-day loan businesses.

  After the salad she would have a platter of shrimp scampi and a Maine lobster. For dessert she would have a cherry cheesecake. Man, did she love cherry cheesecake. Of course she wouldn’t eat the entire cheesecake in public, just half of it. The other half she’d take home for later.

  Nearing the jail she saw Robert Earl getting into his truck. She waved at him. “Hey, Robert Earl.”

  He responded by wriggling two fingers.

  “Robert Earl,” walking closer, “is something wrong?”

  Robert Earl shook his head and backed out of the parking space.

  “See ya,” Shirley said. “I guess it’s my turn for the third degree.”

  Robert Earl stopped the truck in the middle of the road and drove back into the parking space. “Shirley…”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t try to fool it, Shirley.”

  “Fool what?”

  “The lie-detector machine. The best thing to do, start off with the truth and stick to it. If you don’t you’ll regret it.” He backed up and squealed off.

  Shirley was confused when she stepped inside the jail, but the cool air quickly erased her thoughts.

  Sheriff Bledsoe was sitting behind a desk. He wasn’t what Shirley called handsome, though he wasn’t nauseous to look at. Though well past the overweight mark, he kept his afro, moustache, and beard neat and trimmed, his uniform clean and starched.

  “Kinda hot out there, ain’t it?” Sheriff Bledsoe said. “You can stand in front of the air conditioner if you like.”

  Shirley felt a pang of guilt for threatening him the other day. “No, thank you, Sheriff. I’d prefer to get this over as soon as possible.”

  “Well, let’s get started, Miss Harris.” He indicated a chair in front of his desk. Shirley sat down and peered around a funny-looking box at him. “Miss Harris, have you ever taken a polygraph test before?”

  “No, I sure haven’t.”

  “No problem. Let me explain how this works. The machine detects abnormalities in a person’s body when he or she responds falsely to a question. In laymen terms, it can detect when someone is telling a lie. Any questions?”

  “Where’s the machine?” Shirley said, looking around the room.

  Sheriff Bledsoe got up and tapped on the funny-looking box. “Right here. Now if you’d allow me to wrap this cord around your chest.” He picked up a Velcro-covered cord and approached her.

  She pushed his hands away. “What the hell is this?”

  “A polygraph machine… the old model.”

  “Like hell it is! This looks like something you made in your garage. What you trying to pull here, Ennis?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe opened his mouth and quickly closed it.

  Shirley squinted at him. “You hooked Robert Earl up to this crap, didn’t you?”

  “Well, uh, I, uh…”

  “The reason he left in such a huff. You hooked him up to this junk and he spilled his guts, didn’t he? Did he confess to a crime?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “He’s not in jail, so it was something he did a long time ago. Right?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe nodded.

  “You know what anusitis is, Ennis?”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s a thought disorder, delusions of intellectual superi
ority. Non-athletic white men with beer bellies are most susceptible to it. They can have a GED and still believe they’re ten times smarter than Obama.” Staring at the box: “How often you listen to Rush?”

  “I played football in high school. Offensive end.”

  “Practice. You’re talking about practice? Not once I saw you in a game.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe put a fist to his mouth and burped.

  Shirley lifted the box and looked underneath. “I don’t believe this shit here,” and let it drop to the desk with a resounding thud. “This is the wildest shit I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Sheriff Bledsoe patted his chest.

  “Ennis, you think my family are a bunch of imbeciles, don’t you? Does the mayor know you made this?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe flinched, but didn’t speak.

  “Maybe I should go talk to him. Is he in his office? Maybe I should go talk to those civil rights people over in Greenville. Or maybe I should tell my family to stop cooperating with you and hire a lawyer. I wonder what a lawyer would say about this.”

  “Shirley… Miss Harris, I apologize.”

  “Wow, golly gee whiz! How big of you!”

  “Look, I made a mistake. I apologize. The polygraph machine I needed to use is broke, so I tried this. I see now it was a terrible and silly mistake on my part. I wasn’t trying to outsmart anyone.”

  “Uh-huh,” Shirley snorted.

  “Honest. This is a heckuva case, Shirley, a heckuva case. To be honest with you, I’m getting nowhere with it.”

  “Who’s your main suspect?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Do you even have a main suspect?”

  “Yes, I do. In fact, I have more than one. The problem in a nutshell—too many main suspects.”

  “You can eliminate Momma and me.” He gave her a wary look. “Don’t look upside my head—I didn’t do it. The sooner you find out who did, the sooner I can collect my share of the money and get married. I’ve got a good idea who did it. I’d like to know who you think did it. Maybe you and I are on the same page.”

  “Who? Who do you think did it?”

  “First tell me who you think did it.”

  “C’mon, Shirley, this isn’t a game. This is a police investigation. I’ve said too much already. This is totally against police procedure.”

  Shirley pointed at the box. “Is this against police procedure?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe frowned, held her gaze for a moment, then blurted, “Eric Barnes.”

  “What about him?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe gave her a look.

  Shirley gasped. “What! Hell no! Why… why do you think Eric had something to do with it?”

  “He served your father his last meal, didn’t he?”

  “So what?” Shirley shouted. “So fucking what! Big damn deal! Just ’cause he—look here, Ennis, you got Eric dead wrong. Eric is not a killer!”

  “You sure about that?”

  “What kind of question is that? I tell you what, if you start harassing Eric, I’ll go to the mayor and tell him about you and your damn fake polygraph machine! I won’t sit by and watch you railroad Eric. He had nothing to gain from Daddy’s death. Nothing! You hear me? Nothing!”

  “You and him live together. Isn’t it reasonable to assume when you obtain your daddy’s money he would benefit?”

  “Yes, you’re right, but you’re damn wrong about Eric, Ennis. He has his problems, I can’t deny that. He’s not a murderer.”

  “He would, more than likely, also benefit from Ruth Ann.”

  “Ha! You kidding me? Ruth Ann won’t give her own flesh and blood a dime. What makes you think she’ll give Eric a slug nickel?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe rubbed his moustache with both hands. Shirley noticed his fingers were trembling.

  “Shirley, I shouldn’t be the one telling you this. Your sister and…” He drifted off.

  “What?”

  Sheriff Bledsoe shook his head.

  “Ennis, you do know everything you see on TV isn’t necessarily true. Homemade polygraph machines, rub-away weight loss ointments, gadgets from the Acme Supply Company. You can’t set your watch by those things in the real world, Ennis. Well, you can, but if you’re an elected official…” She paused and smiled at him. “You see where I’m going with this?”

  “Eric and Ruth Ann were having an affair.”

  Shirley jumped up and backhanded the box. It skidded across the floor and crashed into the wall—Kablam!—sending five boards and bulb shards in every direction.

  Sheriff Bledsoe stood up. “Hey, now!”

  “A damn lie!” Shirley hissed through clenched teeth. “A damn lie! Take it back! Take it back! Take it back now, fat ass!”

  Sheriff Bledsoe backed up a step, the wall at his back. “Shirley,” pointing a shaky finger at her, “you need to calm down and sit down. You just damaged government property, a felony offense!”

  “I don’t give a damn! You take back what you said!” Sheriff Bledsoe looked past her, and Shirley followed his gaze to a holstered gun on a hat rack. “You gotta get through me to get it!”

  “Yesterday I caught Eric sneaking behind Ruth Ann’s house. He was—”

  “Don’t mean a damn thing! You take back the mess you said about Eric and my sister!” She grabbed the chair with one hand and lifted it up. “Take it back!”

  “Check yourself,” raising his hands. “I’m trying to explain to you what—if you hit me with that chair, you’re going to jail!”

  “I don’t give a damn!”

  “Shirley, you’re bucking serious trouble here. You can’t threaten a sheriff.”

  The chair was getting heavy, but Shirley raised it higher. “You still haven’t taken back what you said about my sister. It’s a blatant lie, and you know it!”

  “They… they both admitted it, Shirley.”

  Shirley shouted, “A damn lie!” whirled like a javelin thrower and hurled the chair. It smashed into the wall, a foot below the ceiling, a foot above Sheriff Bledsoe’s head.

  He yelped and ran.

  A second or two, Shirley stood there, her entire body shaking… then crumbled to the floor. “It’s not true!” she sobbed. “It’s not true… it’s not true… it’s not true… it’s not true…” She lay there a long time, sobbing.

  “I’m sorry, Shirley,” Sheriff Bledsoe said.

  She had to collect herself somehow; she didn’t want to give Fat Ass the satisfaction of seeing her like this. She tried to get up but couldn’t get her limbs to cooperate. Her entire body felt numb. She grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands and, with great effort, pulled herself up.

  Unsteady on her feet—one wrong move in either direction she would topple—she combed back her hair with one hand and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her culottes with the other.

  “Are we finished here, Sheriff?” she muttered, dimly aware he held a gun.

  “Yes, Shirley. I’m sorry. You need me to give you a ride home?”

  “No, I don’t need a ride.” Her voice low and slurred. “I’ll see you later, Sheriff Barnes.” She staggered toward the door, almost tripping on a board in her path.

  An anguished moan escaped her lips, knees buckled but she maintained her balance. After opening the door she stood there a moment, leaning on the doorframe.

  “Ruth Ann,” and stumbled out onto the sidewalk.

  Chapter 23

  “Remember what I told you?” Eric asked his son, playing in the front yard with his friend. This was Eric’s third time sticking his head outside and asking the boy.

  “Yeah, Daddy,” Paul said. “I heard you the first time. When I see Momma, come tell you.”

  “The second you see her,” Eric emphasized. “Not a minute later. You got that?”

  Paul nodded. Eric looked down the dirt road that led to the highway. Shirley would have to walk down that road, unless someone gave her a ride. No matter how she returned home he needed to see her before she saw him.

&
nbsp; Inside he checked the back door to ensure it was unlocked. It was. If drama commenced he couldn’t afford precious seconds fumbling with the deadbolt.

  He then went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. Just the second he’d relaxed, a car horn blew out front. He jumped up and peeked out the bedroom window. Mr. Joyner across the street stepped out and got into a mini-bus.

  Again Eric leaned his head out the front door and looked down the dirt road. He waited for the dust stirred up by the mini-bus to settle. The road was empty. “Don’t forget!” he yelled at Paul and closed the door.

  Maybe I should move my ass now while the getting ghost is good.

  If Sheriff Bledsoe hadn’t told Shirley about Ruth Ann and him, he could always come back later.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Hell yeah!”

  If Sheriff Bledsoe had told Shirley, he’d already be down the road, well out of harm’s way.

  Since last night, after Shirley told him she was going in bright and early to take the polygraph test, he hadn’t had a moment’s rest.

  He’d had a vision—he thought it was a vision because he was wide awake—of Shirley choking him unconscious and setting him afire with gasoline.

  Immediately after, he got down on his knees and proposed to her. “Marry me, baby!” He then took her into the bedroom and gave her the premium package, which required two bottles of Karo syrup and three rolls of Saran Wrap, and had resulted in a very stiff neck and a numb jaw.

  With any other woman the premium package would have been more than enough to forgive him any transgression. With Shirley, however… the premium package might not mean shit!

  He sat down on the couch and stared at the television. A daytime talk show: a diminutive white woman, though physically restrained by two muscular bodyguards, was beating the hell out of a large, pot-bellied white man.

  “Damn this,” getting to his feet. “I’m getting the hell outta here!”

  As he was starting for the bedroom, to get his overnight bag, Paul stepped inside.

  “What?” Eric said.

  Paul shrugged and plopped down on the couch.

  “Boy, I really need you to stay outside, keep an eye out for your momma.”