around though, you’d see a deep little dent at each elbow.”
Dwight reached out and turned it.
I was right.
“Picture this hanging on a wall,” I told him, “with a three-foot oak dowel running through the sleeves to hold them out, and the dowel resting on two pegs. It would look like a cross, wouldn’t it?”
“Crimson as the blood of Christ,” he said. “Splashed with Janie Whitehead’s blood. Jesus! Was he crazy?”
“Define crazy,” I said, feeling infinitely weary. “Only north-northwest, probably. Every time I ever saw him, he could tell a hawk from a handsaw.”
Dwight smiled. “Tired?”
“A little. What time is it?” I looked at my watch. Not yet midnight. It felt much later. “I guess it’s too late to call Terry Wilson?”
He scowled.
“Don’t be like that,” I said. “You know you’re going to have to sooner or later. Scotty Underhill, too.”
“Yeah, I know. I guess I was thinking it might be nice to let the Vickerys get their son buried before we tell everybody he was a killer.” He went back to the table and sat down on the edge with his milkshake. “Still got a lot of unanswered questions. Who killed Michael? Why’d he bring the raincoat over here and hide it?”
“That wasn’t Michael, that was Denn.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because when I thought it was a tapestry panel missing, he very obligingly made up a dove and some lilies, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He held out his empty cup as I uncapped the chocolate milkshake Denn hadn’t touched. I poured him half and took the rest for myself. Most of the ice cream had melted, but it was still cool and sweet on the tongue.
“There must have been a spare key to Michael’s room, so when Denn called me, he knew he was going to bring the slicker as proof. And I bet he stopped off here first on his way to Raleigh because he wouldn’t have wanted his friend to see it.”
“Makes sense.” Dwight slurped his straw and tossed the cardboard cup into the wastebasket. “Three points,” he crowed, and I saw a lanky teenager in his grin.
“Two,” I said. “Your foot was inside the circle.”
He stood and stretched with his hands clasped over his head so that the thin fabric of his summer jacket tightened across his chest. Then he shook himself out and finished summing up.
“So Michael goes upstairs, suddenly realizes the thing’s missing. He can see his whole life hitting the fan. He might not know where Denn’s gone with his truck, but Cathy King’s told him where he’s going to be at nine o’clock. And who’s McCloy planning to meet? The same little ol’ busybody lawyer who’s been poking around about Janie Whitehead’s murder.”
“Michael lied to Denn about the mill, you know. Will and Seth did meet him at the end of the lane that morning.” I was suddenly sobered. “Was I a catalyst, Dwight? Did I cause somebody else to figure it out first and is that why Michael was killed?”
“You can’t start second-guessing everything you do, shug,” he said. “Anyhow, Janie’s got no brothers to avenge her and her daddy’s dead. ’Course Jed’s still living.”
And Will, I thought.
And who knew who else might’ve had reason?
“Doesn’t have to be a man,” I said. “There’s her sister, for instance.”
“Well, it sure enough doesn’t take much skill to hit somebody with a shotgun,” Dwight agreed.
“Chauvinist. A lot of women shoot as good as a man. You taking the slicker now?”
He nodded. I found a hanger for the red velvet cloak and he put it back on the top rack. Then we turned out the lights, he locked up, and we walked down the slope to my car. As he carefully laid the raincoat on the backseat, Dwight said, “I know you’re tired and it’s out of the way, but you reckon we could run by the Pot Shot a few minutes? I’d like to see where this was hanging and maybe get that dowel before it goes missing.”
“You sure it can’t wait till morning?” I grumbled. “I’m really not up to another session with Denn.”
Dwight undipped his walkie-talkie from his belt. “Well, I suppose I could call Jack to come back.”
“Oh, get in,” I said crossly. “You know good and well you’re not going to haul any baby birds out of bed when I’m here to cart you around.”
At that hour, most of Cotton Grove was sleeping and Front Street was deserted. We headed south on Forty- Eight, and in less than ten minutes, I was turning in at the Pot Shot sign, then through the narrow lane, past the shrubbery, and into the farmyard. Lily met us at the gate, barking loud enough to wake the dead.
Well, no, actually, it wasn’t quite that loud.
“Stop!” Dwight yelled, but I was already stomping on the brakes.
Denn lay right where he must have stepped out of the pickup. The door on the driver’s side was still open and the cab light was still on.
This time, the killer had aimed the shotgun at Denn’s chest.
Baby Bird got hauled out of bed after all.
So did Terry Wilson.
I didn’t get to go home till almost four.
27 i could be persuaded
Michael Vickery’s funeral was one of the largest ever held out at Sweetwater Missionary Baptist Church. They opened up the Sunday school classrooms on either side of the main auditorium and brought in extra chairs and still the church was too full to hold all who wanted to attend.
Those who couldn’t get in took up positions outside around the open grave, and Duck Aldcroft and his two sons had their hands full trying to keep reporters and television cameramen out of the way of the pallbearers. I later heard that he’d actually raised his voice at one point, but I put that down to sensationalism.
I didn’t go.
I didn’t go to Denn McCloy’s funeral either, mostly because it was a private ceremony held on Long Island. His next of kin was a brother up there, a claims investigator for a national insurance company, I believe; and as soon as Denn’s body was released by the medical examiner, it was shipped north.
After only an hour’s sleep, I got up again Wednesday morning, showered, and drove back to Cotton Grove. Jed had just put on a pot of coffee when I knocked on the kitchen door.
“Deborah?” Except for his jacket and tie, he was already dressed for work and he smelled of fresh aftershave. It was still Old Spice, after all these years. He looked rested and untroubled.
“Can I come in, Jed? I need to see you and Gayle.”
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
Gayle came down the hallway, sleepy eyed and still in her nightgown. “Hey, Deborah. What’s up?”
“I wanted to tell you about Denn McCloy before you read about it in the paper or see it on TV,” I said.
“What about him?” asked Jed as Gayle smothered a yawn with the back of her hand. Her brown hair was rumpled and her soft cheek still held the impression of her pillow.
“He was killed last night,” I said. “Shot. Just like Michael Vickery.”
Gayle’s brown eyes widened and she sat down on a stool at the breakfast counter. “Murdered?” Her small toes curled around the stool rungs.
“Who did it?” asked Jed.
“They don’t know yet. It only happened around midnight.” I glanced at the blue wall clock over the sink. “Six hours ago.”
“Sit down,” said Jed, pulling a chair out at the breakfast table. He poured me a cup of coffee and he remembered that I liked it black.
“You look like you had a rough night,” he said gently. “Were you there?”
“Not when it happened. A few minutes later.” The coffee was too hot to drink but I drank it anyhow. “There’s
