Christmas Mourning

of a woman who has always known that most men were enchanted by both her laughter and her tendency to “run on.”

Dwight glanced at Richards, expecting signs of impatience. Instead, Mayleen appeared to be fascinated by this preserved-in-amber example of pre-ERA femininity.

“You said you were on your way to get your hair done?” Dalton prompted.

“That’s right. Every Friday morning, as soon as I hear the bells of the little Methodist church down the road begin to chime the half hour, I know it’s time to leave for my standing appointment at eleven o’clock. They’re not real bells, of course, just a recording, and I don’t know that I’d like to live right next door to them, but it sounds so pretty from a distance. Anyhow, I was driving down Massengill Road at about a quarter to eleven when a car came whipping out of a driveway on my right. The trees and bushes are so thick there that he probably couldn’t see me, but I’m sure he never even slowed down to look. Just shot out and made a left-hand turn right in front of me. I was doing about fifty, and before I could put on my brakes I felt my car brush the rear end of his. Well, I immediately stopped, but he didn’t. I got out and looked at my front bumper. You could see where it was scraped, but it wasn’t enough to call it any real damage, and I must say I was relieved about that, because if he had stopped and we’d called the highway patrol to come out and take a look, I knew they would say it was my fault. After you pass seventy, they just assume your reflexes are poor and that any accident is always your fault. Down in Florida—”

Mayleen interrupted. “Excuse me, ma’am, but do you mind if I ask just how old you are?”

Mrs. Higgins cocked her head archly. “Oh now, honey, you know a lady never tells her age, but you lean your pretty little head a little closer and I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

The deputy did as she was instructed and her eyes widened in surprise at what she heard.

“So you see why I was just as happy not to have a trooper come out, although I do think that this was one time they would have taken the word of a somewhat older woman over some young man. I mean, I couldn’t have scraped his car if he wasn’t in my lane when I had the right-of-way, now could I?”

“No, ma’am. You say he was a young man? Black or white?”

“White, but I’m afraid that’s all I can say. It all happened so fast that I really didn’t have time to see him.”

“But you think he was a young man?” Dwight persisted.

“That was my impression. Not white-headed, anyhow, or bald. I would have noticed that.”

Dwight smiled, willing to accept that a woman who’d had four husbands would indeed have noticed. “What about the car itself, ma’am?”

“White,” she said promptly. “And either a Honda or a Toyota. Fairly new, too. Mine’s a silver Prius, and I looked at both makes very carefully when I was trying to decide which to buy last summer. My grandson thought the Prius would hold its value best, so that’s what I got. You menfolks always know about cars.”

“Two-door or four?”

“Four.”

“Did you notice what the driver was wearing?”

“I’m so sorry, honey, but I didn’t. Do you really think he’s the one who shot those two young men?”

“We won’t know until we find him,” Dwight told her. “But it certainly sounds as if he was there at the right time.”

They took her back over it again, and when it was clear that she could add nothing more, Percy Denning volunteered to drive her home and see if he could lift any paint samples from her bumper.

Dalton reported that someone on the other side of the woods from the Wentworth trailer told them that he’d heard four gunshots around ten-thirty or eleven, but he had not paid much attention. He assumed that Jason Wentworth was shooting at squirrels or rabbits again.

As Dalton swiveled around to his desk to begin writing up his report, Dwight paused and said, “So how old is Mrs. Higgins?”

Mayleen Richards grinned. “Would you believe ninety-two?”

*      *      *

Shaking his head, Dwight returned to his own office and tried calling Charlie Barefoot again. Again, he was shunted into voice mail.

3:30. A half hour till his shift was technically over. With everything quiet for the moment, he decided that he would drive back to Cotton Grove and see if he could get up with that evasive young man before going home to shower and shave for dinner out with Deborah that night.

Accordingly, he arrived at the modest home of Nelson and Edie Barefoot a few minutes past four. He found Mrs. Barefoot outside, busily plugging in the Christmas lights that dripped from the eaves and adorned the bushes along the porch. She was pleased to see him, “But Charlie’s not here right now, Dwight. He’s gone over to see Sarah about something. Can I give him a message?”

“That’s all right,” he told her. “I’ll catch up with him there.”

Built at the crest of an acre lot that sloped off to the rear, the Johnson house was an imposing brick two-story with the multilevel roofline, peaks, and dormers that had come to dominate the landscape these past few years. Tasteful evergreen wreaths tied with red velvet bows adorned every window. A circular concrete drive led to a lower three-car garage and side door before continuing up the slope to the front. An older-model white Hyundai was parked by the garage. Charlie Barefoot’s, Dwight assumed, and quite a contrast to the sporty red Miata that his sister had wrecked last week.

He slowed to a stop and, even though there was no reason to think that Charlie’d had anything to do with the Wentworth killings, he found himself automatically checking the left rear fender for a recent scrape. He did see a ding in the same approximate area as Mrs. Higgins had described, but even from several feet away, he realized that this one had a skin of rust that was too old to have formed since yesterday. He took his foot off the brake and continued on up the slope to the front door, where he got out and rang the bell.