Читать книгу Stony Mesa Sagas - Chip Ward - Страница 16

Chapter 9

Crazy Kitty heard about it at the post office. Bo Hineyman was murdered and Mayor Otis Dooley was the prime suspect. She knew it! Hadn’t she told everyone that Mayor Dooley worshipped Satan? Hadn’t she warned them? “What do you think he’s doing under your houses all day? Plumbing, right? Well, you can go on believing that but I know better. He drinks three six-packs a day. Get it, 666? And he takes pictures of birds with that huge lens he lugs around. Hangs out with those radicals who turned the Wheeler place into a bird sanctuary. You can find all about their kind on the Internet. No-people zones, that’s what they’re after. One of these days the buses will come—black ones—and then you’ll find out too late. They’re building secret prison camps in the mountains. Underground with UN guards at the gate, Kenyans and Muslims mostly.”

Kitty frowned and squinted as she muttered to herself. It was a loud simmering mutter that could easily escalate to a full-boil rant. Those waiting in line at the post office counter pretended they didn’t hear her and hoped she wouldn’t become even more agitated. The Stony Mesa post office was small enough without Kitty in it.

“Once they take all the guns away from us we don’t stand a chance! That’s why I keep mine in this big purse. People think I’m just carrying around my precious little pug, Hoover, but there’s a loaded 45 in there, too. One of those Satan lovers like Dooley tries any of that hocus-pocus bird stuff on me he better watch out!”

Right on cue, Hoover the pug barked twice and concluded his cameo with a low growl. Like his mistress, he would snap at you if you ventured too close. Perhaps riding in a bag with a loaded gun made him a tad nervous.

Elias Buchman tried to avoid Kitty, especially on days when some current event or imagined slight set off a mumbling rant, but this morning there was no avoiding her. He needed stamps and was waiting for a package to be weighed when she cornered him in the glorified closet that served as the Stony Mesa post office. As he walked out, she walked in and blocked his path. Known for her creative attire, Kitty was wearing a man’s suit jacket, a ruffled blouse, and a bow tie. A stained pair of gray sweat pants and red sneakers completed her ensemble.

“Excuse me, Kitty,” he said as politely as he could, “but I have to get going.”

“Oh sure,” she responded, “you’re one of those.”

“One of those what?”

She shook her head, smiled smugly and cast a disdainful look directly at his eyes. “Liberals!”

Elias had a theory. Pollution was a kind of information. Smog, acid rain, toxins in drinking water, pesticides on fruit, all spoke volumes about the way we regard life, the way we grow food and make things, our priorities, our mistakes, who has power and who is powerless. In an age of digital information overload where we are saturated with multiple stimulations, distractions, and feedback during all of our waking hours, noise had become the new pollution and paranoia was the new cancer.

“Turn off the Rush Limbaugh, Kitty, you’ll feel better.”

Elias was there to mail a jar of jam that Grace had made from plums she grew in their backyard. It was a birthday present for their daughter, who lived in Europe. It cost a fortune to send jam across the sea by mail but you couldn’t put a price on Grace’s jam.

Sheriff Dunk Taylor pulled up in his patrol car just as Elias escaped from Kitty through the post office door. He rolled down his window and leaned out.

“Elias, I hear you’re looking into the Hineyman thing. Is that so?”

“Otis is an old friend, Sheriff, and I’d like to help him. I can’t believe he did it.”

Although Dunk Taylor was a friendly neighbor, Elias had learned that most cops appreciated a respectful tone. The disrespect they got from car thieves, shoplifters, truants, assorted punks, wife-beaters, drunk drivers and their lawyers took its toll. Most cops imagined themselves as their favorite television characters and were deflated when they ended up writing speeding tickets to pregnant soccer moms. So Elias massaged Dunk’s battered self-image by calling him “Sheriff” often.

“I’d appreciate it if you share anything you learn. My guys are all tied up with that bass tournament at Jumpcut Reservoir this weekend and then the Boy Scout bike-a-thon comes through here on Wednesday. I’m so busy filling in gaps I don’t have time to do some background work on this Hineyman business.”

Good grief, thought Elias, that name is a problem. Doesn’t go well with anything.

“Sure, Sheriff. Is Otis still your only suspect?”

“Unless you convince me otherwise.”

“Just what I need,” muttered Elias to himself, “more pressure.” He remembered well how it used to be when he was working a story. Lots of dead ends and frustration, always deadlines looming. But if you keep following leads and stay on it, eventually there’s a break. A door opens.

Kitty came out the post office door and was onto both of them. “And what are you two up to all secret like, huh?”

Dunk waved goodbye and pulled out with tires spewing gravel. Elias turned toward Kitty, raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, and walked backwards away from her and toward his car.

“Have a nice day, Kitty.”

As he slid into his car and looked back at her he wondered if she hid a tinfoil hat in that handbag with the ugly dog and the handsome gun.