Chapter Thirty
I was heading down North 14th Street and about to turn right into the old folks’ development when I saw the police cruiser pull out of a driveway and into the road right behind me. Before I could make my turn he put on his light and siren, and I pulled over to the side of the road. I watched in my rear view mirror as Lucas got out and approached my car from behind.
“Hi, Carey,” he said from behind his mirrored sunglasses.
“What’s the problem, Lucas?” I asked him, smiling.
“Don’t know,” he replied. “Sheriff Martin sent me out to find you and bring you in. Didn’t say why, but he’s pretty mad.”
“Is Sally Ann at the station?” I asked him.
“What do you think?” he smiled. “Follow me. I’ll give you an escort.” He went back to the cruiser and pulled around in front of me. I followed him through town to the police station.
“Aren’t you going to cuff me?” I asked him once we were out of our cars and in the station parking lot.
“Sorry, Carey,” he smiled, “but you’re not my type.” We laughed, and we were still laughing when we entered the station.
Sheriff Martin was waiting for us. “What the hell are you two idiots laughing at?” he yelled. We both got quiet real quick. Lucas went off to the back of the station to get out of the line of fire, but I wasn’t so lucky. The sheriff guided me into his office and slammed the door behind me. Sally Ann sat in a chair in front of the desk, and I took the same chair I’d sat in before. Sheriff Martin sat down heavily behind his desk.
“Sally Ann dragged me down here on my day off from a fishing trip.” He glared at me. “I reckon you can guess that I’m not too happy about that.”
“No sir,” I said, trying to be humble.
“What have you been doing with yourself the last day or so, Carey?” he asked, affecting a light tone.
“Oh, this and that,” I said.
“Carey,” Sally Ann began.
“Now hold on, honey,” her father said. “I want to hear it from Sam Spade himself. Let’s see, breaking and entering, trespassing, and what else?”
I began to feel very warm, though the room was well air-conditioned. “Sheriff, I,” I began to speak but he cut me off.
“Carey, Sally Ann likes you. I like you. I’ve given you a lot of slack with this little private eye game you’ve been playing. I thought--maybe I was wrong--that it couldn’t hurt and maybe it could help.
“But now I think I was wrong. You did exactly what I said not to do, and you’ve put yourself in trouble and probably gotten in the way of official police business as well.”
I looked from the sheriff to Sally Ann, back and forth twice, before I spoke. “I found out something today that I think may help you solve the murder of Lulabelle Mackenzie. We may also figure out what happened to her brother Raymond, and Peter Crane’s death may be tied up in it all, too. Want to hear it?”
The sheriff looked at me as if I were crazy. Sally Ann didn’t say anything. “Go on,” he said.
“I guess Sally Ann told you I went to Crane’s house last night. To make a long story short, I did some digging and found two things that stood out for some reason.” I told him about the photo and the slip of paper. “This morning, I brought my grandmother home from the hospital and asked her about them. She knew the man in the photo”--I took it out of my pocket as I spoke and passed it across the desk to him--”as Lester Macaboo Sr.”
“Sure, that’s him,” he said. “In front of the old bakery building. So what?”
“I also found out that the name and number on the slip of paper belonged to the Macaboos and Francis Tompkins, their houseboy.”
“You know Francis, daddy,” Sally Ann added.
“Again, so what?” he said.
“Well, it was an old phone number, not a current one. I pulled some strings to figure out whose it was. I thought that the Macaboos had some connection with Raymond Mackenzie’s disappearance, but this made a connection with Peter Crane and his wife. And where those two come together, I wondered if Lulabelle could be far behind.”
“But how does it all fit together?” Sally Ann asked.
“And who killed Lulabelle? And where’s Raymond?”
“I still don’t know, but I’m beginning to get an idea. That’s why I went out to Powell this morning and saw a young black man named Horace Monroe.”
“Don’t know him,” the sheriff said.
“No reason you should,” I replied. However, he identified the other man in the photo for me as Senior Tompkins, Francis’s late father.”
Sheriff Martin casually picked up the photo again. “Hm,” was all he said.
“He also told me a story that you might find interesting. I related the story of the bet between Lester Macaboo Sr. and Senior Tompkins, holding back Peter Crane’s role for dramatic effect.
“Guess who the young referee was?” I said.
“Who?” said Sally Ann, who had been listening with great interest.
“Peter Crane.”
Sheriff Martin had been sitting back in his chair with one foot on the desk as I talked, but suddenly he sat forward and his foot banged loudly to the floor.
“You don’t mean it,” he said.
“I do,” I replied.
He looked at Sally Ann, then at me. “Lucas!” he called. Lucas came in and the sheriff related the story to him briefly. “You ever hear about anything like that?” he asked, finally.
“No sir,” Lucas answered, “sounds like crazy talk to me.
“Thanks, Lucas,” he said. “Go back to work.” Lucas left.
After Lucas had left the room, the sheriff said to me, “He’s a good deputy, you know.” I nodded my head. “Not the brightest guy in the world, though,” he added.
The sheriff looked at me with grudging respect. “You’re really following a lead, Carey, though I’ll admit I still don’t know what it all means.” I smiled. “There is one man who might know, however, and I’m going to call him right now.”
I looked at Sally quizzically, and she looked back at me with an expression that said she didn’t know what her father was talking about, either. I watched Sheriff Martin pick up the phone, dial a series of numbers, and wait while it rang through on the other end.
“Sherry?” he said when a party answered. “Its Jimmy Martin. Lester in?” I think Sally’s and my mouths
dropped open, literally, at the same time.
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