“Why of all the black-hearted, low-down—” That was Alfreda Scrim sounding a little more country than usual.
“And isn’t it convenient,” the sheriff rolled along, “that he’s a lawyer? In case any wills need changing, I mean.”
“The only thing my aunty’s got of any value,” Perry Woodley spouted, “is this mansion we’re sitting in. And it’s been falling apart for years. She’s been too poor to afford repairs and the next good flood will probably wash it down to Keokuk. So why would I want it?”
But the sheriff went right on spinning his web, saying, “Oh, I think we both know the answer to that.” Nudging the cat off his lap, he stood up to lay out one last piece of brilliance for us to admire. “The railroad’s looking to build a bridge across the river right here at Marquis, and if I’m not mistaken, the only place to do it is through the center of this house. That ought to make it worth a little something, don’t you think, Mr. Leavenworth?”
Here the sheriff turned toward the stranger he’d invited along. Of course everyone else turned with him. And I have to say that the stranger kind of enjoyed being the center of attention because he didn’t say a word in answer to the sheriff, just flashed his dimples while looking around as if the joke was on us.
“Mr. Leavenworth here is the head surveyor for the railroad,” the sheriff revealed.
At least that explained why the gent looked so familiar. We’d nearly come to blows when I almost bowled him over in the alley beside Dewitt’s Drug Emporium.
“I asked him along,” the sheriff continued, “to help fill out this little tale of greed that we have here. Go ahead.” The sheriff nodded to the surveyor. “Tell them how much the railroad is willing to pay for this prime riverbank location, sir.”
That’s when the stranger put on his hat, stood up, and said, “That lawyer’s not your man.”
The sheriff’s jaw did some flopping. “But I thought you said—”
“You old windbag,” the stranger cut the sheriff off. “If you’d been listening, instead of gassing on about how you’d found your murder suspect and your murder weapon, and reckoning you were going to outshine your deputy or bust, well, if you hadn’t been so wound up about all that, you might have heard me tell you what I’m going to say now. The place we wanted to buy belongs to that fool there.” He pointed at Rutherford Dewitt. “His store’s the only site where it makes any sense to build our bridge, and he says he won’t sell.”
“Can’t,” Rutherford boomed in a stubborn voice. “I’ve already left my brothers behind once. Won’t do it again.”
“Now hold everything,” Sheriff Huck squawked, but that’s all he got out. Mostly, he just stood there opening and closing his mouth as if his teeth didn’t fit quite right.
We were all so busy enjoying that spectacle that what happened next locked us up solid as yesterday’s porridge. The telephone rang.
Everybody flinched. Well, maybe not all of us. I did notice that Mrs. Becky was keeping such a close eye on everyone else that she managed to stay seated. Three times the bell rang, which was the signal for Etheline’s house. We all sat there gaping at the telephone on the wall as if it was a hangman’s noose.
“Somebody better answer it,” Mrs. Becky suggested, calm and cool as ever.
That started a stampede. The sheriff got there first because he was nearest but there were seven pairs of ears crammed as close to that receiver as they could get. The only people hanging back were Etheline, who was glancing all around as if she didn’t quite recognize what room she was in, and Mrs. Becky, who was still pretending that she never answered telephones. I didn’t hang back myself, not as much as I wanted to hear who was calling.
“Hello?” says the sheriff.
“Are you ready to join me?” croaked a nervous, wispy voice on the other end of the line. “The time is at...”
I didn’t get to hear the rest of what the caller had to say because just then Etheline screeched, “Is she asking for me? Tell her I’m coming.”
And from the folds of her shawl she pulled out a small silver flask and started to unscrew its cap with a shaky, withered hand. She never got a chance to raise it to her lips though. Mrs. Becky caught her by the wrist before she could get it there. Taking a whiff of the flask, she made a face and announced, “Here’s your murderer. And here’s your rat poison too.” She held up the flask she’d taken away from Miss Etheline, who at the moment had covered her face with her hands and was whimpering. “Everyone knows she was always offering to share her nerve medicine. You weren’t arguing with anyone over the telephone, were you Etheline? Something tells me you were arranging to have your nephew bring a dose of your medicine to friends who were having trouble sleeping after being telephoned by a ghost that sounded an awful lot like you, if someone was to listen instead of trying to talk.”
So I had been right! Partly, anyway. It had been Miss Etheline. I just hadn’t figured out all the particulars. Much as I hate to admit it, the sheriff had stumbled over some of the answer, too, though by my reckoning, not as much of it as I had. If you can’t quite picture how Sheriff Huck took his missus’s revelations, let me help. He laughed, and it wasn’t a pretty laugh, either, but a mean, toothy, don’t-be-foolish sort that fell on deaf ears because everyone was watching Perry Woodley bend down beside his aunty to ask what she’d done. Sounding more than a little surprised, the old lady answered, “Why, I’ll need someone to talk to in the hereafter, won’t I?”
We lost nearly all our ghosts that night. People quit believing there had ever been a phantom night watchman at the lumberyard, and more than one citizen came around to thinking that the cavalry captain on the white stallion was only Reverend Scrim coming home from comforting a member of his flock, though I had me some doubts about that, knowing how much the sheriff likes to dress up in old uniforms from that steamer trunk of his. Word got around too that Lady Small could almost hit a high C, which did away with anyone mentioning the ghost of the opera singer ever again, unless trying to scare someone new in town.
Rutherford Dewitt sealed any further talk about his two ghosts by selling his drug emporium to the railroad and moving west. About the same time the graveyard got awfully quiet too. I’m guessing that was because Alfreda Scrim moved on to arranging her church’s gala Christmas festivities.
That left only the spirit of Etheline Spavin’s mother to haunt our little town, and no one ever noticed that ghost after the following spring’s flood, which swept the widow’s walk and everything beneath it away in a swirl of brown water. I was making rounds the night it happened and have to report that the last I saw of the mansion was a cloaked figure standing atop it and waving farewell. Or at least I think that’s what I saw. And the river swallowed it.
You don’t need to worry about Etheline though. She’d already been moved to a mental hospital by then. I heard she made quite a fuss until her nephew suggested they try giving her a private telephone line. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t hooked up to anything. Etheline could hear her friends just fine.
So now we’re down to two telephones in town — Alfreda Scrim’s and Mrs. Becky’s, and they don’t bother talking to each other, never have. But lately word has gotten around that Sheriff Huck is considering having a telephone installed at the jail, in case people need him for an emergency. That rumor got its wings while everyone was buzzing about how the sheriff’s wife had solved the telephone murders, as they’ve become known in these parts.
It turned out it was Mrs. Becky who put Archibald Dewitt up to calling us at the stroke of midnight to flush out the culprit. Sharp as that thinking was, there’re some who have been mentioning that maybe it’s high time for Marquis to elect a woman sheriff. Mrs. Becky may be considering it too, or at least Archibald Dewitt says so. He’s clerking over at the general store now and seems to know a good deal about what the sheriff’s wife thinks. I can’t disagree with his judgment on the matter. Something tells me that she might be pretty good at arresting people. If she does decide to run for office, I’m not exactly sure who I’ll be voting for. Maybe I’ll just write my own name on the ballot, in case there’s a tie.