I was cruising down State Road 877 toward the church, which was on the same road as the playhouse, when I passed a familiar blue pickup with a tarp over the bed going in the opposite direction. No telling what Clement County’s self-styled version of the Dukes of Hazzard had hidden back there, but even if I had turned around, the Bowser boys’d been long gone.
Set down a piece on a gravel road, Green Pastures Church was a small, concrete-block building. For the last eleven years the Reverend Spiker had been shearing his flock without anyone noticing till he had decided to go big-time last fall. On Halloween he had held a public bookburning. I think there were more of your media types there than participants, and when the smoke cleared, the Reverend’s little fire had received statewide attention. So he formed CUT and began using a lot of well-meaning people for his own benefit.
Luckily I caught Harlan in a rare moment when he was off-camera.
“Lo, Sheriff. Been scribbling a few notes for my memoirs.” As his five-foot-even frame rose up from his high-backed chair, I could tell he was serious. Up close he looked younger than he had seemed on TV. “What can I do for you? You interested in joining our little group?”
I waved him off. “It’s about Larry Fields. He...”
“Is a disciple of the Devil. Everyone knows how he directed that blasphemous display of nudity The Bare Facts. That kind of trash might be acceptable in one of those big-city Sodom and Gommorahs, but we won’t let him bring it into our community.”
“He’s dead. Someone bashed his head in.”
The Reverend hit his roll-top desk sharply. “Did I not say the hand of righteousness would strike down the abomination? We are saved.” He bowed his head. “Our people will be spared the spectacle of violence and adultery.”
Spiker certainly didn’t seem too broken up about things. “How do you know what this play is about?”
“What else would such a pervert bring to the-stage?”
I let his logic pass. “You were at Seth’s this-morning. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“None were about when I arrived. The rain had just stopped. I banged on the blasphemer’s door, but he didn’t answer. Then I went over to Seth Fuller’s office and demanded to be heard. As you saw, he wouldn’t listen to me. Now is there anything else?”
“Yes, a warning. If your flock wants to burn their own books, there’s nothing I can do, but stay away from the public library!”
“Sheriff, I assure you none of my people has even entered that repository of evil.”
Knowing some of the illiterate members of CUT, I found that easy to believe.
By mid-afternoon things had slowed down to nary a jaywalker in sight, so I decided to head back to Seth’s. When I got there, Seth wasn’t around and no one knew where he was. I called his name a few times, and he finally emerged from the dilapidated barn behind the playhouse.
“Been thinking about tearing this old shed down, Sheriff. You know how barnwood fetches a high price with those fancy interior decorators.” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “Anything new on the murder?”
“Not really.”
“Guess you won’t know much till you hear from the State Police,” he commented, lighting up a cigar.
“Seth, just between us, I’ve always felt you get to the truth fastest not with microscopes and test tubes, but by knowing the people involved. So what can you tell me about Fields and the rest of those theatre people?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know much about any of them. Reede and Fields got in touch with me last spring about this hot property they had, Death of the Duchess. They suggested that Roger Manchester would be perfect for the lead and that he was available since his last play had bombed in New Haven. Reede knew that Roger and I had been contract players at Warner Brothers in the 50’s and figured I could persuade an old friend to take the part.”
“So you put it together.”
“Why not? Reede’s hot; Roger’s still a draw with the tourist crowd, Fields was OK, and I want the playhouse to have a reputation for putting on the best in new theatre. All in all it was a helluva opportunity. I’m lucky Reede’s agreed to take over as director so we can open tomorrow night.”
“Elaine sure got a break — working with blue-ribbon talent in her first professional show.”
“Phillip Reede seems to think she’s pretty blue-ribbon, if you know what I mean,” he winked.
My blood rushed a little faster. “I’m not sure that I do.”
“No offense. It’s just that everybody knew Reede had a heavy romance with Samantha Giles, who was to be the leading lady. Well, it seems Elaine took her place in more ways than one.”
I calmed myself down, then, after thanking Seth, drove home, all the while fighting what I knew was true — my little girl was becoming a woman.
The house seemed larger, more empty. Nine years ago I’d lost Jenny, and now it wouldn’t be long before Elaine would be leaving. I found myself wandering up the stairs to her room. In the corner was the Victorian dollhouse I’d built to ease her through the summer of her broken leg. And over her desk was a picture of us hiking together in the Smokies. As I was hanging her faded jeans on the opened closet door, I noticed a pair of mud-caked loafers. Last night had been the only time in the last two weeks it had rained. I fought back the policeman in me.
A car pulled into the driveway, then out again. The front door slammed. “Daddy, I’m home.”
“Up here. Elaine.”
The wide smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw the shoes in my hand.
“What are you doing in my room?” she said sharply. “Don’t I have any privacy?”
“Honey, I didn’t mean... I wasn’t spying... you see...” My stomach did a back flip, then I blurted out, “Where did you go late last night?”
Elaine’s face flushed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes. And now will you leave me alone?” She jerked the shoes from my hand.
Reluctantly I left. I didn’t feel much like eating, so I climbed in the cruiser and drove around for awhile. I wasn’t sure what was bothering me most — the case or my relationship with Elaine.
The phone jangled me out of a restless sleep early the next morning. Clem Riddle was fuming. The Bowser boys had cut through his property again. I had planned to speak to Elaine at breakfast, but that would have to wait.
Summer fog still hung over the blacktop as I sped down the familiar stretch of 877. Just past the playhouse, I turned into Clem’s. His hands covered with grease, the farmer climbed down from his John Deere. “Them two been racin’ up and down the road out to my cornfield all spring. It’s disturbin’ the missus and we got lotsa livestock. Can’t afford to have those goomers go and kill off a cow. They’re back there now, and sure as shootin’ they’re up to no good.”
The cornfield road was still damp, so their tire tracks were easy to follow. After a mile or so, I reached the fence Clem had built years ago when he bought the land from Seth. Two rails were removed, and sitting on the edge of the adjacent cornfield was an empty blue pickup. Tod and Rod were probably out in the field somewhere poaching deer, squirrel, or the like.
I hid the cruiser behind some bushes and slipped under the tarp in the truck. It was a whole lot easier for those good ole boys to come to me than vice-versa. I squinted at me watch. Right about now, if I didn’t miss my guess, Reede would be picking up Elaine to go to the playhouse. I was wondering what kind of danger she might be in when an even scarier thought crossed my mind. Usually I played by the State Police rules and kept my nose out of their investigations, but this was different. One way or another Elaine was involved, and I was determined to find out how — even if it hurt.