“Did he learn anything?”
“Not enough,” Cox said. “She was tied in with Los Muertos, that’s definite. She apparently came to the area to find out where Bert Ramsey was and what he was doing. We believe Los Muertos, or at least Rapper, planned to use him in the dope business, which seems to be what happened.”
“Once a dead man, always a dead man,” Rhodes said.
“What?”
“Never mind. That’s pretty much the way I had it figured,” Rhodes said. “Is it possible at all that Cullens made a mistake in dealing with her? That he maybe gave too much away?”
“It’s possible,” Cox said, the disapproval strong in his voice now. “I was against his being assigned to this job. I didn’t like to work with him. He was undependable.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Rhodes said.
“True,” Cox said with no apparent regret. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” Rhodes said. “If I think of something, I’ll give you a call.” He hung up the phone. He wished he knew more about Wyneva Greer, and he thought back to the only two times he had seen her. Both times, she had looked afraid. Not that he blamed her for looking that way at the funeral. Mrs. Ramsey was a formidable woman, and even Rhodes might have given way had she been advancing on him. But not Wyneva. She might have looked a bit frightened, but she left only to avoid a scene.
What was it that Mrs. Ramsey had said to her? Rhodes tried to remember. Something like, “Bert wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.” He wondered if Mrs. Ramsey blamed Wyneva for the death, or if she even thought that Wyneva had something to do with it. Maybe Mrs. Ramsey knew more than he thought. He would have to talk to her again.
Wyneva hadn’t spoken on Cullens’s porch. Rhodes had thought at the time that she was afraid of Cullens, but it could have been that she was afraid of Rhodes, afraid that he was onto the game. Maybe even afraid that he had come to arrest her for the murder.
All of Rhodes’s speculations, however, had led him nowhere. Oh, well, he thought, at least I’ve cleared the air. At least I have some idea of where I stand.
It was strange, but the quiet time of sitting and thinking through what he knew and didn’t know had made him feel much better. If he still hadn’t figured anything out, he at least knew where he stood. And what he didn’t know, he’d thought about. There was the pretense of action, even if no action had been taken, even if no decisions had been made.
He looked at the clock. The whole afternoon had slipped by. Time had a way of doing that to him now, a sign of age, he guessed. It seemed as if the years went by like bullets. No wonder the young seemed to get more done. They had more time. When he was younger, the afternoon would have seemed to him like a week seemed now. There was a certain amount of unfairness there, but he didn’t dwell on it.
He went back outside. Speedo was still under the tree, but he looked much more content. Rhodes picked up the water dish, and the sun-heated water sloshed out over his hand. “Sorry I forgot to put this in the shade,” he said. He carried it and the food bowl over to the tree where Speedo lay. He got the dog food and poured a little more in the bowl, then refilled the water bowl. Speedo watched with a bit of interest, but he didn’t stir himself to get up and eat or drink. There were times when Rhodes envied dogs. Speedo obviously didn’t mind that Cullens was dead. He was getting food and water. He had a shady place to lie down. He had, in fact, just about everything he needed. If he couldn’t be young again, Rhodes thought, he might like to be a dog.
Rhodes went back in the house and walked to the telephone, this time to call Ivy. She would be home from work now.
She answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Rhodes said. “Want to go to a funeral?”
Chapter 16
The Clearview Cemetery had been located in the same spot ever since the first settler was buried there a little over a hundred years before. It had grown considerably since that first grave, but probably none of those who lay at rest there had ever been to a funeral quite like the one to which Rhodes was taking Ivy.
The cemetery was on the western edge of the town, surrounded by a low fence of iron spikes. There was a wrought iron arch over the main entrance, which was never closed. Every now and then Rhodes would send a patrol through late at night to run out the high school kids who had found it a quiet place to park.
There was not a lot of green grass on the graves; the recent rain hadn’t been enough to help much. Rhodes drove through the entrance and down the winding gravel roads to the north end. There was no one else there yet.
Rhodes and Ivy got out of the pickup. Though it didn’t appear to be so on the approaching drive, the cemetery was located on a hilltop. They could see the pasture land around them, down the slope. At the bottom of the slope and partway across a little valley there was a railroad track heading north and south.
The day had cooled off a little, and Rhodes liked standing there on the hill. There was a late afternoon breeze, and it was very quiet.
“I wonder if they can hear the trains,” Ivy said, looking down at the tracks. “They have to whistle for the crossing, don’t they?”
The nearest crossing was about a half mile away. “Sure they do,” Rhodes said. “Did you ever hear a real train whistle?”
“You mean from a steam engine? I don’t remember. I guess I must have, but if I did it was a long time ago,” Ivy said.
“I heard lots of ‘em,” Rhodes said. “The house I grew up in was less than a mile from the tracks, nothing between the house and them but some mesquite trees. When I was a kid, I’d go to sleep at night listening for the whistle.” He paused. “They can’t hear it, I guess. If they could, the ones that’ve been here long enough would miss the real thing. Diesel’s just not the same. Not very many of those even come through now, anyway.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’m beginning to sound like the old-timer in a B western. How’d we get off on that?”
“I think the place we’re in might’ve had something to do with it,” Ivy said. “Did you really bring me up here for a funeral, or did you have something else in mind?” She stepped over to Rhodes and took his arm, pressing it against her plaid shirt.
Rhodes almost blushed, but not quite. “There’s really going to be a funeral,” he said. “If Ballinger doesn’t show up, I’m going to bury him. He’ll be here.”
Sure enough, in a few minutes they saw Ballinger’s hearse, or one of them, driving along the road. Rhodes hadn’t really given the burial much thought, but trusted Ballinger to do it right, once he made up his mind to do it. Then Rhodes realized that there wasn’t a grave.
The hearse stopped and Clyde Ballinger got out. He had been driving himself. There was another man inside, and Rhodes assumed there were others in the back.
“Where’s the grave, Clyde?” Rhodes asked.
“Don’t worry, Sheriff,” Ballinger said. “It’s dug and ready, back over behind the Walpole plot.” He started walking, and Rhodes and Ivy followed.
The Walpole “plot” was by far the most elaborate area in the cemetery, the Walpoles having gotten rich in oil and being able to afford pretty much what they wanted in the way of final resting places. The area occupied by the graves was semicircular, with the outside of the semicircle being surrounded by Greek columns spaced ten feet apart. Rhodes could never remember just what kind of columns they were, though he’d had to learn in school to distinguish among Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian. It wasn’t the kind of knowledge that tended to stick with a person. The various Walpoles were spaced around the area and located easily by the huge headstones, by a wide margin the largest and most elaborate and gaudy in the county. One was distinguished by five angels standing on it.