Claymore was a gentleman rancher, and he was just as likely to be at home as not. Years ago, he had discovered the benefits of the U. S. Government’s generous soil bank program and found that he could make more money not growing cotton than he could make by actually growing the stuff. He’d gradually begun buying up all the land he could and putting that in the soil bank, along with what he’d already owned.
Uncle Sam was making the payments, and Claymore was taking it easy instead of getting all hot and sweaty in the fields. After that, Claymore saw the advantages that were open to a thinking businessman. He traded in cattle and horses, and as often as not he came away the winner in any deal that he was involved in. As the years went by, he began to accumulate a sizeable bank account, to drive bigger and bigger cars, and to wear double-knit jeans instead of the old cotton overalls he’d started in.
Claymore’s house was about a quarter mile outside of Clearview on a well-maintained county road. The commissioners always seemed to be able to get Claymore’s road taken care of. The house, like Claymore himself, had an impressive appearance. It was long and low, made of adobe brick, with a red tile roof, probably the only tile roof in Clearview, Rhodes thought. The yard, though not up to the standards of Hod Barrett’s wife, was neat enough. There was a long gooseneck trailer in the paved drive, with a Lincoln nearly as long parked bide it.
Rhodes wondered why anyone in his right mind would want to drive a county Plymouth when he could be driving his own Lincoln. He pulled in behind the trailer and parked the car.
Claymore’s doorbell played “The Eyes of Texas.” Or maybe it was “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad,” but Rhodes wouldn’t have bet on it. He wondered if the voters of Blacklin County knew about that doorbell, but somehow he doubted that it was a valid campaign issue.
The door was opened by Claymore’s wife, who unfortunately looked more like his mother. She was one of those women who had gone gray with a vengeance and who was also small and rather frail. Add to that a dry skin that wrinkled early, and you got a woman who looked older than her years. She seldom appeared with Claymore at any of his campaign speeches. “Why, it’s Sheriff Rhodes,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. Claymore,” Rhodes said. “I’d like to speak to your husband if he’s in.”
“Of course,” she said, opening the door all the way and stepping to the side. “Come right in. I’ll call Ralph.”
She proceeded to do exactly that in a voice much stronger than Rhodes would have expected. Her voice echoed in the entrance hall, and if Claymore was in the house he must have heard it. In fact, he appeared almost at once.
Ralph Claymore at home was just like Ralph Claymore anywhere else-except for the hat. He had on the western shirt, the boots, the belt with the big silver buckle, but no hat. His black, wavy hair was in stark contrast to his wife’s sullen gray.
If Claymore was surprised to see Dan Rhodes in his hall, he didn’t show it. He stuck out his right hand and grabbed Rhodes’s hand, pumping it as if Rhodes were one of his favorite constituents. “Dan, Dan, good to see you,” he said heartily. “Come on in. Dora can make us some coffee.”
“No coffee, thanks,” Rhodes said to Mrs. Claymore. “I just need to talk to Ralph here about the campaign.”
“Of course, of course,” Claymore said. “Come on down to my study. We can talk there. Dora’s not really very interested in my electioneering, are you, honey?”
Dora shook her gray head, and Claymore began steering Rhodes away. “You just go on in the den and watch a little TV, honey,” he said. “I think it’s about time for Family Feud now, and you know how you hate to miss that one. Mr. Rhodes and I won’t be long.”
Dora obediently wandered off in the direction of what Rhodes assumed to be the den, and Claymore guided him down the hall to the study.
When they stepped through the door, Rhodes wondered just what it was that Claymore studied. There was a huge oak desk with a glass top, and behind it was a wall covered with a built-in bookshelf that ran the length of the room, a good twelve feet. But there were relatively few books on the shelves. It looked to Rhodes as if Claymore owned the complete works of Louis L’Amour, and very little else in the realm of literature. The rest of the shelf space was taken up by western bric-a-brac-rusty spurs, lengths of maybe fifty different kinds of barbed wire mounted on boards, mounted pistols, stirrups, rifles (some new, some old, and at least one.30-.30), and even an old hat or two.
Rhodes turned and looked around the room. On the other walls there were several framed pictures, all of them on western themes. None of the pictures was a Remington, but there was at least one that was a pretty good imitation. There were what looked like Indian rugs on the hardwood flooring.
Claymore went behind the desk and sat in his brown leather executive chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said to Rhodes. “Have a seat.” He gestured to a hard-bottomed wooden chair that sat near the desk.
Rhodes hadn’t been tricked into the teacher/student relationship in years. “I’ll stand, I think,” he said. “There are a couple of questions I’d like to ask you.”
Claymore leaned back and laced his fingers behind his neck. “Ask away, but before you get started, let me tell you that what happened the other night in Mushy had nothing to do with me. I don’t work that way. I’m trying to run as clean a campaign as I can, and I wouldn’t stoop to mud-slinging of any sort, as I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Though Claymore’s voice was as deep and convincing as ever, Rhodes thought he detected a slight quaver in it.
“I’m sure that you’d never have looked up that Wayne character on your own,” Rhodes said. “Of course, I’m having it checked into. But that’s not my question.”
Despite his efforts to appear relaxed, Claymore was definitely showing signs of discomfort. Although he must have had his air conditioner set at around sixty-eight degrees, there was a faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “I see,” he said. “Just what did you want to talk about then?”
Rhodes stepped back from the desk a few paces and leaned on the doorframe. “I suppose that what I have to ask could have some bearing on the kind of campaign I run,” he said. “It has to do with Jeanne Clinton.”
Claymore came forward in his chair and placed his palms down on the glass top of the desk. There was nothing else at all on the desk, not even a picture or an ashtray. “Yes, that was an unfortunate incident,” he said. “Very unfortunate. You have my word that I won’t mention it while the campaign is on. I realize that no enforcement, even the strictest, can prevent every crime, especially a crime of passion.”
“Did I mention passion?” Rhodes asked. “Besides, that’s not what I meant at all.”
Claymore turned his palms up and looked into them as if trying to read his lifeline. “What did you mean, then?”
Rhodes straightened. “I think you know. I think you’d better tell me, though, instead of having me tell you. Otherwise, I might somehow get the impression that you have some pressing reason for avoiding the mention of the Clinton murder in your campaign, some reason that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with clean politics. Or dirty ones either.”
Claymore shook his head without looking up. “Would you mind shutting the door, Rhodes?”
Rhodes stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut. “Let’s have it,” he said.
Claymore met Rhodes’s eyes. “It’s hard to explain,” he said.
“I can imagine,” Rhodes responded. “But don’t worry. If you’re not involved in the murder, you can trust me to keep quiet about your involvement. I don’t want to win an election by throwing mud any more than you do.”
“All right,” Claymore said with a sigh. “I guess it’s really simple enough. I own some property in Thurston, so I go over there pretty often. Sometimes I stop by at Hod Barrett’s store for a Coke and to talk to the fellas there. One day I met Jeanne in there, and one thing just led to another.” He raised his hands and then let them fall limply. “You’ve seen Dora. It’s not just how she looks. It’s how she lives, her whole attitude. She never wants to go anywhere or do anything. She just sits around the house all day watching that damn TV. Game shows. My God, if I never see or hear another game show as long as I live, it’ll be all. right with me. Wheel of Fortune, twice a day. Family Feud. Even reruns of Let’s Make a Deal. She won’t even let me talk to her when they’re on!”