Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 29
A CANOPY ERECTED OVER THE OPEN grave kept it from filling with water, but the soggy ground swallowed up Booker’s shoe soles and seeped inside to dampen his socks. Fewer than half the mourners from the church had ventured to the cemetery, the rain providing a handy excuse. Booker figured that if Melinda chose to attend, the whole mob would’ve tramped through a monsoon to see what new excitement might unfold.
He was glad now that he hadn’t offered to take photographs. Against the gray landscape, the transported flowers looked absurdly brilliant, and people wore impatient expressions under their umbrellas. He had, in fact, considered skipping the graveside service altogether and use the time for his indoor shots, since the rain looked like settling in awhile. But then Roxanna mentioned that her twelve-year-old Mustang stalled out in wet weather, and Booker had hustled her into his Tahoe. All things considered, the preacher would likely cut the service short.
The preacher hadn’t yet arrived, however, when Booker, Bradley, and Roxanna slogged across the soggy grass. Bradley veered away to find Jeremy, hoping to cheer him up. A brisk wind slanted the rain in hard, soaking their clothes and creating a clamor on the tent roof. As Booker and Roxanna approached the grave site, his mind wrestled with possible indoor scenes he could shoot. Roxanna’s dining room should be full tonight with townspeople gathering to gossip about the funeral.
“Booker Krane!” Emaline squeezed in beside them. “Ringhoffer wants to see you when this is over.”
That didn’t bode well. “What about?”
“Just said to hang around after the service. What was Melinda up to creating that scene at the church?”
How would he know? “Validation, maybe? She didn’t get the man, so she claimed the satisfaction of telling everyone how important she was in his life.”
“That woman sure enjoys being the center of attention.”
“You think anybody believes he was going to marry her?” Roxanna asked.
“Do you?” Booker wondered what was holding up the eulogy. Over the clatter of the wind and rain on the canopy, he couldn’t hear a thing up front.
“Chuck was ready to make a big change in his life.” Roxanna nodded vaguely. “Melinda was just about the opposite of what he already had.”
“For a man married thirty years,” Emaline said, “a bigger change would be staying single.”
Booker had to agree. He hadn’t been married nearly that long but could vouch for the need to be alone in his own universe for a while. After Lauren filed, he’d spent a crazy year hitting on every woman remotely interesting, but never had the urge to find the next Mrs. Krane.
“Divorce is a time to pull in your oars and coast,” he said.
Roxanna frowned. “You think he would’ve divorced Sarabelle and not marry Melinda?”
“Melinda was likely the only one talking about marriage,” Emaline said. “If Chuck turned her down, you can bet she’d be mad enough—”
“To reason with him,” Booker interjected hurriedly. At the sound of Melinda’s name shouted, people in the next row had cocked their heads around. Useless asking Emaline to lower her voice, so Booker drew her and Roxanna toward the rear of the tent.
He wished he could see what was going on up front. A speaker was mounted on one of the tent poles, but so far he’d heard no announcements over the drumming rain and flapping canopy.
“Melinda would never have let Chuck coast,” Roxanna commented.
No, she wouldn’t, Booker had to admit. “Let’s look at that. Say Chuck told Melinda he’d changed his mind about marrying. She knew he planned to practice in the woods that day, so she drives out to reason with him—”
“Reason? With a double Capricorn? Hah!”
“Chuck wasn’t a man who listened to reason,” Roxanna agreed.
“And once Melinda set her hooks,” Emaline added, “you can bet she wouldn’t let go of her big fish without a fight. I say the sheriff ought to investigate Melinda’s whereabouts when Chuck was murdered.”
“You mean, Chuck’s accident,” Booker insisted lamely. Emaline was only voicing what he, too, had come to believe.
“If Melinda killed him,” Roxanna whispered, “why would she stir up trouble at the funeral?”
A good question. Say she knew Fowler was practicing in the woods, went out to talk to him, and they argued. In a fit of rage, or maybe even self-defense, she grabs one of his arrows and stabs him with it. She should be glad the sheriff declared it an accident.
“I’m not sure Melinda thinks before she speaks or acts,” he said.
“On the other hand, what better way to avert suspicion from herself,” Emaline said, “than to stand in front of Chuck’s family and friends and declare vengeance on his killer?”
“Vengeance? Emaline, I didn’t hear—”
“Got to admire her guts, though, Booker. I’m surprised Sarabelle or the boys didn’t attack her right there in church.”
Feeling antsy in his soggy shoes, with rain peppering his backside, Booker peeked around a hefty woman in gray paisley to glimpse how the Fowler family was handling the delay. He could see Aaron silently staring down at the ground, but no one else. Then he noticed a familiar figure standing several paces outside the canopy, a small dark-haired man with weathered skin, baggy clothes, and a wooden expression. A steady barrage of gusty rain threatened to sweep him sideways across the lawn.
“Emaline, is that Luther Niles, your groundskeeper, over there?”
“Always said that boy didn’t have sense enough to come in out of the rain.”
That boy had to be close to forty, Booker figured. “Doesn’t he caddy for some of your golfers?”
“Until a couple of weeks ago, Chuck Fowler was Luther’s best customer, if that’s what you’re getting at. Chuck fired him.”
“Why?”
“Chuck was hard on anybody who worked for him,” Roxanna put in. “Just ask Gary Spiner.”
“He kept Luther hopping to chase balls, run after drinks, carry messages, especially when showing off for his golf buddies.” The overhead speaker squawked, and Emaline cocked an ear. When no message emerged, she continued. “Chuck treated Luther like dirt. Ask for a club, then ridicule the boy for picking the wrong one. Slice a ball, then rail at Luther for distracting him.”
“Why did Luther put up with it?” Booker wondered if he was mentally challenged.
“Said Chuck paid too well to take offense. And when Chuck was really showing off, he’d toss Luther a fat tip.” She shook her head. “One day, in a particularly foul mood, Chuck accused him of kicking his ball deeper into the rough. Fired him on the spot.”
“You think Luther did kick the ball?” Booker had known secretaries who spit in their boss’s coffee and clerks who hooked their boss’s paper clips together.
“Probably.” Emaline craned to see over the crowd. “I think the service is over.”
“Over?” Booker glared at the silent speaker. “We missed it?”
As congregants started walking to their cars, Roxanna moved toward the grave. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Booker followed, Emaline’s umbrella bumping his as they slogged along. He was glad the minister kept the service blessedly short, even though they hadn’t heard it. His pants were no less tight than they’d been earlier.
Roxanna glanced at the casket, ready to be lowered, then looked down into the empty grave. She opened her purse, removed a plastic bag filled with leaves, and sprinkled the contents to the dirt below.
“What’s that?” Booker said.
“Herbs. To ease his travel.” She paused. “Whichever way he goes.”
“Hah!” Emaline hooted. “We should toss his checkbook in, too. Chuck said he’d never seen a hole it couldn’t get him out of.”
Booker smiled at Emaline’s coarse humor, but his mind was still wrapped around Roxanna’s words. Why would she want to “ease” Fowler’s passage, unless they were better friends than she let on? Or fiercer enemies.
“Mr. Krane?”
Hearing the sheriff’s soft voice, Booker turned, glad for the distraction. “Afternoon, Sheriff. Mrs. Ringhoffer.”
Cora Lee dimpled at Booker and waggled her fingers in greeting.
“Lucky I caught you,” Ringhoffer said. “Coroner Birdwell has decided to hold an inquest first thing tomorrow. Seems some folks are not convinced Charles Fowler’s death was accidental. Stories are spreading faster than crab grass. The coroner wants to review the evidence and put the subject to rest once and for all, so we’ll need those photographs you took for us.”
That would mean spending the whole evening sorting and printing. Booker felt relief, actually, that someone besides himself and Emaline questioned the circumstances of Fowler’s death. On the other hand, he could scratch shooting the dining room scene tonight.
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