Curiosity getting the best of her, she flipped open the lid and saw three pots. They were all large and differently shaped. Each bore markings, intricate patterns along the sides. They reminded her of the petroglyphs she had been studying, and she knew immediately that they were Indian pots.
She quickly closed the lid and placed the used towel beside the sink. She checked her reflection in the mirror and headed to the kitchen, where Mr. Wellington was making drinks.
“Soda?” he asked as he put ice in two glasses.
“Sure,” she replied, stepping around to the living room and standing by the sofa. She watched as he poured some soda from a bottle into the glasses and then walked over to her, handing her one.
“This is quite a motor home,” Rose said, taking a sip. “It's unbelievable really.”
The man smiled. “Well, it's as close to home away from home as I could find.” He motioned her over to sit down. She complied.
“Yeah, well it's better than any home I ever had,” she said, remembering the houses in which she had lived.
She glanced around the walls and noticed a few paintings, a wall hanging.
“It's Navajo,” he said, noticing her interest in the short, narrow piece that hung next to the window.
“Lovely,” she responded. She liked the rich colors, the delicate, smooth weaving pattern, the intricate design of the thick cotton threads.
“You must like Indian art,” she observed, thinking about the pots she had seen, as well as his belt buckle and the wall hanging.
“I admire all art, but yes, I particularly appreciate the art of this country's native people,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.
She nodded.
“Every piece tells a story, and I find I like collecting the stories of others.” He bore a look of pride.
Rose finished her drink, suddenly recalling her task of finding the ladder, and knew she needed to get into town. She wanted to talk to Sheriff Montgomery and examine once again the dead man's camper before the family drove it away. She stood up from the sofa.
“Well, good luck to you, Mr. Wellington. Let me know if you have any more trouble getting hooked up.” She walked into the kitchen and placed her glass in the sink. He followed her with his eyes.
“I work at the office and I've been camping awhile. I can answer most questions. Or if I can't, I can certainly find someone who can.”
She glanced out of the window and suddenly noticed that there was no other vehicle for the man to drive. She wondered how he planned to conduct his business.
“You have transportation into town?” she asked, turning around to face him.
He nodded. “I have friends here,” he replied. “They'll be along soon enough to drive me to where I plan to conduct my business.”
“Great,” Rose responded, holding out her hand to shake his. “I guess I'll see you around.”
He set down his glass, stood up from his seat, and shook her hand. Then he walked to the front door and opened it, this time taking note as to where the latch was located.
“Yes,” he said. “I imagine you will.”
Rose exited the motor home, hurried inside her own camper, found her keys, and got into her car.
She waved as she passed the man she had just met and immediately noticed in her rearview mirror that he was watching her even as she drove away from the campsites and headed past the office.
“Interesting guy,” she said to herself as she left Shady Grove. “But I hope he can get his money back on the motor home, because he'll never make it camping.” She laughed to herself as she made the turn into town.
TWENTY-FOUR
By the time Rose arrived at the sheriff's office, it was mid-afternoon. She parked and walked up to the front door, noticing that most of the staff seemed to have left for the day. When she got inside, she didn't find one of the familiar receptionists. She stood at the front desk and then peeked around the corner into the large room with cubicles. She didn't see a soul.
“Hello?” she called out, surprised to find the doors unlocked and nobody inside. “Anybody home?”
There was no reply.
“Hello?” she yelled again.
“Yeah, just a minute,” a voice responded.
Rose heard a toilet flush and a door close. She had obviously interrupted someone.
Rose waited, feeling a bit embarrassed by her intrusion. She noticed the clock on the wall. It was after 3:00
P.M.
It surprised her to find so much of the day had gone. She looked out in the parking lot and saw that the sheriff's car was not there. She remembered the accident from the day before and assumed the front end was being repaired.
“Oh, hello again.” It was the same deputy who had taken her statement the first day of the murder investigation. He was tucking in his shirt.
She had forgotten his name, but he recognized her. “Ms. Franklin,” he said.
“Hey,” Rose replied cheerfully. “Good to see you again.”
He smiled. “Roy,” he remarked. It appeared he could tell she didn't remember him by name. “Everybody's gone,” he reported.
“I see,” she replied. “Guess it's getting late.”
“Well, it's almost quitting time anyway,” he explained. He smoothed down the sides of his hair.
“So, what can I help you with?” he asked. “Think of something else to add to your statement?”
He eyed her, noticed the bruise on her forehead, and remembered hearing about her reported kidnapping, the trip the sheriff had to make to Oklahoma to pick her up and bring her home. “Or are you here to make another one?” He grinned.
“No, I've made all the statements I'm required to, Roy,” she replied, adding his name just to sound smart.
He examined her closely. “Maybe up until now, but from what I hear, we might ought to keep out a running statement for you.” He leaned against the doorframe, waiting for her response. Apparently, he thought he was being funny.
“Yeah, whatever,” she replied, deciding not to engage in this conversation.
“I was trying to find the sheriff,” she said. “Is he in?”
The deputy stared at her for a minute, disappointed that she wouldn't play along.
“Nah.” He shook his head and stood up straight. “He's been gone most of the day. Had to take the car over to the body shop this morning; then he had to meet with somebody about the murder. He was supposed to be back by now. He missed lunch.”
Rose waited for him to continue. It sounded to her like there was more he was going to say. There was.
“It was a retirement party for one of the girls,” he said. “We met at Marco's at twelve o'clock. Montgomery was supposed to be the master of ceremonies.” The deputy stretched his back and twisted from side to side, as if he was tired of sitting.
“That doesn't sound like the sheriff,” Rose said, surprised at this news. “Has anybody heard from him?” she asked.
“Yeah, he called about eleven-thirty and said to go on without him, that he would try to get there as soon as he could. Then he said to make up for it, everybody could go home a couple of hours early.” He nodded. “So everybody did.”
“But you,” Rose said, stating the obvious.
“Right. I wanted to finish some of my desk work.”
That explains where everyone is, Rose thought. “Did he say who he was meeting?” Rose asked.
The deputy narrowed his eyes at the woman. He wasn't sure how much he should reveal. Rose could tell he was sizing her up.
“I just want to speak to him about something I remembered from the crime scene.” She thought that would make him feel better about her reason to see his boss.
He nodded. “He said some government agent had contacted him. I guess that means the FBI. Anyway, he said that he was going to meet him at his house, escort him over to the impound lot, and introduce him to the victim's family.”
Rose didn't know what lot he meant.
Seeing her puzzlement, he explained. “The impound lot,” he repeated. “Down on Second Street, by the warehouses,” he added. “Where we keep the vehicles we take.”
“Oh,” Rose responded. Then she thought for a minute. “The camper, is that where that is?” she asked.
“I guess,” he replied. “I haven't heard from Bunkerâhe's the one who brought it back. But it doesn't matter, because you can't go in there.” He folded his arms across his chest, a gesture of authority that she recognized as one of many her father used to give.
“I didn't say I was planning to go in there,” she replied. She was growing impatient with the deputy's attitude. She tried to keep her cool.
“Well, from what I hear, that'll be the first time you do what you're supposed to do.” He stared at her.
Rose chose not to respond to his wisecrack. “May I use the phone?” she asked, pointing to the main phone on the front desk. She figured if she couldn't see the sheriff, she might as well try to contact the dead man's relatives.
“Be my guest,” he replied. “Just close the door behind you when you leave. I'm going back to finish my paperwork,” he added. Then he turned and headed toward the row of desks.
Rose picked up the receiver and dialed information. She asked for the number for the Motel 8 off of I-40, the place they had dropped off the victim's nephew and his son. The hotel clerk answered the phone.
“John Sunspeaker's room,” Rose requested.
The operator paused. Rose assumed she was locating the room number.
“I can ring it for you,” the clerk replied. “But I saw them leave not more than an hour ago, and they haven't come back.”
“Oh.” Rose wasn't sure whether or not to leave a message. The Sunspeakers might not remember her, and she didn't know if they would even want to see anyone after identifying the body and making all the arrangements they would have to make.
“They left with the police,” the clerk reported, sounding eager to share the news. “But I don't think they were in trouble or anything,” she added.
Rose could only guess about the gossip exchanged at interstate motels.
“Was it the sheriff?” Rose asked.
“You mean Montgomery?” the clerk replied.
“Yeah.” At first, it surprised Rose to hear his name, but then she realized that probably everybody in West Memphis knew who the sheriff was.
“Nah, I ain't seen him,” she said. “This was a guy dressed in a dark uniform.”
Rose could hear her talking to another guest. She waited a minute. “What kind of dark uniform?” she then asked, startled that another law officer would have been sent to pick the Sunspeakers up. The people at the sheriff's departments wore light-colored uniforms, a tan shirt and pants.
“I don't know.” The clerk hesitated. “Can you hold on a minute?”
“Sure,” Rose said.
She listened to the clerk doing a transaction with another guest. There was a little chatter. The minutes passed.
“There. Sorry,” the clerk announced. “Who were you waiting for?” she asked, having forgotten the conversation she had been having with Rose.
“The Sunspeakers,” Rose said. “You were saying they left with a uniformed officer.”
“Oh yeah, that's right.”
“Do you remember what kind of uniform it was?” Rose asked.
The woman paused again. “It was dark, looked like a patrolman's uniform.”
“Highway Patrol?” Rose asked.
“Yeah,” she answered. “But not from Arkansas, I know some of those guys.” She started another conversation with somebody else in the office.
“Where, then?” Rose asked, trying to get her attention.
“What?” the clerk replied.
“Where was the patrolman from?” she asked, her voice slightly raised.
“From Oklahoma,” the clerk reported, sounding weary of the conversation. “Look, I got to go.”
“Wait,” Rose shouted, hoping she hadn't hung up yet. “Did he say his name?”
“What?”
“Did the patrolman give his name?” Rose dreaded the answer.
“Yeah, I think it was”âshe pausedâ“Cupwell. Or maybe Capwell? I'm not sure.”
“Caldwell?” Rose almost shouted.
“That's it, Caldwell.” The woman seemed pleased with herself. “So, do you want to leave a message?”
Rose threw down the phone without a reply.
“Deputy!” She called out as she hurried around the front desk. “Deputy, we got trouble!”
“What's the matter with you?” he asked as he stood up and slowly made his way from his desk to where Rose was standing.
“This FBI agent that the sheriff was supposed to meetâdid he mention his name?” Rose asked.
She assumed that there was a connection between the sheriff's long absence and the two men being escorted away by the impersonating officer.
The deputy seemed to be thinking. Rose couldn't wait.
“This is important,” she said. “Did he say his name was Caldwell?”
The deputy noticed her agitated state and thought again for a minute, “No,” he replied. “I don't remember him saying his name. He just said where he was from.”
Rose's face instantly lost all its color. “Where was that?” she asked. “Where was the agent from?”
“Natchez, I think,” the deputy replied, not following the woman's line of questioning or her sudden concern. “Somewhere from over in Louisiana,” he added.
Rose ran to the door, stopped, and turned to the deputy.
“Call for backup, and go to the impound lot. See if they're there. I'll go to Sheriff Montgomery's house first. Hurry! And be careful,” she added. “The sheriff is in danger!”
Rose ran to her car and jumped in, not waiting for a response from the deputy. She didn't know what she might find at Sheriff Montgomery's house or even if she should go alone. She only hoped that she wasn't too late.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rose remembered where the sheriff lived because she had visited him during the holidays. The entire gang from Shady GroveâLucas, Rhonda, Ms. Lou Ellen, Mary, Thomas, and Roseâhad driven together to the farm near the edge of town for his annual West Memphis Christmas party. Rose had heard it was the town event of the year, and once they arrived, she realized that assessment was true.