The Rivers Webb (2 page)

“I'm sure it was a wonderful affair, and I'm sure the Stovalls are grateful. It doesn't change anything, though. Uncle Carl was shot, and the plain truth is that all the evidence points to our killer being someone local.”

“How, in Sam Hill, could you possibly know that!?”

“I don't ‘know' anything, Wilhelmina, but I've spent a good deal of time looking over the reports sent to me from the sheriff's office, and I can tell you that whoever did this had Uncle Carl in mind, specifically, for a target. It wasn't random. He was killed for a reason. I'm going to find out what that reason is, and when I do, I'll find his killer.”

This last was enough to bestill the wagging tongue of John's passenger. The remainder of their journey, though short, was a quiet one. In fact, other than brief—even terse—directions to the Rivers Estate, Wilhelmina said nothing.

Turning down the dirt road into the house was a revelation to John. He knew the Rivers had money…old money, the only kind in Georgia that ever really mattered. What he didn't realize was how obvious they made it. The mansion stood out glaringly against the simple, even ramshackle, homes that made up its neighbors. The oddly shaped and overly pristine garden that sloped along the drive signaled out to all who could see and smell: Here lies the result of privilege and breeding, bereft of hard work.

“You know that the funeral is tomorrow at nine, sharp. If you'd like, I can arrange for our driver to swing by and pick you up so you can ride with the rest of the family.”

Almost out of habit, John started to politely decline. But then, something about the way she asked the question caught him. It was neither pleading, nor drenched in the airy dross of insincerity. In fact, it was so lacking in any guile or deceit that he almost didn't recognize it for what it was: a genuine offer of kindness.

“That would be nice, actually. I'd appreciate it,” he finally replied.

Wilhelmina smiled her most beneficent smile, and then scooped up her dress, shut the car door behind her, and marched to the massive front doors of the house. Still a little surprised, John turned the car around in the ample driveway, and headed into town.

Wilhelmina wasn't exaggerating about how close it was, either. Within five minutes he was parking in front of the sheriff's office on Main Street of Sales City. The problem was, there was no one there. Walking up to the door, he peered through the glass to see the unlit interior. It was tidy, efficient, and adequate…the classic image of a small town sheriff's office. It was also completely empty.

As he wondered what his next move would be, John felt a strange tingling at the base of his neck. He recognized it. It was that feeling he always got when somebody was watching him.

Actually, he realized that quite a few people were watching him. And no wonder, considering that some strange man was standing in the center of town eyeballing the sheriff's office while he was away.

Needless to say, he was drawing attention. The few passersby on the street openly stared at the newcomer, while darting eyes peeked through shuttered windows in the two other buildings on the street. It reminded John of a western, in a weird kind of way. Those pre-gunfight scenes, where the lone sheriff walked down the middle of Main Street to square off against the evil man in black, while townsfolk scurried to the imagined safety of a quarter-inch thick wood slatted window. He half expected a burly cowboy dressed all in white to come sauntering up the center of the street to square off against him. Only it wasn't high noon, and he doubted he could quickdraw his .38 from his shoulder holster.

“You the Rivers boy?” a voice called from behind him.

“John Webb, actually. But I'm…a relation” he replied, turning to see a rough looking man of about 40, dressed in old farmhand clothes, and smelling of hard work. He had an odd look to him that made you instantly like him, and instantly suspect him—even if there was nothing to suspect. Or, maybe John was just a teensy bit on edge.

“Relation, huh? Well, I don't how old Roy feels about it, but I'd be mighty sore if a son of mine—hell, my ONLY son—referred to me as ‘a relation.' Though I don't suppose you feel much connected, do ya'? After all, it's been your mother raisin' ya', and she certainly held no love for the Rivers.”

John was a bit taken back by all of that, and didn't bother to try and hide it.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Oh, don't take no offense,” the man replied, raising his hands, placating, “I certainly ain't sayin' nothin' bad about your mama. God forbid! That woman were a saint, an' ever'body knows it.”

“I had no idea my family history was so well known,” he said simply. At that, the big man laughed.

“Ever'thing's well known in Coweta County. But I guess I'm bein' a bit rude about it. I forget sometimes that the world works a little differ'nt once you cross that county line; practically flips upside down once you leave the state! The name's Stovall, by the way. Arthur Stovall.”

A sudden understanding rushed through John's brain. Stovall was a name he did recognize. His mother received many letters from Annie Ruth Stovall, one of the few people in Sales City she referred to as a friend.

“Annie Ruth's husband, of course. I suppose you would know more about me than anyone around here, as much as your wife and my mother wrote to each other,” John said. Hard as he tried, John couldn't help let a little pain slip out with his words.

“We were real sorry to hear o' her passin'. Sometimes I think God gets a little greedy, takin' the best of us up with him, and leavin' the worst lot behind to mess this old world up even more 'an what it already is.”

That was when John decided that he liked the man. Maybe it was the honest nature of his face, or the slow sincere way he had of talking, but there was something distinctly likeable about him. It was a mistake, and he knew it. Until he knew more about the case, every man, woman, child, and household pet was a murder suspect. Getting friendly with anyone would only cloud his thinking… Still, he just couldn't help it. The damage was done. He liked the guy.

“The good reverend, for instance. There was a fella' had no business bein' taken like that. Awful. Just Awful.” Arthur shook his head in sympathy.

“He was the only member of my family I really knew,” John said, sympathetically. And then he wondered why. He felt himself sinking into dangerous territory—sympathizing with, even confiding in, a possible suspect. He blamed it on feeling out-of-place here. He knew just how dangerous it was to mix feelings in with an investigation, and he could even imagine what his partner would say if he was back home right now.

“He was a good man, your uncle. Everybody sure loved him.”

John's face went a little cold. From somewhere deep inside, he forced his professionalism to take over.

“Not everyone. There was at least one person who didn't love him—not even a little bit.”

John wasn't here for a vacation, or a reunion, or any kind of exploration into his lost childhood. He was in Sales City to solve a murder.

“Which is what brings me here. I wanted to check in with the sheriff, but…” he jerked his head to indicate the locked doors behind him.

“Oh, you'll find 'em all at the old Parrott River bridge,” Arthur said easily enough. “The sheriff got it figured as that was where it happened. Don't ask me how. But he got both his deputies together and they drove out there about an hour ago.”

“Thanks,” John said, getting back into the car. He was starting to wonder how any kind of mystery could possibly develop in a town where everyone seemed to know everything about everybody. “I appreciate the help.”

“Glad to help,” Arthur replied good-naturedly.

“Oh, and congratulations on your new barn,” John added.

“Well, now, I guess it's my turn to be surprised!” Arthur said with a big grin.

“Don't be,” John replied, “I cheated. Wilhelmina told me how the town had a barn-raising for you.”

Arthur gave a nod that said volumes.

“I take it there's more to that story?”

“Well, your aunt was more than happy to help get people together to put that barn up—that's for sure. Seein' as how it's really her barn!”

That got John's attention. He got back out of the car. The bridge could wait a few minutes.

“You'll have to run that by me again. Wilhelmina organized a town function to raise money to build a barn that was supposed to be for your family, but it really belongs to her?”

Arthur laughed at John's obvious confusion.

“Mr. Webb, there's somethin' you need to realize. In this town, every damn thing belongs to the Rivers family, one way or another. In my case, the land I live and work on is Rivers property, and they get their chunk out o' any money I make off it.”

“What, like some kind of a co-op?”

Arthur laughed, “Co-op. That's a clever word for it. I just love how you northerners can find a polite turn-a'-phrase for everything. You want to call it a co-op, that'll work. It's still sharecroppin', no matter how you say it, though. Now, I can make any improvements I want, be it to the house, or the land…or a barn. But come that day when I can't get my tired old body out to work no more, that's the day they'll come with smilin' faces to move my family out.”

John was suddenly feeling awkward, standing there in the street, hearing about all the horrible things his family was doing. It was one thing to joke about them with friends from the comfortable distance of New York, when they were nothing more touching to him than a collection of stereotypes he had heard about through his mother. It was quite another thing to stand face to face with a man who was a living reminder of their excesses and indifference. Suddenly, John felt the need for a little distance. This place called Sales City was becoming all too real.

“If there's anything else you happen to hear that you think I might want to know about, you can look me up at the boarding house. I'll be staying there while I'm in town.”

“Ya' ain't stayin' at the Rivers' place?”

With a smirk that carried far more emotion than he meant, John simply said, “No.” Then he got behind the wheel and headed off toward the bridge.

It was a short drive to the Parrott River Bridge. John was quickly beginning to realize that everything in this town was a short drive. The trees were in full bloom, and brimming with brightly colored blossoms that were as foreign and unknown to John as if they had been transplanted from the farthest reaches of China. He couldn't explain why, but John was suddenly struck by a desire to turn back the calendar eight or nine months, and gaze up at the familiar fall displays of that wide Connecticut road that led to his childhood home. The smell of pine was in the air, and something else. John found himself momentarily distracted, trying to place the scent wafting through the air. It was familiar, somehow, but he couldn't for the life of him remember when he had ever smelt it.

The sheriff's car was on the side of the road, and abandoned. Pulling in beside it, John couldn't help but park just a little too close. It was something they used to do to rookie detectives back on the force. Park so close that they would need you to move your car before they could leave—then be sure to hang around until they were ready to go, just to get a little sadistic pleasure out of watching them trudge back and ask for your help. The best ones always tried to move anyway, and they always ended up scraping paint.

John made his way down to the edge of the river, where the sheriff and his two deputies were busy…doing something. To tell the truth, John wasn't really certain exactly what they were up to.

“Sir, we're gonna have to ask you to leave…” one of the deputies said as he sauntered up to John. “This is a crime scene.”

He smiled from behind his wide, dark sunglasses, as if to emphasize a warm southern charm, combined with a hard backwoods sensibility. John wondered if it ever really worked.

“To tell you the truth, from all the reports I've read, nobody's actually sure where the crime was committed, which would make this,” and he motioned with his hand in a broad gesture, taking in everything around him, “just a scene.”

While the deputy stared, trying to figure him out, Sheriff Roy Rivers came up beside him.

“Dan, for the love a' Gawd! Sales City gets strangers in town about as often as we get a new mayor. And seein' as we're actually expectin' one today, you'd think you'd have enough sense ta' figure that this just
might
be my son!” Shaking his head, the sheriff moved past Deputy Dan and walked up to John.

The sheriff was a big man, wide of shoulders, and imposing. He managed to be heavyset without appearing flabby or soft, and he wore a tightly trimmed mustache close upon his lip. As he walked, he demonstrated a measured gait, full of confidence, but somehow lacking in arrogance. Everything about him, somehow, echoed professionalism. It irritated John greatly. And not in the smallest part because he realized that Wilhelmina was right about one thing: He did look like his father.

“Been a long time,” Roy said. It was matter of fact and slightly cold; reserved in the way it was delivered, as though he were speaking to someone else's distant cousin who stopped in for Christmas or Thanksgiving once or twice a year. And at the end of it, Roy Rivers stuck out his hand formally.

Gee, Dad, how touching. Yes it has been a long time. I believe it was around the time I learned my ABCs, come to think of it
. Those, and many other thoughts came racing to mind, and as much as he would have liked to throw them at him, he decided on a different tact.

“So, I hear we've got a theory.” So his own father was an ass. It didn't change the job.

Apparently, Sheriff Rivers agreed.

“We know that Carl was on that bridge when he was shot.”