Eighteen
"Miss Gaither?"
"Yes?"
Alex didn't feel like having company. Her latest altercation
with Reede had left her drained. After last night, her nerves
were shot. Neither Reede's glib explanation of the Hickam
man's murder or any amount of her own sound reasoning had
convinced her that she wasn't in danger.
So, when someone knocked on her motel room door, she
had approached it cautiously and looked through the peephole.
A strange, but evidently harmless couple, were on her
threshold. She opened the door and looked at them expectantly.
Suddenly, the man stuck out his hand. Startled, Alex
jumped back. "Reverend Fergus Plummet." Feeling foolish,
Alex shook hands with him. "Did I frighten you? I'm dreadfully
sorry. I didn't mean to."
The reverend's mannerisms were so deferential, his tone
of voice so sympathetic, he hardly posed a threat. He had a
slight build and was shorter than average, but held himself
erect with almost military posture. His black suit was shiny
in spots and inadequate for the season. He wore no overcoat
and nothing to cover his wavy dark hair, which was fuller
than current fashion dictated. In a community where almost
every male from the age of twelve wore either a cowboy hat
or bill cap, it looked odd to see a man without one.
"This is my wife, Wanda."
"Hello, Mrs. Plummet, Reverend."
Mrs. Plummet was a large woman, with a notable bosom
that she'd tried to minimize by covering it with a drab olive
cardigan sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a knot on
the back of her head, which she kept meekly lowered. Her
husband had referred to her with no more personal regard
than he might give a lamppost.
"How'd you know my name?" Alex asked, curious about
the couple.
"Everybody does," he replied with a brief smile. "There's
talk going around town about you."
The minister had a Bible tucked under one arm. Alex
couldn't imagine what a minister was doing at her door--
recruiting new members?
"I guess you're wondering why I'm here," he said, correctly
reading her puzzled expression.
"Frankly, yes. Would you like to come in?"
They stepped into the room. Mrs. Plummet seemed ill at
ease and unsure where to sit until her husband pointed her
to a corner of the bed. He took the only chair. Alex sat down
on the edge of the bed, but far enough away from Mrs.
Plummet for both of them to be comfortable.
The preacher gazed about him. He seemed to be in no
hurry to disclose the reason he was there. Finally, and with
a trace of impatience, Alex asked, "Is there something I can
do for you, Reverend Plummet?"
Closing his eyes, he raised his hand heavenward and
evoked a blessing. "May heaven's rich blessings pour down
on this beloved daughter of God," he intoned in a deep,
vibrating voice.
He began to pray with loud earnestness. Alex had the
wildest impulse to giggle. Merle Graham had seen to it that
she was raised with traditional Protestant beliefs. They had
attended church regularly. Though she had never embraced
the fundamentalist dogma her grandmother adhered to, Alex's
Christian faith was well cemented.
"Please, Reverend Plummet," she interrupted when his
prayer extended into overtime, "I've had a very long day.
Could we get to the point of your visit, please?"
He looked rather piqued over her interruption, but said with a mysterious air, "I can assist you with your investigation
of Minton Enterprises."
She was stunned. She had never expected him to be connected
in any way to her investigation. She reminded herself,
however, to proceed with caution. She was, after all, extremely
skeptical. What deep, dark secrets could this weird
little man know about Celina, Reede Lambert, or the Mintons?
Ministers were privy to confidences, but experience had
taught her that professional ethics usually prevented them
from revealing any confessions. They strictly abided by the
rules of privileged information, and only imparted it in life-threatening
situations.
It didn't seem likely that either Angus or Junior would bare
his soul to a mousy little man like Plummet. Based wholly
on outward appearance, he would have a minimal amount of
influence with the Almighty. The thought of Reede Lambert
confessing a sin was preposterous.
She responded with a professional detachment that Greg
Harper would have been proud of: "Oh, really? How can
you do that? Did you know my mother?"
"Unfortunately, no. But I can speed along your investigation
just the same. We--my congregation of saints and I--believe
that you're on our side. And our side is God's side.''
"Th-thank you," she stammered, hoping that was the
correct response.
Obviously, it was. It earned a soft amen from Mrs. Plummet,
who had been silently praying all this time.
"Reverend Plummet," Alex said uncertainly, "I'm not
sure you understand. I'm here at the behest of the district
attorney's office to--"
"The Lord uses people as his holy instruments."
"--to investigate the murder of my mother, which occurred
here in Purcell twenty-five years ago."
"God be praised . . . that this wrong . . . will soon be
set right!" He shook his fists heavenward.
Alex was flabbergasted. She gave a nervous laugh. "Yes,
well, I hope so, too. But I fail to see how my investigation
concerns you and your ministry. Do you have inside knowledge
of the crime?"
"Oh, that I did, Miss Gaither," Plummet wailed. "Oh,
that I did, so that we could speed along God's work and
punish the iniquitous."
"The iniquitous?"
"Sinners!" he shouted fervently. "Those who would corrupt
this town and all the innocent children of God living
here. They want to build Satan's playground, fill the precious
veins of our children with narcotics, their sweet mouths with foul liquor, their fertile little minds with carnality."
From the corner of her eye, Alex glanced at Mrs. Plummet,
who sat with her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap,
her knees and ankles decorously pressed together, as though
they had been glued that way.
"Are you referring to Purcell Downs?" Alex asked tentatively.
Just as she had feared, the very words opened up a wellspring
of evangelical fervor. Prophecies came spewing out
of the preacher's mouth like a fountain run amok. Alex endured
a sermon on the evils of horserace gambling and all
the ungodly elements that accompanied it. But when Plummet
began to tout her as a missionary sent to Purcell to vanquish
the sons of Satan, she felt compelled to bring the fiery sermon
to a halt.
"Reverend Plummet, please." After several attempted interruptions,
he stopped speaking and looked at her blankly.
She licked her lips anxiously, not wanting to offend him, but
wanting to make herself explicitly clear.
"I have absolutely nothing to do with whether or not Minton
Enterprises is granted a gambling license. The fact is that
they've already been approved by the racing commission. All
that remains are the formalities."
"But the Mintons are under investigation for murder."
Choosing her words carefully, and omitting any direct reference
to the Mintons, she said, "If enough evidence or
probable cause is found as a result of my investigation, the
case could be brought before the grand jury. It would be up
to it to bring forth an indictment. In any instance, the parties
involved are to be presumed innocent until proven guilty, in
accordance with our Constitution."
She held up a hand to stave off his interruption. "Please,
let me finish. Whatever happens regarding the proposed racetrack
after I conclude my investigation will be the responsibility
of the racing commission. I will have nothing to do
with its final decision on this or any other application for a
gambling license.
"Actually, it's coincidental that the Mintons are personally
involved with both issues simultaneously. I reopened my
mother's murder case because, as a public prosecutor, I was
dissatisfied with its resolution, and thought that it warranted
further investigation. I do not hold a personal grudge against
this town, or anyone in it."
Plummet was squirming with the need to speak, so she
let him. "You don't want to see gambling come to Purcell,
do you? Aren't you against this device of the devil that
snatches food from children's mouths, destroys marriages,
and plunges the weak onto paths bound for hell and damnation?'
'
"My views on pari-mutuel betting--or anything else, for
that matter--are none of your business, Reverend Plummet.''
Alex came to her feet. She was tired, and he was a wacko.
She'd given him more time than he deserved. "I must ask
you and Mrs. Plummet to leave now."
He wasn't an educated and eloquent churchman, who had
researched the issue and drawn enlightened conclusions.
There were well-founded arguments for both sides. But
whether pari-mutuel gambling came to Purcell County or not,
Alex had nothing to do with it.
"We're not giving up," Plummet said, following her to
the door. "We're willing to make any sacrifice to see that
God's will is carried out."
"God's will? If it's God's will that the Mintons be denied
that gambling license, then nothing you do will help or hinder,
right?"
He couldn't be trapped with logic. "God uses us to do his
work. He's using you, though you might not know it yet."
His eyes smoldered with fanatical fire. It gave Alex goose
bumps. "You are the answer to our prayers. Oh, yes, Miss
Gaither, the answer to our prayers. Call on us. You've been
anointed by God, and we're your humble and willing servants."
"I, uh, I'll keep that in mind. Goodbye."
Reverend Plummet's theology was warped. He gave her
the creeps. She couldn't get her door closed behind him fast
enough. As soon as she did, her telephone rang.
Nineteen
"How does dinner and dancing sound?" Junior Minton asked
without preamble.
"Like a fairy tale."
"It's not. Just say yes."
"You're inviting me out for dinner and dancing?"
"It's the monthly fete at the Purcell Horse and Gun Club.
Please say you'll go with me. Otherwise, it'll be boring as
hell."
Alex laughed. "Junior, I doubt you're ever bored. Especially
when there are women around. Do most of them fall
for your b.s.?"
"Almost without exception. If you go with me tonight,
it'll be unanimous."
"Tonight?"
"Sure, tonight. Did I fail to mention that? Sorry I couldn't
give you more notice."
"You're actually serious?"
"Would I joke about something as important as the
monthly get-together at the Horse and Gun Club?"
"Of course you wouldn't. Forgive my flippancy."
"All's forgiven if you'll go."
"I really can't. I'm exhausted. Last night--"
"Yeah, I heard about that. Jeez, that must've been awful,
you finding Pasty Hickam that way. I want to help take your
mind off it."
"I appreciate your consideration, but I can't go."
"I refuse to take no for an answer."
While talking, she had struggled out of her dress and was
now standing in her slip and stockings, cradling the telephone
receiver between her shoulder and her ear while trying to pull
on her robe. The housekeeper always turned off the heat after
she cleaned the room. Every evening Alex had a frigid homecoming
to dread.
She glanced toward the alcove where her clothes were
hanging. "I really can't go, Junior."
"How come?"
"All my dressy clothes are in Austin. I don't have anything
to wear."
"Surely a lady as articulate as you isn't resorting to that
cliche?"
"It happens to be the truth."
"And the occasion calls for casual. Wear that leather skirt
you had on the other day. It's a knockout."
Alex had finally managed to wriggle herself into the robe
without dropping the phone. She sat down on the edge of the
bed and snuggled deeper into the terry cloth. "I still have to
say no."
"Why? I know it's rude to put you on the spot like this,
but I'm not going to be gracious and let you bow out without
giving me a valid reason."
"I just don't think it would be a good idea for us to socialize."
"Because you're hoping I'll soon be a resident of the
Huntsville State Prison?"
"No!"
"Then, what?"
"I don't want to send you to prison, but you are a key
suspect in a murder case."
"Alex, you've had time to form an opinion of me. Do
you honestly believe that I could commit such a violent
crime?"
She remembered how Reede had laughed at the notion of
Junior going to war. He was lazy, unambitious, a philanderer.
Violent outbursts didn't fit into his image. "No, I don't,"
she replied softly. "But you're still a suspect. It wouldn't do
for us to be seen fraternizing."
"I like that word," he snarled. "It sounds dirty, incestuous.
And for your peace of mind, I do all my fraternizing
privately. That is, except for a few times, when I was
younger. Reede and I used to--"
"Please," she groaned, "I don't want to know."
"Okay, I'll spare you the lurid details, on one condition."
"What?"
"Say you'll go tonight. I'll pick you up at seven."
"I can't."
"Alex, Alex," he moaned dramatically, "look at it this
way. During the course of the evening I'll have a drink or
two, possibly more. I might start reminiscing, get maudlin,
say something indiscreet. When I do, you'll be there to hear
it. No telling what stunning confessions I might blurt out in
my inebriation. Consider this evening one long interrogation.
It's part of your job to wear down the defenses of your
suspects, isn't it?
"You'd be shirking your duty if you didn't take advantage
of every opportunity to rout out the truth. How can you
selfishly languish in the luxury of the Westerner Motel while
a suspect is shooting off his mouth over drinks at the Horse
and Gun Club? Shame on you. You owe this to the taxpaying
public who've footing the bill for this investigation. Do it for
your country, Alex."
Again, she groaned dramatically. "If I consent to go, will
you promise not to make any more speeches?"
"Seven o'clock."
She could hear the triumph in his voice.
The moment she entered the clubhouse, she was glad she
had come. There was music and laughter. She caught snatches
of several conversations, none of which were centered around
Celina Gaither's murder. That in itself was a refreshing
change. She looked forward to several hours of relaxation,
and felt that the break had been earned.
Nevertheless, she rationalized being there. Not for a minute
did she believe that Junior would make a public spectacle of
himself while under the influence. She wasn't likely to hear
any startling confessions.
All the same, something beneficial might come out of the
evening. The exclusivity of the Horse and Gun Club suggested
that only Purcell's upper crust were members. Reede
had told her that the people who had signed the letter she
had received were local businessmen and professionals. It
was conceivable that she would meet some of them tonight,
and get a feel for the extent of their animosity.
More important, she would have an opportunity to mingle
with locals, people who knew the Mintons and Reede well
and might shed light on their characters.
Junior had picked her up in his red Jaguar. He'd driven it
with a lack of regard for the speed limit. His festive mood
had been contagious. Whether she was acting in a professional
capacity or not, it felt good to be standing beside the handsomest
man in the room, with his hand riding lightly, but
proprietorially, on the small of her back.
"The bar's this way," he said close to her ear, making