The Busybody Needed Killing, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Characters
1 - Tuesday Lunch
2 - Thanksgiving Day
3 - Friday Morning
4 - Friday Afternoon
5 - Friday Evening
6 - Early Saturday Morning
7 - Saturday Morning
8 - Later Saturday Morning
9 - Saturday Noon
10 - Saturday Afternoon
11 - Late Saturday Afternoon
12 - Sunday
13 - Monday Morning
14 - Monday Afternoon
15 - Tuesday Morning
16 - Tuesday Lunch
17 - Tuesday Afternoon
18 - Early Tuesday Evening
19 - Late Tuesday Evening
20 - Early Wednesday Morning
21 - Wednesday Morning
22 - Wednesday Noon
23 - Wednesday Afternoon
24 - Thursday Morning
25 - Thursday Lunch
Keep Reading for a Preview
Who Needed Killing - Monday
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Bill Fitts
The Busybody Needed Killing
Book 4
in the
Needed Killing Series
Bill Fitts
(original title The Deacon Needed Killing)
Copyright 2014 by Bill Fitts
Excerpt from Who Needed Killing?
copyright 2014 by Bill Fitts
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Shelbyville and the people (and pets) who populate it are either products of my imagination or used fictitiously. It would be idle to deny, however, that Shelbyville, along with its university, was inspired by my hometown, Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and its environs.
ISBN 978-1-941387-26-9
Cover design: Keri Knutson at Alchemy Book Covers
Printed in the United States of America
Visit Bill’s website billfittsauthor.com
For Anne, without whom
none of the books in the series would have been written;
and for Jack and Bex, you know who you are
Characters
Curtis Brown police detective, Cranbury, Tennessee
Owen Cranston restaurant chef; former high school teacher
Crawford (James F. “Ford”) retiree; private investigator
Darryl deputy sheriff, Lee County Tennessee
Stan Dowdy friend of Crawford; a-v specialist at university
Nina Drake Theodore’s sister
Theodore Drake the deacon
Urban Drake Theodore’s brother
Eric of the Woods a hermit
Friar Cat resident cat at Camp Serenity
Rufus George university provost
Joseph Godwin psychiatrist, Cranbury, Tennessee
Arnold Gold the groom
Connie Green cook, Camp Serenity
Sonya Hardy executive director, Camp Serenity
Jack Harlon friend of Bobby Slater; married to Rebecca Perry
Ross Howard deputy sheriff, Lee County Tennessee
Rick Mann antiques dealer and Realtor
Victoria Moore Rufus George’s assistant
Father John Morris Roman Catholic priest, Cranbury, Tennessee
Mr. Whiskers Bobby Slater’s cat
Nan dispatcher, sheriff’s office, Lee County Tennessee
Maddy Nash social worker, Cranbury, Tennessee; married to Eli Summers
Rebecca (Bex) Perry Bobby Slater’s sister-cousin; one of the Three Bs; married to Jack Harlon
Pauline Riggs Crawford’s pet-sitter
Prissy (Frances Paula) Robertson mother of the bride
Zelda Robertson the bride
Roy deputy sheriff, Lee County Tennessee
Bobby Slater Crawford’s lady friend; one of the Three Bs
Charity Sterling district attorney, Cranbury, Tennessee
Eli Summers oncologist, Cranbury, Tennessee; married to Maddy Nash
Tan Crawford’s dog
The Black (TB) Crawford’s cat
Jim Ward friend of Crawford; head of homicide, Shelbyville
Bunny (Beatrice) William aunt of the bride; one of the Three Bs
1
Tuesday Lunch
FOR SOME REASON Jim Ward can get away with his lack of commitment to lunch dates. I think it’s because he’s head of Shelbyville’s homicide department. Stan Dowdy, on the other hand, does video for the university. “Does video” isn’t an adequate description of all that he does—but it’s the shorthand description he uses. Who am I to challenge it?
When I'd called Jim about lunch he'd hesitated, then said, "Sure, try to get a table instead of a booth." Stan had done his usual dithering. I realize it's hard to tell your clients no when most of them are senior administrators at the university, but I tease him about having classic male commitment issues as often as I can.
Neither had called to say they couldn't make it so here I was at the Happy Buddha, a Chinese restaurant in an upscale strip mall near the university, sitting by myself at one of the tables for four next to the wall, menus on the table, silverware wrapped up in napkins, and no Jim—or Stan.
I particularly like going to the Happy Buddha in the fall and spring. The owners have taken something of a minimalist attitude to heat and air conditioning—physical comfort-wise anyway—and we are talking about Shelbyville, Alabama. Most restaurants are like meat lockers during the summer—but not the Happy Buddha.
So the temperature was more comfortable but the longer I sat there by myself occupying a table for four as the restaurant filled up with the lunch crowd, the more uncomfortable I felt. I’d ordered iced tea, but had held off on ordering anything else. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what I wanted—I’d learned the menu pretty well while I was working and it hadn’t changed. The issue was that if I ordered, my food would be here before my friends. The Happy Buddha didn’t waste time.
I was peering at the door trying to spot Stan or Jim when the people at the booth next to my table stood up. One headed back to where the restrooms were. The other turned my way, dropped the check folder, and kicked it under the table—all in one smooth motion. The Happy Buddha, like so many restaurants, hides the actual bill—a slip of paper—in a little folder—perhaps in the interests of privacy.
“Whoops!” The woman laughed. “I couldn’t do that again if I tried!”
I reached under the table, grabbed the folder, stood up, and handed it to her. Her laugh had jarred my memory. A pretty woman, some twenty years my junior. “I’m sorry, don’t you work at the university? I’m James Crawford. Don’t I know you?”
Her eyes twinkled, she gave a mock curtsy, and flashed a wide smile. “Why thank you for remembering, kind sir! I’m Reata.”
I snapped my fingers. “Graphic artist, right? You do web design—really beautiful stuff as I recall.”
“Now you’ve really made my day!”
Stan walked up. “Hey, Reata, what’s the creative director of special projects up to?”
“Being late for a meeting.” She glanced at her watch. “And that’s why I took an early lunch. Gotta run! Thanks for picking up my check, Mr. Crawford! Bye, Stan.”
She bustled off and Stan looked at me quizzically. I shook my head. “She dropped it and I picked it up—that way.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Stan pulled a chair out, sat, and grabbed a menu. “I had some faculty member show up with ‘a simple question, really,’ of course it was neither simple nor a single question.” He sighed and shook his head.
“Faculty,” Stan observed, “what can you do? Don’t have a job without ’em, can’t kill them.”
“Talking murder, Stan?” Ward’s deep voice came from behind me. He must have gone to the restroom first to come to the table from that direction. He edged around me and I pulled forward to give him some extra room. “If so, I suggest discussing it with an attorney, not a private investigator. At least the attorney could claim client privilege.” Jim sat and pushed the table out a little to give himself some more room. I don’t know if Jim had been reading Westerns or if it was one of those continuing education courses every professional has to take, but lately he’d taken to sitting with his back to the wall—just like a sheriff in the Wild West—as if somebody was out to get him.
I guess it says something about me that I’d noticed the change and it says even more that—until now—I’d never considered the idea that maybe somebody was out to get him. Homicide detectives aren’t universally loved.
“Is it safe to be sitting with you?”
Jim didn’t respond, he calmly flipped the menu over to the lunch specials side and started running his finger down the page.
“Huh?” Stan sat up straight and turned in his seat to look around at the other customers. “Why wouldn’t it be safe to sit with a policeman?” He turned back around to look at Jim and me.
“Pay no attention to the comedian.” Ward flipped the menu back over to see what was available for supper, I guess. I hadn’t had as many lunches with Jim as I’ve had with Stan even though I’ve known Jim longer. But it always seemed to me that Jim never remembered what was on the menus of the places we’d frequent for lunch. Or, maybe food wasn’t as important to Jim as it was to people like me—and Stan.
“Ready to order?” I didn’t recognize the waiter, which was ha
He glanced at me first. I suppose because I’d already ordered a drink. “General chicken, hot and sour soup, and fried rice. No, make it steamed rice.” Food was important to me, but so was fitting into my clothes.
Stan shrugged his shoulders and ordered. “Chicken and mushrooms, steamed rice, hot and sour soup, and water, no lemon.”
The waiter looked at Jim who paused and then rattled his order off. “Egg drop soup and the combination fried rice. Oh, and hold the egg roll will you?”
“Hold the egg roll.” The guy nodded. “What to drink?”
“Eh?” Jim glanced at the table and saw what I was drinking. “Iced tea, unsweet, with a glass of water too—no lemon.”
The waiter walked away.
“So why don’t you take off your jacket, Jim? I’m sure you’d be more comfortable.” For some reason I wasn’t going to let the back-to-the-wall issue drop. Stan and I were in shirtsleeves but Jim was wearing a suit, just as you’d expect of the head of homicide.
Ward glared at me but it was Stan that spoke. “What’s going on? What am I missing?”
I pointed at the empty chair with its back facing the lunch crowd. “It used to be that Captain Ward would have walked right up to the table and sat in that chair. Today he comes in the only entrance to the restaurant, checks to see who’s here, even goes so far as to check the restrooms in the back, works his way around to our table, and then takes a seat with his back to the wall, even if I was in the way.” I was talking to Stan but looking at Jim.
“He’s wearing his underarm holster instead of the one he usually wears—you remember, the one that fits in the small of his back. The underarm holster makes a bulge in his coat and, for some reason best known to him, means he keeps his jacket on.” I paused. “But it means he can get his gun out faster.”
The waiter took this opportunity to deliver the drinks. Not that he was waiting for a pause in the conversation. The timing was just right. He put the iced tea down in front of Jim and gave him one of the waters. Stan got the other water, and the waiter took my glass off to refill.
“It’s no big deal.” Jim took a sip of water. “The guy is stupid and belligerent. He’ll be back in jail before too long. Meanwhile—” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Mama Ward didn’t raise no stupid children.” I smiled, relieved. “Glad to hear you know who it is.”
“Yeah, he’s too stupid even to make it anonymous. Had to shout his threats out in front of witnesses. Chief Boyd heard about it and now I’m under orders to take ‘all reasonable precautions.’”
“Does that include not eating alone?” Stan grinned. “Having others at the table probably means he’d hesitate to shoot, right?”
“Not this guy.” Jim peeled the paper strip off the rolled up napkin and silverware. “I told you he was stupid.”
The waiter reappeared with my tea and two egg rolls. He put one plate in front of Stan and the other in front of me.
Stan and I looked at each other and shrugged. I’d never been able to get any member of the waitstaff at the Happy Buddha to ever “hold the egg roll” despite years of trying.
“Maybe it’s the suit,” said Stan.
I looked up at the waiter. “Spicy mustard?” He reached into his apron and pulled out a squeeze bottle, put it on the table, and disappeared.
Stan spooned some of the red sweet sauce onto his saucer. It was always on the table at the Happy Buddha along with the salt, pepper, soy sauce, and a bowl of crunchy noodle things. I squeezed some hot mustard onto my plate, dipped a corner of the egg roll into the pool, and considered why the mustard wasn’t left out too.
My eyes filled with tears and I wondered, not for the first time, why I did that to myself. I was never sure how spicy it was going to be and never prepared for how spicy it could be. Maybe the Happy Buddha doesn’t leave the mustard out because of liability issues. I could hear their attorney. “He requested the mustard. Not our problem.”
Jim was sitting back in his chair eyeing the room. “I think they use some of the stuff that’s in tear gas.”
I blinked at Jim through the film of tears. “That reminds me,” I gasped. “Wanted to talk to you about defensive weapons.”
Jim and Stan exchanged glances. They both looked puzzled. I took a swallow of tea and started to feel more like myself. “The tear gas comment reminded me. You know how some people carry pepper spray or stun guns for defense.”
They both nodded as the waiter returned with our bowls of soup and a bowl of the crunchy noodle things. Good deal, since I’d eaten most of what had been on the table while I was waiting.
Stan nodded. “Sure. The kinda thing you carry in case you’re hassled. Don’t want to hurt anybody but—”
Jim snorted. “You two guys are something else. What did you call them? Defensive weapons? A weapon’s just a weapon.”
“Oh, come on Ward. Some weapons are more defensive than others—like pepper spray and stun guns. You know what I’m trying to say.” I picked up my spoon.
“Tranquilizer dart guns and rubber bullets.” Stan chimed in. “Stuff like that.”
Jim just shook his head, took a spoonful of egg drop soup, and swallowed. “A weapon’s a weapon and that’s all there is to it. Oh, you may use it defensively, but it doesn’t mean you couldn’t use it offensively either. Don’t kid yourselves. If it can protect, it can attack.”
Stan and I realized we were on shaky ground arguing with a man who had a pistol tucked under his arm. I was glad my soup was good. I had the feeling I was about to have to eat my words as well. “Okay, okay. I had just been doing a little Internet research and wondered what you thought about them.”
“Defensive,” Jim hit the word hard, “weapons? Why were you doing that? You figure Bobby needs extra protection now that she’s hanging around with you?”
As that was the reason I’d started poking around investigating different weapons on the Internet, I didn’t have much to say. I had realized that private investigation might be hazardous for friends of the investigator as well as the investigator himself.
“Pass the crunchy things would you?” Stan pushed the bowl toward me and I picked it up and shook some of them into my soup.
We all sat quietly eating soup for a minute or so. The waiter returned with our main courses and, after sorting out who’d ordered what, we continued eating in silence.
I decided to man up. “Well, the thought had occurred to me.”
“Thank God for that, anyway.” Stan ducked his head and concentrated on his chicken and mushrooms after his outburst.
“I agree,” Jim sprinkled some soy sauce over his fried rice. I’d wondered if the Happy Buddha had cut back on salt in order to serve healthier food or to save money. Judging by the amount of soy sauce Jim was using they weren’t saving money. “Glad to hear you might be developing some common sense to go along with that Sherlock stuff you do. You still against carrying?” He shook his head. I didn’t have to speak. “I know, I know. Guess I’ll have to be pleased that you’re thinking about learning how to walk instead of wishing you’d learn to run.”
“I carried a pistol in the Shore Patrol—a .45 caliber something—and didn’t like it—or the feeling it gave me.”
“You ever use it?” Stan looked curious. He had paused with his fork in the air.
Jim looked thoughtful. “That was the Colt M1911. The way it kicked it was a bitch to hit anything with.”
“Right. I was told by a bunch of instructors I’d have a better chance of hitting the target with a baseball.”
Jim snorted. “Drill instructors aren’t very original with their insults. The U.S. used that pistol from WWI to Vietnam. It hit plenty of targets.”
“Is that right?” I turned back to Stan. “Never had reason to fire it. Carrying a gun—or just ‘carrying,’ as Jim puts it—affects people in different ways. Some of the other guys in the Shore Patrol were a little more—” I groped for the word. “Enthusiastic, if you will—about having—no, getting—to wear a weapon than I was. For them it was a fringe benefit of the job—along with the nightstick.”
