The Nighttime is the Right Time

  The Nighttime Is the Right Time

  A Collection of Stories

  By Bill Crider

  Cover image used by permission of Rodd Dierker of www.AmateurPhotoArt.Com

  Crossroad Press Edition Published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital

  Copyright 2010 by Bill Crider & Macabre Ink Digital Publications

  LICENSE NOTES:

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your vendor of choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  Copyright Information:

  “Gored” copyright 1995 by Bill Crider. From Murder Most Delicious, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Signet Books, 1995.

  “Cap’n Bob and Gus” copyright 1994 by Bill Crider. From Feline and Famous: Cat Crimes Goes to Hollywood, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Ed Gorman, Donald I. Fine, Inc., 1994.

  “Poo Poo” copyright 1998 by Bill Crider. From Louisiana Literature, Volume 15, Number 1.

  “See What the Boys in the Locked Room Will Have” copyright 1994 by Bill Crider. Appeared in slightly different form in Partners in Crime, edited by Elaine Raco Chase, Signet Books, 1994.

  “The Santa Claus Caper” copyright 1991 by Bill Crider. From Christmas Stalkings, edited by Charlotte MacLeod, Mysterious Press, 1991.

  “It Happened at Grandmother’s House” copyright 1998 by Bill Crider. From Once Upon a Crime, edited by Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg, Berkley Prime Crime, 1998.

  “The Nighttime is the Right Time” copyright 1995 by Bill Crider. From Werewolves, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, DAW Books, 1995.

  “An Evening Out with Carl” copyright 1991 by Bill Crider. From Obsessions, edited by Gary Raisor, Dark Harvest, 1991.

  “Blest Be the Ties” copyright 1994 by Bill Crider. From Murder for Father, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Signet Books, 1994.

  “King of the Night” copyright 1995 by Bill Crider. From Celebrity Vampires, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, DAW Books, 1995.

  “How I Found a Cat, Lost True Love, and Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo” copyright 1995 by Bill Crider. From Cat Crimes Takes a Vacation, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Ed Gorman, Donald I. Fine, Inc., 1995.

  ALSO FROM BILL CRIDER & CROSSROAD PRESS:

  AS JACK MACLANE:

  Blood Dreams

  Goodnight MooM

  Just Before Dark

  Keepers of the Beast

  Rest in Peace

  AS BILL CRIDER:

  A Time for Hanging

  Medicine Show

  Ryan Rides Back

  Gored

  Sheriff Dan Rhodes has been very, very good to me. He’s appeared in eleven novels (so far) and several short stories, has sold to paperback, book clubs, and large print. A couple of novels about him have even been published in translation in Italy. Here’s one of his typical cases.

  No one ever invited Sheriff Dan Rhodes to the annual Blacklin County Stag BBQ. It wasn't that no one liked him. The truth was that the Stag BBQ was something of a scandal, and everyone wanted to be sure that the sheriff ignored it.

  And he did. He would never have been there if it hadn't been for the dead man.

  ~ * ~

  The Stag BBQ was held at a different location every year, this year's site being the camphouse on George Newberry's ranch, about ten miles out of Clearview and just off a paved two-lane highway that ran practically straight as an arrow thanks to the fact that it was built on an old narrow-gauge railroad bed.

  Rhodes pulled the county car up to a lightweight metal gate. There was a blue and white metal sign on the gate to let the world know that George Newberry was a member of the ABBA, the American Brahmin Breeders Association.

  Newberry himself got out of a red and cream-colored Ford pickup and opened the gate. Rhodes drove through. Newberry closed the gate and got in the car beside Rhodes.

  "I'll just ride down with you," he said. "I'll come back for the truck later."

  Newberry was a big man, over two hundred pounds, very little of which appeared to be muscle. The car sagged slightly to the side when he sat down.

  "I'll show you where to go," he said. He pointed to the barn. "It's around that way."

  He sounded nervous, and Rhodes didn't blame him. It wasn't every day that someone found a dead man on your property.

  The road they were following wasn't much of a road after it passed by the dilapidated sheet metal barn. It was really just a pair of ruts through a pasture blooming with yellow bitterweed and goldenrod.

  Every now and then the county car hit a bump, and Newberry had to take off his Western-style straw hat to keep it from being crushed against the roof. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his blue bandanna and stuck the bandanna in his pocket.

  "It's Gabe Tolliver," he said.

  So it wasn't just any dead man, not some homeless drifter that just happened to turn up on Newberry's property looking for a place to rest for a day or so and praising his luck at finding the empty camphouse. No, it was a Somebody. It was Gabe Tolliver, who had been a loan officer at the largest of Clearview's two banks.

  "What happened?" Rhodes asked.

  "I'll let you be the judge of that," Newberry said. Though the car's air-conditioner was running full blast, Newberry was still sweating. His Western shirt had dark circles under the armpits. "All I know for sure's that Ben Locklin found him lyin' by a brush pile, and Bo Peevehouse called you on that cellular phone of his that he's so proud of."

  Ben Locklin was a vice-president of the bank where Tolliver worked. Or had worked. He wouldn't be reporting on Monday. Peevehouse sold life and accident insurance. Newberry was also a big man in Clearview. He owned three of the most prosperous businesses in town: two convenience stores and a video store.

  In fact, that was what the Stag BBQ was all about. It was a chance for the movers and shakers to get together and drink a lot of beer, eat some BBQ and homemade ice cream, tell a few dirty jokes, and do a little gambling.

  It was the gambling that no one wanted the sheriff to know about, though it was an open secret. If the men wanted to lose a few dollars to one another shooting craps or playing jacks-or- better to open, Rhodes didn't really see the harm in it.

  But it seemed that this year there had been some harm after all, at least for Gabe Tolliver.

  The BBQ was the social event of the year for the men in Blacklin County, and everyone who was anyone got invited. Everyone who was anyone and a male, that is. Women weren't allowed. Blacklin County was becoming more conscious of women's rights by the day, but Blacklin County was, after all, in Texas, where a great many men still believed that some activities just weren't appropriate for women. Maybe they were OK in Las Vegas, but that was different.

  Rhodes looked over at Newberry, who was holding his hat in his lap. The businessman was wearing jeans and a pair of expensive-looking boots that were covered with dust. It hadn't rained in Blacklin County for nearly a month.

  "Don't worry," Newberry said, noticing Rhodes' glance. "I haven't stepped in anything."

  "I didn't think you had," Rhodes told him.

  Rhodes figured he'd be the only man at the ranch without a pair of boots. He was pretty certain that he was the only sheriff in Texas who didn't wear them. But they hurt his toes and he couldn't walk in them very well, so he was wearing an old pair of scuffed Rockports.

  The car went up over a low rise, and Rhodes could see Newberry
's camphouse, painted dark green and sitting on top of a hill not far from a big stock tank and in front of a thickly wooded area that began about thirty yards away and ran down the hill. There was a four-strand barbed-wire fence around the camphouse.

  "Any fish in the tank?" Rhodes asked.

  "Bass," Newberry said. "A couple of the guys have tried it today, but nobody's caught anything. I caught a five-pounder last spring, though."

  Rhodes wished that he'd brought his rod and reel along, but it wouldn't have been very professional to go fishing while he was supposed to be conducting a murder investigation.

  There were white Brahmin cattle scattered out over the pasture, crunching the grass with their heads down or looking at whatever it was that cows looked at. Rhodes couldn't tell whether they were purebred or not. They paid no attention to his car.

  "Nice looking herd," he said.

  "Yeah," Newberry said, sounding a little distracted. "Kind of wild, though."

  "Wild?"

  "You'll see," Newberry said.

  ~ * ~

  Rhodes saw when they got to the body, which was located just inside the woods. Gabe Tolliver was lying on his back, and there was a terrible wound in his stomach, as if a horn had twisted his insides. Black flies buzzed around the wound, and a couple of them were crawling on it near a curling brown leaf that stuck to the torn skin. Rhodes hadn't known Tolliver well, and what he'd heard about, he didn't much like. Tolliver was said to be a womanizer and a bully, and it might have been true. But even if it was, Tolliver hadn't deserved to die like that.

  "Did you call a doctor?" Rhodes asked Newberry.

  They were standing over the body. Everyone else was in the fenced yard of the house, and Rhodes could almost feel their eyes boring into his back.

  "Didn't see any need of a doctor," Newberry said. His face was white. "Not much doubt that Gabe's dead. But listen, Sheriff, as wild as those braymahs are, I don't think any of them did this. What about you?"

  Rhodes didn't think so either. He knelt down by the body and shooed the flies away with his hand. There were wood splinters in the twisted flesh, and there was a sliver of bark on Tolliver's blue Western shirt.

  There was a dark stain by the back of Tolliver's head, and his hair was wet with blood. He'd been hit, probably before the goring.

  Rhodes stood up. The trees were native hardwoods, oak and elm mostly, with a few pecan trees thrown in. There were several dead tree limbs lying near where Rhodes was standing and more in the brush pile near the body, but nothing that looked as if it had been used to kill Tolliver.

  "Cows didn't do this," Rhodes said.

  He looked around the area carefully. There was a place nearby where the ground was gouged up as if an armadillo had been rooting around, though Rhodes suspected that no animal was responsible. He'd have to get soil samples to be sure.

  He turned to Newberry. "Let's get back to your camphouse."

  Newberry looked glad of the chance to leave the body. They walked up a little cattle trail, and Newberry sidestepped a cow pie, the same one he had avoided on their way down to see the body. Someone had stepped in the manure earlier, but not Rhodes, which was surprising to the sheriff. Whenever he visited a pasture, he generally stepped in something within ten seconds of getting out of his car.

  He stopped and looked down at the cow pie. There was another one just to the side of it, and that one had been kicked to pieces. Both were fairly fresh, and the one that had been shattered wasn't yet entirely dry.

  "What was Tolliver doing in the woods, anyway?" Rhodes asked Newberry.

  Newberry turned around. "I don't know. There's not any bathroom up there at the camphouse, so nearly ever'body's goin' to come to the woods once or twice."

  Rhodes hadn't seen any signs of that kind of activity, and said so.

  "Well, mostly people just go behind the tank dam. But I know some of 'em have come down here to get wood for the fire. Maybe that's what Gabe was after."

  "Who's the cook?"

  "Jerry Foster."

  Foster ran a discount auto parts store. He was the one Rhodes wanted to talk to.

  Just before they got back to the house, an armadillo shot out of the weeds beside the trail and charged through the goldenrods and bitterweeds. Little puffs of dust flew from its feet. Rhodes had never understood how something with such short legs could go so fast. He wondered if he could have been wrong about the gouges in the earth near Tolliver's body, but he didn't think so. No armadillo had done that.

  ~ * ~

  It was nearly five o'clock, but because it was the first week in October it wouldn't be dark for more than two hours. The shadows in the woods were beginning to deepen, but there was a pleasant glow to the light that belied the circumstances. Newberry's cattle grazed peacefully in the pasture, unable to get near the house thanks to the barbed-wire fence.

  Rhodes didn't have time to enjoy the deceptive peacefulness of the scene. He went to the county car, which was parked outside the fence. He opened the car door, got in, and called the jail on the radio. Then he told Hack Jensen, the dispatcher, to send the justice of the peace to Newberry's ranch. And an ambulance.

  "You think an ambulance can make it up to that camphouse?" Hack asked.

  Rhodes said that he hoped so. He didn't want to have to haul Tolliver's body out in the back of someone's pickup.

  "I'll tell 'em then," Hack said. "You gonna solve this and be home in time for supper, or do you want me to call Ivy for you?"

  Rhodes thought about the barbecue that Jerry Foster was cooking. He thought about bread soaked in barbecue sauce and about potato salad and pinto beans and cool, thick slices of white onion. He thought about homemade ice cream. And he thought about the low-fat diet he was on at home.

  "You better call her," he said. "This might take a while."

  ~ * ~

  The giant BBQ grill was made from three fifty-five gallon drums split in half and welded together end to end. There was a stovepipe on one end. Rhodes could smell the mesquite smoke as he walked over to talk to Jerry Foster.

  Foster stood by the grill. He was taller than Rhodes' six feet, and he was wearing a chef's hat that had once been white but which was now mostly gray and stained with smoke and grease. He was also wearing an equally stained apron that had "Kiss the Cook" printed on it in red. Someone had used a black marking pen to add the word "Don't" to the front of the sentence and an exclamation mark at the end.

  Foster opened the grill as Rhodes walked up. Smoke billowed out, enveloping them and stinging the sheriff's eyes. Rhodes waved a hand in front of his face so push the smoke away.

  Coals glowed under the slow-cooked meat. Rhodes looked hungrily at the juicy pork ribs while Foster poked a brisket with a long fork. Satisfied that everything was all right, Foster lowered the lid.

  "Still planning to eat?" Rhodes asked.

  "I expect we will, but Gabe's dyin' has pretty much put a damper on the festivities." Foster had a raspy smoker's voice. "There's no need to let the meat burn up even if we don't eat it today, though."

  Foster was right about the festivities. There weren't any that Rhodes could see. He looked over at a big oak tree by the camphouse. The ground beneath it was worn smooth and packed hard, but there were no craps shooters gathered there. Everyone was standing around in small groups, whispering and looking over at Rhodes and Foster.

  The shaded tables under the other trees were clear of cards and poker chips, but Rhodes wasn't entirely sure whether the gambling had come to a stop because he was there or because of Tolliver's murder.

  Also in the shade of the oak were three washtubs covered with thick quilts. Rhodes knew that the tubs would be full of ice and that under the quilts were hand-cranked wooden ice cream freezers. Rhodes hadn't had any homemade ice cream in years. The thought of its cold smoothness made his mouth water.

  "What kind of ice cream in the freezers?" he asked.

  "Peach," Foster said. "Last of the Elbertas came in back in August, and my wife
put some up in the freezer for us to use for the barbecue."

  Peach was Rhodes' favorite.

  "Did Ben Locklin bring you any firewood?" Rhodes asked.

  "Nope." Foster pushed up his chef's hat and wiped his forehead.

  "Who did?"

  "I brought the mesquite myself, in my truck. Got it from my place. Newberry doesn't have any mesquite trees, or if he does you can't see 'em from here. You need some mesquite for the flavor."

  "I wasn't talking about the mesquite," Rhodes said, thinking how the smoked ribs would taste. "I was talking about wood from the trees down the hill."

  Foster gave it some thought. "Bo Peevehouse. Brian Colby. Hal Janes. Ben Locklin was goin' to, but he got a little sidetracked, what with findin' Gabe dead like that. There might've been a few more. I didn't try to keep up. They just dumped it on the pile and left it. I didn't look to see who brought it."

  There was a little stack of twigs at one end of the grill.

  "Looks like you're about out of wood," Rhodes said.

  "Yeah. I've used most of it. But the brisket's about done. We won't need any more."

  Rhodes supposed that was good, but it was too bad that all the wood had been burned, not that he'd expected to find anything.

  "Any idea who'd want to kill Gabe?" he asked.

  Foster readjusted his chef's hat. "Sheriff, you know as well as I do that half the people here've known each other since they were kids. They've got reasons to kill each other that go all the way back to high school, if not before. And the other half didn't like Gabe all that much. He wasn't bein' any too lenient with his loans these days."

  Rhodes had heard the same thing. He left Foster and went looking for Newberry, who he found talking to Bo Peevehouse.

  "I need to talk to a few people," Rhodes told Newberry. "I'll do it inside if that's all right."