Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder by Bill Crider Page A

hook.”
    Rhodes slipped his glasses in his shirt pocket.  Hack and Lawton were always that way.  It took forever for them go get to the point.  Rhodes was used to it, and he knew there was no way to hurry them.
    He tried, however.  “What were the calls about?”
    “Football,” Lawton said.  “I told you that.”
    “That’s right,” Hack said.  “He did.”
    “What about football?”
    “About how they want this taken care of immediately,” Hack said.
    “If not sooner,” Lawton added.
    “You got a call from the mayor,” Hack said, looking at a note pad.  “And two from the county commissioners, and one from the high school principal.  Then you got about twenty more from just your ordinary citizens.”
    “And they want the murder solved today,” Rhodes said.
    “That’d be nice,” Hack said.  “But tomorrow’d be OK.  Just as long as it’s taken care of quick and doesn’t interfere with the game next Saturday.  They had some suggestions for you, too, about where to start lookin’ and all.”
    “And where was that?”
    “Garton,” Lawton said.  “Lots of folks say it musta been somebody from Garton that was sore about the win.  Like that lady with her hair and face dyed.  You remember her?”
    Rhodes said that he did.
    “Well, she’d hafta be crazy to paint herself up like that.  So maybe she was crazy enough to kill somebody.  You know about that lawsuit?”
    “I’ve heard about it,” Rhodes said.
    “Well, don’t that prove they’re crazy?”
    Rhodes wasn’t sure.  “Maybe they’ll win.”
    Lawton snorted.  “No way.  Judge’ll throw it out in a New York minute.  If they got away with that, half the schools in the state’d be goin’ to court after every game, tryin’ to get bad calls overturned.  It’ll never fly.”
    Rhodes had to admit that Lawton had a point, but before he could say so, the phone rang.
    “Prob’ly another call about the game,” Lawton said as Hack answered it.
    “If it is, just say I’m not here,” Rhodes said.
    “Sheriff’s not here,” Hack said after listening for a few seconds.  “He’s out workin’ on the case right now.  But I’ll be sure to tell him what you said.”
    He hung up. “That wasn’t exactly what you thought it was gonna be.”
    “What was it, then?” Lawton asked.  “Sure sounded like somebody callin’ about the case.”
    “You ought not to listen in on official business,” Hack told him.  “You’re just the jailer.”
    “I guess you think the jailer ain’t just as official as you are.  I guess you think — “
    Rhodes cut in.  “Never mind that right now.  What was that call about, Hack?”
    “That was Miz Wilkie,” he said.  “Your old sweetie.”
    Mrs. Wilkie had never been Rhodes’ “sweetie,” though she had certainly been interested in him before his marriage to Ivy.  Rhodes had done his best to avoid her then, and he didn’t go out of his way to see her now, though occasionally he had to in the course of his job.  She was working for James Allen, one of the county commissioners, as a secretary.
    “What did she want?” Rhodes asked.
    “Maybe she just wanted to see you again,” Lawton said.  “I bet you don’t drop in on her very often these days.”
    Rhodes ignored him.  “Hack?  What did she want?”
    “She wants to talk to you.  But it’s not about the murder.  Or maybe it is.”
    “What did she say?” Rhodes asked.
    Hack gave him a lopsided grin.  “She said she’s been hearin’ motorsickles.”
     

Chapter Six
     
    B efore going to see Mrs. Wilkie, Rhodes drove to the funeral home.  He’d missed lunch, and he would have liked to go home for a bologna sandwich, but Ivy insisted on buying low-fat bologna, which Rhodes suspected was made from turkey and which didn’t taste like real bologna even if it wasn’t.  She also bought low-fat Miracle Whip, which didn’t taste like much of anything.  So Rhodes didn’t figure he was missing much by