Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder by Bill Crider Page B
Authors: Bill Crider
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skipping the meal. At least his waistline was shrinking a little.
He could have slipped by the new McDonald’s and gotten something satisfyingly full of fat grams, but he didn’t really have the time. He wanted to do as much as he could in as short a time as possible. It wouldn’t be long before Hack couldn’t hold off all the callers. They’d be calling him at home, at the jail, and anywhere else they thought he might be.
Clyde Ballinger was in his office in the small building in back of the funeral home proper, sitting at his desk, surrounded by the old paperbacks that he liked to read and collect, but he wasn’t reading one when Rhodes walked in. He was looking at an issue of Texas Football .
“Did you know that Garton was picked to win state this year?” he asked, dropping the magazine on his desk.
Rhodes said that he’d known that. It had been in every article Goober Vance wrote about the team for the past week.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But we beat them. I figure that means we’re the favorites for the title now. That is, we are if we don’t let this business with Brady distract us.”
Rhodes had noticed that a lot of sports fans talked the way Ballinger did when referring to the teams they supported. It was never “they.” It was always “we,” as if the speaker were actually suiting up, taking the field, and playing in the games.
“How did the Catamount Club take the news?” Rhodes asked.
“I don’t know. We didn’t hear about it at the drugstore, and I haven’t heard from any of them since we left. I don’t expect they’ll like it. Nobody will.” He stood up. “You got any idea who did it or why?”
“Not a one. Is Dr. White through with the body?”
“He sure is. He left a report for you. You want to go have a look at it?”
Rhodes said that would be a good idea, and the two of them went over to the funeral home. Before reading through the report, Rhodes looked through Meredith’s clothing, but there was nothing there of any help. Just a wallet, a few coins, a pocket knife, and a comb.
The report had more useful information than the clothing. Meredith had been dead approximately ten hours, meaning that he’d been killed sometime around midnight. He’d been shot with a .32, and the bullet had been recovered. That was a bit of evidence that Rhodes could do a little checking on. He got the bullet, which Dr. White had bagged and tagged. Then he thanked Ballinger and started to leave.
“You ever read anything by Charles Williams?” Ballinger asked.
Rhodes hadn’t, but he’d seen books by Williams in Ballinger’s office.
“He wrote one about a football player that got mixed up in a murder,” Ballinger said. “ A Touch of Death is the name of it. You think any of our players are mixed up in this one?”
“I hope not,” Rhodes said. “What do you think?”
“Football builds character,” Ballinger said. “Those boys wouldn’t have anything to do with something like this. Besides, they’re just kids.”
“Kids have killed before.”
“Not this time,” Ballinger said. “I’d bet on it.”
“Speaking of betting,” Rhodes said, “what can you tell me about Hayes Ford?”
Ballinger looked uncomfortable. There was no one else in the room with them, but he said, “Maybe we’d better go back to my office if we’re going to talk about that.”
B allinger didn’t say anything as they walked across the parking lot. When they were in the office, Ballinger closed the door and walked behind his desk.
“Sit down, Sheriff,” he said.
Rhodes sat on a couch and looked around at the books on Ballinger’s shelves. Most of them had come from garage sales. You couldn’t find the kind of books Ballinger liked in the stores.
“What did you ask me about Hayes Ford for?” Ballinger asked, sitting at his desk. “I hope you don’t think I’d bet on a football game.”
“I
He could have slipped by the new McDonald’s and gotten something satisfyingly full of fat grams, but he didn’t really have the time. He wanted to do as much as he could in as short a time as possible. It wouldn’t be long before Hack couldn’t hold off all the callers. They’d be calling him at home, at the jail, and anywhere else they thought he might be.
Clyde Ballinger was in his office in the small building in back of the funeral home proper, sitting at his desk, surrounded by the old paperbacks that he liked to read and collect, but he wasn’t reading one when Rhodes walked in. He was looking at an issue of Texas Football .
“Did you know that Garton was picked to win state this year?” he asked, dropping the magazine on his desk.
Rhodes said that he’d known that. It had been in every article Goober Vance wrote about the team for the past week.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But we beat them. I figure that means we’re the favorites for the title now. That is, we are if we don’t let this business with Brady distract us.”
Rhodes had noticed that a lot of sports fans talked the way Ballinger did when referring to the teams they supported. It was never “they.” It was always “we,” as if the speaker were actually suiting up, taking the field, and playing in the games.
“How did the Catamount Club take the news?” Rhodes asked.
“I don’t know. We didn’t hear about it at the drugstore, and I haven’t heard from any of them since we left. I don’t expect they’ll like it. Nobody will.” He stood up. “You got any idea who did it or why?”
“Not a one. Is Dr. White through with the body?”
“He sure is. He left a report for you. You want to go have a look at it?”
Rhodes said that would be a good idea, and the two of them went over to the funeral home. Before reading through the report, Rhodes looked through Meredith’s clothing, but there was nothing there of any help. Just a wallet, a few coins, a pocket knife, and a comb.
The report had more useful information than the clothing. Meredith had been dead approximately ten hours, meaning that he’d been killed sometime around midnight. He’d been shot with a .32, and the bullet had been recovered. That was a bit of evidence that Rhodes could do a little checking on. He got the bullet, which Dr. White had bagged and tagged. Then he thanked Ballinger and started to leave.
“You ever read anything by Charles Williams?” Ballinger asked.
Rhodes hadn’t, but he’d seen books by Williams in Ballinger’s office.
“He wrote one about a football player that got mixed up in a murder,” Ballinger said. “ A Touch of Death is the name of it. You think any of our players are mixed up in this one?”
“I hope not,” Rhodes said. “What do you think?”
“Football builds character,” Ballinger said. “Those boys wouldn’t have anything to do with something like this. Besides, they’re just kids.”
“Kids have killed before.”
“Not this time,” Ballinger said. “I’d bet on it.”
“Speaking of betting,” Rhodes said, “what can you tell me about Hayes Ford?”
Ballinger looked uncomfortable. There was no one else in the room with them, but he said, “Maybe we’d better go back to my office if we’re going to talk about that.”
B allinger didn’t say anything as they walked across the parking lot. When they were in the office, Ballinger closed the door and walked behind his desk.
“Sit down, Sheriff,” he said.
Rhodes sat on a couch and looked around at the books on Ballinger’s shelves. Most of them had come from garage sales. You couldn’t find the kind of books Ballinger liked in the stores.
“What did you ask me about Hayes Ford for?” Ballinger asked, sitting at his desk. “I hope you don’t think I’d bet on a football game.”
“I
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