man emerged through
swinging doors at the rear of the dining room. He wore a stiffly starched black
suit, had tousled, bright red hair, and a fixed smile.
“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked.
“I was hoping to get a bite to eat,” Tower said.
“Have you ever been to the Big River Club?” the man asked.
“First time.”
Tower caught the look of uncertainty on the man’s face, and wondered
if dining was reserved for members only. He preempted any objections by saying,
“Sheriff Chesser recommended I give this place a try.”
It seemed to work. The man gave a little bow and gestured
for Tower to follow him to a table near one of the large windows. It was a
table for two, so Tower took the opposite chair, which afforded him a view of
the club’s front door.
Bird Hitchcock had rubbed off on him.
A waiter appeared with a menu.
Tower glanced at the selections, then played it safe by
ordering roast beef and mashed potatoes. He turned down the suggestion of wine
or brandy.
Bird hadn’t rubbed off on him that much.
His food came quickly and he devoured it. The flavors and
quality of the food were exceptional, worth every penny of the substantial
cost.
Tower then accepted an after-dinner cigar from the maître d’.
He got it going and was enjoying the smoke when the man from the bar who had
studied him upon his arrival approached his table. He had on a white shirt, pinstripe
pants, and a matching pinstripe vest. He also wore spectacles and carried a bag
on his shoulder. His youthful, freshly scrubbed face brimmed with enthusiasm,
despite the fact that Tower estimated him to be middle-aged.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you the preacher who brought in the
body of Stanley Verhooven?” the man asked. His voice was precise and crisp.
Tower looked around the room. The diners at the other tables
were focused on their food or each other, and the men at the bar were busy
ordering drinks from the bartender. No one seemed to be paying them any
attention.
“Who wants to know?” Tower replied.
The man smiled. “My name is Roger Jeffire. I’m the editor of
the Big River Bugle , as well as its lead reporter.”
Jeffire pulled out a notebook and thick black pencil.
Tower sighed.
“May I ask what your name is?” Jeffire asked, his pencil poised.
“Look, Mr. Jeffire,” Tower said. “I appreciate your
interest, but nothing I’ve done is newsworthy. I found that dead man and
brought him to the sheriff. End of story.”
“Are you sure that’s all there is?” Jeffire asked, with the
kind of tone that told Tower he knew there was more to it.
“Quite sure,” Tower said. He looked at his cigar.
“And it’s got nothing to do with the young preacher who was
murdered out in Killer’s Draw?”
“I have no idea,” Tower said. “Do you?”
The reporter didn’t answer, just studied Tower with a
strange intensity.
“In any event,” Tower said to fill the silence, “I figure
Sheriff Chesser will get to the bottom of that.”
Jeffire snorted in derision.
The red-haired maître d’ appeared out of nowhere and asked Tower,
“How was everything tonight, sir?” He shot at a glance at the newspaperman.
Jeffire ignored the man.
Tower paid his bill and got to his feet.
“It was excellent. And I think now I will enjoy my cigar out
of doors.”
He nodded to his host and brushed past the reporter, who followed
him.
Tower walked down the stairs and into the street.
“One more thing,” Jeffire said.
Tower turned and stared at the man. Several men were now on
the porch, looking directly at Tower and the reporter.
“What?” Tower asked.
“I know why Bertram Egans was murdered.”
Twenty-One
Bird felt at peace, in the shade of the tree near the draw,
and continued to drink the dead man’s whiskey. She felt the gauzy cloud of
drunkenness coalesce into something denser and more blanketing, then let her
shoulders relax as the alcohol’s comfort slowly settled upon her.
There had been times when
swinging doors at the rear of the dining room. He wore a stiffly starched black
suit, had tousled, bright red hair, and a fixed smile.
“How may I help you, sir?” the man asked.
“I was hoping to get a bite to eat,” Tower said.
“Have you ever been to the Big River Club?” the man asked.
“First time.”
Tower caught the look of uncertainty on the man’s face, and wondered
if dining was reserved for members only. He preempted any objections by saying,
“Sheriff Chesser recommended I give this place a try.”
It seemed to work. The man gave a little bow and gestured
for Tower to follow him to a table near one of the large windows. It was a
table for two, so Tower took the opposite chair, which afforded him a view of
the club’s front door.
Bird Hitchcock had rubbed off on him.
A waiter appeared with a menu.
Tower glanced at the selections, then played it safe by
ordering roast beef and mashed potatoes. He turned down the suggestion of wine
or brandy.
Bird hadn’t rubbed off on him that much.
His food came quickly and he devoured it. The flavors and
quality of the food were exceptional, worth every penny of the substantial
cost.
Tower then accepted an after-dinner cigar from the maître d’.
He got it going and was enjoying the smoke when the man from the bar who had
studied him upon his arrival approached his table. He had on a white shirt, pinstripe
pants, and a matching pinstripe vest. He also wore spectacles and carried a bag
on his shoulder. His youthful, freshly scrubbed face brimmed with enthusiasm,
despite the fact that Tower estimated him to be middle-aged.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you the preacher who brought in the
body of Stanley Verhooven?” the man asked. His voice was precise and crisp.
Tower looked around the room. The diners at the other tables
were focused on their food or each other, and the men at the bar were busy
ordering drinks from the bartender. No one seemed to be paying them any
attention.
“Who wants to know?” Tower replied.
The man smiled. “My name is Roger Jeffire. I’m the editor of
the Big River Bugle , as well as its lead reporter.”
Jeffire pulled out a notebook and thick black pencil.
Tower sighed.
“May I ask what your name is?” Jeffire asked, his pencil poised.
“Look, Mr. Jeffire,” Tower said. “I appreciate your
interest, but nothing I’ve done is newsworthy. I found that dead man and
brought him to the sheriff. End of story.”
“Are you sure that’s all there is?” Jeffire asked, with the
kind of tone that told Tower he knew there was more to it.
“Quite sure,” Tower said. He looked at his cigar.
“And it’s got nothing to do with the young preacher who was
murdered out in Killer’s Draw?”
“I have no idea,” Tower said. “Do you?”
The reporter didn’t answer, just studied Tower with a
strange intensity.
“In any event,” Tower said to fill the silence, “I figure
Sheriff Chesser will get to the bottom of that.”
Jeffire snorted in derision.
The red-haired maître d’ appeared out of nowhere and asked Tower,
“How was everything tonight, sir?” He shot at a glance at the newspaperman.
Jeffire ignored the man.
Tower paid his bill and got to his feet.
“It was excellent. And I think now I will enjoy my cigar out
of doors.”
He nodded to his host and brushed past the reporter, who followed
him.
Tower walked down the stairs and into the street.
“One more thing,” Jeffire said.
Tower turned and stared at the man. Several men were now on
the porch, looking directly at Tower and the reporter.
“What?” Tower asked.
“I know why Bertram Egans was murdered.”
Twenty-One
Bird felt at peace, in the shade of the tree near the draw,
and continued to drink the dead man’s whiskey. She felt the gauzy cloud of
drunkenness coalesce into something denser and more blanketing, then let her
shoulders relax as the alcohol’s comfort slowly settled upon her.
There had been times when
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