The Huckleberry Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery by Patrick F. McManus

got out back. Don’t drive it anywhere, until you hear from me.”
    “You’re scaring me, Bo.”
    “I intend to. Now, do you remember how many people were in the cab?”
    “Yeah, there was three of them, all in the front seat. The backseat was empty. It was still blistering hot out, and they had these other guys riding in the bed. All four of them could have fit into the backseat. You can bet the cab was air-conditioned.”
    Tully smiled. “You’ve done good. Just remember now, for once in your life, Lennie, you can’t be dumb. Let me repeat, you can’t be dumb! Don’t drive that pickup anywhere until you get that blue door replaced and until you hear from me.”
    “How come, Bo?”
    “Because somebody will kill you, Lennie, that’s why.”

9
    BACK AT THE courthouse, Tully walked directly into his office. He thumbed through his phone book. No luck. He punched a button on his phone and got Daisy’s extension.
    “Yeah, boss.”
    “Daisy, work some of your magic and find Etta Gorsich’s number for me.”
    “Why? You need your fortune told?”
    “No! Just get me her number!”
    A few minutes later Daisy came in and handed him the number on a piece of paper.
    “That was fast. It’s not in the book. Where did you find it?”
    “I called your mom.”
    “Ma had it?”
    “Of course. She keeps track of all the gossip, in this world and the next.”
    “I should have known.” He hung up and dialed the number. Etta Gorsich answered.
    “Etta, it’s Bo Tully.”
    “Bo! So good to hear from you! I would love to!”
    “Uh, how do you know what I have in mind?”
    “Whatever it is, Bo, I would love to.”
    “Well, that’s, uh, great. What I have in mind is lunch at Crabbs. Can I meet you there in an hour?”
    “Perfect. See you there in an hour, Bo.”
    Scarcely had he hung up the phone when Daisy buzzed him. “Marge Poulson is headed your way. Are you in?”
    “Daisy, how can I not be in? This office has glass on three sides.”
    “Last time you hid under your desk.”
    “I’ll see her! Show her in.”
    He walked over and opened the door for Mrs. Poulson. She was in her early sixties, a few years younger than her ex-husband, Orville. She was one stern lady, a ranchwoman who had grown up in hard times, and all nonsense had long ago been washed out of her. She came directly to the point.
    “Sheriff, when are you going to arrest Ray Crockett for the murder of Orville?”
    “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.
    “No, I simply want you to answer my question.”
    “As I’ve told you before, Mrs. Poulson, we have no evidencethat Orville is even dead. We obviously can’t arrest someone simply on your suspicions.”
    Her shoulders seemed to slump.
    “Please sit down,” he said, putting his arm around her and edging her toward the chair. She sat. Tully walked around his desk and sat down across from her.
    The woman seemed tired and a little dazed, but something caught her attention. “Why is that window painted over, Sheriff?”
    Tully turned and glanced at the window. Good question. “Well, one of our local criminals tried to shoot me through it a while back.”
    “Oh, yes, I read about that in the paper. I’m sorry, Sheriff, I know you have lots of problems, and I shouldn’t be such a bother, but the murder of Orville weighs on me something awful. We have been divorced for five years but we were married for nearly forty. I don’t know about other people, but just because Orville and I couldn’t stand living with each other anymore doesn’t mean we stopped caring. I know your wife died ten years ago, Sheriff, and you’ve never married again. You understand about attachment.”
    Her words caught Tully off guard. He felt a sudden constriction in his throat and hoped his eyes hadn’t teared up. “Yes, I do, Marge.” He cleared his throat. “I want you to know I haven’t for a minute forgotten about Orville. What I’m about to tell you is between