In Hell: When Love Kills A Small Town Mystery

Chapter 7

"The way I see it, we got us two problems," said the Sheriff. "The first, and that's a might big elephant in the room, is murder. Clifford's dead, and we need to find out who killed him. That being said, I think you'd agree with me that our office cannot be taxing our resources on penny-ante problems. And that brings me to this.The second is you two going at it like two tomcats."

Cash stared holes in his shoes. His hand involuntarily moved to the pocket of his tee shirt.

"What's the matter?" the sheriff asked.

"Nothing. I lost something."

The sheriff was a large man, not tall, but given to a meaty ring about his stomach and buttocks. He raked his thick fingers through a thatch of thinning gray hair. His eyebrows were a tangle of silver lying above the rims of his black glasses. His fleshy face was creased, with sagging jowls that drooped from the corners of his mouth.

It was stifling. The metal fan did little to cool the air, though it tried valiantly.

"Forget that. Like I was saying: two problems. Since your ugly mug is staring me in the face, I'll start with problem number two. This disagreement between you and Bill Hester. I don't have time for this, Cash. Bill Hester says you're stealing dough from either him or his daughter. Everybody says you were flush. Who knows where you got the dough? Maybe from a sympathetic benefactor."

Noble's eyes bore into Cash. Cash stared back, never blinking.

"Alright. I think I can guess what happened. Bill's a good, honest man. I wish I could say the same for you. Granted, it ain't like you had the easiest row to hoe, but lots of folks have had to deal with worse and are still upstanding citizens. But first things first. Before we get into that, let's sidestep for a minute. What can you tell me about Clifford? Anything you remember that was out of the ordinary? I need you help here, son. Come on. Flick that chip off your shoulder and work with me here. I really want to solve this thing, if I can."

Cash looked into Noble's eyes. It was the first time he'd shown any hint of cooperation.

"Was he acting, I dunno, unusual lately? Did he say anything out of the ordinary? What kind of whiskey did he usually drink?"

"Look, Sheriff," Cash said, shifting in his seat, "He was a mean bastard who probably got what he deserved. And he'd drink Drano if it gave him a buzz."

"Okay. From the way you've been acting, you think your uncle deserved being murdered."

"Don't you?"

"I hardly think anybody deserves murder, son. Life in general's a big enough ball buster, no matter who you are."

"Oh, drop the concerned act, Sheriff. You knew him. You knew what kind of an ass he was. My uncle lived to make peoples' lives miserable. He enjoyed being mean, loved to hurt, and relished making anyone around him feel like a bona fide turd. I hated his guts. Everybody in this town did too. So don't climb up on your pulpit and try to make him out to be a saint just because he's dead."

"Nobody's trying to do any such thing, Cash. I'm simply trying to find out the truth here."

"I didn't kill Clifford. I was at the bar all day."

"Not all day. You made an appearance at Miss Dixie's celebration."

"Yeah. I did," said Cash. "But you know what I'm saying. I left the house as soon as I got up."

"What time was that?"

"I don't know. Late night. No watch. I have no idea what time I got up."

"Um-hmm. Too bad."