In Hell: When Love Kills A Small Town Mystery

Chapter 28

Noble Brand was mad enough to bite a ten-penny nail in two. He had one dead body on his hands and no easy solution to the case. He was getting nowhere fast. Not enough resources to do squat. And what evidence did he have to work with?

Less than squat.

The tumbled interior of the old man's shack showed evidence of a fight. But was it staged? In all the mess, how could he be sure of anything? Although Clifford's face looked like he'd been in a knock-down-drag-out alley brawl, the dead man's knuckles were not bruised.

So who would want the old man dead? And what did Clifford know or do that warranted murder?

The list of suspects was long. Clifford had more enemies than most men. Even his oldest friend and gambling buddy was said to be on the outs with him. The gossip was that Clifford's drinking buddy, Guppie Jack, was pissed because the old man owed him. On top of that, there were rumors that Clifford had made a pass at his old buddy's wife. Noble didn't know how much stock he put in that rumor. Besides, the wife swore that it was all idle gossip.

Could it be that simple? Husband murders friend over wife's stained honor? It was rumored that Guppie had a heart condition. Could he manage a fit of anger and a knock-down-drag-out death match without suffering a heart attack himself?

And what about all the others Clifford had skewered over the years?

And Jamie said Cash was going all over town trying to dig up dirt from his mother's murder. As if he needed that, too.

The sheriff was getting a headache.

Noble lit a cigar and sat in his squad car. God only knew just how much he needed it. It was raining cats and dogs, and his mood was as dark as the clouds hanging over his head. Nothing had come over the radio lately. It seemed as dead as he felt inside.

He shivered in spite of the fact that the inside of the squad car was hot enough to fry eggs. He cranked the engine and turned up the air conditioner to full blast. Too bad he wasn't just a little bit older, he pondered. He'd take his pension and disappear. Someplace cool where the fishing was good and the air was crisp and biting.

Who was he kidding?

Nobody.

He'd never leave this fetid oven. He'd broil on high heat until he burned, and they'd throw his charred corpse into a six-foot deep hole. That's what happened to old men like him.

Too many cords tied him to this place.

Too many knotted, frayed, and tangled cords.

He coughed up a wad of phlegm, rolled down the window, and spat it out.

He dialed Dixie Ashlon's number.

*****

Dixie stood by the mantle looking at the silver-framed photos. She was as slender and graceful and elegant as a panther. She walked over to the bar and poured herself another drink. There it sat in a far corner of the heavily carved ornate curio cabinet – a small blue stuffed dog. Cheezy. Tacky. Cheap.

Dixie drank greedily. She wasn't thirsty. She didn't even want the drink. She moved to a gilded mirror and adjusted her gown. Nothing seemed to satisfy her. Nothing.

Clifford was out of the way. That was a plus. A slight frown marred the beauty of her porcelain features. That was one bastard she would not mourn. Clifford Prater was a slimy leech. Nothing but white trash, she mused.

"Whoever did you in," she said to the empty room, "did me a favor."

Her phone rang. God, she hoped it was Deck returning her call.

"What is it?" Dixie asked.

Noble Brand was on the other end.

"Cash Matstock's been asking questions," Noble's flat voice sounded from the other end of the receiver.