PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Sunday afternoon
Sheriff Watson’s big black Ford F-150 sat in the driveway of a small two-story white shingled house set back from the street. It was the last house at the end of an older established neighborhood, surrounded by oaks and maples, all gearing up for summer green, getting so thick they screened the houses from one another. A blue jay watched them, motionless on a low branch, as they walked toward the front door.
“Nice house,” Griffin said. “I don’t think I could get used to all this quiet, though.”
Savich didn’t think he could, either. He rang Watson’s doorbell, heard movement inside the house. The sheriff himself came to the door, wearing a ratty old T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet white and bare. He held a Diet Coke in his hand. He looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept well lately.
“On Sunday? Really? What do you two bozos want?” Hostility radiated from him. He stood squarely facing them at the open front door.
Savich said pleasantly, “We’d like to see Deputy Lewis’s report on Mr. Arthur Alcott’s hit-and-run.”
The sheriff stiffened. “You asked me to look. I looked. As I already told you, it was a straightforward hit-and-run. No broken glass, no traces of paint, nothing there of any use at all.”
“Yes, that’s what you said. I assume you saw Deputy Lewis’s note about Walter Givens doing some bodywork on Sparky Carroll’s blue Mustang? Sparky said he’d hit a deer? Did you discuss this with Deputy Lewis?”
“Nothing to discuss. There’s nothing like that in his report.” He looked over his shoulder. “There’s no need for you to come in. The house is a mess anyway.”
Griffin said, “I don’t mind mess, do you, Savich?”
“Not a bit. But I think I’d prefer if it the sheriff took us to his office and showed us Deputy Lewis’s report on the Alcott accident. Is that all right with you, Sheriff Watson?”
“No. It’s Sunday, my day of rest. I’ve told you what there is and what there isn’t. You can come by my office tomorrow if you want to look at it. So you’re done here.”
“I have to insist, Sheriff,” Savich said, and he stepped forward, crowding him. “I strongly suggest you do not try to impede a federal murder investigation. It would not end well for you.”
The sheriff eyed Savich, knew the man was serious. He threw the Diet Coke can as far as he could and hit an oak tree, sending the blue jay winging away. He was breathing hard and fast. “I’m not impeding anything. I have nothing to add, is all. You’ll see tomorrow there was nothing in Kane’s files. Now, would you mind going away?”
Savich said, “I thought you didn’t like your brother-in-law, Sheriff. Everyone else seemed to like him, though, didn’t even seem to care much when he drank too much. I’ll bet you did, though. So why are you protecting him now?”
“Because he was my damned brother-in-law! Don’t you understand? He was married to my only sister! There’s no reason to stir this up now. It would break Glory’s heart, she’d never speak to me again. And his daughters? They’d be devastated. Leave it alone.”
“It’s no longer up to you, Sheriff. You’ve done what you could to protect her and her daughters. It’s time we go sit down and talk about this.” Griffin put his hand gently on the sheriff’s arm and pushed him back.
Sheriff Watson showed them to an ancient black leather sofa. After they were seated, he walked to the fireplace to stand, his arms crossed over his chest, and leaned against the mantel. Savich said, “Let me tell you what we pretty much already know, Sheriff. It was Sparky Carroll who hit Mr. Alcott, driving his Mustang. Sparky panicked and left the scene, but he told his father everything. His father, Milt Carroll, who died a couple of months ago, was one of Deputy Lewis’s best friends. More than that, they drank together often, and both of them must have driven home drunk more than once. I imagine Milt Carroll asked his friend Kane for a onetime favor. Also, he knew he was dying at this point, and doubtless played the guilt card as well. He assured Deputy Lewis that it was an accident, that his son had panicked and left the scene, horrified at what he’d done but too afraid to come forward. So he’d tried to cover it all up, and that was wrong. Sparky knew it and was very sorry. Then Milt Carroll asked his friend to bury it.”
The sheriff gave it up. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, and Kane buried it deep.”
Savich said, “It must have scared him badly when he got a call from Walter Givens, telling him that Sparky had taken in his blue Mustang for repair. Kane buried that, too, didn’t he?”
“Yes. It was when I heard him speaking to Walter on the phone that I started putting it all together.”
“But you said nothing, you didn’t put a stop to it,” Griffin said.
“I told you why. And by then it was too late. Kane had filed his report, there was no way to change that. It would be a felony and he’d have lost his job, even gone to prison. It was only an accident, and Kane’s family would have paid an awful price. They didn’t deserve that. People around here thought well enough of Old Man Alcott, but they don’t like those witches very much, and they have good reason to steer clear of them. Who knows what Liggert would have done to Sparky, and to Kane, if he found out.”
Griffin leaned forward. “You didn’t know, did you, that Liggert went to Walter Givens’s garage and figured it out for himself, did you? And that set in motion the murders of Sparky Carroll and your brother-in-law, Kane Lewis. It was all about revenge for the death of Arthur Alcott, and Deputy Lewis covering it up.”
Sheriff Watson didn’t say anything. He pushed off the fireplace mantel and sat down on the matching black leather chair, making it creak under his weight. “When they were both killed with those witch’s knives, I figured it out,” he said, and began rolling his big rough hands together. He raised his eyes to face them. “Look, it was obvious Brakey, an Alcott, killed Kane. Why he bungled it so badly I don’t know. You had him cold, he was going to pay for it. I wasn’t about to tell you why he did it—my sister, my nieces, deserved better than that.
“I have no idea how Liggert or some other Alcott got Walter Givens to stab Sparky. And then they set Charlie Marker in McCutty’s woods to ambush the two of you.” He jumped to his feet, unable to sit still, and began pacing the long, narrow living room. “I guess it had to be some sort of hypnotism, or some sort of witch’s spell, is that right?”
Savich said nothing.
The sheriff continued his pacing. “Liggert gets my vote. He’s the violent one, he’s got a deep streak of it. I know firsthand he’s got a short fuse, and he worshipped his daddy, took his death real hard. And he was mad when we couldn’t find out who’d hit him and left him there lying in the road.” He plowed his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Is there really a weird sort of hypnotism that could actually make those boys commit murder?”
“When we know for sure, you’ll know, Sheriff.” Savich eyed the man, saw the misery in his eyes, the guilt and grief that had been gnawing at him. He rose, stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Sheriff, for helping us. About your sister finding out what her husband did, I’m hoping we can keep it quiet, but I can’t guarantee it, you know that.” He paused. “I hope we can work together again someday.”
When Griffin last looked back at Sheriff Watson, he didn’t seem quite so huddled in on himself. If he wasn’t mistaken, he saw a measure of relief on the man’s face. He waved to them as they drove away.
Griffin said, “I think the sheriff might sleep better tonight. Are we going to confront the Alcotts?”
Savich turned back onto Main Street, shook his head. “Not yet, Griffin, not yet. We’ve got to have a plan first.”