If you counted Ash Jackson, I now had two missin’ persons an’ a dead body—parts, anyway. Ash was probably AWOL voluntary ’cause someone was after him, but it was a real coincidence—all that happenin’ at once. Law enforcement tends to disbelieve in coincidences. However, I still didn’t have enough of a good idea what was goin’ on to work it all out. So I decided to fall back on that old law enforcement standby—procedure. If I kept followin’ through on all my leads, an’ made thorough reports of everythin’, sooner or later I’d have enough pieces to make a pi’ture. That was my theory, anyhow. As for the truancy matter, it was pretty late by the time I got my pi’tures of Ash’s place developed, an’ since the Thistle warrant was good ’til the next day noon, I guessed I’d wait ’til tomorrow mornin’. Then I could take Penny when I went out to the Thistle place.
As soon as I wrote up the report on the break-in, I needed to talk to Angie Boone. In fact, as murder investigations go, this one was pretty lame without me havin’ talked to one of the chief—maybe—witnesses.
Interviewin’ her was gonna be a tricky proposition ’cause Angie was at that awkward age where she could run off an’ marry someone without her folks’ permission, but if she stuck around, her folks could claim she was a minor an’ refuse to let me talk to her. I also needed to conduct my interview in town—somewhere I could deputize Penny or Nina or Alethia to search her if I had to actually take her into custody. I thought about the problem all the way back to town.
I thought about it off an’ on while I did the paperwork on the break-in. I was still thinkin’ about it when Len Hartman shouted, “Sheriff! Trouble. Post office! Come quick!” He was jumpin’ up an’ down under my office window—the one that faces Cross Street—like he’d stepped on a fire ants’ nest.
When I got there, all hell had broke loose. Mars Boone was standin’ in front of the counter shakin’ a paper bag in the direction of his daughter, Angie, who was standin’ behind Nina. Nina was behind the counter with her twelve-gauge aimed at Mars. Angie was wailin’ like a banshee, wringin’ her hands like some soap opera character. Mars was yellin’ at his wife, who was standin’ next to him, yellin’ right back.
Mrs. Boone spotted me an’ screeched, “Sheriff, thank God you’re here.”
Everybody shut up an’ looked at me like I was some kind of Mr. Fix-it. I figured it’d be safest to play along an’ said, “Nina, put that gun away. Mars, back off. Somebody tell me what’s goin’ on!”
They all started talkin’ at once. I bellowed, “Shut up, all a you!” It was an old Sheriff Rooney trick, actin’ madder or crazier’n anyone else. It worked. They all got quiet an’ waited for further orders. “That’s better,” I said, reasonably. “Now, s’posin’—startin’ with Nina—you tell me what’s goin’ on.”
Nina put her twelve-gauge away. “Damned if I know, Homer. Angie run in here screamin’ he was gonna kill her, so I got out my gun. Then Mars run in here yellin’ he was gonna kill her. Then Miz Boone run in here shoutin’ at Mars not to kill her. Then Len run outta here like the devil was after him, hollerin’ he was gonna call the Law. Then you showed up.” She shrugged.
I said, “Mars?”
Mars was red as a preacher caught with his pants down in a whorehouse. He shoved the paper bag at me an’ shook it, then shook it at his oldest girl. “I caught that little slut with this—This—” He couldn’t bring hisself to say what. He shoved the paper bag in my direction.
I took it an’ looked inside.
“There ain’t but one reason she’d have one of those—” He still couldn’t say it.
I said, “Angie, what you got to say for yourself?”
“It ain’t none of your business, Homer. Or his, either.” She nodded at her pa. “I’m old enough, I don’t have to account to him no more.” She looked like she was scared shitless, but she clenched her fists an’ shoved her jaw out.
“You sixteen?” I axed.
She nodded.
Mars looked like he’d been pole-axed. Whatever he’d been plannin’ to happen, I guess that wasn’t it. “Have it your way,” he said, quietly, like he was too mad to trust hisself to talk. “But I don’t ever want to see your face again.” He turned to Mrs. Boone an’ said, “Come on, wife,” an’ stalked out. Myra Boone looked like she’d been slapped. She gave Angie as sorrowful a look as I ever seen, then turned without a word an’ followed Mars. Angie started gnawin’ on her thumb knuckle.
The post office was quiet as a graveyard for a good long minute before Nina said, “For God’s sake, Homer, what’s in that bag?”
I didn’t feel much like sayin’ in front of ladies, so I handed her the bag. She didn’t have any such reservations. She took one look an’ turned around to Angie an’ said, “Girl, are you pregnant?!”
What was in the bag was a home pregnancy test.
Angie said, “None of your business, either, Miz Ross.”
Nina did what she always does durin’ family emergencies—closed the post office. Then she dragged Angie in the back room an’ sat her down at the table she’s got there. Nobody told me not to, so I tagged along.
After half a hour of tellin’ us it was none of our business, Angie broke down an’ admitted she was for-a-fact pregnant, but claimed she didn’t know by who. Finally, an’ with a straight face, she said a angel had come to her in a dream an’ knocked her up. She held fast to this particular story until we gave up tryin’ to get her to change it. I did ask, at one point, if the angel’s name was Ash Jackson; she got huffy an’ said, “Gross! No way!”
“You got any idea what you’re gonna do, girl?” Nina axed. “Where you’re gonna go? How you’re gonna live?”
“I’ll think of somethin’.”
“Yeah. Well, while you’re thinkin’, you best stay with me.” Nina waited to see if that was all right.
Angie nodded cautiously.
“An’ you can earn your keep by helpin’ out around here.”
Angie nodded again.
“The baby’s father, he likely to—?”
“Ain’t got no father! It was a angel.”
Nina said, “Horsefeathers!”
An’ I wondered if the angel was Roger Devon.