Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #8 Page 9

  “And by beating that Louisville team in the state finals in ’62,” said Matthew Locke, “we did.”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted a voice, “I couldn’t help but overhear, and I’d like to listen to this discussion.”

  Kelly looked up to see a man in his forties who was wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a digital recorder. His face was extremely thin with a Kirk Douglas-like cleft in his chin.

  “My name’s Carl Michaels. I live up in Crestview and do feature work for newspapers in the Cincinnati and Louisville areas. I came out here to research a piece on the greatest upset in the history of the Commonwealth’s Sweet 16 Tournament, or the greatest choke, depending on your point of view, and I think I got more than I bargained for.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Michaels,” said the Sheriff. “You came to the right place.”

  “Just under bad circumstances,” added Matthew Locke.

  “I know. I was just up at the forest interviewing some witnesses.”

  “Bowser boys ain’t never witnessed anything but a lot of their own stupidity,” said the Sheriff. “I’m surprised they even found Billie’s body. Course I suspect they were getting ready to harvest their marijuana crop, and poor Billie, who, if my contacts are right, was probably helping them.”

  “So now you’ve got a glut of stories,” said Kelly, her own reportorial senses cutting in. “A basketball reunion, a gruesome death, and a possible bigfoot event.”

  “Bigfoot?” said the reporter incredulously.

  Sheriff Dezarn started snickering. “You never heard the local legends then?”

  “I didn’t put much stock in them,” said Michaels.

  “And now?” said Kelly.

  “I’m open to all possibilities,” said the reporter, “but can we get back to what you were discussing when I … intruded?”

  “Hard to believe we all lasted for fifty years after that game,” said Dezarn, “and Billie dies before we can get together one more time.”

  “Might just be karma,” commented the reporter, “and karma is a bitch.”

  IV

  When Kelly strolled down Main Street to the McCord and Schwitters Funeral Home, she found the Monster Trackers already filming at the front door. She couldn’t help but notice her father’s reaction to the Mexican pesos in Billie Reynolds’s hand and wanted to ask him about it, but with the reporter there, the time wasn’t right.

  “So, Mr. McCord, you are both the county coroner and run your own mortuary,” Dr. Seigler was saying in an accusatory tone.

  “No conflict of interest there,” chimed in the man with the German accent.

  Kelly observed Mr. McCord, a white-haired man who looked so uncomfortable. Poor guy, thought Kelly. The worst he’s ever dealt with before is a grieving family.

  McCord said, “I’ve had the body less than an hour—”

  “But your curiosity got the better of you,” said Dr. Seigler, sounding like a courtoom prosecutor, “and you’re already done an examination.”

  “Yes.”

  The sound and camera men moved in closer. Noonday sweat began to run down McCord’s neck.

  “And having studied the wounds,” said Dr. Seigler, “you are ready to pronounce judgment.”

  “You mean about the cause of death,” stammered McCord. “It’s too early to—”

  “Choose your words carefully, sir,” advised Heinrich. “We have a permanent record.”

  “Just say it,” urged Dr. Seigler. “The victim was mauled by an Appalachsquatch.”

  “A what?” said McCord.

  “How can you deny the marks are consistent with the familiar strike response of an interrupted Appalachsquatch?” chimed in another of the Trackers.

  “Excuse me, Mr. McCord,” Kelly interrupted, “but I really need to talk to you about arrangements—”

  “We’re done here,” announced Dr. Seigler. “John,’ she said, turning to the cameraman, “you’d better get me some B-roll here. I can already tell this episode’s going to need a lot of filler.”

  When the Monster Trackers had disappeared, McCord said, “I thank you. As I don’t know you, I’m sure you were just being nice and ridding me of those self-important, would-be scientists.”

  Kelly introduced herself.

  “Ah, Matt’s daughter. He and I went to school together,” said McCord, relaxing a bit.

  “I know you haven’t had much time to study the wounds,” said Kelly, “but what’s your best guess?”

  McCord stared deeply into her eyes. “I can see you’re serious, so I’ll tell you the truth. The closest thing I’ve ever seen to this was when Mabel Jo MacEnroe got attacked by a bear that found her in his blackberry patch.” He paused. “But what killed Billie? I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  V

  Kelly met her father for lunch at what he called his favorite spot, the Rocking Robin Café. The décor was very retro, the walls decorated with a mixture of 45 records and pictures of cars with fins.

  “I’m sorry this weekend isn’t working out the way it should have,” said Kelly.

  “Focus on the good,” said her father. “You and I got to travel together, and without this event I doubt I would ever have brought you back to the old hometown.”

  “Do the good memories outweigh the bad?” asked Kelly.

  He smiled across the red plastic table. “Your mother and I used to come here once a week, and if Sammy hadn’t replaced the tables, you probably could have found our initials carved in one of them.”

  As the Cokes, fries, and burgers arrived, Kelly said, “I saw something on your face when you saw those pesos in Billie Reynolds’ hand.”

  Matthew Locke pulled his wallet from his pocket. Opening it, he removed a Mexican peso that looked like the ones she had seen earlier in the day.

  “Ah,” said Kelly, “I’m sure there’s a story here.”

  Matthew Locke put down his cheeseburger. “Right after we saw that movie—remember we were kids then—we thought we needed something real, something tangible rather than just the name The Magnificent Seven, so we went to a coin shop and got seven pesos. Then back in shop class we stamped the number 7 on each of them.” He looked away for a moment. “This morning when I saw those pesos in Billie’s fist … I could just make out … a large 7 on each of them, but what was Billie doing with two?”

  VI

  At six o’clock on the dot, Sheriff Dezarn picked up Kelly and a much more upbeat father at the Inn in what he called his “Lawman’s Limo.” As soon as they got in the back seat, he said, “I’ve got a few things for you. Check out that newspaper.”

  Kelly flipped on an overhead light and picked up a copy of The Woodhole Gazette dated three weeks earlier. On page one a story entitled “A Yeti Yet Again?” leapt out at her. She skimmed through it. Apparently a couple of hikers on the Appalachian Trail reported seeing a huge, hairy, ape-like creature bulling its way through the woods.

  She handed the paper to her father. “Interesting. You think that somebody on the West Coast saw this information, Sheriff, and sent in the creepy quartet?”

  “Who ya gonna call?” Dezarn laughed. “Got me the same idea. No matter what people think, Basketville ain’t Mayberry. I know a lotta folks—mostly drug dealers—use Google to troll the Internet for things they need, so I called me a friend out in West Hollywood I met at one of those sheriff conventions and asked him what he knew about the Monster Trackers. He told me that according to Variety that show was on the verge of cancellation unless they drew big ratings this year. Then I checked Google myself about recent monster sightings. Discounting some giant carp in the Mississippi and a huge hog in Arkansas, I’d say Basketville’s Appalachian Ape is their best chance at a big score.”

  “Hmm,” said Kelly, “I wonder how far they’d go for a headline-grabbing bigfoot episode.”

  “Like staging a sasquatch killing,” said Matthew Locke. “Sounds like a plot right out of Hollywood.”

  “We’re here,” announced Dez
arn.

  They arrived at Basketville High School with the siren blaring and the lights flashing. Everybody had agreed that the celebration should go on since “Billie would have wanted it that way.” As they stepped out, they were greeted by another surprise.

  “Didn’t want to spoil it for you,” said Dezarn, pointing to the banner above the gymnasium door. “Mayor Whitlock and the town council met last week and voted on this occasion to honor the Greyhounds by permanently changing the town’s name. As the sign says, WELCOME TO BASKETBALLVILLE.”

  Exiting their “limo,” Kelly noticed the Monster Tracker’s black van pulled up to the side of the high school. As they walked in, Dezarn glad-handed so many citizens that Kelly realized that sheriffs were as much politicians as law enforcement officers. Two men approached them, both of whom Kelly recognized from earlier that day.

  “What are you two doing here?” said Dezarn to the still t-shirt-wearing Bowser brothers.

  “Don’cha recall,” said Bennie Lee, “that Jack Culross is our uncle.”

  “In Clement County,” said Houston Bowser, “the family tree is more like a family bush. ’Spect you and I are probably distant cousins?”

  “I surely hope not,” said Dezarn as he led Matthew and Kelly across the gym floor.

  Kelly watched as her father was also overwhelmed by old friends and classmates. Many of them commented on how young her father looked. Probably widows or divorcees, Kelly decided as she started regarding all the memorabilia from the 1962 championship team. From the back of the gymnasium came “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.” With so many trophies, pom-poms, and pictures, she could really grasp what a magic moment that victory must have been. In basketball-crazy Kentucky, underdog little mountain schools rarely triumphed over their bigger brothers in Louisville and Lexington.

  A couple of pictures caught her eye. In a grainy one labeled “1960 Jayvees” she saw the entire Magnificent Seven. Small schools back then, her father had told her years ago, played the whole game with no more than six or seven kids on the team. The largest photograph showed the winning team hoisting the championship trophy, but something was odd about it. She counted the players. Six. Why only six? Had one of them gotten injured?

  “Hey, girl,” came the interruption, “you want to get out on the dance floor and do the peppermint twist with your old man?”

  “Sure, Dad … if you’ll explain this picture to me. Why are there six players in the championship picture and seven in the jayvee? Weren’t you the Magnificent Seven?”

  Matthew Locke stared past the trophy case picture. “In all the hubbub I almost forgot about that. You see, right after Christmas break our senior year Coach Ferguson called an emergency team meeting to tell us he had to kick Dell ‘Boom Boom’ Cannon off the team. Cops spotted him driving off from the scene from a gas station robbery. Dell and his family lived up in Birch Hollow and didn’t have much money or anything.”

  “Seems pretty circumstantial,” said Kelly as they headed onto the dance floor.

  “Except one of our players saw him coming out of the gas station with a gun. Billie had no choice but to tell the police what he knew. Now let’s go round and round, up and down.”

  Kelly had to admit her father could still twist her in knots, but when the song ended, she said, “Whatever happened to ‘Boom Boom’?”

  “Sad story. Looking for a job with the family disgraced here, his father moved them to Cincinnati. An old classmate called me a few years back and said he’d heard that Dell put a gun to his head and ended it.”

  Sheriff Dezarn cut in on them.

  “Do you want to dance, too?” Kelly said.

  “Rain check,” said Dezarn. “Wish I had time. Got me some problems.”

  Matthew Locke said, “Don’t tell me some of the boys are pouring homemade brew into the punch bowl?”

  “That I could handle,” admitted Dezarn.

  “The Monster Trackers actually found the Appalachsquatch,” tried Kelly.

  “No, Rosey and Pistol Pete are here,” said the Sheriff, “but no sign of the Bowser boys’s Uncle Jack.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Kelly’s father. “He came back from Nam with his body intact but a lot of his mind missing. I always held out hope the VA could truly help him.”

  “I’ve asked Mayor Whitlock to delay the ceremony until we can go fetch him from his cabin down by the Kentucky River,” said the Sheriff. “Just wouldn’t be right without him … and Billie.”

  “Mind if I tag along in the Limo?” asked Kelly.

  “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” was trying to lure them back onto the dance floor, but Kelly’s mind had focused on a phrase from the Sherlock Holmes story “Silver Blaze,” “the dog that didn’t bark.”

  Someone else she had expected to see that night hadn’t shown.

  VII

  As the squad car snaked its way down toward the Kentucky River, Matthew Locke glanced over his shoulder to see a parade of headlights trailing them. “Breaker, 10-4, looks like we got us a convoy.”

  Kelly pulled out her iPhone, thinking of the cases The Great Detective could have solved if he’d had one. “How long ago did Dell Cannon die?”

  “Three years this month,” said Sheriff Dezarn, whom Kelly was beginning to realize was certainly no Barney Fife.

  “You’ll get great service on that thing,” promised Dezarn. “Last year Mayor Whitlock got a federal grant. The Mountain Communications Initiative upgraded everyone’s service.”

  Dezarn was right. All five bars sloped up. Very quickly she had Cannon’s obituary from the Cincinnati Enquirer. According to it, he passed away in Crestview, leaving behind a wife and one child, a son, Carl. Cannon would have been about her father’s age, but the accompanying photo was him in his 40s. She held up the iPhone. “When I saw that JV picture at the high school, I began to wonder, and then when I didn’t see a certain someone at the celebration, my Holmes instincts kicked in. Who have we seen recently who’s the spitting image of ‘Boom Boom’ Cannon—and from Crestview?”

  “That’s Culross’s cabin right there,” interrupted Dezarn, “and that ain’t his car in front.”

  “My God,” exclaimed Matthew Locke. “Why didn’t I see this before?”

  “I’m pretty sure, Dad, that reporter, Carl Michaels, is actually Dell’s son.”

  VIII

  Hearing noise and seeing the door ajar, Dezarn shouldered his way inside, his hand on his .38. Kelly and her father followed closely. Behind them, the caravan from town slid into the loose dirt on the banks of the Kentucky River.

  “Your deduction was right, Kelly,” said Matthew Locke, quickly showing the Sheriff the picture on Kelly’s iPhone.

  “Carl Michaels is Dell’s son?” Sheriff Dezarn shook his head.

  “Our supposed reporter has the same Kirk Douglas chin as your former teammate,” said Kelly. Then, catching the tableau in front of her, she stepped back.

  Carl Michaels stood behind the slightly balding man sitting in an overstuffed chair. Michaels had one arm around the neck of his victim. In his other hand he held a baseball bat that had been pierced with several large nails.

  “I guess your father told you all about the Appalachian Ape,” said Dezarn.

  “That’s not all he told me,” said Michaels. “You stay back or I’ll really smack him.”

  Just then the momentary silence was broken by a shriek from the open doorway. “Lord,” said a red-faced Bennie Lee Bowser, “don’t whack Uncle Jack!”

  Dezarn body-checked a rushing Houston Bowser, then raised his .38 and said under his breath, “I’m afraid I’ll hit Jack.”

  To distract Michaels, Kelly took a step to the left of the Sheriff. “All this for revenge.”

  “As Dad used to say,” snarled Michaels, “‘You betchum, Red Ryder.’”

  Kelly continued, “And you started with Billie Reynolds because you think he stole your dad’s position on the basketball team.”

  “Think. I don’t think,
I know. He’s the one who was the only eyewitness to that gas station robbery. Dad always said Reynolds probably did it himself, then blamed Dad so he could be a starter.”

  “The gas station owner himself ID-ed your father, son,” said Dezarn.

  “Too bad Coach Ferguson went to that big arena in the sky,” said Kelly’s father. “He could tell you how it all played out.”

  “Dad thought you guys planned the whole thing just to get rid of him because he was the best. He showed me those clippings first of the seven of you, then the six. Isn’t it funny you guys never mentioned him after he was kicked off the team. And what about those damned pesos—you guys were supposed to have each others’s backs.”

  “Your dad left town. That was part of the deal his father made with Judge Spain after giving back the stolen money,” said Dezarn. “Dell had to leave this community for good.”

  “Did you decide to kill off the remaining team members when you heard about the 50th-Anniversary celebration?” said Kelly, taking another step to her left.

  “Dad must have said a million times to me, ‘Carl Michael, in Kentucky basketball players are royalty, And state champs are kings for life. This guy I’m about to kill went to West Point. Dezarn became Sheriff for life. Your father is a big city policeman. The other two are successful out-of-state businessmen. Even Reynolds was a drug lord.’”

  “A drug lord is a success?” said Matthew Locke.

  “He seemed to think so when he agreed to meet me to sell some of his merchandise,” said Carl Michael Cannon. “You should have seen his face when I paid him with Dad’s peso. Now, Sheriff, put your gun down and step back.”

  “The two pesos in Billie’s hand … I should have realized he was trying to give us a clue to his killer since each of us had only one,” said Matthew Locke under his breath.

  Kelly caught her father’s eye and directed his vision to the basketball sitting in a trophy stand beside him. “And what do you plan to do about all these witnesses, including that TV crew that just came through the door behind me?”