Chapter 18
More death comes to Standard
The first question out of my mouth was who shot him?
Walt admitted he did but in self-defense. Walt pointed to a distant wire fence. “Saw him climbing through the barbed wire with a pistol in his hands. When he got close enough to hear me I told him to drop his weapon. But he kept on walking toward me and when he leveled his gun at my chest. I shot him.”
“You always carry a gun with you out on the farm, Walt?” Sheriff Chad wanted to know.
“Recently, yes. With all the cow killings you never know what you might come across.”
The dead man looked to be in his early 40s, with rugged features like he might have spent a considerable time outdoors. Chad rifled his pockets and found a wallet with a driver’s license. He said, “Anybody know a Greg Robinson?”
Doug spoke up. “I think I’ve come across him at GrainAg’s offices. Some sort of hired hand but what exactly he did I’m not sure.”
“What he did is trespass and tried to shoot me,” Walt said.
“Easy, Walt,” Sheriff Chad said. “What’s done is done. I won’t press charges, but Walt I need to take your gun for evidence.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong, Sheriff.”
“No, I don’t suppose you have. But no more shooting, hear me?”
“Sheriff, I’ll do whatever I have to protect my family and farm. No offense, but you can’t be here all the time, so I have to keep the law best I can.”
The three men loaded the dead man into the deputy car and we drove single file back into town.
Chad remained as pensive on the way back as he did on the way to the Skeat’s farm. But I decided to press him for answers. “What’s GrainAg got to do with this?”
“Hell, if I know but my guess is nothing. This guy Robinson probably just went off the ranch for some reason. Maybe he and Walt had an earlier disagreement.”
“You’re kidding, right? Walt is a pussycat.”
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving.”
# # #
Back at the newspaper, I filled Mabs in on the latest. She gasped. “You gotta write this up, honey.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
At that moment, as if a mighty gust of wind had blown open our front door, Father sailed in. Disheveled as always, zipper down, two colors of tennis shoes on his feet, shirt half tucked in. Hair wild as Einstein. He raised his fist in the air and proclaimed in a voice that carried up and down Main Street, “What ugly sights of death within my eyes!”
But this time, I ignored his antics. I rushed past him and closed and locked the front door. Father and Mabs turned in astonishment. “Aha, Father. I have you. Now come and talk to me.”
“And what, fair child? To rush into the secret house of death?”
Mabs chortled, “Oh, lord.”
“Father cut the Shakespeare crap. Come into my office…mother’s office…I’ll make coffee. Are you hungry?”
His eyes glistened. “Perhaps I could partake in a sandwich.”
I asked Mabs to order us a dinner and have it delivered to the office. She scrunched her nose because Father’s odor permeated the space and overpowered the scents of paper, ink, and years of dust. He smelled like a cat had just climbed out of the swamp. “Yes, honey. Sure will. Right away.”
I led him into mother’s office and closed the door. He sat in her old chair at the desk without asking. So, I took the side chair and watched him as he gazed around the office with eyes of recollection and with what I took as fondness. As his features softened, I began to see glimpses of the old father I knew. My throat seemed to double in size inside my head and grief thwarted my words. There was so much I wanted, needed to say, yet my mind stumbled over the meanings I intended. Sitting with my hands in my lap was not helping me get a grip on my condition. I got up and made coffee from the pot in the corner of the office.
“Smells good, Sam,” he said. “That hickory flavor was your mother’s favorite.”
“I, uh, yeah. I haven’t changed anything in here really.”
“That’s obvious. Maybe it’s time you did something about that?”
I was confused. Father sounded so…so…together. His voice had the old familiar timbre, soft yet strong and comforting, as though he was transforming in front of my eyes. “Father? Are you…back?”
“Never left.”
“But, but you’re coherent. You’re—”
“As good as old, you mean?” His eyes twinkled in a mischievous way.
I handed him a cup of coffee and focused on keeping my hands from shaking. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“Good. I’m glad you see it that way.”
“Then, this…this…town fool…is just an act?” I hoped he would answer my question in the affirmative.
He took his time sipping his coffee, savoring the flavor, gazing at me with the eyes of age. Finally, he spoke. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Ah, time. Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.”
“Father, cut it out.”
“Where’s that sandwich you promised?”
“It’s coming. Mabs’ll be back in a sec.”
“Good. Good.”
“So…this town fool image you’ve created? Just an act?”
Father looked around the office to make sure, I assumed, that we were still alone. Outside, the sun had set, and the shadows of night crept down Main Street as the streetlights slowly flickered on. “A deadly act, my dear. A deadly act.”
I'm liking father better and better. I'm anxious to hear his story.