The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

He had no idea what his father was talking about. “I didn’t look in the deed records.”

“Why not?”

“You told me to look for Orman’s criminal records. I went another step and looked at the civil court records too. But you didn’t ask me to look at any deed records, Papa.”

He knew the look Papa gave him in reply. It meant if it was me, I would have thought to check the deed records next.

On the first case he’d ever helped Papa with, he’d interviewed an eyewitness at his father’s suggestion. When he reported back, Papa asked if he’d talked to the woman’s aunt’s housekeeper. Harley didn’t even know she had an aunt, much less why he would want to speak with her, and it was beyond his wildest contemplation the aunt might have a housekeeper or she might be somehow important. She turned out to be the witness who broke the case wide open.

That was the first time he’d seen that look.

“Orman got burned by fire once,” Papa said. “You can bet your bottom dollar that if he required Josie to give him a lien on her furniture, he did the same thing with Jessie—but this time, he would’ve required her to get enough insurance on it.”

“Right. But how will that help us?”

“Colonel, what do you think?” The colonel opened both eyes and looked lovingly at his master. “You figure it’s better to know more or know less when we’re defending a murder case?”

The colonel’s long sigh was likely all the explanation Harley would get.

“I’ll look at the deed records as soon as I finish talking to Josie Bennett,” he said.

“Have you run down that bald drummer yet?”

Harley skimmed his copybook. “My friend in Post H says just about every drummer here for the TPA convention was bald. He didn’t know of any who had an eye twitch.”

“So Bud Orman’s our best bet at this point. After you talk to Josie, we’ll pay a social call on him.”

“Right.”

“Not likely Bud Orman is Winky-Blinky, but we better make sure. Let’s get Jasper to go with us when we visit Bud.”

“Yes, sir. What do you think Orman has to do with Miss Georgia’s killing?”

“There’s your query, isn’t it? The way I see it, a man who’d shoot a hack driver in daylight over an insult wouldn’t bat an eye at killing a sporting girl in the dark.”

That seemed reasonable, except nobody had said Orman was there that night, and Papa had always told him not to jump to conclusions. Especially the ones that were too obvious.

Chapter 15

Harley watched the pedestrians on the suspension bridge while he waited for Miss Josie Bennett to answer his knock. As a boy, he’d loved to sit by the road and watch the cattle cross that bridge, packed shoulder to shoulder, heading north on the Chisholm Trail. The ground rumbled like thunder, and they threw up a cloud of choking dust. There might be a thousand head at a single crossing. But it was the cowboys he really admired. They rode as though they were born to the saddle, bringing a stray steer back to the herd with just a whistle and a crack of the quirt. They never seemed bothered by any troubles.

He and Houston used to pretend they were on a cattle drive. Papa had a couple of saddles they’d sling over sawhorses, and they’d ride them all the way from the Rio Grande to Abilene. Houston was the trail boss, and Harley rode drag. Their hound dog, Mulberry—the colonel’s sire—served as lead steer, though he didn’t care for their rawhide quirts. Houston would tie a long stick crossway on the dog’s head, which made a perfect longhorn until he finally shook it loose. They were usually into Kansas by then, anyway. Those were the best days ever. Harley told his parents he wanted to be a real cowboy someday, and Papa’d just smiled.

Now there were two railroad bridges over the Brazos just five hundred feet downriver from the suspension bridge, and no more cattle drives. Harley had admired the trains when they first came, but they never dislodged the cowboys and cattle drives from his imagination. Papa always said he didn’t much care for what the world had become in modern times. Maybe he was right.

The door behind him squeaked open, scattering his memories. A woman in her thirties stood in the doorway.

“Miss Josie Bennett?” he asked.

“Afternoon, honey. Would you like to come in?”

“Sure, if you have time.”

“I have time for you.” It seemed like a half-hearted attempt at being coy.

Miss Josie’s place was a far cry from Miss Jessie’s. It looked as if she was the only working girl there, and the place was more than a little run-down. If this room was her parlor, it was about half the size of Jessie’s. No nude statues, no nude photos, no wallpaper, no velvet love seats. Only a half drunk whiskey bottle on the table. Like Miss Jessie’s, the place smelled of perfume, but the perfume was heavier and smelled cheaper. Josie looked cheap, too.

She eased up to him just inside the front door and ran her fingers through his hair. “It’ll be three bucks for an hour.”

“Well, no ma’am,” he said, backing away.

“All right, mister, two bucks. But no slapping, no hitting, no French stuff, and it’s over sharp after an hour no matter what.”

He cleared his throat. He had no interest in whatever she was talking about. “I’ll sure pay you two bucks, but I won’t take an hour of your time.”

She gave him a worn-out smile. “You might be surprised, honey.” She turned toward an open door, through which a dilapidated bed was just visible. “Come on back.”

“Oh . . . ma’am . . . oh, wait just a minute.” He couldn’t help but stammer. “We don’t need to go back there. I just want to talk.”

She stopped and faced him. “Talk, huh? Dirty talk is still two bucks.”

He put his hands up. “Not dirty talk. I just want information.” He handed the money over.