The Sheriff crackled he sure as hell would, and did. Everybody boomed out laughter like on bass drums and with brass trumpets. Somebody slapped me on the back but I didn’t feel it. Someone yelled for me to go in there and show him, Peter, show him, but it was all underwater, far away. Blood pounded around on big red boots in my ears, kicking my brain back and forth like a wrinkled football.
The Sheriff looked at me. I looked at him with my heavy hands hanging. He laughed right out.
“God, I’ll solve this case before Peter has time to open his mouth for spit!”
* * *
The Sheriff wouldn’t let me be in the room with the corpse unless I stood on one leg and put both hands out in the air. I had to do it. The others said it was fair. I did it. I must have stood there during most the time we talked, on one leg, hands out to balance, and them snickering when I toppled.
“Well,” I said, over the corpse, “he’s dead.”
“Brilliant!” Jamie MacHugh had a bone of laughter caught in his throat, choking him.
“And he’s been head-bashed,” I said, “with a heavy thing.”
“Colossal! Wonderful!” spluttered Jamie.
“And no woman done it,” I said. “Because a woman couldn’t have done it so heavy and hard.”
Jamie laughed less. “True enough.” He glanced at the others, eyebrows up a tremor. “That’s true; we didn’t think of that.”
“That counts out all females,” I said.
Mr. Crockwell teased the Sheriff. “You didn’t say that, Sheriff.”
The Sheriff’s cigarette hissed sparks in a Fourth of July pinwheel. “I was going to say it! Damn, anyone can see a woman didn’t do it! Peter, you go stand in the corner and do your talking!”
I stood in the corner on one foot.
“And—” I said.
“Shut up,” said the Sheriff. “You’ve had your say, let me have mine.” He hitched up his trousers on his rump. Silence. The Sheriff scowled. “Well, like he says, the man’s dead, head stove in, and a woman didn’t do it and—”
“Ha-ha,” said Mr. Crockwell.
The Sheriff shot him a blazing look. Mr. Crockwell covered his mouth with his hand.
“And the body’s been dead twenty-four hours,” I said, sniffing.
“Any dimwit knows that!” yelled the Sheriff.
“You didn’t say that before,” said James MacHugh.
“Do I have to say, can’t I think a few?”
I looked around the empty room. Mr. Simmons was a strange man, living alone with no furniture in the house and only carpets here and there, and one cot upstairs. Didn’t want to spend money on stuff. Saved it.
I said, “There wasn’t much fuss or fight; nothing’s upset. Must’ve been killed by someone he trusted.”
The Sheriff started to swear but Jamie MacHugh said for him to let me talk, this was damn interesting. The others said so too. I smiled. I closed my eyes, grinning soft, and opened them again and everyone looked at me for the first time in my life as if I was good enough to stand beside them. I stepped from the corner, slowly.
I crouched beside Mr. Simmons, looking. He was blood ripe. The Sheriff quick followed, imitating me, on his knees. I peered close. The Sheriff peered close. I fussed with the rug. Sheriff fussed with the rug. I smoothed Mr. Simmons’s right sleeve. Guess who smoothed Mr. Simmons’s left sleeve? I made a humming sound like a comb and tissue in my throat. The Sheriff ground his teeth together. Everybody stood high and sweating sour in the summer-heated quiet.
“What was that about him being murdered by a friend?” Mr. Crockwell wanted to know.
“Sure,” I said. “Someone he trusted, no commotion.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Willis, who didn’t speak much.