The Huckleberry Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery Read online

  The Huckleberry Murders: A Sheriff Bo Tully Mystery

  Patrick F. McManus

  Simon Schuster (2010)

  * * *

  **Sheriff Bo Tully is the brand of Western lawman who uses as much cunning and guile on the ladies as he does solving his cases. He’s a man with a sense of humor and an instinct for the truth, which comes in handy when trying to capture killers and establish order in Blight County.

  **Sheriff Tully is famous for his hunches—most recently, his suspicion that local retiree Orville Poulson has been murdered by his ranch caretaker, Ray Crockett, a sociopath with a criminal record. The only problem is that Tully has no evidence and no body to prove that a crime has been committed: supposedly, Orville is alive and well and cashing his Social Security checks from Spokane.

  But before Tully can follow up on Orville's whereabouts, three unidentified young men are found dead of gusnhot wounds to the head, execution style, in a huckleberry patch on Scotchman Mountain. With the help of confident and beautiful FBI agent Angela Phelps, Tully tries to connect the dots between Poulson’s disappearance, the sudden spate of murders occurring in Blight County, and a big white pickup truck with dual tires wreaking havoc in the area. But when his few potential leads prove either impossible to track down or unexpectedly deceased, Tully must follow his instincts to piece together the puzzle of who is doing the killing, and why. His suspicions lead him straight into a haunted swamp, along with Agent Phelps, his womanizing ex-sheriff father, Pap, expert tracker and good friend Dave, and mountain man Poke. A twisty case packed with murder and mystery, The Huckleberry Murders is the most entertaining tale yet in this beloved series.

  **

  Praise for

  THE HUCKLEBERRY MURDERS

  An Indie Next Notable pick for November 2010

  “In McManus’s amusing, folksy fourth Bo Tully mystery . . . Tully once again proves an unorthodox and effective lawman, while McManus’s storytelling, be it about a haunted lake or a modern mountain man, never flags.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Folksy humorist McManus’ fourth Bo Tully mystery exudes lots of country charm and humor.”

  —Kat Cam, Booklist

  “Genial, amusing and sweet, with quirky characters and just enough plot twists to engage.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “McManus’s folksy narrative keeps the reader’s interest with plenty of humor, aw-shucks moments, and action. . . . Bo Tully is a treat for readers who like some Western flair and an old-fashioned approach to justice in their mysteries.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for the Sheriff Bo Tully mysteries

  “[McManus’s] idiosyncratic characters and their lunatic ways are what make this folksy whodunit such fun to curl up with.”

  —Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times Book Review

  “In Bo Tully, Patrick McManus gives us a man to watch.”

  —The Oregonian (Portland)

  “A fine, funny tale.”

  —Lansing State Journal

  “One of the most entertaining mystery debuts in years.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Misdirection and understatement puts McManus in the Who’s Who of humor writers. . . . A highly entertaining read, and longtime McManus fans will not be disappointed.”

  —Wyoming Wildlife

  “Quirky characters and plenty of wit enliven this folksy mystery.”

  —Booklist

  “An engaging romp that recalls the best work of Bill DeAndrea.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster eBook.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About Patrick F. McManus

  To my excellent agent, Phyllis Westberg

  1

  BLIGHT COUNTY, IDAHO, sheriff Bo Tully drove slowly up the long gravel driveway leading to the ranch house. September had already begun, and still every day the temperature climbed into the nineties. The threat of forest fires remained. A trickle of sweat beaded up on the tip of his nose. He wiped it off. One of these days he would get the air-conditioning fixed on the Explorer. So far that summer, Blight County had managed to escape any major fires, but the mountains were powder dry. Any spark could set them off. He didn’t want to think what would happen should a thunderstorm roll through. Or if his father, Pap Tully, went for a hike in the mountains smoking one of his hand-rolleds.

  Tully was wearing his usual summer outfit of Levi’s, long-sleeve tattersall shirt open at the collar, three-thousand-dollar alligator-hide cowboy boots, and a light khaki vest, which concealed the horizontal shoulder holster containing his 9 mm Colt Commander automatic. Today the gun seemed to weigh at least ten pounds. He preferred a lighter weapon, but criminals had become much more dangerous in recent years. He didn’t believe in shooting a criminal more than twice in the body mass—the so-called double tap.

  A roofed porch spread across the front of the sprawling ranch house. A man sat in a rocking chair on the porch. He had the brim of a battered cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. Tully couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or watching the vehicle approach. The man would know the red Ford Explorer belonged to law enforcement because of the light bar on the roof. He obviously was the alleged culprit the ranch owner’s ex-wife had complained about.

  Tully stopped the Explorer in front of the house. The man pushed the brim of his hat up with his thumb and sauntered down to greet him. He took off his hat as he approached. He appeared to be in his early thirties, slender, nice-looking, a tidy person, with short hair, a trim mustache, and under his lower lip, a tiny bush of brown hair. Tully got out of his vehicle and walked around to meet him. He stuck out his hand and said, “Howdy, pardner, I’m Blight County sheriff Bo Tully.”

  The man shook his hand. “Shucks, Sheriff, I know who you are. You’re the most famous person in all Blight County.”

  “That tells you something about Blight County, doesn’t it? I take it you’re Ray Crockett.”

  “Yep, that’s me, Sheriff. No doubt Marge Poulson told you how I done away with Orville.”

  “She has indeed. Numerous times. So what do you have to say for yourself, Ray?”

  Crockett scratched his head. “Well, let’s see. I have to admit I haven’t seen or heard from Orville in several months. His Social Security check arrives every month, and I mail it to a P.O. box in Spokane. Somebody picks up the checks—Orville, I suppose—and probably cashes them. That post office box would be pretty full by now if nobody picked up the checks.”

  “Sounds like a reasonable guess. How long have you been mailing his checks to Spokane?”

>   Crockett squinted up, as if looking for the answer in the sky. “Quite a while. Going on a couple of years.”

  “You have an address or phone number for Orville?”

  “Nope, I don’t. He travels a lot and stays in hotels. He used to call me every couple weeks or so, but now months go by I don’t hear from him.”

  “What do you do for a living, Ray?”

  Crockett put his hat back on. “Not much, Sheriff. Orville lets me stay here free of charge to look after the ranch, but he sold off all the stock so there’s not much to look after. I helped him sell the stock and he gave me five percent of the gross. I put my share in a CD. Then my dad died and I got a bit of insurance money. That’s mostly what I’ve been living on.” He gestured toward the ranch house. “This is a nice place to live and I guess I’ll stay here till Orville tells me different or my money runs out. I’m not one of those people consumed by ambition but lately I been thinking about taking some courses at the community college. Do something with my life.”

  “You have a major in mind?”

  “I’ve been thinking maybe law.”

  “Never can tell when that might come in handy. So, any other plans, Ray?”

  “Haven’t made up my mind yet. I guess I’ll stick on here until Marge gets on my nerves so much I can’t stand it. Small wonder Orville divorced her! Grab a seat up on the porch, Sheriff, and I’ll go fetch us each a beer.”

  Tully pursed his lips, as if considering the offer. “Sounds mighty tempting, Ray, but I’ve got to get moving on. Give me the address of that Spokane mailbox, will you?”

  “Sure thing. I have to go in the house to get it. My memory’s like a sieve.”

  “Mine too. Write it down for me, would you, Ray?”

  Tully looked around at the farm buildings. He made out a large boat in an open shed and behind it a barn that had probably once been cadmium red but now had faded with age into a weathered burnt sienna. No, that wasn’t quite it. Tully felt the urge to give up on law enforcement once and for all and start painting full-time.

  Crockett returned with the mailbox address written down on a piece of blue-lined paper apparently torn out of a small notebook. He handed it to Tully.

  “Thanks, Ray. I’ll check it out. Maybe that will satisfy Marge and get her off my back. Maybe even off your back.”

  “That would be nice.” Crockett’s thumb stroked the bit of fuzz under his lip. “If I can be of any more help, Sheriff, let me know. The next time Orville calls, I’ll have him get in touch. The last I heard from him, though, he said he was headed down to Mexico. I figure he must be having a pretty good time down there because I haven’t heard from him since.”

  Tully nodded. “When was the last time you mailed his Social Security check to Spokane?”

  “Just a couple days ago.”

  “How old is he now, late sixties?”

  “Sounds about right. He was in great shape the last time I saw him.”

  “You a fisherman, Ray?”

  “No, afraid not. Fishing is one of the few vices I’ve never tried. Why do you ask?”

  Tully pointed at the boat.

  “Oh, that. It belongs to Orville. He used to spend a lot of time out on Lake Blight. Said he knew the lake like the back of his hand. He was always bringing home messes of fish. Don’t ask what kind because I don’t know.”

  “That’s about the biggest Boston Whaler I’ve ever seen. Looks like an outboard jet motor for power.”

  “I don’t know one boat from another, Sheriff.”

  “Well, thanks for your help, Ray. If you hear from Poulson, let me know.”

  “You got it, Sheriff.”

  Tully got in his Explorer, drove around the circular drive, and headed back toward the highway, tugging thoughtfully on the corner of his mustache. In his rearview mirror he watched Crockett return to his chair and tilt the hat down over his eyes, apparently to resume his nap. He appeared to be a nice young man, polite, attentive, respectful. In other words, a classic sociopath. He lied as smoothly as if he were telling the truth. Marge was right. Ray killed the old man. The questions were, what did he do with the body, and how does he cash Orville’s Social Security checks?

  A fly walked across the inside of his windshield. He decided to let it live. It could suffer in the heat along with him.

  2

  IT WAS NOW almost noon. He decided to swing by his mother’s house and see what she was making for lunch.

  He rapped on her front door and then walked in. Katherine Rose McCarthy Tully O’Hare Tully Casey stuck her head out of the kitchen. “I’ve been expecting you, Bo. I made lunch for both of us. I’m still getting fresh tomatoes, so I made us BLTs and Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.”

  “Sounds perfect.” As he walked toward the kitchen he noticed a framed, sepia-tinted wedding photo on an end table next to the sofa, Rose and his father, Pap. Tully had a hard time remembering his mother’s four marriages, two of them to his father, a former and much-feared sheriff of Blight County. Maybe Pap was back in her good graces.

  Rose apparently had just got a new hairdo. He preferred her white, but this short bob with a brown tint did make her look younger. “So what are you up to today, Bo?”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll tell you but I don’t want it blabbed all over town.” He slid into a chair at the kitchen table, pulled the Colt Commander from its shoulder holster, and laid it on the linoleum. Rose hated eating with him when he was armed.

  She said, “Heaven forbid I would do such a thing.”

  “I mean it, Ma! I tell you about my cases only because you lead such a dull life. In this instance I’m pretty sure I’m dealing with a killer.”

  “He murdered someone!” Her eyes lit up. “You know I love murders best, Bo!”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’ll tell you. But you better not utter a peep about this to anyone, you understand, or it will be the last murder you hear!”

  “Cross my heart.” Rose set a bowl of soup in front of him and a plate of BLT halves in the middle of the table. She had toasted the bread and cut the sandwiches into triangles. Bo sampled a BLT. For all of her hell-raising youth, Rose had somehow managed to become a good cook, at least as far as BLTs were concerned. She was pretty good with Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, too.

  “Okay then, here’s the situation, Ma. An elderly rancher disappeared about two years ago. Nobody has heard from him in months except the young fellow running his ranch. The rancher’s ex is sure he’s been murdered.”

  Rose was about to bite into her BLT but stopped. “The wife did it!”

  “That’s certainly possible. But until I find the body, I can’t be sure he’s been murdered at all. His widow once removed, if she is one, thinks it’s the fellow taking care of the ranch who did Orville in.”

  “Orville! You’re talking about Orville Poulson! I know both the Poulsons, Orville and Marge! They’re a wonderful couple! Marge certainly isn’t the kind of person to kill her ex-husband, unless the husband was someone like Pap, and I can assure you he isn’t, or wasn’t, as the case may be. She’s a very nice lady.”

  “Let’s leave my father out of this. You’re the one who said the wife did it.” Tully helped himself to another BLT.

  Rose sniffed. “That was before I knew we were talking about the Poulsons.”

  “Anyway, I don’t have a body and I don’t have a clue where to look for one. That ranch is huge. Orville could be buried anywhere on it.”

  Rose sipped her soup, slurped in a noodle, then dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Well, that’s hardly a problem. You just go ask Mrs. Gorsich where the body is.”

  “Mrs. Gorsich! You think she did it? At the very least, I should arrest her for telling fortunes without a license.”

  “There’s a license for fortune-telling?”

  “I don’t know. I guess not. I should put her in jail anyway. Maybe for taking money under false pretenses!” One of his main pleasures in life was to tease his mother.

  �
��False pretenses, my eye! Bo, she’s a real psychic! She taps into the spirit world and can tell both the past and the future! You go ask her and she’ll tell you where poor Orville is buried.”

  “I find Mrs. Gorsich to be more of a physic than a psychic.”

  “That’s all you know. Half the businessmen in town won’t make a major decision without consulting Etta first.”

  “Why do I find that so easy to believe? Can you imagine what the commissioners would say if I turned in a bill for consulting a fortune-teller?”

  “They would be pleased as punch, Bo, to find out the Sheriff’s Department was finally using some common sense to solve crimes.”

  “Hmm. Knowing the commissioners as I do, I think you’re probably right about that. Just to satisfy you, I tell you what. I’ll go check out this Mrs. Gorsich.” He pushed his chair away from the table with a sigh. “Anyway, the lunch is perfect. You make a great BLT, Ma.”

  “I have many talents, Bo, many talents.”

  He nodded at her hair. “Your new do looks terrific, by the way.”

  Rose beamed at the compliment. “Makes me look younger, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah. Just to warn you, if I see any young bucks hanging around here, I’m going to throw them in jail. Maybe you, too!”

  • • •

  Tully got back to the department shortly after one o’clock. His staff was hard at work, probably because they had heard the klock-klock approach of his boot heels on the marble-chip floor. He wasn’t surprised to see his undersheriff, Herb Eliot, still reading the day’s Blight Bugle, with an intensity that suggested he was looking for clues to the day’s crimes. How Herb could find so much to read in the paper Tully couldn’t imagine.

  The Crime Scene Investigations Unit—Byron “Lurch” Proctor—was bent over his computer in the corner. The corner space was exclusively his. Lurch thought of it as his lab. Tully had given him his nickname, Lurch. Even so, the sheriff was Lurch’s hero. The CSI Unit was possibly the world’s homeliest human being, with dull brown hair that stuck mostly straight up, a nose much too large for his face, rimless glasses half an inch thick perched atop the nose, floppy ears, and beady eyes. But he was brilliant. Besides that, his girlfriend, Sarah, was not only the most gorgeous young woman Tully had ever seen, she was also the smartest, a scientist who worked for a Boise hospital. Tully had begun to think maybe there was something to be said for homely. Oh, yeah, as long as you were brilliant, too.