Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

I spent a restless night. Lately, it seemed that Elaine and I were drawing apart, and I wasn’t sure why. About 1:00 a summer storm rolled in from the northwest. As the rain pelted the roof, I thought I heard noises in our two-story frame house. By the time I woke up, though, the storm was gone.

I was fixing coffee when Elaine came in and asked me to give her a ride out to the playhouse. Fields was supposed to pick her up early that morning, but hadn’t shown. She figured he had gotten involved with preparing for their last runthrough and had forgotten.

Seth Fuller had built his playhouse and the guest cottages on the site of his family farm. The war over, Seth had lit out for Hollywood to follow his dream. But, after a few years of waiting on tables and to be discovered, he had packed it in when his parents died leaving him the farm. He sold off most of the acreage and built the little resort. Since then, he’d struggled to make it go summer after summer.

When we drove into the compound, the large converted barn stood like a mother hen amidst the brood of small cottages that in a few days would start to fill up with tourists. Just beneath the playhouse sign, which was in need of paint, was the barrel-chested figure of Seth Fuller standing toe to toe with Mrs. Hanks’ nemesis. Dressed in his usual wardrobe of a black frock coat that looked two centuries old and a broad-brimmed hat, the Reverend Spiker was waving his hands in the dramatic fashion that had brought him from an unknown country preacher to the darling of the Lexington-Louisville media.

I let Elaine out and ambled up within listening distance just to make sure nothing happened. But their quarrel broke up. The Reverend Spiker passed me, pausing only to say, “The hand of righteousness will smite this den of iniquity. Mark my words.”

I continued over to the red-faced owner, half expecting to smell fire and brimstone.

“You’ve got to do something, Sheriff,” bellowed Seth like a wounded bull. “That man’s a fanatic. The more power he gets, the more he wants. He says that if I don’t shut down this ‘place of the Devil,’ he’s going to picket it with that group of his, CAT or CUT or whatever the hell he calls it.”

“Easy, Seth.” I put my hand on his shoulder. Everybody in Clement County knew what a quick temper Seth had.

“Damn it! If that power-crazed preacher surrounds this playhouse with those idiots of his shouting and carrying signs and pointing fingers, nobody’s going to come to the play, Roger Manchester or not. I want this play to be a blockbuster.”

“Daddy, Daddy, come quick!” It was Elaine screaming.

I started running in the direction of her voice. As I rounded the playhouse, I saw my daughter standing in the doorway of Cottage C.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

Elaine just pointed past the open door. Walking through a sweet, incense-like odor, I found sprawled on the hardwood floor Larry Fields. His head was grotesquely twisted to the side and his hair was matted with blood. He looked worse then Herky Sutton the time his block-and-tackle slipped while he was loading hay bales.

I knelt down over the body. Somebody had obviously caved in the back of Fields’ skull. But with what? I glanced around the room. All the windows were locked. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, dresser, couch, chair, table, and a few lamps, all of which looked like they’d been found at a yard sale. A fireplace and woodbox covered one wall. Nothing looked out of place or broken. There hadn’t been a struggle. On top of the dresser I spotted a wallet and some jewelled rings. I pried open the wallet with my pen to find a couple of hundred dollars and Fields’ I.D.

I went back to the body. It was lying in front of the couch that had been set in the middle of the room. The light beside it was still burning. On the drab couch were a pen, a stopwatch, and a green-covered script Death of the Duchess.

I called the state police barracks and the county coroner. While I waited for the Mobile Crime Laboratory and Doc Sloane to arrive, I had another look around. I wanted to search a brown suitcase I found under the bed, but as I had discovered to my embarrassment in the Rhodes robbery case a few years ago, it was “hands-off” until the lab boys were through. I moved on. The fireplace hadn’t been used in a year. I glanced into the woodbox. Beneath the kindling gleamed something golden. I hadn’t played pick-up sticks in years, but I managed to lift off some wood to reveal a small metallic statue. Smeared across the base were smudges of red.

I kept everyone out of the cottage till the lab boys arrived. I pointed out such things as the hidden statue to them, then stayed out of their way while they went through their routine. Doc Sloane Finally showed to take control of the body and promised me the autopsy report as soon as possible, which would be the next day unless he found an unemptied scotch bottle.