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

I couldn’t help but notice the atmosphere was one of relief, not grief, when I assembled the cast and crew. I questioned everyone there, though no one had much to offer me. Seth said that when he went to bed shortly after midnight the light was still on in Fields’ cottage, but then, he noted, the director stayed up late every night. Reede, who was staying in Cottage B, said he had last seen Fields around 8:00. When Reede had gotten back from my house, he had noticed Fields’ light, but had gone straight to bed. I had to wake Roger Manchester in Cottage A. Having taken a sleeping pill because of a nerve-wracking day, he had gone to bed around sundown, and no, he hadn’t heard a thing during the night. Seth introduced me to the rest of the play’s cast and crew when they arrived during the commotion. They were staying at Emma Sowders’ Boarding House in town, and, having gotten into an all-night poker game, they could vouch for one another.

Then I had time for Elaine. She still seemed shaken up about the whole thing. I was glad when Reede brought some coffee and started to talk to her. It settled her down, and I didn’t feel so bad about going to the office.

Technically this was my case, but in reality the State Police would handle most of the investigation. When they’d digested all the evidence they could get their hands on, they’d throw me a bone and let me make any arrests. They were content to let elected amateurs like me take care of such serious matters as school crossings and picking up the local winos on Saturday night, but real crimes, they loved to remind me, were the province of professionals.

Sometimes I think they’re right. My life seemed an endless parade of traffic citations and pie-judging. Potter was a decent deputy, though he’d been injured in the recent softball game with Barlow County and would be laid up for a couple of weeks. So I had to listen to another of Sarah Pricker’s fantasies. Some teenage boy with a red hunting hat facing backwards had stared through her bedroom window. Her call was interrupted by Mrs. Hanks, who told me I just had to do something about CUT. One of its memebers, acting on orders from Reverend Spiker of course, had walked away from the stacks with Catcher in the Rye. Since I planned to talk to our famous preacher anyway, I told her I’d go see him right away.

I was cruising down State Road 877 toward the church, which was on the same road as the playhouse, when I passed a familiar blue pickup with a tarp over the bed going in the opposite direction. No telling what Clement County’s self-styled version of the Dukes of Hazzard had hidden back there, but even if I had turned around, the Bowser boys’d been long gone.

Set down a piece on a gravel road, Green Pastures Church was a small, concrete-block building. For the last eleven years the Reverend Spiker had been shearing his flock without anyone noticing till he had decided to go big-time last fall. On Halloween he had held a public bookburning. I think there were more of your media types there than participants, and when the smoke cleared, the Reverend’s little fire had received statewide attention. So he formed CUT and began using a lot of well-meaning people for his own benefit.

Luckily I caught Harlan in a rare moment when he was off-camera.

“Lo, Sheriff. Been scribbling a few notes for my memoirs.” As his five-foot-even frame rose up from his high-backed chair, I could tell he was serious. Up close he looked younger than he had seemed on TV. “What can I do for you? You interested in joining our little group?”

I waved him off. “It’s about Larry Fields. He...”

“Is a disciple of the Devil. Everyone knows how he directed that blasphemous display of nudity The Bare Facts. That kind of trash might be acceptable in one of those big-city Sodom and Gommorahs, but we won’t let him bring it into our community.”

“He’s dead. Someone bashed his head in.”

The Reverend hit his roll-top desk sharply. “Did I not say the hand of righteousness would strike down the abomination? We are saved.” He bowed his head. “Our people will be spared the spectacle of violence and adultery.”

Spiker certainly didn’t seem too broken up about things. “How do you know what this play is about?”

“What else would such a pervert bring to the-stage?”

I let his logic pass. “You were at Seth’s this-morning. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“None were about when I arrived. The rain had just stopped. I banged on the blasphemer’s door, but he didn’t answer. Then I went over to Seth Fuller’s office and demanded to be heard. As you saw, he wouldn’t listen to me. Now is there anything else?”

“Yes, a warning. If your flock wants to burn their own books, there’s nothing I can do, but stay away from the public library!”

“Sheriff, I assure you none of my people has even entered that repository of evil.”

Knowing some of the illiterate members of CUT, I found that easy to believe.