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

I hid the cruiser behind some bushes and slipped under the tarp in the truck. It was a whole lot easier for those good ole boys to come to me than vice-versa. I squinted at me watch. Right about now, if I didn’t miss my guess, Reede would be picking up Elaine to go to the playhouse. I was wondering what kind of danger she might be in when an even scarier thought crossed my mind. Usually I played by the State Police rules and kept my nose out of their investigations, but this was different. One way or another Elaine was involved, and I was determined to find out how — even if it hurt.

I tried piecing together Fields, Reede, Manchester and the playhouse. Two things I was sure of in Fields’ death: robbery hadn’t been the motive and he had been killed by somebody he knew. Then I heard a cornstalk crackle and a gutteral laugh.

“Sure as hell the easiest money we ever made,” came the unmistakeable whine of Tod Bowser.

“Yeah, just like he promised,” grunted Tod’s older brother. “You know what we gonna be?”

The tarp flew back.

“You gonna be guests of the county,” I responded, pointing my .38 at them. Staring at the long green-stemmed plants they had slung over their shoulders, I knew why they had been making repeated trips through Clem’s property. The Treasury Department bulletins warned that this kind of thing had been going on all over the state. They had estimated that tobacco was the only case crop in Kentucky that brought in more money than marijuana, and it was simple. After all, people had grown it for hemp during World War II, and since then the stuff had sprung up wild everyplace.

But not this thick. Standing on top of the cab, I gazed across the field. My enterprising friends were growing pot between the rows of corn. If the federal boys were right, I was staring at upwards of a million dollars. The whole ride back to town my prisoners were quiet. But I was sure of one thing — somebody, the he Rod mentioned, had to be behind the operation since Tod and Rod had trouble chewing gum and walking at the same time.

After booking the tongue-tied brothers, I called Doc Sloane. Though he was busy setting a cat’s leg, he took time to confirm that the cause of Fields’ death was a blow to the head by a blunt instrument (like Rod or Tod’s brain?). The time of death was somewhere between midnight and three. My guess was that since the storm hadn’t started till a little after 1:00 and since there was no trace of mud in the cottage, the murder had taken place between 12:00 and 1:00.

I dialed the State Police to let them in on my deductions. I was politely thanked by the young lieutenant assigned to the case, who in turn informed me they hadn’t scratched up clue one. There had been some sinsemilla, a seedless variety of marijuana, on the body, he said, but then what would you expect from some actor who’d just come down from the drug capital of the world. I didn’t bother to make the distinction between actor and director for him; he didn’t seem like your basic culture-lover.

An ugly picture was starting to form, and it wasn’t just my doodling. The cornfield that was more than a cornfield... Reede’s seeing their truck at the playhouse... the dope on Fields’ body. The Bowser boys weren’t breaking windows this time.

“Well, I should have known you’d be lollygagging round your office instead of keeping the perverts away from innocent citizens,” interrupted a voice.

Perched in the doorframe was a spindly, red-haired woman in her forties. Her face the same color as her hair, she gestured frantically, her arms flailing away like an ostrich trying to fly.

“What can I do for you, Sarah?”

“That’s Miss Flicker to you, Sheriff.” She clunked down her purse. “He was there again last night.”

“Who?”

“The pervert, of course. Who else would dress up in tights and carry a sword?”

I picked up her purse heavy with books and handed it to her. “I assure you, Miss Fricker, if there’s a man running around in underwear toting a sword, I’ll catch him.”

I was going back to their cell to pick the Bowsers’ brains before they picked the cell lock when the phone rang. It was Seth.

“You gotta get out here quick. The tourists are starting to arrive, and you know who’s here to greet them? That damned preacher and his bunch of fanatics. If you don’t do something, I got me a twelve gauge that will.”

Things at the playhouse reminded me of a human demolition derby. Led by Reverend Spiker, clad in black as ever, a dozen of the county’s citizens bearing signs like KEEP OUR COUNTRY CLEAN and ENTERTAINMENT YES — TRASH NO paraded in front of the theatre entrance. Several cars with out-of-state license plates had been stopped. Some early-arriving tourists snapped pictures of the local color while others pushed through the sign-bearers shouting about their rights.