Champagne for Buzzards Read Online Free PDF Page B

red bar of lights flashing, and a yellow door swinging wide even before the car was fully stopped, as if by rushing the driver could reverse what had been final hours ago. The man who stepped out and surveyed the scene was a man very much in charge. Beside me, Ziggy said, “Sheriff Red Hozen.”
    The sheriff headed for my pickup at the double and reached for the tarp. The deputy stretched an arm to stop him, said something quietly and then handed the gloves he held in his hand to the sheriff.
    The sheriff struggled into them before he pulled back the tarp and examined the body. “Shit.” The sheriff slammed the tarp down.
    â€œWhat’s got him so upset?” I whispered.
    â€œIt doesn’t seem to be what he was expecting,” Tully replied.
    â€œOr who,” Ziggy put in. “Looks like he already had it figured out who it was going to be and is disappointed.”
    â€œNow why would he think he knew who was dead in the back of Jimmy’s truck?” Tully asked and handed me a mug. I looked at it dubiously. “What is it?”
    â€œMa always said tea was best for shock,” Tully told me.
    â€œIn that case Grandma Jenkins must have drunk a barrel of it, given the Jenkins brothers’ bad habits.”
    A newspaper that Ziggy had been reading when I slammed to a stop in front of the house was scattered around my feet. I bent down to pick it up as the sheriff headed our way, the built-in tidiness for guests kicking in.
    â€œI’ll do that, baby,” Uncle Ziggy said, coming to help me. At the foot of the stairs the sheriff took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m Sheriff Hozen,” he told us. The red hair that gave Red Hozen his name was fading to white, a transformation that was nearly complete in his crisply trimmed goatee.
    Sheriff Hozen was dressed in freshly ironed matching brown shirt and pants, as if he had dressed for the occasion. As neat and tidy as they were, his shirt was a little tight, his paunch straining the dark buttons. He resettled his hat precisely.
    Tully introduced us and said, “Come and sit down, Sheriff.”
    After he climbed the stairs, the sheriff chose to stand but he did remove his wire-framed Ray-Bans and sink back against the railing. “I need a little more information, Miss Travis. Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
    I did as instructed.
    He didn’t write it down. That surprised me.
    â€œThe pickup was there all night?” he asked. “You didn’t have it out yesterday after you arrived, is that right?”
    â€œThat’s right. Tully drove Uncle Ziggy and me into town to the café for dinner. The truck was here when we left. Least I think it was.” I looked at Tully and then at Uncle Ziggy. “Wasn’t it?”
    â€œFar as I remember,” Tully said. “My truck was by the bunkhouse, not under the drive shed, so I had no reason to look and see if Jimmy’s pickup was there.”
    â€œWho is Jimmy?” the sheriff asked.
    â€œThe truck used to belong to my deceased husband, James Travis.” I turned away from the sheriff. “Do you remember if it was there, Uncle Zig?”
    Uncle Ziggy set his badly folded newspaper on the floor beside him. “Wouldn’t likely have noticed it if weren’t.” He smoothed back his hair. “Course, what am I saying? We’d ’ave noticed it being driven out the lane. Suppose it had to be there as long as we were, sure would have noticed it leaving.” Tully and I nodded in agreement at this sensible statement.
    Sheriff Hozen wasn’t interested in our musings. “What time did you arrive yesterday?”
    â€œAbout four. The truck was full of plants, not a body in sight. Dad and Zig helped me unload the plants. We put them under the tree and watered them and then we came out here for a cold drink. We were going to plant them today.” My voice