The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 15

Homer Lampkin had the duty Wednesday afternoon and night. He received three calls in quick succession about the wreck on #64 near Beebo’s curve, as the locals called it. It was so named because thirty years ago, a local real estate agent named David Beebo had gone off the curve and down the almost vertical 100 foot embankment four times in a two-week period.

There were two significant things about those wrecks so many years ago. First, Beebo owned and was driving the town’s only motorized vehicle at the time. And second, he had been drunk on each occasion. After the third wreck, Albin’s Ford Motor Cars, of Memphis, where he had purchased the vehicle, came to see him.

They had gotten wind of what had happened and asked if they could take some photographs of the auto. They wanted to put them up in their office to show prospective buyers just how tough the “Model T” was. Along with the pictures, a reporter from the Memphis Press Scimitar came and wrote a story about “Mr. Ford’s Indestructible Horse-less Carriage.”

They even paid Beebo the exorbitant sum of $50.00 for his trouble. For a day or so, he was the town’s one and only celebrity. He made the most of the notoriety by obtaining a date the week after the third incident with Sandra Jones, the widowed lumber heiress.

Beebo took the money and the lady to Memphis for a very special night out. Upon their return, he escorted Mrs. Jones to the front door of her home and, afterward, went to Bud’s, one of the bars at the edge of Wynne. He remained there for some two hours downing “shooters” and telling of the imaginary conquest of Mrs. Jones. At 1:00 a.m. and barely able to stand, he left for his home. The route he chose, took him round his namesake curve and once more, he drove off the edge.

This fourth time turned out to be his and the Model T’s last ride together. The automobile survived to drive another day, but with a broken neck, David Beebo did not. So, from that day forward, Beebo’s curve stood as a testament to one of the pioneers of automobile fatalities, drunk driving and sheer stupidity.

Lampkin had been a young teenager when the curve had been named and he remembered the Model T. He could still see it sitting, relatively unscathed, at the bottom of the ravine just below the curve that it helped to make famous. The Ford that he was viewing at that moment, though, was in much worse shape than that one of so many years ago.

It had not gone off the curve, in fact it was opposite and facing the curve, tail pipe resting against the embankment where it had rolled to rest. The vehicle was bathed in light from the squad car as well as other cars that had stopped along the way. Plus, some of the people had brought lanterns down from their homes up the hill. The light that was there was punctuated by the red pulse that came from the rotating “beanie” on top of Lampkin’s car.

“Back up, Jeb,” Lampkin pushed past Jeb Stewart Jones who had his head stuck in the passenger side of the car staring at the slumped body of Al Lawrence. “And don’t nobody touch nothin’.”

Jeb was one of about two dozen people who had come from everywhere when word of a second “killin’” had made the rounds of town. Half seemed to be mesmerized by the scene while the other half were talking in hushed tones.

“Who is it?”

“His name’s Lawrence. Al I think.”

“From around here?”

“Wittsburg.”

“Is it Cubby Lawrence’s kid. I’ll bet it is.”

“Yea it is. Oldest boy. Only boy. Two sisters, though.”

“Boy, that’s gonna kill Cubby. Ya know his wife just died not morn a year and a half ago.”

“And Cubby’ll kill whoever did this.”

“Wonder who did it?”

“I wonder why.”

“No tellin’. This boy was into a lot uh things, though.”

“Hey, Homer, whadaya think? Who did this?”

“If I knew, Jake,” Lampkin, busy taking notes, spoke without looking at the inquisitor. “Believe me, you’d be the last one I’d tell.”

Lampkin grinned at the laughter that came at Jake’s expense.

“I don’t think there’s anything to be laughing about here, people.” Father Dobson had arrived to give the last rites just in case the victim was a Catholic. Even if he wasn’t, he would still do his liturgical duty.

“You’re right, Father,” Lampkin said, drawing a serious face. “Are you ready to do what you need to do?”

“Yes,” The priest said and walked over to where he could reach Lawrence’s body and performed the religious rite as he had hundreds of times in 27 years.

When he was finished, he stood staring at the young man. He did not recall that he had ever met him. The bullet holes were easily visible in his arm, cheek, and forehead. The priest had been in the Great War so he knew something about marksmanship, and he could tell whoever had done this had an ability that was far beyond his.

Obviously, Lampkin was thinking the same thing, because he was now scanning what could be seen of the hillside across the ravine from the curve. This area was the most likely place for someone to have been if they were going to shoot toward a moving car on Highway 64. It would have taken some remarkable shooting since he would have been about 300 yards away. It could have been twice that, though, depending on the killer’s location.

“Looks like he was haulin’ a load, Homer,” A voice from the crowd said. “Look behind the back tire there.”

Lampkin walked to the back of the car and saw s a clear liquid dripping steadily from a hole below the trunk.

The chief stuck his finger in the near stream of liquid, brought it up to his nose to smell it then touched his tongue to his finger, tasting the substance.

“Shine,” He mumbled, then spoke louder so all could hear. “Don’t want anyone smokin’ if ya gonna stay around here. Put ‘em out now.”

He watched as about a third of the crowd proceeded to snuff out cigarettes, cigars and pipes then turned back to the car.

“Do you think this has anything to do with the murder of the Bentwood boy?” The priest whispered to Lampkin.

“Don’t know, Father,” Lampkin looked up from his pad. “But I do know that this county ain’t seen a murder in almost fifteen years and now we got two in less’n a week. May be a coincidence, but I don’t think so. We’ll see, though. State police are on their way from Little Rock. Said they’d probably be here around eleven tonight.”

Lampkin stopped when he heard his name called. At first, he couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from, only that it was distant.

“Officer Lampkin. Mr. Homer.”

“Homer,” Father Dobson pointed up the highway at a boy riding toward them on a bicycle.

Someone shined a light on the boy and Homer saw that it was twelve year old Billy Winkles. He lived up the road about a quarter mile on the side of the Ridge and was peddling toward them as fast as his short legs would pump.

“Mr. Homer,” Billy repeated as rode up to the officer. He opened his mouth to speak when he saw the Lawrence’s body inside the car. The blood drained from his face as he stood staring, his mouth agape.

“Billy,” Lampkin said. And when there was no response, he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently shook him.

“Billy.” He repeated.

“Hunh,” Billy gasped with a start and stared at Lampkin, doe eyed. The officer pulled the boy away from the car so he couldn’t see inside.

“Billy, Billy, you got somethin’ to tell me? Billy, look at me now. What was it you came to tell me?” Lampkin hoped the boy had seen something from his house. Even at a quarter of a mile, things could often be seen.

Billy’s breathing slowed as the boy began to calm down somewhat. He looked at Lampkin but kept glancing back at the car. Finally, he spoke.

“Momma sent me, Mr. Homer,” Billy’s voice was quivering, but Lampkin could understand him. “Mizz June, ya know, the phone operator, called her. Said we were closest to where you were now. Said she needed to tell you that you needed to get to Wittsburg. Said someone has been shot there. And she said there was a fire, and everything burned up.”

Lampkin’s head was now reeling. What is happening here, he thought. He rubbed his forehead with his hand, suddenly not sure what he needed to do next. Then he reached down and took Billy by both shoulders and stared carefully into his eyes.

“Are you sure that this is what your momma said, son? Was that all? There wasn’t anything else, was there?”

“No sir,” Billy’s voice was stronger now. “That’s just like Momma told me to tell ya.”

Lampkin thought for a minute, still holding onto Billy.

“Okay, Billy,” He finally said. “Go back and tell your momma to tell Miss June to get hold of Ralph Barnes and tell him to get down here. Tell her he’s over at the Imperial, at the show with his wife and kids. Okay, ya got that, Billy? Good, hurry, now”

“Yessir.” Billy nodded excitedly, full of the importance of his mission. Fifteen minutes later, Barnes pulled up in his old pickup.

“Homer, what’s goin’ on?” Barnes was appropriately confused as he slammed the truck door and ran toward Lampkin.

“Got another murder.” Lampkin shined his flashlight into Lawrence’s car, the beam falling on his mangled face. “Don’t know ‘im, but someone said it’s Cubby Lawrence’s boy. Was haulin’ shine.”

“Yea,” Barnes said as he stared at the bullet holes. “I’ve seen ‘im around town before. Al’s his name I think. Somebody sure caught him clean, didn’t they?”

Lampkin proceeded to fill Barnes in on what he thought had happened based on what he had pieced together. He took the notes out of his notepad and gave them to Barnes.

“Take these and put them in the file when you make it. We have to call the state police nad get them back over here again. Finish up here then you do that. I’m going to Wittsburg.”

“What are you going to Wittsburg for,” Barnes asked as he took the notepad from Lampkin.

“There’s been someone else killed there.”

“You’re kiddin’.”

“Do I look like I’m kiddin’,” Lampkin said then turned, hopped in his car and sped away toward the east.

To Be Continued........