Alafair Tucker 01 - The Old Buzzard Had It Coming

said I’d stole everything from him but this farm, and if I set foot on it again, he’d be in his rights to shoot me.”
    “I declare!” Alafair breathed.
    “Harley discovered moonshining after that,” J.D. informed her. “Then there was just no hope for him at all.”
    “He grew to like his product too much,” Zorah said bitterly. “Anyway, we saw John Lee every once in a while, and Maggie Ellen, when they come to town. Maggie Ellen had her a nice boyfriend in town, you remember that?” she asked Mrs. Day. “That Dan Lang who works over at Dasher’s blacksmith shop.”
    “Is he any kin to the Mr. Lang the grain merchant?” Alafair asked.
    “Yes, his second boy. I expected she’d marry up with him, but then I heard she’d found her somebody else. What ever happened to that Lang boy?”
    For the first time, Mrs. Day looked uncomfortable. “Oh, he stopped coming around. Harley didn’t approve.”
    Zorah snorted. “That figures, don’t it? Harley couldn’t stand anybody better than him. Which was just about everybody. Well, I’m glad Maggie Ellen up and took matters into her own hands.”
    “Why, that’s quite a tale,” Alafair acknowledged. “No wonder you’ve kept your distance.”
    “It’s a sad tale,” J.D. said.
    “One that the sheriff knew all about,” Zorah added. “I swear, after John Lee come to tell us Harley was dead, the sheriff was at our place with a thousand questions not more than an hour later.”
    “What kind of questions?” Alafair wondered.
    Zorah shrugged. “He was real interested in what time John Lee showed up, what he said, when he left, which way he went. He asked where I was on Wednesday night. I told him I was home with the kids, and J.D. was out of town. He wanted to know all about where J.D. had gone and when he got back.”
    “I went to Tulsa earlier that week,” J.D. explained, “on some business for Mr. Francis. I was supposed to be back Thursday morning, but the train was delayed by the snow. I had to spend the night on a bench at the station in Muskogee, and didn’t get in ’til Friday afternoon.”
    “How is Sheriff Tucker’s investigation progressing, have you heard?” Alafair asked Mrs. Day.
    “I haven’t heard nothing new from the sheriff,” Mrs. Day told her. “I was kind of hoping maybe you know something, being kin and all.”
    Alafair smiled. “My husband’s cousin Scott may be a funny old bear in private life, but when he’s about an investigation, he’s the most conscientious, single-minded creature that ever sat in a chair. He’ll not go blabbing about, that’s for sure. And you can rest easy that if Scott Tucker has anything to say about it, justice will be done.”
    Mrs. Day didn’t reply, but the look on her face told Alafair that she thought justice had already been served, and she feared that any more justice would just lead to tragedy.
    “Has John Lee showed up, yet?” Alafair wondered.
    “No,” Mrs. Day answered tersely. “But he will, and this foolishness will be cleared right up.”
    Naomi, who had just finished gathering up the dishes, shooed some stray children out the kitchen door and disappeared into the parlor behind them.
    Unexpectedly, Phoebe stood up. “Mama, I’m going to help Naomi with the kids,” she announced.
    Alafair looked up at her, surprised, then nodded. She and the other adults took up their conversation after Phoebe had gone.
    “Why do you think John Lee run off, Miz Day?” Alafair asked.
    “I don’t think he did,” she assured Alafair. “I expect he went off on his own. Sometimes he does that. His timing is just bad this time, that’s all.”
    “Well, who do you think put a bullet in your husband’s head?”
    Mrs. Day straightened, and her eyes showed an unaccustomed spirit as she prepared to defend her offspring. “I don’t know, Miz Tucker,” she said. “But it weren’t John Lee, or anybody in this house. Doctor Addison said it was a .22 slug he dug out of Harley’s head, probably from a derringer. Well, we ain’t got a derringer, or any pistol of such small caliber on this farm. We just got Harley’s daddy’s old .45 Colt and a Winchester ’86 and an aught-twelve shotgun. I don’t think I ever even seen a lady’s gun.”
    “Did you tell all this to Sheriff Tucker?” Zorah asked her.
    “I did. He didn’t seem much impressed.”
    “Well, I sure think John Lee is an unlikely killer,” J.D. stated, “even though nobody had as much grievance against Harley