Free Chili Con Corpses by J. B. Stanley

at Chavez, Lindy was barely audible when she asked, “Can I confess something to you in private?”
    McClellan nodded and indicated that his men should clear the room, along with the remaining citizens.
    James was the last to leave and as the door closed behind him, he heard Lindy sigh. “I just wanted you to know that I threatened Parker’s sister the other night. I … I actually said that I’d kill her.”
    The door shut on the rest of Lindy’s confession.

Once McClellan had dismissed James, Lindy, and Principal Chavez, the weary threesome piled into James’s Bronco and rode back to Quincy’s Gap in a dazed silence. The mountains that swelled above them on both sides of the highway were a dark battleship gray beneath an opal moon. As the road wound over their shoulders, they seemed to emanate a sense of strength and endurance, causing James to think about how quickly a person’s life could suddenly end.
    After mumbling a good-night to the others, James did not turn his truck toward home. Though he was tired, his unsettled mind replayed the discovery of Parker’s body over and over again like a film reel set on a loop.
    James longed for some friendly but anonymous faces. He wanted the comforting din of background noise like outdated jukebox music or billiard balls being slapped together as they rolled across an expanse of green felt. Turning the truck south, James headed for the Woodrow Wilson Tavern, one of the county’s few drinking establishments.
    Sammy, the proprietor, was at his usual place behind the oak bar, wiping a pint glass to a high shine with a dishtowel. When he saw James sit down at the far end of the bar, he tipped his Made in the U.S.A. baseball cap and raised his eyebrows in expectation.
    “What’s on tap tonight?” James inquired in a low voice that belied his mood.
    Sammy examined his patron’s face and then began stroking his gray mustache as he tried to decide which brew would serve his customer best.
    “You look a bit drained, Professor, so I reckon you could use some Presidential Ale to perk you up some. It’s as full of flavors as some of them fancy wines.” Sammy scratched at his unruly sideburns, which he wore as a mark of admiration for the Confederate Civil War hero, General Joseph Johnston. Sammy had been copying Johnston’s image for as long as anyone could remember. It only required a Confederate uniform to complete the full transformation, and Sammy had at least two at home. In fact, he often closed his tavern to participate in reenactments and his clients were accustomed to arriving at the front door in hopes of a drink and finding a sheet of paper announcing the bar’s closure instead.
    But Sammy’s eccentricities only enhanced the Wilson’s charm. It was the only place within fifty miles that served up special beers from local breweries, some of which were made especially for Sammy. Black and white photographs depicting the heroes and landmarks of the Old Dominion covered the walls, with the four Virginia-born presidents holding the place of honor above the bar.
    “Which President is the beer named after this time?” James wondered. “Still serving up the Jefferson Amber Ale?”
    Sammy began to fill a frosted pint glass. “No sir, we went through the Jefferson like a bear bingin’ before winter. This here is Woodrow Wilson Pale Ale, and it’ll set you straight.” Sammy placed the foaming cup on a coaster bearing the state flag of Virginia and slid the beverage under James’s chin. “You look like you’re carryin’ some weight this evenin’, so I’ll let you be. Just enjoy the Woodrow and give me a holler if you need somethin’.”
    James nodded thankfully but knew he would never need to call upon Sammy. The man was the perfect bartender. No one’s cup ever ran dry without Sammy having a replacement prepared, and he didn’t stand and chat unless it was clear that his presence was wanted.
    Sighing, James picked up the coaster and examined the state