Disappearance at Hangman's Bluff Read Online Free

investigating a single thing, other than spying on some baby ducks that lived on one of the plantation ponds.
    Grandma Em went on. “So, if an investigator calls the police to report a crime, what kind of information would the police expect them to provide?”
    Bee and I shrugged.
    Grandma Em threw up her hands in frustration. “What were they driving?”
    â€œA pickup truck.”
    â€œWhat color?”
    â€œWhite.”
    â€œWhat make?”
    Bee and I looked at each other then shook our heads.
    â€œAny lettering on the side?”
    â€œIt kicked up too much dust to see,” Bee said.
    â€œWas there anything else unusual about the truck that you can recall?” Grandma Em prodded. “Light bars on top? Rust? Dents?”
    I closed my eyes and tried to picture the truck, and after a second I nodded. “It was one of those trucks that have double back tires on each side.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Grandma Em said. “There aren’t as many of those as there are regular pickup trucks. What about the men in the truck? Had you seen them before?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œWere they Caucasian, Hispanic, African American . . . ?”
    â€œWhite,” Bee said.
    â€œHow old?”
    Bee and I looked at each other. “One was maybe forty or fifty,” I said.
    â€œHe had dark hair and a big belly,” Bee said. “I could see that much.”
    I nodded, remembering how the man’s navy-blue T-shirt bulged out over his belt like he had a watermelon in there.
    â€œWhat color hair?”
    â€œBlack,” Bee said.
    I closed my eyes. “But shiny bald on top,” I added.
    As we were answering her questions, Grandma Em had grabbed a pad of paper and was jotting everything down. “What about the second man?” she asked.
    â€œHe was younger,” I said. “Maybe in his twenties or thirties.”
    â€œTall and thin with lousy posture,” Bee added.
    â€œHe was the one who shot Yemassee,” I said.
    â€œHair?” Grandma Em asked.
    â€œI think it was blond,” I said. “But it was hard to tell for sure, because he wore a baseball cap.” I closed my eyes and recalled a pair of wraparound sunglasses on a narrow face. I fixed both of the men in my mind, and I imagined having a bullwhip in my hands when I ran into them again.

Three
    C yrus Middleton was our new Leadenwah Island deputy, since the old deputy, Bubba Simmons, was in prison. Cyrus was very tall, with shoulders that reminded me of big fence posts. He had a dark face, as round as a full moon, and not a bit mean like Bubba’s had been. He had huge hands, and he moved slow and talked even slower, so it would have been easy for someone who didn’t know him very well to think Cyrus wasn’t very smart. That would have been a big mistake. Cyrus might have moved slowly, but he didn’t miss anything that went on around him.
    Cyrus was on the front porch of the big house interviewing Bee and me and taking notes when Daddy and Judge Gator drove up the plantation drive. Daddy must have called him after I told him what happened. Judge Gator jumped out of his old Mercedes station wagon and strode up onto the porch, looking like someone I’d never met before. With his gray hair, bright blue eyes, his easy way of talking, and his deep, gravelly laugh, Judge Gator is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. Today his mouth was a hard line, and his blue eyes were flashing so bright, they reminded me of sunlight glinting off the blade of a freshly sharpened knife. Today he looked as mean as his nickname.
    Daddy came limping behind the judge, moving a lot slower, still using a cane to walk and looking as if his day at the office had tired him out. Bee and I stood up, and Cyrus also stood.
    â€œThey shot my dog?” was the first thing out of the judge’s mouth.
    â€œYessir,” I told him. “I’m