A Blooming Fortune

by Stephen John

  “You need to shut up, Mister,” he barked. “I mean it.”

  “Settle down, my good man,” Victor replied. “It’s as this young woman said earlier—it’s all in good fun.”

  “It doesn’t sound like fun to me,” Owen replied.

  He stood and looked at the group of people in front of Victor, “You people make me sick, listening to this guy. What if Celia got hit by a bus tomorrow? Y’all’d be sorry then.”

  “I seriously doubt that.” Victor replied.

  “Why not?” Owen asked.

  “Because, my good man, if Celia were hit by a bus tomorrow, it’s highly likely I’d be the one driving it.”

  The group roared in laughter once again; Owen’s face turned beet red; he was ready to explode. I had to do something, and quickly.

  “Victor, I have a couple of questions for you,” I interjected. “Why don’t you and I find a table in the corner so we can talk.”

  “That’s actually a good idea,” he said. “I was coming to see you tomorrow anyway. Now is just as good.”

  “What has Celia ever done to you?” Owen spouted at Victor, unwilling to let him just walk away. “You need to apologize. You don’t want to mess with me. You haven’t seen a man like me before.”

  Victor smiled at Owen. Actually, it was more of a sneer. He turned as if to walk away. When he paused again, I knew there’d be trouble. He turned toward Owen.

  “That’s actually not true,” he said. “I have certainly seen men like you in the past, but only in places where I was charged admission.”

  The group looked at Owen and laughed.

  “He got you,” one of them said.

  “And good,” added another.

  Owen let out an angry scream and charged Victor, striking him with his fist on the left cheek. Victor fell to the floor with a thud. The rest of the group stood and backed away. Owen straddled Victor and fell to his knees over his wide body. Victor held his arms up in the air in a defensive position as Owen began to swing wildly.

  I dove for Owen, using my shoulder and full body weight to knock him away from Victor. I thought about how far I could go without endangering my cover. Although I could easily handle the likes of Owen, not many people in Sinful would believe a former beauty queen turned librarian could handle herself in a fight. Fortunately for me, Nickel came around the bar and held Owen down as he tried to get up.

  “Okay, I’ve warned you about this kind of stuff,” Nickel said to Owen, pulling the trucker to his feet. “Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve learned to play well with others.”

  “But this guy was . . .” Owen began, in protest.

  “This guy did not lunge out and take a swing at you,” Nickel interrupted. “Now go on, Owen. Get on out . . . now!”

  “This ain’t over you Limey old fart,” Owen scoffed at Victor. He knocked over a chair and stormed out in a huff.

  Bessie, I noted, did not make a move toward Victor to offer aid of any kind. She merely remained in place, off to the side. Her smug expression reflected both a lack of interest and a lack of surprise that the incident occurred.

  Victor’s glasses had dislodged. They were now dangling from one ear over his chin. He looked dazed and severely disoriented . . . and really goofy.

  “Victor, are you okay?” I asked.

  He blinked and looked at me with glazed over eyes, “I think so. I’d like to sit up,” he said.

  I strained to lift him into a sitting position. I’d misjudged his weight earlier. The man was easily over three-hundred pounds. Bessie made no move to help. She stood there, looking at him dismissively.

  “Nickel,” I called out. “Can we get a cold cloth and some ice, please?”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there,” he replied.

  “Bessie, can you help me get him to his feet?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes and shook her head, “I’m not straining my back. He made his bed. Let him lie in it.”

  “Don’t you want to help your brother?” I asked.

  “Look at him,” she said. “Of the top five fattest people I know, he’s three of them. I have a bad back. He can lay there.”

  “Get over here, woman,” Victor demanded.

  Nickel returned with the cloth and ice. He helped me get Victor to his feet. We managed to get him to a table. Bessie finally joined us.

  “Anything else?” Nickel asked. “I need to get back to the bar.”

  “I’ll have another drink,” Victor said.

  “No, he won’t,” Bessie countered.

  “No, we’re good, Nickel,” I agreed. “Thank you.”

  Nickel left.

  “What were you thinking, Victor?” I asked. “You’re so rude to everyone.”

  “I can’t help it,” he confessed. “The older I get, the more everything annoys me,” he replied.

  “By everything, he means people,” Bessie chirped.

  “That guy was huge,” I said. “He could have broken you in two.”

  “That’s one way to lose weight,” Bessie snipped.

  “I would slap you, dear sister,” Victor threatened, “but I don’t want to get slut on my hands.”

  “Bugger off,” she scowled.

  “Victor, how drunk are you?” I asked.

  “Most of it is show. He’s not all that drunk,” Bessie said. “When he gets really sloshed, he recites the poetry of William Wordsworth. Talk about clearing a room fast.”

  “Maybe it’s time to go home, Victor,” I suggested.

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “The night is still young. Let me buy you a drink.”

  “No, thank you,” I replied. “Let me drive you home?”

  “I can drive. I haven’t been drinking,” Bessie interjected. “It seems that my entire purpose for the evening has been to get Moby Dick home.”

  “Okay then, let Bessie drive you home,” I proposed.

  “One more drink,” he pleaded. “You and me together. Victor and Miss Fortune . . . and, uh . . . Bessie. We need to talk anyway.”

  I looked at Bessie; she nodded, “We do need to talk.”

  “Okay, I’ll have a beer,” I said. “Then we go.”

  “Deal,” he agreed. I waved at Nickel, and held up three fingers.

  Nickel’s face twisted in a confused look, “You’re kidding. Really?”

  I shrugged and nodded.

  He let out a breath and pointed at me, “I hold you responsible.”

  Nickel brought the drinks to our table. He glared at Victor, “I shouldn’t be serving you,” he said. “You’re a sad drunk.”

  Victor looked up at him, “You are correct, sir. I am a sad drunk and you’re an imbecile. The difference is, tomorrow . . . I will be sober, while you, sir . . .”

  “Victor, please . . .” Bessie admonished.

  “Listen, bud . . .” Nickel began. “I saved your fat a . . .”

  “Okay, boys, put away the cannons,” I interrupted. “Nickel, we’re all good, I promise. We’re having one beer and then we are leaving. We won’t be any more trouble.”

  “See to it,” he replied.

  Nickel flashed another scowl at Victor, and stalked off.

  Victor looked at me with a glint in his eye, “You know, you are quite famous around here,” he teased. “Some might even say . . . infamous. There are many stories about you being bandied about.”

  “Is that so?” I replied.

  “It is, indeed,” he said. “I was particularly enamored with the one where you won a wet t-shirt contest right here in this very bar. I was quite disappointed to discover that you were not around earlier for a repeat performance. It would have been such an honor to see you defend your crown.”

  “That will never happen.” I promised.

  He sucked in a little breath through his teeth, “Such a pity. You know, you and I have much more in common than you might believe.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, here we are—both outsiders,” he began. “Unappreciated and unwant
ed by the locals.”

  “Not all of them, in my case,” I insisted. “I have a number of wonderful friends.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ve checked into you.”

  My ears perked, “You have?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he insisted. “From the belly of the deep web to the far reaches of Sinful’s intricate gossip network.”

  I noticed that Bessie’s irritation with Victor had evaporated, and she was now completely focused on everything I was saying. I felt as though I was being set up. I wondered whether she really needed my help tonight, or if the whole thing was a ruse to get me to the Swamp Bar.

  That was extremely unexpected, “Why would you check into me?”

  “I happened to love Emma and when I heard she had come into quite a bit of money and was spending a great deal of time with the local librarian; I began looking into things.”

  I raised my eyebrows, “Oh, so you know how to look into things?”

  “I do.” He gestured toward Bessie, “We both do.”

  “And what did you find out?” I asked, still skeptical, but genuinely curious.

  “Well, to begin with, we know you are not who you claim to be,” Bessie said.

  “I’m not?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think you know, Victor?” I asked.

  “For one thing, we know your last name is not Morrow.”

  Victor’s revelation floored me. I was not ready for that. My heart sank. I tried to avoid it but I know the shock appeared on my face. I sat there in abject silence. I took in a breath and held it. I looked at Victor. The smile had left his face. His look turned sober and serious. Bessie continued to focus on me, studying my reaction.

  “I see that our observation has rendered you positively speechless, my dear,” Bessie said.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know what you mean,” I replied.

  “Oh, we believe you do,” Bessie answered.

  “Look, Victor and Bessie . . .” I began. Victor interrupted me.

  “Before you go any further, Fortune, I have a question for you. Did Emma ever tell you what Bessie and I did for a living in Vermont?” he asked.

  Victor looked at me with steel eyes. His state of drunkenness was dramatically overblown, I could tell. He was speaking clearly and succinctly.

  “No, she didn’t,” I replied. “In fact, she never said much about either of you.”

  Victor looked at Bessie and shrugged, “You see. I told you so.”

  Bessie offered a small shrug in return.

  He reached into his back pocket and fished out his wallet. Opening it he pulled out a business card. He slapped it on the table and pushed it in my direction. I picked the card up, my jaw nearly dropped to the floor as I read it:

  The Blooming Detective Agency

  Paradise, Vermont

  Victor and Bessie Bloom, Private Investigators

  “You two are private investigators?” I asked.

  “Were,” he corrected. “We were private investigators. We’ve been retired for a few years now.”

  “Semi-retired,” Bessie corrected.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

  “We weren’t going to say anything until we were sure about you,” he offered.

  “Sure . . . about me?”

  “Yes,” Victor replied. “Bessie, please tell her.”

  Bessie smiled, “Victor and I were more than a little curious when Emma told us the story of how you and two little old ladies found evidence to find and bring Glory’s murderer to justice after so many years. We were grateful, of course, but we couldn’t figure out why—why the interest?”

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  “So, we started looking into Sandy-Sue, a.k.a., Fortune Morrow,” Bessie continued. “That’s when we found out that this was not the only case you’ve been involved in here in Sinful.”

  “Look, you two have it all wrong about me . . .” I began.

  “We have it wrong, really?” Bessie asked in a teasing tone.

  Victor looked at Bessie, “See if the bartender can play Thriller on the jukebox. Fortune is back pedaling like Michael Jackson. How I just love a good moon walk.”

  Bessie flashed me a knowing look,” Shall I continue?” she asked.

  “Can you?” I replied.

  “Oh, yes. As it turns out, Fortune Morrow, a would-be beauty queen, turned librarian, has solved more murders than Sherlock Holmes,” she said, “and all in a matter of months, and in a town of less than three hundred people, no less. We both knew right then and there that there was more than meets the eye with Miss Fortune Morrow.”

  “So, we dug a little deeper,” Victor said.

  “How deep?” I asked.

  “Oh, we are quite the excavators,” Victor boasted. “You should see my miner’s hat—all yellow with a cute little flashlight on top.”

  “Yes, it’s quite the fashion statement,” Bessie snarked, looking at me. “Fat man in a hard hat—what a woman magnet that is.”

  “Piss off,” Victor snapped.

  She ignored Victor, “When we began our investigation into you, we found out fairly quickly who the real Sandy Sue Morrow was and where she really lived. As it turns out, the real Sandy Sue doesn’t live in Sinful at all, and hasn’t for years.”

  “Yes, imagine our surprise,” Victor added. “And that left us with the question; if the real Sandy Sue, which is a dreadful name by the way, does not live in Sinful, then who is the adorable crime-fighting super-hero running around town posing as such?”

  He sat back in his chair and interlaced the fingers of both hands over his substantial paunch. He flashed a self-gratifying smile.

  “So, you know everything?” I asked.

  “No, not at all,” Victor said. “We reached a certain point and the trail went cold—ice cold, which meant to us that your true identity was being covered up by a very powerful organization.”

  “We don’t know who you are, dear,” Bessie said. “We just know you aren’t Sandy Sue ‘Fortune’ Morrow.”

  Victor nodded, “Even when I stepped up my efforts, I ran into a roadblock each time. The only people who could block my investigation so thoroughly are employed in very powerful government agencies. There was a chance, of course, you could have been in witness protection, but you do not handle yourself like a shrinking violet, hiding out from the mob.”

  “That’s true, you don’t,” Bessie agreed. “The way you handed yourself with that hillbilly knob tonight suggested skills that only come from extensive training and experience.”

  Victor smiled, “Our guess is CIA or FBI. Bessie thinks it’s FBI.”

  I said nothing.

  Victor turned to Bessie, “It doesn’t matter which.”

  “So,” Victor continued. “Are you undercover or hiding out? Bessie thinks you are hiding out. Which is it?”

  Again, I said nothing. Victor looked into my eyes.

  “I guess you were right about this one, Bessie,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “What makes you think I am hiding out?” I asked.

  “There are a couple of reasons,” she said. “One, because what the hell would an undercover agent actually uncover in this town—little old ladies failing to report their bingo earnings, perhaps? Doesn’t seem likely. Two, the fact that if someone needed to be hidden in a remote location, you can’t get more remote than this place.”

  “So, what exactly were you thinking about me when you began this investigation?” I asked.

  “What do you think? Our dear sister was a virtual hermit in this town and went unnoticed for thirty years,” Bessie said. “She comes into a little money and then all of a sudden she has friends pouring out of her ears. Friends like Celia Arceneaux, and especially a new best friend who brings her books each month out of the kindness of her heart.”

  “Hey!” I snapped. “I don’t think I like where you are heading with this . . .”

  Victor held up a hand, “Relax, Fortune
. We know you didn’t murder my sister. We know you loved her.”

  “You said murder?” I repeated. “You mean you think she was murdered, too?”

  Victor turned to Bessie again, “Told you she thought so.”

  “We do indeed,” Bessie said to me.

  “Everyone from Carter to the EMT to the doctor at the hospital believes it was a simple heart attack,” I said.

  “We know this all too well,” Bessie replied.

  Victor adjusted his glasses and smiled, interlacing his fingers on the table, “In my thirty years as a private investigator I have become very jaded when it comes to believing in coincidences. We know Emma had a heart condition, but then again so would anyone else who knew her—even a person seeking to murder her. She was the healthiest and happiest she had been in years once Glory’s murder was solved. She comes into some money and what—she suddenly dies? Bessie and I have been doing investigative work since long before you were born. My sister was murdered. I know it.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.

  “Because I believe that you believe she was murdered, too,” Victor said. “We need your help to find out who killed her. By the manner in which you solved Glory’s murder, we know you are capable. Your experience as a Federal agent will be most helpful to us.”

  “What made you believe that I thought Emma had been murdered?” I asked.

  “Because we visited Mark Baker to inquire about Emma’s accounts,” Bessie said. “We asked him many of the same questions you did. He let it slip that you were concerned and . . . looking into things.”

  “And then we followed you to the bank,” Victor said. “Once you left, we chatted with the brainless teller who spoke to you, only to find you were trying to cash a check for one dollar and twenty cents made out to you by Emma. The teller said you seemed most upset that she couldn’t do it and wouldn’t answer questions about her account.”

  “Why did she answer questions for you?” I asked. “She wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “I am Emma Peterson’s Power of Attorney, and the executor of her estate.”

  He looked down and peered at me over his glasses with a smile and continued, “One dollar, twenty cents. Really, Fortune?”

  I shrugged, “A girl’s gotta eat, right?”

  Bessie smiled, “It was then we realized you were conducting an investigation of your own.”