by N. C. Lewis
Somehow, my mind drifted back to the events of the previous evening. The outrageous request of Pickle Bramley still annoyed me. If the boy hadn't looked so serious or acted in a mean and manipulative way, I would have thought he was joking. But his demeanor and manner reminded me of the swamp creature mobsters that inhabit the Hollywood movies. Perhaps the boy had spent too much time on YouTube, but then again when I was that young I wasn't that stupid. Never deliberately upset your professor was my motto.
I checked email, spent too long on Facebook, and browsed news websites. For a while I mulled over the behavior of Joseph Shine. I'd never met the man before, but as they say, first impressions count. Still, he had something on Bobby. That got me even more curious. It was none of my business really, but in a small town everyone's business is everyone's business.
As the wooden mechanical clock on the mantelpiece struck the top of the hour I got up and stretched. "Time for a walk," I muttered aloud. Bodie's leash in hand I headed outside to round up the dog.
The sun was over the horizon now and the shadows of dawn had retreated, replaced by the bright blue sky of a Hill Country summer morning. It was wonderful to be striding along the lane that snaked away from Ealing Homestead with Bodie at my side.
As we turned onto the trail that led across the countryside into town, I noticed a figure ahead of us, perhaps a hundred yards away. I recognized the dog first, a sandy colored pure-bred pug by the name of Benji, Emma Garcia's hound.
"Emma," I called.
She turned around, waved and waited for us to catch up.
"Nice to have a little bit of human company," she said.
Emma, a neighbor, worked as the administrative officer for Professor Bingham. Her husband George, a builder, often did odd jobs for me at Ealing Homestead.
Emma stooped down to let Benji off the leash. I followed suit. Benji rushed towards Bodie, stopped in front of him, crouched on his front legs, his rump in the air, wagging his tail.
"Looks like Benji's in a playful mood," I said.
Benji dashed away and Bodie chased behind.
"Yep," said Emma, "looks like they both want to have fun today."
Emma was one of the few people in Medlin Creek who kept her own counsel. We walked along together for almost a mile in silence, the dogs yapping and barking in full out play mode.
As we approached a bend in the trail that looped around in the direction we had come from Emma broke the silence.
"The renovations are almost done on our new Mexican restaurant. The final additions to the kitchen will be complete this week. Thanks to your help all the business permits have been sent. Unofficially, the Mayor gave us the nod. Why don't you stop by on Saturday? I'd love to show you a round."
I was looking forward to eating at the new restaurant. If the food was anything like the delicious meals served at Emma and George's holiday gathering, I'd be a regular diner. My stomach rumbled, dissatisfied with the scrambled eggs and bagel I'd fed it earlier. Now it wanted huevos rancheros, and so did I.
"Wow! Emma, that sounds fantastic," I said, hoping to satisfy my Mexican food craving as quickly as possible, "when is the open date?"
Emma let out a throaty laugh. "Don't know yet, I've a few new recipes. But until I get into the new kitchen it's difficult to know whether they will work in a restaurant setting. Plus, we have staff to hire and advertisements to place, don't think it will be before the fall."
"Seems there is more to running a Mexican restaurant than cooking," I sighed.
We turned back onto the lane that led to our properties, stopping momentarily to put the leashes back on the dogs.
"Oh," she said, waving, "don't forget you're invited to the Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle, Tuesday at ten a.m."
Chapter 4
I kept an eye out for Bobby Williams or his Havis County Engineering Company truck as I strolled down the part of the lane that led to Ealing Homestead. At the edge of the property, by the creek, men in bright yellow hardhats gathered around the abandoned oil well. Large trucks and heavy equipment waited close by.
As I approached the activity I could see Bobby, directing men and equipment. Today, he wore blue jeans, a long sleeve denim shirt and a black hardhat. His arms gesticulated as he gave last-minute instructions to the crew.
"Keep the equipment away from that area. I don’t want any more disturbance than is necessary of the land surrounding the well." His voice was as authoritative as the captain of a warship.
I took a deep breath as the dream of 'oil baroness Ollie' reappeared in my mind. "Not long, not long now," I muttered with a smile.
Just as I reached the first truck Bobby spun around, eyes wide, hopping from one leg to the other. He gave an exaggerated bow, through his arms wide open and with the cheesy grin of a television game show host said, "Big bucks! No whammies!"
"I'm looking forward to some bucks flowing in my direction," I grinned. "I've had enough whammies." I half closed my eyes and laughed as Bodie danced around my feet. It was true, I thought, the oil well would soon be open.
"Don't forget us little people Baroness Ollie," he laughed, "especially when we visit with you on church fundraising business."
We turned to watch the men set up their equipment. Bobby barked out an occasional order and the men followed like synchronized swimmers.
Bobby's eyes gleamed with pride as the disorganized jumble of equipment began to take shape, and he rubbed his hands. "First thing we need to do is clear away the brush and scrub surrounding the well. Once that's done the guys will set up the rig. Should only take a few hours." His eyes danced merrily from mine to the crew then back again.
Just then the rumble of a heavy truck crackled through the air. I peered in the direction of the sound. Traveling along the dirt road at considerable speed, a white and gold truck adorned with the Havis County Engineering Company logo.
Bobby's eyebrows shot up like a spring and his whole body became very still, except for the lips which opened and closed several times eventually spluttering out the words. "Oh no."
The truck came to a stop in front of us. Two colorless eyes peered out through the windshield. They were the least attractive feature of a rather repulsive face that was all nose, hooked with wisps of hair dangling from the tip like ripe grapes before harvest in a Mediterranean vineyard.
"Who's that!" I gasped as the colorless eyes slid sideways to lock onto Bobby.
He took two steps back before replying.
"The boss."
The truck door swung open. Out hopped a short little man, almost a dwarf, wearing tan Boots with four-inch heels, Dolce & Gabbana faded blue jeans held up by a rattle skin belt with a huge silver buckle that glittered and sparkled in the morning sun. The Brunello Cucinelli button-down white shirt did little to soften the stark angular nasal features that dominated the man's face.
"Howdy," he said, the eyes sliding in my direction. The man's voice was light, high pitched, not what I expected from the boss.
"Sir," said Bobby, a light sheen of perspiration visible on his upper lip, "what brings you out here today?"
I noticed the work crew activity had stopped, everyone staring in our direction.
"What's that got to do with you?" snapped the diminutive fellow, his eyes moving slowly around. The way those colorless orbs slid from side to side made me nervous. They seemed somehow unhuman, like the narrow eyes of a venomous copperhead snake that had decided to strike.
Bobby went silent.
"I said," said the boss, spitting out the words in a slow southern drawl, "what's that got to do with you?"
The colorless eyes locked onto Bobby's startled face. For several seconds the two men stared at each other as the work crew watched. Then Bobby lowered his head and mumbled in a faint voice.
"Nothing."
The little man turned to the work crew.
"Bobby said something but I couldn't hear."
He turned back to Bobby.
"What did you say?"
; "Nothing," repeated Bobby.
"Bobby, I can't hear you, please speak up," crooned the nasty little man reveling in the humiliation of his employee.
"Nothing," boomed Bobby as his faced flushed.
"Good. Now get out of my sight!"
Bobby crept toward the circle of onlooking workers. But they moved away from him like the poor man had a contagious disease. In the end, he stood on one side, while the workers clustered together some distance away.
The colorless eyes moved in my direction. They slid like a spinning bowling ball to settle on my face, but somehow didn't look at me directly.
"Doctor Ollie Stratford?"
It was more of a statement than a question. I didn't like the tone. I didn't like the man's voice either, with the shrill squawk of a turkey vulture and impoliteness of inherited wealth. It was unpleasant the way it came at you, all high-pitched and squeaky, like the wail of a newborn baby. It jangled the nerves.
"Yes, I'm Doctor Stratford."
The little man took a step closer.
"I thought so."
The work crew stood in silence, eyes peering, ears straining, waiting to see what would happen next.
With a dramatic flourish the little man pointed a long index finger towards the crew, trucks and equipment.
"You see that? The best damn drilling team in the Hill Country."
The workers cheered. It made a strange empty sound, lacking enthusiasm, rather like well-fed penguins clapping at show time. The little man's pencil thin lips tugged into a smile at the sound, and he continued, "each and every one of these workers receive top dollar because they are the best."
Again, the workers cheered, Bobby hollered the loudest, his eager eyes looking to the boss for acknowledgement.
"I worked hard to become a partner in Havis County Engineering Company. I'm sure, Doctor Stratford, you appreciate the value of arduous work, don't you?"
"Of course. It is a cornerstone of success."
"And," continued the boss, "I'm sure you feel it should be rewarded."
I nodded, I wish I hadn't.
"That's what I thought," he said, "I knew you'd see things as I do. Pickle Bramley is the best student in the entire Medlin Creek Independent School District."
"Pickle!" I gasped, "you know him?"
He jerked his head backwards and the eyes slid further in my direction.
"Yes, I'm Bryant Reynolds, Chairman of the Board of Medlin Creek Community College. Pickle is my nephew."
As his words sunk in, a kind of dizziness crept over me. "Oh," I said, "Oh!"
"The boy says you refused to give him one hundred and ten percent for an assignment. Is that true?"
"Well, now here's the thing..."
Bryant's eyes bugged, lips turned an unusual shade of purple, and his long index finger pointed toward my face.
"I said, is that true?"
My mind raced like a jackhammer, drew a blank then malfunctioned. "It seems…" But no other words came out. Instead, I stared at the little man with my mouth half open, as a nasty headache began to brew between my eyes.
The man's tiny mouth opened wide, words spewing out like a Hill Country thunderstorm. "If you are unable to grade student's papers, you have no role at Medlin Creek Community College."
He stepped even closer, paused for an instant then took another little step into my personal space. The air filled with the rich musky sweet fragrance of Creed Aventus aftershave. In an almost silent hiss, he continued. "Understand, Doctor Stratford, that I am ruthless. I will not let this issue drop. Chancellor Cunningham is a personal friend, he will hear about this matter. I will also have words with Professor Bingham."
Mr. Reynolds turned and climbed with a springing jump back into the truck, started the engine then rolled the window down.
"Doctor Stratford, the Havis County Engineering Company," he spat, "doesn't need your business."
The tiny mouth opened wide and he bellowed like an elephant, "Bobby, I want you to clean up this mess and get our equipment out of here. If this well is re-opened, it won't be by us."
The engine revved and Bryant Reynolds, in a huge ball of dust, fumes and fury, was gone.
Chapter 5
I rubbed my chin as the ball of dust and fumes kicked up by Bryant Reynold’s truck disappeared into the distance. Slowly, the workers turned their gaze toward Bobby, who stood perfectly still several feet away. Running hands over his head, he walked towards me. He spoke, although his eyes did not connect with mine.
"Man, you'd think Bryant was the senior partner the way he carries on. I'm sure Mr. Hoskins will have something to say about this."
He became quiet as if thinking carefully about the next sentence. Then suddenly he sucked in air with a loud whooshing noise and continued, "Ollie, I'm afraid we'll have to stop work on the project."
The words may as well have been physical blows. They hit hard. I doubled over as if in pain and yelled, "Are you kidding me?"
"Ollie, you heard Mr. Reynolds," said Bobby through gritted teeth.
"There must be something you can do," I said.
Bobby shook his head.
"Lady, I've got lots of medical bills to pay, I can't afford to annoy the boss. Listen, I'll get the team to clean up the well area, make it look nice and pretty. But there won't be any digging. We don't want any more digging."
I didn't respond. When I was a director of a faceless corporation back in New York City I found myself in the same position–carryout orders or find another job. The senior leaders were tyrants, we their eight-to-five slaves. I understood.
Bobby's eyes and mouth began slowly to open, and he turned his head to gaze at the static workers. "Tear it down," he bellowed with a slight shake of the head.
"Tear it down," the workers cried as one.
In the next instant, activity began. Workers clambered over mechanical equipment, started engines, and picked up shovels and pics. They moved with speed to disassemble the equipment, a full day's pay and done by noon a strong motivator.
Bobby rubbed his head and wandered back towards the bustling workers.
"Don't come looking for boy scout contributions from me!" I screamed after him as tears streamed down my cheeks. Bobby didn't turn around. I let out an exasperated huff, and hurried along the dirt path through the little iron gate to the house as Bodie tugged at the leash.
Inside, Bodie darted into the kitchen, climbed into his dog bed and fell asleep. I checked the time on my cell phone, if I didn't hurry I'd be late for the meeting with Millie at Moozoos. The day had turned sour, and I hadn't yet had my first cup of coffee!
Keys in hand and out to the Tahoe truck, I climbed in and sat for a moment to calm my spirit. As I breathed in, held my breath, and breathed out, my body began to relax. My mind drifted to Bryant Reynolds. I was puzzled by his behavior. It was odd. Very odd.
Chapter 6
The sign to Moozoos flashed in bright electronic letters OPEN. It is one of those independent coffee shops that brews fair trade beans from places you read about in National Geographic magazine. The narrow entrance, easily missed from the street, leads to a little cafe, not very well lit, with huge plate glass windows that look out onto Creek Street.
The doorbell pinged with a gentle note as the door closed behind me, and the air filled with the smell of fresh hot coffee and baked cinnamon rolls. It was close to ten am, the morning rush over, the barista busied himself refilling the coffee grinder and topping up jugs with half and half, regular and low-fat milk. He gave a friendly wave, finished filling the half and half carafe, then looked up, his lopsided eyes gleaming.
"Ollie, nice to see you today. What will be your pleasure?" His chin, pointy like the end of a carrot, twitched as he spoke.
"Large cappuccino."
The barista hummed as he busied himself making the drink. I glanced around and noticed Millie sitting at a table by the window. She worked as a part-time reporter for the Medlin Creek Times, and volunteered for the Speaker Circle, a local cl
ub that helps professionals improve their public speaking. Millie's head faced towards the street, so she didn't see me.
"It's been busy today with deputies," the barista said, "even deputy Nancy Dillow showed up, and she doesn't drink coffee, wanted a chamomile tea."
"That's strange. What's going on?"
"Sheriff Hays is out of town," the barista said, handing over the drink.
"On vacation?"
The barista shook his head.
"In Washington D.C., at a police leadership conference, will be away for three days."
I took a sip of the aromatic drink. Immediately I felt like I was home, the sour mood beginning to melt away. I still felt a twinge of anger over the oil well, Bryant Reynolds and Pickle Bramley. I took another sip, and my spirit lifted.
"This is so good," I said to the barista, "got no idea what you put in it, but it sure lifts my mood."
"Trade secret," he laughed as he turned to refill the low-fat milk carafe.
Millie stared out the window into the street, the tiny hands clutching a large mug of black coffee.
I sat down.
She continued to stare.
"Hello, anybody there? Anybody at home?" I called out.
Millie laughed.
"Sorry, I've just received some unwelcome news."
"What's happened?"
Her nose wrinkled, and her eyes became glassy as she reached into her handbag and pulled out two sock puppets. One was purple and wore a white shirt with a little black tie–Professor Purple. The other blue with frizzy brown curls and a pleated skirt–Madame Bleu.