by N. C. Lewis
Another man, tall and thin with a bushy gray beard, nodded in agreement. "Yep, the flood sure is here. I hear the body was discovered next to Sluggies Gourmet Brisket truck with a plate of smoked chicken and Sluggies Deadly Barbecue sauce in its hand."
Next, a stout woman dressed in business attire shook her head. "Honey, they say Sluggies barbecue sauce is so good it will kill-ya. I guess that's true."
"Uh-huh," interrupted a slender woman in her late twenties. "I used to see the man wandering around town, crazy as a bullbat. He probably drank the whole bottle. That would kill an elephant!"
"No, no, it wasn't the barbecue sauce that killed him," exclaimed an excitable young man with spiky pink hair and a tattoo of a lion on his neck. "The victim was struck down by a garden hoe. Man, you're not safe anywhere these days."
I turned to the young man. "What are you talking about?"
Before he could answer the barista shouted, "Ollie, I put together all the facts. The incident happened late last night or early this morning at the food truck park. Another murder in Medlin Creek!" He paused momentarily to glance in my direction, his lopsided eyes innocent and unknowing like those of a baby.
"Doctor Stratford," his voice formal, "I wonder if you've met the victim? His name was Joseph Shine."
I stood motionless, my eyes bulged and my mouth, suddenly dry, hung open.
Chapter 25
The next few minutes were confusing, confused, and at the same time distressing. The excited chatter continued, and it was impossible to separate fact from fiction, especially as to the events surrounding the discovery of Joseph's body and potential suspects. At one and the same time the killer was described as tall and dark, short and fair, and so catlike in their movements it must've been a woman. Each and every person spoke with conviction, they had, they said, garnered the information from an inside source.
Almost fifteen minutes passed before the barista served my regular, a medium cappuccino, his face pinched and unyielding. "There you go, Ollie." He did not smile.
There was too much activity in the café to concentrate on reviewing my lecture notes, so I texted Millie the news about Joseph Shine and sat at my favorite table by the window and stared out onto Creek Street. Large yellow school buses, emptied of their morning load of children, rumbled along on their way back to the depot. Office workers, in small groups, scurried along and like homing pigeons they didn't waver in their destination, Moozoos for their morning brew. Close to the alley that ran alongside the café several people talked in hushed voices, occasionally pointing in the direction of the food truck park.
My cell phone buzzed. I stared at the screen. It blinked with the name of the caller, Chastity Williams.
"Doctor Stratford, I need your help." There was a serious immediacy to her voice that made me straighten up.
"They've taken him away," screeched Chastity.
"Who?" I asked.
"He killed Joseph Shine, and now they have taken him away."
She wasn't listening.
"Chastity," I said using the authoritative tone I had mastered in my corporate career. "Slow down and tell me exactly what's happened."
A gulping sound followed by the drawing in of breath crackled down the line. Then Chastity spoke. "I visited with Gratia Violeta, from the Sisters of the Creek. You know Gratia? She owns the hair salon on Creek Street. Gratia suggested I call Ada Holgate. Ada said you solved the murder of her son Tanner, and that I could speak with you in confidence, and that you would help me."
Tanner was the owner of the dojo where I train, and a friend from college. I had helped capture his killer, but I'm no Private Eye nor do I want to be one.
"Ok," I said, "Now tell me what has happened."
"Bobby's been taken in for questioning about the death of Joseph Shine."
I sat stiffly, relieved to be on the cell phone because my head hurt, and it also postponed what was on my mind. "Bobby is under arrest?"
"I think so," said Chasity, "he has such a hot temper and they found one of his garden hoes next to Joseph Shine's body."
"Oh," was all I could muster. But it was simple. Bobby got into an argument with Joseph. Both men are quick with their fists. Maybe Bobby flew into a rage and struck Joseph dead with the hoe. Or perhaps, Joseph struck out first and Bobby defended himself, in so doing killing Joseph. Either way, I doubted there'd be much mystery over what happened once statements have been taken. It all made perfect sense. Except none of that explained what Chastity said next.
"Doctor Stratford, the garden hoe that killed Joseph Shine belonged to Bobby, but was borrowed by a friend, Roger Romantic." Chastity paused and let out a high-pitched laugh that was more a wail of desperation and a cry of joy.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes, I gave the hoe to Roger last week. He wanted to tidy up the area around his wooden shack at the back of the Green Bar Grill. Something to do with artificial intelligence. He did not return the hoe. Doctor Stratford, you can see the sensitive nature of the situation. Do you happen to know why Mr. Romantic would want to kill Joseph Shine?"
Chapter 26
For a while I just sat, letting the information soak in and settle. There was nothing I could do about Bobby, and it wasn't my business anyway. I thought about Roger, was he the killer? "The Sheriff's department investigation," I mumbled aloud, "would get to the bottom of things, eventually." I drew out each syllable of the word 'eventually' like I was sipping sour milk.
Deep down I knew 'eventually' wasn't good enough. Not for Garrick Markovich, not for Roger Romantic, and not for the memory of my husband John. I had already let myself get mixed up in this thing, there was little choice but to see it through. That's what John would have done, so would I.
"Doctor Stratford, are you still there?" Chastity's voice resonated with urgency and she began to weep.
"Yes," my mouth said even though my mind was still thinking, "where are you now? I'll be right over."
"Today is my day off. I'm volunteering two shifts at the Hill Country Residential Home, not far from the county hospital. You know where that is, don't you? Ask for Margaret Linsky, she runs the place and will page me." Chastity still wept, but now in a rather sniveling than a sobbing way.
Out in the parking lot the temperature was on the rise as a blazing summer sun chased away the fresh coolness of the morning. By the time I got to the truck a sheen of perspiration covered my face. Inside, engine started, and air-conditioning turned up high, I sent a text message to Roger, and called Millie. She didn't answer so I left a message.
By the time I pulled into the car lot at the front of the Hill Country Residential Home, I had made up my mind over several things. Whoever killed Joseph Shine knew he had information that would put their life in jeopardy. Information he could reveal at any moment. There was also a high likelihood that the death of Garrick Markovich and Joseph Shine occurred at the hand of the same person.
My mind drifted to Chastity, my thoughts spoken aloud. "Is it possible that she…" I shook my head slowly. I wasn't satisfied with my logic, but it was the best my conscious mind could deliver. I ran over each point again looking for a winner. I didn't find one.
The reception area was large and homey, with soft leather couches and comfortable wingback chairs. Heavy drapery covered the huge windows which looked out onto a manicured English garden replete with lines of neatly trimmed rose bushes and a bubbling brook.
The window area, filled with elderly people in wheelchairs facing outwards towards the manicured garden, reminded me of the start line of a Formula One motor race. Only, the wheelchairs were more like model T Fords than highly tuned modern racing vehicles.
Most of the wheel chaired residents were sleeping, except one lady whose head swiveled as she watched me walk through the lobby. Her dark birdlike eyes glinted with curiosity, but she didn't say anything. I gave a little wave and smiled as I walked by.
A woman in her mid-sixties with blue rinsed hair sat behind the sign-in desk reading a Rea
ders Digest magazine. The cover promised ten stress-free money-saving strategies. I made a mental note to order a copy.
"How can I help you?" she asked, pumping the hand sanitizer that sat next to a box of tissues on her desk. Nothing came out.
"Is Margaret available?"
"Margaret?"
"Yes, Margaret Linsky?"
She pumped the hand sanitizer again, this time with more vigor. Several dabs of the clear gel squirted out. She eyed me with suspicion as she rubbed it into her hands, then said. "Do I know you?"
The question wasn't hostile, nor was it friendly.
"No, I don't believe we've met before. I'm Doctor Ollie Stratford, who are you?"
"Margaret Linsky, I run the place."
"She likes to think she does."
I swiveled around to find the old lady with the birdlike eyes had wheeled herself to the sign-in desk.
"Oh, Martha, I thought you were sleeping." Margaret took a tissue and blew her nose.
"Nope, my social life has just taken off. I'm busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking convention."
"Martha!" responded Margaret as her face flushed, "Not in front of the guests, please."
"Quit hollering down the rain," responded Martha. Then she turned and with a sly grin said, "You're a guest? I was sure you were one of us."
"Doctor Stratford, you'll have to excuse Martha," interrupted Margaret, "as the oldest resident in Medlin Creek she feels she has the right to say what she thinks, and often does."
I laughed, then remembered, Millie wrote an article about Martha a while back. A little bit of flattery, I said to myself, won't do any harm, in any case, at her age she deserves it.
"Martha, not only are you the oldest resident, but you're also the most famous. I read an article about you in the Medlin Creek times, written by my friend Millie Watkins. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Martha's eyes lit up and she leaned forward. "Millie's a plucky gal. She’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water."
Everyone laughed. Then the two ladies looked at me.
"I'm here to meet with Chastity Williams."
Margaret's face softened, the lips tugged into a smile and the eyes glistened. "Oh, you know Chastity. Well, why didn't you say so?"
Martha huffed. "That woman's so damn good if she crows, the sun is up." She wheeled herself back to the window to rejoin the slumbering residents.
Margaret reached for an electronic device that looked a bit like a remote control. She pressed several buttons and placed it back on the corner of her desk next to the tissue box. "Chastity will be here momentarily," she said, pointing to the window. "Why don't you take a seat with the others and enjoy the view."
There is something magical about English rose gardens and babbling brooks. If you look closely at a rosebush, even those trimmed to look uniform, you'll notice subtle variations in leaf and petal size. It would be possible, I imagine, to sit and study these differences for hours; and with a gentle tinkle of the babbling brook…
"Doctor Stratford, wake up."
The sharp edge to the voice broke into my senses.
I opened my eyes. Chastity peered back.
"Huh? I must have nodded off," I mumbled.
"Lady, you were snoring like a pig that just escaped the slaughterhouse."
The voice came from behind. I whirled around. Martha, with a huge toothless smile gave a little wave. Then she wheeled closer and placed her bony hand on Chastity's arm. "What's going on? You look like the cheese fell off your cracker."
"I don't think…"
Martha held up a hand. "Chastity, I've known you since you were a baby, still have nightmares about changing your diapers."
Chastity blushed.
"Something's up," continued Martha, "take a seat and gimme the bacon without the sizzle."
Chastity looked at me then shrugged. "It's Bobby. He's been arrested for murder."
"Good grief!" said Martha startled.
Chastity explained the details.
"I must say," Martha said at the end," I know Bobby is a hot head, but would he commit murder?"
We were silent for a while, just staring out the window into the garden, the ever-present tinkle of the babbling brook a soothing backdrop to our concerns.
"What else?" asked Martha, breaking the silence.
"Nothing," responded Chastity, moving uncomfortably in her chair.
"That dog won’t hunt, come on honey, what else?" asked Martha again.
Chastity explained about the garden hoe and Roger Romantic. When she finished she asked the question that was on all our minds." Do you think Roger was somehow involved in the death of Joseph?"
Martha sucked in her ancient cheeks. "Just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly." Then she turned to look at me, thatched brows rising above the penetrating eyes. "Ada Holgate tells me you help solve the murder of her boy," she said, and in way of explanation continued, "Ada visits Saturday morning's, say's you got contacts."
I wish, I thought silently to myself. Martha continued to stare at me her eyes expectant. For a moment I sat rigid, a blank expression on my face, then I said, "Bob Lukey is Millie's boyfriend. He is a lawyer. The first step is to get him involved. I'll speak with him later."
Satisfied, Martha turned the conversation to Garrick Markovich.
"I read they dug up his bones at Ealing Homestead. The Medlin Creek Times didn't go into much detail. Gimme what ya got."
I explained what I knew, including the lack of urgency by the Sheriff's department.
Martha sighed. "Don't expect things will change much when Sheriff Hays returns either. If it's not fishing or hunting, it's of no interest to him. The man's so country he thinks a seven-course meal is a possum and a six-pack."
Martha laughed at her own wisecrack, but Chastity raised her left eyebrow in a gesture of annoyance and turned the conversation back to Garrick Markovich.
"There is no one to inform about his body. Garrick didn't have any relatives," Chastity said, dabbing her eyes.
"That puzzles me." Martha sank back into her wheelchair the eyes half closed. For several minutes she didn't move, and It seemed she had drifted off to sleep, but suddenly her eyes shot open and she sprang forward in the wheelchair.
"Garrick's great uncle was a resident here. Oh, must be over ten years ago, when I worked as a volunteer. I can't recall his name, but Garrick used to visit him every weekend, before he died. Chastity, you volunteered here back then do you remember?"
Chastity shook her head.
Martha continued. "The great uncle used to write a lot of letters to a nephew. Oh, let me think…yes, the nephew wrote back on occasion. When the great uncle died most of his possessions were given away…but you might find the letters in the storeroom. Look under 'Markovich', I doubt there's more than one."
Thirty minutes later Chastity came back with a shoe box sized tin with the name Teddy Markovich printed on a yellowing label. Martha was asleep.
"Take this," Chastity whispered, "it might help you build a fuller picture of Garrick. When you are done, give it back, I'd like to keep the contents for sentimental reasons."
I took the box, and prayed there would be something useful inside, although I didn't expect to find anything.
Chapter 27
Just about every day of my life, weekdays or weekends, workdays or vacations, rain or shine, I'm late for one thing or another. It was almost one forty-five p.m. by the time I glanced at my cell phone messages.
Ollie, your appointment with Professor Bingham is confirmed for two p.m. this afternoon. Call me if things change–Emma.
I hadn't eaten yet and I was getting hungry, but there was no time to stop for a sandwich. The engine started, I pointed the Tahoe truck towards Medlin Creek Community College, I'd grab a bite to eat after the meeting.
The sun shone crystal bright in a clear blue sky, stifling air rising in waves from the empty asphalt road. I put my foot down, and swung into the college parking lot in le
ss than ten minutes.
As I scurried toward the entrance, I congratulated myself on my nifty driving. Then my mind turned to Professor Bingham, and his problem. In truth, I thought more about his problem than I did the professor. I wondered whether I'd be able to stomach it right now.
Professor Bingham has a passion for fine whiskey. In fact, it was not unusual for visitors to be invited to sample a glass or two filled to the brim with the amber liquid. I enjoyed a delightful Aberfeldy on one such visit. Yes, I convinced myself, a small sample of Aberfeldy wouldn't do any harm. It'd probably line my stomach in preparation for food.
Professor Bingham's problem was that he pursued his passion morning, noon, and night. When it came to booze professor Bingham and Joseph Shine have much in common.
The little reception area outside Professor Bingham’s office was empty. The air-conditioning hummed, throwing out streams of frigid air causing condensation on the large window overlooking the car lot. A small teak coffee table laden with ancient magazines sat opposite the professor’s closed office door. Next to it a low leather sofa. I sat down, relaxed, the smell of leather reminding me of polished boots. My eyes closed, and I drifted off into a deep peaceful sleep.
Suddenly I heard shouting. I opened my eyes and looked up as the professor's office door flew open. Out stormed a red-faced man whose colorless eyes bulged, and who wore on his feet, cowboy boots with four-inch heels.
"There she is," said Bryant Reynolds, raising a tiny finger and jabbing it in my direction. I was awake now.
Bryant turned to Professor Bingham who was several steps behind. "Go ahead, fire that woman," he said fiercely.
The professor, a short, nondescript man of indeterminate age with wisps of black hair on top with gray stubble growing across a rounded chin, peered in the direction of the pointed finger. For a moment he stood rigid, then adjusted his eyeglasses, thick oval-shaped lenses which amplified the dullness in his bloodshot eyes. In his left hand, a short glass filled with an amber liquid. He took a large gulp.