by Chris Seaton
“So a wife and a baby, ha?” She started sweet. “That's quite the change in status from your wild youth.”
“You got that right,” Bernardo agreed. He was watching the house then, hoping that Cameron would make an appearance soon so he would get paid and end the awkward conversation.
Bernice had other ideas. “So when did you get married? A couple of years ago?”
“Sounds about right,” he agreed. “Met her at church. She was sitting opposite my mother. I kept trying to sneak peeks at her during the sermon. She said I made her laugh.” He focused on the new tires, smirking at his recollection.
“So you were single when Jessica started frequenting the shop?” She let the question hang and watch the abrupt shift in his face. It hurt her to see this new hostility. She hoped she would eventually find a way to mend it.
He swore under his breath and looked at her. “You know, Bernice. I understand you're pissed off about this thing with the tires, and you've got a bone to pick with that Jessica bitch, but that ain't got nothin' to do with me. I won't lie. That puta put it out there, and I thought about it. But women like that don't go for guys like me with anything on their minds but slumming it.”
He spit in the dirt. “She'd be more Roger's style, you ask me.” He assessed Bernice and added with disgruntlement, “The bill for the tires is four-fifty and I ain't got all day.”
Bernice looked up at the house and nodded to Cameron, waiting patiently behind the screen door. Her heart was heavy with shame.
Bernardo wasted no time in taking off after that. It couldn't be helped. She had to know.
“You get what you were after?” Cameron knowingly inquired.
“Some,” Bernice replied. “But I'm not quite there yet.”
“So she poisoned him, ha?” Agent Carlson looked over the honeymoon-like pictures with morbid amazement as he absentmindedly chewed on his rubbery chicken sandwich. “That's one cold heart-ed bitch, right there.” He turned back and observed Agent Wyatt. “So how long, you think, before the Feds muscle in?”
Agent Wyatt was meditating on the board from his desk chair with his usual blank features in place. “Hard to say,” he mumbled back. “Technically they could assume jurisdiction at any time.” He sat up and pulled off his hat to scratch at the stitches at his temple. “But this guy was just a catamaran sailor, not some big wig. So they might just let us duke it out with the Bahamian government and leave us be.”
Agent Carlson gawked at the head wound. He asked through his chewing, “How long before those come out?”
“About a week,” Agent Wyatt grumbled in response. He self-consciously put his cap back on and reviewed the fax on his desk. “So the candy tested positive for cyanide?”
“Right, but it wasn't coated over the top like on tampered pills,” Agent Carlson cut in. “It was right in the center.”
Agent Wyatt sat up and began to pace the length of his desk. He ignored the slurping sound coming from the other agent's beverage cup and straw. “Most cyanide poisonings are usually powder or liquid.”
“Yep, like at Jamestown.”
“But this was worked into the candy like a paste.” He stopped and stared at Agent Carlson. “Those candies were homemade. What kind of homemade sources can a person get cyanide from?”
“I heard some fruit pits carry a little but you'd have to ingest a lot. He only ate a couple of chocolates.” Agent Carlson had moved on to the fries and rubbed the extra grease and salt uselessly on his flimsy napkins. “Where'd the shipping labels track from?”
“St. Paul.” Agent Wyatt gnawed on the inside of his cheek. He stood still, trying to come to a decision. He picked up the fax again and rescanned everything quickly. “I think you should put a call back into Wausau,” He concluded. “Have them rerun the Tox screen, but check for indigenous, organic substances this time.” He grabbed his coat.
“You headin' out to lunch?” Agent Carlson asked, unwrapping his brown cylindrical pie.
“Well, since you're already here, and I'm technically on leave, I'm going to head back up north and check on a hunch.” Agent Wyatt observed the cherry filling erupt from the molten hot pie and drip down Agent Carlson's chin.
Agent Carlson blew and chewed at the same time, obviously scalding his palette in the process.
“You'll call me if anything interesting pops up?” Agent Wyatt asked.
Agent Carlson nodded and sucked some pop into his mouth to put out the fire.
“I'll probably be back in a day or so.” Agent Wyatt paused at the door. “Hey, Jimmy?” When he got the others attention, he added, “If you ever meet a woman who can tolerate sharing a meal with you, marry her.”
As her pickup bumped down the road, Bernice was reminded that the new tires would need to be balanced at some point. Normally a person would get that for free from where the tires came from. Unfortunately, she burned that bridge for the time being. She would simply have to fork over a few more bucks and have a different shop do the work.
Having to pay attention to gripping the steering wheel a little tighter didn't dissuade her from her destination though. She was on her way to a new lead and closer to figuring out who Jessica's accomplice was.
Getting information out of Bernardo was only half of the puzzle. The other half required Bernice to call in a favor from her new pseudo friend. She did that from the cordless in the laundry room while Darlene was on the porch snapping beans with Cameron.
“Well, hello there, Bunny,” came the effervescent greeting from the other end of the line.
“Byron, I'm so thrilled you took my call. So many of my friends at the lake are just showering me with compliments about how young I looked after the fabulous facial you gave me the other day,” Bernice gushed with all the exuberance she could muster.
“Well, I'm just delighted to hear it, of course.” She could sense insincerity in his voice and knew he wasn't buying it.
“Okay, Byron.” Bernice changed tactics, returning to her normal voice. “I'm going to cut the crap now. You know I'm not a heart surgeon's wife, don't you?”
She heard Byron clearing his throat on the other end. His voice dropped slightly. “Honey, with nails like yours, I'd say it was more likely that you were a shit farmer's wife.”
“If you knew, why didn't you call me on it?”
That earned her a throaty chuckle. “Being surrounded by prissy bitches all day long, it was a pleasure to have someone pull one over on them. You were just doing such a splendid acting job, I couldn't bring myself to destroy your little performance.”
“Oh,” was Bernice's deflated response.
“So who are you really and what do you want from me?” Byron asked point blank, but Bernice sensed continued amusement so she decided to run with it.
“I'm a private detective," she lied, "and I am investigating Jessica for a rich client who is trying to nail her husband for being an adulterer.” Bernice held her breath.
“Really?” was the excited and intrigued response back.
Bernice grinned and fist pumped to herself in victory. “Yes,” she admitted. “She's stuck with a pittance from the pre-nup unless she can prove infidelity. So I'm hoping, Byron, that you'll still help me even though I lied.” She let the regret and guilt shine through her voice like a glaring spotlight.
“Oh, Honey,” Byron gushed, “you were so sweet to me about Guntar, how could I say no? Besides,” his voice dropped to the decibel befitting of sharing a great secret, “it's just too exciting for words.”
“I knew we'd get along,” Bernice purred back, and so she used her new ally the way he wanted to be used.
With that she was on her way to a little house on the outskirts of town to check out Jessica's last known address.
Bernice was hyper-vigilant about not being followed; taking every turn and back road she could think of to expose whomever might be on her tail. So far, she detected nothing.
After rounding the bend and turning off on yet another county road, she lo
cated the fire number to the little house. Next to it was a big real-estate sign. Bernice hoped against hope that it meant no one was at home. She slowly inched into the driveway and rolled her window down to listen for a dog, a lawnmower, any indication of life. All she heard was the gravel under her new truck tires and the wind.
The little house had seen better days. Bernice's best guess was after Jessica had moved out, the house was bought up during the housing boom. It looked like some poor sap with good intentions but poor carpentry skills tried to “improve” it.
The obviously new vinyl siding was a desperate attempt to sugarcoat an addition on the front of the house that really didn't look structurally sound. Its plain little windows didn't match the original farmhouse windows. It had been a good season since the yard had witnessed a lawn mower. As far as a dog, there was evidence that someone of the canine persuasion was using a few spots near the steps as a toilet, but they probably didn't live there.
“Well shit,” was Bernice's unhappy response. Honestly, what did she expect, some long lost relative to fill in the details on the mysterious red-headed murderess? Really?
She walked around a little, examining the house and trying to imagine Jessica there. She was having kind of a hard time picturing it. She recalled her surprise when Byron texted her the address. She figured this path of her investigation would lead to some unassuming townhouse similar to the condo in Abaco. This place was out in the middle of nowhere.
The explanation came to her soon enough. When a person worked in a profession where she was exposed to the public all day, what was the one thing she prized above all else? Privacy. Bernice profoundly understood what that need was like. The address made more sense at that point. Too bad five years had caused all traces of Jessica's time there to be wiped out by someone else's idea of progress.
Morally let down, she climbed back into the truck and turned to home. She knew it was a long shot, but on her own there were only so many avenues at her disposal.
Along with the usual country scenery on Bernice's route back, she took note of the abundance of storage buildings. They seemed to have sprouted like weeds in the last decade. Typically, one consisted of a sprawling pole barn structure plunked down on any old chunk of flat dirt. Its purpose was to be the messiah to conspicuous American consumers in the constant search for more places to store their crap.
Bernice pondered the philosophy and suddenly gained new-found clarity. She checked for traffic and did a quick y-turn in someone's driveway to turn back around. She made a bee line for the little house and drove back out again. This time as she made her way along, she scanned the surrounding scenery with more purpose.
Sure enough, not two miles from Jessica's former abode stood CL's Storage. As Bernice went up the drive way, she wondered if there was a manager around. She spontaneously conjured up a number of personae to justify her reason for being there. She could be the girlfriend whose boyfriend stole her crap, or the out-of-town heir showing up to claim her crap, or the repo agent coming to take someone else's crap.
But as she circled the stretched out metal structure, she came to the realization that her quick thinking was for naught. There was no discernible proprietor in sight. She drove around a couple of more times looking for surveillance equipment that didn't exist and came to a decision.
“Well, as long as I'm trespassing, I might as well make the best of it.” Bernice parked the truck out of sight of the road and got out to take a look on foot.
The sand and pulverized limestone puffed up dust around her ankles as she went along. It was going on a week since the last storm. The farmer in her was hoping more rain would be coming soon. With July approaching she didn't want a drought to put all of her hard work at risk.
The structure had units on both sides of the long building. Her side contained smaller units barely wider than a standard entrance door. Probably big enough to store a motorcycle, a few small containers, and that was it.
As she rounded the skinny part of the building and looked down the units on the other side, she took note that these were wider, much wider, a good ten maybe twelve feet wide by the look of them. The snoop in her soul was getting just a little excited about it. She started walking the length of the building, looking at the ground.
And there they were. It was a complete shot in the dark, but Bernice found herself staring with fixed attention at the tire tracks that drove right into one of the locked storage units.
The criteria clicked off in her head in rapid succession: new treads, small size, short distance apart. A whole new theory about Herb's murder was quickly developing as she stared at the dusty impressions. “Maybe Jessica just had her stuff stored until she decided to come back,” her brain teased.
“If this is actually her stuff,” Bernice reminded herself in a hushed voice. She looked up at the deadbolt on the door and mentally swore. It was a nice deadbolt. She would use that kind of lock if she wanted to keep the average person out of something. In the commercials, they shot bullets through that kind of lock. “Well that sucks,” she surmised and went to walk away…Until she looked at the unit next to it.
That one didn't have a deadbolt. It had a round, combination lock. Apparently, one customer didn't like to mess with keys. “Too bad for him,” Bernice thought and went to work.
A weird prickling sensation developed on the back of her neck. She knew it was an acknowledgment to Mila. Mila was the one who got bored one day and taught Bernice how to break into combination locks. Mila told her it was an amusing way to pass the time when she would actually put in an appearance at school.
The lock giving way with a metallic click sounded very loud for the lack of any other noise around her. Bernice let out a breath as she held it in place like an egg in her hand. She knew she needed to check her gut and decide if she actually wanted to proceed.
She wondered how much worse of a sin breaking and entering was in comparison to trespassing. Then she remembered her whole purpose for being there and pulled the lock out of its slot. Murder trumped anything she was feeling the least bit guilty about, so there.
Bernice put the lock in her pocket and grabbed the handle. She grunted and pulled until the door began to roll itself up into a cylinder and grant her entrance into its hot stuffy compartment. She stifled a chuckle as she surveyed its contents. “Looks like some poor bastard got married.”
The unit was packed full of what were obviously the former contents of a bachelor pad. Just on a cursory scan, Bernice identified a huge neon beer sign, several deer head mounts, a custom green and gold coffee table/keg holder, and two matching black leather recliners with various patches of electric tape. Bernice secretly wondered if the new bride even knew about the storage unit, or if the new groom was holding on to his stuff just in case.
At the moment she was grateful for his adolescent possessiveness. In the back of the unit was a mammoth entertainment center that looked like it could easily hold her weight. Up at the top of the unit was a crack where the individual walls met the unifying roof line. It looked to be just big enough for her to peek into the other storage unit.
“All I need is a quick look,” Bernice told the hills of furniture that she stepped into and over. She carefully tested the shelves and traversed the solid MDF mountain to the top. Gingerly rising to a standing position, Bernice grabbed on to the corrugated metal wall and shoved her forehead into the three inch gap at the top.
All she saw was a void of black space. “Duh,” Bernice reminded herself and dug in her pocket for her cell phone. Carefully, she held it up to the hole and sucked in a breath of anticipation.
She blinked, not sure if she was just seeing things. It felt like some sort of mirage. She had a hard time believing her eyes. But no matter how much she readjusted her sight, it was still there; the sleek, shapely sports car that would definitely stand out in her neck of the woods.
Bernice pivoted her phone around the small opening, taking in the other items in the unit. There were a few boxes
, not enough for an entire lifetime though, and something else on the far wall, something big. It had a flowered bed sheet over the top of it. Bernice's mind began to fixate on it. “Is it a trunk? A table?”
Bernice heard the loud building thunder just in time to jerk her head and watch as she was suddenly submerged into complete darkness. The sound of the door making contact with the concrete pad was deafening in the metal chamber. “Hey!” she shouted, just in time to hear something small and metal slide into the latch.
Chapter 17
Agent Wyatt caught himself smiling as he pulled into the driveway of Lollygagger's Acres. It struck him as funny. Every other time he had been there, a good mood was nowhere to be found. This would be the first time he actually looked forward to seeing Bernice. Part of him was unsure if she would return his sentiment.
Darlene and Cameron came walking from behind the barn holding hands. They saw Agent Wyatt, and Darlene let go of Cameron and quickened her step to meet him.
“Agent Wyatt, what a pleasant surprise.” She did a quick trot for the final few feet with one of the biggest smiles he had seen in a while.
“Ms. Glenwood,” he held out his hand to shake hers. “It's nice to see you too.”
Cameron brought up the rear. “You've come just in time for dinner. Hope you like fish.”
“I do,” Agent Wyatt answered, swiveling his head to look around.
“Then we insist you stay,” Darlene proclaimed with determination.
Agent Wyatt chuckled, “I'd be happy to unless Bernice has something to say about it.” He took note that the truck was gone. “She around?” he inquired.
Darlene's features darkened into a frown. “She claimed she was going to take the truck out to test the new tires, but that was a while ago. You ask me, I think she was trying to get out of chores.”
“Uh huh,” Agent Wyatt humored her, but he could feel his good mood dissipating. “Well, I've come a long way to talk to her.” He pulled out his phone, noticed he still had no signal there and put it away again with a grimace. “You think you could try her on her cell?”