Creek Crisis

by N. C. Lewis

  I climbed into the truck, rubbed my chin, blinked my eyes rapidly as my mind raced. The answer to who killed Mary Birdsong seemed as far away as ever.

  Chapter 31

  As I navigated Lone Mountain Lane, I emptied my mind--a technique learned from yoga. I refused to think about Mary Birdsong, the kittens, my life in Texas or anything else--just focused on the next twist along the winding lane. The tenseness in my muscles eased, breathing became easy, as a sense of calm confidence washed over me.

  Once on the main road, I reached over and turned on the radio, pressing the buttons until they locked onto a station. It was five after the hour and the newscaster’s flat voice reported on incidents from across the globe.

  The election in France is too close to call…crime in Chicago on the decline…the New York Yankees are favorites to make the playoffs…world oil prices continue to fall.

  "Cheap gas, that's good," I said letting out a deep yoga breath.

  I pulled the Tahoe into the driveway at Ealing Homestead. Arms swinging loosely by my side, I strolled across the dirt parking lot. At the mailbox, my relaxed gaze happened to settle on the three outbuildings on the far side. Clumps of dry grasses interspersed with patches of dusty ground, alongside several planks of rotted wood, gave a rustic look. Under my breath I mumbled, "Got to get that area cleaned up before the next event."

  Then I noticed the roof of the smallest outbuilding had partially collapsed. Arms crossed, I muttered, "Last thing I need right now. More expensive repairs!"

  A fistful of advertising flyers for products I didn’t want, filled the mailbox. Squeezed between a leaflet for cheap car insurance and custom-made stone flooring was an official-looking white envelope. I pulled it out and squinted at the return address which was neatly typewritten on the front.

  "Bee Creek Drilling Company, Bee Creek, Texas."

  I tugged at my ear vocalizing my thoughts, "Guess the engineers will be here any day now to reopen the well." I thought back to the meeting with the sales rep and chief engineer three weeks earlier. Impressed by their professionalism and attention to detail I selected the company. They would reopen the well at their own expense, paying out a proportion of net revenue as a royalty.

  What was it the chief engineer had said? Oh yes, "Preliminary engineering analysis suggests a significant reserve…only takes a few days to reopen the well, a week or two at most." Inwardly, I smiled at the thought that in a month or so, as the black gold began to flow, so would the royalties. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and let out a satisfied yoga breath.

  Despite the sense of well-being flowing through my veins I cautioned, "No Tesla SUV just yet, Ollie!" That would have to wait because of necessary renovations and improvements. I made a mental note to add "outbuilding roof repair" to the list, and to put a little aside to top up my emergency fund, which right now was nonexistent. I let out a contented sigh and hurried through the little iron gate along the dirt path to the front door eager to put the drilling start dates into the desk planner.

  Inside, Bodie bounded to the door. I refilled his water bowl, gave the hound a belly rub, made a piping hot cup of soothing chamomile tea, and headed to the office to read the letter and prepare for my upcoming classes.

  A final deep yoga breath of gratitude, as I settled into the chair, emptied the last remnants of stress from my body. Taking a long sip of the steaming beverage, I began to read:

  Dear Dr. Stratford, as you are no doubt aware the current excess supply in crude oil has put a downward pressure on prices. While low oil prices imply lower gas prices, they depress the profitability of oil well companies. Therefore, we regret to inform you the Bee Creek Drilling Company no longer feels it economically feasible to move forward with the Ealing Homestead Oil Well Project. Please keep us in mind should you consider reopening the oil well at a more opportune time.

  Bolt upright, I read the letter again. Caffeine, I need caffeine. Jaw clenched, I scurried to the kitchen to conjure up a homebrew. From an overhead cupboard, a bottle of cheap sipping whiskey added a ‘kick’ to the beverage. The prospect of Dr. Ollie Stratford the oil baroness had receded into the distance, for the moment at least. "Yep," I said taking a greedy gulp, "I'm sitting on a gold mine but the pickaxes are too expensive." I let out a long slow sigh as my left eye twitched.

  The clock high on the mantle struck the top of the hour. Up I got to stretch. Well, I thought, at least I have the teaching and event center income to keep things afloat. I turned on the computer. "Better check the bank balance."

  Bodie scratched at the front door, he wanted to go outside. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a cookie and let the hound out. Off the dog bounded, tail high in the air, toward the outbuildings.

  I hurried back to the desk where the computer waited patiently, bank login screen awaiting username and password. As I typed in the information, a catcher box popped onto the screen:

  Can you confirm you are human by clicking the checkbox?

  The box checked, I reentered my username and password. Another box popped up:

  Sorry, we do not recognize this computer. Are you sure you want to continue?

  Blood began to pound through my ears as the left eye twitched again. I checked the ‘yes’ button.

  Thank you, please check your cell phone as we sent a text message containing your temporary code. Please enter that code to continue.

  The cell phone wasn’t on the desk. I retraced my steps to the kitchen, not there either. I tugged my ear then walked back to the office to look on the floor under the desk--nothing. I retraced my steps again, this time more slowly. Kitchen, nope. Office, nope. It must've taken eight minutes to draw a blank.

  Then I realized I had left it in the Tahoe truck. Out the front door, along the dirt path through the little iron gate to the parking lot. As I approached the truck, Bodie appeared, the dog pranced and danced around my feet until I gave him a belly rub. Off he went bounding toward the outbuildings.

  I swung open the driver side door, and there it was, on the passenger seat. Cell phone in hand, I hurried back inside the house. Beads of sweat trickled down my face from which the air-conditioning offered welcome relief. At the desk, the six-digit code entered, an egg timer appeared on the computer screen followed by the words:

  Session timed out. Please relog in.

  A sudden tightness gripped my eyes. I punched in the username, password, and security code. A few moments later another box appeared on the screen:

  Security code expired. If you would like another code texted to your cell phone, please enter your email address here.

  My lip curled in disgust. I’d have to start the entire process again. Then grasping onto the tiny fragment of yoga calmness which remained from earlier, I exhaled a long slow breath as I thought it was probably better the bank had the security precautions in place, even if it was frustrating at times.

  At last, the bank account information appeared on the screen. The 'pending' statement on the wire funds from Carlos Castillo to pay for the earlier hire of Ealing Homestead had disappeared, replaced by the word 'declined'.

  The room spun around my head, and I inhaled short sharp breaths. It took several large gulps of the now cold whiskey-drenched coffee before I was again able to refocus on the computer screen, even then my left eye twitched so erratically I kept it closed.

  I reached for my cell phone and called Donna Biggs at the Medlin Creek Community Bank. After three rings, a slight click, and the tones of a gentle female voice:

  "Thank you for calling Medlin Creek Community Bank. The office is closed. If you would like to leave a voice message press 2. If you would like to hear this message again press 1."

  I hung up.

  Fists clenched into a tight ball, I wondered what to do next. Through gritted teeth I mumbled, "Call Theodora, she'll know what's going on, this is probably a simple mistake."

  I scrolled through the contacts and dialed. Theodora picked up on the first ring.

  "Hi Ollie, I was just about t
o call you." She spoke with rapidity, a perceptible high-pitched edginess in the voice. "It seems the payment from Carlos for organizing the event at your property was declined by my bank. This is highly unusual, I’m running low on cash and need that money urgently. Ollie, I…um…wonder if you could make a direct deposit into my bank account for my time and expenses associated with organizing the event."

  "You want me to pay you?" I said, breathing accelerating as I felt a tightness in my chest. There was a short pause as if Theodora was gathering her thoughts.

  "Ollie, I'm… um…sure Carlos will...um…settle with you later, um…I only took direct payment from Carlos rather than you as shown in our…um…verbal contract because I thought it might be…um…a little bit…um…speedier. That turned out not to be the case. Now, let me pull up my bank details so we can begin the process of direct money transfer from your personal bank account."

  "Theodora," I said, in the voice used to discipline errant employees when I worked as a corporate director, "there is no contract between you and me. We both dealt directly with Carlos. I haven’t been paid either. Have you any idea what’s going on?"

  Theodora let out a long sigh. "Well, I guess it was worth a try. Listen, I need that cash, I have expenses to pay." She paused, another sigh, "Suppose both of us will lose money on this one. I've been trying to contact him all day but nada. The guy didn’t visit Moozoos this morning, nor was he seen in any of his usual hangouts." She proceeded to list the places that Carlos hadn't visited. "The only conclusion," she continued, "is that he has either been murdered like Mary Birdsong, or left town. Given that there is no body, no cash, and he checked out of the hotel, I suspect he’s done the latter."

  Chapter 32

  Questions flooded my mind with such force it was impossible to think. Somehow, my mouth opened and words flowed out although I wasn’t in any way conscious of the process.

  "Theodora, at least…" I said, searching for the silver lining while my subconscious mind processed the information about Carlos, "we've got that single corporate gig next week to tide us over."

  "Yes," Theodora replied, a definite brittleness to the voice. She paused, as if to compose herself, sniffed, then continued. "I believe you know Mr. Frederick Johnson, the event planner at Big Speech Industries?" She didn’t wait for a response, instead she continued. "Mr. Johnson seemed excited when I told him I had found a venue for the corporation’s last-minute event. But when I mentioned Ealing Homestead the man began to cuss."

  Again, Theodora paused, her voice breaking out into deep sobs. "After Mr. Johnson calmed down a little, he recounted a telephone conversation with you where he made it clear Big Speech Industries would not--under any circumstances--hire your property. I wasn't aware of this fact and told him so, but he wouldn't listen."

  Theodora's voice raised to a hysterical shriek. "Mr. Johnson scratched me off Big Speech Industries' list of potential event coordinators. I’ve been fired and it's all your fault, Ollie."

  Click.

  I collapsed into the chair trembling with a combination of fear and rage. After several decades as a corporate employee, where had I got the foolhardy idea that I could make money in the event center business? For that matter, why was I trying to track down the killer of Mary Birdsong? In my agitated state, I couldn't think of an answer. I closed my eyes squeezing them tightly shut. John appeared, smiled, and spoke in that loving voice I missed so dearly. "Ollie you're doing it for justice. Mary Birdsong deserves that." I opened my eyes as tears streamed down my cheeks. John was right.

  The piercing ring of the cell phone shattered the momentary daydream. Theodora?

  "Hello," the voice, male, was jocular, light and bubbly, "This is Mr. Maxwell, is that Dr. Ollie Stratford?"

  He didn't wait for confirmation but continued. "Thought I’d call ahead of our next Maximum Dollars--Minimum Stress coaching call to let you know that I’ve got an amazing deal for you. A brand-spanking-new course, and you get to be one of the first twenty-five people to join it!

  Ollie, are you finding it difficult to rent out your property as an event center? Well, I’ve found an amazing opportunity to monetize your assets, that’s why I created this new course. It's called Get Paid for Micro Housing by Next Week. And in this online program I show you how to transform your property into a profitable passive stream of income by renting micro homes to the tourists who are flocking to the Hill Country like winter geese.

  I’ll share with you all the secrets so you can take the fastest path to cash. I’m literally giving you the keys to the micro homes kingdom. Two payments of five thousand dollars and you are in. Say Ollie, can I sign you up today?"

  I started to shout.

  Mr. Maxwell tried to calm things down. "Yes, I can see quite well how you feel," he said the voice dripping with sympathy. "Ollie, I'd feel the same in your shoes, that's why I brought the opportunity directly to you. I think you know Renee Collins, the owner of Renee's Soap Opera Ranch. She is very interested, just like you. It’s such a lucrative opportunity, I don’t want you to miss this. I'll let you think about it then." Mr. Maxwell hung up.

  As I prepared to throw the cell phone across the room I noticed a text message from Millie.

  Ollie got some fresh information on Carlos which you'll find very interesting. Meet me at Moozoos at four thirty p.m.

  Chapter 33

  Moozoos Café was virtually empty, the late afternoon rush all but over. A few caffeine starved stragglers lined up at the counter as the assistant hurriedly served. The barista was in the room at the back, restocking shelves. A Creek Jolt in hand, seated at a table by the window so I could look out onto the street, I waited for Millie.

  I took a sip of the beverage, tasting the creamy, malty bittersweet flavor, feeling the warmth of the liquid as it trickled down my throat and settled in my stomach. To hell with it. I’d make the event center business work with or without Theodora Simon, Big Speech Industries or revenue from the oil well.

  In came Millie. With only a few customers in front of her, the wait for service was only momentary. She waved and in quick short steps came over to the table by the window and sat down. Without waiting to catch her breath she began.

  "Listen Ollie, I've dug up a few interesting facts about Carlos. Couldn't find very much on the Internet in English, but Maria Chavez, who teaches Spanish and Portuguese at the Medlin Creek Community College, dug up some information from Portuguese websites." Millie paused, and glanced at my face to check she had my full attention.

  She did.

  Then she began. "The great Carlos Castillo is a film producer of sorts, but that’s not his regular job."

  "Then how does he make a living?" I asked.

  She looked away, the cheeks turning crimson as a hand slipped into her handbag. Out came Professor Purple, a deep frown creased in his forehead. The sock puppet turned to stare at Millie. She nodded. Then the Professor spoke:

  "Carlos é um zeladoriro."

  "What?" I asked. "I'm not an expert in Portuguese, I guess that’s Portuguese, right? Why don’t you explain it to me in English?"

  Professor Purple looked with doleful eyes at Millie. She nodded again. The puppet whispered in a faint voice, "Are you quite sure?"

  Again, Millie nodded.

  Then Professor Purple puffed out his chest like a Cockrell proclaiming the early morning sun, opened his mouth and spoke.

  "Carlos is a janitor."

  A dizziness swept over me and my mouth opened but no words came out. The barista came out of the storeroom, looked across the Café and focused his slanted eyes on our table. The carrot-shaped chin twitched.

  In an authoritative voice, Professor Purple continued. "Carlos is the head janitor at the Sisters of Mercy School in Lisbon."

  "School janitor?"

  "Yes, he manages a team of four cleaners. It seems the school received a sizable grant for film production but there was little interest from the students or teachers. Carlos’s Portuguese Facebook page shows he is into
making home movies, so I guess the school gave the money to him rather than return it to the European bureaucrats. You know how that goes Ollie, use your budget or lose it. He's made six or seven films so far."

  "I suppose they are art noir movies designed to capture the culture and values of the European Union," I said.

  "Not quite, his movies are more like Inland Revenue infomercials. Carlos is best known--if you can call it that--for his ninety-second video encouraging the Brits not to leave the European Union. Unfortunately, the movie recorded in Portuguese, did not have English subtitles, so the message didn't get across."

  Madame Bleu appeared, eyes wide open, and she visibly shook as she spoke. "You've got to tell Ollie everything, Professor Purple, you've got to tell her everything."

  "Well," said Professor Purple, "Carlos is married with seven kids, and the best we can tell he used all of his European Union money to hire Dorothy Sadler. We've got no idea how he is going to fund the rest of the movie."

  The sudden shock of these revelations moved me to confess that my financial payments from Carlos hadn't cleared, neither had Theodora’s.

  "C'est clair…makes sense," said Madame Bleu, "it all fits together now."

  "Furthermore," chimed in Professor Purple, "It appears Carlos had a life insurance policy on Mary Birdsong."

  "With her death," explained Millie, "I guess he'll be cashing that in. Maybe that is how he hoped to pay for the rest of the film costs, Ollie."

  I shivered at the thought of payment in blood money for the use of Ealing Homestead. "The whole thing seems so far-fetched," I said tugging at my ear.

  "Home movie buffs can be fanatical," replied Millie. "Even to this day many refuse to watch films recorded with digital equipment. They are kinda like outcasts, zealous luddites angry at the digital age."

  The investigative work and logic of Millie lodged in my gut like a cup of sour yogurt, and the uneasy feeling caused my stomach to lurch.