Darkness came late as usual, the heat of the day finally dissipating somewhat, leaving a large white moon rising high in the sky. A few stars were barely visible, their pinpoints awed by the greater light. She sat and dozed for a while until mosquitoes became a nuisance, buzzing her naked arms and face. That time of the night was always lonely, flanked by old memories of family and friends gathered, playing forty-two with dominoes that clicked hard as trumps were played, of her brother Leonard’s young voice interrupting the older crowd with pleas for Grace’s attention, and their long-dead neighbors, the Williams, sitting across from one another at Grace’s wooden table. Her mother had loved entertaining, and did it often. Her sweet smile would register contentment when folks asked for seconds of pecan pie or apple cake.
Maude had never entertained her neighbors, and the few family members left seldom came to her home. She always put it down to her inadequacy in the chitchat department, but someone had suggested cops visit cops. After some reflections, the idea had taken root. It was true that her stories were not the kind that made for good conversation with people unaccustomed to violence. Still, the loneliness visited sometimes. Maybe that was one more trigger for drinking, she finished thinking. Another reason to go to meetings.
Early to bed after watching the news on television sent her into a pill-induced sleep where little permeated her consciousness. She woke once during the night but fell back into dream-filled sleep after a trip to the bathroom. Sometime around four in the morning she awoke, wide-eyed from being startled by a sound outside her bedroom window, her heart pounding from the effect of waking. The Glock she carried during the day was close by, a small reach away from her pillow. She quietly wrapped her fingers around its reassuring breadth. Maude slithered off the bed onto the floor, crawled to the window, and stared through the lowest wooden slat against the glass. The blinds were the darkening kind, shutting out light for day sleepers and those sensitive to light. She had installed them during a week of night shift years earlier.
The noise outside was steady, a pounding effect resembling a jackhammer against rock. Nothing was visible through the window except her open backyard and the garden shed beyond. Being a target had never appealed to Maude Rogers, and she wasn’t about to start being one in her dotage. If that meant crawling to keep from being seen by an intruder, then crawl she would. The second bedroom served as an office and was several feet down the hall, across from the spare bathroom. Ignoring the aches in her knees, she made her way into the dark room, searching for a different view than that from her own larger bedroom. The noise outside continued, its rhythmical drone a hateful presence in the normal still night. She pulled the edge of the blind up and waited for the moonlight to show her the backside of the tool shed. The large peach tree bordering her rent house next door shone with August ripening peaches, shadowy blobs in the pale light.
Maude’s pajamas were thin but she was sweating from the heat, a rage against the violation of her privacy beginning low in her gut. She moved toward the closet where her shoes were stored and found a pair of water shoes in the darkness. After slipping them on, she arose from the floor and stood, easing the muscle cramps in her upper thighs, gaining strength from standing. The small emergency flashlight from the closet shelf went into her pocket for later.
Shadows covered the front door of her house, for the light from the moon shone upon the backside of the property, leaving the rest to darkness. Knowing the lay of the land intimately, she began to move silently under the eave, headed toward the gable end of the house. The sound of hammering, louder with each step she took, made Maude wonder if her renter was disturbed by the noise. The driveway in front of the house was empty. She had parked the city car in the garage and locked the door, not against paranoia, but against the reality that burglaries happen, for life had taught her harsh lessons. After her niece Lilly Ann was kidnapped from home, Maude had decided to protect herself against criminal intentions.
The peach tree in sight, she continued toward the tool shed and the land beyond, nearer the sound of iron pounding rock. Lights were on across the southern fence line, a curious neighbor whose sleep had been disturbed, or an early riser brewing his first cup of the day. The sight of lights confused her concentration; whatever was happening behind her shed might threaten others besides herself. Keeping in the shadows, Maude made her way, her weapon in hand. The early morning dew on the grass had wet the cloth part of her shoes, allowing dampness against her toes. Thankfully the temperature was still in the early eighties, another hot Texas morning. Directly behind the shed Maude saw movement, and a high shadow against the light.
“Stop right there,” she said, pointing the Glock toward the shadow. The movement continued, as did the sound. A hollow ringing began, the tones higher than before. She walked toward it, determined to find the source, whatever the cost. Suddenly her foot slipped and she fell, body sliding downward into a depression, stopping at waist deep when the ground met her water shoes.
“What the heck is this?” Maude yelled. The pain in her knees was monumental. Not caring who heard, she yelled again, turning in a circle, using the flashlight to highlight the rocky ground inside a large rectangular hole. At the opposite end of the hole, a jackhammer stood tall, wrapped tight against a metal stake with a cotton rope, the power switch depressed by duct tape. Beneath the hammer, a Texas-sized rock buried in the soil was thrumming with each beat of the metal tip.
“Of the ridiculous stunts I’ve ever been part of, this beats all,” she said, climbing out of the hole. Through it all, she hadn’t lost her weapon, and now held it firmly as she reached the surface. Her cell phone was back at the house where she left it, a mistake she didn’t usually make, but there was no one around the big hole in the ground except her. Using the flashlight, she walked around the four sides, no longer noticing the noise from the hammer. From the house, she called the local police, and asked for an officer and a technician to print the hammer, even though the chance of finding prints was slim. Before long, a county car arrived, as well as a van from the county crime lab. Maude had already cut the tape on the jackhammer to shut down the noise, but her ears kept ringing for several hours afterward.
Bright lights, uniformed officers, and civilian staff were on hands and knees, searching for footprints or small pieces of evidence for identifying the culprits who’d set up the hammer after digging a grave in Maude’s yard. She stood along the side, watching, knowing there were no clues. As to the culprit, she knew who had controlled the jackhammer from a distance. Seeing the monster in his lair that day had upset his self-control. The raw, crude threat was overstated. She knew he wanted her dead, but he’d had chances before, unless the injury to his brain could have made him even more murderous.
She was almost cheerful, realizing that her contact with Dawson had provoked the incident in her yard. He had risen to the bait. However long it took for the killer to show himself fully, Maude was determined his days of violating women were coming to an end. A flick of fear touched her for a moment. She knew the terrible things the man had done, and would do over and over again, given the slightest edge.
After crime scene techs and county deputies had moved on, Maude looked at the empty grave in the early morning light, wondering why anyone would go to such extremes. More would come; the now silent hole in the rocky ground was not the end to the man’s madness, and she wondered what was next. Meanwhile, the crew had been called from a local grounds service to refill the hole and plant grass over it. CID took the jackhammer in for evidence after Maude wrote down the model and serial number. She had little hope of tracing it back to anyone. In her mind, young Buzzcut had set up the digging, paying the way with Dawson’s enormous fortune. Money seemed to buy as much loyalty as fear, with even greater rewards. For the present time, she had more important concerns than Robert Dawson, maniac.
Sunday was a day for worship at the small Baptist church five miles from her home. The preacher was an enthusiastic man who believed what he taught. Sh
e was pleased to be in the hard seat, listening to a message about peace and goodwill on Earth. Leaving the church, she drove over to her friend Alice’s house for breakfast. The three of them, Maude, Alice, and her husband Sydney, often shared brunch and a few hands of cards together. It was called mild recreation. During a recess from the game, Maude talked to Alice about the incident at her house, and the drinking issue she had been living with lately. Sydney was a good friend but sensed Maude would find it easier to talk to Alice alone. He left the room to make more coffee while the women talked.
Going back to the house was difficult, not because of fear, but because of her anger. Each time the sight of the newly turned soil near the fence line came into view, she began to get a little angrier at the perpetrator, vowing to turn the tables on those who had trespassed into her private life. If Robert Dawson hoped to scare her away, he was dead wrong. She was pissed off and getting madder by the minute. Seeing the closed grave and the new squares of sod planted across it caused Maude to feel violated. The only person she knew who might understand was Lilly Ann. Her life had been turned upside down for several hours when she was forcibly taken from her home. Resisting temptation to call her niece and rant, Maude sat down at her table with a cup of herb tea and began making further notes on the murder at the pawnshop.
Wallace Avery’s phone listing was not published, but she had the number in her book.
“Mr. Avery, this is Detective Rogers. I hope I’m not disturbing anything important,” she said when Avery answered. “I wonder if you might have a few minutes. I can drive over there within the half-hour.”
“What do you want, detective? I thought I had answered all your questions?” Avery seemed upset she had called. She hoped he wasn’t in the middle of some “afternoon delight.”
“Well, you did, sir, but I have just a couple of things bothering me and thought you might help. I know today is Sunday, but it won’t take long.”
Avery sighed. “All right, detective, I’ll be here. You have my address.”
“Yes, sir, I do, 325 Beecham, over in Esplanade Hills. That is correct, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
Maude grimaced at the ma’am, but let it go. “See you in a half-hour, Mr. Avery.”
Chapter 12
Sunday driving was pleasurable, even though she’d already been out once in the minimal traffic of the religious day. Drivers seemed to be calmer, making efforts to obey traffic laws after church. Maude thought it was people’s ways of obeying religious precepts by being more courteous to their fellow man. Just a thought, but it fit. The road to the pawnshop owner’s house was newly paved, a tribute to the owners of the expensive homes on the west side of Madison. Beecham was a short street that had no outlet, and Avery’s house sat smack in the middle at the end of the cul-de-sac. Tall palms and tropical plants outlined the yard, defining it as expensive square footage in the real estate world. The house looked to be quite large inside. Wallace Avery was obviously doing well. When it wasn’t getting robbed, Northside Pawn must be very profitable, Maude thought, as she pulled into the drive of number 325.
A four-car garage was set off from the house by a breezeway, old-fashioned architecture brought forward into current house design. The effect was to provide a place between the garage and house where lawn furniture sat in filtered light through slatted blinds. Large screened-in windows were open, allowing light and a breeze through their thin protection from the outside. French doors along the side entry allowed entrance into the main house, while the massive wooden front doors rose into an expensive brass and glass transom. The overall look was both expansive and impressive.
Maude was invited into the house through the front door then ushered by Wallace Avery’s wife, Anna, onto the breezeway, where the pawnbroker was seated with a cup of what appeared to be tea in front of him. Maude’s sensitive nose detected brandy mixed with Earl Grey. For a minute, the smell threw her back to another time.
Anna Avery was youngish, much more so than her husband. She still had the smooth skin of a woman just south of thirty. Golden streaks were cleverly woven into dark hair that lay straight and shining upon her graceful shoulders, and she wore designer clothing with the aplomb of one born to money. Her smile, like her hair, shone in the morning light with only a hint of spuriousness. She motioned to a chair as Maude stood above her hosts.
“Tea, detective?”
“I’d be obliged, but nothing in it,” she said, hoping they understood her meaning.
Anna smiled again and poured tea into a porcelain cup. “Nothing in it except Earl Grey,” she said enigmatically. “Should you change your mind, we have sugar and milk.”
“No, this is fine. Thank you,” Maude replied, and sipped the strong brew. “I’ve learned to like sugar in coffee, but not in tea.”
Wallace Avery leaned back in his chair, allowing the sunlight to pass over Maude’s face. His movements were precise, a way to better assess the woman who sat in the chair across from him. What he saw was a face with a few lines around still-full lips, intelligent blue eyes, and a no-nonsense expression. Avery figured the detective must be near his own fifty years. They’d both been around a while. He hoped for some consideration of his place in society.
“Detective Rogers, what more can I help you with?”
Maude sipped her tea, aware that Avery had been taking her measure. She wondered why, unless he had something to hide and hoped she would overlook it.
“Mr. Avery, that night of the break-in and murder, where were you?”
“I was home, with my wife and a few friends. Why? Am I now a suspect in the murder?” Avery seemed confused.
“Just routine questions, Mr. Avery. I’m trying to tie up some loose ends. Can anyone vouch for your presence?”
Anna answered from across the table. “He was here with me and the Whitehalls from next door, as well as the Howards, across the street. We were hosting a dinner party. I’m sure they would remember it.”
Maude wrote the information in her small notebook after asking for phone numbers of the neighbors. She thanked them for the tea and began to say her goodbyes. At the last minute, she turned toward Wallace Avery. “What was your relationship with Marlin Thompson?” She had caught him by surprise, as his expression showed.
“Marlin was an employee, nothing more. He had worked for me about six months. An older college student, trying to earn money to finish his degree, he needed work that paid well yet didn’t require him to give up his classes during the mornings. He was working toward a career in health. Maybe a doctor, I don’t know.”
“Did you know him, Mrs. Avery?” Maude asked, staring into the woman’s eyes.
“Not really,” Anna said. “I saw him, of course, each time I went to the store, but we didn’t speak socially. Just minor pleasantries when I went to see Wallace.”
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Avery, I may have more questions for you later.”
Walking to her police car, Maude couldn’t help but notice the gardeners working on the grounds. She thought again that the pawnshop business must be a lucrative operation. The door to the car opened easily, and once again she was grateful for the new car with all its conveniences. The in-car computer access to files saved hours of driving time, presenting information on the fly. Like then, when the name Anna Avery was presented to the state and local agencies, the report came back that the young woman had once been arrested for a minor possession charge as well as being a pedestrian in the roadway. To police agencies, that description was usually equated to men or women who sold themselves for money. That put a whole new bearing on Anna Avery, wife to the pawnbroker. It made Maude want to look further into the woman’s past.
Driving home, she came close to the church where her meetings were held. Even though it wasn’t quite time for it to start, Maude parked the car out of sight, locked it, and went inside, hoping to find someone there. Her badge went in her pocket, and the holster with her gun was tucked out of sight. Off duty, she
was still a cop. The few people drinking coffee were talking, and made room for her around a table. One of them, an older man, older than Maude, said his name was Mo and he was carrying a chip for not drinking for thirty years. She nodded and thought about that, wondering if she was going to make thirty days. Mo must have sensed her doubt. He lifted his cup and looked into her eyes.
“It works. Just keep coming back.”
She nodded again and finished her coffee. The meeting started and she left quickly after it was over, avoiding questions from people about her life. Back home and still restless, she sat at the table after a quick dinner, and pulled the small notebook from her pocket, looking over the lines she had written. The pawnshop case puzzled her; there was something about it that didn’t ring true. Hopefully, when they located Phillip Mason, the truth would come out. Meanwhile, until he was found, there was little to be done. No other prints were found on the glass or cash register except for Mason’s. A little too convenient, maybe, but the truth was sometimes just that easy to understand. Anna Avery was a puzzle. How did a young woman with her kind of breeding end up with a fifty-something man? She obviously had her share of past mistakes, but what could have pushed her into a relationship with a guy twenty years or so older?
The phone rang and Maude answered it, wondering who would be calling. She hoped it was one of the Woodsboro detectives. Rightly enough, the voice on the other end identified himself as Detective Blanton from Woodsboro Police Department. Once the introductions were made, Detective Blanton asked what Madison, Texas needed to know from the best state in the union. Maude laughed a little.
“Detective Blanton, as I said on the phone, I’m curious about a former resident of your city. Actually, two of them: Phillip Mason and Wallace Avery. About ten years ago, those two were partners. Later they busted up. In the meantime, they get arrested for felony theft by your department, but the charges are dropped. I have a murder to solve that concerns both of them. Wonder if you can tell me what happened back in Woodsboro?”
The Maude Rogers Murder Collection Page 65