by N. C. Lewis
Chapter 2
With a mounting sense of dismay, I walked back to the ranch house. Ealing Homestead required major repair. The cost unknown—probably more than I could afford—perhaps even more than the place would sell for. The small pile of cash I had in deposit at the bank, this dilapidated property, my bags and Tahoe truck, amounted to all my possessions.
Bodie followed through the front door and headed straight for the kitchen, making himself comfortable under the window on the hard tile floor. For a short while he watched, then satisfied he had collected a new human friend, curled up and went to sleep.
Alone, I gathered my thoughts. The house was sound, I knew that much from the surveyor’s report. However, the state of the electrical wiring and plumbing, for now, both an unknown mystery.
The large bright kitchen where Bodie slept was more spacious than my Brooklyn apartment. The old-fashioned living room reminded me of those 1950s sitcoms. I imagined Mr. Castleman and the family, after an exhausting day on the ranch, relaxing watching I Love Lucy. The room needed a lick of paint, and in my mind, the potential became clear. Back in the kitchen I muttered to Bodie, “Yes, this house is livable.”
There were three bedrooms. The master bedroom was empty except for a pair of dusty curtains covering the window. I unrolled my foam mat and placed the sleeping bag on top.
The smallest bedroom—larger than my former apartment—contained an office chair, with a small desk next to a teak filing cabinet. The walls, covered in faded floral patterns and fogged up windows, gave it the feel of a hidden tomb. Along the dusty concrete floor—like the slither of a snake—ran a crack. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling, their silky spidery string reaching down toward the floor.
Neither the decor nor the insect inhabitants were the most worrying aspects of this room. Decor is easy to update, spiders removed, windowpanes replaced, and cracks refilled and polished over like new. The most worrying thing was the papers strewn across the floor. The other rooms were orderly but dated, this room was a chaotic mess.
The disarray reminded me of the time I lost my car keys on the morning of a job interview. Fresh out of college, my first shot at a “professional” job. I woke up late, dressed in a blind panic and couldn’t find them. Desperate, I dumped the dresser drawers onto the bed. Same procedure for the kitchen drawers. Then through the cupboards, the contents flung into random piles. No car keys!
Then my mother’s voice popped into my head, “Ollie, where did you see them last?” It worked. The keys were in the car ignition. Exactly where I left them the evening before in my rush to get into the apartment, shower, eat dinner, and prepare for the interview.
Standing there, I scanned the bedroom again. How long had it been in this state? Someone had searched the place in a hurried panic. Stooping down, I picked up one of the papers. Yellowed with age, it contained pencil sketches of a mechanical drilling rig. There was cursive lettering at the top, with a date, both too faint to read. I placed it on the desk. The remaining sheets I stacked into neat piles on top of it.
Then it struck me, the papers were the same color and shape as those Marsha Pennington so closely guarded, a coincidence? The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that the culprit for the chaos was Marsha Pennington. What was she searching for?
Did she find it?
Chapter 3
Coffee and food. I need coffee, food, a dog bed for Bodie, a locksmith, a stiff drink, a shower and sleep. Sleep can wait. Food and stiff drink first.
The temperature was beginning to cool when I headed out. No break in the humidity, though. Midsummer, long bright days filled with searing heat broken only by the occasional rainstorm. Sticky, hot and tired, I climbed into the Tahoe pointing it toward town.
Creek Street sits on a flat stretch of land bordered by the Riverwalk and a sea of little shops which sell handcrafted goods and farm-fresh foods. At one end is a scruffy patch of lawn crammed with food trucks blaring country music, a popular spot where tourists mingle with locals during the early evening hours. At the other end, on a gentle slope which takes you down to the river, a flea market with little wooden stalls filled with knickknacks and curiosities.
Many of the brick and mortar shops were shuttering up for the day. The electronic sign on the front door of Moozoos Café flashed in bright red letters, "Open". In through the entrance to a little narrow coffee shop, not very well-lit, with huge plate-glass windows which looked onto Creek Street. The doorbell pinged with a gentle note as the door closed. For a moment or so I was alone and glanced at the menu. There was American drip coffee, organic fair-trade coffees from Africa, Southeast Asia and South America, and the house special—the Creek Jolt—an indulgent combination of Kenyan coffee loaded with fresh cream alongside a heavy dash of brandy.
From a room at the back of the store emerged the barista, a sallow man, with lopsided eyes and a chin like the point of a carrot. He let out a long sigh and scurried to the bar spreading long, thin fingers on the counter.
“What can I have the pleasure?”
“A supersized Creek Jolt!”
“Um!” he said, laughing out loud. “Been a rough day?”
“The first day in town, let’s say it hasn’t been a smooth ride.”
He scratched his head for a moment. “Ealing Homestead?”
“Yep, just moved into the place.”
“Well, pleased to make your acquaintance, Ollie. Tanner told me all about you. Oh, I’m Martin López, Tanner helped get the funds to set up this place two years ago, that man is a great guy. Welcome to the quiet town of Medlin Creek.”
Then, with rapid movements, he prepared the drink.
“There, try that, the very last drink of the day.”
The smell of steaming hot coffee infused with brandy wafted up out of the cup. A pleasant scent. The barista watched as I took a sip, it was good.
“This is the best thing that’s happened all day,” I said.
Curiosity twinkled in the barista’s lopsided eyes and he leaned forward, sucking in his breath in anticipation of a juicy story. Should I tell him about Marsha Pennington?
No, best to be cautious. In small Texas towns, unwelcome news travels fast. Marsha Pennington may not be in the number one spot as a new friend, but I didn’t want to make any enemies either. As I changed the subject, his eyes drooped in disappointment.
“Where is the nearest pet food store?”
He reached under the counter and pressed a small button which turned off the electric "Open" sign on the front door, it buzzed and flickered out. Then he said, “Oh, that would be Gregg's Hardware Store, you better hurry, they will close soon.”
Chapter 4
At Gregg’s, there was no order to the positioning of the products. On makeshift wooden shelving which almost completely concealed the industrial gray-painted walls, sat large cartons, oddly shaped packages, and metal tins. The shelves groaned under the weight, tilting at impossible angles, yet—like the Leaning Tower of Pisa—their contents remained in place. Scattered in haphazard fashion, sacks of chicken feed stacked up against the walls, boxes of cat litter placed on top of rabbit hutches, tins of baked beans on the counter, and dry food pellets placed in canvas bags by the door.
The shop assistant was in a dimly lit corner of the store. Sixteen or seventeen years old, the boy leaned against a stack of wooden pallets with his eyes closed and mouth slack, a nasal rumble rising and falling with each breath.
“Hey there, where is the dog food?” I asked.
Startled, the young man nearly fell over but recovered, saying, “Yes, Mr. Burlington,” then regaining consciousness said, “sorry ma’am, thought you were the boss...dog food?” Without waiting for an answer, he went scurrying off. After several false starts he returned with a case, plus I picked out a replica-sofa dog bed for Bodie.
The wooden floorboards were highly polished, with several pathways worn into them, each leading to a popular item, but the least polished, most worn path terminated right in fron
t of the sales counter behind where Mr. Burlington stood. A big man with thick gray hair receding at the temples, bushy black eyebrows and a solid square jaw like that of a ranch hand. Thin-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose made his deep brown eyes extraordinarily large. He wore a tan shop coat, buttoned down, sleeves rolled up as far as his muscular forearms would permit, and he spoke in a slow southern drawl.
“That’s mighty-fine dog food you have there, top of the range for this product line, must be a precious puppy dog?”
“Yes, this guy is king of my ranch, or at least he thinks he is.”
Tilting his head back, the smile was slow to form as he laced his hands across his chest.
“Well now, for a king we give a twenty percent discount.”
Mr. Burlington turned to the shop assistant and gestured with one hand.
“Ring it up, Michael, the discount code is the second green key.”
The shop assistant was leaning against the concrete wall, eyes drooping and the mouth all slack. “Boy! I said ring up the goods for the lady.” Mr. Burlington’s voice rose, and a definite tone of menace crackled through the air.
“Michael! Get a move on or you are fired! Do you hear me?”
The shop assistant sprang forward. “Yes, sir.”
Then he ran, and I mean a full-out sprint, to the counter, and with one eye on Mr. Burlington began punching in the prices on a mechanical till that would not have looked out of place in the junk which littered the front yard of my new home.
Mr. Burlington spoke, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “Most people think Medlin Creek is quiet and quaint, it is to some extent, but we have a lot going on in town.”
He turned and pointed to something in the distance. I followed his gaze.
Behind the sales counter hung a bulletin board filled with flyers advertising local events. There was a note about a local fish fry organized by the Rotary Club. Another contained details of the Wednesday night Bible study at the Medlin Creek Baptist Church. The mothers of preschoolers’ bright-pink poster called moms with toddlers to weekly craft sessions. The speaker's circle provided a safe place to practice public speaking. There was even a poster advertising the annual Desert Creek Motorcycle Rally.
On one flyer a picture of the mayor, Helen Felton, a somber-faced woman of fifty something, with curly black hair and coffee-colored smooth skin.
Then I saw a poster advertising a martial arts school. In the center was a photograph of a smiling, bright-eyed, silky-smooth-skinned young man with a magazine-cover face. Peering a little closer, the name "Tony Dean" appeared under the image.
I sucked in my breath and said, “Yep, you got a lot of events on that noticeboard, but I don’t see anything for Tanner Holgate’s martial arts academy. Why is that?”
Mr. Burlington’s face grew red, nostrils flaring, and a vein pulsated in his neck. “Lady, we don’t speak about Tanner Holgate in here, do we Michael?” He turned to the shop assistant who looked sheepish as he shook his head.
“Ma’am, that trailer park at the end of Broad Street exists because of Tanner Holgate. That man and a bunch of other folk petitioned the town to open more sites for commerce.”
“Oh, that’s so cool,” I responded.
I realized my mistake too late. The vein in Mr. Burlington’s neck pulsated wildly as he spat out his words.
“Taking business away from the longtime merchants, that’s what I say. This place used to sell all kinds of food including groceries, not anymore. Damn food trucks drove me out of the grocery food business! Tourists don’t want to eat meatloaf and beans at Gregg’s when they can dine at one of those trendy food trucks. Preferred it when they had no choice—Gregg’s or nothing. Those days are gone now. Man, I’d like to get my hands on Tanner Holgate, silence that guy for good, I would.”
I mumbled noncommittally and gathered my goods. As I turned to leave, another flyer caught my eye. This one advertised the annual animal shelter fundraiser, and showed an image of a square-chinned, ruggedly handsome man, Harry Marsden. The gentleman wore a gray and plaid, long-sleeved shirt which stretched tight across his broad chest, and on his head, a large black Stetson with the words “Marsden Accounts” stitched neatly around the rim. The eyes drew me in: dark, gentle, hypnotic, authentic.
Chapter 5
As I arrived back at Ealing Homestead it was getting dark. The twilight did nothing but dampen my already depressed spirits. Elongated shadows—cast by the derelict buildings and junk—appeared to grow and flicker, an unnerving dance that had me at the center. I scurried past the shadows across the dusty yard through the little iron gate and into the cool of the house.
Bodie, tail wagging, pranced around until I filled a bowl with Gregg’s dog food. Bodie gobbled it down and his tail wagged in delight. Well-fed, he curled up in the dog bed and fell asleep.
The Creek Jolt was wearing off. “Should have had two,” I muttered. At the study desk, I made plans for the morning. Three lists: an urgent list, an important list, and a sometime-over-the-next-few-months list.
From overhead I heard the rumble of thunder and through the window saw a rolling mass of dark, menacing clouds. There was a strange blackness about these storm clouds illuminated by brief flashes of streaky lightning. They spewed their contents, dense, driving rain for the next hour. I hope the creek doesn't rise.
A text from Tanner interrupted the list-making. “Hope journey went well. Meet up nine thirty a.m. at Moozoos Café. Caffeine on me! Ma Jenkins, my business partner, will join us. Ma teaches mixed martial arts at the academy—no spring chicken. Has lots of remarkable stories. Back in the day she was the first woman hired by Austin police department to take photos of dead bodies. Forensic photography they call it, I call it weird. If Ma asks to take your picture, run! Anyway, you will know Ma when you see the lady. LOL”
An hour later the list was complete, and I tiptoed into the kitchen to check on Bodie, deep asleep, paws covering the face.
In the master bedroom, a pool of water sat on top of the sleeping bag. Above, through a small jagged hole, the evening sky was visible. Add roof repair to the urgent list.
Back in the small bedroom/study, I reflected on the events of the past few hours. It was not hard to feel as though my world was crumbling. The last economic slowdown ended corporate life. That life is over—not coming back. I could admit that much now that I was in Texas. When I was younger it was the thing I wanted most, to be a “professional,” work for a large corporation in the corner office. That’s how I met John, my husband. John worked for a large financial institution, his efforts got me inside the corporate wall. We had fun, our careers growing together as our family grew. After John passed away, the fun ended and the children, grown up, moved on.
Then one day, I looked out of the glass wall of my goldfish-bowl office. A slackened bovine face looked back—my face. Instantly, I perceived corporate life through a new lens, factory work under artificial light. As the factory supervisor, I spent my days crammed into a glass-caged office with a view of row upon row of tiny cubicles. Each contained one, two, or even three workers packed together like sardines. Corporate life lost all excitement. Then in another wave of corporate downsizing, I took a voluntary severance package. A decision I’ve never regretted. Now, I get by with a little college teaching. Nothing permanent, and that suits me.
Marsha Pennington popped into my mind—accept her advice—cut bait and run? Or maybe I should hang around, try to figure out what she’s up to with those papers. While driving to Texas I'd been able to block out thinking about the future. Now, I realized I didn’t have a plan for the property, and without one I would fail.
Then a thought came. This place would make a magnificent event center, a ten-acre, rambling homestead perched on a hill, a short distance from a quaint village. The property was large enough to cater for several hundred people, and Hill Country is famous for being the wedding capital of Texas. What more could anyone want in any event center? The idea gripped with s
uch force, I sat bolt upright. Reaching for a notebook, I began to jot down ideas. This was the type of challenge I needed. A dream I had the ability to make come true. Of course, I’d need to find a part-time teaching job to help fund the project. That should be easy in a college town like Medlin Creek. Tanner Holgate would help, I was sure about that. Tanner was always ready to help.
Chapter 6
Humidity closed in, stifling my breath as the pack chased me. Their vicious, snarling growls pushed me forward but they were gaining ground. Suddenly, I felt a warm, foul breath on my neck. I let out a gasp as a wolf with Marsha Pennington’s face pounced. Legs like concrete, I screamed and tried to run faster. Through the mist, John appeared, sweeping me up into his arms as we tumbled down a sandy bank into a fast-flowing creek, and away from danger.
A gentle rapping on the front door stirred me out of the dream. I jerked upward, arms flailing in a front-crawl swim motion. The heavy curtains blocked out light, was it morning already? I squinted at my cell phone—seven forty-five a.m., Must’ve hit snooze on the alarm without knowing it.