by N. C. Lewis
A deep burgundy paint, faded around the edges and chipped in places, covered the solid oak door. With sander, primer and charcoal gray topcoat at hand, along with new locks and keys, I was ready to work. The humidity had eased a little from the past few days, and a gentle breeze took the edge from the summer heat. Under the shade of the awning, which wrapped around the porch, progress was speedy and I lost myself in the work.
Ninety minutes later George appeared on the porch. “Nothing major with electrical system, looks pretty good. Only very minor items need replacing,” he said.
“That’s great news, life as a college professor places one on the road of penury and want.”
George laughed. “Could say the same for the building trade! By the way, any news on the Tanner investigation? Martin over at Moozoos mentioned you are snooping around, sort of like a private detective. Anyway, if you need a Dr. Watson let me or Emma know; we fancy ourselves as amateur sleuths.”
Yep, I reflected, this is a small town, everyone knows everyone’s business, and I guess Martin the barista at Moozoos is one of the radio transmitters. Ignoring my concern, I replied, “I’m an amateur, don’t suppose I’ll find anything but I’m going to dig around a little, might help push along the sheriff’s investigation. Things seem to move pretty slow around here.”
George’s forehead wrinkled, and his eyes narrowed. “Ollie, I thought you knew, Sheriff Hays has gone on vacation. Don’t expect much progress until he returns. The sheriff usually spends two weeks in Big Bend National Park with Peter Travis and a few others from the Town Trail Club, hiking and fishing.”
The paintbrush slipped from my hand as I sat on the stoop for a moment, puzzled by the sheriff’s actions. “Are you serious? The sheriff’s out of town when there’s a murderer on the loose. Tell me you are kidding, George!”
George shrugged his shoulders, “Sheriff Hays always goes for two weeks this time of year. Guess the sheriff is a creature of habit. This is a pretty sleepy town most of the time. Anyway, want to take a quick look at the air-conditioning unit.”
Off he walked around the outside of the house to find the cooling unit. As he disappeared, I thought of the times Tanner helped me. I felt such a rush of grief and disappointment in myself, I had to stop, sit still on the stoop and cry. If I let the fear of finding the real killer take over, there’d be no way I’d be able to keep snooping. Somehow, I had to keep fear in check, for Tanner’s sake.
✽ ✽ ✽
Back at work on the door, I lost track of time when a red Toyota Avalon pulled onto the dirt driveway and parked next to George’s truck. Out stepped Mayor Felton, and teetering behind on high stiletto shoes, Marsha Pennington. The mayor walked across the dirt path to the house. Marsha stayed by the car, a grin broader than the curve in a banana etched on her face.
Not good, I thought, not good.
As the mayor approached I flashed my friendliest smile, the best that I had, nothing held back. The very same smile that was so effective when pulled over by flashing blue lights for speeding. Then, for good measure, I gushed praise. “Well, hello Mayor Felton what a pleasure to meet you in person. You look even younger in the flesh than in the poster at Gregg’s, and your hair, so silky and smooth, you must share the secret.”
The mayor smiled, lapping up every drop. I half wondered whether to give a little curtsy, but resisted the idea. Perhaps things might have turned out better if I did.
“Ms. Pennington has shared your plans for Ealing Homestead,” said the mayor.
The effect of my smile and gushing praise was wearing off much too quickly for my liking, for her eyes had already frosted over, the voice emotionless, and despite the summer sun, there was a distinct chill in the air. My heart suggested I give a quick curtsy, there was still time. My mind disagreed, said the whole charade was pointless. I went with my mind.
My lips moved robotically, “Yes, I’m looking forward to fixing the place up. This property is going to be amazing, a real asset for the town, don’t you think?”
“How soon do you expect the property to be up and running as an event center?” the mayor asked.
“Well, provided I can raise the financing, I expect to be up and running in six to eight weeks.”
“Well, that’s good and well, Dr. Stratford, but let me remind you this is a residential area and there are several permits required before operation of a business can begin. These permits can take several months, sometimes years to obtain. Have you applied for a business permit yet? I’m afraid there are several.”
“Yes, Harry Marsden was kind enough to help. The paperwork was submitted a day or so ago.”
She took a little step backward, eyes flashing. “Harry Marsden you say? Well, even so, the documents haven’t landed on my desk yet. When they do I’ll give them a thorough examination.”
The mayor’s eyes returned to their cold and frosty gaze, and in a neutral voice she continued, “We want to maintain the quaint atmosphere of this town.”
Then she turned to leave, I followed a little way behind. Down the dirt path to the little iron gate, where she and Marsha Pennington slid into the Toyota Avalon and drove off.
Chapter 16
My encounter with the mayor left me unsettled. There appeared to be a whole host of things hiding in this small town, most of them nasty.
I made my way over to the mailbox, beyond the little iron gate. A blanket of dry heat swirled around, the stifling air mingled with the aches from the martial arts class. Suddenly aware of the soreness, my movement became awkward and sluggish.
If it hadn’t been for the heat and pain I would not have seen a figure lurking by the largest outbuilding. I jerked my head in the direction. The individual wore dark sunglasses and a large straw hat. A disguise?
The person moved quickly, light-footed. I stood still. The individual looked to the left and the right. In the arms a large box, which they carried with some effort. Emma Garcia! The figure was Emma Garcia. The light-footed woman disappeared behind the outbuildings at the end of the yard.
Through the swirling humidity, I crept forward, at distance. The heat made progress slow. In the distance, Emma hopped over a twisted cedar fence and disappeared behind the trees which grew like a forest beyond the smallest outbuilding. By the time I got to the wooden fence, Emma was gone. Which way did she go? A dense copse of cedar and various trees blocked every direction.
From behind came the sound of rustling and heavy panting, I spun around—my hands above my head in a defensive position—and there was Bodie. The dog nudged my leg, then clambered under the fence, disappearing into the thicket of trees. There was little point in following as he moved too quickly.
Overcome by unbearable heat and frustration, I trudged back toward the mailbox, a newspaper the only content. Inside, with coffee in hand, I read the Medlin Creek Times while the primer on the front door dried.
Every merchant in town advertised in the newspaper. There was little real news, only advertisements about real estate, fish fries, and fates, community social events, and church service times. The daily local paper presented a slice of life from the quiet sleepy town of Medlin Creek.
On the back page, an article written by Millie. Medlin Creek’s newest deputy takes temporary charge of murder investigation while Sheriff Hays is out of town on vacation. Deputy Muller, the niece of Mayor Felton, will oversee the investigation into the suspicious death of well-loved local, Tanner Holgate. Mr. Holgate was the owner of the popular Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy. The sheriff’s department expects to make rapid progress, and Deputy Muller will update Sheriff Hays on any findings when he returns from an annual fishing and hiking vacation.
I called Millie, she picked up on the first ring.
“The owner of the newspaper has asked me to pull something together exploring the events around Tanner’s death, wants to run it as a series of daily articles,” she explained.
“So, there must be a lot of news about to break,” I said.
“Tha
t’s the problem, there isn’t. Ollie, I’ve no idea what to write next. The sheriff’s department hasn’t issued any additional information, I’m at a dead end.”
There was a pause, followed by a slight rustle. Then the distinct masculine tones of Professor Purple, “Do you have anything you can share?” The puppet continued, “Millie needs to cobble something together this afternoon. The editor is on the prowl for a fresh angle, any nugget is better than nothing. Give us what you got.”
In my mind’s eye, the sock puppet's anxious face and expectant eyes jolted my thoughts revealing the untold truth. “Alas, nothing yet, I’ve drawn a blank, not sure what to do next,” I said.
There was a long drawn-out silence, followed by mutterings in French. Fearful Madame Bleu would make an emotional appearance, I changed tact.
“Millie, has the sheriff’s department put Deputy Muller in charge of the investigation?”
“Oh no! That’s sheriff-speak to say the investigation’s on hold for now.”
“Well, seems like this whole thing is going nowhere fast. Anyway Millie, at least you have written a great article, best thing in today’s newspaper.”
“Oh, thanks for noticing. Ollie, I’m convinced most of the time no one reads my articles. When I left college, I wanted to get a job at the Austin American Statesman, but things didn’t work out that way. And here I am fifteen years later, a part-time reporter writing small-town articles no one reads.”
Then George came in, his demeanor indicated unwelcome news. I hung up.
“Well, it’s not as bad as it could have been. The place has been empty for a prolonged period. Most builders would say the home needs a full overhaul from top to bottom. The house is sound, great news for a property which has been empty for so long. At some point, you will need to replace the air-conditioning unit, and all the windows.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “I guess things could have been worse. How much longer will the AC units last?”
“Well,” said George scratching his chin, “might get through this summer. I wouldn’t put money on more than that. In any case the unit is over twenty years old, very energy inefficient, don’t see many of that type these days.”
The clock on the mantel struck the top of the hour, I got up and stretched.
“George, I’ll go with the windows for now. The air-conditioning unit can wait.”
Replacing the windows would eat up over a quarter of my pile of cash. The whole thing felt like a race to see if my money ran out before I got the loan from the bank or a paycheck from Medlin Creek Community College.
✽ ✽ ✽
Around two o’clock the cell phone rang.
“Hello, this is Mr. Johnson from Butter and Dungs law firm. Am I speaking with Dr. Ollie Stratford?”
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“Dr. Stratford, the previous owner of Ealing Homestead instructed us to deliver a package to the new owner, I believe that is you. Mr. Castleman died several years ago, and the property passed into the hands of his daughter, Jane Penn, who lives in Washington State. Jane paid local property taxes, but unfortunately never resided in Ealing Homestead. If you like I can drive out to Medlin Creek, or if preferable you can visit our offices here in Austin. Either way there is no rush. Let me know what you want to do. Oh, I’ll send you a form so you can sign electronically.”
“Thanks, I’ll visit your offices next week. Could do with a day trip to Austin,” I said. The call over, I lapsed into meditative silence. What was in the mysterious package, and why would the deceased owner want to give it to me?
The cell phone rang again, the voice of Mary Ellington crackled on the line.
“Nice bit a gossip for you, Ollie.” She paused, waiting to see if she had my attention. She did. “Remember that young man, the fellow who bid against you at the auction? You know, babyface, the boy in the pinstripe suit! Ollie, you must remember, the guy looked like he’d just finished high school. Well, his name is Andrew Taylor. Does that name ring a bell?”
Without waiting for a reply Mary continued. “The fellow has a criminal record as long as your arm. Mainly, burglary and car crimes. Anyway, the guy is the nephew of a Texas realtor. A woman by the name of Marsha Pennington. You don’t happen to know a Ms. Pennington, do you?”
Chapter 17
I sat opposite Marsha Pennington, her office occupied a small corner of a large suite of real estate offices. Two rooms and a small balcony overlooking Bridge Street. It was a little before two thirty p.m. when I arrived.
Marsha didn’t say anything at first, just opened the door and beckoned me inside.
“Dr. Stratford, you’re here to talk business?”
“Yes, your offer, would like to discuss the offer.”
Marsha smiled, a professional smile which did not extend to her eyes. “That’s good, where would you like to start?”
“The price.”
“That’s not negotiable. The deal is simple, half the appraised value of the property, take it or leave it, Dr. Stratford.”
“That’s strange, at the auction in New York your nephew seemed willing to pay the full asking price, even more. What’s changed?”
Marsha’s face showed confusion, finally clarity, and she slammed her fist hard on the desk. “That idiot boy, should’ve never let the kid bid for the property. What a foolish idea, should have stuck with Jensen Buda, my regular broker.”
Marsha stood up, her body trembling with rage, and paced toward the little terraced window which overlooked Bridge Street. She looked out of the window, then with her back to me said, “Dr. Stratford, I underestimated you, I can see that now. How stupid of me to think otherwise.”
Marsha turned around and walked back to the desk and took a seat. “Ealing Homestead has sentimental value for this town. The tumble-down place has sentimental value for me. In years past, my family worked alongside the previous owner, did so for generations.”
She looked up, eyes narrowed, pupils invisible, searching for something. Then continued. “Mr. Castleman was a good friend, a dear family friend. Yes, I gave my nephew instructions to purchase the property. Alas, the boy messed up, cell phone signal dropped in the middle of the bidding.”
Marsha slumped forward, her head placed in her palms, almost covering her face. Through a gap between Marsha's crooked fingers, her beady eyes watched.
Silence.
Footsteps echoed in the hall outside and the low mumble of traffic along Bridge Street cut into the stillness.
Silence.
“Dr. Strafford, I’d like to buy the property. Of course, at a fair price. You’ll sell the place to me, won’t you? For sentimental reasons.”
I looked down, the words tugged at my heartstrings. Marsha’s voice seemed so small and pathetic. Maybe Texas wasn’t for me? Then my heart and mind in unison urged me to look up. I did. Marsha’s eyes stared back, narrow, frosty pupils like pinheads.
Now I knew what I had to do.
“Butter and Dungs, Mr. Castleman’s lawyers, contacted me. They have a package. Unfortunately, I can’t sell the property until I’ve had a chance to review its contents.”
Marsha sat bolt upright and leaned forward in one single movement. In a low urgent voice, she whispered, “Have you taken delivery?”
“No, I’ll pick it up next week.”
Marsha let out a snort and relaxed back into the chair, a smile creeping across her face, extending to her eyes. “Well, Dr. Stratford, it seems there is little I can do until you have reviewed the contents of the package. Yes, I’d be curious to know what’s inside of it.” Marsha got up, the meeting was over.
As she opened the office door, I turned and inquired, “Any additional information from the mayor on the Tanner Holgate murder investigation?”
Marsha’s eyes flashed as her face flushed bright red. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’m collecting information to help the sheriff with the investigation.”
“Keep away, stay away, it’s police business not your b
usiness. Keep away.”
The words echoed throughout the hallway as she disappeared back into her office.
Chapter 18
Caffeine, time for caffeine. Moozoos, a short drive, turned out to be an excellent choice. The barista made my usual.
“There you go, enjoy,” he said. His lopsided eyes watched as his carrot-shaped chin twitched. “The mayor stopped by with Deputy Muller this morning, looks like she wants the case closed, don’t suppose anyone will admit that officially. Anyway, how’s life going?”
My next words were chosen with care. “Yep,” I said, “I'm making great progress fixing up the old place. Alas, this project is going to take longer than anticipated. When the work is complete and all the relevant permits issued, you will be the first to know.”