Texas Troubles

by N. C. Lewis

The words might as well have been fist blows. It knocked the stuffing right out of me. I grabbed onto the edge of the desk, collapsed back into the chair; a cloud of dizziness cloaking the room. “Healthy Property Levy? Within thirty days? What about payment options?”

  The tax assessor hesitated, as if confused by the words. “Options...options,” the word pronounced slowly, rolling it around her mouth as if tasting each syllable. “Well, you can pay by check or direct draft. Since I have you on the line, would you like me to take your payment right now?”

  My fingers moved to turn off the cell phone, as I let out a long slow breath, sweat dripping down my forehead, stinging my eyes with saltiness. Oh crap! The ship I sailed into Texas on was sinking. Who was I kidding, the boat had sunk! I barely had enough cash to fix up the property, now the county tax assessor wanted a slice of my meager pie.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Bodie ran to the door barking, I looked out of the window but there were no cars or vehicles in the drive. “Oh Bodie, stop barking,” I snapped. But the dog kept barking and scratching at the front door.

  “Okay, okay, let’s look outside.”

  As I opened the door, the smell of smoke drifted in through the house. It wasn’t the spice of burning cedar wood that often wafted across the Hill Country, the type of smoke that signified the clearing of land for pasture or property. Nor was it associated with the savory scent of smoked game, a tender delicacy served throughout this part of Texas. This was a thick black industrial-type smoke, a choking brew of toxic nastiness.

  I swiveled my head to see where the stench was coming from. An angry black plume rose from the side of the house. I ran toward the smoke; the heat and humidity stifling my progress. I turned the corner to see the last black vapors drifting up from the air-conditioning unit. That magical contraption had served the homestead for over twenty years, but now was dead. I held onto my anger, counted to ten, and waited.

  Chapter 28

  I returned into the house. Bodie followed me to the front door, sniffed the air and went bounding off toward the outbuildings. Inside, the temperature was beginning to rise. Time to call George Garcia.

  “Tomorrow at the earliest? What time?”

  A new air-conditioning unit, and a shrinking pile of cash, but thanks to George at least the place would be cool by tomorrow evening.

  Back at the desk, I jotted down some names into a notebook. ‘Simpkins,’ ‘Ma Jenkins,’ ‘Kidd Cole.’ Under each name, the motive for murder scribbled in black ink. For Simpkins, the motive was unknown, Ma Jenkins on the other hand had a business relationship with Tanner and Tony Dean. What about Kidd Cole? The man was in a fight with Tony Dean, but what could be a potential motive for killing Tanner? Nothing came to mind; more time needed here. I circled ‘Ma Jenkins’ with a red pen, and decided to go back to the dojo. Even if I discovered nothing, at least I’d be out of the hot and stuffy house.

  From the street, the place looked as it did the evening before. The large front door was closed and the place was in darkness. What if Ma is inside? Possibly she fell ill? Up the steps to the front door, I pushed so hard I grunted, but it was locked shut. I walked around toward the back of the building, a narrow alley littered with trash separated it from the next property. Attached to the building, a two-story iron fire escape stairway. Clambering to the top, it offered a bird’s eye view of the surrounding street. I shoved hard against the fire exit door. It didn’t move. I shoved again. Nothing.

  Familiar voices drifted up from the front of the building. At the edge of the platform, I craned my neck, looking down toward the street. Roger Romantic, Ethel, Marge, and Millie stood on the sidewalk talking. A black sedan pulled up, and out jumped Kidd Cole; he looked around, and bounded up the steps to the front door.

  Down the fire escape stairs, I scurried. Then with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, raced toward the front of the building. Kidd was at the top of my suspect list. Why hadn’t the sheriff’s department already arrested him?

  By the time I got to the front door, Kidd was fiddling with the lock.

  “Kidd has the key, hope we’ll find a clue to where Ma is,” said Roger Romantic. The pensioners appeared oblivious to the danger Kidd possessed. Ethel and Marge showed even less concern, exchanging recipes for smoked brisket. Millie was on her cell phone.

  “Yes, at Ma’s dojo, Kidd has a key. Yes, Harry, that’s right, the dojo. Yep, looking for Ma…”

  Millie hung up as Kidd opened the door. “Harry’s running a little late with an important client, but will join the search when finished.”

  Kidd turned to view the gathered crowd, waving us inside with a friendly broad smile, bruising around the left eye from the events of yesterday evening. A shudder rippled down my spine.

  Inside, the air was still, a musty combination of bleach, air freshener, and stale sweat. The main training area was empty. The group spread out across the rest of the building. I headed for Ma’s office along with Millie. The room was small with a tall oak desk under the window with neat stacks of papers, a daily diary, and cell phone plugged in and charging. Along one wall ran a large bookshelf containing volumes and files. On the walls were certificates, and photographs of Ma when she was younger. Along another wall, a series of glass cases, each contained a different martial arts weapon. Underneath each case, a brass plaque described the weapon.

  Millie scanned the room and let out a sigh. “Well, Ma’s not in here.”

  “Maybe we can find some information from her diary,” I said.

  A large leather-bound book sat in the middle of the desk. Millie rushed over and began flicking through the pages.

  The weapons were fascinating. I examined the glass cases, fifteen in all, containing daggers, swords, knives, sticks, and bows. An eclectic array of lethal weaponry from across the entire globe.

  Something niggled at my mind, the cases were not quite right. Then I saw it. Two cases were empty. The plaque on the first empty case described the contents as a Japanese Tessen war fan. On close examination, the latch which secured the glass panel was twisted and broken. The second case contained an Indonesian Broadsword. The latch also busted. Who had broken into the cases? And where were the weapons now? Did Ma have them? Why would she break into her own cases?

  Millie looked up. “Yep, the last entry is for the thirteenth. That was 2 days ago. Let me look at the contacts, I might find something useful there.”

  As I looked out of the window, Harry arrived, swaggered up the stairs, biceps bulging, shirt straining to contain his chest. On his head, a black Stetson. I turned to go meet him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a leather-bound journal with ‘Business Accounts' stenciled in gold lettering down the spine. I flipped it open. The journal contained details of the income and expenditures of the business. Into my jacket pocket I slipped the book as Ethel and Harry, laughing at some unheard joke, entered the room.

  Harry’s eyes made a quick scan of the room, the desk, the display cases, and his eyes lingered on the bookshelf. Meanwhile, Ethel, in her usual upbeat manner, pointed out the obvious.

  “Well, she’s not in here!”

  And with that we turned to leave. Ethel first, followed by Millie, then me, and finally Harry. A little knot of excitement formed in my stomach as he placed his arm around my waist guiding me out of the office.

  In the lobby of the dojo we gathered, no sign of Ma. For a moment, we stood in silence. Roger Romantic spoke my thoughts out loud.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with the death of Tanner and Tony Dean?”

  I held my tongue, as did everyone else.

  “Just saying,” said Roger.

  Then Harry spoke up. Could he read my mind? Or perhaps we all thought the same thing, but did not want to say it.

  “Listen, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this, we all know Ma, we all knew Tanner, and we all knew Tony Dean. Seems inconceivable Ma is somehow involved in these deaths. There has to be another explanation—but what?”

  The
re was a general murmur of agreement, and silence again.

  “Okay, I’ll file a missing person's report,” offered Kidd. “Anyway, I’m having a drink with Deputy Dingsplat later this evening, I will discuss this matter as well.”

  “You guys going to talk about your latest overnight fishing exploits?” asked Roger Romantic.

  “Yep, yesterday was a good one. Set out around ten p.m., fished all night long, and finished up around seven a.m. The entire Medlin Creek Fishing Club showed up. I fished with Deputy Dingsplat, didn’t have much luck. Marge, you were there weren’t you?”

  “Yep, but the fish weren’t biting down at windy hollow, that’s why me and Ethel are talking brisket rather than smoked fish recipes today,” laughed Marge.

  Ethel piped in. “It was a good evening, but I’m a little tired. Anyway, I’ve got some great photos of you Kidd with Deputy Dingsplat down at soggy point.”

  Ethel turned to look at me. “Ollie you should consider joining the Medlin Creek Fishing Club, I’ve been a member for years. You too, Harry, lived in Medlin Creek all your life and don’t fish! That’s a shame.”

  Harry’s lips twitched into a sheepish grin. “Yup, I suppose I should.”

  Chapter 29

  The cell phone buzzed as I climbed back into the Tahoe truck, a text message from Professor Bingham. Please stop by the office this evening, working until six p.m. tonight. More papers to sign, I thought, or possibly another class. In any case, a glass of fine Scottish whiskey sounded good right now.

  I started the engine and pointed the truck toward Medlin Creek Community College. The roadway was free from traffic as residents kept out of the blistering heat. The sun beat down through white fluffy clouds as I climbed out of the Tahoe, strolled across the parking lot, and into the cool of Havis County’s finest education establishment.

  The little reception area outside Professor Bingham’s office was empty. The air-conditioning hummed, throwing out streams of frigid air causing condensation on the large window overlooking the car lot. A small teak coffee table laden with ancient magazines sat opposite the office door. Next to it a low leather sofa. I paced around, picked up an old magazine, and sat flicking through the pages, looking at nothing in particular

  After several minutes, I put down the magazine; time to develop a strategy. What was the best course of action? Best sign the papers fast and encourage Professor Bingham to talk while I relaxed with a deep full glass of single malt whiskey. There was no point rushing home early to fry in a house which lacked air-conditioning. Better to work on networking with the Professor, might lead to more teaching opportunities.

  At the closed office door, was the sound of mumbled voices. I moved a little closer, not quite placing my ear against the door, but standing very close. A male voice droned on like an angry mosquito. What was he saying? Not possible to make out. The rumble of a car pulling into the parking lot startled me. Jumping away I turned to sit back down as the office door swung open.

  A slim man of medium height walked out, a pointy mustache and grizzled gray beard, with the hair thinning, receding upwards on the forehead. The man turned to Professor Bingham, who stood in the doorway, and in a harsh voice which sang of authority, stated:

  “Hope this is the last time I have to bring this matter up, Professor Bingham.”

  “Yes, Chancellor Cannington,” replied Professor Bingham.

  Chancellor Cannington nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave, his movements quick and alert without suggesting aggressiveness or anger. Then glancing in my direction, he stopped. A steady flame of intelligence burned deep within his brown eyes, which were the most remarkable feature of his face.

  “Dr. Ollie Stratford, I believe,” he inquired as his hand extended. Cool calm touch, firm grip. “Yes, looking forward to having you join the team. I've heard so much about you. I used to live in New York City, in Park Slope, Brooklyn.”

  Professor Bingham let out an audible moan and waved me to the office. His face flushed bright red, and the academic swayed and staggered back behind the desk.

  The room looked different, no sign of the ice bucket, whiskey tumblers, or for that matter whiskey bottles. I sighed, then cheered up at the thought that the whiskey would make an appearance later, to celebrate the signing of the contracts, exactly like last time. Of course, I would act surprised, delighted but surprised.

  “Dr. Stratford, such a wonderful pleasure.” The words slurred out of the mouth, and he sat ramrod straight in the chair, and continued.

  “Yes, we are professionals here aren’t we, Dr. Stratford?”

  “Of course, Professor Bingham, of course.” The words were emphatic, my tone and inflection matched the voice I used in my corporate days when doling out the “gift of evaluation” to lazy subordinates.

  “Good, very good, well then, I won’t beat around the bush.” Professor Bingham, leaned back in the chair, crossed his fingers, and continued.

  “Alas, the offer for employment was a little too hasty. Need to withdraw the thing—most regrettable. If circumstances should change, I’ll let you know.”

  The Professor jumped up from the chair and sprang, rabbit-like, toward the door. I chased after him, moving like a Greyhound. He stopped, and in a well-practiced single movement, took a little side step to the left while throwing open the door. My momentum carried me out into the reception area.

  The door slammed shut as Professor Bingham yelled, “Goodbye Dr. Stratford, don’t call me, I’ll be sure to contact you if anything changes.”

  I clattered into the coffee table sending the magazines flying in all directions. For the next five minutes, I picked up magazines, stacking them back onto the table.

  Still stunned by the news, I made my way out of the reception area into the parking lot. The heat and humidity swirled around as if mocking me as my lead-laden feet trudged back toward the Tahoe. The engine started, blasting air into the cabin, hot then cool then cold, chasing away the summer heat. I sat still trying to make sense of what happened.

  A red car pulled into a reserved parking space at the front of the building. Out hopped Marsha Pennington. Tottering on high heels to the front of the building. Professor Bingham was at the entrance, all smiles and sways. They embraced each other. It was a little too long, a little too deep, a little too intense. Then they kissed.

  Chapter 30

  The next day began badly. The sun was already up and it was late. I must have hit snooze on the cell phone alarm without knowing it. The day got worse after that. Before I could slide out of bed, the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, hello, George, how are things going?” Out of bed I slid, and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Payment up front for the full amount?” Now I was wide awake.

  “What’s that? Having financial difficulties, family business slow, cash flow crisis, Emma only working part-time…”

  The sound of George’s masculine sobs tugged my heart. On the cell phone, I pulled up the bank balance, sufficient funds for the project with a little margin.

  “Yes, okay, guess if that’s what it takes to get cool in Texas. Here is the credit card number.”

  There was a pause while George ran the card through a computer.

  “What time today? Not today? No units in stock! What do you mean no AC units in stock? How long?”

  In the kitchen now, I stood still.

  “Three days? Are you kidding? Three more days frying in this house!”

  Bodie’s bowl filled with water, I continued.

  “Look, isn’t there something you can do? This place is sizzling hot during the day. Must be some way of cooling the place. A portable unit? Okay that’s better than nothing. Thanks George.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  I must’ve fallen asleep at my desk because when I woke up it was eight forty-five a.m., Bodie was barking and scratching at the front door, I let him out. Coffee, I needed coffee. A quick home brew and my thoughts began to take shape. The cell phone buzzed. Before
answering I checked the number. Not from the tax assessor’s office, good.

  “Hello, Ollie.” The voice was frosty, cold, unrecognizable.

  “Yes, hello who is this?”

  “Harry…Harry Marsden.” The voice serious, stone cold. I checked the cell phone incoming number, yes it was Harry. What happened to Mr. Friendly?

  “Hi, Harry, what’s up?”

  “Listen, Ollie, are you sitting down? Please sit down.”

  I stood up, bracing myself for sad news about Ma Jenkins or even another murder outside of Moozoos Café. Then my thoughts ran to Kidd Cole, I prayed the young man was okay in police custody, that they were treating him well.

  “Disappointing news, the bank has refused your loan. Yep, not good. You’ll have to draw upon personal financial resources to complete the Ealing Homestead project.”