Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  Could this be a case of a junkyard war? Hold on, Isabel, you’re getting ahead of yourself. As Annette searches through a pile of papers on the kitchen counter, my mother mouths: “Ask her about the family.”

  I nod.

  Annette brings back a lined sheet containing the names on Chet Waters’ so-called enemies list. Frankly, I was expecting more given this man wasn’t the easiest person to like even by his daughter’s assessment.

  “That’s a start,” I say.

  “I left out one of the old ladies in town,” she says. “She didn’t seem like a killer to me.”

  I glance at Annette. She keeps a straight face. I feel like laughing, but I hold myself back. I’ll laugh about it later with my mother.

  “Any family in there?”

  “Uh-huh, I put one of my brothers on the list. Mike the truck driver. I don’t see much of him. Who knows what he’s into these days?”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Pop was real tough on him when he was a kid.”

  “What about your other brother?”

  “Chester? Yeah, it was the same for him, too. But he never stood up to Pop like Mike. Chester went his own way.”

  “Was he tough on you?”

  “By time I came along, I guess he got it out of his system. Besides, I’m a girl.”

  I skim the list of last names, which for the most part are typically New England, that is, Anglo Saxon and French. They are all unfamiliar, except for one: Fred Lewis. Jack Smith’s creepy cousin is once again connected to a case. In the last, Fred was fooling around with Adela Collins behind Jack’s back.

  “I recognize only one name,” I say. “Fred Lewis. Weren’t you two married?”

  “Yeah, we were. He a friend of yours?”

  “Uh, hardly. He comes into the Rooster. He’s the owner’s cousin. How long ago were you two married?”

  “I kicked him out and divorced him about twelve years ago. We were married three. I try not to think about it. He was a real asshole to me. Oh, sorry, Mrs. Ferreira,” she says. “Pop couldn’t stand his guts. Besides, everybody knows he deals drugs on the side.”

  No, not all of us, but now I do.

  I quickly read the notes beside each one. A few have phone numbers.

  “I’m glad you made these notes. I’m gonna take a photo.”

  “Nah, just take the paper.”

  “Fine. Did anybody on the list come into the junkyard just before the fire?”

  She’s silent as she thinks.

  “I’m gonna have to think about that and get back to you.”

  “How about giving me a tour outside? If you don’t mind, my mother would be more comfortable staying here beside the fire.”

  Annette waves her hand.

  “Mrs. Ferreira, take the couch, why don’t ya?”

  Annette and I put on our jackets and leave. I zip mine as she talks about building her house. She got a little help with the framing, but mostly it was her banging away. The four dogs charge the fence in their pen between the house and garage. They bark their heads off.

  “Shut the fuck up,” she yells. “She’s okay.”

  The mutts quiet down.

  “It might be hard, but can you describe what you saw that morning. I want to see it, too.”

  She stops and points toward the gate.

  “I saw the smoke when I was drivin’ here. I thought maybe somebody was burnin’ brush until I got to Maple Ridge, and I knew it had to be comin’ from Pop’s place. There wasn’t much of his house left. It must’ve burned really, really fast cause it was all wood and small, just like mine. The gate was closed but not locked. I yelled and yelled for Pop. Then I saw his body. He managed to get out and was on the ground. I don’t know how he did it. Pop must’ve crawled. He was an awful mess. It made me sick to see him. But I checked him over anyways. I was hopin’ he was still alive.” Her voice catches. “But he was gone. I just hope he didn’t suffer. He looked so bad.”

  I swallow. No daughter should have to find her father that way.

  “Sounds like a tough situation. I’m sorry, Annette.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me. Find out who did that to Pop.”

  “One thing. You said the gate was closed but not locked. Wouldn’t your father lock up at night?”

  She stops and stares at me.

  “Shit, you’re right. He always locked up at night.”

  “So, somebody else could have been here and just shut the gate behind.”

  She shakes her head.

  “I never thought of it that way. You’re real smart. I’m glad I listened to Marsha.”

  I smile to myself as I follow Annette to the garage’s side door. There’s nothing surprising inside, just a typical garage that’s dark save for the overhead fluorescent lights and bars over the windows. The inside smells like the oily stuff and chemicals used to fix vehicles, about six decades worth. But it’s as neat a garage as a person could possibly keep it. The hood is up on a Chevy pickup truck, date unknown. A car is parked deeper inside.

  “I’m fixin’ the Chevy for the owner of the Pit Stop. Needs a new water pump. The Mustang belongs to my son, Abe. That’s Pop’s middle name, actually Abraham.”

  “Your son lives around here?”

  “He’s nineteen. He and a few buddies rent a place in Fulton.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Right now, not much. Guess he’s like his old man.”

  “Fred?”

  “Nah, somebody else. I had him before I met Fred. You wouldn’t know the guy,” she says. “Seen enough?”

  “For now. I’m just trying to get a feel for the place.”

  Her lips quiver. I believe she was going to smile, but she holds back.

  “Wanna get a feel for the junkyard now?”

  I laugh.

  “Yeah, I’m ready. How about showing me that car?”

  “Follow me.”

  We walk along a wide snowy aisle, following boot prints. From their size and the print, I believe they all belong to Annette. I get an idea.

  “There had to have been a lot for you to take in when you came that morning, especially with your father. It must’ve been a shock. This was January, so there was likely snow on the ground. Did you see any footprints?”

  Her face swings toward me.

  “You know, I did. I had to wait for the cops to come. It took a while. It was too hard lookin’ at Pop. He was burned so bad. I had to walk away.” She pauses. “I remember the heat from the fire had melted the snow around the house. But I saw boot prints in the row where that car was. Course, they could’ve been there from before. I hadn’t walked the yard in a while.” She points straight ahead. “If we go a little more, I can show you the car.”

  We are about in the middle of a long row when Annette stops in front of an orange Corolla. She flings open the trunk, which contains the spare. I touch the tire’s cut rubber. Annette watches as I shoot photos of the car and its trunk.

  “I’ve seen enough for today.”

  “What are you gonna do next?”

  “I plan to go over your paperwork and see what’s what. I’ll set up interviews with the people on your list.”

  “Who’ll be first?”

  “Not sure,” I say, but in my head Fred is at the top of my list.

  The Pit Stop

  We leave the back roads of Caulfield, and for jollies, I decide to gas up at the Pit Stop. I still have half a tank but what the heck. I’m sure the people who run this joint must overhear lots of stuff that goes on in town. Certainly, that’s true at the Conwell General Store, especially from you-know-who in the backroom. Besides, if I keep showing up in Caulfield, people are going to get suspicious. It’s better to get the word out about what I’m doing.

  “Why are we stopping here for gas?” Ma asks. “It’s cheaper in the city.”

  “I only need half a tank. I see it as an opportunity to meet more people.”

  “All right then. Zip up your jacke
t. It’s cold out there.”

  “Yeah, Ma.”

  The sign on the pump says: PAY INSIDE FIRST. I knock on the windshield and hook my thumb toward the sign before I head toward the wooden shack.

  A bell on the door announces my arrival to a man who pops through an opening behind the counter. I scan the store, which appears to have all the necessities of life such as the cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and nips arranged on the shelf behind the counter. A coffee machine with the fixings is to the left. Oil and antifreeze are stacked in a center aisle. A cooler holds beer, soda, and maybe water and milk. The wall is decorated with NASCAR posters and an American flag.

  “Howdy, ma’am, what can I do for ya?” he says.

  The man behind the counter is a tall, thin guy with a hilltown-issue mullet and wide-angle sideburns. I’m guessing he’s in his late forties. He’s got a Jimmie Johnson ball cap perched on the back of his head. He could be a model for Redneck Monthly, if there were such a thing, even the centerfold if he sat astride a Harley, with his flannel shirt, jeans, and NRA Life Member belt buckle. But he’s got a nice smile and friendly glint to his blue eyes.

  I met tons of guys like him when I was the hilltown reporter for the Daily Star. Maybe he was at one of the truck pulls I covered. What’s a truck pull, you ask? That’s when a guy, although there are gals, too, strips his car or truck down to pure power. Then he or she sees if it can move tons of dead weight over a line. Some make it. Some break down. It’s noisy as hell and the crowd gets into it. The vehicles all have crazy names like Pulling Around and Troublemaker.

  “I’d like to buy some gas, please,” I say. “Ten bucks worth.”

  I fish for two fives from my jeans. No credit card machines at the Pit Stop. Cash or, if they trust you, a check only, as the sign says on the front of the register.

  “Sure enough.” He nods through the window. “That your Subaru? Just passin’ through?”

  “I live in Conwell. My mother and I were visiting Annette Waters.”

  He hums as he checks my car again.

  “You the gal she’s hirin’ to find out about her father?”

  “Yes, I am. Name’s Isabel Long.” I stretch out my hand. “What’s yours?”

  He gives me one of those I’m-not-used-to-shaking-hands-with-a-woman grips, but it’s not too strong or damp, thank you.

  “Pete Woodrell. I own this joint with my wife. Barbie’s not here. She’s drivin’ her school bus route.”

  “Nice to meet you. You’ll probably see more of me in the future.”

  His head swivels a bit.

  “You believe Annette and her cockamamie story about somebody killin’ her old man?”

  “I take it you don’t.”

  He clicks his tongue.

  “Chet was a regular here in my little store. He could put the booze away. Hard stuff. And he smoked like a chimney. He probably kicked from the smoke before he got all burned up. At least, I hope so. I hate to think he suffered.” He clicks his tongue again. “But somebody killin’ him? That sounds like a daughter that won’t let go.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m planning to find out what I can for her,” I say. “Sounds like you knew Chet well. If you wouldn’t mind, sometime soon I’d like to ask you some questions about Chet. Maybe you’ll recall something useful.”

  “Useful.”

  “I’d only take twenty minutes of your time tops. We can meet right here at the store.”

  He works a finger along one of his wide-angle sideburns.

  “You wanna talk about Chet? Sure, I can do that. But it might be a complete waste of your time.”

  “Yeah, sometimes you find dead ends. It’s all part of an investigation.” I shrug. “By the way, I saw your Chevy in her garage.”

  “Annette’s a great mechanic, ’specially for a woman. And she doesn’t charge an arm and a leg.”

  I let the comment “ ’specially for a woman” slide as I spot a stack of booklets on the counter. The cover says: CAULFIELD PHONE BOOK. We have one in Conwell some local group sells as a fundraiser. The phone book costs three bucks. I have just enough on me.

  “I’ll take one of those phone books, too. Here you go. I’d better head out. My mother’s waiting in the car.”

  “Sure you don’t need help?”

  “Nah, I’ve pumped my own gas a million times. But thanks.”

  “See ya soon.”

  “You can count on it.”

  I shuffle my feet a bit as I pump my ten bucks worth of gas. Damn, it’s cold, and I want to be back home before it gets any colder. I need to get a fire going.

  I’m screwing on the gas cap when I notice a police cruiser pull into the lot. It has the name of the town on the side. I can recall when Conwell bought its first cruiser after the cops got sick of drunks puking in the backseat of their personal cars. It wasn’t safe either hauling alleged criminals. The cops didn’t threaten to quit, but the board of selectmen could read between the lines. I even wrote about the new cruiser when I was a reporter and took a photo of the proud police chief standing beside the car. Caulfield’s cruiser looks almost new, so I bet it’s a recent acquisition. I’m also betting having a woman police chief is another first for this hick town.

  A woman is in the driver’s seat. Chief Nancy Dutton has arrived. Now I don’t have to track her down because I doubt Caulfield has a police station, most likely an office at town hall or a spare room at the chief’s house, which is common in the hilltowns.

  I tap my mother’s window, jerk my head toward the cruiser, and walk that way after Ma nods. I reach the car as Chief Nancy Dutton gets out. She’s wearing a heavy blue cop coat over her uniform. She’s a big-boned gal with dark hair cut short, a style that makes her full face appear fuller.

  The chief glances my way when I say hello.

  “Yes?” she asks. “Can I help you?”

  “Chief Dutton, my name’s Isabel Long. I’m a private investigator working a case here in Caulfield.”

  That gets her immediate attention.

  “Private investigator? What are you working on?” She hums. “Never mind. Annette Waters hired you.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  Chief Dutton shuts the cruiser’s door.

  “No, I told her to get herself a P.I.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, she wanted me to open her father’s case. I was on the force when Mr. Waters died, but I wasn’t part of the investigation cause the State Police took charge. They thought it was more than our small department could handle. They were probably right. We’re only part-timers here.”

  “I understand. I live in Conwell.”

  She hums again.

  “You’re the one who solved the Adela Collins case. Nice work on that.” She pauses. “Please contact me if you find anything I should know about.”

  “Will do. Have any hunches about Mr. Waters’ death?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Yeah, off the record.”

  “Something didn’t set right with me about the whole thing. I don’t know what it was. Just call it cop instincts.” She reaches inside her jacket and pulls out a card. “Here’s how you can reach me.”

  I dig into my purse for a blank piece of paper and write down my info.

  “Sorry, I don’t have any cards yet. I just started working for Lin Pierce. He can vouch for me.”

  “I know Mr. Pierce. He’s done some work up here.” She glances at the Pit Stop. “I need to get going. I could use a cup of coffee. Yeah, it ain’t Starbucks, but it’ll have to do.”

  “That’s okay. My mother’s waiting in the car. I don’t want her to get too cold. Nice to meet you, Chief Dutton.”

  “Same here.”

  Of course, on the way home Ma wants a blow-by-blow about my conversation with Chief Dutton, and then we’re talking about our meeting with Annette.

  “What’s your gut feeling?” I ask my mother when we’re done.

  “Gut feeling? There’s definitely something there. But I
’m not sure what it is at this point.”

  “I agree. But even though this happened only three years ago, it’s gonna be harder to crack this case. I don’t know anybody there.”

  “What did you do when you had to report on a story in a place where you didn’t know anybody?”

  “I followed the leads I had. One person led me to another. Yeah, yeah, I hear you. I should do the same for this one. Well, I have Annette to start me off.”

  “Who’s first?”

  “Jack’s creepy cousin, Fred.”

  “You going to talk with him at the Rooster?”

  “Makes sense.”

  My mother makes a sniffing laugh.

  “I hear they have a band playing on Friday. I bet he’ll be there for that. You should go.”

  I give my mother a sideways glance. I can guess what else is on her mind.

  “I just might,” I tell her.

  Annette’s List

  After supper, naturally kale soup and hearty bread we got from the city that’s pretty close to Portagee bread, I go over Annette’s list of suspects. I’ll save the envelopes of records for another day. Here’s the list and what she wrote.

  MIKE WATERS: My brother. All he cared about was getting his share of the land.

  AL SINCLAIR: He runs the junkyard in Fulton. He and Pop had some nasty fights.

  GARY BEAUMONT: No good bum. Lives in Caulfield. Does drugs. Sells drugs.

  LARRY BEAUMONT: His brother. Ditto.

  FRED LEWIS: My asshole ex-husband. He deals drugs. Maybe the ones Pop found belonged to him.

  ANTHONY STEWARD: One of the newcomers who got himself elected to the zoning board. He wanted to shut the junkyard down. Kept looking for reasons.

  JOJO TIDEWATER: Ex-boyfriend. Another loser and drug user. I can sure pick them.

  I show the list to Ma, who asks how I’ll find these people and their phone numbers. The lack of technology is on my side for once. There’s no cell phone service for most of Caulfield. That little phone book I picked up there will come in handy. Annette wrote the numbers for Mike and JoJo since they don’t live in Caulfield.