Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “Was Chet an honest guy?”

  “Would I buy a used car off him? Yup? Would I play cards with him? Nope.”

  “So, he was a mixed bag,” I say. “I’m going to tell you something I want you to keep between us. Just before he died, Chet found drugs and money in the trunk of one of his junks. Any idea how they could’ve gotten there?”

  His brow hangs hard and low over his eyes.

  “Annette tell you I deal drugs?”

  “I’m going to be honest. Yes, she mentioned something like that.”

  “Don’t believe a word that bitch says. She’s a goddamn liar. Yeah, I smoke weed and I’ve put stuff up my nose. But I’m not selling. You got that straight?”

  I keep calm.

  “See? This is why I wanted to ask you directly. There are at least two sides to a story.”

  He grunts.

  “Shit, you’re right about that. Who else is a suspect?”

  “That’s between Annette and me,” I say. “But if you think of anything else, give me a call, or maybe I’ll see you here.”

  He smirks.

  “Too bad about you and my cousin.” The smirk grows. “Course, I’d make a mighty fine replacement. I’m willing and able.”

  I refrain from shaking my head or making a face. I may need Fred for this case.

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  We both turn when Jack’s pickup pulls into the lot and toward his usual space beside the side door.

  “Wanna come inside? I bet we could wrangle us a couple of free beers,” Fred says.

  “Maybe some other time.”

  “Sure enough. I understand.”

  Fred is being as nice as possible. With a wink and “Bye, gorgeous,” he’s out of my car and strutting toward Jack’s truck. I back the Subaru and give them a friendly toot of the horn before I leave the lot. In the rearview mirror, I see Jack watching my car while he talks with his cousin. My ears are burning.

  Sunday with the Family

  Today is Ruth’s birthday, so we’re having the party at my house. Ma roasted the chicken. I made two lemon meringue pies, Ruth’s favorite dessert. Even as a kid she asked for the pie instead of birthday cake. I was happy to comply. Ruth’s in-laws, Anne and Phil, drove up from Connecticut. Actually, they came yesterday, stayed at Ruth’s, and will leave Monday. I’m expecting a third degree from Anne about the new case should the topic come up.

  I swoop my baby granddaughter, Sophie, into my arms as I greet Ruth, Gregg, and his parents at the door. Alex and Matthew are already here, talking with their grandmother and cleaning out the fridge although they know we’re having a sit-down dinner. Those boys, really men now, have hollow legs, as my mother would say.

  It’s the usual Long noisy gathering, which gets noisier after I start pouring wine and beer, and we do the birthday cake thing. Ruth opens her gifts and cards. We take turns holding Sophie.

  I’ve been waiting for the interrogation, but it doesn’t happen until Ruth’s in-laws, actually her mother in-law, are into their second glass of wine.

  “Isabel, have you started a new case?” a pink-faced Anne asks.

  Ruth rolls her eyes even before I answer. The boys laugh over their beers.

  “Actually, I have. A woman contacted me because she’s convinced somebody who had it in for her father killed him instead of him dying in a fire. The official word is he was passed out from drinking when a cigarette started the fire. It’s a small house, so it didn’t take much.”

  “Who’s the woman?” Anne asks.

  “Annette Waters. She lives in Caulfield, a town north of here. Her father owned a huge junkyard. Now she does. Annette is a mechanic, too.”

  Anne’s mouth drops open.

  “A junkyard? A woman owns a junkyard?”

  I nod.

  “My mother and I went there a couple of days ago. Biggest one we’ve ever seen.”

  “It sure was,” my mother says. “Annette keeps it rather neat for a junkyard. But we haven’t seen Sinclair’s yet.”

  I set down my glass.

  “That’s a junkyard in Fulton. I’m going Tuesday, maybe with Ma if she wants.” I turn toward my daughter. “Yeah, Ruth, I know I’m watching Sophie tomorrow. I promise not to take her to a junkyard.”

  “That’s right. No junkyards.”

  Anne’s head swings from me to my mother and back to me.

  “Who do you suspect?” she says.

  “I don’t know the town of Caulfield, so I guess everybody at this point, except his daughter, Annette. She certainly wouldn’t be asking me to investigate her father’s death if she were guilty. Annette did give me a list of suspects.” I turn toward Matt and Alex. “You two ever meet Gary and Larry Beaumont?”

  My sons eye each other before Matt speaks, “Aw, Mom, you don’t want to mess with those guys. I went to school with the younger one, Larry, before he dropped out.”

  Matt, the union heavy equipment operator, graduated from the regional vocational school. I’m already getting a feeling for Gary and Larry, but my son actually knows one of them.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He got busted for selling dope. He and his brother were just, uh, total jerks.”

  “I’m planning to meet them anyways. But I’m not going alone.”

  Alex hoots.

  “You taking Grandma?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not this time. I’m going with Marsha to that biker bar, Baxter’s, in West Caulfield. I don’t think Grandma would enjoy that experience.”

  Ma laughs.

  “You never know,” she says. “But I think I’ll stay home with a good book instead and let your mother have all the fun.”

  Anne’s mouth drops open.

  “You’re not really going to a biker bar, are you?”

  “Sure, why not? It’s part of my legwork for this case.”

  “It sounds awfully dangerous,” Anne says.

  I lift my glass of wine.

  “You haven’t met the woman who’s coming with me. She’s one tough broad. Tougher than most men I know. Ma and I call her the Floozy.”

  “To her face?” Anne asks.

  “Are you kidding me? I’ve got more sense than that.” I laugh. “She’d beat the crap outta me.”

  “What about Annette?”

  “They’re cousins. She’s a tough cookie, too.” I laugh. “Hey, Ma, I think that’ll be her nickname.”

  “The Tough Cookie? I like that,” Ma says.

  Everyone is laughing when Ruth gets up. I think at first she’s fed up with all of this P.I. nonsense, her words, not mine, but then she returns with a small white box.

  “This is for you, Mom,” she says.

  The box contains a neat stack of business cards. I lift one. It says: ISABEL LONG, P.I. and it has all of my contact info, including my association with Lin Pierce. Ruth is beaming. I reach over to give her a hug.

  “Thanks, Ruth, these will come in handy. I could’ve used one of these the other day when I met the Caulfield police chief.”

  I pass a few cards around.

  “You need a business card if you’re going to do this P.I. stuff for real,” Ruth says.

  Anne leans across the table. She holds one of my cards.

  “Isabel, what are you going to wear to this biker bar?” she asks. “You have any leather clothes?”

  “Leather? Ha, nothing like that.” I laugh. “Just my regular clothes. I’m going under cover.”

  Of course, Ruth rolls her eyes. My boys laugh while Anne opens her mouth to ask yet another question.

  From One Junkyard to Another

  At the last minute, my mother agrees to come along Tuesday for the field trip to Sinclair’s Junkyard. She tells me bad weather’s coming this evening, freezing rain, the worst, and this may be our last chance to be out and about for a couple of days. Besides, she’s interested, as I am, in whether Chet Waters’ death could come down to a junkyard war.

  “But what about the drug
s and money?” I ask her on the drive over to Fulton.

  “Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe it was planted.”

  I glance over at my mother.

  “See? Once again, you come up with a couple of angles I didn’t consider.”

  My mother laughs.

  “Guess I haven’t lost my touch.”

  Fulton is just another puny hilltown in Western Massachusetts. It’s almost a duplicate of Caulfield next door, with its collection of public buildings and a gas station. This one’s called the Go Between. I’d tip my hat, if I could ever find one to fit my gigantic head, to the owners who came up with that clever name.

  Unlike Annette’s Rough Waters Junkyard, Sinclair’s is on the main drag, which makes my life a lot easier. It has a high wooden fence, at least in the front, so it looks more like a fort than a place to buy used parts. After I pull the car inside, I give the place a quick once-over and wait to see if any barking dogs pounce toward my car, but none do. There isn’t a house, but a small building for an office and a garage beside it. High, chain-link fencing with a roll of barbed wire at the top surrounds the rest of the yard. I would say the amount of junkers rivals Annette’s.

  “Ready?” I ask my mother.

  I’m helping Ma from the front seat when a man leaves the office. He’s short, almost child-sized. He has a full head of white hair and long sideburns. He walks with a bit of a jingle to his step as if he’s in a hurry to see what two women want in his junkyard. I don’t blame him. How many women show up here in a new Subaru?

  He stands near my car.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you, ladies?”

  I show him my most pleasant smile.

  “Real orderly junkyard you’ve got here,” I tell him.

  He glances around as if he doesn’t believe me.

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have dogs?”

  “I got something better, a good strong fence and an alarm system with cameras. Don’t have to feed ’em or worry about ’em bitin’ a customer.” He scratches the front right corner of his forehead. “Are you both lost? Need directions to somewhere?”

  “No, no, we’re not lost. My name’s Isabel Long and this is my mother, Maria Ferreira. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  His face freezes into sharp folds.

  “You’re not church people, are you?” he asks, and then when I shake my head, “You collectin’ money for some charity?”

  “No on that one, too,” I say.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “I’m a private investigator. Annette Waters hired me to look into her father’s death. She doesn’t believe it was an accident her father died in that fire. She thinks someone might’ve killed him.”

  Al Sinclair keeps scratching his forehead. If we were playing poker, I would say that was his tell and I’d bet against him.

  “If you don’t mind my askin’, what in the hell does that got to do with me?”

  I check on my mother.

  “Would you mind if we stepped inside your office? I can tell you all about it in there. It’s a little cold for my mother. She’s ninety-two.”

  He gives my mother the once-over. I try not to smile. Having a mother who doesn’t mind people knowing her age is a clever way to get our collective foot through the door. Besides, Ma doesn’t look ninety-two, and when you’re that age, it’s something pride-worthy.

  “Sure, ladies,” he says, and then the three of us are walking toward the office.

  “My, this is nice and warm,” my mother announces when Al shuts the door behind us. “Thank you.”

  It’s actually hot as hell, but I’m not going to complain. Al sits behind a desk and slides a pile of papers to the side, so we can see each other. He sits back in one of those old office chairs, wooden, likely oak, and with a solid spring action in its base.

  “What’s this all about? Isabel, did you say?”

  “That’s right.” I reach into my purse and hand him one of my cards. “Here’s my contact info.”

  He glances at the card.

  “Isabel Long, P.I., eh? Never met a real P.I. before.”

  “I’m an associate of Lin Pierce in Jefferson.”

  “I’ve heard of Lin.” He tosses the card on his desk. “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “We live in Conwell, so I’m trying to get to know this area. I’m meeting with several people. Someone recommended I stop by since you and Chet owned the same kind of business in neighboring towns. How did that work out for you both?”

  “I’m a second generation junkman. I inherited the place from my father. Still got a few of his old clunkers. I started workin’ for him when I was just a kid. It became all mine when Dad died.”

  “It’s my understanding Chet opened his junkyard and repair shop after he got out of the service. Is that right?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, ma’am. Then he came along.”

  I bet if we were outside he might have spit on the ground after saying that.

  “Isn’t it unusual to have two large junkyards in neighboring towns?”

  He works his mouth as if he’s got something loose inside. Uh-huh, he wants to spit.

  “I’d say that’s probably true since most towns won’t allow ’em.”

  “Was that a problem between you and Chet?”

  He nods.

  “Oh, I see where this is goin’. Did Chet piss me off?” His voice has got a tight kink in it. “Sure he did. I had my reasons but not because we both had junkyards. He was a mean son of a bitch.” He glances at my mother. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  My mother nods in absolution.

  “You said you had reasons.”

  “It’s personal.” His chin juts forward. “It happened years ago. End of story.”

  I’m remembering what Marsha said. Whatever it was involved somebody’s sister, but Al’s clammed up. I’m just a nosy newcomer to him. Chet’s just a mean son of a bitch.

  I glance at my mother, who gives me the slightest shake of her head. She’s telling me to move onto something else. We both know we can find out what did happen elsewhere. I don’t want to lose this guy.

  His eyes have a lock on me.

  “I will say one more thing, and then we’re done. Once in a while, we’d end up at the same place together. I wasn’t afraid of tellin’ that son of a bitch what I thought of him like the time he cheated my boys when they were playin’ cards. There’s other stuff like that.”

  “Your boys?”

  “Yeah, Junior and Roy.”

  “How much did they lose?”

  “More than they could afford. He even took my father’s gold watch Junior put up. Yeah, yeah, the kid shouldn’t have done that.” He leans over the desk. “The worse part is I think Chet enjoyed it.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You’re right about that,” he said. “Eh, I got back at him for that. I told a dealership in the valley Chet was out of business.” He makes a head-shaking laugh. “Somebody new answered the phone, so I pretended I was Chet.” He laughs that way again. “Took Chet a coupla weeks to figure that out. Revenge is sweet.”

  I ponder that statement. I’ve witnessed numerous cases where somebody managed to take it out on somebody else. The locals turned it into an art, against each other sometimes, and even against newcomers. Once, the guy who put in the cellar when we were building our house got pissed off because Sam didn’t hire him for a job. Sam wasn’t the general contractor, but Ed didn’t forgive him for that. Sam tried to make it up to the guy by having him do more work at our house. Ed strung us along for months. In the end, we both chalked it up to redneck’s revenge. I’d say Chet and Al were pros at it. As for Ed, we ended up getting somebody else to do the work for cheaper. I say so much for revenge.

  “I suppose,” I tell Al.

  “His daughter, Annette, thinks somebody killed her father. It could be true, but it wouldn’t have been me. If so, I would’ve done it years ago when I was young and hothe
aded. I’ve got too much to lose now. I’ve got family and a business.”

  “Your boys live around here?”

  “Yup, just down the road. Both are married. One’s got a baby on the way. Our first grandkid. The wife is nuts about it.” He almost smiles just then. “They both work here with me. We’ve got a nice business. When I kick, it goes to them.”

  “I see. Where were you the night of the fire?”

  He doesn’t even pause.

  “With my wife. I go straight home every night after I lock the gate. We live just up the road.”

  Al’s wife is his alibi, admittedly not an airtight one. What wife is going to rat out her husband? Likely not Al Sinclair’s.

  “How can you be so sure? That was three years ago.”

  He makes a sound in the back of his throat.

  “Hard to forget the night somebody burns up in a fire around here.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You can ask my wife if you want. She could vouch for me. Want her number? Her name’s Kate by the way.”

  “Why not?”

  Al scribbles on a piece of paper. I glance at Ma. She’s ready to go. She’s given me the sign, which is when she opens and shuts the clasp of her purse with a loud click, just in case I miss it.

  “I believe you answered all of my questions for now.” I take the paper. “Oh, no, wait. One more, please. If Annette is right about her father, do you have any idea who could’ve done it?”

  “Have you heard of the Beaumont brothers?”

  “Their names have come up more than once.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. “If you ladies don’t mind, I’ve got a business to run.”

  “Thanks for speaking with me,” I say. “Give me a call if you think of anything else. You have my card.”

  Ma and I talk it over as I take the back way home through Caulfield. Al Sinclair definitely remains on the suspect list for now. He’s hiding something about Chet. Maybe it’s something big, maybe something small, but I need to find out what it is.

  And a reckoning is definitely in order with the Beaumont brothers.