Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  Pete seems in an easy-going mood, but I still plan to use my usual reporter’s trick of tossing a few softball questions first.

  “Did you grow up in Caulfield?” I ask.

  “No, ma’am, I’m from New Hampshire, a small town like this one you probably never heard of unless you lived there,” he answers. “How did I get here? That’s a long story.”

  I smile and plan to be my friendly reporter self.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got time for a long story. I like getting to know the people I’m interviewing. So, how did you get to Caulfield?”

  His chair creaks a bit as he leans back.

  “After I got out of the Air Force, I drove truck for a big outfit, but I got tired of that, ’specially after I married Barbie. I thought we were gonna have kids, but that didn’t happen.” He pauses. “Anyways we were home visitin’ my folks when a buddy told me the Pit Stop was for sale. He’d been thinkin’ of buyin’ it, but changed his mind. We took a look and liked what we saw. Lucky for us Barbie’s folks helped out. That was about fifteen years ago. And here we still are.”

  “Being the only store in town, you must know everybody in Caulfield.”

  “Yup, just about, and the towns around it. We’re open seven to seven, so we get people goin’ to and comin’ from work.”

  “Coffee in the morning and beer at night?”

  “You got it. Plus gas. It’s a little more expensive than what the city gas stations charge. And people ain’t gonna shop here for their week’s groceries. We’re more of a convenience store.”

  “You mentioned before Chet was a regular.”

  “He sure was. He stopped in every day for smokes or booze and usually both. He liked putting away the hard stuff. I recall he really liked Barbie’s muffins and complained if we ran out before he showed up. Most times he took his sweet time, talking about what was going on in town or something he read in the paper. He liked making Barbie laugh with his corny jokes.”

  “He read the newspaper? Well, bless his heart.”

  “Heart?” Pete chuckles. “I don’t know if he had one.”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “I won’t be the first to tell you probably he cheated at cards. He sure didn’t mind rippin’ people off.”

  “But some people told me he was a fair businessman when it came to fixing or selling cars.”

  He mulls my words.

  “Yeah, I heard that, too, although his daughter is a better mechanic.”

  “When was the last time you saw Chet?”

  “The day before we heard about the fire actually. He came in for a bottle of Jim Beam. I’m guessin’ he must’ve been pretty loaded when his place caught fire.”

  “You said Chet liked to talk. Do you remember your conversation that day?”

  He bites his lip as he thinks.

  “To tell you the truth, I was too damn busy that day to pay much attention to Chet. The beer truck had just arrived and I was busy dealing with that. We go through an awful lot of beer here in a week.” He flashes a gold tooth when he grins. “But back to Chet. We exchanged a few words. He complained some newcomer who didn’t like junkyards was tryin’ to close his down. He brought it up before.” He makes that grin again. “We store owners are a little like bartenders and shrinks. We listen to people’s problems all the time. He sure liked havin’ Barbie’s ear.”

  “Do you remember the newcomer’s name?”

  “Oh, yeah, Anthony Steward.”

  I smile. That name is on Annette’s list of suspects.

  “I read a newspaper story about the fire. The reporter quoted you.”

  He nods.

  “Yeah, me and a lot of folks went to Rough Waters when we heard about the fire. I closed the store to see what was happenin’ then came back. That’s when the reporter asked me about Chet.”

  Pete’s not giving me a whole lot of new info, except that tidbit about the newcomer, Anthony Steward. Too bad Pete was too busy to talk with Chet. I wonder if Barbie did.

  “To back up a little, was Barbie here when Chet came that day?”

  “Hmm, she was. He tended to show up after she was done her morning bus route at ten. I could set my watch by him. I used to kid her about that.”

  I can visualize old Chet chatting it up with the missus. She’s sweet and attentive. Plus she bakes. I’m gonna have to interview her separately someday after ten, it seems.

  “You said you believe the fire was accidental. Let’s pretend it wasn’t.” I wait for a nod from Pete. “Who do you think would be likely suspects?”

  He fingers his chin.

  “Pretend, eh? Well, I believe it could’ve been one of his poker victims if the stakes were high enough.”

  “You ever play with him?”

  He snorts a laugh.

  “Only if I was okay losin’ that night. I just liked watchin’ the man in action, makin’ jokes and tellin’ stories. He was a real character. He put on a good show. The town sure ain’t the same without him.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Well, there was the newcomer I mentioned. Chet did complain about the Beaumont brothers, Gary and Larry. He didn’t like their line of work, if you get what I mean. Somethin’ else happened there, but I don’t know what.”

  If Ma were here, she’d get that pocketbook clicking. It’s time to leave.

  “I’m not gonna take up any more of your time, but if you think of anything more, here’s my card.”

  Pete takes the card from my hand.

  “Will do, Isabel. Come again real soon.”

  Dirty Work

  It’s Friday, and I’m parked on a city street to spy on a man who claims to have hurt his back so badly in an accident he should get a ton of money from the insurance company of the driver who hit him. The alleged victim, Wilson Barry, was a pedestrian in a crosswalk. According to Lin Pierce, Barry was indeed injured, but the insurance company doubts it’s permanent or as bad as he claims.

  “See if you can catch him doing something a person with a disabling injury couldn’t do,” Lin told me over the phone yesterday.

  I’m not crazy about this line of work. My mother calls it dirty work although she comes along anyway for moral support. My job is to take photos. It’s kind of tricky. I can’t enter Wilson Barry’s property or tip him off about what I’m doing. But Lin has a hunch the guy is faking it.

  “You do take good photos, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I learned that on the job. I have a nice Nikon with the right lens.”

  We’ve been outside Wilson Barry’s address for forty-five minutes. Luckily, there are a number of parked cars on this city street, so mine doesn’t stand out. I’m getting a bit cold sitting here, but I don’t want to run the engine too often. At least, it’s warm enough to have melted the ice from that storm the other day.

  My mother taps my arm.

  “That him?”

  I check the photo Lin emailed me.

  “If it’s not him, it’s got to be his twin brother. Hey, he’s getting in his car. It’s about time.”

  Barry uses a cane as he walks around his car. He’s maybe in his early thirties or younger. He’s dark-haired, and although it’s hard to say from the heavy jacket he’s wearing, I believe he’s on the thin side. I snap a shot as he throws his cane and gets in the front seat. I wait until he’s driven halfway down the block before I follow. My mother is the navigator.

  “He taking a right,” she warns me before I do the same. “Slow down, Isabel. He’s stopping at the convenience store.”

  I pull over and wait. Minutes later, Wilson Barry has a lit cigarette between his lips, likely his reason for stopping. He doesn’t use a cane. Snap.

  Then he’s back in his car. I do my best to keep up without being obvious, letting a vehicle or two get between us. I’ve seen enough cop shows and movies to figure out this part. We are at a city park, and I trail his car to a basketball court. He’s shed his jacket and is wearing a sweatshirt. He calls to the guys alrea
dy on the court. One guy shoots the ball toward Wilson Barry, and I’m shooting as he dribbles and does a nice floater off the rim. Snap some more.

  “Got you, you bastard,” I say.

  I keep shooting from the car until I believe I’ve got enough for Lin to present as evidence.

  “Are we done?” my mother says.

  “Yes, ma’am. Let’s go buy some groceries.”

  Baxter’s

  Marsha picks me up in her beater of a car around nine on Saturday night. The way that car rattles it wouldn’t take much for it to find a final resting place at her cousin’s junkyard. She smokes with the window down, doesn’t even ask if I mind.

  “Where were ya last night?” she asks.

  “You mean at the Rooster?”

  She blows smoke out the window.

  “Where else?”

  I try not to sigh.

  “I wasn’t up for it. Why, did something happen?”

  Her eyes dart toward my side of the car.

  “People were askin’ for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? I had something else to do.”

  I’m lying. Ma and I came home in the afternoon after a trip to Whole Foods, where my mother went “tsk, tsk” over the prices, and a quick visit with Lin Pierce, where he downloaded the photos I shot, praising me for the fast work. I told him I felt a little slimy helping out an insurance company, in my opinion one of the bottom feeders in this world, but he brushed me off with one of those it’s strictly business lectures.

  After supper, I mostly stayed in my office, sorting the papers Annette gave me. The medical examiner wrote in his report Chet Waters probably died from smoke inhalation rather than the burns that covered his body. He appeared to have hit his temple hard because there was a crack in his skull, likely made when he fell to the floor or it could have been a piece of the house that fell on him. That would have been a contributing factor to his death.

  The fire chief wrote there was no evidence an accelerant was used. According to the state police report, the garage wasn’t broken into, so nothing valuable was taken. Annette confirmed for them the safe was intact.

  I did go through the envelope of records from Rough Waters. It seems Chet did a lot of business with a used car lot in Springville, but nothing stood out, no big debts or anything like that. The ’78 Corolla appeared to have a clear title.

  When I came downstairs I pestered my mother, who told me she wanted to finish the book she was reading. I ended up half-watching a nature show on PBS and sulking.

  Now Marsha snorts on the other side of her car.

  “Too bad. It was a good band. A new one. The Country Plowboys. I guess they all work on highway crews or plow driveways during the winter. They weren’t half bad. People were dancin’ their brains out. Even Jack.” She chuckles something low and dirty. “Don’t ya worry none. It was Carole, the new cook. She’s married.” More laughter. “Gotcha goin’ there for a second, didn’t I?”

  Yes, she did, but I won’t admit it.

  “You’re hilarious, Marsha.”

  The parking lot at Baxter’s is full of the usual winter assortment of snowmobiles, pickups, and cars. This bar’s big night is Saturday, the Floozy told me on the way over, and the owner usually books a band.

  As we head toward the front entrance, I hear music, something by the group Alabama, bouncing through the walls. Beer signs flash through the windows. Ahead of me, Marsha marches inside as if she owns the damn place. She stops short of the dance floor, nods, and then points toward the far end. Annette already has a table. Some guy is talking in her ear while he stares at the cleavage rising about her low-cut sweater. She paws at him as she laughs.

  Marsha turns toward me.

  “My cousin’s a slut, what can I tell ya?”

  “She looks like she’s just having a good time.”

  “Same difference.” Marsha slaps my arm and points at the band. “Well, well, look who’s playin’. It’s the Country Plowboys. You didn’t miss ’em after all.”

  When the song ends, Marsha and I make our way across the thinning dance floor. Annette, aka the Tough Cookie, gives the guy she’s with a friendly push and says, “You gotta get lost now. Maybe later.”

  The guy, in the usual country attire of flannel, canvas, and denim, checks us out, but he clearly isn’t interested. We take our seats. Marsha whistles sharply through her teeth to get the waitress’s attention.

  I lean forward.

  “I’ll get this round,” I say.

  “All right,” the Floozy says.

  I glance around the barroom. It’s three times the size of the Rooster, with a long bar on one side and an actual stage. Tables border the dance floor on three sides. It’s dark inside except for the wide-screen TVs lit over the three shelves of booze behind the bar. The clientele is on the rustic side, which I expect and enjoy. Frankly, as a reporter and a denizen of the hilltowns, I found the natives often more interesting than the white-collar folks who commuted to the city.

  That’s when I notice the beer cans. Everybody who doesn’t have a mixed drink has a can of Bud or whatever. The woman who took our order is carrying a tray of them.

  “No beer in bottles here?” I ask my companions.

  “Nah, it’s safer with cans,” the Floozy says. “Even the glasses are plastic. I’d say that was being real smart with this crowd.”

  I hand the bills to the waitress.

  “Keep the change,” I say, remembering the buck-a-round-rule at the Rooster.

  The cousins are gabbing about the men, which ones are decent looking and who’s available for a roll in the sack. They appear to like men with hair and a steady job, which is a sound idea, or as Annette puts it, “I don’t want some guy spongin’ off of me. Did that. Won’t do it again.” They also don’t like guys with big beer bellies or steady girlfriends and wives. No sloppy seconds, the Tough Cookie says.

  “What about you?” Annette asks with a grin. “See anybody here you might be interested in?”

  “Me? I really haven’t checked out the men,” I say.

  She snickers.

  “Well, that guy over there is sure givin’ you the eye. See him over there next to the juke? He’s one of those silver foxes.”

  I turn as casually as possible. The aforementioned guy is an older man with indeed silver hair, actually on the handsome side. He is definitely staring in our direction, but when I glance around, I notice plenty of women of all shapes and sizes are sitting at the tables behind us.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Are the Beaumont brothers here?”

  Both women shake their heads.

  The Floozy leans toward me.

  “Not yet. We’ll let you know when they come.”

  I raise my chin.

  “Hey, isn’t that Pete Woodrell from the Pit Stop over there? See the back table?”

  “Yeah, that’s the dick,” Annette says.

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  Annette gulps down the last of her beer and smacks the table with the empty can.

  “Let’s say I don’t think he’s very nice to his wife. Sometimes she’s got bruises I know she didn’t get from bumpin’ into things.” She raises her hand to get the waitress’s attention. “Too bad it’s the only place around I can buy gas and beer.”

  “You ever say anything to her?”

  “Hard to. The dick’s always there.” She nods toward Pete’s direction. “See her hidin’ there in the corner? He’s got her under his thumb.”

  Barbie sits tucked beside her husband, who yaks it up with a couple of guys at his table. She’s off in a zone somewhere as she sips her drink with a straw. So it turns out Mr. Friendly Storekeeper might not be so friendly after all, at least to his wife. What’s that saying? The bigger the front, the bigger the back.

  “Yeah, I do. You ever see him lose his temper?”

  “Not me, but I’ve heard stories. You’ll see what I mean if you keep comin’ to the Pit Stop.” Annette sniffs. “Maybe you can do
somethin’ about it. I hate to see anythin’ bad happen to her. Even my Pop liked her.”

  I’m thinking about Pete, Barbie, and crappy marriages when the Country Plowboys strike up the Allman Brothers’ “Ramblin’ Man.” Wouldn’t you guess the silver-haired guy makes his way through the dancers to our table?

  “Care to dance, ma’am?” he asks me.

  The Floozy elbows me. Oh, why not. I get to my feet and hold out my hand. “Ramblin’ Man” is not one of my favorite dance songs, but it’ll work.

  I let my dancing partner take the lead while we make steps around the floor. If I were to rank him, I’d say he was on par with Jack but not as good as Sam. Actually, it’s fun dancing with a perfect stranger.

  The song ends, but before the next one begins and I can escape, he leans in to say, “Name’s Dave. What’s yours?”

  “Isabel.”

  “Never seen you in here before.”

  “It’s my first time,” and before he or I can say more, the Country Plowboys are working up Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock.” Now if there was ever a heart-pumper of a song, this is it. Heck, I’m not gonna turn this one down. Dave grabs my hand without asking. He knows what he’s doing, so I just go along, moving back and forth, a twirl here and there. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d spun me over his back, but thankfully, he doesn’t.

  At the end, the County Plowboys call it quits for a short break. I thank Dave and before I can leave him behind, he says, “Maybe we can dance some more later.”

  I nod and smile. Isabel, what the hell are you up to? I suppose having fun with another man.

  Naturally, the cousins laugh their heads off when I join them.

  “See? We told ya,” Marsha says. “Hee, hee, check her out, Annette. She’s as red as a beet.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Annette laughs so hard, beer spurts from her mouth.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  Marsha jabs my arm with her elbow. She’s stopped laughing.

  “Look who just walked through the door. The Beaumont bastards,” she says. “They’re already stinkin’ up the place.”