Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “These flowers are absolutely beautiful.” I take a sniff. “Oh, stargazer lilies.”

  “They’re almost as beautiful as you.”

  I feel my neck and face flushing. I’m doing that insane giggling.

  “Oh, Jack,” is about all I can muster before I kiss him back.

  I shut the door, and while Jack gives the dog, Maggie, a couple of pats, I’m in the kitchen searching for a vase in the cupboards. I fill one with water as Jack strolls toward the table. He grabs the flowers Dancin’ Dave gave me and tosses them in the trash.

  “You won’t be needing these anymore,” he jokes as he sets the empty vase in the sink.

  I place the flowers Jack brought me on the table.

  “I guess not.”

  He grins as he wraps his arm around me.

  “You guessed correctly, ma’am.”

  Reporter’s Notebook

  The landline rings while Jack and I finish our coffee the next morning. As usual, I made him pancakes, and when he protested, I reminded him that he needs to keep up his strength if he’s going to keep up these nightly visits. That sure got him chuckling. Jack’s a cinch to please.

  I glance at the phone to see if it’s worth answering or leaving for voice mail. The call is from Sean Mooney. I pick up right away.

  “Isabel, guess what? I found that notebook,” he says.

  “That’s great news, Sean. Uh, can you read your writing?”

  He chuckles

  “Barely. But just enough to prick my memory. It seemed there were a number of townspeople who gathered at the junkyard when word got out about Mr. Waters’ death. They stayed out of the way of the cops and firefighters. I paid attention because I was looking for anyone who might be willing to talk. I kept striking out. Except for a couple of guys, nobody wanted to speak to the outsider reporter. I just stayed back and studied the group.”

  “Smart. Were they near the spot where you found the blood?”

  “No, they weren’t. From my notes, there were two guys who looked like brothers. One had a scar on his face and the other, a mustache. Real local boys. They didn’t seem that broken up over Mr. Waters’ death. Actually one of them made a joke about the old man being… ”

  “A crispy critter?”

  “How’d you guess? Naturally, I didn’t use that in my story.”

  “Those were the Beaumont brothers, high on my list of suspects.”

  “No kidding.”

  I glance toward Jack, who is listening to my end of the conversation. I blow him a kiss.

  “They’re the ones who stood out from that crowd. And there was a woman who was crying.”

  “Crying? The woman wasn’t Annette Waters?”

  “No, somebody else. I think I wrote her name, but that part of the page got torn off. Actually, the notebook is in rough shape. Looks like I dumped coffee on it. Sorry. I’ve gotten neater about my notes.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m surprised you still have the notebook.”

  “Anyway, she was pretty bundled up. It was damn cold that day. She had a wool hat pulled down low and she was wearing one of those puffy coats with the hood up, so she could’ve been fat or skinny. She was wearing sunglasses, too. I couldn’t even tell you her hair color.” He takes a breather. “I did try to talk with her, but she just stared back at me and shook her head. That’s what I wrote down anyways.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “It was hard to tell. The cops made everybody keep out of the way. There was maybe twenty of so. They were in one group. One of the guys was the owner of the Pit Stop. I did get a quote out of him later at the store.”

  “Maybe the woman was a relative. Thanks anyway.”

  “How’s the case going?”

  “Eh, not so good. I’m giving it one week more. Actually, now six days. The clock is ticking. Too many dead ends.”

  “Well, keep me in mind if you do break the case.”

  “I’ll call you after the cops and my mother.”

  I give Jack the lowdown about Sean and his part in the case. I feel free to tell him anything, well, except about the Beaumont brothers’ stash of dope in the Corolla. I keep my promises even with scumbags.

  “Six days, eh?” he says. “You’d better get going, Isabel.”

  “Yes, I’d better. I don’t want to fail on my second attempt at being a P.I. So, I’m kicking you out and heading to Sinclair’s Junkyard.” I laugh. “My life these days is spent mostly in junkyards.”

  “What are you doin’ there? I thought Al had an alibi.”

  “That he was home with his wife? That’s not very airtight, is it? I have some questions about his boys. I figure I have an in since I’m delivering that watch to one of his boys, the one he lost at that poker game you told me about.”

  “It belonged to Junior. How’d you get your hands on it?”

  “Annette found it in the garage. She asked me to return it.”

  Jack hums.

  “You’re gonna make that kid happy.”

  “We’ll see after I question them. Maybe I’ll ask him and his brother a few questions about the Beaumonts since they used to be buddies,” I say. “Will I see you tonight?”

  “Try keepin’ me away,” he says, grinning.

  The Return

  Al Sinclair studies my mother’s car as I pull into his junkyard. I bet he’s wondering if I’m some old lady who got lost, or maybe he thinks I’m some religious nut trying to convert junkyard owners. One eye is cocked when he steps closer to inspect my mother’s heap. I shut the engine. The watch is in the pocket of my jacket. I pat it just to make sure.

  “Hey, Al, remember me?” I say as I get out. “Isabel Long.”

  “Yeah, I do.” His voice is flat. “Didn’t recognize the car. Not your style as I recall.”

  “It belongs to my mother. Annette says I shouldn’t let it sit so much.”

  “Annette. I see.”

  “Are your sons here?”

  His eyes sliver into slits.

  “Junior and Roy? What for?”

  “I have a gift for one of them. I believe Junior.”

  “Gift? What kind of gift?”

  “Let’s say it was something that belongs in your family, and one of them lost it in a poker game.” I pull the watch from my pocket. “This was your father’s, wasn’t it? It says Eben Sinclair on the back. See?”

  For the first time, the man’s features relax. His mouth hangs open for a moment, but then he catches himself.

  “Be right back.”

  I slip the watch back into my pocket and take a gander while I wait, presumably for the return of Al and his boys, or rather men. Just like at Rough Waters, the junks, except for the newer additions or the ones they need, are locked in snow. I haven’t heard from Annette about Abe’s progress, but I don’t plan to bug her about it. I wouldn’t put it past her to do it herself if the kid doesn’t get the job done.

  The garage door opens. Al and his sons stroll my way. I recognize them from the Rooster. Both have their father’s facial features and about his height. I could joke that he would have lost a paternity suit, but Al doesn’t seem like a guy who would appreciate my irreverent sense of humor.

  “This is Isabel. Junior, she’s got somethin’ you lost.”

  “Lost?” Junior asks.

  “I believe it was at a poker game a few years back,” I say.

  I hand Junior the watch.

  “Grandpa’s watch. I don’t believe it.” He turns it over to read the engraving. His brother moves closer to get a better view. His head is up. “Thanks. I thought it might’ve burned up in that fire.”

  “No, Annette said she found it in the garage on one of the work benches when she was cleaning up. I was there yesterday and volunteered to bring it over. I heard from Jack Smith what happened that night at the Rooster.”

  Roy snorts.

  “Did she find the money he cheated out of us?”

  “Uh, no, but Jack told me he gave you both some cash that
night to make up for it. He also said you, Junior, went outside to get a gun, but he talked you out of using it.”

  Both sons are red-faced. I hear a bit of low stammering.

  Their father smirks.

  “You boys didn’t tell me that part,” he says, but then he recovers. “Doesn’t dismiss Chet Waters cheated at cards and, pardon my language, was a complete asshole.”

  “Al, I heard you and he got into it over a poker game at the Rooster just before he died. I was told you were pretty ticked off.”

  “Yeah, but I got over it. I still don’t buy that story somebody killed Chet, but if someone did, it was probably over some bad business deal.”

  Thank you very much, Al Sinclair, for that opening in this conversation. I clear my throat.

  “Now that you’ve brought up that topic, I’d like to ask your sons about their association with Gary and Larry Beaumont back then.”

  I see frowns all around.

  “What’d you mean by that?” Al mutters.

  “Once, when I had a sit-down with the Beaumont brothers, they told me they used to have, uh, an arrangement with Junior and Roy concerning the extras that were stowed in some of the junks from a certain business in Springville.”

  “What about it?” the younger Sinclair brother, Roy, mutters.

  Ouch, I hit a sore spot I see. I will play it cool.

  “I’m not here to get you into trouble. But it was my understanding a certain car, a ’78 Corolla, went to Chet Waters’ place instead of here.”

  Al holds up his hand.

  “I know what you’re gettin’ at. I put a stop to it. I want nothin’ to do with those jackasses or that business. I’d be more than glad if you found out they’re the guilty ones, and they go to jail for good. Everybody in this town would be better off.”

  “Did Chet figure it out?”

  Al spits on a muddy patch.

  “Course, he did. He might’ve been one mean son of a bitch, but he wasn’t stupid. He even had the nerve to show up here. I can see that smug look on his face as if he had somethin’ over me and my family. He even threatened to call the cops.”

  “Did he?”

  “Nah, he died before that happened, I guess.”

  Al and I give each other a long, hard stare. We both realize the implications of what he just said. And if it’s true, I’m in a bad spot. But I’ve come this far. I’m not backing down.

  “You have anything to do with that?”

  “Like I told you, if I wanted to kill Chet Waters, I would’ve done it years ago.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Cause he did that kind of shit all the time.” He snorts. “I gave it back to him. Like when I heard somebody was suing him for sellin’ a real lemon, I made sure to push his buttons. It was the way we didn’t get along.”

  I eye the Sinclair boys.

  “You remember where you were the night Chet Waters was killed?”

  Both nod.

  “Shit, I was on my honeymoon,” Junior says before he turns toward his brother. “Can’t forget somethin’ like that. You?”

  “I was with Mom and Dad,” Roy says. “I was still livin’ at home. Right, Dad?”

  Al nods.

  I don’t respond. Both are using a woman near and dear to them as an alibi. Do I think the Sinclair boys are killers? I didn’t suspect Eleanor Smith of being one. Six days, I remind myself. Six days.

  “Mind if we talk privately?” I ask Al.

  “Sure,” he says before he turns toward his sons. “Get back to work, boys.”

  I wait until Junior and Roy leave, which gives me enough time to either lose my nerve or figure out what I’m going to say. I went over it in my head on the drive here. Al Sinclair waits.

  “Some folks told me about a tragic accident. Chet Waters was at the… ”

  He raises his hand.

  “Yeah, I lost my sister in that one,” he says. “Would I have killed him because of it? I sure felt like it at the time, but forty or so years later? Nah. We were kids. Stupid kids. It could’ve happened if I was the driver. He and I were drunk that night. But it was the end of any friendship between us. Chet didn’t even go to her funeral. Do you believe that?”

  “That’s awful,” I say. “Maybe he was too ashamed to show his face. Didn’t he go into the service around that time?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How would you have felt?”

  “Like shit, but I would’ve gone to the funeral. It would’ve been tough, but I would’ve done the right thing.”

  “I bet you would,” I say. “Well, I should get… ”

  Al’s face lights up a bit when a van rolls into the yard. Two women are in the front seat.

  “Hold on,” he says. “I want you to meet my wife. That’s my daughter-in-law, Linda, driving her. Junior’s wife.”

  The side door slides. The woman at the wheel pushes her mother-in-law’s wheelchair over a ramp.

  “Was your wife hurt in that accident?” I ask.

  Al shakes his head.

  “No, no, Kate’s got MS.” He purses his lips. “Terrible disease. But Linda is real good about comin’ over and giving her rides. So’s our other daughter-in-law, June, the one who’s havin’ the baby. Come meet them.”

  “Watch out for the mud,” Al tells Linda. “There you go. This is Isabel Long. I told you about her.”

  Kate Sinclair gives me the once-over.

  “You’re the one,” she says. “Heard my Al gave me as an alibi. Well, I can vouch for him that night. I only let Al out once a week, when one of my son’s wives comes over to help me. As you can see, it’s hard for me to get around by myself.”

  “Do you remember the night Chet died?”

  “Of course, I do. We all do. It was a horrible thing to happen to that man. Whoever says they don’t is probably lying.”

  “You’ve made an excellent point.”

  Then I remember the reporter Sean Mooney saying the Beaumont brothers were at the fire scene that morning. But they told me they didn’t remember what happened the night before. What liars. Damn it, I wish I had solid evidence to nail those guys. Maybe I’ll find it at Rough Waters.

  Chief Dutton

  Minutes later, when I reach Caulfield, I spot the town’s cruiser parked in the rest area off the main drag. Maybe Chief Nancy Dutton is trying to catch speeders and make a little money for the town. I pull off the road. Chief Dutton gets out right away. I join her.

  “Hey, it’s you, Isabel,” she says with a laugh. “That’s not your usual car.”

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  “Going under cover?” she jokes.

  “Something like that. My mechanic says I need to take the car out more.”

  “How’s your case going?”

  Ah, the eternal question I hear these days, and now I give the eternal answer.

  “Not so good. It was only three years ago, but I just can’t seem to make headway past the Beaumont brothers. I still don’t have any hard evidence to link them.”

  She plants a hand on her hip.

  “I believe those two would be capable of doing something like that. I hear they’re up to no good, probably selling drugs, but I have nothing to nail them.” Her head bounces a bit. “Yeah, I hear you. Hard evidence is necessary. I just don’t have the budget or the time to put a surveillance on them.”

  “I’m giving this case a week, actually now I’m down to six days.”

  She turns her ear toward the cruiser.

  “Sorry, I thought I heard my radio,” she says. “Six days?”

  “I’ll give it my best shot until the last one. Speaking of which, I had a conversation with the reporter from the Berkshire Bugle who covered Chet’s death. He called me after he found his notebook. He mentioned a crowd of local folk had gathered that morning at the fire scene and how one of the women was pretty distraught. Do you remember that?”

  Chief Dutton doesn’t answer. The radio insider her cruiser is squawking. I hear the
words “two-car collision” and “head-on.” The chief does, too.

  “Sorry, I gotta take this,” she says as she sprints toward her car. The radio keeps going: “Injuries.” She turns briefly. “Catch up with you later.”

  I lean against my mother’s car as Chief Dutton rips out of here with the siren blaring and lights flashing on her cruiser. She certainly has more important business to attend to than answering my questions. I shake my head. This is the way things have been going. Isabel, you might not be cut out for this P.I. business.

  But as I ponder my possible failure, I hear the honk of a pickup truck and watch as it makes a u-turn on the road then rolls into the rest area. I recognize the truck and the man behind the wheel. Dancin’ Dave cranks down his window.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you with that car,” he says. “You broke down or somethin’?”

  I go around to the driver’s side.

  “It’s my mother’s. I was just talking with Chief Dutton, but she got a call.”

  “Yeah, I saw her tear outta here.”

  “I guess there was a bad accident.”

  Dave shuts the engine of his truck. I am careful not to lean against his door although I stand close enough to be friendly but not too darn friendly. Then I remember the good manners my parents taught me.

  “I can’t thank you enough for helping me the other day,” I say, which cranks open a big smile on Dancin’ Dave’s face. “I heard you warned the Beaumonts about not bothering me.”

  He chuckles

  “You did, eh? I tried to scare the crap outta those two. I believe the threat of a lifetime ban from my joint did it. Nobody else is gonna let ’em drink in their bar.”

  “That was mighty sweet of you to defend me like that. I haven’t heard a peep out of those guys or even seen them.”

  “Sweet. I like that. Say, wanna stop by my place? We can talk some more. I’ll buy you a drink and whatever else you want.”

  Shoot, that guy doesn’t give up. I’ll give him that.

  “Sorry. Can’t. I’ve got stuff to do at home. But I am looking forward to our date Sunday.”

  The word “date” slips out of my mouth. I immediately regret it. Dave obviously doesn’t.