“Date, eh? I like that. Well, I sure am. Hey, if you change your mind, come by. For you everything’s on the house.”
I blush, smile, and thank him in that order.
Catching Up with Ma
My mother finally calls me at around ten that night. She’s maintaining her habit of staying up late at my brother’s house. She’s often the last one up in that household, even later than my brother’s teenagers, but then again, they have school in the morning.
We’ve been playing phone tag for a couple of days, so Ma’s voice is gleeful when I tell her the story about Annette’s remorse over the pocket watch and then my returning it to Junior Sinclair. She, of course, is interested in my encounter with Al Sinclair and his wife. Al definitely has slipped from the suspect list, but he was a long shot anyway. So have his boys. I didn’t see killer instincts in either of them.
“I would have liked to have been there for that,” she says.
“You’re missing out on all the fun being at Danny’s,” I joke.
“I see I am. I’ll be back Monday.” She laughs. “Any new clues?”
“I finally got a call from Sean Mooney. Remember him? He’s the reporter from the Bugle. Anyway he found his old notebook. Get this. He says there was a woman bawling her eyes out at the junkyard that day.”
“Not Annette?”
“No, this woman was with the group of nosy locals who gathered. She was bundled up because of the cold, so he couldn’t describe her. He didn’t know anybody anyways. Besides, everybody was concentrating on Chet’s death.” I pause. “I asked the chief about it today. She got called away for an accident before I could get anything out of her. It could be nothing. Maybe old Chet had a girlfriend. Annette said he had lady friends. Maybe there were some people in town who actually liked him.” I laugh. “The only one I’ve met so far though is his daughter and that woman at the Pit Stop. Oh, and get this. The Beaumont boys were at the scene of the fire that morning.”
“I thought they didn’t remember anything about the fire.”
“Yup, that’s what they said.”
Ma doesn’t speak for a while. I hear CNN on a TV in the background.
“So, how’s your love life?”
“You’re too much, Ma,” I say. “Oh, wait a minute. Jack’s knocking at the door. I would say it’s pretty good these days.”
“Then you’d better hang up and let the man in.”
Old Farts and the CIA
Jack leaves early the next morning to hightail into the city to buy groceries. Carole, the Rooster’s cook, gave him a list of what to buy. He should’ve done it yesterday, he says, but he had a plumbing problem on Fred’s side of the house that took most of the day to fix. A new band, the Hayseeds, is getting a tryout tonight. Naturally, he made sure “Good Hearted Woman” is on their playlist.
As I watch his pickup leave my driveway, I call Maggie in from the woods.
“I need to pay a visit to my friends up the road,” I tell the dog. “You haven’t met the Old Farts, have you? Sorry, no dogs are allowed in the backroom of the store.”
The five regulars are in their usual spots when I arrive. Of course, I get a warm greeting and that joke about the espresso machine. The Fattest Old Fart pats the empty spot beside him. These guys sure like to make me feel welcome.
“We hear you have less than a week to go on this case,” the Fattest Old Fart tells me with his fat face beaming as if he won something big.
His buddies hum and nod their heads.
“Uh, five days now,” I say. “How did you know? Oh, never mind. You guys missed your calling. You should’ve worked for the CIA.”
The Serious Old Fart smirks.
“Who says we don’t? CIA stands for the Country Intelligence Agency by the way,” he jokes, which makes me wonder if I should change his name to the Wittiest Old Fart.
“You guys are on a roll today,” I joke back.
The Old Fart with Glasses clears his throat.
“Heard you had a scare with those Beaumont boys the other day,” he says.
The other Old Farts give him an appreciative stare. It’s been unusual for the Old Fart with Glasses to bring up something new. By the smile on his hairless face, he feels awfully damn proud of himself. Everybody’s eyes are on me.
“Yes, I did.”
The Fattest Old Fart leans toward me, so his arm presses against mine.
“Inquiring minds want to know, Isabel,” he says.
I turn toward the Old Fart with Glasses.
“This inquiring mind wants to know what you’ve heard.”
I swear his chest puffs out.
“My sources say,” the Old Fart with Glasses begins while I try hard not to roll my eyes. “The Beaumont brothers tailed you for miles. They were probably hoping you’d get nervous and run off the road. I guess they underestimated you.” He licks his lips. “Course, I heard you got a little help from a certain gentleman who owns a bar. I believe his first name is Dave.”
“Dave Baxter?” the Serious Old Fart says. “What else you got on Isabel?”
“Isabel ducked into the bar and this gentleman got really hot under the collar. And being a real gentleman, he followed her home to make sure she got there safely. Heard he gave the Beaumonts the riot act when they came in later that night.” The Old Fart with Glasses smiles. Damn, he’s feeling proud of himself. “Am I right, Isabel?”
The attention is back on me.
“So far so good,” I say. “Anything else?”
The Fattest Old Fart chuckles.
“Somethin’ going on with you and Dave? Everything okay with you and Jack?”
The Skinniest Old Fart coughs. It’s his turn.
“I believe so. I heard his pickup has been parked overnight at Isabel’s most nights this week.”
I get to my feet.
“I believe you guys have had enough fun at my expense. I’ll let you know how I make out with my case, or maybe you’ll all tell me since you seem to have spies everywhere. See ya, fellas.”
The Old Farts protest, but I leave anyway with a smile and a wave.
Third Degree at the Rooster
When I show up at the Rooster, Jack and one of the True Blue Regulars are dragging the pool tables to one side to make room for the dance floor. A few of the tables and some of the chairs will get stacked outside. Jack will reward the guy with a free beer or two for the assist.
“Be careful of the mud out there,” Jack tells his helper. “Hey, Isabel, long time no see.”
I grab the clean apron Jack stowed beneath the counter and walk toward him as I wrap the ties around me.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“Nah, we’re almost done here.”
He reaches for a quick kiss on the lips. Jack has been more open about his affections ever since Dancin’ Dave showed up that night. Maybe Ma is right. A little competition doesn’t hurt.
“Nice to see you, too, boss,” I say.
After I visited the Old Farts, I just hung around home, cleaning and doing laundry because Ma is coming home Monday. I took Maggie for a long walk. Then I spent some time in my office going over my leads, adding some new info, but nothing popped out at me. No ah-ha moments. I still haven’t heard from Annette, but I’m not going to call and remind her. That woman has a mind like a steel trap. She’ll get after her son until he’s finished the job.
The night goes well, first the wave of diners, plus those who planned to come early and stay late. It’s a full house tonight. Spring, real spring, can’t come fast enough for this town, and people are just sick of the snow although now I see clearings of dirt and grass in the fields. The common complaint tonight is muddy roads. When Sam and I built our house, we made sure we lived on a paved road. No axle-sucking mud for us, thank you.
The next wave comes before the band starts, filling in the holes made by those who left early. The Hayseeds, new to the Rooster, are revving up the local favorites, the usual danceable blend of Skynyrd, Alabama, and an a
ssortment of country and western stars. I’m pouring beer. Jack is clearing. At one point we switch jobs when I ask.
“Need to move my legs,” I tell him.
He glances down at my skirt.
“Go ahead and move them for me.”
His cousin, Fred, who’s sitting at the counter within earshot groans.
“Stop it, you two.”
Jack punches Fred’s arm.
“You’re just jealous,” he says.
“You betcha.”
And so, the evening goes with lots of good-natured joking and foolhardy drinking. I’m on the floor gathering empties when I hear my name yelled across the room and above a rather gutsy version of the Stones’ “Brown Sugar.” The song takes the dancers by surprise for a moment, but then they crowd the floor, ponytails bouncing on both the men and women.
I glance back, trying not to drop the tray to see who’s hollering my name. I might’ve guessed. The Floozy and Tough Cookie have arrived. They hustle across the floor as I set the tray on the counter.
“Your best buddies,” Jack jokes.
“They are these days.”
Marsha and Annette crowd to my right and left. I smell they’ve had a few beers already. Of course, there’s a bit of BO, too, from Marsha. I wonder how her boyfriend, Bobby, stands it, but maybe he likes his women a little on the ripe side.
I am happy to see these two women. They’re loud and don’t hold back now that they know me better. I certainly admire their work ethic. And better yet, they make me laugh.
Annette punches my arm.
“Guess what, Isabel?” she asks.
“Uh, you won the lottery?”
Another punch.
“You’re a scream, Isabel. If I won the lottery, do you think I’d be drinkin’ in this dive?” She nods at Jack. “No offense, Jack.”
“None taken,” Jack says.
Ouch, Marsha jabs my other arm.
“Sure she would, but she’d buy a round for everybody,” she says.
Annette’s head tips back as she makes a full-throttle laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’d do.”
I escape behind the counter, so I don’t get punched and jabbed again. My head is up as I drop empties into the box below. I swear I could do this part of my job one-armed and blindfolded.
“I take it you didn’t win the lottery after all,” I tell Annette.
She gives her cousin a jab.
“Listen to her,” she says. “Nah, Abe finally finished the job today. It took longer. That snow was kinda tough. Besides, my boy has to learn how to work harder.”
My gut tells me Annette’s focus has shifted to making her boy a better man, an admirable trait these days. I want to solve this case for her, but maybe she’ll be somewhat content that someone, especially a newcomer, took her seriously. As I pledged to her at the start, I will give it my all until the last day.
“I made that special delivery for you,” I tell Annette.
The Floozy goes, “Huh, huh,” before her cousin jabs her.
“The watch I told you about,” she says.
“Ah.”
“So, what did that little punk say?” the Tough Cookie asks.
“He was grateful,” I say. “Oh, I did have that talk with Al and his boys. I’d say they’re off our list.”
“Figures.”
“But I’m not giving up just yet,” I tell Annette. “How about I come over tomorrow to dig around?”
“That works for me. Make it early afternoon, say one or later, after the sun hits that spot for a while. Make it easier.” She smirks. “Besides, I’m expectin’ company tonight.”
“Anyone I know?” I ask.
“Not sure. Haven’t picked him out yet.”
“We’ve got a full house, so your chances are good.”
“Yeah. And if I ain’t as picky as you.”
That gets Jack laughing.
“I’m glad Isabel isn’t just settlin’ for just any old guy,” he says. “What can I get you two babes?”
Marsha snorts.
“Babes?”
Of course, the Floozy and Tough Cookie order Buds before they bump their way through the crowd to the other end of the room.
“What’d you think of the band?” Jack asks.
“By the looks of it, the Hayseeds are a hit. People are bopping all over the place.”
Jack grabs a tray.
“Get ready to dance, Isabel.” He fills four shot glasses with bottom shelf whiskey. “I predict I’m gonna be ringin’ that cowbell pretty soon.”
I almost give him a playful jab, but instead, I pinch his cheek.
“Sure enough, boss.”
Something Good
“Will I see you tonight?” Jack asks while he ties his boots in the living room.
He’s sitting in what used to be Sam’s favorite chair, one of the pieces he built. Jack looks natural there.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m doing the usual Saturday stuff this morning before I head over to Annette’s junkyard.”
“You really think you’re gonna find some clue on the ground?”
I shrug.
“I felt so sure before, but now, eh... ”
Jack stands.
“Aw, Isabel, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve done more than the cops ever did.”
“I suppose.”
After Jack leaves, I hit the Conwell triangle: the dump, store, and library. Mira, the librarian, called to tell me she’s put aside new books for my mother. Ma will be glad when she gets back Monday. Her stash of steamy novels was getting low. I decide to take my mother’s car, so I don’t get any grief from Annette when I see her later today.
I reach Rough Waters at around two, just as one of Annette’s lover boys is pulling out of the driveway. I recognize the pickup. One of the Rooster’s True Blue Regulars got lucky last night. I hope his wife, who’s out of town visiting her mother, doesn’t find out. Yeah, yeah, I hear everybody’s business at the Rooster. But my lips are sealed.
Abe did a decent job clearing the snow around the old Ford. The sun helped, too. Annette, who’s decked out in a bathrobe and boots, joins me when she sees me rifling through the trunk of my mother’s car for my bucket of garden tools. I decide on a claw and spade.
“Need any help?” she asks.
“No, but thanks for putting Abe to work.”
“Somebody has to,” she says with a bit of scorn in her voice. “I’ll leave you to it. Gotta take a shower. Just holler if you need me. By the way, I’m glad to see you took your mother’s car out for a spin.”
I shut the trunk.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stand near the cleared area, figuring the best way to search. It’s a bit muddy beneath the thin layer of snow, and I don’t want to step in the parts I haven’t searched yet. The area is about ten by ten. My plan? I’ll gently probe the mud in one-foot strips and then advance forward.
“Come on, Isabel, find something good,” I tell myself out loud.
I’m about halfway through the mud, and so far, all I’ve found are beer bottle caps, the lid to a Skoal chewing tobacco can, and an assortment of screws. Annette checks on me after her shower. So does her son, Abe, who mumbles something after I thank him for clearing the snow. One of his buddies dropped him off at the gate. He’s got a roll of heavy chain on his shoulder.
“We’ll be right back,” Annette tells me. “We gotta tow Abe’s car back here. It broke down last night. At least it happened in his driveway.”
“Okay, you know where to find me.”
After Annette and Abe leave in her pickup, I get back to work. I am methodical, using the claw slowly, and when I hit something, I grab the spade to dig it up. I keep moving. I’m glad I’m wearing my old boots and have a fresh pair in the trunk, so I don’t dirty the floor of Ma’s car. This is definitely my last shot, a rather desperate one I will admit, unless the Beaumonts come clean. Fat chance on that.
I concentrate on my task, but as
usual my mind wanders to the people involved in this case. I don’t want to let Annette down. I’ve grown to like that scrappy gal and her cousin. I think of the others I’ve met, her brothers, Al Sinclair and his family, Dancin’ Dave, even those Beaumonts. It’s an interesting cast of characters.
So far, I’ve found nothing that resembles a clue. I take a break from squatting so long. It’d be easier on my legs if I could kneel, but then I’d be covered in the mud from the knees down. As I walk around the junkyard, I don’t spot any life in the trees around the junkyard, which now is down to mud in parts. It’s without a doubt the ugliest time of the year here in the hilltowns.
I check the open gate. There’s still no sign yet of Annette and Abe. Okay, Isabel, back to work.
I am about three-quarters the way done when the claw’s tip catches something that isn’t a bottle cap, Skoal lid, or a screw. It’s something small and rather delicate, and when I wipe it with a rag in the bucket, I realize what I’ve found. Barbie Woodrell’s missing earring is on the palm of my glove.
I stand. The earring is definitely hers. I don’t even have to see its twin. I’ve stared enough times at that necklace to recognize the artful twist in the gold and the amethyst’s color.
This has to be the clue I thought was here. But what does it mean? I slip the earring in my pocket. Now what to do? So many questions. It’s time to find out the answers.
Barbie
I split from Rough Waters before Annette and her son return. I stick a note in the garage’s side door: I THINK I FOUND SOMETHING. CALL YOU LATER. I dump everything in the trunk, change my boots, and after I get my mother’s car outside the yard, I return to close the gates before heading to the Pit Stop. I’m hoping Pete isn’t there, and just my luck, the first I’ve had in a while, I see him leave in his pickup and drive in the opposite direction. If he checks his rearview mirror, he’ll just see some Ford anybody could be driving instead of my Subaru. I slow the car and wait until he’s completely over the road’s hill before I turn into the Pit Stop’s lot.
Barbie greets me with a big sunny smile. Her arm is out of the sling, but there are bruises around her wrist. My guess is they weren’t made by a fall but by Pete’s big fingers.
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