by N. C. Lewis
Hugh spoke up, "Anyway, it's his daughter Charlotte I feel sorry for."
There was a general murmur of agreement.
"How old is Charlotte?" I asked.
"Thirty-five or thirty-six," replied Julia.
Kidd brushed a hand through his hair. "Isn't she in the theater—an actress or something?"
Julia looked off into the distance. "Shakespearean, I think. That's quite a contrast from her undergraduate degree. Charlotte studied zoology. I remember because I was new at the high school a year or two before she went to college. Andy Arrow hated the arts and wanted Charlotte to study science. She did, but hated it, and became an actress soon after she graduated."
"Must be a good living," said Kidd. "Better than an assistant martial arts instructor."
Hugh grinned. "Doubt it. If Charlotte is like most in that profession, she's struggling."
"Yep," added Julia. "It was a sore point between her and Andy. As far as I know, she serves food at Marty's Hut over in Canyon Lake, three or four days a week. I guess Charlotte is acting for the love of it, 'cause there sure isn't any money in it."
Kidd glanced over at the clock on the dojo wall. "We'd better get moving; class starts in five minutes."
Chapter 18
The gong sounded. Students streamed out of the change rooms and formed lines. Advanced students at the front and beginners at the back. I stood in the last line.
"Let's get our bodies warmed up," said Kidd. "Twenty-five jumping jacks and twenty-five laps."
I let out a low groan. This would not be easy. Kidd counted out the jumping jacks. "One, two, three…"
At ten, I was gasping for breath. At fifteen my lungs were on fire and legs shaky.
"Keep going," shouted Kidd. "If you stop, you'll get an extra fifty push-ups."
"Twenty-five," he yelled at last. "Now, follow me." He set off around the edge of the mat at a leisurely pace.
"One," shouted Kidd.
"One," everybody shouted back.
"Two," yelled Kidd.
"Two," we shouted back.
I was sputtering miserably, gasping for breath, before we finished the first lap. My only goal now was to complete the class without my heart breaking free from my chest and landing on the mat.
"Ten," yelled Kidd.
"Ten," we shouted back.
It was twenty-five laps of pure agonizing, gasping, strangulating, lung-busting hell.
"Twenty-five," yelled Kidd.
"Twenty-five," I screamed, stumbling dead last over the finish line and pumping my fist in the air.
Kidd pointed and grinned. "Ollie, a little less pizza, and a little more exercise, and you'll beat all of us."
I nodded but couldn’t speak.
Kidd placed his hand on his hips. "Julia you can lead the stretches tonight."
Julia strode to the front of the class, bowed, and Kidd left the mat.
"Tonight, we'll run through a series of Pilates-style poses," she said, settling into a seated, calf stretch.
Twenty minutes later the gong sounded, and again we lined up in neat rows. Kidd returned to the mat and bowed.
"Let's warm up with some basic wrist grabs and defenses. Hugh, can you join me?"
Hugh nodded and strode to the front of the class. They bowed and then Hugh grabbed Kidd's wrist. Kidd quickly and firmly covered Hugh's hand with his own. Then he drove down his thumb between the knuckles of Hugh's index and middle fingers in one smooth move breaking his hand free. Hugh staggered backward shaking his hand.
"Kinda like a wasp sting," laughed Kidd, "but good enough to buy you a few seconds to counterattack or run. Now, partner up."
For the next twenty minutes, we practiced on our left and right sides, changing partners every five minutes. Kidd strode around the dojo watching and adjusting our techniques.
"Remember to press down hard," Kidd said as I practiced on my left side with Hugh.
I tried the technique again, this time pressing hard. Hugh let out a yelp as my hand broke free.
"Yes, you've got it!" cried Kidd with delight. "But remember to either counterattack with a strike or get the hell out of there."
Before too long the movement seemed natural, and I mastered the wrist escape technique on both left and right sides.
The end-of-class gong sounded.
We lined up in neat rows and bowed. Another class at the Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy was over. I strolled over to Kidd to thank him for teaching the class and headed to the women's lockers.
The air filled with the sounds of excited chatter that always followed a class. It was part relief we'd made it through to the end, and part excitement at having learned another self-defense technique.
"Great lesson tonight," said a woman with a sharp beak of a nose, hazel eyes, and a mop of frizzy, red hair. Mildred Goose was a volunteer at the animal shelter.
"Sure was," replied Kim Rambler, a pear-faced woman with oval eyes. She worked as a database administrator for the Havis County Tax Assessment Office.
"Pity Andy Arrow didn't train at this dojo," Mildred commented.
"How so?" asked Kim.
"Well, he might have been better able to defend himself," Mildred explained.
"Maybe," replied Kim, packing her uniform into a bag. "But they say Dan Sweet was as wild as a hungry black bear. Took ten deputies to subdue him."
"We don't have ten deputies in Medlin Creek!"
"I know, and Dan Sweet is too short and weedy to be a black bear. More like an angry gnat. How many people do you know who've died from a gnat bite?"
Everyone laughed.
"Guess we'll have to wait and see what the medical examiner's report says," added Julia, joining the conversation. "Anyone fancy a slice or two of Don Andrews pizza?"
"Sure," I said. "That was a tough class, so we deserve it."
Chapter 19
The air filled with the savory smell of yeast, cheese, onions, peppers, and cooked meats as we tumbled through the doorway of Don Andrews. The pizza parlor was two thirds full and a group of old-timers played dominoes on a long bench at the far side of the restaurant.
A young girl served a small line of customers. She was a teenager, in her early twenties at most, with platinum-blonde hair and a face too knowing for her age. Two men in their early twenties wearing T-shirts and shorts worked the preparation stations, and Don Andrews, the owner, stood by the industrial pizza oven, keeping an eye on the cash register and the seating area.
A small line of customers snaked in front of us. Most looked like tourists, the break in the thunderstorms and rain having enticed them out of their motels and RVs.
Julia, Kim, and Mildred surveyed the menu board. I already knew what I wanted—two slices of the Hill Country Special. Mildred shook her head slightly, and her brow furrowed. "Um… sure has been a long time since I last visited this place… uh… I can't make up my mind what to choose."
"Hill Country Special," said Kim.
"Hill Country Special," added Julia.
"Hill Country Special," I echoed.
"Guess that's a majority. I'll go with that," Mildred said with a smile.
We placed our order.
"Fresh pie has just gone in the oven. I'll bring the food over to y'all," said the assistant. Then she added, "Should be about ten minutes. The soda machine is at the back."
We settled into a booth that looked out onto Warren Street. A wave of tiredness washed over me as the women chatted away merrily. I stared out of the window and drifted off into my own thoughts. The street lamp threw a weak, yellow light onto the sidewalk, illuminating the surrounding area like delicate brushstroke patterns of a Chinese block print. Bookings at the event center remained slow. I hadn’t had any success trying to reopen the abandoned oil well on my property, and it had become a rather somewhat financial black hole. Teaching at the community college was my only stable source of income. I half dreamed of getting a pay raise.
"That woman is as loose as ashes in the wind," sniffed Mildr
ed. The sharpness in her tone jolted me out of my daydream.
I turned toward Mildred's gaze.
At the entrance, peering at the menu board, was a woman with eggshell-brown skin. She wore tall, ankle-strapped heels and a sleeveless blouse which exposed colorful tattoos on her arms. Although I couldn’t see her face, I knew who it was—Sophia Flores.
Don Andrews hurried from the oven to the counter. Sophia said something to him. I could hear her husky Mexican tones, but she spoke in Spanish, and I wasn’t able to understand her words. But Don's voice boomed across the restaurant.
"You're coming into a significant amount of money, you say?"
"Un montón de dinero." Her lips curved into a sly smile.
Don nodded toward the dominoes players, handed Sophia a plate of pizza, and scurried back to his usual spot by the industrial oven.
Sophia glanced sharply over her shoulder and walked over to the dominoes game. Again, she gazed over her shoulder, then slipped into a seat between two players.
"Here's all y'alls orders," said the assistant placing our plates on the table. She gazed at me for a moment. "Doctor Stratford, I've been thinking about taking a course at the community college, but I'm not sure now 'cause of all the bother."
"What course?" I asked.
"GED, 'cause I dropped out of school, didn’t get no high school diploma."
"That's a wonderful place to start," I said in an encouraging voice.
The other women cooed their agreement. The assistant headed back to the counter with a smile on her face and a determined set to her jaw.
"I suspect I'll be seeing her around the college campus soon," I said.
"That girl's as smart as a hoot owl, probably get straight A's," replied Mildred.
"I wonder if she'll end up studying arts or science," inquired Julia.
"Arts," answered Kim firmly.
"Andy Arrow hated the arts. The only thing that mattered to him was science," Julia said reflectively.
Kim took a bite of pizza. "Then it must have been hard on him to have a daughter like Charlotte, especially since she has done nothing but act in plays since she graduated college."
A loud cheer broke into our conversation. It was from the dominoes players. A round-faced man with a bushy, gray beard, a squashed nose, and tiny ears, jumped up.
"This is ridiculous!" he cried staring with wide eyes at the other dominoes players. "I've played at this table for fifteen years and only won once. When is lady luck going to strike again?"
A wrinkly faced old man with stout eyes shook his head slowly. "Mr. Bubble, I keep tellin ya, take up chess 'cause it requires less skill. Dominoes is only for the most sophisticated of minds!"
Everyone laughed. Sophia's husky cackle carried above the others. It was more of a nervous giggle than a pleasurable chuckle. It caught my attention. Something wasn’t right.
Mr. Bubble scowled. Then seeing the humor, burst out laughing. "Guess if I start playing chess tomorrow, I'll be a grandmaster in a month or two."
Everyone's eyes were on Mr. Bubble. He twirled around and flapped his arms in a display of frustration. If I wasn’t paying attention, I would’ve missed it. Sophia pushed an envelope across the table. A man with an angular face and slits for eyes slipped it into his jacket pocket. In return, he pushed a small package back. Sophia knocked it into her handbag, looked around, then stood up and hurried out of the pizza parlor.
"New game," cried a sharp-faced man sitting at the head of the dominoes table.
"New game," came the cry back.
The pizza parlor settled down as another game got underway.
Chapter 20
It was only after I'd gotten into bed and had been lying there for several minutes trying to relax, that I realized that Sophia Flores and Andy Arrow were an odd match. I replayed over in my mind the first time I'd seen her, at Moozoos Café where she'd argued with Dan's daughter. The Mexican mafia rumor and curious exchange of an envelope in Don Andrews pizza parlor compounded my realization.
I sat up. Was Sophia doing drugs? Maybe even a dealer? How did she and Andy Arrow become an item? How could their relationship have lasted years? I didn’t have answers, but the questions went around and around in my mind as I drifted off into sleep.
By the time I got up the following morning, the sun was on its way up. It illuminated the clouds in the east with bright pinks and reds. Some days I wake up feeling bad, some days good, most days neutral. For some unknown reason, this morning I woke up positive and alive.
Normally after a dojo class, my muscles are sore. But this morning there wasn’t even a twinge. I rolled out of bed, moving freely, my mind rested, alert, and ready to take on the day.
As I slipped into a pair of jeans and a frilly, peach blouse the wind-up clock chimed the seven o'clock hour. There wouldn’t be time to take Bodie on a walk along the trails this morning. I let him outside and sat down to a bowl of cereal. As I reviewed my list of activities for the day I thought about how to best tackle Professor Bingham.
The sun was up and hot in a clear blue sky by the time I climbed into the Tahoe. I fired up the engine, slipped the gear lever into drive and turned out onto the lane. The roadway was clear, no traffic, no delays, just open road, and a light breeze. I flipped on the radio.
This is MCR 101.1 FM. I'm Johnny Spinner, and this is the Zac Brown Band with "Chicken Fried."
Lowering the windows, I hummed along tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. Today would be a wonderful day. And as if to confirm my optimistic thoughts, there were plenty of spaces in the staff parking lot. I tipped my head back letting out a delicious cackle of joy as I swung the SUV into a staff space near the entrance of the college building.
The electronic doors to the building closed behind me with a low rumble. For a moment I thought about taking the elevator, then rejected the idea. Today, energized, I headed toward the stairwell.
"That's her! " a familiar voice cried out from behind me.
I whirled around. A group of students crowded around me. They were of mixed ages—a few teenagers, some in their twenties, others in their thirties, and forties, and some retired. There was something odd about them.
"That's Doctor Stratford," the familiar voice cried again.
Then I realized what was odd about the group. They all wore business suits.
"Are you Doctor Stratford?" asked a young woman with a broad smile.
"That's her!" once again cried the familiar voice.
I looked down.
Mrs. Hobs sat in a wheelchair smiling. She wore a gunmetal-gray business suit with matching skirt and a white blouse.
"Doctor Stratford?" said the young woman.
"Yes," I said with curiosity.
"My name is Molly Queen, a student council member. This morning is our monthly meeting."
"Nice to meet you," I said shaking her hand.
Molly continued, "I would like to inform you that you have been nominated for the Professor of the Year Award. We normally inform the nominees by email—"
Mrs. Hobs interrupted. "I told them to tell ya since you were standing in front of us."
"Of course, there is our formal protocol," the young woman added. "Now—"
"Oh fiddlesticks!" cried Mrs. Hobs. "Doctor Stratford, you got a good chance of winning the thing outright. Our awards ceremony is in two weeks' time. Mark the date on your calendar; winners are expected to attend."
The young woman shrugged her shoulders in frustration. "Yes, expect to attend. I'll send an invitation later today."
The group and Mrs. Hobs headed for the elevator.
I entered the stairwell.
Now elated, I took the steps two at a time, my mind racing over my strategy with Professor Bingham. "Yes, " I muttered, "the first thing I'll do is ask for a pay raise followed by a promotion."
Chapter 21
Emma Garcia sat behind her desk as I entered Professor Bingham's reception area. She looked up from a book. "Ollie, you made it! The professor's i
n his office. He'll call for you in a moment."
"Any news on Dan Sweet?" I asked.
Emma shook her head. "No one is even mentioning his name. It's as if the man doesn’t exist, kinda like a ghost—he's just disappeared." She lowered her voice. "Don't mention Andy Arrow either. Chancellor Cannington sent a memo around yesterday asking the faculty not to comment until the sheriff's department has concluded their investigation." She paused and sighed. "Given Sheriff Hays is out of town, who knows how long that will be."
I understood the sensitivity, but I'm not a huge fan of secrecy. It leaves too much room for rumors and conspiracies to spring up. Secrecy makes me nervous. Fortunately, there are nearly always multiple ways to the truth.
I lowered my voice. "Do you know if the medical examiner's report has been issued?"
Emma glanced around.
"Nope."
Then she raised a hand to signal the conversation on this topic was over.
"Take a seat, Ollie. Let's talk a little more Saturday morning on our trail walk. Does six a.m. at the crooked oak tree at the trailhead work for you?"
Emma and I often walk together along the Hill Country trails in the morning. Her property is in the same lane as Ealing Homestead.
"Saturday works. Bodie loves romping around with your hound Benji."
Emma grinned. "Good. Now I can go back to my reading." She waved a copy of Ghostman in the air.
"Read it!" I said. "Amazing story. So sad Roger Hobs only published two books before he died. Of the two, Ghostman is the best."
"That's what I figured," Emma replied getting up. "I've got to cover for Penny Johnson right now. I'll finish the book at her reception desk. Professor Bingham should be out soon."
Emma hurried out of the reception area. I sat on the sofa and picked up an aging magazine and flipped through it until I found an interesting article. I was halfway through the first page when Professor Bingham's office door opened.
Ava Torgersen marched out, her back ramrod straight, and a deep flush darkened her face. "Professor Bingham, this is unacceptable," she said in a cold voice. Her penciled eyebrows arched into a sinister-looking curve and her eyes filled with anger. "I'm personally going to see to it that you are removed from your post. It is quite clear to me that you are totally incompetent."