One She Saw a Blind Man

by Betty Johnson

  “I swear Mike doesn’t know about this place,” Ellen gabbled. “That was never the kind of marriage where we exchanged confidences.”

  “Even I didn’t know about this place,” Emily asserted loyally. “But I think maybe we should go out and get that gun,” she added.

  “The gun is here in my crochet bag,” Miss Araminta told the girl. “And there it’s going to stay until we know some more. I don’t see how Sergeant Pierce could have tracked us here, but let’s be real quiet and see what happens.”

  ***

  Two cars were carefully blundering their way along the overgrown road, their lights on low beam. Tom Staples was swearing under his breath as he shifted to ‘granny low’ and tried to follow Pierce’s tail lights without running into his big Crown Victoria. Finally, Pierce pulled his squad car to one side. “Pull off on the other tire track,” Pierce spoke through the radio. “Target’s up ahead.”

  Staples thankfully parked, then turned to his passengers. “You two sit tight until I find out what my pal Pierce is planning.” He carefully got out of the car and pushed his way through the undergrowth to the Nashville policeman.

  “That’s Miss Araminta’s car up ahead.” Pierce nodded toward a darker shape in the twilight when he saw Staples approaching. “I’ve got to go slip the homing device off her bumper.”

  “But what are we going to do for lights in there?” Staples hissed, nodding toward the house as he fought to keep pace with his companion. “That old house has GOT to be off the electric grid.”

  “I’ve got a temporary lighting rig in the trunk,” Pierce replied. “Now, stay back here. We’ve blocked the drive so our pigeons can’t get out.” He slipped through the darkness while Staples fumed silently behind him.

  Apparently their arrival had not been silent enough. Staples heard a door opening and a figure clumping out onto the porch. “Alright, that’s far enough. Identify yourselves and state your business,” called a commanding voice.

  Sergeant Pierce had returned to Staples’ side. “Lord, I didn’t know the fellow had it in him.” He strode forward, unclipping his flashlight and turning it to reveal his own face. “It’s Sergeant Pierce from the Melrose station, Bill. I’ve brought out some people who need to talk to you. Nobody’s in any trouble.”

  By now, another figure had arrived on the porch, and this one was armed with a flashlight. “How the devil did you find your way out here, Pierce?” Miss Araminta asked.

  “Well,” the Sergeant admitted shamefacedly, “after you left, I told Johnny Lee to slip down to your condo and attach a homing beacon to your car.”

  “You did WHAT?” Two voices rang out at once, Liam’s bass complimenting Araminta’s angry soprano.

  Pierce looked down and brushed the grass diffidently with one foot. “After all, it was obvious when you folks left the station that you weren’t satisfied by what I was telling you. I could see you both brainstorming, and I knew Miss Araminta would charge off if our blind friend gave just the slightest direction.” He held out the offending device in his palm. “Look, I just took the thing off – honest. I’ll never use it on you again.”

  Araminta favored him with a basilisk glare. “Are you sure you’re not running errands for Mike Jaimeson? He seems like a big man in certain quarters.”

  “Jaimeson’s in jail.” Tom Staples walked into the light of Pierce’s flashlight and flashed his own badge. “All hell seems to have broken loose in this county, and we locals are looking to you people for an explanation.”

  “Oh, feeling put upon, are we?” Araminta responded. “Well, who all have you got with you? I just brought one jar of coffee.”

  Car doors were opening behind the policemen; Big Jake had never been one to wait patiently. “I’m Jacob Long, Mayor of Brandywine,” he announced loudly. “And this here is Vince Prosser from the county legal aid office. I believe Miss Gleaves knows him.”

  A woman came forward, almost into the light. “It’s Myra Shuvalov, Miss Araminta, and I’m anxious to meet this family you’ve gotten together. We also have Barney Probst with us. He’s a claims adjuster from Philadelphia who flew down on the redeye because of an email you sent last night.”

  “Well, come on in,” Liam invited, turning with his cane. “If you have any of them fancy lights of yours, bring them, too. Ellen’s just gone to fire up our old oil lamps.”

  ***

  “Let me go first and clear our arrival with Fido,” Sergeant Pierce told the little group assembled around him. “Fido knows me.” Nobody objected, for Fido was standing beside his person, looking almost as fierce as Liam did.

  Pierce went down on one knee on the middle step and spoke on the dog’s eye level. He held out a hand. “You know me, Fido. Sometimes I walk you and Bill around to the storage building when it’s bed time. Now I’ve got a few friends here who want to talk to Bill and all these nice, new people you’ve been meeting today.” Fido briefly put his front paws on Pierce’s shoulders and licked the policeman’s face. “THAT’S how we do it,” Pierce encouraged. “Come on folks. Keep it quiet and orderly.

  Once inside, Tom Staples, who perforce was carrying the temporary lighting fixture, met Ellen Gleaves holding up an oil lamp. “Just show me where you want to set this thing up, and I’ll light the area while you do it,” she told him.

  “Well, it’s actually Sergeant Pierce’s equipment,” Staples replied, “and, once he finishes talking to the dog, I hope he’ll come over here and show me how to use the thing.”

  Pierce came over, grinning. “Okay, Tom. Right here against this wall will work best, I reckon; that way you ladies will get a little benefit of light in the kitchen.”

  While all this was happening, Barney Probst of Elite Cities Insurance Company was examining his disabled client, Liam Jenkins. “You don’t need to be living like a beggar, Jenkins,” he declared. “Not with a jaw like you’ve got. With the right disability equipment, you’d be a natural in our back office. We’ve already got one blind person taking recorded statements.”

  Liam smiled, a beautiful sight for those who had never seen him so happy. “I’m just a guy from the sticks, Mr. Claims Adjuster,” he replied, “and I’ve never believed in any of your fancy equipment. But if I’m going to be a husband and father again, I certainly need some training.”

  “So how did you know I wasn’t Mr. Prosser?” Probst asked.

  “Prosser’s voice I know,” Liam replied, “and the mayor announced himself. I heard Sergeant Pierce giving the light fixture to his co-worker while he calmed Fido. You are not a woman. Therefore, you are the claims adjuster.”

  “Liam has always noticed everything and kept his ears open,” Miss Araminta told Probst. “He’d sort of lost himself in limbo until he found out Ellen and Emily had come looking for him. So, you’re down here because of one of my emails?”

  Probst looked over the little spinster with her nicely permed hair and bright print pants suit. “Old Marty Singher called me as soon as I got into the office this morning. He’s retired now, but he told me you were the best little bloodhound any company had ever had, and I better get down here if I want to keep our company’s tail out of a crack.”

  Miss Araminta grinned at him companionably; here was a man who spoke her language. “I hope you folks can get this all straightened out. Your disability funds for the Jenkins family have been misappropriated for the last eight years or so. The case isn’t as simple as I’d like it to be, because there’s a nasty divorce and some domestic violence involved in it, but I hope you’ll stick with us and see it through.”

  Just then the temporary light went on – brighter than anyone really needed, since the equipment was designed to illuminate accident scenes. Pierce hurriedly turned down the light.

  ***

  Myra Shuvalov found her way into the kitchen, where Ellen had placed a couple of oil lamps on top of a low cupboard and was poking at the logs through the open stove door.

  “I’m here from Miss Araminta’s battered women’s sh
elter,” Myra announced. “My only interest right now is seeing that you and your daughter have all the help you need.”

  “I never expected my Liam would have a contact with so many friends,” Ellen exclaimed, turning around from her task. “I certainly do want to talk to you, but I’ll also need to talk to Mr. Prosser. He’s probably the one who will handle the divorce.”

  Myra sat down in one of the hard kitchen chairs, closing her eyes briefly while Pierce dealt with the emergency light. “One thing I’d like to do is take pictures of the injuries you and your daughter have. I know you’d feel more comfortable having a woman take them, and we could give copies to the police later.”

  “Oh, yes, Emily and I would appreciate that,” Ellen assured her. “Although in my case, the damage is mostly just to my dress. Let me make up some instant coffee first. Miss Araminta brought us a whole jar, with artificial cream and sugar, and a couple of bags of potato chips. If we get all these men fed and happy before we start, we’ll have all the time we need.”

  “That ought to work,” Myra said comfortably.– “And, frankly, I’m fascinated by this cast iron wood stove. How in the world are you going to make coffee on it?”

  Ellen turned from the cupboard with a deep, old-fashioned saucepan in her hands. “I’ll fill this up with water – thank goodness I knew how to turn the plumbing on! – and then you can watch. Emily!” she called to her daughter. “Come on in here and be ready to fetch me things when I need them. I’m going to show you and Ms. Shuvalov how to make coffee the old-fashioned way.”

  Emily ran in from the living room. “Well, we’ve found just enough seats for everybody. Mr. Prosser and Sergeant Staples are sitting on the arms of the sofa, and Sergeant Pierce is on Father’s footstool petting Fido.”

  “Good,” Ellen replied. “Now, the most important thing you do with men is to feed them. If we hand around coffee and some of these potato chips Miss Araminta brought, we’ll have plenty of time to discuss our own business.” She turned to the heavy porcelain sink. “I’m going to run some water into this pot to make some coffee. Meanwhile, you root around in the cupboard and find me that old metal pitcher.”

  Myra Shuvalov watched in fascination as Ellen lifted a round, iron cover off the hot surface and stuck the bottom of the big pot into the flames. Turning, Ellen called to Emily. “Have you found that pitcher yet? Good! Now, open the coffee jar and put eleven teaspoons of coffee into the pitcher. We’ll have to get a big wooden spoon to stir it with when we add the hot water.”

  Myra was still watching the stove in wonder. “You can control the flame?” she asked.

  “To some extent,” Ellen replied. “You have to sort of get used to working with a stove like this. It’s not really hard, but it takes a lot of time and trouble, especially if you’re baking. When we’ve stayed here, I’ve always confined myself to skillet cornbread.”

  “You’ve lived in this house before?” Myra asked, pulling out her notebook.

  “Only for vacations,” Ellen replied serenely, then, with barely any prompting, told the story of her happy marriage to Liam. She kept an eye on the stove while she talked, and commanded her daughter to bring the pitcher to the sink the minute she was ready to pour.

  Then Ellen carried the pitcher of coffee while Emily struggled with a tray holding seven assorted cups, bowls of sweetner and non-dairy creamer, and a bag of potato chips. Once the men (and Miss Araminta) were settled, the two ladies came back into the kitchen and offered refreshments to Myra. Now they could get on with their own business.

  ***

  Liam, finding himself acting the host in his own home after years of living on the streets, felt a little bit at a loss. Then he remembered that these were city people, who probably felt as strange in such a house as he did himself. He began to explain the house.

  “This was my Grandpa’s place, and he left it to me in his will because Pa and I had worked to make him comfortable in his last years,” he began. “I was just nineteen when we started coming over here, weatherproofing the old place, and getting in some home comforts. We had to pay a septic tank company to come out here, but the artesian well was already in place, and Pa and I handled the plumbing. We put in a sink and a new stove in the kitchen, but this little old stove here in this fireplace was the one Pa was proudest of.” Liam pointed his cane in the direction of the fireplace. “That there is a parlor stove Pa got out of an old building he was tearing down. Rich folks had lived there at one time, he reckoned.”

  “Your folks lived over around Brandywine,” Big Jake objected.

  “Sure did,” Liam agreed. “That’s where all the businesses we knew how to work for had plants and jobs and such. We knew there was not much else for the likes of us, unless we moved to someplace like Murfreesboro or Smyrna.”

  “We’ve got low hopes and low expectations in all the ‘collar’ counties here around Nashville,” Miss Araminta interjected. “You might want to take note of that, Mayor Long.”

  “That’s too damn big a challenge for a simple mayor,” Big Jake replied somberly. “The best I can do is clear the way for somebody who shows real talent, like Liam here. I heard what Probst said to him earlier, and it’s probably all true. Now, what can we do about this case, since I see the refreshments are coming?”

  When everyone had some kind of cup of coffee and the potato chips were being passed out, Miss Araminta summarized the case as it had been presented to her. “So you see, Ellen has been able to retain a portion of the disability funds from before her remarriage, but the rest of them have been effectively alienated from her and her daughter. Liam has never claimed anything for himself as an individual. All three of these parties would, in the absence of the aforementioned trust funds, be eligible for relief from some state or federal program. Our business, as I see it, is to see that all three get the best deal possible at the current time.”

  “Meanwhile, I have also set divorce proceedings in motion against Mike Jaimeson, who is currently in the slammer for drunk driving.” Vince Prosser said his piece resignedly.

  “That drunk driving’s just a holding charge until we can prove he’s been misappropriating funds,” Big Jake said. “Knowing that boy, I imagine this trustee business will just be the tip of the iceberg.”

  “I’ve given him DUI warnings five times myself,” Tom Staples added. “I’ve been marking the citations on my calendar. By now, his blood should be pure antifreeze.”

  “But what are you going to do with us tonight?” Liam asked. “I’ve been listening to everybody, and now I feel like a pawn on a chessboard. What are you going to do with us?”

  Barney Probst, who sat where he could see the kitchen door, noticed the photographic flashes that occasionally appeared around its edges. “Mrs. Shuvalov is getting those pictures the police will want without distressing our victims, I see. Personally, I vote we sit here and start making up our contact lists until she gets finished with her business. Then, frankly,” he looked over at Liam, “I’m thinking about getting Mr. Jenkins and his wife and child into a Nashville hospital for a full diagnostic work-up so we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with. Medicine’s changed in the fourteen years you’ve been on the lam, Mr. Jenkins. I won’t hold out any hope for your eyesight, but we might find some other things that need treating if we look. Anyway, we need an up-to-date medical record on you in our files, and I imagine Mr. Prosser needs the same for his clients. We’ll bear the hospital costs until we see what is what.”

  “You’d best check which hospitals will welcome service dogs,” Miss Araminta reminded him. “You’ll want to talk to Myra Shuvalov about that.”

  “I imagine I’ll be calling on Nashville legal assistance no matter what happens,” Prosser said resignedly. “My office has never handled a case this big or explosive on our own.”

  “I’ll be watching over you, boy,” Big Jake promised. “I imagine Ms. Shuvalov’s folks will have some suggestions, too.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should try to get some kind of d
omestic violence awareness out my way.”

  Chapter 6

  It was two days after this conversation before Mike Jaimeson’s lawyer ventured to enter the county jail. The lawyer’s secretary had politely acknowledged Mike’s call for assistance, and then a turnkey had informed him that bail was being denied because of Jaimeson’s previous record. Now an angry and unintentionally sober Mike Jaimeson glared at Leonard Underwood through his cell bars. “Big Jake must have cut me loose,” Mike declared angrily as Underwood took his place on a portable stool in the hallway. “Otherwise you’d have been here yesterday.”

  “The matter’s gone beyond Big Jake’s authority,” Leonard Underwood solemnly told him. “You lost out when you let Nashville get involved, not to mention a big national insurance company.”

  “That’s what I get for listening to you in the first place,” Jaimeson riposted sourly. “You were the one who told me I’d better get some workers’ compensation insurance since I had more than ten employees. You told me I’d never have a claim on my policy, either.”

  “It was hardly my fault your foreman’s wife worked for the county legal aid society,” Underwood responded. “Those boys that worked at your saw mill would never have thought to ask for the benefit if Jenkins’ wife hadn’t started talking about it. After all, you’ve never had another claim since then, even when Irene blackmailed you into a divorce by getting photographic evidence your mill is a pig sty.”

  “I made a mistake about Rennie,” Jaimeson admitted. “Pa always told me not to marry a college girl, but she proved damn useful in helping me level the playing field. I didn’t understand what Pa had meant until she went off her rocker about that fiberglass boat deal.”

  Underwood didn’t want to rehash that truly lurid spectacle, so he went for the jugular. “Big Jake’s niece is down at the saw mill now with the county auditor. Your bank has gotten involved, too. They’ve figured out how you’ve misappropriated Liam Jenkins’ disability payments since you became trustee of little Miss Emily’s trust fund.”