Too Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 2)
Page 4
“Lowe wanted the land?”
“Lowe and Tommy both. They did a lots together. This chemical dump thing was just another money plan. I took it they’s mad at the boys not sellin’.”
I leaned farther forward. “So what’s the truth? Who killed Lowe Acree?”
He looked at me. It was a strong gaze for a man that seemed so weak. “Lowe Acree was killed by his wife, but it was a accident. She got scared, ran off. She’s not like other people. My boys went after. They love her like a sister.”
Of course he thought that. He was their father. “So why does the law go after your boys?”
“Boys went in to see Lowe ’bout the land. They was in his office when he died. Nobody saw Lydia come in. Lowe was hollerin’ at the boys about the land deal, and then Lydia said somethin’ to him, whispered in his ear, and he fell forward. Head made a big noise on the dest.”
“Desk?” I wasn’t certain.
He nodded. “‘Swhat I said. And then Lowe’s secretary come in, seen nothin’ but the boys, and Lowe facedown, some blood, and she called over to the police.”
“And the boys split.”
He nodded. “They got out right quick.”
“An eyewitness all but saw them kill this guy, and they fled the scene.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Come home. Had supper. Told me an’ Ida what happened. Went after Lydia.”
“How’d they know where she went?”
He started rocking again. “Just did.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Last Wednesday.”
“Now they’re in Savannah?”
Ida clicked.
Mr. Turner explained. “She thinks Tybee Island.”
“Why does she think that?”
He looked in her direction. “Just does.”
I gave up. “I’m told the boys don’t look much alike — not for twins.”
He agreed. “Some say.”
Ida picked up her pencil like she was going to say something else, then put it back behind her ear instead.
I looked at Mr. Turner. “What kind of code is that she uses?”
“She made it up.”
“How did you all learn it?” I probably should have known better than to ask.
He looked at me, this time like I was somebody from far, far away. “We family.”
That was it. Ida went back to popping beans. Mr. Turner rocked for a while in silence. The silence was good.
Then he patted his leg. “Stay to supper.”
“I had a mess of Sally Arnold’s fried chicken over at the dinner on the grounds.”
He smiled. It was a face that wasn’t that used to smiling. “I miss that fried chicken.”
“Why didn’t you stay after church?”
He looked away again, off into the fields. “Ain’t much to mix since the wife died. Tell the truth, half a time I get on back home, forget she ain’t here.”
“How long’s she been gone?”
“Twenty-seven years.”
Twenty-seven years an antisocialist, and still forgets the wife is gone. Some broken hearts never mend. Ida stopped snapping again.
Mr. Turner looked at her, then away, slow. “She died birthin’.”
“She died in childbirth?”
They both nodded.
“With the twins?”
Mr. Turner tightened his lips. It seemed like there was more to the story, but you don’t pour your heart out to a stranger — not even a kindhearted schmo like me who only wanted to help.
Finally Mr. Turner got a hold of himself. “Sally tell you about the money?”
“Money?”
“How you get paid.”
“Dally said something about how you’ve got pine trees.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Plus, you took out a loan?”
“Got the cash. You be need’n’ a little travelin’ money.”
“Yes.”
He got himself to his feet. “Come on in the house.”
Ida watched me get up. I did everything but wink at her, but she was immune to my charms.
Inside was dark, like a lot of older people’s homes. Stuff was boiling on the stove. Good country Southern cooking’s only happy if it’s been boiled for three days in fat.
Mr. Turner handed me an envelope from the kitchen table. “That’s the cash. The rest is in your name over at the Trust.”
“You got me a checking account?”
He nodded. In the envelope, there was a big bundle of twenties and a checkbook with my name on it. The balance was written on the front. It was sizable.
“I won’t need this much, Mr. Turner.”
“Use what you need. Give the rest back to the bank to pay off the loan, let ’em keep a little of the land for the rest of it — everything else is yours.”
“None of my business, but can you spare this land?”
He sat down at the kitchen table. “It’s the land Lowe wanted to buy — Tommy still does, I reckon. I’d soon give it to you to help the boys.” He cleared his throat.
I looked down at the envelope, shook it, then put it in my breast pocket. “So ... this is from the land Lowe wanted to buy.”
He watched me. “Little hot to be wearin’ a suit.”
I agreed. “But I always try to look my best. I’ll need a picture of the boys — what they look like now.”
He pulled over a book that was sitting on the table. “This’s all I got.”
It was their high school annual. He had the page marked with slips of paper.
There they were: two boys that didn’t even look vaguely related except for the sweet smile and the names under the pictures.
I smiled back at them. “This is the most recent picture you got?”
He looked up at me. “You help my boys, Mr. Tucker. I can’t do without ’em.”
His face registered a couple of volumes more on that story. I looked out to the porch. “I’m going to go on and spend the night in Tifton, see can I talk to the bank secretary or maybe even Lowe’s cousin Tommy.”
He nodded.
“And then I’ll get on down Savannah way. I could use me a little seafood.”
“I like the scallops. Boys likes the shrimps.”
I started out the door. He tried to stand, but I waved. “Keep your seat. I think I can find the car from here.”
He waved back and coughed a little more.
Out on the porch Ida was getting up. She was all snapped out. I smiled at her and she whipped that pencil out from behind her ear and did a Krupa on the porch rail. I had no idea what she wanted, but it seemed very earnest.
“Okay, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”
From in the house Mr. Turner called out. “She wants me to tell you she’s known Tuckers; thinks she knew your kin.”
“I don’t think so. My kin was from France.” I didn’t bother to mention that they were Huguenots in America by the time of the Revolution.
Ida shook her head strongly. I got the idea that maybe Mr. Turner wasn’t translating everything. She tapped again.
I could barely hear Mr. Turner. “She says she knows what’s the truth.”
She nodded then, and headed for the screen door. I opened it for her. “You all take care. I’ll be in touch.”
They both waved, Ida without looking back. I let the screen door close and got down the steps to my car. There was a big black crow out on the edge of the corn in their kitchen garden. I thought about Sally’s technique of fresh corn; paid no attention to the crow. Maybe I should have, but you can’t think that every little thing is a sign, even if it is. That kind of thinking will make you paranoid, and that’s the last thing you need in my line of work, where everybody and his brother’s got something against you just because you’re there. On the other hand, as the joke goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t really out to get you.
9 - “Countin’ Flowers on the Wall ...”
“This is worse than a Russian novel trying to keep up with these names.”
I tried to help. “It’s not that hard. Everybody’s a Tucker or a Turner — or an Arnold.”
“Or a Tibadeau or an Acree or a ... what was the woman that ended up hatin’ you because you’re there to help the killers?”
“She’s a Lee by marriage, but she was an Acree, and that’s what counts.”
“I can’t keep it straight.”
“You don’t need to. By the way, what about you and Charlie Arnold?”
“What about it?”
“Sally said you were sweet on him.”
“Sally was sweet on him. I was saving myself for Mister Right.”
“Then this’ll hand you a laugh. She thinks you were waiting for me.”
She didn’t laugh. “I was just waiting.”
I let it go. “Well, Mr. Turner seems a little on the frail side. And Aunt Ida is leaky in the brain pan.”
“She just can’t talk.”
“Oh, there’s way more to it than that. Her little Morse code is quirky, wouldn’t you say? Plus, I believe she tried to tell me something that Mr. Turner didn’t want me to know.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah, well, then ... get some sleep tonight. Call me in the afternoon. I’ll have had time for that banking business by two o’clock.”
“I hope I’ll be in Savannah by then.”
“You get to go to the beach. I’m envious. By the way, I made you a reservation at the DeSoto Beach Motel on Tybee.”
“I know it well. Musta been hard to get this time of year on such short notice.”
“Professional courtesy.”
She amazed me. “Is there anybody in the state who doesn’t know you?”
“Nobody worth knowin’.”
I missed her already. “You know, I’d really rather just be hogging a barstool at Easy.”
“You’re goin’ to the beach. That’s where I’d rather be.”
“Uh-huh. I have to drive for hours in my hot, sticky car while you get to lounge around in your nice cool nightclub. Who’s playing tonight?”
“We’re closed. Air conditioner’s on the fritz.”
“A likely story. I been in your joint when it was a hundred and fifty degrees.”
“Still, we’re closed.”
“What’s up, Dally?”
“Say good-bye, Flap. I got some work to do.”
“Okay.”
We hung up. I let my eye wander about the room: flowered wallpaper and two standing lamps. Aside from the bed I was lounging on, there was a closet, a chest of drawers, and a little tablelike desk. As luck would have it, there was also cable TV and an old movie channel. I was tired from all the driving, and still full from the dinner, so a little lying around watching old movies seemed just right. Kept me from thinking too much about anything.
10 - The Trouble with Banks
I got up early Monday morning; thought I could hit the bank first thing. I stepped out my door at the motor inn and saw somebody waist deep in my open hood, clunking around to beat the band.
“Morning.”
A silence fell under the hood. Then: “That you, Mr. Tucker?”
Who should emerge but one Ronnie Tibadeau, yielding a socket wrench, greasy and grinning like a gibbon.
“Ronnie.”
“Hey.”
“Lose something?”
He looked back at my engine just to make sure. “Oh, no, sir. I just heard the way you was havin’ trouble crankin’ yesterday, and it sounded like a carburetor problem — which it was. So ... you all set now.”
“You fixed my car?”
He grinned even bigger. “Well, naw. Thas’ gonna take a ton more work.”
“And a bigger hammer.”
“Right.”
“But you fixed the carburetor?”
“Uh-huh. She crank right good now, I believe.”
I buttoned my suit. “What do I owe you?”
He started backing away. Maybe he was shy, or maybe he was afraid I was going to get him close to an open car door. “You don’ owe me a thing, Mr. Tucker. Peach and Maytag, they my buds. Plus you was awful nice to Pevus, considerin’ the situation. I ...” But he couldn’t put the rest into words. “It’s like a honor to help.”
I moved toward the car, slammed the hood down. He backed up another step. “Well, you know what’s wrong with you kids today?”
He was eager to hear. “No, sir. What?”
I gave him what I thought was a very friendly wave. “Nothing I can tell.” I got in the car. “Take it easy.” And my old heap turned over on the first try. I don’t think it had done that since I bought it.
The bank was only a couple of blocks away. I shoved the door a little harder than I needed to, and it made a racket. There was nobody much in the place yet. A couple of tellers were getting the money ready, or whatever it is tellers do first thing. I sauntered over and gave it a shot.
“Hey.” I waved.
One waved back. “Morning.”
“Which one was Lowe’s secretary?”
They both locked eyes on me. The one who waved stood up. “It’s Connie.”
She indicated with her head a small woman in front of the biggest office in the place. I could see, in front of the office, a portrait of a man posed as Southern aristocracy, and it had flowers all around it. The late Lowe Acree, I presumed.
I headed for Connie. She saw me coming.
“Hey, Connie. I’m Flap Tucker. Could I talk to you about this mess with the Turner boys?”
“You’re a policeman?”
“No, ma’am.”
She squinted. “Well, what do you want, then?”
“You saw the boys do it?”
“What do you want?”
Somebody came out of the office, and the security guard was ambling my way.
The guy from the office must have been the one in charge of foreclosures. He wanted me out right away. “You’ll have to leave now if you’re not a policeman. There’s been enough publicity about this already.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
“Really.” He didn’t believe me.
“I’m helping Mr. Turner out. He just wants to know where his boys are.”
That stopped him. “Well, me too.” But he was mean about it.
Connie looked oddly relieved. “You’re helpin’ J.D.?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Neither my manners nor my helpful nature cut any mustard whatsoever with the office guy. “I don’t really care who you’re here to help. Unless you’re opening an account, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
He lifted his head to the security guy, who actually put his hand on his gun and stepped up right beside me.
I kept my eye on the office guy. “As it happens, I already have an account here. I’d like to cash a check.”
Very carefully, showing the young and nervous security guard exactly what I was doing, I unbuttoned my suit coat and took out the checkbook in the breast pocket. I dangled it in the air like a little fish.
Office Guy was peevish. “Name.”
“Flap Tucker.”
He rolled his head. “We’ll check.” And he lumbered over to the nearest computer terminal. Apparently everything was in order, because he just got madder.
“Amount.”
I reached for the pen on Connie’s desk. “Twenty thousand dollars.”
His eyes shot up from the monitor screen. I made as to write the check. He took a step toward me.
“We ... that will almost close out your account — and of course an amount of that nature would require a little notice or a cashier’s check.”
I started to fill in an amount. “I want to close out my account here — you’re not friendly. I want
cash, I don’t trust your cashiers or their checks, they’re not very friendly either.”
He was coming over to me and brushing the security guard aside. “We’re not prepared to offer you that much cash at this moment.”
“You’re not offering me anything, I’m just taking my own money out of your cheesy little bank and giving it to somebody who’s a little more courteous.”
Connie sat down, trying not to smile. I smiled back at her, and she looked up.
“Are you kin to Rusty Tucker?”
“It’s possible.”
She looked real close at my mug. “Did I see you yesterday at the dinner meeting?”
“At the Baptist? Yes, ma’am.”
I finished making out the check and handed it to Office Guy. He didn’t even look at it. He was still staring at me and trying to explain the rules of our national financial institutions.
“FDIC only really allows us a maximum cash transaction —”
“Don’t you be spelling things out to me, pal. Just how much do you think your dinky little operation here can manage?”
He looked at the check, started to hand it back to me, and tell me to take it to the cashier’s window, but then he saw I’d only made it for a couple hundred, and I was continuing my conversation with Connie.
“That Sally Arnold sure is nice.”
Connie agreed. “She’s real smart too. I bet she told you about ostrich.”
“Yup.”
“Won’t stop talkin’ about it.”
“It’s the red meat of the future.”
“We keep goats.”
“Now, Connie, there’s some that think it makes a good barbecue, a goat, but legally barbecue is only pig. The rest is just some kind of meat cooked outside and ought not to be called barbecue at all.”
“You sound like my husband.”
“That lucky man.”
She giggled like a kid, which she was far from. “Stop it.”
“Okay.”
“But Sally is nice. She’s one of our best volunteers at the church.”
I nodded. “She’s got a good nature. She’s the one called me in to help find the Turner boys.”
Connie looked away. “She would. She always wants to help.”
I lowered my voice. “Sorry, Connie, but what about seeing the boys in Lowe’s office?” I nodded toward the picture in the flowers. “That him?”