Rust in Peace (A Giovanna Ferrari Repair-it-all Mystery Book 1)

by J. J. Murray

  “Why do you have Mr. Simmons’ dog, Gio?”

  “Mr. Simmons is dead, Thomas.”

  “Really.”

  I nod.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I found his body,” I say. “I’ve been fixing up one of his tractors the last two days. I was leaving for the night when I saw some wolves around Jack. I fired a shot in the air and they scattered, and then Jack started puking. I went inside to tell Mr. Simmons … and I found him. He died in his easy chair.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Both of his doors were locked, so I had to break a pane of glass to the kitchen door to get in. I cleaned up most of the glass, but watch your step.” I start up the Jeep.

  “Where are you going?” Thomas asks.

  “Home. It’s been a long day.”

  Thomas straightens his hat. “Hold up, now, Miss Ferrari. You’re a witness.”

  “To what?”

  “There might have been foul play.”

  I shake my head. “Mr. Simmons was ninety-eight years old, Thomas. He probably died in his sleep.”

  “Only the coroner in Calhoun can determine that,” Thomas says.

  “And that’s what he’ll determine,” I say. “Mr. Simmons died peacefully in his sleep while looking at family portraits.”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas says. “A man who locks his doors around here has to be afraid of something or someone. And he kept a lot of people poor in this county, right? Now his heirs can sell his land, and we can have Gray Lake.”

  “You think too much, Thomas.” Something I have never accused him of doing before. “Can I go now?”

  “Not yet. I should take your statement. And I have to call the coroner in Calhoun.”

  “Can’t we do all that tomorrow? I’m tired.”

  Thomas checks his watch. “It’s already tomorrow. And I’d rather take your statement while it’s still fresh in your mind.” He stands up straighter. “Please turn off your vehicle, ma’am.”

  “Seriously?”

  Thomas smiles. “I’d take your statement out here, but the mosquitos are bad.” He opens my door. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  I shut off the Jeep, pet Jack on the head, and get out, following Thomas into a humid, dank, worn-out police station. I know the one on The Andy Griffith Show was bigger. “Where is everybody?”

  “Danny and Gordo are out on one-thirteen.”

  “At the speed trap,” I say, finding a space to rest on a short wooden bench.

  Thomas goes into an office and comes out with a steno pad and a pen. “It ain’t a speed trap.”

  “Fifty-five to thirty-five in less than two hundred feet constitutes a speed trap,” I say.

  He smiles. “Those tickets pay my salary, Gio.”

  “Where’s Sheriff Morris?”

  Thomas sighs. “Vacation.”

  Sheriff Morris fits the Southern stereotype of a town sheriff to a T. Red-faced and corpulent from drinking too much and usually invisible from the resulting hangovers, Sheriff Morris is as windy as a sack full of farts. The only time folks see him often is around Election Day. We more likely see his white Jeep Cherokee parked somewhere off 303 or 113 than we are to see him.

  Sheriff Morris likes to fish.

  Thomas picks up a phone and punches in a number with the pen. “This is Gray County Deputy Sheriff Thomas Bradley, and I have a DB.”

  His name is Frederick Simmons. He’s not a “DB.”

  “At The Simmons Farm off three-oh-three … No, it won’t keep till morning.”

  Mr. Simmons’ house might not smell like Dial and fried chicken by morning.

  “It’s supposed to be ninety-five by noon, and he’s a big man,” Thomas says. “I know it’s late … No, it can’t wait till morning … Okay.” He hangs up. “They didn’t want to come. You know what the guy said? ‘Dead people have no manners. They die at the most inconvenient times.’”

  I shudder to think what would have happened or what I would have seen if the wolves hadn’t come down from the mountains. Mr. Simmons could have been dead for a couple more days without anyone knowing.

  Thomas flips open the steno pad. “How long were you working on the tractor?”

  “Two nights on the Farmall Cub.”

  “The orange one.”

  “That was rust,” I say. “It’s actually red. Well, now it is. I still have to put a few more coats on it.”

  “You actually got it running.”

  I nod.

  “Uh, did you see Tiny at all the last two days?”

  “The last time I saw him was the day I started working on it,” I say. “I had just run it up to the barn on Monday night. I saw him a little before sunset.”

  “Huh.” He frowns. “So he could have been dead for two days. Does it smell real bad?”

  “No,” I say. “It smelled like fried chicken and Dial soap, as if he had taken a bath and had dinner.”

  “Didn’t know Tiny did that,” Thomas said. “Bathe, I mean. So he might have died sometime today or after sunset last night. Least he got a last meal. Um, what else did you see?”

  I should have known something was wrong when the lights were still on. “The cows were … chummy.”

  “Chummy?”

  “They followed me around, especially the heifer. She kept mooing at me.”

  “Moaning at you is more like it,” Thomas says. “She needed to be milked. Um, why’d you bring the dog with you?”

  “Mr. Simmons isn’t going to be feeding him anytime soon, is he?”

  “Oh, right.” Thomas writes a few things down. “Jack might eat your dog.”

  “Jack is a teddy bear,” I say. “Lovie might eat him.”

  “Wolves might come back for the cows,” Thomas says. “You should have left Jack there.”

  “Jack is no guard dog. He is the sweetest animal, and he plays with the cows. The donkeys will take care of the cows.”

  “They must not have been doing their job if the wolves showed up,” Thomas says. “You should have shot those wolves. A few wolves tried to take down a calf at the buffalo farm two nights ago.”

  “Did you get a warrant for their arrest?” I ask.

  “Funny.”

  I yawn. “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  “Mine’s just beginning,” Thomas says, closing the steno pad. “I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”

  “Okay.”

  Thomas steps close to me. “Of course, I could just … call you.”

  Hmm. Let’s see. Alimony times two and child support times four. Smokes. Delmer’s second cousin. “Thomas …”

  “I know, I know,” he says with a sigh. “You were the prettiest girl at that prom, Gio.”

  “Thank you.” Desperation must have made me look beautiful. But I wasn’t dressing for Thomas that night. I was dressing for Owen, who never showed up to see me.

  On my way home, I call Nonno.

  “Gio? What is wrong?”

  “Nothing, Nonno.”

  “But it is so late.”

  “It’s almost one. When’s the last time you fixed a boat motor?”

  “It is almost one in the morning and you ask me this.”

  “I have a good reason.”

  “Okay, let’s see,” he says. “During floods in 1985 when the police were using those inflatable boats on Main Street I fixed a few outboard motors. Why?”

  “Mr. Simmons died,” I say.

  “Il cielo ci salvi,” he whispers.

  Heaven help us. “I found his body.”

  “La mia povera bambina,” he says.

  I am a poor child. “My luck.”

  “Oh boy. There will be trouble.”

  “And maybe more work for us,” I say.

  “There will be trouble first,” he says.

  Thursday, June 8

  Chapter 11

  I introduced Lovie to Jack early this morning while stars dotted the sky.

  Lovie yawned.

&nb
sp; Jack yawned.

  I yawned.

  We bonded over yawning and went to bed.

  When I let them out this morning, they tore off to parts unknown, probably to dig up or kill something.

  They’ll be fine.

  Lovie will protect Jack.

  I walk out to the empty buffalo field to call Owen. “What time are you giving tours of the mill today?”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it? I heard what happened with Mr. Simmons last night.”

  “I need something to take my mind off it. So, what time?”

  “Any time before the lunch rush.”

  “So any time before I die.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I’ll be there eventually.”

  After a cool bath which does little to work out the kinks in my shoulders, I put on some fresh work clothes and let my hair dry on its own. My hair didn’t attract him before, and today it will only attract dust.

  Owen meets me in The Swinging Bridge parking lot and walks with me across the browning field to the mill. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Some.”

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  Owen helped me through the death of my papa when I was sixteen. “No.”

  “Well, if you do, I’m here.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “All right.”

  We walk up the stairs to the landing, and as I enter the mill, heat billows around me as he points out the work he has already done.

  I don’t see much of a change from the last time I visited. I still see leather straps on pulleys, wooden gears, drive shafts, spindles—the mill is a huge wooden engine or an overgrown cuckoo clock.

  He puts his hands on the large circular millstones. “It still has its millstones. You know how hard it is to find authentic millstones?”

  “No.” We traded hands over there in that corner on the other side of those wooden gears.

  “Those are hard to find.”

  So are kisses in the dark. We kissed under that leather strap, too, shaking the pulley attached to it.

  “I figure I can grind a thousand pounds of flour an hour or about four to six tons of flour a day.”

  That’s a lot of flour.

  “At five bucks for a five-pound bag, that’s a gross of up to twelve thousand bucks a day.”

  Five bucks for five pounds of flour? That’s twice as expensive as regular flour. “But you’d still have to bag and ship it, and Peace Goods isn’t going to have room for even half a ton of flour.” Why did I engage him? I can’t keep from arguing with this man.

  “We’d ship it everywhere, from coast to coast.”

  “You’d have to buy a fleet of trucks to do that.”

  “I’m in negotiations with a truck company in Calhoun,” he says.

  Negotiations. In other words, he doesn’t have a transportation plan in place. “There goes part of your profit. And where are you going to store it all?”

  “I’ll build a storage facility.”

  And there goes the rest of his profit. “Where?”

  “Um, up the hill from the millpond.”

  He hasn’t thought this through at all. “Near Preston’s Chapel.”

  “Um, right.”

  “And a plague of beetles, borers, and weevils will flock to your flour, and I’ll be crunching the little critters during Sunday service.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  I have to leave the stifling heat of the mill and the stifling foolishness of this man. “I need some fresh air.” I head outside.

  Owen stays on the landing and leans over the railing. “So, what do you think?”

  I think you’re crazy, Owen. “Have you thought about hiring workers, your maintenance costs, running electric lines to the mill and your storage facility, insurance, pest control for your storage facility, and air-conditioning so your workers don’t melt?”

  “You don’t like the idea.”

  “It’s a waste of time, effort, money, and water.”

  “Water?”

  I point at what’s left of Gray Creek. “You’ll have to dam up the creek, won’t you?”

  “Why would I?”

  “We’re having a drought, Owen. A bad one. Haven’t you noticed?”

  He wipes sweat from his nose. “Droughts don’t last forever.”

  My personal droughts do. “Come with me, Owen.” I lead him around the waterwheel and walk him up the stone steps to the millpond. “Do you see what I see?”

  “I see a pond.”

  This man is blind in so many ways. “Owen, the water level of the pond is much lower than your flume.” A flume is the long metal or wooden conduit from the millpond to the waterwheel. Zengler’s Mill uses a three-inch metal tube. “Unless you install an industrial water pump, you’ll have to dam up the creek to raise the level of the pond so the water can flow into your flume.”

  “Okay, so I dam it up,” Owen says. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’ll cut off Gray Creek from the buffalo farm.”

  “The water will get there eventually, Gio.”

  True, but … “But Gray Creek wouldn’t be a rushing stream anymore. It might come to the buffalo farm as a trickle.”

  “It wouldn’t be that slow, and Gray Creek joins with Motts Creek eventually,” Owen says.

  “The creeks join up in West Virginia, Owen. The Hemmingsfords pasture most of their buffalo on the Virginia side.”

  “They have plenty of wells and springs on that farm.”

  “But Fernando told me that their buffalo turn up their noses at the well water because there’s too much salt in it. He also told me the heifers drink fifteen gallons of water a day, and Big John drinks twice that. If you cut off this creek—”

  “As soon as it rains again, none of that will matter,” he interrupts.

  And now you cut me off. I start walking to my Jeep.

  Owen trails behind. “But Giovanna, think of it. Swinging Bridge Flour. We’d put a picture of the swing bridge on the bag, and—”

  “I still wouldn’t buy it,” I interrupt, “because it would be twice as expensive.”

  He catches up to me. “But it would be twice as good for you.”

  “Don’t the millstones get hot and burn off nutrients?” I ask.

  “Who told you that?”

  “My grandfather.” I reach the Jeep and open the door, a wave of searing heat pouring around me. What do you know? My hair is completely dry.

  “Well, don’t let that get out, okay?”

  “You know the process makes unhealthier flour, and yet you want to make it?” I put the key in the ignition and roll down all the windows.

  “Come on, Giovanna, it’s all in the perception. Stone-ground flour sounds healthier. It’s an all-natural process. No electricity or machines made this flour.”

  “And that entire building isn’t a machine?”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t you want to make this mill sing again?”

  I slide into the seat and start the engine. “With no water, it wouldn’t sing. It would gargle and cough.”

  “There will be water. Trust me.”

  “When?” I crank up the AC.

  “Soon. Are you hungry? We could have lunch.”

  “I have a date.” With my Nonno. And Louise, probably.

  “You do?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Owen. I am in the prime of my life. Why wouldn’t I go out on dates?”

  “Who are you … Is it Fernando?”

  “Fernando is married.”

  “Then who are you going out with?”

  “Goodbye, Owen.” I shut my door.

  The man is a fool born of a fool, and he fooled around with me.

  And I’m a fool to keep fooling with him.

  Chapter 12

  I go to the shop and see Louise Hill and Nonno setting up lunch on the front counter.

  “Join us,” Nonno says.

  I look at what Louise has provided: cold cuts
and American cheese on white bread and a pound cake. I ignore her food and put mozzarella, salami, bread, and giardiniera on my plate. Nonno puts one of Louise’s sandwich quarters on his plate and starts stacking mortadella and provolone on his plate.

  “Why don’t you two put it on the bread?” Louise asks.

  I ignore Louise. Dealing with foolish people makes me hungry.

  “It is the Sicilian style of eating, my dear,” Nonno says.

  “But it takes too long,” Louise says.

  Imagine the sound of a fork scraping slowly against a metal cheese grater. Louise’s nasal voice is like that—only worse.

  “We eat to enjoy and savor the food,” Nonno says. “We eat to enjoy and savor each other’s company. If we put it all together on bread, we will not enjoy each flavor of the food or each flavor of our company.”

  And the olive salad would make the bread soggy. The giardiniera would pour out of that wimpy bread. It wouldn’t be a sandwich. It would be a “spongewich.”

  “Oh,” Louise says in two syllables, kind of like “owe-uh.”

  “And what have we fixed today?” Nonno asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. I wish I could fix Owen, but he has no owner’s manual.

  “You have sawdust on your shoulders,” Nonno says. “You have been to the mill. I imagine there is plenty to fix there.”

  I nod. “Most likely everything, but I will not be doing the fixing.”

  “Very wise,” he says.

  “More iced tea, Franco?” Louise asks.

  Frank-oh. Wow. Louise must be deaf.

  “Oh yes, Louise,” he says. “It is so hot today, and your iced tea is so refreshing.”

  “I’ll go get it,” Louise says, and she walks up the stairs to Nonno’s apartment.

  “You let her go into the apartment?” I ask.

  “She has only been in the kitchen,” Nonno says.

  “She calls you Frank-oh. Teach her right.”

  “I have.” He shrugs. “She will never learn.” He raises his bushy eyebrows at Louise’s cake. “Si presenta come una ciambella,” he whispers.

  “It’s a pound cake,” I say. “It’s not a doughnut.” Though it does look like one. “And why are we whispering?”

  “I do not want to hurt her feelings,” Nonno whispers. “Vorrei che lei mi farebbe espresso.”

  “You want her to make you espresso?” I ask. “You can make your own espresso.”