“What was he saying?”
“Well, it sounded like he was talking to a woman, a good-looking one from what he said. He told her she was one hot babe, and he asked her if she’d like to go to dinner and then go back to his place. I know it sounds batshit crazy, but that’s what I heard. From what he was sayin’, she said yes, and then she put her hand on his leg and started rubbing his parts. I used to race one of them cars, and I can tell you that you gotta pay attention to what you’re doing to keep from killin’ your damn self. Jimmy Jeb sounded like he was real distracted. I heard him moan and say how good what she was doin’ felt. Next thing I hear, it sounds like she’s givin’ him a blow job, and while he’s drivin’ a hundred ninety miles an hour. Then, he says they gotta find them a little privacy, and he yanks the wheel and turns into the pit area, doing at least one-fifty. You should have seen them pit crews scramble. It was a real slaughter; some were run over, but most died in the explosion. Strangest part is, when they searched through the wreckage, only bodies they found were Jimmy Jeb and crew members, all men. There weren’t no sign of a woman anywhere.”
“That’s quite a story. You’re sure there was no one in the car but the driver?”
Masters answered, “Just as sure as I can be. Jimmy died cause for some reason he had released his seat belt, and he was thrown from the car. If there had been a woman in the car, her body would have been burned bad, but it would have turned up, somewhere. They found nothin’. It’s the strangest damned thing I ever heard of. No way would any driver in his right mind take a woman in his car during a race, good-lookin’ or not. It takes all their focus and energy just to survive, let alone to win. And Jimmy Jeb was a real competitor. None of this makes any sense.”
Jason was convinced that this was another murder and it had something to do with the other ones he was investigating. I’d bet the farm that when I look in this guy’s medicine cabinet, I’ll find a bottle of Happiness with his name on it.
Jason got Jimmy Jeb’s address from his interview with the surviving pit crew. When he went there later that afternoon, he saw a car parked in the driveway, a shiny new red Corvette. According to the pit crew, Jimmy Jeb wasn’t married, but he was popular with the ladies and active on the current dating scene. Since there appeared to be someone home, instead of using his lock picks he rang the doorbell.
A tall young woman, slender and well proportioned, answered the door. She had medium-length, dark-brown hair with natural curls, a pretty face with blue eyes, a perfect nose and full lips, and was wearing a tight blouse and tighter blue jean shorts that revealed colorful dragon tattoos on both of her arms and a picture of a large black rose in the small of her back. With the tattoos, she presented an interesting combination of sensual female and tough biker broad. She had been crying.
“Hello, I’m Private Detective Jason Longfellow. I’m investigating the recent crash and death of Jimmy Jeb at the Charlotte Motor Speedway. Could I please come in for a few minutes?”
She opened the screen door. “I’m Brenda Jones, Jimmy’s roommate. Todd Masters, Jimmy’s pit boss, called me and said you might be coming by. Come on in. What can I do for you?”
Jason walked through the door, following the woman into the living room. As she walked in front of him, his eyes, still with a mind of their own, were acutely focused on her round, perfectly formed Jennifer Lopez-esque buttocks squeezed into those very tight shorts. This was one of Jason’s favorite parts of the female anatomy, and the part that had originally drawn his attention to Chelsea in their youth.
Without realizing it, Jason mumbled, “What a spectacular rear end. Damn, I like this job more and more all the time.”
“Excuse me. What’s that you said?”
“Sorry, I was just saying that this was a tragic way for Jimmy Jeb’s career to end. Poor Jimmy Jeb; that was a spectacular accident.”
She started crying. “I can’t believe it. We talked just before the race, and he told me he loved me and wanted us to get married. He said I brought him good luck. When Todd told me he thought he heard Jimmy talking to some blonde woman in his car just before the accident, I couldn’t believe it. I know there wasn’t really a woman in the car. There’s barely room for Jimmy. But the fact that he might have even been thinking about some other bimbo after he told me he wanted to marry me, that really pisses me off. If the bastard wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
She’s not upset about this guy’s crash; she’s pissed about the rumors that he was thinking about someone else before he died. Sounds like I got myself another suspect. Maybe he was stepping out on her before the race, and she did him in.
“Ms. Jones. Did you and Jimmy have any problems recently? Was there another woman, or did you suspect anything? According to the pit crew, Jimmy sounded convinced that there actually was a woman in the car, doing . . . well . . . you know . . . things to him. I realize that’s unlikely since, as you say, there’s barely enough room for the driver in one of those cars and there was no woman’s body found at the crash site. It’s all very strange, don’t you think?”
She placed her hands over her face to cover the tears. “I don’t think there was another woman in the car. But I do know Jimmy liked to drink, and maybe he fucked up and took a few shots of Jack to build up his courage. He was fairly new to the NASCAR circuit, and he was having trouble sleeping nights—fear of what might happen on the track. If he was drunk, he might have been thinking about another woman, and that could have gotten him killed. I don’t know. It’s all so horrible.”
“Well, studies have shown that race car drivers that drive drunk, especially during a race, often crash and burn.” He then asked, “I know this is a tough time, but would you mind if I look around the place a little? Sometimes I can learn things by searching a man’s house, especially his bedroom.”
Brenda was still crying softly, her emotions a mixture of grief and rage that Jimmy might have been unfaithful. She pointed towards the stairs. “Go right ahead and search. If you find anything that suggests there was another woman, please let me know. I’ll get me a lawyer and use the information to make sure I get my share of Jimmy’s stuff, now he’s dead.”
Jason headed upstairs in the direction of the bedroom. He had lied; he wasn’t interested in the bedroom. He really wanted to get a look at the guy’s medicine cabinet. I’d bet my left nut that I’ll find a bottle of Happiness. He entered the master bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and sitting on the top shelf he saw a large bottle with the label Investigational Drug, Happiness, Dose: 200 mg, CureStuff Pharmaceuticals.
“Damn, I’m good, and I get to keep my left nut. That’s a relief,” he said. “This bizarre death must be related to the others. Now I need to find the connection between these deaths and the attempted poisonings of Wendy Thompkins and Joanne Shipley. There’s got to be one.”
Jason pocketed the bottle of pills and headed back downstairs, where Brenda was sitting at the kitchen table softly crying while sipping on a cold bottle of Bud Light. “Well, did you find anything? Any evidence of another woman? I’ve never seen anything like that, and I’ve been staying here with Jimmy for a while. But you’re a trained detective, so you must know how to do a proper search.”
Jason smiled. Lady, if you only knew how little I know about this private detective thing. But it’s in my best interest for you to believe. He said, “No, I didn’t find anything to suggest another woman or to explain what happened to Jimmy in that car. You may be right. Maybe he drank some Jack Daniels to shore up his nerves, or maybe he got hold of some marijuana brownies for all we know. For some reason, it sounds like he hallucinated or was fantasizing about a blonde instead of paying attention to what he was doing, and that can be fatal at one hundred and ninety miles an hour. I’m very sorry for your loss. You’re an attractive young woman, and I’m sure that you’ll land on your feet. Thanks for talking to me.”
It wasn’t her feet that he was checking out as he passed her on his way out the door. I love Chel
sea, but this midlife crisis is driving me crazy. I can’t stop thinking about “What if?” What if some gorgeous young thing was interested in me? What if she wanted to—
This thought was abruptly cut off when he pictured what Chelsea might cut off if he ever followed through with one of these midlife crisis fantasies.
• • •
Jason stayed in the Holiday Inn overnight with plans to head home in the morning. He bought a local paper and was reading it over his final cup of coffee of the day when he saw a newspaper article:
Ted Jacobson, of Charlotte, came home from work last night, and, according to Mr. Jacobson, heard the sounds of his wife in the throes of passion with another man. Mr. Jacobson burst through the bedroom door with a 12-gauge shotgun and killed his wife. He is being held on a charge of premeditated murder. The police were vague when asked about the wife’s lover.
Jason thought the news account strange because there was no mention of the man killing his wife’s lover, yet they were holding him for premeditated murder. He wondered if maybe there was no lover. People were dropping like flies, and while Jason had some good leads, he still hadn’t figured this out. I need to solve this thing before more innocent people die.
He needed to stay over on Monday to investigate this shooting in Charlotte, even though Chelsea was going to be really pissed. He had already missed work a couple of times because of his investigation, and she was right that he wasn’t making enough to support them without his government job. He phoned her Sunday morning.
“Hello, Chelse. It’s your lover, Jason. Guess what! There’s been another bizarre murder down here. This time, a guy killed his wife, and maybe her lover, with a shotgun. There’s something strange about it, because the guy’s being held for premeditated murder even though he supposedly found them in bed together, which suggests a crime of passion. I need to hang around tomorrow and talk to the Charlotte police. This one might also be connected to my case. I know you are already not happy with me, but I need to follow through on this.”
He was expecting a blast of expletives. To his surprise, he heard only a click as she hung up on him.
“Well,” he grumbled to himself, “that’s different. I’m sure it means she’s over-the-top pissed, but at least that was easier on the old eardrums. I’m going to have to come up with something really special to get myself out of this one.”
The next morning, Jason got the bright idea that while he was in North Carolina he might as well visit CureStuff Pharmaceuticals one more time and talk to Dr. Littlething. He still hadn’t quite eliminated him as a suspect, so he thought, Why not? I’ll have another chat with him, and who knows, maybe I’ll run into a certain little black dress while I’m there.
Jason phoned Littlething’s office, and when he asked if he would see him that afternoon, Littlething said, “I would be happy to meet with you again, Dr. Longfellow. I can’t imagine what else there is for us to talk about, but the last thing I want to do is upset you, what with our company planning to submit a license application for Happiness to the FDA in the near future. Are you going to show up wearing your Sherlock Holmes hat or your FDA cap?”
Jason assured him that he was only interested in talking to him as a private detective about the attempted murders of Wendy Thompkins and Joanne Shipley. They set a meeting for three.
Jason drove the thirteen miles to Charlotte and visited the police station where Ted Jacobson was being held. He entered the building and presented himself.
“Hello. I’m PI Jason Longfellow.” He presented his credentials. “Mr. Jacobson’s parents hired me to investigate what happened last night, and I need to speak to him, try to find out where best to start.”
The officer on duty replied, “I’ll get the detective in charge of the case. His name’s Detective Horton.”
A couple of minutes later, a plainclothes detective, clearly defined by his cheap suit and patent leather shoes, of medium height, rough-looking, and sporting the beer gut of a forty-plus-year-old man approached Jason.
“Are you the gumshoe here to see Jacobson? Normally we wouldn’t let a gumshoe anywhere near an active case, but this guy seems legit, genuinely distraught and confused about what happened. We’re slammed with work, and maybe you could spend some time on the case. I’m thinking there’s more to this mess than meets the eye. I’ll let you talk to him, but in the interrogation room, and I’ll be watching.”
The two men sat across a wooden table from each other, with Jacobson’s hands cuffed and a policeman standing just out of earshot.
“Hello, Ted. I’m Detective Jason Longfellow. I’m a private detective looking into your case. It seems to have some things in common with another murder I’m currently investigating. If you answer my questions, I may be able to help you. Please, help me out here.”
“Everyone else thinks I’m crazy. I had to work late Thursday night, and I didn’t get a chance to call Jenny to let her know I’d be late. Normally, when I came home late, she’d heat up dinner for me and we’d eat together. But there was no Jenny and no food in the kitchen. I walked down the hall and heard noises coming from our bedroom. I couldn’t believe it. We were so in love, and she would never step out on me. But I stood outside the closed bedroom door, and I heard her moaning and she said, ‘Yes, oh yes, that’s really good. Don’t stop. Yeah. Right there. Oh God, I’m going to come.’
“Then I heard her scream, just like she always does when we make love and she climaxes. That’s when I lost it. I walked up the hall, took my 12-gauge off of the rack, loaded it and kicked in the bedroom door. It was dark when I entered the room, and I was in such a rage that I just started shooting. I must have fired off three or four blasts before my eyes adjusted to the light, and I realized that there was only one person in the bed, Jenny. At first, I thought that the guy must have heard me coming and somehow fled from the room, but there was no place for him to go. It’s a small bedroom, the windows were all closed, and I was blocking the only exit. It was then that I realized I had killed my poor wife, and there was no one else in the fucking room.” Ted started weeping.
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry for your loss. Do you have any idea what happened? Why was she acting that way? Was there a ghost involved?” He threw that last thing in because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was still getting the hang of this interrogation thing.
“I don’t know what happened. She had never done anything like that before. She’s a good-looking woman for her age, and she works as a female barista at Starbucks, where she meets lots of men. But most of the men she meets are quite a bit younger than her. As far as I know, she has always been faithful to me. When I heard the two of them through the bedroom door—at least, she kept talking like there were two of them—I couldn’t believe it. She was even giving him instructions, telling him what she liked. That’s why it sounded so real, because that’s what she usually did with me. She could be very specific with her instructions. I didn’t see any ghost. I didn’t see anything but my poor, dead wife.”
“Has anything odd happened recently? Did she exhibit any strange behavior before the night you blew her away? Had she started taking any new medications, for example?”
Jacobson sat there for a minute and then said, “Yeah, now that you mention it. She sometimes had depression. A friend of hers told her about a new medicine, and there was some experiment going on where they were giving it to people with depression to see if it worked. I think they called it a clinical trial. Anyhow, she signed up, they sent her some pills, and she started taking them a couple of weeks ago. She keeps the pills in her medicine cabinet in our apartment. Do you think that has anything to do with what happened? Have you ever had a case where a ghost was involved in an affair with someone’s wife?”
Jason didn’t want to reveal his theory about these strange deaths until he was sure. “I seriously doubt that the pills had anything to do with it. That would be really unusual. I just thought I’d ask. As to ghosts, I saw a movie once where a g
host was forcing himself on random women, and maybe that’s what happened with your wife, although there’s no way to know for sure. Ghosts can be pretty sneaky. If it was a ghost, from what you heard from your wife, he must really know what he’s doing in the bedroom. If a ghost does turns up, please give me a call. Maybe he could give me a few suggestions I could share with my wife. Well, thanks for your time. I wish you all the best and hope that the jury goes easy on you.”
• • •
Jason got Jacobson’s address from him during his interview and headed for the guy’s apartment to retrieve the pills. When he arrived, he had to wait for a tenant to come along with a pass key so he could follow her into the building.
“That was easy,” he mumbled as he walked through the door behind a twenty-something woman with her hands full with two bags of groceries. After they were inside, he asked, “Would you like some help with your groceries?”
“Get away from me, you creep. I’ve got a taser and I know how to use it.”
“No problem,” he said, putting his hands up in the universal signal that he meant no harm.
He unwisely decided to take the stairs and was winded by the time he reached the fourth-floor apartment. “Need more exercise,” he chastised himself in a quiet mumble while gasping for breath. Then he said, “Damn. There’s still police tape on the door. Oh well, what the hell. A fearless PI wouldn’t let a little thing like some tape slow him down.” He pulled off the tape and got out his lock picks.
An hour and a half later, he finally heard the lock give way. “It’s a good thing it’s the middle of the day, everyone’s at work and there were no distractions. Otherwise, this might have taken me a long time.”
Jason entered and looked around. It was a small, one-bedroom apartment with a combined kitchen and dining area, a small living room, and a bathroom off the short hallway that led to the bedroom.
“I should probably take a quick look at the crime scene,” he said as he walked toward the bedroom. “I’ll just take a peak.” He opened the bedroom door, and said, “Oh my God, that’s a lot of blood.” Next thing he knew, he was waking up on the floor, having passed out from the sight of the murder scene. “Well, that was a nice nap,” he said as he looked up at the ceiling. “I feel refreshed. I should take naps more often.” It never dawned on him that maybe he wasn’t cut out for this line of work.
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