Double Dimple

by N. C. Lewis

  "Yes sir," the assistant pouted.

  It was Bryant Reynolds. The invoice from Havis County Engineering Company flashed into my mind. It remained unpaid. A feeling of vague apprehensiveness crept over me. I sunk deeper into my seat.

  Bryant swayed from side to side and stepped closer to the counter. His elfin face grinned, and he leered greedily over the assistant's chest as she stooped forward to box a pie.

  "Another one," he slurred rubbing his hands together, "I want two Hill Country Specials. Mops up all that Noble King ale like a sponge."

  "That's mighty strong ale you been drinking," replied the assistant, stooping forward again.

  Bryant's reptilian tongue darted from between his thin lips as he rocked onto the sole of his boots.

  "There you go," she said, her nose crinkled.

  Bryant grinned as he handed over his credit card. "It’s time to put out the fire and call in the dogs," he said as he gathered up the boxes and turned to leave.

  "See ya," replied the assistant crossing her arms.

  I felt relieved. A smile crept across my face. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

  At the restaurant door, Bryant stopped. I froze, staring with wide eyes as he turned and headed back to the counter. "Gimme a large bottle of diet Sprite," he said handing over his credit card.

  "Sure thing," replied the assistant in an irritated voice.

  As she moved to the refrigerator Bryant glanced up at the menu board, then pivoted, scanning the restaurant. His colorless eyes flitted over the dominoes game, then over the customers sitting at the large tables and finally settling on me.

  I shrunk further into my seat.

  Carefully, he placed the pizza boxes on the counter. The low buzz of the doorbell signaled a new customer. Bryant stomped across the restaurant.

  At my booth he drew himself up to his full five-foot stance and stared hard at me. A sour, malty odor filled the air. "There’s more than one way to break a dog from sucking eggs," he snarled.

  "You talking about yourself with that dog reference?" I replied, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear.

  His stare turned into a glare. The man's tiny mouth opened wide, bearing crooked teeth. He leaned forward and in a slurred whisper, a string of foul words spewed out like lava from an erupted volcano.

  I took a bite of pizza and tried to ignore the whole thing. But the stream of abusive language continued.

  "Think you better apologize to the lady," said a familiar voice.

  Bryant twirled around. A pair of sniper-scope eyes stared back—Dixon Quan. At his side, Roger Romantic.

  For a moment the three men faced off. Bryant must have seen the confident menacing look in Dixon's eyes because his shoulders slumped. "Had way too much to drink; my apologies ma'am." His head bowed; he looked down and away.

  "Don't think the lady can hear ya," said Dixon through squinted eyes.

  "My apologies, Doctor Stratford." Bryant's voice crackled like a hungry baby about to wail for food.

  "Go on—get!" added Roger, jabbing the midget in the chest.

  Bryant shuffled to the counter, picked up his boxes and bottle and headed for the exit. As he opened the door, he turned. "You'll pay for this all, y'all!"

  As Dixon moved toward the door, Bryant Reynolds scurried into the street, his legs moving like tiny pistons. They carried him away, out into the night.

  Chapter 20

  The sun was up as my eyes rolled open, glazed over with the remnants of a faded dream. I peered at the cell phone screen—eight thirty-five a.m. I must have hit snooze on my cell phone alarm without knowing it. As I slid out of bed, the soreness in my arms and legs reminded me of yesterday's dojo class.

  I took a shower. The urgent whoosh cascading warm water and clouds of steam chased away the remaining fragments of sleep. Awake, my mind raced over the events of the previous evening. A wave of anxiousness swirled around mixing with the steam, wrapping me in a heavy cloak of dread.

  Out of the shower I toweled off, but the anxious feelings remained. I changed, let Bodie outside, and sat down in an easy chair in the living room. The tick-tock of the windup clock was the only sound in the still air. John, my late husband, always said, "If you're worried, focus on the source, and take action to deal with that."

  I closed my eyes focusing on the anxious feeling; what was its source? An image of a furious Bryant Reynolds popped into my mind. Bryant jabbed a finger, then clenched his fists waving them in the air like the tentacles of an angry octopus. I let it pass. Bryant wasn't the cause of my uneasiness.

  Then I saw it, the source of my anxiousness, or rather sources. In my mind's eye, I was in a darkened room, empty, except for two large wooden chests, both open. Inside the first was a single coin. Inside the second was a pile of bones.

  The sharp buzz of my cell phone shattered the images before I had time to reflect on their significance.

  "Ollie, this is Ruth Minary from Bee Mound Drilling. Wanted to let you know we received the signed documents and are good to go. All we need is to set a date for the engineering team to begin work."

  "That’s wonderful!" I said, hurrying to the office to grab my desk planner.

  The date noted, I pumped a fist in the air, then settled down at the desk to review today's list of activities. Next week I'd be teaching classes Monday through Friday. There were still teaching notes to prepare. I glanced down at my list.

  12:15—Roger's presentation at Medlin Creek Community Center.

  I picked up my lecture notes, hummed a little tune, and began work.

  Chapter 21

  The clock struck the top of the hour—ten a.m. I got up, strode to the living room and let out a whoop. Bodie came scuttling in to see what the excitement was about. I grabbed his two front paws, and we danced around, his tail wagged jauntily as I laughed out loud. "I've finished the teaching notes, Bodie. I'm free for the rest of the day."

  In the kitchen, I refilled Bodie's water and food bowls. After devouring the food and taking long slurps of water, he ambled to the front door. I let him out, and off the hound trotted along the dirt path through the little iron gate and out of sight behind the buildings on the far side of the driveway.

  Back in the office, I checked my cell phone, a message from Augustine:

  Ollie, I'm holding a special event at the animal shelter this Thursday at 4 p.m. Surprise news and free food. It is for volunteers only. Please say you'll attend.

  My mind went back to the discovery of Barbara Nadel, and I shuddered. "Guess it might take my mind off things," I muttered aloud as I tapped in my reply.

  Then I went through my stretch routine, adding in a few moves Hugh demonstrated during yesterday's dojo class. The muscles of my arms and legs screeched with soreness as I began, but soon the soreness eased, and I was moving freely. I finished with a simple sequence—downward-facing dog to plank, then back again to downward-facing dog.

  Finally, I relaxed into dead man's pose. As I lay on the floor, I considered what to do with the rest of the day. A celebratory coffee in Moozoos popped into my mind. "I'll swing by before Roger's presentation at the community center," I mumbled.

  ◆◆◆

  The chime of the doorbell announced my arrival into Moozoos. It was a little after ten thirty a.m. and the café was empty. The assistant busied himself cleaning the espresso machine. "Hi Ollie, what would you like today?" he said, giving the machine a final wipe.

  I glanced at the menu board but knew what I wanted. It was a little early, but I ordered it anyway.

  "Creek Jolt."

  The assistant tugged his ear.

  "Creek Jolt?" He repeated each word slowly as if talking with a non-native English speaker.

  "Yep."

  "Okay," he said, turning to prepare the drink. The Creek Jolt, Moozoos signature beverage, is an indulgent blend of Kenyan coffee loaded with fresh cream alongside a heavy dash of brandy.

  Just then the doorbell chimed.

  "Ollie, great
timing."

  It was Millie. She ordered her drink, and we chose a table by the window.

  "Oh my gosh, Ollie!" Millie said, taking a sip from her cup. "The owner of the newspaper has asked me to continue covering the warehouse district dead body story."

  "That's great!" I chimed in.

  Millie continued, "At least until the cause of death has been officially confirmed. If it's a murder, it will be a front-page article." She took another sip from her cup, looked around and smiled. "The gravy train is pulling into my station."

  The doorbell chimed again.

  "Got news on the body in the warehouse district," boomed a voice from the other side of the café. It was the barista. He hurried over to our table.

  "Visited with Gratia who runs the hair salon along the street. She said the medical examiner's report arrived this morning. It's on Sheriff Hays' desk, guess he'll read it when he gets back."

  Millie placed a hand over her heart. "What did it say?"

  The barista's lopsided eyes flashed, his lips curved into a smile. He was enjoying his moment in the limelight as the town purveyor of gossip.

  "No signs of foul play," he said at last.

  "Suicide then?" I asked.

  "Seems so," he answered.

  "Oh no!" cried Millie. "No, no, no!"

  As the barista headed back toward the counter, Millie's hand slipped into her handbag. Out popped Professor Purple. His head swiveled toward Millie and with a knowing look he said, "It is not wholly unreasonable to expect other big stories will come your way."

  "Oh non!" cried Madame Bleu, appearing on Millie's other hand. "Suicide or not, what happened is a crime."

  "A crime?" Professor Purple asked.

  Madame Bleu trembled. "Oh oui, it is a crime of the heart, how we say in French, un crime du coeur."

  Professor Purple's lips twisted into a half smile. "The owner of the newspaper won't accept a love story. Millie must stick to the facts."

  Madame Bleu jutted out her sock puppet chin, eyes wide. "A terrible thing caused by the forces of la passion et de l'émotion has happened. Millie must investigate and document. It is how you say in English, her duty."

  "Millie must write what the owner of the newspaper wants," retorted Professor Purple.

  "It is no way to treat a creative," Madame Bleu cried disappearing into Millie's handbag.

  Professor Purple tilted his head back and let out a derisive cackle. Then, his head rotated toward Millie, eyes narrowed. "You know what you must do, don't you Millie?" He disappeared into her handbag.

  Millie buried her face in her hands.

  I placed a consoling arm around her shoulder. "Why don't you come with me to Roger's presentation at the community center?"

  Millie tilted her head, pressing her lips together. "Roger's presentation?"

  "It'll be a blast. Roger said there are so many people going it will be standing room only. I'm sure the owner of the newspaper will thank you for covering it."

  Millie leaned forward. "Do you think so?"

  "Imagine it. You'd have the inside scoop."

  "I've seen the flyers," she said thoughtfully. "They are all over town."

  I leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial voice, "Roger says it's gonna be a big one."

  Millie's eyebrows raised. "Yes, yes, I'll go." She steepled her fingers and leaned back in her chair. "Will I be the only reporter in the crowd?"

  "Don't know," I answered honestly.

  Millie's eyes narrowed. "I hope I am the only reporter, don't want any competition. What time does it start?"

  "The action begins at twelve-fifteen."

  Millie's lip curled. "Oh no! The rotary club fish fry starts at noon. The owner of the newspaper demanded I cover it."

  Once again, she buried her face in her hands.

  The doorbell chimed, three office workers strolled into the café, the early tail of the lunch hour rush.

  Millie looked up at once, her nose crinkled. "Oh my gosh, Ollie!"

  "What is it?" I said.

  "I've reported on hundreds of town fish fries. I don't need to physically attend to write the story. Yes, yes, that's it! I'll write the story from memory and kill two birds with one stone."

  "Millie, are you sure?" I cautioned.

  She threw her shoulders back. "Of course! I'll be at the community center a little after noon. It's the least I can do to support Roger."

  Millie jumped up. "Got to go."

  I smiled as she left the café, her arms swinging, head tilted back, then turned to look out onto Creek Street. Office workers, in twos and threes, hurried along the sidewalk. They only had thirty minutes for lunch. A race against the clock, scurry to the store, buy lunch, eat lunch, sprint back to the office. Inwardly I smiled, content to be free from the pressure of the office clock.

  Another sip from my cup, eyes half closed, Barbara Nadel floated into my mind. What did I know about her? She was from California, worked in construction, had a back injury, and wrote a book. That was about it. Suddenly, I was curious to discover more about this mysterious woman, but how?

  Her book!

  I took another sip from my cup then squinted into my cell phone, eleven thirty-five. "I'll stop by the library on my way to the community center," I muttered.

  Chapter 22

  It was eleven forty-five, and I had circled the library parking lot three times—no spaces. I pulled out of the lot onto Sweet Bee Lane, and again no spaces, at least within a reasonable walking distance. "One last look around the parking lot," I said turning the vehicle around.

  Then I saw it, a car pulling out from under the shade of a live oak tree on the far side of the lot. I slipped into the space, jumped out and hurried to the front entrance of the library. The red, gold, and green Riverwalk Homeschoolers Association bus pulled up to the sidewalk and a group of children tumbled out. They ran ahead into the library, disappearing like summer snowflakes into the children's section.

  Despite the cooling gust from the air-conditioning, a line of sweat gathered along my hairline.

  "Hot out today!" said the librarian, a fifty-something woman with bright, intelligent eyes.

  "Sure is," I replied, flashing a friendly smile. "I'm looking for a book by the author Barbara Nadel. Does the library happen to have a copy?"

  Her brow furrowed. "That name doesn't ring a bell. Is it fiction or nonfiction?"

  "Fiction."

  She tapped something on the computer and squinted at the screen. I glanced up at the clock behind the counter, twelve noon. Only fifteen minutes to get to the community center.

  The librarian continued to tap on the keyboard, sporadically peering into the computer screen and letting out a frustrated sigh. My palms felt clammy as I twisted a lock of hair.

  Finally, she looked up. "No, that author doesn't seem to be in the main system."

  "Oh, that's a shame! Barbara was a local writer, only wrote one or two books." I turned to leave.

  "Local writer? Wait!" The librarian knit her brows and thoughtfully scratched her chin. Then she tapped into the keyboard. "We have a local writer's collection, it's not in our main computer system. Let me see…"

  For several moments she tapped, occasionally peering into the computer screen. Now I was really curious to find the book. But I didn't want to be late to Roger's presentation either. I played with my hair as I waited.

  "No, she's not in that system… But the system is being updated by volunteers, it's not very accurate right now. Let's check out the Hill Country fiction writers stack. Follow me."

  She set off at a pace to a distant corner of the library. At the local history alcove, she strode over to a line of bookshelves that covered the entire wall.

  "This is where we keep our local books, both fiction and nonfiction." She scanned the stack with a professional eye. "Ah yes, here it is!"

  My heart sped up a little as she held it in her hand. "Let me check something," she said, flipping open the cover. "Ah! That's why I couldn't rememb
er it. This book hasn't been checked out in a while."

  I grinned as she handed over the book. It was a slim volume. A black-and-white picture of the timber frame of a house filled the cover. At the top was the title, Death in the Hidden Room and at the bottom was the author's name, B. Nadel.

  After checking it out, I hurried across the parking lot, climbed into the Tahoe, tossed the book on the passenger seat, started the engine and headed out along Sweet Bee Lane toward the Medlin Creek Community Center. It was ten after the hour.

  Chapter 23

  I let out a low whistle as I circled the community center parking lot. People in the dozens filled the sidewalk. Office workers, tourists, mothers with strollers, and retired folks leaning on walking sticks, all hurried toward the entrance.

  Again, I circled the lot.

  It was full!

  Frustrated, I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Then I remembered the staff parking. It was in a separate parking lot behind the community center. Weaving through the crowds, I pulled out onto the main road, then turned onto a side street that led to the back of the community center.

  A handful of vehicles littered the lot, but there were plenty of empty spots. As I pulled into a space, I glanced down at the dashboard clock, twenty past the hour. I was late!

  I rushed out of the vehicle, along a deserted narrow sidewalk to the double doors at the back entrance. As I reached for the door handle a voice called out from behind.

  "Hey!"

  I twirled around. A pair of mirrored shades stared back. The figure had a baseball cap drawn tightly down over the head so that the tip covered the forehead. I stumbled backward, sucking in air, preparing to run, or scream, or both.

  "Well hello, gorgeous!"

  It was Roger!

  "What's with the shades and the hat?" I asked in a sharp voice as my heartbeat returned to normal.

  He took off the shades, his eyes darting around nervously. "Incognito. I wanted to look around, get a sense of things without anyone recognizing me. Have you seen the size of the crowd? The janitor's rushed off his feet, asked me to delay the start of my presentation until twelve forty-five."