Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  “Well, Eula Mae announced she’s donating fifty thousand dollars to the antidevelopment cause.” “Good Lord!” I whispered back. “I didn’t know she had that kind of cash to burn.” I glanced over at Eula Mae; she was absently twirling her hair with a finger. I hoped she had the money to back up her promise. The Loudermilks were silent. Nina’s voice droned on, outlining how they would use Eula Mae’s seed money to raise a massive war chest to inform the public about the perils of Intraglobal’s invasion. The meeting didn’t last much longer. I didn’t pay much heed; I kept watching the obvious glares between the Loudermilks and their daughter, who had kept her seat in the back of the room. Something was amiss in Mirabeau’s first family. Jenny Loudermilk tossed her rather luxurious locks in prime Barbie style and ignored her parents. Miss Twyla gave a final inspired speech on how we should ban together to fight this godless (not quite sure where theology crept into the equation, but Miss Twyla was on a roll) development. “We will stop this!” Miss Twyla vowed. “Whatever it takes, we will stop this!” God, was her timing lousy. I’d escorted Candace home. We hadn’t talked much. I told her Lorna had been mostly businesslike at dinner, calmly outlining Intraglobal’s strategy. She didn’t ask for an explanation of what constituted mostly. Her goodbye kiss was quick and dry. When I got home, I discovered Clo in the living room. She was watching her favorite program, Star Trek. “You never miss that one, do you, Clo?” I asked as Captain Kirk dueled a barbarian with a bad overbite. “That Lieutenant Uhura, she looks just like my girl.” “Really?” I said. Clo had been tight-lipped about her private life. She’d mentioned a granddaughter once. “She’s dead now.

  Dead for ten years.” Her voice was softer than usual, slack without its stridency. She stared at the screen, watching the battle. “You see, Jordy, I know what family pain is, too. Your mama’s asleep now.

  If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here and watch the end of this. It’s nearly over.” “Sure, Clo.” I hadn’t expected such a remark from her.

  She folded her hands in her lap, as though keeping something in them for an angel, and kept her eyes on the television. I went upstairs, washed my face, and came back down to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

  I sat there awhile, feeling that if I went into my own living room I’d be intruding on her grief. After a few moments I heard her click off the television. I stood and went back to join her. I walked Clo out to her little Ford Tempo and watched her drive away, only a good-night passing between us. I locked up, left the porch light on for Sister when she came in from her irregular shift, checked on Mama’s gentle rasp, took some more Tylenol for my sore left arm, and went to bed. At some point, deep in the night’s belly, a phone awakened me. I finally answered it. “Yes?” my voice creaked. “Jordy? This is Chet Blanton.”

  The name finally registered with me-Chet was the manager of the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast, and a library patron with a pronounced penchant for Agatha Christie. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but it’s an emergency.” “What-what’s wrong?” I managed to mutter, my brain smogged with sleep. “I don’t want to go into this over the phone, but your friend-she’s in trouble. Please, could you just come over?” Chet’s normally hearty voice sounded pinched. I sat up in bed, wide-awake. I told Chet I’d be there in a minute and hung up. I stumbled into clothes, eased my left arm into its sling, peeked in to make sure Sister was back from her shift (her snoring was a dead giveaway), and as though on autopilot, drove to the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast. A police car stood in the driveway, its lights flashing. My wristwatch indicated two in the morning, but I pounded on the door anyway. Chet met me at the door, dressed in a rumpled robe, his heavy face white. “What’s happened? Is Lorna okay?” I asked, pushing past him. “She’s okay, I think. Follow me.” Chet turned and we ran up the stairs of the elegant, antebellum home he’d converted. The second story held the eight guest rooms. In one of the rooms, I saw Lorna crouched on a bed, one of Junebug’s deputies talking to her. Her face was in her hands and she didn’t see me. I noticed blood on her right hand, oozing from a badly torn fingernail. I moved forward for her; Chet’s arm stopped me. “You better see this,” he whispered, steering me down one more room. “Which one is Greg Callahan’s?” I asked. He pointed two doors down the hall, back toward the stairs.

  “Number four.” The room he showed me was comfortable looking, decorated in classy antiques, and with a faint smell of fruit and potpourri, and the gassy odor of death. I stepped in and looked where Chet pointed. Greg Callahan lay sprawled on the Persian rug, his pale head bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring up at the slowly turning ceiling fan. He’s drunk, was my first irrational thought; but there was no air of liquor. I didn’t start to gag until I stepped closer and saw the length of barbed wire cruelly and deeply twisted into his neck.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Even after a morning of getting out of the hospital, an afternoon of Miss Twyla and Nina berating me, and an evening of concern about Lorna, I couldn’t rightly say I’d had the worse day in Mirabeau. That distinction rested with poor Greg Callahan. I sat sipping a Dr Pepper in the small waiting area of the Mirabeau police station. Lorna sat next to me, holding my hand. Her own hand felt clammy. One of the officers came in, the door pinging as he opened it, and I could smell the faint grittiness of rubber and gravel from the parking lot. The summer-night air was warm, but I still had goose pimples from what I’d seen. While the police began their investigation of the murder scene and the ambulance arrived to trundle off Greg’s body, I got Lorna down to Chefs kitchen. She had been silent as I seated her at the kitchen table and I wondered whether to get her whiskey or coffee. Suddenly she had screamed, burying her face in her hands. “My God, he’s dead, he’s really dead!” She sobbed uncontrollably then, and I just held her, whispering into her dark hair that she was okay. Finally she believed me and stopped crying. I held her and thought about what I’d seen in the few moments I’d had in Greg’s room. I had carefully knelt by Greg. I saw the ends of the wire had been fashioned into loops, probably for a better grip for the killer. I swallowed; death by barbed-wire garrote was a sickening thought. I forced myself to look at Greg’s savaged throat. The wire had cut into his neck deeply, and the barbs had left little tears in his flesh. God, like simultaneously being strangled and having your throat cut. I could only hope it had happened quickly. One of his hands lay open, and I could see small wounds on his palm, like stigmata. I shuddered. It must have been agony for him, having that torturous noose tightening on his gullet and, when he tried to pull the choking cord off, getting metal thorns in his hands. He was still in his suit and the dribble of blood from his neck stained his starched collar. His blue eyes bulged, the lids half-closed. I gingerly touched his wrist and felt the silence. I stood, wanting to get back to Lorna. I glanced around the room. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood between two used glasses. On the desk was a scattering of loose change, a receipt from the Sit-a-Spell Cafe, a closed laptop computer with some small disks stacked like playing cards next to it, a sheet with the Mirabeau B. Lamar stationery near the phone. Writing scrawled across it, with doodles surrounding the text: NINA HERNANDEZ=EARTH BITCH. Below that, a telephone number: 555-3489. That was a Mirabeau number, I thought. But whose? I didn’t recognize it, but then I’d hardly memorized the phone book in my copious spare time.

  “Goddamn it! Get the hell out of there!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to face a very, very irritated Junebug. “Junebug-” He rumbled forward, grabbed my sore arm (mind you, my sore arm), and hustled me out into the hallway. Chet looked shamefaced and sick. I pulled my sling free from Junebug’s grip with what little dignity I could muster. “What do you think you’re doing, Jordy, tainting a crime scene?” “Tainting? I was just looking-” “What you were doing, clueless, was leaving hair and fibers and probably fingerprints that are now going to have to be weeded out in my scene-of-crime work.”

  Junebug shook his head. I opened my mouth to retort, then shut it. He was right. I�
��d had no business in there. My own curiosity and shock at seeing Greg dead, who I’d only talked with a few hours before, got the better of me. I took a deep breath and fought down a spasm of nausea.

  “You’re right. I apologize. I didn’t think.” I glanced down the hall.

  “Can I go see Lorna?” “In a minute.” Junebug whirled his sirens on Chet. “You stand guard here till Franklin tapes off this room. No one gets in, Chet. Do you understand?” “Yes, Junebug,” Chet said miserably. Fortunately Franklin Bedloe, one of Junebug’s deputies, galloped up the steps that moment and took over. Chet looked vastly relieved. I stood in the hall waiting while listening to Junebug chew out the officer sitting with Lorna for not securing the crime scene.

  The rookie tried to tell his chief that he’d just been concerned about Ms. Wirechinski (he nearly had the name down), but Junebug wasn’t having any of that. I heard him speak in low, kinder tones to Lorna and she sniffled an answer. We three civilians were relegated to the kitchen while the authorities took over. Lorna refused Chet’s offer of whiskey, but coughed out that she would like a glass of brandy. One of the policemen sat stonily in our midst-I guess making sure none of us headed for the border. He gave Lorna first aid for her injured finger while I watched. After thirty minutes Junebug came back in and said, “Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ” Chet, ever the professional host, offered Junebug a drink. He refused and watched Lorna carefully. “Ms.

  Wiercinski,” he finally said, “I’d like you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions. If you feel up to that”

  “Of course, Mr. Moncrief.” She rose unsteadily, then as if suddenly remembering that I was there, took my hand. “Can Jordan come, too?”

  “Of course,” Junebug answered. “I’m not quite sure why he’s here.”

  “I’m an old friend of Lorna’s. We knew each other in Boston.” I didn’t want to go into more detail while Chet was there. He’s a rotten gossip. “He’s a good old friend to have.” Junebug nodded, and so we had ended up here. Junebug had asked us to wait in the lobby for a few minutes and had disappeared into his office. I was dying to know what had happened but thought it wouldn’t look too cool to be grilling Lorna when Junebug came back. Her fingers laced with mine and I didn’t pull back. My arm felt stiff and sore and I tried to keep the sling still and close to my body. “Y’all come on back,” Junebug returned, and escorted us into the station’s one interrogation room. I felt distinctly unwell; I presumed we’d get questioned in the less accusatory surroundings of Junebug’s office. Lorna and I sat on one side of the table, Junebug across from us. He scratched his crew cut and blinked at our entwined hands. He didn’t comment, but he was doubtless wondering what my relationship was with Lorna. “Now, Jordy, maybe you can tell me what you’re doing in the middle of this,”

  Junebug said. Lorna glanced at me. “Jordy? I’ve never heard you called that before.” “Please, Lorna, not now.” I took a deep breath and recounted Chet’s phone call. Junebug listened without comment. “Now, Ms. Wiercinski, maybe you can tell me what happened.” Lorna ran a thin fingernail across her bottom lip. She briefly explained her and Greg’s presence in Mirabeau. “Okay. About eight-fifteen we went to the library because Greg was upset-” “Wait a second, ma’am. Who’s we?”

  “Me, Greg, and a local real-estate agent, Freddy Jacksill. I had dinner with Jordan”-one Junebug eyebrow went up, then settled back where it belonged-“and then I’d come back to the bed-and-breakfast.

  Greg had already heard about the meeting and he was upset. He abhors Nina Hernandez; says she’s an extremist who always gets in his way.”

  “Wait another second!” Junebug exploded. “What’s this all about?”

  Lorna told him about the ongoing animosity between Nina Hernandez and Greg’s company. Junebug made notes. “Okay,” he said, “so he wanted to bust up this meeting.” “Not exactly. He just wanted to let people know that Nina is dead wrong about Intraglobal and clarify what we want to do here. He wanted to announce his own meeting-which would have been tonight.” “How had he heard about the library meeting?” “I don’t know, Mr. Moncrief. I guess Freddy Jacksill told him.” She went on to describe Greg’s arrival during Nina’s speech and the ensuing charges and countercharges. I helpfully filled in what had happened before Greg and Lorna’s arrival. “And after you left the library?” Junebug prodded. “Greg was very confident that he’d win, but I could see that he was seething. He really hates Nina Hernandez. I mean, he really hated-” Her voice broke off as she corrected her tense. Junebug offered a tissue and she waved it away. “I’m okay. “Anyhow, after we left, Greg, Freddy, and I came back to the Mirabeau B. I was tired and a little upset”-a glance at me spoke volumes-“and I wanted to go to bed. This is my first deal working with Intraglobal and I’m not accustomed to all this confrontational crap. Greg had calmed and seemed ready to celebrate. He said that Nina would mess up her campaign to stop us and we’d be able to get the land for the river resort. He wanted to have drinks with Freddy and me, but I begged off.

  So he and Freddy went into Greg’s room. Around nine-thirty I went to bed-” She broke off, sounding uncertain. “Is that all, ma’am?” Junebug seemed to sense she was holding something back and his tone was pressing. “I dozed off, but then I woke up. I heard Greg’s voice yelling at someone. Whoever it was wasn’t yelling back.” “Did he sound afraid?” I asked, ignoring Junebug’s scowl at my intervention. “No, more mad than afraid.” “You didn’t hear Mr. Jacksill talking with him?” Junebug asked. “No, not that I remember.” “What happened then?”

  “I went back to sleep. I woke up later, maybe around midnight-I heard a door slam down the hall. But I rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Then-a little before two-I woke up again. I’m not sure what woke me up, I just snapped awake.” A slamming door, I thought. Chet had told me while we waited for the police to finish their preliminary examination of Greg’s room that Lorna and Greg were his only guests at the moment. So it must’ve been Greg’s door that she heard. Junebug listened to her carefully, as though a clue might drop from her unsuspecting lips. “Think again, miss. Did you hear a noise? Someone crying out? Another door slam?” Lorna pursed her lips. I could see the effort of her recollection as she dredged through her shock. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything. I think I woke because I was thirsty.” “Okay,” Junebug said. “You were thirsty.” “I decided to go down to the kitchen for some apple juice. I opened my door and started for the stairs. I passed Greg’s room and I could see that the door was ajar. I…” She stared at her clenched fingers. Junebug didn’t prompt her; neither did I. We both sensed that she had to tell this at her pace. After a long intake of breath she continued: “I knocked at the door, very softly. I thought maybe Greg fell asleep with it open, but that would have been very unlike him. He was a maniac about his privacy. So I pushed at the door. It was ink black inside, what with the curtains down. But my eyes were used to the dark now, and I could see his bed hadn’t been slept in. So I stepped inside the room-I remember my hand went out for the light switch. The lights came on-I was looking at Greg’s bed. I couldn’t see his body from there. I didn’t know he was there. And then these gloves closed around my mouth and my throat…” She took a long, shuddering breath. Junebug leaned forward. “Okay, Ms. Wiercinski. Please describe what happened very carefully. Take as much time as you need.” Lorna, her closed eyes tight lines, nodded. “Okay. One glove went over my mouth because I started to scream. The other went behind my neck”-she pantomimed for us-“holding me at the base of the throat. I just stopped dead, because as they closed around me this voice whispered to me, ‘Make a sound, bitch, and you’re dead.’” “A man’s voice or a woman’s?” I asked.

  Junebug didn’t seem to object. Lorna shook her head. “I couldn’t tell-the voice was a ratchety, harsh whisper. A man’s, I think.

  Maybe.” “What about the gloves? What kind were they?” “Thick, coarse.

  Not like driving or d
ress gloves, but like heavy work gloves.” “Of course,” I said. “Whoever used that garrote on Greg would have to protect his own hands from the barbs. Pulling it taut could be painful.” “From the way the person was holding you, Ms. Wiercinski, could you tell if they were bigger or smaller than you, or around your own size?” Junebug asked, ignoring my valuable insight. He’d probably already thought of it, anyway. Lorna shook her head. “I couldn’t tell-the way he was holding me, it was at something of a distance from him; I wasn’t pressed up against him. I-I thought of fighting, but I was too scared. I mean, everything I’d heard of what you’re supposed to do-fight, kick, scream-my mind wouldn’t do it. I just froze.” “What happened next?” Lorna swallowed. “He-or she-pushed me facedown on the bed. I remember saying, ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ He didn’t say anything. He blindfolded me with what I later found was one of Greg’s ties. Then he tied my arms together with the bedsheets. He shoved another tie in my mouth as a gag and put a pillowcase over my head.

  Then he shoved me into Greg’s closet and said in that hoarse whisper, ‘You just stay right there.’ I could hear the closet door shut and the key turn in the lock.” She sniffed. “I guess that’s when you know you’re staying in a real old house-when you have keys for the closets.

  I thought he was gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I heard movements at different times, so I just lay there for a while and I started to get panicky. I was pretty sure he’d left, so I worked my way out of the sheets, got the gag out of my mouth, and took off the blindfold and the pillowcase. I peered out of the keyhole, but I couldn’t see anything. I started screaming and kicking on the door; finally I kicked it loose. I saw Greg’s body and screamed. Chet rushed in and got me out, and he called the police. I-I asked him to call Jordan.”