Elliott laughed, his laugh a mixture of relief and genuine amusement. “I doubt it, I think I would know. Remember I have two step sons who are gay, and they pride themselves on their appearance. Look at him. He doesn’t really seem the type to me. No. I would say he is just plain weird. Very absorbed in his life. A deep thinker obviously, an oddball maybe, and definitely slightly eccentric, but gay? No dear, I think I would know if my police chief was gay.”
Chapter 7
“Betty!” screamed Heidi “Betty, where are you?” Heidi was furious. Her encounter in the park that morning with Meredith Keyes had put her in a foul mood, and it would be Betty Jenkins who would feel the brunt of her fury. “Betty, Betty, get in here, I need you.”
Betty rushed into the den, holding a cloth and cleaning spray, concerned that her employer was in need of urgent assistance; worried that maybe she had fallen, or even felt sick.
“Yes Miss Heidi, I’m here, are you okay?”
“No, I am not okay. No, I am positively not okay. I am the opposite of okay. Have you dusted this room yet? It is filthy. Sometimes I wonder if you do any work while I am out walking Fuchsl.”
Betty scanned the room. She had, and it was spotless. “Yes, I did it earlier.”
“Well do it again woman. You are slacking, just because you now have two other jobs. Don’t forget that you still work for me, and I am the one who pays you more than anyone else. I am, and will remain, your number one priority. Also, don’t forget that I let you use my car,” she paused, “and what’s for supper tonight?”
Betty bit her lip. She was not ‘slacking’ as Heidi put it. In fact, her work was impeccable, and as for the car, she only ever used it to run errands for Heidi, often during the night when she was officially off-duty. Betty though, was getting used to Heidi’s outbursts and temper tantrums. One minute she would be fine, the next moment screaming and shouting. Betty put it down to Heidi’s advancing years, as well as her theory that Heidi was probably mentally ill. Many times Betty had considered the notion that her employer was a mild sociopath. Betty certainly felt that the old woman had some type of personality disorder.
“I was going to prepare your favorite, Brunswick stew…”
“No!” screamed Heidi, cutting off her housekeeper in mid-sentence. “I don’t want that, I want chicken, fried chicken, that’s what I want.”
“But you always have Brunswick stew on Tuesdays,” protested Betty.
“Not anymore, make me fried chicken. I trust you have all the ingredients that you need?”
Betty didn’t. It would mean driving to the grocery store and picking up not only chicken, but extra cooking oil. “I’ll go to the store and pick up what I need,” she said, maintaining her composure.
“Well, snap to it. And when you get back you can finish cleaning this room to my satisfaction. I also need you to change my sheets again. They smell. I have absolutely no idea what detergent you are using but it is awful. You are to cease using it immediately.”
Betty looked confused, as she had just placed clean sheets on Heidi’s bed that morning. They were fresh, crisp, and perfectly fine, and she had been using the same laundry detergent for the past fourteen years. “I did change your sheets, this morning, while you were out walking in the park,” she replied, once again fighting the urge to grab Heidi by the throat and throttle her, after of course, giving her a good whooping. She restrained herself. It hadn’t always been like this; she had enjoyed working for Heidi, and it was only the fact that, despite the abuse, she was still fond of the old bird that stopped Betty from slapping her across the face.
“Well, they smell strange, change them.” Heidi barked.
Of course Heidi knew the sheets were fine, that her den was spotless and that she would have enjoyed Brunswick stew that evening. She was in a furious mood after the confrontation that morning in the park, and she was making a point. Betty worked for her, and just because she was cleaning and caretaking two other homes in the neighborhood, Heidi felt she needed to remind Betty that it was she who was Betty’s priority.
After Heidi heard the back door shut, indicating to her that Betty had left and was now on her way to the grocery store, she felt secure in the knowledge that she was alone. Heidi headed upstairs and unlocked the room that contained her collection of memorabilia. She estimated that she had least twenty five minutes to watch some of her black and white movie reels, and of course, spy through the window, into Elliott Miller’s backyard.
Chapter 8
The Bavarian Forest of Magic, The Wizards and the Boy, and Fairies in the Forest and Other Tales, all written by Elliott Miller.
At long last, Sam Taylor had the time and privacy to read them. That afternoon he had raked the leaves on both lawns, cooked a delicious chicken korma, and dutifully watched ‘Dancing With The Stars’ on television while he sat next to Sabrina on the sofa. It had been quality time, she’d told him. They were having quality time together. If the show they were watching was anything to go by, then this was not his interpretation of quality. At nine o’clock, Sabrina had gone to bed, which was the signal Sam had been waiting for to go to his study and begin reading.
He removed the books from the same box that they had arrived in, having repacked them before he had commenced his chores that morning. The covers of the books were well-illustrated and Sam was mildly impressed with the artwork and depictions of dragons, witches, and forests. The pages of the books, though intact, seemed a little dog-eared and yellowed, indicating to him their age and that they had been read many times.. This shouldn’t take long, thought Sam. All he needed to do was type a passage from one of the books into his computer and the Internet would do the rest. If these stories were, as he strongly suspected, plagiarized, it would be a symbolic nail in Elliott Miller’s equally symbolic coffin. At last he would have something on Miller. To be revealed as a plagiarist was every writers nightmare, but for a politician to have lied and cheated? It could be the beginning of the end of his career. Surely there would be no more talk of Elliott running for Governor and even higher office. His opponents would have a field day placing doubts on his character and morals.
The retired policeman selected a book and typed a passage from it onto the keyboard of his computer. Nothing. According to his computer there were no matches. He selected another passage and again the Internet could find no ‘relevant matches’ that corresponded with the words he had just entered. Undeterred, he picked up a second book and began to type. Sam Taylor leaned back and smiled. Word for word, there it was on his computer screen in black and white, an exact match to the passage. The accompanying text quite clearly stated that the ‘story’ originated far earlier than Elliott’s published works. Elliott Miller had not written the stories at all – he had stolen them. Just as Sam Taylor had suspected all along, Elliott Miller was a fraud, and now he had proof that the politician was nothing more than a common thief.
The ringing of his doorbell interrupted Taylor’s thoughts. He considered ignoring it, surprised that someone would be calling at his home so late. He was not going to allow yet another interruption to his investigation. He hoped that whoever it was would simply leave and assume that he and Sabrina were asleep or not even home. However, the doorbell rang again. Whoever it was didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving, and if they continued ringing his doorbell, thought Sam, they would no doubt wake Sabrina. “Damn it,” Taylor whispered under his breath.
“Chief Morgan, what a surprise,” said Taylor as he opened the door to his home.
“Please,” replied Jeff Morgan, “Jeff. Surely we are on a first-name basis these days?”
“We are? Thanks for letting me know.”
Sam Taylor tried to hide his annoyance. Why now? Just as he was in the middle of exposing Elliott Miller, why of all people would Morgan show up? Ironically, he was the next man on Taylor’s list. He planned to expose Morgan as a puppet police chief installed by the untrustworthy mayor, a man who was nothing more than Morgan’s puppet master
. What on earth did this buffoon want at this time of the night? Was he here to tell Sam he was resigning, unable to cope with the pressures of the job? Did he want Sam to return to his former post and take over? Did he need Sam to come out of retirement and run the department? Maybe Morgan was there to confess, admit he had been in cahoots with the mayor, and that he had tampered with evidence and failed in his duties during the investigation into Tom Hudd’s disappearance. Could that be it? If it was, along with his recent discovery, this could turn out to be one of the best days of Sam Taylor’s life.
“Come in…Jeff,” said Taylor behind gritted teeth. “What do I owe the pleasure of a visit,” Sam checked his watch, “from the chief of police at nine thirty in the evening? Is there something you need to get off your chest? Maybe there is something bothering you?”
“Well,” said Morgan as he entered predecessor’s home, “it is a rather awkward situation really, slightly embarrassing actually.” Morgan fidgeted as he spoke, “You see, I’ve received a complaint from your neighbors. They claim that you have been threatening them, and that you are harassing them…” Taylor raised his hand indicating for Morgan to stop.
“Jeff, I have no idea what you are talking about. Who have I been allegedly harassing? I think someone has sent you on a wild goose chase, probably some sort of practical joke by the guys. I remember when they used to let the air out of the tires of your moped, pin notes to your back, and hide your pens, stapler and notebook.”
“Danny and Robert.”
“Who?”
“Danny and Robert,” repeated Morgan. “You next door neighbors. To the left.”
“Oh, I see,” said Taylor, who was actually not seeing anything at all, let alone the relevance of his neighbors.
“Look, Sam…may I call you Sam?” asked Morgan.
“You just did.”
“Well, Sam, they were going to go to the press about it. But eventually, after a lot of persuasion, I talked them out of it. Anyway, they say you and your wife have been parking on their property, and that when they politely told you not to, that you made…” Morgan paused.
“Go on,” said Taylor, “Please continue.”
“…That you made homophobic comments directed at them, and that you also threatened them, making sure that they knew who you were, and I reiterate the word ‘were’ here, Sam.”
Sam Taylor shook his head. This was all he needed. Dramatic neighbors making wild accusations and allegations, as well as calling their buddy to ‘have a word’ with him. Taylor recalled that morning’s exchange with his neighbors. He had said or done nothing offensive, and he had remained polite and respectful despite his urge to punch them both in the face.
“I’m just asking that you cool it down, Sam,” said Morgan, “They are not only close personal friends of mine, but they also own quite a few businesses in town. Please, with all due respect, could you leave them alone? Stop parking on their land?”
Sam Taylor was fuming. Not only had he done nothing wrong, but he was also now being patronized by a man not fit to walk in his own shoes, let alone anyone else’s. Taylor took a deep breath. Was there any point arguing? What would be the simplest solution? Sam Taylor was a wise man, and all he wanted was enough time to expose Elliott Miller. This was a distraction he didn’t need. What he needed was to get back to his study to research the true origin of Elliott Miller’s books.
“You have my word. Tell Donny and Robert…”
“Danny,” corrected Chief Morgan.
“Danny and Donny…”
“Danny and Robert,” corrected Morgan again.
“Then who is Donny?” asked Taylor.
“There is no Donny…. Danny…it is Danny and Robert.”
“Well tell Danny and Robert I am very sorry. We won’t park on their property ever again, and I also promise that I will never speak to them ever again. Never will I utter a word in their presence. Zilch. Nada. My lips are sealed. I really can’t say fairer than that, now can I?” asked Taylor.
Jeff Morgan stood from his chair and smiled, “I am glad that is settled then. I appreciate it. It means a lot, not just to me, but for the city…. and of course your reputation. I will see myself out.”
Sam Taylor usually was a calm man but now, he was seething with anger. Reputation? What on earth was happening here? A threat of letters to the press, false and exaggerated accusations, then the ultimate humiliation, a friendly warning from Jeff Morgan. Sam headed to the bathroom and retrieved a spray can of air freshener. He doused the area around the chair where Morgan had sat. The man still had a body odor problem. It was utter madness that this man was running Savannah’s Police Department. Elliott Miller would have to wait. Sam Taylor’s priorities had changed. His sights had now shifted and were now firmly set on Danny, Donny, Robert, and of course, the foul smelling, idiotic, incompetent and utterly ridiculous, Jeff Morgan.
Chapter 9
Betty Jenkins was furious. Heidi’s rant earlier that day had been uncalled for and simply rude. If she hadn’t needed the wages Heidi paid her, she would have quit on the spot. Instead though, she had remained calm and composed, agreed with her employer that the sheets did smell and the den was dusty. Then, she had driven to the grocery store to purchase the ingredients required to make fried chicken.
As she lay in her bed, though exhausted from caring for the ungrateful Heidi, Betty could not fall asleep. Betty was working too hard, she knew that. Her doctor had advised her to cut down on her hours and spend more time doing things she enjoyed. He had told her she needed to relax and had offered her medication to ease her stress, most of which lately was caused by Heidi, and something to help her sleep. However, Betty had refused.
As she had pulled into the grocery store’s parking lot that afternoon, the same parking lot where she had accidentally killed Billy Malphrus over three years ago, she sighed heavily. She enjoyed driving, despite the accident, and the previous week she had asked Heidi if she could use her car to drive to Washington, to visit her son’s grave at Arlington Cemetery. Heidi had refused, telling Betty that it was ‘not convenient.’ What ‘not convenient’ actually meant was not clear to Betty. Heidi no longer drove and the car continued to sit idle in the driveway. Of course Betty would have paid for the gasoline, but Heidi had been adamant; it was simply ‘not convenient.’ Betty had therefore taken the bus. A twenty-eight hour round trip, just to spend two hours at her son’s graveside and to lay some flowers at his headstone. Betty closed her eyes, remembering that it had been worth the bus ride though. It always was--it was worth anything to spend time with Andy.
* * * * *
Betty was tired, hungry, and thirsty. The journey had been uncomfortable and long, but as always, she did not consider it a chore. After arriving at the bus station, she had purchased a sandwich and a much-needed bottle of water. She then took the metro to Arlington Cemetery. As she had stood by her son’s grave, she felt sadness but was proud, proud of Andy, his bravery, and all his achievements. She replaced the wilted flowers she had set at his headstone on her previous visit six months ago, with flowers she had brought with her from Savannah, hand-picked from her own garden. Then, she stood silently in thought.
Andy had been an excellent student, top of his classes in high school and Betty had been so proud of her son when he had graduated from college. He could have chosen to go to medical school or even law school, or he could have chosen a career on Wall Street. The world had been his oyster. Good looking, always impeccably dressed, and possessed with the good manners that had been installed into him by his mother at a young age, Andy Jenkins could have been and done anything he wanted.
Betty had been proudest though on the day her son had graduated from the Air Force Academy in Colorado. He was an officer as well as a gentleman. Andy had chosen to join the military because he wanted to serve his country, the country he loved and the country that had given him the opportunity to succeed educationally. That sunny day in 1986 had been best day of Betty’s life. Andy had prou
dly introduced his mother to his fellow graduates and his training officers. He had told them all that she had raised him alone, working three jobs just to pay the rent and to keep them fed and clothed. Second Lieutenant Andrew Jenkins was just as proud of his mother as she was of him.
Still, Betty had reservations about his career. Her son was now a fighter pilot in the Air Force. He had assured his mother that he would be fine, that any type of conflict that would endanger him was highly unlikely. So Betty had stood by proudly, as her son had climbed the ranks. This would be his career, and one day, he could even make General. Andy had also met a girl and there was talk of marriage. Betty had relished the thought of one day becoming a grandmother. Andy was destined to have a great life.
Her thoughts and memories, while stood by her son’s grave, had been interrupted, by a rather well-dressed man who had passed by her, he too holding flowers. Probably she thought, the father of another hero killed serving his country.
“Your son?” he had asked politely.
“Yes,” she had replied, “Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Carl Jenkins, killed in 1991, shot down over the Kuwaiti desert. It only seems like yesterday,” she said solemnly.
“Well,” said the stranger “My condolences, but I am grateful to your son for his sacrifice and his service. You have a good day, ma’am,” he said and gave Betty a kind smile, a smile that momentarily lifted her spirits, before heading to graveside he was visiting. It was people like him that made Betty realize her son had not died in vain. He was a hero and people knew it. He would never be forgotten.
Peter Ferguson visited Ignatius Jackson’s grave at least twice a month. He always brought flowers, and just lately, he had found himself talking to his dead friend as if he was alive and Ignatius could hear him. Today would be no different. After bidding good day to the woman mourning her son, he made his way to Ignatius.
Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist Page 6