by Jean Erhardt
I offered up a little prayer.
Dear Lord, bless all of our early American ancestors who landed on these fair shores and got right down to the business of doing what they do best, brewing alcoholic beverages. And God Bless the Weidemanns, whoever they are. Amen.
I got out of the car and took a seat high in the bleachers. I sat there, sipping my beer and a cardinal landed next to me, the Ohio state bird. He was extra-large and very red. He hopped around like the free bird that Rick Rod Delozier wasn’t any more. Then he took off in a rush for the trees.
Chief Cokie’s skepticism was getting to me. What possible reason did anyone, including myself, have to believe that Rick Rod Delozier wasn’t a killer with a penchant for weenie whacking? How stupid could I be anyway? Of course his very own sister would think him incapable of heinous crimes. Sisters are supposed to stick up for you.
I kept waiting for the hammer of reality to wallop me good, drive home the obvious. After all, it was a done deal, really. Rick Rod Delozier got caught red-handed. He was the boogie man with a butcher knife under his bed, and now he’d have to pay.
I leaned back against the bleachers and waited for all of this to sink in. I waited and waited. I uncapped another beer and waited some more, but way off in a corner of my mind, there was an eensy, weensy voice calling out. It got louder and louder and louder. The voice sounded a lot like Jessica Fletcher.
Jessica said, “But what about Larry White?”
And what about Evelyn’s big check?
I figured it was time to resolve this Larry White situation once and for all. Back in Gatlinburg I had a busy restaurant, a double-wide and some semblance of a personal life to get back to, and it hadn’t escaped my notice that Evelyn needed a cash infusion worse than her spindly roses needed rain.
As soon as I got back to Tara, I got on the horn to Bud Upton.
“One moment,” his secretary said. She sounded young enough to be Bud’s great-granddaughter.
Bud Upton picked up promptly. “Kim, what’s the good word?”
“I wanna meet with Larry White.”
“This could be interesting.”
“Tell him no deal unless he meets with us personally.”
“May I ask exactly what you hope to accomplish with this maneuver, other than risk losing lots of money?”
“I wanna know who we’re doing business with, Bud.”
“And if he won’t agree, you’re willing to kiss off the deal?”
“He will.”
I was betting that Larry White, whoever he was, wanted WFOG bad enough to stick his neck out. “And, Bud,” I said, hoping to successfully push my luck just another inch, “one other thing? Do you think your brother Irvin could find out exactly what’s the extent of Larry White’s Fogerty real estate wish list?”
“Probably.”
“Thanks, Bud. You’re a prince and please tell Irvin that I owe him dinner.” I wasn’t stupid enough to think that the charges for Irvin Upton’s services wouldn’t be extracted via Bud’s hefty bill, but it was a nice gesture.
“Dinner might be difficult to arrange,” Bud said. “My brother is currently in residence at the Lebanon Correctional Facility.”
“Gee, the guy sure gets around for a guy who can’t get around.”
“You gotta love the system.”
With the wheels in forward motion, I was feeling a whole lot better. Not only did I not want us to get swindled by some Nashville creepazoid, I was more convinced than ever that we owed it to my father to not sell his last remaining holding to some sleazeball. If Larry White, or whoever Larry White represented, turned out to fit this description, I wanted to help Evelyn figure out some other way out of her financial Nightmare on Elm Street. She could always sell Tara and move in with Agee and Alonzo. Not to be morose, but they did have an extra bed now. I loved my mother, but I was far more inclined to have her share their trailer than mine.
So there were options, should we decide to blow Larry White off. It was hard to believe it might come to this, that blowing him off was truly a consideration, but it was, and that was that.
It may have been just my imagination running away with me again, but it was somewhat entertaining to wonder just what all might come unraveled if Larry White’s string got yanked hard enough. No matter what Bud Upton thought, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination working overtime the other night at Jimmy’s Place when I’d noted that Charlene the Dancing Machine had flinched more than just a hair when I’d dropped Larry White’s name.
Hell, maybe Rick Rod was innocent. Maybe Charlene and the phantom Larry White had been on a nasty, recent killing spree. After all, was it really such a stretch to imagine that a topless dancer in a bad mood might be inclined to whack a few weenies?
My brain was smoking with the possibilities. I left it on low burn, hopped in the Toyota and headed to Kroger’s for groceries. I wanted to put a few staples on the shelves at Tara and make a decent dinner for Evelyn and me.
It was once noted by the late and awesome M. F. K. Fisher that there may be a correlation between beef and grief. It seems that there are numerous accounts of folks craving large quantities of meat, especially beef, upon the loss of a loved one. A man has been known to hit the highway after his wife’s funeral and drive feverishly from one steakhouse to next, putting down Porterhouse after Porterhouse until he falls into a sated stupor and sleeps for hours in some strange motel bed.
I was reminded of M. F. K. Fisher’s astute observation as I dropped a couple of mighty huge rib eyes into the Kroger’s shopping cart. Then came charcoal, steak sauce, mushrooms and onions, baking potatoes, salad fixings, butter, sour cream, fresh chives and Graeter’s Chocolate Chip ice cream for dessert. When I had dinner handled, I rustled up some pantry basics and hit the check stand.
Evelyn hadn’t been in the mood to eat much at the church luncheon after Abbott’s memorial service, so she was plenty ready for dinner.
She made us a couple of very cold, boozy Manhattans, and we sipped them under the striped umbrella on her patio while the charcoal got just right for steaks. I could see that recent events had taken their toll on Evelyn, but she seemed ready and willing to aim for a general regrouping and move on.
She agreed with me that no matter how bad things were financially, she really didn’t want to do business with a slimeball and she liked the idea of pushing Larry White to show himself.
“Hey, maybe we’re all wrong,” she said. “Maybe Larry White is some sweet, handsome billionaire who just made up that name because he doesn’t want everyone in the world to know his business.”
“Yeah, and maybe he looks just like Rhett Butler, and he’ll ride into Fogerty on a black stallion, mistake you for Scarlett and Gone with the Wind finally gets a happy ending.”
“You could ruin anything.”
I dropped the steaks on the fire and they made a loud sizzle. “You know, Evelyn, you’re really riding the pony now, and I’m very proud of you.”
“Oh, shut up,” she said, finishing off her Manhattan. “And don’t overcook my steak. I like mine on the rare side of medium rare.” She pushed herself up from the patio table and headed back inside to freshen our Manhattans.
The steaks were cooking nicely and they smelled fantastic. Bunky thought so, too. He was circling the grill making hungry, obnoxious little snorts. Evelyn popped back out the patio door and handed me my drink. Her Manhattans were certainly starting to grow on me.
“Looks like Larry White is going to get the Delozier farm now that Rick Rod needs to raise some cash,” I said, testing the steaks. “You know Rick Rod still claims he’s innocent.”
“Big deal.”
“Well, Amy believes him.”
Evelyn got a sour look on her face. “I hope you’re not even thinking of poking around in police business.”
“What if the cops are wrong? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in history,” not to mention Fogerty history.
“Kimberly,” Evelyn said, sternly. “Th
e police chief is a very bright woman. She didn’t get to be chief for nothing. Maybe you’ve got a problem with authority figures. You ever think of that?” She sipped her Manhattan.
“Of course I have a problem with authority figures, but that’s beside the point.”
I checked the steaks again and they were perfect. I forked them from the grill to the meat platter where they continued to sizzle. Evelyn took the platter from me. “If you keep stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, one of these days somebody’s gonna cut it off,” she said.
A valid warning, no doubt. And it wasn’t like body parts weren’t already turning up missing all around town, but Evelyn’s cautionary prediction came about thirty years too late. Call me lucky, but so far I still had my nose.
After a gratifying dinner Evelyn headed off for her nightly bubble bath and I took my Nat Sherman Hobart for a walk around the Tara estate. The heat of day had ebbed, a breeze was up and it was perfect for an evening stroll. Bunky even tagged along, and I didn’t mind the company. Tara really was a nice piece of land. About twenty acres, part woods, part fields, a pretty little creek running through the property and one huge lake.
Bunky and I followed the short, woodsy trail to Lake Evelyn. I was enjoying my cigar almost as much as Bunky was enjoying sticking his nose in the molehills along the way. The lake looked beautiful. The water rippled slightly in the breeze, and the bugs buzzed low near the water’s surface. Here and there, a fish broke the water, feeding on gnats at sundown. Bunky and I ambled out to the end of dock. I sat down, took off my shoes and dipped my toes in Lake Evelyn.
I wondered what Nancy was doing at that moment. It was probably too late in the day for her to be filing for divorce. I wondered what Amy was doing. It was probably too late for her to be filing for divorce.
“Bunky,” I said, but it appeared that he was only half-listening as a big, green dragonfly had landed on the dock about three inches from his nose. “Bunky,” I repeated myself, “don’t ever get mixed up with a married woman and, whatever you do, don’t get mixed up with two married women.” Bunky snapped at the fly. The fly didn’t budge.
It was still a couple hours until Charlene Time at Jimmy’s Place so I kicked back and enjoyed the sights and smells of the oncoming summer evening. “And Bunky,” I said, “no matter what, never get mixed up with two married women and a topless dancer.”
I puffed on the tail end of the tail end of my Nat Sherman, knowing fully well I was about to ignore my own advice.
Chapter 27
“Ready for another round?” I had Amy on the horn.
“Round of what?”
“Nancy Drew and George.”
There was a pause like she was thinking it over. “Do you think of me as Nancy or George?”
“Well, neither really.”
“Actually, I never read Nancy Drew.”
“Then you can be Watson.”
“Who?”
“Skip it. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
I grabbed a quick shower, pulled on some clean clothes and told Evelyn not to wait up for me.
Amy’s Terrace Park Tudor was impressive, stately, ivy-covered, classic in every way. I swung left onto Yale Avenue and turned in at the mailbox with The Smiths spelled out in gold letters. I pulled into the half-circle drive which was lined on both sides with little white lights and neatly clipped hedges. I parked in front of the garage next to Amy’s Lexus.
The outdoor house lights came on, and, in short order, Amy popped out the front door. She waved to me, slung her purse over her shoulder and locked the door behind her. She hurried down the curvy, brick walk, then hopped into the passenger side of my Toyota. “Hi ya,” she said.
“Hi ya.” I kind of liked hi ya. “Gee,” I said, glancing past her at the house, “I was hoping for a tour of the Tudor.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, taking a cigarette out of her purse. She pulled out her Bic. “You mind?”
I motioned for her to go ahead and smoke. “So, is Doctor Smith still at Mommy’s?”
Amy lit her cigarette and dropped the lighter back into her purse. “Don’t know, and don’t care.”
That certainly summed it up.
“Well, okay then.” I backed the car around and aimed us out the driveway.
I backtracked through the expensive woodsy village of Terrace Park, taking in all of the classy, well-kept real estate. This neighborhood was chockfull of well-paid professionals, mostly GE and Procter & Gamble execs. Of course, that was true of any upscale Cincinnati neighborhood.
But Amy had seen it all before. She checked her face in the visor mirror and put on a little lipstick. Her honey-gold hair was pulled back in a braid and she wore small silver loops in her ears. She was wearing a svelte, moss green V-neck shirt tucked into her belted jeans and spendy-looking leather sandals. I wondered again about the possibility of the breast implants.
“Poor Rick Rod,” she said, pushing the visor back into place. “He looked so sad today.”
As it turned out, Amy had been visiting Rick Rod in the county jail while Brother Bobby Lee was presiding over Abbott’s memorial service.
“At least he still has us, right?” she said.
Reluctantly, I said, “Right.”
“So,” Amy said, clapping her hands together, “what now?”
I told her about my plan for the evening, which involved the two of us doing some general camping on Jimmy’s Place, Topless Charlene in specific. After all, the police weren’t bothering to look into things any further. They had their man and Irvin Upton couldn’t be everywhere.
“Whoa,” Amy said, “a stakeout.”
I’d pulled a few of stakeouts in my security days, mostly sitting on dishonest employees who were overly attracted to the cash register or designer clothes, shoes, jewelry or all of the above. It wasn’t difficult work, really, but you had to be willing to put up with lots of nothing happening for a long period of time and then when something finally did happen, you had to be awake to see it and, more importantly, to move on it. It was astonishing how inventive a greedy little salesperson or warehouse worker or store manager could get.
I’d once nailed an eighteen-year-old stock boy with 10,000 bucks worth of stolen Nikes in his van. He’d worked a four-hour shift that day. He was a straight A student. Today he’s probably a terrific criminal attorney.
Then there was the store manager who was bopping the switchboard operator, the customer service manager and the personnel director. He also had a wife and six kids, a very busy boy. When he wasn’t busy fornicating, he was busy ripping off, among assorted other things, store gift certificates, which he fudged through the system and converted to cash when no one was looking. He’d been at all of it for years.
We caught him on video one night. He’d stayed late to get a blow job from the switchboard gal, and after he’d packed her off, he packed himself off with a briefcase full of loot. We had a little chat, which was followed by the police’s little chat, followed by his subsequent arrest and booking. The last I heard, he was selling pellet fireplaces.
“Before we get started on this stakeout,” Amy said, “can we get something to eat?”
Milford is a creaky old town that butts up to Terrace Park. It’s no Terrace Park, but it is home to a number of famous Americans, most notably the irrepressible Charles Manson. This bit of trivia always came to mind when I drove through Milford.
The Frisch’s Big Boy beckoned to us like a fat little Tiki god, and I turned off the highway and pulled through the lot to a space at a drive-in speaker where one could still catch a car hop in action. Amy stared past me at the lit menu board. “God, I’m ravenous. I wanna Big Boy with extra tartar sauce, cole slaw, onion rings and a large vanilla coke, also strawberry pie.” She pulled a bill out of her purse and handed it to me. “And get whatever you want.”
I wasn’t hungry, but I doubled the order anyway. It could turn out to be long night.
Jimmy’s Place was about a twenty-minute ride
from the Milford Big Boy and by the time we got there, Amy had put away everything but her strawberry pie. “Maybe I’ll save this for later,” she said, sticking the plastic-wrapped plate of pie back into the Frisch’s bag and stashing it next to my yet-to-be eaten bag of food behind her seat.
I pulled into a rutted, vacant lot across the road from Jimmy’s. Not counting dumped garbage and a car on blocks that had probably been sitting there since Jimmy Carter’s term, we were all alone.
I angled the Toyota around until we were mostly hidden by the brambles that grew between us and the road, but left a decent view of things across the way.
“That’ll work,” I said and cut the engine. I reached into the glove compartment for the pair of binoculars I’d borrowed from Evelyn without asking permission. I tried them out and they weren’t great, but they’d do.
Scanning Jimmy’s lot, I perused the assortment of vehicles. The only car I would’ve recognized was Abbott’s beater Dodge Charger, but chances were excellent he wouldn’t be showing up.
“Did you know that Bo and Luke Duke completely trashed 300 Dodge Chargers?”
“Who?”
“Bo and Luke, the Dukes of Hazzard.”
“That’s so stupid.”
“Cousin Abbott didn’t think so.”
Amy just shot me a peevish look.
“Amy,” I said, focusing in on Jimmy’s front door, “please know that I’m not trying to be difficult when I ask this, but tell me, is there any possible evidence, other than the fact that Rick Rod is your brother, that might rule him out as the killer?” Amy was cute, but if I was going to spend the night in the Toyota, I wanted to go over my real motivation one more time.