They made pleasant conversation, talking about their respective children. The Sawyers had two children together and Marilyn had an additional son, born after a hasty marriage to a man she had divorced soon after meeting Ephraim Sawyer. That man was never seen again, and the previous marriage was never discussed. In addition to the aforementioned children, there was a single Sawyer grandson.
“He’s just the cutest little thing!” Marilyn gushed as the Reverend told a rambling story of the two year old’s exploits.
“He is a little terror,” Sawyer commented before adding proudly, “He reminds me of myself at that age!”
“Because of that, Sawyer spoils him terribly, always buying him things with his name on them. ‘Toby’ this and ‘Toby’ that! He has more stuff with his name on it than you can imagine.” Marilyn shook her head fondly at her husband’s foibles.
“Your grandson’s name is Toby?” Christina asked with interest. “You don’t hear that name much in this area.”
“Yes, but his real, Christian name is Tobias. It’s an old family name. My father was christened Tobias and Toby will carry on that name for his generation,” the Reverend replied. “Besides, he can’t say Tobias yet. He pronounces it as ‘Tobus’, which won’t do at all! We all decided Toby was acceptable until he was older.”
Marilyn laughed and confided, “The other reason we call him Toby is because it’s really hard to find anything with the name Tobias on it, while there are things for a Toby almost everywhere. We’ve picked up t-shirts and caps and little mugs and even license plates from about everywhere we’ve been. Ephraim even found a bunch of hunting and fishing stuff for him with his name engraved right on them.”
“Isn’t he young for hunting and fishing equipment?” Sutton asked.
“Not at all! Before too long, he’ll be firing the rifle and using one of the hunting knifes to skin a buck.” Sawyer clapped his hand on Sutton’s shoulder and added, “You just wait – he’ll be five before you know it. We’ll get your boy out there with us. You can’t start them hunting too young.”
They all laughed appreciatively at the Reverend’s wisdom and wit, although Christina worried her own laughter sounded hollow.
Soon, Marilyn indicated that dinner was ready and they all went into the small dining room, which only seated ten, instead of the twenty-four the formal room could handle. The conversation was varied, ranging from the extremely hot weather the state was experiencing to new residential developments underway on the lake. Eventually, dinner was over, and Marilyn leaned toward her, “Christina, if you’d help me clear the plates, I’ll put together dessert. We’ll leave the men alone for a while. I’m sure they won’t get up to too much devilment while we’re gone.”
The woman cleared the plates and Christina followed Marilyn into the giant kitchen. Marilyn motioned for her to put the plates down on one of the counters. “Emeline will take care of those in the morning. There’s no need for us to ruin our nails doing dishes.”
Christina set the dishes down as directed.
“You look like you could use another glass of wine,” commented Marilyn. “I know I could!” She poured a couple of large glasses and handed it to Christina. “I wanted a chance to talk to you alone – just us girls. I’ve noticed you’re looking tired. Not that you aren’t still lovely, dear, but I did wonder if something was the matter.’
“Thank you for asking, Marilyn. Everything’s fine. I am tired, but there’s just so much to do with the campaign and the kids. I’m afraid I’m just worn out and haven’t been sleeping much.”
“I’m sure the campaign is a bugger, but it appears Sutton is doing very well.”
“Yes, he is doing well. We’re all very proud of him and his progress.”
Marilyn took a drink of her wine and confided, "I think that we women are severely underestimated. We put up with things no man would.”
Christina lifted her own glass and tilted a stream of deep red liquid into her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Well, to put it simply; we cook, take care of the children, manage the home, do most of the shopping, engage in whatever business we must to get ahead in the world, and then we are expected to look as fresh as a rose all the time. On top of which, no matter what is going on in our lives, we’re supposed to be ready to spread our legs and fuck whether we feel like it or not.”
Christina was so shocked by Marilyn’s word usage she almost dropped the fragile crystal glass.
“Oh honey, close your mouth. I know you’ve heard that word before and have probably used it frequently yourself.” Marilyn took another swig of her wine and then poured some more from the bottle. She held out the bottle to Christina who took it and refilled her own glass. “Now, I wanted to ask you, are things are fine in the bedroom?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know what I mean. Are you and Sutton bouncing the headboard or has all the stress and campaign nonsense messed that up as well?
“We’re fine in that respect, Marilyn, not that it’s really any of your business.”
“Christina, of course it’s my business,” Marilyn corrected her in a no-nonsense voice. “My husband and I have invested a whole lot of cold, hard cash into you and your politician husband. In order to get our investment back, you and Sutton have some work to do. You need to appear happy, rested and well satisfied. So, I’ll ask you again, are you two tangling up the bed sheets on a regular basis?”
Embarrassed, Christina looked down at the wine glass in her hands and the trembling wine inside of it. “Not as much as we used to, before.”
“That’s what I thought! I can usually tell these things just by looking. Let me tell you a hard truth: the more a man conceives a need for power, the less interested he is in keeping the woman at home satisfied. You need to add some excitement to keep his engine primed.”
Part in horror at the nature of their conversation, and part in curiosity, Christina took another big swallow of her wine and asked, “What would you suggest, Marilyn?”
“I can’t tell you what will work in your personal situation, but I’ll tell you what I did about twelve years ago. I got myself a tattoo.”
“You what? You have a tattoo?” No one would believe the wife of the very respectable Ephraim Sawyer had a tattoo. It was beyond belief.
‘‘Yes, indeed I do. I got it in Vegas when we were there for the national convention of evangelical churches. I went right down to the tattoo parlor and picked out the prettiest flower you ever did see, and had it done.”
“W-Where?” Christina asked trying to control the mirth bubbling up inside her at the thought of the Reverend’s wife in a seedy Vegas tattoo parlor, baring her skin for to get her some ink.
“Right down here,” Marilyn pointed to her crotch. “Right near my magic cave.” As Christina Dameron struggled to control herself, Marilyn continued. “Every time I’d want some attention, I’d inform the Reverend that he needed to stop by and smell the flower.”
“Oh my goodness! Did that work?”
“For a while it did, but eventually, every novelty wears thin.” Marilyn took a slow drink and put her glass down. “I ultimately turned to extra-curricular activity. There are plenty of willing men, and women – if you know where to look.”
“You had an affair?” Christina probed carefully, waiting for the answer.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair. It was more of a-rent-a-stud arrangement.” Marilyn gave a throaty laugh and fanned her face. “And it was worth every penny. He really had it going on, if you know what I mean.” Marilyn spread her well-manicured hands apart a considerable distance. “Unfortunately, Ephraim is a thin man, in all areas of his anatomy. I’ve discovered I like some meat on the bone and prefer a lot of chorizo in my taco.”
Christina Dameron didn’t allow even a tiny bit of expression to cross her face. “Are you still…?”
“No,” Marilyn answered sharply, and then sighed, disappointedly. “Ephraim found out about my arrangement ten days ago. H
e’s allowed his activities, and I’m allowed mine, but this particular arrangement proved to be less discreet than I hoped. Ephraim was enraged over the whole thing. There was quite a lot of blood on the floor before it was all over.”
“Blood on the floor?” Christina’s head was beginning to buzz slightly, maybe from all the wine.
“Figure of speech. It is a pity it had to end, but I was spending a lot more than I’d ever imagined, and was probably going to keep on paying the piper.”
“He was that good?” Christina asked cautiously.
”Let’s just say he’d devised a technique to keep his clients on the hook.” Marilyn finished off her wine and set her glass down by the other dishes on the counter. “Would you help me dish up the pie, Christina? I’m sure our husbands are wondering just what we are up to in here.”
While the ladies were preparing dessert, the men were deep in discussion over after dinner drink. As their time together wound down, the Reverend Sawyer finished off by saying, “That damned place has to be closed down, Sutton. I can’t allow it to remain open any longer. When I think of the scandal that –” Sawyer broke of his comment and took a drink of his fifty year old brandy. “I’m depending on you to make sure it happens.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir. But with all of the attention on the event, I feel the need to be cautious right now.”
“There is a time for caution, Sutton, and a time for brutal action, but I take your point.” Sawyer swirled the brandy around in his glass and took another fortifying swallow. “Make sure it is handled within the next few days, even if you have to use an intermediary. There’s funding for things like that readily available.”
“I’ll take care of it. You can count on me, sir.”
A buzz sounded from the pocket of the Reverend’s jacket and he reached in and pulled out a phone. He read the incoming text and then laid the phone face down on the gleaming mahogany table top.
“Something important you need to handle, sir?”
“Just the Lord’s business. I’ll address it later.” Sawyer smiled piously with his thin lips and watched Dameron over the rim of the brandy glass he cradled close to his face. “I have big plans for you, son. I like you, and Marilyn likes your wife. If you play your cards right, you’ll see yourself sitting in that big house on Pennsylvania Avenue one day. My backing, and the backing of my various associates, can make great things happen for you, Dameron. I’ve helped many of the important people in this city and this state get to their current positions and they in turn, help me. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, son?”
“Yes, I do, Reverend. You’re looking for me to progress our agenda.”
“Shit, boy! I’m telling you to keep your dick clean and out of a vise, and to follow my lead exactly!” The Reverend slammed his hand down on the table to emphasize his point. Sawyer waited until a shocked Dameron bowed his head in acquiescence of the Reverend’s superiority and might, and then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope which bulged enticingly. “Here’s a little token of esteem from me and the congregation. There’s a lot more where that came from. The collection plate’s full every Sunday. You’ll get another offering from me when – and if – you win this pissant election. Just remember where it came when it’s time for a reckoning.” Sawyer drained the few remaining drops of brandy remaining in his glass and said, almost dismissively, “Don’t fret over the other thing. That problem’s already being dealt with – this evening as a matter of fact.”
As the door opened from the kitchen, Dameron picked up the envelope and put it into his own breast pocket. Marilyn and Christina joined them, each carrying perfectly portioned slices of pie on lovely heirloom china.
“You boys ready for the sweets?” Mrs. Sawyer asked as she placed a slice of pie in front of her husband.
“No, but we’re ready for dessert!” the Reverend quipped and the table once again filled with laughter in appreciation of his wit
Later in the car on their way home, Christina asked, "Did you get the money?
“Yes,” Sutton answered as he turned the car into the drive. “Did you get the information?”
“Yes, I did,” she told him as she stepped out of the car.
Sutton walked up the steps and went inside to pay the sitter. Christina went up the stairs to her room, thinking about the night. She heard her husband in the hall, talking on his phone. She couldn’t quite make out the words.
♦♦♦
Sometime between 11 PM and 2 AM, the Time Out Spa received additional negative attention. Lurid, hot pink spray paint decorated the façade of the building with hateful slogan and the sidewalk below boasted a collection of crudely drawn penises and testicles, with the words “Bleeding Dead Faggots” artistically placed among them.
The vandal never saw John Brown in the black SUV across the street, sitting behind the dark tinted glass.
♦♦♦
Reightman arrived at the office after a night spent tossing and turning. Her visit with Toby bothered her more than she’d realized, and she found herself playing their conversations over in her mind. His words hadn’t disturbed her as much as his demeanor. He was evolving from the young, shaken man she’d met the night of the murder, but who he was evolving into had yet to be determined. All she knew was at this point, was he was different. He seemed more sad these days than grieving, but she knew the sorrow would come. “He’s still in shock,” she reasoned, “and when the pieces fly apart, Toby, I hope you have someone to help you pick them up and put them back together again.”
Reightman booted up her computer and found herself contemplating the ficus tree and wondering where Jackson was this morning. He was almost never late, and was usually in the office collecting gossip from his spot by the coffee pot well before she dragged herself in to work. She pulled a packet of jasmine tea from her purse and stowed the bag in her drawer. She had just started to make her way to the breakroom for her morning cup of hot water when Jackson came striding down the hall, walking much faster than he normally did this time of morning.
“Reightman, get your things! We know where Lieberman’s holed up.”
“Thank God!” she exclaimed as she opened the drawer and grabbed her bag. “How did you find him?”
“It wasn’t me who found him. It was our Junior Detective and his trusty sidekick Mitchell who dug up the address,” he told her as they jogged to the parking area. “I helped point them in the right direction by giving them suggestions about where to look in the county deed records, but they did the digging.” As she climbed in the car he added, “Nancy was almost right about her Rosefield idea. Lieberman’s mother married a Mr. Rosenfeld a few years before her death.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Reightman buckled herself into the front seat of Jackson’s always pristine car. “Way to go Nancy!”
“Glad you made up with her, Reightman. If Nancy hadn’t gotten over her hissy fit, we’d still be chasing wind. Mrs. Rosenfeld amended the deed right after their marriage, so it took longer to find the right record. I wish the county would move into the present century. Their system’s pretty convoluted and requires a lot of manual searching. Even our shoddy, cobbled together mess of databases is a damn sight better.”
They didn’t exchange much more chatter on the drive, and their usual banter was non-existent as each thought about what they might find at the address the team had unearthed. Reightman hoped this would be the break they needed. About twenty minutes later, they pulled up at a well-kept ranch house on Chutney Street. Detective Jones and Mitchell were waiting, along with two additional teams in police vehicles.
Reightman and Jackson stepped out of the car and approached the house. Jones and Mitchell stepped back, deferring to her and Jackson, although she could read the excitement on their faces. The other officers were waiting a few steps away, awaiting instructions from her as the senior official on the scene.
Reightman greeted her two team members and they nodded respectful
ly back.
“We don’t know if we’ve found anything yet, ma’am,” Mitchell said with a trace of nervousness in his voice.
“It’s better progress than any of us have made in the last few days,” Jackson assured him. He looked over the two junior members of the team. “Are you two suited up with vests under your pretty clothes?”
“Yes, sir,” they both assured him.
With a nod from Reightman, Jackson went into action. “Since you two found the house, you get to be the first visitors through the door.” He quickly turned his attention to the other waiting officers. “Officers, I need two of you to provide entry backup. The other two of you circle around to the back of the house and remain in position until I give the word. Keep your handhelds ready, and be ready for hostile fire.”
Jackson watched the officers round the corner of the house and gave them a moment to get into position. “Alright, gentleman,” he addressed Jones and Mitchell, “when you’re ready.”
Jones and Mitchell pulled their weapons and the other officers followed suit. As Reightman started to follow suit, Jackson put a restraining hand on her arm. “Reightman, let the boys here start the festivities – you’ll get in on the fun soon enough.” She stepped back from the door and Jackson gave her an approving nod. “Thank you, Melba,” he said under his breath, before motioning for the team to proceed.
Detective Jones rapped sharply on the door, and waited. He repeated the process, with additional emphasis, “Open the door! We’re with the city police and need to speak with you.”
There was no response. One of the accompanying officers confirmed, “There’s no movement from the front, sir.”
A moment later a voice came over the handheld, confirming there was no sign of habitation from the back either.
Jackson moved toward the door. “Time to bring it down, gentlemen.” With a couple of sharp staccato kicks, Mitchell opened the door.
“The kid’s pretty impressive, Jackson.”
He shrugged. “He’s young and excited about his first action role. He’ll learn there are easier ways to open a door, Reightman. Give him a few years.”
Done Rubbed Out Page 32