Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  “Come in, girl,” he called from the bed.

  She creaked the door open and stepped in. “Which one is your favorite?” she asked, peering through the glass at the fish.

  “I like them all, but if I had to choose just one—I’d choose Lucille. She really gives those boys a run for their money.”

  Charis chuckled. “I brought you something.”

  Mr. B turned his gaze to her hands. “Let me guess… a new cane.” He attempted to roll his faded denim eyes.

  “Way to take all the fun out of it, Mr. B,” she laughed. “This isn’t just any old cane. It’s magical.”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” he said. His eyes sparkled, telling a much different story.

  “You will after today.”

  She handed him the three-foot long, giftwrapped present. He unwrapped it slowly, hands trembling over the shiny gold paper.

  “Do you want me to help you?”

  “Nah. I got it.” Bit by bit he stripped the wrapping from the polished hickory cane, pausing when he got to the handle. “It’s round on top, not curved like a cane ought to be.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Finish opening it. I think you’ll like it.”

  He peeled the last bit of paper from the cane’s head, his eyes rounding with wonder, just as Charis had hoped. “How—”

  “Magic, I told you.” Charis gave the cane a gentle shake. A wide grin spread across his face, removing twenty years from his features. Tiny gold sparkles swirled in the cane’s spherical handle and danced over a restored photograph of Mr. B and Marjorie. “Sit me up a little,” he said, straining against the bed.

  “Easy now, there you go.” She propped his shoulders onto a pillow as he reached for the cane, shaking it again, harder this time, chuckling.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, stroking a thumb across the resin enclosed photograph.

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. I want you to use it every day, you hear? That’s what I bought it for, to keep you safe.”

  “You are having entirely too much fun in here,” Wendell called from the doorway, stepping into the room.

  “Don’t let him take it away,” Mr. B said, tucking the cane into bed beside him.

  “Now, why on earth would I take away the gift Charis gave you?”

  Mr. B glared.

  “Can I look at it, if I promise to give it right back?”

  Charis raised her brows at Mr. B. “It’ll be okay,” she soothed.

  “Give it right back,” he reiterated, nudging the cane into Charis’s fingers.

  Wendell took it from her and let out a sharp whistle. “That’s nice, Father. A beautiful gift. It’s fragile, like a snow-globe. You’ll need to be very careful with it.”

  “Actually, it’s more durable than it looks. I was just telling him it’s meant to be used. That’s the reason I had it made for him, so he’d like using it. I want it by his side, every step he takes.” She looked at Mr. B. “It’s hickory, like that song you sing to me sometimes.”

  He grinned and nodded. “Reading and writing and ’rithmatic, taught to the tune of a hickory stick,” he sang, off key.

  “That’s the one,” she said, clapping.

  Wendell applauded too. Loud, slow, claps that carried on way too long. The sound made her nervous. “Bravo,” he cheered, the cane under his arm. “Beautiful rendition, Father.”

  Charis shrank into Mr. B a little as Wendell lifted the cane then slid it into her lap. She tucked it in beside Mr. B.

  “We are really going to miss Charis when she’s gone, aren’t we, Father?”

  Mr. B’s lucid gaze swung to Charis. “Always do.”

  “Yes, but this time she’ll be gone much longer—if she comes back at all.”

  “She’s just going on vacation, nitwit.”

  “Oh, so that’s what she told you? Charis is lying, Father.”

  Mr. B narrowed his gaze at her. “What the devil is he talking about?”

  She should have left sooner, right after Mr. B unwrapped the cane. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you myself, but your son beat me to it.” She cut her eyes to Wendell.

  “Where are you going?” Mr. B asked, a shadow crossing his face.

  “Well…it’s complicated. I’m going to help out a friend who’s in trouble through no fault of his own. But don’t worry, you will be taken care of.”

  She turned to Wendell. “Guess this is as good a time as any to ask you a favor. I would appreciate it, more than words can say, if you would allow Daphne to come and care for Mr. B while I’m away. She’s been to nursing school, and your father likes her very much.”

  Wendell looked blankly at Charis then broke into laughter. “You want a favor from me?” he asked, the laughter between his words growing louder. “You—the one who’s waltzing out of our home and out of our lives, terminating your employment without notice, shirking your responsibility and loyalty to my father—are asking me to put his very life in the hands of that fat, loud, mascara-laden bimbo you call a friend?”

  Charis bristled, face heating, eyes pulsing with rage. She swung her gaze to Mr. B, reminding herself of why she had to remain calm. She loved Mr. B, and hoped Wendell would let her care for him again when this nightmare was over. She wet her lips. “She’s an excellent caregiver, Wendell. Please think about it.”

  “Think about it. You mean the way you put so much thought into writing a confession for a crime you didn’t commit? The way you thought things over before playing whore to that filthy trash man?”

  “Wendell, please, not in front of Mr. B.” Her voice shook. Something in his eyes frightened her. Behind the thick lenses a wild animal crouched, ready to pounce.

  ****

  Showered, shaved and dressed, Deason paced the floor and waited for Jagger, the butterflies in his stomach long ago eaten by enormous flapping birds. He paused in front of the It’s Miller Time wall clock, willing the second hand to sweep more quickly over the tiny beer bottles. Crowley’s office didn’t open for another half hour.

  Jagger stepped into the room, ushering in a mixture of old Spice and cigarette smoke. Deason’s stomach rolled. “Looks like we’ll have time to stop for breakfast.”

  “Sorry, man. I don’t think my stomach can take it. Nerves.”

  “I understand, brother. Sure you want to go through with this?”

  “What have I got to lose?”

  Jagger met his gaze. “Personal integrity. I know you hate to lie. Pleadin’ guilty to a crime you didn’t commit has to be eatin’ you up inside.”

  Jagger couldn’t have known just how right he was. Deason hadn’t slept a wink because of it. But if seeing Charis behind bars was the alternative, he’d learn to live with sleep deprivation. “I’ll be all right.”

  They walked down the steps toward the Trans Am and slipped inside. “Mind some music?” Jagger asked, fingers on the volume knob.

  “Don’t mind a bit.”

  Jagger grinned and turned up I’d Do Anything for Love (But I won’t Do That.)

  Deason shook his head, powerless to stop the grin spreading across his face. “Meat Loaf?”

  “Knew that would cheer you up, bro. I spent two whole hours in the bathroom last night trying to secretly download that shit.”

  “I wondered what you were doing in there.” Deason laughed. God, it felt good to laugh.

  “Well, here we are. Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks.” He slapped Jagger’s shoulder, and then squeezed.

  “Call me, let me know what’s goin’ on.”

  “Will do.” Deason slid from the car, stepped onto the curb and waited for Attorney Crowley to unlock the door. His mind didn’t have to wander far to find Charis. She was always there, waiting around every bend, looking just as she did at the lake the day they’d made love.

  The thought of her believing he still wanted Gabriella hurt his head and sickened his stomach. Since she wouldn’t take his calls
, he’d thought about having Daphne phone her to explain the reason he’d been seen with Gabriella, but decided against it. The whole situation was too risky—the less Charis was exposed to, the better.

  Especially now that he knew about her plans to confess. He didn’t want to provide her with any details that might make her confession more believable. Right now he had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. After taking this final step, leap, he’d be able to explain everything to her face to face with only an inch of Plexiglas between them. And he was going to do everything in his power to make sure he was the one on the inside, looking out.

  “Morning, Deason. I assume you are here to see me?” Attorney Crowley held one hand out to Deason, the other held a large Starbucks coffee.

  “Yes, sir.” Deason shook the lawyer’s hand.

  “Give me a second to open up.” He released Deason’s hand then fished into a pocket, dragging out a set of keys. “Nice day,” he noted, jiggling a key into the lock. He held the glass door open for Deason and followed him inside. “Have a seat while I get things warmed up.” He flipped on the lights then bustled around the office, turning on his computer, printer and the candle warmer setting on the file cabinet behind his desk. He gave the ivy on the windowsill a drink from the small watering can setting next to it. Finally, he dusted his hands together and slid behind the large mahogany desk, opposite Deason. “What can I help you with today, Mr. McKindle? Do you have some questions about the trial?”

  Deason’s chest tightened. He opened his mouth then closed it. Once the words were out, they couldn’t be taken back. He opened his mouth again. “I’m here to change my plea.”

  The lawyer’s eyebrows shot up. “By ‘change your plea,’ you mean withdraw your not guilty plea, and plead guilty instead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re accepting the plea bargain. Glad to hear it. What changed your mind?”

  “I realized the world doesn’t revolve around me. The choices I make affect people that I care about.”

  “I see.” Crowley steepled his fingers under his chin.

  All Deason wanted to do was get the whole thing over with. Whatever the outcome, he would deal with it. Fear of the unknown was the stuff that stripped his nerves and rattled his bones.

  Crowley scribbled on a note pad then cleared his throat. “Deason, did you kill Victor Locke?”

  Deason blew out a breath and shifted in the leather chair. Coupling the evidence he’d seen firsthand with what he’d learned from Gabby, he’d pieced together what he thought to be a believable scenario. The problem was getting his tongue to comply. This George Washington-complex had gotten entirely out of hand. So much so, he wondered if he had some kind of mental illness, a rare form of OCD that paralyzed his tongue, kept it from lying. Maybe the prison psychologist could diagnose him later.

  “Deason?” Crowley leaned forward on the desk.

  Deason breathed a silent apology to that still, small voice that piped into his heart like an intercom system, urging him not to lie. He met the lawyer’s gaze. “I’m your man. I mur—”

  Jagger burst through the door. “Stop the presses.” He dragged Gabriella by the arm. “Or the confesses—whatever the hell you have to stop around here to keep an innocent man from going to jail.”

  Crowley bolted upright. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sit back down Mr. Lawyer, don’t get your boxers in a knot just yet. Gabby here has somethin’ to tell you.” He pulled out the leather chair beside Deason, folded Gabriella into it. “Go ahead, sugar.”

  Gabriella peered at Deason from under her overgrown bangs. He nodded, taking one of her trembling hands. She shifted her gaze to the attorney. “I’m ready to give the name of Victor Locke’s murderer.”

  “Are you speaking of the man you refer to as ‘Trips’?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you who Trips is now.”

  A hush fell over the room, so quiet Deason thought he could hear Crowley’s ivy growing on the windowsill.

  “Proceed, Ms. Sanchez.”

  She took a shaky breath. “Trips is Wendell Barnaby.”

  ****

  Charis tried to smile at Wendell to calm him down. She could only manage a trembling slit that stretched across her teeth and stopped short of her eyes. The apologetic, terrified smile worn by Shelley Duvall before Jack Nicholson picked up the axe. She didn’t need a mirror to know she wore the mask of fear.

  “What would cause you to make such a poor choice, Charis? For God’s sake, the man’s a murderer. All the evidence is stacked against him. The fight he had with Vic in the front yard, the calls he answered from Vic’s cellphone just two hours before his death, the fact that he found Vic’s dead body and his wallet. There is no other explanation.”

  Something in the accusation didn’t fit. A puzzle piece crammed in the wrong space, gaps showing around the edges. The phone calls. How did Wendell know about the phone calls?

  The discovery of Vic’s body was common knowledge, and so was the wallet allegedly found in the front yard. But the calls? Deason had told her about Detective Benton showing him Vic’s phone records. He had explained how the calls he’d received from Gabriella were made from Vic’s cell. But Charis had never shared that information with Wendell.

  “What calls?” she asked, not liking the way her skin tightened around the base of her skull, standing her neck hairs on end.

  Wendell tipped his head back, his crazed eyes circling the ceiling as if his next line was written there. “Your trash man told me about them.”

  Charis drew strength from the tiny fissure in his resolve. “No he didn’t.”

  “You think you know him so well, don’t you?” Wendell slammed a fist into the wall, cracking the sheetrock. “You’d do anything for that piece of shit—including confessing to murder. How could you hurt me like this? Hurt us like this? Just when you’d begun to reciprocate the love I’ve held for you all these years. Just when I realized you cared about me, and that we could truly spend the rest of our lives together… In swooped Deason McKindle, trash man extraordinaire, sweeping you off your feet and out of my future. Does it mean nothing to you that he took a man’s life? I tried to convince him to turn himself over to the authorities. But, animal that he is, his self-preservation instincts wouldn’t permit it.”

  He sighed like a melodramatic actor vying for the Oscar. “Granted, Victor deserved to die. Putting you through living hell, putting me through living hell. Accusing me of fraud, threatening to sue and take everything I have—everything I’ve worked for. And why? Because after buying the store, he and his alcoholic father drank up every dime it ever made. He was bitter, vindictive, couldn’t take responsibility for his own actions.”

  “That’s why you killed him,” Mr. B piped in. “Conked him over the head with my cane. And when he staggered to his feet and tried to run away, you cracked the back of his skull. Didn’t quit there, neither. No, sir. You just kept right on going until that tart pulled you off of him.”

  Charis’s heart stopped, frozen solid in the polar cave of her chest. The image of Mr. B’s cane, bent and scuffed, surfaced behind her eyes. “Shhh,” she whispered, patting Mr. B’s leg.

  “I saw it all—” Charis slapped a hand over his mouth, holding the words in.

  “Good idea, Charis. But I don’t think that’s going to shut the old man up for long.” Wendell stepped to the side of the bed and leaned in, covering her hand with both of his, shoving her palm down hard into Mr. B’s face.

  “Stop!” she screamed, struggling to free her hand as Mr. B’s dentures cracked beneath her fingers. He murmured against her hand, gurgling faintly as a thin line of blood trickled down his chin.

  Charis punched at Wendell with her free hand, striking a blow to his temple, knocking his glasses to the floor.

  “Bring on the fire,” Wendell chuckled, his laughter blinding her with rage.

  Mr. B’s eyes rolled back as Wendell grunted, his arms shaking from the force of
downward pressure as he crushed Charis’s hand into Mr. B’s face.

  “You’re killing him,” she shrieked, prying Wendell’s fingers back.

  “It’s for his own good. His mind is gone, he’s suffering. In a moment it will all be over.”

  She hunched over and bit Wendell’s fingers, grinding the knuckles between her teeth.

  “Harder,” he demanded close to her ear, mocking. His hot breath on the back of her neck became fuel. She hauled her head back, plowed into Wendell’s nose with a loud crack. Light exploded behind her eyes as he catapulted over the foot of the bed.

  Thunder rolled in her ears as she gently pulled her hand from Mr. B’s damaged mouth. He lay motionless, eyes closed, cottony hair in knots. “Mr. B?” she called softly, patting his slight shoulder then covering his body with hers, shielding him from the rustle and moan that came from the floor.

  With the impossible strength of a man possessed, Wendell leapt across the bed to Charis and grinned, his swollen, bloody nose flat against his face.

  “Leave him alone!”

  “He’s already dead. It’s your turn.”

  ****

  Deason wouldn’t have been any more surprised if Gabby had said Abraham Lincoln. “Wendell Barnaby is Trips?” he repeated, blinking.

  “Yes. I call him Trips because he travels out of town a lot. He’s a bank auditor, so he takes lots of trips.”

  “When did you get involved with Wendell Barnaby?” Attorney Crowley asked, his fingers clacking across his computer keyboard.

  “Back in July, just before the fourth. He came to the bar. At first he was very friendly—leaving good tips, flirting, scrambling for my attention.”

  “Were you attracted to him?”

  “I was attracted to the money he threw around and the Audi he drove. And he seemed so…nice. I never dreamed he’d be so cold, so evil. Never dreamed I’d end up being an accessory to murder.”

  “You’re sayin’ that geek killed a man? He’s such a wimp. I just can’t picture it.” Jagger squinted at Gabby.

  “Believe me, he’s no wimp. He did it right in the front yard with nothing but his father’s walking cane. Then he—we—tossed the body in the trunk of Wendell’s Audi.”