Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  “Sounds dumber than hell, killin’ a man in his own front yard.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to happen there. Wendell called the bar and told Vic to meet him at the lake. He told him he’d been thinking about the money he’d swindled from Vic’s dad when the store changed hands. That he was feeling guilty. Said he wanted to give him some cash to make things right. He was planning on killing Vic at the lake, over on the deserted side, and then hauling his body back to Suds for Deason to find. But Vic got suspicious and showed up early on Wendell’s doorstep, drunk and ready to fight. Wendell grabbed his father’s cane from a hook beside the door and—you know the rest.”

  Crowley looked as if he might unload his morning coffee onto his desktop. “You would swear to that, under oath?”

  Gabby nodded slowly, her eyes vacant. “Yes, sir.”

  “What proof do you have of Wendell killing Vic?”

  She thought a moment. “I have the key to the trash dumpster behind Suds. I took it from the bar so that we could unlock the dumpster and toss Vic in. After, I couldn’t get up the nerve to put it back. I was afraid Joe would catch me returning it and get suspicious.”

  “That’s informative, but it’s not proof. What else do you have?”

  “Umm…I have a scar on my leg where glass from Deason’s truck cut me. Wendell made me bash it up so Deason would think Vic did it. Also to keep him from leaving town before the trap was set. I guess a scar isn’t proof either, though.”

  “Afraid not, Ms. Sanchez.”

  “By the way, I do want to make one thing clear.” She turned toward Deason. “Those phone calls I made to you, the ones from Vic’s number. When I made them, I had no idea Wendell was going to hurt Vic. He asked me to slip Vic’s phone out of his pocket at the bar and call you on it, as a prank. He said I could give the phone back to Vic in a week, tell him a customer turned it in. I did what he asked, but those things I said to you were no joke. I was serious when I said I missed you.”

  Deason cleared his throat. “Did you also plant Vic’s wallet?” he asked, remembering the horror he’d felt when he opened the DVD player box.

  “No. Wendell planted that himself on trash day. Just pulled the box out of the garbage bin, stuck Vic’s wallet inside and tossed the box in the yard. He said it was easy.”

  Attorney Crowley rubbed his temples. “We’ll call the sheriff’s department. They’ll haul in Wendell Barnaby and get a warrant to search his house and car. The blood evidence should still be in his trunk.”

  “I wouldn’t expect to find much of it. He made me line the whole thing with Hefty bags. The extra-tough kind.”

  “Shit,” Jagger exclaimed.

  There had to be something else. Something they’d missed. Deason crossed his arms, frowning. “So, obviously Wendell wasn’t in Colorado Springs, like he claimed, when Vic was murdered.”

  “No. He was right here in town. The whole trip was a lie.”

  A little zip of electricity shot through Deason, jarring him upright in the chair. “Charis said he called to check in the day Vic’s body was found. When she told him about Vic’s murder, she said he began to worry about being a suspect, afraid the police would arrest him because of the argument he and Vic had the week before.”

  “That’s not the first time he’s lied about his whereabouts. He’s called home countless times from inside city limits, pretending to be in another state. That’s why he had his cellphone company start sending the bills to my apartment. He wanted to cover himself, incase Charis or Mr. Barnaby got suspicious.”

  Deason jumped to his feet. “Tell me you have one of the bills with you.”

  Gabriella fumbled through her purse, pulling out two wrinkled, tri-folded documents. “August and September.”

  Crowley took the papers from her and scanned down the rows of data. “September thirteenth—the day Vic’s body was found—a call was made from Wendell’s cell to a land line here in town, which I’m assuming to be his home phone, at nine o’clock in the evening. The tower the call passed through…” He scanned to the right. “Is right here in Shaydn.”

  Deason pulled Gabby from her chair, spun her around in circles. “You did it, girl.”

  “I don’t feel proud of myself,” she said as he set her feet on the floor. “I’m ashamed of everything I’ve done to you, ashamed of going along with Wendell.”

  “He would’ve killed Vic anyway, whether you were involved or not.”

  “But I didn’t have to make it so easy for him to get away with it, so easy for him to frame you. My god, I almost let you go to prison—”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Let’s concentrate on Wendell going to prison instead.”

  “Wendell’s claiming to be in Colorado when the call was made is hearsay. It won’t get him convicted of murder,” Crowley said. “And we need to get something straight, Ms. Sanchez. You won’t come out of this unscathed. Wendell is going to be desperate when he finds out you pointed the finger. He’ll try to blame everything on you. We need to prepare your defense right away.”

  Gabriella took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I’m ready.”

  “When I talked to Wendell yesterday, he said he was leaving again on business,” Deason said. “What state is he pretending to be in now as he slips around Shaydn’s alleyways doing lord knows what?”

  “He told you he was leaving town?” Gabriella asked. “He told me he had business to attend to at home, and that he wouldn’t be leaving the house all week.”

  “Come on, Jag.” Deason felt the blood drain from his face as he marched out the front door toward the Trans Am.

  ****

  Breath wheezed from Wendell’s ruined nose, forming bubbles of blood and snot. The pencil that had held Charis’s hair made a small sucking noise as he wrenched it from his cheek.

  On the bed, Charis covered Mr. B’s body, shielding him from the maniac. “Go to hell,” she commanded, attempting the voice of authority. She’d read in some women’s magazine, that using a forceful voice could catch an attacker off guard. “Asshole.” And that cursing helped too.

  Wendell grinned beneath the boiling mess that used to be his nose then wordlessly snatched a handful of her hair, twisting until his fist ground into the nape of her neck. She bit back a yelp as he yanked her head back then shoved it forward, directing her skull as if she was a puppet. She struggled against his grip, neck muscles straining as hair tore from her scalp. He didn’t let go, he just twisted more hair into his brutal fingers, dragging her from the bed, pulling her to her feet.

  Charis played wet noodle—a move she’d seen angry toddlers use on their parents to avoid spankings. She relaxed her muscles and went limp, her body held upright only by Wendell’s iron grip on her hair. His arm shook then buckled from the strain of holding her dead weight. She crumpled to the floor, her heart encouraged by the small victory.

  With an anguished cry, he thrust both hands into her hair, jerking her up, his shouts spewing blood and saliva into her lips and eyes. She couldn’t breathe. The world stilled, his manic ravings silenced by the heartbeat in her skull. Her feet came off the floor, torso swinging independently from her head, suspended by the hair like a circus performer.

  The window, the window, God, let someone see…

  Her feet slammed to the floor then towed behind as Wendell dragged her to the footlocker, mashing her face to the aquarium glass. “Pretty, aren’t they?” he gurgled, sounding if he was underwater.

  With a fist full of hair, he knocked back the tank’s lid, crashing the cover to the floor. Panic flooded Charis. Her arms flailed wildly, feet thumping uselessly against the floorboards as she tried to get away. In the reflection her eyes grew, consuming her face as she swallowed great gulps of air, bracing for what she knew came next.

  Wendell’s guttural roar muted as he roughly plunged her head into the cold water. A cloud of hair and colorful gravel swirled around her face, tiny fins fluttered against her eyes and mouth. In slow motion, she beat the sides o
f the aquarium, her fists like gnats striking a windowpane. The edge of the glass bit into her breastbone as Wendell’s body shoved against her back, pressing her to the tank. Both of his fists screwed into her scalp, holding her head underwater. Frantically, she fought against his grip, jerking her head back and forth, her last breath bubbling to the surface. Muscles convulsed as her air ran out. She gasped, drawing in water and gravel, choking, nostrils burning, lungs on fire.

  Charis stilled, her eyes open. A fish batted the side of her face, trapped in her hair. Another, Lucille, nibbled at her eyelashes. Wendell was right. They were pretty.

  The miniature scuba diver performed a backflip as the aquarium rocked. Charis twitched, dully aware of Wendell’s body tensing behind her then slumping heavily onto her back. His hands quivered on her scalp then relaxed.

  In a blur, her head was dragged above water and she was falling backward, coughing, whooping air into her lungs. With a sickening crunch, she landed across Wendell’s ribs on the hardwood, his hands still gnarled in her hair.

  Sputtering, she looked up into the face of her champion. Not some mythical, father-doctor-superhero combination, but the battered, smiling face of Mr. B.

  “It is magic,” he said, shaking his new cane triumphantly above her.

  ****

  Deason ripped the flimsy screen from its hinges then slammed into Mr. Barnaby’s solid wood door again and again, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder.

  “Let me give it a go,” Jagger said, plowing his work boot into the door, cursing as his knee bounced back at him.

  “Get back.” Deason rammed into the door with all his might, his stomach sinking as his shoulder gave way. He let out a victory yell, realizing it wasn’t his shoulder that dislocated, but the wood beneath it. He dealt the door a final blow, smashing it through the jamb. “Charis!” He ran through the kitchen shouting her name, rocket fuel pumping through his veins. Please, God, let her be okay…

  A noise spun him toward the hallway. Feet barely hitting the floor, he bounded toward Mr. Barnaby’s room. “I’m coming.” He cleared the distance in three long strides and burst into the room, knocking the doorknob through the inside wall, spraying sheetrock across the floor.

  “What the hell are you doing, boy? Tearing up my house.”

  The chilling scene nearly dropped Deason to his knees. Wendell, askew on the floor, pulverized nose melting into his face. Blood trickled from the back of his head, his fingers twisted into Charis’s matted hair. Across his chest sprawled Charis, wheezing, drenched and dripping, eyes wild. Above them both stood Mr. Barnaby, hair on end, jaw disjointed, dark blood caked around a disturbing, yet seemingly joyful, grin.

  Deason ran to Charis, collapsed to the floor beside her, held her to him. “Are you all right?”

  “Now I am.” Her lip trembled as she smiled. “Mr. B saved my life.”

  “Well I’ll be a horse’s ass. I’ve done seen it all, now.” Jagger gaped in the doorway, eyes bugged like a toad.

  “Call nine-one-one,” Deason directed him as he unwound Wendell’s limp fingers from Charis’s hair.

  “Fraid someone beat me to it,” Jagger said, gazing through the window. “Mrs. Smith’s standin’ in the yard flaggin’ a police car into the driveway.”

  “Mr. B, maybe you should sit down,” Deason said.

  “Not a chance. I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

  Deason fought the urge to break Wendell’s stubborn pinkie finger as he tugged it from a section of Charis’s wet hair. “What the hell?” He widened his eyes, pulling a small goldfish from the tangle.

  “Larry,” Charis gasped as he held the fluttering creature before her eyes.

  He stood and plopped the fish into the aquarium.

  “What’s going on here?” A wide-eyed police officer joined Jagger in the doorway, hand on his revolver.

  “Mr. Barnaby here just caught you a killer,” Jagger said.

  Chapter Eleven

  “When do you think they’ll let us see Mr. B?” Charis asked.

  “Surely it won’t be too much longer. Dr. Foster said we could go in two at a time as soon as they got his blood pressure stabilized. That was what—half an hour ago?” Deason glanced at the large clock on the hospital wall.

  “So, Charis, how’s it feel to know Wendell had the hots for you all these years?” Daphne smirked, stirring the coffee in her Styrofoam cup.

  “Bleh,” Charis responded, throwing her empty cup away, goose bumps chasing up her spine.

  “It makes sense now. Wendell killed Vic and pinned it on Deason, removing both men from your life. Let me rephrase that, removing one man and one dog from your life, so that he wouldn’t have interference.”

  “Killed two birds with one stone, too,” Jagger piped in. “Dead men can’t threaten law suits.”

  Charis lowered into the plastic chair next to Deason’s. “I’m just thankful Gabriella came forward. And sorry I questioned the…nature of your relationship.”

  Deason took her hand, pulling it to his side over the armrests.

  Jagger leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “It’s over. No need to talk about it anymore. Wendell’s behind bars with a busted up ribcage and a slight concussion, and Crowley’s filin’ a motion to dismiss Deason’s trial. ’Nuff said.”

  “There’s just one more thing I need to know before we close topic,” Deason said, lips twitching, eyes cutting to Jagger. “How did you get Gabby to spill her guts like that? I’d been working on her for days and couldn’t budge her an inch.”

  Jagger looked at his boots.

  “Were you forced to Jaggerize her?” Deason chuckled.

  “What the hell—” Daphne jumped from her chair and into Jagger’s reddening face. “You’d better hope you didn’t lay a finger on that skinny—”

  “Joking. Daph, take it easy,” Deason interrupted, chuckling even harder.

  “Naw, man. I didn’t do anything. I was gonna try and talk some sense in to her, but when I pulled up in front of her apartment this mornin’, she was standin’ out front, like she was already waitin’. I told her you were at Crowley’s office confessin’, and she jumped in the car. Said she was tired of being afraid, tired of being threatened. Tired of Vic’s dead body hauntin’ her dreams. She didn’t feel he could rest in peace until she told the truth about his death. She said Wendell was gonna kill her, too, and blame it on you, and that she couldn’t let that happen. Then she said you were a good man and even though it was too late for her to have you, it wasn’t too late for her to do the right thing.” Jagger looked up. “Or some bullshit like that,” he snorted.

  Daphne bugged her eyes and raised her brows at Jagger, as if to warn the discussion about Gabriella was far from over.

  “Excuse me.” Dr. Foster stepped into the room. “Mr. Barnaby is stable, and his vitals are good. Two of you can visit him for a few minutes.”

  Charis and Deason rose from their chairs.

  “Try to speak softly, keep your voices calm,” the doctor said, leading them down the hallway. “He’s weak. We don’t want him to get excited or exert himself.” He walked them into a dimly lit room. Mr. B reclined behind the rails of an uncomfortable-looking bed, surrounded by hissing, beeping machines. “His nurse will be in shortly.” The doctor left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Charis swallowed the wash of tears in her throat. He looked so fragile, as if his skin was made of crepe paper. She eyed his bandages. In his timeworn skin, the minor scrapes and nicks beneath would undoubtedly be rips and gouges.

  The gauze over his mouth rose, concealing an obvious grin as he turned his lucid gaze to her, the wrinkles deepening in the corner of his eyes.

  “Hey, handsome,” she said softly, resting a hand on his frail shoulder. “You look like a prize fighter.”

  “You ought to see the other guy, right Mr. Barnaby?” Deason winked.

  Mr. B mumbled behind the gauze, the corners of his eyes creasing even more.

  “Shhh,
it’s okay.” Charis patted him lightly. “We’ll laugh together again soon enough. You just rest for now, concentrate on getting well.” Tears fell as she leaned over to kiss his forehead. He lifted a trembling hand to stroke her hair and she wiped her tears from his cheek. “Daphne and Jagger will be in next,” she said, facing Deason before more could fall.

  ****

  Deason’s throat tightened as he helped Charis pack the last of Mr. Barnaby’s things. She looked so sad. Neither of them could summon the courage to tell Mr. B he wouldn’t be returning to his home, ever again. She’d given his fish back to Daphne, but had insisted on keeping the aquarium, fully intending to set it up for him again soon.

  “Come on,” Deason said, pulling Charis up from her cross-legged position in front of Mr. B’s kitchen cupboards. “I want to take you someplace special.” Perspiration pricked his brow and upper lip. His heart expanded in his chest, constricted his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Or maybe he’d just forgotten how.

  He tugged at his unyielding t-shirt, rehearsing in his mind what he was about to do. He prayed she wouldn’t think he was crazy.

  She glanced down at her clothes then pulled away and ran a hand through her hair. “Absolutely not,” she said, shaking her head in protest.

  She looked adorable. He grinned. “No one will even notice. I promise.” He crossed his heart with one hand, circling the other around her waist, leading her through the tattered kitchen door.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, hand over her face as if hiding from the outside world.

  “You’ll see. Almost there.” He tamped down his nervous stomach, focusing on the road ahead.

  “Almost there?” she asked, a confused lilt in her voice, her head whipping this way and that. “Almost where?” She turned to look at her car in the driveway as they walked past.

  “Ah, here we are.” Deason stepped her over the curb, into the middle of the street.

  “What are you talking about? We’re in the middle of the road.”

  “I realize that, Madame Obvious. Now look around.”