The Dunn Deal

by Catherine Leggitt

  “He coached his daughter’s softball team and helped with high school football. He was passionate about children, helping children. He started an after-school program for latchkey kids in town. They have quite a large group now, nearly a hundred, over at the Presbyterian Church every afternoon after school. So often these days, both parents have to work. Many children are raised in single parent families and the parent often works outside the home. Kids get in trouble when left unattended. That concerned Baxter greatly, after seeing so many turn to crime when they didn’t have adequate adult supervision.”

  Constance nodded. “That’s quite admirable.”

  Zora Jane repeated a few stories Baxter’s friends shared at the funeral. During Zora Jane’s pauses, I added details. We told about his fine record of service with the sheriff’s office.

  “Let’s see. He taught a Sunday school class at our church and worked with the young people there.” Zora Jane looked at me.

  “He took that group of teens to Mexico last summer to build a church. Don’t forget that.”

  Tears welled in Zora Jane’s eyes again.

  I leaned toward her. “An example of Christian manhood, wasn’t he?”

  “He certainly was.” Zora Jane dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Best of all, he loved the Lord with all his heart.” She looked directly at Constance. “Do you know Jesus, Miss Boyd?”

  I did a double take and caught myself before the gasp escaped my lips. Such boldness! How would Constance Boyd respond?

  Constance shifted slightly in her seat. “I was raised in church.” Her perfect smile stiffened.

  I stared back at Zora Jane. Would she let it go?

  Zora Jane placed one hand on Constance Boyd’s arm. “Church is good, certainly. God desires our worship. Church is essential for growth, teaching, and fellowship. But I’m talking about the eternal state of your soul. Do you have a relationship with Jesus?”

  My eyes ping-ponged back to Constance who exhaled through lips parted into a little O before answering. Her expression communicated how unaccustomed she felt to defending the eternal state of her soul. “I was baptized as a child.”

  Zora Jane acknowledged that answer with one nod. “Baptism is good, too. Jesus commanded it, to proclaim our salvation publicly and identify us with God’s people. But baptism won’t save you either.”

  Constance crossed her legs and brushed something off her skirt. “I am a good person, Mrs. Callahan. I’m sure you’ve heard of the many ways I use my fortune to benefit society. I started several world-renowned charities. Just one of my foundations alone, The Boyd Network, has contributed almost a hundred million dollars to combat poverty in this country. We’ve raised the standard of living for countless children, by providing needed medical care. Some of these children would have died without our assistance. Many would never have been able to attend school but for the work of the foundation. I know God is pleased with my work.”

  I couldn’t wait to hear how Zora Jane would counter that statement.

  “How wonderful that God has used your foundation to bless so many children. But Romans 3:12 says, ‘There is no one who does good, not even one.’ We can’t do good apart from

  God, because we’re all sinners. Let me tell you straight from God’s mouth, ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ You’ll find that in Romans 3:23.”

  The Bible verses lay in the air a moment while what appeared to be conflicting emotions crisscrossed Constance’s beautiful countenance. Then she gathered composure and snapped off the miniscule tape recorder with an overly dramatic flourish, wrenching back control of the conversation. “Yes, well, we’ve gotten off track here, I’m afraid.” She stood and marched toward the door with evenly measured steps. “Rebecca?”

  In an instant, the studious assistant appeared, pen and clipboard ready.

  Constance turned back to Zora Jane. “I’d like my photographer to snap a few shots of the exterior of your house and property. Then I must meet with Baxter’s widow. Baxter’s parents, also. Please arrange that.”

  She ordered it as if she’d already established that Zora Jane would cooperate. Apparently, no one ever questioned her right to call the shots. Rebecca busily copied instructions.

  “I must have a few pictures of the church he attended.”

  Rebecca scribbled again.

  Constance Boyd smiled, her perfect white teeth sparkling. “It’s been simply enchanting. Thank you for your generous assistance. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss.” She extended her hand in a dainty fashion. The camera whirred and popped while the photographer snapped photos of the handshake.

  Zora Jane sandwiched Miss Boyd’s hand between both of hers so she could look directly into those beautiful brown eyes. “ So glad I could help. Jesus loves you, my dear.”

  Without another word, Constance Boyd flounced to the Cadillac. Rebecca conferred with the cameraman. He hefted his heavy equipment onto one shoulder and wandered around the property taking pictures in front and back. He posed Zora Jane on the deck and took a few more.

  When he finished, Rebecca handed Zora Jane a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of people Miss Boyd will interview.” She pointed to the bottom of the page. “Call me at this number with the particulars.”

  Zora Jane stared at the paper. “Oh.”

  “We expect to hear from you tonight.” All efficiency and no finesse, she turned and followed the cameraman into the car.

  My ire flashed watching them drive away. “Of all things! They ordered you to make arrangements. Can you believe it?”

  Zora Jane frowned. “I wonder what kind of story she plans to do about Baxter.”

  “She said she wants to do a story about the work rural officers do and how under appreciated they are. That sounds okay, doesn’t it?”

  Zora Jane shook her head. “Well, I think we need to pray about whether we should participate or not. Something feels off to me. Maybe I should run it by Ed to see what he thinks.”

  I couldn’t imagine what would be wrong with lifting Baxter’s exemplary life to national scrutiny. After all, there are so few heroes these days. Baxter certainly qualified for hero status. What could bother Zora Jane about Constance Boyd’s plans?

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday when I arrived in town to run errands, I spied Leonard Pinzer leaning against the corner of the post office. The ever-present cameraman lounged on his stomach in the grass nearby, pulling dandelions from the lawn. I squeezed the Jeep into a parking space and hopped out.

  They seemed lost and pathetic, so I stopped to say hello. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

  Leonard jumped to attention when I approached. “Hey. You’re the Callahan’s’ neighbor, right?”

  “What are you doing here? Still hoping for a scoop on the Baxter Dunn case?”

  “Constance Boyd’s in town,” he said with an air of importance.

  “I met her yesterday at the Callahan’s. Who would’ve guessed that someone of her national status would be interested in doing a story about our Baxter?”

  He wrinkled his forehead and tilted his head. “You’re glad she’s doing an exposé on Baxter?”

  My stomach lurched. “What do you mean exposé?”

  “The story they’re doing about the steamier side of rural

  sheriff’s departments. You know, the drugs, the affairs, the bribes, the illegal stuff, how they protect their own no matter what the cost to the community. They’re digging deep. And with her notoriety, people are talking. Some folks will do anything for that one minute of fame.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe someone so exquisite had duped us. “Are you sure that’s what she’s doing? Maybe you got it wrong.”

  A grin spread over his face. “Man, you should see yourself. You just went white.”

  “Who’s she talking to? Where has she been?”

  “Had a long chat at the sheriff’s office today. Talked with a few officers, I think, a couple of Baxter’s friends. Fro
m what I heard, Detective Rogers, who’s heading up the investigation, won’t talk to her, but good old pompous Colter sure gave her an earful.” He chuckled.

  I didn’t see anything funny about that. “Where is she now? Is she still at the sheriff’s office?”

  “Nope.” He pointed across the street. “She’s been at that restaurant for a couple of hours. Guess she and her little groupies got pretty hungry after all that dirty digging.”

  The restaurant across the street arguably served the best food in town, expensive and creative. “You’re just waiting around so you can follow her to her next stop?”

  He puffed up his chest like a fat bantam rooster. “That’s the idea.”

  “You’re going on the air with this tonight?”

  “I’m a reporter. That’s what I do, report.”

  “But it’s all lies. Don’t you care about that? All that stuff—the rumors and innuendo—none of it’s true. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  He cocked his head and studied me. “How do you know it’s lies? Maybe it’s true. Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know the real Baxter Dunn.”

  My blood pressure zoomed toward the red alert zone. I started to defend Baxter again, but I feared I might say or do something I’d regret later. Strangling the pudgy news guy wouldn’t exonerate Baxter. I clenched my jaw and skedaddled.

  When I got to the car, I glanced back. Leonard had resumed his lean against the corner of the building, with a giant smirk now covering his chubby little face.

  I drove around the block a couple of times, trying to decide what to do next. Each time I got back to the post office, the news guy was still on the corner. I thought of staking out the restaurant so I could follow Constance Boyd myself.

  But what would that accomplish? Her people probably kept her well insulated from the local riffraff. How could I stop her from talking to people anyway?

  Perhaps I could catch Deputy Oliver at the sheriff’s office instead. From what he said at the funeral, he sounded like Baxter’s friend and what I desperately needed at the moment was an ally within the department.

  The receptionist informed me that Deputy Oliver was in. For a few minutes, I paced in the waiting room before he stuck his head out the door. “Mrs. Sterling?”

  Basking in the potential favor of his handsome smile, I followed with rising hope. He led me through the noisy dispatch area toward the hallway with many doors and, at last, into a small cubicle at the far end.

  With a hospitable gesture, he indicated that I should sit, so I did.

  “What can I do for you today, Mrs. Sterling?”

  I cleared my throat. “It’s about Baxter Dunn’s death. Rumors are flying about him and the way he died. I’m very disturbed about the misinformation out there because Baxter was the son-in-law of my friends, the Callahan’s. I hoped you would tell me what’s going on.”

  “Oh. Well.” He looked at his hands for a moment and then back at me. “Your friends have been advised of the official findings to date. Why don’t you ask them?”

  “I’m not explaining this right. The news people are reporting about his involvement in drug dealing, affairs, and illegal activities. Constance Boyd’s in town digging into stuff, looking for dirt. I know for sure Baxter would never take part in such things. You do too, if you were his friend. Why is the press allowed to report all that stuff if it isn’t true?”

  He screwed his lips tight. “Freedom of the press, Mrs. Sterling. Whether we like it or not.”

  “It’s slanderous!”

  He raised both hands in a gesture that communicated the impossibility of the situation.

  “You were Baxter’s friend, weren’t you?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Then you know he was a fine, upstanding person.”

  He stared at his hands again.

  “Help me understand where all this stuff is coming from. Someone from the sheriff’s office is leaking false information to the press. Who would want to slander Baxter’s reputation?”

  “There is an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Sterling.”

  “I know, I know.”

  He paused, glancing away. Then he turned back with a frown. “Where did you get the idea that someone in the sheriff’s office is leaking information?”

  “The Channel 11 news guy told me.”

  “Hmm. What did he say exactly?”

  “He knew the story about the drug deal and the meeting with the unknown woman. Apparently, he accompanied some other officers on a drug bust last year. I talked to the woman he arrested. Why would Baxter have been on a drug bust anyway? You said he wasn’t on the Narcotics Task Force.”

  His eyes sparked. “You talked to the woman, Mrs. Sterling?”

  I felt a lecture looming. Why was this upsetting to him? “Isn’t there something you can do? Anything?”

  Deputy Oliver sucked in a long gulp of air and let it out slowly. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. “Look, Mrs. Sterling, a certain situation has been developing for some time and because of that I have an idea who might be talking to the press. Baxter knew about it too. It’s a highly sensitive matter involving internal affairs. I will look into it but I won’t be able to share any of it. That’s going to have to be okay with you.”

  “If you could just let me know the slightest little bit now and then, I promise I will hold it in strictest confidence.” I wrote my name and number on a little scrap of paper from my purse.

  He met my eyes when he grasped my hand. From the strength of his handshake, I knew he’d help as much as he could. But would that be enough?

  Zora Jane called later that evening. “Christine, please pray.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Constance Boyd. Kathleen saw her on the news spreading awful rumors about Baxter. Kathleen’s very upset.”

  “I was afraid of this.” I shook my head. “I talked with the news guy from Channel 11 today.” I repeated our conversation.

  “Oh no! I knew that woman couldn’t be trusted.”

  “Did you get all those interviews with the family arranged like they asked?”

  “I said I would.”

  “So, of course you did. Has she already talked to Kathleen?”

  “First thing this morning.”

  “She’s been a busy little bee, hasn’t she?”

  “I feel such a call to pray, Christine.”

  I wanted to say, “So what’s new? You pray about everything. Do you notice it’s not helping?” But of course, I didn’t.

  Are you listening, God? Do you see the way Your child is being defamed? Why don’t You do something?

  On Friday, Dr. Adams explained to Jesse that all his medical tests came back negative. An underlying diagnosis to explain his growing deafness had not been identified.

  I frowned. “Shooting your guns probably doesn’t help though.”

  Jesse glared at me.

  Dr. Adams didn’t look amused. “I advise staying away from any kind of loud noises.”

  “I always use earplugs.” Jesse’s indignation was only mildly veiled. “I had special ones made to fit my ears exactly.”

  No one seemed to notice when I rolled my eyes.

  She consulted her file. “So, the next thing we need to talk about is hearing aids. How do you feel about wearing those?”

  “What?” Jesse asked.

  We all laughed.

  Jesse frowned. “How big will they be?”

  Ah, vanity! Thy name is Man.

  The audiologist explained about the various kinds of hearing devices available, made recommendations, took measurements, and completed our order. I tried to catch

  Jesse’s positive attitude. He so wanted to be able to hear again. I wanted that too, but the high probability that hearing aids might not work for him muted my enthusiasm.

  Strange dreams often plague my sleep and I usually remember them when I wake up. That night I had a particularly odd one.

  The setting was a crowded grocery store. An
old-fashioned meat department like the ones I remember from my childhood dominated one end. A long line of impatient shoppers waited in front of the glass display case to make their selections from the rows of perfectly marbled meat arranged within. A large, walk-in freezer extended along the wall.

  When my turn arrived, the butcher instructed me to select a frozen slab of beef from the freezer. After lugging my selection to the counter, I arranged it on a large sheet of butcher paper covering one tray of an enormous brass scale.

  Deputy Colter stood on the other side of the counter. Over his uniform, a long butcher’s apron tied around his middle. His normally large nose had swelled to cartoon proportions. Attached to the apron, Colter’s oversized badge sparkled like an electric light. He took out a hunk of meat much larger than mine and plopped it on the opposite side of the scale.

  “Exactly the same,” he said with a sneer.

  I studied the meat he’d deposited. Its slimy surface glistened in the light. No longer red, the color had darkened to a dark brown. To inspect it more thoroughly, I bent toward it. Dark red blood puddled around it. The pungent odor of rotting flesh made me gag. Considerably heavier than my selection, the scale dipped lower and lower on his side.

  “No,” I said. “They’re not the same. Look. Yours is heavier.”

  “I say they’re the same.” He glowered at me. “What I say is what counts. I know the truth.”

  Curious onlookers gathered. Bodies jostled against me with people peering over my shoulder to view the scale. Most of them held bulbous black microphones. Their murmuring swelled to a roar when they all spoke at once.

  “What’s she trying to do, cheat?” “Can’t she see?” “Get new glasses, lady.” “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.” “There are irregularities. Can’t she see that?”

  I faced the crowd. “No. Look! They’re not the same! His side is heavier. Doesn’t anybody see that? Just because he says it’s true doesn’t mean it is. Look at the scale!”

  The multitude clambered closer until they squeezed in so snugly I feared I might suffocate.