Missing Mamba (George Bailey Detective Series Book 4)

by Mike Hershman

  Henry always surprises me, in fact most people do. Just when you think you have them all figured out –they say something that doesn’t sound like them. I thought George would be the one really interested in Packet Post –but it turned out to be Henry.

  “I wonder how you’d find our about collecting them.” Henry said.

  “Go have a spot of tea with Frieda old bean,” Walt said in the worst imitation of a British accent I’d ever heard.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Can we please get back to the case now Walt? –Tell us about your golf game.”

  “Right-O dear boy –will do.”

  I looked around for a 7 iron –Walt was back in his “make Sharon crazy” mood.

  “Well I took an eleven on the first hole and Stonely took a nine.”

  “On a par four!! Good Grief.” Henry said.

  “What’s a par four?” I asked.

  “Who cares?” George glanced at me like he was sorry, “was he wearing his St. Christopher medal – that’s what were after here.”

  “I couldn’t tell,” Walt said, “so then on the second hole I stepped up and addressed the ball like you said------.”

  “Is this going anywhere? Can we just talk about stuff that relates to the case,” George said.

  “Sure ---but I really hit the ball great.” Walt’s smiled.

  “That’s wonderful Walter, you must have kept your head down,” I said.

  Well it took a while, I had to listen to Walt talk about “3-putting” this and “taking a big divot that” until I thought my brains were going to explode all over George’s garage. The only thing that made me happy is that Walt and Jeff only had time for a 9--hole game. It was almost time to go home when Walt finally got around to the eighth hole. We all perked up a little.

  “I was only down two strokes and Jeff’s ball was in the bunker.”

  “The bunker?”

  “The sand trap where we found the St. Christopher. Jeff stood over the ball then suddenly dropped his club. Then looked at me like he’d discovered gold and said:

  “This must be where I lost it.”

  “Lost what?” I said.

  “My St. Christopher.” Jeff told me, then he said: “A few weeks ago, I took a really bad swing right here and a bunch of sand got in my eyes. I rolled around on the sand trying to get it out. When I got home that night my pockets and stuff were all filled with sand –my Mom was pissed—I stood by the washing machine with only my boxers on --then she asked where my medal was. Boy was she mad –it was her birthday present.

  After he told the story, Walt looked around the room.

  “So Jeff just lost it playing golf.” I said.

  “Yeah, he wanted me to help him look and I didn’t have the heart to just watch him scramble around in the sand – so I told him I thought I heard Henry found one.”

  “Huh –well I guess it’s OK.” George said scratching his chin.

  “Besides,” Walt said, “like I say I was down two strokes with only one hole left to play – I hoped he’d do it again.”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Hit that lousy shot.”

  “Well did he?”

  “Nah –he ended up 6 inches from the darn hole.”

  “So you lost?” I asked.

  “Yep, but only by one stoke.”

  “One stroke! I say! Hip Hip Old Sod! Well played indeed!” Henry said, sounding exactly like a Scotland Yard Chief Inspector.

  Like I say –people never cease to surprise me.

  17.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “He said I could have in for 50 bucks.”

  “50 for an old Model T that doesn’t have a starter –sounds pretty high.”

  “You can crank it –he has the crank.”

  “You’re not strong enough to crank it.”

  I could tell I shouldn’t have said that because George did that thing with his lower lip he always does when he’s sad.

  “Walt can crank it.”

  “So if you get this van and we go out on a date, we’ll always have to bring Walt?”

  “Maybe we can have him start it and just leave it running.”

  “Oh great! If we go to see a Nick and Nora movie, we’ll leave an old Model T Ice Van running in a parking lot.”

  “Well I guess we’ll have to now.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause I already bought it. Elmer says he’ll take me out on Skipjack Road and teach me how to drive it.”

  “Can I go too?”

  “Sure but you’ll have to sit in the back.”

  “The back! Where the ice goes?”

  “Yeah, but there won’t be any ice. Walt and I already talked about it and figured we’d bolt an old park bench in the back.”

  “Park bench?”

  “There’s a metal one in front of the icehouse. Elmer says I can have it for free. Walt and I are going to put it in tonight – he wants to learn how to drive the thing too.”

  “Isn’t there something you’re forgetting?”

  “What?”

  “Elmer is one of our suspects.”

  “Well that’s why I went over to talk to him. I had to think of a reason to be there and I mentioned that I’d be interested in buying one of his old trucks someday if he ever wanted to sell it. He said it was funny I should mention it ‘cause he was going to put a “For Sale” sign on it that weekend.”

  “So now you’ve bought an old white truck with no starter from someone who may have stolen Margie. That doesn’t sound very professional for an officer of the law –Cadet Bailey.”

  “You know, I thought about that and figured it would be better to have you and Walt sitting on that park bench in the back of the van during our driving lesson in case you guys thought of any questions for him.”

  “That was quick thinking.”

  “Huh.”

  “I was the one who asked to go remember? – You didn’t invite me.”

  “That’s ‘cause you didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Maybe I can give you some driving tips because Daddy already taught me how to drive his car.”

  “Daddy? It won’t do any good Sharon –the Model T is completely different than the Model A your dad has.”

  “How can it be different –a car is a car.”

  “You’ll see.”

  That Saturday, Elmer met us at the icehouse. I sure hoped he wasn’t our suspect because he’s really such a nice man.

  “Hi Sharon –I’m glad you came along. Why don’t you sit in the front and I’ll let these two boys sit in the back. I’ll drive the thing up to Skipjack Road and then we’ll let George drive first. Do you want to learn how to drive it?”

  “Sure.”

  George hopped in the back and Walt went around in front of the radiator.

  “Okay Walt give ‘er a crank,” Elmer said, “but remember what I said about your thumb – you don’t want to break it.”

  All I could see was the top of Walt’s head bobbing up and down as he turned the crank.

  “Almost Walt – try ‘er again –I’ll give ‘er some gas.” Elmer pulled out on knob, then moved a lever by the steering wheel.

  It was different all right–that’s not where the gas is on Daddy’s car. The engine sputtered and then started –it sounded like the old washing machine on my neighbor Mrs. Morgan’s back porch.

  Walt came around holding the metal crank by the handle and jumped in the back seat with George.

  “That weren’t too bad.” Walt said.

  “It’s wasn’t not weren’t.” I said.

  “I’m sure glad we have Sharon on board to keep an eye on our language –now lets see if this piece of –oops this wonderful machine–can make it up the hill.” Elmer said.

  It made it up easy. I loved sitting in the front seat. It’s a little cramped for Elmer, but is just perfect for short people like George and I. I tried to imagine driving around Hamilton City with my boyfriend: going up to the golf course,
or out for tea at Frieda’s, I even started day dreaming about a moonlit night driving up on Hillcrest Drive after the movies –just me and George. Maybe I could lift some weights or something so we wouldn’t have to always take Walter, but I wasn’t too excited about maybe breaking my thumb. Still it would be nice to park the car up there for a while and watch the lights in the harbor --- turn the engine off and listen to the crickets --without Walter Quentin Jenkins sitting on that park bench.

  “Are starters expensive?” I asked.

  “Not too much, but you’ve got a good one right here.” Elmer said pointing at Walt.

  I decided to save my money and give George one for his birthday. Heck I’d help him put it in.

  Elmer took his time teaching George how to drive the Van. It’s completely different than the Model A. There’s a gas pedal, except it’s not a gas pedal –it’s like a gearshift. The middle pedal, which is the brake isn’t the brake --- you push it in all the way to go in reverse. It was easier for George to learn than it would be for me ‘cause I already learned on a Model A and everything was so different.

  “Do you want to try it Sharon?” Elmer asked.

  “No thank you.”

  I was afraid I’d get confused the next time I drove my Father’s car.

  Elmer only said one thing about the snake.

  “I feel so sorry for Frieda, she’s such a nice lady, and she really loves that snake. I have tea with her every once in a while –she makes the best tea.”

  “What do you think happened to Margie?”

  “I’m not sure Sharon,” Elmer said as he watched George driving the van, “but I saw Cecil looking at Margie in her cage one day when I delivered the ice. There was something about the way he looked at the snake that seemed strange.”

  “Why strange?” George asked looking back at us.

  “Eyes on the road pal – I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it seemed like he was thinking about something.

  18.

  “How long has Cecil worked for you?” Henry asked.

  “Since shortly after Ferndock died. My husband was quite handy, he made that bookshelf over there,” Frieda pointed, “his father was a general contractor in Cleveland and taught his boys all of the trades. While Ferndock was alive, we never used any electricians, plumbers or carpenters.”

  “Is Cecil a good handyman too?” Walt asked.

  “Quite good, almost a good as Ferndock, and he was always right on time even though he lives way out of town.”

  Frieda invited us all over for tea. We drove over in George’s van. On the way, Walt mentioned we should have George and Associates Detectives printed on the side. George hadn’t painted over the Elmer’s Ice sign yet.

  George turned on to Frieda’s street just as an older lady ran out in front of the van.”

  He stopped right in time.

  “I need a 50 pound block young man,” she said.

  The lady almost fainted when she looked in and saw Henry and Walt sitting on a park bench --right where the huge block of ice should be.

  “Don’t worry ma’am –I’ll stop and tell Elmer on my way home.”

  “Detectives don’t print their names on vans,” I said, “they mostly drive unmarked cars – you can’t be a very good detective if you advertise what you’re doing to everyone.”

  Frieda used her animal print china from Durban again. At first I was a little worried about having a tea party with the three boys, but I made them promise they’d try to watch their language and not say anything too silly.

  “Where does Cecil live?” George asked.

  “Cecil is something of a hermit,” Frieda said, passing Walt another lemon tart. He lives way up in Cooper Canyon in an old bunker.”

  “Cecil lives in a sand trap?” Walt asked

  I looked a George and rolled my eyes.

  “A bunker is an old gun emplacement like the one at Skipjack Point.” George said.

  “Yeah,” Henry said, “the army used them in case the Germans attacked California during the Great War. Boy our soldiers must have been bored up there –they probably got tired of shooting at sharks and stuff.”

  “Well I certainly hope they weren’t shooting at sharks Mr. Lido,” Frieda said.

  So far the tea was going just about as I’d feared. I thought about saying Henry was only kidding, but you can only use that line so many times as an excuse for saying something dumb.

  “I think I know where Cecil’s place is.” George said.

  Walt went over to the bookshelf and starting rubbing it.

  “Boy this is really nice,” Walt said, “Ferndock did a good job –these joints are hard to do –I tried to make ‘em in wood shop.”

  I rolled my eyes again –Walter was sure laying it on.

  “He certainly did – would you like another tart Walt?”

  “Sure.”

  19.

  I sat on the porch that night and thought about a lot of things. It was a beautiful night with millions of stars. I really enjoy my life right now: my job, my boyfriend, even working with Henry and Walt on our cases. Oh, I give Walt trouble all the time and even tease Henry, but it’s still fun. Of course I think George and I are really the best detectives – because we’re the best students. Henry’s smart too, but in a sort of common sense way. He knows about playing cards and making money, and his interest in Packet Post sort of surprises me. I keep thinking he’ll come up with some way to make money collecting them. Walt –well Walt is just Walt.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “Oh, hi Mom, I guess I was daydreaming a little.”

  “I bet I know who you were daydreaming about.”

  Mom sat down next to me and started to cry a little.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I guess my little girl just grew up so fast. It seems like just yesterday you and your sister were so small.” My Mom gets that way once in a while – some day she’ll probably look back and wish I was fifteen again, but I doubt it. My sister Karen is two years younger –just like Ferndock and Joe.

  After Mom left I started thinking about Ferndock and Joe and wondered why a mother would prefer one son over another. It seemed strange to me. I know when I have kids that I’d like them all the same. Oh, maybe some days I’ll like one better than the other if one was mean or something, or maybe one would be easier to talk to. Sometimes I think my Mom likes my sister better, but I bet my sister thinks Mom likes me better.

  20.

  “OK give it a try.”

  George parked the van in the alley behind his garage. I looked over the top of the radiator, nodded–then pushed down as hard as could on the crank. I used both hands, being careful not to wrap my thumbs around the crank in case it kicked back ---fat chance --- it barely moved.

  “It’s no use,” I said, we’re going to need Henry or Walt.”

  “I don’t think Henry is strong enough,” George said, “heck, even you did better than I did.”

  It was true, I think I’m a little stronger the George. At first we thought if the two of us could get the van started we’d drive out near Cecil’s bunker/house and sort of scout around.

  “It’s no use -we’ll need Walt.”

  George ran down to the pier to see when Walt got off duty. It wasn’t long before I saw both of them walking up the alley.

  “You two hop in,” Walt said, “tell me when you’re ready GB. It’s easy –same thing as pulling on an outboard’s rope to start it.”

  I could do that OK, but the Model T’s engine was bigger than a little outboard motor.

  George sat down on the cracked leather seat, smiled over at me, then quickly pulled one knob, adjusted a couple of levers on the steering wheel and said:

  “Ready.”

  I saw Walt’s hair fly up over the radiator cap as he quickly turned the crank.

  The engine sputtered to life and the whole car shook.

  “Jump in –let’s go.”

  Walt sat down on the park bench.
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  “Next stop Cecil’s place,” he said.

  I smiled as we cruised along through town, waving at people sitting on the front porches of their tiny one-story houses. Mr. Carmichael, the butcher, saluted me with his beer bottle. He wore a tight frayed t-shirt -- straining hard trying to hold in his huge tummy. Two tourist boys in a rented house looked up for a second, then went back to rigging their fishing poles. It seemed like all the people riding bikes, walking or sitting on their porch glanced up to stare as we went by.

  “Why are they all looking at us?” I shouted.

  “Cause this thing sounds like the an old trash truck full of tin cans.” Walt said.

  “Yeah, George said, “Do you think we might need a muffler?”

  “Huh?”

  When we got up on Skipjack Road, George pushed harder on the accelerator lever. The wind blew my hair back. I turned around and looked at Walt, who sat the middle of the park bench with a big smile on his face –his wild red hair flying around.

  “I think you turn on the next dirt road,” he said.

  Right after we turned, the inside of the truck filled with dust. It felt like we were in one of those newsreels about the farms in Nebraska or Oklahoma.

  “Slow down a little, it won’t be so bad.”

  “Can’t Sharon,” George yelled, “gotta keep the speed up to make that hill.” His glasses were all dusty --I wondered how he could see anything at all.

  He was right, we sure needed that speed because we barely made it to the top of the hill –as we neared the top I thought Walt might need to get out and push. When we got to the top I yelled out.

  “There it is,” pointing to a huge concrete wall with a square hole in the center about the size of the houses we’d passed on our way out of town. A palm frond roof, with a rusty pipe spewing out smoke like a steam engine, shaded the square opening.

  “Cecil must be cooking us up some food.” Walt shouted.

  “We can’t exactly sneak up on him out here. He can see for miles.” I said, “and hear us before that.”