I realized I hadn’t seen him. I shook my head, “I don’t think so, as a matter of fact I think I noticed the lights still on when we left so he’s probably still working. I don’t see him here do you?”
They all swiveled their heads looking for him.
“Oh, that’s a shame; he said he really liked barbeque.”
I nodded, then remembering his kindness in taking me to dinner with him last night I made up my mind. “You know, I think I’ll just get a plate for him and take it over there. That way he can get his work done and still have barbeque.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you.” Fran smiled, “I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
I explained I wanted a plate ‘to go’ when I paid for another lunch and they gave me a Styrofoam box like restaurants use for leftovers. After filling it, I picked up a set of plastic utensils and a beer and headed for the bank. I could see the light on in the conference room even though I didn’t see Boyd. I knocked on the door and waited, imagining how pleased he would be to get this meal. After a moment I knocked again, louder this time, but I still didn’t get a response. Now I was really puzzled. Where could he be?
I looked around the street but it was deserted. All the shops were closed during the festival as the signs in their windows proclaimed. I pounded again, thinking surely he could hear me even if he happened to be in the bathroom.
Still no response and I felt a chill go up my spine. Something was wrong; suddenly I just knew it. Now the deserted town seemed spooky and I felt I needed help.
The police department was on my way back to the park so I hurried in to tell them about my concern about Boyd.
The old guy sitting at the desk in front of his own box of barbeque looked like he was well past retirement age, but he listened, nodding as if he could understand why I was worried.
“Well,” he drawled, “Let’s try calling over there.” He picked up the phone and poked in a number, waiting for someone to answer. When he hung up I could see a little of my concern mirrored on his face. “I better see what the chief thinks.” And he picked up the radio handset sitting on his desk. He didn’t need to tell me the chief said he would find the bank manager and meet me at the bank because I could hear his response as it squawked through the radio.
I was perched on the edge of a cement planter full of colorful flowers when I saw the two men approaching the bank. The chief of police was easy to identify as he was wearing his uniform, the other man looked more like a farmer than a bank manager, which I assumed he was.
“I’m sure he’s gone by now and just forgot to turn off the light.” The manager explained, shaking his head. “He was just finishing up when we left for the parade.”
When he opened the door we all trooped in behind him. It was very quiet, the lobby stuffy because the air conditioning had been turned off. The door swung closed behind us and in the silence the lock clicked loudly into place. The manager led the way across the lobby and then paused. We all noticed the smell; that rusty, metallic smell coming from the conference room.
The chief said, “Wait here, I’ll check this out.”
We hesitated only an instant then followed right on his heels as he went in to the room.
Boyd had fallen forward, the bloody mess that was his head rested in a pool of gore on top of a stack of folders and papers. His arm splayed out beside him, his hand still gripped the gun.
“Oh, shit.” The manager muttered, shocked.
The chief had spread out his arms, blocking us and then moved backwards, herding us back, out of the room.
I was still clutching the beer and lunch box, now so hard my fingers crumpled the Styrofoam. I felt sick to my stomach; I was reeling from the shock of seeing him like that. I flopped onto the first chair I came upon. I don’t know how long I sat there, stunned, until I noticed there were now several people inside the bank. The coroner had arrived, several officers were collecting evidence, and someone was taking pictures judging by the number of flashes going off.
No one seemed to notice me and I didn’t have the energy to move. I thought I was over the horror of that murder I had witnessed, but I knew I wasn’t. I thought life had too many nasty surprises. And I just couldn’t believe Boyd, who only last night was telling me of his plans for his career, who this morning was saying how much he liked barbeques, had sat in the conference room while the entire town was outside at the parade and shot himself in the head.
I did hear the bank manager tell one of the police officers about the gun. He thought the gun in Boyd’s hand was most likely his. He kept it in his desk drawer in case of trouble and it wasn’t there now.
Some time later the chief hunkered down beside me and asked in a kindly voice if I felt I could walk over to the station with him for a little talk. I nodded—I wanted to leave.
He took the beer and barbeque from me and asked if I wanted it, I shook my head. It hadn’t occurred to me I could lay it down, so I was very grateful I didn’t have to keep holding it. He put his hand on my arm and guided me out the door and down the block to the police station. Once there he asked the old man at the desk to get us some ice water and ushered me into an office.
He turned on his tape recorder, collected my name and address and he asked me why I was in town.
“I don’t care what it looks like, he didn’t kill himself! I know he wouldn’t have.” I blurted out, as if I had no control over my own mouth.
After the first flash of surprise I saw in his eyes, he said, “And how well did you know Boyd Taylor, that you know this about him?” He watched me closely and I realized he was wondering if there was something going on between Boyd and myself. Hah, as if Boyd would have ever considered me as anything other than a safe motherly type. Even though I did try to keep myself attractive, I couldn’t hide the impact the years had on me. I reminded myself to be very careful what I said. This guy was first and foremost a policeman.
So I explained how I met Boyd at Aunt Betty’s yesterday and we had dined together. I said he had mentioned at breakfast how fond he was of barbeque and when the sisters reminded me he was hoping to have finished his audit work in time to join us at lunch, I thought taking him a plate of food would be a thank you for his kindness to me yesterday.
I pointed out that he hadn’t seemed depressed that, in fact, he was sharing his plans for the future with me. He was worried about something on this audit, but he was confident he was going to resolve it today.
Then I asked if he left a note.
The chief looked at me appraisingly, “So you think someone wanted to get rid of him because he found something irregular in the audit and that person staged his suicide?”
I looked at him carefully. That wasn’t quite what I said, but I nodded my head. I realized that was exactly what I thought.
“Lady, you should be writing for Hollywood. That’s the fiction capital, we just use facts out here in real life.”
His cavalier manner annoyed me, so I retorted, “Well, who knew about the gun in the manager’s desk? Tell me that.”
He shrugged, “Just about everybody who worked there. It was company issue to the bank manager in the thirties and then passed down from one manager to another for all these years. Joe says he doesn’t know if it’s ever been used, but he cleans it once in a while. It was certainly available.”
“But why? Why would Boyd kill himself there? He was almost finished; he said he was going home tomorrow.”
“Maybe his work wasn’t going well. Maybe he was in trouble with his boss and you just thought it was a problem with the loans.”
I shook my head. “No, he’s been doing this work for a while. I could tell from listening to him talk—he was competent. No, he found something in that audit that troubled him. It could only have been something to do with one or more of the loans. He was working on Saturday to finish up. Naturally he didn’t tell me what specifically worried him, but I could tell he was really concerned.”
The chief still looked skeptical, but he nodded
, “Well, we didn’t find a note. I’ll consider what you’ve told me although it seems pretty clear it was a suicide. Since you’ll be here for a couple days perhaps you’d be kind enough to stop back in here Monday and sign your statement for us? We’ll have it typed up and waiting for your signature by then.”
I agreed and headed back to Aunt Betty’s. The festival was still going on, but I wasn’t in the mood to join in the fun. When I let myself in I went to my room and sat with my book in the rocking chair, staring out the window until it got too dark to see. Then I just went to bed and stared wide eyed at the ceiling.
* * * *
I was moving rather slowly in the morning and didn’t get downstairs to breakfast until late. There were only a few people left in the dining room. Ellen told me as she took my breakfast order that many of the guests had already checked out this morning, including the young couple, who were already off on their bikes. Fern and Fran were full of concern, fluttering around me trying to make me feel better.
“We’re going to church this morning, perhaps you’d care to join us.”
I thought about it and nodded.
“We’re going to the Methodist Church. We saw they have a service at ten thirty. Then we’ll come back and check out and head for home. Oh dear, that poor, poor man. What could he have been thinking? I had no clue he was depressed. Did you?”
I didn’t want to discuss it so I just took a sip of my coffee and stared out the window. Another beautiful day. Texas seemed to be determined that I leave with only good memories of the weather.
Fran glared at Fern for being so insensitive and patted my shoulder. They began talking about the competitions held at the festival yesterday evening culminating with a dance under the stars. It sounded nice.
I had never attended a Methodist service before and found it comforting. The minister, in deference to the festival the day before, spoke about loving your neighbor and gave an inspiring and touching sermon. The music was soothing and I felt better when I returned to Aunt Betty’s. There was a brief flurry of activity as Fran and Fern packed up to leave, we exchanged addresses and I promised to keep in touch. And then I grabbed some magazines from the living room and retreated to the chaise lounge sitting under the shade tree on the front lawn.
Ellen, carrying a tray holding two glasses of lemonade, joined me there later. “I thought I needed a break. The police are searching Boyd’s room and will probably leave a mess for me to clean up.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m so sorry this happened. He was such a nice man.”
I nodded, there didn’t seem to be anything to say.
“Stan and I usually go out to dinner on Sunday nights. We wondered if you’d care to join us. We’re going to the Farmhouse. They serve an old-fashioned Sunday dinner. You know, fried chicken and all the trimmings or pot roast, that kind of thing. It makes us feel as if we’re going home for Sunday dinner. Would you like to go?”
It made me smile and I told her how I was pretending the room I had was one in my grandma’s mythical farmhouse.
She nodded, “That’s just what I was thinking when I decorated it. I’m so glad you felt it too.”
I told her I’d love to join them, just let me know when they were ready. Then I asked if it would be okay to use the phone jack to plug into my computer so I could send my emails.
“Sure, we’re not expecting any new guests to check in tonight and if someone does try to call and they get a busy signal, I’m sure they’ll call back.” She picked up her half empty glass and paused, “I’ll find you when we’re ready, but I expect it will be about five thirty. Okay?”
“Sure, I won’t be far away.” I was just being facetious; until my car was fixed I’d be sticking close to Aunt Betty’s.
* * * *
The Farmhouse had probably started out as just a little farmhouse. But now, extensions had been added and the tree-lined lane leading to it from the highway ended up in a large parking lot. Sunday evening was apparently a popular time to dine there judging by the cars and trucks parked in the lot. The hostess knew Stan and Ellen and found them a table right away even though there were several people already waiting in the bar area. Ellen had warned me that meals were served family style so when they said they were going to order the fried chicken dinner, I did the same.
The waitress delivered a bowl of fresh salad greens tossed in oil and lemon juice and we helped ourselves to as much as we wanted. The rolls were warm and yeasty and hard to resist.
Then she served the platter of fried chicken, not just the boneless, skinless breast most restaurants serve, but legs, thighs, wings and breasts. She deposited a bowl of mashed potatoes, a boat of gravy, dishes of corn and peas and then a dish of strawberry and rhubarb sauce. I know my eyes got big; it looked as delicious as it proved to be. It was a very pleasant meal. Stan entertained us with stories of his cows. He was obviously enamored with them. I had no idea how much time cows took. I thought you put them in a field to graze and loaded them in the truck to take to market. I was totally off base. Apparently there are hundreds of things needing to be done to ensure good beef and Stan loved doing all of them.
In answer to my question about how he managed both his cows and the chores necessary to maintain Aunt Betty’s he said, “Out here in the country the pace is entirely different. People don’t worry about business hours. You just work when you need to work. Many of the business people here have two jobs. They work at their business and they farm or raise livestock. This strawberry and rhubarb sauce on the table, for instance, is made by a couple who are teachers. He’s the basketball coach and history teacher at the high school and she teaches first grade. They have a few acres they plant in rhubarb every year and they make this sauce. They sell it at some of the stores around here as well as supply the Farmhouse. They also make a variety of jams and jellies. They have a nice little business going.”
“And don’t forget Joe.” Ellen reminded him.
“Oh, yeah, Joe, the manager of our local bank, has a large herd of cattle, three or four times the size of mine. He has a ranch outside of town and several hands working for him. He manages both the ranch and the bank and is still active in town affairs too.”
I looked at Stan, surprised. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest? I mean how can he do both?”
Stan shrugged, “Apparently he does, and it isn’t a conflict; at least his bosses don’t seem to mind. The point I’m making is people in the country use their spare time on things they enjoy and those hobbies frequently turn into businesses. City dwellers seem to be wrapped up in leisure activities. They go shopping, bowling, to sports events, movies and concerts, but there just aren’t as many of those things available in the country.”
“Stan’s right. It’s easy to get wrapped up in things. Like I’m really busy with our B & B, but I’m also working on my first cookbook.” Ellen blushed, but then continued with enthusiasm. “I started with a few recipes some of our guests asked me for. And now I’m writing a book. The Bed and Breakfast Association I belong to has really been encouraging me. Several of the members have already published cookbooks.”
“Well, if your’s is going to include the recipe for the cookies you served the other day at tea, I want to buy one of the books. They were delicious,” I told her and I meant it.
“It’s funny, Ellen and I were looking forward to moving out to the country so we could slow down and enjoy life and we find we’re busier than we ever were, but we’re loving every minute,” Stan said and Ellen nodded.
I liked hearing that. I told them about my own plans to travel and experience living in various parts of the country, perhaps even the world, before deciding where to settle down in the last part of my life.
“That sounds fun. You’re very brave to just strike out on your own, traveling to strange places,” Ellen said.
I shook my head. I explained how I had been on my own by choice for many years and I traveled solo for business all these years. It really wasn’t hard and being alone had the
advantages of making you more approachable. People were very kind when you gave them the chance.
“But some aren’t so nice,” Stan cautioned.
The waitress appeared suggesting we order the Apple Brown Betty for desert and we all nodded. How could we resist?
That evening I was too full to do anything but sit in front of the television and watch some mindless show. I knew I would sleep well. I was too tired and full to resist sleep a second night in a row.
* * * *
I woke suddenly in the dense darkness, my heart racing frantically while I tried to make sense of the fear I felt. Then some loud thuds caused me to leap out of bed and fumble with my door lock before stumbling out into the hall. Ellen had a small night-light plugged in so I could make my way to the stairs. There I could see dark shadows moving down below, the obvious source of the noise. I carefully made my way to the bottom and reached out a shaking hand to flip on the light switch at the bottom of the stairs, only to see the door closing and Stan picking himself up off the floor still holding a baseball bat.
“What happened?” I hissed. “Are you okay? Who was that?”
Ellen appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. “Stan, Stan, are you all right? Who was that?”
Stan shook his head, “I don’t know, but I’m calling the police right now.”
Conscious that I was only wearing my pajamas, I ran back to my room, dressed, and returned to the first floor. Ellen and Stan were in the living room and shortly a police officer arrived. We all followed Stan as he led him to the place in the lower hall where he attacked the intruder and drove him off. And we all saw the plastic container of lighter fluid and the rags that had been abandoned near the base of the staircase.
“Oh, my god, he was going to set a fire. Stan, who would do such a thing?” Ellen wailed, and then stopped abruptly. Looking at me, she realized, “My god, you could have been trapped upstairs.”
The horror I saw in her eyes couldn’t have matched the horror I was feeling.
The officer radioed for backup and we sat in the living room again until they were ready to talk to us. Stan told the police about the security devise he had rigged in the front hall. “I’ve been a city dweller too long. I’m just not as trusting as the rest of the neighbors. I didn’t want to install an alarm system because we have too many people in and out, I thought it would be more of a nuisance than a help, so I rigged my own system from a baby alarm. It’s set in the front hall and when I turn it on at night, I can hear what’s going on out here back in our rooms. I don’t mind hearing when guests come in late as it eases my mind knowing that all is safe up front when we’re in the back. Tonight I heard the pane of glass breaking and then the door open. I knew our only guest had already gone to bed so I grabbed my bat and tore out here. I didn’t see who it was. Hell, he was stronger than I expected, but I know I got in a couple of good whacks, so he’ll remember he met me.”
Dead and Breakfast Page 7