The smiley face was incongruent with the environs and the dirty blonde’s demeanor. Perhaps it was offering balance to an otherwise twisted Hitchcockian situation.
Uncle Walters answered on the seventh ring. Yes, I was counting for some reason.
“You up for a drive?” I said.
“Well, at least you are alive. I’ve been a little concerned about you,” he said.
“Thanks. Me, too. You call out the cavalry?”
“Something akin to that. I called Detective Owens. Where are you?”
“New Hampshire.”
“You’re are not joking.”
“Not even a little. Seriously, I’m northeast of Concord, New Hampshire. At least that’s what my new best friend tells me.”
“Someone found you?”
“I found her, and her restaurant. I’ve eaten, performed some emergency triage, and now am ready to join the land of the living and find out who I pissed off.”
“Owens found Sam, so he’s safe. We had no clues to your whereabouts. You have directions to your present location?” Walters said.
“Off of I-93 to New Hampshire Highway 4. Somewhere along the Oak Hill Road,” I said.
“Definitive,” he answered.
“Best I can do at the moment.”
“You can tell me your story when I see you. I’ll call Owens and have him send a car to pick you up. It’ll be a little faster than if I drive to New Hampshire,” Walters said.
“I’ll be here with my new BFF.”
44
My assailants had taken my cell phone, the .38 I almost confiscated, my 9mm, my leg gun, and some of my dignity. They left me my pocket money. I don’t do purses, but I keep a wallet in my back pocket just like my father. I always felt it was more efficient to have a wallet on me than having a purse dangling from my arm as I rough-housed with the criminal element of the world. Besides, purses and guns … they really do not accessorize so well in tandem.
I gave the dirty blonde waitress two twenties when the highway patrol showed up a few minutes after eleven.
“You must be connected,” she said as she stared out the door at the officer standing in the doorway asking for me.
“It’s who you know,” I said as I headed towards the front door.
“I owe you some change,” she said.
“Tip. I included some extra, you know, for the phone, the mirror, the paper towel, and the conversation.”
She almost smiled. It looked a little like the twisted smiley face on the clock above the kitchen sink. Go figure.
“I wouldn’t have charged you for the conversation,” she said and did smile a little as she waved goodbye. I waved back.
“If you’re ever traveling through Virginia, look me up,” I said.
“I’ve never left New Hampshire. Probably won’t ever. Good to meet you,” she paused as if searching for something to fill that slot.
“Clancy. My name is Clancy.”
“Clancy,” she repeated. “Good to meet you, Clancy. Good name. Good luck with the bad guys. My name is Jane,” she said.
We were back in Weston before lunch time. The patrolman, Z.W. Jones, dropped me off at the police station in Weston. I wanted to ask him what the Z.W. on his name tag stood for during our trip from the wilds of New Hampshire, but my head was pounding too much for me to really care what his name was. I was happy that he was there and giving me a lift.
Sam was sitting in a chair in front of Owens’ desk as if he were being interrogated. There was an empty bowl on the floor as well as an empty bowl on the desk in front of Sam. He wagged his tale when he saw me, but refrained from galloping in my direction and jumping into my arms like one of those dog commercials. Restrained behavior. We were, after all, in New England.
“Thanks for rescuing my dog,” I said as I rubbed Sam on the head and sat down in the other chair in front of Owens’ desk.
“Not much of a rescue. City cop found him sitting in an unlocked vehicle, brought him in and ran the plates. It’s registered to one Walters Clancy of Boston, Mass. I’m figuring that would be your uncle.”
“I can see why you made detective grade.”
“How did Sam get from the local cop to you?”
“Ran the prints inside the vehicle and got a hit on yours. A few calls later, your dog was sitting here with me and enjoying the ambience.”
“Much to enjoy,” I said. “And you fed him. Thanks.”
“Dog has a sweet tooth,” Owens said.
“You give him cookies?”
“Never. Cookies are bad for dogs. Even I know that.”
“So what’d he eat?”
“Apple cake. Wife made an apple cake and I had some pieces here to share.”
“Generous of you to share your cake,” I said.
“Not really. Stuff is dry as toast. I think she left something out. I couldn’t eat it. Glad to share it with the dog. It was all I had. Don’t usually keep dog food in the cupboard here.”
“He likes doughnuts, but I try to keep him on the straight and narrow.”
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
I told him everything I could recall. I even added the chapter about Jane, the dirty blond waitress who fed me in her hole in the wall restaurant.
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to remove you from the scene.”
“I was thinking the same thing. They could’ve killed me and dumped the body. Then you would have had a new best friend,” I said and rubbed Sam’s neck.
“Don’t do dogs. No offense, Sam,” he added quickly.
Sam stared at him without expression or emotion. A simple blank stare. It was enough to send the message Sam wanted Owens to receive. Owens shrugged at the dog.
“You have any idea who did this to you?” Owens said.
“Not really, but I have a starting point. I was tailing Raney Goforth. I’ll start there.”
“How about I start there,” he said.
It didn’t sound like a question, nor a plausible possibility.
“We could team up and go together. Like Burns and Allen.”
“Who?” he said.
“Augh, come on. You’re old enough to remember George Burns and Gracie Allen,” I insisted.
“I was a young kid. I watched Deputy Dawg and Yogi Bear. I didn’t do comedy shows.”
“Aha, so you do know who they are,” I said.
“I’ve been around. But if we do this, I get to be Burns. No exceptions.”
I was beginning to favor this man.
The three of us left in Owens car. Sam rode in the backseat while Burns and Allen rode up front.
“Is he … car trained?” Owens said.
“Yeah and he doesn’t drool either,” I said as Owens pulled away from the station.
Owens drove us to the apartment building where I was knocked unconscious. My car was still parked two short blocks away from the scene of the crime. A few people were leaving the building.
“See anyone you recognize?” Owens said.
“I only saw one person, the guy with the gun.”
“Not one of them?” he pointed to the two men walking away from the building.
“Nope.”
“You want a doughnut while we wait?” Owens said.
I looked around the car and saw nothing resembling a box of doughnuts. Sam was looking too when he heard Owens use the magic word. Ever alert to food possibilities. Eyes searching relentlessly. Nose sniffing the air. What a dog.
“You keep ‘em in the glove compartment?”
“Trunk.”
“You’re the kind of cop that gives policemen a bad name.”
“I do what I can. Besides, I ain’t no policeman. I’m a detective.”
“Rose by any other name.”
He was obviously serious about keeping fresh doughnuts in his trunk since he returned with a variety box of jelly-filled doughnuts from the trunk of his car. Sam was standing on all fours, alert, ready for the nectar of the gods. I would imagine he thoug
ht that way.
“No coffee?” I said after finishing off two raspberry cream wonders. Sam had inhaled two of the apple-kind with the powdered sugar on the top. He had powdered sugar still on his mouth and nose.
“Don’t push it. I’m sharing my doughnuts with you two. I don’t usually share. Not in my nature.”
“Thanks for the kindness. Sam is your friend for life.”
“I don’t have many dog friends.”
“Goes to character,” I said.
We sat, ate a couple more doughnuts, and waited for something to happen. I can’t speak for Owens, but along with the waiting, I craved another doughnut or two during the interval. Hard to eat just one of those sinful things, or two or three without wanting more. Abstinence is the best policy to remain steadfast in not giving in to the lust for sugar calories. I fought the urge.
It was after three o’clock when we had our first visual. The young man who had tried to secure my capture with the handgun drove up and parked. He headed towards the building, I pointed him out, and told Owens who he was. For a man full of doughnuts Owens moved surprisingly fast. He was at the young man’s back before he could turn and defend himself. By the time I arrived, the young man was on the ground with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was pleading his innocence until he turned his head a little and saw me.
“How did they find you?” he said to me. Aha, a solid clue.
“Alexander Graham Bell,” I said.
“Who?”
“The inventor of the telephone.”
“We took your phone,” he said.
“Ah, you did indeed. But you did not take all of the telephones connected to land lines in the vicinity of my woodsy location. In other words, you screwed up. Get used to it. Kidnapping and assault carries a few years.”
Owens placed the young man in the back of his car with Sam. Sam was sitting directly behind Owens. The young man, who obviously was afraid of dogs, was sitting as close to the door behind me as he could possible get. He was sort of wedged into the corner between the end of the seat and the beginning of the door. Sam immediately ascertained that fear was engulfing his seat-mate, so he began growling for effect. Then Sam moved to the center of the seat, closer to the apprehended one. The dog had class, I’ll give him that.
“He won’t hurt the prisoner, will he?” Owens said so that the young guy could hear.
“Only if he lies to us,” I said. “He doesn’t like liars at all.”
“How would he know if I am lying?” the young man said.
“When a person lies, they emit an odor that canines can smell. Humans can’t smell it. So, when Sam gets a whiff of that odor, he will go for a leg first. At least I think that’s where he begins. Could be the arm, but … no, come to think of it … the leg,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
“So the interrogation begins,” Owens said in an effort to keep from smiling himself. “What’s your name?”
“Bo Johnson,” he said while trying to squeeze his body ever closer to the door; and, hoping, I would imagine, not to release that foul odor I mentioned.
“Bo, huh?” Owens said.
“Bartholomew Richard Johnson, my full name. On the birth certificate. That’s the truth,” he said. I think he added the latter for Sam’s benefit.
“Well, Bo, who do you work for?”
“Raney Goforth hired me and Laney to get rid of this woman here.”
“Laney?” Owens said.
“Gerald Laney. He’s the one who hit her in the head. I simply helped him carry her to my car and we drove her to New Hampshire.”
“That’s what this Raney Goforth meant by ‘get rid of her?’” Owens asked.
“Naw, he meant for us to kill her. But I ain’t into no murder, so I figured that if we simply took her to another state and put her in some woods, that she would die of natural causes and I wouldn’t be guilty of killing her.”
Owens looked at me and shook his head.
“Are you telling me the truth?” Owens said.
“That’s the absolute truth,” he said quickly.
I was watching him at this point and Bo was watching Sam while doing his best to tell the truth. Fear is a wonderful thing sometimes in asking questions of suspects. But even when truth was forthcoming, it was hard to believe the idiocy connected with it.
“So you and Laney took Clancy Evans here to New Hampshire and left her unconscious in some woods there to avoid shooting her. Is that what you are telling me?”
“Absolutely. That’s the truth and nothing but the truth.”
Priceless.
“Why New Hampshire?”
“Laney used to date a girl from around that vicinity, so he knew the terrain and figured those woods were remote enough that no one would find her.”
“What was the girl’s name?” I said.
“I think he said her name was Jane Bowen, or something like that. Said she worked at some nickel and dime restaurant as a waitress. Yeah, he pointed out the restaurant when we passed it on the road. Yeah, that old girl friend, Jane, was a waitress at that little restaurant on that remote road heading towards those woods where we left this woman. Why do you ask?” Bo said.
I couldn’t contain myself. I had to laugh. Sometimes life is just funny and truly odd.
45
“I missed you,” Walters said after we had finished dining on his delicious fare.
Sam was asleep under the window and I was just glad to be out of the woods and back in Boston with a familiar surrounding. I had already finished the story of my adventure, my meeting with Jane Bowen, the dirty blonde waitress who ran the small eating establishment, and the capture of Bo Johnson.
Walters and I enjoyed several minutes of laughter at the expense of Bo and Laney. The red wine was good, but it was also making me very sleepy.
“You think you should call Jane Bowen and tell her about sweet revenge?” Walters said.
“Well, I don’t know the circumstances of her breaking up with Gerald Laney, but I would imagine that Jane might actually crack a smile at this turn of events. She’s not given to great gusto or hearty laughter. Still, even with her dry demeanor, she might find some minimal pleasure in this.”
“I think it’s funny,” Walters said.
“And I think I will turn in for the night. I need some rest. It’s been a long, long day,” I said.
The next morning Owens called while I was eating toast and drinking coffee. He reported that Gerald Laney had been located and arrested. He asked me to come up to Weston to assist with the interview since he figured I had a stake in the investigation.
“What investigation?” I said.
“Well, I decided if someone out there wants you removed from the scene, there must be more to this than a suicide,” Owens said.
“Aren’t you the shrewd detective?”
“Don’t cross the line. I’m trying to help you here.”
“You have fresh doughnuts in the trunk for today’s adventure?” I said.
“Always.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll bring coffee,” I said. “Save me a couple of raspberry delights.”
I left Sam with Walters so he could rest up from his mild adventure and significant help in the interrogation of Bo Johnson. Besides eating, sleeping was his next favorite thing.
Owens was already questioning Gerald Laney when I arrived at the station. The young police-woman escorted me into the booth where I could watch and listen as Owens worked his magic.
“I ain’t talkin’,” Gerald said.
“Why not?” Owens asked with some contrived pleasantness.
“’Cause I got nothing to say.”
“You know Bo Johnson?”
“Yeah, I know Bo.”
“He a friend?”
“I guess. What’s Bo got to do with this?”
“You help him or did he help you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who was in charge?”
“I’m in charge,” Ger
ald said.
“So, Bo was helping you?” Owens insisted in a pleading sort of way.
“That’s right. Bo was helping me.”
“Your idea to drive to New Hampshire to leave the woman?”
“I don’t know nothing about New Hampshire.”
“Oh. I thought that was where you had a girl friend named Jane Bowen,” Owens said.
“Yeah. I had a girlfriend named Jane Bowen once upon a time. That ended. Long time back.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
“Less than five or more than seven?”
Gerald looked confused for a moment with the question.
“Last March or April, I think. What difference does it make?”
He seemed to be trying to count up the months.
“Not vital, I guess,” Owens said. “Just wanted to be clear about that. I like details. You like details?”
“I ain’t into details,” he said.
“But you did know a woman named Jane from New Hampshire, so you’ve been to New Hampshire a few times.”
“Yeah, I’ve been a few times.”
“So that’s why you and Bo took your prisoner to the woods up near where Jane works. You’re familiar with the territory.”
“I don’t know nothing about that,” Gerald said.
“Oh, so Bo was the planner behind that, not you.”
“Bo can’t plan a trip to the store,” he said.
“So you were the brains behind it,” Owens said quickly.
“If there were any brains, they would be mine, not Bo’s.”
“I’m just trying to get it all straight. Bo told us, I think, that it was his idea to go to New Hampshire and leave Clancy Evans in the woods up there. He said you wanted to kill her, but that he talked you out of it.”
Desperate Measures: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 5) Page 17