Only Good Yankee

by Jeff Abbott

  After thirty minutes Junebug came back in and said, “Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ” Chet, ever the professional host, offered Junebug a drink. He refused and watched Lorna carefully.

  “Ms. Wiercinski,” he finally said, “I’d like you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions. If you feel up to that”

  “Of course, Mr. Moncrief.” She rose unsteadily, then as if suddenly remembering that I was there, took my hand. “Can Jordan come, too?”

  “Of course,” Junebug answered. “I’m not quite sure why he’s here.”

  “I’m an old friend of Lorna’s. We knew each other in Boston.” I didn’t want to go into more detail while Chet was there. He’s a rotten gossip.

  “He’s a good old friend to have.” Junebug nodded, and so we had ended up here. Junebug had asked us to wait in the lobby for a few minutes and had disappeared into his office. I was dying to know what had happened but thought it wouldn’t look too cool to be grilling Lorna when Junebug came back. Her fingers laced with mine and I didn’t pull back. My arm felt stiff and sore and I tried to keep the sling still and close to my body.

  “Y’all come on back,” Junebug returned, and escorted us into the station’s one interrogation room. I felt distinctly unwell; I presumed we’d get questioned in the less accusatory surroundings of Junebug’s office. Lorna and I sat on one side of the table, Junebug across from us. He scratched his crew cut and blinked at our entwined hands. He didn’t comment, but he was doubtless wondering what my relationship was with Lorna.

  “Now, Jordy, maybe you can tell me what you’re doing in the middle of this,” Junebug said.

  Lorna glanced at me. “Jordy? I’ve never heard you called that before.”

  “Please, Lorna, not now.” I took a deep breath and recounted Chet’s phone call.

  Junebug listened without comment. “Now, Ms. Wiercinski, maybe you can tell me what happened.”

  Lorna ran a thin fingernail across her bottom lip. She briefly explained her and Greg’s presence in Mirabeau. “Okay. About eight-fifteen we went to the library because Greg was upset—”

  “Wait a second, ma’am. Who’s we?”

  “Me, Greg, and a local real-estate agent, Freddy Jacksill. I had dinner with Jordan”—one Junebug eyebrow went up, then settled back where it belonged—“and then I’d come back to the bed-and-breakfast. Greg had already heard about the meeting and he was upset. He abhors Nina Hernandez; says she’s an extremist who always gets in his way.”

  “Wait another second!” Junebug exploded. “What’s this all about?”

  Lorna told him about the ongoing animosity between Nina Hernandez and Greg’s company. Junebug made notes. “Okay,” he said, “so he wanted to bust up this meeting.”

  “Not exactly. He just wanted to let people know that Nina is dead wrong about Intraglobal and clarify what we want to do here. He wanted to announce his own meeting—which would have been tonight.”

  “How had he heard about the library meeting?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Moncrief. I guess Freddy Jacksill told him.” She went on to describe Greg’s arrival during Nina’s speech and the ensuing charges and countercharges. I helpfully filled in what had happened before Greg and Lorna’s arrival.

  “And after you left the library?” Junebug prodded.

  “Greg was very confident that he’d win, but I could see that he was seething. He really hates Nina Hernandez. I mean, he really hated—” Her voice broke off as she corrected her tense. Junebug offered a tissue and she waved it away. “I’m okay.

  “Anyhow, after we left, Greg, Freddy, and I came back to the Mirabeau B. I was tired and a little upset”—a glance at me spoke volumes—“and I wanted to go to bed. This is my first deal working with Intraglobal and I’m not accustomed to all this confrontational crap. Greg had calmed and seemed ready to celebrate. He said that Nina would mess up her campaign to stop us and we’d be able to get the land for the river resort. He wanted to have drinks with Freddy and me, but I begged off. So he and Freddy went into Greg’s room. Around nine-thirty I went to bed—” She broke off, sounding uncertain.

  “Is that all, ma’am?” Junebug seemed to sense she was holding something back and his tone was pressing.

  “I dozed off, but then I woke up. I heard Greg’s voice yelling at someone. Whoever it was wasn’t yelling back.”

  “Did he sound afraid?” I asked, ignoring Junebug’s scowl at my intervention.

  “No, more mad than afraid.”

  “You didn’t hear Mr. Jacksill talking with him?” Junebug asked.

  “No, not that I remember.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I went back to sleep. I woke up later, maybe around midnight—I heard a door slam down the hall. But I rolled over and went back to sleep. Then—a little before two—I woke up again. I’m not sure what woke me up, I just snapped awake.”

  A slamming door, I thought. Chet had told me while we waited for the police to finish their preliminary examination of Greg’s room that Lorna and Greg were his only guests at the moment. So it must’ve been Greg’s door that she heard.

  Junebug listened to her carefully, as though a clue might drop from her unsuspecting lips. “Think again, miss. Did you hear a noise? Someone crying out? Another door slam?”

  Lorna pursed her lips. I could see the effort of her recollection as she dredged through her shock. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything. I think I woke because I was thirsty.”

  “Okay,” Junebug said. “You were thirsty.”

  “I decided to go down to the kitchen for some apple juice. I opened my door and started for the stairs. I passed Greg’s room and I could see that the door was ajar. I…” She stared at her clenched fingers.

  Junebug didn’t prompt her; neither did I. We both sensed that she had to tell this at her pace. After a long intake of breath she continued: “I knocked at the door, very softly. I thought maybe Greg fell asleep with it open, but that would have been very unlike him. He was a maniac about his privacy. So I pushed at the door. It was ink black inside, what with the curtains down. But my eyes were used to the dark now, and I could see his bed hadn’t been slept in. So I stepped inside the room—I remember my hand went out for the light switch. The lights came on—I was looking at Greg’s bed. I couldn’t see his body from there. I didn’t know he was there. And then these gloves closed around my mouth and my throat. …” She took a long, shuddering breath.

  Junebug leaned forward. “Okay, Ms. Wiercinski. Please describe what happened very carefully. Take as much time as you need.”

  Lorna, her closed eyes tight lines, nodded. “Okay. One glove went over my mouth because I started to scream. The other went behind my neck”—she pantomimed for us—“holding me at the base of the throat. I just stopped dead, because as they closed around me this voice whispered to me, ‘Make a sound, bitch, and you’re dead.’”

  “A man’s voice or a woman’s?” I asked. Junebug didn’t seem to object.

  Lorna shook her head. “I couldn’t tell—the voice was a ratchety, harsh whisper. A man’s, I think. Maybe.”

  “What about the gloves? What kind were they?”

  “Thick, coarse. Not like driving or dress gloves, but like heavy work gloves.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Whoever used that garrote on Greg would have to protect his own hands from the barbs. Pulling it taut could be painful.”

  “From the way the person was holding you, Ms. Wiercinski, could you tell if they were bigger or smaller than you, or around your own size?” Junebug asked, ignoring my valuable insight. He’d probably already thought of it, anyway.

  Lorna shook her head. “I couldn’t tell—the way he was holding me, it was at something of a distance from him; I wasn’t pressed up against him. I—I thought of fighting, but I was too scared. I mean, everything I’d heard of what you’re supposed to do—fight, kick, scream—my mind wouldn’t do it. I just froze.”

  “What happened next?
”

  Lorna swallowed. “He—or she—pushed me facedown on the bed. I remember saying, ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ He didn’t say anything. He blindfolded me with what I later found was one of Greg’s ties. Then he tied my arms together with the bedsheets. He shoved another tie in my mouth as a gag and put a pillowcase over my head. Then he shoved me into Greg’s closet and said in that hoarse whisper, ‘You just stay right there.’ I could hear the closet door shut and the key turn in the lock.” She sniffed. “I guess that’s when you know you’re staying in a real old house—when you have keys for the closets. I thought he was gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I heard movements at different times, so I just lay there for a while and I started to get panicky. I was pretty sure he’d left, so I worked my way out of the sheets, got the gag out of my mouth, and took off the blindfold and the pillowcase. I peered out of the keyhole, but I couldn’t see anything. I started screaming and kicking on the door; finally I kicked it loose. I saw Greg’s body and screamed. Chet rushed in and got me out, and he called the police. I—I asked him to call Jordan.”

  Junebug said nothing, but tapped his pencil against his pad in an annoying staccato. “How long have you been in Mirabeau, ma’am?”

  “Only a day or so. Greg’s been here a few days longer.” She frowned.

  “And you can’t even say whether or not the person who grabbed you was a man or a woman, how tall they were, or nothing?” Junebug demanded.

  “Not with certainty.” Lorna’s jaw set. “If I could tell you, I would.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t,” Junebug said. “We don’t know you here.”

  I’d had enough. “Look, Junebug, I’ve known Lorna for years, and she is not a liar.”

  “I’m not about to take this from someone named after an insect!” Lorna stormed, but Junebug, placid as ever, raised a calming hand.

  “Let’s not dwell on this at the moment,” Junebug drawled. “Perhaps you can tell me who might have had it in for Mr. Callahan.”

  Lorna propped her elbows on the table and leaned into her open palms. “Sorry, Mr. Moncrief, about the insect remark. I didn’t mean it. I’m extremely upset.”

  He nodded.

  “Jesus. I can’t believe anyone would kill Greg.” She looked over her polished fingernails at Junebug. “My first guess would be Nina Hernandez. I mean, there was certainly bad blood between them. And I did hear him arguing with someone, but I didn’t hear another voice. Maybe he was arguing with her on the phone.” I wondered if Nina was big enough to strangle Greg or manhandle Lorna, but I didn’t say anything.

  “How had he gotten along with folks here?” Junebug asked.

  “Fine,” she said. “I mean, some people didn’t seem keen on his development plans for the river, but I can’t imagine someone would kill him over that. He told me when I got here that he’d met with some of the landowners already.”

  I supplied Junebug with the names of those who owned the land that Greg wanted. He jotted them down carefully and tapped his pencil again.

  “Look, Lorna’s been through hell. You’ve got the tape of her statement. Can’t you let her get some rest and have her sign it tomorrow?”

  “I—I can’t go back there.” Lorna’s eyes pleaded with mine.

  “Of course not. You’ll stay at my house. You’ll be safe there.”

  “One more question, Ms. Wiercinski, then we’ll be done. I appreciate your effort in telling me all this.” Junebug looked squarely into her gray eyes. “What kind of man would you say Mr. Callahan was?”

  Lorna snapped, “Not the kind who deserved to die that way, Mr. Moncrief. He was smart, funny, confident of himself. He enjoyed life, and I can’t believe he got taken this way.” She dissolved into tears, and her statement was over.

  It was nearly five in the morning when I got Lorna home. We let ourselves in quietly, trying not to disturb Mama or Sister. That was in vain; Sister was already up. She practically ran across the living room to me.

  “Where the hell have you been? I wake up in the middle of the night to check on Mama and your bed’s empty. I call Candace and she doesn’t know where you are.” She looked at Lorna. “You’re not Candace.”

  Whoops. I made quick introductions, explaining in as few words as possible that Lorna had run into trouble and I’d had to dash out to render aid. At the news of murder, Sister’s eyes widened.

  “Well, of course, you can stay here, Lorna. I’ve heard so much about you, but you know Jordy doesn’t talk much about Boston anymore. And I saw the lovely flowers you brought Mama. That was real kind of you.” She herded her charge into the kitchen, giving me her patented we-will-discuss-this-later-little-brother look. “Jordy, you might want to call Candace. I’m afraid I’ve worried her sick by calling her.”

  “It’s still awful early—” I started, but Lorna looked oddly at me.

  “Call her, Jordan. She’ll be concerned. Put her mind at ease.”

  Lorna didn’t usually show solicitude for a rival. Wait a minute, I reminded myself, Candace and Lorna were not rivals. My heart was with Candace, wasn’t it? Of course it was. I went back into the kitchen and tried to ignore the melting, little-girl looks that Lorna was giving me.

  “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Arlene,” Lorna said, staring down into a mug of decaf coffee.

  “Don’t you worry about it, Lorna.” Sister glanced up at me. “I’ll just get the guest bedroom ready for you. Clo’s been using it when she stays the night—”

  “Oh, don’t put Clo out,” Lorna began, but Sister interrupted: “Don’t worry, I’m not. She’s not here tonight. She doesn’t usually work nights anyway. It’s not a problem.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed Candace’s number. One ring and she answered. She didn’t sound exactly asleep.

  “Candace, it’s Jordy.”

  Silence on the other end, broken finally by: “Where are you?”

  “At home. I had to go over to the Mirabeau B. Lorna—”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear this, Jordy.”

  “Listen. Greg Callahan, Lorna’s boss, got murdered.” I explained what had happened to Lorna.

  “My God. Do you want me to come over? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Lorna needs some rest. So do I. Sister’s fixing up the guest room for her.”

  More silence. “Oh. How long is she planning on staying?” Candace’s voice sounded just a tad arid.

  “I don’t know. Until the investigation is complete, I suppose. She can’t very well stay where the murder happened, can she?”

  Maybe Candace couldn’t help herself. “I suppose not, but she seemed tough enough to handle anything.”

  “She’s not so tough. I don’t think any of us are at a time like this.” I paused. “Greg was only a little older than me, Candace. To be cut down like that—”

  “Go get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll open up the library tomorrow and I’ll talk to you later.” The gentle click of her hanging up the phone was her only goodbye.

  I slept like the dead, and the dead populated my dreams. I woke up around ten, my body slicked in sweat, my arms stretched out painfully in front of me, fending off some dream assassin who carried a twisted length of wire in gloved hands. I swallowed two Tylenol, took a shower, shaved, dressed, and maneuvered my sore arm into its sling. Wondering if I needed to have the doctor look at it again, I stumbled downstairs. Sister was working an afternoon shift, so she was sitting in the kitchen sipping late-morning coffee with Clo. Mama sat in her chair, staring at dust motes in the air. Perhaps they sang to her, or danced for her, in the closed theater of her mind. Lorna, I was informed by Clo, was still asleep.

  Clo and Sister demanded more details. I told them everything I knew. They jumped on the case, using deductive abilities garnered from watching too many bad mystery movies on TV.

  “Strangled with barbed wire. Sounds like something an Eye-talian would do,” Clo theorized.

  “Well, all those Yankee businessmen probably have m
ob connections,” Sister opined. “Wait, though, he was from Boston and had an Irish surname. Maybe it was a union hit, like Jimmy Hoffa. If they’d had enough time with the body, they would’ve dumped him in the river.”

  Clo made a noise of sad agreement.

  “I don’t think someone would follow him all the way down to Texas for a hit,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Clo, a death by garotting, that would be quick, wouldn’t it?”

  “I would think so. Cut the blood and air off real fast. But I don’t know.” Clo sipped at her coffee. “You better hope it’s not no mobsters, Arlene. They might want to hit that Yankee gal next.”

  Sister’s eyes widened in horror. “Good Lord. I never thought of that!”

  “This was not a mob hit!” I insisted. “You two are just trying to scare each other. And please, do not refer to her as that Yankee gal. Her name is Lorna. L-O-R-N-A.”

  “Did you make sure that Candace knows how to spell it, too?” Sister snapped back. She’s never been one to skirt an issue, although I might wish she’d show a little interest in shyness now and then.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I sputtered.

  “Plenty! That Yankee gal comes to town, sets up her hoops, and you just start jumpin’ through them like Clyda Tepper’s poodle. I’m real sorry her friend got killed, but it does seem that she’s leaning on you awful hard. Why didn’t she move to another room at Chet’s or to another motel? I just wonder what Candace thinks of you being so sweet to Miss L-O-R-N-A.”

  “She’s fine with it,” I said in a low voice. “She understands that Lorna needs me.”

  “Jordy, you’re as stupid as you are tall. No woman understands an ex-girlfriend needing her man.” Sister sat back in her chair with grim satisfaction. “You know, lots of men sure would like to date Candace. She got chased plenty before you moved back to town, and I bet if you wander out of the picture, that race’d be back on in no time. Some men appreciate her, even if you don’t.”

  Sister was spared the sizzling reply I was busily working on by the doorbell. She leaped up to answer it. “Clo, talk some sense into that boy.”