After visiting Brandy in the hospital and determining that her noggin would soon be more or less in working order, I returned home to take care of sweet little Sushi, after which I headed to bed for a good night’s sleep, knowing the next day would be a very busy one indeed.
When I questioned Brandy about the events at Wild Cat Den, she was rather evasive (not unusual), saying only that she’d apparently startled Joe in his cave, which is why he’d conked her. But she did let slip one juicy piece of info: The missing Tarzan book had been found among Joe’s things. Which had pushed our little British bird from the top slot on the suspect list, making Joe number one with a bullet.
Well, I could no more believe Joe killed Walter than Chaz had! So once again, Vivian Borne had to rise to the occasion, uncover the truth, and free the unjustly accused.
The following morning, after a hardy breakfast of pancakes and sausage (a girl has to keep up her strength, you know), I let Sushi outdoors one last time, as that dog has to urinate more often than moi. Then I climbed into my warm raccoon coat, tied my favorite blue woolen scarf over my head, and slipped on Brandy’s pair of comfortable, ever-so-toasty brown UGGS (she wouldn’t be wearing them today, now would she?).
The weather was crisp and clear, sun shining bright as a new penny, if a penny were orange and not copper. Brandy’s boots crunched through a thin layer of freshly fallen snow, as I hurried along the sidewalk to catch the traveling trolley a few blocks away, due at any moment.
The old reconverted-to-gas trolley car (I wonder if I’ll be around long enough to see it converted back to electric?) was free of charge to anyone wanting to go downtown (my usual destination), but I could sometimes sweet-talk the driver into dropping me elsewhere, if it weren’t too far off the beaten path.
Roxanne Randolph was the first person to drive the trolley, but she quit suddenly after going home early one afternoon to nurse a migraine only to find her husband in the steamy clutches of a young neighbor who, in fact, was a nurse. Hubby tried telling Roxanne that the lady was just giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (hubby had heart problems) (obviously), but Roxie didn’t buy it. Then Roxie did some amateur nursing herself, cleaning hubby out like a colonic, and she’s now living in Arizona, very happily I hear.
Maynard Kirby went after the trolley job next because he had to go back to work after his wife gambled away all his retirement money from his long tenure at the fish hatchery. But then he, too, quit suddenly, after his wife spawned big bucks in the state lottery. Thank God for her addiction!
Currently, a young black woman named Shawntea Monroe drove the trolley car. I met her in Chicago the previous summer when four of us Red-Hatted League gals drove into the Windy City for a Cubs game and lost our bearings (I was navigating, possibly a mistake pre-cataract surgery) and we ladies found ourselves with a flat tire somewhere called Cabrini-Green.
Well, Shawntea—who had just disembarked a gas-belching bus—took pity on us out-of-water fishies, and got her brother, Trayvon (member of a young men’s club called Gangsta Disciples), to change our tire and get us girls headed off in the right direction.
But before we drove away, I gave Shawntea my phone number and let her know that should she ever want to get a fresh start in new surroundings, I’d send her a one-way bus ticket to Serenity with a promise of work, feeling fairly certain I could help her find some. Shawntea did call, a few months later, about the same time the trolley job opened up, and that’s what we call Serenity serendipity.
As I climbed aboard the trolley, Shawntea—wearing a warm purple parka, her lovely black hair cascading in tight curls—gave me her winning white smile. “Hello, Miz Borne. How’s it shakin’?”
“Shaking quite nicely, Shawntea,” I said, and slid into the seat directly behind her. At the moment, the trolley was toting only a few passengers, this being an off-time for travel, what with people already at work and the downtown shops not quite open.
“And how are Kwamie and Zeffross?” I asked. To my surprise, she had arrived in town with two young boys in tow.
“Oh, Miz Borne, they jus’ love their new school,” Shawntea said, pulling the trolley away from the curb.
“And how are your night classes going?”
“One more semester, and I get my GED.”
“Wonderful! And what then?”
She hesitated. “Kinda thinkin’ about community college.”
“Well, you’re certain to get a scholarship.”
She glanced back. “You really think so?”
“I can practically guarantee it.” I knew all of the college foundation board members, several of whom had the kind of skeletons in their closets that no one likes to hear come rattling out.
“That would be dope, Miz Borne,” she said.
“Dope, dear?”
“Cool. Great. Awesome.”
“Stick with those terms, Shawntea. ‘Dope’ has different connotations in these parts.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, sure.”
“It implies stupidity, dear.”
“It sure does.”
We rumbled along Elm Street, a straight shot downtown, passing by lovely old homes, most sporting festive green wreaths on their doors, trees lavish in front windows, yards arrayed with Nativity scenes or Santa with his sleigh and reindeer.
As we turned right on Main, Shawntea asked, “Where ya want to be dropped, Miz Borne?”
“The courthouse will be just fine, dear.” The trolley’s first downtown stop.
Bidding Shawntea adieu, I disembarked the trolley, then hoofed it over to the county jail, nicely positioned across from the courthouse, making hauling criminals into court most convenient—hardly any inmates ever escaped just crossing the street.
I had worked tirelessly for the new county jail—a two-story, red-brick, state-of-the-art, fenceless facility that looked more like an administrative building than a detention center. I’d done this in part because I felt that even convicts deserved better living conditions than the old, crumbling jail. But, also, I had once ended up in those squalid former quarters and, frankly, it was equally appalling for non-convicts like me.
The new jail’s lobby might have been an airport gate waiting area, with its rows of seating back-to-back, vending machines, small lockers for storing personal items, and walk-through security scanner.
I strolled over to the young man (nonuniformed) who acted as a receptionist, and spoke through the tiny microphone in the glass. “Vivian Borne would like a word with Sheriff Rudder.”
The man looked up at me, narrowing his already narrow eyes. “He’s awfully busy, ma’am….”
“Oh, he’ll see me,” I said. “We’re old friends.”
And I turned abruptly to take a seat in the boarding area, hoping the wait wouldn’t be as long as at O’Hare.
A good half hour crawled by before the sheriff buzzed himself through the steel door into the reception room. As he approached, I stood and, not wanting to waste any more of my precious time, came right to the point.
“I need to see Joe Lange,” I told him. “I assume you’ve had time enough to get him through processing.”
Sheriff Rudder, a tall, confident man who reminded me of Randolph Scott (circa Ride the High Country) (except that his eyes were a trifle crossed), furrowed the brow of his rugged face. “I don’t think a visit with Joe’s possible right now, Vivian. Maybe in a few days. What’s this about?”
“I’m sure poor Joe would like to hear that Brandy is unhurt and will be out of the hospital tomorrow. And by the way…thank you for your part in rescuing my daughter. She’s very precious to me.”
The sheriff considered my request momentarily, then nodded. “Joe has been asking about Brandy, but he’s in a fairly upset state. I’d prefer to pass along the information myself.”
I stood my ground. “Considering Joe’s present mental condition—that is to say, extreme paranoia—I’m afraid he would only believe the good news about Brandy if it came from the horse’s mouth. I am that horse
.”
Rudder chuckled and said, “Which end, Vivian?”
“What did you say, Sheriff?”
“Uh…to what end, Vivian?”
“Well…if Joe is at all anxious, my visit might calm him down. You may not realize this, but I have, in my time, suffered minor mental problems myself.”
“Really? Well. Who’d have thought it.”
“There are mental health interest groups who would not take kindly to—”
The sheriff held up a palm. “All right, Vivian…but only for a few minutes.”
Shortly thereafter, another steel door at the back of the waiting area opened, and a pretty, ponytailed female deputy came out, greeted me perfunctorily, took my fur coat, scarf, and purse, put them in one of the lockers, and handed me the small key. I was then ordered to step through the metal detector.
“That’s not a good idea,” I said to her.
“It’s required.”
Well, wouldn’t you just know that the extensive bridgework in my mouth set the thing to buzzing, which took another few minutes getting straightened out. Finally, the deputy was ushering me through to the inner jail, using a security card.
We passed through two more locked doors before arriving in an area consisting of three small visitor’s stations, like those claustrophobic closets the bank teller insists on putting me into when I want to go over my will.
The deputy deposited me on a chair facing the glass window separating me from the prisoner’s side (and it from me); then she retreated to stand outside my cubicle, granting some privacy.
Joe, wearing an orange jumpsuit, was escorted to his chair on the other side of the glass by a beefy, bucket-headed male deputy. This deputy did not afford Joe any breathing space, positioning himself directly behind the young man.
Joe looked pale, and seemed withdrawn, even subdued; but his drugged eyes—indicating he was already back on his medication—showed a flash of life when he saw it was me.
We both reached for our phones.
He spoke first. “Is Brandy okay?”
“Yes, Joe—fit as a fiddle. Home tomorrow.”
He began to cry, his shoulders rising and falling. “Mrs. Borne, will…will Brandy ever for…forgive me?”
“Of course, dear,” I said gently. “Just like she always forgives me. She understands you and I are a little bit…”
“Different?”
“I was going to say ‘crazy,’ but that’s a nice way of putting it. Now dry your tears.”
Joe wiped his eyes with a sleeve of his orange jumpsuit.
With some urgency, sitting so close my forehead almost touched the glass, I said, “Joe, I only have a precious few minutes….”
He nodded. His eyes were hazy, but at least they met my gaze unflinchingly.
“I want you to tell me the truth, Joe. Did you poison Walter Yeager?”
The eyes unclouded. “No, Mrs. Borne! I didn’t! I swear it on my oath as a soldier.”
“But you did take that book, didn’t you, dear?”
He swallowed thickly, then his head dropped…and he nodded. “Yes. I was just going to talk to the old gent, make him an offer—I have some money saved up I use for collectibles. I buy and sell on eBay, you know. But then I saw it, just lying on the table….”
“What about Mr. Yaeger?”
Joe looked up again. “The old man was dead when I got there. I swear it!” Wildness came to the eyes. “As God is my witness, Mrs. Borne, I even tried to save him. I called for help, but, but, but…”
Joe bolted to his feet, the phone receiver dropping from his hand, swinging by its cord like a hung man. (Or is it “hanged”? I’m never quite sure…. )
“Medic!” he cried, his eyes crazed, his voice muffled by the glass. “Man down! Bring in Medevac! Cue the damn chopper!”
The beefy deputy grabbed Joe, quickly cuffing the young man’s hands and then hauling the squirmy prisoner from the cubicle.
My ponytailed deputy came in and glared at me. “I thought you were going to calm him!”
I stood and spread my hands. “How was I to know Joe would go jungle-happy? One can never predict how an unbalanced individual might behave. Might I suggest that his medication be increased?”
The deputy squinched her face, her attractive features suddenly becoming most unattractive. “Oh, thank you. I’ll be sure to pass your recommendation along to the doctor.”
“Please do. And, dear? You’ll develop the most unsightly wrinkles if you insist on scowling.”
She marched me ever so quickly back through the locked doors and, after I gathered all of my things from the locker, escorted me to the front door, watching to make sure I’d left. At least she was efficient.
My next stop was the Public Safety Building, conveniently located next door to the jail, where I announced through another microphone-embedded-in-glass that I wished to see Chief Cassato.
The unfamiliar female dispatcher (a Hispanic child, with short brown hair and glasses) turned away from her bank of monitors to use a phone. Then, after a muffled conversation to which I wasn’t privy, she politely told me that the chief was out of the office today.
I made a mental note of the dispatcher’s name tag on her crisp blue shirt; she was someone whose friendship would need to be cultivated. But first the woman had to be properly trained on how to cultivate Vivian Borne’s friendship….
I said sweetly, “The chief’s car is in the parking lot, so you must be mistaken, my dear…would you please check again? If he’s in a meeting, please let him know I am more than happy to wait all day.”
And, without giving the young woman a chance to reply, I turned and trod over to the small waiting area of mismatched plastic chairs, settling in next to a rubber-tree plant in dire need of some TLC. To pass the time, I retrieved a pair of small scissors from my handbag and began snipping off dead leaves.
I didn’t expect much of a wait, however. Chief Cassato was no fool. You see, I knew that he knew I would linger here all day to see him…and he knew that I knew that he knew this. Clear?
So it was only a few minutes before the heavy door leading into the inner workings of the Serenity PD opened and the chief strode out.
A big barrel-chested man and the bearer of a rumpled face that some women might find attractive, the chief wore a well-starched white long-sleeved shirt, navy tie, gray pressed slacks, and black belt with silver badge attached.
He planted himself in front of my chair, hands on hips, looked down at me with half-lidded eyes. “Well, Vivian?”
The chief was not known for his loquaciousness.
I took a moment to carefully store my scissors back in my purse, having once stabbed my hand reaching in for something else—an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
I looked up and said, “Your office?”
I could be just as unloquacious as the next fellow.
His sigh ruffled the rubber tree’s leaves. But he gave up a bare nod, then preceded to turn abruptly on his Flor-sheims, and I had to make tracks to keep up as we went through the security door, and down the long, tan-tiled corridor to the last office on the left.
What I found most annoying about Chief Anthony (middle initial unknown) Cassato was the way he so fiercely protected his privacy, like a bulldog with a ham bone. I knew practically nothing about the man since his sudden arrival here three years ago to head up the Serenity PD. And all that my spies could glean was that he came from somewhere in the East. Whoopee.
But there were plenty of rumors floating around about the chief. Some of the better stories I’d started myself, just to ferret out the truth (such as the chief having been put into Witness Protection because he’d ratted on the New York mob), but so far that tactic hadn’t worked.
Similarly disappointing was the chief’s office itself, which gave little clue as to the man’s past or present: no personal photographs of family or friends, no mementos, not even any awards he had been given while serving on the force, merely a single framed
duck print on the wall to the right of his desk to hint at a hobby. Of course, the picture might well have been left behind by the former chief upon retirement.
Tony Cassato gestured impatiently for me to take the padded chair in front of his desk, and was about to go behind it when Officer Munson stuck his head in the doorway.
Using an uncalled-for sharpness of tone, the chief said to me, “One moment,” then went out into the hall, where he and Munson engaged in what sounded like a serious conversation. Damn! If I’d only scheduled my semiannual earwax cleaning, I might have been able to eavesdrop.
In a flash, I was out of my chair and onto Plan B: poking through his desk drawers before you could say, “Search and seizure.”
Spotting an official-looking letter postmarked from Trenton, New Jersey, I was about to pocket it when my wax-addled ears did perceive the men’s conversation winding down.
I didn’t have quite enough time to get back to my seat, so I pretended to be studying the duck print on the wall, asking, as the chief entered, “This wouldn’t be an original John James Audubon, by any chance?”
Tony, eyeing me suspiciously, said sharply, “No. It wouldn’t. Can we get to the point of your visit?”
I returned to my chair, and Tony settled his bulk into his.
I began, “I’ve just paid a visit to Joe Lange over at the county jail.”
The chief showed no reaction, not even a raised eyebrow. His hands were on his desk. Or rather his fists were.
I continued, “Joe said that when he arrived at that trailer, Walter Yeager was already dead…” I played my best cards. “…and I happen to believe him!”
But again, no reaction.
“Joe did admit to taking the book,” I continued.
The chief remained stony-faced.
“Which means Yeager’s killer is still out there!”
The chief sighed. Then, finally, he spoke: “Is there anything else?”
I frowned. “Well…no.”
“You know the way out.”
I stood, unable to conceal my irritation. “I deserve better consideration than this, and a little common courtesy! I’m an interested, civic-minded public citizen who simply does not want to see the wrong person to go to prison!”
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