"Well, I didn't know Pitt well enough to speculate about him, but Jake seems like an all right kind of guy. He's got a temper though. And he's built like a brick shithouse too, since he's been spending so much time at the gym. I watched him beat a guy to a bloody pulp here one night, just because the guy flirted with a fellow that Jake had taken a fancy to. He might've killed him if one of my bouncers hadn't pulled him off the poor kid. As it was, the guy lost some teeth and had to have his face stitched back together. I almost fired Jacoby over that. Probably should have."
Stone thanked him for the information. "See how easy that was?" he asked.
Baines, possibly wanting to ensure that Stone had called off the "A" team, said, "Wesson, you might be able to find out more from Bill James. He owns the convenience store down at Twelfth Street and Vine. Jake clerks there for Bill during the day, and works here at night for me."
"Okay, we might just do that. Keep our little conversation to yourself, okay? You wouldn't want to do anything to obstruct justice. I really don't want to have to call my team in, but I will if it becomes necessary. Chances are, Jake's clean anyway."
"No problem, I won't mention it. Frankly, if Jake's involved in murder, I don't want him working here anyway. It's not good for the club's reputation, and I do run a tight ship, Detective Wesson, whether you consider it a sleazy joint or not. I don't like lawsuits. I've already had one filed against me, by the guy Jake pummeled here, the one I was telling you about earlier. It's a hassle that I could do without. I try to avoid any kind of problem, if at all possible."
"I agree with you. It's better to stay within the limits of the law and avoid unpleasant situations, like lawsuits and criminal charges." Stone pulled a pen and small pad of paper out of his pocket and began to write. "Here's my cell phone number if you think of anything else that might help. If you can't reach me there, I'm staying at the Camelot B&B on Union Street in Schenectady while I work on this case. I don't have the number with me, but you can check with directory assistance."
Just the thought of lawsuits and criminal charges had made Baines break out in a sweat again, and he was wiping furiously at his forehead with his sleeve. He nodded, took the information from Stone, and walked away from us to answer a ringing phone. When he picked up the handset, I turned to Stone.
"Detectives Smith and Wesson?" I asked, with a chuckle. "Was that the best you could come up with?"
"Hey, I was ad-libbing, and working under pressure. Fortunately, McFarland was under even more pressure," Stone answered with a sheepish grin.
"And why are you carrying a police badge? Is there something you're not telling me, Stone? Are you really some kind of undercover CIA agent, or does that badge just happen to say 'Captain Courageous' on it?"
"No, I'm not with the CIA, or anything like that—but it is official," Stone said. He smiled at my question. He then removed the shiny metal badge from his pocket for my inspection. "Deputy Officer Stone Van Patten" was inscribed across the badge, under "Myrtle Beach, South Carolina."
"A few years back—right after Diana died—I was bored and restless. I really needed something to do other than working and staring at the walls. I volunteered to be a reserve officer with the local sheriffs office. I still try to put in about ten or twelve hours a week. No pay, but it's been a very interesting and valuable experience. I brought the badge along because I had a hunch it might come in handy."
I laughed at Stone's apparent embarrassment at the admission. "I wish I had your foresight and cleverness, Detective Wesson."
As we left the club, I wondered how a guy with two jobs like Jake Jacoby, who had very few material things, could have less than two hundred dollars in the bank.
* * *
Stone entered the little store at Twelfth and Vine to buy us something to drink and also to speak with Bill James if possible. He exited with a couple of Cokes, and an answer to my question about Jake's financial status. Bill was out of town, but unlike Baines McFarland, the clerk behind the counter was more than willing to tell Detective Wesson everything he knew about Jake Jacoby. He had no use for Jake; that much was obvious, Stone said. According to the clerk, our Mr. Jacoby had a boyfriend named Wade, a bad attitude, and an expensive cocaine habit.
Chapter 15
Stone stepped out onto the back porch on Tuesday morning with a cup of coffee and an amused expression on his face. We'd arrived back at Harriet's on Monday afternoon, after spending the night in Boston and enjoying a wonderful lobster dinner at an outdoor cafe near a marina. He leaned over the railing of the porch and spat a mouthful of coffee grounds out into the yard, then sat down in his lawn chair.
"Sinbad just called me a birdbrain," he said. "Now why would he call me that when he calls you 'sweetie' most of the time?"
"Must just be a bird with discriminating taste."
"Humph," Stone replied, feigning disgust. "You may have an even meaner streak than Sinbad."
"Well, you know, being called a 'birdbrain' by a parrot might actually be a compliment. And, don't forget, when Sinbad's not calling me 'sweetie' he's referring to me as a 'damn nuisance.' "
"You are kind of a damn nuisance, aren't you 'sweetie'? Lucky for you that you're so damn cute too."
I knew that Stone was joking with me, but I did have to wonder if he wasn't beginning to regret his decision to come to Schenectady to help me. It hadn't been all fun and games, by a long shot.
As if he'd read my mind, he crouched down in front of me. With his free hand under my chin, he tilted my head up so he could look me right in the eyes. I was struck again at how light his blue eyes were.
"Lexie, you do know that I was just teasing, don't you? If I didn't want to be here with you, I wouldn't be. I'm enjoying your company more than I can tell you."
"Good, I'm really enjoying your company too. I feel bad that you had to get involved in this whole convoluted mess, though."
"Don't, Lexie. That's why I came here, remember? To help you through this."
"I was afraid you just wanted to come to determine whether or not you wanted to pursue a relationship with me," I said, somewhat shyly.
"I haven't eliminated that possibility, but it's not the reason I'm here. I've been completely up-front with you. I'd never try to weasel my way into your life. I have more respect for you than that, Lexie. Are you totally opposed to the idea of a relationship with me—sometime in the future, perhaps?"
"No, it's not that at all. I think you're terrific, Stone. I'm just not sure I'm ready to rush into a relationship with anybody right now. But if I did, it would be with you."
"I know you don't want to rush into a relationship. And I certainly don't want to rush you into anything if you're not ready. I'm not a hundred percent sure that I'm ready for a relationship either. But I do know that I find you very attractive, and getting to know you the last few days has made me happier than I've been since I lost my Diana. I think we'll both know if and when we're ready to take the next step, don't you?"
It was the most intimate remarks I'd heard Stone make, and it brought tears to my eyes. I put my hand gently against his cheek, and said simply, "Yes, I do—and thank you. You really are a dear, sweet gentleman."
"Not bad," Stone said, smiling. "From 'birdbrain' to 'dear, sweet gentleman' in less than five minutes."
* * *
Harriet soon joined us with her own cup of coffee. When she sat down on her rusty bucket, we heard more creaking and cracking come out of a one-hundred-pound body than you'd expect to hear out of a ninety-year-old house. It made me think of spraying WD-40 on an old screen door. As she sat down, she let out a sound that resembled air being let out of a tire. It must be dogged determination that kept this old woman going the way she did, not always accomplishing a heck of a lot, but burning off a lot of nervous energy in the process. She was like the embodiment of the Energizer Bunny. Just watching her flitting around the place wore me out.
"Ya going to get on to them chores today, sonny?" Harriet asked Stone.
&nb
sp; "Yes, ma'am, right after I finish my coffee," he replied. Then he looked over at my questioning expression, smiled, and said, "I promised Harriet that I'd replace the guts in a couple of her toilet tanks and look at the electrical wiring in the attic for her. She's got a couple of outlets that aren't working properly. I'm kind of a jack of all trades when it comes to home maintenance and general handyman stuff."
"What a nice guy you are, Stone."
"I have my moments, I guess."
"Iffing ya got time, can ya replace a couple boards on the front porch too?" Harriet asked.
Stone chuckled. "Sure, Harriet."
"Reckon ya can take a look-see at my Lincoln too? Made a heap lot of noise the last time I drove 'er. I thinks it were August—maybe."
"You drive a Lincoln?" he asked. I know he was trying to picture this tiny, hundred-pound lady behind the wheel of a block-long vehicle.
"Yep, got one of dem Continentals. Bought 'er new in seventy-eight. The feller there at the car store told me to bring 'er in fer an earl change when I got three thousand miles on 'er."
"You mean he told you to have the oil changed every three thousand miles?"
"No, he said 'when you get 'er up to three—' "
Stone cut in. "Harriet, do you mean you've just now put three thousand miles on your twenty-five-year-old car?"
"Well, not quite, but it's getting close to that many. Food store's only a few blocks down, and I walks there unless I gots to git lots of stuff."
"So this is the first time you've put new oil in it, in the twenty-five years you've owned it?"
"Yep, just doing like the feller said. Hell, the gas in 'er was put in about ninety-nine, I'd reckon. Getting perty good mileage in 'er, iffing ya ask me."
"Hmm, okay," Stone said, wide-eyed. "Maybe I should give the old girl a thorough check-up. Only putting a few miles a year on a car can be tough on them. The oil should be changed a couple of times a year, at the very least, no matter how many miles are put on the engine. It may take a jackhammer to get the old oil out of her. And the gas can turn to shellac if it sits in a tank that long."
"Yeah, well—whatever, sonny. Still runs good, so just give 'er a look-see when you gits time."
"Okay, no problem," Stone said. "I'll look the Lincoln over real good for you. I just can't imagine a 1978 Continental with less than three thousand miles on it."
"Well, it were a 'demo,' or that's what that car store feller called it. Damn fool joyriding salesman had already put eleven or twelve hunderd on it 'fore I got it."
Stone just shook his head slowly back and forth, with his chin cupped in his hand. "Tell you what, Harriet. Why don't you make me a list of everything you need fixed, replaced, or inspected, and I'll work my way through it as I have time."
"All righty, and maybe I could give ya a break on yer rent," she offered, hesitantly.
"No, I wouldn't think of charging you, Harriet. I enjoy doing that kind of thing and it is really no bother at all. I'll let you pay for any parts or materials needed, but I'll donate the labor. Sound fair enough?"
"Shore, sonny," Harriet said, and flashed him a broad, toothy smile. From years of smoking unfiltered Pall Malls, Harriet's teeth were the color of tobacco. I wondered if they were false. I'd have bet that she still had her own teeth, because I couldn't imagine Harriet would ever submit to false teeth. I also wondered how long it'd been since Stone had been called "sonny." Then Harriet turned to me and asked, "How's it going on that there Pitt case?"
We'd let Harriet think that Stone and I were friends from way back and that he'd been employed to help me with my research for the freelance article I was writing. Why start telling anybody the truth now? "Going pretty well, so far. It's been a big help having Stone here to assist me. We've been able to gather quite a bit of information. Working together these last few days has been very beneficial."
"Otter go talk to that boy's mudder, iffing ya get a chance," Harriet said.
"Clayton Pitt's mother?"
"Yep. 'Nitwit Pitt' I calls her."
"Does she live around here?" I asked. Nitwit Pitt? Oh my. "Where's his father?"
"She shore does live 'round here. Nuttier than a fruitcake, his mudder is. Don't rightly know what e'er become of his pappy, though."
"Where does Mrs. Pitt live, Harriet?"
"Oh, 'bout ten miles south of here, where they lock up all dem nutcases. Don't know what the place is called, but it's out offa I-90 somewheres."
* * *
Stone utilized Harriet's phone books again, and after a few calls, found a Wanda Pitt registered at a home for the "mentally challenged," called Serenity Village. As Harriet had indicated, it was about ten miles south, right off I-90. It was a state-operated, assisted-living facility, with round-the-clock nursing and psychological therapy.
After much discussion, we decided it would be best if I went to see Wanda Pitt alone. It would be a good opportunity for Stone to tackle the list of chores that Harriet had drawn up for him. His to-do list included everything from "sevin dust punkin" to "fix crappers." Harriet knew a good thing when she saw it, and she was going to take full advantage of Stone's handyman abilities.
Stone had already inspected and serviced the Lincoln. He said that there was a dent or ding on every corner of the vehicle. "Harriet must bang into something every time she drives it up the street to the store," Stone had said, laughter in his voice. "She uses that car as if it were a battering ram, instead of a mode of transportation. Remind me not to park my Corvette anywhere near the garage or driveway."
Chapter 16
With Stone and Harriet's directions, I had no problem finding Serenity Village. I told the lady at the front desk that I was Clara Pitt, Wanda's niece. She pointed the way down the hall, back to Wanda's private two-room apartment.
I knocked and waited for Wanda to open the door. I was shocked by the appearance of Wendy's mother-in-law. Wanda was a huge woman, no less than four hundred pounds. I felt absolutely anorexic standing next to her. She had several teeth missing, and the few that remained were rotting. She looked, tragically, as if she maintained a steady diet of fat and refined sugar. Her hair had not seen a comb or brush in days, I was sure, and no shampoo for even longer.
"Mrs. Pitt?" I asked, pleasantly, trying to mask my repulsion.
"Yeah?"
"Hi, how are you? I'm Clara Ransfield, from Serenity Village's administrative office. I'm here to see if there's anything you need, and to update our files." I waved the notebook I was carrying as if it were full of official files and data. "May I come in and talk with you for a few minutes?"
"Guess so," she said, and stepped back to allow me to enter her apartment. I walked over to a couch along the back wall of her living room and sat down. She plopped down in an oversized recliner across from me. "What did you say you're name was?" she asked.
"Clara Ransfield. Please call me Clara."
"Okay, I'll call you Clara," she said, nodding, and causing her numerous chins to ripple like the wind blowing across a wheat field. "Put chocolate on your list, Clara. I need chocolate. My candy keeps getting stolen, and these people here know that without it I get severe headaches. Pepsi too. They haven't brought me any Pepsi in days. They ought to be more considerate than that, don't you think? To let a person suffer like this and all—well, it just ain't right. Guess I should expect it, since they all hate me and have been trying to make me miserable for all the years I've been here. It ain't nothing new."
I wrote "Pepsi" and "Chocolate" in my notebook, underneath "Obese" and "Neurotic."
"I'll see that you get what you need, Mrs. Pitt."
"About time somebody did." Wanda reached over and flicked off her television. She had been watching a popular daytime soap.
"How long have you been a resident here at Serenity Village?" I had feared she'd be reluctant to give me any personal information, but it didn't take long to begin getting interesting and sensational details out of Clay's mother.
"Around sixteen years, I reckon. E
ver since I killed my husband, anyway."
"Excuse me?" I nearly fainted at her nonchalant response.
"Homer was a drinker, and when he drank, he became abusive. He put me in the hospital more times than I can remember. But he came at me one too many times, missy. The last time he attacked me, I grabbed a butcher knife out of the dishwasher to protect myself, and the damn fool ran right into it. I'd had enough of the bastard's abuse anyway. Homer bled to death on the kitchen floor. I made sure he was beyond saving before I called the police. My boy, Clayton, was there too—seen the whole thing. He testified in court for me that I killed his father in self-defense. Clayton despised his old man, and with little wonder." Wanda was much more articulate than I would have guessed she'd be from my first impression of her. For a woman who'd been through what she had, I felt she spoke fairly intelligently.
"How horrible for you and your son. How old was your boy at the time?" I didn't want to let on that I'd ever even heard of Clay.
"Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Been on his own since then. They put me in this home for whackos, and they haven't let me go home since. The sons-a-bitches, anyway."
"So, your husband had a long history of abusing you?"
"Oh, yeah, that's the understatement of the year. Homer was mean and sadistic—the kind of loser my mother warned me about. Beat on Clayton even more than he beat on me—and that's saying a lot. Used to use Clayton as a punching bag. Put cigarettes out on his legs, then called him a sissy and a crybaby when he squalled. I had to kill Homer to protect my son, if for no other reason. But I had plenty of reasons, let me tell you."
"How has all that affected your son, seeing his father killed and all? It must have been really traumatizing for a young boy that age. What kind of person is Clayton now?"
"Can't tell you. I ain't seen that boy in... well, probably ten years. But when he was young he was sure an ornery kid. Used to pick up pop bottles off the road and turn them into a nearby store for the refunds. He saved his bottle money and bought a pellet gun when he was about twelve. Used to bring home rabbits, squirrels, and even a cat now and then, which he'd shot while he was out hunting. He even got thrown into a home for juvenile delinquents for a spell, right after he broke into his school and slashed the throats of several animals in the school lab—a guinea pig, some hamsters, and a few mice. He had a bit of his daddy in him. But then, what could you expect? He was always good to the puppy he'd rescued, though. I'll give him credit for that much. Clayton had found him abandoned in an alley and named him Buddy. Still had him last I knew, but he'd be pretty old by now. I hope Clayton's outgrown some of that meanness. I wouldn't want him to grow up and be good-for-nothing like his father. But I never hear from him anymore, so I couldn't really tell you what he's like now."
Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) Page 10