by Jeff High
Oddly, I had the sensation it was whispering to me, delicately casting its fragile voice into the air, pleading for me to draw closer and listen. Swelling curiosity was compelling me to know more, especially since the case involved my neighbor, the mischievous Will Fox.
I glanced at the file folder again, consumed with an unexplained desire to unravel this mystery, to bring light and understanding to the events of the past. I wanted to know more.
CHAPTER 6
Dinner
Will Fox filled my thoughts as I worked my way toward Fleming Street. Over the past months I had grown to like the little twelve-year-old boy who lived next door, despite his rather odd demeanor. He never seemed to play with any friends. He also had the unnerving habit of sitting on the metal fire escape attached to the side of his house and watching me anytime I was in my backyard. Still, my heart went out to him. I had lost my parents to a drunk driver at his age, so I understood something of his confusion and pain.
His father’s death had left Will and his mother, Louise, in lean financial circumstances. But Will, with his brilliant mind, had figured out a way to hack into the computers of several Watervalley merchants and credit his mother’s accounts as paid. In her grief over the loss of her husband, Louise Fox had spiraled into alcoholism and remained unaware of Will’s clandestine activities.
Events in the weeks before Christmas had brought the family’s problems and Will’s thievery to light. I had taken a late-night soul-searching walk downtown and had accidentally witnessed Will sneaking out of the alley next to the local drugstore. Earlier, Louise had apparently discovered him missing and, in her drunken state, had wandered into the backyard looking for him before passing out in the mud. Will had found her there and come pounding on my door for help. Later that night, through a flood of tears, he had confessed to the desperate measures he had secretly taken to help his grieving mother. From that moment forward, I was determined to do what I could to help them.
Now it seemed that Will was the last descendant of the man involved in Watervalley’s most infamous crime. On top of all their other troubles, Will and his mother had to live with the stain of this terrible legacy. Perhaps John was right. It appeared that much about the Fox family tended to exist under a shadow of misfortune, as if for some families the universe could never quite find a happy ending.
I existed in a world of modest financial ease with all expectations for a prosperous future. Yet across the low rock wall of my side yard and in full view of my everyday life were an unemployed mother and her son living with the crippling daily worry about where they would get money for food, and gasoline, and heat.
As I pulled into my driveway, I noticed that next door Will was sitting on the steps to his front porch. In the thick darkness, the porch light weakly illuminated his small form against the night shadows. He sat with his chin in his hands, wearing a heavy coat, and his bike helmet . . . a true oddity given that Will didn’t own a bike. I walked over to him.
“Hey, Willster, whatcha doing?”
“Just sitting.”
“Um-hmm. A little cold to be sitting outside, don’t you think?”
Will smiled. “Yeah, I guess so.” He leaned forward and looked over at my driveway. “I see you’re still driving that crappy car.”
“Thanks for the reminder, I had almost forgotten.” It wasn’t the first time Will had taken delight in chiding me about my dilapidated Corolla.
“If you’d listened to me months ago, you’d have a girlfriend by now.”
I nodded. “Solid dating advice, I’m sure. Even if it is coming from a twelve-year-old.”
“The women in Watervalley aren’t dumb, you know. They take one look at your car and think, ‘Loser.’” He emphasized the last word by using his fingers to make an exclamation point.
“Okay, I get your drift.”
“Hey, just trying to be a friend here, Dr. Bradford.”
I had to laugh. Despite the weight placed on his small shoulders, Will was still a funny, fearless, and precocious boy. He had taken on the burden of protecting his despondent mother and remedying their bitter situation. I couldn’t help warming to him.
“Hey, listen. I’ve got to get going. Don’t stay out here too long. Otherwise, you know . . . cold, sniffles, frostbite, pneumonia . . . you get the idea.”
“Sure.”
Pausing on my porch steps, I gazed back over at him. He sat alone, brooding, and lost, I suspected, to an imaginary world. I exhaled into the cold air and went inside. Connie and Estelle were waiting.
The two sisters were in a flurry of activity in the kitchen, laughing and bickering and talking nonstop. As we sat down to dinner, I asked what they knew of the Oscar Fox murder story. They could shed little light beyond what John had already told me. Our conversation progressed to a discussion about Louise’s predicament. Connie launched into an impassioned discourse.
“Her fool husband didn’t have the sense God gave geese. Estelle, honey, pass the limas.”
“Connie, dear, you know it’s not right to talk of the dead that way. Besides, geese aren’t so bad. Did you know they’re monogamous for life?”
Connie offered a tired sideways glance, ignoring her sister’s inquiry, and stayed on the attack. “I’d say it louder if I thought he could hear me. He always rode that motorcycle way too fast, and him a man in his forties. I know it was an accident, but he left Louise and that young boy without two nickels to press together. It’s no wonder Will turned to thieving to make ends meet.”
Estelle suspended her loaded fork in midair and turned to her sister. “Thieving? Will Fox? The little boy next door? What was he doing, pinching apples?”
“Hardly,” Connie responded flatly. Using her knife for emphasis, she directed her gaze toward me. “You need to let the good doctor explain that one.”
Barely paying attention, all I heard was the word “doctor.” I was in casserole nirvana, floating in an ecstatic calorie coma brought on by all the dishes prepared by the two sisters. This wasn’t just food; it was a love affair. I had become more emotionally involved with every bite. Connie’s bayonet maneuver with her knife refocused me. I gulped and spoke.
“Estelle,” I said, “it seems that Will kept the family finances afloat by hacking into the computer systems of local merchants and zeroing out his mother’s accounts each month. I don’t think she had the slightest notion what he was doing.”
“My, my. That’s just terrible, stealing like that. Think he could show me how to do it?”
“Estelle, girl, what are you thinking? You don’t have any business hacking into people’s computers.” Connie leaned to one side, attempting to look into Estelle’s ear, speaking sternly. “How many people are in there with you?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I want to make sure no one hacks into my little business.”
Connie shrugged, returning to her food. “Emphasis on little.”
“Constance, don’t start all that again.” Estelle turned to me. “So, is the boy going to have to do hard time in the big house?”
At first I thought Estelle was kidding, asking such a naive question. I hesitated, glancing briefly at Connie, who had closed her eyes and was shaking her head. “Well, no. I, um, I worked out a deal with Sheriff Thurman for Will to make compensation for what he stole.”
“What Dr. Bradford means is that he paid off all the Foxes’ bad debts,” Connie injected.
I responded with reserved indignation. “Will is helping the stores out with their Internet and computer security. Anything beyond that is rumor, Mrs. Thompson.” I had sworn Sheriff Thurman to secrecy on this matter. But somehow, as with all else in this town, Connie seemed to know everything.
“Actually, Estelle,” I added, “it was your sister who marshaled volunteers from her church to help restore the Foxes’ crumbling household and who are continuing to assist Louise in recovery from her
alcohol addiction.”
Connie spoke again. “Despite all the old rumors, the Foxes have been a generous, community-minded family, living here on Fleming Street for generations. But Louise’s husband died with no insurance, leaving their home mortgaged to the hilt from some old business ventures that didn’t work out. They’re probably going to have to sell or face foreclosure.”
We sat quietly, finishing the last of the incredible dinner with a dessert of chess pie. Connie broke the silence again, speaking in a reflective, empathetic voice.
“It’s a sad business, is all I can say. They were a wonderful, happy little family. Then everything came unraveled. It just shows that life’s a precious thing. You take it for granted. Then one morning you wake up and wonder, where did the time go?”
Estelle nodded in agreement, speaking with equal gravity. “And you know, not only that, but sometimes I wonder too, where did it come from?”
I stifled a laugh, but Connie’s deadpan face never changed expression. She turned her head to the right and studied her sister’s childlike face. After several painful seconds of absolute silence, Connie exclaimed, “Sometimes I just envy your brain.”
In truth, I too marveled at Estelle. She possessed no ability to mask the depth or intensity of her heartfelt emotions, nor did she seem interested in doing so. She overflowed with an innocent exuberance, a tender, inexhaustible heartiness and enthusiasm. She was a grand contrast to her sister. While no less charitable, Connie saw the world through stern filters of order and reproach.
At first, the sullen looks Connie offered her sister gave the impression that she regarded Estelle as a simpleton, a difficult characterization given that she had a PhD in chemistry and had taught on the college level for twenty-five years. In truth, as the evening had progressed, it had become abundantly clear that Connie held a deep-rooted affection and admiration for her sibling. It occurred to me that perhaps her railings were driven more by a desire to protect, to keep her sister’s seemingly innocent outlook on the world unspoiled. They were an odd pair.
Suddenly, Estelle slapped her hand down hard on the table, causing Rhett, my faithful but sometimes lethargic golden retriever, to sit up with a start. “I’ve got it!”
Connie responded in clutched alarm. “What’s wrong with you, girl, slamming the table like you’re killing a bug?”
Estelle giggled with a gesture of dismissal. “No, silly. I know what I can do. I can give Louise Fox a job at the bakery.”
Connie closed her eyes and let her head drop in resignation. “Oh heavens, girl, I don’t know where you think you are, but we need to book you a flight back to reality. You haven’t even met the woman.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t like her.”
“Doesn’t mean she wants to work in a bakery either.”
“I bet she’d be glad to work in a bakery and I’m sure she’s likable. Do you like her, Dr. Bradford?”
Once again I was being sucked into the vortex of a Pillow sisters’ argument. I enjoyed being a spectator, but not a participant. Diversion was the best tactic.
“So. I take it there is agreement to move forward with the bakery? Where are you thinking about putting it?”
Estelle responded, “I’m meeting with the bank tomorrow at ten about a property they own in the old Hatcher Building. It used to be a bakery years ago.”
“Oh, wow! Are you talking about the place that was once called Oscar’s Bakery?”
“I think so. I found out the bank owns it. The bank president didn’t want to show it to me at first. When he realized I was Connie’s sister, he got all down in the mouth about it and finally agreed.”
To my surprise, Connie responded loudly, with a tinge of panic. “You didn’t tell me about this. Why there?”
Clearly, Estelle had sensed the intensity of Connie’s sudden apprehension.
“Well, dear, let’s see. It’s near all the downtown businesses. It has the right zoning. There’s lots of parking. It’s in that beautiful old Hatcher Building with all that stonework and glass and marble. Seems to be a perfect location.”
Connie had regained her composure. She sat with folded arms, weighing each word. After what seemed an eternity, she pursed her lips and nodded.
“I guess you’re right. It might be a good possibility.”
But Estelle wasn’t satisfied. “So what got into you just now? Why are you all in a state about that place?”
“It’s nothing. I just had a silly notion in my head. It’s not anything that matters anymore.” Then, with noticeable effort, she inquired softly, “Why don’t I come with you in the morning? If you’re meeting with Randall Simmons, you might need some backup. He can be a little proud.”
I spoke before Estelle could answer. “Why don’t we all go? I wouldn’t mind seeing the place myself. Not sure I’ll be much help, but I’d like to tag along.” There was a larger curiosity behind my interest, a desire to peek into the past regarding anything associated with Oscar Fox.
Estelle was ecstatic, almost giddy. Connie smiled lightly with a stoic resolve. The matter was settled. The two sisters rose from the table and began to clean up.
I, on the other hand, was now anxiously consumed with a completely different matter.
CHAPTER 7
The Windup
Connie and Estelle scurried around the kitchen keeping up a relentless chatter, much of it in a language I could barely discern. Apparently, over the years the sisters had developed cryptic idioms, catchphrases of one word that replaced a dozen, and even, on occasion, a casual injection of Latin. Even more intriguing, none of it seemed to involve the immediate task at hand of cleaning and putting away dishes. All of that happened with a synchronized flow and economy of motion that was second nature, a ritual they had obviously performed thousands of times.
The two sisters had insisted that I stay seated, or more accurately, stay out of the way. That was fine by me. I had another matter rolling around in the back of my mind. There was something I had to do, something that was causing me quite a bit of apprehension.
I needed to make a phone call.
Eventually Connie took notice of my brooding. Casually she inquired, “Dr. Bradford, what’s that face all about? You look like someone just sold your prize cow for three magic beans.”
I had been unwittingly drumming the fingers of my right hand on the kitchen table, staring vacantly. I looked over at the two of them, now paused in midwash at the kitchen sink.
“Connie. What is there to do in Watervalley on Saturday night? You know, with a date?”
Apparently, this comment caused a secret alarm bell to go off, one that was inaudible if you were carrying a Y chromosome. Instantly, Connie and Estelle gave each other a fixed look, one that demanded all hands on deck. Without either of them uttering a word, dishes were abandoned and aprons flew off. They scampered to the table, each grabbing a chair and scooting in close, forming a tight huddle around me. Even Rhett joined the circle, sitting obediently and regarding me with rapt focus.
What is it about women that makes them warm so quickly to the topic of matchmaking? Connie abandoned her normal reserve and, along with Estelle, started quizzing me. It felt like a scene right out of junior high. Connie launched the first volley.
“So, you’re thinking about calling Christine?”
Before I could respond, Estelle flanked me. “She’s awfully pretty, isn’t she? I bet you two really hit it off.”
“Do you need me to press your blue jeans?” Connie inquired. “I went by the cleaners yesterday, so clean shirts shouldn’t be a problem.”
Estelle countered, “I know she’s really cute, but don’t try to push things on the first date. She’s a good girl and you’ll need to be patient.”
Connie added, “And I know you want to show her a good time, but this is Watervalley. Don’t feel you have to flex your plastic a whole lot.”
“But don’t be cheap either,” added Estelle. For good measure, she included, “And be sure to wear clean underwear.” Then she looked at Connie as if a eureka moment had hit her. “Maybe he should record their conversation so we can critique it later.”
I was drowning. Wave after wave of pent-up female advice was broadsiding me, counseling me in every detail of wooing, a subject in which I thought I had a respectable working knowledge. But apparently the Pillow sisters saw me as greatly lacking, even on the fundamentals. Following the volleys back and forth was like watching a tennis match. Except I was the ball getting smacked between the two of them.
Connie gave me a lengthy dissertation about being a godly man and the frailties of the flesh. Estelle executed the coup de grâce.
“And remember, there are three secrets to making a woman love you. Don’t always talk about yourself, be sweet to her mother, and moisturize often. You should never underestimate the importance of good skin.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Ladies, thanks for all the input. I had no idea that a dating brain trust was so readily available. But all I really need is a suggestion about where to go in Watervalley to show a girl a nice time.”
They immediately fell silent, shifting back against their chairs, offering me looks of mild pity, as if I were a second grader who couldn’t figure out the answer to a basic math problem.
“Well, that one’s easy,” Connie said breezily.
“So very easy,” Estelle echoed with sympathetic resignation.
I sat dumbfounded, still gazing back and forth at them. “Okay, then what?”
Estelle spoke first. “Go ahead, sweetie, you tell him.”
“You sure?”
Estelle nodded confidently, almost conspiratorially. “Sure.”
Connie took my hand. “Luke, darling, the simple answer is to ask Christine what she would like to do.”
CHAPTER 8
The Phone Call
The sisters resumed cleaning up the kitchen. Meanwhile, I walked out to the back steps to clear my head and expel my foolish nervousness over one simple phone call. Rhett followed me. It was a clear, cold night and high above was a magnificent sky filled with crisp, radiant stars. After a few minutes, Connie stepped briefly onto the back porch with coat on and purse in hand. There was an uncommon tenderness to her otherwise stern voice. “Good night, Luke. I’ll see you at ten in the morning, dear.”