by Jeff High
“I doubt she’s given me another thought.”
“I doubt she has many extra to spare.”
“Hey, she came, she spoke, she left. As far as I know, her intentions were well-placed.”
“With the way she positioned that low-cut top right in front of your face, that wasn’t the only thing that was well-placed.”
This was a valid point, but I wasn’t about to concede anything. “Can’t say I really noticed.”
Christine’s eyes tightened. “So, you’re telling me you were oblivious to her va-va-voom cleavage?”
It was time to put this discussion to rest. I rose from my chair, walked around the desk, and leaned against the front. I smiled warmly and spoke in a slightly teasing voice.
“Miss Chambers, surely you realize that I only have eyes for you.” Mentally I was also thinking, “and your va-va-voom cleavage,” but thought it best to leave that part off.
She stood, drew in nearer, and looked alluringly down as she ran her finger under the lapel of my lab coat. “So, are you trying to convince me that knighthood is still in flower?”
I brought my arms around her waist, pulling her close. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
Her voice still carried a faint mix of affection and reprimand. “Careful, Bradford. You’re still about a half step away from being sent to the principal’s office.”
“Mmm, is that so? I believe I’m about a half step away from something much more pleasant.”
I leaned in to kiss Christine, but she withdrew slightly, studying me with a bemused smile.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking for a moment. Trying to figure out if you’re a frog or a prince.”
“If I start croaking softly at twilight, you’ll have your answer.”
Christine shook her head, yet all the while she smiled at me adoringly.
“Bradford, do you ever think about growing up and acting like an adult?”
“Not if it means I have to get rid of my Spider-Man pj’s.”
Before Christine could reply, my cell phone’s blaring ring filled the room. I reached in my pocket to look at the caller. It was John Harris. I held the face of the phone toward Christine. “It’s the uncle.”
I put it on speakerphone. “Hello.”
“Sawbones, if you can break free, come on down to the lake. I’ve got something I think you’ll want to see.”
“Really? What is it?”
“A briefcase. An extremely old one.”
I told John I would be right there and hung up. Christine and I stared at each other. “Come with me,” I said. “This could be really interesting.”
“No, you go ahead. Just call me later and we’ll figure out tonight.”
“You sure?”
“Sure. I’m going to head home.”
I gave her a quick kiss and departed, eager to learn more of John’s discovery. The afternoon had been quite a piece of theater, much ado about nothing.
But I had missed the larger point. Christine’s question about growing up had had an underlying serious intent. It was the first inquiry, a first hint of the deeper impulses of her heart and her desire to know what affections lay beneath my comic veneer. I would be foolishly slow to catch on.
CHAPTER 33
An Interesting Discovery
By the time I arrived at the lake, Sheriff Thurman was already there talking with John. Using the lowered tailgate of John’s truck as a makeshift table, the two of them were examining the ancient briefcase. Their conversation stopped as I approached.
“Take a look at this, sawbones,” John said.
The soft leather case looked like a prop from a Hollywood movie set. It had a classic design with heavy stitching, a tarnished brass zipper, and a nameplate where the initials “HEK” were elaborately inscribed. Other than being caked in dust, it was in excellent shape.
“Where was it found?” I asked.
“Up in the roof section of the bandstand,” John replied. “When the boys were tearing the ceiling out earlier today, this plopped down. I Googled the manufacturer’s name embossed on the inside. It was made by an Austrian company that went out of business in 1940. Given the vintage, we’re speculating it may have belonged to our infamous murdered German.”
There was no masking my excitement. “Well, what was in it?”
John and Warren exchanged uneasy glances. Warren responded.
“Unfortunately, not a thing except for a few dead insects. There was an old access panel in the ceiling about twenty feet away from where it fell. I’m guessing Oscar, or somebody, got to the panel and flung it to the far corner out of sight. Looks like it has set there for years.”
“That’s unbelievable,” I replied. “And no one thought to look up there during the investigation all those decades ago?”
Warren shrugged. “Apparently not. It was out near the edge where the roof slopes down and was probably hidden by the ceiling joist. Someone might have looked, but it wouldn’t have been easy to see. Besides, I guess everybody assumed the briefcase, along with the gun and knife, were at the bottom of the lake. And then again, I’ve always heard a theory that there might have been a third person involved. It’s just all hard to say.”
“By the way, Sheriff,” I said, “whatever happened to the German’s remains?”
“He’s buried in Rose Hill Cemetery. I heard tell that Sheriff Lewis tried to contact the state and federal governments about what to do with him, but with no positive identification, nobody took an interest. I guess the war had everyone’s hands full. So, he was buried here at Rose Hill.”
My enthusiasm ebbed. In its own right, the briefcase was a fascinating discovery. But it shed no new light on what had happened and actually created new questions as to the fate of its contents. Nevertheless, Warren’s mention of Sheriff Lewis prompted some questions.
“Warren, do you know about Frank Sanderson’s files on the old murder mystery? You know, Lida’s dad. He used to be a deputy.”
“Frank was retired when I first joined the department, but he would come around occasionally and visit. I heard he had an interest in the old bandstand murder even though it was a closed case.”
“Lida said something about it being a closed case, too. Why is that?”
“If memory serves, the incident was considered voluntary manslaughter. Statute of limitations in Tennessee is five years.”
I went on to tell both of them about going through the old murder file box, and more specifically about Frank Sanderson’s notebook and the speculation about the three men and the diamonds. Warren listened quietly, carefully taking in all that I said. In the end, he shook his head.
“There’s just not much telling about some kind of conspiracy, Doc. The whole part about the diamonds is probably nothing more than Watervalley imagination. As far as the three men you mentioned, well, they all had a few bones in the closet, so to speak.”
“How so?”
A wry grin spread across Warren’s face, and with his large paw of a hand, he began to rub his chin. “You want the short version?”
“Sure.”
“Well, when you’re sheriff, you tend to hear things that aren’t always common knowledge. These guys were a little before my time, but I’ve heard talk. Seems that Haslem Hinson had an alcohol problem, Sheriff Lewis had a gambling addiction, and Raymond Simmons—well, he just had an attitude problem.”
“Attitude problem?”
“Eh, I’m not going to put a label on it, Doc. But suffice it to say that as long as he was president of the Farmers Bank, not a single black ever worked there. It’s the typical story. He rose up through the ranks, but his people were pretty much white trash. They seem to be the ones with the most hardened attitudes.”
I nodded.
“Still, you know, Doc, none of that points to
the three of them being guilty of a crime. And you have to remember, in Watervalley one body always tells somebody. If diamonds had ever been found, we’d all know it by now.”
Again I nodded. Warren was smart and, regrettably, likely correct. Even still, I couldn’t help but stare at the briefcase in front of me and wonder. If it did belong to the mysterious German, then why had he come to town seventy years ago looking for something so important that he was willing to kill for it?
I stopped short of divulging any further details about Oscar Fox’s lack of official ID and my theory about his actions being in self-defense. It was largely speculation. There was nothing more to be discussed. I thanked John and Warren and left for home.
* * *
The weekend passed quietly with Christine and me spending considerable time together. We seemed never to be at a loss for things to talk about, which was good given the limited amusements available. We rarely discussed the future, which suited me fine. And thankfully, nothing more was said about Michelle Herzenberg, although I felt certain she was not forgotten.
With the arrival of warmer weather, Christine and I began to take long walks on the paths near the lake and spend hours at the farm. She talked of perhaps going horseback riding, something that held no interest for me. Angus continued to invite me to help milk the cows and I invariably declined. The rural life was growing on me, but only by degrees.
The changing seasons seemed to feed my hunger for travel, my love of faraway places and new experiences. It had been a gray winter, cold and confining, warmed only by the wonderful hours I’d spent with Christine. Even still, I found myself occasionally doing random searches for flights out of Nashville to warm, sunny beaches or distant cities. I had accumulated a small amount of vacation time, but not enough to justify any major excursion. I longed to get away, but travel would have to wait until some obscure future date.
Before going to bed on Sunday evening I mulled over what Warren had said about the darker sides of the three men, trying to see how these factors might fit into the larger picture. I had little more than a broad theory, Frank Sanderson’s drawing, and the one newspaper photo that actually tied them together. Once again, it seemed my investigation had reached a dead end.
CHAPTER 34
Unexpected
I was up early Monday morning for a short run. Afterward, I took care of Rhett, cleaned up, and headed over to the Depot Diner. Connie had called Sunday afternoon to beg off her normal breakfast duty, noting that she and Estelle needed to meet with the contractor to start the renovation. Her excitement had poured through the phone and I had readily assured her I could manage fine.
At the diner I ordered my usual country ham breakfast, watching warily for Sunflower Miller, who had an uncanny knack for swooping in on me whenever I ate there. Today, however, it was Lida who slid into the opposite seat when I was almost finished.
“How’s the breakfast?”
I swallowed a last bite and looked at my empty plate. “Terrible. I think you should bring me another one.”
Lida scrunched her nose and grinned in that sparkling way that I adored. “Thanks for forcing your way through it.”
“For you, Lida, anytime.” I lowered my voice and spoke confidentially. “How’s your anxiety these days?”
“Since we figured out my ticker was okay, I’ve been doing a lot better. The medications have been a good thing too. But let me tell you my real get-well plan.”
I leaned in, offering her my full attention.
“I’ve put the B and B up for sale on one of those Internet real estate services. I’m trying to keep it low-key, but I’ve had several inquiries.”
“Well, okay. Good luck with that.”
“Yeah. Oh, and also, now that the new bakery is in the works, I’m going to follow through with my plans to start making pastries here to keep up with the competition.” She finished by giving me a quick wink and slid back out. I nodded thoughtfully. I understood the need to compete, but I hated it too. I paid my bill and walked to the clinic.
My first patient was none other than Margie Reynolds. I had been following her care ever since she had come to see me in January. She had been fortunate. The lump she’d discovered had turned out to be benign and had been removed in an outpatient procedure. When Nancy told me she was in exam room one, I was hoping Margie had not found another mass. Ann was taking her vitals as I entered.
“Marrrrgieee. How in the world are you?”
“Terrible, just terrible.” She was snickering beneath her complaint. I played along.
“Now, Margie. You haven’t found another lump, have you?”
“Yeah, I have. Matter of fact, I found two of them. They’re the size of eggplants and are attached to my hips.”
I was puzzled and my expression said as much.
“Let me translate for you. I’m getting fat.”
“Well, Margie, how did this happen?”
“Okay, here’s the confession. When I thought I had cancer, I figured what the heck, I’m not going to be cheated out of a lifetime of ice cream and chocolate. So I started eating like there was no tomorrow because, crud, I didn’t think there would be. Now that I’m okay, I can’t kick the habit. I’d eat a Wiffle ball if you put a little caramel sauce on it. So now I’m paranoid. I’m thinking I’ve got a thyroid issue that’s giving me this bottomless appetite.”
“Margie, let me look at your chart.”
While I did so, she exhaled a deep sigh. “Oh crap, I hate this part. Now you’re looking at how much weight I’ve put on since January.”
I spoke without looking up from her chart. “Margie, you are more than a number on a scale.”
“Luke Bradford, you can be such a sweetheart. If I didn’t feel so fat, I’d kiss you right now.”
I smiled and shook my head, saying nothing. I was looking at her labs from the previous visit. But my silence made Margie all the more nervous and she continued talking to fill the void.
“And, of course, now all my clothes don’t fit. I’m cursed. When I was little, an evil witch cast a spell on me giving me expensive taste and a lifetime of limited funds.”
I continued to study her chart, speaking vacantly. “Margie, you need to get sick more often. You crack me up.”
“Sure. Have a good laugh at my expense.” She looked at Ann and winked. “Here I am on the first leg of the slow descent into type two diabetes and getting snickered at by a man who’s seen me naked. That just doesn’t give a girl a lot of confidence, you know.”
Normally I would have busted out laughing at Margie’s teasing, but I was deep in thought about her thyroid and the weight gain. Then an idea struck me. I grabbed my pad and wrote a short note on it.
“Margie, I have some more questions, but first I want to do a blood draw to put this thyroid issue to rest. Ann, if you would, do a stick and have Camilla run this.” I handed her the paper with the desired lab test. Ann nodded and proceeded.
“Margie, anything else different or unusual?”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Oh, any change in sleeping habits?”
“Yeah, Larry’s. I’m sleeping fine, but he says my snoring no longer just annoys him—it frightens him. He said if you can’t help me, we’re going to an exorcist.”
“Have you noticed any changes in body temperature, hot flashes, perspiration?”
“Yeah. Ever since the weather got warmer, I sweat like a pig. If it gets any worse, I’ll need to wear a life jacket.”
I asked her several more questions, endeavoring to reach a diagnosis. Her clever wit and big sloppy grin were nonstop. I just couldn’t quit laughing. She loved it. I finally held up my hand.
“Margie, have you ever thought about doing stand-up?”
“Sure, whatever. So, what’s all this mean, Doc?”
I was about to answer when Camilla returned wi
th the results of the blood test. She handed it to me and turned to leave, but I noticed her eyes were brightly expressive and her lips pressed tightly together. I looked at the paper and nodded.
“Oh, my God,” Margie exclaimed. “This looks bad. What? What is it?”
“Um, Margie. You definitely have a lump.”
“What do you mean? I don’t get it. Spit it out, Doc.”
“Margie, dear, you’re pregnant.”
She responded with the lowest sound I have ever heard come out of a woman. “Noooooo!”
“Well, we ran a simple hCG serum and it came back positive. So, this little piece of paper is saying ‘yessss.’”
Margie was speechless. She looked at Ann, then at me, then back at Ann. We could do little more than smile robustly at her.
She held up her finger in a statement of declaration. “You need to call Sheriff Thurman because I am going to murder Larry Reynolds. I know exactly when this happened.”
“Margie, it’s okay if you want to leave a few details to our imagination.”
“I’m going to kill him. I am absolutely going to kill him.”
“Okay, but first tell him he’s going to be a father again so at least he’ll die a happy man.”
Margie exhaled a heavy “humph” and sat in stunned silence. Soon enough, she spoke in a low, bewildered voice.
“I’m forty-one years old. I have a child in college and one in junior high.”
“At least there won’t be a problem with tuition overlap.”
“All I can say is, don’t be surprised if you start seeing Larry Reynolds’s picture on the side of milk cartons.” You had to love this about Margie. Her clever wit was never far away.
I reached over and took her hand. “Margie, congratulations. You will, no doubt, continue to be an incredible mom.”
By now the reality was truly sinking in. Her uproarious facade was slowly melting into a face of irrepressible joy. Margie spoke with a sense of wonder. “Oh, my goodness. I really am pregnant, aren’t I?”