* * *
Having someone bustle around her as she perched on the couch like Queen Elizabeth on her throne unnerved the independent spirit in Janie. Miranda must have sensed this because her smile became extra sugary and she asked a myriad of questions to ensure she did what Janie wanted. After an hour, the cleaning woman brought in a basket of laundry, warmed from the dryer.
“You watch as I fold so I make sure everything is the way you like it.”
Janie motioned her to sit. “Why don’t you give me half? I can at least do that much.”
Miranda smiled. “As you wish. I will put the second load in the machine.”
In a few minutes, the sound of water rushing and a lid thumping closed echoed from the hallway. The maid came and plopped in one of the side chairs. “You have a wonderful condo, Mrs. Manson. Very spacious. Almost as big as Mildred Fletcher’s.”
“Oh?” Janie’s eyebrows arched into her curls. “You know her?”
“Uh, huh.” Miranda shook out a pair of slacks and folded them on the seam. “I cleaned on Saturdays for her when her nephew, Bobby, lived with her for a while.”
“I remember. He moved in with her for about six months after he fell on hard times. He landed a job nearby about a month ago, right?”
“Yes. He works at the supermarket where my son, Juan, works. They are about the same age.” Her lower lip pouted. “My Juan got in with the wrong gang, just like her Bobby. Sons, you try to raise them right, but...” She sighed.
“Well, you know what they say? Boys will be boys.”
“Yes.” She stopped for a moment, a towel draped over her lap. “But this store is run by a nice Christian man who believes in giving people a second chance.”
“Hmmm.” Janie dug deep into her memory to recall what petty crime Bobby had been convicted of doing. He’d been given probation and community service, but did he serve any jail time? She recalled Mildred being heartbroken because he lost his football scholarship to the university and dropped out. His coach had banked on him making it to the pros. He definitely had the build for it, according to Mildred.
Miranda stood up, basket on her hip. “Well, I’ll go put this on your bed. Is there anything else you need before I leave?”
Janie scanned the room, which glittered in the midday sunlight. An aroma of pine permeated the condo, and if she did say so herself, the cleanliness met a higher plane than her normal standards. When the maid returned to the living room to get her purse, Janie grinned. “I understand why Melody sings your praises, Miranda. Everything looks lovely.”
The lady waved away the compliment and lowered her eyelashes. “Pfft. Not at all. Take care, Mrs. Manson. I hope your foot heals fast.” She closed the door behind her.
* * *
Janie ate her lunch as she tuned into the Austin noonday news. Two more convenience store robberies and a group of kids keying cars with gang language in the outlet mall parking lot topped the headlines. Why did she turn the darn thing on? Noise, perhaps. After a while, the mantle clock’s ticking in the silence got annoying. So did Mrs. Fluffy’s snoring as she took her long overdue nap after cowering under the coffee table while Miranda shuffled about.
Four commercials later, the weather portion came on. The meteorologist predicted another four or five days of the heat wave before a twenty percent chance of showers might cool things off early next week.
The jingle for a news-breaking item hit. The anchor man picked up a piece of paper.
“This just in. State police officials have confirmed the botched breakout attempt to free Lenny Weber from his transport to a new prison unit near San Antonio two weeks ago has led to the arrest of a man named Emilio Lopez, believed to have befriended Edwin Newman while in the Watson Pack Unit. You may recall, Newman was falsely accused of three bank heists and had been released last month, only to be found dead in a dumpster at a local retirement community. Lopez, age thirty-two, is the son of one of the bank robbers with whom Edwin had been identified. He was placed on parole after serving a three-year term for petty theft. He and Edwin worked in the laundry facility at Watson Pack, though Edwin resided in the over fifty-five unit.”
Janie speed dialed Blake’s number.
He answered. “Yes, we know. I’m at the prison now. They processed Lopez fifteen minutes ago. I’m making arrangements to interview him now.”
A tingly giddiness spread over her. Somehow, Weber, Lopez, and Newman all intertwined. Perhaps Edwin had not been as innocent as everyone thought? Hardly a coincidence he met Lopez’s son while incarcerated. Possibly, Emilio Lopez sought him out, thinking he was Edward Norman.
She looked down at the tangle of crochet string Mrs. Fluffy played with on the rug. Yes, this case resembled the mess the cat made. Which way should she pull to unravel the jumble of threads?
Chapter Thirty-FIVE
George’s late model sedan sailed along I-35 as if gliding on butter, even over the construction zone’s uneven lanes. “Will they ever finish this stretch of real estate? It seems as if this highway has been torn up for decades.”
Ethel leaned forward, her head between the bucket seats in front. “Yep. Has been. As soon as they finish one section, they start on another. I remember driving from Austin to Waco for the college football games and snail-pacing through construction zones.” She scoffed. “I’m not saying how long that’s been.”
Betsy Ann giggled.
They decided to eat brunch at Czech restaurant on the way to Hillsboro before the highway split into east towards Dallas and west towards Fort Worth. At twelve-thirty on the dot, they arrived, with the help of George’s global positioning system, to Albert Washington’s home in Grand Prairie. The clapboard house boasted a wide front porch. Washington sat in a rocker sipping lemonade as the threesome traipsed over the cracked concrete sidewalk flanked by threadbare, browning patches of grass.
The tall, lean man assisted the ladies up the rickety steps. “Howdy, you must be Mrs. Hunt and Mrs. Mitchell.” He turned to George and narrowed his gaze. “And, you are who, sir?”
George’s eyes twinkled. “Merely the chauffeur delighting in these lovely ladies’ company for the day.”
Washington gave him the-once-over look.
He extended a hand. “Name’s George McGuffy, retired university professor in Texas government and history. So you see, I’m quite interested in hearing your story.”
“Well, okay.”
The man nodded and led them into his dim-lit living room. The space resembled its occupant. A touch disheveled and rough, yet a homey charm oozed through the walls. Albert Washington possessed the coarse edge many retain after experiencing prison life. However, humbleness exuded from his demeanor which gave Betsy Ann an immediate sense of trust. She and Ethel sat on the couch’s edge as George pulled over a dining room chair. Albert nestled his six-foot bones into an easy chair with darker stains near the head rest and a few frayed edges around the arms. On the scuffed coffee table in front of them sat a tray with two glasses and a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade. A fly buzzed over store-bought sandwich cookies on a plate.
“Oh, let me get ya a glass, too, sir.”
“Thank you, and please. Call me George.”
He gave a short half-bow. “Mighty fine, George.” He thumped across the pine floors into a green linoleum kitchen with metal cabinets.
Betsy swiveled to take in the decor as Ethel shooed the buzzing insect from tasting the cookies again.
Albert brought a glass and polished the rim on his shirttail. “Here ya go.”
George gave him a grin, but Betsy Ann detected his jaw twitch at the idea of drinking out of the glass now. From the small amount of time she’d spent in his presence, she surmised fastidiousness had to be George’s middle name. She brought her fist to her mouth to stifle a giggle.
Albert played mother and poured the drinks before settling back into his designated chair. After a long sip from his own glass, he pointed the beverage in their direction. “Now, tell me why you drove all
the way up here to pay me a visit.”
Betsy Ann wiggled on her cushion and pushed back a lock of hair. “We are interested in your civil suit against the prison system for the heat related illnesses...”
He shot forward, his voice louder and more brisk. “Lady, men died in there. I’s seen it.”
She dropped her gaze to her hands.
Ethel spoke. “We mean no disrespect, Mr. Washington. We simply want to learn what your attorney did. An inmate at the Watson Pack unit, who is now deceased, may have suffered from similar conditions, and we told his niece we’d find out what we could. We suspect he was killed because he complained too much.”
The roughness disappeared from Albert’s face. He lowered his chin. “Which is why I waited until I’s out of the blasted hothouse before I blew the whistle. Feared for my life, I did. But my conscience wouldn’t let me keep silent. People need to know.”
George took a turn. “And you believe your attorney, as your spokesman and advocate, has made progress in letting the public become aware of these inhumane atrocities?”
Albert chuckled. “Yo sho’ do speak like a professor. If you mean does anyone on the outside give a flip now, heck no. In fact, some folk say it serves the prisoners right to swelter after the crimes they’ve done. Why spend tax dollars on air conditioning for us in jail when law-abidin’ citizens go without in our inner-cities?”
Betsy Ann raised her hand. “Mr. Washington. Are you telling us you were afraid someone would do you bodily harm if you reported these things while you were in prison?”
“Lady, you ain’t ever been in jail, have you? You never make friends, you only size up your allies and your enemies and try to keep some space between them. If you complain about the conditions, the guards may punish the inmates you don’t get along with so they’ll come after you for being a stool pigeon. Whine, and a shiv ends up in your gullet.” He zeroed in his gaze at her. “Clear ’nough?”
“Yes.” She took a long drink of lemonade.
“Good.”
The only sounds for a few seconds were the fly hovering over the food and the old, wooden ceiling fan blades wobbling above their heads.
Albert eased into the cushions of his favorite chair and crossed his leg. “Sounds like your friend, if he blew the whistle like me, didn’t guard his back good.”
“No, he didn’t. Ended up chopped up in our community dumpster.” Betsy Ann swished her hand over the cookies before taking one.
To their surprise, Albert burst out into a deep laugh. He wiped his eyes and nodded. “I done heard about that. He and I had the same attorney. They put him in the clink thinkin’ he was another guy, right?”
“Yes.” George volunteered. “These sweet ladies live there and they are trying to help bring justice to his senseless killing.”
“Justice? Ain’t no such thing. All about who has the best attorney and who rubs elbows with who. Even when you get out, you gotta be wary of the shadows, get my drift? Mind your p’s and q’s as my momma always said. Those still running things on the inside want to make sure you ain’t snitching on them to your P.O. or the cops in order to keep them off yo’ back.”
Betsy Ann mouthed the letters to Ethel. “P.O.?”
She leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Parole Officer.”
“Ah.”
George spoke up again. “So, it would be feasible to believe Edwin Newman’s death might have been due to the fact he made enemies in prison and they put a hit out on him?”
Albert rubbed his chin. “Possibly. They may have given him an errand to do to secure his safety on the outside and he didn’t come through because he got that huge settlement from the State.”
Ethel slapped her knee. “Never thought of that.”
“Yes’m. ’Taint easy being an ex con. Hard to find steady work. No one wants to hire ya. You end up relying on the cartel to land you odd jobs. Mostly deliveries, get it? Make connections. Me, I was tempted but never sunk that low. I had family who helped out.”
“I can tell you are an honest man, Albert Washington.” Betsy Ann gave him a huge smile.
He chuckled. “Not too honest, ma’am. I did do fifteen years fo’ robbing a 7-11. But I’s learned my lesson. Wished I’d not been so cocky and stupid back then, but there you go.”
A moment of uneasiness again clouded the small parlor. Ethel and Betsy Ann eyed each other.
Albert titled his head. “Course, the system probably ain’t all that pleased about his circumstances. If I was them, I wouldn’t want him blabbing stuff to the reporters about how they got him on trumped up charges. Ain’t saying all law officials are corrupt, but he did embarrass a few of them. Maybe they feared he might get on some of them talk shows and too much attention might turn towards their boo-boo unless they shut him up. Just like roaches when you flick on the kitchen light, they’ll scurry back to the cracks where they can hide.”
The three guests exchanged gawks.
Ethel set her glass down. “Thank you, Mr. Washington. You have been a big help. With summer approaching fast, I hate to think about all those men existing without proper ventilation. Do you have a number for your attorney? We’d like to speak with him about helping any way we can.”
He nodded and rose with effort from the sagged cushion. “Got his business card in the back. Take me a minute to locate the thing, okay?”
He returned with a yellow, lined piece of paper ripped from a tablet, on which he’d scrawled the attorney’s name and two phone numbers. After handshakes and well wishes, the trio headed back to Sunset Acres.
Ethel buckled her seat belt in the back as George started the car. “Do you think some corrupt law officer would do such a thing?”
George shrugged. “They do on TV all the time, and doesn’t art imitate life?”
Betsy Ann clucked her tongue. “I prefer living under a rock, assuming everyone is honest and trustworthy. Oh, why did I ever spot Edwin Newman’s leg?”
Chapter Thirty-SIX
Janie recognized the tell-tale sound of the postal truck’s engine. The mantle clock bonged the half-hour. 12:30. Right on time.
She retrieved her metal peg-leg contraption. Despite the heat, a little fresh air could do her nothing but good. Bent knee strapped to the device, she edged through the front door and down the ramp to the sidewalk, thankful handicapped accessibility came with each condo and garden home in Sunset Acres.
As she hobbled to the mailbox, the steam from the concrete waved up to meet her. Beads of perspiration formed on her temples by the time she’d navigated the short trek to the shadier section near the curb. Then she gazed downward and let out a frustrated sigh.
The distance from the cement hump peeking past the grass edge to the asphalt pavement might as well be the Grand Canyon. How on earth would she get down to the street level to get out her mail? Oh blast it all. I can’t wait until the doctor allows me put weight on this foot.
Janie peered up and down the block. Not a soul to help her navigate the curb. A saying flitted through her mind. She clucked her tongue and repeated it out loud. “Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.”
Some famous comedian had sung it. Red Skelton? No. Ah yes, Noel Coward. Now what had made her think of that?
She grasped the top of the mailer and put all of her weight on her good leg in order to maneuver the bent knee metal thingy down to the road. Pfft. She felt like Long John Silver with a peg leg. She should get an eye patch and rent a parrot. Mrs. Fluffy would like that.
Somehow, in the process, she twisted and whacked her bad foot on the post. Janie clamped her jaw to keep from verbalizing what flashed through her brain. With her arms draped over the mailbox, she squinted her eyes shut and took three deep breaths to calm her nerves.
“You should be inside, lady.”
She jerked and almost lost her balance. A hooded, husky man hovered over her. The same one who had been in her living room. “Who are you?”
He clamped a meaty hand over her mouth.
“Shut up and listen. I thought I made things clear. Drop the snooping. Now.”
He thrust something under her neck. A sharp edge pierced her skin as a stinging pain told her he meant business.
Spunk pumped though her veins. “You better not hurt me, young man. My son-in-law...”
The gruff voice growled. “Yeah, I know. But he ain’t here, is he?”
Before she spoke again, he pushed her against the post and sprinted down the block to the alleyway.
Where is a cop when you need one?
With a shaky hand, Janie righted herself and scaled the curb back to the sidewalk. As fast as she could hobble, she inched toward the door. Beads of sweat cascaded down her face. Seconds may well have been minutes.
Everything seemed in slow-mo.
Her heartbeat thumped against her chest.
The click of her metal stump echoed like a base drum.
Hurry, hurry.
Somewhere off to her left, a dog barked a frantic warning. She recalled that yipping from her morning jogs. The mutt lived one block east near on Rosy Skies Trail near the golf course. That must be the direction he went. Beyond the fourth and fifth holes lay a shady creek, then mesquite and cedar dotted fields past the barbed wire fence. From there, the highway lay only a hundred yards away. Drat it all. Her assaulter would be long gone by the time she got inside. Oh, why didn’t she pocket her cell phone before venturing out?
At last she reached the door and turned the knob. She slumped inside, slammed it, and flipped both dead bolts before leaning against the jamb to allow the tears to flow—part out of fear, the rest out of pure frustration. Janie hated being anything less than independent and self-efficient.
Hand to her bosom, she exhaled in short, uneven breaths. She willed her breathing to slow and become steadier. The cotton feeling in her ears lessened and the tingly sensation in her scalp begin to ebb.
Mustering renewed strength, she hopped to the couch and swung herself into the cushions as she grabbed her cell phone and punched in 9-1-1.
Dumpster Dicing (Bunco Biddies Book 1) Page 16