Deadly Illusions

by Chester D. Campbell

  The first segment took place in the corridor off a balcony from which the shot had been fired. As the chief explained it, one of the Secret Service agents had looked up at the balcony when they first came in, but saw no one. When the agent heard the rifle crack, he checked back and got a glimpse of someone moving away from the railing. By the time he could run up the stairs, however, the assailant had disappeared. The video showed the man strolling toward the balcony area with one hand inside his coat. A few minutes later he hurried back in the other direction. As the chief pointed out, the murder weapon, a .22 rifle, could have been hidden inside the long coat. Unfortunately, the balcony itself was not covered by a camera, although the shooting, in the lobby below, appeared on four different videotapes.

  The second taping came from a tunnel used by employees that led out to a laundry building beside an employee parking lot. But as with the other segment, the facial detail wouldn’t permit a positive identification. I had an odd feeling of familiarity as I watched the videos, but had no idea why. I didn’t know any Opryworld employees.

  9

  The following morning, when we still hadn’t heard from Molly, I called Heritage Car Rentals and asked to speak to Damon Saint.

  “Damon isn’t here,” said the man who answered. It sounded like the black guy who had manned the front counter.

  “Is he working today?” I asked.

  “Probably not. He hasn’t checked in this morning. Could I give him a message in case he calls?”

  “Thanks,” I said and hung up.

  “Should we try calling Molly again from a pay phone?” Jill asked.

  “I guess that’s all we can do. Why don’t we head for King Cole’s in Hendersonville and I’ll call while you put in your hostess application.”

  To get there, we had to take

  Old Hickory Boulevard around the eastern outskirts of Nashville. Fortunately, it wasn’t rush hour, or the divided highway near our office could have looked like a parade of snails on wheels. The route took us past the entrance to the Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s stately homeplace, then past the big Dupont facility known as the Powder Plant after its establishment near the end of World War I. When we turned off in the Madison suburb to hit Gallatin Road, I thought about how insular some Nashvillians could be. I knew from experience that many people on the other side of the city had no concept of where Madison was, much less what might go on there. From the big shopping complex that surrounded Rivergate Mall to the county line, where Hendersonville began, the scene was a gaudy conglomeration of strip centers, restaurants, car dealers and shops. We found King Cole’s in a free-standing stone building with the same castle look we had seen the night before, surrounded by a sea of asphalt. Only a few employee cars sat in back. The restaurant didn’t open until eleven. Jill went inside to talk to the manager and I walked over to a pay phone at the edge of the parking area. The weather had turned more March-like, something not uncommon in this changeable time of year. Brisk, chilling gusts swept the lot.

  I dialed Molly’s number and waited while it rang. I heard a beeping sound but, instead of an answering machine, got a recorded voice that said, “The number you have reached is not currently in service.”

  Thinking I might have dialed the number wrong, I tried again. The message did not change.

  I had a bad feeling about it.

  I waited in my Jeep until Jill came out of King Cole’s. She had a smug look as she climbed in.

  “Looks like I’ve got a job,” she said. “If everything checks out in Atlanta, I can go to work tomorrow night.”

  “Great, babe. I always said you were the consummate hostess. We have another problem, though.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Molly’s phone is not in service.”

  “You mean as in out of order?”

  “Or disconnected.”

  She looked around as she buckled her seat belt. “Why would it be disconnected?”

  “I don’t know, but I think we should look into it. We’ve had the cell phone on since late yesterday, and she hasn’t called back. That’s not good.”

  ———

  We arrived in Antioch around eleven. The southeastern suburb featured a middle- class assortment of apartments and condos, modest single-family homes and duplexes. Located near one of Nashville’s two big lakes, it was a haven for boaters and fishermen. After checking my map, I found the Saints’ street in a subdivision of small houses, most a combination of brick and wood. You could tell the owner-occupied homes by the neat lawns, many with attractive plantings in front. Others were not so tidy, some with cannibalized cars in the driveway, though a Metro ordinance expressly forbade the practice. Damon and Molly Saint’s house was on a short cul-de-sac, with the back yard jammed against a thickly forested piece of property. Leaves had begun to peek out from some of the trees.

  Finding no vehicles on the street or in the driveway, Jill and I got out and looked around. The house was red brick on the end that appeared to house the bedrooms and beige vinyl siding where I assumed the living room resided. The lack of a fence in back seemed to bear out what Molly had told us, that Damon had no love for dogs.

  Seeing no signs of anyone around, we walked up to the small concrete porch and rang the bell. I could hear the chiming sound it made inside. No one answered.

  A decrepit-looking Ford Taurus sat in the driveway to the next house, so we strolled over there and knocked on the door. The woman who opened it looked to be in only slightly better shape than the car. Rail thin, with frizzly gray hair and a forward thrust to a face that might have been related to the Grinch, she wore a loose-fitting, washed-out green housedress.

  “I saw you over there looking around,” she said, giving us a slow once-over. “You interested in renting?”

  “Do you own the place?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no.” She shook her head. “Fellow named Wayne Marshall owns it. He lives across town. He’s a real estate agent.”

  “We were looking for Molly Saint,” I said.

  “They moved last night.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “They moved out?”

  “That’s what I said. Damon loaded up his big pickup truck last night and they left. Must have been around nine or ten.”

  I looked around, saw the concern on Jill’s face. “Do you know where they went?”

  “I didn’t even know they was moving. They never said good-bye or kiss my grits. And me being so close all these years.” She sounded hurt by the oversight.

  “By the way,” I said, “I’m Greg McKenzie, and this is my wife, Jill.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the woman said. “I’m Flossie Tarwater. That’s Miss Flossie. Ain’t never been married and don’t go for that Miz stuff.”

  “Were you and Molly good friends?” Jill asked.

  “Good as any, I guess. I wouldn’t say we was bosom buddies. But we talked occasionally.”

  “She hadn’t given you any indication they were planning to move?”

  “Nope. I wasn’t real sure they were aiming to move at first. He loaded a lot of stuff in the back of that pickup, but they didn’t take any furniture. Didn’t have a moving van, either.”

  “What made you decide they were really moving?” I asked.

  She grinned. “I thought they might be skipping out without paying the rent, so I called Mr. Marshall this morning.”

  I thought it more likely an excuse for an ingrained case of nosiness.

  “He knew they were moving?” I asked.

  “Said Damon called yesterday. Something about his job. Said they were leaving some furniture they didn’t need. The rent was paid up, though.”

  I couldn’t imagine what about his job would necessitate a move. From what I had been told, I got no hint that he planned to leave Heritage Car Rentals.

  Jill glanced back at the vacant driveway. “Was Molly in her car?”

  Flossie nodded. “They put some stuff in hers, too. She drove off and he followed her in that t
ruck.”

  “Was there any indication that she was reluctant to go?” Jill had a troubled look on her face.

  “Reluctant?”

  “Like she really didn’t want to go. Did he seem to coerce her to get into the car?”

  Flossie pursed bloodless lips. “Didn’t look that way to me. Matter of fact, he held the door open for her. He wasn’t usually that gentlemanly.”

  “What was their relationship like?” I asked. “Did you ever hear them yelling or fighting with each other?”

  Flossie pulled her head back and frowned. “Why you want to know all these things, Mr. McKinley? Who are you?”

  “McKenzie,” I said, giving her one of our cards. “We’ve been retained to look into Damon Saint’s background. We have reason to believe there could be problems between him and his wife. Have you seen or heard anything that would indicate the relationship was rocky?”

  “I never saw or heard any big arguments, if that’s what you’re talking about. But I didn’t notice much show of affection either. In recent months they mostly seemed to go their own ways.”

  “Not what you would have expected,” Jill said.

  “You’re right about that, young lady.”

  Jill punched me in the back and I had to stifle a grin.

  “In my younger days,” Flossie continued, “I don’t mind telling you, I had plenty of beaus that knew the proper way to treat a lady. They’d hold my hand and open doors for me. And when we was out they’d snuggle up real tight.” She gave a broad grin that showed a row of teeth I’d call a dazzling gray. “I didn’t have to show it all, either, like these half-dressed girls you see all over the mall nowadays. You probably wouldn’t believe I’m seventy-seven now.”

  She was right about that. I’d more likely have guessed eighty-seven or ninety-seven. But I pretended to agree.

  “So Damon and Molly traveled by themselves,” I said.

  “They sure did. He seemed to come and go as the spirit moved him. She worked days, of course. But some nights and weekends she’d go out with a friend. Said it was a girl she knew at work.”

  Flossie rattled on for several more minutes without saying anything of value to our investigation of Damon Saint. We finally eased away and left her standing there, tongue still wagging. Sadly, the current whereabouts of our client remained as uncertain as ever.

  10

  After stopping for lunch at a catfish place, we headed back to the office. I looked up the number for Wayne Marshall and got him on the phone. I explained the gist of our interest in Damon Saint, then inquired about the sudden move.

  “Damon called yesterday and told me they were leaving,” Marshall said. “The ungrateful shit should have given me more warning. I’ve rented to him for six or seven years. He claimed he had an opportunity for a good job elsewhere.”

  “Did he say where?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “I didn’t give a damn where he was headed. He still had a month to go on his lease. He didn’t have the right to break it like that.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  He calmed down rather quickly. “Yeah, but I didn’t push it. I figured it wasn’t worth the hassle. He’s a cold fish you really don’t want to mess with.”

  “I understand he left some furniture behind.”

  “According to what he told me. Said it was worth more than the rent. I haven’t been out to see for myself.”

  “What do you know about his workshop in the basement?”

  “I wasn’t aware he had one. I guess he could have put in a workbench or something. The basement’s unfinished.”

  “When was the last time you looked through the house?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. Damon offered to handle any minor maintenance. About the only thing I’ve had to do is put on a new roof a couple of years ago.”

  “In other words, you haven’t been inside the house in a few years.”

  “I didn’t need to,” he said, his voice peevish.

  “I’m not being accusatory,” I hastened to say. Actually, I thought he was probably a pretty sloppy landlord. “Of course you had no reason to go in there. But we’d like to look at the place if you plan to check it out.”

  “You would, huh? I guess I ought to go out there and see what they left, especially whether they did any damage.”

  “That would be nice to know,” I said.

  “If they did, they damned sure won’t get any deposit back.”

  “Could you meet us out there today?” I asked.

  “I suppose so. I’ve got to see some people out that way about a house sale at three. What time could you make it?”

  “Anytime.”

  ———

  Jill and I sat waiting in my black Grand Cherokee when Marshall drove up to the Antioch house shortly after two. The SUV had been red until a run-in with a couple of hoods in Florida back in the fall had made a new paint job necessary. I had decided black would be somewhat less conspicuous for a PI. When Marshall stepped out of his car, a gusty breeze swirled black hair splotched with gray above a round, chubby face. He looked fiftyish, with a dark suit that appeared as rumpled as the portly body it covered.

  I handed Marshall one of our cards as I introduced Jill and myself. He shook my hand, then squinted through thick-lens glasses as he read the card. He shoved it into a coat pocket and pulled out a large ring full of keys.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for in there, but let’s go see,” he said. He chose one of the keys and lumbered toward the front door.

  We followed him inside and found a small living room that appeared completely furnished. There was a sofa with an oval-shaped end table, an easy chair with a twisted wire magazine rack and a metal floor lamp beside it, a glass-fronted wood cabinet in one corner, no doubt designed to hold a TV set.

  But I saw no TV. So I suppose the room wasn’t completely furnished after all.

  The rest of the house looked about the same. All of the personal items—clothing, toilet articles, jewelry, photographs (if there had been any)—were gone, but virtually all of the furnishings were still there.

  “I could fix a full meal for us with this,” Jill said from the kitchen.

  “I should think so,” Marshall said, smoothing his tousled hair. Then he grinned. “I can rent this place as a furnished house now, provided old Damon doesn’t change his mind and come back after his stuff.”

  Despite having been rapidly vacated, the place appeared neat and clean. “Looks like a pretty good little rental,” I said.

  Marshall nodded. “I bought her as a HUD repo back in the eighties, after Congress screwed up the tax laws and threw the S&L’s into a tailspin. HUD ran full pages of foreclosures back then. I got a good deal on it. Paid a lot less than what they were asking.”

  I looked into a small hallway off the kitchen. An outside door to the back yard stood on one side. Opposite it was another door.

  “Does this go to the basement?” I asked.

  Marshall craned his neck. “Yeah. Don’t guess it’s locked.”

  Noting two heavy-duty keyed deadbolts above the doorknob, I recalled Molly’s comments about her husband’s security concerns. But when I turned the knob, the door opened promptly. Wooden steps headed down, and I saw a switch plate on the wall just inside the door. Something had been removed above it and a couple of small wires dangled loosely, probably connections for the booby trap Molly had mentioned. I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. Darkness filled the void below.

  I turned to Marshall. “The power should be on. We heard the doorbell when we came out earlier.”

  “I told Damon to leave it on, that I’d change it to my name. The bulb must be burned out.”

  “I’ll get my flashlight,” I said.

  I hurried out to the Jeep and pulled my big MagLite from under the seat. Back inside, I switched on the flashlight and led the way down the stairs. What Marshall had described as
“unfinished” turned out to be a small, neat room with oak veneer paneling.

  “Damn!” Marshall said, eyes widening. “I didn’t know a thing about this. He was supposed to let me know if he wanted to make any alterations.”

  “Looks like he did a pretty good job,” Jill said. “What’s this?”

  I shined the light where she pointed. A narrow wooden cabinet about six feet tall stood against the wall, open in front. Large hooks were screwed into either side near the top. A mirror approximately two feet square hung on one wall. Odd. Nothing else adorned the walls, like tools or posters or photographs.

  “Here’s his workbench,” Marshall said from across the room.

  I flashed the light over there and saw a wooden bench about five feet long and two feet deep, a large anvil-shaped vise mounted at one end. A two-tube fluorescent fixture dangled by chains from the ceiling. There were two wall switches just above one end of the bench. When I flipped one, the fluorescent lights flashed on.

  “Voila,” I said. I turned off the flashlight.

  Jill looked around. “This is a nifty layout.”

  When I flipped the other switch, an exhaust fan that had been hidden by the light fixture whirred into action.

  Marshall stared up at the fan. “Why’d he put that in, I wonder?”

  I was beginning to pursue the same question. Several electrical outlets had been mounted at the back of the workbench. A couple of dark spots on the wooden surface could have been the result of heat, as from an electrical appliance. Recalling a seminar I had attended a few years back, put on by Drug Enforcement Administration agents, I suggested a possibility.