by CeeCee James
“You calling me old, young lady?”
I shrugged. “If the cane fits.”
There was silence as a response. I glanced over, terrified that my joke had gone to far. I was surprised to see his eyes shut. A slow wheeze came out. I realized it was a laugh.
I smiled too, and stuffed another bite into my mouth. Dang, these meatballs were good.
“Now, what’s going on with this house murder of yours?” Oscar said.
I finished chewing and wiped my mouth. “Well, my biggest problem is that they didn’t find a motive for Lenny to be murdered. And it really struck me as odd that Roy Merlock would be there. I mean… if it’s true he killed Lenny. Why would he show up if he’d known the sword wasn’t there?” I took a sip of water and then asked, “You said you knew Lenny. How did you know him?”
“I met him at the barber shop.” Oscar rubbed his hand over Peanut’s ear, cupping them like little pony tails. He didn’t have a lot of hair on his own head, and eyed me as if daring me to say something about it. “I know what you’re thinking. We’d play checkers. I’d lose. I’d have to buy him a Dr. Pepper.”
Wait, what? “You bought him a soda?”
“Dr. Pepper. The man was addicted to them.”
I covered my face with my hands. Lenny must have brought the soda with him before he dived and chucked the can. There went one of my clues.
“I give up,” I muffled.
“What?”
“I said—” I lowered my hands, filled with exasperation.
“I know what you said.” Oscar’s eyebrows lowered. Suddenly, he appeared quite fierce. “I don’t want to hear those words from your mouth, again. You’re no quitter. You’re an O’Neil. I’ve watched you race kids three years older than you, with legs twice as long. And you won more than you lost. You got straight As, you put yourself through college. You are amazing, and you don’t give up. Ever.” He cleared his throat and his voice softened. “Give yourself some breathing room and some time to think. I believe in you, young lady.” He stared at me some more, before going back to spooling his spaghetti. “And don’t think for one second I’ve gone soft. That cherry turnover is mine.”
Chapter 16
I left Oscar’s house considerably fortified, both in the stomach region and my heart. For the first time since relocating from Seattle, I was convinced it had been the right move for me, and I was more determined than ever to repair the broken bridge between Oscar and his sons.
Speaking of his sons, I thought of those swim fins. Uncle Chris had said he knew someone on the police force. I wondered if he’d received any information about them.
Before I left the driveway, I sent a quick text. —Hey, Uncle Chris. Any news on the flippers?
He answered back. —Only that Roy insists they’re not from his shop. But you left a little early. The divers did find a piece of jewelry sitting on the shore. We all walked past it a million times. It was a lucky find.
—Really? What is it? Can you send me a picture?
—Probably just some costume jewelry. But it’s still interesting.
A minute later, a photo appeared. The jewelry piece was a round circle and black with tarnish. Interesting. I’d check it out later. Still feeling full of contentment, I started the car and drove home.
I knew the police had Roy Merlock under a microscope, but was it possible there was something they were missing? He denied the flippers came from his shop. But what about the sticker on the air tank? And I heard the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. He had been there at the lake this morning.
After arriving at the house, I tossed my keys on the counter, and immediately headed for my computer. My mind was ramped up and I wanted to dig into this. I settled into my chair and opened a search engine, and then typed in the brand name of the flippers.
The first thing I discovered was that Kari’s husband was right. It was a specialty brand. And not only that, but the business had gone under last year. Every link I clicked showed them to be out of stock, with the exception of eBay. Could the owner of the flippers have ordered them from eBay and, if so, how could that person be tracked down? I chewed my lip, wondering if it was possible. I rubbed my temples, trying not to be discouraged.
But wait! Who said the swim fins were new? Maybe the person had owned them for a few years already.
Okay, back up. I thought this person had to be friends with Old Man Lenny. Another theory I couldn’t rule out was that it was someone who had snuck up on him. That was still a theory I couldn’t rule out. But how would the person have known that Lenny would be at the lake?
I tried to picture it. The first scenario, two friends who ended in a death struggle. The second, an enemy who followed Lenny into the lake and took him out.
Honestly, the first scenario gave me the shivers. What kind of evil person would befriend someone and then do that?
So, how does Roy fit into this scenario? He’d definitely be the enemy. It was obvious he had all the equipment. But how would he know Lenny was going to be there that morning?
So many questions.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled to the picture of the pendant Uncle Chris had sent. Where did it come from? Was it just some piece of costume jewelry?
Good questions for the search engine. I typed in 19th century circular jewelry pendants, trying to hit the time-line when the original homestead was built.
It brought up an extensive list of earrings, hat pins, and pendants. I scrolled through the images, hunting for anything remotely similar to the picture. Silver items were the most popular, with the occasional gold piece. There were even a few made from copper and nickel.
The pendant in the picture was tarnished to the point I couldn’t tell the type of metal it was, nor make out the design on the front. If I squinted, it looked like a face. Or an elephant. Hmmm.
I wondered, was it only silver metal that tarnished? I typed that question in and hit search. The spinning thing told me it was thinking. I’m sure whoever developed the software meant that symbol to be comforting, but it irritated me.
Spin, spin, spin. This was getting me nowhere fast except frustrated. I decided to get myself a snack and a breather. One plate of cinnamon toast and a mug of peppermint tea coming up. When I came back with my plate, I saw the computer had decided to answer. I was surprised to learn quite a few metals aged with a patina.
I stuffed a corner of the toast in my mouth and chewed, then typed “pendants with faces.”
A million results showed up. This was worse than a needle in a haystack. I shoved my keyboard away, half-feeling like throwing it.
My gaze caught the sight of the dangling wallpaper.
Yes, ma’am. Today was the day. I stalked over there, fueled with irritation that I hadn’t been able to find the answers to even one thing I’d searched for. Seriously, what good was technology if it always gave me a million choices? I reached for the piece of wallpaper. And who would do roses for an entire house, anyway? I liked the flower as much as the next person, but every square inch?
“I’m tired of not being able to find Old Man Lenny’s killer.” I yanked. It tore in the most satisfying way. “I’m tired of not being able to find one single solid lead on any of the clues I’ve found.” I yanked harder. The strip tore to the floor with a satisfying Thwap!
As I wobbled it up, my eyebrows raised. There, in the very bottom corner of the wall, near the stair tread, was some writing. A poem of some sort. I was about sick of poems, but this one seemed different.
It was a children’s poem.
Red and Yellow, loves a fellow. On December of this year, Gaila was here.
Gaila, huh? The block print was sloppy, but it still had careful, measured strokes that called back to innocence. I knew where I’d seen that kind of writing before. My friend’s daughter had given me a homemade going-away card when I’d left Washington last year. It had about made me cry. There were two crayoned snowmen encircled in carefully printed rainbow words, I’ll miss
you. I still had it, held between the pages of an Audubon bird guide my dad had once given me.
I went back to my computer and typed in my landlord’s name. And there it was. Gaila Crawford. I smiled. At least I’d solved one mystery. Little Gaila must have printed her signature and her secret crush right before they moved. And here it was, all these years later, still proudly proclaiming her mark in this house. I couldn’t wait to tell her.
It also put my redecorating plans in a crunch. Because there was no way I could paint over that.
Problems, problems, always problems. I decided to sort it out with a rousing game of Let’s read a good book. Like Scarlett from Gone with the Wind used to say, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.”
Chapter 17
After the flurry of activity in the days prior, it was disappointing to see zero appointments on my schedule to see the house.
For something to do, I followed Kari around on a few of her showings. It was always good to get more experience, and her clients were a super nice young couple looking for their first house. They had an adorable baby.
I soon learned that house-hunting with a baby was an adventure on its own. The baby cried, needed to be fed, changed and soothed at almost every stop. I don’t even know how the parents could concentrate on the anything that Kari showed them. It made me think I was a long, long, long ways away from wanting a family of my own.
Kari handled it like a pro, even carrying the baby for them at one point. She was patient to the ninth degree and comforted the parents whose nerves were frazzled. I noticed, with the time crunch caused by the baby, that Kari focused on the kitchen and where the baby’s bedroom would be located in relation to the parents. She’d take us out to the backyard and say. “Can you just see your kids playing here?”
I thought the showings were going well, but the couple wasn’t ready to make an offer. So, they went their way and Kari dropped me off at the office before heading to the school to pick up her kids.
The Flamingo Realty was quiet. Uncle Chris wasn’t in, and my email was empty of messages. I felt like I was never going to get the Johnson Lake house sold.
I decided I needed to get out and walk around the town. Take some time to unwind and regroup. Maybe I could think of a new way to advertise the place.
I walked up the street, hands shoved into my pockets and face buried into the front of my coat. The air was crisp and reminded me of the time I’d made apple cider with a friend. I’d arrived to see this metal contraption that looked like an ancient torture device and immediately wondered what the heck I’d gotten myself into. But my friend had squealed and ran over to it, acting like it was the next best thing to chocolate sundaes.
There was a whole crew of us, and we sent what felt like a million apples through it. I ended up sticky, with frozen fingers and cheeks that hurt from laughing so hard. And after one of the guys poured me a glass from a jug that had just been pressed, I understood the excitement. I’d never tasted anything even close to it. It was like Autumn leaves, Halloween, and the first snow had all been bottled together.
I could use some of that now. It also reminded me that I liked people, something I was inclined to forget in my introvertness. I needed to get out and make some friends.
Speaking of people, the sidewalk was busy this afternoon. I had to weave a little bit not to bump into anyone. I couldn’t help a smile when I noticed one man ahead of me who looked like he had toilet paper stuck to his shoe.
He strode ahead and the paper did eventually become loose before I’d decided what to do. As I got closer, I noticed it wasn’t toilet paper, but a long scroll instead. I glanced toward the building that he’d just exited.
It was the barber shop.
The building’s front was green with a full barber pole in the front, twirling red-and-white. I was charmed, to be honest, having not seen one outside of the movies.
As I walked closer, I caught a spicy after-shave scent. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. I’d smelled it before.
There was a soda machine out at the store front. The Dr. Pepper button glowed red to warn it was empty. I touched the button, thinking about my Grandpa losing his game of checkers, and then yanked open the barber shop’s front door.
A wall of testosterone-laced stares met mine. The vibe was definitely not welcoming.
“Can I help you?” the barber asked. In a twist of irony, he was as bald as a cue ball. He did have an impressive beard that fluffed over his white shirt. He also had a straight razor in his hand with a scary gleam in his eye that said that he was comfortable using it.
The man in the chair before him was hidden under a white mask of shaving cream. One pink stripe shone out from his cheek from the razor’s first swathe.
Sitting in one of the chairs waiting for his turn was a young man. He looked vaguely familiar. He had a small cut near his ear, and I wondered if maybe the barber had given him too close of a shave.
“Uh,” I started, suddenly drawing a blank. There was another man waiting in a chair. His hair was damp and he stared me down in the mirror with steely blue eyes. What caught my interest was a piece of paper curled around his neck. It protected the collar of his white button-down shirt.
Interesting.
“Would it be too much to ask for a piece of that?” I gestured toward the neck paper.
The barber glanced at it and then back at me incredulously. “You want—”
“Yes, just a short piece. I’m doing a news article.” I bluffed like no one’s business. For some reason, the phrase “news article” always seemed to grease the wheels of an otherwise awkward conversation.
He shrugged and opened the cabinet behind him, quickly tearing off a section from a box under there. This he handed to me.
“So,” I cleared my throat and smiled at the sitting men. “I’m guessing you get a lot of regulars here.”
The barber eyed me, and I could nearly see the wheels spinning as he wondered what type of article I was writing. “Sure, of course we do.”
“I’ve been coming for over twenty years. Since Young Sam first opened up.” said an old gaffer from one of the chairs. He pointed to the barber and I smiled, realizing “Young Sam,” referred to the barber, who was clearly middle aged.
Behind the old man, the wall was covered in plaques and pictures of men in military uniforms. One soldier was heavily decorated in medals.
The old man continued, “And then there’s Steve, Roy and Bob,”
My ears perked at the name of Roy, wondering if it was Johnson’s property neighbor.
“Don’t forget Old Man Lenny,” another retiree chimed in.
The mood immediately became more somber as gray nodding heads followed that statement.
“I’m sorry to hear about him,” I said, my own head bobbing to mimic their solemn nods.
“He was a great guy. Except for when he crashed his car,” the wet-haired guy said.
The old man rolled his eyes and crossed his legs. “She doesn’t want to hear that story.”
I chimed in. “Actually, I’m new here. I’d like to hear more.”
“What’s it to you?” he asked.
“Well, I’m the realtor out at that place. I’m the one who discovered him.”
A hush fell over the barbershop as they tried to digest my words. Then seven voices spoke at once.
“Well, I’ll be!”
“Ain’t that something!”
“You the Flamingo’s girl? That realty guy’s a piece of work.”
The old man asked, “You don’t happen to be Oscar O’Neil’s kid, are you?”
I was surprised. I’d never been referred to by my grandfather before. “Grandkid, actually. Oscar’s my grandpa.”
“Well, now.” The old man smiled and rested his newspaper folded over his knee. “Your grandpa is quite the guy. A champ at checkers.”
“Not with Old Man Lenny though!” A few gentle chuckles echoed around the room.
“You know Oscar?” I asked.
“Know him? He stole twenty bucks from me the other day playing rummy. He lives next to that Bed and Breakfast. They have a game going every Tuesday night.”
I made a face. “I’m sorry he stole your money.”
He laughed, a creaky wheezing sound. “Nah. He’s just a good card player is all. He’s a stand-up guy.” He cocked his head and studied me. “Now that you mention it, you look a little like him.”
“But she works for that clown at the Flamingo Realty,” said the retiree.
The first man shushed him, moving his hands. “Now don’t be giving her a hard time. This is Oscar’s blood. That means she’s stand-up too.”
I straightened my shoulders. That meant a lot. I wasn’t about to spoil it by mentioning the clown was my uncle and Oscar’s own son. It was interesting that they didn’t know it. It just showed how drastically Uncle Chris had cut ties to his dad when he moved to this town.
“Sure miss Old Man Lenny though,” one of the guys said. He started humming.
Another man joined in, and then the barber paused in his shaving. He tipped his head back and his hand bobbed up and down as if trying to catch the beat. Then, he started to sing.
The first two men stood up and followed the barber’s tune by carrying the melody.
After a moment, it became obvious they were missing a person. They seemed to notice it too, because one of them said to the young guy, “Come on. You gotta help us out.”
The younger guy shook his head bashfully, keeping an eye on me. They kept harassing him. Finally, he stood, looking like he wished the floor would open and swallow him up and said, “Fine, you got me.” He cleared his throat as the barber counted out—one, two, three tap. And then he joined in.
It wavered for a few words but then the four voices blended together. And it sounded nice. The kind of nice that brought to mind those old black-and-white TV shows, and sugary cereals in a mini mixed box pack.
When they finished, I was happy to clap. “Great job!” I cheered.
“We need a new member, now that Old Man Lenny’s gone,” said the barber, returning to shaving. “I guess, Jay’s going to have to step in to take his place.”