by N. C. Lewis
Glass shattered as I fiddled with the on switch. My eyes shot to the little window on the far side of the shack. But it was too dark to see anything. Another sound of breaking glass, this time followed by glug-glug-glug of something being poured.
A heavy rumble of thunder overhead shook the shack and a flash of lightning illuminated the black tip of a red fuel canister, its liquid contents dripping along the wall to the floor. Fumes of gasoline hit my nostrils. I gasped, stumbling backward toward the thick wooden door. There were no hinges or a knob on my side. I tried heaving a shoulder against it, but it didn't budge. I stepped back, swung up my right leg into a heel kick but it did no good.
Another flash of light. It wasn't lightning but a blazing roll of newspaper tumbling through the window onto the floor. Small, orange flames and clouds of milky-colored smoke rose up. The shack, constructed of cedar, would be ashes inside of twenty minutes.
I was trapped.
Blind panic flooded my mind, sheer terror pulsated through my veins. Then, a clarity of sorts. What would snuff out a fire? In the kitchen was a fire extinguisher but it was of no use now. I glanced at the flickering flames, perhaps I could stomp them out with my feet. Wait!
The sacks from Gregg's Hardware Store held fire blankets! I groped around in the flickering light, my hands spasmodically trying to loosen the sack. At last I snatched out a fire blanket. Holding it by the edges with my arms held wide and high it unrolled to the floor.
I moved toward the fire. It flickered and crackled but hadn't yet caught hold. Over the flames I draped the blanket. Then, in a frenzy, stomped my feet on top. I whirled around and raced back to the sack. Plunging my hands deep inside I pulled out another fire blanket and turned back to the fire. Only a few flames flickered dimly. Again, I doused the flames with the blanket stamping hard with my feet until I was in total darkness.
My eyes stung, and my body heaved in a fit of coughing, but the fire was out.
There was a tremendous rumble of thunder. A flash of lightning. The heavens pelted down heavy raindrops which splashed and splattered against the shack, ran along the rooftop dripping through the cracks. Better late than never, I thought as I let out a sigh of relief and slumped to the ground.
Suddenly, the shack door flew open. A bright light dazzled my eyes.
"Ollie, is that you?"
It was George Garcia, his wife Emma, along with Simpkins, the homeless man who lived on the edge of my property.
Chapter 38
In the kitchen of Ealing Homestead, I sat nursing a cup of chamomile tea. Emma insisted I call the sheriff's department, but I said I didn't need medical attention.
"Emma and I were out to observe the supermoon," explained George. "We climbed the hill at the edge of your property to get a better view."
Emma joined in, "But with the heavy clouds, thunder and lightning, we didn't see much. George saw an orange flash near your outbuildings and knew instantly what it was."
"I thought lightning had struck the buildings," he added rubbing his eyes.
Simpkins spoke up. "Don't want no fire here, Ollie. Once it catches, those cedar trees burn like shop-bought kindling."
Deputy Dingsplat arrived.
"Ollie, I was about to go off duty when the call came through," he said. Deputy Dingsplat was a member of the Speaker Circle, a public speaking group I attended.
With a flashlight he explored the area around the building, George went with him. They returned fifteen minutes later glum faced.
"No footsteps or other markings," said Deputy Dingsplat rubbing his chin. "Did any of you see anyone running away from the buildings?"
We shook our heads.
"Did you hear a car engine?"
Again, we shook our heads.
Deputy Dingsplat turned to glance at me, his face tight with concern.
"Did you see the figure who pushed you?"
"No, not really."
"What do you mean?"
"Only teeth."
"Teeth?"
"Yes." Then I explained, "I stumbled forward, and for an instant my flashlight illuminated their head, but they wore a hooded top, and I only saw teeth. They were pearly white."
"Man or woman?"
I thought for a moment, closed my eyes and replayed the scene. "Woman," then added, "but that is only a guess."
Deputy Dingsplat took out his notebook and wrote something down.
"What color was the hooded top?"
"Not sure… dark, could have been black… I don't know."
Again, he wrote something down.
"Anything else?"
"Not sure," I said.
"What aren't you sure about?"
"Well," I said, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. "I'm working with Millie Watkins on the death of Teddy Tumpin."
He folded his arms across his chest. "That's a sheriff's department problem, it doesn't concern civilians."
"We won't get in your way."
He scowled. "You see to it that it stays that way." Then he softened. "I'll ask Deputy Muller to do a couple passes along the lane, she is working the overnight shift. If you think of anything else, give me a call."
◆◆◆
It was after two a.m. by the time I climbed into bed. Gratitude filled my thoughts as I slipped under the covers. I was grateful for my neighbors, the Garcias, for Simpkins, and for the Medlin Creek Sheriff's Department. I took a pill, turned out the light and closed my eyes.
A terrifying clanging called me to sit bolt upright. For a moment, in the pitch-dark, I didn't know where I was. The clanging continued. It was my cell phone.
A vague sense of unease settled low in my stomach as I picked it up—a private number.
"Hello," I said in a voice still drugged by sleep.
Silence.
"Hello," I said again.
There was a low click. A robotic voice spoke. "Doctor Stratford, keep away from the death of Teddy Tumpin."
Another low click, followed by the dial tone.
The fog of sleep gone, a dread of something unknown yet terrifying crept into my consciousness. Now I was too frightened to sleep. My husband, John, always said, "Do the thing you fear, and the death of fear is certain." Tonight, I feared some unknown shadow tossing a lighted newspaper onto the front porch. How to face that fear?
I took another pill but sleep wouldn't come.
At four a.m. I got up and took a hot shower. Then I turned toward the office. It was time to do a little internet research into something nagging at the back of my mind. If I was correct it wouldn't take long to find.
After an hour I unearthed what I was looking for. I dialed California then I called Roger and left a message.
Chapter 39
The cell phone rang.
I jumped.
"Hello Ollie, it's George. I'll be around in an hour with my crew member, José, to assess the damage and work up an estimate."
"Okay, sounds good."
"Might be better to rebuild the shed," he said in a slow measured tone. "If that's not possible we'll clear away the damage and tidy up the area, no charge for the clean-up, though. Let me know what you want."
"Go right ahead and rebuild." The thought of passing by the burned out building every day churned my stomach. I wanted it repaired quickly. "My insurance will cover it, email over the estimate and I will pass it on."
"Okay, I'll get the invoice to you later today. We'll tear it down and rebuild a real-solid structure, guess it'll be around eight thousand dollars with labor," he said in a business voice. "Great, we'll start work in an hour or so. Ollie, I'll have that building rebuilt in a New York minute."
I laughed. "Think so? Things move darn fast in Gotham!"
For several minutes I worked on my list for the day. Mr. Maxwell was next. I dialed his cell phone. It rang for several minutes but he didn't pick up, no voice mail either.
I closed my eyes and drifted off into a restless dream in which I walked along a rocky shore with John. A heavy mist r
olled in. Mr. Maxwell appeared in a hooded top and grinned. His glittering, white teeth sparkled like distant stars, and a church bell tolled—ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. I opened my eyes; the ringing was coming from my cell phone. Groggily I checked the screen. It was Mr. Maxwell.
"Ollie, it's a wonderful day to be alive and well in the Hill Country, isn't it?"
"Yes," I mumbled without thinking. Then realized he had used the get them to say yes sales tactic. Now all I could see was his white teeth glittering down the line and money tumbling out of my purse into his wallet.
I stiffened and said, "I need to file a claim, had a fire at Ealing Homestead last night."
Mr. Maxwell let out a weighty sigh and was silent for a very long while. Eventually, in a heavy Hill Country accent said, "you can’t get lard unless you boil the hog."
"What?"
"Bad news, Ollie. The policy documents you signed were invalid."
"Invalid," I echoed. Then the significance of his words sank in. "Mr. Maxwell what are you saying?"
"There are so many rules and regulations in the insurance industry it's hard to keep things straight…" His voice trailed off.
"Go on," I said, a sharp pain growing behind my eyes.
"Well, it's like the event center business only worse. There's a bridezilla of regulations leaping at you from every angle." Mr. Maxwell lowered his voice to a hush. "Ollie, you filled in the wrong document."
"But you gave it to me!"
"You should have completed the new applicant application form."
"That's what I filled in."
"No, no, you filled in the previous customer application form."
"What difference does it make?"
"You weren't a previous customer."
"I paid a premium; what about that?" Now I was struggling to hold my anger.
"Yes, yes, yes. Our software flagged the transaction as an error. It was my first day using the system, and I didn't even notice. Not easy to use these corporate systems."
"Mr. Maxwell—"
He interrupted. "It's just that I wasn't authorized to offer you a discount, and there was a slight miscalculation on the premiums." Mr. Maxwell was speaking very quickly now. "A simple newbie mistake, happens all the time. I reran the numbers just now. My goodness, Ollie, you've got a fantastic deal with Havis County Insurance Company. There is no way I can match that. By the way, a refund was posted to your account an hour or so after our initial call. Isn't that amazing? This industry is so efficient. There's a lot to learn. I'm an eager student."
"What about the cost of rebuilding the shed, who's going to pay for that?" I yelled.
"Ollie, I'm sorry. You can’t get lard unless you boil the hog."
"Mr. Maxwell," I shouted, "Mr. Maxwell!"
But Mr. Maxwell was gone.
I felt like I was standing in the sand of a fast-moving river, sinking deeper into the mud every time I lifted my foot. On my computer I pulled up my bank account. Mr. Maxwell was correct; the payment had been refunded. My mind was churning, my stomach sour.
I hurried to the kitchen. On the tips of my toes I reached for an overhead cupboard. My hand grasped on what I wanted, a half-empty bottle of cheap sipping whiskey. From the dishwasher I grabbed a mug and poured in the amber liquid and added a few ice cubes from the fridge. As I raised it to my lips, I saw my hand was shaking, bad. I took a gulp, then another, then sank back into a kitchen chair.
After several minutes of stillness, I picked up my cell phone and peered at the screen. I scrolled through audio files until I came to a folder filled with a motivational audio.
"Brian Tracy never fails," I mumbled, pressing the play button. Brian's birdlike voice fluttered out of the cell phone speaker.
Fully ninety percent of our decisions turn out to be absolutely wrong, in the fullness of time.
Rapidly my hand moved to swipe the stop button. I took another gulp of whiskey, and another. Despite the alcohol, I felt more sober than I wanted to be.
◆◆◆
In the bedroom, I sat in an easy chair by the window. The late summer sun blazed in a clear blue sky. A small gray rabbit with a white tail scampered across the yard. A bird fluttered onto a branch in a tall oak tree. It wasn't until it began to sing that I realized it was a rare canyon wren.
I closed my eyes and drifted off into a fitful sleep. I dreamed of gold coins and hypodermic needles, of life and death, of murder and justice. John came to me in the dream. He stared with intense focus into my eyes.
'What happened?' he said in an angry whisper. Then he raised a finger and pointed off into the distance. A shadowy figure stood staring at us. The face was shrouded in shadow but what they wore was clearly visible—a dowdy, gray dress.
The gentle chime of the clock high on the mantel disturbed my slumber. Glancing at my cell phone I saw it was a little after ten a.m., and I had decided I would see this through no matter what the cost, for Teddy Tumpin, for my own peace of mind, and for John.
Chapter 40
I called Millie.
"Oh my gosh, Ollie," she said after I told her about the fire. "That's terrible. Was it a man or woman who called you on your cell phone?"
"Not sure, the voice was robotic, not human. I guess the person typed in text and had a voice emulator read it back."
Millie fell silent for a long moment.
"You better update Deputy Dingsplat," she said at last.
"I will. But I want to speak with Alyssa Westwood first."
"Why?"
"She's on our suspect list," I hedged. I didn't want to tell her about the dream.
Again, Millie fell silent.
"Hmm, you're holding something back. What is it?"
I told her about the dream.
"Oh yes," she cried excitedly "The spirit of John is guiding you to the truth. There is little choice; must follow where directed or else…"
"Or else what?"
"Ollie, I don't like to think about what would happen. It would be terrible."
"Millie, I've just been locked in a burning shack in the middle of the night with a thunderstorm raging overhead. How much worse could it get?"
"Go see Alyssa," she insisted. Then added, "I'm coming with you. If Alyssa is the killer, this will be the biggest story in Medlin Creek this year, even bigger than the homecoming parade. I want to write the feature."
"Alright, do you have her address?"
In the background I could hear the shuffling of papers.
"No," came Millie's response at last. "I don't have her address. But give me ten minutes, and I'll text over the details."
I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, all the while thinking, had Alyssa tried to lock me in the shed then set it on fire? Was she behind the mysterious late-night phone call? What was the relationship with Teddy Tumpin? The questions for now were unanswered, but I felt certain I was on the right path—the path that led to the killer of Teddy Tumpin.
As I washed up the cup, the cell phone buzzed.
Glorious Vistas trailer park, row E. I don't have a lot number, but we can figure it out when we get there. Meet me at the newspaper offices in thirty minutes and we can ride over together—Millie.
◆◆◆
Glorious Vistas trailer park sat deep along a narrow dirt track behind the Strip and Pick junkyard. Ancient mobile homes lined up in crooked rows, their brown paint peeling and windows clouded. The occasional stray dog ambled along the narrow dirt track which separated the homes. Bovine faces of women, and little children stared out blankly from stoops as we drove by. Men with enormous beer bellies sat shirtless on wooden chairs, sipping out of brown paper bags.
"Are you sure you got the right address?" I asked Millie as we circled around searching for row E.
"Think so, I checked with the county tax assessor. Glorious Vistas was listed as her address."
The faded painted sign of row E led to a set of decrepit trailers with boarded-up windows and broken doors. There were no numbers or mailboxe
s, and if it wasn't for the occasional light visible through clouded windows, I'd have thought the trailers were uninhabited.
Alyssa was sitting on her stoop, under a tattered awning, her face tilted upwards watching the shift of clouds against the deep blue sky. There was no place to park, so we drove past, pulling the Tahoe to a stop on a square of grassless ground at the end of the row.
It took a minute or two to walk back. A sheen of perspiration covered my face, and my hands felt cold and clammy. Alyssa stood up, and her eyes were flat and expressionless in her long, narrow face. She watched closely as we walked toward her. A sour expression hung from her lips, and her dowdy, gray dress clung shapelessly to her body. The dress was grimy with smudges that might have resulted from contact with smoldering wood. The fingernails of her oversized hands were blackened.
"Ollie, how can I help you?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
I half wondered if the woman only had one dress, dowdy and gray. As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I only wear gray dresses."
"Why is that?" I inquired, although something told me not to.
She tilted her head and smiled. "Because that is what the women wore in those old black and white movies."
"Oh, I see," I said stepping backward, "makes sense, perfect sense," but it didn't, so I changed the subject and introduced Millie as a reporter from the Medlin Creek Times.
"I am writing an article on the death of Teddy Tumpin, thought you might be able to help with the investigation," said Millie, handing Alyssa her business card and trying not to stare at the dowdy gray dress.
Alyssa peered at it for several moments, turned around and placed it into a large flowerpot that rested to one side of her front door.
"What about Teddy?" she asked, not looking at either of us directly.
Millie, the journalist, had no follow-up question but I did. "Were you good friends?"
She frowned and tugged at a lock of hair.