Star-Spangled Rejects (The Heavenly Grille Café Book 3)

by J. T. Livingston

Doug smiled as he watched her walk away. “I knew that…” He waved at Max as he walked through the kitchen on his way out the back door. “I’ll be back here for a while, Max.”

  Max nodded. “Take all the time you need, Doug—take all the time you need.”

  One of the things Max always included at the Heavenly Grille Café—regardless of its location—was his creation of a small back yard that was conducive to prayer and tranquility. Their newest Rome location was no exception. The café backed up to a natural forest, but Max’s creation consisted of several winter sweet plants, all of them about 10 feet high. Their normally dark green leaves turned to yellow-green in the fall, and they were now filled with waxy, yellow-white flowers with purple centers. Max had also planted jasmine, honeysuckle, and Japanese apricot plants. The combined fragrances of all these plants encapsulated the feeling that Max had hoped to attain—heavenly!

  Doug sat down at the concrete patio table and bowed his head in prayer. “What do you want me to do, Lord? I know I’m not supposed to reveal what I am to anyone on earth, but…this is an old man—and not just any old man. This is the man who took my life. If I were Home, maybe I would know exactly how to handle this situation, but here on earth, I feel like my timing is off. I feel confused and uncertain. I feel worried, Lord. I don’t want to disappoint you, but if I pretend like I’m not who Chuck thinks I am, then it is a disservice to him.”

  Bertie came into the kitchen and placed several orders in front of Max. She glanced out the back door window and nodded. “It’s going to be dark soon. How long has he been out there?”

  “Not long,” Max began humming a hymn that had become a favorite of his during the past thirty years.

  “I like that song,” Bertie smiled. “I forget what it’s called—you haven’t sung it in a while.”

  “It was written and sung by that really country-sounding fella, Bertie—you remember—Buck Owens. It’s called ‘Bring it to Jesus’”.

  Bertie smiled again when Max began whistling the tune—off-key, as usual. “You sing a lot better than you can whistle, Maximus.”

  The two of them sang the song together and when they finished, Bertie closed her eyes and said, “Yep—like the song says—bring it to Jesus and he will show you the light!”

  “Amen, Bertie, Amen!” Max nodded toward the back door. “I think Doug has reached a decision on what he needs to do.”

  Bertie stood on her tip-toes to get a good look outside. “He’s going around the side of the café, Max. Oh my, goodness! I think he might be going upstairs…”

  ⟡

  Charles had taken the waitress, Bertie, up on her offer to rest in the upstairs apartment. Seeing the face of the young man he had accidentally shot and killed 63 years ago had taken the air out of his sails, for sure. He had recognized Doug at once—he had imprinted that face in his brain many, many years ago. Even though the shooting had been ruled an accident, Chuck Whiting had never been the same again. He had been issued an early release from the Army, due to mental trauma that tormented him on a daily basis. He had never been able to forgive himself for being so clumsy and careless, as to have caused another man his life. He had attended Doug’s funeral—from a distance—and watched his parents and sisters cry for the son and brother they had lost too soon in life. No, had never been able to forgive himself, and that inability to forgive himself had affected his entire life, as well as the lives of those people closest to him. He had pulled away from family and friends and lived a virtual life of recluse. He would venture outside to perform his job—which changed from year to year—but, it was 25 years before he began to socialize with other people, and to eventually marry.

  He had been looking out the small, upstairs window and had seen the young man sit down at the table in the back yard. He appeared to be praying—a concept that Charles had long ago given up on. He sat back down on the comfortable twin bed and folded his hands on his lap. He didn’t know what he was waiting for until he heard footsteps coming up the concrete staircase, outside his door. He took a deep breath when he heard a light tapping on the door, and stood up.

  Doug stood outside and smiled at the old man when the door opened. “You deserve some answers to the questions I know you have. I’d like to give you those answers now, Chuck.”

  Charles gasped loudly and grabbed at his chest when a brilliant, golden hue began to surround the young man who stood outside his door—the same young man he had killed 63 years ago. His mouth fell open and he fell on his knees and lowered his head. “Oh, God, Almighty, in Heaven—what’s happening?”

  “Please stand up, Chuck—trust me, there’s only one person you should ever bow down to, and that is not me.” Doug felt good about his decision; he knew it was the right one, even if there would be repercussions from Martin about it. “If you don’t invite me in, someone else might see something they shouldn’t see.” He bent down and took the old man under the elbow, and assisted him to a standing position.

  Charles moved aside and allowed the apparition to literally float into his room. The young man’s feet were a good foot above the ground when he entered the apartment. “Are you a…ghost?”

  The golden hue still surrounded Doug, but he floated gently back to the floor. He touched the old man’s shoulder and smiled. “Have a seat, Chuck.”

  Charles moved back to the bed, but never took his eyes off Doug. “You are a ghost, aren’t you? You’ve come back to haunt me—to drive me totally over the edge this time.” He closed his eyes. “Go ahead, do what you came to do. I deserve it…”

  Doug kneeled down and laid his hands upon the old man’s arthritic knees. “Open your eyes—look at me, Chuck.”

  A powerful sensation came over Charles when the young man touched his knees. He could, quite literally, feel the years and layers of self-deprecation and blame slowly evaporate into the warmness of the small room. His lungs felt full and his heart beat strong—he had not felt this alive in many, many years. He opened his eyes and watched as the golden hue slowly, and gradually, dimmed, until it disappeared altogether. He shook his head and stared at Doug. “You’re not a ghost, are you?”

  Doug smiled and shook his head. “No, Chuck; I am not a ghost.”

  “Then…then, you must be an…” Charles shook his head feverishly from side-to-side. “No, no—that’s not possible. There’s no such thing.”

  “It is possible, Chuck. Please—look at me.” He smiled when the old man complied. “Thank you, Chuck. I need you to say it for me. Tell me what you think I am.”

  “Why?” Charles asked. “Why do I need to say it?”

  Doug lifted Chuck’s chin until they were staring eye-to-eye with each other. “Because, my friend…if you say it, trust me…you will believe it; and, once you believe it, then all the torment you’ve carried inside you for all these years will vanish forever.”

  “How can that be possible?”

  “Because it is God’s will, my friend, it is God’s will. The will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not protect you.”

  Charles took a deep breath and stared back at Doug for several moments. A small grin finally escaped and he nodded as he took Doug’s hands into his own. “You’re an angel, aren’t you?”

  Doug smiled back and nodded. “Yes, Chuck, I am an angel, and there’s something you need to hear.”

  “What’s that?”

  Doug squeezed Chuck’s hands and helped him stand up. They were almost the same height, and Doug could have sworn that the old man stood a little straighter than he had earlier that afternoon. “I forgive you, Chuck. Please do not blame yourself for what happened. It truly was an accident, and it’s time for you to forgive yourself. Can you do that?”

  Charles shook his head. “I don’t know—I don’t think I can.” He took several deep breaths before adding, “But I’m going to give it one helluva try!”

  Doug was grinning widely. “I’m so glad, Chuck.”

  “Can I ask you something else?” Charles seemed
nervous.

  “You can ask me anything,” Doug continued smiling back at the old man. “Anything.”

  “Okay,” Charles nodded. “Okay. So—are you the only angel here, or is everyone here an angel, too?”

  Doug laughed out loud. “Well, allow me to correct myself, my friend—you can ask me almost anything!” He laughed again and said, “What do you say we go back downstairs and get you something to eat. You’ve got a long trip ahead of you tomorrow, and we all want you to get Skipper safely back to where he belongs—to give him the honorable funeral that he deserves.”

  Charles followed Doug out of the apartment and climbed carefully down the stairs. When they got to the bottom, he stopped and took Doug’s arm. “Oh, how I wish Skipper had known the truth about you. It might have made all the difference for him.”

  Doug leaned down and whispered into the old man’s ear. “Well, I’ll be going Home on Sunday for a visit. I promise to call you when I get back, and let you know if I see him there.”

  Charles stopped in his tracks. “It’s true, isn’t it? There really is a Heaven?”

  “Oh, yes, Chuck—there’s a Heaven, but let’s save that discussion for another time, shall we?”

  It was dark outside by the time the two men entered the café. Doug turned back to look up into the dark sky. The threatening clouds that had dominated the afternoon had moved on, and the sky was perfectly clear, except for the half-moon and…one lone star. “I have a feeling I’ll see you on Sunday, Skipper.” He saluted the lone star and closed the door softly behind him.

  CHAPTER 39

  Good and Bad Reunions

  Cheryl had waited at home for as long as she could before she and Jason drove to the police station. It was almost six-thirty and they had been there for two hours, waiting to hear something—anything—from Officer O’Brady.

  Cheryl stood up and began pacing the waiting room—again. She had chewed every nail down to the nub. “What’s taking so long?” she looked at Jason. “He should have called in by now. This can’t be good. Something must be wrong—that’s why we haven’t heard anything…”

  Jason stood up and wrapped his arms around her. “You’ve got to stop torturing yourself, Cheryl. I’m sure he’ll call when he has something definite to tell us. It doesn’t mean that something bad has happened.”

  “Then why hasn’t Jimmy called me back?” Cheryl croaked. She allowed herself to be comforted by Jason, and in a different situation and environment, it would have been a very good feeling, indeed. “I can’t stand this waiting. I thought it would be easier—go quicker—if we came down here, but now, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t have stayed at the house. What if Jimmy came home and I wasn’t there?”

  Jason shook his head. “Don’t do this to yourself. Please, come sit back down. We’ll give it another thirty minutes or so, and if Officer O’Brady hasn’t called in by then, we’ll go back to your place. Okay?”

  Cheryl took a deep breath and tried to steady her emotions. She knew she needed to remain calm—for Jimmy, and for whatever else might happen before this awful night finally came to an end. “Okay.”

  Jason saw the desk sergeant talking on the phone and staring at them. Was he imagining that? He didn’t know anymore. He turned away for a moment and led Cheryl back to the hard, wooden bench. When he sat down, he glanced over again at the desk sergeant. “Okay, that’s not my imagination. He’s definitely talking to someone about us.” He held his breath when the sergeant came around the counter and walked over to them.

  “Miss Crennan?” he spoke quietly. “Officer O’Brady just checked in; he should be here in about 10 minutes and has asked that you wait for him in his office—over here, please.” He led them to an empty room. “May I get you some coffee, or water?”

  Cheryl shook her head. “No, thank you. Did Officer O’Brady tell you anything? Did he find my son? Is he alright?”

  The sergeant’s lips pursed. “Please wait here, Miss Crennan—it shouldn’t be long. Officer O’Brady will answer your questions then.” He closed the door behind him.

  Cheryl’s eyes showed panic and she grabbed Jason’s arm tightly. “This can’t be good, Jason. They brought us in here because they have bad news, don’t they?”

  “We don’t know that, Cheryl. Please don’t go down that road. We’ll have some answers soon.”

  Rae Blankenship returned home at six-thirty and found Prissy sitting in the darkened kitchen. She flipped on the lights and dropped her fur coat on the kitchen table as she pranced past the maid. “Hang this up, Prissy. Whatever are you doing sitting in the dark, anyway? Are you that dumb that you forgot to turn on some lights?”

  Prissy raised her head and threw back her narrow shoulders. She pushed herself up from the kitchen chair and stared at the woman who had made her life miserable for the past four—almost five—years. “I’s been trying to reach you, Miz Blankenship.”

  Rae lifted her nose in the air and turned to go upstairs. “Well, not that I need to explain anything to you, but I had my phone off for a couple of hours. I was at…a gallery opening…and certainly didn’t want my cell phone going off during that. What did you want—another day off, perhaps?”

  Prissy turned to face her employer’s wife—that was how she thought of Rae Blankenship. “No, ma’am, that’s not why I’s was trying to reach you…”

  Rae waited for the old woman to continue, but when she didn’t respond quickly enough, she turned and started up the stairs. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Prissy. By the time you get around to telling me whatever it is you want to tell me, it will already be tomorrow. I’m tired. Please fix me a sandwich and some soup and bring it to the master suite. I’m going to soak in the tub for an hour.”

  “You need to get back down here, Miz Blankenship.”

  Rae snapped around and walked slowly toward Prissy. “What did you say to me, Prissy?”

  Prissy did not attempt to hide the contempt from her face. “The hospital—Floyd Medical Center—called an hour or so ago. The police took Mr. B. to the hospital. They said he almost drowned and that you should get there as quick as you can.” Prissy squared her shoulders and continued to stare back at Rae. “I waited till you got home so I’s could tell you face-to-face. I’ll call a cab to come pick me up and take me to the hospital, so I’s can be with Mr. B.”

  Rae was speechless—which had not happened very often in her life time. “What happened?”

  “I’s don’t know all the facts. All I know is the police found him at the lake house—in the lake—in this cold weather. It’s a wonder he survived in that icy water.” Prissy walked over to the phone and punched in the number for a local cab company—she knew the number by heart. She gave them her address and hung up. “Will I be seeing you at the hospital, Miz Blankenship?”

  “Well, it’s probably nothing, Prissy. He probably just slipped or something, and couldn’t have been in the water for long. The lake house, you said?”

  “Yes ma’am. It was a place that Mr. and Mrs. B. spent a lot of time at, whenever they could. They taught Kirk how to fish there. They were all very happy together at the lake house. He probably needed to be there today, especially.”

  “Why? What’s so special about today?”

  Prissy turned the collar up on her long, winter coat and turned to face Rae. “Because today is the anniversary of Miz Elizabeth’s death. Mr. B. probably needed to get away for a few hours, by himself.”

  Rae retrieved her coat from the kitchen table and put it on. She grabbed her purse and keys and moved past Prissy. “I could care less how happy they all were at the lake house, Prissy. Lock up behind you, and, for Heaven’s sake—leave some lights on.”

  Thomas had to call Dispatch for a third time after he pulled Stella’s body from the lake. He had thought that Ernest Blankenship was heavy and hard to pull up the ladder, but after a second dive into the frigid lake, he was praying for more of the “extra” help he had experienced earlier with Blankenship. He managed to drag Stella’
s body onto the dock, but his energy was almost depleted when he tried to haul up the heavy concrete block that had been attached to her leg chain.

  He didn’t bother attempting with CPR when he saw the bullet hole in Stella’s forehead. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Stella. What did you get yourself into?”

  Back up and forensics made it to the lake house in record time, and immediately went to work taking fingerprints and samples from both inside and outside the lake house. Thomas caught up with the gurney as Ernest Blankenship was being loaded into the ambulance; the man had regained consciousness and was asking for the officer who saved him.

  “I’m right here, Mr. Blankenship. Everything is going to be fine; you’re going to be fine. They’re taking you to the hospital. We’ll contact your family and let them know what’s going on.” He paused but he knew time was of the essence. “Who did this? I don’t think you fell into that lake by yourself, and I know the woman we found did not go willingly either. Can you tell me who did this?

  Ernest pulled the officer closer and managed two words before he lost consciousness again. “My son…”

  Thomas immediately called in an APB for Kirk Blankenship, age 16, thought to be driving his father’s 2016 black Land Cruiser. He noted that the suspect was thought to be dangerous and, most likely, was armed with a weapon. He also reported that 14-year old Jimmy Crennan might, also, be in the vehicle with Blankenship.

  He called the station to report in and was told that Cheryl was waiting for him, and that a bloody jacket had been found in Michael’s truck. Thomas clinched his jaws tight and left the forensic team to finish up what they needed to do. He told the detective in charge of Norman Weissman’s murder to wrap things up for him.

  It had been a long day, and it was proving to be an even longer night.

  Kirk had driven mindlessly for hours. He kept turning the day’s events over and over inside his head. This was not the plan. This was not the way he had planned for things to end. Yes, he intended to get rid of the old woman, but he had not planned on shooting her. He wished now he had never taken the gun from his father’s gun cabinet; if he hadn’t taken the gun, everything might have turned out much differently. He tried to formulate another plan as he continued driving, but nothing was taking definitive form. The truth was—he had no plan—no idea of what to do next.