Murder on the Mullet Express

by Gwen Mayo

  Mitch grabbed the edge of the roof through the open window and pulled his upper torso up and out of it. He braced his shoulder against the back edge of the door frame. “Go left!” he shouted.

  “Don’t shoot at the passengers!” she ordered. “Aim for the wheels!”

  “Got it!” He fired, gripping the gun with both hands. The kick knocked him awry, but Teddy grabbed his jacket before he could tumble out.

  Ahead of them, each vehicle attempted to push the other off the road at speeds that were unsafe for the best of highways. Dust and flying pieces of shell made it difficult to tell whether one had an advantage over the other. The Oldsmobile was heavier, but whoever was behind the steering wheel of the Ford knew how to drive. She would have appreciated his skill more if her uncle were not his prisoner.

  Cornelia swore as a large chunk of seashell hit the window just above the steering wheel, fracturing the glass. Lines ran in all directions, further restricting visibility. “You’ll have to do better than that to stop me,” she shouted, flooring the Cadillac and ramming the Ford from behind.

  Mitch groaned.

  “Pipe down,” Cornelia snapped, ramming the Ford again. “We’ve got him boxed in. Take out one of his tires.”

  Mitch braced himself again and fired three shots in quick succession. At least one of them hit its mark, sending the Ford careening toward the swamp and dragging the front bumper of the Oldsmobile with it. The cloud of blue smoke and the scent of burning rubber told her that only a strong foot on the brakes was keeping the rest of the Olds out of the swamp.

  Cornelia pulled to the side of the road and stopped behind the Oldsmobile. Chago and his companion Salvador emerged from it. The siren gave one last half-scream as the sheriff’s car pulled up beside them. The light was starting to fade, but she could still see the anger lining Bowden’s face.

  Before either of them said a word, the door of the Ford opened and Tiny folded himself out of the wrecked car - shotgun in hand - and let out a scream, followed by a string of curses. His shotgun slipped from his fingers and splashed into the brackish water. Tiny cursed again.

  There was a loud sucking noise as the large man wrenched one big foot from the muck and took another step toward solid ground. He didn’t scream quite as loud but the string of curses grew longer with each step he took.

  Sheriff Bowen got out of his car and waited, gun drawn, for the big man to lumber to the bank. There was no need to wade into the swamp after him; nobody could run in a swamp full of black mangroves.

  About halfway to shore, the swamp claimed one of his shoes. Tiny whimpered, looking from the car to the Sheriff and back again.

  Cesare was no help. From the interior of the car, they could hear a different group of curses. The back seat passenger was pummeling his other captor with something block-shaped and black. Cesare flung open the door on his side. “Basta! Enough! I surrender already!”

  Mitch took pity on Tiny. He pulled a thick blanket from under the seat and walked over to the edge of the swamp. “This won’t make it easy to walk through the pencil roots, but it should keep them from ripping your ankles to shreds,” he said, as he shook out the blanket and spread it over the water.

  Tiny took one careful step, winced and took another.

  Just as he collapsed on the bank, a car pulled in beside the sheriff’s, windows open.

  Cornelia heard the unmistakable sound of a pump action shotgun being racked.

  “We don’t want trouble, Sheriff,” the graveled voice of the weapon’s owner boomed. “Just lay your gun on the ground and stand there nice and quiet. The rest of you mugs do the same.”

  Bowden hesitated, and a second shotgun racked.

  He laid his gun on the ground.

  “Wise choice, Sheriff,” one of the men said. “We don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Now that’s not a nice way to talk to a couple of peace lovin’ citizens. Joe and me came all the way from Ybor City to bring the birthday boy’s movin’ picture to his party. The boss had it developed for him as a special gift.”

  Sheriff Bowden’s eyes widened. “You have the professor’s film?”

  There was a deep chuckle. “We do, but it seems the party’s moved. Can’t say much about the location, but watchin’ Tiny squirm makes for some fine entertainment.”

  The passenger side door opened briefly, then closed again. “This ain’t the most exciting picture show I’ve seen, but the boss thinks you’ll enjoy some of the more interesting moments. We’ll just leave it right here on the shoulder and be on our way.”

  Shells ground again as the car wheeled backwards at an angle, then turned south. It roared into life, and sped away. A brown paper parcel sat beside the road. For a few seconds they all stared at the package, then rushed to claim the prize.

  Tiny didn’t make it far. Knowing how angry Leo was going to be kept him going, but walking thirty-odd feet through brackish swamp water and black mangrove spikes had taken its toll on him. He hated Florida.

  Chapter 14

  That evening, Mitch drove the film maker and his nurses to the Homosassa Hotel for a private viewing of the film. Cornelia’s uncle was too excited to stay still. He took out his pocket watch and checked it against the one above the hotel desk, then walked back to the door to see if Sheriff Bowden was in the parking lot.

  "He's late," the professor grumbled.

  "By two minutes."

  The sheriff’s arrival saved them from another lecture on punctuality.

  “I’ve made all the arrangements with the manager,” Bowden said. “He’s going to let us have one of the drawing rooms.”

  Cornelia nodded. There was no need to ask for details about the case; those were all over New and Old Homosassa. She had been pummeled with questions about the car chase and kidnapping when she returned to her hotel. Everyone there knew that Tiny Belluchi’s automobile had to be pulled from the swamp and that he and Cesare were arrested on the spot.

  At dinner, every conversation in town was about the sheriff, the professor’s movie, the kidnapping, and city boys who didn’t have the good sense to stay put when they landed in a Florida bayou. By dessert, they knew that between the black mangroves and mussel shells, Mr. Belluchi’s feet had taken quite a battering. The sheriff had to send for the town doctor, who was now available. Word was, Tiny would be lucky if he didn’t have to attend his arraignment in a wheelchair.

  During the ladies’ meal at the Riverside Lodge, Susie relayed news of how the deputy sent to the hotel to bring Mazzi in arrived too late. Leo had checked out long before the lawman arrived, and nobody knew where he’d gone. The sheriff had men searching, of course, but when a man like Leonardo Mazzi didn’t want to be found, the odds of locating him were pretty slim.

  The room the concierge led them into was set up for a small party, not a criminal investigation. Comfortable chairs were positioned with good views of the screen, and two low tables held trays of cheese, crackers, and petit-fours within easy reach of the guests.

  “Would you prefer ice water or coffee for the viewing?” the young man asked.

  They looked at one another. “Both,” the professor said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  After Edward left, the sheriff grinned. “Best appointed office I ever had. I could solve all my crimes if I had a place like this.”

  The beverages arrived with the projectionist. The hotel had stipulated that a trained employee run their equipment; Bowden had stipulated that the man be of trustworthy character and sworn to secrecy. The latter was amenable to everyone involved.

  “I can’t wait to see how the mountains in Tennessee came out,” Teddy said.

  “You’ll need to wait a little longer,” the professor said. “The sheriff is only interested in the rolls I’ve shot since we arrived in Florida.”

  “But I want to see what my new winter coat looks like on film.”

  “As do I,” said Uncle Percival, “since it was m
y gift. But the sheriff is more concerned with content than style.”

  The projectionist dimmed the lights in the theater. A moment later, the screen lit up with the featured film for a very select group.

  A black-and-white Teddy stood beside a sign reading, “Welcome to Florida”. She smiled and gestured to the words. On the other side stood a stolid Cornelia with one hand on her hip.

  “Gray hair and dress,” the professor said. “You don’t suffer much from lack of color, Corny.”

  Cornelia resisted the urge to kick him in the shin.

  “How long do you think it will be before the film gets to Homosassa, sir?”

  “Not long, Sheriff. There was the stop in Gainesville, then the shots I took in Ocala when we made our unexpected visit. After that comes some film of the Mullet Express.”

  “You’ll want to pay close attention to that part,” Teddy said. “Cornelia captured the fight on film.”

  “That might be of evidentiary use,” Bowden said. He turned in his seat to the projectionist. “Is there a way to move faster to that part of the movie?”

  “Yes, sir.” The room darkened while the young man worked with the reel. “Let’s try this.”

  Cornelia recognized the hotel from Ocala. Teddy posed again, this time clasping a sun hat to her curls. Peter Rowley stood nearby with an amused expression on his face.

  “You’re getting close,” the professor said. “That was Sunday.”

  “Should I try going further up?”

  “Not a good idea,” Pettijohn said. “You’re likely to overshoot.”

  They watched silently through several minutes of posing and panning. Uncle Percival seemed to like doing long left-to-right shots.

  Now the train dominated the screen. The camera eye began at the dark engine with wisps of steam emanating from its body, then shifted to the passenger cars and its tiny windows, and finally to the baggage car and caboose. Suddenly, they were looking at the professor’s back as he approached the conductor.

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s where Cornelia took over, Professor.” Teddy watched as her film counterpart posed, then hiked her skirt. “Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to show so much of my knees. Will that prejudice the court?”

  Bowden chuckled. “I don’t think so, ma’am. Many girls visiting the beach show more than that. Of course, the beach censors frequently escort them off the beach if the suit is more than six inches above the knee.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Young men get the same treatment for when they show up in those new suits with removable vests. People in Florida want to take their children to the beach. We don’t cotton to topless swimming. We’ve had so many local ordinances passed, that the state is considering new legislation regulating beachwear.”

  “Look!” the projectionist shouted. “The fight’s started!”

  They all leaned forward, watching Hofstetter and the dead man exchange blows. It was more dramatic to Cornelia than the tiny view through the camera had been. She watched the crowd gathering soundlessly, the railmen dropping their loads and running to the battle. Mouths moved, but nothing was audible.

  The men were pulled apart. The conductor spoke to each of them, but no words could be heard.

  “I wish this had sound,” Bowden said.

  “I can read lips,” Teddy said. “They didn’t want the police called.”

  “Nor did Mr. Janzen desire to swear a complaint,” the professor added.

  Bowden gave them both the stinkeye. “That should be easy to confirm with the conductor.”

  The camera’s eye made another trip along the train.

  “There’s Rowley getting in the back car,” the professor said. “It doesn’t look like he was anywhere near Janzen. I remain the chief suspect.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” Cornelia said, staring at the figures near the baggage car. “Could you pause the film?”

  The projectionist nodded and did what he was asked.

  Cornelia stood up and moved closer to the screen.

  “What are you looking at Miss Pettijohn?” Bowden asked.

  “That,” she said, pointing to the figures near the baggage car. “Do you recognize it?”

  Bowden got up and walked over to where she was standing. He stared at the screen for a moment and then let out a long low whistle. “I’ll be a goose’s uncle. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

  “Are we finished?” the projectionist asked, after watching the sheriff study the film from different angles.

  Sheriff Bowden didn’t seem to hear him. “It isn’t proof, you know.”

  Cornelia nodded. “But…”

  Bowden held up one hand. “I’m not arguing with you, Miss Pettijohn, but by itself it’s not enough. Unless you’ve got pictures of the two of them together, a good lawyer would make sure a jury never sees your uncle’s film.”

  “Sheriff,” the projectionist said.

  “No, we are not finished. You can start the film again when Miss Pettijohn and I are back in our seats.” Then he turned to the professor. “That is, if the scene you described on the loading platform is on this reel.”

  “No that was two reels later.”

  “Then let’s load that one.”

  The projectionist looked at the stack of film canisters and back at them. “Which reel am I looking for?”

  “The one that starts with the alligators,” the professor said.

  The young man opened one canister, unrolled a foot or so of film, and held it up to the light. He frowned, set that reel aside and opened the next one. Two attempts later he found the professor’s gators and laced them into the projector.

  After a moment or two of watching alligators snap at each other and chase the cheeky pelicans that tried to horn in on their fish-head feast, the sheriff asked him to move ahead to the train footage.

  Any doubts about the accuracy of the professor’s memory were banished by his movie. The film played out the body dump exactly as he had described when he was sitting in the Crystal River Jail. Sheriff Bowden alternated between watching the familiar story unfold on screen and casting puzzled looks at the professor.

  When the reel ended, the sheriff took Cornelia aside. “Your uncle confuses me, ma’am. I can understand the need to focus on what you’re doing. My boys used to drive me to distraction when I was trying to work on a report. But this is a murder. How can you see and not notice a murder twenty feet away?”

  “I’ve asked myself similar questions many times. There’s no answer,” she replied. “Sometimes I think he was born blessed with luck because God knew he needed more than his fair share to keep from wandering into traffic.”

  The sheriff chuckled.

  “What are you going to do now?” Cornelia asked.

  “Since Cesare and Tiny are already in custody for kidnapping, I don’t imagine it will be hard to add a murder charge.”

  “What about their boss, Leo Mazzi?”

  “Arresting Mr. Mazzi is easier said than done. He hasn’t been seen since our adventure earlier today.”

  The projectionist handed the sheriff the stack of film canisters. “The two reels you watched are on top.”

  “Thanks. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Pettijohn, the prosecutor will have my hide if I don’t get these locked up before I go home.”

  Deputy Andy arrived at Cornelia’s door the following morning with his hat in one hand and a note from the sheriff in the other. “I hope I didn’t wake you, ma’am.”

  “Young man, I’m used to rising early. The army doesn’t have much use for layabouts.”

  His ears turned pink. “The sheriff asked me to bring you this.” He handed her the note and stood waiting while she read.

  Miss Pettijohn,

  Dani Hegstad was picked up last night in Jacksonville, trying to board a northbound train. My son left to pick him up as soon as we were notified. He believes they will be back in Inverness by noon.

  If you’re still willing to tr
anslate, I could use help.

  - Bowden

  “Tell him I will be in his office at noon.”

  “Thanks Ma’am.”

  As soon as the deputy left, Cornelia woke Teddy. “I’m going down to the desk and call Mitch. Would you like to have breakfast with me before I leave?”

  Teddy sat up. “I thought you were going bird watching this morning. Did the birds sleep in?”

  Cornelia handed Teddy the note.

  “Oh. How exciting. Can I watch you grill the suspect?”

  “I’m not grilling anyone. I’m just going to help the boy understand the sheriff’s questions and the sheriff understand his answers. It will probably be dreadfully boring.”

  Teddy rested her hand on Cornelia’s knee. “No, dear. Listening to your uncle tell us what he filmed was boring. In comparison, this will be quite thrilling.”

  Cornelia had to concede the point. It took all her willpower to stay awake through his monologues.

  “You can come if you want, but it is going to be a long day. When the train gets back, I intend to locate that baggage man. He may know more than he thinks about Mr. Janzen’s demise.”

  “Don’t you think the sheriff will question him?’

  “Of course he will, but it is not his family in trouble. I want to find what he knows for myself.”

  This was the second night in a row that the projectionist had come in to show the old coot’s movie. At least it was earlier and there was only one canister of film this time. Sheriff Bowden had explained exactly where he wanted the film to start. Meanwhile, several more seats were being arranged for the viewing. Aside from the hotel staff, only Sheriff Bowden and one of the locals were in the room.

  He wiped the sweat from his palms on the front of his vest and opened the film canister. It only took a moment to find the scene the sheriff wanted and lace it into the projector. When he was done, he nodded to Bowden. The sheriff got up and opened the door. Thankfully, he also turned on the big overhead fan. The whir of the electric motor and the gentle breeze calmed his nerves. He wasn't sure why he was nervous; maybe it was the way the sheriff and his companion watched those entering the room. It was like thunderclouds building over the river. The air was charged. Sooner or later, the storm was going to break.