I smiled, although I wasn’t sure that was a compliment.
“I know Bob Tatum brought you back from New York to meet his parents. I took one look at you and I knew why. I’ve known Bob all his life. He’s a fine man. I know he volunteered to be a medic the same day I volunteered to fight the Nazis. What I don’t know is why you would come here with him.”
The sheriff was pretty sharp. I’d be better off sticking to the facts. I sighed. “I have a loving nature. My boyfriend in New York, Frank, was not a nice man. To tell the truth, he ran a mob, and made money from politics, loan sharking and blackmail. Frank took advantage of my loving nature and snapped some photos of me loving some well-known people. He planned on hitting them up for dough, which, in the long run, didn’t look good for me. Frank could take care of himself, but some heavy hitters might get it in their heads that they’d be safer if I was out of the picture, so to speak. So I hired a P.I. Somehow he got the negatives. I knew Frank would be upset, and that could be really bad for my health. The P.I. worked faster than I expected, so I needed to get away quickly and quietly. I knew I could trust Bob. He would never sell me out. I let him take me out of town.”
“And Iowa isn’t quite what you thought it would be.”
I looked at my hands. As a combat veteran, the sheriff had seen plenty of things in Europe that his neighbors would never even dream about. He might have a more sophisticated attitude than most people in the area.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “The Tatums are fine people and Bob is a real gentleman. I just don’t know if I was cut out for living here. I’ve talked it over with Bob and he agrees that it would be best for both of us to just be friends. I expect to go back to New York pretty soon. As nice as this town is, the only ones here wearing tassels are ears of corn.”
“We don’t have that many strippers,” admitted Allen.
“I got excited when I heard about swap meets, but it’s not where you meet and swap partners.”
“The only stud fees we pay around here are for pure-bred bulls,” he added.
I batted my lashes. “Once I got really got my hopes up when Bob suggested that we sneak out to be together late at night. He said if I brought the bait, he’d bring the pole.”
“Let me guess. He took you to his favorite fishing hole.”
I nodded and stepped closer to him. “You know, Sheriff, I haven’t lost that loving nature. I could show you sometime. You probably know where the haystacks are. We could go for a roll in the hay.”
“I don’t know if my wife would go along with that.”
“Tell her she’s invited, too.”
Sheriff Allen smiled. “I might just do that. I wonder what she’d say.”
“Take it from me, Sheriff, you’ll never know until you ask.”
“Miss Terry, I promise I will give that my full consideration. Let me get back to you on that.”
I lowered my eyelids and looked at him through my lashes. I sighed. It was time to get back to business.
“Sheriff, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure thing.”
“Do you think you can find the robber?”
“If he’s anywhere in the area, I can.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Miss Terry, there aren’t many people in this part of the state. We take quite an interest in whoever is around, especially a stranger. I already put out bulletins. Unless the robber high-tailed it out of here, sooner or later somebody will tell me where he is.”
* * * *
As planned, I met Bennie at ten on the deserted street outside the bank.
“The last time I saw you before the bank job, you were collecting debts for Frank,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“When you disappeared from New York, Frank got real mad. We looked all over for you. I came into his office early one morning and found the door to the safe wide open. It was empty. Right then the cops busted down the door and told me Frank was dead. Some of the boys thought I had cleaned out the strong box.”
“Maybe the cops took the blackmail photos.”
“Nah, they would’ve sold them back to us. Cops don’t have the patience to do decent blackmail work.”
I had to admit that was true.
“It got so hot for me in New York that I had to hop a train. I came out to my granny’s farm. I hide in the barn all day so nobody sees me. I can’t go anywhere without stepping in pig shit. You’re a smart girl, Roxie. Help me out. I thought if I robbed the bank I might have enough money to get away, or they might send me to prison and I’d meet somebody who could tell me what to do. I met Frank in prison and he let me work for him.”
“How much money did you get?” I asked.
“Almost eight hundred or almost nine hundred. I don’t count so good. What should I do? I could leave here, but where would I go and what would I do when I got there?”
“First, you need to give me the money.”
Bennie hesitated. I raised my eyebrows.
“Do you want to figure this out on your own?” I asked. Bennie handed over the sack. Why can’t all my boyfriends act like Bennie?
“I’ll talk to the sheriff. Maybe you can turn yourself in.”
“I don’t know,” said Bennie. “I’m not a squealer, even on myself.”
“Okay.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe he could catch you.”
“That’s better.”
“Bennie, meet me here at the same time in two days. Let me see what I can arrange.”
I stopped by the sheriff’s office the next day.
“Did you make any progress on the robbery?” I asked.
“I’m starting to get reports about strangers. So far, they’re just hobos or folks passing through, but it won’t take much longer. There is one more thing that’s strange, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Carl Elkins, the bank president, estimates the robber made off with twenty thousand dollars.”
My legs felt shaky. I looked for a chair and sat down.
“You picked up that bag,” said the Sheriff. “Was it as big as the one Santa Claus carries?”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t think so. That much money wouldn’t fit in a regular bag. I know that weeks ago the bank auditors scheduled a visit for next Friday. It seems to me that the bank is in trouble.”
“Do you think that the bank president set up the robbery?”
“No, but he’s trying to take advantage of it. The bank records will sink him in the end. He’s just stalling. My guess is that he’s been making bad loans and taking a little out of the till for a long time. He’s been on the phone all night, getting pledges from successful farmers and business owners. There’s a reward of a thousand dollars for the capture of the robber.”
“That’s more than . . .”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “More than?”
“More than enough to get people out carrying guns and looking for the robber. It could turn dangerous.”
“I know, but what can I do about it?”
“I have an idea.”
* * * *
Thursday evening at five forty-two, Sarah Elkins left home to attend choir practice at Covenant Presbyterian Church. At five fifty, Bennie slipped through the back door of the banker’s house with the sheriff and me close behind. Bennie walked quietly into the library while the sheriff and I waited in the hall. Carl Elkins sat at his desk staring at a ledger.
“Which set of books is that, Mr. Banker?” Bennie raised his gun. “Is that the one that shows how less than a thousand dollars becomes twenty thousand?”
Elkins pointed his finger at Bennie. “You’re the robber.”
“I’m one of the robbers,” said Bennie. “I’m the one who used a gun. You’re the one who cooked the books. As long as I’m on the hook for twenty thousand, I might as well have that much. Where is it?”
I was impressed that Bennie remembered what I told him to say.
“You fool
,” said Elkins. “It’s long gone in bad loans and uncollectible bills.”
Bennie laughed. “You’re the fool if you think I believe that. The robbery gave you perfect cover to make another personal withdrawal. I’ll take that money.”
Elkins cursed.
“I could just kill you and search on my own,” Bennie said.
“It’s in the drawer to my right.”
“Open the drawer slowly. Tell me now if there’s a gun in there.”
“Only money.”
“Move away from the desk.” Bennie walked to the desk and looked into the open drawer.
Elkins dived at Bennie, grabbed his wrist and wrenched the gun out of his hand. Panting, Elkins turned the gun on Bennie.
“That’s enough, Carl.” The sheriff stepped into the room.
“It’s the bank robber,” Elkins said. “I caught him sneaking into my house. He said he’s already sent the money he took in the robbery to his friends out of state. He, he came here to kill me so I can’t identify him.”
“It won’t work, Carl,” said the sheriff. “I heard everything.”
Elkins looked at the gun in his hand as if he’d never seen one before. He lifted it slowly.
“Carl, don’t.”
Elkins pointed the gun at Bennie. Then he swung it around toward Allen. His hand shook as he put the barrel in his mouth.
“Carl,” said the sheriff.
Elkins pulled the trigger. The hammer landed with a click on an empty chamber. Elkins dropped the gun and stood without moving while the sheriff handcuffed him.
When I came into the sheriff’s office the next day, Bennie was in one of the cells, whistling while he tried to teach Elkins how to play slap jack. I dropped the sack of money from the bank on the sheriff’s desk.
“How much is it?”
“Eight hundred thirty seven dollars.”
“A search of the house turned up less than that. I’ll bet the audit will show that the bank didn’t keep enough cash on hand. With the robbery solved, the FDIC will cover everybody’s deposits. People will be okay. Thanks for talking Bennie into telling you where he hid the money. Thanks for bringing it in.”
“I’ll be satisfied with my half of the reward.”
Sheriff Allen smiled at me. “Half? I’m not eligible for the reward, so you’ll get the whole amount in the next couple of days. I expect you’ll head back to New York after that.”
“I suppose so. Bob is an awful nice guy, but I don’t think I’m a small town girl. With my old boyfriend out of the picture, there’s nothing keeping me from going back to New York.”
“I’m glad you can stay or go as you please. Oh, my wife heard about the bank robbery. I’m sure it must be the talk of the county. She told me to invite you to dinner tonight.”
I stepped closer to him and smiled. “And after dinner? For dessert?”
“As a beautiful, smart young woman from the big city once said to me, Roxie, you’ll never know until you ask.”
Warren Bull is the award-winning author of Abraham Lincoln for the Defense (PublishAmerica 2003, SmashWords 2010), a short story collection, Murder Manhattan Style (Ninth Month Publihsing, 2010), and more than a 20 short stories. His web site is WarrenBull.com. He is proud to be a Mister in Crime.
SOMETHING FISHY, by Peggy Ehrhart
It’s a perfect night for a moonlit cruise around Manhattan. Add a shipboard wedding and a wedding reception with some good blues, courtesy of yours truly and friends, and what could be nicer?
“How about some champagne?” Josh Bergman calls, raising a champagne flute. He’s leaning against the ship’s railing, elegant in a tux, cummerbund, bow tie, the whole works. I make my way toward him, swaying from the combination of the river’s waves and my rhinestone-strap spike-heeled sandals. I pulled them out of the back of my closet this morning as soon as I hung up the phone. They go great with my silver lamé sheath dress from the Rescue Mission Thrift Shop.
“Thanks for filling in at the last minute,” Josh says. The condos of northern New Jersey slip by as the ship heads south, lights on the shore just starting to come on as twilight deepens late on this June evening. We’ll end up right back where we started though, Arianna and Karl having become man and wife on our circuit of the island.
Josh smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s been a fixture on the New York music scene forever, but he doesn’t seem to age. His explanation is that the blues keep him young.
“No problem,” I say. “But is Belle going to recover?” She’s the singer who usually does wedding gigs with Josh’s band.
He shrugs and looks pensive for a minute. “It’s nothing physical, and she has good days and bad days. But she can’t seem to pull herself out of it. Splitting up with Tom really wiped her out.”
We’re on the back deck setting up for the reception while the guests cluster around the bar inside, waiting for the bride to emerge from the master stateroom for the ceremony.
“All set,” says the drummer, a guy named Robby. With a satisfied sigh, he gives a last twist to the bolt that connects his biggest cymbal to its stand, then climbs up onto his stool and tests the snare with an experimental tap. “What do you say we warm up? Somebody call one.”
Josh sets the champagne flute on his amp and reaches for the gleaming black Stratocaster balanced in a stand nearby. “Blues?”
“Do you have to ask?” says Phil. He grabs his bass from its stand and ducks as he pulls the strap over his head.
“Got your harps, man?” Josh nods toward Tom, the fourth member of the combo, who’s just rounded the corner with a champagne flute in one hand.
Tom rummages in a small black satchel and brings up a handful of harmonicas. “Ready to go.”
“‘Everyday I’ve Got the Blues.’” Josh settles his guitar strap around his neck and twitches his shoulders as he balances the guitar to his satisfaction. I adjust the mike stand to the height I need for my five feet nine inches plus the spike heels. When I look up, Josh catches my eye. “B flat okay for you, Maxx?”
“More than okay. It’s the only key I can do it in.”
“Can’t do B flat,” Tom says. “I just brought the harps I thought I’d need tonight.”
“No big deal,” Josh replies. “‘Sweet Home Chicago’ then. In E.”
And we’re off, Josh launching the tune with a classic blues turnaround, notes chiming in silvery pairs, ending up with a satisfying chord fingered one string at a time. I sing a couple of verses and the guys take solos, even Phil and Robby. As we wind down and Josh finishes things off with one last solo, the rear deck starts filling up with people, drifting back to take their places in the neat rows of seats that flank an aisle leading to a flower-bedecked arch against the back railing.
The guys play a bluesy version of the Wedding March while I settle into a seat in the back row and study the set list. Everything on it looks familiar except the tune that starts the second set, something called “Fish.” But the bride’s going to sit in with the band for that one so it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a clue what it is.
I look up when Arianna makes her grand entrance, solo, gliding up the aisle toward Karl, her waiting groom, tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored tux. Her dress is a strapless number, white of course, with an elegant skirt tucked up in little puffs and sweeping the deck of the ship. Her dark hair is arranged in a smooth updo, and a wreath of tiny white orchids holds a gauzy veil in place. It doesn’t hide her face though—Arianna would never go for that. The veil simply floats over her bare shoulders and all the way to the hem of her dress.
As soon as Arianna and Karl are pronounced man and wife, the party begins, with the caterers popping champagne corks and filling champagne flutes as we kick things off with “She’s Into Something.” In no time the chairs are folded and whisked away and the dancing starts with an abandon that soon has guys tossing their jackets aside and women stepping out of their fancy shoes.
Arianna is boogying as best she can in the
elaborate dress, holding up the skirt with both hands as her feet sketch quick patterns in time to the beat. She’s even left the veil on. The river breezes catch it from time to time and it billows aloft or drifts across her gorgeous face.
Karl can’t take his eyes off her, and a lot of the other guys are watching her too, more closely than they’re watching their own partners.
But as Josh steps up to the mike to report that the band’s about to take a short break—and that Arianna’s got the first song when we return, she tugs off the veil, taking the pretty little wreath of orchids with it, and announces that she’s got to change into something she can actually dance in.
* * * *
The break stretches longer than I expect. The guests have all gone back inside to hang around the bar—unless you’re dancing it’s actually a little chilly. The other musicians have wandered off, too, except for Josh, who’s noodling quietly on his guitar. It’s dark now, as dark as it ever gets in New York with so much light radiating from the city. Along the shore, the city’s workaday grunge has been transformed to twinkly magic, Brooklyn on one side and Manhattan on the other.
The bride’s sister, Arlene, reels around the corner. “Is she back here hanging around with the musicians?” she says, hands on hips and a frown carved into her otherwise pretty brow. Beauty runs in the family.
“Who? There’s nobody here but Maxx,” says Josh, aiming his guitar neck at me.
“You haven’t seen her?” The frown becomes deeper, for real now, not the mock exasperation it was before.
She whirls around and starts down the narrow aisle that leads along the side of the cabin to the forward deck. Then she stops and utters a startled cry, gazing down into the water. Her hand reaches for the railing as if she needs the support.
Josh and I hurry toward her, shooting puzzled glances at each other, and when we reach her side, we look into the water.
Arianna floats by, still dressed in her wedding finery. She’s a pale blur poised beneath the surface of the Hudson, pulled down by the heavy dress, soaked through, as the veil spins out behind like a fragile net for some delicate fish.
Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology Page 12