Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  "Blood on them?"

  "No blood. They sat on this side of the desk. Nice and neat. Why would a man with thirty gold coins shoot himself? Unless sleeping with two pushy women did it. I hope not."

  Bubba shrugged, motioning for her to head back to the outer office.

  "When Brenda called, she said you'd want to see records and stuff. I printed out the bank statements, copies of the phone records. Anything else?" She pushed a stack of manila folders toward him.

  "Did he keep an appointment book?"

  "I did. Here's the last three months of it."

  "Address book?"

  "He had one, but it was ruined, so much blood on it. Blood all over the desk, the keys to his Lexus, his desk blotter. I think the sheriff's people took the address book. Anything else you need?"

  "Not at this moment. Thanks for your help."

  She stuck out her hand and they shook. "Call me if there is anything else I can do for you."

  When Bubba opened the door and started out, she asked, "Do you really think I should hire someone and run this thing?"

  "Absolutely. People still have to lease cars. Why not from you?" She smiled and nodded. As Bubba started out of the parking lot, Janeen, standing on the front steps with the tight jeans intertwined and the black stilettos gleaming in the sun, called to him, "I can get you a four-wheel-drive club cab with leather, cheap. Griffith's Lexus there would fit you. Something, anything before that vintage Bronco leaves you stranded."

  "This Bronco was an official Polk County Sheriff's Rescue Squad vehicle. Bought at auction, carefully maintained, and capable of lasting another decade."

  "Or of dying in a cloud of rust the next time you're on a dirt road, twenty miles from nowhere. I'll throw in an extended warranty."

  Bubba drove off. She ought to be able to find a hustler to train, if anyone could.

  He headed for the office to go through the manila folders, but reasoned that since he would be driving past Jackie Jones's office, he might as well stop by and chat. Chatting without notice usually worked well.

  Jackie Jones's office was in a restored Victorian house three blocks up from Lake Howard, a couple of blocks off downtown Winter Haven. Jackie lived on the top floor. The front door opened into a waiting room with opened double French doors that revealed Jackie sitting behind a mahogany desk.

  When Bubba entered, Jackie stood and smiled, saying, "Bubba Simms, how are you? What brings you by?"

  Jackie was medium sized with fading reddish hair, combed over and sprayed in place. Jackie's clothes fit perfectly, and his shoes were freshly polished. Wearing gold-framed glasses, he perpetually seemed to be squinting softly at everything. "Sit down," he said, after shaking Bubba's hand.

  "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd take a chance to talk with you about Griffith Taylor."

  "What a waste."

  "I'm working for Brenda to see if the circumstances of his death do maintain a conclusion of suicide. I'd like to discuss any business dealings he might have had with you. Call Brenda if you like."

  "I will do that to be sure what she needs for me to do." He flipped open a cell phone and pushed one button as he left the room. Bubba could hear the murmur of his voice from the end of the hall. A sunbeam through partially separated drapes illuminated the converted aquarium, about eight feet long, which stood on the far side of the office. On a bed of sand lay a fake wooden treasure chest, tipped open with gold coins flowing out all over the tank.

  "Eight hundred seventy-six," Jackie said as he came back into the room.

  "Huh?"

  "Eight hundred seventy-six. That is how many gold doubloons are in the tank. Of course, they are Krugerrands, not Spanish pieces of eight. This is the twenty-first century, after all. I add another coin each time we reach any goal. The aim is for a thousand someday."

  "At today's price of gold . . ."

  "A pirate's fortune."

  "No one ever tempted to make their fortune the old-fashioned way, stealing yours?"

  "The fortune is in the security. Weight-sensitive, movement-locked, air-current activation. It's not going anywhere. Okay, I promised Brenda that I'd do all I can. Let me have Charles bring in the records." He pushed an intercom button and told Charles to bring Griffith Taylor's records.

  Charles arrived in a moment with a manila folder in his hand. Bubba thought they must have been close by. Jackie introduced Charles and he sat, opening the folder on his lap. Bubba had not met Charles McCray before, though he had heard of him, as Jones Enterprises became a mainstay of Winter Haven's morning gossip at the Haven Cafe. He was bigger than Bubba had expected for a number cruncher and displayed what could have passed for a dueling scar high on the cheek under his left eye. He had a shaven head and the look of a gymnast.

  Charles handed Bubba a set of papers. "I thought it would be easiest if we reviewed these together. Then, if you have questions, ask away."

  Charles started with the first entry, fourteen months before. Griffith had bought a grand's worth of gold, a month later, another grand. He sold similar amounts as time went on. The purchases increased, as did what were called dividends. There was a cash withdrawal of a hundred thousand dollars a week before his death. The last entry was the cashing of thirty gold coins.

  "I'm not sure I understand all of this, but it looks like he doubled his investment a couple of times in less than a year."

  Jackie nodded, a big smile on his face. "Griffith was shrewd, with a great instinct for the market. He is one of our prize stories. Most of our clients are happy with returns that average thirty to forty percent yearly.

  "Most people leave their investments in real gold with us, rather than taking cash. We have over eight thousand Krugerrands stored in our vault for our clients. Would you like to see into the vault?"

  "The pirate chest is impressive enough. What about this hundred grand?"

  "Mr. Taylor cashed out the liquid portion of his holdings. Said he had a debt to pay. But he still retained the Krugerrands," Charles said, with a smile big enough to reveal extensive gold bridgework below the dueling scar. His voice had a slight accent that Bubba couldn't place.

  "Can you briefly explain what Griffith did, or what his investment did, to make this much money?"

  Jackie took off his glasses and began to polish them with a pink cloth square. "We buy, hold, and sell gold in its various forms. From Krugerrands to dental gold to old jewelry. Raw gold, nuggets, any form, any carat, from grams to kilograms. We have contracts with pawn shops to provide them fast cash, with us having the first choice to buy their gold products."

  "Okay, how does that make these kinds of returns?"

  "Gold fluctuates rapidly up and down. Our contracts are more like futures on the commodity market, but in smaller portions without the controlling market regulations. We use our cash liquidity to fund people who need faster cash than banks can supply. We have contacts all over the nation that call us with deals. We have developed a computer program that takes all the prices and fluctuations and shows us where to go next."

  "So Griffith gave you cash and you bought gold, sold it, made fifty percent return?"

  "I understand your suspicion. Griffith was different. Charles, point out the trading." Charles reached over and pointed at two columns with dates and prices. "Griffith used our computer program to buy and sell on his command, not ours. More risk, but higher returns. He was gifted, had that feel for people's emotions. The market is more psychological than analytical. There were days he went in and out several times, made a chunk each time. We were tempted to follow him, but that doesn't work well." Jackie chuckled. Charles asked with his eyes if Bubba understood. Bubba nodded.

  "Where did the hundred grand go, Jackie?"

  "I couldn't say. If I had to guess, without casting aspersions on the deceased, gambling debts. Griffith would have already been rich if he could've stopped paying cards at the Elks Club. His reading of emotions did not go far enough at the card table. If we could have kept him focused on
gold fluctuations, we would all have been better off."

  "What are these five-hundred dollar credits? They're a regular item."

  "Bonuses for bringing in investors. Griffith worked hard. People liked him."

  "Did you talk to him the night he died?"

  "We talked a couple of times about investors ready to join us. We talked about some changes in the computer program. Remember his ideas, Charles?"

  "Absolutely. He was weak on the actual numbers but his feel for rhythms was uncanny. He had built-in algorithms."

  There was a silence for a few moments, till Bubba broke it. "Thank you both for your help. I'll get out of your hair. I'm sure you have people coming by, bringing money." Everyone laughed. Bubba stood, and they all shook. Bubba started out, paused, "Charles, where are you from? There's a slight accent I'm not used to."

  "Charles was born in South Africa. Worked the gold industry there. Came to the U.S. when the climate changed. Traveled all over America meeting people who worked in gold, looking for an opportunity. And loves Winter Haven now, don't you?"

  "So many opportunities for people who want to work really hard, take chances. Not let others stand in the way."

  "Charles is very determined to be rich. As are most people here in Winter Haven. Together we will make it. The treasure chest will have its thousand Krugerrands one day soon. Care to join us?"

  Bubba laughed, "I buy my lottery ticket every Saturday. If it's meant to be, it might happen."

  Bubba climbed into the Bronco and cranked it up as a young couple exited a new Mercedes. They waved to Charles, who was standing on the top step holding the door open. He let them in, looked at Bubba, then followed the young couple, closing the door.

  The light was blinking on his answering machine when Bubba reached his office. It was his client wanting to know what he had found out. That seemed reasonable since he'd had an entire day to work. He deleted the message and spread the papers Janeen had given him across his desk. After two hours, nothing obvious leapt out at him, not a single underlined clue in the entire mess. Many, many calls to many people. Bubba's head hurt trying to imagine having to talk to that many people that often. Appointments and more appointments. Canceled appointments, rescheduled appointments. Lexuses, Mercedes, Porsches, and SUVs, oh my. Gold too. The number of appointments to discuss gold investments increased rapidly the last few months before Griffith's death. Bubba headed home, without a single urge to call anyone.

  Bubba spent the evening throwing the tennis ball down the sloping backyard for Elvis. The bluetick hound chased it and chased it until he collapsed at Bubba's feet. Then, he was content to watch Bubba grill hamburgers and anticipate the joy of leftovers. Brenda Taylor called and left three messages. Bubba knew he could never afford a butler to lie and tell people that he wasn't at home, but answering machines did a fine job also.

  A little after nine the next morning, Bubba arrived at his office, already showered, shaved, and feeling energetic from ninety minutes at Big Al's. The bag of Roy's Bakery's finest also helped bring a smile to his face and a spring to his step. The light was blinking on the answering machine, but even that couldn't dim the day. While the coffee perked, Bubba dialed the 870 area code number that Griffith Taylor had called five times in the month before he died. The phone book had told Bubba that it was central Arkansas. The recording told Bubba that it was no longer in service.

  Finally, after two donuts and a cup of coffee, Bubba called Brenda Taylor.

  "I have called you ten times. Ten times. Why didn't you call me back?"

  "I am calling you back. Did you and Griffith know anyone in Arkansas? Family, friends?"

  "I expect to have my calls returned promptly."

  "Did you and Griffith know anyone . . . ?"

  "Of course not. Whom would we know in Arkansas?"

  "The Clintons?"

  "Absolutely not. What have you found that shows dear Griffith didn't kill himself?"

  "What did he do with the hundred grand he received from Jackie Jones?"

  "What hundred thousand dollars?"

  "Jackie says that Griffith liquidated a hundred grand before he died. Said he might have been paying a gambling debt."

  "Nonsense. I would have known about that."

  "Did you know everything he did?"

  "Like Janeen and the tight jeans? I knew everything."

  "You might consider making Janeen your partner in the leasing business before she starts her own."

  "Ungrateful . . . Okay, that might not be a bad idea. But I cannot imagine Griffith owing a gambling debt that large. Someone would have mentioned it casually, to laugh at me, if the Elks Lodge poker game had ever reached that point."

  "There are other games, other places."

  "Not for Griffith. He played as much for the contacts and recognition as for the gambling. No, he'd have been too nervous around me if he had lost a hundred thousand dollars. I tell you he was in a good mood those last few weeks, wandering through the house, flipping that lucky Krugerrand. He'd flip it, grin, and say, 'Eureka, I have found it.'"

  "But no one in Arkansas? What about the trip to Memphis?"

  "Forget trips to Memphis. Where did a hundred grand go? Go find that."

  "What about Memphis?"

  "He told me that he was making arrangements to get a Lamborghini for a lease. A man there had a specific model that he would sell at a right price. Any more questions? If not, then go find the hundred grand and who killed my husband."

  Bubba hung up, sipped coffee, munched a donut, looked across the spread of papers again, made a few notes, and dialed Janeen and asked her about leasing a Lamborghini. She laughed, "You'd never fit in one, no way. I can barely fit behind the wheel. Tried it at a car show. But Griffith's Lexus might fit you. I cleaned it out and it needs someone to take the lease. Someone who's not afraid of car keys that had dried blood on them."

  "What would a Lamborghini cost to lease?"

  "Who knows? I've never done the paperwork on one. If you really want to know, I can find out, but I think an Escalade would be a better choice. Fit your height better."

  "Just an idle thought. Do you know why Griffith went to Memphis the month before he died?"

  "Something to do with gold. A gold seminar, he said. Wanted to learn the technical side, purities, specific gravities, all kinds of jargon he came back with."

  "There are calls to Arkansas around that time. Know anything about them?"

  "Nothing that I can think of. Do you want me to work up a price on an Escalade or a Land Cruiser? That Bronco has to go."

  "Not yet."

  Bubba hung up to laughter. He leaned back, put his boots on the corner of the desk, and looked up at the ceiling, while grabbing the last donut and the half-filled coffee cup. Memphis. Blues, barbecue, "Old Man River," the Big Muddy. Why would a Florida hustler go to Memphis, if not for these? Time to find out.

  Bubba couldn't think of anyone to call in Memphis. But he knew where to find a great researcher who could make a computer reveal everything but Hoffa's location and the Colonel's secret recipe.

  "I need some information that only you can find, Herm."

  "Buy a Mac and learn about e-mail and search engines, and quit bothering me with crime. I have serious research, clients who need fiduciary advice."

  "But who else pays you two-fifty an hour to find the trash that can't be found?"

  "What do you need?"

  "I have a disconnected phone number. Who had it, and who they are in the many forms of that word." Bubba read the number.

  "I'll fax you what I find. If you had Internet, I could e-mail it, much faster and easier."

  "Fax is fast enough. Dead men don't rush."

  "But they do tell tales."

  They hung up. Bubba wondered if Herm had been outside his house this month. A charming man who never left his house in the daylight, and seldom at night. Herm was the agoraphobia poster man.

  He looked at the papers on his desk. The financial statement from Ja
ckie Jones caught his eye, bringing a shiver. Bubba had never spent much time with financial activities, much less a six-page, single-spaced trading statement like this. He spun it in a circle. The donut bag was empty. He wondered if Jimmie Watkins still cleaned the Elks Club.

  Bubba drove to Florence Villa, the rundown northside of Winter Haven. Jimmie Watkins wasn't home, but his wife said he was with his yard crew at a condo complex near Lake Alfred. Bubba found him riding a mower while three young men edged, trimmed, and hand-mowed the tight spots. Jimmie nodded to Bubba, stopped the mower, allowed the ear protectors to drop around his neck, and walked slowly over to the Bronco. His bony frame always reminded Bubba of a praying mantis.

  "Sergeant Simms, need quality yard work?" Jimmie wiped the sweat from his face with a blue bandanna, then from his scalp and inside his straw hat. The bandanna went back into the rear pocket of the overalls.

  "I was wondering if you still cleaned the Elks Club."

  "My crew does. I check most nights, but I'm getting too old to push a vacuum after midnight. Why?"

  "I thought you might have heard rumors about Griffith Taylor losing a big chunk of money."

  "Elks Club don't want the cleaning staff talking about their entertainment. They can be vengeful."

  "They won't hear from me. You know that."

  "But, I kind of think you and I are all even. Do I owe you anything?"

  "Not a thing, Jimmie. I would owe you. That might be useful to you, or it might not."

  "Might be nice, having big Sergeant Simms owing Jimmie Watkins." He walked to his pickup and filled a metal cup with water from an orange Igloo cooler strapped to the sideboard. Wiping his mouth, he returned.

  "It was a shame Mr. Taylor killed himself. He was a real gent, a thank you, even when he was losing. Not like the others."

  "Did he lose really big before he died?"

  "Before he died? Interesting phrase. Died means in bed with family all around, not brains on the wall. But no big games lately. Nothing unusual in over a year. Five or ten thousand makes big news. Even for Winter Haven, that isn't really big."

  "Jackie Jones play in the games?"

  "No way, he's too cheap. Might lose one of his gold coins. But his partner plays."