by Teresa Trent
“No, I didn’t see anybody. He did seem a little nervous about being there. I guess that old place had him jumpy. There are so many rooms; a person could get lost without a map. How long has it been vacant?”
“Um … I guess it’s been about thirty or forty years or so.”
“I can’t believe someone hasn’t tried to develop the site before this.”
“This is a small town, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Not like Dallas. A commercial investment like a mall or a sports complex would require lots of people to keep going.”
He looked around the room at the scattering of Scouts and parents. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
“Well, welcome to Pecan Bayou.”
“Thank you, but now that I know there’s been a murder out at the hospital, I don’t think your Chamber of Commerce wants to advertise there are some real nuts along with the pecans residing here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day, after practically bribing Zach to get him to go to school after the Scout incident, I drove around trying to find a parking spot in front of the Dine-N-Dash. I was doing a book talk today for the ladies’ book club of the Baptist church. I had packed a suitcase full of paperback copies of my book and planned to wow them with, as Jackie Bryant put it, “Hints to Help Them in Their Daily Lives.” I just hoped I could live up to their expectations.
Pecan Bayou was starting to resemble a cheesy horror movie with all of its Halloween finery stapled and taped on every doorway, lamppost and window. There was a ghoul with crazy hair hanging in the window of The Best Little Hair House (probably not the best marketing gimmick) and construction paper pumpkins taped up in the windows of Buzz Aldrin Elementary School. One of those pumpkins was most probably made by my own son, who was also probably sitting sullenly in his desk right now, wishing the day would be over.
Some of the store owners had nailed up blinking lights of purple and green, and a few were channeling some ghostly sounds out of their front speakers. People in this town loved Halloween. I always wondered whether it was the chance to dress up and be somebody different or the consumption of mass amounts of sugar.
Our town had its own distinct personality. Pecan Bayou was just north and west of Houston. Compared to the big city, it could feel like an island of peace. Snow was a once-a-year thing, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted German potato salad with a little hot sauce added. Our town was a strange mix of cultures. German and Czechoslovakian immigrants settled this area, and we were a part of Texas’ fight for independence. Sam Houston slept here, and Santa Anna’s troops killed here. Pecan Bayou was famous for its wildflowers in the spring. Tourists would drive along the highways and country roads to enjoy the bursts of purple petals, the oranges of Indian paintbrushes and the ever-true bluebonnets of Texas. All of this was thanks to Lady Bird Johnson, who beautified highways all over the state by planting wildflowers. Every spring the medians on the interstates and in the towns were left uncut to produce a beautiful array of floral wonders.
As I parked the station wagon in front of the Dine-N-Dash, I heard a distinct clunking sound in the motor. Maybe I had gotten some bad gas the last time I filled up the tank. I had driven this station wagon for eight years now and intended to drive it until the wheels fell off. I hoped this wasn’t the day for that. My cell phone started ringing “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You” in my purse. A perfect song for my father, whose eyes were always on this town. I pulled it out of my bulging black bag as the familiar “Dad” flashed on the illuminated panel.
“Betsy, I thought you’d like to know we got a preliminary report from the coroner’s office.” I shut off the air conditioning and immediately felt the car starting to heat up like a sauna. The weather today was stuffy, and even though we were close to the end of hurricane season, it sure felt like the unease that precedes a whopper of a storm. I opened the door to try to catch a cool draft and circulate some air. The heat rushed in instead, disguised as my sought-after breeze.
“Oh good. Tell me that you have nothing that connects Benny.”
“Darlin’, I’m still checking his alibi out. He says he was out in the woods next to the hospital finding the best site to set up the Scout tents.”
“Was anybody with him?”
“Now that would be too easy.” His voice crackled on the other end. “No, he was alone, and that puts our favorite barbecue king next to a murder scene.”
Having your dad working for the police department could be a blessing and curse all at the same time. He could be disagreeable and stubborn, which made him an outstanding police officer, but every once in a while his soft side would show, much to his dismay. He wouldn’t let me date until I was sixteen, and even then he followed along behind us in his squad car. It was a little intimidating for any young man. When he found out my husband had skipped town, he put a dragnet out on the guy. It was one of the few cases he hadn’t solved. He had worked as a lieutenant to our police chief, Arvin Wilson, for the last decade. Time spent on a small-town police force could make him cynical and not as trusting as the rest of us. I loved my dad and all the things he was for me and Zach, but still I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the law with him. He had worked a few murder cases in the past that were mostly the result of domestic disturbances and some “good ol’ boys gone bad.” An all-out whodunit was probably a welcome challenge for him. His voice on the other end interrupted my thoughts.
“Mr. Canfield was shot.”
“Shot?”
“Yes. Three times, to be exact. He was shot twice in the chest and once in the head. I’m figuring our killer shot him at point-blank range, and then when Canfield fell face down, he finished him off with a shot to the back of the head.”
“It’s hard to believe somebody around here did that.”
“I agree. We probably need to look at strangers in town, that sort of thing, first.”
“Speaking of strangers, I met one at Zach’s scout meeting.” I explained to my father about the fight over my missing husband.
“That’s my boy,” he chuckled. “Don’t take guff off of anybody.”
“That’s our boy,” I echoed. “The bully kid had a new dad who was a little out of his league in the parenting department. That kid didn’t seem to care much about anything. Anyway, this boy’s father told me that he actually ran into Canfield out at the hospital on the day he was murdered.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. He said he was scouting the property for an investment company, and it seems Canfield was doing the same kind of thing. He talked like Canfield might have creeped him out a bit.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. He just sort of caught a vibe.” I knew my dad loved the “vibe” school of investigation.
“Uh huh.” He paused but then let himself agree with my theory. “Maybe Canfield had something sneaky going on.”
“Or maybe the boy’s father did,” I answered, now thinking that sitting in a hot car even with the door open was not a good idea.
“Well, it could be like father, like son. Any kid who goes after Zach starts out in the hole with me. Thanks for letting me know, Betsy. You think you can get a phone number for this guy? I’d like to talk with him. Oh, and one more thing, Canfield had oil lubricant on his hands. Did the boy’s father mention anything about him holding an oil can, or maybe oiling some hinges or something?”
“No, but we didn’t go into that much detail. He just said he had been looking around the hospital and ran into him.”
“Well, he didn’t have a lot on his hands. Curiously it was just on his little finger.”
I thought about that. “His little finger, like on the fingertip where he might be applying oil onto something?”
“No, up near where the finger connects to the hand. Like maybe it splashed on his hand. It was found on the palm and the back side of the finger.”
I didn’t think Canfield moonlighted as a mechanic, although from the sounds of him a few shady repair jobs wouldn’t be below him. I
remembered Celia’s ring not fitting on her finger anymore.
“Dad, could it be the murderer pulled a ring off his finger?”
“Maybe, although, Canfield’s money was still in his wallet.” He paused for a moment as I could tell he was reading through the report. “One other thing, there was some sort of concrete mixture on his clothes.”
“Like someone broke a concrete block on him?”
“Like he had just mixed up some concrete.”
“In a suit?” What had this guy been doing? First the oil, and then the concrete?
“We checked his home, and there were no new patches of concrete. We found evidence of it on his palm and jacket sleeve.”
I looked up into the window of the Dine-N-Dash, and some of the members of my ladies group inside the diner were now waving at me through the glass. I opened the back seat door and pulled out my rolling bag of extra book copies.
“Dad, I have to go.”
“OK, think about the concrete. What would he have been doing?”
“I have no idea, but it seems like a strange thing to do right before you’re murdered.”
I put my cell phone back in my purse, closed the car door and waved at the smiling ladies. There were purple lights blinking on the door around a laughing jack-o-lantern that also seeming to be smiling at me.
Feeling the heat press in, I took off the brown denim jacket that I had intended to wear for my presentation at the diner. I had tried to look businesslike but already felt as if I were wilting from the morning heat. Everywhere else in the country, people were getting out their sweaters and coats. South Texans were wondering if those flip-flops could last just a few more weeks.
I carried along my laptop with my database of hints in it for the unusual “hint” questions I would get. After visiting the tuberculosis hospital and stepping in the blood, maybe I should look up how to get bloodstains out of clothing.
Jackie had been a high school classmate of mine. We had never been close friends, but after Barry left, she was the first person to tell me, as she put it, “Marriage is like a phone call at night – first the ring, and then you wake up.” She had “woken up” already with a divorce in her early twenties after she found out her husband was cheating on her with an old girlfriend from Longview. She knew what I was going through, and I was lucky to have her to talk to. She was running the diner while her mother, Birdie, was out of state.
In the next half hour, I talked a little bit about the book and was just answering a question on washing tennis shoes when I saw Leo Fitzpatrick walk in. Today he wore a soft white polo shirt and jeans. I watched many of the female eyes in the restaurant shift from me to him. I suddenly felt silly standing up in front of the ladies discussing whether or not to put your athletic shoes out to dry in direct sunlight.
Leo Fitzpatrick had a newspaper folded under his arm. He slid into a booth, and Jackie brought him a menu. He opened and glanced at it, but then he gazed across the table at me explaining the virtues of cotton canvas. The ladies clapped politely as I finished, and I started signing their copies of my book. As I put away my laptop, I was thinking of a way to get out of there. I grabbed my purse, slung it over my shoulder, turned abruptly and ran into Mr. Fitzpatrick, who was blocking my exit. I jumped back and let out a short high-pitched squeal.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”
“That’s okay,” I gasped. I returned to gathering my things.
“I was wondering if you had your lunch yet.”
“My lunch?”
“Yes, your lunch. We are at a restaurant, and well, one of the drawbacks to being new in town is you don’t have anyone to share a burger with.”
Was he asking me to have lunch with him? It had been so long since a man asked me anything, that I wasn’t sure if this was an invitation or just a statement of fact. Did I really want to do this? There was something about this guy I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I knew, for Zach’s sake, it wouldn’t hurt to get to know the dad of the kid who was picking on him. There was also the little issue of getting his phone number for my dad. I relented. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t eaten yet. I guess I could act as the welcome wagon of Pecan Bayou for you today.”
“Of course if you’re too busy finding bodies …” he joked.
“No, I think I’m at my limit for finding those.”
We walked over to his table facing the front window. I slid into the red vinyl booth, parking my bag at the end. He slid in on the other side.
Jackie came over and smiled at me with the look of one fisherman to another reeling one in. She snapped her gum and straightened a strand of freshly dyed red hair.
“Well, who is this, Betsy? You got a boyfriend now?”
“No, Mr. Fitzpatrick just moved here. His son and Zach are in the same Scout troop.”
“Uh huh.” She wasn’t buying my explanation, or maybe she was sizing him up for herself. “Well let me welcome you to Pecan Bayou, Mr. Fitzpatrick. What’ll you have?” Jackie took our orders and flashed me a quick smile before heading off to the kitchen.
Now alone, I began to feel a little uncomfortable. I struggled to find something to say.
“So what exactly is it that you do?” Fitzpatrick asked as he unfolded his napkin.
“I give helpful hints to people. I blog. I write the ‘Happy Hinter’ column for the newspaper, I have a book, and I even started doing some business consulting.”
“And that pays money?”
That was a little rude. “Yes,” I replied. I get more steady paychecks than you investor types get, I thought, wondering if he was just another Barry.
I continued. “My father wanted me to get your number to ask you some questions about meeting Canfield at the old hospital.”
One of the ladies from my presentation came over and placed a copy of my book in front of me.
“Miss Livingston. Thank you so much for speaking with us today. Would you sign this for me?”
“Sure.” I grabbed her pen and started signing my name.
“Is this your husband? Nice to meet you.” She extended a blue-veined hand out to Fitzpatrick.
“Uh, nice to meet you but I’m not …”
The older woman picked up her book from the table. “Have fun, you two!” She giggled and scooted across the room.
“Man, this town really wants you to have a man in your life.”
“Lucky me,” I said with a quick smile and a shrug of my shoulders.
“I hope you’re not too embarrassed,” he said.
“No, it’s quite a compliment compared to what they usually say about me.”
Jackie returned with our burgers and placed them on the table. “Whatcha going to be for Halloween, Betsy?”
“A paranormal investigator, and you?” I asked.
“I’m torn between a prison matron or one of those sexy little Red Riding Hood costumes.” She snapped her gum and smiled directly at Mr. Fitzpatrick. She angled slightly and put her hand on her hip. “Enjoy,” she said, turning and swinging her hips seductively on her way back to the kitchen.
“I think she likes you,” I told Fitzpatrick.
“She might change her mind when she finds out I’m probably on your dad’s suspect list. I was walking around the old hospital, and I ran into Canfield. That’s all there is to it.”
I wasn’t sure if Fitzpatrick was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time or if there was much more to this handsome stranger from Dallas. He did just arrive in town and within two weeks, Oliver Canfield was found dead.
“So tell me about this investor you’ve come to town for. Is it a big firm?”
“No, I wouldn’t necessarily say big. I’m here for someone whose … interests I’m protecting.”
That was puzzling. Had his investor already put money into the old hospital?
“It’s a private matter.” He continued shutting down my next question.
“Okay.” I played with a french fry. What was he hiding? Was his in
vestor so hush-hush because he or she intended to put something up the town wouldn’t like? What could it be? A prison? A landfill? It couldn’t be good if he was clamming up this fast. Whatever was going on, hopefully my dad was on to it and would fill me in.
“By the way,” said Fitzpatrick. “ I wanted to let you know that Benny has put our boys together as buddies for the campout.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he confirmed.
Great, now Zach would have to spend the night with a kid who will probably use him for a punching bag. If it wasn’t scheduled on Halloween, my dad could have gone along to watch out for him. I felt as if Zach was being thrown to the wolves. I had to find a way to make peace between the two boys.
“Unless we want to be pulling them apart as they battle all night, maybe it might be a nifty idea to have a play date.”
“A play date?” He acted as if he had never heard of the concept. How could he have a son as old as Tyler and not know what a play date was?
“Yes, you know. We get together, and the boys run off and hang out for a little while? Your wife really did cut you out of all the parent stuff, didn’t she?”
“Oh … that kind of play date.” He nodded. “Sure. Would you like to take the boys to get hamburgers or something?”
Tyler was a pretty hefty guy, and I couldn’t imagine he would have too much fun crawling around the colorful playground tubes and tunnels they had at our neighborhood fast food joint. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Fitzpatrick had thought about it one way or another.
“That sounds good, but how about the two you come over to our house and eat supper? I make a pretty mean plate of spaghetti. After dinner, the boys can run off and play video games.”
“Sure. That sounds great. It’s really nice of you to have us over. Maybe we can get our boys to stop fighting. I really think Tyler would benefit from having a friend – and so would I.” He smiled, showing straight white teeth, not unlike the wolf at Grandma’s door.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Trying not to think about my unplanned lunch date, I sat in my kitchen an hour later working on newspaper columns for November. There were plenty of tips to give in planning a successful Thanksgiving dinner. I had begun my exhaustive search for the best turkey leftover recipe I could find. I always made a turkey for Zach and my dad, and it seemed we were eating leftovers for a couple of weeks. Why was turkey that dish that you couldn’t wait to taste on Thanksgiving and then couldn’t stand the sight of by the time December rolled around? That is probably the sole reason why so many people cook a ham at Christmastime.