What kind of problem? I wanted to holler. It would certainly help if he had a problem. I’d feel a good deal more confident about tackling the legal system. I turned my upraised bottle in the light from behind the bar. Amber tinted bulbs converged into a horseshoe. Turning sideways, I surveyed the big, dark booths and cherry-wood tables lining the east wall.
A couple chatted romance over steaks and shots.
Dixon told me once those were original bench seats, filled with horse hair. Seemed unlikely. He’d taken me around the place, clandestinely, after he’d moved upstairs. He talked a lot that day, before he decided bucking Mother’s wishes might... something. I guess I didn’t really know what had stopped him from trying. I only knew it hurt. And I know he told some wild stories about the Montana Bar.
I looked down at the floor, recalling another. Tapping the marble with my sneaker toe, I considered the bolt holes between the current stool posts. Supposedly, during Prohibition, the stools were bolted down, like restaurant counter seating. I shook my head, reliving his words. “They even had tubes behind the bar leading to the basement. In case of a raid.”
Why did I remember that story? Almost like hearing his voice right here in the bar again.
“Sorry,” Wilbur said.
I looked up.
“Dixon was using water like a river pirate.”
“He didn’t pay his own water bill?”
Wilbur shook his head. “Part of the agreement. And the city just raised the cost last month.”
A quiet moment passed while Garth Brooks took over the crooning.
“When that thing ain’t blaring, you can hear every drop running down from upstairs. It rattled me a little.”
“You talk to him about it?”
“Tried a couple of times. He was in a hurry. Or I was swamped. Last time I went after him for taking two showers that day, crowd came in and saved him.” Wilbur cleared his throat harshly. “My early shift chose that day not to show. I had to prep for the night shift. That was last Saturday.”
“The day he died?”
“Yeah. I got to get this guy again.”
What made Dixon need two baths in a day’s time? In my memory, he skipped every other day. Said it reminded him that people weren’t always so clean. Of course, he might have cleaned something up in the tub one of those times.
I hated that every tiny mystery meant something important.
Wilbur came up and said, “He rarely took a shower in the morning. The way he was grinning, I figured maybe it was a lady friend—” He dropped his gaze to his hands.
“I’m past that, Wilbur. It’s an old story.” This sounded funny considering my whole life seemed to hinge on finding out what drove him, and me, to carry on like that.
“Right. Anyway, I let it go. But that evening, before folks started dropping quarters into the juke, I hear the water running great guns again. I figured I’d go after him later on, but...”
We both stared into the bar top for a few seconds before Wilbur continued.
“Seems pretty lame of me, now, with all that’s happened.”
“We get stuck with the leftover emotions when someone dies.” I don’t know where I’d heard it, but my face flushed at the uncomfortable wisdom. I tossed the last swallow down and stood up. The floor jostled slightly before settling.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your pa,” Wilbur said, and offered his hand over the bar. “I lost my pap at sixteen. It isn’t a good thing to go through.”
His palm felt thick and friendly. “Thanks, Wilbur.”
I left to the tune of “Johnny Be Good” echoing off the high ceiling, and went home to dump some alcohol-absorbent food over my stolen thrill.
Maybe some of my wooziness came from stories about Dixon. Maybe some came from being in a Montana bar. Whatever the cause, I kept my eyes open for cops like I’d just finished a twelve pack after a high school ballgame.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Unfolding Mysteries
Rounding the corner from Custer Avenue onto Sudlow, the light beams of the Chrysler swept across Mother’s driveway and bounced off of Granger’s pickup.
Sliding to the curb two houses up, I climbed out onto the crunching snow. An overcast sky hid my clandestine movements from the neighbors. It also lowered my core temperature.
I pulled my collar higher. Why was Granger always here? His invariable presence at the house of his dead brother’s wife had my curiosity raging.
I climbed the porch rail at the southwest corner of the house.
Winter cold absorbed most of the creaks escaping the floor boards.
I skulked toward the front door. My idea was to peak through the living room window. An innocent ploy without the car down the street, the careful tread, the scaling of the porch rail. The plan proved fairly effective, too.
Glancing through the pastel blue draperies toward the area near the couch, I saw Granger leaning over Mother’s chair. I couldn’t really tell what he was doing. He was pretty close, though.
I banged the front door open and stepped into the living room. “Hello! Anything to eat around here?”
Granger stood about six feet from Mother with his hat in his hands, wearing a pathetic grin. Granger never was good at smiling.
Mother held her chin up and pursed her lips. She glared. “You’re home.”
“Yeah.” I stepped over to her and leaned in to kiss her cheek. A faint trace of Old Spice mingled with the soft flowery perfume Mother had worn all of her life.
She wheeled her chair back a few inches. “What are you doing?”
“Needed to get some victuals,” I said, with a smirk. I winked at Granger. “A boy grows up and his Momma stops wanting to give him a love-peck when he comes home.”
Granger frowned and nodded sternly.
I couldn’t tell if he agreed, or if he felt the best defense was assent.
He curled the brim of the Stetson, smoothed it, twisted it again.
“It’s getting to be less and less surprising to see you, Uncle Granger. Your heifers are throwing them pretty easy this season, I guess.”
My uncle’s face pinched and his jaw pulsed. He cleared his throat, but decided to let my mother do the talking.
Mother didn’t have any sort of problems with that. She wheeled her chair around for a better tactical position. “Are you purposefully trying to make our guest feel uncomfortable, Connor? Because I don’t cotton to plain meanness, and you know it.”
I snickered. “You don’t cotton to meanness?” And then I tried a look of surprise. “I’m just making an observation.”
“Well, you can keep your observations to yourself.” She sat a little straighter in her chair. “I’ve known your uncle for as many years as I’ve known your father. These are trying times, and Granger is just being decent.”
Granger’s face had relaxed some. He was peering at the floor like a kid caught in the Cracker Jacks before dinner.
“You’re right,” I said. “I apologize for asking about the heifers.”
From my peripheral vision I saw Mother spin her chair with a huff of breath. She wheeled into the kitchen.
Granger raised his gaze, stared straight into me, and shook his head.
I stared right back, keeping a neutral expression. I waited for him to speak. After ten seconds, I decided I’d have that sandwich. “Uncle,” I said with a nod, and turned to follow my mother’s chair.
At the low counter next to the refrigerator, I fixed a fat roast beef sandwich while my Mother slammed dishes into the dishwasher.
This curious scenario required investigation. I made a mental note to visit with Granger away from this house. And away from the protection of my mother. Then I carried my fat sandwich out the back door, leaving the two of them to whatever they were up to, and ate my dinner one-handed, on the way to the dealership.
I peeked into houses as they rolled by, my sandwich in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.
A heavy darkness under the eave
s and porch stoops contrasted sharply with the lighted activities inside.
It was no longer easy to ignore Dad’s mystifying lifestyle, Mother and Granger’s intrigue, or Renée’s seesawing emotions. I longed for times without responsibility beyond getting enough money for the next party, when secret lives couldn’t haunt me. For now, I had to drag them around like a sled at a tractor pull, every step increasing their weight.
Pollyanna Marcielli’s old house appeared out of the shadows. Polly was the first, genuine female I’d known outside of my household. I’d learned much from her and that first kiss. Maybe too much.
Had her house changed over the years? Or was it exactly the same plus a few painful additions, like Dixon’s?
I slowed to a near stop and explored my memory. The recollections didn’t compare easily to the dimly lit structure captured in time under street lamps. Its deep brown paint and tan trim seemed familiar. The white, tied back drapery panels invited the eye to steal a glance inside. A display cabinet stood on the back wall, just visible in the muted interior lighting. Snow dusted the porch rail.
All of this passed in a few seconds. In the rearview mirror the angle was off, preventing a second chance.
Had I even seen all of the details? Was the house even brown?
Other houses cruised by.
Could I trust my memory? Was this the correct street?
I gave my head a hard shake. Better to consider facts than distorted recollections.
Granger and my mother had known each other longer than Mother had known Dixon. The way the story went, Granger introduced Dad to Mom and she’d fallen like a maiden on a two-legged stool. Right into the mud if you listened to Mom’s post-accident amendments to this jaded love story. Granger hadn’t visited much after. Once he married Aunt Greta, we’d see him on holidays. Until Greta packed their children and headed to Tulsa.
It played out like Granger had a thing for my mom. His charming baby brother, Dixon, had stolen her away. Dad often shook his head at Granger’s insistence that he had “every lucky break in town.” Resentment had always clung to Granger. I just figured it was the junkyard, and later the dealership that rankled him. Maybe it was my mother.
Dixon’s alcohol induced confessions whined that he never had a chance with Granger. “My brother thinks I was dealt a better hand. Your grandpa left him the farm, but he acts like I was the one got the goods. Ingrate.”
Grandpa’s brother Hiram had given Dixon a truck to start his wrecker business. The high school shop teacher let Dixon work on the old wrecker as his senior project. “I had to make my living. Nobody handed me a thing,” Dixon insisted. It sounded dubious, now.
So, Dixon built a dream, and Granger stayed around the homestead and slopped pigs. Or cattle, rather. I’d never heard Granger say it out loud, but maybe he hadn’t even wanted the farm. Maybe he got stuck with it.
I’d probably never know the true account. There might be more to learn at the homestead. Maybe Granger’s amorous intentions toward my mother revealed a much darker secret.
I turned onto Main Street and cruised toward EZ Deals Dealership, home run of the late Dixon Pierce. Before I reached the bridge, my rearview mirror flashed with a rainbow.
I glanced up, the oval of glass overflowing with the flashing lights of a police cruiser. My heart stopped for a full second.
Their high pitched scream rose to maximum volume and bounced around inside the cabin, wiping every thought. The New Yorker’s interior exploded— red, white, and blue in rapid succession.
I pumped the breaks to avoid ramming Mother’s Chrysler into the concrete bridge abutment.
When I took a breath, the Chrysler sat still just shy of the bridge railing, waning sirens and dimly lit dashboard bringing me back to real time. I took a few deep lungfuls of warm, conditioned air. “Damn. Do they think it’s Dixon’s birthday or something?” I chuckled my relief.
Pulling back into the traffic lane, I decided my Mother and Granger’s relationship meant too much to me. What did I care? Mom and Dad haven’t even lived in the same house for twenty-one years. Let the lovebirds celebrate the rest of their lives without my judgment. A dense energy I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto popped off like fireworks, mimicking the cruiser’s lights somewhere ahead of me. I sighed.
“Good riddance,” I shared with the cold, dark night.
I came around the bend in Main Street. That cruiser’s flashing lights disappeared into a gaggle of emergency light bars.
My heart quickened. Stepping into the floorboard for three long seconds, I let the Chrysler’s building momentum carry me like a rocket the last quarter mile.
Three firetrucks and four police cars flashed their celebratory excitement all over Dixon’s business venture.
I jammed the brakes.
The New Yorker skidded and careened. It stopped ten feet short of a wide-eyed, young cowboy with his palms out.
Opening the door and shoving the shifter into park, I jumped out. Shouting voices, engine noise, and the EZ Deals’ fire alarm screamed chaos at me.
“Damn, man! Drive much?” the kid shouted above the cacophony.
“What the hell?” I yelled back.
“I’m just a volunteer keeping the gawkers at bay.”
I pushed past him, scanning the crowd. “What’s going on? Where’s the owner?”
“Some kind of fire. You know the place?” he said with a hand on my sleeve.
The interior lights were out in the building. Spotlights from the cruisers shined on the scene. Blue and tan uniforms in heavy coats faced off with the darkened structure.
I searched for Renée, while speaking to the young volunteer. “Have you seen a skinny—”
Renée charged out of the office. She turned toward the shop, holding her arm high to block the spotlights’ glare. A fireman intercepted her.
“Holy crap,” the cowboy muttered.
“That’s my sister,” I shouted, heading in their direction. “Hey! What’s going on?”
The fireman carried her over his shoulder. She kicked at him with her spindly legs. Her mouth opened for a bite into his thick coat. He set her down in front of me and yanked his arm free.
“Let go of me! I need to get my people.” She gave another weak kick in his direction.
“This one yours?” He pushed her into my hands.
I said, “Take it easy! Her father just died.”
“Yeah, well, sorry but she doesn’t need to be next.”
Her wide pupils, visible even in the dim light, bored through me. “This place!” She shook against my hold until she broke free.
I latched onto a bit of her blouse’s sleeve. “What are you doing?”
She yanked her arm away. “I need to make sure everyone’s okay.” She was two steps gone before she finished the sentence.
With a long stretch, I was beside her.
She weaved us around a police car, avoiding the fireman who’d grabbed her. The cruiser’s bubble created red, white, and blue eruptions on the side of her face.
I blinked my eyes against the strobing effect, and shook my head. “How can they work in this chaos?”
“I have to find Akira.”
“He’s in there?”
“He was working when the alarm went off.”
“Zach?”
We skirted the length of a pumper truck. Renée stepped over the fat, snaking line going to the fire hydrant.
A burley guy in full fireman gear hollered from in front. “Get away from there, you two!”
Renée halted and stomped her foot. “Zachary didn’t show up after the funeral.”
The big fireman stepped up. “Stay away from these lines. It’s damn dangerous.”
“I’ve got a lube and oil on the rack he was supposed to finish an hour ago!” Renée shouted at him. In the middle of her sentence, the fire alarm stopped screaming.
“Wha—”
“They just leave me here to handle things. It’s always me fixing things.” She si
destepped to get around him.
“Whoa.” He latched onto her shoulder with a thick leather glove. “Away from the truck. Away from the lines.”
“I’ve got to fix this!”
“Alright, miss,” the fireman said in a gentle voice. He shifted out of his jacket and draped it over Renée.
I could barely hear him. I moved in close.
He smelled of sweat, cologne, and whiskey. “Is there someone in there?” He poked a fat thumb over his shoulder.
“Mechanics. That’s all.” Renée slumped as her demeanor dropped into futility.
“How many?”
“Just one. Zach didn’t show after the funeral.”
“Funeral? What funeral?” The fireman’s tone rose an octave.
“We buried our dad today,” I said. “This is his place.” I pointed to the dealership. With the lights out it looked as dead as Dixon.
“Oh.” Back to helpful and courteous. “We’ll find your mechanic miss.”
Renée’s eyes came alive. “You can find him?”
“The guy inside, miss. We’ll get the guy inside.” He smiled big, nodding. “They’ve contained the blaze to the storage area out back. No damage to the building.”
“Oh,” Renée said. “Good.” She let the fireman guide her over the thick hose.
I moved with them. “Why are you even open?”
“He’s probably off celebrating!”
“Dad?”
“Zach.”
“I thought he liked Dad.”
“He likes to party, that’s what he likes!” She put her head down.
A nip of arctic climbed down my collar and sent a shiver through me. “So you’re open after Dixon’s funeral, and one of the guys didn’t show.”
Renée turned her thin frame squarely at me. Scowling with the venom of our mother, she trembled and growled. Then she wound through the maze to the Chrysler.
I kept up. “Why can’t Akira or someone else do it?”
Her head shook violently. “Akira is working on the mayor’s transmission. He’s expecting it Monday morning. I can’t spare him.”
Murder of the Prodigal Father Page 12