by J. L. Salter
“What does it mean?” Connie seemed to hold her breath.
“With Shane, everything’s about timing. The star is for the Bronze Star he was awarded during the first Gulf War... when he helped rescue some wounded guys in Kuwait.”
“Wow.” Jeff’s eyes grew large. “What happened?”
Beth briefly explained the parts she knew about, but realized her friends had gotten distracted. “Y’all didn’t come over to talk about Shane.” Beth pointed to the papers in Jeff’s lap. “Connie, just to bring you up to speed, Jeff has determined the end of the story is missing.” She placed the typescript into Connie’s hands.
Connie was already reading when Jeff began his explanation.
“In the missing conclusion, the drummer’s interjection would be completed and should disclose something about the fourth man—though it’s not obvious what that will be. I’m pretty sure the drummer will be revealed to be none other than Mr. Jones.”
“Oh, yeah.” Beth’s eyes lit up. “The drummer was from St. Louis, he has imported cigars, and he became a peddler of sorts.”
“Hopefully, the missing portion also reveals a motive for Mr. Brown to kill Mr. Blank.” Connie was a fast reader.
“That could logically come from the mysterious fourth man, since he was present at Brown’s demise.” Jeff tapped his notes. “And hopefully the fourth man reveals how and why he was a witness to that death.”
Connie held out the typed pages.
“It’s a wonderful campfire tale, but there’s lots of problems if you think of it as a bona fide short story.” Jeff reached for the sheets. “Too many literary holes... too much detail missing. Besides, any writer would want her—or his—name on their manuscript.” Jeff scanned his notes. “In fact, hardly anybody in the story has a name. The person who got hanged is only Jones. The murdered man is Mr. Blank. The guy who left the money to Jones is Mr. Brown.”
“And those are generic names, aren’t they?”
“Like Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum...” A slight smile accompanied Connie’s erudite contribution.
Jeff ignored the board game reference. “In fact, the only character with a full name is the sheriff who hanged Jones... unsuccessfully, of course.”
“So the sheriff’s name must be meaningful... somehow.” Beth closed her eyes to think harder.
“Like I say, it’s a clever tale,” Jeff continued. “But it lacks the structure and completeness necessary for a literary short story. It requires the reader—or listener—to willingly suspend disbelief at a preponderance of coincidences. I mean, what are the chances of four people at random being connected by knowledge or involvement in a single incident which took place many years before?” He checked his notes. “And we need an explanation why half a dozen witnesses allegedly saw Jones—supposedly innocent—with Mr. Blank that night of the murder. A solid literary story would reveal that Mr. Brown had anonymously bribed those six witnesses. Let’s see... another biggie—robbery alone does not seem like adequate motive for Brown to kill Blank... business rivalry or romantic jealousy are more likely. And finally... two months is not nearly enough time for all this final business to take place... it would require many months for the necessary correspondence, arrangements, and travel. Not even counting the possibility that some—or all—of the other men in that party may have also been contacted by the lawyer.”
Beth felt quite disappointed. “In other words: a good story idea, but not a great piece of literature.”
“Exactly. In my opinion, this is a campfire tale likely meant to be recited orally. And it’d be terrific in that context. But in written form, I think it’s actually just a context in which to conceal a few important nuggets.”
“What nuggets?” Connie squirmed in her seat.
“Impossible to say without more information. But there’s something mighty fishy about the sheriff having the only full name.”
During a lull, Beth searched in her cabinets for some kind of snack. All she found was a bag of unsalted, roasted peanuts. Though she couldn’t recall purchasing them, she poured the contents into a medium bowl and placed it on the coffee table. “Jeff, what have you concluded about the writer?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Jeff pulled out another sheet and began reading. “Presumably male. If he actually rode steamers during the 1920s and witnessed some men sitting around swapping tales, he could have been at that time anything from a boy to a grown man. However, the handwriting has a lot of flourish and some of the descriptors sound a bit feminine.”
Beth interrupted. “Do you think this draft could’ve been written by Lynette herself?”
“Remotely possible... but not likely.” Jeff pointed to his backpack. “I’ve checked her known handwriting... the diary. I’m no graphologist, but it doesn’t look even close to me. That said, Lynette’s travels could easily have placed her on river steamers in the earliest part of the 1900s and she could have heard tales like this one... or maybe even heard this particular story.”
Beth picked up a peanut and cracked the slightly dusty shell. “So why did Lynette have a copy of this interesting, but flawed, little story?”
“Well, unless we could interview the dumpster divers who recovered the material, we’ll never know for certain that it did ever belong to Lynette.” Jeff cleared his throat and settled back in his chair. “Lots of people use dumpsters. And lots of people in whichever neighborhood could’ve been just as old as Lynette... or older.”
“No, I’m certain it was Lynette’s story... or at least her copy of that story. Whatever.” Beth touched her stomach. “Gut instinct and woman’s intuition.”
Connie tried one of the peanuts and spit it out immediately. “Beth, these are horrid!” She rushed to the bathroom and rinsed her mouth... quite noisily.
Beth discreetly put back the nut she’d de-shelled. “Was there actually a steamboat by that name?”
Jeff pointed to his tablet. “I couldn’t find a boat named Cherokee anywhere.”
“Was Lynette ever in... or near... Hickman, Kentucky?” Beth removed the bowl of stale peanuts.
“No way to tell... I mean, not from the programs I saw in the suitcase.” Jeff shrugged. “But Hickman did have some minor historical significance, and I found the name of its newspaper during that period—the Courier. If I can find time to search through a few issues, no telling what we might find.”
After more discussion about the story and related aspects, it had gotten rather late.
Jeff departed about nine o’clock, requiring Connie to move her demo. She lingered, apparently hoping Shane would show up again. About an hour later, Connie gave up waiting and went home.
Not long after Connie’s departure, Beth heard the rich, deep rumble of Shane’s motorcycle in her driveway. She had the front door open before Shane booted down the kickstand.
“You missed my guests... Connie even waited on you.”
“Why?” He entered and placed his helmet near the door. “What’s she want?”
Beth smiled slyly. “On, nothing. I think she just wants to see what a real biker is like. She’s probably picturing leathered outlaws.”
“You want me to scare her a bit?” He grinned.
“No... just be yourself.”
“So, you figure that’ll scare her enough?”
Beth touched the side of his face, still cool from his ride.
Shane clasped her hand to his cheek and slid it down to where he could kiss her knuckles. “I don’t mind meeting your friends, Bethany. But don’t count on us becoming good buddies or anything. From what little you’ve told me, I don’t have much in common with either one.” Shane grunted as he removed his leather jacket. Outside temperature was in the mid-fifties but it was warm inside the cottage. “I couldn’t find Ricks, but I could almost smell him at times. I could swear—some of the time—that I wasn’t more than an hour behind him.”
Beth provided some highlights from Jeff’s analysis of the Jones story... and cautioned Shane not
to eat the peanuts.
“A peanut’s a peanut.” He quickly shelled one and plopped it into his mouth. Just as swiftly, he loudly spit it into his hand. “Bethany, these are poison!”
Beth pointed to the kitchen trash can in the corner next to the rear door. “Tried to warn you.” Beth started smiling. “But you wouldn’t listen.” In fact, as she just then realized, Shane’s stubbornness was nearly as aggravating as his propensity for fighting. She watched him drink from the sink’s faucet. He let the stream run into the palm of his hand and then he slurped what had collected. Twice.
Their relationship had been on hold for three long years and suddenly Shane was in her kitchen and living room. Beth was reasonably certain he also wanted to spend time in her bedroom. But she couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not with Ricks on the loose and all the strangeness of the past ten days. But what about afterwards? After Ricks was locked away. What would become of them after this crisis?
She studied his face as he ripped a paper towel from the roll and roughly dabbed his mouth. A few shreds of damp towel got stuck in his beard stubble. “Something on your chin.” She pointed.
Shane absent-mindedly combed his blunt fingertips over his lower face. “Did that get it?”
“Here... let me.” She stood quite close and tried to avoid his eyes as she plucked three small scraps of moist paper from his short bristles. She thought she could hear his heart beating. No, maybe that was her heart. Might have been both. Beth figured Shane still carried some of his hurt from when she left him. She did too. But there were also psychological bruises from their time together prior to her departure. Sometimes in their four-and-a-half years together, she had felt more like a possession than a partner. Sometimes Beth had been frightened over Shane’s jealousy and what seemed like his capacity for violence against others.
She’d often wondered if Shane ever had any real closure about Sophia. He had told Beth that she’d helped him get over his previous lover. But Beth was not at all certain. Sophia’s tragedy had partly un-hinged Shane and shaped him into a gladiator of sorts. No—more like a combative knight with hereditary orders to protect the lovely princess and slay any dragons that ventured near. Right now Beth only knew about one dragon—Ricks. Though Ricks was more of a scavenger, a meth head vulture.
When Beth backed away from Shane, standing in the wide archway between kitchen and living space, she sensed he was gazing into her soul. Or mind. Maybe both. She could tell he wanted her, physically, perhaps even emotionally. But not now, not under these circumstances. If Shane the knight were to bed this damsel, he would have to wait until after the artificial intensity of all the recent problems. The kind of intensity which often got two people in bed together was typically a huge mistake. And it would certainly be a blunder if Beth allowed it now. All that said, she felt the electricity of being near him again.
Shane seemed able to read her mind. “Bethany, if I’d been here last evening, Ricks wouldn’t have attacked you. And if I’d been here before that, he wouldn’t have followed you. And nobody would’ve broken into your place.”
“You couldn’t have known, Shane.” She felt that familiar tightness in her chest again. “I’ve been fine here, by myself, for years. Nobody’s bothered me. Well, my boss seems a little weird at times, but he’s never done anything.”
Shane seemed to want to say something, but didn’t. He just looked sad. Was it residual grief over the loss of Sophia? Or was he anxious over Beth’s safety? Or was he just ticked that she hadn’t invited him to stay over? She guessed it could be any of those, or possibly parts of all three.
Beth sat on one end of the couch and related the remainder—greatly condensed—of what she and her friends had learned about the Jones story. But Shane seemed too distracted to absorb much of it.
When Shane stood and reached for his jacket, he looked like someone who’d just lost his best friend... or maybe lost his favorite dog and the friend.
“Before you go, can I borrow a hug?”
He opened his grizzly bear arms and pulled Beth so close, so tightly, that they almost formed one body.
She’d nearly forgotten his raw strength. Beth could barely breathe, but she hugged as far around his thick chest as her arms could reach. If her slender body didn’t require oxygen, Beth figured she could stand there inside his protective limbs for a new lifetime. But she did need to breathe. Plus, her brain figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that Shane would be back in California in a day or two. Pull away. She hated the voice inside which shouted that retreat, but she heeded it anyhow.
Shane picked up his helmet, struggled into his jacket, and left for his lonely motel room.
Chapter Twenty-Six
October 12 (Wednesday)
Kaser reviewed his detailed folders in his spacious but unadorned Nashville suite.
He had to be certain the actress’s belongings had been destroyed or currently rotted below acres of other landfill garbage. However, his September twenty-sixth visit at Saticoy Grocery provided a strong indication that scavengers who frequented that North Hollywood dumpster, among many other bins, had regularly hauled away any interesting items they’d found. It was anybody’s guess whether meth heads would assess those boxes of Harte family papers as interesting.
After that grocery visit, Kaser had gone to the nearby police precinct. Funny how cops will go out of their way to help someone working on a documentary for public television. Officer José Metoyer recalled speaking once or twice with that trio. He also remembered the type of van they drove, with a little light blue paint remaining. And Metoyer called a buddy in a Long Beach precinct who’d recalled the neighborhood they stayed in... and the name of the blonde girl, Sallie.
Among all the drugged-out dumpster divers in Bixby Heights, one particular skinny tramp wouldn’t stand out. But the three of them, together, did—primarily because they openly re-sold selected merchandise they’d scavenged. But that search for Sallie had yielded an unexpected dividend: at the address he’d expected to find the scrawny blonde girl, Kaser had found Ricks instead.
Kaser scanned the notes from his initial contact with Ricks on September twenty-sixth.
Assuming a drug bust, Ricks had been terrified, of course. But after Kaser settled him down enough to listen, Ricks seemed to understand it was a business transaction. This no-nonsense investigator was willing to pay for information.
When Kaser inquired about boxes of belongings, such as family paperwork, Ricks recalled an evening they’d found several dusty boxes, all of the same type, all in great condition. Two or three still had lids, but others were open and the contents had partly spilled out.
“What was inside the boxes?” Kaser had asked.
All Ricks remembered was pictures which they put in a real old, small suitcase.
Of particular interest was Ricks’s description of what the meth-fueled trio had done with those dumpster items. “We sometimes stopped off at a friend of Mutt’s. Whenever Mutt thought he’d be interested in a particular piece of furniture or whatever.”
Which items had been acquired by Mutt’s friend?
Ricks remembered it had been everything in that little suitcase. Mainly because the trio was in a hurry to get home and didn’t want to dawdle while the friend sifted through contents.
Ricks was a lucky find and a perfect candidate for some specific sub-contractor work Kaser had in mind. Not very bright, nor particularly talented, but pliable and obedient. He’d do anything for drugs. Plus, he had an obvious dislike of Mutt’s friend, a biker named Holder, and knew where the biker lived.
At that point in his late September research, Kaser had not yet realized the contact with that biker would end up in the Nashville area. Extremely convenient to have things come full circle. Kaser loved it when his planning and scheduling came together with some good, old fashioned serendipity.
Kaser continued re-reading his notes.
He had instructed Ricks not to kill the biker—just get in, get the suitcase, a
nd get out. It was low-risk from Kaser’s point of view. If Ricks got himself caught, who’d believe anybody from out of state had hired him?
When Ricks broke in to Holder’s place, the suitcase was gone. But Ricks, as brain fried as he was, had the instinct to figure out the biker’s ex-girlfriend must have the luggage. He even found her address somehow. Dealing with druggies was fraught with too many variables: one never knew what fuel was going through their engines. In that instance, however, all went well.
Eager for the bonus Kaser promised, Ricks had been keenly disappointed not to recover the suitcase. And that made Ricks even more determined to get the luggage from Holder’s ex-girlfriend. Apparently, there was a score to settle with her as well. It was then Kaser decided to give Ricks another assignment: steal a car and drive to that middle Tennessee address.
Kaser smiled as he put down the folder on Ricks. Not confident enough that Ricks could even manage such a long distance drive, Kaser had, through a discreet agent, hired a young local man to break in to the girlfriend’s house in a little town east of Nashville. But he’d handled that entire transaction by phone and with a drop of the payment. No personal contact. Kaser didn’t want anybody within fifty miles of Nashville to see his face in connection with anything. Anyone who saw Kaser up close would have to take a very long sleep.
Kaser stroked, but did not re-open, his folder on Mutt and Sallie.
If Ricks had not provided the new address of his ex-associates, Kaser could never have found them, because when meth heads relocate, they’re usually getting away from someone or something. Kaser also had important business with them.
With Kaser barely noticing it, his left thumbnail lightly scraped the knuckle of his other thumb.
****
When Beth arrived home after her workday, Shane and his new Harley were waiting at the side of her driveway.
Inside, after they got comfortable, Shane briefed her on his unsuccessful efforts to locate Ricks.