Two for Flinching

by Todd Morgan

  “No?”

  “Shelia made this.” He thrust an aluminum foil wrapped plate at me. “Chicken tetrazzini, though I wouldn’t eat it. Shit is toxic.”

  I took the plate. “Thanks. I’ll give it to Gus. It will be a step up for him.”

  Randy grunted.

  “Be quiet,” I said. “Dad is taking a nap.”

  We sneaked by the couch. Blondie looked up at us, vaguely curious, before dropping her head back into his lap. Dad did not stir. I sat the poisoned plate on the counter, not bothering to make a place for it in the fridge. It was the thought that counted.

  “Grab me a glass, will you?”

  I took one from the cabinet, a big one, filled it with ice. Randy fixed himself a drink, about fifty/fifty with a splash of lime. He said, “Helluva day.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Days like this make me want to look for a new line of work. Telling two mothers their daughters are dead, two husbands and a wife that their spouses are not coming home.”

  I slid back the chair, the same one I had sat in with Hannah. “How is Margaret doing? I should have checked in on her.”

  “She is in shock. I don’t think it has hit her yet.”

  “How did Mrs. Hogan take it?”

  “Awful. Just awful. Fell to her knees screaming. Luckily, her other daughter was there.”

  “What did she have to say?”

  “The mother? She said her no good son-in-law killed her.”

  “We’re in agreement on that.”

  Randy shook his head. “Steven Noble couldn’t have murdered his wife. There is no way.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I thought you said you weren’t supposed to be talking to me about the case.”

  “Who said I was?”

  “Well, I can’t talk about it with you,” he said. “Trust me on this, it wasn’t Steven.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Randy took a healthy sip of his rum and coke. “I am sorry about Stella.”

  “So am I.”

  He nodded. “We go way back. You and me. Hannah and Shelia. You, me, Stella, and Shelia.”

  “Yeah.”

  Randy appeared as if he could fall over any minute. He looked me in the eye. “I was always proud of you. Real proud. Your service in the Army, reading about your medals in the paper.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

  “It was hard for me to imagine the goofy-assed kid I grew up with doing all those things. Charging enemy positions, getting stabbed, surviving a fucking rocket.”

  “You know newspapers.”

  “Uh huh.” He sat the glass down, picked it back up and took another drink. “It’s even harder for me to believe the same goofy-assed kid could kill his wife and lover and dump the bodies in a lake.”

  “You know I couldn’t have done it, Randy.”

  “You see my problem? Your wife and lover end up in the same lake—four years apart—and you find the bodies. How can you explain that?”

  “Coincidence.”

  He took off the eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a detective. How much truck do you put in coincidences?”

  “Not much,” I admitted.

  “I just can’t get around that fact.”

  “I didn’t kill my wife.”

  “I hope not.” He finished his drink, put his glasses back on, and stood. “I really do.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The next morning, I was in the office drinking coffee. Sarah was at school. Trying to keep everything normal. I didn’t have any semblance of a plan with what to do with her. Take it as it comes. I figured at some point I would take her to a counselor, work all that out. Maybe when she was a little older or if she showed signs of trauma. I would have to keep an eye on her, that much I knew. My daughter was a blessed little girl. She had plenty of people who loved her. Me, Erin, dad, Gus and his family. When I dropped her off at preschool, her teacher had given me a sympathetic look and Sarah a big hug and hadn’t asked about the tuition check.

  The metal stairs creaked. Two men, maybe three. I opened the side drawer of my desk. The drawer holding the .45.

  Starling pushed into my office, Fletcher behind him. Fletcher moved to the side, his hands held open. Starling said, “You found her.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Now you’re out of it.”

  I was speaking to Starling, but watching Fletcher. “I am?”

  “Yes,” Starling said. “You are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  I nodded. “You know something, Big Bird?” I said. “I could care less about what you say.”

  “Nobody calls me that.”

  “I did.”

  Starling smiled. “Finally, I get a chance to hurt you.”

  “Both of you?” I asked Fletcher.

  Fletcher shook his head.

  Starling said, “It won’t take both of us.”

  “Yes,” I said, “it will.”

  Starling laughed.

  “I have your word?”

  Fletcher gave me a single nod.

  “Well,” I said, “let’s get to it.” I left the Colt in the desk and followed them down the stairs. It was a beautiful day out, low fifties, only a scattering of morning clouds. “Last chance.”

  “For what?”

  “For you to stay out of the hospital.”

  Starling laughed again and I snapped a perfect front kick to the face. Starling merely leaned back and I missed by six inches. “You gotta do better than that.”

  We were about the same height, but he had fifty pounds on me. Luckily, it was all muscle. Most large men never have to learn to fight, getting by on size and strength. Starling, though, looked to have had some training, moving like a boxer, hands up, light on his feet, chin tucked. I anticipated the left jab, slipped to his left and landed a jab of my own, followed by an overhand right. Starling appeared unfazed.

  I moved back. He followed.

  Another snap kick, this one to his midsection. The foot landed in front and I was prepared to throw a combination to the ribs. I was unprepared for the hook that clubbed my right cheek or the cross that landed on my chin. I moved back quickly and he quickly followed.

  I practically ran backwards, trying to get enough space to clear my head. Be quick. I jumped forward, surprising him with a one-two-three to the face and darted away. He held his ground, blood leaking from his split lips. Starling grinned at me. It was not a pretty sight.

  He could fight and he knew it. He could take a punch and I knew it. If I was going to get out of this with any teeth I would have to use it against him.

  I sagged, allowing my hands to drop. He couldn’t resist, going for the big punch, a sweeping right. I ducked under it, staying low, two powerful uppercuts to the stomach, then a right to the jaw, popping his head back. I could feel it all the way to my shoulder.

  He moved back. I circled.

  For the first time, I saw doubt in his eyes. Always a good point in any fight. I sneaked a peek behind him to Fletcher. He was still standing where we started on the cracked parking lot, his hands out. Empty. Starling spat blood.

  I cocked my front leg, holding it in the air. Starling hung back, out of range. Until I hopped twice on my left leg and side-kicked him in the face. Always aim for the nose. If you miss, you’ll still hit an eye or the mouth. The heel of my boot slammed into him and his nose exploded. Direct hit. It was a good kick, yet not a knockout blow. Not for someone who knew how to fight and could take a punch.

  My right leg landed in front. I twisted my hips, getting my whole body into it, the hips, the torso, the shoulder, swinging my left elbow into his solar plexus. I had broken a lot of boards with that elbow strike, the most was four at a time, an inch and a half thick. When I was a teenager, still a kid, before the Army and the Rangers and the years at war.

  There was a thud and a crack and Starling, eyes wide i
n shock and pain, took two steps back and fell. That was a knockout blow.

  The follow thru left me two feet from Fletcher. “You go for your piece and I’ll snap your neck.”

  Fletcher held his hands up and went around me to Starling. His face was a bloody mask, nose flattened, gasping for breath. Fear alive in his eyes, the unique fear of not being able to breathe.

  Mid-fifties, a scattering of clouds. The world zoomed back in. A beautiful day. Somewhere close a bird cried. I was betting it wasn’t a starling.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Hello.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Uh…about what?”

  “About Stella. About her…body.”

  “Well, I expect the authorities won’t release it for a week or so, pending the findings of the autopsy.”

  “What do we do then?”

  “Felicia, I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

  “The funeral. The burial. My people are buried all over the county and Orrin is from Kentucky. Do you have a plot somewhere?”

  “Actually, I do. Dad’s parents were founding members of Chickasaw Falls Baptist. They bought a corner of the cemetery.”

  “That will be fine. You never divorced her, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re still her legal spouse. What kind of services have you planned?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “Funerals are expensive. Paul told me Stella had a three hundred thousand life insurance policy. Did you know that?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Did Stella leave a will?”

  “Not that I know of. You ask her brother? He would’ve been in charge of that.”

  “Paul didn’t know of one either. You’re the beneficiary of the life insurance. What are you going to do with the money?”

  “There is no money.”

  “Sure there is. Paul said there was.”

  “The insurance company won’t pay it out.”

  “They have to.”

  “No, they don’t. Not under suspicious circumstance.”

  “What?”

  “Felicia, somebody murdered Stella. They won’t pay as long as they can argue I might have been responsible.”

  “They have to pay somebody.”

  “Eventually. Maybe. Years down the road.”

  “Paul says if you don’t get the money, it goes to Sarah.”

  “Eventually. Maybe.”

  “Stella was my only daughter. I am—was—her mother.”

  “Are you going to file a claim? Go after the money?”

  “No. No, no, no. Nothing like that. Only for Sarah. If they won’t give it to you, maybe they’ll give it to me. For Sarah.”

  “Uh huh.”

  ***

  There was a Lincoln Town Car parked crookedly on the street, a man on my steps. I pulled into the garage and unhooked my daughter from her car seat. She followed me around to the front of the house. The man rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Uncle Lou!” Sarah grabbed him around the legs. I was afraid she might knock him over.

  “Hello, honey.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you. And your dad.” He looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Hey, Beason.”

  “Hey, judge. Let’s get out of the cold.” I unlocked the front door and we went in, out of the cold. Sarah dropped her backpack on the floor and charged the couch. A moment later, I heard the television come on. It sounded like SpongeBob. “You want some coffee?”

  “You got anything a little harder?”

  “No.” I went into the kitchen, Judge Drake trailing behind, and got a pot going.

  “Your dad’s not here.”

  “No.”

  “Think he’ll be by?”

  “I don’t know. Probably, when he gets off work. You need to see him?”

  Drake shook his head. Still ramrod straight, even in his sweats and t-shirt. You never saw him without a tie—unless he had been drinking. “Just wanted to know how long I had.”

  “What happened to you two?”

  “Have to ask him.”

  “I did.”

  He shrugged.

  The coffee maker sputtered.

  “What’s up, judge?”

  “I came to offer my condolences.”

  “Thanks.”

  Drake looked towards the den. “Such a lovely child. She looks so much like her mother.”

  When I looked at Sarah, I didn’t see much of her mother. They shared the same high cheekbones and Sarah was thin—though a lot of kids that age were. Sarah had dark hair while Stella was a natural blond. “You think so?” I took a mug from the cabinet, filled it and handed it to him.

  “Definitely.” He sipped from the cup. “I feel terrible for you, Beason. I understand what you’re going through.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “A divorce is a lot like death, the loss of something you love. The loss of potential.”

  “I guess I can see that.”

  “Stella was a lovely young woman.”

  “Yes,” I had to admit, “she was.”

  “And just as lovely on the inside.”

  I usually didn’t drink much coffee after noon, but it would have been a shame to let the rest of the pot go to waste. I took out a cup of my own. “I didn’t realize you knew her that well.”

  “I didn’t. Not really. We were on a committee once with the United Way.”

  “Oh yeah.” The judge—purely for political purposes—had been heavily involved with the United Way. Stella had joined for a bit, since her boss had been a member and Stella was looking for a promotion. “I had almost forgotten about that.”

  “I wonder how Sarah will do growing up without her mother.”

  I had never seen Luther show concern about my daughter when we had all assumed Stella had run off. Come to think of it, I had never seen more than a passing interest from him about my child. “How much have you had to drink?”

  He waved me off. “Skip the lecture, Beason. I only wanted you to know how sorry I am for your loss.”

  I had my own troubles to worry about without taking on Luther’s drinking. “Okay.”

  “She was something else.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “She was.”

  ***

  Sarah had a chicken leg and a scoop of macaroni casserole on her plate. She liked the chicken well enough, but wouldn’t touch the casserole—it wasn’t real macaroni. I thought it was pretty good and it was as close to kid friendly as I had in the overstocked fridge. Dad claimed when we were little he put the food on our plate and we could it eat or starve. Two problems with that: Gus and I, sure, however not his little girl. And; I never remembered him putting anything on my plate.

  I went to the pantry, looking for a suitable side dish. I knew there was nothing in the fridge. When somebody dies, you don’t take salad. For a man who had lived pretty much continuously on MRE’s, it wasn’t easy. If Erin had not been out with that boy, I could have asked her. Cans of green beans, black-eyed peas, and corn. I settled on potato chips.

  A knock on the door. Blondie’s head snapped around. She was torn between molesting a newcomer or staying at her spot beside Sarah’s chair waiting for food to be dropped. Accidently or otherwise. I went alone to the door.

  Dad would not have bothered to knock and Blondie would have sensed his presence and gone running to greet him. I pulled back the venetian blinds. An older sedan sat in the driveway, illuminated by the streetlight. Not a car I recognized. And not a vehicle likely to be driven by Starling or Fletcher.

  I cracked the door, ready to slam it shut if need be. A vaguely familiar man stood on my stoop, dressed in a dark suit, lighter shirt, no tie, and a heavy coat. I couldn’t place him, but he set off no alarm bells. I pulled the door open.

  “Mr. Camp?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Ronald Ignatius, th
e pastor at First Baptist.”

  “Oh, uh, come on in.” I moved back so he could enter. “I didn’t recognize you in the dark, you know, without the pulpit.”

  Ignatius’s somber expression melted, breaking out into a grin. “Maybe I could borrow yours.”

  “Sorry, I had to take it in for cleaning.”

  He laughed, a full, hearty, laugh.

  “Who is it, daddy?” Sarah peeked around the corner.

  “It’s the preacher, baby.”

  “Who?”

  Ignatius knelt on his haunches. “Hello, angel.”

  She crept into the dining room/playroom. Blondie was licking her palms.

  “I’ve interrupted your dinner. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It isn’t very good.”

  Another laugh. “Well, you go back and finish. I just want a minute with your father.”

  Sarah gave me puppy dog eyes. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Okay.” She made a face and returned back out of sight.

  “I really am sorry, Mr. Camp. I’ve come at a bad time.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Would you like to join us? We have every casserole known to man.”

  “No. Thank you. I don’t want to upset the missus.” Up close, I could tell he was a few years older than me, mid to late thirties, light brown hair beginning to thin, rimless glasses. “I just came by to see how you were doing, if you needed anything.”

  “No. Like I said, we’ve got plenty of food.”

  “And how are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, maybe a little less than fine.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I doubt it.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it. This was a man I didn’t even know who had put off his own dinner with his family to see how I was doing. “It’s a complicated situation,” I quickly added.

  “You’re right. I can’t imagine.”

  “Do you know the story?”

  “Uh…no.” Not the whole story.

  “The short version is we all thought my wife ran off with my partner. Only we found out they were both dead the entire time.”