And Mother didn’t have to risk severing an artery or arm, because—after climbing the steps to a landing—we found the warped wooden door unlocked.
The inside was a mess, but not the mess of a slovenly home owner, rather the purposefully disheveled aftermath of someone searching for something—drawers open, cupboards ajar, cushions overturned. Each room was the same, from the small living area to the galley kitchen, from the single bedroom to a tiny bath. The extent of the damage gave me the impression that whoever had done this had not found what he or she was looking for.
Mother expressed the same opinion, but in her idea of detective speak: “Somebody tossed the joint!”
Soon we were standing in the bedroom where a mattress had been cut open, its stuffing removed and flung, exposing metal coils, the remains abandoned as an unsuccessful surgery.
I asked, “Did Big Jim Bob have a habit of hiding money in his bed?”
“How should I know, dear?”
“Well, I thought you ... you know ... had some kind of special relationship, and—”
“And thought I might have noticed if the mattress was lumpy?”
Okay, I was goading her, peeved how the day was going.
Mother put hands on hips. “Young lady, ours was not that kind of relationship! It was strictly a friendship, a platonic arrangement ... and, all right, with a little heavy petting on the side.”
Wincing, I quickly changed the subject. “What are we doing here, anyway?”
“Yeah!” a male voice behind us roared. “What are you doin’ here?”
After we finished jumping, we turned to a figure standing framed in the bedroom doorway, a skeletal creature wearing a torn T-shirt, jeans, with tattoos adorning both arms. He was a wiry forty, his dark gray-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail, his face a leathery tan, with a long nose and small dark dangerous shark eyes.
Were we in the presence of Jim Bob’s killer? After all our silly shenanigans investigating the very serious crime of murder, were we finally in the kind of hot water we likely deserved?
Almost haughtily, Mother said, “I could ask the same of you, young man.”
His response was a smirk.
Mother approached him tentatively, her tone turning pleasant. “You wouldn’t by any chance be Big Jim Bob’s partner? From Texas, isn’t it?”
“Mebbe,” he said, but the way he drawled it said yes.
“Vivian Borne,” she announced, “a close personal friend of Big Jim Bob’s.”
Mother drew near enough to him to stick out her hand for a shake.
Which he wordlessly declined.
“I’m Brandy,” I said lamely. “Her daughter? Didn’t really know the man.”
For this effort, I received an awkward silence.
Then, grudgingly, he said, “I’m Travis. Travis Taylor.”
“Travis,” Mother said, putting music into the name, “would there be somethin’ to drink around here?” I cringed as she went all folksy. “I’m so dry I’m spitting cotton.” (That was her favorite Bette Davis line—though “What a dump” would have been more fitting.)
Travis, still blocking the doorway, studied us for a long moment, then shrugged. “What makes you think I’m stayin’ here or somethin’?”
“Well,” Mother said, gesturing grandly to the mess, “you just walked in like you owned the place!”
As had we, but never mind.
“Well, I’m not.” Then: “Knowin’ Big Jim Bob, there’s gonna be beer in the kitchen.”
He turned, apparently to go there, and Mother and I wasted no time in getting out of the bedroom, following him into the front room, which at least gave us a shot at the exit.
While Travis was in the adjacent galley kitchen—getting beers, I reckoned (sorry), and not a sharp knife—I replaced the couch cushions so Mother and I had a place to sit.
He returned with three cans of beer (whew!), which we took, even though Mother and I had a mutual dislike for the beverage, me partial to white wine, and her up for nothing stronger than a Shirley Temple, because of her medication.
But Mother popped the top on the can like an old pro, took a greedy, slurpy sip, then produced the tiniest, ladylike burp.
While Travis had his back to us, righting a table chair for himself, I gave Mother’s shin a quick kick with my foot so she would stop trying so hard. But she didn’t seem to get it, mouthing a frowned, silent, “What?”
To which I could only roll my eyes.
Travis, seated with hands on knees (ready to spring?), said, “So ... what did ol’ Jim Bob have to say about his pardner Trav?”
Mother took another swig, then said, “Jest that you’d steal the stripe off a skunk.”
Yes, she said “jest.” Sue me.
Hairy eyebrows arched over the shark eyes. “That right? Sounds about like him.”
She nodded, burped again, more naturally this time, then said, “That’s why he left Texas, isn’t it? Because you robbed him blind?”
Where was she getting all this?
“That’s a damn lie,” Travis said. “He’s the one who stole from me, then hightailed it up here.”
Mother shrugged. “Young man, I have no dog in this hunt—I am only reporting to you what Big Jim Bob told me. Because you inquired.”
Tired of waiting for my cue, I asked, “What kind of business were you two in, anyway?”
Travis, tight-lipped, stared at me, then turned the tiny dark eyes on Mother. “Y’know, I don’t feel much like jawin’ with the two of you no more. You ain’t explained what you’re doin’ here.”
Ignoring that, I twisted toward Mother, giving her a wink Travis wouldn’t see. “Didn’t your friend Big Jim Bob say they ran an antiques shop together?”
“No, dear. It was an auction house.”
“No, Mother ... I’m sure you said he said an antiques shop.”
Travis blurted, “Weren’t neither of those! We was pickers.”
Mother, feigning ignorance, asked, “Pickers? You mean like on the banjo or git fiddle?”
Yes, she said “git fiddle.”
“No, Mother,” I said. “Antiques pickers—like that TV show.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, and nodded. “That’s where them city slickers go around and swindle good folks out of valuable antiques.”
A scarlet flush was creeping up under the tanned leather face, turning him into a literal redneck. “We didn’t swindle nobody. We paid good money for that junk.”
I asked, “So what happened? Did Big Jim Bob run off with all the proceeds?”
“No!” Travis yelped in frustration. “It was later he diddled me ... when we went into the storage unit game ... and that ain’t all he done.”
“Do tell,” Mother exclaimed, beer can on its way back to her lips. She was getting loosey goosey—the old girl could get looped on bourbon cake.
Travis, whose own beer had been left untouched on the floor, now reached for the can, and downed the whole thing in a series of interconnected gulps.
Well, chug a lug! I was impressed.
“You were saying?” Mother prompted.
“Huh?” Travis belched, putting Mother’s efforts to shame, then crumpled the can in his fist.
“About the storage unit game?” I prodded.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s where Jim Bob made off with the money in our checking account.”
I said, “Did you go to the police?”
“No,” Travis said glumly. “We was both signed on the account, so technically it weren’t really stealin’.”
“Oh my,” Mother said. “Married couples who break up have that same problem, all the time. Still, I can hardly believe that about Big Jim Bob—he always seemed like such a good ol’ boy.”
Travis snorted. “That’s what I thought, when I went into bidness with him. But that weren’t the worst of it.”
“Oh?” Mother asked.
“Yeah, he looted stuff from the renters’ lockers—unbeknownst to me—an’ fenced it.”
<
br /> I frowned. “How could he get away with that?”
“He was crafty ’bout it,” Travis said. “Gotta admit. Hittin’ the units of dead people that couldn’t exactly bitch. Sometimes, if some relative got wind, he’d tell ’em a burglar broke in and done it.” His eyes narrowed. “What really sucks is he done all that without cutting his own pardner in!”
“What a crook,” I said with a straight face.
Mother, having drained the last of her beer, asked, “Do you think Big Jim Bob was up to those same crafty tricks here in Serenity? Stealing from the storage units, that is.”
Travis nodded like a bobble-head doll. “And I bet he didn’t work alone, neither.”
I asked, “Why do you think that?”
“Too small a town—couldn’t risk fencin’ things on his own. Jim Bob was a cautious dude, if nothin’ else. That’s how come I didn’t see him stealing from me, in my rearview.”
I said, “Is that why you trashed this place? To get even? Or were you looking for something?”
“Who says I trashed it?”
We just looked at him.
“Ladies, place was like this when I come in. Okay, I did poke around a bit—I got bills back in Texas for that storage business, debts Jim Bob owes just as much as me.”
Mother said, “Then you should get some restitution. Do you have a lawyer?”
“I’m supposed to see a fella this afternoon.”
Mother said, “So you’ll be around the Serenity area a while longer?”
“Not too long, I hope.” He stood. “Any good barbecue to be had?”
I said, “The Pitt on University. Across from the car wash.”
“Thanks.” Travis headed for the door, then turned with a sly smile. “Ah hope you girls find what you was lookin’ for.”
Moments later I was at a side window watching him climb into an unmarked van.
A white one.
Mother, watching also, said, “What do you think, dear? Is he our killer?”
“Travis certainly had the motive and opportunity ... but he’s not the only one. He does have a white van... .”
“Plenty of white vans in the world, dear.”
“Why was he so chatty, do you suppose?”
“Obviously, because I had him twisted around mah little finger!”
“Stop talking that way. Maybe he got as much out of that conversation as we did.”
“Mebbe.”
“Stop it!”
On the drive back to Serenity, as I approached a familiar side road, I asked Mother, “Mind if we take a quick detour?”
“Not at all, dear. Perhaps it will improve your overall disposition. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind seeing Tony Cassato’s old homestead myself.”
The “homestead” of my ex-boyfriend (and Serenity’s ex-police chief) was a modern log cabin whose location had been privy to only a select few.
I took my eyes off the road. “How did you know?”
“How did I know what, dear? That you wanted to drive by and reminisce? Or that I knew its location?”
“Both.” I slowed down for the turn.
She laughed with the merry abandon a can of beer brought her. “I can see through you like a book, dear.”
“Right, and read me like glass. Spill.”
“Oh, I’ve known where Chief Cassato lived for quite some time—even though he guarded its location like a hound-dog does a ham bone.”
This folksy thing was hard to get out of her system.
“How did you find out, Mother?”
“Oh, I followed you once.”
“What, on foot?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. In my car, of course.”
Mother did have a car—stored in the garage among the other trash and treasures, an old pea-green Audi that had seen more action than a military tank. What she did not have (anymore) was a driver’s license.
“But ... but I had the tires removed!”
After her third moving violation.
She laughed again, as if to say: Silly you.
“Dear, tires can go back on—it just takes a little time, and a few dollars to enlist a neighborhood youth. Now, if you make a left at the next gravel road, we can get there faster.”
And Mother’s route was shorter than mine, and before long we were bumping down a narrow dirt lane secluded by tall undergrowth, some of which had advanced boldly inward now that the cabin stood vacant.
Or was it?
Perhaps in the short time since Tony had gone, someone new had moved in. He might have sold it, after all, or rented it out. But as the cabin came into view, no vehicles were visible, nor any other sign of human life.
I parked close, got out, then took two steps up to the low wooden porch, and peeked in a window. What I saw brought a lump to my throat—everything had been cleared out, the cabin-style furniture, the fishing gear, Tony’s collection of snowshoes, even the ancient rifle that had hung over the fireplace, in front of which we had spent many a cozy hour... .
But who had cleared out his belongs? And where did they go? Tony certainly hadn’t had time to do all that before being whisked into WITSEC. I felt an awful emptiness, like a ghost haunting the place.
Mother was heading toward the barn; from the porch, I could see its weathered red door ajar. She disappeared within, and as I left the porch to join her, she reappeared.
“Brandy!” she shouted. Her urgency was real, and not at all theatrical. “Come quickly!”
Since just about the only thing in a barn that might excite Mother would be an antique thresher—for which I had no interest—I took my good sweet time getting there.
“Hurry, dear,” she beckoned again from the barn door, disappearing once more.
As soon as I entered, I saw him.
Not Tony (much as I might wish), but his trusty dog, Rocky, a black and white mixed breed with a distinctive black circle around one eye, K.O.-style, like the mutt in the Little Rascals. The animal looked half-dead, prone on his side in a small pile of hay.
Astounded, I said, “Surely Tony didn’t leave him.” I bent and stroked the dog, who began to whimper.
Mother bent, also. Her tone was gentle. “No, dear. Look at his paws ... he’s come a great distance.”
“Then he must have gotten separated from Tony ... or whoever had him ... and come back to the only home he knew.”
We’ve all heard the stories of faithful animals lost many hundreds of miles from home who found their way back. Maybe some of those yarns were true.
Mother said, “I’ll get the bottle of water from the car. Dear?”
“What?”
“I can’t get up.”
“Never mind. I’ll go for the water.”
Which I did, finding an old plastic bowl along the way to pour the water in.
Together we got Rocky onto his feet—after I got Mother on hers, anyway—and the dog thirstily lapped up the dish’s contents.
Since Rocky was too heavy for either (or both) of us to lug, I moved the Buick as close to the barn door as possible, and Rocky was able to hobble to the car, where Mother and I, working as a team (for a change), pushed him by his rear up into the backseat.
On the drive home, I worried not only about Rocky’s health, but about Sushi’s reaction to the inclusion of another animal in the house.
And with good cause—last year we’d temporarily taken in a dog named Brad Pitbull, and Soosh got her nose seriously out of joint, expressing her displeasure in an assortment of unsavory ways—like chewing up my favorite Stuart Weitzman shoes, and piddling on my pillow.
But when Rocky was led into the house and placed on an old blanket in the kitchen, Sushi seemed to sense that he was hurt, and transformed into Doggie Nightingale, licking his paws, even bringing him her favorite toy as an offering.
When Rocky showed no interest in a bowl of dry dog food, I got some sliced turkey from the fridge, and suddenly the animal forgot he was sick, and gobbled up all the tender white meat—Sushi joining
in, too.
In the meantime, Mother was busy at the stove making a large pan of popcorn; when I asked if that was her idea of dinner, she reminded me of the senator’s press conference, scheduled on TV in a few minutes. I reminded her that I had no interest in watching, to which she shrugged, saying, “Suit yourself.”
Of course she knew my curiosity would get the better of me, and sure enough, there I was joining her on the couch in front of our little flat-screen, bowl of popcorn in my lap.
Mother must have gotten the time wrong (Eastern vs. Central always threw her), because the press conference was already in full swing as we tuned in, the senator standing in front of a podium, Peggy Sue at his side. They seemed to be in a ballroom—the Hyatt in Davenport?—with an assortment of media folks seated in chairs, armed with hand recorders and microphones.
My father looked maturely handsome, face bronzed, hair slicked back showing hints of silver at the sides and temple, Paul Newman blue eyes determined and focused. Peggy Sue looked stunning in an elegant champagne-colored silk shift, pearls at her throat, her auburn hair spilling to her shoulders in random sexy waves (no bald spot from the hospital stay, so she must have had extensions put in), her make-up polished, hitting the right balance between vixen and virgin, looking like the future Washington socialite and perfect senator’s wife she was hoping to be.
Peggy Sue was saying, apparently in answer to a tough question, “I chose not to contact Edward when I discovered I was expecting, all those years ago. Although he was single at the time, I felt he might feel pressured to marry me. And that wouldn’t have been fair to him—or me, for that matter, as I had plans for college.”
A male voice asked pointedly, “Isn’t it true that you were only seventeen at the time of conception?”
Sis said patiently, pleasantly, “No—I had turned eighteen, and graduated from high school. And I was very mature for my age.”
A female voice asked, “Were you seduced?”
“Let me make perfectly clear,” Peggy Sue said, that Nixonian phrase striking me as not the best choice, “that I was the aggressor in our brief relationship.”
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