“Why I ought to…” Farley collected himself and drew a deep breath. He glanced back at Blake and Shelby as though suddenly remembering their presence. “I apologize. Perhaps we should meet somewhere less hostile. I don’t want to be accused of hitting a defenseless old man.”
“Who you calling defenseless?” Booth shouted after him.
The banging of the front door was the Mayor’s response.
<<>>
“Is it always like this around here?” Shelby asked a mortified Alice. She sliced her eyes toward the front entrance. “That’s the second time today someone has slammed that door.”
Mr. Booth shuffled to a chair. He sat heavily, releasing a weary breath. His shoulders slumped and his left side appeared to sag a bit more then it had a moment ago. Apparently, he was all bluff and bluster.
Alice seemed to know it was all an act. She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to look into his face. “Are you all right, Dad?”
He gave a rare smile, and patted his daughter’s hand. “It’s all good, honey. That man can go to –”
“Dad! Could you tone it down a bit? We have guests, you know.”
Shelby resumed her seat, watching the pair with the intensity she usually reserved for a production of Shakespeare. She picked up the papers Farley had left on the table and glanced over them. “Mr. Booth, what did you mean when you said your wife fought this lie?”
Blake remained standing, more than a little curious himself. The mayor seemed to think there was still a question about property lines. But why make a big deal of it after all this time? There was no one living close on either side to dispute the claim, and after a hundred years of ownership, who would fight the right for The Drunken Sailor Bed & Breakfast to have use of the nearby beach area and boathouse? Other than the mayor?
“That man has been harassing us for the past two years about our property line. It’s none of his darn business!” Mr. Booth’s slurring escalated when he was angry.
“Two years?” Blake crossed his arms and leaned on his strong hip. “What do you think his real interest is?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I can guess. It started shortly before his ridiculous run for office. This town can barely scrape together two nickels to pay for snow plowing, much less an ambitious, blowhard politician with plans to change Port Scuttlebutt into a tourist trap.”
“Farley Jones is definitely a blowhard, Dad,” Alice intervened, “but I believe he wants what’s best for the town. He’s just not accustomed to people thwarting his good intentions.”
Shelby looked confused.
“His great, great, grandfather built the town’s first bank,” Alice explained. “Jones Savings & Trust? You would have passed the old building if you turned down Union Street. It’s closed now, but back in the day it was where all the miners and sailors kept their money.”
Mr. Booth snorted. “My grandfather used to say, men trusted their lives to God when they were at sea and trusted their money to old Andrew Jones’ bank vault when they were away. I’m afraid the apple rolled quite some ways from that trustworthy tree.”
“Nobody’s perfect, Dad. I seem to remember a story about Andrew Jones’ bank. It was once robbed shortly after receiving a month’s worth of pay from nearly all the men in town, and that money was never recovered. Farley is exercising due diligence in regard to the property. He is a professional realtor, after all. It’s his job.”
“Farley is a chump,” he insisted. “It’s true ‘bout the robbery though. My grandfather told me the story. Happened in 1893. The vault was blown wide open, and all the men’s savings was stolen, along with ten gold bricks that had secretly shipped in from Canada, and were supposed to be picked up by armed guards the next day. The robbers got clean away.” He sighed and his chin lowered. They had to listen carefully to understand his last mumbled words. “It was a long time ‘fore men around here trusted their money to a bank again.”
“Dad, why don’t you go sit in your easy chair, and I’ll bring you a cup of hot tea,” Alice suggested, casting an apologetic glance over his bowed head.
Blake got the hint. He cleared his throat. “Shelby and I have a date with an old friend. We’ll see you both later.”
Shelby had other ideas. As usual. She stacked the papers in a neat pile and stood up slowly. “Mr. Booth, did you know someone has been sleeping in your boathouse?”
The off topic question caught both of their hosts unaware. They stared back at her, mouths slightly ajar. Sometimes Blake thought Shelby would make a terrific detective. She definitely had the instincts for it.
Alice jumped in before her father could respond. “Of course not! Why would anyone sleep in that old dilapidated building? It’s full of mice and cobwebs.”
“I thought you hadn’t been down there in ages?”
“I don’t need to go down there to know it’s a rodent and spider paradise.” She narrowed her gaze. “What’s your point?”
Mr. Booth asked, “You sayin’ we got squatters?”
“No, of course not,” Blake said, taking Shelby’s arm and inching toward the door. “There were just a few items down there that appeared to belong to someone I know.”
“You’re talking about that bum, Jack, ain’tcha?”
“Now Dad, don’t get all bent out of shape. The man is homeless. If he spent a night or two in that old building, what’s the harm? Mom always said Jack was a good man who paid a harsh price in the Vietnam War. So we should give him a little slack.”
“A lot’a men wen’a war. Mos’a ‘em don’ wan’er round askin’ fer handouts.” Angry color swept up the old man’s neck and into his face when his words came out garbled.
Blake hurried over and took a hold of his arm when he tried to stand. He nearly fell to the floor; his legs giving out. He looked up helplessly, his mouth contorted with anger and fear.
“Dad!” Alice helped Blake ease him back into his chair. She knelt beside him and held his hand. “Don’t move. I’m going to call Dr. Morgan.”
He pressed shaking lips together and nodded, a sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead.
Alice ran into the kitchen to make the call. They could hear her muffled conversation and then she returned pushing a wheelchair. “Could you help me get him into his chair and back to his room?”
He lifted the old man as gently as possible, and placed him in the chair. Blake remembered Oliver Booth a dozen years ago as a muscular man with wide shoulders and huge biceps. Now he felt as helpless and weak as a child. Once he was situated, Alice pushed the wheelchair back through the kitchen. She motioned for Blake to follow.
A room off the kitchen – probably once a pantry – had been renovated into a small bedroom. It was plain and simple. No frills. An upright dresser stood in one corner with a chunky out-of-date television perched on top, along with a selection of small, framed photos. Blake recognized most of them as the late Mrs. Clara Booth. Against the opposite wall was a twin bed covered in a dark blue comforter. Beside it, a rolling cart held medications, a water glass, and one of those baby monitors. A braided rug, in shades of red, covered the floor beside the bed; the only real color inside four sterile white walls.
Alice was all business now as though she’d suddenly changed from worried daughter into professional caregiver. “Let’s get him comfortable,” Alice said. “Dr. Morgan should be here soon.”
Blake lifted the man again, and they soon had him tucked beneath the blankets. When he turned around, Shelby stood hovering in the doorway, a worried frown knitting her brow. He gave her a reassuring smile.
Alice glanced up. “Would you mind watching the front door, and letting the doctor in when he gets here?”
“He lives nearby?”
“Only a mile away. He retired last year, sold his practice and moved here. He’s been a godsend for folks in this area. You know how long it takes for the nearest ambulance to get to Port Scuttlebutt?” Apparently that was a rhetorical question.
Shelby gave B
lake’s arm a squeeze before hurrying away.
Alice slid a folding chair out from under the bed and positioned it beside her father where she could keep vigil until the doctor arrived. She held his hand, and whispered words of reassurance only he could hear.
Lingering in the doorway, Blake continued to watch. Mr. Booth hadn’t spoken since they’d moved him. His left eye now drooped as though the muscles had all been severed, and his right eye helplessly watched the activity around him. Blake recognized that helpless feeling. He turned away, taking a deep steadying breath.
The first time he’d felt helpless was after waking up in the hospital, wondering if he’d ever walk again. Everyone kept saying he was extremely lucky to be alive. The doctors reassured him that with hard work and physical therapy he would walk again… eventually, but because of the sustained damage, running was probably not in his future. Knowing that made him work harder than ever, but when he finally conceded the truth – that he’d never again be able to run full speed after a criminal and tackle him to the ground – he felt helpless. What kind of detective would he be without physical stamina? He didn’t want to be a Cannon; he wanted to be a Magnum.
Alice glanced up at the sound of voices. The doctor, a tall balding man with a trim grey goatee, entered the room. His bright yellow windbreaker made him look like a tourist on vacation, but his tan khakis were crisply creased, defying the notion of leisure wear. He set his medical bag on the floor as he bent over his patient.
“Hello Mr. Booth,” he said, indicating for Alice to open his case and hand him the items he requested. They both seemed familiar with the process, as though they’d been here before. He lifted a small penlight in the palm of his hand. “Can you blink for me?”
Blake moved out of the room to give them privacy, and found Shelby standing in the kitchen staring out the window, arms folded tightly over her chest. He stepped up behind her and put his arms around her. “You all right?”
She shook her head and whispered, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have kept on…” She sniffed, and he turned her around in time to see a tear slip down her cheek.
“Shel, it’s not your fault. The man has a history. You didn’t cause his health problems.”
“No, but I didn’t need to press my point either. He’s old and fragile and…”
“…stubborn,” Alice interjected from the bedroom doorway. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and carefully pulled the door mostly closed behind her. “He’s going to be okay this time.”
“I’m so sorry,” Shelby said, moisture clinging to the ends of her lashes.
Alice moved across the room to the sink, filled the teapot and set it on the stove burner to heat. “Nothing you did or said caused this episode. Trust me. My father will die in his own good time and probably through sheer refusal to adhere to simple rules.”
“How is he?” Blake asked.
“The doctor is giving him something to help him sleep. He suffered another slight stroke, but it wasn’t from getting riled up. That actually seems to keep him going. I think it was because he’s been sneaking smokes again. I didn’t smell it on him, but I found these in his drawer.” She pulled a pack of unfiltered cigarettes from the pocket of her gingham apron. “One of many vices he accumulated as a sailor.”
Doctor Morgan exited the bedroom, his jacket zipped up and case in hand. He acknowledged Blake and Shelby with a tight, professional nod, and then put out a hand toward Alice, which she clasped with both hands. “He should sleep through the night. His brain needs to recuperate from this latest setback, but I think in a day or two he should be back to his old grumpy self.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He patted her hands. “Let’s not find out. Call me for any reason. I don’t anticipate any problems this evening but I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon to check on him, and you again. We’re neighbors now. You don’t have to keep calling me doctor. I have a first name, you know.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to remember.”
Chapter Nine
They had dinner that night at Tucker’s place. The main body of the house was one big, knotty pine room with an open beamed ceiling. A huge window faced Lake Superior and made the house seem larger than it was. Tucker slept in a second story loft area. Toward the back of the house was a bathroom and a good-sized kitchen. With a little paint, some updates, and a dumpster to haul away the clutter, it could have been beautiful, but as it was, it felt like an old hunting lodge.
Tucker pulled the sliding door closed behind him with one hand, holding a platter of sizzling steaks with the other. Blake and Shelby already sat at the dining table enjoying the red wine their host had poured earlier. Tucker set the platter in the middle of the table and joined them. “Dig in, my friends. T-bones are best eaten hot off the grill.”
Shelby took a steak and passed the platter to Blake. “I’m so glad you invited us over, Tucker. Blake hasn’t told me nearly enough about his old friends here in Port Scuttlebutt. I feel like I’ve missed a lot. I bet you can help fill me in.”
Blake groaned. “You don’t know what you’re asking. He didn’t get his nickname just from being the skinniest kid in school. He was also known for talking people to death.”
“You’re just worried I’ll tell the truth, and she’ll find out what a loser you were.”
Shelby took a bite of her loaded baked potato, and sighed. “You do know how to treat a girl.”
“Are you saying women can be bought with food? I guess the two sexes aren’t so different after all,” Tucker said thoughtfully, slicing into his steak. “Now that I know what trap to set, I can go after the Bailey twins with my gas grill flaming.”
“You always were an old lady magnet.” Blake laughed. “I can see you now – an old broad on each arm.”
“I doubt the Bailey twins would have anything to do with either one of you. Unlike myself,” she said, raising her brows, “they’re obviously very choosey in who they keep company with.”
“Well, if we can’t get the Bailey twins for my friend, who can we get? The man needs a woman’s touch around here. Look at this place!” He waved an arm toward the walls where heads of deer, elk, and even a moose gazed down on them from above.
Shelby had been trying not to look. It was bad enough to have a house full of dead animals for decoration, but in the dining area… where they were eating meat? She felt judged by their glassy-eyed stares. To distract herself from the view, she asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
A flush of red slowly moved up Tucker’s neck. He shook his head, before stuffing another chunk of steak into his mouth.
“Skeleton was in love with Mary Abrams his senior year of high school,” Blake volunteered, ignoring his friend’s embarrassment. “Maybe he’s still pining for her. She did lead him on, and then broke his heart when she ran off with the Miller’s son the night before graduation. What ever happened to those two anyway?”
“I forgot you left before all that came out. They ran off to get married. She was pregnant, and they were afraid to tell her parents.”
“You and Mrs. Abrams were pretty tight back then. I think she liked you better than her own daughter. It must have broke her heart to know she’d never get you for a son-in-law.”
“Shut up,” Tucker mumbled, but he was half smiling. Apparently, the past was no longer breaking his heart. “Mrs. Abrams stops by the store now and then. She’s a nice lady. She fills me in on all the family gossip, whether I want to hear it or not. And for your information, I did not decorate this house. This is my father’s handiwork. I haven’t had the time or inclination to toss the place and start over. No one ever sees it but me anyway.”
“What about Alice?” Shelby suggested, not realizing that they wouldn’t be following her pattern of thought. They both stared at her with blank expressions. “She’s an attractive single woman and she lives nearby. You don’t even have to join an online dating service. Just knock on her door and as
k her out.”
“I don’t know,” Tucker said, avoiding her eyes. “I’m pretty busy with the store.”
“Sadly, he actually admitted to me that Ben Franklin is the only woman in his life right now.” Blake finished the wine in his glass and lifted the bottle for a refill. “I like Alice. She’s smart, pretty, and a great cook. Maybe you should ask her out, Skeleton.”
Tucker held up his glass for Blake to refill as well. “I already did. She turned me down. I guess she doesn’t have time for a social life either.”
“When was this?” Shelby knew Alice was stressed and worried about her father, but the more she saw of Tucker, she felt sure they would be perfect for one another.
“It’s been a while. Let’s change the subject, huh? Have you two signed the deed for the B&B yet?”
“Farley came by to go over the papers with us but…” Blake grimaced. “Let’s just say, Mr. Booth is not quite ready to relinquish his hold.”
“They changed their minds?”
They told Tucker about the argument over the lakeshore property, and Mr. Booth’s resulting collapse. He listened with furrowed brow, concern evident in his rapt attention, until they mentioned the doctor’s quick arrival.
“Morgan showed up?” His lips twisted as though he tasted something bitter. “Of course he did. He’s now Port Scuttlebutt’s medical savior. The town wouldn’t survive without him.”
Shelby glanced at Blake, wondering if she’d missed something. He looked just as confused by his friend’s sudden sarcasm. It was totally out of character for the kind, light-hearted man she’d begun to know. “Have you met his wife?”
“He’s a widower. Lives alone in that fancy house he had built up on the hill. Pays a maid to come by three days a week to clean the place and cook him meals. When he moved here, he made a point of telling everyone he met that he was…” He crooked his fingers for quotation marks. “…retired. But that hasn’t kept him from running down to the B&B with his little medical bag every chance he gets.”
Roadkill (Double Barrel Mysteries Book 1) Page 9