5 Bargain Hunting

by Rhonda Pollero

  I nodded. “But I have a rapport. I’d like to take one more shot at getting them to move the trailer to the edge of the property. That letter might be all the ammunition I need.”

  “I think his ammunition trumps yours. At least take Liam with you.”

  “Will do, so long as he’s available.” And not bleeding or passed out in my house. Why hadn’t Liv called?

  “Go ahead, then,” she said as she signed the letter and handed it back to me.

  I toted the file back to my office. I’d given one of the interns the letter to copy, one for the file, one for Leona Egghardt, and one for me. I always kept copies so I could fill out my time sheets each week. Vain Victor Dane was a stickler when it came to accounting for billable hours. While his hourly rate was nearly four hundred, mine was a more affordable one seventy-five. And Vain Dane was happiest when he could bill a client, even at my reduced rate.

  After dumping the file on my desk, I quickly grabbed the phone and called Liv.

  “Hello?”

  “Well?” I asked impatiently.

  “Sorry, Finley, something came up at work. I’ll go by after lunch.”

  He could be dead after lunch. “That’s okay, forget it.” I was already packing up my new Coach briefcase.

  “You sound mad,” she said, her tone slightly somber.

  I took a breath. “I’m not mad. Really.”

  “Are we still on for lunch?” she asked.

  “Sure, I should be back by then.”

  “Back from where?”

  I was digging my keys out of my purse. “I have to go to Indiantown. I’ll stop by my house on the way out there.”

  “Your house isn’t on the way. It’s the opposite way.”

  “That can be our little secret.”

  I made it home in record time, praying Liam was safe and that I hadn’t gotten caught by the red-light camera on Okeechobee. I wasn’t sure if I’d slipped through the light while it was still yellow, and the last thing I needed was a traffic fine. I added that to the list of things pissing me off that I ascribed to Liam.

  His Mustang wasn’t parked behind the Dumpster. My heart raced. Maybe the police had found him and had the car towed as evidence. Or maybe he’d gone out for a late breakfast. My hand was shaking as I shoved the key in the lock. “Liam?” I called as I entered. “Liam? Are you here?”

  I went from room to room, but there was no Liam. Save for the few droplets on the guest room bed, there was no blood. My worry rolled into irritation. If he’d only answered his phone, I wouldn’t have been so panicked. Selfish bastard.

  After setting the alarm, I left and went to Indiantown. This was my seventh or eighth trip out to the trailer on Collier Road. Each time I got a less than warm welcome.

  Collier Lane was nothing more than a dirt road marked by a slanted mailbox with plastic spinners and red reflector dots on the leaning post. At the base of the post was a faded ceramic thing with a man in a sombrero pulling a cart filled with plastic flowers. Not exactly PC. I made the right and slowly crept up the road, driving in a slalom fashion to avoid the deep potholes. It took about three minutes before a structure came into view.

  Calling it a home was a stretch. It was a trailer with a curled and dented aluminum skirt. Twelve dogs came rushing toward my car, some barking, some growling, all scary. There were two cars on the side of the house. Both had weeds jutting up through them. On the opposite side was an older-model truck with as much rust as paint under a crudely constructed carport. Well, it wasn’t a carport so much as it was four metal poles with a worn and torn tarp across the top. There was a kiddy pool in the front yard, flanked by two Barcaloungers with springs popping through the fabric. The sofa on the porch could have been part of a matched set. As I brought my car to a slow stop, Cujo and company continued to bark and growl. When the screen door opened, I saw that Sleepy wasn’t alone. His companion was a really large shotgun.

  Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling wrapped in the warmth of his welcome. The armed bozo wore a stained wife-beater shirt and had a potbelly testifying to a serious beer-drinking hobby. What little hair he had was swept over to one side. It was gray and as dull as his washed-out brown eyes.

  The dogs continued their attack on my car while the man on the porch cradled the gun like an infant. I could hear more dogs in the distance and wondered if they were the understudies for the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Great. Dogs with a side order of more dogs.

  Just behind Sleepy I could make out a shape in the shadows behind the tattered screen door. I was ready to slam my car into reverse and head back the way I’d come when Sleepy placed his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loud enough to be heard over the hum of my car engine.

  The pack of matted, mangy dogs instantly raced toward him. The unseen pack in the distance still barked and snarled but even after a scan of my surroundings, I couldn’t seem to locate them. With the visible dogs heeled, I felt comfortable enough to depress the button, opening my window little more than a crack. “Mr. Bollan?” I called politely.

  He nodded as the ears on two of the hounds lifted alertly.

  “Miz Tanner.”

  He rested the gun against the aluminum home and started walking toward me. Wanda Jean stepped out from inside the trailer and followed closely on his heels. She always appeared far friendlier, quite a feat given that what I could see of her gray hair was up in pink foam curlers and her attire consisted of a faded paisley housedress and slippers that scuffed the dusty ground with each step.

  I so didn’t want to leave the relative safety of my car. Reluctantly I opened the door, my eyes fixed on the six dogs watching my every move. I have a history with dogs and it isn’t good.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bollan walked past the garden of fake flowers and weathered lawn ornaments until we met on neutral ground.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said, offering me a sun-leathered hand with dirt and God only knew what else crusted beneath his nails.

  I quelled the urge to reach for the Purell in my purse after we briefly shook hands.

  “Remember, call me Sleepy and her here Wanda Jean.”

  “Miss,” she said as she reached around her husband’s girth.

  I reached back and pulled out my briefcase.

  I think Sleepy scowled. Hard to tell since he had a serious overbite, so the two yellowed teeth on top made him look like a perplexed beaver. Then he explained, “We still ain’t changed our minds.”

  “Sleepy,” Wanda interrupted with a smidge of irritation. “Let’s go inside where we’ll all be more comfortable.”

  I didn’t have high hopes for that option, but I followed along and pretended I didn’t smell the stench of sweaty dog and grease.

  The smell of the cooking grease was stronger in the trailer, and once I spied the pots on the stove, I figured I’d taken Wanda away from preparing the midday meal. Two flies zipped around the room, occasionally stopping long enough to visit the flour-dusted chicken thighs sitting out on the chipped Formica counter. Some sort of greens that looked more like they belonged on the shoulder of I-95 sat in a colander near the sink. A thick, yellowish cloud of smoke hung in the air.

  “Have a seat,” Wanda said, pointing to an animal-hair-covered chair near the window air-conditioning unit that had dripped condensation down the wall. “Let me get you some iced tea.”

  Just to be polite, I said thank you even though I would have preferred coffee. At least with a hot beverage I had the possibility of boiling off some cooties. I perched myself on the very edge of the dirty chair and began taking out the letter Ellen had signed earlier in the day.

  After handing me a plastic cup of tea, Wanda and Sleepy sat down, swiveling their seats away from the small television balanced on an old orange crate. A cable box teetered atop the machine. Grabbing a remote off the armrest, Sleepy muted Judge Judy.

  “It seems we’ve come to an impasse,” I began.

  “I don’t know about no impasse, I just know we ain’t leaving her
e,” Sleepy said, his tone defensive. “Walter and me was in ’Nam together. That’s when he offered to let me live on this land. We got pinned down in Dak To in ’67. Walter got hit, and after I carried him to the aid station, we, well, we was friends from then on.” Sleepy shrugged and scratched his sizable belly as he took a long pull on a can of generic beer.

  “There may not have been no blood bond, but we belong here,” Wanda added. “Mr. Walter was always good to us.” She reached behind her on the windowsill and took a framed photograph down and handed it to me. “Raised all eight of our children right here.”

  I tried to imagine the trailer holding ten people.

  “This is L.D., short for Little Donald.”

  I glanced at the picture and “little” would have been the last adjective I’d use to describe the rotund, balding man in the back row.

  Wanda continued, “Then Walt, after Walter. Next is Homer, he works as a firefighter in Montana. Lorraine, she’s a nurse, Mary-Claire is raising her own family. This pretty one”—Wanda stopped and stroked the cheek of the girl in the shot—“that’s my Penny.” Wanda’s eyes seemed to inexplicably mist over. “Got us five grandbabies so far. Duane is in the navy, and last is Mitzi. She’s the baby and we’re real proud of her. Mitzi just finished her third year at the community college.”

  “As I’ve said, you have a lovely family,” I fudged as I returned the photo. “I’m not sure what more I can do to explain this, but Walter dying has changed things.”

  “I don’t understand. Me and Walter had an arrangement,” Sleepy said, his eyes narrowed to beads.

  I sighed heavily and again said, “Mr. Egghardt died without a will, so his niece inherited all of his estate, including this parcel of land.”

  Wanda looked at me with bulging, alienesque eyes while sleepy just looked really pissed. Red blotches rose from his neck to his face and I was very, very glad the shotgun was out on the porch.

  “Walter wouldn’t have wanted to put us out of our home,” Sleepy insisted. “I don’t see how him dying changes that.”

  Now I could hear a stereo chorus of barking and growling dogs. Acoustically, I realized some were in the backyard and others were mere feet away with their snouts pressed against the screen door. Obviously they’d picked up on their master’s displeasure. I was growing uneasy, wondering if the animals were plotting to attack.

  Again Sleepy whistled and the porch hounds fell silent. The backyard dogs just kept on yelping, growling, and barking. It was hard for me to concentrate, especially when a cat came from out of nowhere and snaked its way around my ankles. It had harsh, brittle hair and a jagged scar down its face, leaving it with only one eye and part of one ear.

  Wanda made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Come here, Lucky,” she coaxed.

  “Lucky?” I asked as I watched the cat cross the three or four feet separating us. The thing had more scars on its body and its tail was little more than a calico nub.

  Wanda smiled. “She was a stray. A few years back she got into the kennels. Of course, we hurried out and got her when we heard the ruckus.”

  “Of course,” I murmured as Lucky, now occupying Wanda’s lap, gave me a cycloptic glare.

  “We fixed her up best we could but didn’t think she would make it. But she’s tough,” Wanda said, scratching the cat between the ear and a half. “That’s why we call her Lucky.”

  I’d clearly been there too long because the explanation made perfect sense. Of course these people wouldn’t do vets. From the décor, early 1970s greens, browns, and avocados, and the antiquated appliances—who doesn’t have a microwave?—and all the other knickknacks, I guessed the Bollans had little if any substantial income.

  “What happens with the proceeds from our sugarcane?” Sleepy asked. “We’ve lived here since the late sixties. Raised all them kids here. You trying to tell me some woman we’ve never met can toss us out? Just like that?”

  “We’ve done everything possible to bring this to an amicable resolution.”

  “Load of crap if you ask me,” Sleepy grumbled.

  I reached into my briefcase, took out the letter, and passed it to Wanda Jean. I thought that was the safest way to handle it. Turned out not to matter. Sleepy snatched it away from her before she could so much as read the letterhead.

  Sleepy’s face burned red. “This is bullshit!”

  “Sleepy, mind yourself. This young lady is only doing her job.”

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this Mr.—Sleepy. Miss Egghardt’s offer still stands. She’d be happy to set you up on the southwest corner of the property.”

  “What’s it say?” Wanda asked, her face pinched with concern.

  “Says we gotta be outta here in ten days.”

  “That isn’t what it says,” I corrected. “It requests that you move to the assigned parcel of land within ten days or we’ll have no option but to begin the eviction process. If that happens, you’ll end up with nothing. Is that what you want?”

  “ ’Course not,” Wanda Jean answered.

  “Then please take Miss Egghardt up on her offer. It’s more than generous.” I stood and moved to the door, then reluctantly stepped onto the porch, fully prepared to pick up the shotgun and start picking off the herd of vicious dogs. I was spared that unpleasant task by Wanda Jean, who also had perfected the two-fingered, piercing whistle.

  “We’ll think on it,” Wanda Jean said as I went to my car.

  “Not a damned thing to think on,” Sleepy growled.

  The dogs chased me halfway back to the main road.

  A secret is often followed by a lie.

  four

  I was the last one shown to our table at Cheesecake Factory. The place was loud and crowded with workers from in and around City Place. I wove my way through the labyrinth of tables, then slid in next to Becky in the booth.

  “Bad morning?” Liv asked.

  “Bad everything,” I replied with a weak smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

  A waiter came by and handed me the tome they called a menu. I didn’t need it. A bad day meant only one thing—high-caloric sweet corn tamale cakes. I placed the menu down in front of me.

  “So what’s the dish?” Becky asked.

  Liv’s aquamarine eyes lit up and Jane leaned forward.

  “Liam got shot.”

  “By whom?”

  “How?”

  “When?”

  I held up my hand. “Ashley brought him to my house at four A.M.,” I began, then told them the full story. Or as much of it as Liam had shared with me.

  Jane shook her head, a mass of brunette hair brushing against her shoulders with each movement. “I don’t believe it. Liam wouldn’t just shoot a kid.”

  “I agree,” Liv seconded. “There has to be more to the story.”

  “But that doesn’t explain the dead ex-partner or getting shot five years after the kid got killed,” Becky said in her usual analytical style. “Did he give you a hint as to why he thinks the two things are related?”

  “He said something about a serial number, but then he pretty much just blew me off.”

  “Did you seriously use Super Glue?” Jane asked.

  I nodded. “Well, not me. Beer Barbie, I mean Ashley, did the actual gluing.”

  Liv tapped her chin with one pink-tipped fingernail. “How come he called Beer Barbie and not you? I thought after the wedding that you two were . . . ya know.”

  “Apparently not,” I said on a long breath. “He must trust her more than he trusts me. Probably takes her calls, too.”

  “That was kind of rude to leave your place without so much as jotting you a note.”

  “Jotting?” Becky teased Jane. “What man do you know who jots?”

  I reached into my purse. “I think it’s time for a Google search.”

  The waiter returned for our orders, then I went right back to my smartphone hunt into Liam’s past. “The print is so damned small,” I grumbled.

  Becky laughed. “Or maybe you’
re getting so old you need glasses to see fine print.”

  I glared at her for a second. “There’s a ton of hits. I’m going to have to do this back at the office.” I slipped my phone back into my purse.

  Becky frowned. “What happened to the no-Googling-friends rule?”

  “Liam and I aren’t friends,” I insisted.

  “Then what are you?”

  That was a good question. One that followed me back to my office, my belly full of fried carbs. My gut was telling me to go to Tony and come clean but something was stopping me. Loyalty to Liam? Fear of losing my job for getting involved—even peripherally—in Liam’s shooting? Maybe both.

  I listened to my voice mail. My heart sank into my shoes when I got the message from Tony to meet with him at three o’clock. Did he know? Shit.

  That gave me an hour to research Liam and check my bid on eBay. I opted to do the latter first. It was quick and easy.

  Settling into my comfy leather chair, I wiggled my mouse to bring my computer out of hibernate. I found an additional e-mail from Tony reiterating his need to see me. That didn’t bode well. Great, I was up to my eyelashes in debt. The last thing I needed was to lose my job. There was also an e-mail from Tony’s daughter, Izzy, reminding me again of our Saturday shoe-shopping date.

  I poured myself some coffee, then logged into eBay. I was still the high bidder, but that didn’t mean much. The auction didn’t end for another two days. Plenty of time for someone to swoop in and steal the coveted bezel away. I set my account for hourly updates so I could stay on top of the action.

  Tony’s summons caused a knot to form in my stomach. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but my possible dismissal. Not known for my patience, I decided the best defense was a proactive offense. I carefully crafted an e-mail response:

  Tony: What case, so I can prepare? Thanks, Finley

  In a flash I got my answer:

  New case. Murder. See you at three. Tony

  That wasn’t exactly helpful, but he didn’t mention termination. Or Liam. Maybe I was just suffering from my guilty conscience. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. What were the chances of Tony getting two new homicide cases in one day?