The young man got back into the conversation. “It’s just water. Joe, hand me a bar towel and I’ll mop it up.”
“Don’t worry about it, Tommy, I’ve already called housekeeping. But you better get those fish out to the kitchen and ready for dinner.” Joe turned and explained to us. “Tommy makes sure when our menus advertise fresh-caught fish that we’re telling the truth. He catches them and brings them in every afternoon.”
“I see, that’s a very good policy,” I said. “So your name is Tommy…much nicer than Marbles, I think.”
Once again the black look came and swiftly left the man in green, and I noticed a sardonic smirk on the fellow at the end of the bar. “Oh, I just tease him that his head is full of marbles, it don’t mean anything. We’re family.”
Cindy sipped her Cosmo and looked innocent. “Well, now we know Marbles is really Tommy, really who are you?”
“My full name is Carter Branch Redford, but everybody calls me Branch. Now please do remember that I’m just friendly ol’ Branch, at your service, ma’am.”
Cindy placed her index finger on her chin and pulled her mouth slightly open. “Oh, I can’t be sure. I’m just a silly ol’ female. But if I forget Branch, I can probably remember Twig.”
“Well, now, while I do hope you remember Branch, Ah’m happy to answer any lovely lady.”
A roar of laughter had gone up from Joe and the two people left at the table. If I knew small towns, half the people in beautiful Beulaland would be calling Branch Redford Twig by tomorrow. A middle-aged man made his way toward us, hand outstretched and still chuckling at Cindy’s riposte.
“I’m Carl Bromfield, you must be Cindy and Alex.” He introduced us to the woman at the table, “Lou Jackson, one of our two dedicated vets in town, who’s had a rough afternoon with a foal who got herself headed the wrong way in the birth canal.
“And Clay Rodman, who was afraid he was going to lose one of his beloved—not to mention valuable—mares. And, of course, you seem to have met Twi—er, Branch Redford.” I noted that the tough guy was not introduced.
Bromfield turned to where Tommy still stood, taking it all in. “And I think you’ve met Tommy Blackstone. Son, you’d better get those fish out to the kitchen. And when you get home ask your mother to call me, I need vegetables for the weekend.”
“Oh, yes sir. Right now. And have Mom call you.” He pulled a booklet and pencil from his shirt pocket and made a note. If I was right about his handicap, he was dealing with it well.
Bromfield ordered a round of drinks for everyone, and we moved over to the table with the others, except for Branch, who claimed an important appointment, and the rough character, who left—I thought—with Branch. I personally was not sorry to see them go. The vet and her client seemed pleasant, but fatigue was winning. In a short while we made our farewells, and I could tell even Cindy was struggling to be gracious. We collected Fargo and gave Jerry a tip that made him smile and invite Fargo to return anytime.
The gravel road indeed led to Ken’s and Frances’ cabin. When we pulled into the parking area we saw that a dusty red pickup was already there. We looked at each other with dismay at the thought of more people and slowly climbed to the front deck.
A middle-aged woman packed into slacks that matched her truck came out of the house and across the deck.
“Ah, good. I was hoping you might get here before I left. I’m Florence Fouts—ha-ha, jack of all trades I guess you’d say. The beds are all made up and towels are out.
“I got you some coffee and bread and eggs, all that kind of stuff. Also some hamburger—it’s Black Angus, raised right down the road, can’t be beat. And a piece of ham—from over Oaktown way. Acorn fed, the best around. I’ll be back on Friday to straighten up and change the linens. You need anything bought at the store, call me by Thursday. Number’s on the kitchen corkboard. Good day to you.”
She was gone before I could ask her what we owed her for the groceries. Well, there was always Friday.
The cabin was pretty typical from the outside. There was a generous deck attached to a sizable building of dark logs interspersed with yellowish gray mortar and topped with a red brick chimney. The view was marvelous. Along the back and side of the house a frisky stream about twenty feet wide splashed its way down toward the foot of the mountain, where I lost it among the trees. I had the feeling it emptied into Bromfield Lake, sparkling in the distance.
The interior did not meet expectations. There was no sagging couch covered by an Indian blanket, no bearskin rug leering at us, not a single deer head moulting over the fireplace. The kitchen was not primitive and conducive to paper plates and pizza dinners. The bathrooms held no rusty tubs without showers. And when we peered into the bedrooms, not a single bunk bed peered back.
The kitchen had an up-to-date stove complete with grill, a large refrigerator freezer and a gleaming dishwasher. The two baths—one upstairs and one down—had tubs with showers and—honest—heated towel racks and bidets. We stared at each other, and finally Cindy said. “Well, I’ll call Orrick. It may not be too late.”
The master bedroom had a queen-size bed. Upstairs, the kids’ rooms each had twin beds, as did what was obviously a guest room. The living room and the dining area were tastefully and comfortably furnished in traditional style. For a log cabin, it wasn’t too shabby.
I looked at Cindy and said, “Nap?”
“Oh, thank God. I was afraid you were going to say, ‘hike.’” She flicked back the bedspread and Fargo leaped into the middle of the bed, stretching all four legs as far as he could. Look, Ma, no chintzy car seats. We arranged ourselves on either side of him.
I was awakened by a low growl from Fargo, as if he weren’t sure whether to bark or forget it. It was very nearly dark; I could just about make out the furniture in the unfamiliar room. But the windows were all open, and I thought I heard voices talking quietly on the deck.
I turned to Cindy, who was stirring. I whispered, “Be very quiet, honey, I think someone is on the deck. Fargo, you be quiet, too.” He rumbled deep in his chest but didn’t bark.
I had fallen asleep with my clothes on, so I simply swung out of bed and stood up in my sock feet, collared Fargo and started for the deck. Passing by the living room fireplace, I acquired a small shovel. It was the first thing I touched, and I didn’t want to fumble around for the poker.
Reaching the front door I felt along the wall to the right side of it. Sure enough: light switches. Not knowing which switch controlled what, I simply pushed all of them up at once. The living room lights went on, the deck lights went on, the parking area lights went on and the back and side yard lights went on. It was as bright as the county fair.
At that moment Cindy obviously reached the fireplace utensil holder. It went over with a resonating clatter, Fargo—who hates being collared—began to bark furiously, and Cindy arrived at my side clacking the fireplace tongs together like a small irritable alligator.
Swallowing a giggle at Cindy’s ferocity and managing to hang on to Fargo so that he would not climb into my arms, as he is wont to do in times of stress, I stepped out the front door.
“Well, well, if it’s not Twig Redford. To what do we owe the honor of this visit?” I gushed.
Branch and the man with him seemed frozen, immovable and silent.
Cindy joined me on the deck. “Yes, Twig, how about an answer. I don’t believe the deck is a public park.”
Branch still did not speak, but his companion did. “Jesus Christ, Branch, what the hell is wrong with you? Of all the places to meet in the State of Tennessee, you pick Ken Willingham’s. And if that ain’t dumb enough, you pick a weekend he’s got company. I thought you said the broads were staying at the Bromfield!”
“I thought they were, Mickey. Just shut up.” Branch finally looked at us, as I quieted Fargo. “I’m sorry if we frightened you ladies, but honestly I had no idea you were here.”
“Didn’t you see our car?” Cindy wanted to know.
&nbs
p; “Yes, but I just figured you parked here to avoid tipping the valet every time you went out. Oh, God, it’s all really simple. I wanted to meet my business partner, Mr. McCurry, privately, and this seemed a nice quiet place. I told you, Ken Willingham is a good friend, so I figured he wouldn’t mind if we sat on his porch for a while.”
McCurry snorted a sarcastic laugh, which told me about how good a friend Ken really was.
“Don’t you live somewhere?” Cindy snapped her tongs impatiently.
“Uh, well, I have an apartment behind my office in Beulaland, but I had to close it a few days for…for renovations. I’m staying with my brother for a day or so.”
“Or forever,” I muttered sourly. “Who’s your brother, just in case we want to confirm all this?”
“Clay Rodman,” he answered reluctantly. “You met him at the Bromfield.”
“Why the different last names?” I was beginning not to like any of this.
“Actually we are half-brothers. Same mother, different fathers.”
“And just what is your business, Twig?”
Branch managed a parody of his winning smile. “Why, real estate, honey. I told you earlier. Mr. McCurry and I are helping to develop a wonderful nature lovers’ community all along the crest of Crooked Creek Mountain—that’s this mountain here.” He waved up the mountainside behind the cabin.
“Yeah,” Mickey agreed. “If you ever get off your ass and get clearance for a road.”
“That’s all moving right along,” Branch soothed. “And I think we should do the same, Mickey. These ladies have had a long drive. Good-night ladies, good-night.”
He stood and actually bowed. I smothered a grin. Bowing and scraping in his absurd clothing, he looked more like the Court Jester than a hotshot realtor. They both finally got off the deck and down the steps, Cindy clicking her makeshift castanets to urge them on.
As Branch fumbled for his keys and for the ignition, I could hear Mickey hectoring him.
“…the hell away from them. They’re too damn sharp. All them questions—you’d think they was cops. And I can tell you, that dog is a killer.”
Fargo the Killer Dog and I sat on the deck, lights still blazing, just to make sure our company had indeed moved on. In a few minutes Cindy put a platter on a nearby table. Fargo and I didn’t have to be invited to move over to it. We had scrambled eggs with a slice of acorn-fed ham, the best around. There was toast and some kind of homemade jam I couldn’t identify but found sweet and tangy and good. Cindy returned with coffee and mugs and a sweater for me, all of which was quite welcome.
“What do you think of that little scene,” Cindy asked.
“I think they were genuinely shocked to find us here. I think they are as crooked as our musical mountain stream over there, and I wouldn’t want to buy a condo or cabin from either of them. I think new condo owners would find out that Branch’s road washed out with the second rain. But that wouldn’t matter much, because the plywood condos will have washed away with the first one. And Mickey will have skipped with their down payments.”
“Uh-huh.” She poured us more coffee. “Mickey looks like a hit man.”
“A facial scar will do that for you,” I temporized.
“I’m afraid of him.”
“Darling,” I urged,“don’t be. Even if he is some sort of tough guy, lots of people in the ‘development’ business are. But we are no threat to him. It’s just his way, he has no reason to have anything to do with us.”
I moved around the table to share her picnic bench and put my arm around her. She tilted her head onto my shoulder.
“Alex, lately I’ve been kind of afraid of most men I don’t know…and even a few that I do. I think that stalker business has got me really screwed up. I hate feeling like this!”
“Now, angel, it’s no wonder that you—”
“No!” she said sharply. “Listen to me. Last month…remember all the trouble they had at home along Commercial Street with that broken water main—they couldn’t find the last, smaller leak? The street was torn up for weeks.”
I figured this was just background and simply nodded.
“Well,” she continued, “it was right between the bank and downtown where I usually went to have lunch, or do a little shopping, or just walk a bit. There were always three or four young, wet and dirty idiots working there, and they always called out something silly—overgrown boys. I pretended to be deaf and went my way.”
Her voice grew a little shaky at the end. She cleared her throat and sipped her coffee. I remained silent, not wishing to interrupt her thoughts.
“Sometimes there was an older man there…maybe a supervisor. He wore some kind of name badge. One day, one of the kids yelled something that struck me funny. I didn’t turn around, but I laughed and waved as I went. Then I heard an older voice say something. A car was passing and I didn’t get it all. But it was something about throwing me in a van and giving me a good fucking. I turned around—I couldn’t seem to help it—and looked straight at him. He had an absolutely evil grin on his face and made that gesture with one hand on his bicep and his other fist going up and down.” She demonstrated.
“My sweet girl, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid. Afraid he really planned to do it. Afraid you might go after him and get hurt. Afraid Sonny would go after him and he would kill me when he got out of jail. I saw him everywhere. Watching, planning.”
She was crying now and I pulled her closer.
“Cindy, this will be settled within an hour after we get home. Even if he never followed you a foot, he threatened to rape you, and that’s a crime. The bastard will pay. And one thing is for sure—he ain’t in Beulaland! I’m freezing. Let’s go in.”
We took two snifters of Ken’s VSR brandy to bed with us, and I must say it worked wonders for both of us. I made a mental note to invest in a bottle when we got home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We decided to have breakfast out and headed the mile or so down the road to gay, mad, metropolitan Beulaland.
Along the way we passed several houses, each with a barn or two, larger than the house. One pasture area was filled with square-built Black Angus cattle, augmented by two or three lovely little Jerseys, which I assumed kept the family and employees in plenty of milk and butter. Real butter.
Across the road, breakfast was being enjoyed by nearly a dozen handsome horses, nibbling almost daintily on tender-looking grass—or forage—or whatever you called it.
I didn’t think it was hay while it was still growing. The horses came in a variety of colors, and except for some obvious colts, looked quite tall and wonderfully graceful to me. I wondered what breed they were.
Cindy solved my mystery. “Look at those beautiful Tennessee Walking Horses! I haven’t seen any in ages!”
“Walking horses? They take their time in Tennessee?”
“Hah! They could probably give the Derby winner a run for his money—they’re part Arab. But when you ride them, they have three gaits. A slow walk, which is self explanatory, a running walk which is about as fast as a trot, but smoo-oo-th. And they can keep it up all day, and you will not have a single ache tomorrow. Thirdly, they canter, called the rocking chair gait, because that’s what it looks and feels like. You don’t go very fast but it is fun to do and pretty to watch—almost like dressage.”
Pulling in front of a rather long, gleaming white concrete block building entitled Gertrude’s Gourmet Coffee Shoppe and Delly, I said “Goodness, love, I didn’t know you were a horse expert.”
“I’m going to spend a couple of hours on one of those while we’re here. One way or another,” she answered enigmatically. My Cindy—ever a surprise. For all I knew, she could ride bareback while turning summersaults.
The food at Gertrude’s was also a surprise. A wide choice of flavored coffees, which pleased Cindy. A wide choice of hotcakes, which pleased me. I settled for regular coffee and buckwheat cakes with wild cherry syrup, while Cindy reveled in Ko
na coffee with a dollop of real Jersey whipped cream. Plus of course, some grass clippings and small roots which she called cereal and topped with skim milk.
The place was fairly full, mostly, I thought, with locals in for the morning coffee break. A few, like us, furriners from the scattered cottages and cabins around. Only one person looked familiar.
Lou Jackson stopped by on her way to the cash register. She looked tired and admitted she had been up very early to visit a sow who had delivered a “pretty little litter,” but whose milk had not come down, so she had had to go out and give her a shot—and wait around to make sure it worked. It did, she laughed, and said the hungry little piglets weren’t even coming up for air when she left.
“By the way,” she added, “My partner Gale said if I ran into you, to be sure to remind you of the buffet and dance Saturday night at the Bromfield Inn. If you don’t have other plans, why don’t we reserve a table for four and meet you there around eight o’clock?”
Cindy and I looked at each other, and Cindy said, “That sounds very nice. How thoughtful of you both!”
Lou smiled, “Well, it’s kind of stodgy, but this ain’t New York. We do have a couple of young lawyers who are gay—and forgiven by our Bible Belt contingent for the same reason we are…we four are the only veterinarians and lawyers within about fifteen miles, and we’re good. Of course, there’s Clay Rodman and Carl Bromfield but they usually take their pleasures in Bristol or Knoxville. And they come from old families. Around here, that covers a multitude of sins.”
“I wonder how the local Bible Belters would feel about personal financial advisors and private investigators,” I smiled, silently wondering at the accuracy of her gaydar.
Murder Takes to the Hill Page 9