An Alpaca Witness

by B L Crumley

  The bartender looked me up and down again before giving a faint chuckle. “Who wants to know?”

  I assume he meant me, but I didn’t feel like giving him my name. “I have business with him,” I tried to come off as tough and edgy, but let’s be real, I was way out of my element.

  He snickered. “He’s in the back,” scruffy beard man motioned with his head. “Can I get ya anything?”

  From this establishment? Heck no.

  “Do you have bottled water?” Drinking from the tap here would be dangerous, but I felt I should buy something.

  He snorted. “Nope.”

  “Diet Pepsi?”

  “Lady, this is a bar,” he drawled.

  Yes, I was aware of that. And bars were supposed to have pop. Okay, apparently not this one. I dug my wallet out of my purse and pulled out a five. “Here,” I slapped it on the counter, then recalled the unknown bacteria I’d just touched.

  Although that sticky scum from the door handle was probably worse. “Thanks for your help,” I mumbled and turned around to search for Sting Ray. Back in a far corner booth with ripped vinyl, I spotted a man with tan, weathered skin wearing a stocking cap. Even through the smoky haze and dim lighting I could see the hard glint in his dark eyes as he assessed me walking toward him.

  “Are you Sting Ray?” I asked, annoyed at the slight wavering in my tone.

  “Depends on who’s askin’.” He pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table and lit it.

  Now probably wasn’t a good time to tell him that smoking was illegal in public buildings and had been for as long as I could remember. I had a feeling that none of the patrons in this place cared, to put it nicely. Bravely, I sat down on the edge of the ripped seat and did my best not to cough.

  “I don’t think names are necessary,” I said. “After all, I doubt Sting Ray is yours.”

  He smirked, then took a long pull on his cigarette. Up close, I could see his hygiene habits were seriously deficient. Greasy brown hair stuck out from underneath his beanie and his zip-up hoodie looked like it hadn’t been washed in over a year.

  For a drug dealer, I expected some bling, maybe some leather, or at least athletic gear. Not this low-life drifter. “What can I do for you?” He exhaled a puff of smoke that wafted over me.

  I coughed. “What can you tell me about Earl Henderson?”

  His expression remained unmoving, and I studied him for some kind of flinch or twitch that would give him away, but there was nothing. Then he flicked the ash from his cigarette on the table. Classy.

  “Don’t know him,” he said, unaffected, taking another pull on the cigarette.

  “Oh really. I heard he was delivering packages for you,” I challenged, leaning forward in my seat (as much as it pained me to be any closer to the creep).

  His eyes narrowed into a slithery glare. Maybe Snake or Python would have been a more fitting name.

  “Look, I don’t care about whatever kind of operation you have going on. I’m trying to figure out who killed him.”

  “It’s usually the wife,” he said, disinterested.

  “Let’s pretend it isn’t. Do you have any idea what Earl might have been doing with a suitcase full of cash? I’m wondering if the cops might find your fingerprints on some of it.” I tapped my chin lightly, like I was considering the thought.

  That got his attention. Snuffing out his cigarette on the table, he leaned forward. “What do you want?” he growled. I assumed he didn’t know the police already had the cash in question, or he might not be quite so cooperative.

  “I want to know exactly what Earl was doing for you, and who may have wanted him dead,” I stated plainly.

  “His brother brought him by a few months back, said he wanted to help out.”

  The way he used the word help implied they were doing charity work. Sure, because everyone needs more drugs.

  “He made deliveries for me a few days a week. I had no complaints.” He leaned back in the booth and glowered.

  “What was he delivering?” I played dumb.

  “What do you think, princess?” he snickered. “Drugs, jewelry, electronics. You name it, and I’ll get it for you.” His scrawny chest puffed out a little, evidently proud of himself.

  “Is it possible that something went wrong on one of these deliveries and that got Earl killed?” I decided to ask the question, even though I suspected it wasn’t likely, remembering Floyd had said that they never dealt with the money.

  “I didn’t have a reason to kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. Retired, boring, middle class white dude was a great cover. No one would suspect him of anything. He was always on time, did what he was told. I almost felt bad when I heard he’d croaked.” Sting Ray lit another cigarette.

  Wow, a real charmer.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t learning anything that I thought was going to break the case. And if I sat here much longer, I would probably increase my chances of getting lung cancer. Time to wrap this up.

  “Sting Ray, thank you for answering my questions. I’ll let you get back to your…” I motioned with my hand. “Whatever it is you’re doing.”

  “We never talked.” He lowered his voice.

  “Excuse me?” It took me a second to gather his meaning.

  “If you breathe one word of this to anyone, I will have you…” He made a slicing motion across his throat with his hand.

  “Got it,” I squeaked, springing off the bench. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know who I was. One call to Floyd and he would. “Nice not meeting you, ever,” I added, before I turned and bolted for the door.

  Around nine the next morning, I got a call from Preston that Fern was going to be arraigned soon. I glanced down at my owl pajama pants then darted back up the stairs to take a shower. My second shower in twelve hours since I’d taken a long, hot one after returning from The Black Oyster last night.

  Unfortunately, even this morning I smelled the faint pungent stink of cigarette smoke in my hair. Disgusting. Even worse was that every article of clothing I’d worn needed a thorough washing, which meant that once again, I was pants-less.

  I really should have done a load last night when I got back, especially since I wasn’t sleeping anyway, as my mind had raced nonstop for about three hours. Between rehashing Kenny and Cole’s surprise visit, to receiving a death threat, quite a lot had transpired.

  Finished with my shower, I got dressed, ultimately deciding on the skirt and sweater I’d worn to my dad’s party. It was a bit dressy, especially when everything was super casual here, but I was too self-conscious to wear tight yoga pants, and I wasn’t going to leave the house in jeans I couldn’t button.

  By the time I’d managed to straighten the frizz out of my boring brown hair and dab on some makeup, it was close to ten. Fifteen minutes later, I rushed through the doors of the courthouse to find Preston, my father, and Fern huddled together along the wall opposite the courtroom.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late,” I panted, waving as I speed-walked toward them.

  “Charlee,” Fern beamed, as she pulled me into a tight hug. “You’re just in time to take me home.”

  I stepped back so I could see her face. “What? I missed it?”

  “Yes, and it was great!” Her smiled pulled wider.

  “Did they drop the charges?” I asked hopefully.

  “No,” Fern’s grin relaxed slightly. “But it was Judge Wallace, and he chewed out Lee Hines and that skinny blonde Mitchell girl. Said he thought the charges were baloney, and that they should be ashamed of themselves. He had a stern glare for the sheriff, too,” she added.

  Some of my joy faded. I was more than happy to hear that the snobby Harper had been given a dressing down, but I felt bad for Cole. He was just following orders. He hadn’t wanted to arrest Fern, and he’d even come to check on me.

  “What abou
t the felony charge for the still?” I lowered my voice, not wanting any bystanders to hear. Like being accused of murder was so much better than making moonshine.

  “They actually didn’t charge me for that. I’m sure Ms. Mitchell wanted to, but Hines can grow a backbone when he feels it’s necessary. And he knows Judge Wallace likes to imbibe now and then. I would have liked to see them try,” she hooted.

  I was relieved that Fern was in such a great mood, especially after being in the slammer, but this wasn’t over yet. “So, what happens next?”

  Preston appeared beside me, as my father disappeared down the hall. I’m sure he had mayoral business to attend to. A satisfied smile lit up Preston’s face. “We wait to see if they drop the charges.”

  “How likely is that?” I asked.

  “Pretty good after that display in there,” he chuckled. This was the most relaxed I’d ever seen the nerdy lawyer. “I’m confident the police will find another suspect. A legitimate suspect this time, and then the charges should be dropped.”

  Unfortunately, Preston’s optimism wasn’t wearing off on me. “And if they don’t?”

  His expression sobered. “Then there would be a trial. One that they won’t win.”

  “Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that.” I looked back to my aunt. “Are you ready to go home?”

  “Yep. I’m ready for a nice pot of tea,” she said, her happy grin back in place.

  After spending a night in jail, I had to agree that special tea was warranted.

  “Charlee.” Preston looked up at me through his wide rimmed glasses. “Would you like to have dinner with me sometime?” At his eager, hopeful expression, I didn’t have the heart to turn him down. Not after he’d helped Fern.

  “Sure,” I said, and I meant it. My lunch with Preston hadn’t been bad, until Ashley showed up. My bigger concern was that Preston would get the wrong impression, and I didn’t want to hurt him.

  “Great!” His grin was so wide it almost looked painful. “I’ve got an appointment now, but I’ll call you later.”

  I nodded, as he gave me a pat on my arm then walked away, briefcase in tow with a skip in his step.

  “Oh boy.” I shook my head.

  “He’ll be fine,” Fern reassured. “Let’s go home.”

  That afternoon, Fern and I brushed alpacas in the backyard as I filled her in on what she’d missed in the last twenty-four hours. In my mind, the most pressing matter was finding who killed Earl, but Fern was still stuck on my evening with Kenny and Cole. She continued to begrudge the fact that she’d missed the chance to eavesdrop on my dramatic love life, when the truth of the matter was that they only came over because I was alone.

  “If I were you, I would have kissed Cole,” she said. “That man is…” she whistled a cat call.

  Oh my.

  I shook my head, focusing my attention on Havarti, one of the light fawn colored alpacas. I refused to imagine what Fern implied, as it wasn’t going to get me anywhere good. “I don’t think that’s what he wants.”

  My aunt’s brows pinched, as a smug smile formed on her face. “Of course he did. Why do you think he came over?”

  “To make sure I was okay, and warn me not to do anything stupid,” I repeated for at least the third time in the last twenty minutes.

  She harrumphed. “If you say so.”

  “Okay, back to the suspects. Who do you think we should look into further?” I asked seriously.

  Fern paused her brushing. “I think there’s more going on with Floyd and that Sting Ray sleazeball. You need to promise me you will never go back to The Black Oyster again.”

  “I promise,” I agreed immediately.

  “You probably picked up hepatitis at that scummy dive.” Fern raised an interesting point, although I was pretty sure you could only contract hepatitis through blood.

  “I think you should leave that up to the police,” she continued. “Everyone knows Floyd’s up to no good, so we need to let them figure it out. However, Phyllis Weinberger could be worth looking into further. Surely, Russell knows more about her. He should, if it’s true that Phyllis sued him as well.”

  “I think you’re right. And that’ll give me another chance to feel Russell out, too. I don’t know what it is, but something isn’t right there, either.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  W ith a quick call to the insurance office, the receptionist confirmed Russell was there and available until five. I decided to drop in instead of making an appointment because I wasn’t sure if he would be willing to talk with me again. To my surprise, when the receptionist told him I was there, I didn’t even have to wait.

  “Charlee.” Russell stood when I entered his sparsely furnished office. “Come in, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Definitely not the welcome I was expecting.

  “Please, have a seat,” he gestured, then returned to his own.

  I obliged, sitting on one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk. “Thank you for seeing me again. Did you learn something new?”

  “Yes,” he said, handing me a plain manila folder.

  I opened it and skimmed what appeared to be an insurance policy. “Is this Earl’s?” My head popped up.

  “Yes, it is,” he nodded, a smile on his face. “I did a little digging in some old files and found it. It is a decreasing term life policy. Like I said, Earl was cheap. But I did the math, and Patty would still get around seventy-five thousand, which is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “Hmm.” I studied the policy again. That wasn’t a million like Phyllis Weinberger, but it wasn’t chump change either. “This isn’t a ton of money though. I’m not sure that would be enough motive to kill over, do you?”

  “It’s seventy-five thousand more motive than nothing if you ask me.” Russell crossed his arms over his chest.

  “True. And it doesn’t look good that she lied about it,” I thought aloud.

  “No, it doesn’t. I’m sure she thought it would make her look guilty, and she didn’t want to cast suspicion on herself,” he said.

  “Except for now it looks worse since she wasn’t forthcoming.”

  “Exactly,” he agreed.

  His behavior caught my attention. Why was he so eager to throw Patty under the bus? Unlike last time I was here, where he’d been a bit on edge, this afternoon he was all smiles and Mr. Cooperative. Overly so. “Do you mind if I take this?” I asked.

  “Yes, go ahead, it’s just a copy, and I have another.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to have some proof next time I talk with Patty in case she tries to deny it again.” I tucked the policy into my purse. “I was hoping to speak with you about a woman named Phyllis Weinberger. She was a client of yours, I believe.”

  He grimaced. “Not mine. She and her husband were longtime clients of Earl’s.”

  I couldn’t verify the truth of that since all I had to go on was Walter’s hearsay and what Phyllis had said, but she’d specifically mentioned Russell. “I spoke with her recently, and she said she sued you and Earl.”

  “She did. She sued the business and named us both in the complaint. Unfortunately, I was roped into that mess.” He shuffled some papers around on his desk. Either he was actually looking for something, or he was uncomfortable and using this as a distraction. His demeanor had become somewhat anxious when I started talking about Phyllis.

  “What happened?” I asked innocently.

  He looked up from the papers he was shuffling. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Well, she told me her side of what happened, but I’d like to hear yours. I’m thinking she had a motive to kill Earl, and I’d like to get your perspective.”

  His shoulders visibly relaxed. “Well, from what I remember, her husband passed away, and it was then we discovered that she hadn’t been paying the correct premiums and the policy had lapsed.
”

  “How does something like that happen? Wouldn’t you know that they weren’t paying the correct amount?”

  “Like I said, she was Earl’s client, so I don’t know exactly what happened.” The tone of his voice changed slightly as he spoke, revealing a hint of nerves. I didn’t believe him. “Earl wasn’t very organized, and was terrible with computers, so I could see how it would be possible for something like that to slip through the cracks,” he explained.

  “However, Earl did send them a notice that detailed the change in the policy. They claimed they never received it, but that’s not our fault.”

  “I understand.” I didn’t actually, but continued. “Mrs. Weinberger stated that it took six months to produce that document, which she claims they’d never received.”

  Mr. Jenkins blanched. “I’m sure it wasn’t six months,” he spluttered. “But like I said, Earl wasn’t very organized, so it may have taken longer than what she thought was a reasonable amount of time.”

  Even if that was the truth, which I doubted based on Russell’s outward reaction, it still seemed impossible for them not to know. And if they honestly didn’t catch that, how did they manage to stay in business?

  Something as basic as a change in the premium is standard stuff in the insurance industry. And from what I’d learned about Earl, I didn’t think he was incompetent. Rather, I thought he might have been clever. Just not clever enough, as it appeared his shady activities eventually got him killed.

  “I’m sure you’re probably right,” I placated, wanting him to think I was believing his line of bull. “Even so, I’m having a difficult time wrapping my brain around how Earl could not have known the Weinbergers were paying the wrong amount and that the policy had lapsed.”

  I made a point to keep the focus on Earl, not Russell. “Isn’t that part of the job? To keep track of the premiums, and ensure they’re paid on time and for the right amount?”