by Betty Webb
***
As it turned out, Eddy Joe was not only free, but was happy for the chance to meet up again, so little more than twenty-four hours later, he was chauffeuring Beth and me across the forested hills of northern Alabama in his pearl Eldorado. There was something about the almost over-lush landscape that attracted and repelled at the same time, as if I’d seen it all before in a movie I couldn’t quite remember but that had somehow been unsettling.
Loquacious as ever, Eddy Joe chattered as he drove, about politics (he was against them), movies (he harbored a grand passion for Julianne Moore) and Alabama weather (too humid). To my amusement, Beth seemed enchanted with both Eddy Joe’s bulk and his just-as-massive charm, which I hoped meant that she was on her way toward recovery. I had to admit that Eddy Joe was cute, in a big, sloppy sort of way. With his swoony brown eyes and light brown hair greying at the sides, he looked—and acted—like an oversized, over-friendly golden retriever.
“I did me a little more pokin’ around in our Mr. Sherwood/Rinn’s life, and I’ve found us several more women he suckered,” Eddy Joe said, as he made a hard right off SR-78 and onto SR-43 into Hamilton. “Turns out one of them, a great ol’ gal livin’ down in Mobile, is the third cousin four times removed of the county sheriff up here, so I contacted him and he’s demandin’ to go along with us to arrest our boy’s thievin’ ass.”
The confrontation was turning into quite a party, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. “Are we supposed to meet him at the police station?”
“Nah, nobody steals nuthin’ on Sundays around here, so he’s meeting us over at the Elks Lodge with a couple deputies. He got the faxed warrant from Scottsdale this morning, which makes me think our lovely Miss Beth musta pulled a few strings. We’ll all drive over to the Rinn house together.”
Oh, whee. “I thought the whole idea was for Beth to confront Mr. Rinn herself.”
Eddy Joe nodded his big, shaggy head. “Sheriff Corliss is a patient feller. He and his boys will lay back in the woods until Miss Beth gives the skunk a piece of her mind.” Here there was a delighted titter from the back seat. “Then he’ll move in and y’all can start worrying about extradition.”
“The sheriff doesn’t expect any violence?”
Sandy curls bobbed again. “Nah. He says he always suspected Jacky Rinn was a weasel, but doubts he’d hurt a fly.”
I’ve heard serial killers described in much the same way, so I didn’t feel any better about our mission than I had when Beth first proposed it. Since I’d left my .38 at home, I also felt naked. “Um, Eddy Joe, are you, um…”
“Packin’? Sure am. I never go any place without Sweet Melissa.” He patted the slight bulge on the left side of his chest. “But rest assured, ladies, Mr. Rinn’s a lover, not a fighter.”
Which was exactly the problem.
After meeting up with the sheriff, we caravanned through Hamilton, a tidy little town that appeared to have no bars at all but a church on every corner. We continued north on SR-43 until we reached a gravel road that cut through a thick stand of oaks, and as their branches closed in overhead, I began to feel claustrophobic. As pretty as Alabama was, with its emerald fields and nearly rain forest lushness, I missed the wide-open spaces of the Southwest. Shortly before we emerged from the oaks, the sheriff’s Jeep Cherokee pulled to the side and let us continue on alone. I didn’t like the setup and told Eddy Joe so.
He laughed. “This ain’t Phoenix, Lena. Last time someone was shot dead out here was eight years ago, in a hunting accident.”
My suspicious mind wondered if it was really a hunting accident or someone settling a score, but I kept such dark ruminations to myself as the trees cleared and Jack Rinn’s place came into view. Contrary to popular opinion, crime frequently did pay. The house, a rambling tri-level of dark red brick offset by green shutters, sat at on a rise at the end of a lane bordered by acres and acres of rolling pastureland. A few well cared-for horses stared at us from the pasture on our right, while on our left, a herd of black fat Angus were too busy grazing in knee-deep grass to give us more than a passing glance.
“He owns a better spread than I do!” Beth sounded outraged.
Eddy Joe demurred. “Property values aren’t the same here as in Scottsdale. But those sure are some fine horses, ain’t they? Did ya see the big sorrel over by the pond?”
“You like horses?” For a moment, Beth forgot her ire. Horse people are like that.
Eddy Joe noticed, too, and used it. “Oh, yeah. I have me a Tennessee Walker named Eloise in back of my place, eatin’ me out of house and home. Now, Miss Beth, I want you to wait in the car and appreciate the equines for a while so Lena and I can go up to the house and make sure everything’s copacetic.”
Thus soothed, Beth agreed.
Happy that he was showing some common sense after all, I remained quiet until the Eldorado pulled up to the front door and the door opened to reveal a tiny, dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties. Wearing a pink maternity dress with matching pumps, she looked like she’d just arrived home from church. Ignorant of our purpose, she expressed delight at seeing us, and I had to remind myself that the biggest crooks often sported the widest smiles. As Eddy Joe and I exited the car, she said, “You here to see Jacky about that inheritance, Mr. Hughey?”
Eddy Joe gave her a big smile. “Sure am.”
Alea Rinn seemed even happier. “Oh, he’s been waitin’ for y’all. Say, you folks want somethin’ to eat? I cooked up some fried chicken for lunch and there’s plenty left over.” Oh, the South. She was already offering us food.
“We already ate,” Eddy Joe lied. “Just lead us to that ol’ boy of yours so we can get our business out of the way.”
After trying to tempt us with pecan pie for dessert, Alea led us through a living room packed with Sunday-best-dressed children into the den where a more casually dressed Jack Rinn sat hunkered over a computer. I figured he was probably trolling for more victims because the second we entered, he hit his screen saver. Or was that to keep his wife from seeing what he was doing? I hoped so. I’d really hate for Beth to send a pregnant woman to prison. Almost as tall as Eddy Joe, Rinn had such Elvis-black hair and Elvis-blue eyes that it reminded me Hamilton was only an hour’s drive away from Tupelo, where The King had been born. A distant relative, perhaps?
Unaware of what was about to go down, Alea gave her husband a peck on the cheek. “These are the folks about that inheritance thing.”
“Mr. Rinn!” Eddy Joe stuck out his beefy hand in a great show of bonhomie. “I’m Eddy Joe Hughey and this here’s Lena Jones, one of my business associates. We got somebody outside who’s dyin’ to talk with ya!”
Rinn looked puzzled but not particularly suspicious as he ambled after us through the house, Alea following. “I figured you’d call first.”
Neither Eddy Joe nor I answered. We both kept smiling and smiling until Rinn was out of the house. Then Eddy Joe waved at the Eldorado and Beth Osmon stepped out.
Sherwood/Rinn paled and almost went down. “Beth! I…I…”
By then, Alea knew something was wrong. “Jacky, who is…?”
Beth didn’t give her time to finish. In a split second she closed the distance between her and her faux fiancé and slapped him hard across the face. “The only reason I don’t shoot you, you sonofabitch, is because I couldn’t get my gun on the plane!” Then she drew back her hand, as if to smack him again.
Before she could, Alea jumped in front of her cringing husband. “You! Stop hittin’ my Jacky this minute, or I’ll…!”
My cue. I inserted myself between Beth and Alea. “That’s it. No one’s hitting anyone any more.”
Eddy Joe made a sour face. “Ah, Lena, you’re no fun.”
At that moment the sheriff’s Cherokee rolled out of the oak stand, up the drive, and came to a stop beside us. Sheriff Corliss quickly exited with his two deputies. He produced a pair of handcuffs and before his quarry could move, had Jack Rinn shackled, nose down, on the SUV’s hood.
He drawled Rinn his rights, then shoved him in the back seat with a deputy on either side. Before the door closed, we could hear Jack Rinn bawling, “I did it for us, Alea! For our family!”
Sheriff Corliss ignored him. “Now that’s what I call a nice day’s work. We can get him booked in time to go back to the lodge for some pok…Um, for that church fund-raiser we’re havin’.” Turning to Alea, he said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry for your trouble, but it looks like Mr. Rinn here ain’t been a good Christian. Course, his attorney, who I do suggest you call sooner than later, might beg to differ.” To Eddy Joe and me, he said, “Y’all get along now. We don’t need any more excitement here.” With that, he climbed into the Cherokee and backed down the gravel drive.
Beth looked gratified but my heart went out to Alea, who stood frozen in place as the Cherokee disappeared into the oaks. Maybe I was wrong, but I didn’t think she knew anything about her husband’s out-of-state “business dealings.” “Mrs. Rinn, Alea, you deserve an explanation.”
For the first time, Beth looked at her, really looked at her, at the pregnant belly, at the dark-haired children peeking through the front door of the house. “You didn’t know, did you?” she asked.
Shock glazed Alea’s eyes. “Know what? Why’d Sheriff Corliss take Jacky away? Will somebody please tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Before I could stop her, Beth stepped around me and put her arm around Alea. “Let’s go back into the house, honey. We need to talk.”
***
On the plane back to Phoenix late that night, Beth fell asleep, leaving me wide awake to reflect alone on love, men, and family.
After the grief I’d just observed, I wasn’t sure I had the nerve for any one of the three.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m not a good traveler. Jet-lagged and exhausted both emotionally and physically, I vowed to spend the entire day hunkered down in the office and to leave by five to catch up on my sleep. Until then, the phone and I would be good friends. After telling Jimmy all about the Alabama trip, I finished my fourth cup of coffee and placed a call to Sea Solutions in Connecticut, where Erik Ernst had worked before moving to Arizona. I danced around with Human Resources for a few minutes, then was transferred around to various departments until I found myself speaking to someone who had actually known him.
“Oh, yeah, Erik,” said nautical engineer Geraldine Howe, whose voice made her sound ready for either rehab or retirement. “You say someone murdered him? Gee, why am I not surprised. That man was a pig if ever there was one, but sad to say, I made the mistake of going out with him.”
“You dated Erik Ernst?” The very idea of Ernst having a love life took my breath away.
A chuckle. “Just that one time. I’m not proud of it, but in my defense I was new on the job and knew nothing about him or his reputation other than the fact that his manners were courtly, very Old-World. That sort of thing can be attractive to a young woman, especially one like me who was raised in a house full of roughneck, foul-mouthed brothers who believed the highest form of entertainment was putting a whoopee cushion on their sister’s dining room chair. Anyway, Erik asked me out my third day at Sea Solutions and dumbass that I was, I said yes.”
I had to smile. A little roughneck had rubbed off on her, too. “I take it things didn’t go well.”
“Hoo, boy, you take it right! But I’ll say this for the smarmy sonofabitch. He didn’t stint on the expense. He took me out to a nice dine-and-dance place and plied me with champagne. The good stuff, too. For an hour or so I thought I’d found the love of my life, even if he was old enough to be my father. You know how it is, age can be a plus for some girls. I’ve never minded a man with a few miles on him, especially if he owns a nice boat. Which Erik did.”
I tried to envision Erik Ernst as a ladies’ man but failed: the vision of his caved-in head kept intruding. “Okay, so he swept you off your feet for an hour or two. Then what happened?”
“Drunk is what happened. Sloppy drunk. Like a smart little girl, I only sipped at my champagne, but Erik ordered schnapps for himself and downed it like there was no tomorrow. After a while, things started to get ugly. Real ugly. Turns out Mr. Manners was one mean drunk.”
I’d met a few of those in my life, and knew that extricating one’s self from the situation wasn’t always easy. “Did he get abusive?”
“Not toward me, he didn’t, but…Look, the whole thing started off kind of easy, so I wasn’t prepared when it all went south. You know how some guys are. Once they have a few drinks, they want to take a stroll down Memory Lane and revel in their triumphs, usually something about running a few yards with some stupid football. But that’s not what Erik treated me to.” Now she sounded angry.
“Such as?”
I could almost feel the heat from the phone as she continued. “Such as his adventures during World War II. I tried to head him off by telling him I’d lost two uncles on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, but by then he was too drunk and full of himself and his so-called triumphs to listen. He went on and on about being some big deal U-boat commander, about how many American ships he blew out of the water, as if that was going to make points with me. Then to top it all off, he started crowing about some POW camp in Arizona where he oversaw some kind of hush-hush trial by the inmates where a traitor wound up getting tortured to death. It was all so disgusting that I told him I was going to the ladies’ room. Instead, I snuck over to the bar, called a cab, and went home. The next day at the office I avoided him, and since by then he was sober, he got the message.”
“That POW. Did Ernst give a name?”
“Sorry, it’s been a while and I can’t remember. But I think it was Vernon somebody.”
“Does Werner sound familiar? Werner Drechsler?”
“My God, that’s it! Werner! So…you’re telling me that it really happened, Erik wasn’t just running his mouth?”
I remembered the newspaper articles about the event, their description of Werner Drechsler’s wounds—more than one hundred shallow stab wounds and cigarette burns, before he had died by hanging. “Yeah, it really happened. Out here, at a place called Camp Papago.”
A long silence. Then, “War is one thing, but torture is another.”
My feelings exactly. “Can you remembering anything else about that night?”
“Only more of the same. You know how drunks are. Once Erik started in on the ‘traitor’ thing, he just kept going on and on about it while I tuned out.”
We talked a little while longer and she corroborated other stories I’d been told about Ernst. From the very start, he’d been a problem employee for Sea Solutions, so much so that after his “accident” the company had urged him to “retire” before he got fired.
“He was in danger of being fired? Even after the accident?”
“Oh, yeah. Mr. P.C. he wasn’t,” Geraldine said, laughing. “After Erik’s accident, everyone felt sorry for him, sure, but a pig’s a pig. Then one day in the lunchroom, he spouted off too much about certain minorities, using the usual ignoramus terms, and claimed that the company’s affirmative action policy was a crime against nature. That in a just society, the genetically lacking—which was everyone not German, apparently—would make way for the genetically superior. After that little spiel, he was called into Human Resources. Except we called it Personnel back then. He was told it was time to weigh anchor, to sail off into the sunset, somewhere as far away as possible. Otherwise, Sea Solutions might be in for a nasty lawsuit by one of our many minority employees. When Erik decided to accept the severance package and move to Arizona, we were all so thrilled we actually gave him a going-away party. Which, I might add, he capped off with an off-key rendition of “Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles.” May the pig not rest in peace.”
“One final question. Do you have any idea what kind of severance package Ernst received?”
Geraldine laughed again. “Since I am now married to the director of Human Resources—one of those minorities Erik so hated
—I know exactly what kind of severance package he received.”
The amount she gave me wasn’t as high as I’d been led to believe from my short tour around Ernst’s house. “That brings up another question.”
“Fire away.”
“Did Ernst own a house or other property in Connecticut? A yacht of some sort?” The newspaper article about his accident had stated that he’d been taking his dinghy out to his boat when the accident occurred. He might have been able to get big bucks when he sold it. And if he owned a house, the property values in those seaside villages back east could be sky high. If Ernst had cashed out before moving to buyer-friendly Arizona, he could still have accumulated a nice little nest egg.
She snorted. “Yacht? Not hardly! Just that little twenty-eight-foot Catalina he kept moored outside the marina to save money on slip fees. And no property at all that I know of. Erik lived in an apartment. It was a nice one, from what I hear, but still an apartment. I don’t think he had any money, only what he made at Sea Solutions. And what he made, he spent, just like the proverbial drunken sailor. I wasn’t the only girl he wined and dined big time.”
I had one final question before I ended the conversation. “In all the time that you knew him, did Ernst ever hint about a big secret that he was privy to, something that was ‘like gold’?”
“No, nothing like that.”
After promising I’d keep her up to date on the investigation, I hung up, cursing myself for not having Jimmy investigate Ernst’s finances earlier. Perhaps they were irrelevant, perhaps not. But I needed to know more. I glanced over to Jimmy’s side of the office.
“I need to ask a favor.” It would be one of my last. Friday was his last day at Desert Investigations, and I had no illusions that Esther would be eager to have him continue any kind of relationship with me. I wasn’t just losing a partner: I was losing my best friend.