I pushed to close our appointment. “Well, then I guess that does it. I'll just write this up for you and email the results.”
“Great. Nice meeting you, Happy Hinter.”
~*~
As I was returning to my car, a pickup truck with a dent in the passenger door pulled into the circular driveway of the old funeral home. The truck’s original color had been a Kelly green, but with the various dings and crumples it now displayed several shades from rust to chrome. As the driver hit the brakes, his tires screeched. A tall, scrawny man jumped out of the truck and slapped at his knee.
“I'll be damned. This is robbery. I'm going to call the police.”
I recognized the man as Teddy Hancock, a regular down at Nutty’s, Pecan Bayou’s one bar. Teddy was a professional handyman, although he was notorious for not finishing a job. As he spoke, a stream of spit came out of his mouth, most likely due to his missing front tooth. In the middle of his tirade, he noticed me.
“Do you know who’s squatting at this house? I'm going to call your daddy and demand a warrant.”
“Why would you do that? The man who just moved in is Mr. Marion's nephew.”
“My uncle never had any nephew. I'm his nephew! Well, step-nephew.” Teddy’s head shook a little as he acknowledged he wasn’t a full-fledged nephew.
“You are Mr. Marion's nephew?”
“Yes. My mama was his stepsister. His full sister didn’t have kids. His no-account brother never married. Rightfully this house should be mine.” Mr. Hancock’s worn elbows and paint-smeared jeans were his standard uniform. Even though the Marion house looked run-down to everyone else, he saw a palace.
“I'm going in there to talk to that fellow. I’m telling you he's nothing more than a squatter taking possession of something that isn't his.”
John Simpson had been standing on the porch, quietly observing the whole scene. “Can I help you, sir?”
“You sure can. The first thing you can do is to get the heck off of my property.”
“This is not your property. This property belongs to Jane Marion King.”
“It certainly does, and I don't know why you’re here saying that you’re her son. Miss Jane never had children.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?”
Teddy Hancock stopped for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning in his head as he did the math. Finally getting frustrated, he answered, “I don't know. I just know that she doesn't have any kids.”
“Of that you are mistaken, sir.”
“I’m calling the police on you. You're no better than a squatter.”
“Please go ahead, call the police. Be sure to have them come speak to me because I’ll be filing charges against you for illegal entry if you step foot into this residence.”
“Illegal entry? This house should belong to me. I’m the only remaining family member in Pecan Bayou.”
“So why didn’t my mother give it to you?”
Teddy began to stutter. “This is a matter I expect we’ll be taking up in court. I’ve meant to get around to it, but now I can see I'm going to have to start proceedings. I live above the hardware store, but all that’s going to change. This place should be my house.”
“And you still didn't answer my question. Now get back in your truck and head to whatever barstool you hopped off of.”
“Mark my words. This is my house, and I’ll eviscerate anyone, I mean anyone, who tries to keep it from me.” It looked like Teddy Hancock was going to raise his fist to the man on the porch. In a boxing ring, John Simpson would be a heavyweight, and Teddy Hancock would be a featherweight. A bout between these two would be a short fight. If Rocky were here, he’d tell me to take my cell phone out and get a video for tomorrow’s online edition. It also occurred to me if Mr. Simpson was going to be doing some work around the house, Teddy Hancock would be the man to call. Ever the efficient one, I went ahead and made the suggestion.
“Teddy here is one of our town’s handymen.”
“Good for him. I still want him to leave the property.”
Teddy Hancock snorted and returned to his pickup truck. “You ain't heard the last of me yet, squatter.”
Chapter 5
“Teddy Hancock. Now there's a character.” My father helped himself to another piece of corn on the cob. He usually stopped in once a week for dinner—his way of checking on my growing family. He also attended the boys’ ball games and band concerts, work permitting. My father, Judd Kelsey, spent his life serving and protecting the people of Pecan Bayou as a lieutenant in the police department. If anything was happening, he would know about it and be asked to take care of it.
“Did he start yelling at the guy who moved into the funeral home?” Zach asked.
“He was pretty riled up.”
The sound of the front door opening and keys tinkling in a glass bowl echoed down the hall.
Leo's voice boomed from the hallway. “We're home.” He had to work late at the weather bureau and agreed to pick up Tyler from football practice. One more year and Tyler would be able to get his driver's license. I dreamed of that day. All we ever did was drop off and pick up the boys. Now that Tyler was in high school, the list of activities was endless.
“What's for dinner? Hi, Grandpa,” Tyler said. Even though Leo’s son had never gotten used to calling me “Mom,” for some reason, he immediately adopted “Grandpa” for my father. Maybe my father was better at bonding with Tyler than I was.
“Well, if it isn't the football star. Did you catch one today at practice?”
“I guess. I don't even know why I’m on the team. All I ever do is sit on the bench. Coach plays everyone but me.” Tyler sat down at his place and filled his plate. I just hoped there'd be enough food left for Leo.
My father patted the boy’s shoulder. “You're a freshman, Tyler. That's what freshmen do, sit the bench.”
“Yeah? Well, Brent Corcoran sure gets to play every game, and he’s a freshman.”
“Yes, but Brent Corcoran is sixteen years old and weighs 200 pounds. Every high school coach’s dream. Coach needs that boy to stand there and let the other side bounce off of him.”
“I guess. Sometimes I think I should just quit. I haven't even gotten my uniform dirty.”
“Don't quit. Winners never quit and quitters never win.”
Zach shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Where'd you get that Grandpa? Off a cereal box?”
“Maybe I did. That doesn't mean it isn't true.”
Leo came in and placed a kiss on Coco, and then it was my turn. “I think it actually feels cold out there. It feels like fall. I may have to wear a coat tomorrow.”
“Hey, Dad,” Zach said. “Mom got to see a fight today. It was at the old funeral home.”
“Really?”
“It wasn't that bad.” Leave it to an eighth grader to turn a small argument into the world's biggest drama. “I was over at the Marion Funeral Home and Teddy Hancock showed up. He thinks the man living there isn’t related. He called him a squatter.”
My father laced his fingers across his midsection. “Well, Teddy's got one thing right. He is a relative of Jerry Marion. Not a good one, but he is one. That hardly means he's got the right to be living in that house, though. Teddy Hancock is the biggest loose screw in Pecan Bayou. Takes after his uncle who died in prison.”
“Are you going to pull him in for questioning, Grandpa?” Tyler asked.
“Don't need to. Just need to go over to Nutty’s Bar. It will have to be early in the evening, of course. If I go too late, Teddy won’t remember anything.”
“Do you think he'd ever do anything crazy to Mr. Simpson?” I asked.
“Teddy? He's a hothead, I'll grant you that. But I'd be surprised if he'd follow through on any of his threats. I think he's all talk.”
“You never know,” Tyler said ominously. “Sometimes the nicest people do the most awful things.”
I glanced at the kids’ half-assembled costumes lying on the couch
in the next room. “I'm just hoping he doesn't show up at the community center Halloween party. He could ruin it for the kids.”
Aunt Maggie and many of the other senior citizens in town had planned the event to include booths, bouncing houses, and even a ghost story contest. The annual party had become a safe outlet for the kids on Halloween.
Later, as I cleaned up dishes and listened to Zach complain about algebra, I realized in all my rush to get out of the Marion Funeral Home that Mr. Simpson never paid me.
If I planned to put a new game console under the Christmas tree, I needed to add his check to the rest of the extra money I was making because of the article. I was scheduled to visit a local church first thing in the morning, but before that, I planned to stop by and get Mr. Simpson’s check. What a blessing these efficiency evaluations were turning out to be.
~*~
When I pulled into the circular drive of the Marion house, I was surprised to see my father standing at the door.
“Good morning, darlin’. Are we both here on business?”
“I guess so. Mr. Simpson never paid me.”
“I had a conversation last night with Teddy Hancock. He is madder than ever, talking about hiring lawyers and having this fellow evicted. One thing you can be sure about old Teddy, he’s full of more hot air than a citified opera singer.”
“So are you here to evict Mr. Simpson or to warn him?”
“I was fixing to warn him. Seems a shame that when a person comes in and tries to fix up one of our crumbling properties, one of our local yokels tries to run him off.” My father pounded on the door police-style. If Mr. Simpson was sleeping in, he was now awake.
There was no response, so my father repeated his actions. He glanced over at the drive where Mr. Simpson's navy blue Ford sedan was parked. “Maybe he's around back.”
We stepped around the building, heading for the backyard. The old windows were bare. When the house functioned as a funeral home, the windows were covered with white blinds that were pulled down to ensure mourners’ privacy. Mr. Simpson probably pulled them up to get light into the rooms. I glanced over, expecting to see the empty visitation room, and caught my breath in a gasp.
My father turned back. “What's the matter?”
I couldn't speak. I pointed toward the window.
Inside there was a stepladder and that old piece of wrought-iron fence left from the original Marion Funeral Home. Mr. Simpson must've been trying to change the lightbulbs. A black spike stuck through the front of his chest, blood staining his shirt. He must have fallen off the ladder onto the wrought-iron fence. It was almost identical to Mr. Marion's death.
Chapter 6
“Good Lord,” my father muttered, as we approached the body. We gained entry to the house through an unlocked back door. There was a package of lightbulbs on the floor and a broken one next to where Simpson lay, impaled by the fence. Something wasn’t right. If someone was falling, wouldn’t he twist out of the way to avoid something like that fence? This accident looked like a targeted hit. His pale blue eyes were still open. The last emotion registered in them was somewhere between confusion and terror. Had he encountered a malevolent spirit? What was the last thing he saw—a ghost or a killer? Now we might never know.
“Yeah, Art,” my father said into his phone. Art Rivera was the county coroner who served Pecan Bayou. “We've got a crime scene for you. Need you to grab your bag and come on over.” He turned to me, “Find something to cover that window. We don't need the whole town out there gawking at our newest citizen.”
Happy to be out of the room, I went to the front room in search of something to block the view. Instead of a bed, Mr. Simpson had an air mattress with a blanket. He'd been here for a week. Why hadn't his furniture been delivered? There was a silver briefcase and a stack of boxes next to the inflated plastic mattress. Beside it was a pair of binoculars.
I reached past them for the blanket, and my elbow hit the box on top. It tumbled to the ground and bounced as if it were empty. I picked it up to return it to the stack and thought, Either this guy packed feathers or this box is empty. I ripped the tape off and opened the cardboard box.
There was nothing inside. The box was empty. I picked up a few more boxes. They all felt empty. Mr. Simpson was not who he said he was, of that I was sure. I examined the silver briefcase by the makeshift bed. I slid my finger under the latch but found it locked.
Suddenly, Teddy Hancock’s drunken claim that Mr. Simpson was a fake started to sound true.
~*~
Howard Gunther, head of the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society, preached to the crowd gathered around him. “I'm telling you it was the ghost of a Marion Funeral Home deceased, back for revenge. He died the same way as the old man. How often do guys get impaled on the same piece of fence? The spirit world murdered Jerry Marion and now his nephew.” He pointed his bony finger at the house, straightening his elbow to give his gesture more emphasis.
After leaving the crime scene to the police department, I stood on the front lawn of the Marion house with the rest of the sightseers. The Pecan Bayou Police Department had an official crime scene.
Among other problems, they had to figure out how to get Mr. Simpson off the gate. The last thing they wanted was to have his picture in the Gazette with him looking like meat on a barbecue skewer.
Rocky stepped up to Bert Finley, who stood in the midst of the crowd. “Did you see any strange cars driving up or anything? Or did you hear anything across the way?”
Bert Finley played with the rim of his baseball cap. He shook his head. “Nope. Not a thing. Of course, I generally keep to myself. If it weren’t for Betsy here, I wouldn’t have even known there was someone living in the house.”
“Old news, Bert,” Ruby Green chimed in. “Everybody in town knows John Simpson claimed to be the nephew of old man Marion. Teddy Hancock was throwing a fit last night because he says the old man doesn't have a nephew. He was threatening to kill Mr. Simpson.”
“Got it.” Rocky nodded at Ruby to placate her before returning his attention to Bert “So you didn't hear anything?”
Bert shook his head. “Not a thing. I was in my house doing paperwork on the cemetery. Got to keep accurate records you know. People expect that if they're going to be paying you.”
“Do you mind if I quote you in the Gazette?” Rocky asked.
“The Gazette? You want to put me in the paper?”
“Bert, you’re news. You were the one closest to the house at the time of the crime.”
“It's the bad spirit that's done it,” Howard told Rocky. “If anyone ever plans to live in this house, they’d better burn sage and walk from room to room. It’s the only way to drive away the lingering spirits.”
Rocky gave a quick snort. “Excuse me?”
“He’s the expert. He should know,” I explained to Rocky. I grabbed my keys and started for my car. “I don't think there's anything else for me to do here. Frankly, none of us needs to be here. Let the police do their job.”
I sighed, knowing that I wasn't going to get paid for yesterday’s efficiency evaluation after all.
Chapter 7
After watching Tyler sit on the bench for yet another game, we hurriedly changed into our costumes to get to the community center for the Halloween Party and ghost story competition. Zach’s costume was a toga—the world's easiest costume for a busy mom—and Tyler had created something that looked like a character in a video game. I had chosen to dress like a 1960s go-go girl, complete with a miniskirt, pink tights, and white high-heeled go-go boots. I sported a peace sign on my sideways headband and wore my auburn hair down on my shoulders. Leo found some old bell bottoms in my father's closet and paired them with a tie-dye T-shirt with “Surf Galveston” printed across the chest. Coco wore a gift from Aunt Maggie, a bright orange romper with a pumpkin on it.
The decorations committee had transformed our community center. Black and orange crepe paper hung from the ceiling and held paper bats and witches and
all kinds of ghouls and goblins. The decorations committee had even brought out an old fog machine, and the clouds of mist it was belching reminded me of an old Dracula movie.
The machine had been purchased in 1974 when Mrs. Schatz, the high school drama teacher, insisted on doing Our Town three years in a row. “Why mess with a good show?” she would say.
When she passed away in 1985, they used the fog machine at her funeral. One of her former actors recited part of the soliloquy from Our Town. He ended it with a line from the play: “It's eleven o’clock in Grover's Corners. You get a good rest, too.”
We were all moved by his performance. He never became a professional actor, but he always carried himself with a certain dramatic flair that reminded everyone of Mrs. Schatz’s influence, even when he worked installing septic tanks.
Mrs. Schatz now rests in our version of the Grover's Corners cemetery.
The ghost story competition—courtesy of Mayor Obermeyer—was a popular addition to our annual Halloween event, drawing out many of the town's storytellers. These people weren't professional writers, but they could sure spin a tale. Ruby Green always did extremely well in this competition because of her knowledge of the town's history, published and unpublished. True and embellished.
“This is so cool,” Zach said, his young eyes taking in all of the Halloween fineries.
“It's the same junk they put up last year,” Tyler grumbled, deflating Zach's sense of wonder. He was still sulking from yet another humiliating day of bench-sitting at the football game. No matter what he did, the coach didn’t seem to notice him.
There were several bouncy houses already wobbling from the weight of children jumping up and down. In the corner, chairs were arranged in a circle around a paper sign that read, Story Teller's Contest. I wondered how long it would take for them to drag out the story of Mr. Marion and the wrought-iron fence. It would be the premiere story of the night, especially with a new chapter involving John Simpson.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 21