Bouncer

by Tyan Wyss

  “Unfortunately, you may have to answer to a jury, Mr. Jenkins, whether you wish to or not,” she stated. Philemon’s ample Adam’s apple twitched, but he remained silent. “You didn’t kill Thad Fisher, did you, Philemon?” she added more gently.

  “I swear on the sweet baby Jesus that saved me I never killed him or that woman,” he drawled, the accent from his childhood days never having left him even though he’d lived elsewhere for 45 years.

  “Any notion who did?” asked Lea not missing a beat.

  Philemon looked up in surprise. “You asking me?”

  “Of course. You’ve been sitting here for a good three hours and have probably been thinking about nothing else. What does your gut tell you?”

  Philemon glanced at Nick and then slowly smiled. “Well, girl, since you asked. I’ve been pondering little else as I set here in the fine accommodations afforded me by our local authorities. It ain’t an accident that I found the body, you know. God demands justice and has used me as a vehicle to make sure it’s obtained. He didn’t leave me helpless, you know. He gave me a clue. You need to ask that child, Bouncer. He’s the key. I’d bet my life on it.”

  Lea studied him for a long moment before shutting down her F & H. “What’s your favorite Christmas tune, Mr. Jenkins?”

  He stared blankly at her. “Christmas tune?” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his lean chin. “I’m partial to two, really. Jingle Bells and White Christmas. I must admit, I do miss Detroit’s white Christmases. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, really. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Jenkins, and when this is all over and you’re released, give me a call. I have a garden that needs tending as well.” She flipped a card at him, which he caught in one graceful swoop.

  “I’ll be eager to survey your garden, ma’am, or give you insights in other areas. You seem to lack one thing in this business, miss.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “An excess of sin. Your partner knows what I’m talking about. I could certainly help you understand the components of sin if you’d like me to.”

  Lea peered at the older man for a long quiet moment. “I’ll keep that in mind . . . when you’re released.

  “We’ll stay in contact,” promised Nick, as he followed his stiff shouldered partner out of the county jail.

  “We’re heading to my house,” stated Lea. “If you’ll just follow me.”

  “Your house?” said Nick amazed. He imagined a sterile, box-like house painted in a ghastly lime green to match her nauseating suit, its dust-free environment equipped with large computer screens dominating every chilly room.

  “I need to be somewhere clean and organized to sort all this out. Are you coming?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “None in the least.” She paused before finally adding, “And Philemon isn’t totally correct, Thayne. Sin follows me around and mocks me for my naiveté.”

  Nick was amazed to find himself sitting upon a circular pine bench in a well-designed breakfast nook sipping a monstrous combination of something that tasted like a cross between tomato juice and motor oil. Good God, what was it?

  “What’s in this?” he sputtered after a particularly revolting gag.

  “My father’s secret cure.”

  “Which is?”

  “It wouldn’t be his secret cure if I told you. So, you had fun with Trixie last night?”

  “Her name is Chastity. And it was great fun until your phone call. I’ll have to remember to turn off the beeper on my cell phone. If I’m working with you, I have the noxious feeling you’re going to be calling at all sorts of ungodly hours.”

  “It is hardly unlikely you’d turn off your mobile phone, because your natural curiosity would never allow you to totally disconnect with the world, no matter what the circumstance. You’re too afraid you might miss something. While assuredly uncomfortable in the middle of bath or during an intimate moment, it’s what makes us good detectives. And I bet her name is highly inappropriate now, if it wasn’t already.”

  “Oh, really,” scoffed Nick. “So, you’re an expert on male/female relations are you? And what you’re saying is that I’m a good detective because I can’t keep my goddamned nose out of other people’s business?” Why did she have to be so fricking annoying?

  “Admit it, Thayne. As a kid, you rummaged through your father’s desk, didn’t you?”

  A horribly vivid memory sprang to the forefront of his mind—a memory he’d struggled to keep quarantined back in the furthermost recesses of his mind. He swallowed as she continued her relentless analysis, oblivious to his regret.

  “You won’t stop until you know the whole truth. That’s why you instinctively recognized

  Chief Rollins’ premise about Philemon as a big load of crap.”

  Nick took another ghastly swallow and managed to sputter out, “Did your father ever appreciate you, Fox?”

  “What?”

  “Did he appreciate your instincts, your intellect, and perpetually revolting mind?”

  “No, he only denigrated those faults, though he did seem to enjoy my cooking.” Lea removed the rose thorns from the baggie Thayne had given her and set them upon the table, squinting fiercely. Removing her F & H, she booted it up and nodded to herself over the slight hum.

  “Well?” asked Nick, shivering as the last of the dreadful concoction slid down his protesting throat.

  “It’s clear Thad Fisher sought to escape his captor. I believe a reasonable conclusion is to surmise that he tried to escape by leaping through a window, and landed in a rose garden below. He was found shoeless, which would explain the embedded Mr. Lincoln thorns in his feet. You have any ‘premonitions’ about roses?”

  Nick leaned back and rubbed his forehead, hoping to encourage his throbbing headache to disappear. “Nary a one,” he said thickly. “But both Mrs. Simms and the Collins’ properties have gardens brimming with roses.”

  “True, but we mustn’t forget there are also wild bushes in the areas located between Chester Street and the Agrit-Empire’s fields, plus several other houses on the block favor the flower.”

  “How could you know that?” asked Nick

  “I woke up early this morning and drove around. There are some wild patches of Belinda and Belendar roses growing in huge clumps throughout the field about three hundred meters from the vacant lot. However, their thorns are smaller, and since they’re patchy, they’re less likely to be the culprits. Since it was probably dark when the mayor bolted, there’s a slim chance he ran through the field from the other side, climbed the short wall, and was murdered near the magnolia tree. That’s only vague speculation, though. He could just as well have been a prisoner in either the Collins or the Simms' houses, or perhaps even another on the block. The only thing we know for certain is that he and Connie visited the Collins’ house last Tuesday and haven’t been seen alive since.”

  “And the note?”

  “Oh that’s easy. It’s from Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.”

  “I got that. I was hoping you might know what it refers to.”

  “Not a clue. Yet.”

  “Where’s the toilet?” interrupted Nick abruptly.

  “You mean the bathroom.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Civilized men do not say toilet; they say bathroom or men’s room or restroom.”

  “Whatever, Guinevere. I need to rest badly and now!”

  “It’s down the hall and to the left,” stated Lea disdainfully. “Put the seat down when you’re finished and make sure you flush.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  The bathroom, of course, was spotlessly clean and painted in fresh shades of cream and the palest yellow. He fingered a tiny ceramic rose bowl crammed with sweet smelling soaps. While he preferred masculine colors, he had to admit her place had a homey feel. He did flush and remembered at the last minute to replace the toilet seat.

  He paused in the hall, after observing Fox with her head bent over her mini-c
omputer, to examine the cluster of photographs on the wall. A happy-looking family posed casually in the first, and an easily identifiable young Lea, not more than seven or eight, smiled eagerly back at him. A frilly dress of pink and white ruffles smothered her small frame, but her pleasant-looking mother wore a sky-blue dress with a low bodice. Mother Fox was handsome, but not beautiful. Father and son looked amazingly alike with homely, intelligent faces.

  Lane, at six to eight years older than his sister, was already a lanky teenager with a bad case of acne. The next photo, however, set an amazingly different tone. Lea appeared remote and dull. Her father’s worn face glowered aggressively, and her brother’s reflected an insolent or even abusive nature. Mother Fox must have been dead for quite some time, and Lea appeared no more than thirteen or fourteen, her eyes hidden behind large spectacles. No trace of a smile softened her face, and her mouth looked pinched and unhappy.

  “Stop checking out the family treasures,” said Fox from the nook table.

  “You must have eyes in the back of your head,” returned Nick, refusing to be embarrassed.

  “No, just sensing an invasion of my privacy.”

  “What’s fair is fair, sister. Besides, photos hanging upon walls are not private. And one picture is worth a thousand words.”

  “Fred Bernard was not talking about photographs, he was referring to ads.”

  “Same difference. So, you own this house?” he asked, his stomach still churning from the witch’s brew, though it did appear his headache might be easing somewhat.

  “Yes. I sold my father’s after he died and moved here.”

  “Nice place, though there’s a few too many growing things.”

  “My dad hated plants and preferred that heavy mahogany wood, which reeks of male dominance and needs every-other-day dusting. My brother, on the other hand, loved techno-mod furniture; all metal and glass and geometric shapes, with glaring lights and plastic cushions. I was comfortable in neither.”

  Nick suddenly had an insight into the continually belligerent woman. Lea had never been allowed to be herself, and this little dream home was probably the best glimpse he’d ever get of the defensive woman. The golden pine kitchen exuded warmth and comfort, its country design practical and spacious with wide counters and the inviting nook. The furniture, though sparse, gave a pleasant effect. The beige and mauve couch fronted a small brick fireplace loaded with wood and waiting for the turn of season.

  A broad oak entertainment center, equipped with stereo and CD player, a large TV and DVD player, as well as a glass cabinet revealing an eclectic mixture of movie classics, mysteries, and kids’ films, covered half the living room wall. Shrek sat next to Murder by the Numbers and Gunga Din. One of his favorite series, Twin Peaks, rested atop her DVD player. The top shelf held a wide variety of painted eggs.

  “You collect eggs?”

  “Sorta. My mother did, and I inherited them from her. That blue one is from Russia, the gold one with the silvery face from New Orleans, and the huge carved ostrich egg from Kenya. My father gave it to Mom as a honeymoon gift. Those rather garish orange and red ones are from a trip I took to Mexico. I’d like to get more—but right now, travel is out of the question.”

  He wondered what the rest of the house would reveal about the prickly Lea Fox when a 5 by 7 photograph, positioned reverently inside the bookcase, arrested his attention. A young man with nondescript brown hair, dark-rimmed glasses, and a prominent nose rested his arm around the Fox’s willing shoulders. Her relaxed head half-leaned against the man’s chest, lips curving in a wide smile as she responded to something he’d just uttered. Lea’s dress was feminine and actually pretty, glimmering in lilac flowers. Much longer hair cascaded over her shoulders, and a complimentary heart-shaped silver locket nestled around her small neck. He’d never before seen her happy or half-way pretty.

  “This your boyfriend?” he asked impishly.

  “Stop snooping, Thayne. You’re trespassing.”

  “It’s what I’m paid for.” It had to be Bernard. Nick returned to the round table covered with a spotless white tablecloth. The phone shrilled, and Fox jerked it up.

  “This is Fox. Really? Is he there now with the chief?” One hand clenched the functional black phone while the other rapidly typed into the F & H. She frowned. “And the other’s a dead end, then. Drat. Thanks so much. Keep me posted.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

  “That was Randy Phelps. I asked him to give me a buzz if anything unusual happened. Apparently, none of the eight commandeered wheelbarrows have anything other than dirt clinging to them. They’ll be returned to their owners early tomorrow.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Neither am I. The Christmas note lacks fingerprints and is typed in simple courier font, size 18. Anyone with a computer could have whipped it out. The paper is the local stationary store’s brand—nothing unusual, so, except for its unique content, the note’s origin is a dead end. But get this. Mr. Anthony Montanari of the Agrit-Empire has apparently been closeted with the chief for over an hour. He wants permission to survey the bodies before burial, supposedly to give a private farewell. He says he was good friends with both Thad Fisher and Connie Judson.”

  Nick seemed puzzled. “Now, that’s an association I was unaware of,” he stated.

  “It’s not surprising, though. Anyone who’d run for mayor in this town would have needed to obtain the financial support of the Montanari family if they hoped to earn any votes from the agricultural sector.”

  “But why would he want to view the bodies?” asked Nick looping his hands over one knee.

  “Let’s check him out.” Nick rose heavily and followed his petite partner into a small study. She powered up the state of the art computer.

  “Nice technology,” he said, glancing at the small room. Several computer manuals lined the shelves and upon the opposite shelf stood a huge collection of baseball trophies.

  “Your dad’s?” he asked, pointing.

  “No, my brother’s. Didn’t have the heart to give ‘em away. The computer was my dad’s though. He said a properly programmed PC was almost as helpful as a good snitch. He kept this unit at home, and it contained the dossiers of most of the influential people in the area. I’m certain he did his homework on the Montanari's, if I know my Dad.

  Within minutes, the lined, flawed face of Anthony Montanari filled the screen.

  “Anthony Montanari Sr. was married in 1951 to someone called Ruth Peroni,” began Lea. She gave birth to their oldest son, Anthony Jr. in December 1952. He had—whoa, count them—six children with Ruth. That’s what you call a fertile Catholic family. Anthony Sr. inherited his land and money from his Italian born dad, Fabio Montanari, who’d bought land in the northern part of the Big Valley when Anthony was about ten and started growing potatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers. This blossomed into the Agrit-Empire, which Anthony took over in the late-seventies. Fabio Montanari long since retired to Florida and died about eight years ago.

  “Boy, our Tony’s life certainly wasn’t totally fortuitous,” said Thayne, leaning over the glimmering screen. “His two oldest boys were both killed in Vietnam, just before the US pullout, and he was left with three daughters and a small son. Not a great deal of information on them. I wonder what Anthony’s real connection to the deceased is.”

  “We could do some nosing around,” Fox suggested, looking like a little girl who’s just been offered forbidden chocolate.

  “Hmm. Guys like Montanari hire illegals to broaden their profit margin,” said Nick. “It’s almost a California tradition.”

  “Just a minute,” spouted Lea. She leaped up as fast as her bad leg allowed and scurried into the front room, returning several minutes later with a beaten-up old briefcase. The tattered leather of the stained satchel seemed so unlike her that Nick lifted his eyes in enquiry.

  “It was my dad’s as well. You might say I have a sentimental attachment to it.” She clicked open the flaking brass lat
ches and removed the Peebles file.

  “Let’s see. If I remember correctly, Ashley Peebles was discovered in the middle of a potato field just like Connie, and both are owned by the Agrit-Empire. That reminds me of something else.” She flipped open another thin file and smiled. “Here’s the last letter from Luke Cambridge my Dad received. Read me the second to last paragraph.”

  Nick rubbed his blurry eyes and laboriously read aloud.

  “I implore you, Mr. Fox, to reconsider my case. As I stated to Inspector Rollins, I swore that I saw Mr. Montanari’s Buick driving down the dirt road where Ashley’s body was found. He was speeding as if running away from something and didn’t see me standing under a large avocado tree. No one investigated this lead to my knowledge, and I’m hoping that if you reopen the case you might do so.”

  Nick scanned the rest. “It just goes on to say he loved Ashley and didn’t kill her. It’s signed, Luke Cambridge, March 3, 2000. Sounds mighty articulate for a drifter and farm worker,” stated Nick, refolding the letter before passing it back to Fox.

  “That’s exactly what my dad thought. Apparently, Luke educated himself, passing his high school equivalency exam while serving his sentence. He is also, from what I’ve heard, a first-rate mechanic who services many state vehicles at the prison.”

  “So, your dad followed up on Luke’s assertion that he saw Montanari’s vehicle in the vicinity around the time of the murder?”

  “He did. I remember him conferring extensively with my brother about it. I wasn’t working fulltime for my dad at that time, mostly just evenings and weekends because I already had a job at the District Attorney’s office. Unfortunately, I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have to their progress, and then they were murdered less than three weeks later. I know Dad collected extensive notes, and my brother boasted they were about to crack the case wide open. Dad spent long hours typing up his reflections on his office computer, but when I took over after my father’s death the computer’s hard drive had been damaged. 50 percent of the data was irretrievable.”