by Mary Burton
“Well,” Sam said. “I suppose the blows, bullets and knife wounds could have triggered a reaction. But if I had to guess, and this really is speculation until we get further lab results, I’d say he was poisoned with something that caused heart failure. I found excess saliva as if he’d foamed at the mouth. I sent blood work off to the lab.”
Wow, Clareese thought. Someone really wanted this man dead.
“Thanks, Sam.”
Clareese hung up and decided to make a quick stop at the boarding house where Billy Joe had lived, which was also on the way back to Town Hall. She wanted to make sure the owner Thera Gordon didn’t move anything in the victim’s room.
Although Billy Joe had been in New Iberia for more than a year, he had never moved out of his original room. Clareese wondered why someone who made a decent salary hadn’t gotten his own place, though Thera’s renowned cooking and sweet disposition had kept more than one boarder from leaving.
When Clareese knocked on the front door of the boarding house, a sobbing Thera greeted her.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Thera said into her wad of tissues. “He was such a good boarder. He helped me around the house whenever I needed it. Never drank or smoked. Always paid his rent on time, the first of every month.”
“Did Billy Joe pay his rent by check?” Clareese asked.
“Yes, of course. He was never more than a day late and his checks never bounced.”
“Can I see his room?”
“Of course.”
When Thera took Clareese to Billy Joe’s room, she was surprised to discover how barren it was, even for a bachelor. A few of Billy Joe’s clothes hung in the closet and one dresser drawer contained his undergarments and socks. But there were no personal mementos or pictures of people.
Clareese slapped on some gloves and did a quick search. The dresser and desk revealed nothing but a few receipts for coffee at Verna’s, a dry cleaner’s receipt from the local Sun Dry and quite a few receipts for restaurants and bars from the big city. He must have been a frequent visitor to New Orleans, which was surprising given that it was over two hours away.
At the door, Clareese turned back to the heartbroken Thera. “I don’t suppose you have a copy of an old check? I didn’t find a checkbook or financial statement of any kind in his room.”
“Oh my. I guess I do. Today is the second. I haven’t yet made it to the bank.” She turned, hurried to her office and returned with a check.
“First Bank of New Orleans,” Clareese said.
Another connection to the city.
“Do you know if Billy Joe moved here from New Orleans?” she asked.
Thera shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think he said he was born and raised in California where his family lives. I guess I never really asked.”
Clareese tucked the check in her pocket promising Thera she’d return it after making a copy. Clareese needed to search his office again, call the bank and investigate a new name she saw on the check. William Joseph Randolph. No one around town had ever called him anything but Billy Joe.
She returned to Billy Joe’s office, searched his desk again and found the checkbook in his desk drawer. There was also a statement from the bank showing William Randolph had a savings account of $275,601. If these were the funds for the clinic, Clareese wondered why the man hadn’t set up a charitable account to avoid taxes. And if this truly was his own personal savings account, why did he live like a pauper?
As she rummaged through the drawers, she found something she was afraid might be the answer. It was a plane ticket confirmation email printed in William Joseph Randolph’s name dated for three days from now. The ticket was for Puerto Vallarta in Mexico. Clareese would have thought it was a planned vacation, except for the fact it was one-way.
Was the man planning to skip town with the clinic money? Had someone found out and killed him in anger?
A call to the bank threw more fuel on the fire. An executive reported that William Randolph had closed his savings account and transferred the funds to a foreign bank.
Clareese now sat at Billy Joe’s desk, wondering how she would break it to the town that they’d been duped. The saintly Billy Joe had not been the person everyone thought he was. But who had found out? And why the overkill?
The door creaked open. Tommy Lee stood on the threshold, tears streaming down his face. Clareese got up and went to the teenager, pulling him inside the office, sitting him down on a chair, and then fetching a tissue.
“I’m sorry, Tommy. I know that Billy Joe was a friend and you’re sad.”
Tommy’s head began to shake back and forth, gently at first, then more vigorously. He grabbed his middle and leaned forward in the chair.
Clareese tried to give him a comforting pat, but she wasn’t surprised when Tommy Lee shrank away from the touch. She knew he didn’t like anyone to get too close physically.
“He… he said he’d teach me. I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Tommy was hiccupping as he talked, close to hysteria.
Hurt Billy Joe? Oh lord. Had Tommy been the murderer?
Clareese didn’t say anything. Silence was a better tool at this point than anything she might say to alarm him. The boy would get out what he came to say if she gave him time.
“He promised me he’d teach me,” the boy repeated. “I was just practicing. I tried to save him.”
What on earth was the boy talking about?
“Billy Joe promised to teach you what?” Clareese said, careful to keep her tone even.
“I’m tired of being the water boy. I wanted to play. I should have waited.”
Ah. Billy Joe must have told Tommy he’d coach him. A picture of the bat formed in her head.
“Coach Randolph was going to teach you to play baseball? Well, that’s good, Tommy. I’m sure you’d be great. Waited for what, though?”
“To bat the ball… He said he’d give me lessons, but not until tomorrow. He said he was going hunting today with his friend, but he’d teach me tomorrow. I should have waited.”
Clareese pictured the bruising on Billy Joe’s head and arm.
“Did you have an accident, Tommy?”
The tears and hiccupping picked up pace.
“I had… I had the bat with me. I just wanted to show him I could do it. I didn’t mean to hit him. He fell down there.” Tommy pointed to a spot on the floor, a few feet away from where the body was found.
Clareese got a second chair and sat across from the boy, waiting for some of the hysteria to pass. After five minutes and a few more tissues, she asked: “Tell me what happened, Tommy. What happened to the coach?”
“I swung the bat real hard. He fell down and bumped his head on that table. His rifle fell down with him, and I heard a shot.”
Tommy looked directly at Clareese for the first time, his tear-filled eyes begging for understanding. “I thought I could save him. I thought I could help.”
“What did you do after he fell and the rifle went off, Tommy?”
“I done what they always do on T.V. I got out the knife my grandpa gave me, and I tried to get the bullet out to save him, but I kept dropping it. He started cussing at me something fierce, just like my papa does when he’s real mad. I didn’t like the shouting, but I didn’t talk back. I never do. I just done what I do for Daddy. I got him his brown bottle.”
Clareese looked around the office again, trying to spot a brown bottle.
“Where did you get a brown bottle, Tommy? Where is it now?”
“I left it in that bathroom,” Tommy pointed to a nearby door.
Clareese knew it led to a small washroom. She got up and walked to the room, where she saw a couple of bottles sitting next to each other on the floor. One of them had a black label and held brown liquid. It easily could have passed for Jack Daniels to someone who couldn’t read well and wasn’t thinking straight.
She walked back into the office and held it out to Tommy.
“Is this the bottle?” she asked.
&
nbsp; Tommy nodded. “I put it to his mouth and he gulped it down, but he spit it out right at me! I put the bottle back where it belonged and got some water from the bathroom instead, but when I came back to him, I got scared. His eyes looked all funny and he was breathing hard and cussin’. I jumped up and ran out of there. I tried to tell my daddy when I got home, but Daddy wouldn’t wake up, just like always. And then… and then I just went into my room and hid.”
“But you knew you needed to come back today to check on him.” Clareese kept her voice gentle and soothing. Tommy looked up at her again, and she could see the raw fear and sorrow in his tear-filled eyes.
“I wanted to make sure he’s okay. He ain’t okay, is he?”
“No, he’s not okay, Tommy,” Clareese said. “But I don’t think you meant to hurt him. You can come down to my office, and we’ll sort it all out.”
Clareese gestured toward the door, not surprised when Tommy obeyed and walked past her, shoulders slumped, eyes to the ground. There’d be no need to put this boy in handcuffs.
She picked up the bottle of drain cleaner and followed Tommy out the door.
A JOB TO DIE FOR, by Deb Rolfe
I’m a natural born killer at heart and get paid pretty well for it. But if it wasn’t for a very rocky start in an advertising agency, my murder M.O. would be much less interesting.
Fifteen years ago I was a recent college graduate with a BFA and ninety thousand words of a mystery novel in my laptop. While my dream was to be a full-time writer, I needed steady income to pay the bills. So I sent out a dozen résumés, confident of quickly snagging a desk job.
Not being snapped up in the first month was disappointing to say the least. I scoured the job listings again and submitted more résumés. Finally, the Schmitt Agency called to schedule an interview for the position of executive assistant. The next day I donned my favorite wrap dress, a splurge for my graduation day, and drove to their offices on the outskirts of Charlottesville.
The receptionist told me to take a seat until Mr. Schmitt was free. Beyond the lobby wall I heard an angry growl berating someone about unacceptable work. Feet stomped away. A door slammed. The receptionist shook her head as she picked up the phone and announced my arrival.
I was directed to Frank Schmitt’s office and leaned across the wide desk to shake hands. His palm was clammy and the top of his head sported a blond toupee that didn’t match the graying hair around his ears. I was already nervous and watching his eyes drill down the V-neck of my dress didn’t help any.
I freed my hand and forced a smile. “I’m Raleigh Myers. I’ve heard excellent things about your company.”
“Unusual name. Why Raw-lee?” he asked, stringing out the syllables.
“My father traveled for work. I have sisters named Savannah and Charlotte. We were always happy Dad’s territory didn’t include Walla Walla.”
Schmitt grunted. “That would be funny if a little kid said it.”
Did he insult everyone in interviews? Was this to judge my reaction? I decided to let it pass. He signaled for me to take a seat, looking me over from head to bust line.
“What exactly would be my responsibilities?” I asked.
“Your duties are rather fluid. Are you good at working independently and handling details?”
“Extremely. In college I managed a heavy class load while also volunteering…”
“Fine, fine. But what caught my attention are your special interests.” He stabbed one finger at the piece of paper centered on his desk. “Genealogy, gourmet cooking, exotic fish, and bonsai trees.”
My heart dropped to my stomach. Most of what I knew about my “special interests” came from Wikipedia.
He pointed to an oak credenza where three dwarf trees sat in shallow dishes. “What do you think?”
“They’re very attractive.”
“Greenhouse guy said pruning bonsai is an art. Bet you could give me some pointers.”
I remembered reading that clipping the wrong leaf could irrevocably ruin the appearance. “I’d have to study them for a while before making any suggestions.”
“Ah, so you do have some expertise. Excellent.” He continued staring. “Don’t have any damn dogs or cats, do you? I’m allergic to pet dander.”
“No, sir.” The only pet I could afford to feed was a one-eyed beta fish that lived in a recycled pickle jar.
“Good, good. Got any questions?”
I had many. “Will my lack of experience be a problem?”
“Assuming you can already write coherent sentences, you’ll pick up the rest as you go. That is, unless you’re a complete imbecile.”
Writing was my passion. Getting paid to write would be perfect. “And what’s the starting salary?”
“How much you want?”
I had researched pay scales for the area. The number I gave him was, I believed, reasonable.
He sneered. “Half that to begin.” He looked me over again. “Maybe an occasional bonus so you can buy something decent to wear. Can you start tomorrow?”
I glanced down uncertainly at my dress. The jerk had crossed the line with that remark. I wanted to walk out but I really needed this job. “Sure. What time?”
Instead of answering, he bellowed, “Ruth, get in here.”
The staccato tapping of heels on tile preceded the receptionist’s appearance in the doorway.
“Make her official,” he said. “And cancel Bill’s bonus. He hasn’t earned it this month.”
Ruth touched my shoulder and nodded for me to follow her. We passed the small office next door.
“That’s yours,” she said and then continued toward the lobby.
I took the chair beside her desk, clutching my purse on my lap. “May I ask why his previous assistant left?”
“A problem with her nerves.” Ruth shrugged. “Now, your hours will be eight-thirty to five. Medical benefits come after thirty days. Frank encourages creativity, but he knows what works and what doesn’t. I’ve been here over twenty years and can handle criticism. If you can’t, then consider taking a pass on this offer.”
My mind was spinning. “I’m ready to do my very best for Frank.”
She lowered her voice. “Address him as Mr. Schmitt. People only call him Frank behind his back. Among other things.” The corners of her mouthed twitched. “We’ll see you tomorrow unless you change your mind.”
“I’ll be here.”
Her phone rang, and she waggled fingers in the air towards me. I’d been dismissed.
That evening I pulled everything out of my closet, wondering what was “decent” enough for an Executive Assistant to wear. Ruth’s outfit probably came from one of the downtown boutiques but I’d have to stick to department store sale racks for a while.
I was too excited to sleep well, floating on air to have found the perfect job for my creative mind. I rose early to spend extra time on my hair and makeup. Worried about traffic, I left too soon and had to wait in my car until Ruth arrived to unlock the door.
“Good morning,” she said. “So you decided to give us a try after all.” The phone started ringing and Ruth pointed toward the hallway. “Go on back. I’ll be with you shortly.” Before I could respond, she picked up the phone.
My office seemed darker than I remembered, with no window and only an overhead fluorescent light that flickered. I was glad I hadn’t thrown out my desk lamp from college. The drawers revealed basic office supplies and a sticky note reading
$cHmitt@genCy.
Ruth strolled in. “Frank is out this morning. I see you found the computer password. Not very creative for a business like this, is it?”
“What exactly does the Schmitt Agency do?”
“Seriously? You didn’t ask before?” She plopped onto the other chair, which wobbled a bit. “We’re creative marketing consultants. We develop comprehensive advertising campaigns, mostly for wineries and breweries.”
I grinned. “And there’s no shortage of those around here.”
; “Exactly, but we handle other clients, too. Frank comes up with the overall concept and our people take it from there. When we’re swamped or understaffed like now, we sometimes subcontract out the detailed design work to independent graphics studios in the area.
“He’s a wizard at this stuff and the rest of us do our best to keep up. Penny’s our local service rep but she called in sick today. I suspect she’s really interviewing for another job. Bill’s our in-house artist and project designer. Mike writes copy and musical jingles. And I handle all the front office duties.”
I heard her phone ringing in the distance. She leaned over, pushed a flashing red button on my desk phone and answered the call. When she hung up, I got a quick lesson in transferring calls and sending them to voice mail. Then she gave me a tour to point out the restroom, lunchroom, and other offices.
She introduced me to Bill, hunched over a light table in an incredibly cluttered workspace. He looked me up and down before grunting, “Welcome to Hades.”
“Be nice now,” Ruth said.
“She looks too perky. That’ll drive Frank crazy. Crazier.” He laughed and returned to his work.
Ruth sighed and led me back down the hall. “Don’t mind him. He’s been here five years and thinks that gives him the right to be rude.” We entered Mr. Schmitt’s executive suite. “Over there’s a private bathroom. If he yells about needing extra towels, they’re in the credenza.”
I was getting the impression Mr. Schmitt yelled a lot. The phone rang again and she answered it from his desk. It appeared the conversation might be an extended one, so I returned to my office and spent the rest of the morning poking around in the computer programs. It was a relief to see familiar icons on the screen. If nothing else, I’d be able to type up any reports or correspondence Mr. Schmitt needed.
He called around two. “Raw-lee, run out and pick up my dry cleaning. Ruth has the ticket. See you tomorrow.”
I grabbed my purse and went to the front office. “I’m supposed to go to the cleaners.”
Ruth frowned. “But he said… oh, never mind.” She opened her top drawer and handed over a claim ticket. “Champion Cleaners, back towards town, on the right. Sign has blue neon soap bubbles, Frank’s design. Charge it to his account.”