by S. J. Harris
“How long do you get for lunch?” I asked.
“We have to hose down the grinder at five, get everything ready for day shift.”
I looked at my watch. It was only 2:34. “You get three hours for lunch?”
“Not always. Sometimes three and a half or four. We’re usually done pushing raw material by two A.M., then it’s just a matter of cleaning up. We don’t start the cleanup till five. That way we look busy when day shift shows up.”
“What do you do with all that time?” I asked.
“Gordo usually puts his head down on the table in the lounge and takes a nap. I come out here and smoke, go to the foreman’s office and read the paper, whatever. It gets pretty boring sometimes.”
I drained the last of my Pepsi. Bill had finished with the sandwiches and, after he smoked a cigarette, I asked if we could go and explore Lori Barbera’s office. We walked back to the employee lounge to make sure Gordo was asleep, and then Bill led me through a hallway to the office complex. He pushed some buttons on a wall-mounted keypad and disabled the alarm system.
Lori Barbera’s name and title were on a plaque bolted to her office door. I felt like quite the spy, rooting through her drawers and files. Normally, my code of ethics would have precluded plundering the personal space of another. I certainly wouldn’t want my privacy invaded in such a way. But I had a hunch Lori was involved in the disappearance of Ron Kuhlman and Darla Bose. My hunch was based on facts--that Lori and Ron had previously been involved in an illicit affair, that Lori was not forthcoming in our conversations, that the meat in the can of GIANT-PUP originated at Kessler’s, and that Lori had access to the plant on Sundays when everyone else was away.
I also worked on a couple of assumptions--that the beige Lexus following Ron and Darla from Kelly’s Pool Hall belonged to Lori, and the amputated finger I saw belonged to Darla.
Lori could have followed Ron and Darla to a motel, shot them or killed them in some other way, hid their bodies in the trunk of her car Saturday night, April second, brought them to Kessler’s on Sunday, April third, ran them through the giant grinder and mixed them with animal remains that constituted the 4-D meat. It would have been the perfect crime, Ron and Darla’s bodies ground to a pulp and shipped out to become canned dog food.
It would have been the perfect crime except for the surviving body parts and the circumstances leading me to find them.
Lori seemed to be one of those compulsive neat-niks I’ve always hated and envied. Her desk was clutter-free, not so much as a paper clip out of place. On her wall, hung with care and attention to composition, were framed awards of excellence and college diplomas, the highest an MBA from the University of Florida. In her bottom desk drawer I found a stack of magazines. Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping. I flipped through a couple of them and saw that some of the pages had been torn out. The magazines were all latest editions. I planned to buy copies and check the headline fonts, to see if any of them matched the nasty-gram I found in my motel room. One more strike against Lori if the type matched.
Before leaving Kessler’s I asked Bill if he would mind giving me a ride to the airport Wednesday night. I’d decided to fly to San Diego, to attend Greta’s funeral. As determined as I was to learn the truth about Darla and Ron, I couldn’t ignore Blake Wales in his time of sorrow. Anyway, it would be a few more days until my DNA results were in.
“You’re leaving? Tomorrow?” Bill said. “Aunt Julie wants you to come over for dinner Sunday night. Will you be back?”
“The funeral’s Friday. I’m planning on flying back down here Saturday. So, yeah, I’d love to have dinner with you Sunday night.”
Bill said he would give me a ride to the airport tomorrow before going in to work. We said goodnight, and I drove back to the Holiday Inn in St. Augustine. I got on my laptop and booked a flight to San Diego.
I had one email, from Blake Wales:
Have you talked to Ron Kuhlman’s wife? Seems to me she’s the one with the most motive. I’d take a look at her. Maybe she had a connection at Kessler’s. It’s even possible that she and Lori Barbera teamed up to get rid of Ron and his new lover, this Darla Bose girl. It sounds far-fetched, but it sounds like a lot of money could have been involved. Money can make people to strange things.
I was surprised, with all that was going on in his life, that Blake had taken the time to think about what I was working on. What a good friend.
I collapsed on the bed and before long fell into a deep, dreamy sleep. I saw images of Jenny as a five-year-old and as an adult. I saw Sha-Shu, the terry cloth cat. I floated to a far-away place, to a dimension where time is meaningless. I saw a pyramid suspended from nothingness, and the pyramid was larger than the universe. It was built of blocks that resembled video screens. On each screen a drama unfolded. At the pyramid’s base I witnessed the horrors of mankind--wars, famine, rape, executions, murders, brutal abortions, torture. As the pyramid narrowed, the atrocities lessened. Near the top were scenes of people who had devoted their lives to helping others. Mine and Jenny’s screens were side-by-side, somewhere in the middle. We were above the dregs, yet nowhere near the saints.
I woke up sweating and knew that some profound wisdom was just beyond my grasp.
Jim Higgins had called me Tuesday afternoon and had mentioned the possibility of me moving to Louisville and taking a full-time job there. Could I have it both ways? Could I fall in love and still spend enough time searching for Jenny?
If I married and started a family, then the traveling would have to cease. I didn’t think I was ready for that.
But I would be twenty-eight in August, and I knew the clock was ticking.
16
I tried to fall back to sleep, but it was no use. I walked out onto the balcony of my third floor room and watched the sun come up over the Atlantic.
I looked up Kuhlman’s Fence Company and called, thinking they might be able to put me in touch with Diane Kuhlman.
“We can’t give you Mrs. Kuhlman’s number,” a receptionist told me, “but you can leave your name and number and we’ll make sure she gets the message.”
I didn’t think it likely I’d ever hear back from her and was surprised thirty minutes later when my phone rang.
I didn’t quite know what to say. Mrs. Kuhlman I’m a flight nurse and I know your husband has been missing for some time and he was last seen leaving Kelly’s Pool Hall with a young woman named Darla Bose whose finger later turned up in a can of dog food in Louisville, Kentucky and I think you had something to do with their murders didn’t seem appropriate, so I told her I was a reporter and asked if she’d meet me somewhere for breakfast.
We met at the Huddle House in Green Cove Springs.
Diane Kuhlman had brown curly shoulder-length hair, a nice pair of boobs that had probably been augmented and a tight face that had probably been lifted. She wore a white blouse and khaki shorts. Her tan was perfect.
“I’ve been cooperative with the police and the press,” she said. “I loved my husband. I would never have done him harm. I even forgave him a few years ago when he had an affair. In a way, the affair rekindled some dying embers. When Ron disappeared we were getting along better than ever.”
Diane made uncomfortably-constant eye contact when she spoke and, although I was the one conducting the interview, it seemed that she controlled the direction of our conversation. She might have made a clever politician.
“You don’t think he was having another affair?” I asked.
“I would be shocked if that were the case. He was home every night, and our love life was downright steamy. Many of my friends envied what Ron and I had. When someone disappears the spouse naturally becomes a suspect but, believe me, I didn’t want my husband dead. Our kids are grown and scattered across the country, and Ron was all I had. I feel lost without him.”
“He was well-insured, wasn’t he?”
“People who listen to the news reports might think money was a motive for me. Not so. I don’t n
eed the money. We’ve always had plenty.”
The waitress brought Diane’s omelet, my pancakes, bacon and sausage. I was getting out of control with this meat thing.
“Do the police have any other suspects in the case?” I asked.
“You’ll have to ask the police about that.”
“How about Lori Barbera?”
Diane excused herself while she coughed into a paper napkin. “How do you know about Lori?”
“Confidential sources.”
“Lori was the woman Ron had his affair with. She’s a psycho bitch from darkest Hell. When the affair was exposed and Ron chose to work things out with me, to save our marriage, Lori treated me as if I was the other woman. She was extremely jealous. She threatened me, and she stalked us for awhile. It was a horrid situation. We were trying to mend our marriage and she wouldn’t leave us alone. It’s been over five years now, though, and I thought she was over it. I suppose the police will get around to looking at her eventually.”
“Did Ron have any other enemies?”
“Everyone loved Ron. His employees loved him. Even the ones he had to let go for one reason or another, they always remained friends.”
***
I drove back to St. Augustine and packed some things for my trip to San Diego. I had a reservation for the red-eye. Bill told me to meet him at The Parkside at 9:30 and he’d drive me to the airport. He said I could leave my car in the motel lot.
I told the Holiday Inn clerk I’d be leaving for a few days, but that I wanted to keep the room. I went ahead and charged another week on my credit card.
I left St. Augustine early so I could go shopping with Sonya Shafer. I needed something to wear for the funeral. I got to Lyon’s Den about 3:30, and Sonya was still tending bar.
I heard acoustic guitar music, walked to the edge of the stage and saw Peter Daniels sitting on a stool.
“Hi Kim,” he said.
“Hi. That’s really beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you. Bach. Suite Number Three in C Major. The prelude always gives me trouble, especially on this old guitar.”
“Sounds pretty good to me.”
“I had a Martin classical, a six-thousand dollar axe. It was stolen on the road.”
“That sucks,” I said.
“You better believe it sucks. If I ever see the guy again who stole it, I’m going to shoot him. Actually, my Colt twenty-two was in the case with the guitar. So I’ll have to get the guitar back first, then shoot him.”
Peter laughed, but I could tell he was upset about losing his expensive guitar. He told me the story of how it was stolen.
“It was last January. We were headed back to Quincy after a month on the road. Cold as a well digger’s ass outside. That trip was a bust, all the way around. We’d had equipment problems and most of the money we made went to having it fixed. Everybody was pretty much broke. I think King had forty or fifty bucks and I had a ten rat-holed in my wallet. We were about two-hundred miles from home. We exited the interstate and stopped at one of those generic mom and pop outfits--gas, sandwiches, ice, beer--you know. We saw this guy standing at the pump island with a suitcase and a guitar case. He told King he’d give him the guitar for a ride to Hannibal. King figured what the hell, we were going that way anyway, and the guitar would probably fetch a hundred bucks at a pawn shop. So this old bum threw his gear in the back and squeezed into the van with us. We drove on, and it got dark, and about five miles from the Quincy/Hannibal exit we ran out of gas. I gave King my ten dollars, and Link and Diamond set out walking to get some gas. Then King realized he still had the ten in his hand. He took off after them. That left me, Da-vi and Lenny The Bum in the truck, freezing our asses off. Lenny decided to split. He took his guitar, even though he’d gotten a ride most of the way and it was rightfully King’s by then. I didn’t realize it until we got home and unpacked, but instead of taking his guitar, this crummy old Kay archtop, Lenny The Bum took my Martin. That’s how I ended up with his guitar and he, the son of a bitch, with mine. Oh, he got my gun too. It was just a souvenir, really. No firing pin. It was a Colt twenty-two cowboy pistol my dad gave me for my twelfth birthday. It had my name and the date and everything engraved in the barrel. The guitar is replaceable, but that pistol isn’t. That kind of broke my heart.”
“Did you report the theft to the police?” I asked.
“I did, but I’m not holding my breath. They’ll never catch that guy. I’ll never see that guitar or my gun in a million years.”
Sonya came to the stage. She and Peter kissed and said goodbye. Sonya and I walked to the parking lot.
“Want to go in my car?” She asked.
“Sure. You know the area much better than I do.”
We climbed into her Toyota Corolla, an older hatchback model. The interior was sour from cigarette smoke.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Sonya asked.
I dug in my purse and found Brian Cooper’s phone number. “I thought you might want to talk to him sometime,” I said.
Sonya told me about Steve Morrow. In ninth grade she and Steve had been in love. Sonya’s mother was a teacher at the school they attended, and one morning she came to Sonya’s first period algebra class, took her out in the hall and told her Steve had been hit by a pick-up truck that morning on the way to the bus stop.
“It happened on thirteen, across from Ferrell’s Diner,” Sonya said. “Back then there was a stretch of woods Steve walked through on his way to the bus stop. We all figured he was crossing the highway to go over to Ferrell’s for a doughnut or something. It was horrible. Steve’s been in a sort of vegetative state ever since. You mind if we stop at my mom’s house real quick? She wanted me to stop by and see something.”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
We turned onto a washboard dirt road and shortly arrived at Sonya’s mother’s house.
“Come on in and meet my mom.”
The attached garage jutted out past the front entrance, and a middle-aged woman wearing a pink bandana stood there among a crowd of cardboard boxes. Sonya introduced us.
Something in Charlotte Shafer’s speckled hazel eyes told a story of weariness, worry, heartbreak. It could have been my own mother’s soul I gazed into.
“When are they going to pave that road, Mom?” Sonya asked. “Every time I drive over here my fillings are shook loose.”
“Shaken loose,” Charlotte said.
Sonya turned to me. “Mom teaches English at Hallows Cove High. I had her in ninth grade and she made me call her ‘Mrs. Shafer’ the whole year. What did you want to show me, Mom?”
“I’ve been out here trying to clean the garage since I got home this afternoon,” Charlotte said. “You know what a pack rat I am. I found stuff in here from nineteen seventy-three, the year I started teaching. Look at this. I had no idea I still had this.”
She handed Sonya a spiral notebook. Written on the cover, in blue ink, My Journal, by Sonya Shafer, Mrs. Shafer, Adv. Eng.
Sonya opened the notebook. She laughed. “Look at this, Mom. My o’s in Morrow are little hearts.”
Charlotte looked at the page. “It breaks my heart every time I think about poor Stevie Morrow. Such a bright kid. He would have had a bright future. Is he still in that nursing home?”
“I guess so,” Sonya said. “I haven’t seen his folks in a while. Maybe if Kim has time we’ll stop by and try to visit Steve.”
I nodded. I still had several hours before I needed to meet Bill at The Parkside.
Charlotte took her bandana off and wiped the sweat, maybe a tear or two, from her eyes. “Do you remember what I told the class when I made the journal assignment? I told you all you could write anything you wanted in your journals. Your deepest feelings. Your secrets. And I promised to keep them in strict confidence. I still assign journals for ninth grade, and I still make that promise. The fact is, I usually don’t even have time to read the journals. I just look at them and make sure the kids are writing something.”
“Well,” Sonya said. “I never wrote any secrets in my journal cause, duh, my mother was the teacher.”
They laughed.
I heard a phone ringing in the distance. Charlotte excused herself to go answer it.
“I’m going to run in and use the restroom real quick,” Sonya said. “You want to come in?”
“I’ll just wait out here,” I said.
In one of the cardboard boxes, on top, I saw another ninth grade journal I thought might make for an amusing read. I folded it and stuffed it into my purse. Since Charlotte was cleaning the garage anyway, I didn’t feel too guilty about my theft.
When Sonya came back out, we said goodbye to Charlotte and walked back to the Corolla. It was slow to start.
“Sounds like I might be needing a new battery soon,” Sonya said.
***
We crossed the bridge, took State Road 17 and Wells Road to the Orange Park mall. We shopped for a couple hours, and on the drive to the nursing home we talked about our families. I told Sonya about Jenny.
“That had to be tough,” Sonya said. “Are your parents still together?”
“Yeah. I don’t think they’d know what to do without each other. How about yours?”
“Daddy left home about ten years ago. He worked at Kessler’s for years. Then, one day, he just up and quit his job and left town. I was a student at the University of Florida at the time. I was living in a dorm. I had to quit school and go back to work to help Mom. She had it tough for awhile. Financially and emotionally.”
“Your dad worked at Kessler’s?”
“Yeah. Just about everybody in Hallows Cove has somebody who works there. It’s a small town. If it wasn’t for Kessler’s, there probably wouldn’t even be a town.”
“Why did your dad quit?”
“I don’t know. He won’t talk about it. Like I said, he just left town one day. Hitchhiking, no less. He’s been traveling around the country like that for ten years, staying at friends’ and relatives’ houses. Last time I talked to him, he was at my Aunt Cheryl’s up in Hannibal, Missouri. He said he finally bought a car. Get this, a nineteen sixty-three Ford Falcon. He’s planning on coming down here sometime this month and staying for the Fourth of July. He comes for holidays sometimes, and then he’s back on the road.”