I focused as best I could and concentrated hard on the tasks she was explaining while demonstrating them step-by-step on the tablet. I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment when the tutoring session was over. It was exhilarating to know I now possessed a new weapon in my arsenal that might benefit me in my quest to exonerate my friend. And it was self-satisfying to discover I still had the ability to tackle challenging new skills and succeed in mastering them.
I also discovered how Mattie Hill could have afforded to take care of the old lady who swallowed the cat food lid. Mattie was not only financially sound, she was mind-numbingly rich. She wore a Cartier watch that featured a row of diamonds around the perimeter of its face and carried a Prada purse made out of ostrich hide, like some of the wealthiest movie stars I'd read about in those smut magazines at Wal-Mart. I'll have you know, I've never actually shelled out hard-earned money for one of those rags, but they helped pass the time while I waited in long lines in the checkout lanes. It's always amusing to learn who's cheating on who in Hollywood while they're married to another celebrity who's cheating on them at the same time.
When I walked Mattie out to her car to thank her and see her off, I wasn't surprised to see she drove a Bentley. Not being one to beat around the bush, I asked, "You win the lottery or something?"
Mattie laughed and replied, "No. It's even worse than that. I'm a trust-fund baby, as people like to call us."
"And that's a bad thing?" I asked, baffled by her glum demeanor.
"In some ways it is," Mattie answered my question as if ashamed of her lot in life. "My daddy's a very successful businessman. He owns a large manufacturing corporation based nearby in Mohawk, just east of here, but he travels extensively. He currently oversees seventeen factories across the globe, with an additional three in the works. I rarely ever get to see him, but I understand why he's too busy to come home very often. Personally, I think I'd rather have to work for a living, scrubbing toilets if it meant getting to spend more time with my father. You can't buy love or happiness, you know."
I never thought I'd feel sorry for someone who could buy anything she wanted without having to lift a finger to earn it. However, by the forlorn expression on this young lady's face, she wasn't kidding when she said she'd give it all up in a heartbeat in exchange for the kind of peace of mind only the love of a family can provide. Growing up, my family was often short of money, food, and other material items. But there was never any shortage of love, for which I've always been grateful. With the bountiful love my family shared, we'd always been able to overcome any obstacle that came our way.
I pulled Mattie toward me in a warm embrace. I could feel her pain. In many ways, I was much richer than she was and wished I could share it with her. Although it was none of my business, I said, "I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds, sweetheart, but I've got to ask you a question. Why do you work as a neo-natal nurse when you obviously don't need the money?"
"What else would I do to keep active? Besides, it's a passion more than a vocation for me, Rapella. I love working with babies. I not only get to care for them; on occasion I even get to help deliver them. It's like watching a miracle take place right before your eyes. I also see it as a way to honor my mother, whom I never had the chance to know."
"You poor child. I can't imagine losing my momma the way you did. I'm so sorry for your loss, sweetheart."
"Thank you," Mattie replied. "And also, when I first started my period years ago, I was diagnosed with severe endometriosis and had large cysts on both ovaries. I ended up having to have a total hysterectomy when I was seventeen. I'll never be able to give birth to babies myself, but I can still help bring them into the world in my own way. And I can always adopt, which I plan to do some day."
"Having a hysterectomy at that age had to be one of those many times you missed having your mother by your side to hold your hand and be there for you."
Mattie nodded. "Yes, having a different nanny every other month made it difficult to bond with any of them. I really had no maternal figure to turn to at times like that. Well, other than Lexie, that is. That's why I'm as determined as you to get to the truth behind this murder."
"We could certainly use your help whenever you can get free to join us. And I'm also proud of you for devoting yourself to premature and sick babies. You are a very special young lady, Mattie. Wendy is fortunate to have a friend like you."
"Thank you. I feel the same about her."
Mattie and I chatted a few more minutes about a few of the babies she'd treated who had, against all odds, miraculously survived and gone on to lead normal, happy childhoods.
Before she left, I remembered to inquire about something she'd said earlier regarding Rayleen Waters that had intrigued me. I learned that the young lady worked as an entertainer at a private club in the seedier section of town. Mattie reiterated her belief that Rayleen's choice of occupations might have been triggered by her lack of self-worth. Mattie didn't mention exactly what kind of entertaining the girl did but I had a sneaking suspicion.
Five minutes after Mattie pulled out of the driveway, I was on the iPad typing "Rockdale, Missouri, private clubs" and "St, Joseph, Missouri, aerospace firms". There were a number of private clubs in the area, but only one aerospace firm in St. Joseph. Thanks to Mattie, I soon found all the information I was looking for and I knew she would be proud of my accomplishment.
Chapter 11
I woke up the following morning full of piss and vinegar, as my pappy used to say. I was ready to hit the ground running, as he also used to say, but seldom did himself. The Spitz sisters were paid up for another night so I decided to serve biscuits and gravy and sausage patties for breakfast. Rip and I rarely had an excuse to eat as if our cholesterol levels weren't an issue. I think he was enjoying the abundant saturated fat and excessively sweet desserts even more than I was.
As I prepared the morning meal, I thought about the questions I wanted to ask Falcon Jons if I could somehow get an opportunity to speak with him.
On the Internet the previous evening, I'd learned there was an outfit in St. Joseph called Midwest Aerospace, Inc. and knew it had to be the one owned by Jons. After all, I hadn't expected there to be more than one in a Midwestern town the size of St. Joseph, with an estimated population of just over seventy-six thousand.
I'm not a trivia fanatic but I'd enjoyed toying with the iPad more than I ever thought I would. And the more I messed with it, the more proficient I became at utilizing it. I found myself researching everything from the demographics of nearby towns to how many people could squeeze into a Volkswagen Beetle. Lexie drove a pale yellow VW Bug and it was very hard for me to believe the answer was twenty people, as stated in the Guinness Book of World Records.
When I'd realized I was getting sleepy and the topics I was googling had drifted far afield from what I'd actually set out to research, I'd plugged the iPad in to recharge and set the handy little critter on the nightstand. I quickly fell fast asleep.
* * *
After commenting at the breakfast table about the amazing number of people who had successfully crammed themselves into a VW Bug in Lexington, Kentucky, in 2010, it occurred to me that Lexie's car was sitting unused in the Alexandria Inn's six-car garage. I asked Stone if I could borrow it for the day and he replied, "Of course, Rapella. Rip and I each have a truck for transportation, and since Lexie's temporarily indisposed, her car's yours to use whenever you want it. Or, I should say, I hope she's only temporarily indisposed."
"Don't worry, Stone. We'll figure this all out soon. Paul, the mechanic at Boney's Garage, called this morning to let me know they were running behind and it'd be a day or two before they could even get started working on the repairs to our trailer. In the meantime, Rapella and I have chosen to spend our time helping get Lexie cleared. I promise we'll have her home before you know it," Rip assured his new friend. Then he shot me a look that indicated he had no idea how we were going to live up to the promise he'd just made.
Jus
t then, the inn's phone rang and Stone took the call. He said, "Just a second, honey, and let me ask her. Hey, Rapella, did you happen to find Mattie's cell phone? She can't find it and thinks she may have left it here last night when she was tutoring you on the iPad. She's calling from the hospital."
"I haven't seen it. Tell her I'll look around and let her know if I find it. Get her work number for me, Stone."
After breakfast, I glanced around the desk where Mattie and I had sat the previous evening, but couldn't find a phone. While I called Mattie to tell her that it didn't seem to be here, Rip reluctantly entered Falcon's firm's address into the GPS in Lexie's car for me. His model was very similar to the one mounted on the dash of the yellow bug. After Rip had gone inside, I turned around in the driveway and headed north toward St. Joseph.
I had to laugh at the dried-up bouquet of purple loosestrife in the bud vase that Lexie had clipped to the air-conditioning vent on the passenger side. I wondered if she knew the attractive blossoms were classified as a noxious weed. I'd later Google it and discover that in neighboring Kansas the invasive plant was not allowed to be transported into or within the state.
I followed Ms. Ratchet's directions to a T, and she led me right to the doorstep of the building I was looking for. On the front door was a sign that read "Now Hiring" and directed applicants to report to the office of Mr. Falcon Jons. Mr. Jons may have been young and a little "off," but he'd obviously done well for himself. The building was not especially large but it was very expensively decorated. The hanging pendant lights were encased in crystal glass cylinders, and as you walked into the entrance, you were looking across the room at a "crying wall" that consisted of re-circulated water running down a mosaic-tiled wall. Even the receptionist's desk was constructed of a brilliantly polished mahogany wood. At my request, the lady behind the immaculately organized desk pointed me in the right direction to the owner's office.
After a brief interval in a waiting room, I was told I could see Mr. Jons. When I walked into his office, Falcon placed the pornographic magazine he was sifting through into the top drawer of his desk and asked, "May I help you?"
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I wanted to speak with you about the job you are taking applications for to see if it's something I might be interested in."
"Seriously? I was kind of looking for someone younger. Like three or four decades younger, actually."
Ruffled by his comment, which was getting to be redundant by local employers, at least as far as I was concerned, I replied with a snide remark of my own. "Oh, so I take it that age discrimination lawsuits are not an issue for you?"
"Um, well, yes, I mean..."
"Go on."
"Please have a seat and we'll discuss the position I'm trying to fill. It's an entry-level position as a computer analyst in the Software Engineering Department."
"Perfect!" I replied. "I just learned all about that stuff last night!"
"Seriously?" He repeated. Falcon studied me for a few seconds and asked, "You sure look familiar to me. Where have I seen you before?"
"Oh, I get that all the time. I guess I just have one of those faces everyone thinks looks like someone they know." At Wendy's party he'd been so involved in playing tonsil hockey with Rayleen Waters, I was surprised he even recognized me.
"Hmm, I could swear I've seen you somewhere before."
"Well, it's possible. I did kind of think your name sounded familiar to me when I read it on the front door of the building." This was not the perfect opportunity to segue into a conversation about any motives he, or any other party guests, might have had to kill Trotter Hayes, but it was apt to be the best opportunity to come my way. So I asked, "Do you know Joy White, by any chance?"
Falcon's face flushed and his mouth dropped open. "Yes, yes, I do. We used to go together, as a matter of fact. How do you know Joy?"
I hadn't thought ahead enough to be able to spit out pre-fabricated details, so I said the first thing that came to mind. "I'm her godmother."
"Seriously? She never mentioned she even had a godmother. Are you a friend of the family?"
"Oh, yes. I've known her mother for years."
"How do you know Viola? Through the gun club?"
"The gun club?"
"Yeah. You know the one Joy's parents own in Atchison."
"Oh, yes, of course, the gun club," I replied nonchalantly, trying to wing it as best I could. "Yes, as a matter of fact that's exactly where I met Viola. I've been a member there for as far back as I can remember."
"They just opened the club last fall."
"Oh? Really? Just last fall, huh?" His comment flustered me, but I recovered quickly. "My memory is not what it used to be, son. Did I happen to mention I was very likely in the early stages of Alzheimer's? I can't recall if I've already told you that, or not."
"Uh, no, you hadn't. Even with your memory issues, you're actually here to apply for a job in the aerospace industry? Seriously?"
"Seriously" was obviously this dude's favorite word. "Well, yeah, I seriously am here to apply for the opening you've advertised! After all, I carry a notepad in my purse. I can always jot down any important details in the event I need to refer to them later. Now, as I was explaining about my involvement with my good friend, Viola's, gun club. I frequently compete in their, well, you know, those contests they have at gun clubs occasionally. The name of that competition slips my mind all of a sudden. It's that Alzheimer's thing, you know."
"Turkey shoots?" He volunteered.
"Yeah, that's it, Mr. Jons. Couldn't think of the name right offhand. I reckon I had a brain fart there for a moment. I'm quite good at shooting them turkeys, if I must say so myself. I've really got a dead eye for them little rascals, in fact. Are you aware that they're hard to kill if you don't shoot them directly in the head? They've got a brain the size of a pea, you know. And, more often than not, I nail them right between the eyeballs with my twelve-gauge." Even as I was blathering and lying through my false teeth, I knew I should have shut my mouth and given him as brief a reply as I could. I'm certain he already thought I was some century-old loony tune who couldn't recall what year it was.
Falcon stared at me for a few seconds and said, "I'm pretty sure they shoot clay pigeons, not actual turkeys in those competitions."
"Clay pigeons? Oh, yes, of course, clay pigeons. That's exactly what I said, isn't it, son?" Why is the competition not called a pigeon shoot, then? I wanted to ask the smart aleck. Of course that might be a dead giveaway that I'd never heard of a turkey shoot before, much less "frequently participated" in them. I had been correct, though, when I thought I might be pushing my luck by boasting about my shooting expertise, and running on and on about turkeys for goodness sakes! My only option now was to infer he hadn't heard me correctly. "You need to clean them ears out, boy. I'm guessing you could grow potatoes in them."
"Um, no, actually you said—"
"Well, never mind about what I said or how I know Joy." I was trying to divert the conversation back to what I'd gone there to discuss in the first place but Falcon wasn't making it easy for me.
"And, actually, a turkey's brain is the size of a walnut, not a pea," the know-it-all said.
"I was referring to a very large pea, young man. But enough of that! How do you know Joy? I kind of recall her telling me she quit seeing you so she could date some dude named Potter, Cotter, or something of that nature."
"His name was Trotter. Trotter Hayes. And she didn't dump me, I dumped her when I found out she was cheating on me with that rat. After we split up, she ended up getting pregnant by Trotter. I really cared for Joy and all, but I ain't raising some other chump's child, even if she did want me back."
"Which apparently she doesn't," I said somewhat sarcastically. "So, Joy had a baby with this guy? I can't believe she didn't call me to let me know of her good news. I am her godmother, after all. I'm also surprised Viola didn't tell me about her new grandchild."
"She hasn't had the baby yet. Joy only found out she was p
regnant a few months ago. I'm guessing she's just going on four months now. Should start showing soon with what should have been my baby. That no-good bast—"
"Goodness gracious, son! You sound very, very angry with this Trotter fellow. You did say his name was Trotter, didn't you? What did you mean by was?"
"He's dead now."
"Oh, my! I hope you didn't have anything to do with his death! I'm not judging your character, mind you. But from what you just told me, I'd be tempted to whack him myself if I were you."
Falcon Jons thumped his fist against the top of his desk and took a couple of deep breaths before saying, "Let's get back to the business at hand. I don't have a lot of time to waste this morning. In fact, I have a meeting to attend in twenty minutes. So, Ms. Ripple, do you have a doctorate or, at least, a masters degree in aerospace engineering?"
"No, but I'm sure I could have gotten one of those degrees if I hadn't gotten knocked up at eighteen and had to get married right out of high school." Falcon Jons's expression suddenly resembled that of a man who'd just been told he had an incurable venereal disease. It took him several long seconds to come up with his next question.
"So, what experience do you have in this field?"
"None, really. But I've done about everything else, so I'm sure I could learn all I need to know about it very quickly. After all, I learned all about using an iPad in one short lesson."
"Good for you," Falcon replied. It appeared to me as if he was the one using sarcasm now. "Tell me what you know about cosmic astrophysics, microwave celestial bodies, and the electromagnetic spectrum."
He was obviously just messing with me now. We locked eyes for a few seconds, and then I asked, "Are you thinking the same thing I'm thinking, Mr. Jons?"
"Probably not."
"Well, I'm thinking this might not be the right job for me."
A Rip Roaring Good Time Page 12