by N. C. Lewis
They remained seated, waiting for the visitor to enter the living room. Amy ran through the questions in her mind and wondered if it would appear too formal if she jotted down his responses in a notebook.
Danielle shifted in her seat. "What's taking them so long?"
"No idea," Amy replied, getting to her feet and walking to the door. She opened it a crack to hear whispered voices. She waved Danielle over, placing a finger to her lip and peered into the hallway. Sage Oats stood staring at Sara with a broad smile on his face.
"I have visitors, so please let's keep this brief," Sara said in a muffled voice.
"Are you satisfied now?" asked Sage Oats.
"That he is gone? Yes," Sara answered. "But how did you do it?"
"I am a shaman," Sage Oats said, speaking in a soft husky voice of someone who dabbles in mystery. "A long time ago I stumbled on the higher prayer used by those who went before to access the world of good, evil, and spirits."
Sara's voice filled with curiosity. "How did you find it?"
"Lost to the world for centuries, deemed by the ancients too powerful to pass on; it came to me in a dream."
"A dream?"
"Yes. A stooped old man, face hidden by mist, handed it to me on a fragment of paper. He made me memorize it. Then disappeared, and so did the fragment of paper."
"Is that the prayer you used on Alan?"
"Yes. We celebrated the thanksgiving phase together at Hansel's House. At the time I couldn't explain it all to you, but that is what we did."
Sara laughed. "I wondered what we were doing holding hands and dancing around the table. Then slipping out of the restaurant. I hope we left a tip."
"It was all taken care of in advance, just like the difficulties with your late husband."
"But a knife, and the police; Detective Wilson said there was a lot of blood… I didn't think it would cost Alan his life. I didn't want that."
Sage Oats pressed his hands together as if in prayer and tilted his head from side to side. His fez swayed like a tree in a gentle breeze. "I have dedicated my life to studying the ancient spiritual ways. But even I can't foretell the consequences of the higher prayer. The spirits move as they move; Alan's time had come."
"Is Alan well… on the other side?"
"The spirit world moves in a different time and space to our own."
"But is he well?"
Sage Oats hesitated. "I cannot say."
"How shall I pay you?"
"As agreed, with a substantial contribution to the temple."
"How much?"
"Are you satisfied that the prayer delivered?"
Sara paused. "Yes, very satisfied. Now, how can I repay you?"
Sage Oats raised both hands in the air. "I want the bookstore."
Sara's reply was instant. "No."
"Alan agreed," said Sage Oats in a rising voice, "to sell the bookstore to the temple." He took a step toward Sara. "We had an agreement. "
"That can't be right," Sara said, slapping her hand hard against the wall.
"I have documents to prove it," Sage Oats replied in a confident voice.
"That's a pile of hooey!"
"Signed documents agreeing to sell the bookstore to the temple."
Sara seemed to slow down, speaking very carefully now. "I spoke with my lawyer, Mr. Alvin Shyster, this morning. You do know the law firm Shyster, Grogger, and Dungfly don't you? Alvin is the founder's grandson. Anyway, Alan did not have the legal authority to sell the store. He didn’t own it—I do! You do know that, don't you? Now, will you not take cash? Say, five thousand dollars as payment in full for your excellent service."
"The temple made a down payment of twenty thousand to your husband."
"I'm sorry to hear that, but I can't give you the store. Five is all I'm offering."
"Payment is due in full!" he exclaimed in an angry voice. Then he waved the wand in a circular motion.
"Don't you dare try casting that spell stuff on me," Sara cried in a sharp voice.
But he ignored her and chanted. "You cannot keep that which you do not own. That which you cling on to shall be reduced to… ashes."
This sent Sara into a wild fury. "Get out" she screamed at the top of her voice, lumbering forward. "Get out. Get out, and never come back!"
Danielle and Amy hurried into the hallway. "Sara, is everything all right?" Amy asked.
Sara grunted. "Please return to the living room; this is a private matter. This religious gentleman is leaving now."
Sage Oats' eyes raised to meet Amy's. "You!" he gasped. "Oh, I understand now." He continued looking back at Sara. "You are selling the bookstore to these two women?"
But Sara was too angry to hear him. "Get out, get out, get out!" she screamed in a furious rage.
For an instant, Amy thought she saw something flash across Sage Oats' narrowed orbs. "That store is mine," he boomed. "I bought it from Alan." He shook the wand, turned and stomped along the hallway out through the front door and onto the pathway where, again, he shook his magic stick. "A plague on this house and fire and brimstone consume all it contains—"
"Get off my property," Sara yelled at the top of her voice. "I'll call the police!"
Sage Oats, in a defiant gesture, waved the wand again. "You shall reap that which you have sown, and that which you have sown shall burn and destroy you," he spat the words with the venom of a snake.
A fist flew into the back of Sage Oats head knocking the fez off his head. Then another fist connected with his jaw. He staggered backward.
"Let that be a warning to you," yelled Tim Clark. "Mrs. Earl told you to get off her property. Now get away from here before I break every bone in your slimy body!"
Sage Oats, dazed, turned and ran. But at the sidewalk, he stopped, glanced back at the house and again raised his wand. But Tim was close behind and gave him a shove. Sage, bloody-nosed, took off at a gallop down the street.
Chapter 28
Tim ambled along the path back toward the front door with a contented smile on his face.
"Never liked that man, with his mumbo jumbo and strange clothes."
Sara, visibly shaken, took Tim by the hand. "Oh Tim, thank you." Then, remembering Amy and Danielle, added, "I've always had a short fuse. I'm afraid Sage Oats set it off today. Tim, I appreciate what you did, but physical violence wasn't necessary."
Tim stared at the floor, pouting and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. "I should have belted him with that stupid stick he carries."
Sara's persona changed with the suddenness of a traffic light. The fury was gone, replaced by a syrupy-sweetness of a grandmother. "Tim, come on inside," she said waving him through the hallway. "I have two people I'd like you to speak with ahead of our meeting." She pointed to Amy and Danielle.
Amy needed time to think, to process all she had seen and heard of the argument between Sage Oats and Sara. But there was no time for that now. She sat with Danielle in the living room facing Tim Clark.
"These ladies would like to ask you a few questions," Sara said walking to the door. "Ladies, you have fifteen minutes."
After Sara left the room, there was an awkward silence.
"So, what do you want to know?" Tim asked, at last, glancing from Amy to Danielle.
"We are investigating the death of Alan Earl," began Amy.
This startled Tim. "You plainclothes police?"
"No."
"Then what's your angle?" His lips and fingers trembled, his tone flat.
"We found the body and would like to find out a little more about Alan."
Tim relaxed. "Oh, I see. Well, I can't tell you much. The man was a mystery."
Amy pulled out her notebook and wrote.
"But you worked with him?" asked Danielle.
"I worked for him," corrected Tim. "Alan was the boss, and he made sure I knew that."
"How so?" Danielle quizzed.
Tim stopped and glanced at the notebook in Amy's hand. "Let's say he wasn't a Mr. Nice Guy, at leas
t not with me. He'd treat the customers with respect. But I was his gopher, and he treated me like one." He paused, eyeing Danielle and Amy as if weighing something important. Then he continued. "I have ideas on how to grow the business, turn it around and make it… profitable. But Alan wasn't interested. For him, the shop was a toy, something to play with."
Amy cut to the chase. "Do you know anyone who would want to have Alan murdered?"
He looked at them blankly. "I thought you said you were not police officers?"
"That's right. We want to find out what happened, or at the least understand why someone would want Alan dead."
"Like I said, he wasn't a nice person. I suppose there are plenty who would want to put a knife to him."
"A knife?" Amy asked.
"Figure of speech. Listen, Alan kept me away from details of the business." He paused, glanced around the room. The living room door was ajar. Tim stood up, walked silently to the door and pushed it shut. "I don't like to say this in his home, but Alan had too many enemies to count."
"Like who?" pressed Amy.
"I really can't say."
Danielle lowered her voice. "There are rumors that Alan was seeing another woman. Do you know anything about that?"
He shook his head. "Have a word with Eddie Yates. He was Alan's main supplier."
Amy wrote the name.
Danielle leaned forward. "Do you have a telephone number?"
Again, he shook his head.
"What about an address?" asked Amy, tapping the pen on her notebook.
"Last I heard he was staying at the Five Star Motel on Santiago Street, a couple of blocks from the interstate."
The living room door opened.
"Time's up," said Sara shuffling into the room. "Tim and I have business to discuss."
Chapter 29
The late afternoon sky, streaked with orange and wispy white clouds, looked magnificent as Amy sat in her car on Scenic Drive. Despite the sun hanging low in the west the day remained hot with humidity clinging to the city like barnacles to a ship. The engine idled quietly, AC cranked up high blasting out icy air. Danielle glanced toward the house where Sara and Tim were discussing the fate of the bookstore, behind the closed front door.
"Amy girl, I'm still trying to process what we saw. I can't make any sense of it."
"Me neither," replied Amy, tapping a finger on the steering wheel. "But we are further ahead, I think."
"How so?"
"Well, we know Sara suspected Alan was having an affair and hired Sage Oats to help resolve the issue. So, we have a motive and possible collusion."
Danielle peered through the windshield. A gust of wind sent a pile of dried leaves skittering along the street. "Do you think we should speak with Detective Wilson?"
"Not yet," Amy replied.
"Why not?"
"What do we tell her?"
Danielle thought for a moment, then burst out laughing. "That Sara hired a wizard to cast a death spell on her husband… and it worked!"
"Exactly," added Amy, joining in the laughter. "But now we know the relationship between Sage Oats and Sara…" She fell silent for a moment collecting her thoughts. "And, that Sage Oats had a motive to get rid of Alan."
"The bookstore?"
"Yes! We know he wants it. But what for?"
Danielle shook her head. "No idea, Amy girl. Not sure it matters though. The important question is, did he want it badly enough to commit murder?"
They fell silent for a moment. A round man on a bicycle pedaled fast toward their parked car. He slowed down as he drew alongside, looking long and hard into the vehicle. He wore dark shades with a long, bushy beard. Danielle gave a little wave. The man grunted, pedaled hard and sped away down the street.
At last, Amy turned to her friend. "Are your thoughts going in the same direction as mine?"
"Go on," Danielle encouraged. "Let's hear what you've got."
"Well," Amy said speaking slowly. "Sage Oats cast an ancient prayer on Sara's behalf, but could the spirits have had a helping hand?"
Danielle's mouth dropped. "You mean, like Sage Oats or one of his followers?"
"Possibly," Amy replied tapping a finger on the steering wheel. "If he thought Sara would give him the store if her problem with Alan went away, that might be a strong incentive."
"Do you think he knew about the affair?"
There was a pause while Amy considered the question. "I'd say yes, especially given what we have seen of Sara. The woman is a straight shooter."
Danielle fell silent for a moment. "Then why not go after the other woman?"
Amy shifted in her seat. "Maybe he tried but couldn't find out her name."
"So, you think he killed Alan to make sure his spell worked, and to get his hands on the store?"
"It seems far-fetched," Amy said, staring out of the windshield. "But stranger things have happened."
Danielle fiddled with the AC. "If that was his plan it looks like it hasn't worked."
Amy reluctantly accepted this. "Yes, agreed. Maybe we are missing something?"
"What about Tim?"
Amy opened her notebook. "There is something off about him. He is quick with his fists, seems to have a short fuse like Sara." She flipped a page. "If Alan was having an affair, you'd think Tim would know about it. I can't put my finger on why, but there is something he isn't telling us."
Danielle shrugged. "I got the same feeling. I wouldn’t trust him if I had a shop. It makes you wonder why Alan hired him."
It was a while before anyone spoke again. The round man on a bicycle pedaled back along the other side of the road, again slowing down as he approached Amy's car.
Danielle rubbed her eyes. "Want to drop me off at the hospital?"
Amy glanced at the dashboard clock. "Why don't we visit with Eddie Yates first? We've got time."
Again, Danielle shrugged. "Sounds like a plan."
Amy pulled out her cell phone, sent a text message to Nick letting him know their next destination, and pulled out.
Chapter 30
The late afternoon sun did little to lift the desolate atmosphere of the Five Star Motel parking lot, which was full. Danielle stared out the windshield at the rusted dumpsters overflowing with trash, cracked pavement, and clumps of brown weeds. "Sad-looking place," she commented as if to herself.
Three grackles strutted arrogantly in the only parking space, pecking in turn at a half-empty fast-food carton. They flapped their dark wings at the last moment squawking in angry protest as Amy swung the car into the space.
For several moments the friends glanced around. The phony Spanish hacienda of the hotel looked tired and worn to their eyes. They stared with apprehension at the rusted bars on the ground-floor windows and the missing F from the motel sign. Neither spoke.
A young couple with children hurried out of the motel entrance. The man carried two large suitcases and walked ahead of the woman who pushed a stroller. The children darted along the sidewalk, laughing and shouting. It seemed to Amy like an omen, a sign that perhaps the place was not as desolate as it first appeared.
"Come on; let's go speak with Mr. Yates," Amy said, watching the woman hustle her children into a late model SUV. The man glanced at the hotel, long and hard, before climbing in, starting the engine and driving away. Amy and Danielle were too far away to see his expression. If they had they might have had second thoughts about entering the dingy Five Star Motel.
Inside, a woman with dyed, reddish-black hair sat at the reception desk. Amy estimated she was in her early sixties and half wondered what circumstances in her life led her to work in such a dismal place.
"Checking in?" asked the woman in a neutral voice, glancing down at a newspaper.
Amy noticed a name badge with faded letters on the woman's lapel. She could just about make them out—Ethel Babish. Now for the first time, Amy thought about what she should say. She decided on the direct approach.
"Ethel, can you tell us what room Eddie Yates is staying i
n?"
Ethel's head snapped upward. For a moment she regarded the two women. "Who wants to know?" she asked.
"A friend mentioned Eddie is staying in this motel and we would like to visit with him."
"Oh, I get it," said Ethel, her eyes flashing. "The Five Star Motel is not that type of establishment. Take your business elsewhere."
Danielle sniggered.
"No, no," said Amy sharply, realizing the insinuation. "I think you have misunderstood—"
A middle-aged man wearing a cheap maroon suit, white shirt, and green tie walked in through the front doors. He pulled a large, brown oversized case. The wheels rattled and squeaked as if complaining. He slouched by the reception desk. "Afternoon, Ethel," he said in a weary voice.
"Afternoon, Mr. Robinson," Ethel replied. "Any luck today?"
His dejected face told them all they needed to know. "No," he mumbled. "No sales today." He stopped, turning toward the reception desk. "Thought the water filtration systems would fly off the shelves like hot cakes. Who doesn’t want clean, fresh water?"
"It's the source of life," Ethel commented. "Can't live without it."
The man rubbed his stubble-encrusted chin. "That's right, and you know what?" He didn’t wait for an answer. "We are water—over fifty percent! You'd think people would fall over themselves to buy these units." He nodded down toward the oversized bag. "Not easy, going door to door lugging these things around, especially when no one is buying."
It was only then he noticed Amy and Danielle. "Don't suppose," he said squaring his shoulders and jutting out his chin, "I could interest you in fresh clean water?"
"Like mine straight from the tap," answered Danielle. "Can't beat city water."
Mr. Robinson's shoulders slumped. "What about you," he said, turning to Amy. "Surely, a woman of your maturity wouldn't stoop to the tap?"
"Pardon?" Amy responded.
"Well," continued Mr. Robinson, "at your age, you deserve the finer things in life. Take for example this water filter." He stooped toward the bag.
"No," Amy said firmly, "I'm not interested." Her face flushed with annoyance.
Mr. Robinson's eyes glanced up, defeated. He straightened up and pulled the bag behind him.
"Rent is due tomorrow evening," called Ethel.