A Blooming Fortune

by Stephen John

  “Deputy Carter,” Victor interrupted in a loud whisper. “Please accept my apologies for my rudeness and abject dismissal of Celia. At the risk of offending you as well, let me explain my position clearly and succinctly. I don’t like this town; I don’t like the heat; I don’t like the humidity; I don’t like the food, and, present company excluded of course, I don’t like the people. As far as I’m concerned, the mosquitoes, the alligators, the snakes and all the other slithering, buggy creatures can have the whole bloody thing. I’m not interested in making friends or exchanging pleasantries. What I’d really like to do is make my sister’s funeral arrangements, sell this house, handle her affairs, and then be off like a thief in the night. After that, you will never have to see me again.”

  “Suits me,” Carter replied, in an uncharacteristically smug tone.

  “He’s sorry, he really is,” Bessie said.

  Carter was fuming inside. He looked Victor in the eye for what seemed like a long while, before finally speaking.

  “Mr. Bloom, that sounds like a plan—good day,” he finally said, walking away.

  I followed Carter.

  “Miss Fortune, it was indeed very pleasant to meet you,” Victor said to me as I was walking away.

  I turned and managed a small smile and wave.

  On the way home, Carter, who is usually guarded with his personal opinions, voiced his displeasure.

  “I don’t like him or her,” he said.

  “They were a little smug,” I admitted.

  “They were downright rude, is what they were,” Carter rejoined.

  “They were, yes, though I have to admit, I did enjoy seeing Celia being put in her place,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her speechless before.”

  Carter, eyes on the road, paused for a long time, before the beginnings of a smile formed on his face.

  “It was a little funny, I guess,” he admitted. “But Celia was crushed. There was no call for all that.”

  “He only said what so many of us have been thinking,” I argued, “but more eloquently and with a much better vocabulary.”

  Carter shrugged and nodded, “That’s true, I suppose.”

  “I mean, before she got there, you and I both got in our little jabs about Celia,” I pointed out.

  “That was different,” he snapped. “What we said was . . . was . . .”

  “Behind her back?” I finished.

  He shrugged and sighed, “Touché,”

  “And you know as well as I do, Celia was after Emma’s money for her pet community project,” I added. “I spoke with Emma about it, myself. I know Emma wanted to reject the proposal. She just didn’t want to hurt Celia’s feelings. Celia completely misrepresented Emma’s level of interest. I was happy Victor put the kibosh on it right away.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Carter admitted, again.

  He nodded as he pulled into my driveway, pulling to a stop.

  “What do you want me to do?” Carter said.

  “Nothing. I’m just saying, let’s give Victor and Bessie the benefit of the doubt and help them get through this visit,” I replied. “For the sake of Emma’s memory.”

  He thought for a moment and nodded, then smiled. He leaned over and kissed me.

  “Would you like to come in for a bit?” I asked.

  “I’d love to but I have a few more hours on shift. Gotta go.”

  “Call me later, then?” I asked.

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  I waved and watched Carter pull away. I looked at my watch; it was four-forty p.m. A thought hit me. The bank was still open. I ran into the house, into the kitchen and opened a drawer where I stored my mail. Sifting through the pile, I found what I was looking for; a check made out to me from Emma Peterson, for one dollar and twenty cents.

  I hopped in the car and headed to the bank, hoping I could get there before it closed. I made it with seven minutes to spare.

  Three weeks earlier Emma had made out the small check to me to cover a library late fee on a book she was reading. I told her I didn’t mind paying the nominal late fee, but she insisted. I never bothered cashing the check.

  But now that I was beginning to have concerns about her financial affairs, I decided to cash it, a wild attempt on my part to see if I could uncover anything, anything at all, unusual. I walked up to the teller and presented the check.

  The teller, a twentyish petite thing with long brown hair and a bored look on her face, looked at the check quizzically. She popped her gum.

  “Is this it?” she asked.

  “It is,” I replied.

  She punched keys on her computer keyboard and then looked back at me, “I’m sorry ma’am. This check is drawn on an account that has insufficient funds.”

  “What?” I replied. “She just wrote it.”

  “The check is dated three weeks ago,” the teller replied.

  “She closed her account?”

  “No, there just isn’t any money in it.”

  “How can that be?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “and I wouldn’t be able to discuss another client’s account with you, anyway.”

  “You are already discussing it,” I said.

  “No, I wasn’t,” she replied.

  “You just told me there was no money in the account,” I pointed out. “How is that not discussing it?”

  She rolled her eyes at me and popped her gum again, “Whoops,” she snarked.

  “Is your manager here?” I asked.

  “He left at four-thirty,” she replied.

  “Of course, he did.”

  “Ma’am, you seem unusually upset over one dollar and twenty cents,” she said.

  “Thank you for being no help whatsoever,” I snapped.

  She frowned as I left.

  I wasn’t certain what to make of it, but it was interesting that Emma’s account had no money in it. Had Victor done this so soon?

  At home, I slipped into my running clothes and headed to the lake, running an extra mile over my normal route. Back home, I took a long bath and then made myself a light dinner salad.

  At seven o’clock I called Gertie. I could tell from her voice, I would not get good news.

  “Were you able to speak to the Smiths?” I asked.

  “Yes, between Ida Belle and myself, we spoke to all her neighbors,” Gertie said. “No one saw any visitors coming or going to or from Emma Peterson’s house, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It seems Celia Arceneaux was going door to door on Friday evening, seeking support and donations for her statue project. She spoke to the Smiths for over twenty minutes. I guess the Smiths are one of the very few couples donating to her community project.”

  “Celia Arceneaux was in Emma’s neighborhood on Friday evening?” I repeated.

  “Yep,” Gertie said. “She was at the Smith’s around five o’clock. Then she stopped by the Johnson’s at five-twenty. She was also at the Fitzgerald’s home around five-forty-five.”

  “Holy crap,” I replied. “You know darn well she would have stopped by Emma’s house, too. And it fits the timeline.”

  “Fortune, when I asked earlier if you had someone in mind . . . it was Celia, wasn’t it?”

  Gertie had busted me. I knew Celia was a little desperate to get funding for her project, and I knew Emma had no interest in it, but had been keeping her at arm’s length. What flashed through my mind was that Celia pushed too hard, Emma told her no and the rejection set her off.

  “The thought crossed my mind,” I admitted, “but Celia wouldn’t commit murder . . . would she?”

  Gertie didn’t answer.

  Chapter Six

  Carter found me at Francine’s for lunch. He rushed through the entrance fifteen minutes late.

  “Sorry I’m tardy,” he said. “Crazy morning.” He held a few pages of paper in his hand.

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “I ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.”


  “Not at all,” he said, slapping the pages on the table. “I have good news.”

  I could take what he’d just said in one of two ways, I thought. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear.

  “You were wrong,” he said.

  Now I was sure; it was not what I wanted to hear.

  “The toxicology report showed that the medications in her system were within normal limits, and the tox screen came back negative,” he continued. He paused and smiled—it was a self-gratifying smile.

  I leafed through the report. Carter was right. There was nothing contained in it that provided any indication that anything was out of place—nothing to indicate foul play whatsoever.

  “Emma died of a heart attack—natural causes,” Carter said. “Pure and simple.”

  “That is good news,” I said, halfheartedly.

  “Your tone does not reflect it,” Carter replied.

  “I’m sorry, I was just convinced that... never mind. It really is good news,” I insisted.

  “We can rule out murder,” Carter said. “For once, we have a drama that has no room to unfold.”

  Carter and I turned our conversation elsewhere. Emma’s funeral was coming up on Saturday at the Baptist church. Although Emma had not been to church for many years, she attended regularly when her husband and Glory were alive.

  “I’m a little surprised,” I told Carter. “Victor doesn’t strike me as the church-going type.”

  “It surprised me, too. Victor said that Emma was thinking about going back to church,” Carter said. “He thought that’s what she would have wanted.”

  “I wonder how many people will show?”

  “My guess is, the whole town,” Carter said. “He rented a giant tent and is having tables set up behind the church. He’s catering the wake—bringing in quite the spread, I hear. I don’t know many who will turn away free food on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Touching,” I responded, tongue-in-cheek.

  Carter nodded, “You know, despite their rough exterior, I think Victor and Bessie truly loved Emma. Bessie told me that because their sister was such a recluse, the town of Sinful deserved to know what a wonderful woman lived amongst them. They want to honor her memory and send her out in style.”

  “It sounds like it,” I replied.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Carter said, “Victor handed me two books that belong to the library. He found them in Emma’s house. I have them in my car. I thought I could just pass them on to you when we’re done, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I forgot they were there.”

  Carter’s phone buzzed. He was receiving a text.

  “Excuse me,” he said, already reading.

  “Hi there,” Ida Belle said, approaching our table. Gertie was with her. “Is this a lover’s lunch or...”

  “Actually, your timing is perfect,” Carter said, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I have to get back on duty.”

  “But I just ordered you lunch,” I protested.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Duty calls. Maybe Ida Belle or Gertie will eat it.”

  “Glad to help,” Ida Belle said.

  “Always willing to pitch in,” Gertie added.

  “I’ll run out and get those books and bring them in for you to return,” Carter said. “Sorry about lunch.”

  “Thanks Carter,” I said. I wanted to stand, hug him and kiss him, but Carter was skittish about public displays of affection, so I thought better of it.

  I updated Gertie and Ida Belle on the toxicology report.

  “Well, I’m glad we didn’t have to risk a breaking and entering charge at Mark Baker’s office after all,” Gertie said. “You are convinced now, I take it?”

  I nodded and sighed, “Well... I guess I am.”

  “You don’t sound too convinced,” Gertie noted.

  “It’s just . . . I was so certain that . . . Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You were just being you, Fortune,” Ida Belle said. “That’s one of the things we love about you.”

  Chapter Seven

  I’d fallen asleep earlier than normal and slipped into a deep slumber. My cell phone rang. The day’s activities drained me. I was fortunate to have heard the ring at all. I answered. It was Nickel, one of the co-owners of the Swamp Bar, the local Sinful dive, located just off the main highway on a dirt road.

  “What’s up?” I asked, my brain still in a bit of a fog.

  “There’s a tiny woman down here with a big British fella,” he said. “Her name is Bessie. She asked me to call you.”

  “Huh?” I said, still half asleep. “Call me? Why?”

  “This big fella with her, Victor—he’s been drinking a lot.”

  “Oh dear,” I replied.

  “The woman seems worried that he might get himself in some trouble,” Nickel said. “He’s down here shootin’ off his mouth, rambling on about Celia Arceneaux. He’s drawing a crowd. Right now, it’s not too bad, but things could turn pretty quickly. She thought you might be able to help.”

  “You think someone is going to kick his butt?” I asked.

  “This is The Swamp Bar,” he said. “You have to ask?”

  “Thanks for the call,” I said. “I’m on it.”

  I threw on the clothes I’d worn earlier in the day and managed to run a brush through my hair before heading out the door. Twenty minutes later, I was there. As I pulled into the Swamp Bar, I flashed back to the time Buckshot Billy dumped a bucket of cold water on me during a wet t-shirt contest. Much to my embarrassment . . . I won.

  The bar was now kicked into high gear. I could tell from the number of cars and trucks that were somewhat randomly parked outside and from the amount of noise coming from inside.

  Victor and Bessie were not hard to find, but it was an entirely different scene from what I expected to see. Victor was leaning against the bar, drink in hand. There were nine women and three men standing around him. Bessie was standing off to the side with an odd look on her face—reflecting a combination of boredom and concern. The men and women were all but bellowing with laughter as Victor spoke.

  I began to hear him as I approached. He was telling the story of seeing Celia Arceneaux earlier in the day when Carter and I were there.

  The group was laughing. Victor was laughing with them, and then continued, “Your American hero, John Wayne, said it best—life is tough, but it’s even tougher when you’re stupid.”

  The group howled with laughter again.

  Nickel noticed me as he walked by, “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “Sure, but I’m not certain what the problem is,” I replied. “He seems to have found an audience that loves him.”

  “Not everyone,” Nickel shot back. He nodded toward one of the pool tables.

  One man who was paying close attention was certainly not laughing. It was Owen Scruggs, a trucker well known to be a supporter of Celia. He was actually a volunteer for Celia’s mayoral campaign. He stood on the busiest street corner in town prior to the election and patiently held a “Celia for Mayor” sign for hours on end. He did not seem to be enjoying Victor’s superfluous comedy routine one bit. Victor continued telling the story of his interface with Celia, with a fair amount of exaggeration thrown in for good measure. His speech was slurred and he seemed to be uneasy on his feet, choosing to prop himself against the bar. He was certainly drunk. Bessie continued to look bored and disinterested.

  “Victor!” I called out.

  He looked at me and smiled broadly. He’d changed clothes and was now wearing a lighter jacket over the top of a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

  “Ah, the beautiful Miss Fortune Morrow,” he announced as I joined the group. “I told you the hottest women in town loved me.”

  “I guess that’s why you’ve hit on every woman in the bar already,” Owen barked. “No takers, I see.”

  “The night is still young and my fortunes may have changed,” he replied. He turned
to me, “No pun intended.”

  “What are you doing here, Victor?” I asked.

  “I’m simply enjoying the best the town of Dreadful has to offer,” he replied.

  “It’s Sinful,” Owen barked, “and he’s been ripping on Celia Arceneaux for an hour. She ain’t here to defend herself.”

  “Whatever, Owen,” one of the women yelled back. “Most of us have made fun of Celia from time to time. He’s just poking a little fun—ain’t no harm in it.”

  “Well, I happen to like her,” Owen said. “If you’d just get to know her, you’d like her, too. The more you know her, the more she grows on you.”

  Victor looked at Owen and smiled, “I had a boil on my ass once; it grew on me as well. So, from a certain point of view, I actually agree with you.”

  The grouped laughed again. I made my way to him and whispered in his ear, “I think it’s time to move along. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that trucker is not happy with you—you know, the six-feet-five inch, two hundred and fifty pounds of all muscle trucker.”

  He looked at me and winked. He glanced at Owen and then turned back to the group.

  “Did I tell you about the time Celia went to a fortune teller?” Victor asked loudly.

  “No,” one person shouted back, smiling in anticipation.

  “Tell us,” another person yelled.

  “Oh, if you insist. Celia walks into a fortune teller here in Sinful,” Victor began. “She asks the woman to look into her crystal ball and tell her about the day of her death. The fortune teller waves her hands around the crystal ball and looks into it. After a moment she looks up at Celia and says, ‘I’m sorry. The day of your death is a little cloudy. I can’t give you the date but I do know your death will occur on a major holiday in Sinful.’”

  Bessie looked away, shaking her head. She sighed. Victor continued.

  “Celia looks at the fortune teller and asks, ‘How do you know this?’ The fortune teller looks back at her and replies, ‘Because, any day you die will become a holiday.’”

  Everyone in the small crowd began to laugh—everyone except Owen, that is. He was stewing. He was also strong enough to break Victor in two if he so pleased.