by D P Lyle
Amazing how the simple chirp of a cell phone can trash even the most carefully concocted plans. And I was working on a couple of good ones. That involved soap and hot water and, well, slippery fun.
The tone in question came from Nicole’s phone.
Here’s the side of the conversation I heard:
“Hey there. What’s up?”
“I see. So, why didn’t you call Jake?”
A laugh. Then: “Got it.”
“He’s right here. Maybe you should tell him.”
She punched on the speakerphone and said, “It’s Pancake.”
“What were you afraid to tell me?” I asked.
“Ray was, too. That’s why I got stuck with being the messenger.”
“So, what is it?”
“Need your help with a job,” Pancake said.
“I don’t work for Ray.”
“Are we going to go through that again?”
That again was me refusing, him reminding me that Nicole did sorta, kinda, work for Ray, and that wherever she went I’d follow.
“I guess not,” I said. Some battles you can’t win so why bother?
“You remember Emily Rhodes?”
“I do. You wanted to marry her in the sixth grade.”
“She did get married. Guy named Sean Patterson. And now, after four years, they’re getting a divorce.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I liked her.”
“Yeah, well, we’re looking into things for her. Financial stuff mostly.”
“Who’s her attorney?”
“That’s the reason neither me nor Ray wanted to call you.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Your new buddy Walter Horton.”
Did I hear him correctly? Walter? Spending the better part of a day sitting in a courtroom with him was more than enough Walter-time for me. Okay, he did save my bacon, but still. And now Walter pops up in this.
“Walter hired Ray?” I asked.
“Sure did.”
“Does Tammy know? She hates Ray.”
“Compared to you, she loves Ray. Likes me a whole lot better than both of you.”
Nicole laughed. I looked at her. “You think that’s funny?” I asked.
She gave a half shrug. “Hysterical would be my choice.”
“Me, too,” Pancake said. “Anyway, Walter liked the work we did on your behalf and hired us.”
“My behalf?”
Pancake grunted.
“So what do you need from us?” Nicole asked.
Pancake told the tale. Emily not showing up for a meeting with him, or for work, what he found at her house. Said he’d called the police and was waiting for them and that everything was getting complicated and he needed some extra eyes and ears and footwork.
“Okay, we’re on it,” Nicole said.
I never liked it when she said, “We’re on it.” Nothing pleasant ever followed. Rather, it erupted into things like a middle-of-the-night swan dive into the Gulf from the back of a hundred-foot yacht, or whacking some angry gator with a baseball bat, or smacking a cop in the face with a snow globe. All in the name of truth, justice, and the American way, was Ray’s take.
“I suspect I’ll be here at her place for a while,” Pancake said. “Either answering questions for the police or hopefully she’ll come home from wherever she is.”
“You want us to meet you there?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ll text you the address.”
Nicole disconnected the call and smiled at me.
Now she looked like the wolf.
CHAPTER 6
FAIRHOPE, ALABAMA, IS considered the jewel of Mobile Bay. Seated on the east side, facing west, its water-reflected sunsets are spectacular. The permanent population is around twenty thousand, but the tourists who roam the streets each year dwarf that. Downtown is small, quaint, artsy, and loaded with fun coffee shops and restaurants. To the north is the equally quaint town of Daphne and to the south Point Clear, home to another bayside jewel, the Grand Hotel.
Only thirty miles separates Fairhope from Gulf Shores. But getting there could take anywhere from forty minutes to an hour and a half. Such is Gulf Coast summertime traffic. Probably why I hadn’t been there in years, though that seemed like a flimsy excuse. Nicole had never seen the town.
We sailed up State Highway 59 aimed toward Foley. Nicole in her element. Dissecting the traffic, maneuvering her white Mercedes 550SL through the moderately dense traffic.
“I’m excited to see Fairhope,” Nicole said.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re eager to get your teeth in a new case.”
“If there is one.” She glanced at me. “She and that guy she’s seeing might have simply gone somewhere. Visit friends, a romantic getaway.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t.”
“Based on what exactly?”
“Something in Pancake’s voice. He thinks things are out of whack. And his instincts are always on the button.”
“I guess we’ll see soon.”
“Especially at this rate.”
“Wimp.”
My cell buzzed. The ID read “Tammy.” My ex. I don’t know why, but she calls me at least once a week. With some problem she thinks I can solve, or even cared about, but always with another stack of complaints about my behavior while we still shared matrimonial bliss. Which was years ago. She was now Walter Horton’s problem. Yet, she continued to wage psychological warfare against me. Or so it seemed.
I angled my phone toward Nicole.
“Oh, this should be fun. Put it on speaker. I don’t want to miss anything.”
Of course she didn’t. Not that she and Tammy were friendly. Not even close. Cordial wouldn’t work either. A common rift between exes and current girlfriends. For Nicole, these episodic calls from Tammy supplied facts, real or imagined, that Nicole could use to give me grief. I was sure it was some sort of feminine conspiracy. One that even enemies shared. Some kind of XX chromosomal connection us guys weren’t privy to. Me, paranoid? It’s not paranoia if they’re actually shooting at you.
I briefly considered ignoring the call, but that never worked with Tammy. She’d keep hammering until I relented. A war of attrition. Better to get whatever today’s issue was over with. I answered, activating the speaker function. Didn’t get a word out. Not even hello.
“Jake, what the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to decide why I answered your call.”
“What’s that noise? Are your driving?”
“No. Nicole is.”
“She hasn’t put you on the road yet?”
“We are on the road,” I said.
“So, you dragged her into this business?”
“What business?”
I could hear an exasperated sigh hiss through the phone. Mission accomplished.
“You know very well what I’m talking about. Walter hired Ray and now he’s got you involved?”
“I’m simply a passenger. I don’t work for Ray.”
“Yet you always seem to land right in the middle of everything.”
She did have a point. Regardless of how much I dodged and weaved, struggled to avoid it, I repeatedly got swept into Ray’s world. Not by my own doing, but Pancake and Nicole are impossible to resist. Pancake because we’d been brothers in arms since childhood, and Nicole because, well, she’s Nicole. I mean, take a gander.
Tammy wasn’t finished. Was she ever? “You create chaos everywhere you go. I don’t want you nosing into Walter’s business.”
“I’m not.”
“And after he pulled your ass out of the fire last week.”
“I’m sure that made you happy,” I said.
She tossed out a disgusted snort. “It’s the attorney’s creed. They have to defend everyone. Even snakes.”
“Cobras are cool.” I could almost hear her teeth grinding. This was actually bordering on fun. So, I continued. �
�And tell Walter I said thanks for the discount.”
Walter had done nothing of the sort. Wasn’t in his nature. And for me, not a chance. But I knew what was coming. I know, I know, evil for sure. But this is Tammy we’re taking about. Nicole gave me a look, a slight headshake. She knew what was coming, too.
“What? Walter gave you a break?”
“A much appreciated one.”
“Well, I’ll fix that. You can expect a bill.”
“I don’t usually open junk mail.”
More teeth grinding. I think she fractured a molar.
“Look,” I said, “Nicole and I are headed up to Fairhope to meet Pancake for lunch. He was lonely. Wanted the company.”
“Jake, don’t screw this up.”
“How could I? I’m not even involved.”
“Right. This is Walter’s case. His reputation is on the line. I don’t want you goofing around and making a mess of it.”
“I’ll leave that to you.”
“Jake, I swear.”
“You shouldn’t swear.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s better.”
My iPhone felt hot. As if Tammy’s anger had somehow flashed through the ionosphere and scorched it.
“Please don’t mess up Walter’s case.”
“That’s up to Ray and Pancake. We’re simply offering moral support.”
“You have no morals.”
“Goodbye, Tammy.” I disconnected the call.
Nicole merged onto US 98, toward Magnolia Springs. Less traffic, so she cranked up the RPMs. My cell phone buzzed three more times over the next five minutes. Each from Tammy. She had more to say. Each punched over to voicemail. I didn’t.
“Did Walter really give you a discount?” Nicole asked.
“No.”
She stared at me. I hate that she does that while hurtling down a highway at Warp Factor 4. Closing in on a massive SUV.
“You’re evil,” she said.
She whipped around the Suburban, my heart flipping and flopping and banging around in my chest. Once my breath returned, I managed to say, “I work at it.”
“Poor Walter.”
Now I stared at her. “There’s nothing poor about Walter.”
“True. But I do love it when Tammy calls,” Nicole said.
“Why on earth?”
“Entertainment.” She smiled at me. “And to see you squirm.”
“I didn’t squirm. Not once.”
“Right.”
CHAPTER 7
THE GPS GUIDED us north on Section Street through downtown Fairhope. Nicole actually went with the flow, no whipping around slower traffic, no impatiently tapping the steering wheel, no muttering or sighing. She seemed to be taking everything in. The relaxed pace of the town, the eclectic assortment of buildings, the tree-lined side streets that seemed to melt into quiet neighborhoods.
As the town fell away, the scenery became decidedly more rural. A right turn onto State Highway 104 plugged us into farm country. Another mile, Emily’s driveway appeared on the left. At the end of the gravel strip, near the garage, sat Pancake’s black truck, a metallic-blue Dodge Ram 3500 pickup, and a black Fairhope PD cruiser. Pancake and a uniformed officer stood near the patrol unit. They turned our way. Nicole parked and we stepped out.
Pancake introduced us to Officer Burton Moody. Forty-ish, maybe five-nine, one-forty tops. A thick, bushy mustache hid his upper lip and appeared too substantial for his thin face. The service weapon on his right hip likewise seemed bulky, listing his body that way.
“Jake and Nicole work for the firm,” Pancake said.
I wanted to say that WE didn’t but I let it ride.
“I understand you’re looking into Emily’s divorce,” Moody said.
“That’s right,” Nicole said.
Moody gave a brief nod but said nothing.
“Anything new?” I asked Pancake.
“Nope. She’s still a no-show.”
I glanced at Moody, who was examining Nicole. All of Nicole. “What’s your take on it?” I asked him.
“Not sure.” He tugged one edge of his mustache. “Nothing looks out of place. No signs of a struggle or anything like that.” He looked back at me. “Like they walked away, leaving the door open.”
“They didn’t,” Pancake said.
“We don’t know that,” Moody said.
“It doesn’t feel right. Something’s off kilter here.”
Moody glanced toward the house, hooked a thumb in his service belt. “Maybe.”
“You are going to explore that possibility, aren’t you?” I asked.
“That’ll be up to the chief. She’s on the way.”
Good timing. I heard tires crunch gravel and turned. A black and white SUV lumbered toward us. It jerked to a stop and a woman stepped out. Jeans and a dark-blue short-sleeved shirt, the Fairhope PD logo on the breast pocket.
“This is Chief Billie Warren,” Moody said. “This is Tommy Jeffers.”
“Folks call me Pancake.”
One corner of Warren’s lips elevated slightly. She got it.
I introduced Nicole and me, shook her hand. She was medium height and build, fit, obviously no stranger to the gym. Handshake firm, almost painful.
“Which one of you showed up here first?” Warren asked.
“That’s me,” Pancake said.
“I take it you know Emily?”
“Long time ago. We went to school together. Through the sixth grade anyway.”
“And you dropped by to get reacquainted?”
“I had a meeting with her. Over at the bakery where she works. She didn’t show.”
A frown settled over Warren’s face. “A meeting about what?”
“They’re private investigators,” Moody said.
Warren eyed Pancake. “Investigating what?”
“We’re from Longly Investigations in Gulf Shores,” Pancake said. “Gathering information for her impending divorce.”
Warren nodded. “I heard rumors they were headed that way.”
“She filed a few days ago,” I said.
Warren took a couple of steps toward the house, seemed to study it, then shot over her shoulder, “You go inside?”
“I did,” Pancake said. “Front door was open. No one answered. I figured I’d better make sure everything was okay.”
“Nothing looks disturbed,” Moody said.
Warren nodded. “Maybe she went somewhere?”
“Her car’s in the garage,” Pancake said. “The Ram belongs to Jason Collins.”
Warren turned back toward him. “How do you know that?”
He smiled. “We’re investigators. We find out stuff.”
Warren stared at him but said nothing.
“You know him?” Pancake asked. “Jason Collins?”
“Sure do.”
“Anything there?”
“Anything like what?”
Pancake shrugged. “Like anything.”
“Seems to be an okay guy. Never had any trouble with him.”
“Before I called you guys, I drove the neighborhood. Thinking they might’ve gone out for a walk or something. Nothing.”
Warren’s brow furrowed. “This divorce? Any issues that would require a P.I.?”
Pancake shook his head. “Pretty routine from what we’ve seen so far. Mainly came up to chat with Emily. Get some financial information. Noah Hicks over at the bank gave me all that.”
“You talk with her husband, Sean, yet?” Warren asked.
“No. I understand he’s out on a Gulf drilling platform.”
Warren nodded. “That boy does work a lot. Two jobs.”
“Any issues with him?” I asked.
“Not that I know. At least nothing that ever reached my desk.” She rubbed her neck. Her biceps strained against the sleeve of her shirt. “I better take a look.”
Pancake said he needed to call Ray, so Nicole and I followed Warren. I expected her to object, but she didn’t. Nice hous
e. Clean, well decorated. Emily Rhodes, now Patterson, seemed to live well. And indeed, everything seemed normal.
Back outside, I asked Warren, “What’s your plan?”
“Not sure. I don’t see any evidence of a crime.”
“Except she and this Jason dude are missing.”
“Maybe.” She sighed. “I’ll try to track them down.”
“Anything we can do to help?” Nicole asked.
“I think we can handle it.” She examined Nicole, then me. “I suspect they’re off somewhere and will be back before long.”
“Their cars are here,” I said.
“Sure are.” She gave the Ram a look. “Maybe someone picked them up for lunch. Or to go down to the beach in Gulf Shores. That sort of thing.”
“And they left the house unlocked?” Nicole asked.
“Folks around here don’t lock up all that often.” She rotated her neck as if working out a kink. “Don’t really need to.” She gave a half smile. “At least they think they don’t.”
CHAPTER 8
CARL FLETCHER LOVED to walk his property. Smell the rich soil, the pungent aroma of the pines that wrapped much of his acreage, and, of course, the sweetness of the honeysuckle that clung to his tool shed and tractor barn. His farmhouse squatted along Highway 104 and occupied one corner of the eighty acres he called Fletcher Farms. The land supported two growing seasons. He was a week away from planting his fall crops—pumpkins, squash, cucumbers, and melons. Another month the chick peas would go in. The soil had been turned, fertilized, and the irrigation lines stacked and ready to lay out.
He rambled along the dirt road that circled his property, a straw reed angling from the corner of his mouth. Forest to his left, his fields to his right. Quiet now, just the way he liked it. Another week and it’d be chaotic. Plantings always were.
He dropped on one knee to re-tie a boot lace, then used the bandana from his back pocket to mop his face and neck. One hand shielded his eyes from the noon sun as he looked over the section that would soon hold rows of pumpkins.
The weatherman had said the temperature would drop a good ten degrees over the next two weeks. A blessing. If it happened. Those guys were more wrong than right. But any relief from the August heat was welcome.
He continued along the back side of his acreage, satisfied that everything was in order. Even though he had worked this land for over twenty years, this was always an anxious time for him. The quiet time between spring harvest and late summer planting. He was a workingman, and this down time invariably proved stressful. Better to work than think on stuff you couldn’t do nothing about. All that worry that something needed doing, or was overlooked, or hadn’t been prepped properly. That was never the case, but that familiar unease resurfaced every year. And every year he chided himself. Didn’t help. His wife constantly reminded him that if he didn’t have the soil, the weather, or the crops to fret over, he’d find something. The woman had a heap of wisdom, and knew him all too well.
