by N. C. Lewis
BITTER BONES
An Ollie Stratford Mystery
N.C. Lewis
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Acknowledgements
A special thank you to wonderful readers Grace Farrell, Olga Lilian Thompson, Janet Strasemeier, Nancy Dillow, Saunders, Paula Mitchell, Jackie Tansky, Linda Diane Overton, and Carol Bronson.
Prologue
There are lots of good things about teaching at a community college in a small Texas town. First, everyone is related to everyone else, and you're called Professor, even though you're not one, well not in the Ivy League sense. Then there are the more practical advantages. For example, you get a parking spot near the front of the building, invites to prestigious social events alongside the Mayor and other local dignitaries, and the local law enforcement know your name which comes in handy on the days when the twenty-minute drive to class needs ten.
But there's a downside-students.
Don't get me wrong, I love working with students, expanding their intellectual horizon, and seeing them grasp the power of my discipline–Data Science and Statistics. No, I don't mean every student, just the entitled ones, never show for class and expect A grades. As the old saying goes 'you've got to put something in to get something out'.
Oh, and there is one other downside-evening classes, I hate teaching evening classes.
I'm Ollie Stratford, forty-six pushing forty-seven, widowed with four kids-all grown. A recent transplant from New York City, Brooklyn to be exact. Ealing Homestead, a 10-acre estate on the outskirts of a town called Medlin Creek in the Hill Country of Texas, is my new home. The property came with an abandoned oil well, a stray dog called Bodie, and a homeless man known to everyone as Simpkins. I don’t earn a lot of money, but I make ends meet, part-time professor at the Medlin Creek Community College, and that is fine by me.
Chapter 1
It was a little after eight p.m. when I finished the last lecture for the day and headed to the small windowless room reserved for adjunct faculty. My plan was to spend an hour or so marking student assignments then stop by Don Andrews pizza parlor for a couple of slices of pie.
Don Andrews is a twenty-four-hour eating hole famous, in the Hill Country, for its New York style pizza prepared personally by the owner Don Andrews.
Today had been tough, three classes squeezed into the late afternoon and evening with little more than a five-minute break in between. A slice or two of Don Andrew's finest pizza was well-deserved. I guess it's my comfort food.
Seated behind an old Oak desk on a creaky wooden chair I began marking student assignments. Too many adjunct professors take work home and end up putting in more hours than their full-time colleagues. Yes, I take work home too, but the trick is to get through as much as possible on site. This frees up weekends.
As I graded the final student paper, my thoughts drifted to classes later this week. I'd have to update the class notes but that shouldn't take more than twenty minutes. Better do it now, I thought. As I started to review my notes and hunt around the internet for up-to-date news events as examples, a young man with the ruddy complexion of a teenager darted into the office, and stood for several moments.
"Professor Stratford," he said, clearing his throat.
I looked up. It was Pickle Bramley, an advanced placement student from Medlin Creek high school. The youngster, only thirteen, could pass for eighteen with a fake ID flashed in dim nightclub lighting. He sported a wispy black goatee beard, a gold nose stud, along with thin metal rimmed oval glasses which caused one to focus on his eyes which were set rather too close together.
Pickle was two school grades ahead of his peers and ranked number one student in the entire Medlin Creek Independent School District. The young man was destined for Harvard or Yale, and quite possibly good enough to get into Oxford or Cambridge. Provided, that is, he fixed his problem. As well as exceptional grades, Pickle Bramley had a rather distasteful attitude, arrogance on steroids.
"Professor Stratford," he said, a stony expression on his plump, bearded babyface, "I want to discuss your grading of my latest paper."
I sighed, put down my lecture notes, and prepared to listen.
"I know I got one hundred and five percent," said Pickle, "but I really feel it deserves one hundred and ten percent."
I pulled a folded grade-sheet from a folder in my bag and began to read. "One hundred and ten percent, you say? But," I said, scanning the grade sheet again, "one hundred and five percent is a maximum grade, there is no more. Pickle, you got it all, well done."
His lips tugged into a wry smile, for an instant the eyes flashed appreciation but he didn't move. Instead, he stood still in front of the desk like a mechanical robot trying to figure out its next tactic. Then the small eyes narrowed.
"Professor Stratford, I've yet to hand in my teacher evaluation for your course." The boy drew out the word 'evaluation' as if he was eating cotton candy.
Just then, Professor Bingham, Dean of the business school, breezed into the office. A short, nondescript man of indeterminate age, wisps of black hair on top with gray stubble growing across a rounded chin. On the face, Professor Bingham wore eyeglasses, oval with thick lenses that amplified the dullness in his bloodshot eyes, caused, no doubt, by his penchant for single malt Scottish whiskey.
"Ah, Professor Stratford," he said, invading my personal space. His breath smelled of malt whiskey. "We have a rather active Board this year, so please keep on their good side. Oh, and here is the preliminary teaching schedule for next semester. I've given you three classes, hope that is fine with you."
As Professor Bingham turned to leave he smiled at Pickle.
"How is the most intelligent young man in the entire Hill Country doing today?"
Pickle beamed, his eyes wide and face angelic.
Professor Bingham continued, "Have you been able to maintain one hundred percent in all ten classes you are enrolled in this semester?"
"Over one hundred percent, sir," Pickle replied, nodding.
"Good, good," said Professor Bingham, raising his left eyebrow. Then he gave a little differential bow, and left.
Pickle took a step towards the desk, his eyes as beady and restless as the grackle birds that roost high in the Hill Country treetops, the face like flint. The voice, almost a hiss crackled with menace. "I'm on the student council. Professor Stratford, do you want me to bring up your grading with them?"
I didn't. This teaching position is my main source of income. But, I wasn't about to be pushed around by a thirteen-year-old goatee bearded boffin either. Palms pressed to my cheeks, I repeated Pickle's request.
"One hundred and ten percent you say? But that's impossible. I simply can't give you any more, you are at the top of the grade-scale."
He leaned forward.
"Professor Stratford, must I remind you that I, Pickle Bramley, am not an ordinary student. I have private clients lining up to pay top dollar for me to complete their computer programming projects." He puffed out his chest like a lion surveying its pride. "I am top of your class, top of my grade, and top of the entire Medlin Creek Ind
ependent School District."
"Yes," I said as my forehead puckered into a thoughtful frown, "you are a very intelligent young man. There is little doubt that you will go far."
"I know I'm going to go far. And I'll go even further if people like you would just get out of my way. I want one hundred and ten percent for that assignment. Professor Stratford, are you going to give it to me?"
I tried to change the subject.
"This semester you've got maximum points for every single assignment, quiz and examination. That is quite unusual, well done, Pickle."
He appeared not to hear these words for his tiny mouth tugged into a snarl, and the thin lips became purple at the edges as his nostrils flared at the tips.
"I am no ordinary student," he shrilled, "I refuse to be measured on an ordinary grade scale."
I snapped.
"Now, listen you little punk, one hundred and five percent is the maximum grade. If I hear another squeak out of your disrespectful mouth, I'll strike your grade down to ninety. Now get out of my sight."
Pickle moved toward the door, his beady eyes shrunken to pinheads, face contorted, voice high-pitched like the screech of an angry bird. "Professor Stratford, my genius will not be denied. I'm taking this matter straight to the Medlin Creek Community College Board Chairman Bryant Reynolds. You won't get away with this. I want one hundred and ten percent and I'm going to get it. I'm sure uncle Bryant will see it my way."
Then he was gone.
The room closed in and swirled around me, as in my mind Pickle's chubby beetroot face, like that of a newborn baby, screamed without cessation for more food, and the Chairman of the College Board along with Professor Bingham looked on aghast. Oh crap!
Chapter 2
For a while I just sat, letting the anger stirred up by Pickle Bramley's arrogance soak and settle. I looked at my hands. They were screwed into balls, the fists so tight the knuckles had turned chalk white, and the pounding of an agitated heart echoed like an empty cavern in my ears.
Now, I'm no pushover. But, I've been known to be lenient with grading, especially for students close to failing the class. I even got cautioned by Chancellor Cunningham for passing too many students. The way I see it, if they show up and put some effort in they deserve at least a pass. But Pickle's request…
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, held it for a count of ten, then let it out in short sharp bursts. The technique, learned in yoga class, soothes jangled nerves. I repeated it several times. With each new intake, holding the breath for a little longer.
As my mind relaxed I drifted into a daydream. For an instant, I thought of how as a little girl I would dream of being the Princess of the mysterious land where all the people smiled and helped each other along. In this land I had magical powers to turn tears into joy and sadness into laughter. Like a butterfly, I'd fly over to the hospital bed where my grandpa lay dying, say the magic word and grandma's tears would dry up. Then I'd float over grandpa and kiss him on the cheek. The dream always ended with him sitting up smiling with his muscular arms around my tiny body.
The more I thought about Pickle's request the more ridiculous it seemed. My logical brain decided to put it down to the babblings of an immature child, the threat a childish prank. When my stomach gurgled, I noticed I was sitting in the dark. I swept the marked students assignments into my bag.
"Well," I said to myself, "better take two slices tonight, Don Andrews Hill Country Special."
I reached into my handbag, grabbed the keys to my Tahoe truck and headed outside to the parking lot. A silvery moon shimmered in a clear night sky filled with pinpricks of light, stars from distant galaxies. My tummy rumbled.
Don Andrews pizza parlor, found on Warren Street, an area of town which has a mixture of converted warehouses, craft workshops and a meat processing plant. The road, cobbled with limestone slates, had official city ‘no loitering’ signs attached to several streetlamps. Throughout daylight hours Warren street filled with pedestrians going about their business, but at night less savory characters dominated the landscape.
The drive across town took less than ten minutes. I pulled into the parking lot where cars, trucks, and motorcycles in neat rows filled almost every spot. The heat of the day was broken by the evening air on the cool side for summer. I slipped into my jacket, then out of the truck and across the lot. The savory smell of yeast, cheese, onions, peppers and cooked meats caused my stomach to rumble as my mouth salivated.
Inside, several patrons sat on plastic chairs devouring their meal, and a group of old-timers played dominoes on the long bench at the far side of the restaurant. A single female assistant served a small line of customers, with two male employees working at preparation stations. Don Andrews stood by the industrial pizza oven, one eye on the cash register, the other on the seated area.
"Ollie, over here."
The voice came from the far side of the restaurant. It was Bobby Williams, an amiable, middle-aged man with broad smiling eyes set deep in dark tan skin and frizzy gray hair. He was the senior patrol leader of the Medlin Creek Boy Scouts, and the brother of longtime secretary of the Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle-Chastity Williams.
"Ollie, we are about to start another game, wanna join us?"
"No, but I'll sit with you guys for a few minutes."
Two people in front of me surveyed the menu board. I took advantage of their indecision and placed an order for two slices of Don Andrew's Hill Country special. The teenage shop grunted acknowledgement, and scooped slices placing them neatly on a paper plate. The customers I had jumped in front of were still deciding what to order as I strolled over to watch the game. Must be tourists, I thought.
The new dominoes game had already started. The friendly banter and bravado of the players was that of friends rather than rivals. The bench shook as dominoes clattered down. I squeezed into the space between Bobby and a short squat man with a bald head and bushy gray eyebrows. After several minutes when Bobby was unable to play his hand he turned to face me.
"You gonna join in next game?"
"Nope."
"Dropped off a bag of dog toys for Bodie this morning. Hope the hound likes them."
Bobby was one of Bodie's old friends. He looked out for the hound when the poor animal was a homeless stray. Now Bodie had a comfortable home, Bobby occasionally brought treats and toys rather than food.
During the day, Bobby worked as a mechanical engineer at the Havis County Engineering Company.
"I'll be over at your place tomorrow with the rest of the crew," he said with a thin smile. "Looks like you've got a drop of oil down there, but we'll know more when we set up the rig."
"That's good," I said, stuffing pizza into my mouth like it was the first time I'd eaten in a week. I'd tried on several occasions to reopen the oil well found on the edge of the property, all ending in failure. But I hadn't given up. The idea of 'Ollie the Texas oil baroness', appealed to the ego. Of course, it would also give a much-needed diversified source of income. The event center business is seasonal, and teaching hours at Medlin Creek Community College vary from semester to semester.
"Last time that well operated," Bobby closed his eyes in deep thought, "must be over twenty-five years ago. Mr. Castleman, the previous owner, abandoned it after the oil prices collapsed, back in the 1980s I think. I'll be supervising the operation to ensure the crew don't disturb your property any more than necessary." He paused, and then as an afterthought added, "It'll be great to get it back into production."
We sat quietly together on the bench, and watched the continuing game. Within three minutes the last two players remained. A hushed silence fell over the onlookers.
In the stillness that followed, I heard a faint far away mutter of incoherent babbling. The sound came from the street and grew louder as the silence intensified around the dominoes game. A burst of abusive language tumbled into the restaurant, behind it, a tall thin man, possibly fifty-five. The man was pale with a puffy face and narrow hazel colore
d eyes that protruded from just above the upper cheekbones. The ears were unusually large, but when you looked at them directly they were somehow pointy like Spock from Star Trek. He stood staring at the menu board swaying from side to side.
The clatter of the final domino slamming down broke the silence, and the gathered crowd cheered and hollered making friendly fun of the loser. I noticed out of the corner of my eye, Bobby staring with narrowed eyes at the pale faced man.
The man swayed from side to side, with hands on hips, head up, reading aloud the menu items. Then in a slurred voice ordered, "Fresh, gimme two of ya fresh pizza. Need two of dem, fresh ones." He raised his hand as if about to high-five the assistant but instead counted off his order. "One pizza slice, two pizza slices, gimme two of dem."
Now he turned to survey the restaurant. The golf ball sized eyes rested a moment on mine, then homed in on Bobby's. He stumbled forward two paces, raised a bony finger and pointed at Bobby, the traces of a snarl visible at the corners of his thin lips.
"Don't thinks I haven't forgot ‘bout you, Bobby. I know wha ya did, and I'm gonna tell all those church folks about ya."
Bobby shrunk back in his seat, but only for an instant.
"Joseph Shine," said Bobby in a calm, cold voice, "get out of here. You're nothing more than a drunken bum."
Joseph, pizza order in hand, retreated to the door, and began cussing at Bobby in a most unpleasant manner, and there is no knowing how long his drunken obscenities would have gone on had not Bobby suddenly stood up and took two steps towards the door. Joseph scuttled with speed out into the darkened street.
"New game," someone cried. Bobby turned around and rejoined the table. "One day," he muttered under his breath, "I'm gonna kill that man."
Chapter 3
The next morning, I got up around six a.m., showered and dressed. Bodie was already at the front door so I let him out. Off the dog bounded towards the outbuildings. In the kitchen I scrambled a couple of eggs, buttered a bagel, and went over the list of activities for the day. It promised to be more relaxing than yesterday. No teaching, an early morning walk along the Hill Country trails with Bodie, a meeting with the oil well engineers, coffee with a friend and local reporter, Millie Watkins, then back home in the afternoon to finish off my lecture notes. Overall, I predicted a very pleasant day ahead.
