by N. C. Lewis
"Oh, Ollie," said Millie as she opened and closed the mouth of Professor Purple. She was no ventriloquist, her lips moved with each word, and the deep male voice sound quite clearly came from her throat. "The owner of the newspaper has threatened to terminate Millie's part-time position, if she doesn't step up her production."
Madame Bleu spoke up, "Oh la la," she had a rich French accent, "the owner treats Millie like a news writing machine, but great writing comes from the heart, de l'amour."
Professor Purple continued, "It is not wholly unreasonable for the owner of the newspaper to ask Millie to cover the Baptist Church fundraising banquet, and the animal shelter open house."
"If the owner wants a full-time reporter they should hire one," retorted Madame Bleu.
"I want to be a full-time reporter," sighed Millie.
"Then you must take the assignments," replied Professor Purple.
"Oh la la, l'amour and la passion," cried Madame Bleu as she disappeared back into Millie's handbag.
Professor Purple opened his mouth to speak, but before any words came out a voice boomed across the café from a small group of customers who had entered the store.
"Well, hello gorgeous."
A little bright-eyed old man, bald on top with a stoop that matched his bandy legs stared up into the eyes of a fifty something woman. She wore frayed denim shorts and a tie-dyed shirt with the letters ACL in bold black letters. A Hill Country tourist.
The old man smiled, "I’m Roger Romantic, the ladies call me Mr. Romantic. Who are you?"
The woman frowned.
"Oh, Roger," yelled Millie, "leave the tourist alone, and come sit with us." Roger sighed and shuffled across the café.
"Where's the delicious Madame Bleu today?" Roger asked.
Professor Purple's face scrunched up so only the eyes and lips were visible. "Mr. Romantic, I've warned you before about messing with we puppet people. Madame Bleu's mine, stick to your own."
Roger raised his hands, palms facing outwards, "No offense Professor. Listen, I wanted to let you and Millie know I've almost finished my online artificial intelligence for seniors' course. Once I've completed the final project, I'll get the certificate and become a CAIO."
"CAIO, what's that?" I asked.
"Certified Artificial Intelligence Operator." Roger puffed out his chest and moved his arms like a robot.
"What's your project about?" asked Millie.
"That's just it," said Roger a deep frown forming in his forehead, "I don't know, yet. I'm still searching for ideas, but nada."
"Any reputable institution will give the student guidelines." said Professor Purple, his face back to normal.
"Well, the project has to solve a problem using artificial intelligence. I need to find a problem, and help solve it."
Madame Bleu appeared.
"Millie has a problem," she said in a soft seductive voice, "the newspaper owner is working her like a farmyard horse. She needs a machine that can write articles about the Baptist church fundraising banquet, or animal shelter open house. Do you think artificial intelligence can help?"
"That's it!" bellowed Roger jumping to his feet. "I'll create artificial intelligence to write Medlin Creek Times news articles. Millie, I'll even add a little razzle-dazzle by wearing my Mr. robotic outfit."
Millie looked doubtful, as did Professor Purple, and I.
Then Madame Bleu spoke up. "An artificial intelligence newswriting machine will give Millie more time to write articles with l'amour and la passion. When the newspaper owner sees how productive she is, a full-time job offer will surely follow. "
Millie's eyes grew wide with wonder.
"Yes, Roger, yes."
Roger’s lips tugged into a huge smile. "Thank you, Millie, for helping me pass this course."
He stumbled to his feet and with arms swinging shuffled towards the café entrance. As he approached the door he turned and said. "Ollie, don't forget Master Toddy Ironsmith will teach a special class at the dojo Thursday evening."
I fought on the college karate team, that was over twenty years ago. Started training again, I’m a little rusty, but you never know when the skill will come in handy.
"Toddy, is a master of aikido," continued Roger. "Our head instructor, Ma Jenkins, invited him to show us some of their weapons techniques."
Then he was gone.
"This is it, Ollie," said Millie, "thanks to Roger's invention I'm on the fast track now." She took a sip of coffee, the eyes gleaming, lips formed into a broad satisfied grin. "Anyway, Ollie, what's going on with you?"
"Do you want me to start with the oil well disaster, the fact that I might lose my job, or harassment by a thirteen-year-old genius?"
Millie's eyes grew wide.
My cell phone rang.
"Bobby, Bobby Williams is that you?"
"Yes, I'm sitting down. What's happened?"
"You've discovered what at the oil well? Yes, I'll be right over."
I hung up and squeezed my eyes shut.
Millie touched my arm. "Ollie, what is it?"
"A body…there've found a body at Ealing Homestead!"
Chapter 7
The wail of sirens and flashing lights as I approached Ealing Homestead brought home the reality of Bobby's call. I pressed my palm to my cheek and took a deep breath as I brought the truck to a standstill. Millie, with Roger as a passenger, pulled her car in behind. We stood together watching the evolving scene.
The Havis County Engineering Company workers had cleared away the heavy bushes and small cedar trees that grew around the well. Now, an empty patch of brown ground surrounded it, with an ambulance parked in front blocking our view. Two emergency medical personnel leaned against the front of the vehicle chatting, apparently the victim was beyond their help.
Roger let out a low whistle as deputy Nancy Dillow began taping off the area around the oil well, including Havis County Engineering Company equipment. Millie pulled out her cell phone. "Better let the owner of the newspaper know what's going on." Then she used it to snap photographs.
Suddenly, traveling at considerable speed, a white and gold truck adorned with the Havis County Engineering Company logo shot past deputy Dillow knocking her to the ground. It came to a screeching stop by the heavy equipment near the well. Bryant Reynolds climbed out, his face bright red, lips crumpled into a disgusted smile.
"Bobby… Bobby," he yelled.
Bobby stepped forward from the group of on looking workers, his face grayish-blue and the eyes wide.
"Yes, Mr. Reynolds," the voice resonated with a noticeable quiver, almost as if Bobby like a wound-up rubber band was about to snap.
"I told you not to clear this spot," Bryant said, his voice cold and calm.
"Yes, sir, I just thought..."
"I don't pay you to think, I pay you to take orders and execute them to my exact instructions. Havis County Engineering Company is like a military operation, I'm the five-star general and you must follow orders or pay the consequence," the voice boomed with authority like a judge about to sentence a convict.
Bobby took a step backwards, his fearful eyes locked on Bryant's face.
"Sorry, sir, but if we didn't clear the brush we wouldn't have found…the body."
Bryant's colorless eyes flashed a peculiar shade of yellow. It came from the pupils and spread outwards like a raindrop splashing in a pond. "I will not stand for such wanton insubordination. I gave you precise instructions not to clear that area." The little man was yelling now. "Bobby Williams, you're fired!"
Bryant turned to the onlooking workers who stood in silence.
"Grace, Grace Farrell, where are you?"
A tall, slender woman with dark hair and eyes that shone like diamonds stepped forward. "Over here," she said dancing eagerly from foot to foot waving her arms.
"Ah, very good," said Bryant his lips tugged into a grin, "you're in charge now. Please stop by my office this afternoon to discuss your pay raise."
A broad smile br
oke out on Grace's face. She took off the yellow hard hat, and shaking out her hair at once adjusted her posture from the slouch of the everyday worker to the up-right stance of a manager. Her fellow workers moved away from her, envious or resentful or both. She had made it to the next rung of the corporate ladder. Her colleagues would have to call her ma'am or supervisor Farrell, rather than Grace. She smiled inwardly at the thought of being in charge, and the pay raise, which she expected to be substantial.
By this time deputy Dillow was back on her feet, a menacing grimace on her face, and her right-hand reaching towards the holster. Bryant Reynolds, hands on his hips, swiveled his head to look in her direction. Deputy Dillow's face suddenly softened. "Oh, Mr. Reynolds, I didn't realize it was you."
Bryant smiled. "I'm sure you'll allow my team to move our equipment, won't you, Deputy Dillow?"
The deputy hesitated, straightened her back and spoke up.
"Until we have a chance to search the entire area, your equipment will have to stay right there."
Bryant took a step forward.
Deputy Dingsplat appeared.
"Mr. Reynolds," he said in a calm smooth voice, "I'm afraid Deputy Dillow is correct. We will wrap up the investigation as soon as possible. I'm sure it will only be a matter of hours before your team are free to move your equipment. In the meanwhile, it has to stay put."
Bryant huffed, turned around and jumped into his truck. Inside, he pulled out a cell phone, punched in a number and began to speak. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his mouth moved with speed, and the short arms waved like a rotten tree in a winter storm.
Soon, a sheriff department photographer arrived and took pictures, and crime scene officers, in billowing white suits, searched for forensic evidence. All the while Bryant sat in his truck the colorless eyes watching, and the voice whispering into his cell phone.
After a while, the photographer and crime scene officers left, and the emergency medical personnel came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher.
Bobby stood on his own, well away from the workers and his successor Grace Farrell. His hand rubbed the back of his neck, the eyes downcast and swollen.
"Bobby," I called.
He turned around and walked with long slow strides towards us. Briefly, he told the story about his workers clearing away the brush and rubble. And how, as he came over to inspect the work one of his workers tripped on what he thought was a tree root.
"It was gnarled and brown and spiny," he said as beads of perspiration dribbled down his forehead.
Millie, eyes wide, scribbled furiously into a notebook. "Disturbing, very disturbing," she muttered under her breath as the pen moved across the page.
"As I looked closer," Bobby continued, "I realized it wasn't a tree root but a hand, or rather a hand attached to a skeleton."
"Oh my," Millie whispered, "I can see the headline in tomorrow's Medlin Creek Times–Skeleton Scandal at Ealing Homestead."
I gave Millie the evil eye.
"Just thinking aloud, the citizens of Medlin Creek deserve the whole story. This is front page material, and those stories need a catchy title… Okay, I'll drop the Ealing Homestead bit."
Bobby's eyes were vacant, and he continued as if he didn't hear Millie.
"I ordered the workers to clear away the rubble, and there it was…" He shuffled a step or two closer, the lower lip trembled, and he bent over pitching out his breakfast. The sour odor engulfed us like a London fog.
We all stood motionless, ignoring the remnants of Bobby's undigested breakfast, even Millie, who for once kept the puppets locked in her handbag. I was about to tell Bobby to go sit down and get some rest when he half closed his eyes and began to speak, as if to himself. "Nothing but bones now…in a white shirt and blue jeans... and a rattle skin belt with a huge silver buckle…nothing but bitter bones."
Millie hopped from foot to foot. "That's it–Bitter Bones, that's the headline." She ran towards her parked car, cell phone in hand. "Got to call the owner of the newspaper." The words were thrown over her shoulder as she climbed in.
All the while Roger watched Bobby. I saw him nod several times, but he did not speak. Once Bobby recovered, he placed an arm around the man's shoulder and whispered in a voice so low it was barely audible. "Bobby, you know who it is, don't you?"
Bobby blinked, then nodded.
"Yes, I think I do. It's Garrick… Garrick Markovich."
Chapter 8
As the words sunk in Roger's mouth fell open, and the consoling hug transformed as his arm tightened around Bobby's shoulder, and tightened again. Then Roger leaned in as if the words had cut away at his legs. Now Bobby supported Roger.
"Whoa, what makes you so sure it's Garrick?" Roger asked in a halting shaky voice.
Bobby now supported the full weight of Roger, and he shifted uncomfortably his eyes darted from side to side.
"Roger, forget it," he said.
"But, Bobby, you sounded so certain. Why so?" Roger asked, his legs regaining their strength.
Bobby didn't say anything.
I spoke up, my voice bristled in the authoritative no-nonsense leadership style I had learned as a director of a large corporation. "It is only a matter of time before the Sheriff's department identify the victim formally. But you know who it is, go on, please explain yourself."
Bobby ran his hand through his hair. "I'm certain it's Garrick Markovich because of the belt and buckle around the waist of the corpse. It's him all right, I don't need no Sheriff department confirmation of that."
Roger chipped in as a little muscle near the corner of his right eye pulsated. "Garrick disappeared about five years ago. He was the leader of the Medlin Creek scout group, a Dean in the Baptist Church, attended the dojo, and a friend. He also volunteered at the animal shelter, and tutored dyslexic kids at the elementary school. The man was one of those individuals everyone loved, didn't have a bad bone in his body, no, not one. Then, one day he disappeared without a trace."
I stood motionless, my eyes fixed on Roger. There was something odd about his behavior, a curious bewilderment to his surprise. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I sensed it.
The sheriff department activity continued. There were Medlin Creek deputies and individuals in other law enforcement uniforms at the wellhead and down by the creek. They talked in low sharp mumbles as their trained eyes searched for clues.
Other uniformed officials arrived. There was much prodding at tree roots, and poking at hollows, and beating about bushes, and peering into ditches in search of a weapon. But, without any success.
Bobby shuffled to the circle of workers. They slapped him on his back and shook his hand like a prisoner who had obtained early release. Grace Farrell stood apart from the group, the lips tugged into a smile, but her beady eyes never left Bobby's face.
After a while Bobby, Grace, and the other workers settled down to wait, they had been ordered not to leave the scene until questioned by deputies.
◆◆◆
As dusk approached, the police activity began to wind down. "I've got enough material to write three articles, need to get cracking. I guess by the morning the Sheriff's department will announce the identity of the corpse," said Millie.
"I wonder if it's foul play, or something else," I said as Millie climbed into her car.
"No idea," responded Millie, "but if Bobby is right and it's Garrick Markovich, I'll put money on murder. I guess we'll just have to wait and see."
Millie and Roger headed back into town.
◆◆◆
Back at Ealing Homestead I played with Bodie then fed him. As I watched the hound gobble down his food the squeamishness I felt about the discovery of a body on my property suddenly disappeared. I was hungry and angry.
The hunger first–a feta cheese and olive salad with tuna and a couple of dollar rolls with lightly salted butter. For dessert, a small tub of rice pudding gently warmed under the grill.
Satisfied, I worked on my anger. There were so many kno
ts in that ball of stress I wasn't sure where to begin. A glass of whiskey, small, might help, I thought. From an overhead cupboard in the kitchen I pulled out a half empty bottle of cheap sipping whiskey. A half scoop of ice into a tall glass the rest filled with the amber liquid.
Back at my desk I penned a list of the things I was mad about:
Pickle Bramley.
Bryant Reynolds.
The oil well.
Bobby Williams or rather his lack of backbone.
Roger not leveling with me about Garrick.
Garrick Markovich, or rather the discovery of his body on my property.
There wasn't much I could do about the first five, but Garrick Markovich's untimely demise seemed like an interesting puzzle. I took another sip of whiskey, grabbed a notebook and on a fresh page at the top wrote Bitter Bones, followed by a simple question, how did Garrick Markovich die?
I wouldn't have an answer until the Havis County medical examiner's report. "Might get an inside scoop if I speak with deputy Dingsplat tomorrow," I muttered aloud.
The list or the thinking or the whiskey took the edge off my anger. Collectively they cleared the clutter from my mind which lifted my spirit, which in turn gave me energy to review and revise lecture notes for upcoming classes.
Around eleven p.m. I took a pill, and went to sleep.
Chapter 9
I rolled out of bed before the wake-up alarm went off. Peering at the cell phone it was early, four forty-five a.m., and still dark outside. For an instant I thought about going back to sleep, but I was wide-awake and already restless. Into the bathroom I stumbled, my mind racing over today's list. I stayed under the showerhead until the water turned cold, then toweled down my body, pulled my hair into a tight ponytail, and slipped into a pair of khaki cargo shorts and a lemon sleeveless tee shirt. I was ready for the day before six a.m.
After reviewing my list, I surfed the Internet, posted on Facebook, and answered emails. But it wasn't long before I began to think about Garrick Markovich. The man sounded like an upstanding citizen. In my mind, I pictured him as tall, handsome, and always ready with a smile or willing to offer encouraging words, just like John.
