Bitter Bones

by N. C. Lewis

  Throughout our entire marriage, I couldn't remember a single day when John hadn't flashed his gorgeous smile or said something to soothe my nerves or lift my spirit. For a moment I wondered whether I'd gotten over the loss. In many ways I had, but in others I was still grieving. The kids had spent their teenage years without a father, and I without a husband.

  We set out earlier than normal across the Hill Country trail, Bodie tugging on the leash. It was just before sunrise with shards of light breaking above the horizon, but the moon, full and golden, was still visible. The air, crisp and cool, carried the scent of the cedar trees as they swayed in the breeze. From the bushes that ran along the trail I could hear the occasional shuffling of nocturnal creatures, but other than that we walked along in silence.

  The stillness of the countryside in the early morning always inspired my thoughts. Several times I inhaled letting the chilly air fill my lungs completely before exhaling in short sharp bursts. It helped me relax.

  As the trail turned back on itself, I stopped to enjoy the view. A gray mist hung over the creek, but it only extended to the tops of the trees. Beyond, the Hill Country stretched out like a green oasis in a Middle Eastern land. I sighed. "At least," I said aloud, "I know what John would do. He would not rest until the death of Garrick Markovich was solved." Neither would I.

  Chapter 10

  "There is no reason to change the agenda."

  Chastity Williams folded her arms across her large chest, the face stern. She wore a cream short-sleeved blouse and a modest knee length skirt, and stood behind a lectern in the small meeting room of the Medlin Creek library. "The Sheriff's department will keep us informed of any developments, Mayor Felton will make sure of that, won't you Helen?"

  Helen Felton, a somber faced woman of fifty something, with curly black hair and coffee colored smooth skin, took a quick gulp from a paper coffee cup, and stood up. "Ladies, the Sheriff's department are under strict orders to share as much information as possible with the residents of Medlin Creek."

  In her hand she gripped a paper plate which held a bacon avocado and tomato taco dissected into neat slices. She took a bite. "Mmm. delicious. Best yet. I've ordered Janet Strasemeier to update the town hall website as new facts appear, or you can read about it in the Medlin Creek Times. I believe, Millie, you are the chief reporter on this issue, aren't you?"

  Millie gave a regal wave of the hand. Her plate held five tacos of varying variety, and she appeared to be eating them all at once. "Yum Mmmph!" She took a swig from the coffee cup and gulped, her narrow pink tongue flicking out to round-up any stray crumbs. "Yes, I'm working closely with Janet. The facts as we know them, are reported in today's newspaper."

  "I love your headline, Millie," said Ethel Green, a retired schoolteacher and longtime member of the Sisters of the Creek. "Bitter Bones at Ealing Homestead, just makes you want to read the entire article. Gave me the creeps. Do you think Ealing Homestead is haunted?"

  "Janet Strasemeier who knew Mr. Castleman, the earlier owner, said he told her of strange happenings at the Creek," replied Marge McCloskey, another retired teacher.

  They both looked at me.

  "Nope, there are no ghosts in the house. I can't comment on Janet's observation because I haven't spent much time by the creek. I guess the only strange thing about the place is Simpkins," I said.

  "The homeless man?" inquired Ethel.

  Marge replied before I could get a word in. "Well he does float around the Riverwalk kind of like a ghost, but he is harmless."

  "The way the old fellow creeps around town the man must have seen something," responded Ethel.

  "We are talking about five years ago Ethel, I don't think Simpkins knew what happened yesterday," Marge argued.

  Chastity drummed her fingers on the lectern. "Ladies, can we get back to the agenda?"

  But it was too late, a body had been discovered in Medlin Creek, and the ladies were intent on discussing it, no matter what was on the agenda.

  "Ollie, it must've been such a shock finding a body on your property. Honestly, gave me the shivers reading about it, and you new to this town and all," said Jenny Jones, the owner of Smiles and Dials Flower and Gift Shop.

  I didn't reply. Who, except an undertaker, wouldn't have a shock on finding a body on their property?

  Chastity let out a sigh, picked up the agenda sheet, slipped it into her handbag and slunk over to the table filled with breakfast goodies. I followed, those bacon avocado and tomato tacos looked too delicious to pass up. With two stacked on a paper plate I snuck back to my seat.

  Gratia Violeta, the local hairdresser, asked what everyone else wondered. "Mayor Felton, it's the body of Garrick Markovich, isn't it?"

  The Mayor took another gulp of coffee. "I can't confirm that. But…" she rolled her eyes around to signify Gratia was on the right track, "in all probability it's a local resident, but don't quote me on that. We are all aware Garrick disappeared five years ago..."

  Chastity, watching the discussion from the breakfast table, let out a startled gasp and hurried out of the room.

  "Imagine it," said Gratia, the voice lowered to a dramatic whisper, "poor Garrick lying there all this time, what with the heat and the cold, the seasons and the wild animals …" she paused for dramatic effect. "They say there was nothing left of the man but a pile of dry bones, and his rattle skin belt, the one with the huge golden buckle."

  "Wasn't it a silver buckle? I remember he used to wear a silver buckle," said Ethel.

  "All I know," replied Gratia, "is that the thing glittered and sparkled like sunlight, made him look like one of those Hollywood movie stars, like John Wayne." Gratia was on a roll. "The barista at Moozoos," she continued, her voice once again lowered to a dramatic whisper, "told me it was still wrapped around his waist, kinda all bright and shiny just like when he was alive. They say the thing nearly blinded poor Bobby when he discovered the body."

  "I saw Bobby going into the Baptist church wearing dark shades," confirmed Marge, "I guess he's tidying up the back yard today, hope he can see what he's doing."

  Gratia replied, "Seems like Bobby got real interested in church since…"

  The group went silent.

  "After all the good that Garrick did for our local community, how could his life end like that?" reflected Augustine Granger, head of the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter. Garrick had been her most regular volunteer.

  "Bad things happen to good people," said Jane Braithwaite, vicar of St. Francis Anglican church.

  The conversation continued for another hour. Finally, when the coffee pot was drained and the breakfast table empty, the Sisters of the Creek meeting broke up. "Next time," said vicar Braithwaite looking around for Chastity, "we really must stick to the agenda." But Chastity was gone.

  Chapter 11

  By the time I arrived at Moozoos café it was almost noon. The lunch time rush had begun, and I was waiting in line behind several office workers. It was time to find out what Simpkins knew about Garrick Markovich. A hot coffee and sweet pastry always loosened his lips.

  The barista's lopsided eyes grew wide when he saw me.

  "Any news?" he asked as his carrot shaped chin twitched. He was always on the lookout for new stories. Medlin Creek is a small town, and I don't want the reputation of a gossip, so I usually don't reveal much.

  "Guess we are still waiting for confirmation of the victim," I hedged.

  The barista's eyes flashed disappointment. "It's Garrick Markovich, I'd bet this coffee shop on that."

  "Best to wait for the Sheriff's department to confirm the details," I said.

  The barista leaned forward, his large lips barely moved but the words came out perfectly formed. "Trust me, I have inside information. It's goodie-

  two-shoes Garrick Markovich all right. Now, what will be your pleasure?"

  I ordered two cappuccinos and wandered over to a table by the window whilst they were being prepared. Creek Street was quiet, only a few tourists peering into shop front
windows. It was too hot for the locals, they'd come out during the evening hours.

  "Ollie."

  I spun around to see deputy Dingsplat at the bar. He gave his order to the barista and ambled over to where I stood.

  "Thought it was you," he said, rubbing his chin. "The team are about done with their forensic investigation. The cordoned off area of your property will open later today."

  "Great, it's a little unnerving to have a body at the end of the garden, even if it's 10 acres."

  Deputy Dingsplat chuckled. Then his eyes dropped as he let out a sigh. "Looks like I'll be back at the Speaker Circle next week. The Mayor wants to continue her law enforcement community engagement initiative. I've been handpicked to attend the Speaker Circle, just like last year."

  "Handpicked, that's funny, by who?"

  "Sheriff Hays."

  "Looks like you drew the short straw again."

  He nodded but didn't smile. "Ollie, keep the lady with sock puppets away from me, and the guy with the dreadlocks, oh and please no more two-hour presentations on the lifecycle of the red ant…"

  I laughed. Deputy Dingsplat was always the last person to arrive at the Speaker Circle meeting, and the first to leave. It was obvious by his body language during the meetings that he would rather be somewhere else, but the Mayor's orders were the Mayor's orders, and he had been specially selected, again. I made a mental note to ask the Mayor what she had against the poor fellow at the next Sisters of the Creek meeting.

  "Okay," I said, "I'll do my best to keep the puppets away from you, on one condition."

  Deputy Dingsplat leaned forward, eager eyes focused on my face, and spoke in an anticipatory whisper.

  "What's the condition?"

  "What happened to Garrick Markovich?"

  "Ollie, I can't tell you that."

  "Guess you better come to terms with puppets in your life then."

  Deputy Dingsplat lowered his voice. "The medical examiner's preliminary report is in. But I can't say much more than that."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the barista standing in front of the bar peering in our direction. His eyes were half closed, the head slightly tilted, and the chin twitched like an electronic receiving set.

  My voice lowered to a whisper.

  "Did Garrick die of an unnatural cause?"

  The deputy didn't answer, but moved his head in a confirmatory manner.

  "Do you have a suspect?"

  Again, no answer, instead he looked up towards the ceiling and rolled his eyes to signify, 'No'. Then, aware the barista was watching, strolled over to the bar to get his drink and left the café. I followed behind, two cappuccinos and several pastries in hand.

  Chapter 12

  I felt the sweat start the moment I stepped out of the café. As I turned onto the sidewalk and headed for the Riverwalk trail, the sun had already pushed the temperature past ninety degrees. The walk along Creek Street and down onto the dusty trail path in this heat wouldn't be fun. But I figured if the tourists can do it, so can I. In any case, I knew where to find Simpkins. He'd be relaxing in the shade underneath the arch of the Overton road bridge.

  There were no people walking along the narrow dirt track that snaked alongside the creek, and I began to question the wisdom of my decision. Not that I have any concerns about Simpkins, he is one of the friendliest people in Medlin Creek. Without any tourists there would be no tips, and therefore no reason for Simpkins to sit under the arch of the Overton road bridge playing his mouth organ.

  The only thing that kept me going was that Simpkins kept a daily routine that he stuck to with almost military dedication. He'd stumble out of his shack on the edge of Ealing Homestead just before dawn. Then prowl around the alley way at the side of Moozoos in search of discarded pastries and other sweet treats. The rest of his morning was spent smoking electronic cigarettes at the top of the steps under the shade of the Overton road bridge.

  As soon as tourists began to appear he'd begin playing his mouth organ. The tips paid for his tobacco consumption, and his afternoon pleasure, which usually involved several bottles of Monkey Tail Pale Ale, brewed several towns away.

  In other words, Simpkins was a man of daily habits and didn't like surprises.

  I hurried along the trail. A wall of rising heat and sultry air hung over the creek intensifying the sharp fragrance of cedar trees, and the tang of spring water as it gushed along the narrow riverbed. It took almost fifteen minutes to reach the Overton road bridge, a clay brick structure, that arches high across the river. Concrete steps allow walkers to descend from the sidewalk above onto the trail.

  A plume of gray water vapor signified the presence of Simpkins. He sat, in the deep shade, at the top of the terraced steps smoking an electronic cigarette. At his side a desert sand colored tattered backpack and a cedar cane walking stick. The man's eyes were half shut, thin lips moving up and down as he mumbled to himself.

  "Simpkins," I yelled from the bottom of the steps. But, he didn't move or respond. It was as if he was in his own world, for ignoring my call, he continued muttering to himself.

  Up the steps I climbed, the air filling with his sunbaked sourness. Each step forward towards his favorite resting place intensified the heavy odor. Like an ancient priest uttering a magical incantation Simpkins muttering grew louder, and the head bobbed up and down, all the while the eyes remained half closed. Another plume of gray water vapor rose up blocking him from view.

  "Simpkins," I yelled again.

  He didn't respond.

  As I climbed closer, I realized he was wearing headphones, and the mutterings were his out of tune sing-along to unheard music.

  "Simpkins!"

  His eyes opened, and he turned his head to look in the direction of the sound. Simpkins smiled. "Doctor Ollie, nice to see ya today. Been listening to me podcast Magical Marvin's Music from the Eighties. Loves me a bit of Gothic Rock mixed with a drop of old style hip hop. How's the little hound Bodie doing? Haven't seen him today."

  Simpkins eyes settled on the coffee and pastries, and his hand automatically stretched out to receive the edible gifts. I took a step backwards, enough for the goodies to be outside of his grasp. A disappointed gurgling sound escaped involuntarily from his throat.

  "Not much tourist business today," I said, my eyes pointing towards the empty trail.

  "Suppose so, but gives me time for me relaxation." His eyes twinkled. "Likes to listen to me podcast and, if no one is around, takes a few puffs of me special tobacco." Simpkins laughed out loud, and continued. "I see things when me puffs me special baccy, strange things. Doctor Ollie's, don't tell nobody bout dat. Is our secret."

  I scowled.

  "Doctor Ollie's, ain't no sin. Many a bigshot drug enforcement officer is addicted to food as viciously as anyone could be addicted to me special baccy."

  I laughed aloud, thinking he had a point.

  Simpkins head half turned, and the stone colored eyes peered again at the coffee and pastries. "Suppose those is for me? A little afternoon gift from the good Doc Ollie."

  "Yep, brought them direct from Moozoos. Now," I said holding the items up just outside of his grasp, "tell me about Garrick Markovich."

  His head jerked up and the eyes widened as his mouth opened, but all that came out was an angry growl. "I knows nothing. Me Ma always said let the dead take care of themselves, best bit of advice I ever heard."

  Simpkins reached for his electronic cigarette the hands trembling. After three long draws his eyelids half closed and he let out a sigh. "Yes, the dead look after themselves." Then his scrawny arm reached into the tattered backpack, the bony hand grasped his mouth organ, and he began to play a slow, doleful, tune.

  As the last note echoed down the stone steps, I handed over the coffee and pastries. He gulped down Moozoos finest cappuccino as if the nicotine boost from the electronic cigarettes was insufficient, and he needed a caffeine shot on top.

  As he munched on the pastries he began to speak. "Don't lik
es to speak about Garrick, but I think about him every day. I don't know if there are angels here on earth, but if there are, Garrick was one."

  For an instant his eyes locked on mine and I got the distinct impression the man was figuring out whether to continue. The eyelids lifted, and the pupils dilated. He paused, then with a little nod of the head continued.

  "You see, Garrick brought me coffee and cakes every day, even in the days when I drinks too much of the whiskey spirits, and puffs too hard on me special tobacco. Yep, the man stopped by to visit with old Simpkins rain or shine. Only on Sundays was things a little different, Garrick brewed his own coffee, and brought me some of Miss Chastity Williams delicious cakes. Then off he went to church. Sunday was me favorite day of the week back then."

  Simpkins closed his eyes, a broad smile on the lips, and the face as enchanted as a child on Christmas day. The bony arm stretched out, and with the eyes still shut, reached for his electronic cigarette. Several deep slow draws sent plumes of white vapor up into the air, once again obscuring his face like a cloud of steam at the end of a hot shower.

  As it cleared, his eyes opened, a stern expression imprinted on his face. "Doctor Ollie's, I used to sleep on the steps right here under the bridge. It was Garrick what told me about the abandoned shack on Mr. Castleman's old ranch, you know, your place now, Ealing Homestead."

  He cleared his throat. "He told me I could live there no worries, and that Emma Garcia and her husband George would bring supplies. And they did. Nice little place I got there now, but you should've seen it when I first moved in."

  My mind went back to the tumbledown pile of logs and timber at the edge of Ealing Homestead, the shack where Simpkins lived. I wondered how it could have possibly been any worse.

  Simpkins took another bite of a pastry, the crumbs clinging to his stubble like blackberries on the bush. His deep purple tongue rounded up the stray morsels. He sighed again, and began to talk as if trying to figure things out.