by N. C. Lewis
"Now listen here Doctor Stratford," the earlier formal tone now replaced by an outright frosty inflection, "before you go spreading anymore of your nasty little rumors. Yes, I fought with Garrick the day he disappeared, but if you think I have anything to do with his death—"
"Bobby, is that you?"
The voice, a deep rich clarinet sound, came from the other side of the ivy clad trellis. Pastor Rodney, senior minister for the Medlin Creek Baptist Church, strolled into view.
Bobby half turned to give a friendly wave, then leaned forward, his back to the advancing minister, eyes wide open, mouth ajar bearing crooked yellow teeth inset in deep purple gums. In a faint voice he whispered, "I'm warning you Doctor Stratford, stay away from my sister, stay away from me, and stay away from the death of Garrick Markovich."
Chapter 15
The sun had begun its descent towards the evening horizon as I pulled into Ealing Homestead. Out of the truck I climbed, and hurried along the dirt path through the little iron gate to the house. Inside, I let Bodie off the leash, filled his bowl with water, and another with two scoops of Gregg's Hardware Store's finest dog food. The hound devoured the meal, then with large noisy slurps emptied the water bowl. Satisfied, he climbed into his dog bed, curled up, and went to sleep.
As I settled into the easy chair at the office desk, my mind worked to slot into place the pieces of the Garrick puzzle. Bobby's reaction and devious behavior, in the presence of Pastor Rodney, suggested there was more to his fury than met the eye. "Got to dig deeper. Over to you mind," I said, hoping my subconscious mind would find the solution that evaded my conscious brain.
There were lecture notes still to prepare, student assignments to mark. No time for a shower yet, I thought with disappointment. For several hours I busied myself on these tasks.
As the mechanical clock high on the mantelpiece struck five p.m., I got up and stretched. Preparation of lecture notes, reading and grading student assignments is a sedentary activity. Getting up to stretch whenever the clock strikes the top of the hour is a simple daily habit I've developed to keep my body moving, and allow space for thinking. One last yoga style downward facing dog and I was done. "I'm just about beat," I muttered under my breath heading toward the bathroom.
There is something about a late afternoon shower that revives the physical and dislodges the mental. I let the hot water splash over me cleansing away the sweat and grime accumulated earlier in the day, the steam purifying, clarifying.
As the lavender scented shower gel washed away fatigue, my mind raced over the facts filling in cracks as it went. If it was true that Bobby had a fight with Garrick, it wouldn't be long until the Sheriff's department beat a path to Bobby's door. I made a mental note to visit with Patricia Hampton, sometimes receptionist, sometimes dispatch operator at the Sheriff's department. The woman knew more about the goings-on than deputy Dingsplat and Sheriff Hays put together.
I toweled down, and slipped into a pair of relaxed stretch blue jeans and a cream-colored blouse with frills along the neckline, my evening wear. It was six fifteen p.m., if I didn't hurry I'd be late for dinner with Millie and Roger.
The Green Bar Grill is in an older part of town with cobbled streets and limestone buildings which were once part of the original Medlin Creek warehouse district. The sun was lower in the sky now, but there was no letup in the heat and humidity. A short walk across the car lot to the entrance left a sheen of perspiration on my forehead.
Inside the dimly lit watering hole, the air filled with the scent of roasting meat, beer, and barbecue sauce. The waiters carried trays with plates, each holding a mini-mountain of meat, including chicken, pork, beef, venison, quail, lamb and goat. Excited chatter mixed with occasional bursts of laughter gave the place a friendly aura. Patrons, in large family groups sat around tables enjoying their evening meal as popular country music tunes played low over the speaker system. Smaller groups occupied booths that lined the edge of the dining room.
Millie and Roger were seated in a booth close to the bar. A tray of appetizers had already been ordered, and I slipped into a seat next to my two friends eager to catch up on their news. Millie looked terrible, and there was no cheerful greeting from Roger.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"It's Millie," said Roger. "She's—"
But before he could finish, a drunken voice bellowed from the bar. "I want another beer."
I turned to see a pale skinned man with a puffy face and red in the whites of hazel eyes, pointing a bony finger at the bartender. The man was familiar, but I couldn't place him. He craned his head to peer at a liquor bottle out of reach behind the bar. "Want me some of that, too," he said, words slurred, as a pink tongue darted out of his mouth and licked his lips.
It was then that I saw his ears, unusually large, and somehow pointy, like Spock from Star Trek. The man's name flashed into my mind—Joseph Shine.
The bartender, a beefy middle-age man, shook his head.
"You have had enough, Mr. Shine, no more. Go home and sleep it off."
"Gimme another beer." Joseph swayed from side to side.
Roger stood up. "Excuse me, ladies," he said, then walked with purpose towards the drunkard.
"Now Joseph, you've been asked to leave the premises, I'd be grateful if you did so." Roger's voice was as stern as a principal, and his eyes glittered with a steely determination.
"Roger, they won't give me no more beer," wailed Joseph, "I want more beer, and some of that." His bony finger again pointed to the liquor bottles, out of reach, behind the bar.
"Go home, Mr. Shine, please," the bartender urged.
"Don't you tell me what to do," spat Joseph.
The bartender rushed in front of the bar and grasped the drunken man's shoulder. Roger shuffled forward a few steps between the two men, but Joseph swung a wild punch. Roger's left arm raised into a karate style block deflecting the blow. Then, in a continuous move, practiced often in the Dojo, Roger grabbed Joseph by both shoulders and unleashed a swift headbutt. It sent Joseph's sprawling to the floor.
"I think you better sober up." Roger said, kneeling over Joseph's prostrate form. Suddenly, several staff from the kitchen surrounded Joseph. They pulled him to his feet, and shoveled the dazed man out of the restaurant.
Back in the booth, Roger shook his head.
"Joseph Shine's been like this ever since his father died when he was nineteen, that was twenty years ago. His dad, Peter Shine, trained with me at a Dojo in Austin. Peter had a huge heart. It's sad to see a bright young man like Joseph turn to drink and drugs. I hope one day he wakes up and let's go of the past. But right now, there's no sign of that."
We sat in silence for a while. I wasn't really thinking about much, but Joseph's aggressive drunkenness made me uneasy, and I kept glancing at the restaurant front door every few seconds. Joseph didn't return.
After one final glance towards the door, I turned to Millie, whose face remained frozen in a grimace. "So, Millie what's going on?"
Millie's hand slipped into her handbag and out popped Professor Purple. His forehead wore a deep frown, cheeks flushed an unusual shade of crimson. And when he spoke, he did so in a slow melancholy voice.
"The owner of the Medlin Creek Times has refused Millie's request for a full-time position, again."
Roger rolled his eyes as Millie searched her handbag. Madame Bleu appeared on Millie's other hand, all the joy and excitement evaporated from her usual cheerful Gallic demeanor. "Oh la la, Ollie," her voice unusually flat, "that Millie didn't get a full-time position is le good news, but it gets worse."
I sucked in a breath, and prepared to listen to whatever disaster had befallen my friend.
"Millie has received, how you say, le chop, fired!" said a wide-eyed Madame Bleu as she shook in an overly dramatic fashion. The trembling appeared not to affect her vocal chords for she opened her sock puppet mouth and cried, "Millie's days as a reporter have come to an end. As we say in French, fini. Oh, le emotion of it!" Her ent
ire sock puppet body trembled as she disappeared, without looking back, into Millie's handbag.
We sat in silence for several minutes, the somber atmosphere broken by the arrival of the appetizers. As Millie munched on buffalo wings her spirit seem to lift.
"Well, it's not that bad."
"How so?" I asked.
"It's not exactly fired, more like, if I can't come up with some stories to hook in more readers I'll be let go," she said, taking an oversized bite of a buffalo wing.
"Oh, that throws a different light on the thing. You haven't actually been fired, just told to work harder."
"Yes but, Ollie, it's not often the owner of the newspaper calls a meeting for all of the reporters."
"That's disgraceful," said Roger with disgust. "I mean for the owner to single you out at a team meeting in front of all the other reporters. That stinks."
Millie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "The newspaper owner was speaking to everyone. I wasn't singled out…but I may as well have been."
"Oh," I said.
"Oh," said Roger.
"Guys, this is Medlin Creek, not much happens here, don't you see? I'll never get a full-time position now. I'm doomed."
Roger, nibbling on an oversized Texas shaped nacho dipped in cheese sauce, raised his slender hand in the air like a politician about to make a critical point. "That's where you are mistaken, my dear Millie. I've made progress in the development of my artificial intelligence newswriting software, it's almost ready for showtime. After dinner we can give it a spin."
Millie bounced up and down in her seat unable to contain her excitement. "Drinks all around," she cried. A waiter appeared with a bottle of Deep Eddy Ruby Red vodka and three short shot glasses. The locally distilled vodka burned all the way down and settled in the top of my stomach, cool first, then spreading to becoming warm. It was as easy as a Hill Country winter.
"That's good," said Roger, pouring another shot.
Madame Bleu appeared, her puppet eyes all soft and doughy. "Roger saves Millie," she purred, her voice filled with syrup. As she leaned forward to give Roger a seductive kiss, I noticed Professor Purple peering from the edge of Millie's handbag. His eyes slid slowly from Millie, to Madame Bleu, then Roger, where they locked in a frozen stare, the puppet face filled with threat.
Several shots later, the bottle all but drained, the main course arrived. Piles of brisket, slow roast chicken, Hill Country sausage, potato salad, coleslaw and collard greens with sides of sweetcorn and little tubs of barbecue sauce.
Millie, relaxed at the thought of Rogers artificial intelligence saving her position and filled with vodka, was back to her normal irreverent self. It was the most delightful conversation filled lighthearted meal I had experienced since John's death.
Meanwhile, excited at the thought of soon becoming a Certified Artificial Intelligence Operator, Roger, between bites of food, jumped up and dashed to the bar. Like an ancient peacock he strutted between the single women muttering his famous catch phrase, "I’m Roger Romantic, the ladies call me Mr. Romantic. Who are you?"
As we settled in for dessert, Millie, her eyes bright and quizzical, asked, "Hey, Ollie, I've spent the entire evening talking about me, what's going on in your world?"
Her question thrust me from the pleasant present back into the tangled mess that surrounded Garrick Markovich.
"Spent the day digging into the death of Garrick."
Millie nodded. "The whole incident is a mystery. I'd like to write a series of articles about it, but the newspaper owner is not biting. Now, if there were more to the story it might fly."
I figured now would be an appropriate time to peek Millie's interest. Her journalistic skills and contacts might prove useful. In any case, Millie and Roger would find out eventually so I spilled the beans.
"Garrick Markovich was murdered."
Millie's eyes doubled in size. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a notebook. I explained what I had discovered from deputy Dingsplat, although I didn't mention his name. Millie's pen moved rapidly across the page when I mentioned Simpkins dream.
"Oh my gosh, that makes perfect sense, there are spirits all around us you know," she said with conviction. "Yes, I can see it was definitely Garrick's spirit leading Simpkins to his final resting place."
Roger sat motionless the entire time, his eyes focused on my lips, the head slightly tilted towards the words. I concluded by summarizing my meeting with Bobby Williams.
"This is amazing," said Millie, "another murder in Medlin Creek—"
"And we know who le killer is," interrupted Madame Bleu.
"You do?" I asked.
"Oui, it is obvious is it not?"
Professor Purple, who had watched the conversation with narrowed eyes from the edge of Millie's handbag, joined the discussion. "Madame Bleu, let's not mention names or jump to conclusions before the Sheriff's department have completed their investigation." The puppet's lips were pencil thin, and he stared, as he spoke, with cold frosty eyes, at Roger.
Madame Bleu, in a high-pitched shrill, replied, "It is strange is it not, that the person with whose name we cannot mention found la religion just after Garrick, as we say in French, disparu. It must have been a crime of emotion, of la passion."
Roger curled his lip, and I got the distinct impression he disagreed with Madame Bleu. Rather than confront the puppet directly, he chose an alternative, more tactful, path. "I'd like to suggest, Ollie," he eventually said, his eyes stern but fixed in the distance, "that you have a quiet conversation with Chastity Williams."
Chapter 16
It was almost nine thirty p.m. by the time we arrived at what Roger called his 'Artificial Intelligence' Laboratory, a large wooden shed at the far end of an oversized yard at the rear of the Green Bar Grill.
"I've rented the hut for years," said Roger as he spun the combination on a lock. It clicked, and the heavy wooden door swung open. "This place used to store my work tools, but now it's my experimental computer laboratory." Roger's eyes gleamed with pride as he led us in through the front door.
Roger used the arm of a rusted lawnmower to prop open the door. Inside, an old garden hoe with 'BW' painted in large gold letters on the handle leaned against a disused wheelbarrow. Roger grabbed the hoe, leaning it on the outside of the shed. Inside, assorted piles of electronic equipment and keyboards, cathode-ray video display units, and boxes filled with sheets of line paper. The oversized shed hummed and buzzed as racks of electronic components with little flashing colored lights let out high pitched clicks.
The space was illuminated by a single low voltage bulb which dangled on a wire from the ceiling. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I realized the equipment was several decades old. There were hard drives the size of washing machines which let out a gentle whir, and oversized disk drives with ten-inch floppy disks stacked neatly at their side.
"A caste off from the military," smiled Roger pointing to, what must have been, a nineteen seventies original floppy disk. My inner psychologist understood they stirred up a certain nostalgia in men of Rogers generation. But my inner critique wondered how such obsolete technology could be in any way useful today.
"Look, look over there," Millie gasped, pointing to a table in the corner on top of which three dot-matrix printers sat ready for action. Above each one, a little tag 'MX-80', and under the table 3 boxes of line paper that fed into their mechanical mechanism. "Oh, these babies really kicked butt back in the day, just knew they would come in useful again, brilliant design never dies," Roger crooned. Millie looked doubtful, as did I.
Professor Purple appeared.
"This is an amazing assortment of antique computer machinery. It takes talent and skill to hook up equipment of this type and get them talking to each other. For this alone, you deserve your certification." The puppet’s voice resonated with admiration.
Roger looked down and shuffled nervously from foot to foot. "Err… Lots of talent, yes!" He moved towards one of the ancient machines a
nd started fiddling with the knobs.
A desperate stare appeared in Millie's eyes. Her head shook slowly from side to side, and the mouth opened, but all that came out were the words, "I'm doomed."
Just then Madame Bleu appeared, her face even more agonized than Millie's. "It's a disaster, une catastrophe," she cried with all the intensity of a New England winter. "C'est impossible these antique machines can help Millie with le newspaper reports. Millie est fini."
Roger didn't hear, he was too busy fiddling with the machinery, a huge grin on his eager face. "The technology may be old, but these are solid machines," he mumbled as if to himself. Then his hand tapped against a giant steel case. A deep metallic sound resonated throughout the hut. "This one," he said turning to glance at Millie, "even has valves in it."
Millie's eyes bugged, and her mouth hung open as she sucked in short sharp breaths.
"Okay Roger," I said, hoping Millie wouldn't pass out, "you have to explain how this equipment can help with writing news stories."
"News stories," repeated Roger in a distant voice. He was enjoying himself, twiddling knobs, and looking into ancient computer displays.
"Yes, how is this…equipment going to help me write more stories?" Millie asked.
"News stories, yes…"
Roger seemed hesitant. He sat down in an office chair with tiny wheels at the bottom, and scooted across the wooden floor towards a large video display unit screen which glowed green and flickered as if it was about to cut out. He sat for several moments, in the far corner of the hut, staring into the computer screen and down at the keyboard.
I got the distinct impression, although I only saw his outline through the dim light, that Roger was nervous, for his hand trembled above the giant mechanical keyboard as if he was wondering which button to press. Then, his mind made up, his finger plunged towards the orange key.
There was a slight fizzle and crackle of electronic circuits. A menu popped up on the screen, the white text shimmered like a mirage against the green backdrop. Roger turned to face us, his lips pressed into a triumphant grin.
