by N. C. Lewis
"Can I help you?"
It was the receptionist. Her eyes, somewhat clouded, regarded me with curiosity, the face slightly flushed.
"Sorry, I didn't like to disturb you."
Paula's face flushed further. "Oh, don't worry about that. I like to take a cat nap when it gets quiet." She let out a self-conscious laugh. "That's most days… Now, how can I help you?"
"Bryant Reynolds, I'm here to meet him."
"Uh-huh, is that right?"
She reached under the counter to retrieve an appointments book. It was large, black with gold letters spelling the company's name stenciled on the cover. She flipped through the pages, mostly blank, to today's date. The page was also blank.
For several moments Paula stared at the page, then she looked up, her large brown eyes wide, as if finding a blank page in the company appointment book was an unusual occurrence.
"There doesn't appear to be an engagement for Mr. Reynolds today."
Paula looked at the blank page again. A deep frown formed on her forehead.
"Uh-huh, I'm afraid we don't do drop ins at the corporate office. Would you like me to pencil you in for an appointment tomorrow, at the same time?"
My inner procrastinator encouraged me to accept the offer. It whispered into my ear, 'Why meet with him today when you can do it tomorrow?' As tempting as it was to put it off, I pushed forward.
"That's okay, sweetie," I said. "I'm Doctor Ollie Stratford from Medlin Creek Community College. Bryant sits on the Board, and his nephew Pickle Bramley is a student. Now, why don't you let him know I'm here on a personal matter."
Paula sat bolt upright in her chair, the eyes crystal-clear and the voice tinged with alarm. "Pickle Bramley…yes, of course...the Board you say?…that makes perfect sense…I believe Mr. Reynolds is available now."
"Very good," I said.
She turned her head like an owl with her eyes wide open and swallowed hard. "Doctor Stratford, I hope you won't mention my… little cat nap to Mr. Reynolds."
"Let's keep that our secret," I said with a friendly smile.
"Okay," she grinned, "I'll walk you to his office. The exercise will wake me up."
With a flourish she closed the appointments book. It made a loud thud sending a plume of dust into the atmosphere.
◆◆◆
The elevator opened to the executive level. Bright sunlight filtered through large windows at each end of a wide oak paneled hallway lined with private executive suites. Attached to the door of each office, a business sized metal plate with the name of the partner who occupied that particular suite. Bryant Reynolds’ office was at the far end. Paula knocked, but didn't wait for a response before she opened the door and walked in. The door closed behind her.
"Doctor Stratford is here," she announced in an overly formal manner, her flute like voice audible in the corridor where I stood. There was a rumble of unintelligible words. Paula returned to the corridor, her face flushed, and the hands trembling. "Mr. Reynolds will see you now, bless your heart," she said, running swiftly away from the barrage of cuss words coming from the open office door.
Bryant was behind a huge desk. For a moment I thought he was sitting, then I realized he was on his feet. The desk and office cabinetry magnifying his diminutive stature. He swiveled his mango shaped head slowly, eyes alert and focused on my entrance. As the door swung shut behind me, he trotted, with amazing dexterity on four-inch heeled boots, to the front of his desk.
Bryant planted his feet wide apart, hands deep in his pockets. "Howdy," he said in a light, high pitched tone as his small colorless eyes rolled up and down my body like an x-ray machine.
I mumbled a pleasantry.
He looked at his watch, a large faced Bvlgari Diagono. "Doctor Stratford, I'll give you thirty seconds of my time."
The little man reminded me of the game show host, overdressed, asking questions the answers for which he didn't care about. I tried to think. I didn't really succeed. Then a name roared through my head again and again.
"Pickle Bramley," I blurted.
A glint of curiosity flashed in Bryant's eyes, and his head tilted slightly signifying I should continue.
"The young man is an excellent student," I explained. It was true. "Given a little time I'm convinced Pickle will rise to a position of immense influence. Mr. Reynolds, that boy scored the highest possible grade in my class!"
Bryant drummed his fingers on his elbow. "I'm pleased you awarded him full marks, and acknowledge Pickle is quite exceptional." His lips tugged into a smile which didn't extend to his colorless frosty eyes.
"I bet that boy, for his age, is the best student you've ever had. Isn't that correct, Doctor Stratford?"
Now wasn't the time to quibble. I nodded. "Exceptional, indeed."
"Thought so," he said, the voice tinged with ice. "And, of course, you'll award him extra points for his extraordinary ability." The words came out as a statement rather than a question. Bryant unfolded his arms, picked up a metal envelope opener and turned to walk back behind his desk. The meeting was over.
Oh crap, I complained to myself, I've got to get something more out of this. My conscience told me to leave at once, there was nothing more to gain here. I ignored it. Suddenly, my inner psychologist spoke up, 'Find common ground, soften him up with a win-win, say something that is mutually beneficial then strike with the killer question, like the television detective Colombo.'
"Mr. Reynolds, I'd like you to reconsider opening the oil well on my property. It would be an honor to work with the Havis County Engineering Company. I'm sure the partnership would be lucrative for both parties."
Bryant tilted his head backwards and let out a roar of laughter. "Ha-ha, looking for handouts are we now, Doctor Stratford? Our company is extremely profitable, we don't need to partner with the likes of you."
He raised his arm pointing a minuscule finger in my direction. "You know better than that drunkard Simpkins who spends his day with a scrawny hand outstretched pleading for tourist dollars. You can get down on your knees and beg, I won't change my decision. No, that's my final word. Doctor Stratford your time is up, get out!"
Stunned, crushed, insulted and humiliated, I struggled for words as dizziness engulfed me. I willed my mind to become clear, but the steady pounding in my ears drowned out my thoughts.
"Get out!" Bryant had his hands on his hips and his colorless eyes blazed.
I turned, shoulders slumped, towards the door. I was just about to go through into the executive corridor when it struck me. I hadn't even asked the horrid little man about Garrick Markovich. I stopped.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions about the death of Garrick Markovich."
Bryant snapped. The little man hopped from foot to foot waving his hands in the air like an angry octopus.
"I will not stand for such insubordination. Doctor Stratford, get out of my office now!"
A sudden calm swept over me and my mind became crystal-clear.
"Sir, I hear you gained promotion to partner after Garrick disappeared, is that true?"
The man let out a wild curse and rushed forward waving the envelope cutter like a deranged elf.
Suddenly, the office door flew open. Two security officers peered into the room. They hesitated for an instant staring at a red-faced Bryant waving the envelope cutter menacingly at me. The tallest officer's lip curled into a wry smile.
"Mr. Reynolds, you buzzed?"
Bryant dropped the paper cutter as his swollen eyes regarded me with repulsion.
"I've asked Doctor Stratford to leave, please escort her out of the building."
For an instant I thought the officers might pick me up, twirl me around, and carry me out of the office. I guess my subconscious mind was still processing the television game show. In any case, neither of the officers were musclebound. The tallest had a potbelly, while the other looked like he needed a square meal. I let out a sigh and followed them out of the office.
As I stepped into the hallway Brya
nt swore, then yelled, "If you want to know who killed Garrick Markovich, speak with Chastity Williams."
Chapter 20
In the parking lot, I sat in the truck for several minutes. Bryant Reynolds’ behavior was odd, very odd, but his accusation of Chastity Williams sent alarm bells ringing in my mind. I didn't quite know what to make of that, but it made me wonder if there was something else Chastity wasn't telling me. "Time to mull things over," I muttered under my breath. The engine started, I drove to Moozoos. An alcohol infused caffeine beverage might do the trick.
It was after four p.m. and Moozoos was empty. The barista sat at a table near the bar reading the Medlin Creek Times. His lopsided eyes glanced in my direction as I entered the café. Without a word he got to his feet, walked to the bar and began preparing a drink.
"Creek Jolt," he said handing over the steaming hot beverage. The man must have a PhD in psychology, I thought.
I took a sip. "Yum, delicious."
The barista looked at me again with quizzical eyes, but didn't say a word. Instead, with slow ponderous steps, like a man ahead of a funeral procession, he returned to the table near the bar and picked up the newspaper.
At my favorite table by the window, I checked my cell phone clock. Later I'd be at the dojo for a class taught by Aikido Master Toddy Ironsmith, but right now there was plenty of time to relax. I looked out onto Creek Street. The excited sidewalk chatter of students on the way home filled the air as they moved together in small groups. Early bird office workers hurried home, eager to leave the stress of the boss behind, their progress hampered by tourists who peered into storefront windows as they strolled along without purpose.
It's strange, I thought, how life ebbs and flows. A year ago, if someone told me I'd own a Texas property that served as an event center, an abandoned oil well with potential, and taught part-time at a local community college, I'd have thought they were crazy. The possibility of life in Texas wasn't visible from my apartment in Brooklyn, but here I am living it. And it would be a dream if the event center made money, the oil well produced black gold, and my job wasn't hanging by a precarious thread.
The faint melodies of country music, signifying the food truck park had opened for evening business, disturbed my musing. As I looked out onto the street, sipping the hot beverage, my unconscious mind unraveled the clues, putting them together like an unsolved jigsaw. Unfortunately, it had not yet informed my conscious mind of its findings.
My thoughts drifted to Garrick. The whole town spoke highly of him, yet those who knew him well, Bobby, Chastity, and Bryant, seemed agitated at the mention of his name. I drummed my fingers on the side of the cup. Then I remembered what I read in an old Agatha Christie novel—'when it comes to murder, there are only three things that really matter, means, motive, and opportunity.'
I focused on motive. Bryant's motive was clear, Garrick's disappearance opened the path to partnership. Much of my former career had been spent working for large corporations in New York City. The lure of partnership with its corner office and attendant servile staff attracted types like Bryant. People had killed for less. Bryant was ruthless, he had said so himself. But did the hot headed little man have cold blooded murder running through his veins?
Perhaps, I thought taking another sip of the Creek Jolt. "Yes," I mumbled aloud, "the Sheriff's department is the best course of action."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw that the barista had put down the newspaper. The man's lopsided eyes were half closed, his head tilted so that his ears pointed in my direction like an antenna tuning into a weak signal. His mouth moved up and down. Although I couldn't hear any words, I got the distinct impression they were an exact replica of my out loud mumblings. He turned his head slowly in my direction, and sat up with a jolt when he realized I was watching him.
The doorbell pinged. In hurried deputy Dingsplat with a female officer at his side. The barista jumped up to take their orders and prepare the drinks. With the skill and dexterity of a professional artisan the ingredients were combined, and beverages handed over. The task complete, he scurried away to the storeroom behind the counter.
Deputy Dingsplat waved, and walked over with the swagger of a Texas Ranger. The female officer followed at his side.
"Ollie, let me introduce you to Deputy Tansky," he said with a broad smile. A rosy cheeked woman with dark curious eyes and a ready smile extended her hand.
"Hello, I'm Jackie, part of the Texas Counties Deputy Rotation Program, my home town is Wimberly."
Jackie's handshake, warmed by the coffee cup, was soft and gentle, the smile genuine.
"Medlin Creek is a wonderful community, I've got a good feeling you'll like it here," I said.
Everyone laughed. If I wasn't paying attention I would've missed it. Deputy Dingsplat made a curious hand gesture. Deputy Tansky nodded, and turned to leave. "Hope to see you around, Ollie, I'll be in town for the next three months."
With a little wave, she was gone.
Deputy Dingsplat sat down.
"Sheriff Hays," he said in a whispered voice, "will be back in three days. He wants to take personal charge of the Garrick Markovich investigation. I guess we'll be in a holding pattern until then."
Deputy Dingsplat's eyes made a curious motion to the left and then to the right, moving slowly like a bat sonar scanning the environment for obstacles. The café was empty, and the barista busy in the storeroom. After a final glance around, Deputy Dingsplat revealed what was on his mind.
"Ollie, about the Speaker Circle. I hear Peter Travis is down to make a presentation on the lifecycle of the red ant— part three."
"There's a part three!" I gasped.
"Yep, of a seven-part series." He let out a low whistle and continued. "Do you think it would get back to Mayor Felton if I came to the meeting in a pair of dark shades and over-ear noise canceling headphones?"
I laughed out loud, but his stern jaw, and impassive eyes suggested he was serious.
"Listen, Ollie, can you do me a favor? Have a quiet word with the puppet lady, see if you can get it to fly with her. I'd be grateful."
"I'll try, but no guarantees."
His eyes softened, and a small smile appeared at the corner of his lips. "That's all I can ask."
He took a sip of his cappuccino and looked out of the window.
"Have you made any progress on the investigation into Garrick?" I asked casually.
Deputy Dingsplat instantly transformed into his poker face, the eyes flat, nostrils distended, lips expressionless, but he did not make eye contact. This implied two things, first, he was curious. Second, the Sheriff's department had a lead.
"I've been thinking about Bryant Reynolds," I said, watching him closely for a reaction.
His poker-faced didn't twitch.
"Bryant Reynolds?" he repeated softly, the lips barely moving.
"Mr. Reynolds was promoted to partner after Garrick disappeared, seems like a possible motive?"
Deputy Dingsplat sat in silence for a moment as if considering carefully his next words. I couldn't read the expression on his face, nor could I gauge anything from the man's flat eyes.
When my husband John was alive, he spent much of his time involved in high-level negotiations. In the corporate world they are an almost daily occurrence. Most executives are skilled in this area, but John took it to another level. He studied the art and science of the psychology of negotiation. The bookshelves in our Brooklyn apartment were stuffed with academic tomes, research articles and practical experience-based books. There were CDs and cassettes from the likes of the Zig Ziglar, Brian Tracy and Jim Rohn.
John mastered both the art and science of negotiation, and shared many of his principles and techniques with me. I never mastered the principles, but I picked up a few handy techniques. One of my favorites is the complement bomb—Give a compliment to your opponent during an unexpected part of a difficult conversation. I gave it a shot.
"Deputy Dingsplat, you are a Master."
His head tilted sideways, the eyes no longer flat but open wide in surprise. "A Master?"
"Yep, few people can hold such a convincing poker-face. You should be on the Killer Poker Players television show. I bet you'd make the finals."
Deputy Dingsplat puffed out his chest. "That good, eh?"
I nodded.
The corners of his eyes wrinkled, and he looked off into the distance as he saw himself winning the grand prize on television. His face broke into a broad smile, the eyes dancing with delight.
"Well now, Doctor Stratford, I wouldn't waste your time considering Mr. Reynolds. Take it from me, he is not a suspect in this investigation."
There was a confidence in his tone that I didn't understand.
"How can you be so certain?"
Again, his eyes made that curious movement to the left and then to the right. The barista, still in the storeroom and the only other person in the entire café, was out of earshot. Deputy Dingsplat leaned forward.
"Bryant Reynolds was out of town the week Garrick went missing."
"Oh!" I said, unable to hide the surprise in my voice. "Have you verified that?"
He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. The poker-faced returned.
"Mr. Reynolds was the keynote speaker at the Independent Oil Well Contractors Association's annual conference at the Doral's resort in Florida. The entire conference was captured on video. Mr. Reynolds not only delivered the keynote speech, but was the host for the end of day summary seminar. In fact, he stayed at the hotel for a week after the conference ended to enjoy the Floridian climate. Doctor Stratford, Bryant Reynolds couldn't possibly have murdered Garrick Markovich."
Chapter 21
Sometimes, when I am upset or have something on my mind, I run through a simple stretch routine, sharp slow intakes of breath, graceful yoga movements which always end with a downward facing dog, then the dead man's pose. For me, the final posture seems to be a therapy of sorts, a calming influence on my troubled mind.
