Soon, we three were inside, Mother quickly locating an overhead light.
To our left was the kitchen, composed of a dilapidated card table and plastic folding chairs, warped wooden cupboards, outdated appliances, and a sink filled with dirty dishes overseen by a dripping faucet.
To our right, the living room had a stained beige carpet, small flat-screen TV, worn brown couch, green recliner, and scarred coffee table with an ashtray that was filled, but not with the remains of cigarettes. At least not the commercial variety.
The air was heavy with a strong musky smell that reminded me of disturbed skunk. It permeated everywhere.
I said, “I never noticed Leon smelling of marijuana.”
“I told him to make sure not to,” Mother said, implying she knew of his pastime.
“You do know cannabis is illegal in this state, except for medical use.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps he has a condition. Now make yourself useful.”
“Doing what?”
Rather than say, Mother walked away, heading to the back of the mobile home.
I walked into the kitchen, where mail had been collecting on the counter, and sifted through the stack, which was mostly junk mail and bills. But I found one item of interest—a brochure from a local auto dealer advertising new Ford trucks, with one particular model circled in red.
Did Leon have the kind of money for that? Even with a loan, the salary of the janitorial position at the Playhouse wouldn’t cover a new truck’s monthly payments. Of course, from the look of his digs, not much had been invested here. Maybe he’d built a nest egg.
Mother returned.
“His closet has been cleared out,” she said. “And the bathroom cabinet is empty.” She frowned. “I just don’t understand it. Why would Leon skip and not tell me? After all I’ve done to help him.”
Mother was clearly hurt. Justifiably so.
“Maybe he felt he was letting you down,” I said. “And was too embarrassed to let you know he was quitting.”
“I suppose.” She sighed. “They say no good deed goes unpunished.”
“Let’s leave,” I said. “This pot stench is giving me a headache.” I gestured to Sushi, who was sprawled on the couch. “And heaven knows what it’s doing to her.”
“She does look a little docile.”
I picked Sushi up, Mother doused the overhead light, and we got out of there.
After being subjected to fog inside the trailer, the fog outside was a welcome relief, the mist feeling good on my face.
Mother, having taken the flashlight, was lighting the way to the car when Sushi sprang from my arms, hit the ground running, and headed into the woods.
“What’s gotten into her?” Mother asked.
“That’s the second time this evening she’s gotten away from me,” I said. “I’m beginning to think I’ll have to leave her at home after this . . . no matter what revenge she might wreak.”
Suddenly, Sushi reappeared but held her ground at the edge of the forest.
“She’s wants us to follow her,” Mother said.
“I know that,” I said warily, reminded of a few weeks ago, when we were in an old cemetery in Antiqua (Antiques Ravin’), where she had led me to a terrible discovery.
Sushi barked, then disappeared again.
This was what I got from watching old Lassie shows with her on my lap. Darling little devil doesn’t miss anything.
We entered the woods, Mother trying to keep the beam on a moving Sushi, whose head could barely be seen above the thick ground fog creeping along with us, its white fingers swirling around our feet, as if trying to capture or trip us.
Suddenly I’d lost track of Sushi, so I called out. Her bark seemed to come from behind us.
We reversed course, Sushi’s yapping increasing in volume and intensity with our every step, as if she were a Geiger counter delivering us to some buried treasure.
Only . . . I had a bad feeling that what was beneath the spot Sushi was now standing on, and pawing at, was not treasure at all.
Mother seemed to have come to the same conclusion. She said, “Dear, you’ll need to go back to the car for the shovel.”
Our trunk was a veritable mini-mart, with anything we might need should we ever be stranded.
I protested. “I’ll never find my way there, let alone back.”
She nodded. “Very well. Get me a thick stick—a piece of bark. Anything that I can use to scoop up dirt.”
I faded back a step. “Mother, please. Call for backup.”
Mother shook her head. “What if this is nothing but another dog’s buried bone she’s sniffed out? I’ll look foolish.”
Since when had that been a consideration?
She went on, “Also, it would be a waste of resources and taxpayer’s money.”
Since when did she care about that, either?
“All right,” I said. “I’ll find something . . . hand me the flashlight.” She did, and I hunted nearby, then managed to pull a chunk of bark from a tree.
Mother took it and, knees cracking, knelt before the area that Sushi had marked, the fog parting at her presence as if by the force of her will and personality.
She looked like a child digging in a sandbox with a toy shovel.
After a while, Mother said, “I need more light, Brandy. Come closer.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes! You can keep your eyes closed.”
Which was what I did.
The only sound in the forest was that of swoosh, as the tree bark went into the soil, and plop, as the dirt was cast aside.
Then came a moment of complete silence, followed by Mother’s gasp.
My eyes still closed, I asked, “Is it . . . a body?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Leon?”
“No, dear,” she replied, with a little catch in her voice. “Someone I was not at all expecting.”
And I couldn’t help it, I really couldn’t. My eyes popped open.
And added to my mental album of dead faces I had seen since returning to Serenity and Mother, and a seemingly endless spate of murder investigations, was that of James “Jimmy” Sutter.
A Trash ’n’ Treasurers Tip
If you have questions or concerns once your online purchase arrives, contact the dealer or auction site immediately. If a remedy exists, it may be time-sensitive. I once opened a package to make sure it was the correct item but failed to inspect it right away. By the time I discovered that the Caddyshack gopher’s dance mechanism was broken, it was too late to return (it did play “I’m Alright,” though).
Chapter Six
In Which Vivian Gets Up to Speed
And Brandy Makes a Pit Stop
Vivian here.
I apologize for a momentary interruption in our story, but I feel strongly that I must complain about my participation so far in the writing of this book, which, in my opinion, has been negligible.
First, I had only a few paltry pages at the beginning of chapter 3 before Brandy took over—to pay the devil’s daughter her due, she did allow me the Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip at the conclusion—and, second, it wasn’t until nearly halfway through the narrative that I have been allowed to directly participate in its creation. This is unacceptable, and I shall forthwith take it up with our editor.
(Editor to Vivian: May I remind you that your minimal participation in the writing of chapter 3 was due to your being ejected by the medical examiner from the autopsy room, when you failed to honor his requests that you were not to interrupt him?)
(Vivian to Editor: I need no reminder of that indignity, thank you. But the medical examiner needs to be reminded that I am the duly appointed sheriff of Serenity County, thank you very much.)
Anywho, she’s B-A-A-A-C-K! And by “she” I mean moi. But before resuming my rightful position in the telling of this tale, I should like to thank all of the readers who snail-mailed, e-mailed, tweeted, and blogged your endorsement of my stance against the ill-usage o
f “no problem.”
This misused phrase is mostly practiced by millennial waitstaff when asked to do something that is part of their job, such as refilling a customer’s coffee cup. However, I recently received an even more inappropriate response to a request of mine.
Would you like me to explicate? I thought as much.
I was in our local drugstore acquiring a laxative (not that I needed one, but I do like to have such products on hand, just in case) when I spotted one of those Dr. Scholl’s machines on which you step to map your feet and learn what particular insoles might be best slipped into your shoes. My results showed that I needed the CF 220, but the kiosk had sold out of that insert, so I traversed the aisles until I found a young female employee, who was stocking the shampoo shelf. I politely asked her if she might check in that mysterious place known only as “in back” to see if there were, in fact, more 220s available.
Well.
She nodded and replied, “No worries.”
As she started off, I asked, “Why? Should I be worried?”
The young woman glanced back and said, “Huh?”
And I said, “Why in heaven’s name would I be worried about something as trivial as insoles?”
Her response, which I would characterize as sullen, was, “Do you want me to look or not?”
When I responded in the affirmative, the woman went away, then came back in a while saying she was sorry, but she couldn’t find any. So I told her not to worry about it.
(Editor to Vivian: Could you pick this up where the previous chapter left off—please.)
(Vivian to Editor: No problem.)
Brandy’s face had turned as white as the surrounding ground fog as she pointed to the deceased and very gray-looking Jimmy Sutter, swaddled in a blanket. I, for one, was glad his eyes were closed, because had they been staring, it would have been most unsettling. Thank the Lord for small favors!
Brandy said, “But . . . but . . . he died in the fire.”
I was still kneeling by the shallow grave, looking up at her. “Apparently not, dear.”
“Then who did? Die? In the fire?”
I didn’t answer that question (or was it three?), grappling with this surprising wrinkle myself. Although, to my credit, I must admit I’d had my suspicions that the badly burnt body I viewed in the autopsy room didn’t resemble Jimmy exactly. I might have shared that thinking with you at the time, but then that would have spoiled the surprise, wouldn’t it?
Brandy was asking, “Could it have been Leon?”
I held out my hand for assistance in rising, as my knees are not what they used to be. As my dear daughter complied, I said, “Possibly, but not likely, because our apparently faithless janitor is gone—as are his truck and clothes—implying he’s skedaddled.”
Brandy scratched her cheek. “If Leon is the one who killed Mr. Sutter, and buried him out here . . . what could be the reason?”
“Well, burying a dead body is as good a thing to do with one as any.”
She looked as if she might scream, but she only asked, “But why kill your friend Jimmy?”
Having no answer for that either, I got out my cell and called Deputy Chen and filled him in, including directions to the trailer. Then I reached Chief Cassato, directly, and did the same. He said he’d contact forensics. Who were probably snuggled warm in their wee little beds, as midnight was fast approaching. (That last sentence was my observation, not the chief’s, who was muttering something I couldn’t quite pick up when he clicked off.)
Brandy looked tired, and frankly unnerved, to be in the late Jimmy’s presence.
I said, “I think it might be best you go home, dear.”
“Oh, no. And leave you here alone?”
“I’ll be just fine.”
“Really?”
“Deputy Chen will have no trouble finding me.”
Grateful, she asked, “Do you want me to leave Sushi for company?”
“Not necessary.”
“Okay. But I’ll wait by the trailer until Deputy Chen arrives.”
I nodded.
Brandy hesitated, looking from me to Jimmy and back again. “Call if you need me.”
“I will, dear.”
“You’ll . . . be all right?”
“Yes, and I can use my cell light as a beacon. Go.”
I handed Brandy the flashlight, and she and Sushi were soon swallowed up by the fog.
Dear reader, would you think ill of me if you knew that I wasn’t particularly upset at finding Jimmy? Surprised, yes, but upset? No. And not because I was, or am, callous. This was a professional matter, and another opportunity to demonstrate to those who doubted my abilities as sheriff to find out how wrong they were. This body, an obvious homicide, had been discovered on my (as the chief of police put it) patch, putting me squarely in charge.
I returned to a sitting position next to Jimmy, to keep him company.
Now, like any good author, I would have preferred to share with you, at an earlier juncture, what we call backstory, re: my relationship with Jimmy. That would have enabled you to get to know him better, which would give his death more impact, perhaps tugging at your heartstrings (novice writers take note!). But I was never given an opportunity (Google “point of view”) until my autopsy room account, which was cut short. I will do so now—even though it may be less effective in the telling at this point—because Jimmy deserves nothing less, and, you know . . . better late than never.
I was older than he . . . never mind by how much—that’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know. Also, a smart woman protects her age just as she does her reputation. Suffice to say, Jimmy and I never attended school together. James Sutter came on my radar many years ago, when he protested the city council voting to demolish an entire downtown block of turn-of-the-nineteenth-century buildings.
These physical structures held many of my youthful memories: the red-brick three-story YWCA where I attended sock hops and played girls basketball; the Art Deco Paradise Theater, where in the back row of the sagging balcony, my first kiss was stolen (by me or my companion? that would be telling); the drugstore where friends would gather at the soda fountain, and play the jukebox; and Honest Abe’s Used Car Emporium, where I purchased my first vehicle, a blue Rambler that died in the middle of an intersection right after I drove it off the lot.
And what did the city use this entire block for? A gold star to those of you who correctly guessed “a parking lot.”
So the next time the council brought in a wrecking ball to destroy an architectural gem—our sadly now-gone Victorian-era library—I chained myself to its front door in protest and threw away the key. Only one other person joined me in protest, risking a jail sentence—one James Sutter. We became instant friends, and cofounded the Serenity Historical Preservation Society, gathering like-minded citizens to join us as watchdogs against further erosion of Serenity’s historical heritage.
Was Jimmy rather more than a friend? A polite woman never kisses and tells (reputation-guarding, remember? I will say that it wasn’t him in the Paradise balcony). I do admit that he once had asked me to accompany him to the altar, but I gently declined. I’d grown accustomed to my independence in widowhood, and a solid union cannot be built on old architecture alone.
I used the back of my hand to wipe my cheeks, which had gotten damp from the fog.
In the distance, a faint siren wailed, growing louder with each passing second. Another siren joined in, until the shrill cacophony seemed almost upon me, before stopping abruptly somewhere in the near darkness.
Soon, a pair of flashlight beams were cutting through the forest, crisscrossing like lightsabers, and I shone my cell light toward them, like the Bat-Signal (too many pop culture references, do you think?). Then the two other beams came together, bathing me and Jimmy in one spotlight, and I looked up at Deputy Charles Chen and Chief Tony Cassato.
My deputy asked, “Sheriff, are you all right?”
“Yes. And Brandy?”
/> “I sent her home,” the chief said. He nodded to the grave. “Are you sure that’s James Sutter?”
“I am. We were well acquainted.” I held my hand out, and Charles assisted me to my feet. For some reason Deputy Chen prefers not to be called “Charlie.”
“Then who died in the fire?” the deputy asked, echoing Brandy.
I was brushing myself off. “That has yet to be determined.”
Tony asked, “How did you find the grave?”
“I didn’t. Sushi did.”
I explained that Leon’s uncharacteristic absence from the audition tonight had led Brandy and me to check on him, only to find his truck and personal belongings M.I.A. I theorized aloud that a blanket taken from the marijuana-laced trailer had been used to wrap and then drag the body in, giving Sushi a scent to follow.
“Smart dog,” Tony said. “I could use her on the K-9 unit.”
His cell sounded. Forensics were on their way. Since the sheriff’s department had no forensics, the Serenity police handled that for us.
Leaving Deputy Chen to guard the grave, Tony and I walked back through the woods in silence to meet the team.
Standing near the two squad cars, as their strobing lights turned our faces red then blue, Tony said, “Now that the Sheriff’s Department is involved, you’ll be needing an update on the mansion fire.”
I tried not to look too smug; he was behaving in a professional manner, after all. “That’s right. And the sooner the better—a meeting seems called for with you, the coroner, medical examiner, and fire marshal. Do you wish to organize it, or shall I?”
He shrugged. “Be my guest.”
I took a step closer. “Let’s call a truce, shall we? With two dead bodies, a missing janitor, and a suspicious fire, there’s plenty of investigating to go around.”
He granted me the tiniest of smiles. “I do prefer having you on board to you sneaking around.”
“With all due respect,” I said, “I do not sneak. There’s never been sneaking. Not one single instance, sneaking-wise.”
Antiques Fire Sale Page 9
