Dumpster Dying

by Lesley A. Diehl

  But Emily had other matters on her mind. “There’s something else we need to talk about before we leave. I think we all know that Darren used my cell phone to call Clara from the bar the night of Davey’s murder. And more recently Darren had marks on his face that he said he got at work. I know better. From years of dealing with preschoolers, I think I know the signs of a scuffle between two people as well as anyone.”

  Her gaze traveled around the room and settled on Darren. “You were at the bar that night. You saw something you shouldn’t and now someone is threatening you physically to keep quiet.”

  Darren looked back at her with defiance. She wasn’t going to get anything out of him. Clara and Hap gave her similar looks. The family was hanging together. Naomi dropped her eyes and stared at the pattern on her skirt. Emily wasn’t about to give up.

  “Okay, let’s try this. You haven’t told the police about Darren’s using the phone. They don’t know he was there. And, Clara, you and Hap have been eager to keep Darren out of sight if you can. Darren, did you see who killed Davey?”

  “No,” said Darren.

  “But you’re scared the killer doesn’t know that. Right?” asked Emily.

  All four heads nodded yes.

  “Someone threatened him over the phone the other night,” said Naomi. Darren shook his head no at her.

  “Then that someone shot at us, actually they shot at Clara at the clubhouse,” said Emily. “Am I right?”

  Heads wagged up and down.

  “You know what I think?” asked Emily.

  Four sets of eyes filled with curiosity looked at her.

  “I think someone had better go to the police.”

  “But we have no information,” said Clara. “Besides, they’ll be as likely to arrest Darren as protect him.”

  “Do you have any idea who beat you up and threatened you?” asked Emily.

  Darren shook his head, but she wasn’t convinced he was being truthful. She felt everyone in the room knew more than she did. Did any of the others think Clara was lying about Darren’s father? She did. Did Darren? When they talked about the birth certificate, what they didn’t say to one another seemed more significant than what they did say. But only the two of them seemed to comprehend that unspoken language.

  “I can understand after the incident at the clubhouse the other night you’d want some protection,” said Clara.

  Emily thought of the tall, muscular, competent Detective Lewis and nodded affirmatively.

  “Then we’re off to the shooting range tomorrow for some practice,” said Clara.

  “I don’t have a gun,” said Emily. If she thought the lack of a weapon would end her shooting lesson, she was mistaken.

  “I’ve got plenty of guns. So does Darren. And Dad has a few too,” said Clara.

  The image of Lewis faded, replaced by one in which she held a large gun which went off accidentally hitting her big toe. Not what she had in mind at all.

  Emily drove Clara’s pick-up west down the highway, past the turn-off to the river where it emptied into the lake. Today she sailed past the trucks and trailers parked in the lot next to the boat ramp and continued toward the road leading to the casino.

  “Take a right here,” said Clara. Emily glanced at her passenger. Clara had her arm out of the sling and was massaging her hand.

  “You sure you can handle a gun with that arm?” asked Darren. He and Naomi sat in the back seat of Clara’s crew cab pickup. Clara had insisted all of them go to the range, Emily to learn how to handle a weapon, Darren, who had been shooting since he was around five, to update his skills, and Naomi, because no one wanted her home alone.

  Clara turned around in her seat to talk to Naomi. “Did your husband teach you to shoot?”

  “Yes. And I hate guns.” Naomi sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her lower lip trembling with defiance and fear.

  “But you do know how to shoot, right?”

  Instead of answering, Naomi looked out the window. “Why did I think it would be safer for me in cowboy land? It’s like the wild west here.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Clara. “But here you have some protection.”

  “Guns?” Naomi gave a snort.

  “No. People who care about you and can make good on the promise to keep you safe,” said Clara.

  Emily privately still thought telling the authorities about Darren’s presence at the bar the night of the murder made more sense than forming this vigilante group for protection. Sure, they might arrest him, but he’d be safe in custody and . . .

  Clara must have read her mind. “And where would that leave us?” she asked. “We’re also in danger because whoever’s after him doesn’t know how much he’s told us about that night. And Naomi’s husband will figure out where she is soon enough.”

  Emily cranked the wheel left to avoid hitting a turtle sitting in the middle of the road, then as quickly pulled it the opposite direction as the left front wheel caught in the soft sand on the shoulder.

  “Hap thought I should tell Lewis about Naomi’s situation.”

  “Oh, like he’d take her under his wing,” said Clara. “Ha.”

  Emily ignored Clara’s interruption. “And as for Darren, he hasn’t told me anything. The rest of you seem to know more than I do.”

  “Let’s keep it that way. It’s safer for you,” Clara said.

  Safer, maybe, but disconcerting to have so many questions unanswered. That picture hidden in the back of that frame in Clara’s bedroom still nagged at Emily’s conscience. Something about the man felt so familiar. His eyes? Or his hair? Or the way he looked into the camera at Clara? She’d never laid eyes on Neville Landry, but she felt she had seen this man many times.

  She turned her attention back to driving as a pot hole jarred the front of the truck and the wheel threatened to twist out of her hands. She wouldn’t call this a road. A wash-out, maybe, but not a road. The truck thudded on down the track which soon led into a grove of palm and cypress trees. They passed through a fenced-in area and by a weathered sign that read “Bi Water Ever porting Clu”. Filling in the missing letters, Emily thought it meant “Big Water Everglades Sporting Club.” She asked Clara if that was correct.

  Clara nodded and said, “With the arrival of fancier indoor ranges on the coast, our membership’s dropped, and we don’t have the money we used to.”

  Emily pulled up alongside several other trucks and parked. Shooting stations, bare patches of dirt with poles alongside, lined one side of the lot, but nobody stood at them. It was so quiet that Emily heard mocking birds calling in the nearby bushes. Darren grabbed the guns, and the three women followed him over to a shed open on three sides. Clara introduced the man sitting in the shed to Naomi and Emily.

  “Friends of mine, tender-footed Yankees, who need some lessons, just to scare off a few skunks and gators. Earl, this is Emily and Naomi. Earl Pucket, who takes care of the range here.”

  Mr. Pucket reminded Emily of an aging walrus with his crop of white hair and a mustache that covered an area of his face where his mouth must have been. He was large and his skin was very pink. Emily might have taken him for an albino were it not for his inky black eyes. He wore a short-sleeved shirt with a pattern of faded coral and yellow hibiscus flowers on it and patched denim shorts. Emily’s eyes traveled down his legs expecting to find sandal-clad feet, but instead he sported a pair of highly polished alligator cowboy boots.

  He watched Emily take in his footwear. Were it not for the size of his mustache, Emily thought she might have caught the makings of a smile on his hidden lips.

  “Shot ‘im right over there,” said Pucket. He pointed downrange of the shooting stations. “A big one. Got a vest out of ‘im too. I wear that to church on Sundays.”

  Before she spent winters in rural Florida, Emily might have thought his choice of Sunday apparel odd. Now she merely nodded her head in acceptance.

  Pucket took Clara’s money, stuffed it into a cigar box, and handed over ear protectors
and shooting goggles. “Slow today.”

  “I noticed a couple of other trucks,” Clara said.

  “Some fellows dropped them off here to hook up with a buddy to go to the casino. I’m keeping an eye on them.”

  “They didn’t want to leave them at home?” she asked.

  “Didn’t want their wives to know they weren’t going to work.”

  “Ah,” said Clara.

  “You want to give these ladies the lowdown on how we do things or should I?” asked Pucket.

  “I think it would mean more coming from you, Earl.”

  He walked out of the shed and beckoned them to follow him down the line of shooting stations. Emily noticed at each station an electric drive trolley and a wooden post with some kind of a button on it. Mounds of dirt were piled downrange and a paper target hung off the trolley. It didn’t make much sense to her, but Earl seemed ready, although not too eager, to explain how the system worked. He looked at Emily as if he wanted to wish or pray her away. She wanted to fulfill his wishes, go home, make herself a strong drink, and spend the rest of the day watching mindless television. Clara pushed her along.

  Earl bypassed the first station. “Trolley’s broken,” he explained and walked to the next.

  “Now I’m only gonna tell you once, so listen up. Send your target out to the desired distance.” He depressed the button and the target swung along the chain toward the mounded dirt. “Use one weapon at a time. I’ll throw you out of here if I see you change weapons back and forth.” He leered at Emily as if she seemed likely to violate this rule. “Only load when you’re ready to fire. The barrel of your gun must be pointed downrange at the targets at all times whether loaded or not. I don’t want my shed accidentally shot up like it was last year by Billy Myers, that dumb kid. And you must wear ear protection and shooting goggles. And don’t be forgetting to put them on and try to do it after you load.” He yelled his last admonition at them making Emily and Naomi jump. Darren and Clara smiled as if they were expecting it.

  Pucket gave Emily and Naomi a final look, shook his head as if he considered the situation hopeless, and trudged back to his shed, kicking up small clouds of dirt with his beloved boots.

  “Why don’t you go first, Darren?” said Clara. “You can demonstrate how it’s done.”

  Darren nodded, punched the trolley button sending the target out fifty feet, then donned the shooting glasses and hung the protective ear covers around his neck. From the weapons they’d brought, he extracted what Emily deemed to be the largest pistol she’d ever seen. “This is a forty-five Remington six shooter, single action. I won junior champion with one just about like this, a twenty-two, huh, Mom?”

  Clara stood with her hands on her hips, head cocked to one side. “That was years ago. Let’s see what you can do with it now.”

  He flipped out the cylinder and loaded six bullets into it, and with a flick of his wrist returned it to the ready position. Emily noted he did all this with the barrel pointed at his target.

  “Everybody behind me and put on your glasses and ear protection. This is going to get loud.” He took his stance facing the target, both hands on the gun. “Now, with this gun, you need to cock it,” he pulled back the pin, “before each shot.”

  He fired off six shots in quick succession. Even with the protective ear coverings, Emily and Naomi jumped with the sound of the shots. Emily watched the target flick back with each one. A push of the button and the trolley rushed the target back to them.

  “Not bad. Five in the bull’s eye, one just outside,” said Clara.

  “You up to trying it, Mom?” he asked.

  Clara nodded and repeated Darren’s steps for setting up the target, loading, and firing. Clara made certain Emily and Naomi were behind her, then popped off three shots in succession. She brought the pistol down, paused for a moment, then shot three more times.

  “My arm’s weaker than I thought,” she said.

  She punched the button on the pole and the target came racing back to them. All six shots missed the bull’s eye, but were within several inches of it.

  “You would have stopped the guy, right?” asked Emily.

  “Do you see a spot on that target saying ‘aim here, not in the bull’s eye’?” asked Clara. “Your turn, Emily.”

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Emily as Clara and Darren set her up to shoot. This time they sent the target out half the distance. Emily settled into her stance, took aim, then brought the pistol down. “How do you aim this damn thing?”

  “You can either use the sights or point it at the target,” said Darren.

  “I think I’ll just point and shoot.”

  She aimed at the target, watching her arms waver slightly, disturbed at the weight of the gun in her hand and the cold feel of the metal.

  “Here I go,” she said. She cocked the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The revolver jerked skyward and made her take a half step back to keep balanced. “How’s that?”

  “Fine, but this time, open your eyes,” said Clara.

  CHAPTER 18

  Keeping her eyes open while she aimed at the target was the hard part for Emily. She managed to get off her last two shots with her lids at half mast only because she imagined she was shooting at Ignatious Palatier, her former sleazy lawyer.

  Emily slipped the protectors off her ears. The air was still. Even the birds had ceased their songs.

  “How’d I do?” she asked.

  The target raced back to them. In it were the twelve shots fired by Darren and Clara, but not another one.

  “I missed it entirely.” She knew she’d hate this.

  “Takes practice,” said Clara. “Like golf.”

  “Yeah, but with golf, no one ends up dead or bleeding all over the green,” said Emily.

  With great reluctance, Naomi took her turn. Her aim was far better than Emily’s, the target offering up four shots left of the bull’s eye.

  “Not bad,” said Darren.

  “Okay. Time to switch guns. Maybe this one will tickle your fancy,” said Clara. She extracted a smaller weapon from its case. “This will be simpler for you, Emily, and you may like the feel of it better. The balance is great.” She placed it in Emily’s hand.

  Simple. She needed simple. “What is it?” asked Emily.

  “A .380 Walther PPK-S.”

  The name sounded familiar to Emily, and she did like the way it nestled into her hand. Balance? Is that what Clara called it?

  “You know, James Bond’s weapon.”

  “Oh,” said Emily. Her mouth opened slightly and her lips formed a round “O”. “A spy’s gun. How exciting.”

  She loaded the clip as Clara instructed. “It’s an automatic. Pull back the slide, aim and shoot.”

  “I know. I know. I’ve seen the movies.”

  Emily struggled with the slide, but finally got it back into position. When she pulled the trigger, she found the kick was not as powerful as the revolver or, if it was, she was prepared for it. Perhaps the gun did have better balance for her. She got off eight shots and recalled the target. As she counted the holes in it, she realized she’d hit it three times.

  “Now it’s Naomi’s turn.” Clara held her hand out for the nine millimeter.

  “I want to go again,” said Emily. She moved the weapon out of Clara’s reach. Hitting the target with the Walther PPK stirred up her competitive spirit. “If I can put three shots in someone that ought to stop him.”

  “I don’t know why you’d have reason to shoot anyone, but even eight shots from a .380 may not put a man down,” said Detective Lewis. No one had noticed his arrival. “You might do better with a shotgun.”

  Emily froze in position. She would have turned to face the detective, but she remembered Earl’s caution to keep the barrel of the gun pointed at the target or downrange. She wasn’t intending to shoot the detective, at least not right now.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Clara.

  “Trying to get in a little
target practice so that I can be sure to pass my annual exam, that’s all.”

  Clara’s shoulders, which Emily noticed tightening up when Lewis arrived, slumped in relaxation.

  “But while I’m here and, since Darren has been difficult to find of late, I’d like to ask him a few questions about the night of Davey’s murder.”

  Clara stepped between Darren and Lewis. “Such as?” she asked.

  “Where were you that night, Darren?”

  “I told you. He was with me. At home,” Clara said.

  “I’d like to hear it from him.”

  “Would you take your conversation someplace else,” said Emily. “You’re ruining my concentration.”

  She had put on her ear protection, sent the target out again, reloaded the clip, and punched it back into the .380. She pulled the slide back, took her position, and fired all eight shots. When the target came back, she found she’d planted six of them within several inches of the bull’s eye.

  “I’d still recommend you try a shot gun,” said Lewis.

  Emily handed the gun to Darren and stomped away from the shooting station. The nerve of the guy. A shotgun? When she was doing so well with James Bond’s weapon. The theme from “You Only Live Twice” ran through her head. She turned and stuck out her tongue at Lewis. Earl saw the gesture and cackled.

  Two days after her love affair with James Bond’s weaponry at the range, and the day after she was finally able to get in eighteen holes of golf at the club, Emily could almost not bend her right arm. And she was on tonight at the bar. She decided a soak in the hot tub might ease the discomfort. Since she wasn’t due at work until late afternoon, an hour or so in the sun might make her feel better also.

  Naomi had borrowed Stan the Sedan to get to the course. She was still subbing for Donald, who hadn’t yet returned from the bass tournament. Emily didn’t understand how a grown man could spend so much of his time sitting in a boat with a line dangling in the water, especially when the prize was another rod and reel that would only allow him to dangle yet another line in the water.