Creek Crisis

by N. C. Lewis

  The sheriff didn’t say anything at first, but his eyebrows knitted together.

  "This is a serious matter. There isn’t room for amateur sleuths tampering with the evidence."

  "What do you take me for?" I said. Need gum, where is it? I looked down into my open handbag, gulped as my eyes spotted a little green bottle with the words "Colloidal Silver" neatly typed on the label. This wasn’t the right moment to come clean about how I had gotten it. Oh crap!

  Then, munching furiously on a stick of gum, I remembered what my husband John used to say, "Ollie, the best form of defense is attack."

  I held the gaze of the sheriff as I spoke.

  "Didn’t you say you couldn’t police without civilian help? Well, I’m a civilian, and I’m offering to help."

  His eyes flashed and a vein pulsated in his scrawny neck.

  "Now listen here little lady, don’t go poking your nose into sheriff department business."

  I raised my voice, rage flooding through my veins, "That’s absolute nonsense. I’m not your little lady, nor will I stop digging because you or anyone else tells me to. A woman has died here, and I intend to get to the bottom of it, with or without your help."

  The sheriff's face contorted into an ugly grimace as he pointed a single crooked finger.

  "If I find you messing with this investigation or tampering with the evidence I’ll have you arrested, do you hear me?"

  He turned to leave slamming the door. It closed with a heavy metallic thud.

  The tiny room suddenly felt claustrophobic. Deputy Zilpah sighed, and pointed to the utilitarian plastic chairs of assorted colors which surrounded a small wooden table. "Take a seat Dr. Stratford, let’s get started."

  I chose orange and sat down, still bristling. Deputy Zilpah selected a blue chair.

  It was only now that I took a good look at the deputy. Like the sheriff, Deputy Zilpah wore a sandy brown Havis County law enforcement uniform, minus the hat and holster. She looked around eighty, possibly older, with blue rinsed hair which matched the indigo sheen of her skin. Azure eyes were the most unusual feature of her face. Shaped like sideways teardrops, they gave the impression the deputy might be related to one of the alien characters on Star Trek.

  "Don’t mind my cousin," Deputy Zilpah said, "not much happens around these parts. The Mary Birdsong incident has everyone riled up including the mayor."

  "Did you say your cousin?"

  Deputy Zilpah shrugged. "Yep."

  I murmured a nonverbal noise of sympathy.

  Taking my response as a cue, the deputy relaxed, then studied my face like a forensic technician in search of clues at a crime scene.

  "Will Deputy Dingsplat be here momentarily?" I inquired.

  "No, I’m covering for him."

  I gasped involuntarily. "Oh, are you quite sure?"

  Deputy Zilpah volleyed back. "Were you hoping to meet one of the handsome, unattached, young male deputies?"

  I was pretty sure that question didn’t have a right answer.

  "I love your fragrance, Chanel number five?" I said.

  She stared, the face stiff as flint, eyes devoid of emotion. Apparently, the small talk was over.

  "What were you doing on the trail?"

  "It’s a shortcut into town, walk the trail most days to Moozoos Café."

  Deputy Zilpah picked up a notepad, flipped to an empty page and clicked her pen.

  "That specific trail?"

  "No not that one, I usually take the main trail."

  She scribbled.

  "So why did you take the narrow trail today?"

  "No specific reason."

  She scribbled faster.

  "How long have you known Mary Birdsong?"

  "Years, at least fifteen, possibly a little longer."

  Her face spasmed with excitement.

  "So, you’ve been friends for a long time, eh?"

  "Not exactly friends."

  She ignored my last sentence.

  "Long enough for your friendship to spoil?"

  Her pencil-thin lips curved into a crooked smile as she eyed me with suspicion.

  "I’d been out walking the dog as usual in the morning, only took the narrow trail by chance, my discovery of the body was a random event. In any case, I met Mary Birdsong for the very first time yesterday evening. I doubt she’d remember me even if she were alive. I’ve been listening to her music since she released "Lovely Children, Lovely Family". I had neither the means, motive nor opportunity to kill her. Sorry to disappoint you Sherlock."

  Deputy Zilpah sunk back into her chair, arms folded, a defeated scowl on her face. The interview was over.

  I left, back along the narrow corridor, through doors which clanged, out into the tiny reception area. Patricia, the receptionist, sat at the counter reading a Lee Child novel. She looked up. "It’s pretty quiet around here sometimes. The only excitement is one of these books." She pointed to the cover, Bad Luck and Trouble. I took the opportunity to do a little networking. "That’s my favorite, think it’s his best."

  "So far it’s a great read." Patricia put the book down, tidying a stack of leaflets in a brochure box which sat atop the counter. "You’re not from around here, are you Dr. Stratford?" Her voice was upbeat. "Hear you bought Ealing Homestead."

  I smothered a sigh. In small town Texas everyone knows your business. "Yep, I’m living in the old ranch house, the rest I’ll hire out for occasional events."

  She leaned on the counter, ready to chat.

  "Huh! I was at your place with my boyfriend yesterday evening. I just love Johnny Spinner, don’t you? Got me a signed photograph of the Celebrity Guru. What’s the skinny on Mary Birdsong?"

  "Discovered Mary, near tire swings under a copse of oak trees, on the narrow trail which snakes into the hills and back into town," I said.

  "You mean teenage run? That’s what the locals call that trail because it’s where the kids hang out in the fall."

  "Yes, that’s it." I kept my tone light. "Guess Deputy Dingsplat will be involved in the investigation?"

  She puffed air between her lips and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Nope, well, not this week, anyway." Patricia picked up another stack of leaflets. She glanced around the room, leaned closer, and murmured, "He’s officially out of town right now."

  "Oh, I see, the sheriff’s going to investigate this one himself."

  "Doubt it. If a crime doesn’t involve fishing or hunting it’s of little interest to the sheriff. In any case, he can’t do much from Vegas."

  "Vegas?"

  "Yep, the sheriff and Deputy Dingsplat are on the way to the airport in Austin. They are attending the annual Hill Country law enforcement conference, it’s in Las Vegas. Don’t expect much progress on the case until they get back."

  Chapter 14

  The afternoon was hot and stifling. A wall of humidity clung to the Hill Country town like a wet towel. I blinked in the intense summer light, it took several moments for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. I walked across the parking lot with sluggish slow steps, the smell of hot tarmac filled the air. There were even fewer vehicles than when I arrived. No one entered or left the surrounding buildings. The temperature and humidity kept all, but those on urgent business, inside.

  Beads of sweat trickled down my face as I fumbled for my keys. I got in, cranked the ignition. The air-conditioning spewed out a torrent of chilled air. I sat for a moment puzzled by the sheriff’s actions. How could he go off on a boondoggle when there is a murder to solve? Not good, not good.

  I thought about John and his coworkers. The authorities had failed to protect them. How had a ragtag group of bandits been able to capture him alongside all his colleagues? The security guards hired to protect foreign workers failed in their rudimentary task. Not one security guard captured the bandits, only the foreign workers? I didn’t believe it when I first heard it, something was wrong with that picture. And what about the rescue attempt? The authorities botched that too. The police raid on the gang’s h
ideout resulted in total carnage, everyone died, the bandits, captured workers, and John.

  I could feel my heart thumping hard. The authorities never thoroughly investigated John’s death. I was not willing to let that happen with Mary Birdsong. Even if the sheriff’s department did not take her case seriously, I would. It was my duty, for Mary, and for John.

  My mind was already way ahead of me, racing through possibilities and avenues to investigate. The image of Mary Birdsong, soft-spoken, playing with kittens under silvery moonlight, flooded into my mind. A tender side I suspected she kept hidden under layers of hurt and betrayal.

  Her fight with Dorothy Sadler revealed a callous side. It was clear she knew something Dorothy didn’t want revealed. The vicious stare in Mary’s eyes left no doubt she would spill the beans if necessary. The terrified look on Dorothy Sadler’s face told me she saw this too. Yes, Mary Birdsong had made major mistakes along the journey of life, but who hasn’t? Whatever her defects, she didn’t deserve to die like this. Nor did John. No one does.

  I pushed the gear lever into drive; Moozoos for coffee then I’d make a list of potential suspects. My eyes focused on the road, but my mind on who might be responsible for the killing of Mary Birdsong.

  Chapter 15

  The sign at Moozoos Café flashed in bright red letters "Open." In through the entrance to a little narrow coffee shop, not very well-lit, with huge plate-glass windows which looked onto Creek Street. The doorbell pinged with a gentle note as the door closed and the air filled with the smell of fresh coffee and hot freshly baked cinnamon rolls.

  It was late afternoon and the Café was empty. Martin Lopez, the barista; a sallow dark man, with lopsided eyes and a chin like the point of a carrot, sat at a table by the window. His eyes were half closed, chin cradled in his left hand. His oversized head turned to see who had disturbed his afternoon slumber.

  "Ollie, come in. Nice to see you." A welcoming smile crept across his face.

  "Pretty hot today, got to be close to one hundred," he said, whistling as he scuttled toward the bar. At the counter, his lopsided eyes surveyed me intently. "Creek Jolt?"

  I nodded.

  "Figured you’d need one after your gruesome discovery this morning. The news was all over the Café. Some of the patrons even headed up teenage run to view the activity for themselves. Would’ve closed up shop and joined them if it were not for the morning rush."

  He whistled as he busied himself mixing ingredients: Kenyan coffee, fresh cream with a heavy dash of brandy. The delicious aroma delighted my nostrils. My mouth salivated.

  "Here," he said, handing over the steaming beverage, "it’s on the house."

  I took a greedy sip. "Mmm, just what I needed."

  The barista’s eyebrows raised and he leaned in closer. His voice dropped to a whisper." Amy Harris, works at the town hall, saw you walking into the sheriff’s department. Since you weren’t in cuffs, Jenny Jones, from the florists, thought you went to give a statement. But Sara King, from the bakery, swore Deputy Dingsplat and the sheriff are in Las Vegas. She got that fact direct from an inside contact."

  He paused, eyed me with curiosity and continued, "I’ve a feeling Jenny guessed right. Any news?"

  "Well, if you’re asking how Mary Birdsong died, the best I can tell you is that by the look on the paramedics' faces, you can rule out natural causes."

  The barista’s eyes grew wide and he shook his head letting out a heavy sigh. "Another murder in Medlin Creek!"

  The words hit me hard. This is a small Hill Country town not New York City. Murder didn’t belong here among the beautiful views and the friendly people. I looked away mumbling, "We’ll know more when the county medical examiner issues her report."

  The doorbell pinged. Several customers entered the store.

  "Late afternoon rush," sighed the barista.

  I grabbed my drink and sat at a table by the window. Creek Street, previously empty, was beginning to fill with evening rush hour activity. Cars and trucks moved at slow speed. Office workers shuffled along the sidewalk on their way home. School children dodged tourists who stopped at random to peer into storefront windows. Someone turned up the volume at the food truck park, country music crackled through ancient speakers, the melodies drifting along the Street. The sleepy town of Medlin Creek was waking up from its afternoon slumber.

  "Ollie, Ollie Stratford is that you?"

  I jumped.

  "Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you."

  It was Karina Pope, executive assistant to Carlos Castillo. She wore cowboy boots, tightfitting blue jeans which showed off her curves, and a low-cut lemon blouse with exuberant frills around the neckline. In her right hand an extra-large coffee, her left hand balanced a plate containing a large pastry.

  "I thought it was you," she said, her voice bubbly and light.

  I waved her over and she took a seat at the table.

  "Terrible business," I said.

  "Indeed." She picked up the pastry but didn’t bite.

  "Anything I can help you with?" I inquired.

  "Anything like what?"

  "Well, with anything. Now that Mary Birdsong’s gone."

  "Oh, Mary Birdsong. Yes, her role was only a minor part really. Carlos has arranged auditions for a replacement tomorrow. The show must go on. We’ll be looking for extras too." Karina took a bite of the pastry and continued, "If you’re interested, tryouts start at ten a.m. sharp!" The pastry devoured, she patted her lips with a napkin. "Mmm, that was good."

  "Boa tarde," a voice boomed in a thick accent. A short dark man in his early fifties, with a bearded face chiseled by the angels, stood; hands on hips looking across the Café to the table where we sat. On his head, a black beret, tilted slightly so that it covered his left eyebrow. Around his neck, an oversized handkerchief in the colors of the Portuguese flag. The orange silk shirt fit his body like a glove. He obviously kept himself in shape. Open-toed sandals graced the knobby feet, a soft expression covered his face, and his dark intense eyes flashed with creativity.

  I let out an apprehensive sigh as he walked, in tidy neat steps, toward our table. Karina sat up straight; her eyes bright, lips slightly apart.

  "Karina, who is your friend? I don’t think we have been introduced," he said in a deep rich foreign accent.

  "Carlos this is Dr. Ollie Stratford. She is the owner of Ealing Homestead, where we had our opening celebration."

  He reached down and picked up my right hand, clasping it between both of his, then looked deep into my eyes. "Dr. Stratford it is, how you say in English, a pleasure to have your acquaintance. I am Carlos Castillo, the Portuguese film producer. It is pleasure to meet rich American lady." His eyes sparkled as he gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

  Karina shifted uncomfortably, picked at the tablecloth then cleared her throat. "I was just telling Dr. Stratford about the auditions for tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be fun if she was an extra?"

  He shot Karina a dismissive glance before his eyes settled back on me, which only increased the uncomfortable warmth on my face.

  Karina looked down, but undeterred, continued. "Would you consider auditioning as an extra, Ollie?"

  Before I could respond, Carlos held up his meaty hands; the thick fingers extended toward the heavens. I noticed the palms were thick and calloused, almost as if he spent his day digging potatoes.

  "No, isso é impossível...that is impossible." He continued. "I can see with my own eyes that Dr. Stratford is special lady. Extras treated like animals not like fine princess."

  He leaned in a little too close and his leg rubbed against my thigh under the table. A tingle of excitement ran down my spine.

  "No," he said again, "I got idea better. Why not you join me for dinner tomorrow evening. How you say, six thirty p.m. when work finished? Ms. Pope will make the necessary arrangements."

  Karina turned slowly to look at me, her hand clutched tight around the neck of the coffee cup. In a stilted, halting voice she responded, "Sure Carlos, is there a
nything else I can help you with?"

  Chapter 16

  I rose early the next morning, slid out of bed and took a shower. The water took a while to warm up, which meant that when I turned on the faucet it inundated me with chilly water. Suddenly, I was wide awake. "Better than a Creek Jolt," I said aloud. As the water turned warm I mentally organized my activities for the day. I read somewhere that if you visualize what you want there is a greater likelihood you will get it. I focused on a charming dinner with Carlos, piecing together the puzzle of who killed Mary Birdsong, and a positive encounter with an event center customer.

  As soon as I finished the shower I brushed my hair, pulled on black jeans, a sky-blue blouse, brushed my teeth and wrapped a towel around my wet hair. Then I headed to the kitchen for something to eat. Bodie was waiting by the front door, I let him out and poured a bowl of cereal. I planned to take him on an early morning walk along the trail, then later drive the Tahoe into town to meet Millie for an early morning coffee pow-wow.

  Chowing down on the cereal I checked email messages, social media pages, then browsed internet news sites. Mary Birdsong’s death hadn’t made much of a splash. Only a couple of paragraphs on the NPR website, and a shortened version of an article on the Medlin Creek Times website. I assumed a longer version would be in today’s newspaper written by Millie.

  Bodie scratched at the door, I let him in, put on his leash and off we set along the dirt path though the little iron gate, past the outbuildings, across the lane, and up onto the trail.

  The rugged tree-lined landscape of the Texas Hill Country was pure bliss on an early summer morning before the heat and humidity got a grip on the day. One of my favorite times, quiet, peaceful, only the chirps of an occasional bird disturbed the gentle rustle of the breeze through the trees. A place to think and today was definitely a thinking day.

  "Ollie."

  Instinctively my body tensed and I tightened the grip on the leash. I jerked my head around in the direction of the call. It was Emma Garcia, my neighbor. I let out a huge breath. Must still be jittery from yesterday.