Creek Crisis

by N. C. Lewis

  I didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help myself.

  "The accident?"

  "Yep, thrown from a stallion at the rodeo."

  I tried to suppress laughter, a gurgled squeak escaped involuntarily. Thankfully, Mr. Burlington didn’t notice as he was peering into one of the large glass jars.

  He looked up and continued. "I mix up a batch weekly for Margaret, kinda like the colloidal silver overlord of Medlin Creek, nothing illegal though. That bottle over there," he pointed to a large glass jar on the floor, "that's for the residential home. And that batch," he pointed to a smaller container, "that's for the nurses who work at Medlin Creek County hospital. Oh, and that tiny jar is for Patricia Hampton, works for the sheriff’s department. I think she is a front for one or two of the deputies, but I don’t like to ask."

  Mr. Burlington paused, a thoughtful expression flickered across his eyes. "Seems to help some people with their ailments, that’s what really matters to me."

  The bottle filled, he screwed on the cap and handed it to me, "There you go Ollie, the first bottle is on the house. That way if it doesn’t work you don’t have to return it," his eyes twinkled, "but if it does…you’ll be back!"

  I dropped it into my handbag. "I suppose Mary Birdsong was also a customer."

  His eyes narrowed. "No, she was never a customer here. Colloidal silver has healing properties; that woman was destructive. I'd never sell her any of this stuff." His voice filled with irritation, confirmed by the red blotches which were creeping up his neck and across his face. "That woman got what she deserved, what do the young people call it--karma, that’s what Mary Birdsong got. Can’t say I’m sorry either."

  My mind flashed back to the security guard sprawled unconscious on the floor at the hand of Mr. Burlington. I didn't want that to happen to me, the best track was to calm him down.

  "Suppose you sell several bottles a day to the tourists," I said changing the subject.

  "Nope, this is just for townsfolk. And those who know townsfolk."

  He busied himself for moment peering into the large glass jars, checking water levels, fiddling with switches. At last he let out a satisfied sigh and turned back to me. His eyes indicated it was time to leave.

  The door swung open and we walked back into the store. At the counter he paused, "Carlos Castillo, the film mogul, bought tarps." He looked over to the rack of tie-dye shirts. "Used to have them right there, prime spot. They’d been lying around the store for almost a year. Couldn’t move the darn things. Sold him all three boxes with our logo. Not much demand for canary-yellow tarp with Gregg’s written all over it." He rubbed his chin, "I was certain they would be a hit among the youngsters."

  As I opened the door into the parking lot he called after me. "Oh, by the way, I also sold Carlos Castillo a batch of colloidal silver, came with a recommendation from Theodora Simon."

  Chapter 22

  Out on Creek Street I blinked in the bright sunlight, and let out a deep sigh. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath during the entire conversation with Mr. Burlington. Michael, the shop assistant followed behind, case of dog food in his arms.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light I heard the rumble of a car, I squinted to get a better view. A Medlin Creek sheriff's department cruiser came to a stop between two faded parking lines. A familiar voice called out before the woman that it belonged to stepped out of the vehicle- Deputy Zilpah. I gritted my teeth.

  Out she stepped with a younger colleague--Deputy Jennie Ersari, at her side.

  "Dr. Stratford, what are you doing here?" The voice neutral like that of a government bureaucrat explaining you owe federal taxes that are past due.

  I pointed to the case under Michael’s arm.

  "Dog food for Bodie."

  Deputy Zilpah squinted as she scrutinized my face, then looked at Michael and back at me as if assessing the validity of my claim, but something in her azure eyes told me she wasn’t buying.

  "Do you have a moment?" She indicated with her eyes. I suddenly understood that Deputy Zilpah wanted to talk. Together we strolled out of earshot of Michael and the younger deputy.

  "Ollie," she said, "just want you to know that the sheriff's department are all over the Mary Birdsong case, can’t tell you much, but since you helped us out over that last business, I’ll give you what I can."

  The deputy looked around, a slow three hundred and sixty degree sweep of the area with her eyes. They rested momentarily on Michael who was chatting with the younger deputy.

  "We have a few leads, but I can't share those with you." Deputy Zilpah's head turned toward Gregg’s Hardware Store, Mr. Burlington stood in the entrance, arms folded across his chest. His eyes darted between Michael chatting with Deputy Jennie Ersari, and Deputy Zilpah talking with me.

  Deputy Zilpah lowered her voice to a whisper. "I’m sure you are aware of the source of the tarp which wrapped Mary’s body. Possibly the reason you are here?" Not waiting for a reply, she continued, "Blackfoot Security reported an incident involving one of their operatives and Mr. Burlington at the Ealing Homestead event. Turns out the operative came off worse in the encounter." Her lips tugged into a wry smile. "I can’t reveal the details of the report which remains confidential, but the incident also involved Mary Birdsong."

  "Is Mr. Burlington a suspect?"

  "Mr. Burlington has quite a temper…" her voice trailed off and she rolled her eyes showing that what she said next should be taken with a pinch of salt. "At this stage in the investigation we can’t rule anybody out. In any case, Mr. Burlington is from around here, he’s not going anywhere." She looked over at Mr. Burlington and gave a little wave. He grinned back. Then she continued, "The medical examiner's report indicates Mary died around one a.m. That would put the incident that led to her death two or three hours after the celebration ended at Ealing Homestead."

  At least the sheriff's department was actively working the case, this came as a relief. But I felt a sense of unease in their ability to solve it. There was no harm in helping them out.

  I climbed into the Tahoe truck, started the engine, cranked up the AC and sat for several minutes. The trail of breadcrumbs led directly to Mr. Burlington, but something was missing. On paper I could not rule him out, but I didn’t believe he did it either. Notebook in hand, I jotted down two facts. First:

  Mr. Burlington fought with Mary Birdsong, who was killed a few hours later.

  Then I scribbled the second fact into the notebook:

  Mr. Burlington supplied colloidal silver and yellow tarp with his logo to Carlos Castillo. Tarp which wrapped her body and a small green bottle of colloidal silver in her hand.

  The sheriff’s department didn’t know about the colloidal silver, yet. They might stop at Mr. Burlington. I was one step ahead. Carlos Castillo was firmly on my radar.

  What I could not figure out was why would a Portuguese film producer hire Mary Birdsong to play a lead role and then kill her before filming began?

  "Need to dig a little deeper," I said aloud as I pulled out of the parking lot.

  Chapter 23

  The rest of the afternoon passed in a flash as I busied myself preparing quizzes and making notes for upcoming classes. At six fifteen p.m., I got my martial arts bag and kit, jumped into the Tahoe and headed toward Warren Street, an area of town which had a mixture of converted warehouses, craft workshops and a meat processing plant.

  The road, cobbled with limestone slates, had official city "No Loitering" signs attached to several streetlamps. Throughout daylight hours Warren Street filled with pedestrians going about their business, but at night less-savory characters dominated the landscape.

  The dojo, a concrete and steel building, stood between an abandoned warehouse and a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor famous for its New York style pizza prepared personally by the owner Don Andrews. The pizza parlor was notorious as a place where drug dealers exchanged their goods with tourists and residents.

  I’d arrived a little early, people were already
entering the dojo as I parked my Tahoe truck. Inside, the dojo was cool and bright, the whoosh of the fans circulating air around the large rectangular room. A black mat covered the gym floor, padded with a thick, soft material designed to absorb the impact of judo-style falls. On one wall hung a large, framed photograph of the founder of the academy, Tanner Holgate. Off to the side were changing rooms and offices.

  Kidd Cole swept the mat and greeted the guests as they arrived. "Hey Ollie, nice to see you. It’s going to be a great class."

  "Will Ma Jenkins train with us tonight?" I asked. Ma was a cofounder of the academy and became its head instructor on the death of Tanner Holgate.

  "No, Ma’s in London right now. I guess she’s looking at Buckingham Palace and visiting the Queen. She’s in England for three weeks, a week in Scotland, and back home."

  I shuffled off to the women’s changing room to prepare myself for what lie ahead. Ethel Green and Marge McCloskey, the club’s oldest members had a changing bench to themselves. The rest of us found whatever space we could.

  The gong sounded and the students streamed out of the changing rooms and formed lines, advanced students at the front and beginners at the back. I stood in the last line. Kidd Cole, who usually taught, warmed up the class. Several laps around the dojo followed by intense stretching, followed by several more laps.

  Takumi Kyou strode onto the mat, a squat little man with powerful arms and tree trunks for legs. He bowed, we bowed, then the instruction began.

  "Today, we practice one of my favorite techniques. In Japanese we call it O-goshi. In English, this translates to the major hip throw. Let me demonstrate, then we practice. Sensei Cole, please."

  Kidd stood up and approached Master Kyou grabbing him by the lapels. The master made a little side step to his left, then pivoted to the right as his right arm snaked up the back of Kidd. For an instant Kidd was at the back of the master and appeared to have the advantage. But Master Kyou bent forward, straightened his knees, and turned to look behind himself toward Kidd’s feet. The movement broke Kidd’s balance throwing him clean through the air to clatter a few moments later to the mat on his back. The master sprung forward like a cat and applied an arm lock to totally immobilize Kidd.

  Master Kyou looked at Kidd and then the class. "Now you know why we call it O-goshi, because that’s what the opponent cries as they fly through the air."

  Master Kyou illustrated the technique with equal dexterity on his left side. Then it was our turn.

  After several minutes Master Kyou clapped his hands and the students rotated.

  "It is very important," Master Kyou explained, "to practice techniques such as this on people who are taller or stronger than you, that is why we rotate."

  After several rotations, I found myself facing a brutish man with a wild tangle of ginger hair growing over his head and face. He stood over six feet with muscles which would make Hercules look like a skinny dude. I doubted whether the technique would be effective against him.

  Master Kyou came over to watch. My first few attempts confirmed my suspicion. I was simply unable to move the mountain of a man.

  Then Master Kyou spoke up. "Lower your hips as you enter the pivot and straighten up as you execute the flow." I tried again following his instruction. To my surprise the man-mountain let out a horrified yelp as he went flying up into the air. He smashed to the mat, on his back, with a loud thud.

  "That is how it is done! Now do it again," said the master, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

  After class, the dojo became a hive of excited chatter. Master Kyou mingled with the students of all grades as they discussed the finer points of the techniques outlined in class, and reminisced about their experiences training in judo, karate and other martial arts.

  As I turned to leave, I overheard Ethel Green chatting with Marge McCloskey.

  "So, you’re saying they should have arrested him already?" said Ethel.

  "Yep, stands to reason," replied Marge, "Mary Birdsong kicked him out of the band two weeks before she became famous. He’s always going on about it on the show. The man is bitter as bile even after all these years."

  "Well," said Ethel, "I like his radio show, you never know what Johnny is going to say."

  "Or do," said Ethel, "that man’s a slice short of a full loaf."

  The buzz of my cell phone drew me away from the conversation--a text message from Millie:

  Meeting Leon Rademaker tomorrow at three p.m. Want to come with me? Meet me in the lobby of the Hill Country Hotel, that’s where my audience with a celebrity guru will take place.

  I tapped in my response and headed next door to the pizza parlor to sample a slice or two of Don Andrew’s finest.

  Chapter 24

  It was not long after sunset. The cloudless sky filled with stars, and fluorescent lights streamed onto the pavement through the plate-glass window of the pizza parlor.

  A small line of customers snaked in front of me, several patrons sat on plastic chairs devouring their meal, and a group of old-timers played dominoes on the long bench at the far side of the restaurant.

  A single female assistant served customers, with two male employees working at preparation stations. Don Andrews stood by the industrial pizza oven, one eye on the cash register, the other the seated area. The menu wasn’t extensive but tonight I could not make up my mind--pepperoni or Hawaiian.

  "Hi Ollie."

  I turned around to see Karina Pope smiling. She waved her hand at the menu board and laughed, "I see you’ve found the best pizza joint in town. If you need help with anything--anything at all--please let me know." She leaned slightly forward as she spoke, and patted my shoulder, her hand large soft and gentle.

  "I’m still mulling things over, pepperoni or Hawaiian, what do you think Karina?"

  "Pepperoni every time."

  She gave a little wave to Don Andrews and ambled over to the old-timers to watch the game. After several moments she looked around and sat down, squeezing between two of the players.

  "Boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya."

  Johnny Spinner’s catchphrase boomed out from a corner of the restaurant. I swiveled my head to look in the direction of the sound. There Johnny sat sniggering into a cell phone, two half-eaten slices of pizza on a paper plate. Occasionally the man jumped up, salsa danced on the spot, twirled around and sat back down again, all the while giggling into his cell phone. Millie might be right I thought, the guy's a freak or as high as a kite. I decided to ignore him.

  "Wha ya want?" The shop assistant stared impassively. The girl couldn’t have been older than nineteen, probably just out of school, yet the dullness in the eyes and deadpan voice gave her the aura of a person who’d worked dead-end jobs for decades.

  "Hawaiian."

  "Want fries and soda with that?"

  I declined. The shop assistant rolled her eyes as if it wasn’t worth the trouble to stoop down and pick out a single slice. As I waited, Karina stood up and slipped out of the restaurant.

  "Boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya, ha-ha-ha."

  My head turned in the direction of the sound even though I told it not to. Johnny Spinner’s right hand was close to his mouth--the lips puckered like a fairy princess about to kiss the frog. But it was what his hand held which caught my attention--a little green bottle with the label, "Colloidal Silver" printed in extra-large black letters.

  There was a click and a sudden flash. A man in a pineapple and palm tree silk shirt pointed a camera at Johnny. Another click, another flash.

  Don Andrew stepped from the side of the pizza oven to the front of the counter. The two male shop assistants stopped preparation and joined Don. All three folded their arms across their chests as if waiting to see what would happen next. The young girl looked up from the till, and in a move which must’ve been rehearsed, scuttled behind the oven. From there she stared impassively out into the restaurant.

  "Sir, no flash photography in here," said Don, steely eyes focused on the cameraman. The man smiled. "Visitin
g from Dallas, want to get as many photos of local people as possible. Love the moody expression on your faces, might be even better if one of you held up a pizza pie."

  He pointed the 35mm camera at Don.

  Click, flash.

  "That’s a good one. Can’t wait to post this on Facebook," he squealed rubbing his hands together and totally misreading the seriousness of the situation.

  Don took a menacing step forward.

  "Boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya!" screamed Johnny Spinner arms flailing as he sprang across the pizza parlor. The visitor let out a terrified yell, but it was too late. In an instant, a ferocious flurry of fists, Don pulling Johnny away, and the visitor prostate on the floor. Somehow the man was still conscious, and he let out a little moan.

  Don Andrews and his assistants hauled the visitor onto his feet, situating him at a small table near the entrance. It took several minutes for the man to regain consciousness, a glass of water arrived, he took several sips before looking around, the dazed expression clearing from his eyes. "My camera, my camera."

  But it was gone. So was Johnny Spinner.

  Chapter 25

  It was nine thirty a.m. and the morning rush was over at Moozoos. The assistant disappeared into an alley which ran alongside the Café, for an electronic cigarette, while the barista busied himself in a storeroom at the back.

  Millie with her lawyer-boyfriend, Bob Lukey, and I clustered around a table by the window. Bob, from Austin, was a tall thin man with a long black beard and even longer flowing gray hair twisted into dreadlocks. Today he wore a T-shirt with Stop Meddling in Medlin on the front and Keep Austin Weird on the back. The baggy orange shorts and open-toed leather sandals adorned with the colors of the Jamaican flag--red, gold and black--shouted anything but top criminal defense attorney, which he was.