Texas Troubles

by N. C. Lewis

  Tony Dean appeared even more model-like in real life than in the flyer at Gregg’s store. The man had Hollywood looks which seemed out of place in a small Hill Country Texas town.

  The children lined up on either side of the casket. From time to time they looked up, eyes like large glass globes dimmed by a heavy fog. Then the minister walked to the front of the church, climbed three steps and entered the pulpit. Behind, was an assembled choir, dressed in purple and gold robes.

  The service opened with prayer. The choir sang “Abide with Me.” The deluge of sound poured on and on. Then the minister read Psalm 23:4. Ma Jenkins cried. After that we all sang “Standing on the Promises.”

  Tanner's uncle gave the eulogy, pointing to the children standing along each side of the casket, and said, “Tanner wanted success for these kids. Rich or poor, black or white, Tanner didn’t care. The man loved these kids, and people. Through martial arts, Tanner instilled self-discipline and self-confidence in others. The boy, was a wonderful nephew...” His voice broke, and the minister helped him back to his seat.

  Then the minister helped Tanner’s mother climb up the steps into the pulpit. Hands trembling, she unfolded a small sheet of paper and began:

  “I was walking in the country, past a church, decayed and dim, when there slowly through the windows came a plaintive funeral hymn; And my sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, till I found myself sitting on a little wooden pew. At the front a simple couple sat in sorrow, oh how they cried! On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was their child. I could picture him when living as I looked at him now dead. Then I looked a little closer, and a voice said, ‘Tanner’s dead.’ That baby in the coffin, all grown up a man, my child. Yes, they say his journey’s over, but my Tanner gave youth pride!”

  Everyone wept.

  A young uniformed officer got up next. On the lapel, a small pin advertising the Medlin Creek Speaker's Circle. “Hello, I’m Deputy Dingsplat. Tanner and I met at the Medlin Creek Fishing Club. He told tall stories about the one that got away all the time. That's what club members do while waiting for the fish to bite.”

  The audience giggled.

  “But in truth, Tanner and I were the best of friends. Saturday mornings we would go to the empty ranch house and fish in the creek at the back—biggest largemouth bass in the county. Won't get to do that anymore. Tanner is gone, and the ranch house was sold to his friend Ollie Stratford. What a great friend! Tanner finished the course of life with joy. In death, Tanner was more than a conqueror.”

  Then an old man shuffled to the front of the church, he leaned in on a twisted cedar walking stick and wore ragged and dirt-stained clothes. The smell of his sunbaked sourness pierced the cool room.

  At the alter steps, Deputy Dingsplat stood up to halt further progress, but the minister waved the deputy away and helped the old man up to the pulpit. His corrugated face surveyed the gathered crowd, and his old, stone-gray-colored eyes flashed as he spoke. “The people call me Simpkins, and Tanner was a friend. That man saw me for what and who I am.”

  The old man raised his cane and pointed at the congregation and said, “Today I remember and honor Tanner, tomorrow I’ll do whatever I can to help capture his killer. There are people in this town who need to go to jail for the crimes they have committed against Medlin Creek. People doing dirty deals which choke the life out of others, without shame or remorse. God help you!”

  Several people, including the minister, turned to look at Marsha Pennington who shifted in her seat, face flushed bright red and looking down. Sheriff Hays took two small steps toward Marsha then stopped.

  I closed my eyes and let my head fall forward. Could Marsha be the killer? If so, what was the motive? What did Simpkins know?

  A heavyset man in a dark gray suit stood up. Well dressed, in a gray plaid long-sleeved shirt which stretched tight across his broad chest, and in his hand, a black Stetson. Long strides carried him quickly toward the altar where he climbed the steps in a single bound. His eyes swept the gathered faces and settled on Tanner’s mother. My heart pounded, and I felt a little lightheaded as he began to speak.

  “This is a sad day indeed. Tanner was a client, we worked together for many, many years, good times, bad times, happy times and now sad times. Few people like bookkeepers, but Tanner always smiled when I stopped by.” At that the congregation laughed out loud.

  “Who is that?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Oh, Harry Marsden, the local bookkeeper, keeps books for all the martial arts schools, and many of the other small businesses in town. Sharp man, but loves the dollar a little too much for my liking.” Ma’s eyes narrowed as she took in my face, “But…good-looking, isn’t he? And eligible too.”

  Harry was more ruggedly handsome than the flyer in Gregg’s pet food store, I guessed him to be in his early 50s. His chest bulged, and biceps rippled as he continued to speak. “Whatever rumors you may have heard, I can assure you Tanner did his best. Let me tell you, it is not easy to run a martial arts school, and in this small town the going can be tough.” The words were spoken with care, packed with emotion, crackled and buzzed through the congregation. Harry returned to his seat, eyes red, shaking, visibly moved.

  Now, it was time for the mayor to deliver a short address. “Today, I express condolences for the entire town of Medlin Creek.” The mayor turned to look at Tanner's mother. “The people of this town were fortunate to have witnessed the life of Tanner, one of the most loved, supportive, and encouraging individuals, who labored with all his strength for our youth, and had given young people a most valuable role model. Words fail me right now. All I can say is any progress made in solving this terrible crime will be shared with the community.”

  Once more the minister stepped forward and the choir began to sing “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be.” After that the minister closed in prayer. The service was over, and the people got up. There was no rush for the exits, instead they lingered, passing back and forth memories of Tanner Holgate.

  Chapter 9

  The cell phone alarm went off, I opened one eye then closed it again.

  The wake-up tones continued.

  I reached out to press snooze. Thinking better of the idea, I rolled out of bed, grabbed a pair of sweatpants and heated some of yesterday’s coffee while eating a bowl of cereal. The coffee was awful, but it was coffee. Bodie sat at the door. I let the hound out and returned to the desk in the small office, wondering where to begin.

  The unexpectedness of death always left me feeling betrayed. People seem to die without warning, without giving time to say goodbye. Like John—overseas working on a government project—he disappeared along with his coworkers, all kidnapped by bandits. Local police raided the hideout, burned the building to the ground along with everyone inside the place. Several months later the bureaucratic officials released the remains. A little tin box filled to the brim with gray ashes.

  The death of Tanner left me just as confused. It was hard to accept that a friend from long ago was now no more, like John. Who would want to kill Tanner and why? My head told me to retreat, go back to that little Brooklyn apartment. I had given up the lease so that wasn’t a realistic option. My heart told me to hunker down, find out exactly what happened to Tanner so I could find peace.

  “Sorry head, I’m going with my heart,” I said out loud.

  Around nine a.m., George Garcia stopped by. A squat little man whose large barrel-shaped chest and thigh-sized arms looked out of proportion on short, skinny thin legs. Together we talked and walked around the front yard, and the side of the house into the backyard.

  “What are you planning to do with this place?” George asked.

  “Well, I want to fix up the main house and the yard. Later, clear or repair those outbuildings and turn this place into an event center–for weddings and corporate functions.”

  George scanned the yard and the outbuildings, squinting his eyes. “Yep, that might work. Havis County is booming and Medlin Creek is on the Hill Co
untry tourist map. Emma and I are thinking about turning our place into a homestyle Mexican restaurant. The building business is too competitive and Emma loves to cook. Anyway, Ollie, there are few zoning restrictions in this part of town. Harry Marsden knows the rules well. Harry is my bookkeeper, lived here for years, a great guy, you’d like Harry.”

  George rubbed his chin and continued, “I can patch up the roof today. Shouldn’t cost much. But you’ll need to replace the entire structure soon, doubt it has more than a year or two of life left. The electrical wiring and plumbing need an inspection. Not possible to do this type of thing on the cheap, I’ll give the best price possible.”

  A deep sigh escaped as I nodded.

  “Okay, I'll stop by later with the team to patch up the roof. Oh, by the way, have you spoken with Marsha Pennington? That lady is the local expert on Hill Country commercial property, might give you some tips on the event center idea. Hear she almost bought Tanner’s dojo. Ma Jenkins seemed keen to cash out, although Tanner was against the sale. Guess now Tanner’s gone, Ma will close the deal.”

  Chapter 10

  For several hours, I busied myself cleaning, tidying and repairing, anything but thinking. Bodie watched for a short while, then retreated to the dog bed for a nap. The office and the spare bedroom were easy—dust, sweep, mop. The master bedroom I left until George’s team had patched up the roof. The kitchen windows, doors, counters, and surfaces were wiped clean. Years of grease and grime were erased by a little hard work and Pine-Sol.

  Then to the polished oak clock which sat on the mantel. The inner workings were fully functional. I didn’t have much use for an old-fashioned clock, but the gentle tick-tock was soothing, and at the top of every hour, the clock chimed.

  The clock chimed twelve o’clock midday. The melodic tinkle of bells served as a signal to get up and stretch. An unwanted thought niggled—who killed Tanner? If George Garcia was right, there was an excellent motive for murder. Marsha Pennington wanted the real estate tied to the dojo. Tanner refused to sell, so Marsha killed for profit. The whole thing was so logical.

  But what about Ma Jenkins? Why would Ma agree to sell the dojo? Maybe the lady is short of cash. Tanner wouldn’t sell so Ma killed in the hope of gaining control of the business and then later selling for a nice profit. Business colleagues killing partners for money is commonplace. That type of thing happens every day on the social media newsfeeds. Or perhaps Marsha and Ma conspired together?

  None of it made any sense, so I switched tack, and thought about the owner of Gregg’s, Mr. Burlington. That man’s response to Tanner’s name was quite extraordinary. Mr. Burlington had a clear financial motive, and with that temper anything was possible. Did the man strike out in rage at Tanner?

  In the kitchen for a glass of water, I turned to Bodie and said, “Time to get some fresh air, the speaker's circle meets at one p.m. Deputy Dingsplat is a member. Perhaps I’ll get the opportunity to ask about progress in the criminal investigation. Who is the number one suspect? Bet a doggie biscuit, top of the list is Marsha Pennington.” Bodie curled up and went back to sleep.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The speaker's circle met in the town library, across the street from the little Baptist church, which held Tanner’s funeral. The meeting room was off to the side, down a narrow hall lined with a billboard which advertised free services to the local community. Several metal and plastic chairs lined up conference-style, and at the front of the room, a lectern which sat on a wooden table. A little early; I slid into the back row.

  “Hi there! I’m Millie Watkins, the president of Medlin Creek Speaker's Circle. Welcome to the club.” The thirty-something woman was unusually pretty with large brown eyes, and a long, smoothly brushed black bob.

  “Hello, Ollie Stratford, I'm new to town, and I saw the flyer at Gregg’s,” I said.

  “Welcome, Ollie. This is a small group of business professionals who gather every week to improve public-speaking skills. Let me introduce you to some of the members. This is Bob Lukey.”

  A tall thin man with a long black beard and even longer flowing gray hair twisted into dreadlocks; dressed in a T-shirt, baggy shorts and sandals, nodded. “Hi Ollie, this is the place to be. Travel down every week from Austin, nice little weekend retreat right here in town. This is a great club, work as a lawyer, what about you?”

  Before I answered, Millie whisked me off to meet another member. “This is Peter Travis, the club secretary.” Peter shook my hand, his palms were warm and sweaty, and his sunken eyes darted around as he fidgeted with his left ear. For a little too long, his sweaty palms grasped my hand and the pale-faced man stared, his eyes wide open.

  Finally, he said, “Are you going to watch? I’m a little nervous about public speaking, terrified to be exact. That’s why this club is so valuable. Anyway, guess who’s speaking tonight? Yep, good ole Peter. Listen, Ollie, if you look at me please don’t stare. I get nervous when the audience stares. I know everyone else in the meeting but you are new and will have to be the audience tonight, so please don’t stare.”

  A large slap landed on my butt, I spun around. “Well hello gorgeous, I’m Roger Romantic, the ladies call me Mr. Romantic. Who are you?” I looked down at a little bright-eyed old man, bald on top with a stoop which matched his bandy legs.

  “Oh Roger,” said Millie, “leave Ollie alone, she’s a guest.” Roger sighed and shuffled off to a seat at the front.

  It was then Deputy Dingsplat walked into the meeting room. The officer, out of uniform, wore blue jeans and a white button up shirt. His face scowled as if he would rather be on desk duty than attend this meeting.

  “Hi, Deputy Dingsplat,” called Millie, “we have a guest this evening.”

  The deputy looked in my direction. A flicker of recognition crept across his face. “Dr. Ollie Stratford, isn’t it? At Tanner’s funeral, you sat in the front row next to Ma Jenkins.”

  At last a chance to grill the deputy. Millie sprinted to the front of the room, a small gavel in her hand, and before I uttered a word, tapped the gavel on the lectern. The meeting began.

  There wasn’t much speaking at the speaker’s circle. I had hoped the group would chat about recent events in the town. Sixty seconds into the meeting, I gave up on that hope. Instead, Peter Travis presented his opus on the flight path of the monarch butterfly. Within two minutes the man became so nervous his words were unintelligible. Another seven minutes passed, then Millie stood up and said, “You’re doing great, give Peter a round of applause.”

  The entire room stood up, clapped and cheered. Bob Lukey shook his head, the dreadlocks cracking like whips in the still air. Even I cheered, screams of pure joy the talk was over. But then everyone sat down and Peter carried on.

  Another five minutes passed before Roger yelled, “Don’t let the audience see the whites of your eyes. If they have the whites they have control of you. Man, turn your back on the buggers, face the same direction as the audience and let the presentation rip.”

  Peter reached into a jacket pocket, pulled out a pair of vintage 1970s, wide-rimmed, mirrored sunglasses. In a dramatic flourish, he placed the glasses on his face and spun around like Michael Jackson yelling, “Oooh, I beat it.” Everyone stood up and cheered. Except Deputy Dingsplat, who remained seated, his hand covering his face.

  “Yeah, Peter,” said Bob, shaking his dreadlocks, “Kill them with presentational style. What do ya say, Deputy Dingsplat?” The deputy looked sheepish, then gave the thumbs up, although his body language said otherwise.

  For another forty-five minutes Peter spoke about the migration pattern of monarch butterflies, back facing the gathered crowd. The tedium occasionally broken when he turned around to check the audience wasn’t staring.

  Finally, the talk over, the gavel came crashing down to signify another speaker's circle meeting in the books. Deputy Dingsplat jumped up and sprinted for the door.

  “That’s the last we’ll see of the deputy,” said Bob.

  “Yep,” agre
ed Millie.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Well,” said Bob, “the mayor wants greater engagement with the community from law enforcement. Deputy Dingsplat drew the short straw this year, and must attend ten events. Now he has met his quota, won’t see the guy again, this year at least.”

  Peter Travis came over, “Thank you for being such a wonderful audience. Want to join us at the College Arms? That’s where the club members hang out after the meeting. The place sells all British food and brews, right here in Medlin Creek.”

  Millie weighed in, “Yeah, give us a chance to get to know each other.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The College Arms, crowded and busy, resonated with a surprising variety of British accents. A plate of haddock and chips washed down with a pint of bishop’s finger at a table filled with speaker's circle members. Millie chose a Balti pie, and as she sipped a lager and lime, commented:

  “Ollie, so sad to hear of the death of Tanner. Difficult to believe a murder took place here in sleepy Medlin Creek. I write for the Medlin Creek Times, and have never been so busy trying to keep up with the investigation.”