by N. C. Lewis
“Yeah,” said Peter Travis, “the most exciting thing that happens around here is the annual Dry Desert Motorcycle Rally, and that happens out of town.”
I felt connection, bonding and emergent friendship. “Does the sheriff’s department have any leads?” I inquired.
Millie leaned forward, looked around, then reached into her handbag and pulled out two sock puppets. One was purple and wore a white shirt with a little black tie, the other blue with frizzy brown curls and a pleated skirt.
“This is Professor Purple,” said Millie, nodding at the purple sock.
“Hello, nice to meet you, Ollie,” said Millie as she opened and closed her sock clad hand. Millie was no ventriloquist, her lips moved with each word, and the deep male voice sound came from her throat.
“And here is Madame Bleu,” she said, waving her other hand, now covered by the blue sock puppet.
“Bonjour, Ollie, so very nice to have made your acquaintance.” Madame Bleu had a French accent.
Roger Romantic who had been eating, joined the conversation.
“Madame Bleu, you’re looking so beautiful today.” He leaned forward and kissed Madame Bleu on her sock lips.
Madame Bleu trembled. “Ooh la la! Roger, you are so romantic.”
Professor Purple upped the tension, rolling into a fist yelling, “Stick to your own, keep away from her, that puppet-lady’s mine.”
Roger backed off and returned to finishing his meal.
Then Millie looked at each sock in turn, and explained as if they were old friends. “Ollie would like to know if the sheriff's department has any leads?”
“No, nothing official,” snapped Professor Purple.
“Oh, don’t be so silly! Word on the Creek says a weapon was found at the crime scene,” chided Madame Bleu.
“But that’s not official,” responded Professor Purple.
“Must’ve been used to kill Tanner. Find the owner of the weapon and you’ve found the killer,” argued Madame Bleu.
“That is illogical, why do you always jump to conclusions so quickly? Where is the evidence, Madame Bleu?”
Joining in the game, I leaned forward and said, “Does the sheriff’s department have any suspects?”
Millie’s eyes narrowed but Madame Bleu responded, “Oh yes! I think they have a very good idea who they are looking for, Ollie.”
Chapter 11
The weekend disappeared and Monday morning arrived. Bodie sat at the front door, I opened it, and off he bounded toward the outbuildings. In the office preparing a list for the day, the wooden clock on the mantel struck seven a.m. Up I got and stretched. What else did Millie have on the murder investigation? How much was she and her sock friends willing to share?
Around eight a.m. Bodie returned, wolfed down a bowl of dog food, and we headed out for a walk together. We went along a dirt track which snaked across the countryside—a shortcut into town. Tall oak trees gave shade against the rising sun. The trail ended at the Riverwalk Bridge.
On the top of terraced steps underneath the arch of the bridge sat Simpkins playing a mouth organ, the humid air heavy with his sunbaked sourness.
Bodie tugged on the leash, it slipped from my hand and off he went bounding up the steps toward Simpkins. To my surprise, Simpkins was a natural with dogs, he and Bodie played together like old friends.
“Pleased to see Bodie has a new home,” said Simpkins.
“Yep, that dog seems to be friends with a lot of people in town.”
“Bodie is a loyal hound, unlike people he won’t let you down.” Simpkins looked reflective, then continued, “Hear they found the murder weapon, say it’s a knife of some sort. Guess the killer bought the thing at Gregg’s. That Mr. Burlington has a foul temper, had Tanner in his sights that’s for sure. Might have wielded it himself!”
“What makes you so sure it’s Mr. Burlington? The killer might have been a woman.”
Simpkins shifted uneasily, the mouth organ slipped from his hands clattering down the terraced steps.
“Oh no, Ollie, the killer wasn’t a woman, twas a man.”
“Why not a woman?”
Simpkins climbed down the steps to retrieve the musical instrument, then his corrugated face created a wrinkle in his brow. “Suppose so,” he said, “guess the sheriff’s department are looking at Marsha Pennington. Saw that lady snooping around Ealing Homestead the day you arrived. They say Marsha wanted to buy Tanner’s dojo, but he refused. Marsha’s good friends with the mayor and Sheriff Hays. If that lady did it, doubt the investigation will go anywhere.”
Simpkins paused, thinking for a moment, then laughed as thoughts transformed into words. “Suppose,” he said, “if you think along those lines, might even tag Ma Jenkins with the crime.”
Why was Simpkins homeless? The man did not smell of alcohol or tobacco, and his behavior, mannerisms and characteristics all pointed toward normal. At a guess, I’d put him down as a previous accountant or businessman. Simpkins was the most ordinary person I had met so far in Medlin Creek. The man was at the bottom of my deranged person list. Moreover, he appeared to be the only homeless person in town, and everyone knew him. Maybe the guy played the part for tourist dollars. Either way, Simpkins seemed to know everything about everyone.
Back to Moozoos Café, I grabbed two iced coffees and four donuts. On the way home, Simpkins received one of the cups of coffee and three donuts. Then back across the trail to Ealing Homestead.
✽ ✽ ✽
It was fast approaching three p.m. when the oppressive heat and humidity reached a peak. The bright hot days forced me to spend time fixing up the interior of the house and making plans. But this afternoon I ventured outside to attach a mosquito grate to a small bathroom window. Bodie sat watching me. I was halfway up a low ladder when Bodie began to bark. Into the dirt yard where the derelict outbuildings stood, came a black Ford Explorer. A heavyset man in a gray button-down shirt carrying a black Stetson in his hand, stepped out. I recognized him immediately as Harry Marsden.
Harry swaggered across the dirt path and through the little iron gate coming to a stop in front by the ladder; my heart fluttered.
“Well hello there, my name’s Harry Marsden, we met at Tanner’s funeral.”
“Oh yes, I remember, your words were so eloquent,” I spluttered.
“Looks like you are making great progress fixing this place up.”
The voice low and masculine, was soothing and comforting, and his eyes smiled with friendliness. Harry reached out a hand to steady me as I climbed down from the ladder, my heart fluttered even faster. His soft eyes, crinkled at the edges, complemented a face which was even more handsome than had appeared at the funeral service. As I shook his hand I flashed my friendliest smile.
“Oh, I've heard so much about you, Mr. Marsden. What a pleasure to meet you.”
“Please, call me Harry. I stopped by because George mentioned you have a great idea for this place, but could do with a little help in business planning?”
“Sure can, would be great to have someone to bounce ideas off, and of course help keep the books.”
A broad, greedy grin inched across Harry’s face as we strolled into the coolness of the house.
In the kitchen, around the wooden table and sipping iced tea with lemon, we began.
“Ollie, share your plans for this place, what do you have in mind?”
I told him how I came to acquire the property; that initially I had no idea what to do with it, plus my desire to get out of New York City, and the revelation that this would make a perfect event center.
Harry nodded, asking questions which made me think. Two hours later, I had a fully worked-out business plan, a loan application to a financial organization that Harry recommended, completed forms for the required city permits, and a very handsome bookkeeper.
✽ ✽ ✽
I was taking an afternoon nap and thinking about not getting up until the next morning, when a text message buzzed on the cell phone. It was Emma Gar
cia. “Call Professor Bingham, the dean of the business school. He is looking for someone to teach a part-time course in statistics over the summer. Mentioned you, hope you don’t mind!”
I rolled over, reached for my cell phone and punched in the number. The phone rang without an answer, I redialed.
“Professor Bingham, how can I help you?”
I explained why I was calling.
“Yes, yes, of course, Emma mentioned you. Listen, Dr. Stratford, I've been saving this class for you. It would be such a pleasure to have another person on the team. Can I pencil you in to teach it?”
Then Professor Bingham gave details about the class, the hours and financial remuneration. The offer was so good I accepted on the spot.
“Stop by the office tomorrow, Dr. Stratford, I need you to sign the employment contract and HR paperwork. I can find additional teaching work for you, if you would like. Are you able to take similar classes for the next two semesters? Anyway, I like to put a face to a name. Stop by between ten a.m. and three p.m.”
There was no going back to sleep now. Two sets of thoughts vied for attention: Tanner’s death, and how to structure the new class.
Back at the desk, I jotted down thoughts about what to teach, into a notebook. My mind clearer, I focused on Tanner. The sheriff’s department looked thin. Did they have detectives or experienced murder investigators? I got another notebook and wrote down thoughts. The probability of Tanner's death being a random killing was small; he had a lot of friends, and this was a small town. There was a high probability the killer was someone who knew him. If I hung around long enough, chances were good our paths would cross. I decided to use my free time to dig a little further into the circumstances surrounding Tanner’s death. At worst, I would annoy Sheriff Hays. At best, I would find information which helped with their investigation.
Chapter 12
Ma had mentioned the beginner’s class took place on Monday at six p.m. I set off in the Tahoe truck, an old karate suit packed neatly in a bag. Tanner’s school was located on Warren Street, a sketchy part of town, but not as bad as the drug-infested tenements in Flatbush, Brooklyn. Still, enough that you wanted to keep your eyes open, especially after dark.
The dojo, a low-rise concrete and steel structure, stood between a disused warehouse, and a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor frequented by locals and druggies--and tourists striking deals with druggies. Despite the lowlife clientele, the pizza, prepared by the owner Don Andrews, was New York City good.
Above the front door of the dojo in big bright letters were the words “Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy. All Welcome.” A gaggle of children, dressed in karate uniforms, were exiting through the door. The older kids laughed and jostled each other. Parents, out in front hurried the children along, carrying small black bags which contained practice martial arts weapons.
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. Off to the side were changing rooms and offices.
A young man, sweeping the mat, looked up, “Here for the adult beginner’s class?” he asked.
“Yes, looking to get back in shape,” I said.
The man smiled and said, “Hello, Kidd Cole’s the name, I teach the adult beginners class. The fun starts in five minutes.”
On the way to the women’s changing room, an office door swung open. Ma Jenkins, and Harry Marsden strolled out. The two were deep in conversation. Harry’s eyes flashed, his face flushed bright red and in an urgent voice, he spat out:
“Ma, don’t do this. What about history? This was Tanner’s school, that man would never do this!”
“Yes, Harry you are right, as always. Tanner would never consider this option, but he ran the business. Everyone knows I’m not a numbers person. If Tanner were in my shoes he would do the same thing, eh?”
“Look Ma, this is a big mistake…there is no need to rush into a decision, think things over a little more. How about the two of us revisit this issue in a week or two? Give things a chance to cool down a little.” Harry looked into Ma’s face, his large eyes droopy and sad like a basset hound.
“There is nothing more to discuss on this matter, Harry.”
“Oh dear! That is disappointing, very disappointing indeed.”
Without looking up Harry headed for the door, his usual swagger replaced by the urgent stride of a man in a hurry.
People were beginning to line up on the dojo mat, young women, and muscle-bound men, most were in their mid-twenties or early thirties, and all in great shape. How long had it been since I last exercised? A long time, even longer since I’d been in a dojo. No, not looking forward to the class. Then several older people strolled onto the mat, and I felt relieved. Then I noticed they were muscle-bound and buff too. Oh crap!
A sharp slap on my butt threw me out of my misery, I spun around and looked down into the bright eager eyes of Roger Romantic. At his side, two lady friends, Ethel Green and Marge McCloskey, both as ancient as he.
“Hello, Ollie, wonderful to see you here. This class is amazing, the beginners class always is. Kidd Cole is a great teacher.”
Breathing out a long sigh of relief I gave Roger a hug, then smiled and waved at his two friends. At least I wouldn’t be the only person struggling through the lesson tonight. The class might even be fun, and I’d spend the time encouraging Roger, Ethel, and Marge to keep up with me.
A gong sounded, and the students lined up in neat rows, the black belts at the front, beginners in the middle and at the back. Roger and Ethel stood in the very last row, with me squeezed in between.
“As you can see we have black belts in our class tonight,” said Kidd Cole, “don’t worry, this class is their warm-up session. Now, I want you to work at a pace which is right for you.”
Kidd pointed to me.
“How long does it take you to run a mile?”
“About a week,” I responded, smiling.
Kidd let out a groan and raised his muscle-clad arms in the air in mock surprise. “Let’s start with gentle stretches. Roger, please warm the class up.”
Roger shuffled to the front as Kidd left the mat and headed into the office.
Roger sat down on the mat and stretched out into a downward-facing-dog yoga pose. The class followed. Then he stretched out his legs in front of him and reached his arms over his head toward his feet. The class followed. Then he stood up and began twisting to the left and to the right. Again, the class followed suit.
“Okay,” said Roger, “time to get the cardiovascular system working,” as he began to run around the mat. The class followed.
At each corner Roger touched the wall, and the class did the same.
“How many laps today?” Roger asked.
“Ten,” shouted a stout muscle-bound woman with bright red hair.
“Fifteen,” shouted someone else, a green belt wrapped around the waist.
“Seventy-five,” suggested Ethel.
“Ninety-five,” snorted Marge.
“Okay, let’s shoot for one hundred,” said Roger.
Around the dojo mat the class ran, at each lap Roger yelled, “one, two, three…”
The old man was nimble for an individual who walked with a stoop and had bandy legs. Ethel and Marge were equally adroit. I struggled to keep up.
At “twenty-five,” my legs started to wobble and shake.
“Keep going, Ollie, you’re doing great,” shouted Roger.
My face would’ve blushed bright crimson if it was not for the fact my heart was busy pumping blood to the vital parts.
“Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.”
I came in last, way behind Ethel and Marge. Feeling guilty for holding the class up, and for being so out of shape, I began to apologize.
“Don’t be silly,” Roger said. “Ollie, you’re doing great for someone who has
n’t trained in years. Keep going, we’ve almost finished the warm-up part of class. Things get easier after that.”
Then one of the students yelled something, I heard the words but they didn’t compute. The student yelled the words again.
“Another hundred.”
“Another hundred,” everyone yelled in unison.
I kept quiet.
Off again around the dojo mat. Within five laps I knew I was going to have a heart attack. The thing pounded against my chest so hard I thought it might break through my rib cage and escape. Keep going, I told it, and promised to treat it better. It didn’t believe me because my mind told it I had plans to visit the pizza bar next door after class. I began to hobble.
