Texas Troubles

by N. C. Lewis

  “Keep going you’re doing great,” urged Ethel.

  The entire class finished, and I had three more laps to go.

  “Keep going,” they all yelled.

  I hobbled a little faster.

  At the final lap, the entire class cheered. My heart pounded so fast, I thought it might be visible to the other students. I willed it to slow down a little as it had sped up a lot. I promised it I would not go to the pizza parlor, my mind called me a liar and my heart continued pounding.

  “Wonderful job, Ollie! Have to whip ya into shape!” I looked up, and there was Ma Jenkins smiling. Through my tiredness her eyes looked sinister, her smile forced and plastic. I smiled back, but kept my lips closed.

  “OK,” said Kidd, “newbies over here, advanced students with Ma. She’s teaching ground fighting tonight, we’ll focus on style.”

  The group split into newbies and advanced students. I went with the newbies.

  “Tonight, let’s practice the jumping spinning backfist, a technique from the movies. The move is a bit flashy, but is a solid training technique, develops balance and coordination. Remember, the technique is not for use in a real fight, but man, it sure looks good.”

  “Josh, hold out a mitt for me so I can demonstrate.”

  A young man stepped forward and held out a focus mitt in his right hand. Kidd crouched down into a tight ball and sprang up spinning through the air. The back of his left fist made perfect contact with the focus mitt knocking Josh off his feet and onto the floor.

  Kidd repeated the technique on his right side. This time Josh braced himself. The blow landed leaving the shape of Kidd’s fist imprinted in the mitt.

  For the next thirty minutes, we practiced that one technique. I was very rusty, balance off, coordination askew, with little power in my crouching jump. Most of the time I missed the mitt altogether, clattering to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, each time a little more winded.

  The gong sounded and the class lined up in neat little rows. Ma bowed, and we bowed in return. “Next class bring karate shoes, will spend time on high kicks. By the way, the school sells training shoes at a discount,” said Kidd to the dispersing class.

  “Oh, I don’t have any shoes. Do you have a size twelve in stock?” asked a student.

  “Yes, that’s the same size as my feet,” responded Kidd, “One moment, I’ll get a pair from the office.”

  As I came out of the changing room, Tony Dean, head instructor at the Whirlwind Martial Arts School, was deep in conversation with Ma. A quick hug and the two left together, chatting and laughing like naughty teenagers. Kidd Cole stood on the edge of the dojo mat, eyes narrow, brow creased into a deep frown.

  Heavier by two slices of Don Andrew’s Hill Country Special pizza, I returned to Ealing Homestead. At the desk in the office, I started going over the material I learned that day. For the first time, I felt it was possible for me to find out something useful about Tanner’s death. After today I had a few ideas, and jotted these down in a journal. There were still pieces missing, but if they fell into place I would make sense of things.

  Well after midnight, I turned out the light. One of my last thoughts before I fell asleep was whether I liked it or not, Ma Jenkins was a potential suspect, and so was Tony Dean.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, I drove over to Medlin Creek Community College to meet with Professor Bingham. Inside a modern office complex, the Professor’s office was cool, dark with the blinds drawn to chase away bright sunlight. Emma Garcia ushered me into the office with a cheery, “The Professor will be here soon, make yourself comfortable.”

  Now and again I glanced at the time on my cell phone, but without real anxiety, the Professor would be here any moment.

  The room was large, and the executive desk which sat facing the door had piles of files stacked up in untidy heaps. Book shelving, packed with books and journals, ran along two sides of the office, also filled with boxes of papers. To one side stood a small whiskey-barrel table. On top were four short glasses of soda water, with fresh ice cubes in a thermos bucket, and a half-empty bottle of Aberfeldy single malt whiskey.

  “Ah, Dr. Stratford, there you are.”

  I stood up as he extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Professor Bingham,” I said.

  The professor was a short, nondescript man of indeterminate age, wisps of black hair on top with gray stubble growing across a rounded chin. On his face were eyeglasses, thick oval-shaped lenses which amplified the dullness in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Please take a seat, Ollie,” he said, pointing to the chair. Then continued, “This is a great college, with great students who want to learn.”

  Professor Bingham slumped into his chair and smiled, deep creases forming around the edge of his eyeglasses. With jerky movements, the man stretched out a bony hand to pick up a piece of paper from one of the random piles on the desk. His eyes struggled to focus on the text, eventually successful, and he began to speak.

  “Yes, I have you down for Business Statistics 101. Is that agreeable, Dr. Stratford?”

  Forming suitable encouraging words, I said, “Of course, always eager to serve and encourage students to prepare for the future.”

  His smile broadened into a full-out grin. “This requires a celebration.”

  On his feet, Professor Bingham stumbled to the whiskey-barrel table, scooped up ice, and filled two glasses to the brim with Aberfeldy.

  My lips tugged into a greedy smile. I told them to go back to their normal neutral stance which they disobeyed, as did my eyes, and right hand, which reached toward the glass. The professor handed over the amber liquid, and downed his in one greedy gulp, crunching ice between his teeth.

  The professor refilled the empty glass then turned to me.

  “Now, Dr. Stratford, the school also has three classes coming up for the next semester, would this be of interest?”

  Yes, I thought, definitely yes, but I took a sip of whiskey before replying.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Delighted to explain. The course under consideration is Business Statistics 101 for first-year intakes. There are one hundred and twenty incoming students, so that would be approximately three classes.”

  Professor Bingham hesitated, then took a sip of whiskey. “Now, I can always rustle up more teaching hours if needed. Let me know.”

  My heart danced a little jig, it had forgiven me for doubling down on Don Andrews pizza.

  “Thank you, Professor Bingham. How can I turn down such a kind offer? Of course, I’ll accept.”

  “Good, good, very good. Let’s get started right away.” Professor Bingham reached for one of the piles on his desk and pulled out a docket labeled "Human Resources."

  “Here are the contracts for this and next semester, look them over, and if agreeable, please sign and date each one.”

  I was ready to sign now, but pretended to take my time and studied the documents with great care. Professor Bingham looked on, eyes slightly out of focus. Every time I looked up he took another large gulp of whiskey.

  Then I signed the last document.

  Professor Bingham stood up, stuck out his hand and said, “Good, I’ll send the paperwork over to Human Resources, shortly. Take care of yourself, Dr. Stratford.”

  He stumbled to the office door, and I walked out an adjunct Professor at Medlin Creek Community College.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Out of the building I walked, across the car lot into the Tahoe truck.

  “Moozoos Café, for a Creek Jolt to celebrate,” I said, turning the key into the ignition. Then I thought, better add a double shot of espresso to dull the impact of Professor Bingham’s excellent whiskey.

  Martin López, the barista, emerged from a storeroom in the back, his lopsided eyes flashing with suspicion.

  “Creek Jolt with a double espresso? A bit early, isn’t it? Must be having a rough day,” he said as his pointy carrot chin twitched.

  “Best day since I a
rrived in town, got a teaching position at Medlin Creek Community College.”

  “Congratulations! Well now, that deserves a celebration.”

  And he went to work preparing Moozoos signature beverage.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” he asked, handing over the paper cup.

  “Information,” I said. “Any news on the sheriff’s investigation?”

  “Yeah, you and everyone else. Anyway, the deputies have not questioned me yet, said they’d get back to me for a statement, but nothing. Doubt they will. Anyway, don’t hold your breath for progress, Ollie. Medlin Creek is a slow town, police officers don’t come out here to solve crime. The sheriff would rather fish than investigate a murder.”

  “Well, guess I’ll have to dig a little myself, you never know, I might find some information which is useful to Sheriff Hays.”

  The barista’s eyes flashed a warning; someone was listening to our conversation. I turned to where the barista was looking. Harry Marsden was studying the menu board.

  “Not sure what to get today,” Harry said. Then he looked over at me and flashed a gorgeous smile, “Hey Ollie, how are things going?”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Just back from speaking with Professor Bingham, I start teaching in a couple of weeks,” I said.

  “Congratulations, looking forward to it?”

  “Pretty much, I mean I think so.”

  Harry laughed out loud, his button-down shirt straining to contain his muscular chest.

  “Well, Medlin Creek Community College is a wonderful place to work. Professor Bingham is a nice guy. Anyway, I overheard your conversation with Martin. I don’t suppose you’ll have much time to solve Tanner’s murder now, but you might find some useful clues before you start teaching. Lord knows the sheriff's department needs help.”

  Harry was right as usual. Preparation for the classes and fixing up Ealing Homestead would leave little time to dig around.

  “Ollie, I’ve got a few minutes, let’s sit down and chat,” Harry said.

  He swaggered to a table by the large plate-glass windows which overlooked Creek Street.

  “Found anything interesting surrounding Tanner’s death?” he asked.

  I wanted to tell him about my suspicions, but I didn’t have enough information yet and they might sound like idle gossip.

  “Nope, nothing worth sharing,” I said.

  “Well, I have it from a reliable source that there was a weapon picked up at the crime scene. My guess is the sheriff’s department are only a few days away from an arrest, believe it’s a local person.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “There are rumors, but I won’t say anything yet. This is a small town, best to wait for an official statement from the sheriff’s office. Anyway, any information you find out will be helpful. Medlin Creek is a nice town, and everyone wants to keep it that way.”

  There was a long pause. I changed the subject.

  “Harry, I saw you at the Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy talking to Ma last evening. I wanted to come over and say hello but you two seemed deep in conversation.”

  We stared at each other for a moment. Then Harry took a long slow sip of coffee, looked into my eyes and spoke. “Yes... yes, Ma Jenkins has some...interesting plans for the dojo. I hope she is not making a mistake.” There was an unmistakable emphasis on the words Ma Jenkins.

  “Mistake,” I echoed.

  But Harry stood up and said, “I’ll stop by sometime soon to go over the plans and the financial arrangements. Hope to be hearing back from the bank soon about your loan, should be a slam dunk.”

  Harry left for his next appointment. I remained sipping my Creek Jolt, thinking, for the next several minutes. The barista waved as I left the store. On Creek Street, a dark gray cloud had temporarily blocked the sun. I hoped it wasn’t an omen of harsh weather ahead.

  Chapter 14

  Tanner’s parents’ house, a little square cottage, stood on the edge of a residential area which contained mansion-sized modern homes. The cottage was originally part of a larger homestead. It was easy to understand why Tanner’s parents chose the place, surrounded by tall oak trees atop a hill which offered views into the valley.

  Two small, tan and white Jack Russell terriers barked as my Tahoe truck pulled into the driveway. The little dogs yapped and howled as I walked to the front door. “Down Bella, down Muskrat,” yelled Tanner’s uncle who heard the barking and opened the door. The dogs scurried off to find something else to investigate.

  Tanner’s uncle, a tall man over six feet, early sixties, with gray sideburns and a deep booming voice. “Ollie, great to see you again,” he said, wrapping arms around me in a bear hug.

  “Just stopped by to visit with you, Ada and Ben. Wanted to see how ya'll are doing.”

  “Oh, my sister, is at the Senior Citizens Day Center. The van stops by Monday through Friday mornings, drops Ada back here around three p.m.” Ada, Tanner’s mum, was fifteen years older than her younger brother. Ben, her husband, was ten years older than Ada.

  Tanner’s uncle waved me into the house, and in a low tone said, “Ben is ailing now, the guy’s mind is still sharp, but time has taken its course, it does with everyone.”

  The living room, despite the huge windows, was dark, curtains drawn, transformed into a makeshift bedroom. Tanner’s father lay, eyes closed, on a hospital-style bed which had wheels and a dizzying array of levers.

  “Hello Ben,” I said in as cheery a voice as possible. “Ollie Stratford, Tanner’s old friend, stopped by to visit.”

  Nothing.

  Was Ben alive? The chest barely moved. I leaned in closer. His left eye opened. Then his right. Ben smiled.

  “Ben, it’s Ollie,” I repeated.

  Very slowly, with jerky movements made only by those in deep pain, Ben lifted himself up. As I leaned in he spoke in a soft, raspy whisper, “Ollie, the years have taken their toll. Can’t do much now, not even walk. The memory fades a little, but I remember...I remember you and Tanner were a wonderful team in college. I remember you standing at the altar with John. Tanner as his best man. One of his best friends, you were. Tanner trusted you, I remember that.”

  A deep fit of coughing racked his fragile body. Eyes closed he continued, “Ollie, find the killer of my boy. Don’t let me go to the grave with my son’s killer on the loose.”

  “Ben, I’m sure the sheriff will get to the bottom of this,” I said.

  The frail man raised himself up higher, and in a bitter voice replied, “Ollie, I have no confidence in the sheriff’s department. The mayor runs that place, bumbling fool! Those amateurs will never find the killer. Ollie, you need to solve it, for Tanner!”

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, as the clock high on the mantelpiece struck seven a.m., I let Bodie out. Off the dog ran toward the outbuildings. The rumble of tires against the dirt road alerted me to a visitor. A white Ford pickup truck pulled into the driveway with George Garcia peering out of the window. With a welcoming wave of the hand he jumped out of the truck, scurried across the little dirt track through the iron gate and toward the front door where I stood.

  “Hello, Ollie, how is the roof holding up? Stopped by to inspect the house.”

  His lips smiled and his eyes told the story this was business. In George’s right hand was a small clipboard, and behind his ear, a black ballpoint pen. The electrical fuse box was the first port of call. As he prodded and took notes, George occasionally let out a startled, “Ah ha!” Or more comforting, “That’s good!”

  After watching for a bit, I decided to head back to the kitchen to make coffee and check emails. There was a message from Mary Ellington, the auctioneer:

  Hi, Ollie, hope life is going great in Texas. Give me a call. Need permission to send your contact details to Butter and Dungs, the law firm over in Austin. Nothing serious or urgent, but they have some information they want to share. Something to do with the previous owner of the property, but they wouldn’
t say more than that. An email “yes” is good enough. But call if you have any questions.

  As I typed “yes,” George stopped by. “Just a few more things to review. Looks like the previous owner took great care of the place.”

  “Go right ahead George, I’ll be working on fixing up the front door, needs a new coat of paint.”