by N. C. Lewis
I staggered backwards tripping over my feet and falling flat onto the floor, the cell phone glued to my ear. “Cash, I need that cash,” I screamed. “Harry you said it is a slam dunk. There must be something you can do.” Desperate, I sounded desperate. I was.
“Sorry, Ollie,” the tone unemotional, matter-of-fact, businesslike. “All contacts and resources exhausted. The project isn’t credit worthy, doubt there’s a financial institution in Texas that will stand behind the thing. Have you thought about selling up and moving back home to New York State? Now is an appropriate time to consider that option.”
Harry paused. I gasped for breath. Then Harry continued.
“The invoice for my services is in the mail. Would love to remain as a business advisor, but under the circumstances, I cannot offer further advice until the invoice is fully paid.”
Click.
My heart pounded against my chest as I tensed up, anger rising through my veins, palms pressed to my cheeks, as I sucked in air and breathed it out. Tears, more tears, I began to cry. I was getting nowhere. So far, I’d spent most of my savings just trying to keep up; And Harry? The man had seemed so nice, a real Texas gentleman, but in truth the accountant was only interested in business.
If something didn’t work out soon I’d have to admit defeat and go back to Brooklyn. That thought stung, but renting a tiny apartment in familiar surroundings was my only option until I figured out what to do next.
The sound of a car screeching to a halt in the front yard disrupted the atmosphere of misery. The door slammed as I ran to the window. A red Toyota Avalon parked on the dusty driveway, with Marsha Pennington teetering on tall stilettos up the dirt path toward the front door.
Chapter 31
“Hello, Dr. Stratford, phew, it’s a bit warm in here, you might want to adjust the thermostat on the air-conditioning.” Marsha’s voice was light, almost joyful, her face all smiles, insufficient camouflage to hide a greedy grin. The victorious tone clashed against my mood, jangling my nerves, but if Marsha had an offer, Ollie Stratford was ready to listen, I waved the obnoxious woman inside.
Under her arm a bundle of legal papers, which she dropped with a snort on the kitchen table. Then her eyes looked up, examining my face. A sense of dread swept over me, and I sat down opposite, resigned to fate.
“In the light of the new circumstances, I had to draw up a brand-new contract.” The words were matter-of-fact, without malice or sympathy, the focus on riches to meet her dreams of avarice.
Marsha passed a single sheet of paper for review, a simple sales agreement, then spoke. “Dr. Stratford, imagine the sensation of all that cash in hand, and the freedom of being released from this wretched burden.” A single crooked finger pointed to the bottom of the page. “Please sign here to begin legal transfer of ownership. Yes, add in your bank account details here.”
Numbness, I felt paralyzed. Marsha handed over a pen. For a moment, I hesitated.
“The paperwork is right here, Ollie the deal is twenty five percent of the appraised value.”
The words shot through my veins deep into my brain like freezing water. Twenty five percent! Trapped in a hole, with no way out, and Marsha Pennington knew that. She the cat, I the mouse.
The clock of polished oak, high upon the mantel struck noon. Instinctively, I rose from my chair and stretched, and as I did the wrinkles faded from my forehead while my mind cleared. Quitting Texas meant abandoning my dream, and leaving Tanner’s murder unsolved. Could I walk out of Medlin Creek empty-handed?
“No deal. Get out!”
The deadly calm in my voice struck Marsha so violently she slid backwards in the chair, jumped up teetering toward the door. Bodie growled, a deep menacing noise rumbling low in his chest, his lips quivering.
Marsha opened the door and turned to say something, but before the words formed, Bodie let out a wild howl and launched himself high in the air, a ball of black fur, fangs, and angry eyes.
“No, Bodie!” I cried.
He sunk his teeth deep into Marsha’s designer butt. The woman let out a savage yelp, scrambled out the door, galloping flat-out down the dirt track, cursing as she went. Bodie followed yapping and snapping at her high heels.
Chapter 32
The wind was blowing a summer storm, driving through the Texas sky, black, heavy clouds from which the rain poured down on Medlin Creek, with terrific violence. The storm engulfed the small town, whistling and moaning, clattering the metal roofs, smashing at the windows, rushing down the dirt pathways with such force that one could only walk by holding onto the cedar fences which separated fields and property.
I sat behind the plate-glass window of Moozoos Café looking out onto the empty street as rain splattered off the pavement. Several customers sheltered in the store sipping their steaming hot beverages. I was waiting for Millie.
In she came, dripping wet, wearing a plain blue dress and her hair tied back, steam rising like the hot drink she was about to devour. “The sheriff’s department are so tight-lipped about the investigation, it makes a reporter’s job difficult,” she said, shaking the excess water off her bag, and opening it.
“So, nothing new?”
“Nope.”
It appears my eyes widened or jaw dropped slack or both, because Millie said, “Oh, don’t look so surprised. This is Medlin Creek, not New York City, things move at snail's pace here.”
Madame Bleu made an appearance. “Yeah, that’s true, but sometimes they don’t move at all though.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” I replied.
Millie nods. “Me, too.”
“So, nothing new?” I asked again.
Professor Purple appeared. “Not much, but we can report the recovery of a weapon from the murder scene. A knife of some sort used to kill Tanner. The sheriff’s department hasn’t revealed any further information. Logic suggests, given the slow progress, the deputies will have to reveal more soon.”
“Why haven’t they released details already?”
Millie answered in her own voice. “Incompetence. Anyway, something needs to break soon because I’ve got a fresh story to prepare, and if there’s no news what am I supposed to write?”
Professor Purple piped in. “Any ideas, Ollie?”
I shook my head.
The puppet descended back into Millie’s handbag.
Madame Bleu appeared and asked, “Anyway Ollie, how are things going at Ealing Homestead?” For some reason, it was easy to share the financial troubles, dealings with Marsha Pennington, and disappointment with Harry Marsden with the puppet. Millie’s eyes grew wide with each revelation, and Madame Bleu interjected with a supportive, “ooh la la!”
When I finished, a deep frown formed on Millie’s brow and she was silent for several minutes. “Ollie, the property and outbuildings can’t be worth very much in the current condition. Let me see, I can only speculate that Marsha is after the land for some other reason. But what?”
Millie went silent. The murmur of customer conversation, the clatter of glasses, and the gentle whoosh of the espresso machine filled the void. The barista looked over and gave a friendly nod, I waved back, and over he came, scurrying across the Café.
“How are you ladies doing?” The barista made a pretense of tidying up the table area. “Oh, I’m sure y‘all heard the word on the Creek is that Tony Dean consumed a large amount of alcohol in the hours before he died.”
“Drunk?” asked Millie.
The barista nodded and scurried back to the bar.
I was still digesting this information when Millie said, “Mineral rights!” Millie spat the words out as if swearing, her arms flailing about like a lottery winner.
“Mineral rights?”
“Yes, Ollie, many of the old ranches were subdivided and sold on without mineral rights. Only a minority now have the rights intact. Have you had that old oil well surveyed?”
“Oil well?”
“Yep, the well that sits on the property close to the
creek, you’ve seen the thing, right?”
“No, I haven’t explored the entire property yet. But I did notice lots of old mechanical equipment scattered around the front yard. I didn’t realize there was a well on the property.”
“Yeah,” she continued, “It’s right next to the little shack where Simpkins lives.”
“Are you kidding? Simpkins lives in a shack on my property?”
Millie shrugged.
“Sorry, I thought you knew. Emma Garcia takes a supply of food every Monday and Wednesday. Bodie is a frequent visitor, often see them hanging out together by the Riverwalk. Simpkins has lived in that shack for years, I thought everyone realized that.”
Millie changed back to her original subject. “Anyway, you’ll want to check the deeds to see who owns those rights, might make the property very valuable. People will do anything for mineral rights around here, I bet Marsha is after that.”
When I returned home it was dusk. The evening air still, the heat had broken, and storm clouds hung over Medlin Creek, but right now, it was calm. A hot shower and to bed early, my mom always said a good night's sleep and things are much better in the morning. I hoped she was right.
Chapter 33
I slept in late the next morning and felt much better. Bodie was waiting patiently at the front door, and soon, off he bounded toward the outbuildings, beyond—which I now knew—sat Simpkins shack. “Have a wonderful day hanging out with Simpkins,” I shouted as he disappeared out of view.
Coffee, a bowl of cereal, then back to the desk to think. The past few days swirled around in fragments. It was like trying to remember a dream several hours after you’ve woken up. Disconnected strands which don’t quite fit together, but somewhere in the fragmented shards, that certain something—if you can remember—holds the solution.
As I reviewed the list of activities for the day the cell phone rang. “Press conference, ten a.m. at the town hall. The sheriff’s department have made a breakthrough, not sure what. I’ll see you there,” said Millie.
For a couple of minutes, I sat still, my hands tapping the desk. The clock of polished oak that sat high on the mantel, chimed nine a.m. Up I got and stretched. What evidence had they uncovered? Did they have the other shoe?
✽ ✽ ✽
As I pulled into the town hall parking lot, a swarm of dark gray clouds hung overhead, and the temperature was beginning to rise. Several media trucks lined up along the curb. Out-of-town reporters and technical engineers mingled with tourists and interested townsfolk. City officials scurried around preparing for the big event.
The council committee room, converted into a makeshift theater, contained a small podium with a lectern, behind which stood Mayor Felton. On either side Medlin Creek Deputies, Muller to the left, and Dingsplat to the right.
“Over here, Ollie!”
Millie had her cell phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek as she scribbled notes. This, the most exciting event in her years as a newspaper reporter in Medlin Creek.
“So glad I’m covering this one,” she whispered, “beats fish fries and selling advertising space.”
Familiar faces filled the room. Kidd Cole twitched nervously, shifting from one leg to the other. Marsha Pennington had her arms looped around the waist of Professor Bingham. Etched onto her face a nervous smile, and she wore flat shoes. She was not happy to see me. Professor Bingham, sober, unshaven, stared out into empty space.
George and Emma Garcia looked tired and drawn. I suspected their financial problems were deeper than George admitted. Inquisitiveness had even got the better of Simpkins, he stood leaning on his cane in a neat pair of black pants and a pressed white shirt. Both were two sizes too large. A gift, I guessed, from George and Emma.
Roger Romantic sat sandwiched between Marge and Ethel, their usually cheerful faces stoic. At the far end of the room, Don Andrews from the pizza parlor and the barista engaged in a heated conversation with Mr. Burlington from Gregg’s. Mr. Burlington’s shop assistant, Michael, leaned against a far wall, his eyes droopy and his mouth slack. I wanted to believe Ma Jenkins would show up, or Tanner's uncle. Neither were present.
The crowd hushed, and Mayor Felton made the opening remarks.
“Now, I’d like to begin by commending the excellent investigative work of Medlin Creek deputies. As you may know, Deputy Muller has taken the lead, supported by Deputy Dingsplat while Sheriff Hays is out of town.”
Deputy Muller beamed, Deputy Dingsplat looked down.
Mayor Felton looked at her typewritten script.
“Ladies and gentlemen, residents of Medlin Creek, we are here to report noteworthy progress in the murder investigation of Tanner Holgate and Tony Dean. Deputy Muller will fill you in on recent events surrounding the investigation.”
Mayor Felton moved away from the lectern. Deputy Dingsplat took a small step backward as Deputy Muller grabbed the microphone, all smiles and white teeth.
“A brutal criminal committed these crimes," Deputy Muller said with a nervous smile. "An individual who must not remain at liberty. We have some clear leads to follow. At the present time, I can't go into details, but there are clues and indications. The sheriff’s department is following up with members of the local community. Yes, there is a person of specific interest...”
An out-of-town reporter, gray haired and weary eyes, with the competitive ferocity of the big city, rushed to the front, and yelled, “Can you help us out lady? Give us a bit more brisket to chew on here.”
At this interruption, other reporters jostled to the front.
“What clues did you find?”
“Where’s the murder weapon?”
“Are we dealing with a serial killer here?” yelled Millie.
Then the hand puppets joined the fray, Professor Purple first. “When can we expect an arrest?”
“Why hasn’t Sheriff Hays returned to town?” asked Madame Bleu.
“Who is the prime suspect?” screeched another out-of-town reporter.
“Why has progress been so slow?” bawled yet another.
“Ooh la la,” interjected Madame Bleu.
Deputy Muller’s eyes grew wide, her cheeks flushed red, and she began to sweat.
Energized by the hubbub, the gray-haired reporter clambered onto the podium, raised his arms to the heavens, and as the cameras flashed and video rolled, went for the headline. “Who is the Butcher of Medlin Creek?”
Deputy Muller stood frozen, her jaw slack, and her eyes wide open.
Mayor Felton scurried back to the lectern as Deputy Dingsplat guided Deputy Muller away from the microphone, and out of the conference room.
“A suspect has been identified...” she said holding her hands out for quiet.
Before she could finish the gray-haired, weary-eyed, out-of-town reporter hissed. “What’s the suspect’s name?”
The room became still, all eyes on the mayor. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
“Ma Jenkins.”
Chapter 34
Ominous black thunderclouds hung low as oppressive humidity engulfed Medlin Creek. A torrential downpour had been threatening all morning, but Mother Nature held her fury for now. Moozoos Café overflowed with out-of-towners and regulars jostling for their midmorning caffeine boost. Excited chatter, raised voices, discussing the events of the morning.
At a table overlooking Creek Street, I sat with a small group, Roger, Ethel, Marge and Millie—who was soaking up every drop of information. Curiosity got the better of the barista, and he left the assistant to serve the growing line of customers joining us at the table.
“So, as far as I can tell,” he said, his lopsided eyes flashing, “they found one of Ma’s daggers next to Tanner’s body. Now, I have this on good authority, it was the blade that killed the poor guy.”
“Yeah,” said Millie, “guess they want to check Ma’s finger-prints with those found on both murder weapons. Don’t suppose they will match though.”
The barista’s chin
twitched and his eyes glowed, “They’ll match all right. Listen, murder in Hill Country isn’t subtle and most of the time, the killer is family or friend.”
“Erm…I doubt it,” said Roger Romantic, “even if the prints match, I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. Ma Jenkins is no murderer.”
The barista held his hand up and licked his lips. “Word on the Creek has it that Ma Jenkins took off after she killed Tony Dean. I hear her and Tanner’s Martial Arts Academy faced financial difficulties, I guess she killed Tony because he had a rival school—nasty business, very nasty.”
