Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “Nice to see you, Isabel. You, too, Mrs. Ferreira.”

  My mouth keeps up a smile. I can’t help it.

  “Same here,” I say. “How’ve you been, Jack?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  “Glad to hear.”

  “Business is pickin’ up.” He hooks his thumb behind him. “Did you see the sign? We’re gonna have music again on Friday nights. You should… ”

  I finish the sentence in my head. The missing word is come. I let him off easy.

  “The Cowlicks, eh? I like those guys.”

  He turns his attention toward the bar. He’s got customers. He tips his head.

  “Why don’t you look over the menu? I’ll be back to take your order.”

  I study the menu. It’s mostly burgers, sandwiches, and fries. The day’s special is meatloaf, I kid you not.

  “Do you know what you want to get?” I ask my mother.

  “I liked his sister’s menu better. I guess I’ll go with the tuna fish sandwich and French fries. You?”

  It’s Friday, and tuna fish is the only non-meat dish on the menu. Ma holds onto that Catholic thing of no meat on Friday. I don’t eat much meat since I’m one of those natural food nuts, but more meat now that Ma lives with me. I was almost going to make a bad joke that I’d kill for Eleanor’s cooking but decide against it. I shove the menus back in their place.

  “The same,” I say.

  Jack returns with a beer for me, my usual brand from the tap, and a Diet Coke for Ma.

  “Here you go,” he says. “Ready to order?”

  Jack scribbles on a pad as I tell him what we want.

  “How’s your sister?”

  “Eleanor’s okay. She misses workin’ here and goin’ places. At least she’s got her dogs. We do have a hundred acres.” The bell rings from the kitchen. Jack sticks the pencil behind his ear. “Gotta get that.”

  I’m halfway through my sandwich and beer when I realize the place is filling up. As my mother mentioned earlier, a lot of snowmobiles are parked outside. People get thirsty for beer or something else driving those machines along the trails in the woods. Dale Collins, Adela’s son, and Bobby Collins, her rather unlikable ex, sit at the bar and talk. I guess eliminating Bobby as his mother’s killer made Dale more receptive to his father. Both give me a nod and a smile when they spot me.

  My interest is on Jack, naturally. He’s serving and chatting. He’s collecting empties from the tables. I feel like helping him, but I can’t. Once in a while, I catch him glance my way.

  My mother leans forward.

  “Isabel, stop making goo-goo eyes at Jack.”

  “Goo-goo eyes? What’s that?”

  “Like you’re in love with the man.”

  I suppose I am, or at least an extreme like.

  Instead I say, “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  My attention turns toward the woman who approaches our table. It’s Marsha, who my mother and I nicknamed the Floozy although we keep that to ourselves. She was the person who gave Bobby Collins an alibi the night his ex-wife, Adela Collins, disappeared although nobody believed him or her, myself included. It turned out she was being honest all along. Let’s say Marsha is a little rough around the edges.

  “Hey, Marsha, how are you?”

  Her dry bush of brown hair swings around as she checks behind her. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, booze, and B.O. Oh, dear.

  “Can I talk with you for a minute? It’s kinda important,” she says.

  “You remember my mother, Maria? It’s okay to talk in front of her.”

  “Sure.”

  Marsha aka the Floozy nods as I scoot over, so she can take the space beside me. Yowser, I smell more than a whiff. I’m guessing the Floozy is in her late forties, but she’s got some serious country miles on her with missing teeth and some heft she crams into tight jeans. I spot a roll of flesh beneath her loose-hanging flannel shirt. I wonder if she and Bobby Collins are still an item since I didn’t hear any, “Hi, ya, honey,” from either of them. But then again, Bobby and Dale are yakking it up big time.

  “What’s up, Marsha?” I ask.

  “Heard you’re still doin’ that investigation stuff,” she says.

  I smile. Word spread fast thanks to the Old Farts.

  “Well, part-time and if it’s a case I’m interested in,” I answer.

  She snorts.

  “I think you’ll be interested in this one.”

  “Is it for you?”

  “Nah, my cousin. I don’t think you’ve met her. She lives in Caulfield.”

  Caulfield is a hilltown even smaller than Conwell that’s north and west from here in the next county. That town wasn’t part of the Daily Star’s coverage, and honestly, I’ve never had a reason to go there. Maybe Sam and I drove through it a few times to get to somewhere else. Nothing sticks out in my mind about the place.

  “Tell me more, Marsha.”

  “I’d rather you hear it from her.”

  “Fair enough. Why don’t you bring her to my house? You know where I live?”

  The Floozy gives me an amused smile. Of course, she knows where I live. Everybody in this nosy little town knows where everybody else lives, what vehicle they drive, and how they make their money. They know their marital status and how many kids they have.

  “I can do that.”

  “What day works for you two?”

  “How about Sunday? My cousin works Saturdays.”

  I nod. She’s not messing around.

  “Make it around three.”

  “I hear you’re chargin’. My cousin can’t afford much.”

  “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “All right then.” Marsha slaps the table before she’s on her feet. “See you Sunday.”

  I giggle as the Floozy pounds Bobby hard on the back before she heads back to the far side of the room. I wait until she’s definitely out of earshot before I ask my mother for her take on that conversation.

  Ma slides her empty plate forward. I only ate half of my sandwich. I’m not big into piccalilli in my tuna salad. The fries were a bit on the soggy side.

  “Sure, I’m interested in what the Floozy’s cousin has to say,” Ma says. “The fact she wouldn’t say what it is makes me curious. And then she agreed so fast to meet Sunday.”

  “What do you think? Money or murder?”

  “Maybe both.”

  I laugh. My mother’s instincts are usually spot on.

  “You ready to hit the road?” I ask. “Let me get the check. You can just put away your pocketbook. I’ve got this one.”

  I glance toward Jack for the hundredth time this night. He’s stuck behind the bar opening bottles, the King of Beers, no less, for a few customers. I see my chance when he starts wiping down the bar with a rag and dropping empties into a carton on the floor.

  “Be right back,” I tell Ma.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Jack grins when he sees my approach.

  “I’d like to settle with you,” I say.

  “Sure enough.” He begins searching through the stack of tickets. “Here you are.”

  I have several things I’d like to settle with Jack. I bet you can guess a few of them. But suddenly, I’m shy. The words stay inside me.

  “You asked about my sister,” Jack says as he adds up my bill. “One thing we do for some fun is go snowshoeing on our land. I bought her and me a pair like the ones you have.”

  “Does she like it?”

  “Oh, yeah, we take her mutts with us. She laughs up a storm.”

  That might be something to see. I don’t recall his killer sister ever laughing up a storm. Maybe a giggle or a snicker. Mostly grunts.

  “I’m glad,” and then I manage, “It was nice seeing you again,” and feel foolish for it.

  Jack raises his eyes from my bill.

  “I’m… ”

  But whatever else Jack was going to tell me stops abruptly when his creepy co
usin, Fred Lewis, wraps an arm around me and, no fooling, kisses my cheek.

  “Hey, Isabel,” he says. “If this lunkhead won’t see you anymore, I’m ready to take over.”

  “Take over what?” I say.

  Jack is red-faced. I am, too.

  Fred hoots.

  “I like sassy women,” he says.

  “Well, this sassy woman says you can let her go. I’m gonna pay Jack.”

  He drops his arm.

  “Sure. Sure. But the offer still stands.”

  “I’ll remember that if I have something that needs taking over.”

  Thankfully, Fred loses interest and finds somebody else in the bar to terrorize. He’s joshing with some buddy who’s got a stool at the bar.

  Jack hands me the ticket. I reach for my wallet. I have enough to pay cash.

  “Sorry about my cousin,” he says.

  “It’s not your fault he’s a jerk.”

  Jack nods. He’s not grinning or smiling.

  “I wanted to say before I’m glad you came, too,” he says softly.

  “Oh, Jack.”

  On the drive home in the car, Ma and I discuss Marsha the Floozy, the Rooster’s new menu, and our meal in that order. We both agree we are intrigued by the Floozy’s proposal. The new menu needs some tuning up, and the food was so-so, but it was good not to cook tonight.

  We are a half-mile from home when Ma throws this at me, “He still likes you.”

  Of course, she’s talking about Jack, and I feel my face must be getting red again, but I decide to downplay her observation.

  “Sure, Ma.”

  “Yeah, I saw the way he kept staring at you.”

  “Was he making goo-goo eyes, too?”

  “No, men don’t do that. You should’ve seen his face when you went up to pay that bill, especially when that cousin of his grabbed you.”

  “Aw, come on, Ma. You’ve been reading too many romance novels lately. Stick to mysteries.”

  My mother makes a low laugh.

  “Isabel, you’re such a funny girl.”

  The Floozy’s Cousin

  Marsha and her cousin show up around three Sunday in the Floozy’s rusted clunker of a car I hope will be able to make it back up our snow-covered drive. I should have warned her to park at the top and walk down. But being local gals, I bet they’ve handled their share of steep driveways in the winter. I do have buckets of sand in the Subaru’s cargo hold. Anyway, it wouldn’t be the first car I’ve had to push out of here.

  My mother announces the cousins’ arrival from her chair in the living room, where she’s reading the cozy mystery she picked up at the town library yesterday. Football season is over, so the TV is off. Ma’s not a basketball fan. She’ll watch the Red Sox even when they stink. She did inform me which day the team’s equipment truck leaves Fenway Park for Florida.

  The kitten, Roxanne, is on her lap. The dog, Maggie, is curled near the woodstove, her spot these days when she’s not begging for Ma’s attention.

  “Your company’s here,” she says as she parts the drapes. “You want me to go somewhere else?”

  “Nah, you can stay right there. I’m going to meet with them in the kitchen, so you can listen in. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “This chair’s just fine.”

  Both women appear uncertain about where to go until I open the front door and give them a friendly holler. I hate keeping the door open, it’s still so damn cold, but it’d be rude to shut it. Of course, the dog runs outside to greet them. She’s got her tail wagging, and I like it that the cousin reaches down to give her a pat. Marsha takes the lead up the walkway. Her cousin isn’t as tall or as heavy. Her hair is stuffed in a knit hat but what sticks out is dark. I’m guessing she’s younger than Marsha, maybe in her late thirties. She’s got one of those tight faces that make you think she might snap if she doesn’t like something somebody says, or maybe she’s just tired, or maybe she’s unsure about meeting a nosy newcomer. Let’s be clear. I will be a newcomer even if I live to be older than my mother and die here.

  “Come in,” I tell the women as they stomp their snowy boots on the porch. “Don’t worry about that. Maggie, go lie down.”

  Marsha and her cousin give my house the once-over as I shut the door behind them. I don’t know about the cousin, but it might be the nicest house they’ve been inside. I’m not being a snob. I’ve seen the trailer where Marsha lives, at least from the outside. But maybe the cousin is better off.

  “This is Annette. I told you about her,” Marsha says.

  I reach out my hand. It takes Annette a while to offer hers. I’m betting she’s one of those women who aren’t into handshaking. I wasn’t either until I got into journalism. I liked how it threw men off when I extended my hand for a shake, especially in the hilltowns. Annette’s hand is colder and its skin rougher than mine. I wonder what she does for a living, and I suppose I’m about to hear. I introduce my mother before I ask her last name.

  “Waters,” she says. “I live in Caulfield.”

  “Why don’t we go into the kitchen? You want coffee? Tea? Water? Can I take your jackets?”

  Both shake their heads as they follow me into the kitchen. Perhaps they’d rather have a beer, but this is supposed to be a business arrangement and not a gabfest in my kitchen. I have a pad and two pens on the tabletop. Always have a backup pen. I learned that rule the hard way as a reporter when I was stuck doing an important interview without one. I thought to record our conversation today on my phone, but it might spook them. I’m still learning my way around this P.I. business. I expect to for a while.

  I started investigating Adela Collins’ case purely for personal reasons. I understand what happens when someone disappears and what that means to the people who love them. My little cousin, Patsy, went missing when I was a kid. They found her remains years later when a wooded area was cleared for a subdivision but not her killer. I haven’t forgotten the feeling of losing Patsy or wondering who took her. They say it’s often people close to the victim and not some stranger danger. I hate to think someone I know killed my cousin and got away with it.

  The women take off their coats and bunch them over the tops of their chairs. Annette slides her black, knit hat off her head and into a jacket pocket.

  “Marsha says you’re hoping I could help you,” I tell Annette.

  “Yeah, catch the bastard that killed my father,” she blurts.

  Whoa. I reach for a pen. A father killer for my second case? She’s definitely got me interested. Ma coughs from the other room. She’s interested, too.

  “Okay, first things first. I’m gonna need some basic information about you and your father. Then we can get into the details about his death. That all right with you, Annette?”

  Annette glances at her cousin, who gives her a nod.

  “Isabel’s all right,” Marsha says. “I didn’t think so at first, but she proved my Bobby didn’t do it.”

  I smile at the Floozy’s glowing endorsement. It definitely appears she and Bobby are still together. That pound on the back at the Rooster was more like a love tap, I suppose. Besides, the night was young when I saw them. My mother and I were gone before it got older. Who knows how long Bobby and his son, Dale, talked?

  To get business out of the way, I get Annette’s address and contact info. What does she do for a living? She’s a mechanic. Is she married? Used to be, but now divorced. Kids? One, a son named Abe who’s nineteen. Siblings? Two brothers, well, three, but one died when he was a baby. They’re still in the area. What about the mother? She died years ago. Cancer.

  I wish I could be recording this or typing it on my computer. I’ll have to make a strong effort to write everything down neatly, so I can read it later.

  “That’s good.” I speak in a soothing voice. “Please tell me about your father. I don’t believe you said his name.”

  “Chester A. Waters. Everyone knew him as Chet. I kept my family’s name after the divorce. I know what you’re gonna ask
next. He was sixty-nine when he died.”

  Marsha pokes her cousin.

  “Tell her the date.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, three years ago in January. It was Jan. 15.”

  “Three years ago?”

  “Is that too long?”

  “It depends on how much information you can give me and other stuff. I also don’t know anybody living in your town, so I’d definitely need your help with that. And other members of your family.” I have my pen ready. “What did your father do for a living?”

  “He ran a junkyard. He called it Rough Waters Garage and Junkyard.”

  “That’s a clever name. Was it at his home or someplace else?”

  “Home.”

  “How big was it?”

  “Huge. He took in wrecks and sold the parts. If they weren’t too bad, he fixed ’em up. Once in a while he’d get a crusher when a car was down to its bones.”

  “Is the junkyard still there?”

  “Yeah, it’s mine now. I run the place. You can add junkyard dealer to what I do to make money.”

  I manage a straight face. I learned that trick when I was a reporter and listened to people share the most outrageous things about their lives, all off the record, of course. Now that I’m no longer in the news business, I might let loose a few of those stories. But a woman owning and operating a junkyard? That’s a new one on me.

  “What happened to your brothers?”

  “None of ’em wanted to own a junkyard and a garage. One of my brothers, Chester Jr., is a school principal who doesn’t like to get his pink hands dirty.” She holds up her own, which are dry and blackened beneath the nails. “My other brother, Mike, drives truck. We divided up the land as equal as we could make it. I had a small house built right where my father’s used to be on the same slab. That’s where I live.”

  I put down the pen. I just don’t meet too many junkyard owners and like I just said, never a woman. The newcomers hate junkyards and make rules to ban them from opening, but probably the one Chet Waters owned was grandfathered or the town of Caulfield isn’t so particular. When I was a reporter, I saw two neighbors, a newcomer and a native, almost come to blows at a meeting over a proposed junkyard. The board of selectmen turned down the request, and the guy didn’t contest it.