Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  By the way, Conwell only allows one unregistered vehicle on a property. That’s how the town took care of that problem although I personally know several people who buried junks they no longer wanted in their backyard. I never understood that. Why not have them towed to a junkyard instead?

  “What was your father like?”

  Annette grins. So does Marsha, who has been amazingly still.

  “He was nice if he liked you, a son of a bitch if he didn’t, which was most people. Wouldn’t you say, Marsha?”

  “Yup, I was glad he liked me. He sure didn’t like my parents, but I didn’t either.”

  I met a lot of men like that when I was a hilltown reporter, but I keep that information to myself. Remember what I said about Yankee men being the strong, silent types? They’re like old lawnmowers that need a few cranks to start running, and then they talk your head off. What about grumpy men? Of course, I met them, too. They were a bit trickier, but I found most came around if I didn’t back down and was honest about my intentions.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the day your father died?”

  Annette raises her chin.

  “It was night. His house caught fire and he didn’t get out in time. They said he was drunk and probably set the place on fire with a cigarette. They said it was an accident. His place, well, it’s my place now, is way out on a back road. No real neighbors. It was late, the middle of the night, actually, so nobody called in the fire. I’m the one who found Pop’s body the next day. It looked like he tried to crawl out. He was badly burned and… ” Her voice cracks. She stops for a moment. “There wasn’t much left of him or the house. It used to be a camp.”

  FYI, a camp is a cabin, typically small and rough. While Annette talks more about the experience, I try to recall if I ever heard anything about the fire. Like I said, the Daily Star didn’t cover Caulfield, but we might have run a wire piece, something short, with a headline like: Caulfield man dies in house fire.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” I say. “I’m curious though. How did they know a cigarette started it?”

  “Beats me. There was hardly anything left. But that’s what the fire marshal said. I don’t think he tried that hard if you wanna know the fuckin’ truth. He probably thought my father was just some dumb redneck. He asked my brothers and me if Pop smoked, and so he decided that’s probably it. Everybody knew he drank heavy.”

  I write while I listen. I don’t even glance at the paper, so it’s going to be dicey later on if I can read it. But then again, I’ve got Ma listening in the other room. She’s got a mind like a steel trap. She may be up there in years, but if you met my mother, you’d understand.

  “What makes you think it was murder and not an accident?”

  “I just know.”

  “Annette, if you want me to take on this case, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”

  She checks Marsha, who gives her an encouraging nod.

  “He found somethin’ in one of the junks.”

  “Go on.”

  She presses her lips together before she continues.

  “Drugs and some money in the trunk of a Toyota Corolla. It was shoved inside the spare where somebody cut it. He showed it to me before he died. It was a month before, maybe less.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t there later on. I didn’t think to check until a few weeks after Pop died. I was too worked up about his dyin’.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “And it kept snowin’. It dawned on me about the Corolla when I was plowin’ out the junkyard. I dug out the car to get inside the trunk. The tire was there, but everthin’ in it was gone.”

  “Could he have brought the stuff inside his house for safekeeping, and it got burned up?”

  Her head swings back and forth.

  “Nah, he told he was gonna leave it in that car. He figured it was safer. He didn’t want anybody breakin’ into the house. Made sense to me.”

  “Do you think the drugs and money came with the junk? Or did somebody hide them there?”

  “That’s a real good question.”

  Marsha pokes her cousin.

  “See? I told you she knew her shit.”

  I pause. You might think I’m nuts, but I like what I hear. I’m definitely keen on this case. Annette and Marsha may be rough and gruff around the edges, country style, but I have a soft spot in my heart for people like them. I did when I was a reporter, choosing to write stories about what the country folk did and liked such as truck pulls and pig roasts. I found them more interesting than the newcomers’ idea of fun.

  “I guess you couldn’t tell the police about that.”

  “You’re fuckin’ right.”

  “But if the drugs and money belonged to somebody else, why kill your father? They could’ve easily just taken them back when he wasn’t around.”

  “That what I want you to find out. And who’s the fucker that did it.”

  I smile. Annette doesn’t hold back. But now that we’re talking about cops I need to set something straight.

  “You should know I’m gonna check in with your police chief. It’s a courtesy, and besides I don’t want the chief to get bent outta shape I’m snooping around and think I don’t trust the local cops.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I figured as much.”

  “Besides, I’ll need the cops if I solve this case. I can’t arrest anybody.” I note Annette’s sly smile. “Online I saw the chief’s a woman. Nancy Dutton. Right? What’s she like?”

  “Nancy’s kinda new. Maybe a year. She was on the force when my Pop died though.” Annette shrugs. “Nancy’s okay. I actually grew up with her. Yeah, you’ll need her when you catch the bastard.”

  “All right then.”

  Annette leans forward over the table.

  “I know you charge money,” she says. “I ain’t got much.”

  We are at the part that’s unfamiliar to me: the business end. Andrew Snow paid me that thousand out of the goodness of his heart. He says it brought him a bit of peace knowing what happened to his daughter. His only regrets were that his wife, Irma, died years ago, and, of course, that it turned out Eleanor Smith was the killer.

  I’ve looked up what people charge, anywhere from forty to a hundred bucks an hour. That’s not gonna fly with Annette. Besides, I’m green at this detective stuff.

  “You do understand it’d take a lot of my time trying to figure out this case. Gas, too.”

  Her head bobs.

  “Yeah, I got me an idea how to pay you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I can do all the work on your cars for free. I see you got a Subaru and a Ford. I can fix both of ’em no sweat.”

  “They both have low miles.”

  “You still gotta change the oil. If you need tires, I’ve got really good used ones.”

  “Uh-huh. I should tell you I have a business arrangement with a private investigator in Jefferson. I need to work for a licensed P. I. for three years, and Lin Pierce agreed to take me on. Heard of him? No? I’m supposed to give him fifteen percent of what I make.”

  “Shit,” she says stretching out the word. “I can do his vehicles, too.”

  I feel myself smiling. I like Annette’s persistence. I can relate.

  “I have one more question. What if I don’t find out who’s responsible?”

  Her eyes lock onto mine.

  “Just give it your best shot. That’s all I ask.” She bumps her cousin with her elbow. “Marsha told me how you solved that really old case. Mine only happened three years ago. I can tell you believe what I’m sayin’ about my Pop might be true. I see it in your eyes. No one else, except for Marsha, has gotten that far.”

  “Fair enough. If you don’t mind, I’d like to think it over. And I need to talk with my business partner about your payment plan. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon. That work?”

  “Yeah, that works,” she says. “Thanks for meetin’ me. I hope you take me on.”

 
; As soon as the cousins leave, I sit beside my mother. She puts down her book. We both watch the Floozy gun her car and barrel it up the driveway. She turned down my offer of sand. I admire her resourcefulness and driving skills.

  “Well?” I ask my mother.

  “Sounds like an interesting case, but at this rate you won’t be making much of a living,” she says. “But then again, our cars would be running great, and we wouldn’t have to spend money on that.”

  “Good points. But I have to ask Lin Pierce if he minds.” I get up to find my cell phone. “Maybe it’s time to check in with the Old Farts, too. One of them has got to have known Chet Waters and his daughter.”

  Calling Lin Pierce

  A woman answers the phone when I call Lin Pierce’s house. He warned me he only uses his cell phone for emergencies, and when he punched my numbers into its contacts list, it was one of those ancient flippers. The guy’s what I’d call a fuddy-duddy, but he’s my fuddy-duddy.

  “Lin? It’s that woman,” I hear her say.

  That woman, eh? I hear footsteps, and then a brief exchange between Lin and the woman I assume is Mrs. Pierce.

  “Yes?” he answers.

  “This is Isabel. How are you?”

  “Fine. Fine. What’s going on?”

  “I might have my first case. A woman wants me to find out who killed her father.”

  “Another murder?”

  “At least, she thinks so. Did you know Chet Waters? He lived in Caulfield. His daughter, Annette Waters, came to see me just now.”

  “Chet Waters? Not personally. Wasn’t he the guy who died when his house burned down? I believe he owned a junkyard.”

  “That’s the one. His daughter is convinced he didn’t die because a cigarette caught fire and he was too drunk to get out. Her father showed her something valuable somebody hid in one of the junked cars, but it was gone when she went to look weeks after his death.”

  “What was valuable?”

  “A lot of drugs and money.”

  “This sounds like it could be dangerous.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not why I’m calling you. I haven’t said yes by the way.” I pause. “She doesn’t have much money. She’s a mechanic and wants to pay me off doing maintenance on my cars. She said she would do the same for you, for your fifteen percent. Are you amenable to that?”

  “Uh, Isabel, you’re not going to get rich this way.”

  “You ever barter?”

  “Sure, you should see the stuff I’ve got at my house. Let me know if you ever want a mounted moose head.” He sighs. “Yes, she can work on my cars.”

  “Thanks, Lin, I’ll give her a call and get started.”

  Back with the Old Farts

  The Fattest Old Fart, and I could also call him rightly the Loudest Old Fart, announces my arrival early Monday morning to the rest of the group as I make my way between the shelves stocked with canned goods, boxes, and jars. All the regulars are parked on the benches in the backroom of the Conwell General Store. Besides the Fattest Old Fart, there are the Serious Old Fart, Bald Old Fart, Skinniest Old Fart, Old Fart with Glasses, and Silent Old Fart. Today there are no Visiting Old Farts. Of course, the Old Farts don’t have a clue I call them that. I use the names their parents gave them.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” the Fattest Old Fart says.

  I glance around.

  “What cat? I don’t see any cats back here,” I say, which, of course, gets them all cackling.

  I choose a spot next to the Fattest Old Fart, who usually sits alone because he takes up so much space on the bench, and I’m kind of a skinny gal, actually a skinnier one these days. He nods to the Serious Old Fart, who gets up to pour me a cup of coffee from the machine and throw a few coins into the pay-up jar.

  “Here you go, Isabel. Still waiting for that espresso machine to get fixed, so this will have to do,” the Serious Old Fart says, pleased with repeating the joke I’ve been hearing for the past few months. Being he’s the serious one of the group it makes me laugh, which gets the others laughing, too. “I believe I made your coffee just the way you like it.”

  I grimace when I take a sip. No amount of half-and-half is going to make this coffee taste better. But I thank him anyways.

  The Fattest Old Fart turns my way.

  “Do you have a case yet?”

  “I might.”

  I have everybody’s undivided attention.

  “For God’s sake, Isabel, spit it out,” the Fattest Old Fart says. “Don’t toy with us.”

  I take another sip of the store’s horrible coffee just to tease them a bit.

  “Any of you know Chet Waters from Caulfield?”

  Their heads bob.

  “He kicked a few years ago,” the Bald Old Fart says. “Got burned up in a fire. Supposedly he passed out and the place caught fire from his cigarette.”

  “That’s the one. Interesting that you used the word supposedly. His daughter, Annette Waters, came to see me. She doesn’t think her father’s death was an accident. I haven’t decided yet if I want to take the case. What can you tell me about him?”

  I see a lot of sideways glances.

  “Chet could be one mean son of a gun,” the Serious Old Fart says, and then he adds before I can make a wisecrack, “But when it came to business, he was fairer than most. I bought my son’s first car off of him. Decent price. The car ran for years.”

  The Old Fart with Glasses speaks.

  “I used to go to his junkyard for parts. I could say what I needed, and he knew just where to find it. That was no easy trick considering how big the place was.”

  “How big?”

  “You haven’t seen it yet?” the Old Fart with Glasses asks. “Isabel, you’re in for a real treat. It’s gotta be one of the biggest one around, if not the biggest, even bigger than Sinclair’s in Fulton. Nearly everybody has their junk hauled to Chet’s junkyard. Now his daughter runs it. Never heard of a woman running a junkyard.”

  “Me neither. What else?” I ask.

  The Bald Old Fart snorts.

  “The man could drink you under the table,” he says.

  “Did he ever go to the Rooster?”

  “You might want to check with Jack to see if he was on one of his lists,” the Bald Old Fart says. “Sorry, Isabel, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  The Old Fart with Glasses fills in the awkward silence that follows. I’m certain the breakup of one of Conwell’s most notorious hookups was a source of discussion here.

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember seeing him in the Rooster,” the Old Fart with Glasses says. “A hotshot pool player, as I recall. He liked playing poker. Heard he was suspected of cheating a couple of times.”

  So, Chet Waters drank a lot, played pool and poker, and was a Rooster customer from time to time. He was an unpleasant guy but a fair businessman. Maybe he cheated at cards. What else?

  “Can you think of anyone he might have crossed?”

  “You mean bad enough to get him killed?” The Serious Old Fart snorts. “That’s your job, Isabel.”

  The rest of the Old Farts join him.

  “Thanks a lot, fellows.”

  “How well do you know Caulfield?” the Bald Old Fart asks me.

  “I think I drove through it before. Does it have a store?”

  “There’s a gas station and the owners have a few things inside, beer, and coffee as good as you drink here,” the Bald Old Fart says. “It’s called the Pit Stop.”

  I glance around to make sure Jamie Snow, the owner, isn’t around.

  “That bad, eh?”

  “Yeah, I heard their espresso machine is out, too,” the Bald Old Fart jokes.

  “You’re all too much. I will definitely have to check it out. What about Chet’s daughter, Annette Waters? I’d have to work with her.”

  There’s a low rumble of chuckles. I glance from one Old Fart to the other.

  Finally, the Fattest Old Fart clears his throat.

  “Let’s just say An
nette is one woman who likes to work hard and play hard.”

  “What do you mean play hard?”

  “Oh, Isabel, figure it out,” the Fattest Old Fart says.

  I immediately do. Annette is a floozy like her cousin. Perhaps, she is a doozy of a floozy. Now I’m even more interested in this case.

  “By the way, guess who she used to be married to?” The Old Fart with Glasses offers a rare question.

  Crap, I forgot to ask Annette that question. I’d better be on my A game if I want to solve this or any other cases. You can do better than that, Isabel.

  “Uh, no clue.”

  “Fred Lewis.”

  Annette was married to Jack Smith’s creepy cousin? Crap, I can’t shake that guy loose.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “A while back,” the Old Fart with Glasses says. “You’re gonna take the case?”

  “I believe so. My mother’s certainly interested.”

  “How is your dear, sweet mother?” the Serious Old Fart asks.

  “Sick of winter like we all are, but she’s adjusting fine to life in the sticks. She’ll be ninety-three in April.” I smile at their nods. “Thanks for spreading the word for me. I’m now officially associated with Franklin Pierce, P. I., although you probably already know that.”

  “Yeah? He hired you?” the Bald Old Fart asks.

  “Yup, for a buck a day.”

  “You work real cheap,” the Old Fart with Glasses says.

  “That’s what he said, too.” I stand. “Thanks for the coffee and the info. See ya all soon.”

  Googling Chet Waters

  By the time my night-owl mother is up, I’ve already talked with Annette and found what I could online about Chet Waters, which isn’t a heckuva lot. Yeah, I’m using that Google thing. When I checked the stats, I learned Caulfield has about six hundred people. The town is part of the coverage area for the Berkshire Bugle, but like the Daily Star, it cut back reporting on its swath of the hilltowns unless something huge happened like an old man dying in a house fire. I found three stories about Chet by the Bugle, plus an obit.

  Going back few years before his death, an enterprising reporter with the Bugle wrote a profile of Chet, which is a good read as we say in the business. It appears his profile was part of a series on interesting hilltown folk, which makes me wonder who else was featured.