Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “Nancy Dutton. Yes, she’s the Caulfield Police Chief now.”

  “Yeah, that’s the name. I showed her the photos on my phone, but by time she was able to break away, people had walked all over it. It was just a muddy mess.”

  “I spoke with Chief Dutton. She thought something was amiss, but that’s about it. Just cop instincts. I’m guessing that’s similar to reporter instincts. I think you’re born with it.”

  Sean chuckles.

  “Definitely.”

  “Can you think of anything else?” I ask.

  “I tried to find my old notebooks but couldn’t. They’re somewhere in one of the desk drawers. Sorry. Don’t know if I could read them anyways. But I’ll keep looking.”

  I smile about the illegible handwriting. Yup, journalism ruined mine, too.

  “Would you mind texting me the photo?”

  “Glad to,” he says, working on his phone. “Done.”

  “Thanks. Here’s my info.”

  He studies my card after I hand it to him.

  “What’s it like being a P.I.?”

  “I’m not an official one yet. I’m an associate of a guy in Jefferson. I have to do that for three years before I can earn my wings.”

  “I saw the wire story about that woman in your town.”

  “Eleanor Smith?”

  “That’s the one. Seems like nobody wanted to talk with the reporters who called.”

  “Yeah, me included. Sounds like I’m getting soft, but it was a tough case. I’m glad I solved the mystery. Too bad it was Eleanor Smith.”

  “That was an odd twist to that story.”

  It’s time to change the topic. I’m tired of talking about Adela and Eleanor these days.

  “How are they treating you at the Bugle?” I ask.

  “Better than they did you at the Star.”

  I laugh.

  “So you heard. It’s okay. It’s probably a blessing. By the way, if I solve this case, I’ll give you first dibs on the story.”

  He smiles.

  “I’d like that.”

  “What are you working on these days?”

  We talk about the news biz for the next twenty minutes or so. He’s moved up from the rookie schools beat to cops and courts. There’s nothing like news that comes with a siren. He tells me about his personal life, how he’s got a steady guy in his life, and I tell him a little bit about mine, mostly about the family. There really isn’t that much else to talk about these days.

  Sean almost makes me wish I worked for a newspaper. It’s been weird stepping away from the news. But then I think about working holidays and trying to break away for a vacation. Of course, there were the internal politics with those on the ad side whining about the editorial side being unfair to their clients. The hardest part was managing people, luring them to work for low pay at the paper, turning them into solid reporters, and then watching them move onto something bigger and better after I got attached to them. Yeah, I don’t miss that at all.

  Stopping at Rough Waters

  I head east to Caulfield, so I can show Annette the photo on my phone. It’s the sort of thing I’d want to do in person. Yes, this is the long way home, but it’ll also give me a view of the town from another direction.

  Crap, it starts snowing as the car begins to climb in elevation, and it’s small flakes, too. Ma, the weather watcher in our household, didn’t warn me. Then again, maybe she thought I was coming straight home from my meeting with Sean Mooney. Or maybe this storm just sneaked in. Sometimes the weather can fool all of the experts. It happens on occasion. I just keep hitting the wipers.

  When I pull into Rough Waters Junkyard, I’m relieved the dogs are in their pen although I’ve smartened up and brought a box of dog biscuits. It was my mother’s idea, of course. I throw a couple of Milk-Bones over their fence before I head to the garage.

  Once inside, I call for Annette, who slides on a dolly from beneath an El Camino, one of those half-cars, half-trucks that’s totally a Mrs. Redneck vehicle. She waves a wrench.

  “Hey, there, what brings you here?”

  “I got something I want you to see.” Annette is on her feet and wiping her hands on a rag as I work the phone. “Here you go.”

  Her head is down then up.

  “That’s blood. Where’s that from?”

  “Your junkyard.”

  “Huh?”

  “I just met with the reporter who covered your father’s death. When people were too busy to talk with him, he wandered around the yard and found some blood at the scene. It’s not a lot, but it sure looks like blood. You can see boot prints near it.”

  “Shit, why didn’t I see that?”

  “Sean, that’s the reporter’s name, said you were upset. Everybody else was too busy to pay attention to him, well except for Chief Dutton, but she was only an officer then. When she finally got around to looking, that spot was a muddy mess. Besides, by then people had made up their mind about how your father died.”

  Her head rocks as she agrees with me.

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Where do you think the blood came from?” I ask.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “What’s curious is that it’s not near the fire. He even drew me a little map. Wanna see where it was?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Annette grabs a jacket from a hook near the door and curses when we go outside.

  “Snow again? Jesus.”

  We go to the spot Sean marked on his map. It’s between the two rows of snowbound junkers to the right toward the end facing the road. I point downward.

  “I’m guessing it was here.”

  Annette studies the map.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I can’t believe I missed it.”

  “Everybody but Sean did.” I nod. “If my mother were here, she would offer two theories. One would be the blood belonged to your father before he went inside his house, or it came from somebody else. Maybe your father’s dog attacked whoever was in the junkyard and drew blood. You did find the dog dead later.” I pause. “At this point it’s a mystery. But something violent happened in this spot. I’m sure of it.”

  Annette nods.

  “Me, too.”

  The snow keeps up, but I decide to visit the Pit Stop on the way home. I don’t need gas. I filled the tank in Mayfield, where it’s cheaper, but I could find something to buy here among the cans of chewing tobacco and beer. When I was a reporter, I called it checking the traps. I kept tabs on what was happening in the hilltowns I was covering by calling or visiting people like shopkeepers, school secretaries, and certain town officials to see if they had heard about anything newsworthy. I got some good stories that way. When I became an editor, I told my reporters to do the same. I also reminded them that checking the traps has another meaning. Make sure somebody isn’t feeding you fake shit to throw you off.

  But back to the first meaning, the Pit Stop would qualify as a trap worth checking. Barbie is alone today. She’s got her back to the door as she works behind the counter, but she does a quick flip around when she hears the bell.

  “Howdy,” she says brightly. “Isabel, right?”

  I respond in kind, but I’m trying not to be obvious that I see she’s got a shiner. It looks a couple of days old because the colors around her right eye have melted a bit. But she notices I’ve noticed. I’m certain I can’t be the only one.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She squeezes a giggle.

  “Oh, this?” She points to her shiner. “I was trying to get something off a closet shelf and the whole thing came down on my head. Hurt like a you-know-what, but I’m okay. I put ice on it right away.”

  “Yeah, that helps.”

  Her story sounds suspicious. Did hubby, Pete, knock her around? I recall what Annette said about him. Yeah, I bet he did.

  “Hon, what are you doing out in this snow?” she asks.

  “I had some business in Mayfield, and then I met with Annett
e. I needed to show her something.”

  Barbie plays with her pretty necklace. Frankly, it’s the only pretty thing about her. The rest of her is flannel and denim.

  “How’s your case going?”

  I smile.

  “Not bad. I’ve been talking with people, and today I got a solid lead.”

  “A lead? What’s that?”

  “That’s like a big clue.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sorry. I can only share things like that with Annette. It’s confidential.”

  She nods as she absorbs what I’m telling her. It’s my intention to let the people who come in here, which is likely most of the town and some from the ones around it, understand I’m taking this investigation seriously.

  “Confidential,” she repeats.

  “Where’s Pete?”

  “Oh, he had to run a few errands in the city. Somethin’ I can help you with?”

  Bingo. Yes, Barbie, there is.

  “Tell me. You knew Chet Waters pretty well since he was a regular here at the store. What was he like?”

  Barbie slides her pendant back and forth.

  “Oh, a lot of people didn’t like Chet. He could be kinda grumpy. But he was really, really nice to me. He came by every morning for coffee and one of my muffins. I always tried to save him one if we were runnin’ low.” She nods as if she’s agreeing with herself. “Chet was a real talker. You name it. He had somethin’ to say about it.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Chet?”

  She scrunches her lips.

  “The day before he died. He came in that mornin’ as usual.”

  “You said he was a real talker. What did he talk about that day?”

  She glances at the window.

  “Not much. Small stuff like the weather.”

  “Do you remember what kind of a mood he was?”

  She thinks.

  “I’d say friendly enough,” she says. “I’m sorry I’m not being more helpful. Pete could probably tell you more.”

  Uh, no, he didn’t.

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  She bites her lip.

  “I was real sorry when I heard what happened to Chet,” she says. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “No one does.”

  I feel my conversation with Barbie has neared its conclusion not long after it started. My problem now is to find something worth buying in this store. I settle on water.

  Barbie takes my money.

  “Have a safe trip back, hon,” she says.

  “Sure. Keep the change.”

  Our Dinner Guest

  Jack makes a nervous twitter of a hello when I answer the door. He’s happy to be invited, he told me so, but he’s a little apprehensive about my mother. He shouldn’t feel that way. Ma is one of his biggest fans. She’s been rooting for us to get back together. I understand though. I’m feeling a little shy myself. Actually, it’s like I’m in high school, and I’m bringing my new boyfriend over to eat, although the God’s honest truth, I was a social outcast then and never had one until I went to college. Jack isn’t spending the night, not because of my mother, but because he can’t exactly leave his sister’s mutts either inside or outside for that long.

  “Sorry, Isabel,” he told me yesterday. “I gotta figure out somethin’ to do with those dogs when I’m not around.”

  I patted his cheek.

  “You’ll make it up to me, I’m sure,” I said, which got him grinning like a lunatic.

  I kiss him at the door, which is easy because Ma is in the kitchen working on the mashed potatoes that will go with her roasted chicken. He brings a bottle of red wine that’s better than the stuff he serves at the Rooster. Behind him, the snow comes down still, adding a fresh, white layer to the stuff still frozen on the ground.

  “How much are we supposed to get?” I ask as I take his coat.

  “Last I heard, a dustin’. Those are the ones you gotta watch out for.” He makes an appreciative hum. “It sure smells good in here.”

  “Well, my mother doesn’t want you to starve.”

  He pats his gut beneath his red wool shirt.

  “No danger of that.”

  I let him open the bottle of wine after he greets my mother and compliments the spread on the table.

  My mother wipes her hands with a dishtowel.

  “I was sorry to hear about your sister,” she tells Jack. “I know you two were close.”

  Jack’s head bobs.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” he says. “Appreciate it.”

  As we eat dinner, Jack asks my mother a bunch of questions about her life before she moved to the sticks, as she calls it here. Ma talks easily about living beside the ocean and about my father, who was a real character. Everybody in my hometown knew my Dad. I believe the stories relax Jack a bit.

  I try not to laugh out loud when I hear her say, “What’s it like growing up in the middle of nowhere?”

  Naturally, the conversation swings to the investigation.

  “Did you know Chet Waters well?” I ask him.

  He holds his fork mid-air.

  “That old coot? He was a classic.”

  I glance toward Ma.

  “I heard from a couple of people he cheated at cards,” I say. “You ever play with him?”

  He snorts.

  “Only once. That was enough. I learned my lesson. Too bad others didn’t.” He frowns. “Chet had the quickest fingers I’ve ever seen. He should’ve gone to Vegas and made big money. But he preferred livin’ in the country and fleecin’ the locals. Chet came to the Rooster when I used to have poker night on Wednesdays. There wasn’t supposed to be any money involved, but I let it slide. He was a regular.”

  “Why did you stop card nights?”

  “It was obvious Chet was more than a lucky card player. Course, sometimes he’d lose just to throw people off. But he made a bit of money.” He chuckles. “One night, things got really ugly when he cleaned out a couple of kids. I swear they were gonna lose it. One of them even had a gun.”

  “Was their last name Sinclair? Junior and Roy, right?”

  “Hey, how’d you know?”

  I smile.

  “I heard about it when Ma and I interviewed their father.”

  “I forget who I’m talkin’ with sometimes,” Jack says. “Anyways, Chet wouldn’t give ’em back their money. I believe one of them even put up his grandfather’s gold watch. I don’t think he ever got it back. One of the boys, Junior, ran out to his truck for a gun.”

  Ma leans forward. She’s been hanging on every word coming from Jack.

  “Did you call the cops?” she asks.

  “Nah, if I did that, it would’ve taken them an hour to arrive. Besides, I didn’t want the cops to shut down the place for illegal gamblin’. I asked the Sinclair kid to put his gun away. He listened to reason. Chet slipped out. I gave the boys some money out of the cash drawer cause I felt a little responsible. That was the end of card nights. I heard the incident didn’t sit right with their father.”

  Al didn’t mention anything about a gun, but maybe he didn’t have the whole story. Besides, a bullet didn’t kill Chet. The medical examiner would have figured that out.

  “Did Chet still come to the Rooster?”

  “Oh, yeah, the guy had no shame. He liked to drink a bit. Besides, he used to be good pals with my Pop.”

  “What about the Sinclair brothers?”

  “Junior and Roy? They still do. Next time they show up, I’ll point them out. You’ll recognize ’em.”

  I pour Jack and myself more wine. Ma waves her hand. She only drinks a tad. If Jack and his cousin think I’m a lightweight, my mother is a featherweight.

  “Did they ever have a run-in with Chet after that cheating incident?”

  “Sure, they had words. I kept an eye on them and never let it get too far.”

  “What about just before Chet died?”

  “Gosh, that was three years ago, wasn�
�t it?” He thinks for a moment. “Come to think of it, they did. It had somethin’ to do with business. I recall my cousin callin’ it junkyard wars. It got pretty hot and heavy. I told the boys they had to calm down or I’d have to ban them for six months. They left a while later, but I don’t think they ever calmed down.”

  I glance toward my mother.

  “Looks like we’ve got another set of brothers to visit.”

  “I hope they’re not as scary as the other ones,” she says.

  “You talkin’ about the Beaumonts?”

  “Uh-huh, Ma’s my secret weapon.”

  Jack looks at my mother.

  “You don’t mind her using you like that?”

  Ma laughs.

  “It’s better than being cooped up inside.”

  I mutter “oh, brother” under my breath.

  “They call that cabin fever in these parts,” Jack tells her.

  “Cabin fever?”

  “Uh-huh, it can drive people nuts.”

  Ma makes a motherly chortle.

  “Oh, I’m not planning to do anything like that.”

  I believe Jack’s hesitancy about spending time with my mother is now long gone. The two of them are yakking it up. He’s telling her stories about the mid-winter breakups and hookups he’s witnessed at the Rooster, where else, and Ma, a big romance novel reader, is enjoying herself.

  Finally, there’s a break in the conversation. I jump in before Jack and my mother find another topic.

  “Uh, what can you tell us about the Beaumonts?” I ask Jack.

  Jack makes a sound deep in the back of his throat.

  “I never liked them comin’ to the Rooster, but I put up with it. I even warned them once about dealin’ drugs or even doin’ drugs. To the best of my knowledge, they were on good behavior for a couple of years. I still didn’t like them though.” He takes a sip of wine. “Then I got word they were doing business outside. The last thing I need is to have the cops come or to lose my business. I didn’t even put them on the six-month list. They were out for good.”

  “How did they take it?”

  “Not well. I waited for the next time they showed up. I had them step outside and told them what’s what. At first, they denied the whole thing, the little liars, but they wised up after I said I wanted to leave the cops out of it. Besides, I had Fred back me up.”