Angry Arrow

by N. C. Lewis

  For several moments I stared out onto Creek Street, searching my mind for the exact phrase. Two big yellow school buses trundled along, sending wave after wave of dirty water splashing onto the sidewalk. Then I remembered what Professor Bingham had said.

  "Leave it with me. This time I'll fix everything good and proper."

  I placed a hand on my cheek as my mind raced.

  "Get out. We don't sell that nonsense in here!" boomed the assistant barista.

  I had been so deep in my thoughts I hadn’t heard the doorbell ring. Sophia Flores stood in front of the counter. She wore a miniskirt for which she was two decades too old, tall ankle-strapped heels, and a sleeveless blouse. Her arms were eggshell brown even though they were mostly covered with colorful tattoos that snaked from her elbows to her shoulders.

  "Señor, I'm going to be rich soon," she said in a husky Mexican voice.

  "Ms. Flores, I don't care; go someplace else. This is a high-class establishment. We only serve handcrafted coffee and freshly baked bread and cakes. That's it, nothing else." The assistant stood in front of the counter; his nose flared, and his cheeks turned a deep crimson.

  Sophia wobbled forward. "Pronto seré rico, don't you understand? I'll be able to buy the place and you with it!"

  Her eyes latched onto me for a second, then drifted away. "Bien señor, no es un problem," she whispered, turning and tottering out of the café.

  Chapter 15

  For a while, the assistant stood staring at the empty doorway. When the doorbell pinged, he scurried behind the counter.

  It was Millie.

  "Oh my gosh, Ollie," she shouted across the empty café. After ordering her drink, and paying for mine, she scurried over to my table.

  "For once I'm on the right side," she said in an excited voice.

  "The right side of what?"

  "The split! Remember I told you about it yesterday. It happened when we met by chance at the college staff meeting."

  "Are you kidding me? A fight breaks out with a professor dead, and you're on the right side of the split?"

  Millie's eyes grew wide, and she nodded. "That's right, I'm on the right side…" Her voice trailed off.

  "Why the hesitation? Go on, finish your sentence, girl."

  She glanced over her shoulder, took a sip from her cup and in a low whispered voice continued, "Ollie, I figured out that I'm on the positive side of the split, and you're on the… well, negative side."

  "What?"

  "Well, it's not an exact science, but do you remember Perry Perkins?"

  "Who?"

  "No, you wouldn’t; you only met him briefly yesterday. Perry has a shaved head and tiny eyes. Well, he was my catering supervisor—"

  "And what about Perry," I interrupted impatiently.

  "He quit yesterday, said the job was too stressful." Millie glanced up with pride. "Ollie, I'm now a catering supervisor. I'm going to get a gold badge with my name on it!"

  "That's wonderful! They say the opportunities in catering are boundless."

  "They are; they are! First thing this afternoon, I've got to get on the phone and recruit new team members."

  "That's your job?"

  "Yes, it's the role of the supervisor to form a team."

  "How many people do you need?"

  Millie looked away and picked at the tablecloth. "Everyone."

  "Everyone?" I echoed.

  "Yes, the entire team quit yesterday. Not everyone has a stomach for death and mayhem. I'm a reporter, so I guess I'm used to it."

  "Oh, but how does all this cast me onto the negative side of the split?"

  "Not sure," she admitted. "All I know is that I'm on the right side 'cause I got the promotion, and look what happened to you."

  "Eh?"

  "Your staff meeting turns into a hooligan's fistfight with one professor dead, and another taken away in handcuffs. It figures you're on the negative side of the split." Millie took in a long, deep breath. "You could be in for a rough few days. If you can, don’t stray too far from Ealing Homestead."

  I didn’t believe in the "split" or any of Millie's other woo-woo theories, but her words somehow sent a shiver down my spine, and an uneasy feeling in my stomach. My subconscious mind urged me to tell her about my dream. I didn’t want to, but my mouth spoke up before my conscious brain engaged.

  For just a moment a sort of wonder shone in Millie's face as I told her everything. When I'd finished, she covered her eyes with both hands. "Ollie, you know what the dream means, you've had it before."

  She was right, I just wasn’t ready to admit it, yet.

  Chapter 16

  We were quiet for a moment. Millie picked at the tablecloth and stared out of the window. Rain lashed against the glass. There were no people on the sidewalk nor vehicles driving along the road. Creek Street was deserted.

  "The death of Andy Arrow is such a great news story," she said. "Don't you think so?"

  I looked down at my coffee but said nothing.

  Millie continued, "There are so many angles to write about. Andy Arrow's role as a professor, his rapport with his fellow professors, his feud with Dan Sweet, his relationship with his daughter, and even his love life…"

  "Sounds like you have a bunch of stories brewing in the back of your mind."

  Millie scowled. "I'm sure any one of them could make the front page."

  "Then get to work and write!"

  "I'm in the hospital."

  "You made a miraculous recovery."

  "I'm feeling better already."

  "You look great!"

  Millie clasped her hands and stood up. "Ollie, this could be my gravy train to a full-time position at the Medlin Creek Times."

  "Don't forget the split," I said.

  "The split?" she quizzed, sitting back down.

  "Since you're on the positive side. I'd say you have a decent shot at it now."

  Millie smiled, nodded, then frowned. "The problem is…" her voice trailed off, and she reached for her handbag. Professor Purple appeared. His sock-puppet head tilted, and his button eyes seemingly scrutinized my face.

  "It is not wholly unreasonable for Millie to write about the death of Andy Arrow. Of course, such an article would, out of necessity, consider the demands of the townsfolk."

  "Of course," I said, "Millie can do that."

  "And," continued Professor Purple, his eyes sliding from Millie to me, "specifically take into account the unspoken demands of the owner of the newspaper."

  I sat my cup down and leaned forward in my chair. "What type of unspoken demands?"

  Professor Purple shook his head slowly and slipped back into Millie's handbag.

  "Millie, what unspoken demands?" I asked again.

  Madame Bleu appeared. "Ooh la la, c'est impossible! The owner of the newspaper is on the board of Medlin Creek Community College and doesn't want any, how you say in English, negative feedback. When one professor strikes another dead that is extrêmement négatif."

  Madame Bleu disappeared into Millie's handbag, and Millie stared down at her hands. "So you see, Ollie," she said in a somber voice, "even if I wrote an article, the newspaper owner wouldn't publish it."

  "Not necessarily," I said, pressing a palm to my cheek. "Millie, you've given me an idea."

  Millie grinned. "Go on."

  "Well, John and I used to play the impossible game."

  "What's that?"

  "When we faced a difficult challenge, we would always ask 'what if?'"

  "Eh?"

  "Take a difficult scenario, like the death of Andy Arrow, and ask, 'what if' in such a way as to make the story suitable as a front-page feature in the Medlin Creek Times."

  Millie stared out of the window. "What if…" she said slowly, then paused for a long moment. "Dan Sweet is innocent?"

  "And?" I said.

  "Eh?"

  "There is always an 'and' in the impossible game. If you can find the 'and,' you'll have an article good for the front page of any newspaper. Wha
t is your 'and'?"

  Millie half closed her eyes. "And… the death of Andy Arrow was a preplanned murder." She jumped up and bounced from foot to foot. "Someone not associated with the college killed Andy Arrow!"

  "So, someone framed Dan Sweet?" I asked, getting into the game.

  "Exactly,"

  "But who and how?"

  "Don't know," she replied drumming her fingers on the table.

  "I don’t know either," I added.

  We sat in glum silence sipping coffee and watching the rain splash against the café window. It seemed as if the gray clouds, which hung low in the sky, had surrounded the small town and sent water tumbling in torrents to flow through the streets and spill into the rivers and creeks.

  "Got to go," Millie said at last. "I'll need seven people on my catering team. Interested?"

  "Weekends and some evenings when I'm not teaching might work." My event center was generating a little money, but not enough to turn a profit. The teaching post filled the gap. Catering here and there would give a welcome boost of cash. "Yes, put me down."

  I watched as Millie walked toward the café exit. The assistant barista was reading a newspaper. He looked up and nodded as she strolled out onto a rain-drenched Creek Street.

  I picked up my cell phone and squinted at the screen—ten forty-five, plenty of time to grab another coffee, relax, and stop by the food trailer park for a quick lunch before my afternoon classes.

  The café doorbell pinged. I glanced up. Professor Ava Torgersen stood in the doorway shaking out an umbrella. Today she wore a tan business suit with matching pumps, with her long, black hair twisted into the familiar chic knot.

  The assistant barista set aside the newspaper.

  "What would you like today, Professor Torgersen?"

  "Creek Jolt," she said in a confident voice. "I'm celebrating!"

  "Creek Jolt?" repeated the assistant with raised eyebrows. The Creek Jolt, Moozoos signature beverage, is an indulgent blend of Kenyan coffee loaded with fresh cream alongside a heavy dash of brandy.

  While the assistant busied himself, Ava glanced around the empty café.

  "Ollie," she cried in a friendly voice. "Can I join you?"

  I waved her over.

  We talked for several minutes. Not once did either of us mention the events of yesterday. It was as if Dan Sweet and Andy Arrow never existed.

  The assistant barista hurried across the café with Ava's drink.

  "There you go," he said eyeing her with curiosity. "Shame about the community college slaying."

  Ava shifted in her seat. "So sad."

  "I guess they caught the killer, red-handed as you say."

  "Guess so." Ava smiled.

  "That is, unless," continued the assistant, "Doctor Stratford tells the sheriff's department something different."

  Ava gave me a sharp glance. "Ollie, I didn’t realize you were a part-time deputy," she said, wringing her hands and biting her lip.

  "Oh no," cried the assistant before I could speak. "Doctor Stratford is not a deputy. She is much more than that—an amateur sleuth, kinda like a Texas Hill Country version of Sherlock Holmes."

  I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. "I've acquired a reputation as a solver of smallish crimes," I added to downplay the Sherlock Holmes reference.

  "Are you kidding?" grinned the assistant stepping closer. "Professor Torgersen; you must have heard about the mystery of the double dimple? Well, Doctor Stratford solved that when the sheriff's department had all but given up."

  Ava shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her gaze darting from the assistant to me. Then she spoke, in slow deliberate words. "I doubt a small town like Medlin Creek is the place to look for murder in any shape or form."

  The assistant nodded and returned to the counter to finish reading the newspaper.

  "So, what's the celebration?" I asked.

  "Nothing much," Ava replied avoiding eye contact.

  A knot tightened in my stomach. There was something in her "nothing," and I wanted to know what it was.

  "Maybe I should order a Creek Jolt as well, 'cause I've got nothing much to celebrate either!"

  Ava tilted her head back, her lips tugged into a well-practiced fake modesty smile. "Oh, with the events of yesterday, I'm expecting an announcement on my new position tomorrow."

  "Really?"

  Ava waved her hand as if swatting a fly. "It really is nothing, but I'm to visit with Professor Bingham Wednesday morning at nine a.m. I expect the announcement of my promotion to Andy Arrow's position will follow shortly thereafter."

  Chapter 17

  I spent the rest of the morning lost in my thoughts, the afternoon teaching classes, and the early evening at home slouched on the sofa reading a James Patterson novel. Three quarters of the way through the book the chimes of the wind-up clock on the mantel rung out the six o'clock hour.

  The dojo class began at seven which meant leaving home, strenuous exercise, and a late evening. I'm not very fit, a little overweight, and find the classes a challenge. The alternative of curling up on the sofa and finishing my novel seemed appealing.

  Shaking my body out of its slumber, I got up. "I need the exercise," I said aloud. Then I used a positive thinking mantra to push myself into the bedroom to get my training kit. "The physical exercise and meditative practices both strengthen my physical body and help clarify my mind. It is fun."

  I refilled Bodie's food and water bowls and set off along the dirt path to the Tahoe. The sky was clear, and the air had the scent of pine needles. As I drove, my mind focused on Andy Arrow, a man who didn’t want to retire, but at some point, would have had to make way for the next generation. I guess for some people, life without a job is a sort of death.

  I let out a deep sigh and mumbled, "College professors aren’t the easiest individuals to get along with, especially when they collect together in large groups. For their leader, it can be like herding chickens."

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. What I didn’t understand, though, was the source of the fierce animosity between the two men. That part didn’t make any sense.

  The last glimmer of the sun lingered low in the west and the moon floated on the horizon as I pulled into the dojo parking lot. The children's class had just finished. A gaggle of youngsters with their parents wandered around under a crystalline, indigo sky, with the faint glow of a multitude of stars growing brighter by the minute.

  My cell phone flashed. I squinted at the screen—a text message from Emma Garcia:

  Can you visit with Professor Bingham tomorrow at 10 a.m.

  I let out a sigh as I typed my response:

  Yes. Anything I should know ahead of the meeting?

  This time I'd skip the whiskey and small talk and go straight to the subject of a pay raise. I slipped the cell phone into my handbag, climbed out of the SUV and scurried toward the dojo. It was a low-rise, concrete and steel structure, between a disused warehouse and a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor known as Don Andrews, notorious as a place where drug dealers exchange their goods with tourists and residents. I am a regular at the pizza parlor, but always keep my eyes open for any signs of trouble.

  Inside, the dojo was cool and bright. The whoosh of fans circulated air around a large, rectangular room. A black mat covered the gym floor, padded with a thick, soft material designed to absorb the impact of judo-style throws. Off to the side were changing rooms and offices.

  Kidd Cole, the assistant instructor, swept the mat. He glanced up as I entered the dojo.

  "Hi Ollie, I'm taking the class tonight. Ma Jenkins is teaching in Austin."

  Ma Jenkins, the senior instructor, was one of the original founding partners of the dojo. The other was Tanner Holgate, a friend from college who passed away during my first few days in Texas. I gazed at the large portrait of Tanner that hung on the dojo wall. His radiant face smiled down at me.

  I smiled back.

  Kidd's classes are always fun. "Great! What are you going to teach
?" I asked.

  Kidd grinned. "Simple defensive hand escapes and offensive hand attacks," he said leaning on the broom. "Ollie, you teach at the community college, what do you make of the death of Andy Arrow?"

  "Well, I was in the room when the argument took place. But I'm not sure what to think; it was all over so fast."

  "There is always more to it than meets the eye," boomed a deep male voice from the entranceway. It was longtime member Hugh Pentecost, a tall, lean man with a frizzy Afro, and small, dark, owl-like eyes. Hugh worked as a respiratory therapist at the Medlin Creek County Hospital.

  Hugh strolled over. "Take, for example, when someone comes to me with a respiratory problem, I'm always on the lookout for more than the obvious."

  Kidd straightened up, holding the broom in one hand. "Really. Do you think there is more to Andy Arrow's death than Dan Sweet?"

  Hugh's dark, owl-like eyes looked off into the distance. "That's a difficult one. People tend to see what they want to see, even trained professionals. I'm always reminding myself to look, 'cause if you don't look for it, you won't see it."

  Kidd fiddled with the broom. "Sure is a strange thing when an argument between professors turns into physical blows. If both men were teenagers or in their twenties, I might half understand the thing, but Andy Arrow had to have been in his seventies, and Dan Sweet is fifty, if he is a day."

  We were silent for a moment, musing on the oddness of it all.

  "I hear Andy Arrow was a bit of a lady's man," said Julia Simmons, joining the conversation. Julia was another longtime member of the dojo and worked for the Medlin Creek Independent School District as a student counselor. She raised a finger in the air like an English teacher about to make a key point. "Track down his ex-girlfriend and you won't be far from the truth."

  Hugh added, "I saw Andy with Sophia Flores, a month or so ago. Those two have been a couple, on and off, for four or five years. At least since Andy's divorce."

  Julia folded her arms. "Well, I'm sure Sophia knows more about what happened than all of us combined. Someone told me she's with the Mexican mafia. Don't know if that's true though."