Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

  I looked at his face. He was the same handsome high school jock I fell in love with fifteen years earlier, but desperation made him look older. I suspected he was thinking of the detective’s job and how much he wanted the promotion.

  “How about if I just say I’m calling from the mayor’s office and not give a name?” I said. “That way I won’t need to sound like a mosquito.”

  “Good idea.”

  I took a deep breath and punched in the number. “Hello,” I said when someone answered, “Is this Mr. Braithwaite? Karsten Braithwaite?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I just love it when people are on the offensive right from the start.

  “I’m calling from the mayor’s office about your rental property at 27000 East 36700 South. Isn’t that the address?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “We have no record that you’ve taken the training for our Good Landlord Program.”

  “I took that twice.”

  “We have no record of your certificate.”

  “I got the certificate. Why don’t you people keep good records?”

  “Well, I’m sorry to bother you, but we are calling all property owners. When was the last time you inspected the property?”

  Silence on the line.

  “When was the last time you inspected your property, sir?”

  “The last time I was in town.”

  “When was that, sir?”

  “Five years ago.” He was starting to sound a bit sheepish now.

  “Well, sir, quarterly property inspection is recommended, as I’m sure you know from the Good Landlord training. Our police department is especially concerned because rentals are used by meth cookers, especially rentals in remote rural areas like yours, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, there was a meth house in the next town over. The rental had to be condemned, sir. You don’t want to fool around with meth.”

  “No.”

  “I notice you live in Hawaii, sir. Do you have a property management company locally?”

  “Not yet.”

  A chink in the armor.

  “There’s a list of certified property management companies on our website. You want to be sure someone stops by. There are some bad renters out there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my job, sir. The mayor believes in public service.”

  “I know the mayor.”

  “Be sure to tell him you like the service, sir. Have a nice evening, sir.”

  I pushed the end-call button.

  “Nice work,” said Carl. “Did he sound stirred up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you did good. If your suspicions prove right, dispatch should get a call soon.”

  Three days later, the chief took a phone call in the squad room.

  “Karsten Braithwaite called the chief personally,” Carl said. “He answered the phone right at my work station. I could tell who he was talking to because you know what he said?”

  I shook my head.

  “‘What Good Landlord program?’ The chief didn’t even know the mayor runs a Good Landlord program.”

  Go figure.

  “Braithwaite hired a property management company and the guy didn’t even get past the doorsill, the smell was so overwhelming. The chief ordered us to Four Corners right away.

  “We raided the place in hazmat suits. The basement looked like a science fair project on steroids. Beakers, Bunsen burners, graduated cylinders, hot plates, rice steamers. And the crap they use to make this stuff—it’s a wonder the house didn’t explode.”

  “Like what?”

  “Cans of alcohol, toluene, paint thinner. Gallons of kerosene. And anhydrous ammonia—that the source of the cat urine smell.”

  “What about the little boy?”

  “He’s safe now with Children and Family Services. A doctor’s going to examine him tomorrow. Who knows what physical problems he has.”

  “And his mother?”

  “In custody at the station with the father. She looked relieved.”

  I recalled Mary Owens with her mousy thin hair, facial sores, and sickly manner. She was probably tired of the cooker’s life and ready for a clean cot in jail.

  “I found out why there were no empty containers in their trash bins.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was all stored on the property behind the house. A huge pile.”

  That night the chief was on the six o’clock news. “How did you bust the biggest meth lab ever found in your county, Chief?” asked the reporter, poking a microphone under his chin. I admired his makeup job—I had lightened the Chief’s raccoon eyes with soft guinea pig tones.

  The camera cut to Mrs. Oscar, standing in front of her convenience bin and frowning at a can of paint thinner and a large bottle of nail polish remover.

  “We knew something was wrong,” the chief said on voiceover, “when the waste products used to cook meth turned up in trash bins at our local gas station. The rest was good detective work.”

  “I understand you uncovered an identity theft ring as well?” said the reporter, keeping firm possession of the microphone as the chief made a move for it.

  “Meth heads were stealing stuff right out of people’s mailboxes. Our citizens have been robbed and we’re going to give them their identities back.” The chief looked straight at the camera as he said this, and I imagined he was talking directly to Candy Fiber, whose cigars seemed to have fascinated him as much as Monica Lewinsky’s.

  “If you have any advice to give our citizens, what would you say?”

  “Join our Good Landlord Program,” the chief said as if he’d known about it for years. “That’s how to make sure your rental property doesn’t get condemned.”

  The camera cut to the newsroom. “In other news,” the anchorman said, “the United States post office has lost its suit against a 28-year-old woman accused of mail theft.”

  An artist’s sketch of the courtroom appeared on the screen. “In dismissing the action against Matilda ‘Tinker’ Bell,” the Ninth Circuit Court judge said, ‘You’d think the government is in never-never land the way they’ve accused a disabled citizen of mail fraud. I’m beginning to believe the most able citizens are the ones out of a postal service uniform.’”

  The reporter reappeared in a shot of Tinker throwing plastic into a recycle bin. “Tinker Bell is a model citizen who devotes hours of her time protecting our environment and educating citizens about recycling. Her foray into the postal office, where she dressed up as one of the letter carriers, was her means of expressing her belief that postal employees are true heroes.”

  The camera shifted to a poster that read, ‘Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’

  The reporter continued, “Tinker Bell reveres the postal service. She created this poster with the help of some high school students.”

  The scene changed to the reporter with Tinker wearing a letter carrier’s hat. “Now I’m a hero, too,” she said.

  “Back to you, Chet.”

  Case 8

  ‘Til Death Do Us Part

  “Almighty Father, we thank you for bringing us together tonight. We love this City with all our hearts.”

  “Are we in church?” I whispered to Carl.

  “The challenges that face our community demand the loyalty of every Citizen. We ask our Heavenly Father Above to grant us the Wisdom to recognize our Godly Mission and meet all threats. Keep our community on the right path and our people free. Amen.”

  I leaned over to Carl again. “Whatever happened to separation of Church and State?”

  My husband shifted in his chair. Martha Farquhar shot me a “behave” face from her seat behind the enormous city council bench.

  The mayor continued. “In his mighty struggle, Edward Everett Hale, a man of the cloth, gave us these words:

  “I am only one, but sti
ll I am one;

  I cannot do everything, but I can do something;

  And because I cannot do everything,

  I will not refuse to do something that I can do.

  “Chief Fort Dukes does not refuse. He gives his heart and soul to make this community better. He is a citizen who steps up and does his part, and that is why our city council has voted—unanimously—to bestow on him the prestigious Lawman of the Year Award.”

  There was a round of applause. The chief shook hands with the mayor and all five city councilors. He faced council chambers and began his acceptance speech. It was a long one. The audience fidgeted—punch and cookies were waiting. I found myself wondering if there was a Law-Woman of the Year Award, when suddenly the chief stopped speaking. Martha Farquhar had come out from behind the bench and was escorting the chief out of council chambers to the refreshment table. I never thought I’d be grateful to Martha for anything, but she was outdoing herself that night.

  We filled our little plates with cookies and jello cubes. I overheard Margaret Pyle talking to the squeaky-clean catering waitress. “Are these jello shots?” she asked, although she knew perfectly well they weren’t.

  The girl cast her eyes down, managed a polite smile, and slid away.

  Margaret cornered the mayor. “Herbert!” she said. “What are you going to do if a gay couple wants you to marry them?”

  The mayor glanced around. Perhaps he was hoping Martha Farquhar would rescue him; more likely, he feared that Paddy Hamburger was lurking somewhere.

  “The legislature has spoken,” he said, referring to yesterday’s landmark decision to legalize gay marriage in our conservative state. “We must recognize the legitimate rights of all people.”

  Margaret flashed him a cheeky grin. “That’s not what you said last week.”

  The mayor had vowed he would never perform a gay wedding. There was quite a crowd around him now, and they all knew where he stood.

  “What if I were to fall in love with a woman next time?” Margaret pressed on, her voluptuous body getting closer. “After all, my first five husbands were duds.”

  The mayor poked a finger under his collar as if the room were too hot. “Margaret,” he said finally, “if you bring me a woman, I’ll be happy to marry you.”

  “Can I quote you on that, Mayor?” said Paddy Hamburger, materializing from somewhere, a camera in his hand.

  “If you get that quote exactly right, Paddy, you can put it in the paper.”

  Everybody laughed. The mayor had just admitted he’d like to marry Margaret. She ran her hand down the sheath of her dress.

  I left this august body and searched for Carl. He was talking to Joe Torgesen and Tina White Horse who were holding hands.

  When did this happen? I suspected there was more going on in my workroom during the fashion show than simple undressing.

  “Tracy!”

  “Tina!”

  We hugged.

  “Tina’s been named director of the after-school program,” he said “It’s in every elementary school now.”

  “Congratulations!”

  Joe turned to Carl. “Tina says there’s some trouble at the high school. I thought maybe you and I could give a talk.”

  “What about?

  “Bullying.”

  Carl raised an eyebrow. “A Come to Jesus talk or a Stick Up for Yourself talk?”

  “Both,” said Tina. “We’ve got kids who are being bullied and kids who are doing the bullying. They could all use some perspective from law enforcement.”

  Cell phone calendars were checked and a date was set.

  I finished the last of my cookie and put the cardboard plate and the plastic cup in a recycling bin. A few years ago, you wouldn’t have found a recycling bin in City Hall; now it was standard at every event.

  Change happens. Maybe someday the mayor would perform marriages for gay couples. You could bet he’d be doing that a lot sooner than he’d be marrying Margaret.

  I was sorting through a shipment of hair care products when Cholly Chockworth entered my salon with a young man in tow. “We’re here!” called Cholly. “Now life can begin!”

  “Life is entirely too dreary,” I said, rising from the tumble of packaging and dusting off my hands. I took in the handsome face next to Cholly’s. “Who’s this?”

  “My fiancé.”

  “Oh ho!” I gazed into his warm hazel eyes and liked him immediately. He grasped my hand with a solid shake, then put his arm around Cholly and grinned.

  “This is Soren.” Cholly was absolutely glowing. There were more stars in his eyes than the firmament of heaven.

  I cleared the mass of boxes and bottles out of the way. “Please have a seat.”

  Cholly and Soren sat on the sofa; I sat in an upholstered chair.

  “When’s the big day?” I asked.

  “In June. We’re going to have the ceremony at Brinksman’s Pass and the reception at The Finery.” Cholly giggled. “We want you to do everyone’s hair and Roxy to do the makeup.”

  “Do you want massages?”

  “No, I’ve hired Chip and Dale to do a strip-tease—just a little bachelor send-off. But Soren wants champagne and pedicures.”

  All this time, Soren hadn’t said a word but nodded at appropriate moments.

  “Sounds marvelous,” I said. “Will it be a double ring ceremony?”

  “Of course.” Cholly looked into Soren’s eyes and squeezed his hand.

  “Where are you from, Soren?” I asked.

  “He’s from that dear valley in the ski town west of us,” answered Cholly. “That’s why we’ve chosen Brinksman’s Pass for the ceremony.”

  Soren nodded.

  “And how did you two meet?”

  They looked at each other and laughed. “Soren and I went fishing on the same website and we got caught!” Cholly said.

  Their joy was infectious. I was giggling too. “This calls for a celebration!” I went to my refrigerator and pulled out a magnum.

  “That’s huge!” Cholly said.

  “Margaret’s coming.”

  “Yoo hoo!”

  I let Margaret descend on Cholly and his fiancé while I went in search of champagne coupes.

  “Don’t you ever let Soren talk?” Margaret was saying when I returned. “I asked him a question, not you.”

  Cholly looked abashed. Leave it to Margaret to flatten effervescence in a bottle.

  Soren spoke up. “We haven’t found anyone to officiate yet.” He had a nice voice, straight as an arrow, and it matched his good looks.

  “The mayor certainly won’t,” said Margaret, “but I know someone who will. Her name’s Gay Lynn. She’s not gay but two of her children are. She loves to marry gay couples.”

  I handed the magnum to Cholly and he popped the cork. Champagne foamed out the neck and spilled onto my bamboo floor. Cholly poured everyone a glass and we toasted the happy couple.

  By closing time, I was blasted. Cholly left with Soren as his designated driver. Margaret staggered back to the hardware store on foot and I called Carl for a ride home.

  “It’s been absolutely awful, Tracy.” Shelley Prothero sat in my workshop chair. “We woke up to see figures in masks and hoodies hurling toilet paper rolls all over our trees. They got back in their cars, gunned their motors, and ran over our mailbox. By the time the police arrived, they were long gone.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Kids.” Shelley’s forehead had more trenches running through it than our mountain watershed. “We think they’re Kayla’s classmates.”

  “Why would they pick your house?”

  “Kayla wrote an article for the school newspaper.”

  “So?”

  “The topic was why gay kids should be supported.”

  “Oh.” I looked at Shelley in the mirror. The weight of the world was again on her shoulders, just as it was when she was terrified of medical bankruptcy.

  “Kayla’s being harassed at school,” Shelley continu
ed. “Kids bump into her in the hall—one sent her backwards into a locker—and no one will sit with her at lunch. She doesn’t eat at school anymore.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “The chief said to get their license plates if it happens again.” She frowned. “But he seemed more concerned about the vandals than us. He told us not to confront the kids.”

  “But they’re trespassing on your property.”

  “We’re still liable and their parents could sue if anything bad happens to them.”

  I mulled this over. More and more it appeared that victims had no rights.

  “I know where you can get a wicked no trespassing sign,” I said, recalling the elderly survivalist’s message that struck the fear of God and the second amendment into all trespassers. “You can turn your property into an armed camp.”

  “Don’t be absurd. We don’t own guns and we don’t want any.”

  I sorted through my mental ‘Contacts’ file. “I have a friend who’s a hunter. He has a camera with an infra-red light and a motion detector. If they come around again, you would have a movie of the kids and maybe even a view of their license plates.”

  “That might work.”

  “I’ll call him tonight.” I resumed cutting Shelley’s hair. The watershed creases on her forehead were shallower now. We spoke of other things.

  “How’s that?” I asked after ten minutes.

  She surveyed herself in the mirror. “Oh, Tracy, you do take care of me!”

  Gay Lynn was a vivacious forty-something with a wide smile made wider by coral lipstick and a bouncy blonde hairdo.

  “You’re the detective hairdresser,” she said, as soon as she came in my door. “Have I got a story for you!”

  I started to say something, but she jumped right in. “I live across the street from the high school. My husband and I decided to fly a rainbow flag on top of our hill out back, as a symbol of gay pride, you know. We fly it to support our kids. The next morning we woke up and the rainbow flag was gone. We figured it wasn’t attached right, so we put another one up and it disappeared, too.”

  Gay Lynn made herself at home on my sofa without taking a breath.

  “The next day I was sitting in my hot tub and darned if I didn’t see a little bastard on top of our hill chinning up the pole and taking down the new flag. My husband was so mad he got in his truck and headed for the other side of the hill where he spotted the kid just coming down. It was our next door neighbor’s son. Later that day, we confronted the parents, and d’you know what they said?”