Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

  • • •

  On a grey afternoon, George is sliding Muscovito’s mail into the locking box in the stone pillar, when the gate opens.

  The disembodied voice comes over the speaker again. “Could you come in the gate for a minute? I’ve got a package to go out that didn’t fit in the box.”

  George hears both the heightened friendliness and interest in the voice, and the little edge to it, and he once again imagines throwing the truck into reverse, hitting the accelerator, screeching the tires, exiting the neighborhood one last time, and disappearing into the world. But he doesn’t, of course. He does instead what he knows how to do, what he has done for thirty-five years. He heads in to deliver and pick up the U.S. mail.

  Muscovito is standing in the same place in the driveway, arms crossed.

  “Hi again,” says Muscovito, with a thin smile, eyes steady on George, with evident fresh interest.

  George gives a friendly nod hello. “Where’s the package?”

  Muscovito uncrosses his arms to reveal he’s holding a Walther 9mm. “Right here.” He points it at George, the black muzzle only two feet from George’s chest.

  The slamming into reverse, the screech of tires, is no longer an option.

  George feels himself going dizzy. He blinks hard to keep from passing out.

  “Into the house,” instructs Muscovito.

  Dazed, blank-brained, George steps gingerly out of the truck and walks up the steps and into the house.

  The living room is rococo, ornate. A huge, glittering chandelier, big deep couches, heavy Empire mirrors, bold commanding patterns on the couches and throw pillows, a fanciness and high decoration and vibrancy of color entirely out of character with the gruff, grim Muscovito.

  The furniture is not the most attention-getting feature in the room. That honor goes instead to the two men sitting on a couch and chair in the middle of it. Men several years younger than George or Muscovito. Younger, and tan, and fit, with healthy white teeth and big smiles. And each of them, like Muscovito, holding a weapon.

  “Sit down, mailman,” says one of them, the one with the slicked-back hair, gesturing casually with the gun to a chair opposite them. A mild accent of some sort, unplaceable—Eastern European?

  George sits. His body, his brain, are in a mode they have never experienced—a fog, a haze, in which he can barely process what is going on around him, can barely hear or see—and yet there is a hyper-alertness to everything. Like being a disembodied observer of your own fate, your own approaching destiny. A destiny approaching fast.

  There is silence for a moment, while the men study him. Then the one with the slicked-back hair says: “It’s illegal to tamper with the U.S. mail.”

  An accent, yes, but clearly fluent and at ease with English.

  George is silent.

  “Of all people, you should know that,” says the second man—a shaved head, a deeper, more curt voice than the first.

  “You can be punished for something like that,” says the first man, circling the gun lazily, almost casually, in his hand.

  There is obviously no one else in the house. Kids away at boarding school. Wife traveling.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, mailman. But not for very long. Your schedule is extremely reliable,” says the one with the shaved head.

  “Our partner, Muscovito, he didn’t think a mailman could be doing this. Never even occurred to him,” says the one with the slicked-back hair, who looks momentarily annoyed—as if personally offended by Muscovito’s provincialism. “You’re about to retire, aren’t you mailman? Aren’t you, George? Whose Maggie has died? Who now knows our business, inside and out?” He shakes his head of slicked-back hair and pretends to ask the rococo ceiling, “What are we going to do with you, George? What are we going to do?”

  But George knows it is merely a rhetorical question.

  He knows it is the last rhetorical question he will ever hear.

  The last question of any sort.

  “Well, we do have an answer, mailman. Here’s what we are going to do.”

  An answer, not a question, thinks George, and the thought cuts bluntly through the thick haze of his terror.

  His world will end with an answer, not a question.

  All obedient, cooperative George can do is watch as the second one, the shaved-head one, grimly, matter-of-factly, with no evident glee but only focus on the task, checks his weapon, levels the gun, and applies the answer.

  He fires a single shot.

  Unerring. Professional. Passionless. Corrective.

  Right where he aims it.

  Right into the brain.

  Right where all the troublesome scheming and illegal solutions and over-reaching hubris began.

  Right into Muscovito’s forehead.

  • • •

  George is paralyzed. He has stopped breathing. He is only eyes. He is panic, terror personified.

  The man with the shaved head silently, immediately, begins attending to Muscovito’s body. Solemnly, like a mortician, folding arms, shifting him. But first, of course, handing Muscovito’s fallen Walther to the man with the slicked-back hair, who watches the proceedings, while addressing George.

  “He never fit into the neighborhood, did he George? Built walls, gates, drove his car with blacked-out windows too fast, never even introduced himself to the neighbors. That’s not how you make yourself welcome. That’s not how you blend in, is it? You’ve got to ingratiate yourself. Make yourself part of the scenery. You garden. Play some tennis and golf. You host a party or two. Everyone knows that’s how you conduct yourself, right?”

  He shakes his head with pity. “He never even thought that a mailman could be doing all that to the contracts. That’s not a very alert or interested view of life, is it George? A pretty prejudiced, unenlightened view of the postal service and its employees, don’t you think? You’ve probably observed that view all your life. When the fact is, in our business, the postal service is one of our best friends.”

  The man stops watching the proceedings with Muscovito’s corpse and looks directly at George. Demanding, it seems, that George look directly back at him.

  “We knew it was you. We could tell. So we looked a little further. Did some research. Just like you did, George. And George, you have been utterly reliable.” Smiling for moment. “Someone to count on through rain, snow, sleet, and hail. And now you’ve studied our businesses, and what you don’t understand, and I’m sure there’s still plenty, we can teach you. You are about to retire, you live alone, you’re healthy and alert and skilled in the subtleties of the mail services. You are ready for the next phase, the next challenge in life, yes? So you are now our partner. And of course, you have no choice. If you refuse, Muscovito’s murder will be tied to you, very easily in fact, with your truck in his driveway at the time of death, which Muscovito’s security camera clearly shows on the tape we will take from it shortly. The murder weapon, which will in a moment have your handprints on it, will be sitting for all time in a post office box that you have already requested and paid for with cash and will have mailed the weapon to for safekeeping.”

  “We’ll take care of everything from here, partner,” says the other man, the one with the shaved head. He gestures to Muscovito’s body, already wrapped in plastic sheeting and taped up, a package ready for transportation and disposal. “We’ll load it in the truck for you. We have instructions for where you will dump it. Don’t worry, no one will see. But we’ll be taking photos of you doing it, for our own insurance.”

  The man with the slicked-back hair jumps in, as if to set George’s mind at ease. “We’ll have plenty of use for your skills and your knowledge. We’ll compensate you very fairly. We’ll be in touch.”

  And then, more philosophically, the man says: “Listen, we all need something to occupy us. A hobby, a focus in life…”

  “Continue your appointed rounds,” instructs the second man.

  The first man smiles. “The neighbors will be so happ
y, won’t they George? Good job! You did it! Muscovito is gone.”

  “Welcome, mailman…” says the second.

  “Yes,” the first one smiles wider, as if with sudden inspiration. “Welcome to our neighborhood.”

  HIGH NOON AT DOLLAR CENTRAL

  by Maggie Toussaint

  A woman called to me from the end of the grocery aisle. “Yoo-hoo, Baxley! Did you hear about last night’s burglary?”

  Charlotte Armstrong was my best friend and a reporter for our weekly paper. Excitement radiated from her plus-sized body, fluorescent lighting glinted off her purple glasses.

  I put down the generic peanut butter I’d been considering. “Are you kidding? The whodunit question buzzed around the hardware store and the bank like a drunken hornet.”

  “The liquor store heist is all anybody’s talking about. Well, everybody but the sheriff. He’s so close-mouthed about our serial burglar, I can’t get one lousy comment from him for the record.”

  “That’s our sheriff.”

  “Screw him. We’ll beat Mr. Arrogant at his own game. Time for me and you to don our Nancy Drew hats.”

  I snorted. “What makes you think we’ll figure this out before he does?”

  “We know people, like your dad. He could dreamwalk and find out who’s the culprit.”

  A groan escaped my throat. “Not that.” All my life I’d ducked my whack-job Nesbitt heritage, but my father embraced the family lunacy. His current job, a nonpaying job I might add, was County Dreamwalker. He functioned as a liaison between the living and the dead. Lately, he’d been after me to take over his job. “Not a chance, besides, no one died during the burglaries.”

  Charlotte glanced at her chiming phone display and groaned. “Kip can’t find the ad log. I’ve gotta head back to work. I’ll come by this evening, and we’ll make plans.”

  Plans? If she thinks I’m getting involved in this, she’d better think again. As Charlotte hurried off, I turned my attention back to peanut butter. Store brand was cheaper, but it tasted differently. Cost versus taste. I grabbed my favorite brand. If I didn’t land a new client at my business, Pets and Plants, soon, my daughter and I had better get used to generics.

  • • •

  After polishing off two bowls of my Mom’s vegetable soup and a peanut butter sandwich, Charlotte pushed aside the empty dishes. The glint in her eye put me on notice. I’d seen that expression when she decided we were big enough to dive off old Mr. Briggle’s shrimp dock and we nearly broke our necks. I steeled my nerve.

  “I meant to call you earlier, Charlotte, but I got busy. Investigating these robberies is a bad idea. We’re not cops.”

  “We don’t have to be cops to figure this out.” Charlotte waved her notepad in the air. “For God’s sake, you tutored the sheriff in high school. We can do this, and it would really help me out. I need your help, Baxley Powell.”

  Guilt at letting my friend down warred with common sense. I wanted to help her, and it would be like old times.

  “Come on, Mom,” my daughter urged. “Don’t be a wuss.”

  “That’s the spirit, Larissa,” Charlotte said.

  I glared at both of them. “I’m trying to be an adult here.”

  “Listen to her, Baxley. Be an adult later. Right now we’ve got a burglar to catch.”

  Their expectation flared brightly. I caved. “Oh, all right. Who am I to stand in the way of your career?”

  “Good deal. Let’s review the facts,” Charlotte began. “A week ago, someone broke into Dollar Central. They cleaned out the cash register, the pricey chocolates, and every foundation garment in stock. Three days ago, a burglar hit the art center. She emptied the cash register and the donations box. In addition, she made off with six paintings, custom jewelry, and one of every book in stock.”

  I leaned forward. “Wait a minute. A woman did this?”

  “Absolutely. Look at the loot. If chocolate, bras, bling, and books don’t say female, I don't know what does.”

  Larissa laughed.

  I shot her a quelling look before saying, “Female is one conclusion you might draw, but the stolen items may be a ruse. Maybe the thief is trying to confuse us, when all he’s after is the cash.”

  “No way.” Charlotte’s pen beat a staccato riff on my table. “If cash was the goal, the burglar would’ve hit higher profile businesses. The grocery store or the bank, for instance, would have a lot more cash on hand.”

  “What if he’s warming up to bigger robberies?” I asked.

  “Could be. Until she’s caught, we don’t know her intentions.” Charlotte snickered. “Three successful, well-planned robberies in a row are amazing considering how people around here live for the moment. Very few deep thinkers in Sinclair County.” She glanced over at me. “Except you. You could’ve pulled this off.”

  My head reared back so hard that I smacked it on the chair. “Me? I’m innocent.”

  “I know,” Charlotte soothed. “But you have the brains to pull this off and the discipline to keep going. And you could certainly use the money.”

  I shot a sideways glance at Larissa, not wanting the full extent of our troubles to be aired. “We’re not that poor.” Unless you counted my empty pantry and the stack of bills I couldn’t pay.

  “Good to know.” Charlotte beamed a genuine smile that lit up my kitchen. “Where were we? Oh, yeah, the liquor store robbery. The culprit jimmied the back door open and stole the cash, six bottles of champagne, and two boxes of beef jerky.”

  Larissa shuddered. “Gross. Beef jerky.”

  “That clinches it. I’d never be hungry enough to steal beef jerky,” I said. “Which brings me back to thinking a man did this. Men love beef jerky.”

  “I know plenty of women who eat beef jerky, myself included,” Charlotte countered with some heat. “It’s filling and already cooked. The perfect meal.”

  My water glass halted halfway up as I stared at her. “Are you adding your name to the suspect list?”

  “No, but you can’t rule out half our suspect pool because of beef jerky.”

  “We don’t know anything about the suspect, so how can we have a pool? We need to narrow down the search.”

  Charlotte gazed at the ceiling for a bit. “It has to be a local. A stranger would stand out.”

  “What about fingerprints or DNA to target our burglar?” I asked. “Cops on NCIS take a picture of a fingerprint with their phones, run it through AFIS, and get a match right away.”

  “TV cops don’t deal with backwater towns, budget cuts, and state lab backups. Even if fingerprints at all three scenes match up, so what? Everyone shops at these stores. Most likely, we won’t get the fingerprint results back this year.”

  “This year? Are you kidding?”

  “Sadly, no. This isn’t a high profile crime and that means a low profile analysis timeline. According to Bernard, we’re talking months before we have answers.”

  She’d questioned her nemesis at the paper? “You talked to Bernard about this?”

  Charlotte grinned. “Sneaky, I know, but a little flattery will get you a long way in researching.”

  A glance out the window confirmed what I knew in my bones. The light was waning, thinning the daily boundary between the living and the dead. Erring on the safe side, I reinforced my mental extrasensory shielding and made the effort to get us back on track. “No fingerprints and no DNA. Where does that leave us?”

  “Visiting the scene of the crimes and chatting with people. Lunchtime tomorrow suit you?”

  I considered my options. Even if I had another job booked, and I didn’t, I was available at lunch. It sounded like fun. We’d be undercover investigators. Best, if we cracked the case, we’d one-up the swaggering sheriff. “Lunch is perfect. Meet you at Dollar Central at high noon.”

  • • •

  Four cars were in the parking lot when I arrived the next day. Make that three cars and a rusty truck. Charlotte pulled in beside me, and we entered together with the cover
story of gathering information for a feature she planned to write for the paper.

  While we waited for the manager inside, we chatted with the Dresden twins, who were checking out, and greeted Maisie Ryals, a new widow in town. The Dresdens were buying stuff for their new puppy, but Maisie only gave us a tight nod as she stood in line with her trash bags and Oreos. Poor thing.

  The helpful manager, Thelma, showed us the pry marks on the back door. Then she led us to the lingerie section and the empty chocolate shelf, showing off both with gestures worthy of a game show hostess. Lastly, the manager pointed out the damaged register.

  “Any idea who did this?” Charlotte asked, snapping pictures at each point of interest.

  “Nope,” Thelma crossed her arms and scowled. “I told the sheriff nobody but a lowdown critter would do such a hateful thing.”

  Charlotte nodded, her pen scratching furiously across her notepad. I glanced around the store. This place seemed the same as every time I came in here, but I had a gut feeling that we had missed something. My mom had always encouraged me to trust my instincts, so I pursued the matter.

  “Did the thief take anything else or leave something behind?” I asked.

  Thelma’s expression clouded momentarily. “Not that I know of.”

  A tub of items sat on the checkout counter between the registers. A white object rested on top. I startled with recognition, mostly because I hadn’t seen those particular angels anywhere but my Christmas tree ornament box for the last ten years. This angel looked brand new. In addition, this one had a fancy “L” stitched on the gown. I jerked a thumb toward the tub. “What’s that stuff?”

  “Lost and Found,” Thelma said. “Kids come in with a toy from home, put it down, and start carrying around our toys. Their stuff gets left behind. What isn’t claimed in a month goes to charity.”

  I leaned closer to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me, and then waved Charlotte over. “See that?”

  My friend peered into the bin. “The angel ornament?”