The Road to Wrinkle Ranch

by Nick Russell

  Still, it would be nice if he showed some interest in something in life. It was like when the lumber yard handed him his gold-plated watch and told him thanks for 30 good years, the man had no more reason to get up in the morning.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, Lorraine said, “Oh shit” and jumped up, taking a quick sip of coffee before setting the cup in the sink. She could not afford to be late again. Not this week, not for a while, or Jeremy would surely kick her to the curb. The little pervert always favored the good-looking young checkout clerks, even if all those girls wanted to do was scan groceries with one hand and text on their phones with the other. How come Jeremy never had a problem with that?

  She made it to work and punched in with a minute to spare. Then, as she was putting on her smock, that damned Tami came prancing into the locker room and said "Guess you’ll have to work a little harder today, darlin'. I'm goin’ home."

  "Goin’ home? You just came on at 8 o’clock, didn't you?"

  “I know, but I've got a headache,” the little twit said, almost simpering. “When I told Jeremy how much it was hurtin’ and how I just couldn’t stand it, he told me I needed to go home and just get some rest. He's even callin’ it a sick day so I don’t lose any pay. See ya," the girl said, waving with one hand as she went out the door.

  "You bitch," Lorraine said, slamming her locker door closed. She had only been out of the hospital three days after her gallbladder surgery before Jeremy was calling, asking her when she was going to get back to work. She’d even been there after she sprained her ankle, hobbling around with that damn tape on it for a week or two, and not asking for any time off! Of course, it’s not like she’d have gotten it anyhow. No, but if she had big boobs and a bubble butt like that bitch Tami had, she could get away with murder. That wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair at all!

  Lorraine had to work hard to keep her attitude good for the customers. It wasn't their fault you had a bad day at home or a jerk for a boss or a worthless slug for a coworker. No, those folks came in to buy their groceries and get a friendly smile, and Lorraine tried to give it to them every time she could, no matter how bad she felt. Even when that busybody Melba Mason came to her line and asked all sugar-sweet, "Has Virgil been sick?"

  "No, not that I know of," Lorraine had said. “Why?”

  "Only reason I was just askin’ is because I noticed that the grass in your yard seems to be getting pretty high. I can send my nephew Donny over to cut it if Virgil isn’t up to it anymore."

  "That won’t be necessary. Virgil is perfectly capable of cutting our grass," Lorraine said.

  "Okay, well, I just wanted you to know that people are talkin’."

  People were talking, were they? Lorraine knew the one doing the talking was standing right there across the counter from her. She was so mad she put a five-pound bag of sugar right on top of the bread when she bagged her neighbor’s groceries. That would teach the nosey old bitch!

  It was a slow morning and it took her a while, but after an hour or so, Lorraine’s normal good attitude was back, and she smiled when the old man teetered up to her checkout, leaning heavily on his cane. It was one of those canes with the four feet on the bottom, just like old Mrs. O’Rourke from church used.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  "Oh, I sure hope so,” he said in a shaky voice. “I don't know what I did, but I came in here first thing this morning and bought some groceries, and when I got home, my steaks weren't in either of the bags. I don't know what I did with my steaks, but they weren't there and my son and his wife and the grandkids are coming over for a cookout tonight and I don't know what I did with my steaks. Did I walk out without them and somebody turned them in?"

  The poor old guy looked like he was going to lose it and Lorraine smiled at him and said, “It's all right, sir, we'll figure it out."

  "Here's my receipt," the old man said, handing her a cash register receipt with a trembling hand. “I bought three steaks, one for me, and one for my son, and one for his wife, Cassie. I’ll tell you what, you’d love Cassie. That girl’s the best thing ever happened to that boy of mine. Anyway, I got the steaks and I got some hamburgers, and some buns and some of them frozen French fries for the kids, because they don’t like steak. But when I got home the hamburger was in the bags, and the buns and French fries, they were all there. But no steaks. I don't know what I did with them. Could I have left them sitting here?"

  "Don't you fret for a minute, sir," Lorraine told him. “I'm sure that you walked out without them or something like that. It happens all the time.”

  She looked at the receipt and sure enough, it showed that Tami had been the one to check him out. It was just like that airhead to do something like that.

  “Yep, three ribeye steaks. I'll just go back to the meat counter and get you three more, just like what you had here. I wouldn’t want you to not have everything for that cookout with your family."

  The old man looked distressed and said, “I'm on a fixed income and I can’t afford three more steaks. I was hoping I had left them here. I guess maybe the hamburgers will do."

  "No, sir! You paid for three steaks and you’re going to get your three steaks. We take care of our customers here at Palmetto Pantry. I'm sure the clerk rang them up but forgot to bag them and they wound up in someone else's bag. Like I said, it happens all the time. Now, you just wait right here, and I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She bustled away and came back shortly with three thick ribeye steaks and put them in a plastic bag and handed it to him. "There you go, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  “Oh, no, ma'am. I sure do appreciate this. I didn’t want something for nothing, I just thought maybe I forgot and was hoping… well, I sure wasn’t hoping for this. I just can't believe you give me these here steaks. I sure don’t want to get you in trouble."

  “Don't you worry about a thing, it’s company policy.”

  “A look of relief came over the old man's face. “You are such a sweetheart,” he told her. “I can't thank you enough.”

  “No problem at all,” Lorraine assured him. “You have yourself a good day, and you enjoy your cookout with your family, sir. Those grandbabies grow up way too fast.”

  He thanked her again and she watched as he made his slow way out of the store, placing his cane methodically ahead of him with every step. She shook her head and asked herself how a nice old man like that was still out shopping and planning a cookout for his family, and she couldn’t get Virgil’s ass out of bed to do anything.

  Around the corner, half a block from the store, the old man opened his freezer and put the three stakes in next to three already sitting there, then closed the freezer and smiled. Yes, it was going to be a good cookout, no question about that!

  Chapter 3

  A long line of police cars and other emergency vehicles were parked on both sides of the country road, their lights flashing. Reserve Deputy Therman Sheppard was waving traffic through, shouting at the ones who had to stop and gawk, causing backlogs behind them. "Let's go! Keep moving, people. Come on, let's go."

  John Lee managed to nose the Charger onto the shoulder at least 50 yards back and walked forward. Twice people in cars rolled down their windows to ask him what was happening. He simply shook his head and said, "I don't know, I'm not there yet."

  Deputy Samuel Gerrison looked up at John Lee as he approached and shook his head. "It's an ugly one."

  "Kind of sounded like it," John Lee said. “Any idea what happened?"

  Samuel shook his head. “Hard to say at this point. It looks like they tried to beat the train, but from the look of it, the front of the train was way past the crossing when the car went through the gate."

  “Any idea how many victims?"

  "I don't know, John Lee. All I know for sure is that it was a Corvette, and the only reason I know that is because there was an emblem laying there among all the debris. When you get closer you'll see what I mean."

  John Lee really didn't want to get closer,
but when Chief Deputy Dick Schroeder called his name and waved him up to the crossing, he went.

  "Do we know anything yet, Dick?"

  "First indication is that someone tried to beat the train. But look, the locomotive’s down there a quarter mile, maybe half a mile. It's like they drove through the gate into the side of the train. Who the hell would do that, John Lee?"

  “Any witnesses?"

  "None that we’ve been able to find," the chief deputy said, leading him up the sloped approach to the crossing. "But look at these skid marks. Why so many skid marks at a place where cars should be stopping, not burning rubber?”

  “Do you think they have anything to do with what happened here?"

  Looking up from where he was squatted down beside the black tire marks, Deputy Donny Ray Mayhew, one of the few college graduates on the Somerton County Sheriff's Department, said, “These marks here, close to the gate, are from a passenger car. But back here,” he said, duck walking a few steps and pointing to another set of marks, “these are from something bigger. Something with dual wheels."

  “What does that mean?"

  The deputy stood up and looked toward the crossing, where shredded bits of metal and fiberglass littered the ground, and said, “This is going to sound crazy, but I think the bigger vehicle came along and pushed whatever that was into the side of the train."

  “Why would someone do that? Road rage, maybe?"

  There had been a few instances of road rage in the county before, usually some young guy who was in a hurry to get somewhere who took offense to anyone driving the speed limit and slowing him down. More often than not, those incidents were fueled by alcohol or some other drug. But it wasn’t a phenomenon restricted to young males only. Just two weeks ago, Kellie Poe, a 46-year-old wife and mother of three, was arrested after becoming irate at another woman who failed to move fast enough when the light turned green. After laying on her horn, which resulted in the driver of the first car flipping her the finger, Kellie had tailgated her for three blocks, blowing her horn and flashing her headlights. When the offending car stopped again, this time at the traffic light in front of the Piggly Wiggly, Kellie had jumped out and tried to pull the woman from behind the wheel. It had taken a city police officer and two civilians to pull the two apart, and Kellie had cursed everyone in sight all the way to the jail.

  "I don't know, John Lee. But you can't look at this and tell me you don't think something happened here."

  "No, I'm not disagreeing at all," John Lee told him. “The question is, who was in the dual wheel vehicle? And," he asked, looking back at the wreckage on the tracks, “who was in the car that wound up under the train?"

  ***

  John Lee hung around the accident site for a while, but there were so many people on hand that they were tripping over each other so he went back out on patrol. There wasn't much going on the rest of the afternoon. Lamar Bednarski had driven away with the nozzle of the gas hose still sticking in the opening of his tank, pulling it off the pump at the Kwik Fill station. John Lee stood by, keeping people out of the parking lot while the fire department cleaned up the spilled gasoline and listened to Lamar explain that it wasn't his fault. He said that he normally drove his pickup truck, and it filled from the passenger side. That damn car of his wife's filled from the driver's side. That's why the accident happened. John Lee wanted to ask him what difference it made but didn't really care. That was between Lamar, his insurance company, and the store to sort out.

  His next call had been about a barking dog that a neighbor said had been going at it nonstop for three days now. No one was home when he got to the address, and he followed the sound of the barking to the backyard where he found a big floppy-eared mutt in distress. The dog’s long chain was wrapped around and around and around a tree, giving it no room to move or get to its water and food bowls. It wagged its tail at him and gave him a pitiful look.

  “Hey there, boy. Looks like you’ve got yourself in a mess, didn’t you?”

  The dog thumped its tail on the ground.

  “Well, let’s see if we can get you untangled. How’s that sound?”

  John Lee managed to lead the eager dog in circles around the tree to get the chain loose again, and when he did, it jumped up, putting its front paws on his chest and trying to lick his face.

  “That’s a good boy,” John Lee said. “All better now, huh?”

  He stepped back and the dog immediately started lapping water from its bowl.

  "There you go, boy. Have yourself a good drink.”

  “You need to shoot that goddamn dog," said a grizzled looking old man from the next yard. “Ain’t nothin’ but a nuisance, barkin’ all the time.”

  "No, he doesn’t need to be shot," John Lee said. “He just needed untangled.”

  “Yeah, he always needs untangling. That damn kid that lives there takes off and goes to work every mornin’ and soon as he's gone, that noisy son of a bitch wraps himself up and starts howlin’ and barkin’ and raisin’ hell, and he don't stop till he gets home and untangles it. And the next day he does the same damn thing. Tell you what, if you ain’t gonna shoot it, I just might!”

  "No, sir, that's not a good idea," John Lee said. “Fact is, it's downright illegal. I’d hate to take you to jail for something like that."

  “Well what the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t listen to that all day long. It gets old."

  “I'm sure it does," John Lee told him. "Have you talked to your neighbor about the problem?"

  "What, and have him argue with me? No, sir. I pay my taxes and I expect some peace and quiet, not this damn noise every day. Now, you need to do your job.”

  “Do you know the neighbor’s name?”

  “Hell no, I don’t know his name. Why would I know his name?”

  “Well, what do you know about him?”

  “I know he’s got a dog that barks its fool head off all day long. That’s what I know!”

  “That doesn’t help me figure out who he is so I can talk to him and try to solve your problem,” John Lee said.

  “You can solve my problem by shootin’ that damn dog!”

  “Nobody’s shooting anything. You must know something about the guy who lives here. How long ago did he move in?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe six, eight months ago. Got himself a different woman every couple months it looks like."

  “You said he goes to work. Do you know where he works?"

  "How the hell would I know where he works? If I don't know the man's name, I damn sure don't know where he works, do I?"

  "No, probably not,” John Lee said. “Do you know what kind of car he drives?"

  "Don't drive no car. Drives a van, an old white van."

  “All right, let me see if I can find out who he is,” John Lee said. “Meantime, don't be shooting this dog, okay?"

  “I ought to."

  "No, sir, you ought not to," John Lee warned him. “Like I said, that’s illegal and I really will have to arrest you if you do.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with this world. Nobody ever wants to do nothin’ they can get out of. My taxes pay your salary and I damn sure want some satisfaction!”

  John Lee couldn’t count the times some irate citizen had given him that same tired old line, and more than once he had been tempted to ask one of them for a raise, but all he did was tell the grumpy old codger to wait and let him work things out with the dog’s owner.

  He called dispatch and Sheila Sharp told him that she would do some checking around and get back to him on the dog owner’s identity. Fifteen minutes later she called him and said, “I talked to Billy Joe Slater, that's his sister's house, but she's moved off to Atlanta. Her husband got a job working for some big electronics company up there. Or he said it might be an insurance company, he wasn’t sure. Anyway, he said she rented the place to a kid name Ronnie Hightower, but he don’t know nothing else about him except that he works at Donnelson Freight, out on Burke Road.”

  "Okay, I'll
drive by and see if I can find him," John Lee said.

  Ronnie Hightower was a tall, skinny young man who was working shirtless, stacking empty pallets along the side of the freight company’s huge metal warehouse. Sweat ran down his back and chest, mixing with an assortment of tattoos. When he saw John Lee, he stopped and looked at him, curious as to why a deputy would want to talk to him while he was on the job.

  “Can I help you?"

  "Are you Ronnie?"

  "Yes, sir, I am. Something wrong?"

  "I'm Deputy John Lee Quarrels from the Sheriff’s Department. One of your neighbors called and complained about your dog barking. Said it’s been barking all the time."

  "Buster? Damn, I didn't know that. I'm sure sorry about that, sir."

  “I went by your house and his chain was all wrapped up around the tree so he couldn't get to his water or food,” John Lee said.

  "Oh, damn, I'm sorry. Is Buster okay?”

  A dog owner himself, John Lee could tell the young man was obviously concerned about his pet.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. I unwrapped him, and I made sure he could get to his water and food. But you need to do something, because if this continues, I’ll have to cite you for letting your dog disturb the peace. And I really don’t want to do that.”

  “No, sir, I don’t want that either. I really am sorry. I know Buster is always getting hung up on that tree. I’ll take care of that right now if the boss will let me off long enough to do it."

  “Like I said, I unwrapped him for now,” John Lee told him.

  "Thanks, I appreciate that. I can’t leave him in the house because he's not housebroken and he poops all over the place. But I'll figure out something, I promise you."