Rust in Peace (A Giovanna Ferrari Repair-it-all Mystery Book 1)

by J. J. Murray

  I order the buffalo BBQ sandwich and buffalo chips with a large fresh-squeezed lemonade, and Owen goes to the kitchen.

  While I wait and sweat, I hear Sherry Stringfield’s grating voice and Beulah Barnes’ nasal whine drifting from a table near the counter.

  “Mr. Simmons hadn’t been in for his annual checkup for five years,” Beulah says in what she probably thinks is a whisper. I’m sure Beulah doesn’t know what HIPAA laws are either. “And I am so glad. He was always fussing, cussing, and carrying on. The man was so mean he probably whipped his own tail twice a week. We didn’t have a scale to weigh him properly anyway. We had to have him stand on two scales and add ‘em up. Just between you and me, his right side was twenty-five pounds heavier. When was the last time you talked to him?”

  “I hadn’t talked to that old fart since the trial,” Sherry says.

  “That was over twenty years ago,” Beulah says. “But it seems like yesterday.”

  “Oh, I called him once a week, but he never answered his phone,” Sherry says. “I wasted so much postage sending him letters. I’ll bet that man was too stupid to read them. The sun fried his brain. He could have made millions off that land if he had wanted to. He was so dumb he couldn’t find water if he fell out of a boat.”

  “How much could he have made?” Beulah asks.

  “Maybe four million back in the nineties, and maybe five million in 2006,” Sherry says. “And I was all set to sell that land for two million for his grandson last Friday.”

  “Who was the buyer?” Beulah asks.

  “I’m not supposed to say,” Sherry “whispers.”

  “Why not?” Beulah asks.

  “These people would rather keep it quiet, okay?” Sherry says.

  “What would you have made on the sale?” Beulah asks.

  “I would have made a hundred and twenty thousand bucks in commissions.”

  “Such a shame,” Beulah says.

  “And think of all the waterfront properties I could have sold, too,” Sherry says. “As soon as Tiny died, I had a slew of calls. But once that will was read, my phone hasn’t rung even once.”

  “Such a shame,” Beulah says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Tell everyone about it, Sherry.

  When Owen comes back, he looks at the mill. “Every time I look at the mill I see that waterwheel turning.”

  “And every time I see the mill, I see a money pit.”

  “You used to have an imagination.”

  I used to like you, too. “It is a foolish idea, Owen.”

  “It’s a gold mine. Now that there will always be plenty of water in that creek, I’d be a fool not to start working on it.”

  “It could have very easily gone the other way, Owen.”

  He shakes his head. “Giovanna, both you and I know that Mr. Simmons wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t going to reward his kin for being so evil to him for so long.”

  “But what if he did? Doesn’t the Bible say, ‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head’? What if Mr. Simmons had left it all to them?”

  “I knew he wouldn’t.”

  “You can’t know a thing like that, Owen.”

  “I knew, Gio.” He taps his temple with a finger.

  Owen might have known. He was already calling Tina about his flour before the reading of the will. “How did you know?”

  “I knew because Curtis Daniels was in here for breakfast on D-Day.”

  I blink. “Oh. That proves it beyond any doubt. Whenever a lawyer visits The Swinging Bridge on D-Day—”

  “We talked, Gio,” Owen interrupts. “Mr. Daniels and I had a nice long conversation.”

  “About what? Not about the will.”

  “No, of course not. We talked about things in general. How’s Mr. Simmons? I asked. Lucid and spry, Mr. Daniels said. And then I—”

  “How did you know Mr. Simmons had been talking to Mr. Daniels?” I interrupt.

  “Last week, two good old boy fishermen told me about what they saw over that weekend at The Simmons Farm while they were fishing Gray Creek.”

  “And catching nothing but a buzz.”

  “Probably. Anyway, they told me they saw surveyors, an old guy in a suit, and another guy in a suit carrying a clipboard.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “That said estate work, you know, taking inventory, mapping out the boundaries of the property. So I asked Mr. Daniels if he was in town to do a little estate work, and he said, ‘Something like that.’ Which I took to mean yes. So I said I’m planning to reopen the mill, Mr. Daniels. Do you think it’s a wise thing to do with water being so scarce in this county these days? He claimed he was no one to approach for business advice, but I could see it in his eyes, Giovanna. His eyes were telling me yes, there will be water for the mill because there will be no lake.”

  “You’ve been huffing that charcoal cooker out there for too long, Owen.”

  “Mr. Daniels told me without telling me that Tiny’s land was never going to be sold for some lake. My millpond will always be full, Motts Creek and Gray Creek are always going to run, that waterwheel is going to turn again, and I am going to make and sell stone-ground flour. But I don’t want to do it without your help.”

  “I gave you my answer already.” Didn’t I?

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I told you it was a crazy idea, and I don’t do crazy.” Though I am starting a romance via voicemail.

  “But you didn’t say no, Giovanna.”

  “I didn’t say yes, Owen.”

  “So that means you’re still thinking about it, right?”

  “Nope.”

  Owen sighs. “Are you getting a lot of repair calls, Giovanna?”

  “No more or less than usual this time of year. Why?”

  “You know how Kingstown is,” he says. “When people believe a thing, it becomes part of their bones. And even if you show them proof that what they believe is wrong, they’ll still believe the opposite.”

  All true. “What are you trying to say, Owen?”

  “I’m saying that you might … need the work until all this mess blows over.” He motions to the mill. “And I can guarantee you sixty hours of work a week for the next four months.”

  “I’ll be fine, Owen. But thank you so much for thinking about my financial wellbeing.” I need to leave this place. Now.

  Helen brings me my meal. “Here you go.”

  “Oh, Helen, could you make that to-go?” I ask. “Thanks.”

  Helen pivots and returns to the kitchen.

  “You’re not going to eat with me?” Owen asks.

  “No.” I have another date with Rinaldo’s voicemail, and if I stay here another moment, I will be accusing Owen of starting and fueling those foolish rumors so I have to work for him.

  “Giovanna, you’re missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “No, Owen. I think you did.” I stand.

  “Giovanna, I’m not going to apologize to you for breaking promises I made to you when I was fourteen. I love Kim. She’s a great woman. And if you help me get the mill running, I’ll make you a major shareholder. We’re going to get big, Giovanna, and I want you to be part of it.”

  “Or what?”

  “What do you mean, or what?”

  I look into his eyes, searching for any kind of treachery. “What if I’m not part of it, Owen?”

  “Then … you’re not part of it, Giovanna.”

  Helen returns with a Styrofoam container and a to-go cup.

  “Thank you, Helen,” I say, and I look once more at the mill. “I have come to a decision, Owen. No. I will not help you with the mill. I do hope it works out for you.”

  “But Gio—”

  “When is Kimiko due?” I interrupt.

  “What?”

  “When is Kimiko having your baby?”

  “Um, around November seventh. Why?”

  “Is sh
e having a baby shower?”

  Owen sighs. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell her to have one, and I’ll organize it.”

  “Why?”

  Because I know what it’s like to be an outsider. I know what it means to be separate. I know what it means to be left out. “Maybe Kimiko and I can become friends. Goodbye, Owen.”

  I stop by what has to be the nicest women’s bathroom in North America, and tourists have even taken pictures of it and posted them online. It has a comfortable bench seat and a table with fresh flowers on it. It smells wonderful, has all antique fixtures, and has vintage black and white photographs on the walls. As I wash my hands in the metal bucket that serves as the sink, I see a picture similar to the one that was on Mr. Simmons’ mantel. It’s a much clearer, wider print and has typed names on a three-by-five card underneath the frame. It seems all the old families were there at the Simmons/Zengler wedding: the Humphreys, the Roses, the Prestons, and the Bradleys. That minister sure looks like a Preston with his beak nose, bulging Adam’s apple, and bifocals. In the lower left corner is a tree where a group of girls stands. None of them is in focus as if they had been chasing each other around the tree. Hanley should have used this picture somewhere in the Current.

  I get into the Jeep and sit in the air-conditioning while eating my sandwich and buffalo chips. I call Rinaldo, hoping he’ll answer.

  He doesn’t.

  “Hey, Rinaldo, me again. You ever play any soccer? There’s this famous footballer named Ronoldo, and …” I laugh. “Sorry. I’m eating buffalo barbecue and it’s messy. Let me introduce you to the cuisine down here. Deep-fried pickles, corn fritters, and deviled eggs are our antipasti. Brown beans and Brunswick stew are our zuppa. Cornbread, biscuits, and hush puppies are our bread. Fried chicken or barbecued pork and beef are our meat, and name-a-fruit cobbler, name-a-fruit crumble, and name-a-fruit pie are our desserts, all washed down with sugar water, also known as sweet tea, that is sure to give you kidney stones.”

  Modern romance: a conversation three recorded minutes at a time.

  Chapter 24

  On the way back to Kingstown, I drive on Route 113 by the trout hatchery and see Harold Lipton waving a huge green net in the air.

  “What’s broken now?” I whisper.

  Gray County’s main claim to fame is the trout hatchery. Trout fishermen visit from all over the world to see how trout are “made” from eggs to ten-pound trophies.

  Like some of the men around here, trout are dumb. Trout grow up in concrete tanks or “raceways,” get fat, and live on top of each other while swimming around mindlessly. The men around here never grow up, get fat, and drive around mindlessly in pickup trucks. One day, fishery crews net and put trout into dark tanks on trucks that take them to creeks and streams as far west as Utah where they swim off into the wild.

  Men around here don’t often wait until dark to get wild.

  Our trout have to be so helpless when the trucks empty them into creeks. They have no concrete tanks to keep them in check, no one is feeding them, and they don’t feel the comforting squeeze of a hundred other fish around them. What’s this? A rock. Can I eat it? What’s that? A black furry creature with long claws. Is he my friend? Wow. That is a bird with long legs. I wonder if it’s friendly. Is that curved shiny thing with the sharp, pointed end good for me? It looks like a fly. I’ve seen those before, and I am so hungry …

  Gray County trout are easy to catch. I suppose that’s why our trout are so famous.

  I had already welded and reinforced part of the hatchery’s fencing after a black bear broke in and had a feast. I have a feeling the bear still probes the perimeter every night. I had also built chicken wire boxes to cover the ninety-foot-long trout tanks to keep heron from eating fifteen to twenty baby trout a night.

  I pull into the parking lot, get out, and walk through the open chain link fence to see Harold frantically netting trout in one concrete tank and transferring them to another. “What’s wrong, Harold?”

  “Can’t you hear it?” he asks, continuing to transfer what looks like two- and three-pound trout.

  The water pump is screaming. “Overheating, huh?”

  “You think?”

  I see many more empty tanks than full ones and smile at the goldfinches and song sparrows crowding each other along the fence line. I look up at turkey vultures soaring high overhead, and I’m sure a heron or two is waiting in the woods for a midnight snack.

  “You could have called me on the phone, Harold. What if I didn’t see you waving your net?”

  “I’ve been too busy to call.” He leans against a tank and wipes his sleeve on his forehead. “There’s not enough water in Gray Creek, and the trout are cooking.” He dips in his net, fills it with trout, and rushes his “catch” to another tank.

  Harold looks more like an accountant than a Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries worker who plays with trout all day. Short and wiry, Harold wears glasses, a camouflage hat, tan forestry shirt, green khakis, and Chippewa boots, all soaking with either sweat or trout water.

  I dip a finger into the nearest tank, and several thousand tiny trout swim away. They’re so skittish. “The water’s warm, but it’s not hot enough to cook them. It might make them sweaty.”

  “Fish don’t sweat, Gio.”

  “I know that, Harold. And it’s not the end of the world. The recirculators are working fine.”

  “The water’s too hot,” Harold says.

  “And it looks as if you shipped most of your trout out anyway.” Forty tons of premium rainbow and brown trout and 1.6 million trout eggs ship from the trout hatchery to Utah, Montana, Arkansas, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia every year. “Have you turned down the pump?”

  “It’s almost as low as it can go,” Harold says.

  And it’s still screaming. That’s not good.

  “There’s not enough fresh water, Gio. It’s like what happened during that deep freeze a few years ago.”

  Gray Creek nearly froze, and by the time I got there, the pump was screaming like a banshee. We had to run a long industrial space heater, like the ones the National Football League uses on the sidelines for cold and snowy games, to thaw where the creek intake tube was. I know I saw goose bumps on the trout that day.

  “I’ve been shutting down tanks and consolidating trout all morning, but it’s only me today,” Harold says. “Carl and Smitty took off to go to the Flag Day ceremony at the D-Day Memorial in Bedford. And the last few days, the water in the tanks has been evaporating too quickly.”

  “You could put some white tarps over them to reflect the sun.”

  “We don’t have the budget, and it’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow,” Harold says. “That creek is more mud than water. Silt, sand, and rocks are spitting out into the tanks. I’ve had to clear two recirculators of silt and the creek intake tube of mud four times today.”

  “Stretch the hose into deeper water,” I say.

  “I’ve been repositioning that hose to any water I can find.”

  This is not good either. “Then draw from your well.”

  Harold shakes his head. “I can’t do that, Gio.”

  “You want to boil your fish?”

  “No, but well water is not the same, Gio,” Harold says. “We have a reputation. We raise creek-fed trout, not well-fed trout.”

  I point at another tank of monster trout. “These certainly look well-fed. What are these, six, seven pounds?”

  “Up to ten,” Harold says.

  “That’s a lot of rabbit pellets,” I say.

  “I’ve told you before, Gio. We don’t feed them rabbit pellets.”

  “That’s what the feed looks like to me.”

  Harold returns to the tank he’s trying to empty, chasing several trout until he nets them. “Gio, I need a solution to this problem.” He carries them into a tank already swarming with trout and dumps them in.

  “The solution is you need more solution,” I say. “Keep the pump at
its lowest setting and run hoses to the tanks from your spigots. The well and creek water can mix for a few days, can’t they? It might even clear up your water. It’s looking seriously muddy. And who will know? The pump will still be humming, and anyone walking through would see and hear that.”

  “Our well water is crystal clear,” Harold says, resting on the edge of the tank. “They’ll know when they can count the scales on the trout.”

  Such a worrywart. “Harold, most of your trout are gone by the end of May. Have you ever seen any of your supervisors from June to October?”

  “Well, no, but …”

  “No one will know,” I say. “And they’ll be glad you saved these monsters. Why didn’t these go out in May?”

  Harold sighs. “Some guy wants them to stock a section of a river out in Missoula, Montana.”

  “Some random guy can do that? What is he, a fly-fishing guide who wants to guarantee his clients some trophy catches?”

  “I don’t know, probably,” Harold says. He puts down his net. “I’ll go start rounding up hoses.”

  “And I’ll check out the creek intake,” I say.

  I pass by a row of bone-dry tanks and thread my way through a field of yellow grass and thick brush to the creek where I see the intake hose hovering above water less than two inches deep. The hose sounds as if it’s gargling, and it undulates like a cobra when it runs out of water to gargle. This is bad. I pull out my cell phone, see one bar, and call the shop.

  “You have a problem,” Nonno says.

  I explain the trout hatchery’s predicament.

  “I have a compromise,” he says. “Run hoses from the spigots until they are above the intake. This will muddy up the water to satisfy Harold and keep the tanks filled and cool.”

  “How far up the creek?”

  “As far as you can go,” he says. “The more sediment the water collects the better.”

  We can run hoses under the bridge over Route 113. “Is there any danger we might empty the well?”

  “I am sure the hatchery has a deep mountain well,” he says. “But this is only a temporary fix. Hopefully the next thunderstorm will fill up that creek again.”

  “I hope so, too,” I say. “Thank you, Nonno.”