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

by J. J. Murray

“Anytime,” he says.

  I return to Harold, who is wrestling the kinks out of a dozen green garden hoses they use inside the hatchery building. “I have a better idea.” I explain my grandfather’s plan, and Harold smiles. He’s a slightly handsome man when he smiles.

  We link six fifty-foot garden hoses, attach one end to a spigot on the hatchery building, and snake the hose through the brush and up the creek. After securing the other end of the hose to a metal support under the bridge with duct tape and a wire hanger, Harold returns to the spigot and turns it on.

  It takes a long time for water to travel the length of a football field uphill, and this gives me time to count my mosquito bites and scratches. The water eventually burps out of the hose and strengthens into a steady stream. I redirect it toward a thin ribbon of moving water and watch Gray Creek flow a little faster downhill.

  We have a stream.

  I walk down to Harold, who is clearing mud out of the intake hose. “Is it working?” he asks.

  “You’ll know in a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t have a couple of hours, Gio,” Harold says.

  “Be patient,” I say. “All water runs downhill.”

  “If it doesn’t evaporate along the way,” he says.

  “The well water is too cold to evaporate.” I hope. “And if it rains or storms, turn off the hose. If the pump starts to whine, turn on your hose. Instant creek.” I smile in the direction of the bridge. “Hey look. A bridge over troubled water.”

  Harold blinks at me.

  Either Harold is too young, or I am too old.

  We return to the tanks, and Harold picks up his net. “Thanks, Gio. Um …”

  Oh no! Harold once asked me out, and he’s using his “Um, would you like to go out?” face and voice. Every man has one. It involves the kind of squint you use when you’re trying to stifle a fart. “I’m exhausted, Harold. And I’m so thirsty! Aren’t you?”

  “I have some orange soda inside.”

  Inside? No. It will be much cooler inside but full of smaller tanks containing guppy-sized trout that seriously reek. “I have to go now.” I walk toward the Jeep. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Well, that’s just it, um, Gio,” Harold says. “I’d like to call you sometime to—”

  “Bye, Harold,” I interrupt. “Gotta go.”

  Harold scurries around in front of me. “Gio, I’m tired of you dismissing me like that.”

  The sun has to be getting to Harold. “I’ve turned you down once, Harold.”

  “And I still don’t know why.”

  “You’re too young,” I say.

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  I smile. “How old do you think I am?”

  “No more than thirty. I don’t mind that you’re only a few years older than I am.”

  Harold has made my day! “I’m going to hug you, Harold, as fishy and sweaty as you are, but it doesn’t mean anything.” I hug him briefly. “Thank you for the compliment, but Harold, I’m forty-two. I could have babysat you.”

  Harold’s lower lip bobs up and down. “You’re … forty-two. You’re old enough to be … you’re older than my mama.”

  She had him at sixteen or younger?

  Harold sighs. “That’s creepy.”

  Excuse me?

  “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay, Harold,” I interrupt.

  “I mean, you don’t look that old at all.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead, Harold,” I say. “A woman my age doesn’t want to hear the word ‘old’ uttered around her.”

  “Sorry.”

  I head for my Jeep. “Oh, you owe me for four hours’ work.”

  “I’ll fill out the forms.”

  “Could you expedite that payment, please? Thanks.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Thanks, Gio. And thank your grandpa for me, too.”

  “I will.”

  I will smell like trout for the rest of the evening.

  But at least I will feel younger while I stink up the cabin.

  I may actually out-stink Lovie for a change.

  Thursday, June 15

  Chapter 25

  The next morning I get a rare cell phone signal when I step off the cabin’s front porch while Lovie tears off to parts unknown. Mr. Deed once told me it had something to do with the amount of humidity in the air. “If there’s too much moisture in the air, you won’t get a signal,” he said. “If there’s not enough moisture in the air, you won’t get a signal. If the moisture is somewhere in between, you’ll get a signal.” It doesn’t feel nearly as humid as it did yesterday. Maybe that’s the reason.

  Once again, I only have one message.

  But it’s a good one.

  “Giovanna, I know what you mean about food,” Rinaldo says. “I have had to eat cranberry relish, eggplant relish, butternut squash with goat cheese, zucchini lasagna—it is not as bad as it sounds—Russian tea cakes, cheesecake, Reuben sandwiches, bagels, knishes, and something called an egg cream which has neither egg nor cream in it. I do enjoy trying new foods, though. What would you cook for me? Tag, you are it.”

  I want to call him now, but it’s six a.m. I need to hear his live voice! Please have your phone turned on, Rinaldo.

  I punch in his number … and it goes immediately to voicemail.

  Shoot.

  “What would I cook for you? Let’s see, I would make you arancine mignon with Arborio rice, ricotta, and mortadella for your appetizer. Um, pani frittu for your bread, bruciulune”—Sicilian meatloaf with lots of Provoleta cheese—“for your main course, and viscuotta cu pistacchiu for your dessert. All this talk of food is making me hungry, Rinaldo. I’m going to eat breakfast now. Have a great day.”

  I go into the kitchen. Toast and jam? Not today. Krispy Kreme donuts! La colazioine dei campioni. The breakfast of champions. I am going to need my sugar because I have to take Lovie to the vet today for the “fully Monty”: a wellness exam, bordetella vaccine, lepto annual vaccine, heartworm test, and fecal flotation.

  I hate that last part. It always makes me wince.

  While eating my second donut, I bring out Lovie’s food and call for her.

  She doesn’t show up at her bowl.

  This isn’t good. I can hear the vet’s receptionist now: “You can’t find your dog? Don’t you keep her on a leash? What kind of dog owner are you?”

  I only put a collar on Lovie once a year.

  Today.

  I hear barking in the direction of the buffalo field.

  Oh yeah! Big John is here!

  As I near the fence, I see Lovie racing side to side in front of Big John. If this isn’t a Kodak moment, I don’t know what is. Lovie has a new friend that outweighs her by twenty-eight hundred pounds.

  “Hello, Big John,” I say.

  Big John snorts and nods his shaggy head.

  I look past Big John to the empty field behind him. He’s really all alone and cut off from the world now since the heifers and calves are seven miles away. He’s as alone as Mr. Simmons was on his farm. Big John has calves he might never see, and Mr. Simmons had kids who didn’t want to see him. Mr. Simmons is gone, and Big John might not be long for this world because the Hemmingsfords are getting another bull. I will definitely not eat at The Swinging Bridge after Big John dies. I may eat my neighbors, but I don’t eat my friends.

  I pat Big John’s snout. “Big John, welcome to the neighborhood.”

  I see Lovie running around with—

  Ew. “That’s a dried buffalo chip, Lovie. No, don’t—”

  Lovie runs off whipping the chip back and forth. That is so nasty, and I don’t want to tell the vet about this. “She likes to play with buffalo chips. And bear scat. And deer and rabbit pellets. Ever since she was a puppy. I just can’t break her of the habit.”

  I feel a wave of heat coming off Big John. “Feel free to swim in the creek anytime, Big John.” His body heat might evaporate the creek. “We need us a big old thunderstorm, do
n’t we? And I need a brainstorm.”

  Big John shakes his head, and I feel a gust of hot wind.

  “Maybe you can help me, Big John. You’re such a good listener. I need you to help me figure out who killed Mr. Simmons so folks around here don’t blame me for it. You would have liked Mr. Simmons. He was about your size, only you’re much more handsome. I think Melville Taylor, who was also about your size, somehow killed or got someone to kill his grandfather. He could have driven up from Pine Lake in his Bronco, done the deed, and returned to Pine Lake in under five hours.”

  Big John snorts.

  “You’re right. Melville Taylor is spongy and sweats too much. He would have left sweaty DNA everywhere he walked. And he’s too weak to do it on his own. I think the sheriff, the mayor, and Hen had something to do with it. They all had easy access to The Simmons Farm. They could have walked onto the farm, done the deed, and walked off. They could have used the sheriff’s Jeep Cherokee to move Mr. Simmons’ body, too. The four of them could have carried Mr. Simmons anywhere.”

  Did they all need money? Who doesn’t need more money? Sheriff Morris had a timeshare. Maybe he was behind in his payments or wanted to pay it off. The sheriff and Billy have worthless land that would have skyrocketed in value if they had a lake lapping at their feet. Ayana said Hen was too much of a capitalist and couldn’t stop talking about a marina.

  Big John blinks.

  “Oh, sorry. I was thinking inside my head. Why would a longtime sheriff and a decent, law-abiding mayor, and even a shorthaired hippie risk their freedom to kill a man who was already close to death’s door?”

  Did they hope that I would eventually find him? If they did it, they would have known I was working on that tractor because I was there for two days. Was it important that I be the one to find his body?

  Lovie returns and flips the buffalo chip into the air. It lands at my feet a soggy mess. “I am not going to throw that for you to chase. Go get a stick.”

  Now where was I? “Big John, let’s talk about Hen the poser hippie. Hen says he went to Princeton in New Jersey. He says he was a chemistry major. He shows up sometime before the murder. He took the microbus out on the night of the murder. He liked the idea of waterfront property for the commune. He was tight with the sheriff and the mayor. And now he has disappeared.”

  Lovie now has a … baby groundhog in her mouth, and the groundhog is still kicking! “Lovie, drop him!” Or her. It?

  Lovie drops the groundhog and the groundhog howls and takes off.

  I pick up a stick and throw it into the creek.

  Lovie leaps off after it.

  I keep losing my place. “But Big John, they’re all kind of not involved in the case anymore. Melville is back in New Jersey, Hen walked off somewhere, and the sheriff gave the case away to the state police. And Billy is too nice. He doesn’t even throw rice or birdseed at weddings. Billy was the one who told me about Angels of Assisi so I could adopt Lovie. Billy volunteers for the rescue squad and drives a Prius. No. Billy can’t be involved. La volpe in vicinato non fa mai danno. That’s Italian for ‘A crafty fox never preys near his den.’”

  And too many people would have talked. Gossip is Gray County’s biggest export.

  Lovie brings back a longer stick, gets it wedged between two scrub pines, and breaks through to drop it at my feet. I heave it into the creek, and Lovie takes off.

  “She’s always chasing the wrong things, Big John.”

  Kind of like me.

  Big John turns sideways and rubs his side against a fencepost.

  “So, Big John, if the likeliest suspects are not guilty, who are the unlikeliest suspects? Mr. and Mrs. Hemmingsford sure took off to South Dakota in a hurry. But they’re icons, salt of the earth people, and they’re already rich. They would give the shirts off their backs for this community. They built the volunteer fire station and donated a brand new hundred-thousand-dollar ambulance. Yeah, they made out in the will, but they had great respect for Mr. Simmons.” I pet Big John’s side. “And they want to stuff you. Try not to hurt anyone and keep your teeth, okay? I like your company.”

  What about Delmer Farley? No. If he walked through Gray Creek to Mr. Simmons’ homestead, his skinny body would swell up and burst.

  How about Sherry Stringfield? She says she called him and sent him monthly letters. She wanted to sell his land and make a fat commission. Would she go that far for a commission? Melville already had her signed up to make a two-million-dollar sale, but who was the buyer? Sherry told Beulah she couldn’t say. Was it the Hemmingsfords? They’re the only people I know who have that kind of money. But they would have bought it for their buffalo to graze on, right? Or would they have bought it and resold it at a higher price for the lake? Was Sherry somehow involved, too?

  Big John shakes his entire body, and dust clouds rise into the air.

  “Yeah, I can’t see Sherry doing anything strenuous, Big John. Sherry could have whined Mr. Simmons to death. Just the sight of her might scare any living creature to death.”

  Now what about Owen? Unless Curtis Daniels told him more—and I don’t think he would—Owen guessed right about the will. I would have guessed the same. You don’t give rewards to ungrateful, malicious children and grandchildren. And though Owen believes in his daddy’s dream and owns land that would front a new lake, would he jeopardize his new wife and future child by killing someone? No. He would have been home with his gorgeous, young wife that night.

  I see Lovie dragging a small stump across the creek, but the stump snags on rocks and other debris.

  “But the biggest question, Big John, is this: How does a four-hundred-pound man ‘drown’ in his own living room? How do his lungs fill up with fluid while he’s sitting in his easy chair? Explain that to me, and maybe I can figure this out.”

  Big John snorts, turns, and ambles off into the field.

  Maybe he’s going off to think about it.

  “Nice chat, Big John.”

  Lovie returns with a slimy, waterlogged stick, and I throw it toward the cabin.

  It’s easier to work on a 1941 Chevy pickup that hasn’t moved for seventy years or give new life to a 1973 VW Microbus than to figure any of this out. I wonder if Ayana got the parts for the microbus. I check the time on my phone.

  I hope she’s an early riser.

  She answers on the fifth ring. “What?” she whines.

  She’s not an early riser. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “You did,” Ayana says.

  Oops. “Did you get the parts for the microbus? I can have it humming in no time.”

  “I got everything but the oil cooler,” she says. “It’s on order. But guess what? I found Hen. I was going to call you last night, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Message received, Ayana,” I say. “I will only call you at a decent hour from now on. So, where’d you find him?”

  “In Calhoun. I was pulling out of Advance Auto and saw him drive by in one of those four-door mini-Coopers.”

  “Are you sure it was Hen?”

  “Positive. I followed him to a McDonalds—”

  “You followed him?” I interrupt.

  “Well, I was going to McDonalds anyway. I love their fries.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Anyway, it took me a few minutes after I left the drive-thru to locate his car. Stupid girl put the ketchup packets in the bag with the fries. I hate that! I don’t know where those packets have been. Every employee could have touched them with their nasty hands and fingers.”

  I’m beginning to think Ayana is a hippie with obsessive-compulsive disorder. “So did you find Hen’s car?”

  “Yes. It was parked at a Kroger, and I went inside.”

  She stalked him!

  “Their organic food is so much cheaper than what we charge at Peace Goods.”

  Get to the point! “Did you confront him?”

  “I wanted to. I walked up and down every aisle, but the next time I saw him, he was standi
ng behind the counter in the meat section with a hairnet and apron wrapping up lamb kabobs for some old lady. Hen is a butcher, Gio. I knew he was a meat-eater. And his real name is Philip.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I was …” Ayana sighs. “Okay, I miss meat. You saw how I inhaled the roast beef at your shop after the funeral, right?”

  As if the roast beef was oxygen and she needed to eat it to breathe.

  “I was staring at some New York strip, and it wasn’t even on sale, and another butcher who was restocking the shelves, a tall, handsome man, he, well, he started talking to me. I gave him my number. He hasn’t called yet. I hope he does.”

  I laugh.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go on with your story, Ayana.”

  “So Anthony Thomas—that was his name. Anthony is so cute. No man ever talked me up when I weighed three hundred pounds. It was kind of nice, you know?”

  “Yes, I know. Now go on with your story!”

  “You woke me up, Gio, and I will tell this story the way I want to tell it.”

  I laugh. “I’m sorry, Ayana.”

  “Anyway, Anthony tells me Philip is an actor, and that he’s been bragging about having a part in some musical Calhoun City Theater is doing this fall.”

  “Oh, I hope they don’t do Phantom of the Opera again.”

  “They’re doing Hair, Gio.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “Hair, the tribal love-rock musical. The hippie musical from back in the seventies. I think Philip came up to Solitude to practice being a hippie.”

  That makes sense. I’ve heard of actors doing stuff like that to help them get into their parts.

  “But when I mentioned Princeton to Anthony, Anthony laughed,” Ayana says. “Anthony said, ‘That boy went to Western Community College like I did.’ Anthony has a deep voice like that and the cutest dimples, too. But Gio, why would Hen, I mean, Philip lie about going to Princeton?”

  “I have no idea. To make him seem more counter-culture?”

  “Maybe. Should I tell any of this to Tina? It will give her some closure. I mean, her Hen is really Philip Parsons, a butcher who went to community college.”

  “Philip … Parsons.”