by J. J. Murray
“Just don’t ask me my age or weight, cutie pie,” Dodie says with a wink.
Thomas blinks. “Do you understand each of these rights as I have explained them to you?”
“I do,” Dodie says. “Oh, I wish I had said ‘I do’ to Freddy. We wouldn’t be here now.”
“Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?” Thomas asks.
“I certainly do,” Dodie says.
Thomas puts his card away, and opens and closes several drawers before he finds a spiral notebook and a pen. “Go ahead, Dodie.”
“Aren’t you going to film me?” Dodie asks. “That’s what they do on television.”
Thomas blinks at me. “Should I?”
I nod.
“I may be a minute,” Thomas says, and he heads off down the hallway.
“This is so exciting,” Dodie says.
I’m glad you think so, Dodie.
“Do you think I’ll get the chair, Gio?” Dodie asks.
The electric chair is an option in Virginia. “No, Dodie.”
Thomas returns with a bulky gray RCA camcorder and tripod. “I think this works.”
“Thomas, that’s VHS, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head. “It’s RCA.”
“I meant …” Never mind. “Do you even have a tape in the camera?”
“This isn’t digital?”
I pull out my phone. “I’ll use my phone and send you the file.” At least it will be in high definition.
“Okay,” Thomas says.
I focus on Dodie’s wrinkled yet serene face. “Go ahead, Dodie. Tell us your story.”
Dodie confesses it all while Thomas takes copious notes and I try to keep my hand steady. She doesn’t deviate from what she told me and even adds a few details. “Freddy tried to get up a couple of times without my help, but he couldn’t catch his breath and fell back into his chair … I threw the leftover chicken out into the field because I knew Jack would eat it … I wanted to destroy Blanche’s picture, but that might have been a little too suspicious, so I dusted off all the pictures instead … I wouldn’t have shot at Gio if she hadn’t spit cinnamon tea in my face like that. It was so unladylike of her to do that.”
After Dodie finishes her confession, I stand outside in the rain to email the video to Thomas. When I come back inside, Thomas is taking Dodie’s fingerprints.
“You promise to get my good side with the mug shot, don’t you, cutie pie?” she asks.
“I’ll try, Miss Loney,” Thomas says.
Dodie winks at me and laughs. “He is so cute, isn’t he? I think I’ll write to him from prison. I’ll write to you, too, Gio. Will you write back?”
I ignore her. “Thomas, if you need me, I’ll be at the shop taking pictures of the damage to the truck.” And I will send those pictures to Hanley Hanson to fill at two pages of the next Current. If those pictures don’t “clear” me, nothing will. I think they will because most folks still believe pickup trucks are sacred in Gray County.
As I leave the police station, I hear Dodie singing, “Chica, chica, boom, chic …”
I hope one day that I can get that senseless song and that senseless woman out of my mind.
Epilogue
Happy Fourth of July.
I hope you’re cooler where you are than where I am.
I am sitting on the blisteringly hot seat of the Farmall Cub reading the latest edition of the Current while waiting for my “turn” in the parade. It’s a short parade, maybe half a mile from one end of Front Street to the other. I’m not wearing anything fancy—blue jeans, boots, a red and white blouse, and a red and white International Harvester baseball cap Nonno got me.
I am, after all, an all-American girl.
The first story in the Current takes up the entire first page and includes ten pictures of Dodie—including the pinup—and the same grainy picture of Mr. Simmons. It also contains pictures of Dodie’s Olds in the creek and my pictures of the damage done to the Chevy pickup. The story, however, is all about Dodie:
Loney Pleads Guilty to Simmons Murder: “I did it for love!”
At her arraignment last week, Dodie Dahlia Loney, 88, admitted she could have saved Frederick “Tiny” Simmons’s life but let him die because she loved him.
“I killed him because I loved him,” she said. “I hated to see him suffer, but he had suffered long enough. His brothers were dead in the war. His son was dead in Vietnam. His daughters were and will forever be worthless. His grandchildren are hellions, and his great-grandchildren are worse. The woman he married when he should have married me was dead. The whole county hated him because he wouldn’t sell his land for a lake. I put Freddy out of his misery. I did it all for love. Am I sorry? No. Would I do it again? Oh, yes I would.”
Dodie is leaving it up to Judge Arnold “the Kitchen” Sink, who is famous for, well, throwing the kitchen sink at defendants. She could get life in prison without parole. If she had gone in front of the right Gray County jury, however, she might have gotten off completely.
Only in Gray County, Virginia.
The rest of the story details the “wild West shootout and thrilling car chase, an occurrence not seen on our streets since after the Civil War.” I hope this story and those pictures are enough to clear me with the people of this county. Business has picked up because of several lightning strikes that fried a few televisions and some stereos, but I still get funny looks whenever I shop at IGA.
I suppose folks still think I’m guilty of “killing” a lake.
“Stormy Weather Causes Flooding” is the main story on page two. The storm that hit that night on Motts Mountain knocked out power, blew down trees, and dumped a record five inches of rain on Gray County in less than twenty-four hours. Gray Creek rose so fast and with such power that it leaped the bank and spun the waterwheel at Zengler’s Mill, put the Motts Creek Campground completely underwater, and filled hundreds of basements in Kingstown with brown, muddy water. Gray Creek also pushed Dodie’s Olds all the way down to Owen’s millpond.
Owen did big business that day from all the sightseers.
I hear laughter and look up.
The clown car, an old, multi-colored VW Beetle stuffed with at least nine overweight, grease-painted men with big noses, orange hair, and flapping feet, has broken down again. They probably snapped an axle. They need to call for a tow.
I look at page three of the Current and see several newsworthy stories for a change. A “scantily clad woman” and “friend of one-time resident Melville Taylor” crashed her “brand-new” boat into the dam at Pine Lake. She wasn’t injured, but the boat was a total loss. She claimed she wasn’t driving and that the boat “just, like, wow, went so fast by itself!” The woman, Genevieve Beauvais, age twenty-one, was arrested for DUI.
Genevieve’s picture was larger than the article.
Hanley Hanson may turn into a journalist one day, though this story and the picture remind me of something from The National Enquirer.
Underneath Genevieve in her skimpy bikini is a short article about Mayor Billy Parsons announcing that he will not be running for reelection. It’s a strange placement for such an important story, but that’s the Current for you. Murder then the weather then your longtime mayor retiring to continue law school at the Appalachian School of Law in Grundy.
I wonder if anyone will run for mayor this fall.
I turn to page four and see recipes for “Swamp Cabbage,” “Livermush,” “Ambrosia,” and “Shoo Fly Pie.”
Only the ambrosia sounds edible.
I look ahead at the long steel chain connecting the Farmall Cub to the bumper of the Peace Goods microbus. Philip “Stop Calling Me ‘Hen’” Parsons sits with Tina Morse on the roof of the microbus, their bare feet dangling off the back. I will never understand their love affair. Philip had returned to Kingstown and pledged his undying love to Tina outside Peace Goods two days after the storm, and Tina had hit Philip with a full bottle of organic water. Tina pled guilty to simple
assault, Philip bailed her out of jail, and they’ve been together ever since.
Philip’s nose almost looks straight again. It still leans a little to the left.
I look behind me at Nonno and Louise sitting in the ’41 Chevy pickup, fully repaired, restored, and painted a brilliant metallic navy blue. Louise will be filming what’s to come while Nonno blocks parade traffic behind him. He and Louise had yet another spat over the grandfather clock, but they have made up over an Oster stainless steel four-slice toaster. Louise claimed she cooked a mouse in the toaster by mistake. Nonno found no rodent bones or hair, but he’s taking his time anyway since Louise now brings a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts and serves darker tea whenever she visits.
I smell the delicious aroma of buffalo meat wafting from The Swinging Bridge tent. Only The Swinging Bridge and Subway provide food for the parade. Owen has found some “key investors” for his stone-ground flour scam, I mean, plan, but he won’t tell me who they are. While a part of me would like to repair and restore the mill and get free buffalo burgers every now and then, the better part of me says to stay away from him. Owen still calls me, but I don’t answer. His voice is not the voice I want to hear.
I don’t hear Rinaldo’s live voice as often as I’d like. Since June and July are wedding months and The Rome Savoy Restaurant does many wedding rehearsal dinners, he is working nonstop. He still leaves me long messages and we talk “live” occasionally, and that’s okay.
For now.
I don’t want to play “voicemail tag” forever.
Anthony finally called Ayana, and they’re having their first date today. Ayana made Anthony wear an Afro wig and a purple and gold dashiki, and he seems okay with it. Anthony will be in charge of unhooking me once this stupid parade—
Some good old boys have picked up the clown car and deposited it on the curb in front of Antique Boutique.
With the drunk clowns still stuck inside.
Now that was funny.
Hey, let’s get rolling.
I smile at Mr. Simmons’ tractor, and it is a classic thing of beauty. I chromed out the tractor’s grille and muffler, polished the rims to a blinding shine, got the lights to work, and added the four Firestone Field and Road tires Mr. Deed ordered. The tires look fantastic with Tire Wet. I’d bore you with how I rebuilt the magneto (it only has fifty-six parts) and timed it to the engine (a dozen ridiculous steps), but it’s the Fourth of July and I’m not supposed to be working.
The microbus starts forward, the chain tightens, and off we roll down Front Street.
I won’t start the tractor until the microbus tows me in front of the courthouse and the “reviewing stand,” which is only a long library table and a few chairs set up on a hay trailer. I’m sure the honored guests are already drunk. I don’t know if I should wave at the crowd or not.
It’s far too hot to wave.
As the microbus passes the reviewing stand, it crawls to a stop, and I step on the brakes. Anthony leaps out and unhooks the chain from the front of the tractor, and Nonno slows the Chevy to a stop behind me.
We have interrupted the parade, and this tractor is about to become a headline, a story, and at least one picture.
With a thumb’s up from Louise the videographer, I crank up the tractor, and noxious blue and white smoke flows all around my fire engine red tractor and me. I rev it to 1800 rpm, and people standing in the front rows hold their ears. Some of the children even drop their pinwheels and sparklers.
I put it in gear and ride unhurriedly in an ever-widening circle until this section of Front Street disappears in an avalanche of smoke.
A few of the drunker folks on the reviewing stand applaud. Mayor Parsons can’t stop laughing. That’s the Billy Parsons I remember. Delmer, one of the honored “guests,” howls in unison with Skip while sucking down what’s probably his twelfth Budweiser.
After filling the air with semi-patriotic smoke for about a minute, I shut off the engine, Anthony reattaches the chain, and we continue to roll down Front Street.
I hear no applause as we leave the smoke cloud behind us.
I do hear some coughing.
I hope Mr. Simmons is laughing in heaven.
As we slow to a halt at the “finish line,” I smile because I see a 1982 BMW parking in front of Peace Goods.
That BMW blows more blue than black smoke.
I have memorized that car.
Rinaldo gets out and tries to shut his door.
Look at that tall Tallie man with hazel eyes, thick beard, and wide smile.
His door bounces open, and he has to put his hip into it to close it.
I can fix that.
Rinaldo is extremely big-boned.
I can fix that, too.
While he fixes my heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have some folks to thank for their help with this novel and this mystery series:
My wife and sons for their patience while I write;
Agent Evan Marshall for giving me constant encouragement to try something new;
Brian Beers at the Paint Bank, Virginia, trout hatchery for his voluminous knowledge of brown and rainbow trout;
Aaron Calfee of Hollow Hill Farm in Paint Bank, Virginia, for teaching me everything there is to know about the American bison;
Richard Dudding for his expert help with the technical aspects of repairing anything;
Author Lesa Ellanson and colleague Kenny Bess for their extensive and expert knowledge of rifles and hunting;
The Virginia towns of Paint Bank, New Castle, and Fincastle; the Virginia counties of Botetourt, Franklin, Craig, and Roanoke; and the cities of Roanoke and Salem for giving me so much to write about over the years.
Please enjoy this excerpt from Deep Freeze, the second installment in the Giovanni Ferrari Repair-it-all Mystery series, available in the summer of 2015.
… Nonno meets me at the counter dressed in tight navy blue coveralls. “Good. You are here. We must go.” He hands me my tan coveralls. “Blue Lake has drained itself completely again.” Nonno motions me toward the garage. “They say it sounded like a flushing toilet.”
Blue Lake has disappeared several times in the last six thousand years because of seismic activity, according to geologists, but they really don’t know. We get little earthquakes in Virginia, and the holes in the bottom of the lake have grown larger because of the drought. Attempts to fill the holes “naturally” with boulders have obviously failed. “I don’t want to go to Blue Lake. There will only be mud, stench, mosquitoes, and attack gnats.”
“Sheriff Morris and Captain Downs called for us to come.”
I haven’t seen Sheriff Morris since Mr. Simmons’ funeral, and that was nearly a month ago. Our fearless invisible sheriff believes in the adage, “Chi no fa, non falla”—“he who does nothing makes no blunders.” I put on my coveralls. “And Captain Sam Downs?”
“Yes.”
The state police and our local police force don’t normally like working together at all. This must be a big deal. “What happened?”
“They have found a refrigerator held shut by chains, and they cannot break the chains with bolt cutters,” Nonno says. “They think there is a dead body inside the refrigerator. Are you up for this?”
“Sure.”
I’m always up for finding dead bodies.
I’m becoming a corpse magnet.
I spray my coveralls liberally with Deep Woods Off! “They couldn’t break the chain?”
“No.” He opens the garage door. “Either it is very good chain or their bolt cutters are weak.”
I’m sure they’re using “lowest bid” bolt cutters. I hand a tube of Cutter Backwoods to Nonno, and he wipes some on his face.
“I have put the Petrogen and your gear into the back of the Chevy,” he says.
The Petrogen is a portable oxy-gasoline cutting torch system mounted on a hand truck. “You don’t want to try some of our bolt-cutters first?”
“I believe the Petrogen will be th
e quickest solution,” he says. “But we must go now. They are waiting for us.”
“You have my helmet and gloves?”
“Yes. Let’s go.” He gets into the driver’s seat of the Chevy.
I slide into the passenger side. “They are paying us, aren’t they?”
“Of course,” Nonno says, “and we will charge them from the moment we leave.” He checks his watch. “Starting now.” He smiles. “This will be good for business. There is a huge crowd, and there are television cameras from every network. Did you see the helicopters?”
“No.” Gee, a lake emptied itself. Look at the mud! Whoopee! There’s mud in Virginia! Let’s give the viewers a bird’s-eye view of all that good Virginia mud. Yes, Bob, there used to be a lake there, but now it is gone …
I am not going to enjoy this one bit.
Nonno drives us past Dodie’s cottage on the way up Motts Mountain. I’m surprised lightning hasn’t reduced her cottage to a cinder. The heat has reduced her daisies and her cacti to compost.
Once we crest the mountain, Nonno rides the brakes through numerous switchbacks because there are no guardrails on this side of the mountain. If it weren’t for the trees guarding the sides of the road, this truck would fly four thousand feet to the bottom.
Blue Lake is a mountain lake sitting at 3,800 feet and is one of only two freshwater lakes in Virginia. Springs, rain, and winter snowmelt feed Blue Lake. I remember swimming in it as a child—for about a minute. The water was icy, the “beach” was rocky, and the lake bottom was mucky.
Nonno takes the turnoff for the Blue Lake Lodge, and the grounds look nothing like they did when they filmed Muddy Mambo, a B-movie rip-off of Dirty Dancing, twenty years ago. They’ll have to shorten the name to “Blue Lodge” for a while since there’s no lake and nothing but dormant yellow grass everywhere you look. People pay $150-$550 a night to swim in a postage stamp concrete swimming pool instead of the lake, sit on moldy, moss-covered stone benches, and take cool showers in what some have called “prison bathrooms.” The cabins surrounding the lodge have no AC and are better suited for a state park, yet people pay ridiculous amounts for the “privilege” of roughing it in the wild. A few years ago, the outdoor spa was so hot someone boiled eggs in it and posted their “breakfast” on YouTube.
