by N. C. Lewis
"Yep," I replied, placing a hand on my chin. It was cold and clammy.
"How would you like to settle the bill?"
I gave him my credit card number.
The tinny music played again.
"All done," he said at last. "A receipt will be sent to you in the mail. I've already sent an electronic confirmation to your email address. Have a nice day."
"Can you transfer me back to—"
Click.
Mr. Bubble was gone.
My face contorted with annoyance at the irritating sound of the dial tone. For several minutes I fumbled with the phone searching for the last incoming number. Then I dialed.
"Havis County Engineering Company, this is Doug Wayner, how can I be of service?"
"Can you put me through to Libby Cutler, your customer service rep."
"Our offices closed two minutes ago. Is it an emergency?"
I explained the situation.
"Well, I'm part of the nighttime service team, we only deal with engineering emergencies."
"Are you kidding me? I need to get a date scheduled for the reopening of my oil well."
"That's not an emergency, please call back in the morning."
Click.
"Oh crap!"
I rubbed the back of my neck. An idea hit, and I redialed.
"Havis County Engineering Company, this is Doug Wayner, how can I be of service?"
"Doug, listen, we just spoke, I'm a Bee Mound Drilling Company customer. If Libby is still around, I'm sure she will want to speak with me."
"Bee Mound Drilling…oh, I see, yes, I'll check."
A slight click, then silence.
"Libby Cutler, how can I help you?" Libby's voice crackled with frustration. An office worker counts down the minutes to five p.m. and doesn't want to spend a second after clocking out time in their artificially lit cubical.
"Hello, I'm Ollie Stratford—"
"Ah yes," she said in a more professional voice, "I was waiting for your transfer call. Well not to worry. Let me look you up in the system and we can reconfirm the start date."
The sound of keyboard clicks popped across the line.
"Yes, I can confirm payment has been received. Now, we are good to go."
I let out a long sigh of relief.
"Let me check our in-house system for final confirmation," she added.
More keyboard clicks.
"Doctor Stratford," she said, then fell silent for so long I thought she had hung up. "It appears there is a flag on your account."
"A flag," I repeated. "But the invoice has been settled." My knuckles became bloodless as I gripped the edge of the desk.
"A flag is company speak for an internal memo. One of our partners, Mr. Reynolds…"
I nodded and listened to the monologue that followed though I did not hear the words.
Click.
"Oh crap!" I cried, rising unsteadily from the chair. I stumbled backward, sucking in air, turned and hurried to the kitchen.
On the tips of my toes, I reached into an overhead cupboard. My shaky hand grasped what I needed—a half-empty bottle of cheap sipping whiskey. I shook out the amber liquid into a glass tumbler, added a few cubes of ice, swirled, and sipped.
I let out a deep sigh as the malty, bitter flavor spread over my tongue. Then another sip—more of a gulp. Again, I sighed feeling the cold liquid trickle down my throat and settle deep in my stomach like a coal fire sending out warmth in every direction.
"Well, that’s that, then." I hung my head, took another sip. "So much for my attempt to open that well. Now I’ll just have to wait and see what happens next!"
Chapter 31
For a while I just sat, letting the events of the day soak in and settle. I considered calling a friend—Millie, Roger, perhaps even Peter Travis, an acquaintance from the Speaker Circle.
"No," I muttered, "I need to be alone."
I breathed a heavy sigh, despite the occasional booking at the event center and the job teaching at Medlin Creek Community College, I felt as if I was getting nowhere. So far, I'd spent most of my savings trying to catch a break. I thought reopening the oil well might be the turning point. If something didn't work out soon, I'd have to admit defeat and sell the place. I'd hate doing that, but the cash would give me time to think about what to do next. I didn't want to walk out of Medlin Creek empty-handed though. Another sip of whiskey, half-closed eyes; I rested my head in my hands.
And then, suddenly, like a great hurricane from the south, there was a violent pounding on the front door. It creaked and groaned under the strain, splitting, sending splinters of wood in every direction. Bryant Reynolds' monstrous head peered through the gap. His face grimacing, contorting, and those colorless eyes flashing with flecks of yellow. Bryant opened his tiny mouth and let out a howl like a wolf. He burst through the door with hands outstretched, but they weren’t hands, they were hairy claws.
I woke up sweating with terror, sitting in the dark at the kitchen table. For a moment I sat still, breathing deeply, listening. Bodie whined outside the front door, and the empty glass tumbler lay on its side.
Thankfully, it had only been a dream—one of those unnerving nightmares that troubled my mind when anxiety raised its ominous head.
I rubbed my eyes. I hadn't meant to fall asleep. After John's death, I'd learned that when worry struck, sleep had to be budgeted just as carefully as money. If you use up too much during the day, there is little left at night, even with pills.
A gurgle reverberated from my stomach.
I got up and my body ached as though I had taken back-to-back classes at the dojo. Every muscle screamed. My mouth was dry and lips almost stuck together. With a vague sense of unease, I made my way to the front door.
Bodie came panting into the kitchen, took a few gulps of water, curled up in the dog basket and fell asleep. The mechanical clock high on the mantel chimed—midnight. I took a hot shower, swallowed a sleeping pill, slipped into bed and drifted off into a dream-filled sleep.
Once again, I found myself in a darkened room, empty, except for two large wooden chests, both open. Inside the first—a single coin. Inside the second—a pile of bones. John appeared and rushed toward the first chest, kicking the lid shut. He took my hand and smiled. The room lightened from some unseen source. John placed an arm around my shoulder. Suddenly, I realized I wasn't in a room but on a sand dune.
John pointed at the second chest, and his face crumpled into a frown. Out in the distance, a voice cried for help. I turned to see a stick-thin figure. I couldn't see the face, but it was a man with long hair.
A loud clap of thunder jolted me awake. I sat up. A gentle pitter-patter on the window alerted me to the beginning of a summer thunderstorm. For several seconds I blinked hard, then lay back down on my pillow. I closed my eyes as the soft raindrops clattered against the window but spent the rest of the night with my thoughts.
Chapter 32
I awoke with a start in the dark with a nasty leg cramp. Something niggled at the back of my mind. During my corporate career, I had learned to trust the niggling sensation.
The first time it paid off was when I turned down a promotion to join the hotshot team of a fast-moving "Boy Wonder" executive. Six months later, "Boy Wonder" was charged with criminal activities including fiddling the books. The corporation disbanded the hotshot team, and all but the secretary was fired. "Boy Wonder" spent time in jail.
My leg spasmed so I stretched it out and the pain eased. I stared at the ceiling, then over to the window. It was useless to hope for any more sleep. Already the light was beginning to show around the edge of the bedroom curtains, and outside on a distant ranch, a rooster crowed.
The entire day ahead was free, and my only plan was to relax and putter around the house then head out to Augustine's animal shelter event around three o'clock. I was curious as to what the special announcement was about—very curious. I slid out of bed, let Bodie outside, and heated some milk for a healthy cereal. The cere
al was awful, but it was food.
As I took another distasteful bite, my mind drifted back to when word came of John's disappearance. I had my hands full raising a family in Brooklyn. He had taken an overseas assignment, to a country whose name remained a secret.
The day the telephone rang with the news flashed before my eyes. A bureaucratic voice, in that cold stilted tone of government. "Mrs. Stratford, a band of rebels have taken your husband, and his coworkers, hostage. As more information about your relative becomes available, our department will pass it on."
Relative! John was my husband. The news, when it came was terrible. A police raid killed all the rebels, and the hostages died in the resulting inferno. Somehow the security guards, hired to protect John and his coworkers, all survived. I had the niggling feeling in the back of my mind then but did nothing about it.
I squeezed my eyes tight. The wizened body of Barbara Nadel filled my mind. The sheriff's department wouldn't be interested in investigating a suicide, just like the authorities weren't interested in investigating John's death. The niggling in the back of my mind continued—something wasn't right.
Putting down the spoon and pushing away the cereal bowl, I decided to dig a little deeper for my peace of mind, for John, and because Barbara Nadel deserved at least that.
Back in the office, I sat at my desk, wondering where to begin. In the center of a blank page in a notebook, I wrote "Barbara Nadel," then drew a little circle around her name.
Tap-tap-tapping the pen on the table I recalled a comment Deputy Dingsplat had made at the Speaker Circle.
"Most murders," he had said, "are committed by relatives of the victim or persons acquainted with the victim. The most frequent type of family murder is a husband killing his wife."
Was Barbara married? I had no answer to that one. I drew a line from her name to the word "married?"
Next, I considered her acquaintances. Her old boyfriend, Dick Doxson, but who else? Hugh Pentecost, from the dojo had met her at the local hospital, but that didn't count as an acquaintance. I drew a line from Barbara's circle to "Dick," and another to "Hugh?"
I stared hard at the page. Not much to go on. Hugh, I decided, could wait. I drummed my fingers as I considered Dick Doxson. In my mind I replayed our meeting. Something niggled, but what was it?
After several more minutes reflecting, I decided I wanted to speak with Mr. Doxson. But how to contact him before he returned home to Shoshone, California?
An idea hit me; it was still early, but worth a try. Into the kitchen I hurried, rummaged around in my handbag, picked out Nurse Hooch's business card and dialed.
"Hello," she said in a bright voice.
"Nurse Hooch, it's Ollie Stratford. We met yesterday at the community center."
"Yes, I remember," her voice was warm.
"How is Uncle Bill?"
"Today is my day off, so I hope he is doing well. Back in the saddle tomorrow."
"Listen," I said lowering my voice to a dramatic whisper. "I need to contact Dick Doxson. Do you have his number?"
The line went quiet.
"What for?" Nurse Hooch eventually asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.
"Barbara Nadel, his old girlfriend," I replied.
"Are you sure that is what you want to speak with him about?"
"Yes, yes."
"I'm not sure," she said, her words slow and precise.
"Not sure about what?"
"Well, he is quite handsome..."
"Oh, I see," I said, and I did. Nurse Hooch wanted to keep that "dish" all too herself. I guess she didn't know about Kitty Marley.
"Perhaps," she said with caution, "we can meet today. I'll be at Gratia's hair salon at ten, so let's talk about it then."
I groaned quietly. Was that necessary? "Okay." I sighed. "See you at ten."
Chapter 33
Around nine thirty a.m. I set out to Gratia's hair salon, located on Creek Street, a short walk from Moozoos café. There were several parking spots in front of her store, so I eased the SUV into one near her front door and climbed out.
It was warming up with a clear blue sky, and no sign of last night's storm, not even a cloud. The sidewalk was empty except for the handful of tourists who strolled up and down peering into storefront windows.
Inside the hair salon, the scent of mint, eucalyptus, and citrus mingled with the undertones of chemicals, hairdryers and priming agents. The young girl at the front desk greeted me with a friendly smile. I recognized her as a student in one of my classes.
"How are your studies going?" I asked.
"Howdy, Doctor Stratford. Not quite straight A's, but I'm getting lots of B's." She lowered her voice, "And one too many C's."
"Happens to the best of us." I laughed.
The girl grinned. "Are you looking for Gratia?"
"No, Nurse Hooch, do you know if she is here yet?"
"Yes, she arrived an hour or two ago, should be nearly finished. Go straight through, she is in the main salon."
I strolled into the waiting area with its comfortable couches and coffee table piled with fashion magazines. A twenty-something woman with jet-black hair, seated in an easy chair, flicked through the latest edition of Vogue. She looked up with a little smile as I walked by and into the main salon.
The gentle hum of hair dryers intermingled with the occasional snip of scissors and crackle of tin foil announced the area where Gratia and her team performed their craft.
Nurse Hooch reclined in a salon chair as Gratia worked on her hair. She performed her craft with intense and breathless concentration letting out the occasional satisfied, "ah-ha."
Two assistants watched Gratia working her magic. Gratia touched everything very gently with the ends of her slender fingers. It was as if the hair, the scissors, and the gel were little fragments of priceless antiquities. There was no talk, not even a glance my way, and when she stepped back to view her creation she smiled with a deep sense of satisfaction.
An assistant approached Nurse Hooch with a mirror, and she smiled, nodded, and smiled again. It was only when the nurse rose from the chair that she looked in my direction.
"Ollie, you made it," Nurse Hooch said with a grin. She made a little twirl. "What do you think of the new hairstyle?"
"Complements your high cheekbones perfectly," I replied walking over to the salon chair.
Gratia clapped her hands. "Ollie, it's about time you had a redo," she said, casting a critical eye over my locks. I didn't like spending time in hair salons, rarely venturing into one in New York. But, since I stopped by Gratia's place every week to pick up donations for the animal shelter, I felt obliged to visit at least once in a while.
"Think you're right, Gratia. Do you have a slot for next Tuesday in the afternoon?"
"Of course," replied Gratia, waving at one of her assistants to bring the appointments book.
The details taken, I walked with Nurse Hooch into the reception area as the woman with the jet-black hair strolled into the main salon.
"Good, we've got the place to ourselves," I muttered as we sat down.
Nurse Hooch regarded me with a critical eye. "You want Dick's cell phone number?"
"Yes, I'm looking into the death of Barbara Nadel. Dick seems to be the only person around these parts who knew her well."
Nurse Hooch crossed her arms and said in an inquiring tone, "I thought her death was suicide."
"That's what I heard," I replied.
"Then why do you want to talk with Dick?"
Dick's cell phone number was slipping out of my grasp.
"I'd like to find out more about Barbara," I spluttered.
"Why?" she asked, the tone now blatantly skeptical.
My heart sank, I needed a killer answer or else I'd have wasted my time. Then I remembered the library book, it was still in the passenger seat.
"Barbara was a writer," I explained. "I'm reading her murder mystery book and would like to find out more about her."
"Really?" Nurse Hoo
ch said, leaning forward, pulling out her cell phone. "A writer? Well, I can understand that. Dick sent a text yesterday evening."
John always said, "When people start talking let them continue." I held my tongue and breath, waiting in eager anticipation to see what would happen next.
Nurse Hooch moved her hand over the cell phone screen. "Yes, here it is." Scrutinizing the screen, she read the text message aloud:
Want to meet tomorrow evening?
"Of course," she said turning to glance at my face, "Him being from out of town and all, I agreed. It's not easy being a stranger in a new town. I hope he likes the new hairdo."
"I'm sure he will," I replied eager to get his number. "What is Dick's cell phone number?"
The nurse smiled. "It is—"
Just then, the barista bustled into the waiting area. "Word on the Creek," he cried, waving an arm as his lopsided eyes flashed, and he hurried into the main salon.
Nurse Hooch jumped excitedly to her feet, and like a child chasing the Pied Piper scurried after him.
"Oh crap!" I mumbled with frustration, standing up and following the nurse.
Gratia, busy on the woman with jet-black hair, put down her scissors.
"Word on the Creek," again the barista cried, stopping in the middle of the salon. Now he had everyone's attention. For several moments, and rather dramatically, he took deep breaths. Then, as Gratia was about to ask him to spit out the news, he straightened up, puffed out his chest, threw his arms in the air and shook his head slowly. "There's been another murder in Medlin Creek!"
"What?" I cried.
"Where?" blubbered Gratia.
"Who?" shrieked Nurse Hooch.
The barista spread his arms wide. "Another murder. In the warehouse district. An out-of-towner, a man by the name of Dick Doxson."
Chapter 34
A hush suddenly fell upon the salon. Gratia's jaw dropped in amazement. Nurse Hooch collapsed in a nearby salon chair, ashen-faced; her whole body trembling. Then everyone talked at once.
"Bring the nurse a cup of tea," cried the woman with jet-black hair, patting Nurse Hooch on the shoulder.
