Double Dimple

by N. C. Lewis

  An assistant rushed over to the tea and coffee station, returned moments later with china teacup in hand. "Chamomile," she said nervously handing the drink to the nurse.

  Nurse Hooch looked up. "Thank you," she said in a thin voice, her hand shaking.

  The barista, hands on hips, smiled as his lopsided eyes flashed with satisfaction. The man had delivered a gossip bomb so fresh, even Gratia, the official town gossip, stood frozen to the spot, stunned.

  As the women fussed around Nurse Hooch, who seemed genuinely shocked by the news, two things happened. First, Gratia having absorbed the news, hurried to a distant corner of the salon, pulled out her cell phone and dialed. The Medlin Creek rumor machine was now in full motion. Second, the barista, gossip bomb detonated, turned and with slow, ponderous steps, left the salon.

  For a moment I wondered what to do next. There was little I could do for the nurse; anyway, she had enough women fussing over her. Dick's cell phone number was now useless, and my chance to find out more about Barbara Nadel had slipped from my grasp.

  I hurried to the unoccupied reception area, sat down in a chair and went over the events of the past few days. For the first time, I felt as if there might be more to Barbara Nadel's death than suicide. The death of Dick Doxson couldn't be a coincidence—or could it?

  Under my breath, I muttered, "There are so many missing pieces, that the puzzle still doesn't make sense. Got to dig a little deeper; maybe something will fall into place and then perhaps the whole of it will make sense."

  I stood up and glanced into the salon. The women still fussed around Nurse Hooch.

  "Coffee, I need coffee."

  Slowly I walked through the reception area and out onto Creek Street. Moozoos was only a few minutes walk.

  Chapter 35

  The summer sun shone down on a sidewalk awash with people. Office workers mainly, with a handful of tourists. I checked my cell phone, almost noon.

  Excited chatter mingled with the scent of hot coffee, yeasty bread, and sweet cakes as I stepped into the café. A group of people crowded around the counter as the barista and his assistant hurriedly served.

  A stooped, old man with a grizzly, white beard and wild blue eyes waved a finger at no one in particular. "Medlin Creek was once a quiet place. But since all y’all tourists and Californians came, it's been nothing but murder and mayhem." He jabbed his finger in the air like an annoyed English teacher. "This town is becoming like a Hollywood movie set."

  Another man, tall and thin with a bushy, gray beard, nodded in agreement. "Yep, the warehouse district is a no-go area, like Inglewood, California. I hear in that town it's safer to go out at night cos the dark makes it difficult for the muggers to spot ya."

  Next, a stout woman dressed in business attire shook her head. "Honey, they say the victim was from Shoshone. That's a small settlement of fewer than thirty people, so it can't be as bad as Inglewood."

  "Uh-huh," interrupted a slender woman appearing to be in her late twenties. "I visited Shoshone on my way to Death Valley, and got my handbag snatched by one of those wild, bighorn sheep!"

  "Man, you're not safe anywhere these days," exclaimed an excitable young man with spiky, pink hair and a tattoo of a lion on his neck.

  The barista joined the conversation. "You're right there my friend! And with the sheriff out of town, the killer has gotten clean away." He shook his head slowly as his pointy carrot-shaped chin twitched.

  "Don't suppose this crime will ever be solved," cried the stooped, old man with a grisly white beard, his wild blue eyes even wilder.

  "Nope," agreed the barista "don't suppose it ever will."

  I ordered a large, black coffee and scanned the seating area. It was full. For an instant, I thought about going back to the Tahoe and heading home, but I rescanned the café. At a table by the window I spotted Millie. As I made my way across, fragments of conversation about the death of Dick Doxson filled the air.

  "Oh my gosh, Ollie!" cried Millie as I sat down. "We only met Dick yesterday, and this morning his body shows up in the warehouse district."

  "What happened?" I asked, confused.

  "You know the Lilly family, right?"

  "Yep, wealthy, and they own the storage units where I found Barbara Nadel," I replied.

  Millie glanced out of the window. "Well, my contact in the sheriff's department tells me that's where they found Dick. Outside the same unit."

  I was aghast. "You're kidding?"

  Millie picked at the tablecloth. "Of course, we'll have to wait for the medical examiner's report to determine the exact cause of death."

  "Oh, I thought it was a cut-and dry murder," I said.

  "It is."

  "How do you know?"

  Millie turned to stare out of the window. "I don't, but Dick had a dagger in his back. Suppose he might have died of a heart attack, but I'd put money on the dagger."

  I pressed my palm to my cheek. A piece of the puzzle had dropped into place.

  Chapter 36

  Millie glanced at me, a quizzical expression on her face. "You got something?"

  "I don't know," I admitted.

  "Talk it out," Millie said. "Maybe if you say it out loud it'll make sense."

  "Oh, my mind's a jumble," I replied.

  Millie reached for her handbag, and out popped Professor Purple. His eyes narrowed, sock puppet brow furrowed as he turned to face me. "It is not wholly inconceivable," he said in a deep-male, throaty voice, "that there is a relationship between the death of Barbara Nadel and Dick Doxson."

  "That's what I thought," I said, enjoying the conversation with the puppet. "The thing is, I had Dick as the most likely suspect in the death of Barbara. Now that Dick is dead, I'm chasing shadows."

  "Careful analysis and logic will reveal the killer," the professor replied.

  "Oh, non, non, c'est un non-sens," cried Madame Bleu appearing on Millie's other hand. "It is clear is it not, this is un crime de passion d'émotion, d'amour. Find the lover and you have the killer!"

  Professor Purple's lips curled into a wry smile. "Madame Bleu, I will not disagree. There is a strong possibility that passion, emotion, and love are elements in this crime." Professor Purple turned to face me, smiled, and nodded. "Doctor Stratford, who is the most logical killer of Dick Doxson?"

  "Igor Langer," I said without hesitation. "Remember he had a fight with Dick. And I saw Dick outside the community center with his arm wrapped around Igor's fiancée, Kitty Marley. They were kissing as Igor watched from a distance."

  "Ooh la la," cried a wide-eyed Madame Bleu. "A love triangle; so much emotion; so much passion. Igor is le murderer!"

  Professor Purple nodded his head like an ancient Egyptian soothsayer. "Igor Langer," with he muttered. "Igor Langer," he said again.

  "Un monstre!" cried a wide-eyed Madame Bleu, disappearing into Millie's handbag.

  Millie smiled and said, "I'll do a little discreet digging into Igor. It might help flesh out the article I'm writing for the newspaper. This story is front-page material." She pumped a fist in the air and lowered her voice, "The gravy train has arrived at Station Millie Watkins."

  "Oh, Millie!" I said, laughing out loud. Then I became serious. "If Igor is the killer I don't want to be alone with him. Why don't I have a chat with his fiancée, Kitty?"

  Millie nodded. "That's an idea. She'll have good background material on Igor. Do you have her work or home address?"

  "Nope," I admitted, feeling foolish. "They visited Ealing Homestead but didn't sign the guestbook."

  "Let me work on that," she said, standing up. "Wait here, I'll be back shortly."

  Millie approached the barista, and they chatted quietly for several seconds. He nodded toward a room behind the counter. Millie had her cell phone pressed to her ear as she entered the room.

  I took a sip of the black coffee—bitter! Taking another sip, I turned to stare out of the window onto Creek Street and wondered what, if anything, I would learn from Kitty.

  Chapter
37

  Several minutes later Millie returned with a triumphant smile. "Got it!" she said, slipping into a seat.

  "Amazing!" I replied. "Does Kitty live near her work?"

  "No, no, no, that's not what I wanted." Millie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "What I've got is much more valuable than an address; I've got her cell phone number."

  I opened my eyes wide in admiration. "Millie, how did you get that?"

  She leaned back folding her arms. "I've got my sources."

  Millie handed over the number and stood up again. "I'm going to the newspaper office to finish the article about Dick Doxson, then I'll dig around to see what I can uncover on Igor. If Kitty reveals anything interesting, let me know, and I'll include it in the article."

  I watched as she strode, arms swinging, out of the café.

  The level of excited chatter had fallen as workers scurried back to their offices. The assistant poured coffee beans into the grinder as the barista wiped down the counter. I drummed my fingers on the table, picked up my cell phone and dialed.

  "Kitty Marley," answered a sugary, sweet voice.

  "Kitty, it's Ollie Stratford. You visited Ealing Homestead a couple of days ago. I'd like to talk to you about Dick Doxson."

  The line fell silent for so long I thought she would not answer.

  "Are you from the sheriff's department?" she said at last, the sugar-sweet voice gone.

  I sensed tension; she was jumpy. I didn't want to scare her away. I figured the sheriff's department would be speaking with her soon enough. "No, no, I'm working with a reporter from the Medlin Creek Times on an article about Dick."

  "What's that got to do with me?"

  I hadn't expected that. My mind raced—was this the same woman who cozied up to Dick yesterday? Maybe she had a change of heart and went back to Igor. What was it John used to say? "If you can find a connection, people will talk like a busted faucet."

  "Dick was from Shoshone," I said, lingering on the name of the town. "Few people can say that." I paused, waiting to see if I had made a connection.

  "Ah, Shoshone." She sighed, and the sugar-sweet voice returned. "I can't talk now, so meet me in thirty minutes at the food trailer park. I'm taking a late lunch today. I'll be on a bench near Sluggies Gourmet Brisket truck."

  The trailer park, at one end of Creek Street, wasn't far, but by the time I got to Gratia's hair salon, the unrelenting summer heat had broken my desire to walk. I climbed into the Tahoe, started the engine, cranked up the AC, and sat still until the chilled air cooled me down.

  The cell phone buzzed–George Garcia, Emma's husband. The man's voice boomed down the line like a drill sergeant. "Ollie, the wife tells me you're interested in a woman by the name of Barbara Nadel. Yes, I knew her, not very well, but we crossed paths on occasion."

  "What can you tell me about her?" I asked.

  "Not much, I suppose. Barbara wasn't from around here, California I think, raised on a cattle ranch. The woman was about as tough as any old-time rancher."

  "Anything else?"

  George fell quiet for a moment as if considering. "Now, don't get me wrong, but she was the only woman builder back then, better than any of the guys in her line of work though."

  "What was her line of work?"

  "Bricklayer! Man, was she fast. That's why she always had work. Fast bricklayers are always in demand. Barbara worked around these parts for a year or two, then disappeared… I heard she'd gone back to California to write a book. Boy, was that wrong! Guess that’s the Medlin Creek rumor mill for you."

  Chapter 38

  A Dolly Parton song crackled through the speaker system at the food truck park. The savory odor of fried food, onions, and smoked meats filled the air. Tourists and office workers mingled around the food trucks. They stood chatting in small groups on the lawn area or sitting in friendly clusters on wooden benches, munching their food. From Adam's donut truck to Zina's chicken fried venison, all the eateries were doing a brisk trade.

  I grabbed a plate of Zina's with all the trimmings—mashed potatoes, gravy, collard greens and slow-roasted pinto beans and headed over to Sluggies truck.

  Kitty sat on a bench with a half-eaten plate of Sluggies Medlin Creek Monster. "Over here!" she called in her honeyed tone, chewing a bit of brisket. She smiled as I sat down, but her face was drawn with dark circles around her eyes as if she'd had a late night.

  We ate in silence for several minutes. Then, as she dabbed a piece of bread into a dollop of barbecue sauce, her tired eyes looked up. "What is it you wanted to know about Dick?"

  I wasn't sure, but I didn't want to beat around the bush. "Did you know Dick well?"

  Kitty shifted in her seat. "No, not really."

  I half closed my eyes. An image of Dick with his arm snaked around Kitty came to mind. I chased mashed potato around my plate, cornered it and popped it into my mouth. This would not be easy, but I had to ask.

  "Tell me about Dick."

  "Wish I could help you, but there's not much to say," she said, tapping her fork on the plate.

  "What was your relationship with Dick?"

  Tap-tap-tap went the fork.

  Why had she agreed to meet if she didn't want to talk? Frustrated, I blurted, "Do you think the death of Barbara Nadel was an accident?"

  She stared without answering then stood and shook her hands nervously at her side. "Suicide, that's how she died, unless you have evidence to the contrary." Her voice was cold and hard.

  I rolled the dice. "I haven't seen the medical examiner's report, but I doubt it is as clear-cut as that."

  She stared hard. "Is that a fact?"

  "Please sit down; your plate is half full," I said waving her back to her seat.

  Kitty sat back down, clasped and unclasped her hands. "So, you have evidence Barbara's death wasn't at her own hand?" Again, her voice was sugary sweet.

  "Possible," I replied hedging my bets. "Now tell me about Dick."

  Her eyes slowly narrowed in thought. "Dick and I were an item for a short while, nothing serious. Things didn't work out."

  "Why not?"

  "A man like Dick never has any money. I didn't want to hitch my future on an empty wagon."

  Something didn't compute. If she wanted money, why was she engaged to Igor Langer, a caretaker?

  Kitty must have seen something in my eyes. "Got to get back to work. Tell you what. How about we meet this evening, and I'll answer all your questions; tell you everything I know."

  I held a frustrated breath. "Everything?" I quizzed.

  Kitty bit her lip for a moment then said, "Yes, we'll be less rushed, more time for me to explain. You do want to know everything, don't you?"

  I did, but didn't want to agree, but had little choice if I wanted to get to the truth. "Okay, what time, and where?"

  Kitty smiled a dazzling, sweet smile. "How about seven p.m. at the storage units in the warehouse district?"

  Chapter 39

  I got in the SUV and sat for a moment, puzzled by Kitty. Her behavior was odd. Very odd. As the AC poured out frigid air, I considered my options. With my mind made up, I called Millie.

  "Oh my gosh, Ollie, the owner of the newspaper wants my article on the front page! Choo-choo, the gravy train has arrived!"

  "Well done, Millie, you deserve it." And she did.

  Millie lowered her voice, the excitement still clear. "Did a little digging into Igor—"

  "What did you find out?" I blurted before she finished.

  "Well, not much."

  "Oh, so we are no further forward with him."

  "Not with him, no. But I did find out something interesting."

  "Oh, what is that?"

  "Kitty Marley has taken out a life insurance policy on her man."

  "Igor?"

  "Yep."

  "How much for?" A little spider of dread was spinning a web in my stomach.

  "One million dollars."

  "I see," I said. Another piece of the puzzle had falle
n into place.

  "But that's not all," continued Millie.

  "There's more?"

  "Yes."

  "Go on," I urged, pressing the cell phone hard against my ear.

  "Kitty is married."

  "To whom?"

  "Dick Doxson."

  Chapter 40

  Millie's revelation felt like a missing piece of the puzzle. As I rubbed my eyes, my mind cleared. The logic seemed obvious. Kitty killed Dick to marry Igor, and then do what? Kill Igor for his insurance money? Igor was far from a cuddly bear, but I shuddered thinking about the poor man leaping toward his own death like an insect crawling into a Venus flytrap.

  The engine hummed as I stared out of the windshield onto the emptying food truck park. Vendors buzzed around closing their trucks or preparing food for the evening dinner crowd. The only sound was the occasional clatter of a garbage can lid, rasp of a broom against a paving slab, and the friendly chatter between truck owners. Even the speaker system fell silent.

  Deputy Dingsplat's Speaker Circle talk flashed into my mind. What did he say?

  "Homicide usually isn’t subtle and most of the time with murder, you don’t have that far to look. Most murder victims are killed by someone they know, someone with means, motivation, and opportunity."

  The pieces seemed to fit. Kitty's motive—financial. What about means and opportunity? That shouldn't be too difficult for a woman as resourceful as Kitty. Something niggled at the back of my mind though. Then it hit me—what about Barbara Nadel? How did she fit into the picture? Was her death the result of a fight with Kitty over Dick?

  Now I was curious, very curious. I wouldn't do anything that would interfere with the sheriff's department investigation, but it had barely started and wouldn’t gather steam until Sheriff Hays was back in town. I wouldn’t jeopardize my safety either.

  "I’m going to be very careful," I said aloud, "I’m only going to dig a little deeper, just enough to throw a little more light on Barbara Nadel's death. That’s all. Just looking. Very carefully. For Barbara, for my peace of mind, and for my husband, John."