by BJ Bourg
CHAPTER 15
Isaac Edwards dropped his tired legs to the floor beside his bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The red digits on the clock were blurry, but he could tell it was six-thirty. Too damn early to be up on a Saturday, he thought.
Wearing nothing but his plaid boxer shorts and his white night shirt, Isaac walked to the bathroom to relieve himself—cursing the slow stream that flowed from his member—and then stopped in front of the mirror to wash his hands. He splashed some of the cold water on his face. It shocked him at first, but it felt good. He rubbed the water into his salt-and-pepper hair in a futile attempt to flatten the unruly tuft sticking out like a unicorn’s horn on the left side. He finally gave up, started to turn away from the mirror when something caught his attention. He leaned closer, but had to back off so the blemish could come into focus. It was another pesky skin tag and it hung under his right eye like a third ear.
“You’re like an old beat up truck with rust spots and fading headlights,” he said to his reflection in the mirror, taking note of his grayish eyes—eyes that had once been bright blue and sparkling. His mom had often said his eyes were too pretty to be on a boy. He grunted. “Nowadays, that’d be no problem. There’s a surgery for everything.”
Isaac padded to the front door in his bare feet and stepped onto the porch to retrieve his newspaper. Some kid—a sandy-haired boy with mischief written all over his dirty face—whisked by on a skateboard and jerked his head around when he saw Isaac standing there in his boxers.
“Put some clothes on, you old goat!” the boy shouted, shaking his head and lurching forward as though he were vomiting.
Isaac only smiled and returned to the kitchen to make coffee and enjoy what was left of the printed paper. It had been getting thinner and thinner over the years, as people like him slowly died off to make room for a younger generation who preferred their news on rectangular-shaped intelligent phones that did all but scratch their asses. He only hoped he would die before the newspaper did, because he would certainly miss it more than it’d miss him.
After drinking a tall cup of coffee and reading about some drug dealer who’d been killed in the northern part of the parish—“Good riddance,” he thought—he made his way back to the master bathroom to change into his running shorts and shoes. His back hurt a little more than it used to as he bent to lace up his shoes, and he had to keep reminding himself why he was doing it. He stood and tested his legs. The shoes he’d just bought were lighter than the last pair and seemed easier on his old legs. He was approaching seventy at breakneck speed and after running nineteen marathons over the years, he didn’t think there was anything left to learn. But when he’d started experiencing new pains in his ankles and knees and his doctor’s only advice was to stop running, he’d gone to the Chateau Parish Library and researched some alternative methods—something to take the pressure off of the joints just long enough to run this last marathon for Stella. In this one book about running, the author claimed if he ran on the balls of his feet it would relieve the pressure in his ankles and knees. He was doubtful, but had tried it anyway. Three miles later, he had been pain-free and running strong, while cursing himself for wasting money on the doctor visit.
Isaac walked outside to begin the last run of his fifth week of training. He and Stella—his wife of forty years—had signed up for the event six months ahead of time, as they had every alternating year for the past forty years, and were set to accomplish Stella’s goal of completing twenty marathons before reaching seventy. But when Stella was hit by a car two weeks earlier during a late night run and hospitalized in critical condition, she’d made him promise to complete the race without her—to do it for her. She insisted he wear one of those camera helmet gadgets that everyone was wearing these days so she could experience the training and the event with him.
Isaac sighed. Running was Stella’s passion, not his, but he loved her more than life itself, so he wore the goofy helmet and gutted through the lonely morning runs while she recovered in the hospital. He wanted to spend every minute beside her bed, but she’d insisted he keep up the house and his training. So he did.
It was an unusually warm October in Louisiana and it made his runs tougher. He thought about skipping that morning, but Stella would find out when she downloaded the video to her laptop that afternoon. Damn the kids for buying her a laptop and the grandkids for teaching her to use it, he thought.
It suddenly dawned on him—the videos were to keep tabs on him, to make sure he was still training! He smiled. That Stella was a sharp knife for sure.
Isaac pressed the button on the recorder and strapped the helmet in place. Taking a deep breath, he set out on the concrete road. He fell into a comfortable pace, landing on the ball of one foot and then the other, moving ever forward. He knew not to get in a hurry, especially in that heat. The air was so humid it felt as though he was breathing through a wet towel, but he pressed on. Somehow, he managed to reach the end of the five-mile run in under an hour.
He’d sprinted the last hundred yards and was gasping by the time he reached the finish line, which was his driveway. He slowed to a walk in front of his house and wiped sweat from his face and neck, took several deep breaths to calm his beating heart. “Not bad for an old man,” he shouted to no one in particular. He walked back and forth in front of his house for a few laps, traveling about twenty yards each way, slowly cooling down. He scanned the neighborhood as he walked. Other than the swamp rat of a kid on the oversized skateboard, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
He smiled to himself. While his other neighbors were either still in bed or shuffling around in their pajamas, he was outside living life. He hated to run, but always felt a sense of accomplishment when he finished a training session. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of Stella lying in a hospital bed waiting for him to visit. She’d want to hear all about the run. He remembered the video and reached over his head to turn it off. “I love you so much, Boo-Boo,” he said, walking toward his mailbox.
He’d seen the mail truck in the neighborhood during one of his laps and hoped Stella’s present had arrived. His daughter had helped him order a new watch for Stella on the Internet and it was set to arrive any day. He reached for the flap to the mailbox and groaned when he caught a whiff of his armpits. He kept forgetting to put deodorant on before the runs. That never happened when Stella was home. She always made sure to remind him. As he sifted through the mail—campaign ads, bills, and other junk—he wondered what he’d do if Stella were taken from him for good. He immediately dismissed the thought, as he couldn’t bear to imagine life without—
“What the hell is this?” The last envelope in the stack was from the Chateau Parish Clerk of Court and it had “Jury Duty” stamped on the outside. It was addressed to him. Scowling, he ripped it open and read the enclosed letter. The part that grabbed his attention most was the part that read, “You are hereby summoned to appear for Jury service on February 22 at 9:00 AM through March 3 at 4:30 PM and there remain until duly discharged.”
“No!” Isaac slammed the flap to the mailbox shut. He had served on a jury once before—twenty years earlier—and they’d been forced to work all day, every day of the week, with barely any breaks. They got out late at night and even had to work Saturday and Sunday. He looked at the date again. The marathon was on February 28th, and that was right in the middle of the trial. “Damn it to hell! This is going to kill Stella.” His mind racing, he thought he remembered the presiding judge of the other trial excusing one of the ladies for being too old. He was about to be seventy, and surely that was plenty old enough to be excused. Excitement surging through him, he walked toward his door while scanning the letter for the telephone number. He would have to wait until Monday, but he would call first thing to get this—
A sudden and penetrating pain smashed into his back and shot through to his chest, stopping him in midstride. He glanced down. “What the hell?”
A pointed object had pushed the front of hi
s running shirt out like a tent pole. The pain was so severe his legs buckled and he fell to his knees. The mail slid from his hands as he reached for the bottom of his shirt. Confused and disoriented, he pulled the shirt upward until it was high enough to reveal the object—a razor-bladed arrowhead attached to a red arrow! Blood oozed from the hole in his chest. He suddenly realized he was in trouble—bad trouble. He was dying. Someone had just killed him! Had it been an accident? Was it intentional? Who would want to do such a thing to him? Fear clutched at his heart, constricted his throat. “Help! Help me!”
Isaac pawed at the arrow as he screamed for help. Blood leaked down his belly and stained his shorts. He fell to his hands and knees and turned to begin crawling toward the road. There were no neighbors across the street from his house—only an open field—but he needed to get out from behind his hedges and to a place where someone could see him. He thought he saw that punk kid ride by again on his skateboard, but his vision was getting fuzzy and he couldn’t be sure. Blood dripped freely to the ground beneath him and he could feel himself fading. He began to cry as he thought of Stella and how she would be waiting for him to visit her later in the day. What would she think of him? Would she be mad that he didn’t show up? He didn’t want her mad at him. And who would take care of her? She was set to be released from the hospital in a week, but she would need assistance getting around. Who would help her? The kids had lives and children of their own to care for. He cried out in sorrow. “Stella! Oh, Stella, please forgive me for not being there!”
Isaac made it to the street and collapsed onto his side. The sun was hot as it beat down on him, but the pavement was even hotter. It burned his face. He wanted to move, but couldn’t. He was too weak. He called out for Stella, but he could no longer hear his own voice. Was he actually talking, or was he only imagining it? His eyelids started to slide shut. He heard what sounded like a skateboard whisk by and then heard it come to a stop. Through the mirage of pain he saw the sandy-haired swamp rat from earlier. He called out to him for help, but the boy only stared. His jaw was hanging and his eyes were wide. After standing frozen for a long moment, the boy spun around and headed back in the direction from which he’d come. “Mom!” he yelled as he sped off. “Mom! There’s a dead man in the road!”
CHAPTER 16
I met Susan in the parking lot at M & P Grill a little before eight o’clock. The first thing she asked was if I’d heard from Reginald Hoffman. I ripped my phone from my pocket and checked it, feeling guilty for not knowing. Chloe had forced me awake this morning at six and I’d awakened in a fog. I’d been disoriented and the splitting headache I often got from drinking was even worse than usual, causing her to ask a million questions. I chalked it up to lack of regular sleep, and that seemed to calm her suspicions. I’d rushed through a light breakfast and a shower and then left before she could interrogate me more.
I shook my head when I didn’t have any missed calls, looked up into Susan’s troubled eyes. “Nothing at all.”
She frowned and turned toward the entrance to the restaurant.
M & P Grill was a small restaurant on the corner of Kate and Main that served mostly seafood and hamburgers, but they also cooked a killer breakfast. The smell of greasy bacon and scrambled eggs greeted us as we stepped through the front door. Malory, who was the restaurant manager, smiled when we entered.
I’d first met Malory last year while working a murder investigation—she’d been the head waitress at the time—and I’d come to know her better over the months that followed by stopping in every now and then for lunch. Her hair was long and wavy at the moment—dark brown nearest the crown of her head and fading to a lighter brown at the shoulders—but that could change in an instant. There was this one time when her hair color and style had changed three times within the same month. She’d blamed it on boy problems and told me all about it, but I tuned most of it out. She was a little heavier than Chloe and appeared softer, but she was attractive nonetheless, and I hadn’t wanted anyone getting the wrong idea. I was a one-woman man, and that woman was Chloe.
Malory pointed to the corner of the room. “Your spot’s open,” she said, knowing I preferred the corner table, where I could face the door while keeping my back to the wall.
I frowned. “I wish I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, because that stuff”—I shot a thumb toward the kitchen—“smells good.”
Malory looked puzzled. “If you’re not here to eat, then...”
“We’re here on business,” I said. “Betty Ledet’s been killed and we need your help to try and figure out who’d want her dead.”
I was surprised when Malory only nodded and waved us toward her office.
“I can’t believe she’s dead,” Malory said when we were seated around her desk. “We heard someone had been murdered in her neighborhood and when she didn’t show up for work Friday night, I put two and two together. I don’t know that I can help with anything, though. Nothing ever happens here at the diner.”
Susan shifted in the chair, her leather gun belt creaking as she moved, and asked, “Did Betty have any enemies that you know of? Either here at the restaurant or someone from her personal life?”
Malory didn’t hesitate. “No way. Everyone loved Betty. I mean, she was quiet and not very outgoing, but I think that’s why everyone loved her. She didn’t get involved in restaurant gossip and was always willing to work an extra shift if one of the girls needed someone to cover for them.”
“What about men?” I asked. “Did she have any admirers?”
“Sure, she had lots of admirers. Guys would flirt with her all the time. She was a pretty girl.”
“How’d she respond?” I wanted to know.
Malory shrugged. “She’d flirt back, like the rest of the girls, but it was all innocent, really.”
“She was a married woman,” Susan interjected. “There’s nothing innocent about married women flirting. It usually means there’re problems back home.”
“Well, Peter wasn’t the greatest husband,” Malory acknowledged. “But I don’t believe Betty would ever step outside of her marriage. Of course, Peter thought differently.”
When asked to explain, Malory told us Peter had come into the restaurant one day while Betty was chatting with a customer and he had caused quite a scene. “It was an old man. I hadn’t seen him in here before, but Betty seemed to know him. They were talking and laughing and carrying on like old friends when Peter walked in. He went straight to the table and started bitching at Betty. Called her a whore and accused her of cheating.” Malory shook her head. “It was quite ridiculous. The old man could’ve been her great grandpa, but Peter didn’t care.”
“Who was the old man?” Susan wanted to know.
Malory just shrugged and said, “I’d never seen him before. He came in a few times since then—once a month, I guess—but he always asked for Betty, so I never did get his name.”
“Has Peter come in here often?” I asked.
“He’s come in the restaurant a few times over the years. Mostly, he pulls Betty outside and talks to her in the parking lot and then leaves—except for that outburst. The poor old man didn’t know where to put himself. He kept apologizing and saying he was just an old friend and that he didn’t mean any harm.”
“What else do you know about Peter?” I asked.
“Only what Betty told me. He was a bum. Never wanted to work and he expected her to hand over everything she made. But the worst of it was when…” Malory hesitated, chewed on her lower lip. “I feel like I’m violating her trust or something. I know she’s gone, but she made me promise never to tell.”
Susan and I exchanged looks. Susan leaned across the table and, in a soft voice, said, “When Betty made you promise not to tell her secret, she had no idea someone would’ve shot her through the heart with an arrow.”
Malory threw a hand to her throat, gasping. “What? Shot with an arrow? That’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard!”
Susan nodded. “H
ad Betty known this was about to happen, she would’ve given you the green light to tell us. Anything you know—no matter how insignificant it seems—might be the tiny puzzle piece that brings the whole picture into view. Trust me…she’d definitely want you sharing that with us now. So, please, tell us everything you know.”
Malory nodded slowly. “I know you’re right, but I just feel bad saying it out loud.” She glanced around the tidy office, brought her eyes back to us. “Well, about three months ago she was closing up and I came in to check on her. I found her crying in the kitchen. I asked her what was wrong and she said Peter’s drug problem was worse than ever. We all knew he was an addict and we suspected he beat her, but we didn’t know the extent of his addiction.” Malory paused and I thought she was going to shut down, but she continued after a long moment. “She kept saying she should’ve let Peter go to jail and I asked what she was talking about. It took some time, but I finally got it out of her.” She paused again.
“Got what out of her?” Susan asked when Malory had been silent too long.
“The truth about her baby.”
CHAPTER 17
We sat with Malory for about ten minutes and she went over the story exactly as Betty had relayed it to her. We were about to leave when the radio on my belt scratched to life and Lindsey notified us that a dead body had been found in a posh neighborhood at the southwest corner of town. Susan and I exchanged looks and rushed out the door, leaving Malory sitting alone at her desk with a befuddled look on her face.
