by Paula Boyd
Rick glanced at Jerry and tried to smile a little. "He’s getting better with gasoline spills, too--now that he’s quit smoking."
"Jolene," Lucille Jackson called, jerking me right out of a nice chuckle. "Are you going to just stand over there like a bump on a log and let them blow my house to smithereens?"
As if there was any darn thing I could do about it. "Why, Mother, dear, you know I’d do just anything I could to help," I said, ever so sweetly, but possibly insincerely. "It’s just that Sergeant Stewart here seems to have his heart set on gallantly fixing that pesky old bomb all by himself."
"Don’t patronize me, Jolene," Lucille snapped. "I know good and well that idiot in the paper suit doesn’t know a bomb from a bulldog. And like as not, we’re all going to wind up with our innards hanging off the water tower the minute he touches the fool thing. I just wished I’d never said one word about it. I should have just opened the box myself. Even if it had blown up in my face, at least it would have been better than this."
She had a point.
"Now, Lucille, honey," Fritz Harper said, taking her by the arm and patting her hand. "It grieves me to have you upset like this. Let’s you and me go on back and sit in the shade while Jerry Don gets things all straightened out. He won’t let that fool boy blow your house to smithereens."
Oh, enough with the smithereens, already. If anybody said that word again I was going to blow.
Furthermore, as far as I could tell, Sheriff Jerry Don Parker hadn’t done a darn thing except try to get me to take a bullet for him, or more specifically fix it so he didn’t have to deal with my mother, which was pretty much the same thing.
"Oh, Fritz, I’m just so glad you’re here," Lucille said--and not in the same voice she uses when speaking to her daughter or other lesser beings either. She also batted her lashes and smiled beguilingly at the senior Deputy Harper. "If you think it’s best, we can certainly go back over by the garage and wait a bit. We were having us a real nice time, just sitting there in the shade, talking."
Yes, those are the words that came out of my mother’s mouth, and yes, I was about to gag. Would have already done so, in fact, if I didn’t fear it was some kind of ruse to throw the poor new guy off track so she could shoot him or something. To my dismay, and in spite of the foreboding trembling through me, Lucille completely ignored Stewart and strolled arm-in-arm with Fritz back toward the garage. I watched, somewhat in awe, as they settled themselves into the lawn chairs that had been set up under the shade tree and began chatting away.
"Stewart," Rick said, interrupting my undisguised gawking. "Sheriff Parker and I are going inside the house to have a look at the box first. You stay here and secure the area."
Disappointment flickered in his eyes and his toothpick dropped from his lip. "But, detective, I’m already suited up."
"It would probably be best if you studied your booklet for a few minutes first anyway."
"Um, Jerry--"
"Stay put, Jolene," he said, cutting me off. He did not even glance back as he stormed toward the house with Rick.
I didn’t much like being left in the yard with the hazmat guy while Jerry and Rick went in to see my box. I leaned back against the Expedition, crossed my arms and watched Stewart gaze longingly at the front door.
After a minute or so, he shook off his disappointment and set about "securing the area." Even though Mother has three city lots, the securing didn’t take long and in no time he was back, marching from me to the door. Some might have called it pacing, but he looked so official in his white paper suit that I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I had to give him credit, too. He did seem to take his job very seriously.
As he headed back toward me, and just before he did another about-face, I said, "So, you handle a lot of hazardous materials, do you?" His immediate look of confusion led me to believe I’d better clarify something. "I just figured since you had a hazmat suit, you probably did that sort of thing a lot."
"Yes, ma’am, er, well, sometimes. The highway department’s got a special crew for that, but if we get there first, like on your basic highway incident, I haul out the absorbent and get right on it. It can get pretty hazardous."
If he ever made the connection between hazardous materials and hazmat, I missed it, but by golly, he knew to put on the white suit. Apparently, Stewart was the Redwater version of Leroy. I had to wonder if these familial appointments were actually intended as favors, or were just a sneaky way of trying to clean out the gene pool.
With nothing better to do while I waited, I pointed to the general vicinity of Stewart’s shirt pocket hidden beneath the white suit. "So is that what your booklet covers, how to handle spills and disarm bombs?"
Stewart snapped to attention, unzipped his suit and yanked the booklet from his inside shirt pocket. He slowly read a few pages, apparently to remind himself of what was actually in the book. Before he could relate any of the exciting details to me, however, Jerry was already walking back toward us. I pushed away from the truck. "Well?"
Jerry ignored me and stopped beside Stewart. "Detective Rankin has determined that the box does not contain an explosive device," he said, all official-like. "He has given the all clear and you are to stand down."
Stewart’s face melted like lard in a frying pan.
"However," Jerry continued. "Dispatch has new orders. There’s a request for SFT assistance with a domestic call in town. You need to get on the radio ASAP."
"A domestic?" Stewart got very serious and you could almost see the adrenaline start pumping. "Those can be tough. Anyone at the scene yet?"
"Call dispatch."
Steward nodded. "Good thing I’ve got a vest with me." He sprinted toward the van, cranked the engine and peeled out.
As he sped away, I breathed a little sigh of relief and walked over to Jerry. "He really had his heart set on blowing himself up."
"I’m sure he’ll get another chance."
Me too. I started walking toward the house. "Not a bomb, huh?"
"Nope."
Pretty speedy discovery, if you asked me. "You opened the box."
"Yeah."
Figured.
I followed Jerry into the kitchen where I got my first view of the problematic package. Sitting there in the middle of the table, the standard corrugated brown carton looked like any other box shipped by UPS, meaning it was crushed and ragged despite the FRAGILE written on the side. But even UPS wouldn’t have cut an actual hole in the side, so I figured Jerry and Rick had taken a non-traditional approach to opening it.
"Now, I do realize that you two enjoy putting me in my place about my lack of law enforcement knowledge, but even a cursory viewing of one of the zillion crime shows on TV would lead one to believe that evidence might be handled slightly differently than this."
"Evidence?" Jerry said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "What evidence?"
Apparently they had already rehearsed their spiel because Rick chimed in with, "We investigated a suspicious package report and determined it to be a false alarm."
"Is that the official story?"
Rick grabbed a handful of crumpled newspaper from the top of the box and set it on the table. "Could be. Depends on what we find in this box you’re opening."
I’m opening? "Uh, huh. Well, since I’m the one supposedly opening this box, maybe I should get the first look. Since it isn’t a deadly explosive, it could be personal, you know, from a secret admirer. There could be some expensive perfume or maybe some embarrassing exotic lingerie in there."
Jerry reached in and pulled out a round red clock, the plain and cheap variety. "Probably not."
He didn’t have to look so smug about it. It is not entirely impossible that someone might admire me from afar and send gifts to win me over. If somebody had sent me a box of rattlesnakes, no one would have even questioned it. "Hey, you better be careful digging around in there. What if a scorpion or a black widow spider or something is crawling around in there?"
Rick glanced u
p at Jerry with a look that said either, "Do you think there really could be biting things in here?" or "Where does she come up with this stuff?" Yes, I voted for the latter option as well.
"It is possible, you know," I said, sticking with my imagination. "And you already let the hazmat guy leave. We really could have used that suit. I don’t think spiders could bite through Tyvek, do you?"
The back door creaked open, then slammed shut, sparing them from answering my important query. It was not necessarily an improvement of the situation, however, as the creaking and slamming signaled the arrival of Lucille Jackson.
"Were you just going to let us sit out in the yard all day?" Lucille said, marching into her kitchen, Fritz right behind her. She stopped next to Jerry and scowled at the clock. "Good heavens, is that what was in that box, a stupid old clock?"
Jerry nodded. "It appears this is what was doing the ticking. Battery-operated, but loud."
"Don’t touch anything," Rick said, still carefully inspecting each clump of newsprint. "We’ll be taking everything to the lab after we get an inventory."
"Well, who on earth would want to send Jolene a clock?" Lucille asked. "And who in the world would know to send it here?"
"We hope to find those things out," Jerry said, setting the clock gently on the table. "But it’s going to take some time."
"Lucille," Fritz said, hanging close behind Lucille. "Don’t look like there’s much excitement to be had here for a while. I need to run over to Bowman City and turn in my vehicle now that I’m off shift. Why don’t you ride along with me and we’ll stop over at that new catfish place and have us some lunch."
"Why, I can’t just run off and leave Jolene like this," Mother said, batting her eyes in my direction and not meaning a single word or flutter. "I’m sure this has all been real upsetting for her."
Oh, please. I wasn’t upset and she wouldn’t care if I were. All she wanted to do was wheedle me into giving her a graceful and expedient exit. She didn’t give a hoot about what was in the damn box or if it blew me to smithereens--good grief, now she had me saying it. Commingling with Fritz was the priority of the moment. Oh, fine. "Fritz is right, Mother. There’s nothing to worry about. You two go on." Run along. Bye-bye. Adios. "If we find out anything important," that concerns you even a little bit, "Jerry can let you know."
After Lucille and her beau flew--do not believe that seventy-year-olds cannot move like winged creatures when they want to--out the door, Jerry picked up the clock and held it out to me again, back side up. "Mean anything to you?"
A slip of paper with the words "Time to Face the Music" scrawled in blocky print was taped to the back. "Just the generic ‘time to pay’ connotation. And since it’s to me, I assume it’s time for me to pay for something I’ve done." A sick sort of feeling swished around in my stomach. "Well, I guess we can assume that our killer sent the box." Actually, that had been the assumption from the beginning, but I’d done a fine job of ignoring the realities of it. "Wonder if the other victims got a box?"
"Nothing like this was found at the houses," Rick said, matter-of-factly. He kept digging and pulling out packages. "We’ve got maybe a dozen wrapped items. All are wrapped in the Sunday comics except one."
Jerry set the clock back on the table and grabbed a brick-sized item wrapped in yellow tissue paper. Across the top, the same blocky print had inked out "JOLENE."
Seeing the writing sent another shiver through me, but, of course, I tried to pretend it hadn’t. "Time to face the music" sounded like a threat to me, and the yellow brick box would logically take things to the next level.
"Seriously, Jerry, maybe we shouldn’t open it. For all we know it really could explode or shoot something out at us. It might even be filled with poison tree frogs that would sweat us to death. Or do they spit? I don’t recall." He gave me "that look" again. "Hey, if I don’t think of these things, who will?"
Jerry did not answer, just slowly loosened pieces of masking tape from the sides and back of a package and slid the paper away until he had uncovered a black enamel box. The top of the shiny rectangular box was inlaid with pieces of mother-of-pearl in the shape of a rose.
"It’s beautiful," I murmured.
"That’ll hold finger prints we could read with our eyes," Rick said. "Open it, but go easy."
Jerry set the black box on the table and used the blade of his pocket knife to gently lift the lid. Tinny notes tinkled out, and it didn’t take long for the tune of "Feelings" to become recognizable.
We all groaned, but only for a second because that was about the time it took us to see there was a folded sheet of paper tucked in the bottom, again with my name on it.
Jerry lifted it out and handed it to Rick. I didn’t protest because I was busy shaking and trying not to look scared.
He unfolded the paper and read aloud:
"Dear Jolene,
If I am not dead by the time you receive this, I expect to be very shortly. Congestive heart failure. It’s hell getting old. I sent you this because no matter how much you hate me, you’ll do the right thing.
I sent letters to some of those that I wronged, but most of them came back, including yours, which is why this box went to your mother’s house.
For what it is worth, I never worked at another school after Kickapoo High. My wife divorced me right after your class graduated and I have not seen her since. We had no children so there was no reason.
I did have a child, though, with a friend of yours. I’m completely to blame. I’d have done the right thing if I’d known about it sooner. I tried to find her through the years, but no luck. There is an envelope for her.
Did find out that my ex-wife. Nadine took back her maiden name and is living in Redwater. Her letter never came back so I figure that slate’s clean. Same for Sharon Addleman. That was the woman for me, but I was too distracted by you girls to see it.
Please see that my son or daughter gets the enclosed packages.
Should you meet my friend Red White, please treat him kindly as he is trying to help me with this endeavor as well.
Regards,
Willard J. Pollock
P.S. I picked out the music box especially for you.
Pollock. Boom. Just like that he could make me furious and sick all at the same time. And there was no doubt that the letter was from him. The blocky bold script that had signed my graduation certificate and numerous other school things was hard to forget.
"Feelings," I sputtered. "He sent me a damn box that plays that stupid song. I’ll give him feelings, the sorry bastard."
I must have not looked so well because Rick shoved a chair back from the table with his knee and Jerry guided me to it with his elbows. I realized these little details only after I was sitting down and watching them hold their gloved hands in the air like surgeons.
Neither of the men knew what to say, and really what could they? Willard Pollock had once again left us speechless.
The arrogance. The nerve. Pollock admitted to fathering a child with "my friend." Rhonda was anything but my friend so he’d deliberately put that phrasing in there as another dig at me. "As if he hasn’t made enough people miserable already. What an ass."
The news that Sharon Addleman, the supposed English teacher, was "the one for him" was quite a shocker. Of course, that kind of explained why she couldn’t bother herself with lesson plans or actually teaching a class. Between getting herself worked up with romance novels and finding ways to play out her fantasies with the principal, there was darned little time for much else. It also explained why she didn’t get fired. I couldn’t help but wonder if the ex-Mrs. Pollock had known about that particular dalliance.
"Does this mean Pollock’s our killer?"
We all thought about that one for a few minutes, each of us running through the possibilities. Other than his old carnal activity with Rhonda and the immediate "time to face the music" thing with me, there didn’t seem to be much else.
Rick lifted a package from the box and pee
led back the paper on a bright-red fire truck. "It looks like these are just what he said--toys for the kid." He dug around some more then came up with a white envelope. "Guess we better open this one."
I didn’t have on rubber gloves and I didn’t care. I snatched the envelope and turned it face up. "Rhonda."
Jerry pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the table. He used his pocket knife to slit open the envelope then tossed it back to me. "All yours."
The letter was, as expected, an apology--of sorts. He didn’t come right out and say "Sorry I got you pregnant and left you to deal with it alone," but he did emphasize he wished he’d have known about the pregnancy sooner so he could have helped her "fix" the problem. He wasn’t clear on when--or how--he’d learned of his fatherhood, but it was clear that Rhonda was long gone from Kickapoo. What else did he know, or not? Not the gender of the child, or so it seemed from his letter to me.
"Pollock just sent that box to annoy me," I said, frustrated with the addition of more tidbits that didn’t clarify anything. "He can’t really think I’ll try to track down his kid for him."
Rick pulled off his gloves and stood. "I’m going to call in and see if anything’s come back from the lab."
I didn’t know specifically what information Rick wanted from the lab, but that would just give me more details to confuse me. I couldn’t keep up with what we had. While Rick was in the living room making his call, I asked Jerry if he remembered what the note said that Calvin had supposedly given to Russell.
He nodded. "According to that note, Pollock wanted to settle up. That didn’t set well with Calvin. For one reason or another, he didn’t want Pollock to find out about Rhonda and her son."
"That’s what I thought. Boy. Rhonda and Pollock had a son?" "Or is Calvin referring to Harley?"
