A Dime a Dozen

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Zeb Hooper’s boyhood home.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but my suspicion was that Enrique might’ve been murdered in that house. It was back behind the high block, and though the police had given it a cursory going-over during their initial search for Enrique, I wanted to take a second look. I had to wonder if someone had lured Enrique in there, killed him, and then brought the body back down the hill just a short ways to where a bin sat full of apples, waiting to be picked up by the truck. There, the killer or killers hid the dead body down in the apples, and later that same day it was moved into storage, no one the wiser.

  I stepped from the road onto the overgrown lawn, but as soon as I did, three wild dogs flew out from under the porch and started racing toward me, yelping and snarling. Heart pounding, I moved backward, my mind racing for some sort of defense. I thought the dogs were being territorial and that they might stop when I reached the road. But they kept coming, teeth bared, barking furiously.

  Finally, I turned and began running, the smallest and nastiest of them nearly latching onto my ankle as I went. I knew I couldn’t outrun them to my car, so I angled across the road to the woods on the other side and then simply jumped into the trees, grabbing for a branch and trying to swing myself up onto a limb. It didn’t work. My hands slipped and I fell— but I fell far and hard, because the ground slanted steeply down at the base of the trees. When I hit the ground, I rolled another ten feet down, grabbing for something to hold on to, ripping kudzu vines as I went.

  I came to a stop at the base of a tree and did the only thing I could think of to do. I curled myself into a tight ball, arms around my head, and clenched my eyes shut against the inevitable. After a moment, when I realized no snarling mutts were sinking their sharp teeth into my body, I opened my eyes. Looking up toward the noise, I saw that the dogs were now perched on the edge of the precipice, barking and growling down at me but not attempting the steep drop-off to where I lay.

  I screamed back at them, frozen in place, grateful when, slowly, one by one they gave up and went away.

  Gingerly, I ran my shaking hands along my legs and then my arms, checking for injuries. Though I had some nasty cuts and scratches, none of them were bleeding very badly, and I didn’t think anything was broken. Knees wobbling, I slowly stood and got my bearings, brushing leaves and twigs and vines from my clothing. I turned and looked around to see that I was on the high block of Tinsdale Orchards, at the very back. I decided to call Harriet and have her pick me up at the road and drive me to my car. With those dogs still up there, I wasn’t taking any chances. Fortunately, Harriet was still at the cabin, just putting on her makeup, and she said she could come as soon as she got dressed.

  I reached the highway before she did, so I found a big rock near the trees and sat, still feeling jumpy and growing more achy by the minute. As I waited there beside the road, I looked at the neatly tiered farmland in front of me, the endless rows of apple trees broken only by the sloping black roof of the small Su Casa building that jutted away from the hillside on the next tier down.

  Su Casa.

  Rubbing a sore elbow, I thought of all I knew about Su Casa. Like a bunch of tiny threads weaving through an ugly tapestry, it kept appearing throughout all of the bad things that had happened here. Snake—who was being duped into vandalism—worked at Su Casa. Zeb Hooper— who was probably laundering money—was doing it through Su Casa. Enrique—who was found dead in a box of apples—disappeared somewhere near Su Casa. I sat up, the hairs on my arms rising.

  Enrique must’ve seen something, I realized. Whatever Zeb Hooper was doing to bring in money, Enrique must’ve stumbled across it. His cryptic conversation with his son, Pepe, must’ve been about that, about what a man should do when he knows something he’s not supposed to know and can’t decide whether to tell or figure out whom to trust.

  I stood and looked at the building below me, wondering what secrets it held inside. Did Zeb Hooper kill Enrique Morales? If so, what was it that had been worth killing for?

  Harriet showed up then, pulling to a stop with her eyes wide.

  “Callie!” she exclaimed. “What happened to you? You look like you went to the mat with a rabid squirrel—and the squirrel won!”

  I got in and directed her to my car, explaining as we went. Feeling bruised and frustrated and itchy, I climbed into my vehicle, turned it around, and drove back home, theories bouncing around in my head like popcorn.

  Once there, I called the Webbers’ house, and Dean answered the phone.

  “I have a quick question about last fall,” I said to him. “I know when Enrique disappeared, a search was made of the orchard. Can you remember if anyone looked inside the Su Casa building?”

  “They couldn’t look inside,” he said. “It wasn’t built yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it was under construction at the time. It was just going up.”

  “Just going up? Su Casa isn’t a new charity, Dean. We’ve been going through several years of records for them.”

  “No, the charity isn’t new, but the facility is. Su Casa used to operate as a separate business right out of the Hooper Construction building. But last year Butch talked Lowell Tinsdale into donating some land so that they could build a separate facility just for Su Casa. As I said, at the time when Enrique died, that building was just being built.”

  “Can you recall how far along the construction was at that point? I mean, was it just a cement slab or had it been framed out or what?”

  He hesitated for a moment.

  “Oh, goodness, Callie, I don’t remember exactly. Hold on.”

  I could hear him talking with Natalie about it, and then he came back on the line.

  “From what we can recall,” he said, “the cement foundation was definitely in and a little of the framework was up, but not much. The materials were all there, though, because I can remember we spent some time checking behind stacks of plywood and bales of shingles and things when we were first searching for Enrique. Seems like the back wall was built already. The building sits right against the hill there, you know, so that whole section was done with cinder blocks, if I’m not mistaken. But the rest of it wasn’t up yet, except maybe for the main beams.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s what I needed to know.”

  We got off of the phone, and I was glad I had a clearer picture now of the lay of the land when Enrique was killed. I decided to keep playing with the idea that he had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have, and that was why he was killed.

  I climbed under the pounding water of a hot shower, thinking that it didn’t matter how many credible—or incredible—theories I could come up with. There was only one real truth about what had happened to the man. The hard part was digging through all of the lies to get to it.

  Forty

  My head seemed clearer once I was clean and dry. I treated my cuts and scrapes from the first aid kit I found in the medicine cabinet, grateful that at least my face had been spared. Once I was dressed for the day, my injuries barely showed.

  Harriet had wanted to get an early start and had already left for the office. In the quiet of the cabin, I made myself a simple breakfast of poached eggs, whole wheat toast, and hot tea. As I sat at the kitchen table and ate, I thought about my plans for the day. My first stop would be the County Migrant Bureau over in Marwick, where I would interview the director and get his opinion of MORE. I already expected it to be unflattering, considering the snafus that had happened last fall with Luisa.

  From there I needed to drop in on Karen Weatherby at Go the Distance. My reason for going was to find out about the expensive vehicle she purchased from the car dealer. But I also hoped to broach the subject of her and Enrique and their entangled past while I was there.

  Finally, I was most eager to talk again with the medical examiner, since some of his tests should be back today. Between the corrosive chemical and the sparkles in the lungs, I was dying to know what new conclus
ions he had been able to draw about Enrique Morales’ body.

  When I finished eating, I put my plate and cup into the sink and hit the road, driving down the mountain and out of town so that I reached the County Migrant Bureau by 9:30. The interview went along about as I had expected. Yes, they had worked closely with MORE, but no, the agency did not have a clear record with them.

  “We weren’t too happy with the incidents that happened last fall,” the county agent said to me. “But it wasn’t enough to pull the plug. And they are serving a vital function over there.”

  I took notes from our conversation, writing “vital function” and underlining it several times.

  “It all boils down to shoddy controls,” the man said several times. “If you’ve got shoddy controls, all kinds of bad things can happen.”

  Of course, a part of my investigation had taken into account the office’s controls, and—except for Ellen Mack putting the passwords in her phone—I knew they weren’t shoddy at all. At least no other, unexpected problems had popped up; except for the two blights on their record from last fall, the agency was clean. Unfortunately, it would take a while for Dean and Natalie to rebuild MORE’s reputation with this man and his office. Hopefully, solving the crimes related to Luisa would help repair the damage that had been done.

  Glad to get that over with, I turned up the radio loudly and sang along as I drove back through the mountains, back toward Greenbriar. Despite everything that had been going on, I felt myself slipping into a wonderful mood. I had a feeling it had to do with the breathtaking scenery that surrounded me on every side. Once I reached the lake, I felt as though I had died and gone to heaven. Oh, how I had missed the Smokies! Looking out at the deep green of the hills and the sparkling blue of the water, I tried to compare the beauty of this place to my home on the Chesapeake. The two were very different, yet I loved them equally.

  Since I was driving back to town along the lake highway, on a whim I decided to make one quick detour before arriving at Go the Distance. I found the road to Camp Greenbriar easily, turned into the camp, and drove about a quarter of a mile. As I had expected, the place was closed up for the season, and I pulled to a stop at a chain that blocked the road. I decided to leave my car there and get out and walk the rest of the way, though I was still feeling a bit edgy from the morning’s encounter with the dogs. I unzipped the bottom compartment in my purse and retrieved a small bottle of mace that I kept there. I clutched it in one hand, and with the other I grabbed a big stick from the side of the road. Thus armed, I felt more confident as I walked into the deserted camp.

  When I reached the main compound, I was surprised to see that a number of things had been changed, and I remembered Natalie telling me the place had been bought out by a management company a few years ago and that it had undergone some extensive renovations. From what I could see, the improvements included a big new main building, some tennis courts, and even a swimming pool. Peering through the trees, it looked as though they had added some extra cabins as well.

  I headed for the lake, which was pulling at me like a magnet. The walkway was covered with dry, dead leaves, and I crunched through them toward the water.

  I reached the small sandy beach area first, and I walked down to the edge of the lake and bent over to dip my fingers in it. Despite the warm March day, the water was still quite cold. Standing, I looked around to see, on the other side of the dock, the empty racks where the canoes would go once the camp opened back up for the summer.

  The dock had been rebuilt and improved since my Camp Greenbriar days, but it was still in the same location, halfway between the beach and the boats, jutting about 30 feet into the water. I walked out and stood at the end, gazing at the gorgeous scenery in front of me. Then I turned around to look back at the shore. This was the very spot where Bryan and I had said goodbye to each other at the end of our first summer together, the year that we were 16. Smiling now, I thought back to the dramatics of it all. After six weeks of being together almost every single day, I didn’t think I would be able to survive a whole year without him. How I thought my heart would break as we said our final farewell! I could remember sobbing, holding tightly to him, promising him I wouldn’t forget a single moment of our time together. As my father honked the horn from the parking lot, Bryan took my hands in his, and we looked each other deeply in the eyes.

  “You won’t forget me?” I asked tearfully.

  “How could I forget you?” Bryan had replied simply. “You’re the great love of my life.” Amazingly, even at the tender age of 16, he had been right. I was the great love of his life.

  We just didn’t know that his life would be cut so short.

  Shaking my head, I walked up the dock and tried to focus on other memories: the relay races, the campfire songs, the arts and crafts. As I walked around the main area and saw how many things had changed under the new management, it struck me that “Camp Greenbriar” as I had known it didn’t really exist anymore except in memories. I found that sad, in a way, but it was also kind of a relief. The place had moved on, just as I, too, was moving on.

  Forty-One

  When I reached Go the Distance, I wasn’t sure whether to walk in or knock. It was a place of business, of course, but with Karen living right upstairs, it was also someone’s home. Preferring to err to the side of good manners, I rang the bell and waited, and after a while I could hear the footsteps of someone coming.

  Karen peeked out of the curtain and then opened the door.

  “Callie? What are you doing here?”

  To my surprise, I saw that she had been crying. Her eyes were red and swollen, and in her hand she clutched a tissue.

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions,” I said. “Are you okay? You look upset.”

  “I was thinking about Enrique,” she said, looking down. “I just heard the results of the autopsy. It turns out he was murdered.”

  “Oh, Karen,” I said. “No wonder you’ve been crying. Why don’t I come in and make some tea and you can tell me about it?”

  We were sitting in the break room 15 minutes later, our tea turning cold in front of us, the entire story of Enrique’s autopsy laid out for me by Karen. Though it was a gruesome death, and the thought of murder was incredibly disquieting, I was intrigued by her extreme distress. A part of me still wondered if she and Enrique had been closer than they should’ve been.

  “You know, Karen,” I said gently, “I’m a little confused about your relationship to Enrique. It seems as though you knew him well, but I don’t quite understand why. Did he come here a lot with the children or something?”

  She looked at some point over my shoulder, sighed heavily, and then looked me in the eye.

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “Why don’t we go back to what I was doing when you got here? Then we can work as we talk.”

  “No kids here today?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Pepe and Adriana have gone to Texas to stay with Luisa’s sister. I really miss them, though of course I’m glad they’re safe now.”

  I nodded, feeling sorry I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye.

  Karen had been in the midst of cleaning out the giant closet in the art room. I followed her down to the sunny space where the closet doors were propped open and various art supplies littered the table and counters and floor.

  “If you want, you can sort these things while I wipe off the shelves,” she said, not waiting for a reply. There was a bucket of soapy water on the floor inside the closet, and she reached in and took out a big sponge, squeezing out the excess over the bucket. Then she climbed the stepladder and began wiping the shelves, starting at the very top, the lemony smell of cleaner filling the room.

  “My maiden name is Tinsdale,” she said as she worked. “My family owns Tinsdale Orchards.”

  As I divided crayons from colored pencils and markers, she went on to tell me her story, which was basically a more elaborate version of what Natalie had already told me.
Hearing Karen explain it, however, made the thoughts and feelings of that poor little neglected rich girl come alive. At one point, Karen climbed off of her ladder for emphasis, gesticulating wildly as she described the life of the migrants.

  “As adults, we can look at the squalor of how they lived,” she said, “and we’re repulsed by it. But for a kid, Callie, it was like a magical wonderland. They lived in their cars! They had tents down by the creek! To me, it was like a four-month-long camping trip, and I was fascinated by everything about it.”

  She rinsed the sponge in the bucket and started wiping again.

  “But beyond the logistics of how they lived, I was drawn most of all to the dramatics of how they lived. I came from a silent, sterile house where there was no noise, no mess, no love, and enough distance between people and rooms to make it seem like an endless, empty castle. By contrast, these people were so crammed together, so noisy, so angry, so happy, so alive! And they loved each other! Even the food they cooked was alive, rich with the smells of onions and tomatoes and peppers, and when you’d bite into it your eyes would burn because it was so strong. The mothers yelled at their children and the parents kissed each other right out in front of everybody, and if you wandered into the wrong campsite you might be swatted and yelled at or your might be pulled in for a giant, smelly embrace and handed more food, another tamale, another fajita. I know those people were poor and unhappy and tired and in every way disadvantaged, and I don’t kid myself that I would’ve been better off as one of them. I’m just saying that to a child, I couldn’t see all that was wrong there. I could only see that the people connected to each other, that they were real, that they were like a giant family. And a family was the one thing I didn’t have. I was speaking fluent Spanish by the time I was ten, and every night I prayed that God might turn my skin brown and my hair black and let me go with them when they left.”