Killer Moves: The 4th Jolene Jackson Mystery (Jolene Jackson Mysteries)

by Paula Boyd

  I couldn’t do a single thing about the flickering problems lurking here at the house and the pill thing was just going to have to wait until later. However, I could certainly make some problems down the hill vanish in the morning. Specifically, problems that involved Dr. Richard Waverman and his grand—and mostly unnecessary—plans for my project. He considered me a stupid woman that couldn’t understand his big words or technical details. He was about to find out differently.

  Chapter 21

  It only took about three minutes for me to get from the top of the hill to the jobsite gate on the highway. Still, it was plenty of time for me to be primed and ready for Waverman. The more I’d looked at the plans last night, the more annoyed I’d become. Maybe he had good reasons for what he wanted to do. I doubted it, but it would be amusing to hear him try to explain it. And when he couldn’t, he was done. Regardless of what the attorneys said, I didn’t have to put up with Dr. Dick’s dickery. He and his ego were both going down in short order.

  I guided Mother’s Buick carefully through the gate and slowly up the rutted red dirt road. When I finally made it to the project staging area at the edge of the mesquites, I eased up to the line of open-sided tents and parked off to the right as I had before. I didn’t see anyone around, but I thought I caught a flash of movement under the canopy closest to me

  Then, a man shot up from behind a stack of ice chests like a gopher popping up out of a hole. He wore a tan safari hat held on by a strap under his chin. Big startled eyes peered out from a pale face. When he finally noticed the car, he jumped up and raced toward me.

  Waverman’s sidekick was eager, I’d give him that, but it was the big man I wanted. Still, Gilligan could surely give me directions on how to find the skipper. I rolled down my window. “Hello.”

  The man stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes popping open wide. “Oh, no,” he said, or at least mouthed it. His eyes darted back toward the tent. He looked like he wanted to run, but he didn’t move, just gave a tentative little wave.

  Well, we were off to a great start. Since he obviously wasn’t going to come to me, I rolled my window back up and got out of the car. My sensible jeans and sturdy sneakers were wisely well-sprayed with chigger repellent, but that wouldn’t help ward off what sure to be a tedious and annoying exchange. “Is there a problem?” I said, walking toward him.

  “Yes, well, uh, no, not with the project,” he said, twisting his hands. “Everything’s fine. We’re just getting things set up for today’s sampling.” Little beads of sweat covered his face. Adjusting his hat, he made a little sucking sound with his teeth then said, “We weren’t expecting you, Miss Jackson.”

  “No one ever is.” How my mere presence could evoke these sorts of responses was truly beyond my comprehension. “You obviously know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his pale face blooming crimson. “I’m Phillip Finch, Senior Geologist.” He offered me his hand, trying to project a professional demeanor, but it still came off as just awkward. Shaking my hand, he said, “We weren’t expecting you today.”

  “I got that part. But I am here, and I need to speak with Doctor Waverman.” No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than I heard a horrible retching noise coming from the mesquite brush behind me. I turned toward the sound. “What was that?”

  Finch stepped in front of me. “Doctor Waverman will be back in a little while,” he said, trying to herd me toward one of the open tents. “You can wait over here.”

  I didn’t move. “You mean until he’s finished puking in the bushes?”

  “Well, um,” Finch mumbled, twisting his hands again. “He’s not feeling well this morning. His wife is supposed to be bringing him some medicine. I thought you were her when you drove up.”

  Well, that explained why he was so eager to greet me. But it didn’t explain everything. “Medicine’s not going to fix what’s going on in those bushes so he can stay on the job. He needs to go home.”

  “That’s what I told him,” Finch said, his hat flopping with every agreeing nod. “He won’t listen.”

  That part didn’t surprise me at all. “Well, he’ll listen to me. After all his harping at me about safety, he should know better. If he can’t do his job, he’s a safety hazard and not just to himself, but to others.” This was not the specific what-for I’d had planned for Waverman, but it was where we were going to start. I stepped around Finch and marched toward the bushes. “Besides, it’s just plain stupid to not take care of yourself.”

  “Please don’t go over there,” Finch said, following at my heels. “He’s not going to like it.”

  “Don’t care,” I said, following a trail into the thorny brush.

  “Really, please,” Finch pleaded, trying to dart in front of me. “Just give him a few more minutes.”

  Through a break in the scraggly mesquite bushes, I saw Waverman. He was sprawled out in the dirt and weeds, his pale skin mottled with splotches of bright red. I burst into a run and screamed at Finch, “Call 911!”

  Puddles of slimy vomit pooled in the red dirt beside him. Ants had swarmed around the pools and I could see some on his arm and shirt. “We’ve got to get him out of here!” How to do that was the question. I wasn’t going to be dragging three-hundred pounds out by myself, and from the looks of Finch, he wouldn’t be adding enough horsepower to do it either. “Do you have a tarp?” I yelled. “And bring water. Hurry!”

  I couldn’t see Waverman’s chest moving, so I checked for a pulse and to see if he was breathing. I thought I could feel faint signs of both, but I wasn’t certain. Not knowing what else to do, I pressed my fists together and started compression pumps on his chest. On the second set, he started coughing. And spitting.

  Finch ran up with a huge blue tarp over his shoulder and three bottles of water under his arm. “Ambulance is on the way.”

  Waverman coughed and sputtered, but didn’t open his eyes.

  “Help me roll him on his side,” I said to Finch. We did and that seemed to help, but Waverman was only semi-conscious at best. “Spread that tarp out and let’s get him on it before the fire ants eat him alive.”

  We managed to roll and maneuver him onto the tarp. Thankfully he hadn’t landed in a nest or he’d have been swarmed and maybe even killed, since that’s what the little bastards do.

  Waverman was covered in sweat and vomit, so I used the water Finch had brought to help rinse off what I could and help him stay cool. As we all know by now, emergency response is not real zippy in these parts, well, except for yesterday when the fire department was already here. But they weren’t here today—I asked—so we had to wait.

  Finch called Mrs. Waverman and the company office to let them know what was going on, then hopped in a truck and headed to the highway to make sure the emergency responders could find us.

  It seemed like hours, but in reality it was only maybe fifteen minutes before the ambulance arrived, which was about half the time I’d feared it would take. After Waverman was loaded up, I turned to Finch. “Are you going to follow them to the hospital?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t leave. I’m the certified hazardous waste and site safety office now. We’ve got contractors on site. I have to be here.”

  “Oh, right, regulations.”

  “Richard is very serious about compliance,” Finch said, his voice firm and solemn. “He’d have my head if I left here. Besides, his wife will be with him. She’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

  I bet she would since her identity—and license plate—depended on it. Who would MRS RJW by without the RJW? “Follow me to the car, Mister Finch, and I’ll give you a card.”

  He nodded, his beady black eyes sparkling beneath his floppy hat. Apparently, it was sinking in that he was now the big dog onsite—and he was liking it. “It looks like we will be working closely together for a while, so please, call me Phillip, or Phil, if you prefer.”

  Things were sinking in for me too. As muc
h as I innately despised Waverman, I wasn’t jumping for joy over dealing with Finch. The upside was that he probably wouldn’t argue with me over things as Waverman would, but that didn’t mean he was competent to do the work. And besides that, I got a weird vibe from him too. To say the least, he didn’t inspire confidence. Still, until I figured out what to do otherwise, he was all I had. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call as soon as you hear anything on how Doctor Waverman is doing.”

  “Richard’s had these bouts of nausea off and on for a few weeks now,” Finch said. “This was the worst. He’s never passed out before.”

  Well, that was information I needed. This wasn’t the first episode, but it surely was almost the last. Bad for him personally and bad for my project. “I hope they figure out what’s going on and get it taken care of.” I reached into the Buick for my wallet. “I’d like one of your cards as well.”

  “My cell phone’s on there too,” Finch said as we exchanged information. “Call it instead of the office.” He smiled. “I’ll be available anytime, so feel free to call.”

  I nodded. “We’ll need to get together this afternoon or in the morning and go over a few things.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling and standing at attention. Thankfully, he didn’t salute, but his exuberance still tripped the creepy meter. “I’ve worked with Richard for many years, so rest assured that I will take care of things for you.”

  I hoped so. At least he was moving more deliberately now. His new leadership status had put a spring in his step. And as I watched him jog back to the tent, I wondered if the next time I saw him he’d have “Commander and Chief” emblazoned across his floppy hat, hard hat or both.

  I was about to climb into the Buick when I saw a familiar white pickup truck with lights across the cab and pipes sticking out of the top headed my way.

  Gilbert Moore pulled up beside me with dark sunglasses covering his eyes and his ponytail perched on his shoulder. “What the hell’s going on over here?”

  “Shouldn’t you be home in bed recuperating?”

  “A man’s gotta eat.” He reflexively reached for his shoulder and frowned. “I’m fine.” Nodding to the emergency response trucks still parked by the tent, he said, “What happened?”

  “Waverman collapsed. Ambulance just took him to the hospital.”

  “How bad?”

  “I thought he was dead at first, but he was semi-conscious by the time the EMTs arrived.” I shrugged. “It looked serious, but I really don’t know.”

  “Hell,” the big man said. “He was a heart attack waiting to happen, so one way or another he’s down. That means Finch is up to bat and I wouldn’t trust him half as far as you could throw him.” He grinned. “Now me, I could throw him pretty far.”

  I frowned. “You can’t be that big of an ass, that insensitive and callous.”

  “I’ve heard I am,” he said, nodding. Then, his face became serious. “Jokes aside, with Waverman gone, we’ve got a problem. I have a couple days left on the monitoring wells, but then I’m scheduled to start digging on the pits. If Waverman’s not here, I’m not doing it. He’s a bigger ass than I am, but he knows his stuff.”

  “And Finch doesn’t?”

  “That’s not the problem,” Gilbert said, shifting his extra-tall frame around in the seat. “He’s not a decision maker and I’m not babysitting him every step of the way. One little thing goes wrong and he’d piss himself. You need somebody else in charge.”

  I’d come to the same conclusion myself—without the peeing image. The next logical—and thoroughly disheartening—supposition was that I would have to take over.

  “Don’t even think about it, cupcake,” he said. You don’t know jack shit and you can’t learn overnight.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “I meant me. I’ve done this kind of work for twenty years. I know how to manage people and projects. Finch can handle the environmental, but he answers to me so I can make sure nobody dies while we’re getting that shit out of the ground.”

  I took his card. “If that was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t.”

  “It’s not about feeling good. It’s business.” He put the truck in gear and looked at me seriously. “It’s the best option you’ve got.”

  No, shutting the whole thing down until I could get a competent consultant in here was my best option.

  But as I watched him drive away, I had to concede one valid point—I didn’t know enough about the project to be in charge of it. Hell, I barely knew enough to ask reasonably intelligent questions. Visions of long tedious hours at the computer flashed in my head. Just the thought of having to trudge through another boring academic tome of pomposity made my head spin. In this day and age, you’d think they have a short version for dummies or idiots or something—a Toxic Waste Tutorial for regular people.

  And why was it again that I had to do anything? The estate could very well pay somebody besides me to do this crap. Or was my taking ownership of things part of the unpleasant terms and conditions of the estate? Seemed like it was. Nevertheless, I’d be revisiting that topic with the Vanderhorns posthaste.

  I picked up my phone to do exactly that, and the second I touched it, it rang. At first, I thought I’d hit a button and mistakenly dialed. I hadn’t. It was an incoming call from a number I didn’t recognize, a local number. I answered. “This is Jolene.”

  “Miss Jolene, this is Emmajean. Clove is having a fit about you leaving before he could talk to you this morning. Can you come on back up here now for just a few minutes?”

  Oh, boy, another lecture from Clove I did not need. “I’m already headed that way now and will be there in a few minutes.”

  The trip back up the hill took twice as long as the trip down because I was still replaying the incident with Waverman. The guy had looked dead and I had been very afraid he was. As much as I disliked his attitude and ways, I still felt compassion for the big oaf and hoped he was okay.

  When I arrived back at the house, Clove was standing in front of the garage doors on the left side of the house. He waved his arm, pointing for me to park over by the pool. I did as directed and got out to see what was going on this time.

  Clove fiddled with something in his hand and both double garage doors opened smoothly and quietly. He waved for me to follow as he walked into the garage.

  I had no idea what he wanted to show me, but when I reached the point where I could see inside the huge oversized garage, I started getting a clue. Two pickup trucks—a white Chevy extended cab and a sparkling blue Toyota Tundra four-door were on the left of the dual double garage. On the right was a silver sporty SUV and a glittery white GMC Yukon. All I could say was. “Wow.”

  “There’s a four-wheeler and a golf cart up in front,” Clove said then turned away and walked back toward the pool. He pointed to the garage on the other side. “There’s more.”

  “More?” I muttered, following along, the reality slowly dawning on me. “How many cars can one man need?”

  “He drove the white pickup mostly. Had a Caddy for a while, but traded it for the Yukon,” Clove said, apparently hearing my comment. “I’m sure you can guess why.”

  No, really I couldn’t.

  Clove pressed another button and the twin doors on the right hand garage opened. “See what you think of these.”

  The other garage was also full of cars. Had this guy been a dealer or collector or what? “I think this is insane, that’s what I think.”

  “Take a look at this one,” he said, tapping the top of the car closest to me.

  I don’t know what I noticed first, the bluish silver color or the BMW emblem and the letters 750Li, but all I could say was, “Wow.” I had lusted after one almost like it for a while. Then I found out my dream was going to cost me a hundred grand. Needless to say, I kept driving my paid-for Tahoe—the one that was now tumbled and toasted at the bottom of the hill.

  “I’m partial to the Buick,” Clove said, now standing beside a sparkly dark gr
ey sedan. “Solid ride. But if you fancy a convertible, there’s one over on the far side.”

  I looked over the top of the sedans, wondering what kind of convertible, but I couldn’t tell because there was another car blocking my view—a vintage 1966 powder blue Ford Mustang. A cocktail of emotions flooded me. “That’s my car!” I said, shaking off my shock and hurrying over to it. “I can’t believe this!”

  “Brought it back from the cabin while you were back in Colorado. Bob had a big surprise planned to give it to you before things went bad.”

  “Well, I’m definitely surprised,” I said, focusing on the words I could deal with and ignoring the ones I couldn’t. “This is incredible!”

  “Better than new,” Clove said. “It’s got power breaks and steering now. Top shelf work.”

  No doubt about that. And I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Sparkling spotless paint and shiny chrome gleamed and glared from every direction. The deep gouges on the trunk were gone and I couldn’t even remember now where they had been—not that I’d ever forget the story behind them. I wanted to see inside, to see if it still looked like my memories, but I couldn’t. In fact, I couldn’t even walk up to window and peek in. So, again, I focused on what I could deal with. “This restoration is unbelievable. It had to have cost forty grand.”

  “More like fifty.” Clove walked over and opened the door. “Keys are in it. Get in and start up her up.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, stepping back as if I was afraid it would bite. “Maybe later.”

  A big tangle of emotions was wrapping itself around my mind and my heart. My daddy had given me that car and it was very special to me. And now, it was sitting in the garage of my biological father, who’d had it fully restored for me as a gift, to go along with the house and the ranch and the rest of the stuff. The whole thing was weird, but the Mustang added about twelve layers of weirdness, including my mother’s obvious involvement. She’d been involved in much of the planning and plotting of this whole thing too, and then she turned around and almost got us all killed trying to keep me from knowing about it. There was no logic in any of it that I could see. And what about my whole life? How much of what I believed to be true really was? How much had Lucille made up?