Bubba looked around the room and raised his eyebrows. "How rich?"
"I know. This all looks like rich to regular people. But mortgaged to the hilt. My Mercedes has a great lease. That is one thing Griffith could do was lease cars. No one was any better. He made friends with every dealership in the county. Friends with every financial institution there was. He hustled. Sometimes at things that I disapproved of."
"Like?"
"Middle-aged successful female executives. They leased many cars from Griffith. Card games with people who could afford to lose way more than he could, but didn't. I don't think he could tell the difference between a bluff and a lock. In some ways he was a bit too nice for his life's role."
"Maybe he realized that he wasn't going to be rich."
"But he knew he was. He was very happy the last month or so before he died. 'We're close, babe, so close.' He said that the day before he died."
"From what I remember from the newspaper, he died at his office. Shot himself with a pistol. Locked room."
"He often worked till midnight. There were people who only liked to talk business in the dark. I had a meeting that particular evening with the Junior League. Came home exhausted, fell asleep, and was awakened by sheriff's detectives ringing the doorbell. Janeen, his secretary, found him when she came to work."
"Was there anything, any physical evidence, that made you suspicious?"
"I don't know. I identified his body at the morgue. Haven't even been back to his office during the last three months. And now, all the insurance companies refuse to pay his policies because of the suicide clauses. I am damn near broke. I even had to sell those gold coins back to Jackie Jones."
"Gold coins?"
"He had thirty of them, in stacks of six, on his desk. He had been doing business with Jackie. Have you bought gold from him yet?"
"No."
"You ought to. Everyone is. I'm glad Griffith did. That has kept me afloat for the last month. I thought we had more of them, but thirty was something, a start."
"What kind of gold coins?"
"Krugerrands. You can buy them or just invest in the gold futures with Jackie. Griffith told me they were our way to getting rich. Griffith was always finding ways for us to get rich."
"They were on his desk?"
"Yes. Damn it. One of the reasons that detective told me that they didn't think it was murder. No thief would leave thirty gold coins sitting on a desk."
"Which detective? Do you remember?"
"Big bald guy, brown suit, way too tight. He needs a makeover. You know him?"
"Too well. I'll talk to him."
"You're going to take my case? Prove Griffith didn't commit suicide?"
"What's at stake here?"
"His good name and mine."
Bubba raised his eyebrows at her, and she touched her hair and smiled. For a moment, he thought that working at being rich might be a worthwhile activity.
"And insurance," she added. "Two million if it was an accident or more if he was murdered."
"I will look into it for a couple of days. Talk to police, review the evidence, see what I think. I'll give you my opinion then."
Bubba pulled a contract from his briefcase and filled in the necessary blank spaces. She signed it and gave him a check.
"I'll need a letter from you authorizing me to look at the office, go through papers, ask questions. And list of names, addresses, phone numbers, whatever you have of his friends, associates. Whoever might have known what was happening." Brenda left the room and returned to sit in the kitchen and write and riffle through papers. Bubba watched her as she did so. Finally, she came back with several sheets of writing, and they shook hands.
Outside, two cars on either side of the Bronco unloaded women in simple summer dresses and hats. Bubba asked Brenda, "Is your sister good looking?"
"She has a great, great personality."
"I'll be in touch."
Driving through the development, Bubba punched in the sheriff's office number and asked for Lieutenant Bisse.
"What do you want, retired Sergeant Simms?" growled the head of the detective bureau.
"Do you remember a suicide, Griffith Taylor?"
"The beautiful Widow Taylor hire you?"
"She doesn't think it was a suicide."
"For two million, I wouldn't think it was a suicide either."
"Have time to talk to me?"
"Be here quick. I have meetings to attend."
"Rolling."
Twenty-five minutes later, Bubba was walking in the front door of the sheriff's department. He stopped to talk to Harvey at the front desk and was waved on through toward the detective's section. He stopped and shook some hands, was introduced to some young, sharp-eyed newcomers. They were popping up all the time now.
Ray Bisse had an office, not nearly big enough for him and his work. Files were stacked on file cabinets, arranged on his desk, and crammed into cardboard boxes. One sat on his desk blotter. The men smiled and shook hands. Bisse had been a patrolman for Bubba while he finished Florida Southern at night. Then he had left uniform and worked his way to the top of the detective squad.
"Coffee?"
Bubba nodded, and Ray left the office and came back with two cups of strongly aromatic brew. He sat behind his desk, while Bubba eased into an oversized chair on the visitor's side.
"The widow thinks her husband was murdered." Bisse nodded. "What do you think?"
"Looks like suicide. No reason not to think so. Here is the file, coroner's report. Save you some time bribing one of your other old buddies to copy it for you. No secrets."
"No puzzles?"
"Contact wound to temple, fingerprints on gun and shells, late night, no witnesses, nothing stolen. Those thirty gold coins stacked on the desk. No motive we could find for killing him. Read it, see what you think. Make copies if you want. You find anything that points to a crime, you tell me first and only. We handle crimes. Private detectives only handle insurance disputes. Understand?"
"Absolutely."
"I have a budget meeting. Go sit out at a table and earn your fees. Bring the file back here when you finish." They nodded at each other, then shook and grinned. Bubba took the file in his left hand, briefcase under arm, and the coffee in his right. There was a blond oak table unoccupied against the far wall. Bubba sat down, spread his stuff, and began to skim through the pictures and reports.
Two hours later, Bisse stopped by. "Questions?"
"Whose gun was it?"
"No one knows. Last registration was for a dragline operator from Bartow. But his wife sold it at a yard sale after he died. That was in 1982. Nice little .38 like that floats around from place to place."
"Not many fingerprints for a personal gun. One partial on the shell, and a thumb on the cylinder."
"But the ones there are his, along with a bunch of smears."
"One shell, Russian roulette?"
"Being stupid? I don't blame the insurance company for calling it suicide. That's my call without anything to the contrary."
"Long way for a gun to fall." Bubba pushed a picture toward Bisse, who shrugged. "Muscle spasm. Bounced. Still within the spectrum. Gun sitting on the secretary's desk in the other office past the locked door would be a clue. Anything else?"
"Doesn't feel right."
"I might agree if there were any reason to doubt the obvious. Find a reason, call me."
"I will." Bubba stood and assembled the copies that he had made. Bisse picked up his folder. They shook hands. "Come over to All-American and lift with me some evening. Watch real lifting done with style," Bisse laughed and slapped Bubba's shoulder.
Back in the Bronco with the AC running full blast, Bubba punched in the direct extension number for Arnie, the head of claims at State Insurance.
"Hi, Bubba. What can I do for you?"
"Griffith Taylor?"
"Not ours, but a mess I hear. An accidental death policy for two mill. Widow bringing you in?"
"
I'm looking into it for a day or two."
"Suicide saves them a real payoff."
"Accidental stupidity?"
"The widow would have to prove it. Show their suicide conclusion is wrong. Can you do it?"
"I don't know enough to know anything except he died a messy death."
"It looks messy to me, and all I see are the numbers. Have fun."
The next morning just after seven he arrived at Big Al's Iron Works to lift and walk the treadmill. Big Al was there, signing up a young couple to a year's membership with the spin class twice a week. Bubba passed by and headed for the room in the back of the building. Filled with power racks, benches inclined and flat, and a plentitude of plates, the gray room with workshop lighting was vacant. The clang of the plates wanted to echo, but there was not quite enough room. Bubba was doing good mornings with the bar across his shoulders and a forty-five-pound plate on each end. He'd work up to three fifteen before he started his squat routine.
While Bubba was loading the squat bar, Al stood at the doorway with another couple and explained that they probably wouldn't do much work here, but that they were welcome to watch anytime. Bubba frowned, Al winked, and the couple turned for the more plush and well-behaved areas of the club.
Later, Al found Bubba walking on the treadmill; he had twenty-five minutes still to go. "You looked a bit high on your squats."
"Felt tight."
"I keep telling you that you need to do yoga a couple of times a week. Increase your squat for sure."
"Do you have room in any of your classes for another person?"
"Not really. People are joining right and left. Spending money on the search for eternal youth. Life glows in Winter Haven. I might have to hire another instructor or two. You want to lead a spin class?"
"What's so funny?"
"You. Silver tights. Spin bikes."
The Haven Cafe was packed when he reached it at nine. The waitress found him a table in a back corner. He was buttering his rye toast when David Browne ambled in. How the reporter ambled on one biological leg and one titanium was always a mystery to Bubba, who waved him over. Five minutes later, after David had stopped and chatted with three different people, he arrived and plopped into the chair across from Bubba. He put cream and sugar into the cup of coffee that the waitress had already poured for him. "You look well fed, bright eyed, and energized for the day."
"Early mornings at Big Al's made me the man I am today."
"I am up and showered. That is enough."
"Does The Ledger know anything interesting about Griffith Taylor?"
"Dead. Hustler. Leased my Jeep from him. Hustler. Still dead. Some gambling rumors lately. Great-looking wife. Why?"
"His wife wants to prove he was murdered so she can claim the life insurance."
"He'd been bird-dogging for Jackie Jones all over. Buy gold, sell gold. You buy any gold?"
"No. You?"
"All my money is tied up in still friendly ex-wives. We must be the only two people not getting rich in gold with Jackie."
"Think so?"
"Everywhere I go, it's gold futures, shorting gold this, Krugerrands that, and Aruba is nice this time of year. Town's got the gold fever."
"Maybe I should talk to Jackie."
"Make an appointment, or stand in line."
David's bowl of oatmeal with raisins arrived. He ate and shared the latest funny gossip with Bubba. People stopped at the table and chatted with David, dragging chairs over.
During a lull, the longtime mayor of Winter Haven eased into one of the chairs. The mayor, dressed in a pale blue golf shirt and khaki slacks, had his cup of coffee and a rolled-up newspaper. In his pastel pullover golf shirts the mayor always looked like he'd stepped out of an ad for a golf resort, or the blue pills that made middle age worth living.
"What are you and Bubba conspiring about today, David?" he asked
"Explaining to Bubba why he needs to invest with Jackie, buy a bunch of gold."
"Getting in a year ago was easy. Anybody with cash could invest. Then, Griffith showed us how much money he'd made, and we jumped in with a big splash, real money. Now, it's a fifty K minimum. You got fifty K sitting around, Bubba?"
"In my penny jar."
"I guess you could lift a penny jar that big, but not me. Now, David let me ask you about what you wrote in yesterday's paper."
Bubba grew tired of it all, picked up the checks, dropped a tip and headed out. David waved goodbye, the gesture becoming a conversational additive.
Back in the Bronco, Bubba pulled out his yellow legal pad from his briefcase and checked off one item. He dialed Taylor's office and a pleasant voice answered, "Imperial Polk Leasing."
"I'd like to speak to Janeen Reese."
"Speaking. How may I help you?"
"This is Bubba Simms. Mrs. Taylor asked me to look into her husband's death. Has she told you?"
"She called. How can I help?"
"I'd like to look at his office, talk to you."
"Come on by. I'm here for a few more hours today."
Bubba headed out toward Jan Phyl Village on the southern edge of Winter Haven. Recker Highway formed a long avenue of car lots, small manufacturing buildings, miniwarehouses, and fast-food emporiums. Imperial Polk Leasing was a parking lot with two covered parking spaces at the left front of a single-wide trailer, currently known as manufactured office units. A gleaming black, two-door Lexus perched under one of the spaces, a Ford Focus under the other. Janeen Reese turned out to be a tall brunette in her early twenties with a roundish face that fit her big smile quite nicely. She offered Bubba coffee, which he declined. He sat on a couch and smiled back at her.
"How can I help you, Sergeant Simms?"
"Sergeant? You're too young to know me professionally."
"My uncle Larry, on the Bartow PD, knows you, said to behave myself and do what you needed done."
"Is Larry still playing golf every spare moment?"
"Keeps out of Aunt Wanda's hair. She buys him new clubs all the time. What do you need?"
"Tell me about Griffith Taylor. How was he as a boss? Whatever comes to mind."
"He hustled. Leased more cars than anyone in the county. After all this time since his death, I am finally coming to the end of deals in the pipes. Two years ago I was just out of Polk CC looking for a job that didn't require much experience or training. He hired me because he liked the way my legs intertwined when I was nervous. He was behind this desk, and I was on that couch.
"We worked well together. He hated paperwork and details. I liked dealing with the leasing companies and scheduling deliveries, all that kind of stuff. He wanted to meet people, talk to them face-to-face. I enjoyed the financing numbers, figuring out which company matched which vehicles. Griff couldn't be bothered. He was always out somewhere hustling a new deal. Finding a way to get rich. I thought he was pretty rich, looking at what we cleared here, but not rich enough for him. I'm going to miss this job."
"Why don't you take over?"
"Me? I'm a twenty-four year old skinny brunette with two different colored eyes. No one is going to let me run a business."
"You can find someone to hustle the accounts. Go back to the people who already like the service. You do the hard stuff, the details, the financing. Finding a new hustler in Winter Haven would not take much effort."
"You think?"
"Why not? You're still delivering cars and arranging the financing. Finding a face-to-face guy who doesn't understand the numbers should be simple. Pay Mrs. Taylor a percentage. She'd be thrilled, I'd bet."
"If I paid her in cash, she'd be more thrilled."
"So cynical for such a young, slender woman."
"Slender is better than skinny, I guess. I'll look into this. See what the finance companies say. It is a profit-making machine. So much better than actually selling cars. No one understands the numbers. Show them what looks like a good deal, and they don't care what your profit is. They never see it."
"Financ
e companies like turning over the cash flow. You understand it, and they know you. Worth looking into."
"Hmm, now that my problem is solved, what else can I tell you?"
"Was anything bothering Griffith before he died?"
"The usual. Nothing ever happened fast enough. The next idea was always better than the last. I left him here on the phone that night, and found him the next morning."
"Who was he talking to?"
"Jackie Jones probably. They loved to talk, hustle each other. Like playing chess over the phone. Griff might not understand numbers and details, but he loved a new hustle, how to rig it and re-rig it. I think Jackie is the same way."
"Would you mind showing me his office?"
"Okay. I'm used to the room now. Too gross at first."
Taylor's office had two big leather chairs on the visitor side of the desk. A leather swivel chair behind the desk. A leather couch to the left. Wooden file cabinets in the far corners. An iMac on the desk, next to the phone console. The desktop lacked papers of any kind.
"He didn't answer when I called so I had to unlock the door. He was in the chair, arms hanging down, blood all over his head, on that side of the desk. All the paperwork there was ruined. I called his name, like an idiot. I couldn't believe he was dead."
"Pardon me, but were you involved with him, beyond being secretary, office manager?"
"Griff didn't hire me because I intertwined only my own legs. I kept the job because I'd get financing for most anyone with a decent credit history, and the details were always complete. We had fun. Working late. That couch is very comfortable for thirty minutes. I miss him. Every day."
"Anything else you remember?"
She shook her head. "Surprise. Horror. Why?"
"Had you ever seen him play Russian roulette?"
"Didn't even know he had a gun."
Bubba looked around the room again, hoping for inspiration or a clue. "Were there any strange phone calls, anything out of the ordinary?"
"Like women? Not since I took over. Nothing strange, but when dealing with the public, strange is ordinary."
"Anything missing from the office? Anything different?"
"Nothing. Except the stacks of gold coins."
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Page 3
