“No more Mr. Nice Guy, huh?”
“Huh,” he grunted with slight exasperation.
“You’ll let Bimbi go now?” I said.
“Paper work is already in the system. Should be cleared this afternoon,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
“He could have said thanks,” I said to Rosey.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. All the meals I paid for, the hours of help I gave him. I don’t know. Common courtesy.”
“What meals? I thought Craven paid for everything.”
“Details. You’re always concerned about details.”
60
Rosey and I were on a plane the next day heading home. I convinced him to come to Norfolk and spend a few days with Sam, Blackie and me. I wasn’t ready to tell him about Rogers. Besides, he was smart enough that sooner or later he might figure her out.
“You take care of the guns?” I said.
“I did.”
“I’m sorry we had to use them.”
“I’m glad we had them to use. Death without them.”
I made no comment. I thought about what Wheesely had said about the violence. My life and work was a part of that violence. It left a bad taste in my mouth. It wasn’t from the peanuts I was eating.
“Any loose ends?” Rosey said.
“Yeah. I’m concerned about Bimbi and Gretchen.”
“Joey’s girls.”
“Yeah. They could have it rough with Joey gone.”
“Life’s a bitch.”
The bad taste was still with me. I drank some ginger ale hoping that would help. It didn’t.
“I called Morland and thanked him for his help. He said to thank you, that he enjoyed all the meals that Mr. Craven Malone provided,” Rosey said.
“I’ll bet he did. You trying to make me feel better?”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
“I’m not good at failing,” Rosey said. “What can I tell you that’ll help?”
“Can’t have everything, Mister.”
My cell phone rang. Rogers had some breaking news.
“Thought you’d like to know what just happened.”
“This good or bad news?”
“You’ll have to decide that one for yourself, Dearie.”
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t scream.”
“I’ll contain myself.”
“No shouting either.”
“Talk to me.”
“Okay, I’m reading now. Headlines from the morning’s newspaper: ‘Craven Malone, CEO and President of Craven Malone Industries, Incorporated, passed away at his Virginia Beach home late yesterday afternoon. The cause of death was not immediately determined, but the Medical Examiner has ruled out foul play. Mr. Malone was 90 years old. Funeral arrangements are still being made. Please contact J.C. Whitmore for further information.’ How ‘bout that?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised with his age and all, but I certainly didn’t expect it. Any speculation, like maybe a heart attack?”
“Whitmore sent an email to somebody in New York saying that it was a heart attack, but that’s all I’ve been able to pick up. Looks clean, no ‘foul play,’ … isn’t that a riot? …. nothing unseemly involved, apparently.”
“Looks like I will have to converse with J.C. Whitmore one more time, just to get my expenses paid.”
“Looks that way. Everything kosher on your end?”
“One or two things not to my liking, but I can’t solve all the problems of the world. A long journey has ended. It feels good to be coming home.”
“It’ll be good to have you home. The canines miss you.”
It was slowly becoming her line. Made me wonder. How far can AI go with computers?
She hung up before I could respond. Progress was being made. At least she expressed some sort of farewell word. It was a start. I’d have to work on her bluntness.
Rosey took a few days off and stayed with us. I felt obligated to attend Craven Malone’s funeral since the man still owed me money for the work in Detroit and some expenses. J.C. Whitmore had done an excellent job on the funeral arrangements, so Big Daddy’s service was better than son Joey’s. Only an opinion.
Rosey accompanied me to the Virginia Beach affair. J.C. had a reception at the waterfront cottage. There must have been a few hundred of the elite, high-brow, society types all doing the cheek-to-cheek stuff which had no appeal to me at all. I wondered if money was the cause of this insanity, or just plain old pretentiousness. I was at the bar staring out over the Atlantic Beach and silently criticizing my very weak Martini when Whitmore came over. She ordered a Martini.
“Nice of you to come,” she said. “I heard that you finished your work in Detroit. Sorry that Mr. Malone went to his grave not knowing who killed his son.”
“Better that way.”
“Who did do it?”
“Not who, but what.”
She looked puzzled. I sipped my very bad Martini. It made that bad taste in my mouth even worse. Whitmore took a sip of her drink.
“Bad decisions in life,” I said.
“We all make bad decisions, Miss Evans.”
I nodded, “And sometimes they cost us dearly.”
She swallowed some of her Martini and acted as if she enjoyed it. My standards were higher.
“I suppose you want your money.”
“Whenever you have time,” I said.
“I have time now. Let’s go to the study.”
I followed her into Craven’s beach home. It was larger than the mansion in Linkhorn Park. She guided me through the maze to a large study on the first floor. The walls were all mahogany matching the desk, the chairs and the credenza behind the desk. Consistency. The room was beautiful.
Whitmore moved a painting attached to the wall with hinges. Behind the painting was a safe. She played with the dial for a few minutes and then it opened.
“Trusting, aren’t you, to let me see where the money is kept?”
“You a thief, too, Miss Evans?”
“Not yet.”
She took out a large, manila envelope, closed the safe, spun the dial, and moved the painting back into position. I took the envelope from her when she offered it to me.
I turned to walk out the door and back to reception. I wanted to go home and see my people.
“You aren’t going to open it and count it?”
“Why, you cheat me?”
“Hardly.”
“Then there’s no reason to open it now.”
“You mean you trust me?”
“No. Just means I know where you live and where you keep the valuables. I can always come back.”
“Wise ass.”
I waved and turned to leave again.
“You want to hear a funny ending to a bad story?”
“What bad story?”
“My life.”
“Okay, shoot. Tell me the funny ending,” I said.
“Craven had no relatives, so he left everything to me.”
“Everything?”
“Well, he gave a hundred million to some charities and some lose change to a few local things around Virginia Beach, but I got the rest of it.”
“Enough to retire?”
“Two hundred million. What do you think?”
“I’d hate to pay the inheritance tax,” I said.
“I’ll still be set for life.”
“Good luck to you. I hope you’ll be happy. What about the other holdings, the companies he owned?”
“The old geezer did something most unusual. He gave each company to the employees, each one becoming an equal owner of the company. So, if the companies continue to do well, then each employee will do well. Some incentive, huh?”
“Good gesture. And the houses here in Virginia Beach?”
“Mine, too. Both.”
“Good for you, J.C. Don’t let it change your sweet disposition.”
“Go to hell,” she said. “Oh
, one more thing. I’m getting married again.”
“Now, you are joking, right?”
“Giorgio Leoni. How does that grab you?”
“A match made in, well, not exactly heaven.”
“Not exactly, but it’s a good start for me.”
“Think Giorgio can handle you?”
“Are you asking me if I’ll kill him?”
“Crossed my mind.”
“Only if he tries to take liberties not freely offered.”
“He know about your ex?”
“Every detail. I wanted him to know what I am capable of.”
“Good luck,” I said and left.
“I’ll invite you to the wedding,” she called after me as I walked down the long hall of the beach house.
Epilogue
I was heading to Virginia Beach for a little R&R when the phone rang. Uncle Walters had a favor to ask.
“Ask,” I said without hesitation.
“This is a big favor,” he said.
“There is no way I could ever repay you for all that you have done for me. But, I can certainly try. What is it I can do for you?”
“I need to borrow one of your dogs,” he said.
“Borrow.”
“Yes. I know that this might appear to be a strange request. I can assure you that it is a little important. Goes to public relations of a sort.”
“A little strange,” I agreed. “PR?”
“That would be a way to explain it.”
“Do you have a preference as to which dog?”
Sam raised his head when he heard my question. Blackie remained deep in dreamland. His eyes penetrated deep into mine.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I need the one I gave you. I need to borrow Blackie.”
“Should I ask her or do I just tell her it’s in the cards, so to speak?”
“So she’s like Sam and answers questions?”
“Not quite that conversational. However, she does have opinions.”
I noticed that Sam turned his still raised head to look at Blackie sleeping at the other end of his couch. Then he shifted his gaze back at me.
“You think she might not want to come stay with me for a few weeks?”
“Personally, I believe she adores you. Just an observation. But if you prefer, I can ask her about a road trip and a long visit with you there in Boston.”
“Better ask,” he said.
“You wanna wait while I wake her and ask?”
“I need an answer fairly soon,” he said without hesitation.
“This PR gig … does it have anything to do with the fellow who gave you Blackie before you gave her to me?”
“No wonder you are such an astute detective with powers above those of normal human beings.”
“I can put you on speaker so you can listen in to the request,” I said.
“That would certainly be informative.”
Rogers changed the setting without my asking. Uncle Walters could now hear everything that was about to occur.
“Blackie, sweetie,” I said as I approached her sleeping position, “I need to ask you something.”
Blackie shifted her head without raising it. She merely moved so that she could look into my eyes from her prone position.
“Uncle Walters would like for you to come visit with him for a few weeks. You up for a road trip and visit to Boston?”
She wagged her tail but said nothing.
“She’ll be happy to come,” I said for Uncle Walters benefit.
“I heard nothing,” he said.
“The answer was in her eyes and in the movement of her tail,” I said.
“You want further explanation,” he said.
“Not unless you think I need to know.”
“How about a story at the end of the visit?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
We made plans for Uncle Walters to drive down to Norfolk and retrieve Blackie for the soon-to-be visit. I offered to bring her to Boston, but he would not hear of such a thing. He planned to drive down in two days, so I had ample time to pack her a bag full of treats and toys and her favorite blanket when she didn’t utilize the couch.
In the meantime my little family of canines had a road trip of our own to the Atlantic Ocean at nearby Virginia Beach. I was lying on a towel on the beach in the sun enjoying my Labor Day retreat. It was now a month after Labor Day and the beach was not crowded at all. Sam was out playing in the water and Blackie was sitting under the umbrella on the blanket. She was asleep and likely dreaming of chasing or being chased by something, or perhaps she was creating some fanciful memories of her time upcoming with Uncle Walters in Boston. Who knows what dogs dream?
The waves were rolling back and forth in that rhythmic cadence that lulls one into a state of tranquility, if not sleep. I was just about to pass into sleep when my cell phone rang.
“Clancy?” the voice said.
“Clancy Evans here.”
“This is Malcolm, Clancy.”
“Malcolm Wheesely?”
“The one and only.”
“Well, great to hear from you. How’s life in Detroit?”
“I wouldn’t know. I seldom go into the city. Life in Oak Park is pretty good these days.”
“So, tell me what’s happening.”
“Well, I was named as the Executor of Joey Malone’s estate and the will was probated at the end of September. Thought I’d let you know what happened to the stuff Mr. Malone owned.”
My curiosity was not peaked, but I played along as if it were vital information, pertinent to national security.
“I’m listening, Malcolm. Did he leave you anything?”
It was a dangerous question, since I had my doubts that Joey would do anything like his father had done for the employees of the companies he had owned.
“A little. Paid me a hundred thousand to be the executor.”
“Wow. That’s a nice piece of change.”
“Yeah. Now I can fix some of the things around the house. I gave each of the cats new bedding and got some expensive medication for Profit.”
“Good for you. You need to be careful, though. Now that you have money, the women of Oak Park will likely come around and bother you.”
“Already happened. Some old bag from down the street, she must be sixty-five at least, she’s been down with bread and pies and all kinds of junk. Can you believe some people?”
“Keep ‘em at bay, Malcolm. You have your children to think of.”
“Well, that’s not what I called to tell you. I called because I knew you might be interested in knowing that after Mr. Malone took care of me, he left everything else to those women.”
“What women?”
“Oh, let me see. I have it written here, some place. Just a moment. I can’t find the paper. Hang on.”
He left me for a few minutes. I really didn’t want to know all of this. One of the cats must have come over and inspected the phone while Malcolm was searching for the paper he needed. There was a constant meowing in the receiver. Wish I could speak cat.
“Okay, I’m back. Sorry about that. I tend to get more and more forgetful these days. Aging is not for sissies. Couldn’t remember their legal names. Sorry. Darlene Sledge. Darlene and Gretchen Sledge. Darlene was the one you asked me about. She went by Bimbi. Anyhow, they got it all. There was a trust fund set up for Gretchen so that she’ll have plenty the rest of her life. I have to manage the trust fund. Only stipulation was that Darlene must not work anymore and that Gretchen had to continue her work with the homeless. I have to keep tabs on them now and then, but I doubt if I have any problem. We’ve talked. Sweet deal for them, right?”
“I suppose. But you can’t make people bow to your will by money. Sounds like he’s still trying to control things.”
“Maybe, but one could also say that he is encouraging Bimbi to find a life for herself and not resort to old habits. Could be just good old-fashioned discipline,” he said.
It o
ccurred to me that Bimbi, Darlene, was a few years past her prime for that old profession to really work again. Still, sometimes it’s easy to return to the default position whenever life gets rough.
“You’re a nice guy, Malcolm. Always looking for a positive spin on life and people.”
“I hope so, Clancy. I think Joey Malone had some good traits, but they were buried pretty deep. Still, he had this will drawn up nearly ten years ago. He hadn’t changed one sentence from that time. Sure, he was an eccentric with lots of money. But I also think he had a small place where he reserved some love for a few people.”
“Everyone’s capable.”
“And I sold what was left of the magazine. The office building, the supplies, the printing equipment, that sort of stuff, it’s all gone. Another publishing company wanted it. Frankly, I was glad to get rid of it. Never liked the trash they printed anyway. It surprised me, but all of that stuff went for one point five million. You believe those numbers?”
“Prime real estate.”
“That’s what they told me. Anyhow, that was in Mr. Malone’s will, too.”
“Ten years ago Joey Malone had plans to sell out and get rid of the magazine. That’s really interesting,” I said.
“But not as much as what he stipulated in the will for that money.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Half went to some Gay rights group and half went for the work with the homeless in Detroit. Gretchen was given the responsibility of managing that second gift. Along with my help, if she needs it. Can you imagine that?”
“The nerve of some people,” I said.
A Look At Mercy Killing (A Clancy Evans Mystery)
Clancy Evans is asked to help a young clergyman. One of his elderly members knows more than he's saying…but who cares about a murder in 1933? Ancient history! Clancy cares. Clancy and Sam, her black lab, travel to Riley Corners to investigate. Straight talking and direct, Clancy wastes no time in riling this small town, including the law. She enlists an old friend, a former Navy SEAL, to help her strip away some of the secrets of this Southern community…and there could be hell to pay, for both of them
AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON.
Get Your FREE Ebook
One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1) Page 25
