The Cradle Robber

by E. Joan Sims

  “You don’t have to pretend, Mom. I know you’re beside yourself with joy at the prospect of my staying on the farm with you and Gran.”

  I grinned openly. “You got me! Besides, your presence might be needed to stop another homicide.”

  Cassie sat back on the stool behind the counter and smiled back. “You and Gran already at it so early this morning? What’s it about this time?” She stopped smiling. “It’s my job, isn’t it? She’s still being a snobby pain about my working.”

  I hated seeing the smile fade from her pretty face so I lied—a little white lie. “No, sweetie. She’s mad at me, only me. She blames all our problems on me. According to her, I started it all by leaving Aggie out in the storm.”

  Cassie pursed her lips. “Well, that was pretty…”

  My heart began to sink. An argument with Mother was one thing—sometimes it could even be invigorating—but an argument with Cassie could ruin my day. I was saved by the telephone.

  While Cassie took an order, I looked around at the assortment of gifts and goodies for sale. I was pleasantly surprised. Celestine had very good taste. I picked out a pretty apron edged with handmade crochet for Mother as a peace offering, and a box of Demerara sugar cubes for myself. I loved raw sugar and didn’t find it for sale very often. I got another box, just in case.

  “Mom, can you watch the store for a few minutes? I have to make a delivery to the courthouse.”

  “Why, I…”

  “Great! I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She took off her own apron and pulled it down over my head. “Better get in back of the bar. Coffee’s already brewed. Everything’s labeled. If there’s a problem, tell the customer to wait for me.” And she was off with four cups of latte.

  I positioned myself behind the coffee bar, laughing all the while. Mother would really be furious if she knew I had joined the ranks of the underemployed.

  I snooped around and found everything to be clean, neat, and very practical. There were five regular coffees and one special flavor of the day—the aforesaid Jamoca Chocolate Cherry Supreme. A small wooden chest held the varied assortment of teas available, and large glass jars filled with biscotti and buttery shortbread lined the back wall. I put a dollar on the counter and fished out an anise-flavored biscotti to dunk in my tea. When Cass returned she found two more dollars in the pile and her mother happily slurping down her second cup.

  “Looks like I don’t need any more business with you around,” she laughed. “Stay awhile and keep me company.” She winked. “You can even leave me a tip.”

  I relinquished the apron and grabbed a napkin to wipe away the crumbs. “Umm, those cookies are great. They seem vaguely familiar somehow.”

  “They should! You’ve had them often enough.”

  “Dora Nick’s housekeeper!” Dora was our neighbor. Rosie had lived with her for years—thirty to be exact—since Dora’s sixtieth birthday. Rosie was a marvelous cook, and had provided the little Sterling girls with many an afternoon tea party over the years.

  “Here’s some more money. Please pass me another.”

  By the time I was full, the little pile of bills on the counter had grown and my belt was considerably tighter. I was Cassie’s only customer that morning. We spent a pleasant time talking about nothing for a while, then I broached the subject once more.

  “So you’ve decided to stay with us. May I ask what made you change your mind?”

  Her face clouded up and I wished I had kept on talking about the weather.

  “If you don’t want to…”

  “No, Mom, it’s okay. Rudolfo—he’s the one who made me change my mind. We talked a lot that night before we ended up at Miss Lolly’s. He admired you and Gran tremendously. He couldn’t understand why I would want to leave home.” She wiped a nonexistent spot off the gleaming counter. “It’s that Latin thing, I suppose. Just like when we lived with Dad’s parents in San Romero.”

  “It would have been an insult not to live with them,” I said softly. “It most decidedly is a Latin thing.”

  “Well, I’ve decided it’s my thing, also.” She held up her hand so I wouldn’t interrupt. “But I’m one-half American, too, so I want some privacy—and maybe even my own outside door. That way I can come and go as I please.”

  I couldn’t stop grinning. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  “And don’t look so pleased with yourself. I could change my mind again anytime I want.”

  Cass decided it was safe to close down for a thirty-minute lunch break, so I drove her out to the Dairy Queen and treated her to the burger she had missed out on the night before. I ordered a root beer and added it to the tea sloshing around in my middle.

  “That’s funny,” she said with the last bite.

  “What?” I asked, leaning back in the booth.

  “Did you watch the girl make change when you paid for our lunch?”

  I tried to remember. “No. Did she pay me too much?”

  Cassie shook her head impatiently. I had missed the point. “No, not that. She counted the money under her breath. I couldn’t hear, but I saw her lips moving.”

  I was confused. I couldn’t see where Cassie was going.

  “I do the same thing,” she explained. “I think everybody does. And when I went to the courthouse and delivered the coffee to Mr. Newton, he did it, too—only it looked odd—like he was counting in Spanish. You know—uno, dos, tres, quatro…”

  “I have a vague recollection,” I sniffed. Cassie always underestimated my language skills.

  “I remember hearing somewhere that people can learn to speak a second language as well as their native tongue, but they always count in the language of their childhood.”

  “Okay, so maybe he’s Latin.”

  “I asked him,” she admitted. “It scared him to death. He got so nervous he spilled one of the cups of coffee. Then he got mad and blamed it on me. I offered to give him some money back, but he just ordered me out of his office.” She looked down at the empty ketchup packets and French fry crumbs, and then back up at me. “But I think I’m right, Mom,” she added defiantly. “I think Mr. Frank Newton is hiding the fact that he is Hispanic.” She shook her head. “Now why would he do that?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After lunch, I took Cassie back to the coffee shop and left her to her work. Since I really was not in the mood to go home and risk exposing myself to more of Mother’s carping about her granddaughter’s job, I decided to spend some time at the courthouse. I had several questions shelved away in the back of my mind, and this afternoon was as good a time as any to satisfy my curiosity.

  I had seen old sepia-tinted photographs of the original seat of Lakeland County which burned down in the thirties and always thought the Victorian cupolas and turrets much more attractive than the concrete Art Deco mausoleum built to replace it.

  The only charming thing about this grey monolith was the statue of a Confederate soldier on the south lawn. Every decade or so, some smarty-pants prankster, thinking he had an original idea, would come up with an article of clothing for the lonely Rebel sentinel.

  Last year, the week after high school graduation found him sporting a bright fuschia bra around his concrete chest with matching lace panties over his head. I thought it was hilarious, but our mayor’s reaction was to insist that Andy Joiner post a twenty-four hour guard in order to put a stop to any future shenanigans. Andy was delighted. The mayor raised his budget and kept Andy from having to let one of his men go. Once, in an unguarded moment, he confided to me that he had some extra underwear waiting in the wings just in case the mayor deemed the guard a necessity no longer.

  There were forty-one steps leading to the south entrance. I climbed them all in one breath, congratulating myself for sticking to my treadmill routine for the last three months.

  The courthouse hallways were dark and dreary. A few dusty ceiling lights were all that kept visitors and employees alike from running into each other or falling down the stairwell. I was no
t very familiar with the floor plan, and it took me a few minutes to find my destination in the gloom.

  The County Surveyor’s office was in the basement at the other end of the building. I vaguely remembered going there once with my grandfather Sterling. It was a long narrow room with lots of shelves and enough dust to choke an elephant. On the way I passed a restroom and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. I had, after all, downed approximately a gallon or more of liquid refreshment since I left home.

  As I was coming out, I almost ran into a tall, elderly gentleman dressed in a resplendent white suit and black string tie. His abundantly wavy hair was as white as snow and his eyes the hue of a bluejay feather.

  “Little Paisley Sterling! Is that really you? Why, I swear if it isn’t John Sterling’s first-born in the flesh. My word, child, but you are the spittin’ image of your daddy.” Judge Hershey’s voice was warm and deep, and left me no doubt that his sentiments were heartfelt. He was the genuine article: a real live Kentucky Colonel.

  “Hello, sir,” I said with a broad smile. “I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you for a long time. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Ah, ha!” he laughed. “Your handsome daddy’s looks and your beautiful mother’s charm—what a truly devastatin’ combination.” He reached down, took my hand in his and leaned closer—his words for my ears only. “I met your daughter early this mornin’ when I stopped in for coffee. She’s a beauty, that one. And smart as a whip. When I found out she spoke Spanish like a native, I asked her to consider an appointment as the county’s official translator. With more and more of these foreign fellows coming in to town we certainly have need for one. Try and convince her to accept, will you? We need some young blood around here.”

  “You don’t have anyone else on your staff who speaks Spanish?” I asked remembering Cassie’s remarks about the Judge’s assistant.

  “Nope!” he declared with certainty, as he let my hand go to straighten up. He was taller than I was by a good twelve inches, and thinner than I remembered. I wondered if he had been ill.

  “I know a few words in French,” he continued with a twinkle in his eyes. “But none that I could repeat in the company of ladies. And the rest of the folks who work around here only speak Kentuckian—possum up a gumtree, and all. Comes from the purest Elizabethan English. Remind yourself of that when you think you’re surrounded by country bumpkins.”

  I laughed. I knew what he was talking about. “Oh, I learned the hard way never to underestimate the locals. The fool who does that could wind up without the shirt on his back.”

  His smile was as warm and broad as his own accent. It was like summer sunshine in the darkness of the hallway. “I’m glad you came home, Paisley. It did your momma good. Grace us with more of your presence, will you, child? The sight of you makes an old man glad.”

  I was somewhat taken aback by his emotional sentiments, but I had no doubt they were honestly meant. “Why, er…” I began.

  “Tell your momma I send greetings and salutations. And don’t forget to encourage that lovely daughter of yours to accept my offer.” And he was off.

  I stood and watched as Judge Hershey walked, ramrod straight, down the dark hall towards his chambers. I felt ashamed of myself for the suspicions that had brought me here in the first place. “Oh, well,” I sighed, curiosity over coming remorse, “I’ve come this far—might as well finish the job.”

  The surveyor’s office hadn’t changed at all in the last thirty-five years. The room was still long and narrow and crammed with shelves of big unwieldy plat books. A constellation of dust motes hung suspended in the narrow beams of light that managed to filter though the dirty basement windows. Placed just below the ceiling and looking out to the sidewalk, they afforded a view of nothing more than the passing ankles and feet of my fellow townsfolk.

  A fly-specked notice pinned to ancient cork bulletin board spelled out instructions for locating the correct plat book. It wasn’t rocket science. I found what I was looking for right away.

  Judge Hershey did indeed still own the land where the trailer park sat, as well as the over five hundred acres surrounding it. The land bordered Bass Bay on all sides and, except for the trailer park, was completely undeveloped. An old dirt logging road ran back into the acreage for five miles and then petered out. I was willing to bet it was probably unused and overgrown with brush and brambles. The lane to our own back field got that way unless it was bush-hogged every month or so.

  I was just about to close the book and put it back in its dusty niche when I came face to face with Effie Diaz. She wasn’t a person at all. Effie Diaz was a map coordinate: F-10. On his deathbed, overcome with pain and suffering, Rudolfo would have spoken the numbers in Spanish—his last words would have sounded like “effie diaz” to someone unfamiliar with that language.

  According to the map, F-10 referred to the far northeastern corner of Judge Hershey’s land. The plot was nestled against heavily forested foothills and adjoined the National Wildlife Preserve. There was no more inaccessible area in all of Lakeland County. I wondered why in the world Rudolfo would have used his dying breath to bring it to someone’s attention.

  Cassie was closing up when I walked back by the coffee shop on the way to my car.

  “You want a lift home, hun?”

  “I’ll take you up on that, Mom. If I have to depend on a taxi every day, I won’t make any money at all.” She smiled a little hesitantly and lifted one dark eyebrow. “I might have to take you up on that offer of a small, inexpensive car. Although, at the rate I’m going, it may be ten years before I can pay you back.”

  “No big tips today, huh?”

  “Nary a one; except for the pretty lady who drank three cups of tea this morning.” She handed me a large brown shopping bag with the coffee shop logo on the side, and turned to lock the door. “I wrapped Gran’s apron in some pretty gift paper. It might help to get you back in her good graces.”

  “What say we sweeten the pot even more and chug down to Cloudt’s for some barbeque? We can call Horatio when we get there and tell him to meet us at home. He’ll help tame your grandmother. And to top things off, you can tell her about the offer you got to join the county payroll.”

  “You saw Judge Hershey! Isn’t he just the sweetest old love?”

  I started the engine, using that opportunity to avoid responding. I wasn’t sure at that moment just what I thought of Judge Hershey.

  I considered telling my daughter what I had discovered all the way to Cloudt’s. All day long I had carefully avoided mentioning anything that might remind her of last night and our awful trek back to Wanda’s house. Cassie hadn’t mentioned it either, but I could almost feel the secret sitting between us like an unwelcomed guest. And ignoring it wasn’t going to make it go away—ever. While we waited for the waitress to wrap two pounds of sliced pork, two and a half pounds of beef, and a quart of the best barbeque sauce in the western world, I made up my mind.

  The best part of a trip to Cloudt’s was always the drive home when we nibbled on the tender succulent meat with crispy smoked edges. That’s why I always got an extra half-pound of my favorite beef.

  “Ump, Mom. This is still the greatest,” mumbled Cassie over a mouthful.

  “Could you dunk some in the sauce without spilling it on the seat?”

  “Sure thing!”

  “And, by the way, I found out about Senorita Diaz,” I blurted out abruptly.

  Cassie turned toward me so fast she spilled about three tablespoons of dark orange sauce on Watson’s seat.

  “Damn it, Cassie! Watch what you’re doing.”

  “It’s your fault,” she accused, as she dabbed at the widening spot with her napkin. “You startled me.” She went through three napkins and gave up. “It’s useless; but Gran has some upholstery cleaner at home that will do the trick. Don’t be mad, Mom, please. Tell me about Effie. Who is she?”

  I laughed. I had a hard time being mad at Cassie. I wish my mother coul
d say the same about her daughter. “You mean what is she?” I corrected.

  “What?” said Cassie, her pretty face drawn up in a frown.

  “Yeah, ‘effie diaz’—think about it. What does it sound like to you, oh mighty official Lakeland County Translator?”

  “F-10! Of course! But what is F-10?” she asked, her eyes dancing with excitement “A new military aircraft? A spy plane, maybe? Or a secret formula?”

  “Wrong on all counts. I’m not really positive, but I think F-10 refers to a map coordinate. If I’m right, your ‘sweet old love’ is up to his neck in some kind of nasty trouble. Map coordinate F-10 is on Judge Hershey’s land, a few miles north of the trailer park on the other side of Bass Bay.”

  “Wow!” was my college-educated daughter’s only response. My mother’s was predictable.

  “Impossible! Jimmy Hershey is a fine, upstanding, man. He was a very dear friend of your father’s, for goodness sakes.” She sat back, crossed her ankles in the most lady-like manner, and folded her hands in her lap. She was ready for an edict. “Paisley, I’ll have to insist that you not speculate any further about Judge Hershey’s possible involvement in this dreadful affair as long as you’re in my home.”

  “Well,” I grunted. “I’ll just have to go outside to finish my conversation because if I’m right, he’s up fudge creek without a paddle.”

  “Anna, my dear—Paisley, child,” said Horatio as he sought to mediate. “Let’s take this new information under consideration in an objective manner.” He placed a hand on Mother’s arm. “Now, Anna, calm your self, m’dear. I do not for a minute think James Hershey is involved in our recent epidemic of murders; however I do think Paisley may have discovered our elusive ‘effie diaz.’ And a fine bit of deduction that was, my dear,” he said with a bow in my direction.

  I blushed like a ninny. “It was nothing, really,” I said in an embarrassed, little girl voice. “Quite an accident, I assure you.”

  “Nevertheless, a duller wit and less observant eye might not have put it all together. Congratulations, my dear. You are your mother’s daughter. Anna was always very good with puzzles.”