The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  “Mine’s in the shop waiting on warranty approval. Can’t take it anywhere else without voiding the warranty, but the dealer won’t work on it because there’s some glitch with the initial registration.” Jeff glanced back at his wife. “We’re in a hurry. She’s dropping me off before she goes to work.” Tanya taught at Verdeville Junior High School.

  “I did my best to read it, but parts are so faded, it’s impossible.”

  “Anything to get me started with?”

  “It gives a specific date—November 9, 1889. That’s when Jones was hung. The story itself takes place on a Mississippi River steamboat.” Beth waggled a small tablet page with her brief notes. “Oh, and the place of the murder and hanging was Hickman, Kentucky. Ever hear of it?”

  “No, but if it was a steamboat town, I’ll bet it had a newspaper. Maybe we’ll get lucky and somebody has digitized a few surviving copies.” Jeff started backing toward his wife’s car.

  “Pages are extremely brittle. Take good care of it.”

  “You think your movie actress wrote it?”

  Beth’s brow wrinkled. “Don’t think so. Handwriting is too different from what I recall in her diary. But in my gut, I feel certain she’s connected to this story... somehow. So it’s up to you to prove it.”

  He smiled. “Do my best.” He trotted to the waiting vehicle. He never explained why they were both working on a holiday.

  ****

  Beth had to work too. CPAs didn’t observe all the standard holidays. She dressed pretty much as usual—medium heels with charcoal slacks and a cream white blouse.

  The coffee was already dripping by the time Steve entered. As usual, he looked slightly puzzled and disoriented, like he’d never been in that facility before. The morning ritual began: Steve deposited his briefcase and laptop in his office, stared at the clock until it faintly buzzed at eight o’clock, then nodded in Beth’s direction. Her part of this annoying rite was to hurriedly unlock the front door as though people were queued-up.

  Beth dealt with Saturday’s mail which had been slipped through the door slot. Caught up the filing from Friday afternoon. Made some calls confirming appointments. Addressed the rest of the October client birthday cards she’d started the previous week.

  As usual, every time Beth looked up, it seemed Steve was staring at her. Now that she knew Shane was coming to town, maybe she’d introduce him to her boss. After meeting Beth’s biker ex-boyfriend, perhaps Steve would stop staring at her all day.

  When Steve walked by with his mid-morning coffee, he paused at Beth’s desk... as usual. Didn’t say anything; he just stood there and looked at her. That was probably his opening line of conversation: silence.

  So, as usual, Beth spoke the first words to break the awkwardness. “Over the weekend, I found a 1955 diary—from some old actress—and an ancient manuscript about a hanging and a riverboat.” Now those were not her typical opening words. Surely news like this would generate a conversational response. Nope. Steve just blinked a few times.

  My mistake. When the subject is not Steve or his CPA work, he’s got zero interest.

  He gazed toward the front door and shrugged his narrow shoulders. Then he moved quietly back to his office. Fortunately for Beth’s sanity, during the remainder of the morning, Steve’s visual attention was on his own computer screen.

  Later, during Beth’s lunch, she sat at the edge of the parking strip behind their complex of offices and businesses. Sunshine—unhampered by clouds—took the cool edge off temperature in the low sixties.

  After eating her sandwich, she called Shane’s cell phone. It was his third day of travel and he was due to arrive that night sometime, but Beth didn’t know anything more specific. She’d forgotten to check whether any storms were between them.

  It went to voicemail. By the time Shane saw this message, he’d probably be past Memphis already. Beth left voicemail informing him that the Verdeville weather was good and asking him to call when he reached town. There were other words which caught in her throat so intensely they actually felt like heartburn. Having him so near, after all this time. What would Shane expect? What would she allow? What did she expect?

  Surely this was not a matter of picking up right where they left off. They’d split in the middle of a terrible argument. Why did she have to leave? Any idiot would have understood that she left only because her brother needed constant attention and her parents couldn’t handle it. What else had Shane imagined?

  They’d never actually discussed her departure... or its aftermath. Beth realized that she’d handled it badly. It had dropped down on her like ten cubic yards of gravel... and she’d reacted by clawing out from under the pile and stumbling to Verdeville. Had she paused long enough to close things down with Shane? No. Her main reaction was panic. Had she asked Shane to come with her? Didn’t even consider it. Not then, anyway... but many, many times since.

  So who would expect what... three years later? Where would they pick up this oddly fractured relationship? Deep inside, Beth feared the only thing they presently had in common was that Shane felt the need to rough-up somebody to protect her. Under the current circumstances, that might come in real handy... but it was not the basis for a renewed relationship. Not to Beth, at least.

  Though it might be enough for Shane.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Afternoon

  Ed Dillon was nervous finally meeting the professional fixer he’d hired, sight unseen. All of his careful, sub rosa checking had revealed a capable and efficient operative, at unbelievably high cost. And he could only be contacted through a neutral connection. Plus, Dillon only knew one name: Kaser.

  Kaser’s reputation was one of thorough ruthlessness. That fit right in with what Dillon needed to propel Nancy into the State Senate. But Dillon was not at all certain how to handle this pro. Kaser’s credentials—ex-government something-or-other—were murky and vague. But they obviously described a man of focused intensity—he’d root out any problems and dispose of them. One confidential reference even used the word “obsessed.” Though Dillon was not completely clear what that meant, it felt comforting: given Nancy’s relative weakness in the polls, the campaign needed some obsession. But it was also a bit chilling. Once you turn loose a ravenous hunter, how do you call him back? Or dare he even try?

  Obviously, they couldn’t meet at Durocher’s campaign headquarters, so Dillon had suggested the Nashvillage Hotel. No, said Kaser, people there were looking for faces. They would meet at the immense Opryland complex, northeast of downtown Nashville.

  To call Opryland a hotel was like calling DisneyWorld a county fair. In addition to hundreds of rooms and suites, the vast facility handled large conventions, held uncountable restaurants and shops... plus auditoriums and displays. It even featured walking paths, a small jungle, and an artificial river with its own passenger boat. The layout was so enormous, they provided maps which identified the zones... to keep customers from getting lost.

  Kaser had selected the Garden Conservatory and walking path. They met at a bench in a clearing, where anyone approaching from either direction could be easily seen.

  Dillon extended a slightly sweaty hand, but Kaser just nodded and sat on one end of the bench. Dillon took the other.

  No preliminaries. “You’re Dillon. I looked you up.” Kaser was shorter than Dillon had imagined—several inches under six feet. But his solid build suggested muscle and steely hardness. His pale blue eyes seemed perceptive and cold. Kaser’s hands were medium-sized, but his fingers looked like thick sausages. He extended a small envelope. “Invoice for September. Rate went up.”

  Dillon knew it would be cash again and no denomination higher than fifty. Transporting that much cash was always a problem, because Dillon’s face was quite recognizable in Nashville since Nancy’s campaign had moved into high gear. This next exchange would be a neutral drop out in the boondocks somewhere, maybe an exit on the Interstate, east of the city. Dillon didn’t open the envelope, but he knew it would be
billed as professional services by J.M. Enterprises. Of course, Dillon wouldn’t keep the invoice anyway—this contract didn’t exist officially. Neither did the barrels of cash funneled into HQ by Nancy’s wealthy friends.

  “Payment’s due tomorrow. I have a quick trip out of town after that.”

  “Why was last month higher?”

  “End of July and all of August was preliminary research. Then your case developed some unexpected turns.” Kaser rubbed one thumbnail on the large knuckle of the other thumb.

  Dillon didn’t even ask. He knew from their previous phone conversation that Kaser would say “the less you know, the better.”

  “Any other questions?” Kaser kept an eye on each direction, but there’d been no other traffic on the paved walking trail.

  Actually, Dillon had numerous questions, but he didn’t feel bold enough to ask any. “Um, do you understand what needs to be done? I mean, our overall goals.”

  Kaser nodded and lowered his voice. “Your candidate will be clean as a new whistle.”

  “And if you find a story that some cousin kicked a dog?’

  “Bury the dog... or the cousin. Or both.”

  “Nancy just said to bury the story.” Dillon cleared his throat.

  “That hardly ever works. If Durocher’s serious about scrubbing the family slate, she needs to realize this could get dirty... to make it clean.”

  “How dirty?”

  A teenager with piercings and orange hair trotted past. Kaser watched discreetly but didn’t speak until that boy was completely around the bend. “You don’t want to know.”

  “But I need to know what we’re launching.”

  Kaser looked like he was explaining to a simpleton. “Like I told you before, I don’t even exist. Strictly cash. I hire who I need—you never see them. We scrub the senator from top to bottom—friends, family, as far back as possible.” Kaser pointed to Durocher’s campaign pin on Dillon’s lapel. It showed her looking earnest. They’d tried to get a good shot of Nancy smiling, but on her it was just a grimace. “I can’t control her big mouth though.”

  “I can’t either. Nancy Vernon Durocher says what’s on her mind. But that’s my job to try. You fix everything else.” Dillon rephrased it in his mind once, and then added. “Squeaky clean as far back as Fitch’s guys would go.”

  “The rumble I pick up is that Fitch isn’t even looking. Playing some sort of game with the media. Hoping to get tagged as Gentleman Joe or something.”

  “You act like you don’t believe it.”

  Kaser shook his head.

  “To my knowledge, all Fitch has is some celebrity Nashville PR firm with a private detective agency. I know a couple of them. All above board.”

  “They’ll miss stuff.” Kaser smiled with thin lips. “I don’t know Fitch, but I know politicians. He’s also got somebody like me. A cleaner... a fixer.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry about Fitch, regardless. I’ve got somebody else working up some dirt on him.”

  “As I expected.”

  Dillon felt slightly embarrassed. “But anyhow, Nancy is holding it back until and unless she needs it—closer to the election.”

  “You make her sound like a politician with a conscience.”

  “Only when public reaction calls for it.” Dillon heard distant voices.

  Kaser listened carefully. They weren’t on the same trail. “You told me before that she wants Fitch on a platter.”

  “Well, not a direct quote, but close enough. Sometimes her ambition makes her show too many cards.”

  Kaser paused to consider that assessment. “You’ve got a reputation, too.”

  Dillon was faintly surprised that his hired gun would know much about him.

  “You’re the guy who runs alongside Durocher, holding her brain and trying to keep it reasonably close to her body. Also the one behind-the-scenes who does her dirty work... with no reservations.”

  Dillon was partly troubled to hear it phrased so bluntly... yet, also secretly pleased at that image. “And that didn’t bother you?”

  “It’s similar enough to my own playbook. Plus, I need to know who I’m working with.”

  “I take it you’ve made a lot of progress.” Dillon wondered if that would generate any detail.

  Kaser nodded. “People are almost always willing to talk. You just have to become who they want to talk to.”

  “How far back have you already gone with the Durocher and Vernon family?”

  “All the way back to Old Ironsides.” His thin smile didn’t reveal how much exaggeration was involved. “Far enough to know we have some closets to clean out. You don’t want details.”

  “Okay.” Dillon extended his hand, palm vertical. “I understand. I just want to know that you’re doing the cleaning.”

  Kaser looked smug.

  Dillon truly did want details... and knew Kaser fully realized how much Dillon wanted to know. “Well, I do need the broad strokes. Nancy will ask. How far back are the problems?”

  “Last two generations, it’s mostly white collar dirt—contract lawsuits and a few tax problems.” He rolled his eyes. “Pretty easy to counter, rationalize, or disappear. But the generations before that had some pretty heavy stuff going on.”

  “How heavy?”

  Kaser leaned forward and lowered his voice again. “I’m betting you’ve already heard the rumors about a murder.”

  Dillon nodded and gulped. “Couldn’t tell if it was true.”

  “But you needed somebody else to rattle the cages enough to get past the haze of rumor and into flesh and blood facts.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Dillon’s head recoiled slightly. “Just fix it.”

  “You do understand that it costs more to fix some things... than others. The next bill will be at least double the one you haven’t opened yet.” He pointed to Dillon’s clammy hands.

  Dillon nodded slowly. He’d expected graduated shake-downs for more money. Fortunately, the Durocher for Senate campaign had a vast cache of under-the-table cash. “I understand.”

  “Good. Then you’ll comprehend that when you find something extremely ugly, there’s always a relative or two who knows about it. At least the broad strokes. Sometimes they clam up and sometimes they talk. Some of the talkers can be shut up with money and some with threats. But some can’t be shut up.”

  Dillon held up his hand again. “You fix the problems. If it takes a little extra incentive, then I have access to more cash. But don’t get the idea that this cleaning fund is unlimited.”

  “Oh, I understand completely. You want your boss elected.” Kaser’s left thumbnail scratched against the largest knuckle of the other thumb. “I’m the best fixer that never existed... but top quality cleaning demands highest compensation. Absolute highest.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Evening

  Beth headed straight home after work because she thought Shane might already be in town. He wasn’t. She hadn’t called because she didn’t want to seem too eager for his arrival. Though she was—well, eager but apprehensive.

  She’d double-locked both doors and taken a short nap. While waiting on the mental cobwebs to clear away, Beth piddled around with her e-mail and read a few status updates. She hardly ever posted anymore.

  By about 6:30, Beth realized she was hungry, but discovered she’d run out of chicken pot pies. She spent five minutes staring at the freezer compartment to see what else she could make. All her old reliables were gone. Unless she was willing to settle for another peanut butter and jelly sandwich—her typical lunch fare—she’d have to dash to the store.

  Once she was in for the evening, she hated leaving her cottage. She even thought about calling to check on Connie’s supper plans, but Beth didn’t actually want her friend around when Shane rolled in. So she slammed the refrigerator door and went to her bedroom to put on jeans and sneakers. She also changed into a long-sleeve pullover shirt and grabbed her lined windbreaker.

  The Verdeville Grocery
on Highway 70 would have been her preference, but that was over two miles to the east. A much smaller, older—and usually a bit grungier—grocery operated on Highway 231, just about half a mile south of Old Highlands. Quite appropriately called the Highland Grocery, it was dreary at seven o’clock. The mad rush of after work shoppers had mostly departed and the much quieter store seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as clerks re-stocked shelves and cleaned up the more obvious messes.

  Beth dawdled at the rack with paperbacks and gazed at the covers of numerous romance novels. What happened to the covers with women in the foreground running from dark towers behind them? Where were the covers with women’s heaving bosoms? Most of these books showed handsome men with muscular, smooth chests and impossibly defined abdominal muscles. Sometimes Beth’s life felt like a romance novel. But Shane was nothing like those alpha males. In fact, Shane could chew up most of those guys before breakfast. Ha. Of course, he didn’t look like them either. Shane’s stomach belonged to a real life man who enjoyed beer and munchies without shame. His chest was big and hairy. His arms, long and firm. Shane’s legs, seldom seen in shorts, were muscled but relatively pale.

  Someone passed rather too closely behind Beth and startled her. Her mind had drifted. “Always be aware of your surroundings,” Shane often cautioned. “Never let down your guard.” But she had... and it frightened her. Oh, the man in dark clothes who’d just scuttled past her might seem innocent enough, but what if he’d been about a foot closer? What if he’d had a weapon?

  After checking out, Beth surveyed the grocery lot before entering her car. It was parked near a light pole even though it was not quite dark yet. She entered quickly and locked her doors.

  Inspected the back seat, checked her mirrors, started the engine. Rats! She was on fumes! Beth never let her tank get that low. Well, ordinarily she wouldn’t. Of course, this past nine days had been anything but ordinary.

  The gas station north on Highway 231 was close to the unfortunate section of town, so she headed south toward the Interstate. She stopped at a self serve station just north of the Exit 238 interchange.