by Jacob Lee
She smiled sadly. “Dex, no one else knows about this. As far as anyone knew, even the children, Brenda and I had become friends, and that's why we took such an interest in her and her son, and there really is some truth in that. One of the things that I give thanks to God for every day since she died is that the weekend before, she stayed with us, and I was able to lead her to the Lord. I miss her already, but at least I know I'll see her again one day, in Heaven, and so will little Colton.” She looked at her nails, and then back up to my face. “Dex, Keith and I talked it over, and we know he's going to have to come forward. That's his son, and he should be with us, not some foster family in the state system, where he could be abused or worse. We know you've been asking questions about Brenda's death, that's all over town—some people have taken to calling you 'Father Dowling,' for goodness sake, after the old TV show!” She chuckled at that, and reached over to pat my hand. “Anyway, we just wanted you to know that we loved Brenda, and had no reason to hurt her. We both know what people are likely to think, once Keith steps forward, and he's planning to go and see the Police Chief tomorrow. We—well, we were sort of hoping you might go with him?”
I smiled and laid my free hand atop the one she still had on my other one. “Naoma, I'd be glad to,” I said. “What time?”
She let a tear of what I thought must be relief slip out of her eye, and said, “Thank you, Dex. Say about ten a.m.? We can just meet you at the station, if you want.”
I nodded. “I'll be there,” I said, and then I helped her on with her coat and said goodnight.
Once she was gone, I began thinking through everything I'd learned, and wondering how it all fit together. The way I saw it, there were five distinct possibilities, which I'll present here in no particular order:
The first possibility was that Gavin Hawley lost his temper and killed his daughter. After all, I had only his word that they’d made up. For all I knew, he could be a stone cold liar and a murderer as well.
Second, it could be that Tiffany Hawley and her drug dealer boyfriend tried to shake Brenda down for money after Gavin closed the purse strings. Brenda would certainly have refused, which could lead to a fight, and potentially a killing.
Then there was Preston Gotter. He admitted thinking she wanted him back, and going to her house the night of her death to ask her about it. What if he had actually gotten to speak with her, but she laughed in his face? More than one seemingly mild-mannered man had gone into a rage at the thought of humiliation in front of a woman he obsessed over. Just because police didn't find his prints in the kitchen didn't mean a thing; he might well have gone home, gotten his favorite filet knife, and gone back to do the deed. Heck, he may have put on the big rubber gloves he was wearing when I saw him cleaning the fish.
Fourth, Keith Brodrick, assuming he really is Colton’s father, might have killed Brenda to keep the secret of his love child from getting out, or maybe to avoid paying child support, or—though I couldn't imagine it, not really—it was even possible that Naoma might have done it, for the same reasons, or maybe just out of pure jealousy that her husband had been with another woman.
And of course, the fifth possibility was that I didn't have a clue what I was talking about, and the killer was someone else altogether. I went over it and over it, but couldn't come to any real conclusions about any of my suspects, so I finally took Baggins' advice, got the book out and headed for the couch.
Friday morning, the day before the parade. I had a meeting with the parade committee at the community building at noon, but I'd promised to meet Keith and Naoma at the Police Station at ten, so I fed the cat, made the coffee and spiced the living dickens out of it, climbed into long johns and everything else and slipped away from home at around eight thirty. I figured I had time to go by the Diner and have breakfast—they had steak and eggs for the breakfast special on Fridays—and I rode up and parked on the side of the building by where the dumpster sat waiting for all the trash that would accumulate over the weekend.
There was someone digging in the dumpster as I shut off the Harley and climbed off, and I recognized Bo, from the trash truck. “Hey,” I said, “how's it going?”
He looked around and smiled. “Oh, hi,” he said. “Goin' okay, how about you?”
“Pretty good,” I replied. “You, uh, you're really into your job, there, I see.”
He glanced down to where he was holding a stack of cardboard boxes that he'd cut down and flattened. “Oh, nah,” he said. “I just know they get a lot of cardboard here, and if I stop by and cut it down before it gets to be too big a pile, it holds more, so I do that for 'em.” He cut down another one as I started to turn away, then called out, “Oh, hey, did you ever find your toys?”
One of the reasons that you should never tell a lie, not even a little white lie, is because you have to always remember every little white lie you've told, so that no one catches you in one of them. I wasn't exactly your consummate liar, and had already forgotten that I'd told that little white lie about trying to find the toys that Brenda was supposed to donate, so I turned to him and went, “Huh?” with an amazingly stupid look on my face.
Luckily for me, though, Bo wasn't the brightest bulb in the pack, either, and didn't catch my gaff. “The toys that lady was supposed to donate for the kids, for Christmas?” he clarified, and I recalled my fib. I smiled as if I'd just understood what he was saying, and shook my head. “No, I'm afraid we didn't. Just bad luck on that, I guess, eh?”
He smiled ruefully. “Yeah,” he said, “no kidding! If she was donating any of her kid's old toys, you might have had a real haul. That toy Corvette she's got in the house must've cost at least a thousand bucks!” He shook his head again and reached into the dumpster for another box, and I glanced at the knife in his hand.
It was a long, thin filet knife, and it suddenly dawned on me that he'd had it in its scabbard when I'd seen him the other day, as well. Suddenly all the things he'd said ran through my mind: “...she was such a sweetheart...” “...real shame, her getting stabbed to death in her own kitchen like that...”
I had listened to the radio reports that morning, too, and it suddenly hit me that not once did the announcer ever say she was stabbed to death in her kitchen; they'd only said she had died as the result of multiple stab wounds. And a person would have to be in the house to know about the toy car.
“Hey, you okay?” the guy asked me, and I raised my eyes from his knife to his face. Instant realization dawned on him, and he knew I'd figured it out. He looked around and realized the very same thing I did—there was no one in sight, absolutely no one who could come to my aid.
He spun and lunged at me, the knife thrust out to take me right through the ribs. A thin blade like that, held at a low angle, would slip right between them, and would either puncture my heart or my lung, possibly even both. Either way, if he managed to get that blade into me, I was a goner within seconds, and we both knew it. I dodged, my old boxing skills coming back like the ability to ride a bicycle, and we danced there in the alley.
The problem is that he was half my age and in a whole lot better shape than I was. He was also fast with that knife, and whenever I tried to get a punch in, he lunged at me again. I could either keep myself covered and out of his reach, or I could strike out at him, but not both, so I took a chance and tried to take him down fast. I poured all two hundred and sixty pounds of myself into one wild roundhouse punch that caught his jaw even as the knife stabbed into my side, but all that weight managed to send him reeling into slumberland, and the knife only sunk in a couple of inches before he fell and pulled it back out.
Still, it hurt, and I mean it hurt bad! I caught myself falling from the pain and shock, and I fumbled for my phone to call for help, but I couldn't find it. I knew that if I passed out, and Bo came to before I did, I was dead, so I did the only thing I could think of.
I prayed.
When I was in Seminary School, one of my professors, whose name was Jenkins, loved to tell the story of
when Paul and Silas were going to preach at Philippi, and encountered a girl who was possessed by an evil spirit. Being men of God, they cast out the demon, but as it turned out, there were certain men who used the girl and her evil spirit to predict the future, and make themselves wealthy. When it was gone, they were angry, so Paul and Silas were beaten and cast into a prison cell. Late that night, however, they both felt the need to praise God, and begin to sing and shout His Praises, and as the Bible tells the story, while they were singing and shouting, the whole prison began to shake and tremble, and the doors all flew open, and Paul and Silas could have walked out—but they stayed there, so that when the guard came to check on them and found that they had refused to escape when they had the chance, he ended up giving his life to Jesus Christ.
The moral of the story, according to Professor Jenkins, was simple: whenever you stop fooling around and really start to pray, God's going to rock your world!
At that moment, that story came back to me, and I prayed with all of my heart that God would send someone out to put trash in the dumpster and find me. I prayed that if it was his will that I die and be taken home that day, that somehow my death would be used to bring a blessing to someone, even if it only meant that this killer would be caught, and as I was praying, and beginning to fade away, I suddenly felt the whole world begin to shake, and suddenly there was a noise like an earthquake, and I knew that God was rocking my world right then and there!
Ten
I came to in the back of an ambulance, and looked up to see a number of familiar faces. There was Clark Rodgers, and Mike Miller, and just about everyone else I knew in Alpena. I saw Gavin Hawley standing outside, and several others I recognized. The paramedics had an oxygen mask on my face, and I pulled it off. I looked up at Clark and croaked out, “There was another man...”
Clark nodded. “Bo Bennet,” he said. “We got him, Dex. He was layin' there out cold right next to you, and seein' as how you'd obviously been stabbed with that skinny little filet knife he was carrying, it didn't take me but a second to figure out why you and he were dukin' it out. He killed Brenda, didn't he?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “I almost missed it, but then God let me run into him again, and I caught his mistake. He knew that Brenda had been killed in her kitchen, even though it hadn't been in the news report that morning, and he knew about Colton’s toy Corvette in the house, so when I put that together with the kind of knife he carried, I knew. He knew I'd made him, and wanted to shut me up, but I used to box a bit...”
Clark laughed. “I'll just bet you did,” he said. “Paramedic says his jaw is broke in at least three places. How many times did you hit him?”
“Just the once,” I heard someone behind me say, and I swiveled my head around to see Crazy Maisy sitting in the ambulance with me. “Well, I seen it,” she said, “ye didn't hit him but the once! Was all it took, too!”
The paramedic leaned over and shined a light into my eyes, and asked me my name, age and where I lived. When he was satisfied I wasn't delirious, he said, “Dex, you've got what amounts to a minor flesh wound, but that knife was pretty nasty, so I've started you on some IV antibiotics. We're gonna take you to the hospital for observation overnight...”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Minor flesh wound? He shoved that thing right through me, I felt it!”
The paramedic, who happened to be Letha Waters' oldest daughter Becky, looked at me like I was a drama queen. “Oh, puh-leeze,” she said. “Yeah, you got stuck with it, but only about two inches of it got you. Dex, you've got about ten inches of fat there, between your skin and anything critical, so yeah, it's not that big a deal except for the risk of infection. Now, we're taking you in overnight for observation...”
“Oh, no, you’re not,” I said. “I'm Santa in the parade tomorrow, and there is no way I'm gonna miss out on that! Now, you can patch me up and I'll go see Doc Jackson for a good shot of penicillin or whatever, but I am not missing that parade!”
Becky scowled. “You're nuts,” she said, but she took out a phone and called Doctor Jackson, who was a local physician, and he agreed to see me as soon as I could get there. Becky said the ambulance couldn't take me there, but Keith and Naoma Brodrick suddenly stepped up and offered to drive me. I climbed carefully up off the cart, and managed to get onto my feet and stand, then remembered something.
“Hey,” I said. “Just before I passed out, there was some really big noise, and it seemed like the whole world was shaking. What was that?”
Everyone sort of looked around at one another, but no one knew what I was talking about, so I started to think maybe it was something God did just for me, to let me know that help was on the way—but then I saw Maisy's grin. “Maisy? Do you know what it was?”
Suddenly most of the people there started laughing, and Clark Rodgers said, “Oh, that? There was a noise, all right, and I guess if you were right under it, it mighta seemed like the world was shaking. Maisy, here, was coming to town, she said, and something told her to come look behind the Diner, and she found you laying there with blood all over the place, so she grabbed a board and started bangin' away on the side of the building, screamin' her fool head off that somebody had killed you! Everyone inside thought she'd gone nuts, so they called me, and I came across the street and found you and Bo, like we said. Wasn't no earthquake, it was just Crazy Maisy!”
I looked over at Maisy and smiled, and she seemed to blush a bit under all that wild, unkempt hair. I leaned close to her, and said, “Maisy, remember the other day, when you said you didn't really believe in God?” She scowled, but she nodded. “Well, let me tell you something—I sure am glad that God believes in you. Whether you know it or not, Maisy, He sent you as an answer to my prayers.”
She ducked her face and seemed to actually preen just a bit, as if she was proud of herself, even if she didn't know what had really happened. I wasn't fooled, though; that was only what she wanted the others there to see, wanted them to think. As for me, she peeked up once from under her hair, and winked, and I knew that she wasn't preening for pride. She was preening for me.
“Miss Maisy,” I said solemnly, “I shall be riding in a sleigh float in the parade tomorrow, dressed as Santa Claus. Would you consider accompanying me on that ride?”
I could see the startled expressions on the faces of Naoma, Letha and Norma, as I made that offer without even consulting the parade committee, but I stared them all down. Maisy blushed and preened a bit more, then looked up at with both eyes open and grinned from ear to ear.
“Yep,” she said, “I'd be right glad to! See, Santa I believe in!”
The whole crowd burst into laughter, and Naoma asked Maisy if she'd like to ride along with me to the doctor's office.
“Reckon as I ought,” she said. “Lordy knows somebody's gon' have to take care of him next few days!”
I suddenly wondered if I was ever going to be free of Maisy, but I should have known better. She wasn't one who would ever want to settle down, I was sure, but I wasn't fool enough to turn down her offer of help while I recovered.
I'm pretty sure Nervy would've liked Crazy Maisy.
Doc Jackson gave me a couple of holy cow that hurts shots in my rump, added about a half dozen stitches and said that as long as I took it easy for the next week or so, I should be fine, so I got Billy Kelly—there are a lot of Kelly's in Alpena—to ride my Harley home for me, and let Keith and Naoma drive me and Maisy on home to my place. She helped me inside, and got me settled on the couch for a recuperative nap. A bit later she woke me to tell me that my bath water was ready, and when I opened my eyes, I thought for a moment I was dreaming, for she had taken a bath of her own, and was wearing one of my shirts as a dress.
“I's washin' my clothes,” she said, “and hope that's all right with ye. And yer bathtub looked so invitin' I just had to give it a try.”
It was perfectly fine with me, and I was absolutely delighted with the transformed Maisy who stood before me. I'd known she wasn't as old
as I was, nor even as old as some thought her to be, but when she had clean hair that was neatly combed, and wasn't wearing old clothes that were too big for her, she was actually a rather attractive lady, and probably a good ten or twelve years my junior. Having her in the sleigh tomorrow would be a Christmas Surprise for the whole town, I was sure!
I got my bath, and then Maisy helped me to my bed and I slept most of the rest of the day away. I think Doc put something into those shots to make me sleep a lot, that day, to be honest, but it definitely helped. When I got up the next morning, I was refreshed, and ready to put out my best, “Merry Christmas!” and “Ho, ho, ho,” performance yet!
Keith and Naoma came to pick us up, and I could tell they were both surprised at Maisy, but I was delighted to see that they had Colton with them.
“After you caught the killer,” Keith said, “I told Chief Rodgers that I was Colton's father, and we produced the paternity test we'd gotten done when I came clean to Naoma about it, just to be certain. He got Judge Bailey on the phone and set up an emergency hearing, and we were granted temporary custody of Colton, pending a final hearing next month.”
I hugged them both, wincing as I did so. “That is wonderful,” I said. “I know Colton is going to have a rough time for a while, but at least he knows now who you are. How did your girls take the news?”
Naoma laughed. “Them? They're overjoyed! They now have a brother to pick on, and they've already gotten started!”
“That trash man was arrested, and after a couple of hours of being questioned, he confessed to killing Brenda,” Keith told me. “Seems he'd had a real thing for her, and went to her house the other night to tell her about it, drunk and out of his mind. When she rejected him, he just went berserk, and stabbed her over and over. When he left, he said she was still on the floor, and he thought she was dead already, but somehow she got up and ran out where you found her. If she hadn’t, little Colton would have found her in the morning, Dex. That would've been awful.”
