by Becki Willis
“I’ll show you on the computer, but the quick fix is to open a door to create airflow. Be careful, though, because the pressure will be so strong it will suck the doors closed and make them hard to open. In fact, you can create your own reverse tornado and suck the roof right into the house if you’re not careful.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all,” the man assured her. “Come on, I’ll show you what you would do in an emergency.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Police Chief deCordova was going nowhere fast with his murder investigation. Other than the argument and resulting threat made a few days before Ronny Gleason’s death, he had no real reason to suspect Don Ngyen was guilty of murder. Even the grower’s prior knowledge of death by electrocution could have been a fluke, and easily attributed to the various rumors connected to the case; alongside tales of the much-feared bird flu and being burned alive in the incinerator, electrocution was only one of the rumored means of death.
The Gleasons, however, were pleased to have someone in custody and were keeping up the pressure for Don Ngyen to stay behind bars. Brash knew that if the charges were dropped, and perhaps even if the Vietnamese made bail, there would be major trouble in Naomi.
Not at all certain they had the right man, the Chief was working other angles of the investigation, as well. The County Sheriff was more than happy to have him take Lead on the case, giving the Police Chief/Special Investigator full reign, particularly since it would fall primarily at the expense of The Sisters Police Department.
The trick, now, was to work the investigation into his already overloaded schedule. The incident with Myrna Lewis and Jimbo Hadley was an added complication he did not need. After the second time his officers were called to the scene for frivolous new ‘evidence’, Brash refused to send officers out. Now Myrna called the station at least twice a day, adding new complaints each time she found a crimped flower stem or broken blade of grass. She insisted the individual complaints be properly cataloged and recorded, waiting for the full list of offenses to be read back to her each time she called. The fifth and final time she called yesterday, Brash threatened to charge the woman with filing a false police report. It kept her at bay for now, but he had a feeling that he had not heard the last of Myrna Lewis on the subject.
Brash had a working list of people Ronny Gleason was known to associate with and/or owed money to. Despite being in the lucrative chicken industry, the deceased grower was a habitual gambler and, more often than not, experienced money problems.
Working his way down his list, one of Brash’s first stops was at the tractor dealership to talk with Merle Bishop.
“Sure, Ronny was one of my best customers,” the gray haired man confirmed. “Bought that fancy little Model 440SL. Sweet little number, low profile to fit inside the houses, but with plenty of horsepower to pull equipment and operate a front-end loader. Full cab, too, with heat and air and a jam up radio. Like I said, sweet.”
“I bet it had a sweet price tag, too.”
The dealer grinned. “Yeah, I reckon it did, especially after Ronny put all the accessories on it. Said he needed a tax write-off so he didn’t have to pay Uncle Sam, so he got the whole works.”
“What kind of payments did that have?”
“The way Ronny made them, not many. He got a little slack after the second payment. I kept sending him letters and went out to talk to him a time or two. I finally had to hire a lawyer to write a letter.”
“Was he still paying on it?”
“No, about six months ago he waltzed in here with cash and paid it off. Cash, mind you! I was nervous as a freckle-faced boy on his first date, having that much money in the safe. Took it to the bank first thing the next morning, but not before I lost a full night’s sleep.”
“You know of anyone else he owed money to?” Brash asked. Thinking of a different angle, he added, “Or anyone else he paid off?”
“Paid his bill to Jolly Dewberry’s boy. That’s why he opened back up, but it’s not quite full service now, mostly an order-as-needed type deal. I heard he paid cash for that new Tahoe his wife is drivin’, paid up the propane bill he was always behind on, and took a couple of trips out to Vegas.”
“Do you happen to know where he got all this money?”
The older man shook his head and laughed. “Didn’t ask ‘cause I didn’t care. Got my money —in cash— and that was good enough for me.”
The police chief heard a similar story from Rudy Dewberry, who ran a tire shop out of his father’s old-school full service gas station. When Brash called the gas company in a nearby town, he heard the same thing; not only had Ronny paid his bill in full, he even pre-paid his future bill by several thousand dollars.
Just before noon, Brash stopped by the Keeling Insurance Agency. A few years back, Ronny had gone lax on making insurance payments and Marion had no choice but to drop his coverage. With no signs of lingering resentment, the man reported they had no further dealings after that, other than town functions and occasional bowling tournaments.
Across the street from the insurance company, there were two choices for lunch, one on either end of the block. Not feeling like Mexican food, Brash headed for New Beginnings Café. Besides having good food, it did not hurt that cute little Genny Baker ran the place.
The place was already packed, but Shilo Dawne Nedbalek caught his eye and motioned to an empty table tucked away in the far corner. He ordered the daily special without checking the board to see what was offered.
“You’re just like Cutter Montgomery,” she chuckled.
“Speak of the devil.” At his comment, she whirled around with a big smile, encouraged when Cutter started her way. She missed the Chief’s sweeping hand movement behind her, inviting the younger man to join him.
“Hey,” Cutter said in greeting, but his eyes were on the policeman. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain. Have a seat.”
Cutter took off his cowboy hat and turned it upside down on the table, next to the Chief’s hat. Freed from their confines, his dark blond locks curled in charming disarray. Cutter settled in his chair before looking up at the waitress and offering a smile. “I’ll have sweet tea and the lunch special, Shilo Dawne.”
“And hello to you, too, Cutter Montgomery!” she huffed.
“Sorry. Hello, Shilo Dawne. I’ll have sweet tea and the lunch special, please ma’am.” He grinned in mischief. “Better?”
She snorted and flounced away, her hand-crocheted blouse billowing behind her.
“You know, Shilo Dawne’s a nice gal and all, and a pretty good waitress, but man is she temperamental!” Cutter complained in her wake.
The Police Chief laughed at the other man’s ignorance. “The girl obviously has the hots for you, and the first thing you think of when you see her is food. It’s hard on her ego.”
“Nah, Shilo Dawne’s my kid sister’s age. She used to come over to the house all the time.”
“And I’ll bet she always wanted to do whatever you were doing, right? I bet you couldn’t turn around for bumping into her.”
Cutter thought back to a dozen times, exactly as the Chief described. “Maybe,” he conceded. He quickly changed the subject. “So how’s the investigation coming along on Ronny Gleason’s death?”
“The official term is ‘stalled’. I can’t find much to point toward Don Ngyen’s guilt. Then again, I can’t find much to point away from it, either.”
“I sure never took Don Ngyen for the violent type.”
“Tell me something, Montgomery. The chicken business is pretty lucrative, isn’t it?”
“From what I understand, yes, particularly the broiler houses like Ronny had.”
“So how does a man who makes that kind of money wind up owing half the people in town?”
“It may have something to do with the fact that they only get paid four times a year, when they sell a flock. Some people can’t manage their money that well. But I heard he paid of
f most of his loans. I know I finally got paid.”
“You, too? What did he owe you for?”
“He hired me to build those big iron entrances at both his house and his farm. I was halfway done with the fence along his driveway when I realized I wasn’t getting paid. That was two years ago. Then back in August, he showed up one day and paid his bill in full, plus gave me enough to finish out the fence.”
“I’ve been hearing that all day. Apparently, he came into some money about six months ago. Serious money.”
Shilo Dawne appeared with their drinks, smiling sweetly. “Here you go, fellas. Your lunches will be right out.”
Confused by her sudden change in demeanor, Cutter was suspicious. “You’re not going to dump a bunch of salt in my plate, are you?”
“No, but I might dump that tea glass on your head!”
As she stomped away, Cutter looked helplessly at his laughing companion. “What’d I do wrong this time?”
“You don’t know a lot about women, do you, son?” Brash asked with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.
“Apparently not.” His frown was comical.
“Now that I think about it, why aren’t you married?”
“Why aren’t you?” Cutter shot back.
“Tried it once. Didn’t work so well.”
“Strange as it sounds, I’d actually like to be married,” Cutter admitted. “Problem is, I’ve never found a woman I want to spend my life with.”
“What about Shilo Dawne? Or Callie Beth Irwin? I thought you were seeing her.”
“We’ve gone out a few times, but that’s about it. All either one of them can talk about is getting out of this town and making something of themselves.”
“Nothing wrong with ambition. Trying to make something of your life is actually a good attribute,” the lawman reminded him.
Cutter took a big swig of his sweet tea, his head bobbing up and down. “I agree. I just don’t think you have to leave The Sisters to do it. I plan on being somebody, right here in Naomi, Texas.”
Brash had to admire the younger man’s attitude, even if he wondered at his probable success. There weren’t many career choices in the small community, and most of the younger generation moved away soon after high school. Like himself, a few of them returned to the bosom of their hometown a few years later, after discovering the big wide world could also be cold and uncaring. Of the ones who did stay behind, most were content in their mediocre jobs and predictable futures, but it was good to know that some, like Cutter, meant to have it all.
When their meals arrived, it was at the hand of the café’s owner, not the disgruntled waitress. Shilo Dawne passed behind her boss, however, wearing a smug expression on her pretty face as she said, “Salt free, of course,” before continuing on her way.
“I’m not sure why Shilo Dawne wanted me to deliver these, but here you go,” Genesis said, expertly placing a heaping plate before each man.
“Are these your smothered pork chops?” Appreciation glowed in Cutter’s eager eyes.
The blond woman laughed. “Don’t you even read the menu board?”
“No need. Everything you make is delicious. Just look at this.” He jabbed a finger at each dish as he spoke. “Pork chops, real mashed potatoes, butter beans, steamed broccoli, and corn bread. Heaven on a plate.”
Again she laughed. “You said the same thing yesterday about corn chowder and jalapeno cornbread.”
“And I’ll say it again tomorrow about …”
“Bacon, broccoli and gruyere frittata with an avocado and grapefruit salad,” she supplied.
“No idea what that is, but I know I’ll like it,” Cutter predicted.
“You eat just about anything, don’t you?” Genny mused with a dimpled smile.
Brash was the one to answer. “The kid has an iron stomach,” he muttered. Not that he was interested, but the woman had hardly glanced his way. She was too busy beaming down at the kid. Belatedly, Brash remembered how cocky and annoying the younger man could be.
Genesis arched a playful brow. “Careful there, Chief, that almost sounds like an insult to my cooking.”
“Not at all. I agree with the kid. Never had anything here that I didn’t like.” His own eyes twinkled with amusement as he added, “Just remind me not to order the special tomorrow.”
Like her best friend, Genesis had spent most of her freshman year daydreaming of having Brash deCordova flirt with her. Twenty years later, it was still an exhilarating thrill.
Not appreciating how the lawman kept referring to him as ‘the kid’, nor the way the older two now all but ignored him as they grinned foolishly at one another, Cutter felt the need to break into their little bubble. “Some folks are too set in their ways to try new things,” he interjected. “My dad’s the same way. By the way, he said to say hello, deCordova, and stop by some day so you two can reminisce about the good ole days.”
Clearly aggravated by the younger man’s fresh attitude, Brash had no opportunity to reply. Myrna Lewis rushed up to the table and demanded his full attention.
Some women were tall and slim and graceful, Brash ruminated, like Madison Cessna: Reynolds, he corrected himself. Others, like Genesis Baker, were made for hugging, soft and rounded in all the best places. Myrna Lewis was neither of these. She stood barely over five feet tall and there was nothing lean, nor soft, about her. Her body was a solid chunk with little-to-no shape. She did not have Maddy’s long, graceful neck or Genny’s full, alluring hips; her neck and her waist blended into her stocky build with little definition. Instead of a stylish haircut to offer some sense of femininity, Myrna Lewis wore her dark mop in a short, severe bob with blunt edges. To make matters worse, she had absolutely no sense of fashion.
She stood glaring at him now, hands in the general area of her hips, her gray sweat pants hanging like a flannel sheet down her body. Elastic at the ankles pinched them in with a balloon effect and showcased the bright red Crocs on her feet, complete with white socks. She wore a harsh yellow t-shirt that advertised her favorite weed killer. Strapped somewhere near her waist was her trademark fanny pack.
“Chief! Chief deCordova, I want you to look at this!” the woman demanded. She opened her hand and presented the frayed edges of what was once, he supposed, a flower.
“What is it?” he asked, just to be certain.
“Nothing, now! Before that four-legged beast bit into it, this was one of my prize cabbage roses.” She stabbed a sausage-like finger at the remnants in her palm. “Look at this delicate edging of purple, bleeding to lavender. You don’t get that sort of intense shading in ordinary cabbages. These beauties come from the Pipher Nursery in Rosenberg, which specializes in only the finest horticulture. And that goat ate them!”
“Yes, Mrs. Lewis, we have that in our files.”
“Oh no, you don’t! I just now discovered this destruction. I need you to add this to the long list of damage that Hadley family wreaked on my lawn! This is simply an outrage, that people like that are allowed to roam down the streets with their animals, trampling through people’s yards at will!”
By now her outburst was drawing the attention of other diners. Brash tried to defuse the situation with a voice of reason. “Now, Mrs. Lewis -”
She cut the officer off without concern. “Don’t use that patronizing tone with me! There should be an ordinance in town about animals roaming free! At least in Juliet, we have a higher standard of living than to allow four-legged beasts free rein.”
“They had lead ropes, did they not, Mrs. Lewis?” Brash’s calm voice now had a distinct edge to it.
“What good are lead ropes, if they drop them and let the animals roam wherever they might!” She avoided a direct answer with her accusation.
From behind them, a young voice spoke up. “That’s not what happened.”
All eyes turned to the teenager who stood from her seat and approached their table. A flush of embarrassment stained the girl’s fair cheeks, but she lifted her chin and looked b
eyond the ranting woman and straight at the Chief of Police. “I saw what happened. They didn’t just drop the lead ropes. The animals were spooked when this woman ran out of the house, waving a broom over her head and screaming at the little girl to get off her sidewalk.”
There were snickers in the background and one burst of out-right laughter. Brash shot a menacing look out into the café, quietening the crowd with his thunderous scowl. He threw extra effort into his glare, trying to suppress his own inappropriate tickle of amusement. Whoever she was, the girl had spunk.
Again before Brash could speak, Myrna Lewis cut him off. With her best haughty stare, she looked the young girl over. Never mind that the youth was taller than she was; the boy looming behind her was easily five ten. “And just who are you?” she demanded. “And why should we believe a derelict youth? You should be in school, not butting your nose into adult conversations. Why are you even here?”
The girl’s eyes were a cool, cutting blue. Instead of cowering to the woman’s nasty rebuke, she stiffened her back and pulled herself to her full height, forcing the other woman to look up at her. “I’m not a derelict. I am an A Honor Roll student. Well, okay, A/B in Algebra, but A in everything else. And school got out early because of a teacher’s conference. And our aunt owns this café. Well, okay, so she’s not technically my aunt, but she’s family.”
While Brash made the connection that the blond fireball had to be Maddy’s daughter —she had the same tall, willowy frame, the same admirable spunk— Myrna Lewis sneered at the girl. “So you claim to have been there. Or is that ‘well, okay, not really, but almost’?” She used a silly little-girl voice to mimic the teen.
The teenager looked down at her in disdain, garnering the respect of most of the people present when she merely stated the obvious. “You are not a nice woman.”
Judging from the look on her face, Brash assumed that Myrna puffed out her chest. The truth was it was difficult to tell, given her perpetually bloated silhouette. “How dare you!” she sputtered angrily.
