Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

For the next several minutes, Jill sat at her desk and I sat at mine. The phone lay in front of me.

  Soundless.

  We both stared at it, hoping. But I heard nothing other than the hum of the refrigerator in the storage room.

  Shortly, the faint wail of an ambulance siren came from somewhere out on Old Hickory Boulevard. Then silence.

  Jill nearly jumped out of her chair when a car backfired nearby in the parking lot. I shook my head and glanced back at the silent phone. I had a feeling it was not going to ring. Either Molly was not at home or something had happened that I didn’t care to contemplate.

  I finally handed the cell phone to Jill. “I’d better call our friend Logan. Hopefully, he’s ready to roll. You talk with Molly if she calls.”

  I punched in the Opryworld Hotel number and asked for Jesse Logan’s room.

  “I finally got the okay to proceed with Operation Skullduggery,” he said. “If you and your wife can meet me tonight at the King Cole’s in Brentwood, I’ll show her what she needs to know about being a hostess.”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “How does seven sound?”

  “Fine with us. When did you figure on starting her at the Hendersonville location?”

  “She can go out there in the morning and put in an application. They’re short on help at the moment. She can say in the app that she formerly worked for us in the Atlanta suburbs. Let’s say Roswell. The manager will have to check through my office. We’ll see that she gets the job. With any luck, she can be on duty the day after tomorrow.”

  Brentwood was a wealthy boomtown on the south side of Nashville that housed the likes of country music stars and millionaire Titans pro football players. The natives tended to be restless at mealtime and regularly filled area restaurants like King Cole’s, which featured castle-like décor and moderately-priced meals. When we arrived, at least a dozen people sat or stood at the front while the hostess, a tall, slim blonde wearing a badge that read Edna, busily wrote names on a sheet marked with columns for “# in party,” “smoke,” “non” and “1st avail.”

  I glanced about in the subdued lighting and spotted Logan coming over to greet us. He ushered us to a table near the front with a good view of the hostess station.

  Turning to Jill, he grinned. “I told Edna you were a hospitality magazine writer, working on a story about King Cole’s. When things slow down, you can talk to her and ask any questions you have.”

  After we had ordered coffee and cheesecake, Logan sat back and looked around. “This place reminds me of my first restaurant. It was in Birmingham. I was fresh out of college and signed on as an assistant manager trainee.” He had a nostalgic look in his eyes.

  “You’ve come a long way since then,” I said. “How long ago was that?”

  “Twelve years. I guess I’ve done okay for a kid from the projects who didn’t play football or basketball.”

  As we ate our cheesecake, Logan briefed Jill on the duties of a hostess. She asked for a little more detail on her relationship with the waitresses and the manager. Afterward, she walked over to the blonde named Edna and inquired about her position and how she handled problems with customers and employees. Meanwhile, I checked the cell phone in my pocket to be sure it was still powered up. It was.

  But Molly Saint had not called.

  I didn’t like the implication.

  Back home in time for the ten o’clock news, we got an update on the murder of Dr. Elliott Bernstein. Our friend Phil Adamson turned out to be the lead investigator for Metro. Knowing his background, it didn’t come as a surprise. Before becoming a homicide detective, he had won several citations as a patrol officer. I recalled what one of his colleagues had once told me, that a patrol officer does more in a week than an FBI agent does in a year. Phil had a degree in criminology and taught the subject at a tech school one night a week. On TV he sat solemnly beside the chief of police as Nashville’s top cop confirmed they were deep into the process of checking hotel records and interviewing employees. The chief reluctantly admitted they were only interested in black employees, but reinforced this reasoning by showing surveillance camera videos of the suspect in the black hat and trench coat.

  The first segment took place in the corridor off a balcony from which the shot had been fired. As the chief explained it, one of the Secret Service agents had looked up at the balcony when they first came in, but saw no one. When the agent heard the rifle crack, he checked back and got a glimpse of someone moving away from the railing. By the time he could run up the stairs, however, the assailant had disappeared. The video showed the man strolling toward the balcony area with one hand inside his coat. A few minutes later he hurried back in the other direction. As the chief pointed out, the murder weapon, a .22 rifle, could have been hidden inside the long coat. Unfortunately, the balcony itself was not covered by a camera, although the shooting, in the lobby below, appeared on four different videotapes.

  The second taping came from a tunnel used by employees that led out to a laundry building beside an employee parking lot. As with the other segment, the facial detail showed dark skin but wouldn’t permit a positive identification. I had an odd feeling of familiarity as I watched the videos, but had no idea why. I didn’t know any Opryworld employees.

  Chapter 9

  The following morning, when we still hadn’t heard from Molly, I called Heritage Car Rentals and asked to speak to Damon Saint.

  “Damon isn’t here,” said the man who answered. It sounded like the black guy who had manned the front counter.

  “Is he working today?” I asked.

  “Probably not. He hasn’t checked in this morning. Could I give him a message in case he calls?”

  “Thanks,” I said and hung up.

  “Should we try calling Molly again from a pay phone?” Jill asked.

  “I guess that’s all we can do. Why don’t we head for King Cole’s in Hendersonville and I’ll call while you put in your hostess application.”

  To get there, we had to take Old Hickory Boulevard around the eastern outskirts of Nashville. Fortunately, it wasn’t rush hour, or the divided highway near our office could have looked like a parade of snails on wheels. The route took us past the entrance to the Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s stately home, then past the big Dupont facility known as the Powder Plant after its establishment near the end of World War I. When we turned off in the Madison suburb to hit Gallatin Road, I thought about how insular some Nashvillians could be. I knew from experience that many people on the other side of the city had no concept of where Madison was, much less what might go on there. From the big shopping complex that surrounded Rivergate Mall to the county line, where Hendersonville began, the scene was a gaudy conglomeration of strip centers, restaurants, car dealers and shops.

  We found King Cole’s in a free-standing stone building with the same castle look we had seen the night before, surrounded by a sea of asphalt. Only a few employee cars sat in back. The restaurant didn’t open until eleven. Jill went inside to talk to the manager and I walked over to a pay phone at the edge of the parking area. The weather had turned more March-like, something not uncommon in this changeable time of year. Brisk, chilling gusts swept the lot.

  I dialed Molly’s number and waited while it rang. I heard a beeping sound but, instead of an answering machine, got a recorded voice that said, “The number you have reached is not currently in service.”

  Thinking I might have dialed the number wrong, I tried again. The message did not change.

  I had a bad feeling about it.

  I waited in my Jeep until Jill came out of King Cole’s. She had a smug look as she climbed in.

  “Looks like I’ve got a job,” she said. “If everything checks out in Atlanta, I can go to work tomorrow night.”

  “Great, babe. I always said you were the consummate hostess. We have another problem, though.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Molly’s phone is not in service.”

 
“You mean as in out of order?”

  “Or disconnected.”

  She looked around as she buckled her seat belt. “Why would it be disconnected?”

  “I don’t know, but I think we should look into it. We’ve had the cell phone on since late yesterday, and she hasn’t called back. That’s not good.”

  We arrived in Antioch around eleven. The southeastern suburb featured a middle- class assortment of apartments and condos, modest single-family homes and duplexes. Located near one of Nashville’s two big lakes, it was a haven for boaters and fishermen. After checking my map, I found the Saints’ street in a subdivision of small houses, most a combination of brick and wood. You could tell the owner-occupied homes by the neat lawns, many with attractive plantings in front. Others were not so tidy, some with cannibalized cars in the driveway, though a Metro ordinance expressly forbade the practice. Damon and Molly Saint’s house was on a short cul-de-sac, with the back yard jammed against a thickly forested piece of property. Leaves had begun to peek out from some of the trees.

  Finding no vehicles on the street or in the driveway, Jill and I got out and looked around. The house was red brick on the end that appeared to house the bedrooms and beige vinyl siding where I assumed the living room resided. The lack of a fence in back seemed to bear out what Molly had told us, that Damon had no love for dogs.

  Seeing no signs of anyone around, we walked up to the small concrete porch and rang the bell. I could hear the chiming sound it made inside. No one answered.

  A decrepit-looking Ford Taurus sat in the driveway to the next house, so we strolled over there and knocked on the door. The woman who opened it looked to be in only slightly better shape than the car. Rail thin, with frizzly gray hair and a forward thrust to a face that might have been related to the Grinch, she wore a loose-fitting, washed-out green housedress.

  “I saw you over there looking around,” she said, giving us a slow once-over. “You interested in renting?”

  “Do you own the place?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no.” She shook her head. “Fellow named Wayne Marshall owns it. He lives across town. He’s a real estate agent.”

  “We were looking for Molly Saint,” I said.

  “They moved last night.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “They moved out?”

  “That’s what I said. Damon loaded up his big pickup truck last night and they left. Must have been around nine or ten.”

  I looked around, saw the concern on Jill’s face. “Do you know where they went?”

  “I didn’t even know they was moving. They never said good-bye or kiss my grits. And me being so close all these years.” She sounded hurt by the oversight.

  “By the way,” I said, “I’m Greg McKenzie, and this is my wife, Jill.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” the woman said. “I’m Flossie Tarwater. That’s Miss Flossie. Ain’t never been married and don’t go for that Miz stuff.”

  “Were you and Molly good friends?” Jill asked.

  “Good as any, I guess. I wouldn’t say we was bosom buddies. But we talked occasionally.”

  “She hadn’t given you any indication they were planning to move?”

  “Nope. I wasn’t real sure they were aiming to move at first. He loaded a lot of stuff in the back of that pickup, but they didn’t take any furniture. Didn’t have a moving van, either.”

  “What made you decide they were really moving?” I asked.

  She grinned. “I thought they might be skipping out without paying the rent, so I called Mr. Marshall this morning.”

  I thought it more likely an excuse for an ingrained case of nosiness.

  “He knew they were moving?” I asked.

  “Said Damon called yesterday. Something about his job. Said they were leaving some furniture they didn’t need. The rent was paid up, though.”

  I couldn’t imagine what about his job would necessitate a move. From what I had been told, I got no hint that he planned to leave Heritage Car Rentals.

  Jill glanced back at the vacant driveway. “Was Molly in her car?”

  Flossie nodded. “They put some stuff in hers, too. She drove off and he followed her in that truck.”

  “Was there any indication that she was reluctant to go?” Jill had a troubled look on her face.

  “Reluctant?”

  “Like she really didn’t want to go. Did he seem to coerce her to get into the car?”

  Flossie pursed bloodless lips. “Didn’t look that way to me. Matter of fact, he held the door open for her. He wasn’t usually that gentlemanly.”

  “What was their relationship like?” I asked. “Did you ever hear them yelling or fighting with each other?”

  Flossie pulled her head back and frowned. “Why you want to know all these things, Mr. McKinley? Who are you?”

  “McKenzie,” I said, giving her one of our cards. “We’ve been retained to look into Damon Saint’s background. We have reason to believe there could be problems between him and his wife. Have you seen or heard anything that would indicate the relationship was rocky?”

  “I never saw or heard any big arguments, if that’s what you’re talking about. But I didn’t notice much show of affection either. In recent months they mostly seemed to go their own ways.”

  “Not what you would have expected,” Jill said.

  “You’re right about that, young lady.”

  Jill punched me in the back and I had to stifle a grin.

  “In my younger days,” Flossie continued, “I don’t mind telling you, I had plenty of beaus that knew the proper way to treat a lady. They’d hold my hand and open doors for me. And when we was out they’d snuggle up real tight.” She gave a broad grin that showed a row of teeth I’d call a dazzling gray. “I didn’t have to show it all, either, like these half-dressed girls you see all over the mall nowadays. You probably wouldn’t believe I’m seventy-seven now.”

  She was right about that. I’d more likely have guessed eighty-seven or ninety-seven. But I pretended to agree.

  “So Damon and Molly traveled by themselves,” I said.

  “They sure did. He seemed to come and go as the spirit moved him. She worked days, of course. But some nights and weekends she’d go out with a friend. Said it was a girl she knew at work.”

  Flossie rattled on for several more minutes without saying anything of value to our investigation of Damon Saint. We finally eased away and left her standing there, tongue still wagging. Sadly, the current whereabouts of our client remained as uncertain as ever.

  Chapter 10

  After stopping for lunch at a catfish place, we headed back to the office. I looked up the number for Wayne Marshall and got him on the phone. I explained the gist of our interest in Damon Saint, then inquired about the sudden move.

  “Damon called yesterday and told me they were leaving,” Marshall said. “The ungrateful shit should have given me more warning. I’ve rented to him for six or seven years. He claimed he had an opportunity for a good job elsewhere.”

  “Did he say where?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “I didn’t give a damn where he was headed. He still had a month to go on his lease. He didn’t have the right to break it like that.”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  He calmed down rather quickly. “Yeah, but I didn’t push it. I figured it wasn’t worth the hassle. He’s a cold fish you really don’t want to mess with.”

  “I understand he left some furniture behind.”

  “According to what he told me. Said it was worth more than the rent. I haven’t been out to see for myself.”

  “What do you know about his workshop in the basement?”

  “I wasn’t aware he had one. I guess he could have put in a workbench or something. The basement’s unfinished.”

  “When was the last time you looked through the house?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s been a while. Damon offered to handle any minor mai
ntenance. About the only thing I’ve had to do is put on a new roof a couple of years ago.”

  “In other words, you haven’t been inside the house in a few years.”

  “I didn’t need to,” he said, his voice peevish.

  “I’m not being accusatory,” I hastened to say. Actually, I thought he was probably a pretty sloppy landlord. “Of course you had no reason to go in there. But we’d like to look at the place if you plan to check it out.”

  “You would, huh? I guess I ought to go out there and see what they left, especially whether they did any damage.”

  “That would be nice to know,” I said.

  “If they did, they damned sure won’t get any deposit back.”

  “Could you meet us out there today?” I asked.

  “I suppose so. I’ve got to see some people out that way about a house sale at three. What time could you make it?”

  “Anytime.”

  Jill and I sat waiting in my black Grand Cherokee when Marshall drove up to the Antioch house shortly after two. The SUV had been red until a run-in with a couple of hoods in Florida back in the fall had made a new paint job necessary. I had decided black would be somewhat less conspicuous for a PI. When Marshall stepped out of his car, a gusty breeze swirled black hair splotched with gray above a round, chubby face. He looked fiftyish, with a dark suit that appeared as rumpled as the portly body it covered.

  I handed Marshall one of our cards as I introduced Jill and myself. He shook my hand, then squinted through thick-lens glasses as he read the card. He shoved it into a coat pocket and pulled out a large ring full of keys.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for in there, but let’s go see,” he said. He chose one of the keys and lumbered toward the front door.

  We followed him inside and found a small living room that appeared completely furnished. There was a sofa with an oval-shaped end table, an easy chair with a twisted wire magazine rack and a metal floor lamp beside it, a glass-fronted wood cabinet in one corner, no doubt designed to hold a TV set.