Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I wondered how I could find him, and what excuse I could invent to speak to him. Making up flimsy excuses was something I usually was very good at. The fact that anyone believed the crap I came up with sometimes amazed me.

  “Hmm, I think I saw a vehicle like that parked in front of a house out on that two-lane county road just west of town. I wonder if that was Bo’s car,” I said, lying with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

  “Could’ve been, I guess, but we heard he moved into a place on that gravel road that heads north, the one just past the Casey’s Convenience Store on Locust. I drove out there hoping to confront him after the second time Ducky thought he’d followed her through town, but I didn’t spot any Jeeps, and wasn’t sure which house he was renting.”

  I sat down on the bench of the picnic table, because I was feeling a bit light-headed with all Ducky’s husband had just related to me.

  “Are you okay?” Quentin asked. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I’ll be okay in a moment, but thank you anyway.” I pointed toward the impressive birdhouse Quentin was working on. It was not your typical birdhouse, but nearly a work of art, with amazing architectural design and craftsmanship. “That’s really quite something! You must be a carpenter, by trade.”

  “No, actually I worked as a honey dipper the last twenty years before I retired last spring. Woodworking is just a hobby of mine. It helps me relax when I’m stressed out.”

  “Honey dipper?”

  “I cleaned out porta-potties for a living,” he said, almost apologetically. “It was a shitty job, and didn’t pay worth a crap, but someone had to do it!”

  I smiled, knowing he was most likely making a joke with his play on words. But I didn’t want to make that assumption and laugh out loud, taking the chance of insulting or demeaning him.

  “I’m sure you were the best man for the job,” I replied, diplomatically, realizing too late it was probably the most insulting and demeaning thing I could possibly have said. But, fortunately, Quentin took my remark as friendly teasing and slapped his leg in amusement.

  Before I gave myself an opportunity to make another stupid remark, I stood up, stuck out my hand to shake his, and said, “It was nice to meet you, Quentin. Again, I am so very sorry for your loss. Even though I’d just met her, it was obvious to me that Ducky was a remarkable person.”

  “Well, that’s one way to put it,” was his ambiguous reply. I didn’t quite know what to make of his remark, so I asked him for the details of the funeral services to change the subject. I also sat back down, with renewed interest in what Quentin had to say.

  “She’s being cremated, and there won’t be any formal services,” he said. “However, there will be a small memorial for her when we scatter her ashes in the flower garden in front of the library.”

  “She’d really like that,” I said. I couldn’t really imagine anyone “liking” having their body reduced to ashes and spread anywhere, but it seemed like the thing to say. I wondered if Ducky had mentioned to Quentin in the past that she’d prefer cremation, but figured it really didn’t matter one way or another. After death, the body was just a useless shell, and she’d be in heaven and just as dead either way.

  “Her daughter called me about an hour ago with the time and date of the memorial. Let me run in and get that information for you if I can remember where I put it.”

  I thanked him, and wondered how you could misplace the details of your spouse’s memorial, as if that scrap of paper you wrote it down on was as immaterial as a gas receipt, or a grocery store shopping list.

  As soon as the back door closed behind Quentin, the cell phone he’d left on the picnic table started playing the theme from “Shaft.” The phone was lying face down on the table, so I picked it up and started to run after him with the phone, until I noticed an image of an extremely good-looking blonde on the caller I.D. under the name “Barbara Wells.” I was a bit curious who the beautiful woman was that was calling Quentin, even though I realized it could be nearly anybody considering the recent death of his wife. Surely, a great deal of condolence calls were being made to him.

  When the ring tone stopped, I picked up the phone and quickly brought up a list of the last dozen or so incoming phone numbers. All but two of the numbers matched that of the blonde who’d just tried to reach Quentin. As soon as I began to place the phone back down on the table, it rang again. The same number and photo popped up on the screen again. Perhaps she’d thought she’d dialed the wrong number. I laid it, with the theme song from Shaft still playing, face down on the table as Quentin had left it, and ran to the door to holler in to Quentin that his phone was ringing.

  “Oh, thanks,” he replied, as he stepped back out on the patio. He looked at the screen, turned off the ringer, and quickly put the cell phone in his pocket. With a grimace, he said, “Just my brother. I’ll call him back later.”

  My first thought was that his brother was one exceedingly effeminate-looking fellow, and certainly not the elk-hunting type. My next thought was that I’d never met a gentleman named Barbara before that looked like he could be Pamela Anderson’s twin sister. I made no comment, but wondered why Quentin was lying about the caller. He hadn’t appeared happy Barbara Wells was calling, but perhaps he was just disturbed about the timing. Quentin then began to recite the information scribbled on the post-it note in his hand.

  I took a pen and checking deposit slip out of my fanny pack, and notated the details of the memorial, which was not to be held for two weeks, and jotted down the female caller’s name when Quentin looked away, along with the words Casey’s, North, and Locust.

  I then excused myself and walked back to my little blue convertible with more questions than answers. I was convinced there was a great deal more to Quentin’s story than he’d told me, and I had every intention of getting to the bottom of it. In the meantime, I had a camouflaged Jeep to track down.

  * * *

  It wasn’t even noon yet, so I figured I had a couple more hours before Stone started worrying about me. I’d let him think I was going to a two-day clearance sale at Kohl’s, at the Legends shopping area in Kansas City, Kansas. It would take over an hour drive each way to go shopping at the Legends, and stopping for lunch could easily fill another thirty minutes.

  I was supposedly looking for a new pair of jeans because marriage had put a couple extra unwelcome pounds on me and some of my clothes were getting a little snug. Shopping for jeans could definitely consume a lot of time, because everyone knows a woman has to try on several dozen pairs of jeans before she finds a pair that she doesn’t think makes her butt look fat. And with those recent extra pounds, that always seem to find their way to my posterior, finding a pair of jeans that didn’t make me look as if I had way too frigging much junk in the trunk could prove to be impossible. So coming home without a new purchase could be reasonably explained.

  I didn’t like not being totally honest with Stone, so I disguised my little white lies with statements like, “Unless I find something better to do, I was thinking about going shopping for new jeans at the Legends. Kohl’s has a two-day sale I just might decide to check out.”

  I actually was thinking about going shopping at Kohl’s the day I got the flyer about their sale, and then again while I was searching for an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours. But, as I thought might happen, I did indeed find something better to do. Where’s the lie in that? The only thing I forgot to mention was that instead of going shopping, I might decide to go tracking down a ruthless killer.

  Now I found myself driving toward the new coffee shop on Locust Street to get myself a cup of coffee. I felt a bit daring, so I thought I’d broaden my horizons, and probably also that fat ass I was just mentioning, and get a large cup of Mocha Malt Frappuccino with whip cream on top. It was no doubt, guaranteed to contain a full day’s worth of calories, or your money back.

  Once I’d soothed my nerves, and gathered up my courage, at the coffee shop, I’d drive next do
or to Casey’s and fill up with gas, and then head north on the gravel road that ran alongside the convenience store. With any luck at all, I’d spot the Jeep in a driveway and come up with a viable reason to stop and talk to its owner.

  I drove for at least a couple miles with no success. I finally pulled into a long-winding gravel driveway to turn around and head back to town. As I started to back around, a rapidly moving vehicle passed from behind me, heading north. It was a Land Rover, painted in desert camouflage, and looked close enough to a Jeep that I felt certain it was Bo Reliford driving it. There were not many vehicles with that paint design traveling the roads around Rockdale, Missouri, and Ducky could have easily mistaken a Land Rover for a Jeep.

  I quickly turned my wheel, backed in the opposite direction, and then tried to catch up with the Land Rover. It was moving fast and erratically, so I stayed just far enough back not to lose sight of the cloud of dust enveloping the car. When the car turned into the driveway of an old mobile home in ill repair, with a large lean-to shed beside it, I slowed down.

  In the middle of the front yard, which was comprised of ninety-percent dirt and dried up weeds, and ten-percent smashed beer cans, was a big black contraption with a row of cylinder disks. A piece of cardboard, with “Four Cell” scribbled in paint on it, was propped up against the unusual object. I wasn’t sure what it was called, or even totally sure what the thing was used for, but I was suddenly thinking that I might be interested in purchasing it.

  I pulled into the driveway behind the Land Rover, unrolled my window, pointed at the piece of farm equipment and misspelled sign, and asked, “Hey there, sir, is that thing still for sale?”

  An older man with a long, scraggly gray beard, and greasy ball cap, stepped out of his car carrying an opened Miller Lite in one hand, and a nearly empty case of beer in the other. It was obviously not his first drink of the day. He stumbled a little, looked at me with rheumy eyes, and replied, “Yep. Wanna buy it?”

  “Um, kind of depends on how much you’re asking for it.”

  “Fifty bucks! So, whatcha say? Ya wanna buy it?”

  “Well, I’m sure that’s a fair price, but I need to look at it a little closer first.”

  “Help yourself. Got a tractor?” he asked, listing a little too far to the left before he caught himself and straightened up.

  “Of course,” I replied. Just because I was driving a little sports car didn’t mean I couldn’t have a John Deere in my barn at home. But, even as I spoke, I could feel my nose growing longer. I started nonchalantly cracking my knuckles in an effort to appear more like a laid-back farmer’s wife, and less like a anxiety-ridden liar on a furtive mission.

  “Don’t think that harrow will fit in your trunk, lady,” he said, slurring his words a bit. Was he catching on to my ploy? I wondered. Or, in his drunken stupor, could I tell him I had a secret compartment in my car where I stored farm implements, and have him not bat an eye.

  I wasn’t sure just how tanked he was, so I just politely laughed. “Oh, my husband will pick the harrow up in his truck tomorrow, if I decide to buy it. My name’s Lexie, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch yours.”

  “It’s Bo. Wanna beer, Betsy? We can go in the house and visit over a few beers, and I’ll tell ya all about the harrow.”

  Betsy? Well, that was close enough for me. And even though I knew he was now flirting with me, I felt safe enough going into his trailer alone with him. Even with a beer or two in me, I felt sure I could handle myself if he tried to do anything other than talk. He was old, and so drunk he could barely walk. I could surely outrun him, if not roll him and steal his wallet in the process.

  I agreed to stay just long enough for one beer, hoping to drill him with questions about Ducky. As looped as he was, he’d probably have a fairly loose tongue, spilling vital information he didn’t have enough wits about him to know he was spilling. I followed him up the rickety stairs, to a dilapidated wooden deck, and on into the trailer. It reeked of not only booze, but also of garbage, mold, and dirty old man. When I felt the cream in the Frappuccino I’d drank begin to curdle in my stomach, I almost turned around and walked back outside, but I decided I could tough it out for a few minutes if it meant getting some useful information out of the old polluted geezer.

  “Hey, Betsy, I also got an old toilet I wanna sell out in the shed if ya be interested.” I really had to concentrate to make out his words. He handed me a beer and opened up a new bottle for himself before speaking again. “It got a little cruddy over the years, so I went and got me one of them new-fangled crappers, you know, with all the bells and whistles. But, don’t worry, the old one’s still usable and only leaks a little bit when ya flush it. And since ya is such a nice lady, I’ll let it go for twenty bucks.”

  I just smiled, trying not to upchuck and spew the pricey Mocha Malt Frappuccino across the trailer. Bo motioned for me to sit right next to him on his filthy, tattered couch. I decided to sit on the other side of the room on a metal chair, where it was harder for bacteria to grow, while trying not to imagine a toilet so “cruddy” that this man would refuse to use it.

  Just the mention of the word toilet had my bladder demanding to be emptied. All twenty-two ounces of that damn fancied-up coffee must have raced through my system to my bladder, bypassing my kidneys altogether in its haste. I crossed my legs and tried to ignore the feeling of urgency.

  “I’ll give purchasing the toilet some thought, Bo. Say, what’s your last name? You look so familiar to me. I know I’ve met you somewhere before.” The longer I conversed with this man, the longer my nose felt like it was growing. Before long, I’d have to tilt my seat back in order to drive my car home. I really didn’t like lying to anyone, even soused strangers, but sometimes it was necessary, and usually not at all malicious, or apt to cause anyone any harm.

  “Name’s Reliford,” he answered, although it came out sounding more like “really bored” because of his current condition.

  “Hmm, I knew a lady whose last name was Reliford before she got married a few years ago. Her name was Bertha. Poor lady was found dead in the library a couple days ago. Was she any relation to you?” I asked, innocently.

  “Yeah, she was my old lady for a long, long time. Went by the name Bert, and now I hear she goes by Ducky. Always hated the name her mama give her. Too bad about the dying thing. I heard she gone and hung herself.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the investigators said. She didn’t seem like the suicide type to me, though. Did she to you?” I asked.

  “Dunno. Never could figure that broad out, myself.”

  “Were you two still on good terms? When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Ain’t talked to Bert since the divorce was final,” Bo said. He had drained his last beer in two or three gulps and opened up another bottle. He seemed in somewhat of a stupor, as he continued, “But I think I might have seen her in (hiccup) town a couple weeks ago. I pulled up behind a (loud juicy belch) VW bug at a light, and the driver looked like that old (very graphic adjective) bitch, so then I (incoherent muttering) so I could teach her a lesson.”

  “You must be very angry about the divorce. I’m sure you didn’t deserve to be dumped that way,” I said, hoping to get him stirred up and elaborating, no matter how crudely, on how he, in a drunken rage entered the library after I left, got involved in a heated argument with Ducky, or Bert, as he called her, and decided to drag her up the ladder and hang her from one of the log beams. Afterward, to save his own hide, he typed up a suicide note on one of the computers designated for library patrons to use, printed it out, and left it on the chair at her desk. That’s what I hoped to hear and be able to decipher, amid all the hiccupping, belching, cursing, and even, occasionally, noxious farting. With all the sounds emitting from him, this old fellow was a one-man band.

  If I could get him started confessing his sins, I would activate the voice recorder app on my smart phone, and then drive his recorded confession straight to the police station. I was very proud
of the plan I’d developed, and was mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. So naturally, I was then terribly disappointed when instead of reciting a detailed description of how he’d murdered his ex-wife, he merely passed out cold on the couch, dropping his nearly full beer on the linoleum floor.

  Watching the beer flow out of the bottle onto the dark, grimy floor, creating a large puddle, the urge to urinate became more than I could control. As much as the thought disturbed me, using this man’s new-fangled crapper had become a necessity. I’d used enough gas station restrooms in the past to perfect the art of peeing without one inch of my flesh ever touching the toilet seat, and I would have to utilize that talent again now.

  When I was done relieving myself, I’d head home and leave Bo to sleep it off in his chair. There’d be no more conversing with him until he sobered up, and I needed to get home shortly anyway, to avoid worrying Stone.

  I found the bathroom behind the second door down the hallway. The restroom was every bit as nasty as I’d imagined, but I’d have to risk untold germ and bacteria exposure, and use it. I locked the door behind me in case Bo woke up and came looking for me. Evaluating the toilet in front of me, I tried to imagine what bell or whistle it had that the old one might not have, and came up with nothing. Unless, I thought, it was the black mold under the lid, or the ring around the bowl a jackhammer couldn’t chip off.

  After peeing while performing a world-class balancing act, I realized there was no toilet paper on the holder. There was not even an old Sear’s catalog in the john. Thank God I carried a small pack of Kleenex in my fanny pack just for emergencies such as this one.

  After completing the task at hand, I grasped the doorknob only to find it wouldn’t unlock. I shook the rusty knob as violently as I could, and then jammed my fingernail file in the key opening, and wiggled it frantically. I began hollering out as loudly as I could, hoping to raise Bo. When those attempts failed, I looked for door hinges to remove the bolts from, but for some odd reason the door opened outward instead of inward, putting the hinges on the other side of the door.