Done Rubbed Out: Reightman & Bailey Book One

by Jeffery Craig

  “No,” he replied as he sat back down in the chair and turned back toward his computer. “I think things are wrapped up completely now, Detective,” he said as he typed.

  Reightman stood watching his back as his fingers moved over the keys. “Goodbye, Mr. Bailey,” she finally said, turning and leaving the office. She softly closed the door behind her.

  When Toby heard the door click shut, his fingers stopped their typing. He stared at the screen in front of him, realizing he had typed nothing but a mess of unintelligible letters. He turned in his chair and picked up the envelope from its place on the desk, holding it gently in his hand. After a moment of sad consideration, he reached down to the floor beside the desk and opened his satchel, dropping the envelope inside. Toby turned back to his screen and erased the nonsense of mixed capital and lowercase letters he’d just typed. He then placed his fingers on the keyboard and resumed his work.

  On the way back to the station, Melba tried to reach Sam by phone. Getting no response, she left a brief message for him letting him know her plans for the day. She contemplated lunch, but decided against it. When she pulled into her parking space she simply sat in the car for several minutes, trying to decide what to do next. Finally, she punched a number into her phone. “Nancy,” she said when the call was answered, “If anyone should be looking for me, tell them I’m unavailable. I‘m taking the rest of the day as personal time.” She turned the phone off and dropped it into her purse. She drove home to find what comfort she could in a pair of sweatpants and comfy t-shirt, and her ratty old couch. “The rest of the world can just get screwed!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE SOUND OF birdsong and the smell of frying bacon pulled Toby up from his deep, dreamless sleep. He blinked open his eyes and looked around him, finally recognizing he was in his old room at Grams’ house.

  He lay there for a minute, comfortable under the sheets and thin quilt, before slowly sitting up and putting his feet on the floor. He ran his finger through his sleep tangled hair and then stood and shuffled to the bathroom. He turned on the shower. Unknotting his sleep shorts and dropping them to the floor, he stepped under the spray of hot water. Twenty minute later, he made his way to the kitchen – clean, shaved and dressed for the day ahead.

  “Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” Gram informed him from her place at the stove. “Why don’t you fetch us each a glass of orange juice? I just made some this morning – it’s in the fridge.”

  “Sure, Grams,” he replied, getting down a couple of juice glasses and then retrieving the cold juice. He poured a couple of glasses and then carried them to the table and set them down at the two places already set.

  “The birds are sure busy this morning,” he commented as he placed the pitcher back in the refrigerator and then took a seat at the table.

  “They know summer’s almost over,” Grams replied as she turned the stove burner down and dished up some eggs from the skillet. She added a few strips of bacon to their plates and then carried them to the table and took her own seat.

  They didn’t speak much as they ate, each of them caught up in their own individual thoughts and feelings. After they finished, Toby took the plates and carried them to the sink. “I’ll take care of cleaning this up, Grams. You go on and get yourself ready.”

  She walked over to him, and brushed a stand of hair away from his eyes. “Thank you, Toby. I won’t be long. We’re supposed to be there a little before ten.” He nodded sadly and turned back to the sink.

  A few minutes later, he folded the dish towel and laid it across the edge of the porcelain sink and then poured another cup of coffee. He listened to the sounds of the dishwasher, and watched the sunlight slowly move across the counters and floor. Grams came back into the kitchen, wearing the somber dress she only wore to funerals, and carrying a small black pocketbook. She opened the bag and placed a white lace trimmed handkerchief inside.

  “Ready, Toby?” she asked, watching him with her red rimmed eyes.

  ”Yes, ma’am, I suppose I am.” He carried the now empty coffee cup to the sink, rinsing it and placing it in the drain rack.

  Grams placed her arms through the loops of the handbag and opened the refrigerator, removing a foil covered plate. “She’s probably going to want to drop off some food for someone on the way back,” Toby thought as he held the door for her and then locked it.

  Toby drove and they rode to the cemetery in silence. He parked the car and helped her out, waiting while she opened the door to the back seat and took out the plate. She closed the door and took his arm before they began the walk toward the small white awning that he could see in the distance. As they approached the tent, he was surprised to see a small group gathered under the canvas, sheltered from the bright morning light.

  As he escorted his grandmother to a seat in the front, he recognized all his friends and neighbors from Capital Street: Bernice, Moon, Herman, SarahJune and a couple of others from the spa staff, and in their midst – tiny, but dignified – Madame Zhou. He felt the tears well up into his eyes and hurriedly brushed them away with a trembling hand. He managed a short nod of greeting as he took his seat next to Grams. “They wanted to come,” she said, taking his hand. “They wanted to show their respect, and say their own farewells.”

  A moment later, a black clothed Pastor Donaldson from Grams’ church stood at the front of the small gathering. “Let us bow our heads in respect and silent contemplation for a moment,” he suggested gently, and then he began to pray.

  Toby found himself focusing not on the words of the short service, but on the simple spray of flowers laid across the plain coffin that sat near them in the morning sun. In the distance he could hear birds singing, and he felt a gentle breeze on his wet cheeks. He lost all sense of time and place, until Grams patted his hand and brought him back to the present. “Toby, it’s time.”

  He stood and escorted her to the side of the grave, and when the others had gathered the funeral home workers lowered the coffin into the grave. As Toby watched, he saw the cemetery workers begin to fill in the hole with spades and shovels, until eventually they rolled new sod over the top of the newly turned earth. Eventually he realized it was over, and that the others had gone. He turned and watched them walking away, huddled closely together with Moon lending her arm to support Madame Zhou across the grass.

  “I didn’t even tell them goodbye,” Toby said quietly.

  “They understand,” his grandmother assured him before going to retrieve the covered plate from underneath her chair. She carefully unwrapped it, and placed it near the head of the newly filled grave.

  “What’s that, Grams?” he asked.

  “A piece of fried chicken and some cherry cobbler,” she answered, as if those few words explained everything in the entire world. And to Toby, they did.

  He stood by her side in the quite peaceful place and watched as first one bird, and then another, and another, investigated the offering. “Perhaps they’ll take him a bite,” Toby ventured as he watched them sample from the plate and then wing their way up into the vast blue sky.

  “I expect they will, Toby Bailey,” Grams said. “I expect they will.”

  The rest of the weekend passed slowly and quietly. Toby slept in his old bed and gratefully ate the meals his Grams prepared. They fell into a fragile semblance of their old routine: Toby drying the dishes his Grams handed him, and she swatting him occasionally with her towel as he made a half-hearted attempt to sass her. She watched him intently, wondering when he’d start to grieve. He pretended not to notice her worried glances, and so they went on.

  On Sunday evening after dinner, they sat at the big kitchen table, finishing up the last of an apple pie that Grams had baked the day before. “What happens to us when we die?” he asked suddenly. “Do you think we go to heaven or to hell depending on how we lived our lives?”

  She put her fork down gently by her plate. “No,” she said, “Although Pastor Donaldson would probably rather I did.” S
he pushed back her chair in turned to face him, her face gentle in the evening light. “I do think that our souls go somewhere,” Grams said gently, “but not to some kind of Heaven or Hell. I think we go somewhere the good Lord has prepared for us, and that we have helped to prepare. There, we get to think our lives over and learn from both our mistakes and triumphs, and then rest and recover from our time in this world until we’re ready to move on.”

  “Move on?” Toby asked quietly from his chair.

  “Yes, when it is time, we leave that place. I think some souls wait a while before moving on, until they’re joined by the people they loved and who loved them in return. Others can’t want to take the next steps through whatever doorway awaits them. Regardless, I think whenever they resume the journey God has planned for them, they do so with wiser souls and lighter hearts than before.” Grams watched him work through her words, and then added, “I also know it is not for us to worry too much about in this life, Toby – other than trying to cause the least amount of pain to others as we can, and to do as much good as we’re able. In the end, I think if we simply love, it will all be fine, even if it doesn’t seem like anything will ever be fine again, and as we struggle through the rough patches.” She gave his hand a pat and then rose from her chair and left the room. When she came back into the kitchen, she laid a white envelope in front of him on table.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s something I was keeping for you. Geri drove down here to see me about a week before he died. He said if something were to happen, I was to give it to you after he’d been laid to rest.”

  Toby fingered the envelope edges, but didn’t pick it up. “Why didn’t you tell me, Grams?”

  “Because he asked me not to, until he was put in the ground. He asked me to please respect his wishes and I promised I would.”

  Toby looked into her shadowed eyes as she stood behind the chair, hands tight on the wooded backrest. He searched her face for some hint of what she was feeling. “What if I choose not to open this, Grams?”

  She turned to leave without answering, but when she reached the doorway she looked back. “Open the letter, Toby Bailey. I know you’re not a coward. “

  He sat in his chair, stunned, as she left the room.

  Eventually, Toby lifted the envelope and turned it over a few times, running a finger across the seal. He could feel folded paper and something hard inside – something made of metal. He finally opened the flap and pulled out the paper inside. As he did, a small silver key fell to the table, making a small ringing sound as it hit the hard top. He picked up the key and examined it before placing it to the side. He unfolded the note.

  “Toby,” the handwriting read, “if Grams has given this to you, then I guess some really bad things have happened. I’m sorry.”

  Toby laid the letter down because his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t hold it any more. His mind flashed back to the night he had discovered Geri murdered, his body laying white and still on the soft blue sheets while blood dripped to the floor. He could see Geri’s green eyes staring, their bright, vivid, green lifeless and dead. After taking a long, shuddering breath he forced himself to smooth the paper on the table and read more.

  “I tried to make sure things were handled, so you wouldn’t have to worry about anything, and the business would be fine. I know it was always your dream, and it also became mine. Not because I wanted it, but because you did. I tried to help the only way I knew how.

  I thought that I’d finally figured out how you wouldn’t have to worry about money or small-minded individuals – and for a while things went according to plan. But, if you’re reading this letter, things went terribly wrong and the things I did hoping to help must have not worked out so well after all.

  I could probably write pages and pages about the things I did and the reasons I did them, but they wouldn’t matter now, and so I won’t. I don’t know what words to use anyway. What’s important is what you do next. This key fits a small lockbox on Justice Street – you know the place. I rented it a couple of months ago and it’s been paid in advance. The box number is on the key. Inside is everything you need to figure things out.

  I only have one more thing to say. Regardless how things turned out between us, I knew wherever you were, was my home – the only one I ever had. I know I didn’t tell you much, or maybe ever, but I said it to myself often enough.

  I loved you, Toby Bailey, as much as I could – Geri.”

  Toby traced his fingers over the words, pausing when he came to the last few Geri had written. He picked up the key. The number ‘529’ was engraved in a small raised space on one side. After considering the letter for a moment he slid it back into its envelope. Then he stood and pocketed the key. He turned out the light over the sink and went through the doorway. His grandmother was in the living room,

  “Grams?” he asked.

  “Yes, Toby?” she answered, from her favorite chair.

  “I’ll be going back in the morning. I need to get back to the city.”

  “I thought you would.” she said, rising to turn off the small lamp. “Are you alright, Toby?” The worry in her voice was plan for him to hear.

  “No, but I will be.” He walked over and gave her a hug, holding her tightly in his arms.

  “You read his letter,” she said both in question and in acknowledgement.

  “Yes, ma’am. I did.”

  “What are you going to do now?” She stepped slightly away from him and looked up at his face.

  “Why, Grams,” he answered, surprised she had to ask. “I’m going to do what you taught me to do. I going to do what comes next, and keep on doing it until I’m done.”

  ♦♦♦

  Melba crawled out of her bed on Saturday morning, well before the alarm went off. She stretched sleepily and to her surprise found she was actually ready to start her day. She’d worked off some of her dismal mood from the day before by cleaning her condo from top to bottom, and she’d also sorted through the clothes in the closet; replacing a couple of particularly old and drab items with her new purchases from Passed Around. After she finished with that chore, she spied a couple of boxes lurking beneath her hanging clothes – things she’d never unpacked after she’d divorced Stan and left the martial home for good. She unpacked the boxes, discovering a reasonably good pair of shoes, three plastic containers full of bras and stockings, and a hand-held mixer, along with a few other things she’d forgotten she had ever owned. Satisfied with her progress, she treated herself to a partial bottle of good red wine while she caught up on a couple of shows she’d recorded. After a cup of her special tea, she called it a night and hit the sack.

  She sat on the bar stool at the kitchen counter and dug her phone out of her purse. She turned it on as she nursed the remains of her second and final cup of coffee, and after it powered up she checked her voicemail. There was only one message and it was from Sam, telling her that he, too, had decided to take a personal day. “Maybe he was as surprised and disillusioned as I was by the announcement yesterday.” She rinsed out her cup and placed it in the sink. She finished dressing, gathered up her things, and headed out the door to meet at the designated check-in point for her official morning of parade duty.

  Sam was standing near the check point, slightly off to the side as she stepped up to the table and signed in. She and Sam would be working the crowd near the front of the parade route, hoping to spot and head off any potential trouble before it got out of hand and ruined the weekend’s festivities.

  “Morning, Melba,” her partner greeted her as she finished with sign-in and joined him at his place near the table.

  “Good morning, Sam,” she said in return, trying to determine if she should mention anything about their unplanned personal day. Deciding against it, she settled for asking, “Are you ready to get this show on the road?”

  “Sure am,” he replied as he tossed his empty paper cup into a nearby trash receptacle. “Let’s get our butts in gear.”r />
  They walked in companionable silence to their assigned starting position, noting the large size of the crowd and pointing out a couple of interesting characters along the way. Soon they were in place and Reightman could tell by the excited comments from the people around them that the parade was getting ready to kick-off.

  One of the area high school bands was the first down the street, and Reightman could see the sweat running down the faces of the marching players. The baton team high-stepped down the asphalt, with a few minor mishaps, and then the main body of the parade began to pass by.

  There was the usual contingent of volunteer fire-fighters and civic organizations interspersed with another couple of bands. Brightly decorated floats passed by, filled with local dignitaries and the occasional beauty queen from somewhere in the state. Reightman and Jackson changed position frequently, keeping their eyes open for trouble spots as they navigated through the crowd.

  They paused about a half a block down from their last viewing spot just in time to see a bright blue vintage convertible pass by, with a waving Dameron family seated behind the driver. Banners with Dameron’s campaign slogans draped the sides of the vehicles and his two children were holding aloft a banner which asked the attendees to “Bring Back the Good Old Days.” Reightman noticed Sutton Dameron occasionally look behind him from his seat in the car, scowling and whispering furiously to his wife at her place beside him. He’d quickly remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, and then he would slap a big fake smile on his face and resume his waving motion.

  A few seconds later, Reightman was able to see what was causing the Councilman such agitation. Directly behind Dameron’s car was a float decked out in brightly colored balloons, which Reightman eventually realized were actually condoms in various colors, blown up and attached to the float. Riding on the float itself, and tossing individual condom packages to the crowd, were several popular drag queens wearing pastel colored poufy prom dresses. Reightman recognized the dresses as those formerly displayed in the window of Passed Around. Escorting the drag queens in their netted splendor were several muscled and oiled down men, clad in only small pastel bikinis made from sequined fabric which left very little to the imagination. A banner was hung from the back of their float proudly proclaiming everyone should “See the World in a More Wonderful Way – Support Equality for All.”