by S. J. Harris
7
My second date with Jim Higgins went much better than the first. No answering the door wearing a sheet, no pagers. He picked me up Thursday evening in his dark-green Jeep Grand Cherokee and we headed south on Third Street.
“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going?” I said.
“It’s a surprise. Don’t you like surprises?”
“Sometimes. As long as it doesn’t involve severed body parts, I’ll be all right.”
We passed the University of Louisville campus, still lively with students attending summer night classes.
“I thought we weren’t even going to mention that tonight,” Jim said.
“Sorry. I’ll try to be a good girl.”
“Do you like the theater?”
“Plays? I love plays. All except musicals. Maybe it’s just me, but somehow I can’t buy into people walking around breaking into song every five minutes.”
Jim didn’t say anything. We continued south on Third and then veered to Southern Parkway, which led to the entrance of Iroquois Park in Louisville’s south end. A big sign at the park’s entrance read THE MUSIC MAN, June 16-19. Jim turned in and stopped in the gravel lot behind the amphitheatre.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have asked before buying tickets. Some surprise, huh?”
Now I felt bad because Jim felt bad. “No, no. This is great. When I said I don’t care for musicals, I meant all except this one. This is my favorite,” I lied.
“Are you sure. We could do something else.”
“I’m sure. Come on. Let’s go.”
Jim gave me a long kiss before we got out of the car. We walked hand-in-hand up the winding path that led to the outdoor theater and found our seats, fourth row near the center. A solo artist with a huge red rubber ball was performing a modern dance routine to open the show.
“That looks like something you should do at home when nobody else is around,” Jim said.
I buried my face against his arm to stifle my laughter. The routine really was a hoot, but I guess the artist had worked hard on it and took it seriously. I noticed nobody else was laughing.
Stars dotted the early summer sky, and a glorious full and yellow moon rose over the treetops. Jim wore Levi’s, a striped yellow shirt and a tan blazer. His New Balance running shoes looked brand new, as did his haircut. It was the best date I’ve ever had, even if it was a musical. I leaned against Jim’s arm and we laced our fingers together.
“You smell good,” I whispered.
“You too. Did I tell you how pretty you look tonight?”
Three or four times, I thought. My strapless sundress, with coral and teal polka dots, did look good on me. It showed off my salon tan.
“I never get tired of hearing it,” I said.
The production was first-rate. After the show, we sat in Jim’s car and kissed for a few minutes. He kissed my lips and my neck and my ears, and I felt like jumping his bones right there in the park.
“I think you better drive me home,” I said.
“It’s still early. Want to go somewhere for dinner or to a club or something?”
“I think you better drive me home and then come in and stay awhile.”
He smiled.
***
It was hard to say goodbye, but I had to. I had to discover the truth behind the contents of that dog food can. I promised Jim I’d book another thirteen weeks in Louisville as soon as I could. At least we could get together when I came back up for my court date. In the meantime, we could get to know each other better over the phone.
I left Louisville on Friday, June 17. Orion couldn’t book me at Shands Jacksonville until the week starting July 10, so I had a little over three weeks between assignments.
I stopped for the night near Chattanooga, rented a one room cabin, slept with the window open and savored every breath. There’s something healing about the mountains, and I thought I might like to visit Chattanooga again some day.
Tennessee is very green and friendly.
I’d made a couple phone calls from my mountain cabin, one to Blake Wales and one to Jim Higgins. Blake told me that if I was determined to investigate Kessler’s, the best way was to operate as a professional spy would. Get inside. Belong. I went to Kessler’s web site on my laptop, clicked on JOB OPPORTUNITIES and found an opening in the microbiology lab. The qualifications called for someone with a “strong biology background or a degree in medicine or nursing.” Right up my alley. I sent a letter of interest and a resume from the fax machine in the lodge’s office and gave Marcus Marshall, the lab manager, my email address. I told him I was en route for a vacation and thinking about settling in the area.
When I talked to Jim Higgins, he said he missed me already. What a sweetie.
I made it to Jacksonville early Saturday evening, followed Florida state road 13 down the river to Hallows Cove, population 1,173.
I turned left onto Main Street, headed east away from the St. John’s, drove slowly and made mental notes of the town’s layout. At the first intersection, Cypress and Main, I saw Remington Park on the right and a two-story motel appropriately named The Parkside on the left. After Cypress the cross streets were numbered, 1st through 6th, and a variety of businesses flanked the thoroughfare. Beyond 6th Street was Palmetto Avenue. I saw Jimmy’s barber shop, an ancient place with a red and white striped pole twirling outside (a place I supposed females were hardly welcomed). Across from the barber shop stood a red brick structure with a pink neon sign shaped like a branding iron that read Kelly’s Pool Hall.
“We got trouble, right here in river city,” I sang, amusing myself.
After Palmetto came Live Oak Lane, and beyond that Main Street turned rural. I had toured Hallows Cove in under ten minutes.
I thought about stopping at Kelly’s for a beer, but decided to check on lodging first. I turned around, headed back west toward the river. The sun was low in the sky and I had to put my visor down to keep from being blinded.
I crossed Cypress and took a right into the parking lot of The Parkside motel. The lot extended for a couple acres in the rear and accommodated a number of tractor-trailer rigs and motor homes and only a few passenger vehicles like mine. I imagined that early morning would be polluted with diesel fumes and engine noise, so when I went to the office to check in I asked for a room in front, facing Remington park.
“Our only vacancies are in the rear, second floor,” the clerk said. He spoke with an English accent, moved with the grace of a dancer. I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. “Will you be staying just the one night?”
“Maybe longer,” I said.
“I’m sure we’ll have some front rooms open tomorrow. I could reserve one for you if you’d like.”
“That would be splendid,” I said, inadvertently picking up his accent. At least I didn’t say “smashing.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. If I’d been a mind reader, I probably would have read ignorant American wench.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t mocking you. I love the way you talk and I just sort of fell into it.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “It does get a bit annoying sometimes when Americans try to imitate us. The owner’s son comes in here sometimes and right away starts blathering some fishing village cockney. It’s rather embarrassing.”
“I apologize again. Could you recommend somewhere close-by for dinner?”
“There’s Ferrell’s diner, a Denny’s sort of place that’s not bad, and there’s Lyon’s Den, it’s a night club and they serve food upstairs until nine, good food there, or if you’re in the mood for burgers and shakes we have a drive-in called Frosty Bears and, of course, if you go up thirteen to Jacksonville there’s all sorts of places. What did you have in mind?”
“Could you tell me how to get to, what was the name, Lion’s Den?”
“Yes. L-Y-O-N, Lyon’s Den. Chap named Phil Lyon is the owner. Clever name, don’t you think? Anyway, go out here to Cypress and turn righ
t. Cypress leads all the way to the south pier and Lyon’s Den is there on the left, just before the pier.”
“Thanks. Oh, and could you tell me how to get to Kessler’s Meats?”
“You won’t find dinner there.”
“I’m thinking about applying for a job there,” I said. “Do you know anything about the place?”
“Not really, but it shouldn’t be hard to find someone who does. Kessler’s is basically the only industry in this town. That and some small farms.”
He gave me the directions. I handed him my credit card to pay for the room. He swiped it, handed it back, handed me the key to room 208 and my receipt. I asked if it would be okay to tack a Jenny poster there in the motel office and he said yes.
“My name is Patrick,” he said. “I’ll be here through the night. Just punch zero on your room phone if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
I drove to the rear of the building, parked, took out a change of clothes and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I didn’t unload my suitcases because I planned on moving to a different room the next day.
Room 208 had one double bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a 19 inch color TV, a round table with two chairs and a mirrored wall and vanity sink outside the bathroom. I flopped on the bed. It was stiff and the spread stunk of cigarette smoke. I would have to remember to call Patrick and request a non-smoking room for tomorrow.
I showered and dressed and drove to Lyon’s Den, following Patrick’s directions. I walked inside, expecting to see sawdust on the floor and chicken wire around the stage, but the interior of the club wasn’t too shabby after all. An L-shaped mahogany bar stood in front of a large mirrored wall. Bistro tables were arranged in front of the bar and beyond them were the dance floor and a raised stage. I estimated the entire area to be about the size of a basketball court.
All the tables were taken, so I took a seat at the bar. An attractive brunette about my age slid the wine glass she had been polishing into an overhead rack and slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me.
“Do you have Dos Equis?” I asked.
“You got it.”
She brought the beer. I pulled a twenty out of my clutch and she brought me the change.
“I like your purse,” she said. “K.I.J. Those your initials?”
“Kim Journey,” I said. “My middle name is Isabella.”
“Sonya Shafer,” she said. “We have something in common.”
“What’s that?”
“Middle names that suck. Mine’s Olivia. Supposedly my dad was watching Popeye cartoons while my mother was pregnant and suggested they name me Olive Oyl. My dad’s crazy. Anyway, that’s the story of how I got my middle name.”
I didn’t have any story about my middle name, and I didn’t think it sucked. I didn’t think Olivia sucked either, for that matter. I sipped on my beer.
“Are you still serving food?” I asked.
A man a couple of stools over put a cigarette in his mouth and motioned to Sonya for a light. She whizzed a matchbook his way, and one of the matches ignited as the book twirled in front of him. He bent over and lit his cigarette, then blew out the match.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
She showed me the trick. I practiced a few times and finally got the hang of it. Sort of.
“They’re still serving food upstairs,” Sonya said. She pointed toward the staircase at the far end of the bar. “You better hurry, though. They shut down at nine.”
“What time does the band start?” I asked.
“Band starts at nine-thirty.”
A young man with long, bushy blonde hair swaggered to the bar, stretched over the service area and kissed Sonya on the lips.
“This is Peter,” Sonya said. “My fiancé. He plays guitar in the band. Peter Daniels, meet Kim Isabella Journey.”
Peter nodded a greeting my way. He had his rock star bling on, with multiple rings in both ears and a shiny red shirt opened to expose his hairy chest. “Hey babe,” he said to Sonya, “I shot an eighty-three today, kicked Diamond’s ass for a hundred bucks.”
“Good,” Sonya said. “You can take me somewhere fancy for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Play a lot of golf?” I asked.
“Frisbee golf,” Peter said. “On the course over in Remington Park.”
“I’m staying at the motel over by the park,” I said. “Wow. I haven’t played Frisbee golf since high school.”
“You play?”
“A little.” I didn’t tell him I have a shelf full of trophies in San Diego at my parents’ house.
“Maybe we could all get together for a round one day,” Peter said. Sonya nodded in agreement.
“Sounds good,” I said. “Right now I’m going upstairs for some dinner.”
“Nice to meet you,” Peter and Sonya said in unison.
I took my beer and started up the stairs. On the wall against the stairwell, I saw a sign that read HALL OF FOAM. Fifty or more plaques were hung on the wall, each a unique shape of driftwood with its owner’s name burned in. Some had photographs attached. I read some of the names and looked at the photos, red-eyed snapshots of people partying at the club. Then one particular plaque caught my eye. The name was Darla, and the wood-burned groove had been outlined with glittery purple paint--or fingernail polish. I walked back down to the bar.
”What’s the deal on the ‘hall of foam,’” I asked.
“We serve one-hundred and fifty different imported beers,” Sonya said. “If you come in often enough to order one of each--and if you’re brave enough, some of those beers really suck--Phil Lyon burns your name on a piece of driftwood and you’re immortalized up there with the rest of the drunks.”
“Do you know the one named Darla?” I asked.
Sonya opened a drawer behind the bar and pulled out a stack of punch cards secured with a rubber band. She flipped through the cards. “Darla Bose? That’s the only Darla I see.”
“Do you know her?”
“No. I don’t really get personal with most of the customers here. This hall of foam thing is Phil’s gimmick. He keeps track of the punch cards, takes some of the pictures, burns the names in the wood. Was there a photo on her plaque?”
“No photo. Does Phil keep those customers’ addresses and phone numbers on file?”
“Why are you so interested in this Darla chick?” Sonya asked.
“I had a friend in school named Darla who used to wear purple fingernail polish all the time,” I lied. I didn’t want Sonya to know I’d come to Hallows Cove to investigate a possible homicide.
“Your friend’s name was Darla Bose?”
“No, but she probably got married.”
“You can talk to Phil about it if you want to. He’s back in his office. Let me go see if he’s busy.”
Sonya left and then came back. “Phil’s office is around the corner there. He said to come on in.”
It’s funny how an aroma can trigger all sorts of thoughts. When I walked into Phil Lyon’s office, I smelled cherry pipe tobacco and it reminded me of Greg Mears, the CPA my parents use back home in San Diego. It was the second time this evening I’d thought about Greg, the first time being when I’d talked to Patrick the motel clerk. Greg is from England too, and he shares Patrick’s refined Oxford accent. My mom’s been trying for years to set me up with Greg Mears, even though he’s a good ten years older than me. I have to constantly remind her I’m not interested.
“What can I do for you?” Phil Lyon asked. He had a better-make-this-brief-can’t-you-see-I’m-a-busy-man look on his face.
“I was just wondering about one of the plaques on your hall of foam,” I said. “Do you know anything about a girl named Darla Bose? Do you keep addresses and phone numbers of those customers who—”
“No. Nothing like that,” Phil said. “Darla comes here and drinks sometimes. That’s all I know about her. Haven’t seen her around in a while. Weeks probably. I wish she would come in. She owes me about t
wo-hundred bucks on a tab I let her run. She ran it up to that once before and paid it all off, so I trusted her again. Looks like she might have stiffed me this time. She lives up in Jacksonville somewhere.”
“What does she look like?” I asked.
Phil opened a file on his computer, scrolled through dozens of photographs and stopped on one of a pretty blonde girl who didn’t even look old enough to be drinking in a bar.
“That’s her,” he said. “She a friend of yours or something?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. The girl I’m thinking of, her hair was different. Can you print me a copy of that picture?”
“My printer’s down. Sorry. Here, let me just do this.” He loaded a blank CD, copied the file, handed me the disk. “If you see her, send her my way. I’d like to get that money she owes me.”
“Okay. I will. Thanks.”
I walked back out to the bar. Peter had made his way to the stage and Sonya was busy filling drink orders.
All the tables and bar stools were occupied and customers stood three and four deep at the service openings. I found a slice of wall to lean on near the staircase. A cocktail waitress came along about the time the band started and I ordered a soda water and lime.
The band opened with a slow song, Nazareth’s “Love Hurts,” a song recorded before I was born. I’m fairly educated in classic rock, though. My dad owns about a thousand old vinyl LP’s.
The dance floor filled with couples. An older guy, forty-something, wearing a gray suit, asked me to dance. I accepted, soon wishing I hadn’t. His cologne almost gagged me. I saw a tan line on his left ring finger, a sure sign of someone’s husband on the prowl. After we danced, he invited me to his table for a drink and I politely said no thank you.
I sifted through the crowd and slid into a bar stool that had opened up. Sonya and a male bartender were in the weeds, barely keeping up with orders. With the band playing loud and Sonya so busy, I decided this wasn’t going to be the best time to talk with her. I finished my soda and walked outside.
I put the top down on my Mustang, filled my lungs with tropical air, drove back north on Cypress and took a right on 13. I passed Ferrell’s Diner Patrick had mentioned earlier, open 24 hours. When I crossed 6th and Palmetto I saw a lighted sign that read Kessler’s Meats. I pulled into the empty parking lot.
