FM for Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “The Blue what?” asked Rocky, taking his empty plate and his wife’s empty plate to the kitchen. He remained there as he started to scoop portions of peach cobbler into bowls.

  “It’s a goth club in downtown Reardon,” said Angela. “You know, a few blocks down from the Factory.” The Reardon Coffee Factory, known to locals as “The Factory” was the most famous eatery in the area. Its standard fare of sandwiches and salads wasn’t what brought in the crowds. No, the Factory sat on the site of one of the few original coffee substitute plants in the country—this one founded by Romulus Reardon to brew potable beverages from various plants for the Confederate troops during the Civil War. Customers came from around the globe to sample the various coffee-like drinks.

  The doorbell rang and Angie leaped up from her broccoli manipulations, while at the same time dropping a small piece of pork down to Candide, and ran to answer it.

  “Hi!” she said, greeting a young man standing on the porch, dressed in similar garb--jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. His spiky hair had twinges of purple throughout.

  “Hey,” responded Kent Drummond to Angela.

  Pamela walked to the door behind her daughter and greeted the young man.

  “Hi, Kent,” she said, “Won’t you come in?”

  “Hey, Dr. B,” replied the young man, “Angie and I are just going down to the library for a few hours, if that’s okay. I’ve got that paper of yours I need to work on and she has a research project she needs to get started on too. If that’s okay with you?”

  “Yes, of course it is, Kent,” said Pamela, as she led the young couple back to the dining room. “Why don’t you have a seat first and join us for dessert? My husband just made some peach cobbler.”

  “Great, sounds good. Hey, Mr. B!” he yelled his greeting to Angela’s father who he could see in the kitchen.

  “Hello, Kent,” answered Rocky, bringing in several bowls of cobbler topped with scoops of vanilla ice cream. “Here you go.” He placed the desserts in front of the two young people and handed Kent a spoon. The two college students immediately began gobbling down the dessert. Rocky returned to the kitchen and came back with cobbler for his wife and himself. For a few moments all was quiet as all four ate in silent pleasure.

  “So, Kent,” said Pamela, almost finished with her cobbler, “I understand from Angie that the two of you heard the murder of this Ted Ballard last night. She says you even know him.”

  “Dr. B, “began Kent, “I hardly know him. I maybe saw him once or twice at the Blue Poppy downtown. I did listen to his program on Saturday nights, but I never spoke to him or anything like that. I guess you could say I was a fan. It really sucks what happened to him.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Rocky, “being shot in the head would suck quite a bit I would think.”

  “Do you think he had any enemies?” asked Pamela.

  “I wouldn’t know,” responded Kent, attempting to squeeze in bites of cobbler while he answered the questions of his major professor and the parents of the girl he was dating. “I can’t imagine anyone. It’s pretty awful.”

  “Yes,” agreed Pamela. “Awful.”

  “Okay, Mom,” interrupted Angela, “are you through grilling Kent? We need to get to the library.” She eyed the young man, quizzically.

  “Right, oh, right,” he said, nodding at Angela. “That was absolutely delicious, Mr. B. Fantastic! We’d better get going now, though. Okay, Angie?”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Angela responded, and the two of them gathered their winter jackets and headed out into the wind and cold.

  After they left, Pamela remained seated at the table. Rocky brought them both coffee and they sipped the warm liquid in companionable silence.

  “Just how serious is this relationship, do you think?” asked Rocky. “Is that what you’re contemplating so intently?” He grabbed her hand and gave it a quick kiss.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking about Angie and Kent. They’re a nice young couple. Actually, Angie is lucky to have someone like Kent take an interest in her. He’s extremely responsible.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he replied with great vocal exaggeration, “the most responsible graduate assistant you’ve ever had! But I’m not sure that sterling assistant translates into safe boyfriend for my nineteen year old daughter.”

  “Rocky,” she said, smiling at him, “I love how protective you are of Angie, but truly, she has never given us any reason to worry. She may be sullen and morose, but she’s always been responsible.”

  “So far,” he said.

  “And that’s all we can go on,” she responded, kissing his cheek. “Actually, what I was thinking of was who could have killed this Ted Ballard.”

  “Oh, no!” he moaned. “Not again! Please don’t get involved in another murder investigation, Babe! You almost got yourself killed last year, sticking your nose into Charlotte’s murder.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Rocky,” she chided, patting his cheek. “I’m not going to do anything dangerous. You know how careful I always am. But, what would it hurt if I poked around just a little? What could it possibly hurt?”

  “Famous last words,” said Rocky.

  Chapter 8

  The previous week--Wednesday morning, December 12

  Harold Vickers bumped into Daniel Bridgewater as Harold was entering the Bridgewater Carpet Company office. Daniel was just leaving at high speed and putting on his winter jacket as he went.

  “Harold,” he said, spying the company lawyer, “walk with me, will you? I’m on my way to the plant. There’s some sort of equipment problem.”

  Vickers turned and walked beside Daniel, increasing the size of his steps to meet those of the younger man. The two men stepped out into the cold December air and immediately rounded the fountain which guarded the entrance to the main building. They followed the main entrance driveway to a turn-off road on the left leading to the plant.

  “Daniel, I only just stopped by to tell you I’ve found you an investigator.”

  “Good,” answered Daniel, not slowing his pace. “Did you tell him to call me or should I make an appointment with him?” The wind nipped his cheeks and Daniel dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket.

  “Actually, I met with several candidates and this fellow seemed the most qualified,” added Harold, puffing in the cold air and his attempts to keep up Daniel’s pace. “I’ve got his business card for you. You can contact him and set up an appointment when you’re ready.”

  “Good,” said Daniel, as the two men reached the entrance to the plant, not more than 100 yards from the main office, but strategically placed behind several rows of trees to hide its less attractive front from the more impressive appearance of the main office building. “Come in with me, will you?”

  “Sure,” responded Harold, as the two men entered the side entrance door of the large windowless warehouse-like structure. The pneumatic door swung closed slowly behind them as they enjoyed the warmth from inside and removed their outer garments. Inside the noise of the carpet-making machinery made talk almost impossible.

  “Mr. Bridgewater,” called out a man dressed in a blue work shirt and jeans, heading towards them. He shook hands with Daniel.

  “Jim,” Daniel said, “What’s up?”

  “Howdy, Mr. Vickers,” said Fredericks, greeting the lawyer, “but, hey, Mr. Bridgewater, it’s really just a mechanical malfunction---nothing legal, really.”

  Daniel laughed and placed his hand on Frederick’s back. “Harold’s just with me on—other company business, Jim. Tagging along.” All three men laughed.

  “Let me show you the problem, Mr. Bridgewater,” said Fredericks after a moment, and motioned for the two men to follow him. They walked quickly down a center aisle of mechanized carpet-weaving equipment, churning out waves of industrial and residential carpet by the miles. The machines rose to the ceiling of the giant warehouse and the movement of the newly-woven carpet flowing out the ends of each machine looked like colorful ocean
waves hitting the shore. The sound resembled the ocean too—only much louder.

  Eventually the three men stopped at a side aisle where Fredericks turned and strode between a row of smaller machines. These were not ceiling height but were still monstrous and noisy. When they reached the end of the aisle, near the outside wall, one large machine painted green sat idle—a large swatch of beige carpet bent over on itself within its long, central opening. It looked like a big green dragon with prey stuck between its teeth. The three men looked up at the strange sight.

  “That’s stuck, all right,” said Daniel.

  “Yeah,” said Fredericks, “The engineers have tried rerouting the computerized signal. Tony’s been up there with a knife trying to clear the grip. Really, we’ve tried about everything we can think of, Mr. Bridgewater. I’m about ready to call the manufacturer, but you know from past experience that they’re usually not much help.” He shouted this to the two men because the noise from the machines that were still working was deafening.

  “I know,” said Daniel, peering up at the carpet segment stuck in the gears. “It would be days before they could get someone here and even then, there’s no guarantee that they’d be able to fix it.”

  “We haven’t given up, sir,” said Fredericks, “but I thought you should know.”

  “I’m glad you called, Jim,” replied Daniel, still staring intently. “You said Tony was up there already?”

  “Right. He poked around. It’s probably some sort of jam, but he couldn’t dislodge it.” Fredericks pulled out a rag from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Although nippy outside, it was warm in the plant. Harold listened to the two men discuss the nature of the piece of broken equipment. Although this was certainly not his area of expertise, he knew that broken equipment could cause major delays and thus major loss of income in the carpet manufacturing business. Most manufacturers had onsite staff to handle repairs for just that reason. So far, Bridgewater Carpets had been lucky and had never suffered a major equipment failure. One reason for that was that Charles Bridgewater, and now obviously his son, Daniel, always took a personal, hands-on interest in the running of the factory.

  “Give me that vice wrench and the pliers,” said Daniel to Fredericks. Vickers wasn’t certain he’d heard the young CEO correctly, but Fredericks handed the tools to his boss. Daniel slipped the wrench into his belt and held the pliers in his left hand.

  “You sure the power is off?” Daniel asked Fredericks, as he grabbed the side of the large loom.

  “Yes, sir,” said Fredericks, “but, sir, you shouldn’t risk….” But it was too late. Daniel had leaped up on the machine and was climbing it in monkey fashion to the top of the loom where the obvious pile up was preventing the carpet from progressing through the loom. When he reached the site of the problem, he examined the stuck carpet, lifting the portion he could, high so he could peer underneath. He stuck his head underneath the problem section of machine and over it, obviously examining the jam from every angle possible. Finally, he removed the wrench from his pocket and attached it to a side metal bar next to the carpet jam. Then, using the pliers, he pulled a small section of the carpet from the underside, up and over the top segment. Then, he twisted the wrench and rolled the side metal pipe in the opposite direction. While holding the metal pipe with the wrench in his left hand, he used his right hand to pull the underside carpet piece out from the top piece. With a snap, the underside piece ripped loose and the tangled carpet piece suddenly lay straight. Then, he tightened the side metal bar back to its original position using the wrench and replaced the tools in his belt. Scooting quickly down the piping backwards, he turned to Fredericks and said, “Okay, power her up. Let’s see what happens.”

  Fredericks removed a walkie-talkie from his belt-clip and pressed a button, “Hey, Mike, power up Number 41.” Immediately a light on the large machine gleamed green and the large mechanized roller slowly began to turn. The stuck piece of carpet popped once, then smoothly began to flow from the loom and out over the stretcher bar where it then began rolling onto a large cardboard tube for storage.

  “Success!” said Daniel.

  “Mr. Bridgewater,” said Fredericks, “you saved us a lot of time. Thanks!” He shook Daniel’s hand.

  “No problem, just glad it worked,” he said to his foreman. Then, he turned to Vickers. “Let’s head back to the office. I want to call this PI.” The two men headed out of the factory and across the company grounds.

  “You obviously missed your calling,” said Vickers, in admiration.

  “Father made me learn every aspect of the business—including the workings of the plant. I spent many summers atop those machines.”

  “You might have been a sailor up on the riggings,” said Vickers, as they again passed the fountain and headed into the main office building. “I probably should see that you get some sort of hazardous duty insurance if you’re going to be climbing all over large industrial equipment.”

  Daniel laughed. “If you do, don’t tell father. He thinks fixing equipment is all just part of the carpet business.”

  “I didn’t realize until today what a dangerous business it is,” said Vickers.

  “Harold,” said Daniel, “the carpet business is one of the most benign, least threatening, least glamorous businesses there is. That’s probably one reason David…oh, never mind.” He waved his hands briefly in front of his face. The two men entered the lobby of Daniel’s office on the second floor. Vickers was winded from the trip back but Daniel was energized.

  “Bernice,” said Daniel to his secretary, “would you bring us some coffee, please?” He removed his coat and laid it on the secretary’s desk.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the middle-aged secretary as she quickly rose and went to prepare a tray of coffee cups, a pot of coffee, a creamer, sugar, and spoons. The two men entered Daniel’s private office. Daniel settled into his desk chair and Vickers removed his jacket and placed it over an arm chair in front of the desk. He then sat in the chair with an exhausted sigh.

  Bernice entered with the coffee tray which she placed on the desk. Daniel served Vickers, knowing from experience that he preferred it black with two sugars. The men sipped and enjoyed the warmth of the office and the brew for a few moments.

  “So,” said Daniel, finally, breaking the silence, “let’s see that business card.”

  Vickers reached into his pocket and removed his wallet from which he withdrew a small rectangular card. He handed it to Daniel.

  “Sylvester Jax,” said Daniel, reading the imprint. “Private Investigator. And you think he’s the best?”

  “Of the ones I interviewed,” replied Vickers.

  “Missing persons, fraud, identity theft,” read Daniel. “Well, he seems experienced in a number of areas. Let’s give him a try.” He picked up the receiver of his office telephone and dialed the number on the card. After a few rings, there was an answer.

  “Mr. Jax?” asked Daniel. When he was assured that he was addressing the private investigator himself, he continued speaking, “My name is Daniel Bridgewater. I’m President of Bridgewater Carpet Manufacturing. Our company lawyer Harold Vickers has recommended you for an investigating job. I understand he spoke with you recently. Yes. I was wondering if you might be able to come to our plant? No, it’s not a business investigation. Actually, it’s quite personal, but I’d rather discuss it with you here in my office than at my home. I believe you’ll understand when I explain the particulars to you. You could? That would be excellent. See you then.”

  “He’s going to do it?”

  “We’ll see. I hope. If he doesn’t, I will.”

  “Daniel…”

  “Harold, I’m going to find David—one way or the other.”

  Chapter 9

  The present--Monday morning, December 17

  It had been such a hectic weekend that Pamela was finding Monday actually restful as she relaxed on her office sofa, munching a crunchy Mexican veggie roll-up that Rocky had made for her. She
always enjoyed peeking in her brown paper bag to discover what treat her husband had concocted for her to eat each day. He also provided her with a thermos of herb tea; today’s specialty was pomegranate and he’d slipped in a chocolate coconut bar for dessert. She was in heaven—her mind far, far from the sordid doings that had consumed her interests yesterday.

  Then she thought about the poor disc jockey. Another death in just over a year. No, this hadn’t really occurred on campus, but the victim was a student—and an instructor. It brought back to Pamela in vivid detail the days last year when she had discovered the body of her colleague Charlotte Clark strangled to death with a cord from a headset in their computer lab.

  Her students this morning were all agog with tales of the disc jockey who had been murdered while on air. She didn’t mention to them her own personal involvement in the case—what with Rocky having to go down to console Trudi Muldoon and then, on top of everything, to run into Detective Shoop. What were the chances that he would be working this case! He had given her nothing but trouble during the investigation of Charlotte’s murder. Of course, she mused, he was there at the end. Which was a good thing, she thought, otherwise the killer would have made her his second victim. Luckily Shoop and his men had arrived in time and saved her. She probably shouldn’t be so hard on him, but she just couldn’t help it. He stood in her way at every turn, trying to prevent her attempts to…to…to…what? she wondered. To solve the mystery, she realized. He probably just wanted all the glory for himself. Oh, that’s ridiculous, she realized. He was just doing his job—and part of his job was to protect me. After all, I am a civilian. Shoop wasn’t used to a civilian trying to solve a crime. He kept ordering her to cease and desist. She laughed to herself. I guess I was a bit headstrong, she thought. Oh, well, there’s not much I can do with this case. Rocky may know the victim—or at least he knows somebody who knew the victim—as she remembered Trudi in her office, but I don’t know the victim at all.