“That sounds good,” said Vickers, “he was always very studious.”
“Yes,” said Daniel, “far too studious for father.”
“I wish you luck, then.” Vickers rose from the hood of his BMW and readied to go.
“One more thing,” said Daniel, holding up a hand and pulling a white envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “I need to show you something. I guess now’s as good a time as any—just don’t freak out, please.”
“Now what?” asked Vickers. He opened the envelope and brought out a legal document folded in thirds. He unfolded the paper and read the particulars quickly from top to bottom. “Oh, my god!”
“Yes, I figured you say that,” said Daniel. “I’d like you to hold on to this while I’m gone—but don’t show it or mention it to anyone—particularly father--for obvious reasons. I intend to make this all public quite soon, but I’d prefer to wait until after I have David and father reunited.”
“Daniel, I don’t know what to say,” said Vickers, shaking his head, “I didn’t think anyone could surprise me, but you certainly have. And don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Have a good trip.” He shook Daniel’s hand and walked him to the driver’s door of his Acura. “A safe trip.” Daniel got into his car and drove out the circular drive of his family home, waving at Vickers as he departed.
As he pulled into the street, he pulled out his cell phone again. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” said Amy Shuster, answering.
“Still at work?”
“Yes, but not terribly busy. Where are you?”
“Going to drop by for a minute, if that’s okay?”
“I’m pouring your coffee now and cutting your pie,” she said. Daniel drove with a sense of lightheartedness he hadn’t felt in ages. Every day he thought of David. Every day he wondered about why his brother had left and why he didn’t return. It all had happened some time after David’s graduation from Dexter Military Academy. David was in the car with their mother, Elinore Bridgewater. There had been that terrible accident. Elinore was killed and David survived. Daniel always thought that maybe David felt guilty about Elinore’s death and that’s why he left—or Charles Bridgewater was so heartbroken about his wife’s death and maybe blamed David because he was in the car—that he threatened him or scared him away. Daniel was never really sure—neither his father nor David ever said. One day, David was gone and Charles never made any attempt to find him and told Daniel to forget him. Now, with Charles sick, Daniel was in the driver’s seat. Here was his chance to find out what had happened that terrible day. Here was his chance to put an end to the suffering of the people involved. He knew his father had to miss David—had to feel guilty for sending him away—or at least for not trying to get him to stay. David must surely feel guilty for remaining away for all these years.
He pulled into the concrete lot of Sam’s Diner. He could see through the glass front of the diner that the place was virtually deserted—as it usually was late in the afternoon after the lunch crowd and before the supper crowd. Amy was usually the only waitress on duty at this time. This was actually how they had met because he often didn’t find time for a meal until halfway through the afternoon. Amy was a good listener—a great listener—and she had never treated him like the CEO of Compton’s biggest employer. She had treated him like a nice guy—which he was. Their afternoon chats became longer and more frequent and soon Daniel was a regular at Sam’s Diner and in Amy’s heart.
He entered the premises and waved at the cashier, a non-talkative gum chewer who was draped over the cash register reading the latest People magazine. She gave him her regular greeting—an eye roll—and he sauntered down the long aisle between the counter and the one row of booths flush against the front windows. He settled in at the last booth—for more privacy--and Amy appeared out of the kitchen door with her cup of coffee and promised pie. She placed the cup and the pie in front of him and sat down on the other side of the booth.
“I dropped by to say good-bye,” he announced, grabbing her hands. They were warm; his were cold.
“Good-bye?” she said, startled, “where are you going?”
“We found David,” he whispered with enthusiasm.
“Oh, Dan,” she replied, squeezing his hands, “that’s wonderful! Does he know you’re coming?”
“Nope,” he said, squishing his shoulders and face together in anticipation of her fury. “Don’t hit me.” He tore into the peach pie between sips of coffee.
“You’re just going to descend on him?” she asked incredulous.
“I’m afraid he might run away if I don’t.”
“Dan, this is crazy!” She grabbed his arms and gesticulated furiously.
“I’ve got to do it—I’ve got to convince him to return and make amends with father before he dies.”
“Can’t that Jax fellow—the investigator--do this?” Her blonde bangs refused to hold still on her animated face.
“No, I have to do it. Jax found him, but I have to be the one to confront him.”
“Then, I’m going with you,” she said, starting to gather her belongings. He grabbed and pulled her back into the booth.
“No,” he said firmly. “Amy, no. I need to do this alone. Sweet, we’re almost there. Almost where we want to be—no more secrets. As soon as I straighten out this feud between David and father—then I can concentrate on us. I promise.” He scraped his fork over the bottom of the small plate and licked the last bit of peach filling from it.
“I trust you, Dan,” she said, looking sadly into his eyes. “It’s not a question of me being anxious to—to—I just worry about you. I just don’t think you should do this all by yourself.” She touched his hair with her hand and slowly brushed it back.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he laughed, “I just repaired a defective loom with a pair of pliers and my teeth. I can handle a short trip to visit the wayward David.”
“You’re determined?” she asked, now sitting straight, her hands clasped together in front of her.
“I’m leaving now. Just stopped by to kiss you good-bye.”
“You’d better do it quickly,” she smiled, benignly, “Cherry has the magazine in front of her face, but she’ll turn a page any minute.” He bent over the table and softly placed his lips against her. “Perfect lips,” he announced. “They go well with peach pie.” He smiled at her and stood up.
“Dan,” she said, as he pulled on his coat. He turned.
“I love you,” she mouthed the words.
“I love you too,” he repeated the silent message, pointing to his heart and to hers. Then he turned and disappeared out of the diner.
Chapter 17
Present time--Tuesday morning, December 18
“Dr. Barnes,” called out Jane Marie, as Pamela entered the main office to pick up her mail from her cubby hole. Pamela stepped into the secretary’s alcove and tipped her head expectantly to the young woman’s words. “Dr. Barnes, what are you up to?” She pointed another candy cane at Pamela and shook it at her. The small nook that was Jane Marie’s office was a veritable wonderland of Christmas decorations.
“Me?” asked Pamela with a start, clutching her papers, books, and now mail to her chest.
“You were in with Dr. Marks for quite a while yesterday,” continued Jane Marie, a sprig of holly in her silky brown curls bouncing as she gestured authoritatively towards Pamela, “and after you left, I heard him playing a recording of that disc jockey that was murdered.” She stopped briefly when she said ‘murdered’ and quickly looked around, “at KRDN Saturday night. Now why would he be doing that?” Her nostrils flared and her eyes expanded as she waited for Pamela to provide answers. A plastic reindeer played ‘Rudolph’ in the background.”
“It’s no big secret, Jane Marie,” said Pamela. Actually, she and Jane Marie had shared a number of secrets over the years. Jane Marie kept her informed of some of the best—and juiciest—departmental gossip. She was in the perfect location to hear and obs
erve all the comings and goings of everyone. “I gave Mitchell a CD of the murder to see if he might provide some information about the gun that was used. And before you ask, Detective Shoop gave me the original CD; it’s not a secret—anyone who happened to be listening to KRDN Saturday night would have heard the same thing.”
“So, you’re in the detecting business again, are you, Dr. Barnes?”
“Not full-time, Jane Marie,” replied Pamela, turning to go, “just as a side line. I promise I won’t neglect my departmental duties.” She grabbed a cookie from the tray of Christmas goodies Jane Marie had on her desk and gobbled it down. Gym tonight, for sure, she thought.
“I’ll be checking up on you,” replied the secretary, again shaking her pencil at the teacher and smiling. Pamela headed out of the alcove, nibbling on the goodie, and immediately bumped into her colleague Bob Goodman, checking his mail.
“Bob,” she greeted him, licking her finger tips, “Good morning!”
“Hmm,” grumbled the tall professor as he bent low to peek into his mail box placed far below eye level.
“Problems?”
“You should know, Pamela,” he responded, standing upright and turning to face her directly. My goodness, she thought, this was about as curt as Bob had ever been; he was usually gracious and thoughtful. “You and Joan seem to be egging Arliss on in your hen sessions over here.”
“Our what?” Was this the real Bob Goodman? Or had Scrooge taken his place?
“I’m sorry, Pamela, if I seem insensitive (yes, you do! thought Pamela) but Arliss and I were working out our wedding situation and now---now—she’s vacillating.”
“You mean, she’s changed her mind about marrying you?” Pamela asked, aghast. She thought she had never seen a couple more in sync—and in love—than Bob and Arliss.
“No, no,” he said, gesturing wildly, “just the wedding. Good Lord, if it were just up to me it wouldn’t matter, but my mother is---Pamela, you just don’t know. This is a huge event to her. She’s planning this mammoth soiree—and Arliss just refuses to get on board. She doesn’t seem to care about a wedding at all! Does that seem normal to you?”
“No,” said Pamela, carefully, because she knew that she would be hard pressed to describe anything Arliss MacGregor did as normal. “Bob, you must understand, that Joan and I are not—egging her on—as you put it—we’re merely trying to support her. My understanding was that she wasn’t even certain she wanted to get married at all. She said to us she was completely content with the way things are—you know—just living with you.”
“Pamela,” he said, folding his hands, and appearing to set forth a lecture that a father of a teenager might give to his child going out in the family car for the first time, “Arliss and I cannot continue to ‘live together’ indefinitely. Actually, no such living arrangement exists at all—if anyone were to ask.” No, she’d change that to strict Puritan preacher giving a hellfire and brimstone sermon.
“Such as your mother?”
“I see you understand,” he replied. Then, apparently completely lost in his dilemma, he grabbed his mail, shaking his head and wandered off down the opposite end of the main hallway towards the animal psychology wing.
“Strange,” said Pamela, to herself and she too wandered off down the hallway the other way and up the side staircase to her office on the second floor.
When she reached her office door, she discovered three students sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. She recognized two of them from her undergraduate research class and the third as Kent Drummond, her graduate assistant—and would-be suitor of her daughter. She smiled at the trio and quickly opened her door. Slipping inside, she hung up her jacket on her coat tree and set her brown paper bag and thermos on her desk with her purse. Then waving her arm for the students to enter, she sat at her desk.
“What can I do for you?” she asked. Kent motioned for the other two students to go first. They had quick questions about a homework assignment. Pamela answered them to the students’ satisfaction and they were soon on their way. Kent remained.
“Hey, Dr. B,” he said, sitting on the arm of her sofa, “I just brought you the survey data from the participants I collected yesterday in the lab.” This was Kent’s second year as her assistant and she dreaded the end of the academic year when he would—if all went well—receive his Master’s degree and leave the program. Until then, she was blessed with one of the most industrious and conscientious laboratory assistants she’d ever had. In fact, he was usually a step ahead of her—anticipating situations before they became problems. The incongruity was that he looked like something out of a comic book—wild hair with purple spikes, all black clothing with strange, usually frightening designs—and, of course, the ubiquitous sneakers. Add to that the fact that he was dating her daughter—much to the chagrin of her husband—and Kent was an enigma.
“Can you go ahead and enter it?” she asked. “I don’t really need to go over the data. If it’s at all like last week’s, we should be on the right track.” Their present research study was almost complete; they almost had enough participants to start running their analysis. It would give her a lot to keep her busy over the Christmas holiday—hurray!
“Sure,” he said, “no problem. I’ll go get started on it.” He turned to exit her office.
“Kent,” she called to him, “Just curious. Did you have any more thoughts about that Ted Ballard…uh…Black Vulture? The murdered disc jockey?”
“I know who you mean, Dr. B,” he said, leaning against her doorway. “I’ve seen him around at some of the local clubs—probably in New Orleans too. There are some great alternative music groups there---a lot of them underground.”
“What do you mean underground?”
“Underground…I mean, not public. You find out about a band playing there pretty much by word of mouth.”
“And you’ve been to these underground clubs?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “some are pretty strange.” She thought, they must be if Kent considered them strange. “Some of the members even believe themselves to be vampires.”
“Vampires?”
“Not all, but there are some weirdoes in the alternative music scene. You know, goth or emo. Depends on who you talk to what they call it.”
“And you saw this Black Vulture at these clubs?”
“Pretty sure. Once or twice. I’ve seen him here in Reardon, too. Mostly at the Blue Poppy, like I told you.”
“Did he have any friends?”
“Gee, Dr. B,” he said, thinking and scrunching his face together so much that the spikes on his head tipped at a different odd angle. “I never heard anyone say they were close to him. Lot of people knew him—he was Black Vulture, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said.
“Hey, Dr. B,” he said, looking at his watch, “I gotta get going. Got a class in a few minutes.” He waved farewell and she waved briefly to him. She sat down at her desk and got ready for a long day of classes. This was Tuesday and her longest day of the week. She had her Tuesday night graduate seminar.
Hours later, after her morning classes, she sat in a booth at the Reardon Coffee Factory, in the center of the downtown area. She had arrived early and had grabbed one of their favorite locations off to the side. The front portion of The Factory housed the restaurant; the actual factory where the plants were prepared, roasted, and brewed into coffee substitutes was in the back. When you entered the old brick building through the ancient iron-grilled doors, you felt as if you were back in 1860. Wonderful aromas of—yes—coffee, but much more assaulted the senses. In the center of the restaurant’s high beamed ceiling hung an ancient sign that looked like it might have been drawn by Romulus Reardon himself. It read, “You grow it; we brew it.”
Almost as soon as she had slid into the darkened booth, Joan and Arliss appeared and slid in beside and across from her. Joan looked concerned and Arliss looked furious. Oh, no, she thought, now what is the latest catastrophe in the Bob Go
odman—Arliss MacGregor romance? They both looked anxious to talk.
“What’s wrong?” asked Pamela as she turned first from one friend to the other.
“Bob’s mother!” cried Arliss.
“The poor dear,” said Joan to Pamela, sympathetically, “the woman is the mother-in-law from hell!”
“What?” asked Pamela.
Before she could find out, their peppy young waitress appeared and took their order—fairly mundane sandwich and salad fare for all, but Pamela ordered sassafras coffee and Arliss selected dandelion coffee. Joan pondered the long list of alternate coffee choices before deciding on cottonseed coffee.
“Cottonseed!” exclaimed Arliss, “That’s like drinking a shirt, isn’t it?”
“You have no sense of adventure, Arliss,” countered Joan.
“Stop it, you two,” interjected Pamela, placing her body between her two friends. “What about Bob’s mother?”
“She’s insisting on a huge—a huge---ceremony in an Episcopalian cathedral!” moaned Arliss, beating her hands on the table.
“Is Bob Episcopalian?” asked Pamela.
”I suppose,” said Arliss, “but Pamela, you should see this place—it’s like where the Queen of England was crowned!”
“And what does Bob say about all this?”
“He doesn’t care,” said Arliss, “he’s gone along with this woman all his life. He says ‘It’s just for a day—let’s just put up with it!’”
“And I take it you don’t want the huge ceremony in the giant cathedral?” asked Pamela, carefully.
“I want to elope,” responded Arliss, “if we must get married—the simpler, the better. He should have never told this woman…”
“His mother?” asked Pamela, delicately. Was there a way to mediate this problem for Bob and Joan. She remembered how miserable Bob had looked this morning when she saw him at the mailboxes. She glanced to her side at Joan who gave her a shrug. Obviously, she had tried and failed and it was evidently Pamela’s job now.
FM for Murder Page 11
