Rescued by that New Guy in Town

by J. L. Salter

  "Oh, nothing. Friday night football game, stayed home Saturday. Dell didn't feel like being around people." Aynette's husband never went anywhere. The only reason Dellun went to the ball games was because they sold beer at a little stand down the block and the brew dulled his uneasiness about socializing. "Did you go to the festival?" She smiled when she remembered. "Oh, yeah, of course you went — you were working it." She'd often said she wished Dellun would let her volunteer for things out of the house, but he kept her on a short leash.

  I looked around to locate Miss Z before replying to Aynette. In a lowered voice I explained, "I got left behind in the dark, locked in the fund-raiser jail, a drunk pirate rescued me, then a city cop arrested us, shackled us together, threw us in his cruiser, then he wrote us tickets with court dates, and the biggest plant on my porch got busted."

  Of all my breathless and partly exaggerated report, Aynette seized on a single detail. "I got three words for you. Miss Z's gonna dock you for that court time."

  Even though she could not count reliably, Aynette was right. And I could ill-afford to lose even a dime. With the financial hole Wally left me in, I squeezed every penny twice.

  "Go back to the part about that pirate. You mean like 'aarrgghh'?" Sometimes Aynette could be funny without trying.

  "I might have said 'aarrgghh', but I can't recall if he did. No, not a real pirate. Just some new guy in town dressed up like Captain Blood. At least that's what Hazzard claimed he was."

  "Hazzard who?"

  "Um, Ryan… Ryan Hazzard. Ellen said he works at the courthouse in the assessor's office. You heard of him?"

  "Not the name. I did hear there was a re-ea-al nice-looking new guy at the courthouse somewhere. Tall. But nobody knows anything about him. Not where he's from or why he came here, of all places."

  "What's wrong with here?"

  "Well, nothing, but nobody moves here. Not on purpose, I mean. You're only in Greene County because you were born here or somebody drags you back here after they catch you." That had happened to Aynette, so she was an authority. She paused to look over her shoulder for our stern supervisor. "Unless you're hiding. Or running away."

  "Running from what?"

  "Might be from who."

  I ignored her grammar fault and focused on what sounded ominous: mysterious man, new in town, nobody knew anything about him. So what was that pirate doing in my county? "Aynette," I leaned over to whisper, "aren't there any positive reasons for a good-looking man to come to Verdeville?"

  She thought for a moment and smoothed her dress front since Miss Z had just unlocked the door to the mall. "It's never positive when you've got so much mystery. Wherever your pirate came from — he left there to get out of trouble."

  No customers yet. "What do you mean, 'trouble'?"

  "I don't know. Kidnapping, fraud, hookers — the sort of troubles men get into."

  "Messing with his supervisor's wife, maybe." I'd tried for sarcasm, but it actually fit with the other possibilities.

  "I don't know anything for sure, Kris. I bet nobody else knows much either. When you hide somewhere like Greene County, you don't share much info with folks." Aynette shrugged. "When a tall, good-looking rumor like that strolls into town, it gives us lots of room to make up our own stories."

  "Yeah. It'd be a lot better if he'd just stop at the city limits and announce, 'This is why I came here and what I did to get thrown out of there'. As if." I mentally chewed on that for a moment. "You know, some people do relocate just for a different job, or to be closer to relatives or something."

  "Or for health reasons. Is your pirate in bad health?"

  "Well, he's not my pirate, but he seemed pretty healthy to me."

  Aynette leaned closer and peered into my face. "Uh, exactly how close did you get to this guy?"

  I re-explained the parts with close contact and embellished them just a tad.

  Aynette acted like she was about to melt. More excitement in hearing what I went through than she'd had for the past dozen years in her own life with Dellun the Dullard. After the warm flush left her face, she looked me in the eyes. "But why are you defending this stranger? He could be wanted in five other states for… whatever."

  I just sighed heavily. Hazzard's long story got worse with every imagined crime.

  Aynette jumped with an inspired thought. "Oh! I'll bet he's one of those witness protection relocations. You know, testified against some Mafia boss and they're trying to find him."

  "Verdeville's a pretty clever place to hide. The Mafia would look in thousands of larger cities before they ever got down here." I tapped her wrist. "I think you're off base about him being a criminal, though. Hazzard said he's got a long story and that usually means something pretty boring. You know, by the time he gets to the significant part, you're already snoring."

  "Hey, that rhymes."

  "Huh?"

  Aynette looked impatient. "Boring and snoring."

  Then a frosty voice directly behind us. Miss Zachery could kick-start your sphincter. "If there are no customers to serve, I can find something to counter your boredom. I'll put you on the drive-thru for the final shift on Fridays." I hated it when the Terrible Z snuck up on me! That rhymed also.

  Aynette looked like she was about to dart away, leaving me to face the Z-Monster. But I was leaning into Aynette's window space and her drawer was open — she couldn't leave.

  And neither could I. Since I couldn't think of anything to say in our defense, I just looked sheepish. Maybe that would elicit some Z-pity. Nope. No lecture, however — she just hardened her pickle-puss expression and stared disdainfully until we both turned our stools back around at our respective customer windows. I briefly prayed for a customer but nobody showed for several minutes; early customers were rare at the mall branch. Miss Z finally walked away, as silently as she'd sneaked up to begin with.

  ****

  I had to get access to my purse and keys, still locked in the armory (I hoped), so I hustled during my own lunch period to meet Reda Cowan at her office before she went to eat.

  Reda had a terrific job. Pretty good pay for a small town, and the mayor was seldom in. She mainly took messages and typed a little correspondence. Much of the official city business had integrated with that of the county president when City and County were formally merged some fifteen years previously. Not that the Mayor's position was purely ceremonial, but only a shadow of the scope of duties handled by a full-time official with a direct authority over distinct city departments. Currently, everything was city/county and most was handled by the panel of three CEOs appointed by the joint city/county commissioners.

  So Reda's position put her in an enviable nexus of hearing and seeing everything that was going on without her having to be involved in most of it. She loved going to work! Her demeanor and expression usually revealed her bliss.

  "Hi, Kris. Sorry I was out of town yesterday. Really cute outfit at the festival Saturday — so daring!"

  Yeah, and why had I dared? I needed to discuss that with Ellen. Because I was in a rush, I gave Reda a condensed version of my travails that night and she seemed quite sincerely sorry I'd had so much trouble. It especially bothered her that nobody — including herself — had gone around and checked for sleepers before they doused the lights and locked up.

  She handed me the armory key — low and behind her desk, as though it were a spy secret — and made me vow to have it back in her hands by next morning at the latest. I swore I'd drop it off before I went to work.

  I checked my watch and realized I had a few lunch minutes left to ask Reda about Pirate Hazzard.

  "Oh, Ryan? He's a doll. Absolutely dreamy. That smile of his would melt granite." She chuckled and then lowered her voice. "He even melted that cold blonde in the D.A.'s office."

  I ignored Vanessa's description for the moment and leaned slightly closer to Reda. "What do you actually know about him?"

  "Just told you."

  "No, I mean where did he come from? Why'd he c
ome here?" I wished I'd made a list of questions. "How come I've never heard of this guy? Don't we have to vote on Tax Assessors?"

  "Just the Assessor herself. Jessie Morgan can hire anybody she wants, except illegal aliens."

  I frowned. "So why'd she hire somebody from out of town that nobody knows?"

  "Evidently she knew him. You know, met him. Interviewed, whatever. She went to a big assessor conference in Memphis near the end of summer. Maybe he was there too."

  "This Hazzard guy's not, uh, dating Mizz Morgan, is he?"

  Reda tapped her phone with a pencil. "I hadn't even thought about that. Interesting notion. Hmm." She probably wondered why I cared either way.

  I was thinking how creepy it would be for the assessor to hire a man-toy from out of town to be her personal assistant in the office. "Nah. Couldn't be. I know Jessie Morgan. Well, I know of her enough to be certain she wouldn't do that. Well, probably not."

  Reda just nodded. I could tell her wheels were still processing possibilities.

  "Has Ryan Hazzard dated anybody else in the courthouse besides Vanessa Karlov?"

  "Oh, he and Vanessa are already history." Reda nodded sagely. "Whatever they had got started fast and then froze over real quick."

  That tidbit was good to hear for some reason I couldn't yet explain. "What do you mean?"

  "I don't have any details, but suffice it to say there's no room in a new relationship for the ex-boyfriend. Three's a crowd."

  I pictured some kinky three-way action. "Three? What do you mean?"

  Reda shook her head. "Don't know. Usually something potentially really juicy like that and I'd know about it within seventy-two hours." She checked her calendar. "Of course, it's only been a few days. Ended sometime late last week, from what I understand. But no details yet. The lid's down tight on this one."

  "I guess it's part of that long story I haven't heard yet."

  "Pardon?"

  "Oh, nothing." I was getting itchy — I had to fly back to the bank or Miss Z would have my buns for tomorrow's breakfast.

  Reda understood. Jobs sometimes interrupt real life. Besides, one of her phone buttons lit up.

  I just waved and left.

  Chapter Nine

  Got back to the bank just in time to see Miss Z check her watch with the wall clock and dramatically purse her lips. I'd barely made it. We weren't required to stay in the mall vicinity for our lunch breaks, but Madame Zachery always seemed to prefer that we did. My dash to the courthouse apparently worsened her perpetually sour mood.

  My own disposition was affected by hunger since I'd skipped lunch to borrow the key. I asked Miss Z if I could take off about thirty minutes to go get my purse. When she began her nuclear frown, I pre-empted her explosion. "Oh, never mind. I'll just swing by after work."

  ****

  After my shift, I drove straight to the ex-armory. Since it had been deactivated and transformed into a community center, it was not staffed on any regular basis and only bustled for specific events.

  As I expected, no vehicles were present, not even the county transport for those convicts supposedly cleaning up the place; maybe they'd already come and gone. The key Reda loaned me was for that same door Hazzard and I had exited in Sunday's early morning — hardly thirty-six hours before. Of all the men in Greene County, it was a hung-over pirate who'd helped me out — rescued by the new guy in town. And I didn't know much more about Ryan Hazzard than I did when he'd first groped me in the dark. Ha.

  No reason to linger outside where the officer had arrested us; my business was inside. From that portal, it was just a few steps to the interior door we'd come through from the motor pool area. Opened it. Smelled like left-over festival. Couldn't put my finger on it, but I guessed it was whatever spoiled food remained in those dozen bulging contractor-sized bags, which waited on the next scheduled pick-up. As Ryan had said, that huge vehicle bay was large enough for two basketball courts. In fact, with full lighting I could see two retractable backboards. They'd probably used the other half for volleyball.

  Well, the convicts evidently had already been there; the inflatable castle was folded neatly on a wheeled cart, all the make-shift booths had been torn down and the pieces stacked on a flatbed trailer. Except for not removing the trash, they'd done a pretty good job of straightening. Hope they didn't find my purse.

  The wooden-barred jail was part of the permanent trappings of that bay and currently where the grounds-keeper stored wheelbarrows, trimmers, and miscellaneous long-handled yard implements. I wondered if a live spider resided in that web I'd brushed into, but didn't want to check. Figured if I didn't see it, I'd worry it might be still in my hair somewhere. Can't stand spiders.

  The hasp was easy to open in plentiful light with both hands. But, just to be certain, I propped the door open with a shovel. Had to move a wheelbarrow to reach the bench in the back. Yep, my purse was underneath. I checked for keys and pocketbook — both present. Whew!

  Mission accomplished, I took a moment to stand at the cage front and look to my left, toward the corner where Hazzard must have been slumped on the floor right next to the kitchen entrance. With that door open, he would have been partly hidden. Hmm. Good place to sleep and great spot to hide. So what was Hazzard doing at that festival all dressed up but so miserable that he drank enough to pass out? Yeah, part of his long story.

  Reda's most useful Hazzard tidbit was that he'd stopped dating the peroxide attorney. I didn't really know Vanessa Karlov, but I had pre-hated her because of her fake chest and icy demeanor. Was that prejudice? Uh, yeah. The worst kind: judging her before I knew her. Did I feel guilty? Nope… not a bit. The new guy who'd rescued me had — presumably — been intimate with her. But why should that bother me? I had sworn off men.

  After getting the shaft from Wally the Weasel, I'd crawled my way through nearly four years of externally-managed bankruptcy restitution under Chapter Whatever with hardly any discretionary expenditures and I was still excruciatingly bitter about it. Thank goodness Ellen had been a volunteer counselor at the credit bureau — she'd probably saved my life. After the upcoming holidays, I had one more full year of pay-back and from then on I was free. Well, as free as one could be on my bank teller's salary. Still, it would all be mine and not some forty per cent held back by the court-appointed credit agency. I was lucky they'd let me keep my car. Also very fortunate that the friendly Mr. Harold frequented my window at the bank when I still worked downtown. Otherwise, I never would have known about the affordable portion of his rental house on Fleming Lane.

  ****

  On the way home, I stopped by the movie rental place. They didn't have Bell, Book and Candle on DVD to rent, but the considerate clerk thought she remembered seeing one in a bin of disorganized liquidation VHS cassettes for sale. We both searched and actually found a copy. Yay!

  At home, I nuked a pot pie while my feline guardian watched intently. Elvis was named by my brother Eric, who was of course a big fan of The King. While I ate, I started the movie. Elvis and I watched the whole film and he appeared bored even when Pyewacket came on-screen.

  What was Hazzard trying to communicate with his cryptic note?

  Not a clue.

  Chapter Ten

  Tuesday was off to a bad start. I'd slept poorly, spent too much of the night playing back bits of that fifty-year-old movie. I'd also dreamed that Jimmy Stewart was a pirate and I was choking Kim Novak's Siamese cat. I woke feeling at least as tired as I had after my lo-o-o-ong Monday.

  The morning was further complicated by my dash into downtown to drop off the armory key at Reda's office. That cost almost twenty minutes and nearly made me late. Luckily Reda's shift began at eight.

  Too much weight on my brain. Life had been relatively straightforward before Ryan Hazzard rescued me. Not easy by a long shot, but definitely simpler. To return to my pre-Halloween simplicity, I had to solve the Pyewacket riddle and get a pirate out of my head.

  Ellen usually had helpful insight, so I called her
before I left for the bank. Just to ask about meeting after work. Even if we'd had time during the rush of morning, she never seemed to feel a phone conveyed sufficient detail and nuance — Ellen-the-writer liked her drama live.

  "I'll stop by this evening, after I make supper for Mack."

  "Seven-thirty?"

  "About. Bye." She had to rush away to the junior high school.

  ****

  At work I hoped for a chance to pick Aynette's brain, relatively simple though it was. I wanted her input on that "three-way" rumor Reda had alluded to — Ryan and Vanessa and her ex. But every time I tried to get Aynette's attention, Miss Zachery gave us both the evil eye. On top of that, it was an uncharacteristically busy morning for the mall branch, so we hardly had much time to chat even when Miss Z was not monitoring.

  Shortly before 11 a.m., the money order creep came in again.

  There was nothing wrong with people needing money orders. Banks did still provide them even though we charged a lot more than most other places. Still, a transaction was a transaction. But this guy was a scuzzball. I was not unduly prejudiced against males who dressed sloppily, but he always looked like he just got out of bed and hadn't washed his face yet. That truly raised the yuck quotient. Plus, his expression always looked like he'd just finished playing with his privates.

  No matter if the other window was open, that freak always waited for me. Same thing again. Aynette was free but he waited until my customer left.

  "Can I help you?" Even though I knew what he'd say.

  "Two dollar money order." About average height, he was shaped somewhat like an old six-ounce cola bottle.

  I sighed and explained again. "We charge three dollars for money orders. You'd do better at the Handy-Saky over on Adams and Main. Seventy-five cents over there."

  "I like yours." He didn't actually leer when he said it, but there was something in his voice besides a mere preference for our bank's product.