by N. C. Lewis
Chapter 24
It took several moments for the full meaning of Peter's words to sink in. Lenny, his face flushed bright red, his eyes glassy, spoke first. "Oh no, beautiful Liza poisoned? How can that be? It doesn't make any sense."
Peter scratched his chin, then his eyes opened wide. "That's it! That's why Mysterious Malcolm ran from the stage. Lenny, it's all beginning to make sense now."
Lenny rubbed his eyes. "It seems incredible, I thought Malcolm would eventually show up, like he always does, but now…" His voice trailed off, and we fell silent.
The roar of excited children resonated along the hallway into our room, a tangled mixture of eager laughter, sour arguments, and sharp shouts from librarian Carol Kurimbokus. I looked at my cell phone clock, it was after 1 p.m.—the homeschoolers had arrived.
Just then Lenny spoke. His eyes stared off into the distance. "Malcolm and Liza had a rocky relationship; they argued every day. I've lost count of the number of times he threatened to kill her. But to think that he would…" His voice trailed off as he rubbed his eyes; his entire body trembling.
Peter wrapped an arm around Lenny. "The truth hurts, I know that."
I chimed in. "As we get more information, the situation will become clearer."
"Don't expect much from the sheriff's department in this town," said Millie, joining the conversation. "If it doesn't involve hunting or fishing Sheriff Hays won't be interested."
Millie reached into her handbag. Professor Purple appeared, deep disappointment in his sock puppet eyes. "Unless the murderer shows up at the sheriff's department, and confesses the crime, this case may never be solved."
Peter, being a close friend of the sheriff, protested. "Medlin Creek is a small community; we are not equipped for big city murders. If Sheriff Hays had the funding, things might be different." But it was a halfhearted defense with no real vigor.
Professor Purple twisted his face into a scowl. "Yes, I am quite sure you are correct. But with the current level of resources available to the Medlin Creek Sheriff's Department, we cannot—I'm sure you'll agree—expect miracles." The professor, chest puffed out and having delivered the knockout blow, looked around at each face. His thin, puppet lips twisted into a smile. Satisfied his message had hit home, he returned to Millie's handbag.
"The deputies will do their best, I'm sure," I said.
"Yes, yes, I agree," Millie said. "I'm just saying that a case like this will be difficult to solve." She lowered her voice. "But, poisoning will make a great first page feature for the Medlin Creek Times. I'd better contact the newspaper owner to get the okay to write the piece." Millie gave a jubilant fist pump, and on the tips of her toes, and light as a feather, left the meeting room.
All the while Lenny watched, with an expression on his face that was difficult to read. "This is impossible!" he said eventually, a note of fury in his voice.
Peter tried to calm things down. "I'm sure the sheriff's department will conduct a thorough investigation. Yes, it will take time, so I guess we will all have to be patient."
"Liza's killer cannot get away," fumed Lenny. "I wish there was more I could do."
Peter placed a hand on his cheek. Then turned to stare at Lenny. "I'm sure Ollie will help."
"Ollie?" Lenny said with a start.
Before I could protest, Peter continued, "Ollie solved the mystery of the bitter bones. It was a murder that took place here in Medlin Creek, although we don't like to talk about it. Ollie cracked the case wide open."
Lenny grew thoughtful. "You mean like Sherlock Holmes or Colombo?"
"Yep," nodded Peter. "Doctor Ollie Stratford is Medlin Creek's mystery-solving machine."
Lenny half turned, a curious glint in his eyes. "So, you are some sort of private detective?"
I shuffled from foot to foot. "No, I'm a professor at the local community college and run an event center. I'm not a private investigator or even an amateur sleuth. The mystery of the Bitter Bones took place on my property and…"
Lenny raised his hands. "Your help would be much appreciated."
"Hey, in case I didn't make myself clear, I'm not a private eye or an amateur sleuth. I am a…"
Lenny took my hand in his as he would have done in soothing a child. "Please help me track down Malcolm," he pleaded, his lips curving into a glowing smile. I felt a thrill of excitement. Liza's unfortunate death wasn't my business, but since Lenny was holding my hand and asking for help, it suddenly became my business. I gave him my cell phone number.
Chapter 25
That evening, as I drove to the dojo, I smiled inwardly as my heart did a little somersault thinking about working with Lenny and Peter to track down Malcolm. Sure, there was no money involved, and I'd have to help in my free time, but somehow it seemed worth it.
Members were already entering the dojo as I pulled into a parking space. The dojo, on Warren Street, is between a disused warehouse and a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor known as Don Andrews. I was a regular in both places.
Above the front door in big, bright letters were the words Medlin Creek Martial Arts Academy. All Welcome. A gaggle of children dressed in karate uniforms were exiting through the door. The older kids laughed and jostled each other. Parents out in front hurried the children along, carrying small black bags which held practice martial arts weapons.
Inside, the dojo was cool and bright. The whoosh of the fans circulated air around a large, rectangular room. A black mat covered the gym floor, padded with a thick, soft material designed to absorb the impact of judo-style throws. Off to the side were changing rooms and offices.
Kidd Cole, the assistant instructor, swept the mat and greeted the guests as they arrived. "Hey, Ollie, nice to see you. Ma Jenkins is taking the class tonight. She is going to teach some stick techniques she learned during her vacation to England. The fun starts in ten minutes."
Ma Jenkins, the chief instructor, had taken full ownership of the dojo after her business partner, Tanner Holgate, passed away several months earlier. Tanner was one of my closest friends. We met at college and trained together on the school karate team. After college, Tanner continued to stay in shape, train and teach the martial arts. I, on the other hand, got married, entered the corporate world, and devoured lots of pizza.
On the way to the women’s changing room, an office door swung open. Ma Jenkins strolled out. She was a short, stocky woman, in her early sixties with salmon-pink hair streaked with yellow and tied in a tight bun. Her dark eyes were set above a narrow, disjointed nose. On her neck was a tattoo of a colorful fire-breathing dragon. She spoke very quickly, her eyes darting around the dojo. "Ollie, nice to see ya. Gonna be doin’ a nice bit of stick work tonight. Bring ya hand mits, eh?"
"Yep, I brought my full kit," I said, holding up my training bag.
Ma's eyes narrowed, her arm extended and prodded my bulging stomach. "Now, got to get you back in shape, eh? We start in three minutes, get changed quick else you'll be doing push-ups with the other latecomers."
I hurried to the women’s changing room to prepare myself for what lie ahead. I wasn’t very fit, a little overweight, and found the classes a challenge. But I enjoyed it. The physical exercise and meditative practices both strengthened the physical body and clarified my mind.
There was barely room to get changed. It seemed the full membership had turned out. "This is Ma's first full class since the funeral of Tanner Holgate and her return from England," said Ethel Green, one of the club's oldest members.
"I hope she goes easy on us," said a teenage girl with blonde hair and bright-blue eyes.
Ethel shook her head. "No chance, tonight's going to be tough."
A large gong sounded, summoning students from the changing rooms to the main dojo. Class had begun.
A rush of students hurried out onto the dojo mat. They lined up in neat rows with the most experienced students at the front and beginners at the back. Roger Romantic, Ethel Green and Marge McCloskey, the most senior in age, had their own spot in the f
ront row.
Kidd Cole strolled onto the mat. "Let's begin with a warm-up jog. How many laps of the dojo tonight?"
"Twenty-five," said Pat Grunwald, a tall, thin woman built like an Olympic figure skater.
"That sounds good," I said aloud before the number was bid higher.
"Twenty-five it is," Kidd yelled setting off at an easy pace.
At the back of the pack, I jostled with Pat Grunwald for last place. I've never been much of a runner and always came in last, even at school. But the surprising thing about the dojo was that after only a few months of training, I could complete twenty-five laps without collapsing.
Warmed up, Kidd began the stretching routine. It was a thorough all-around set of movements, working every part of the body. Then off we set to jog again, this time only ten laps. For a change, I kept up with the pack, although I still came in last.
Again, we lined up, the most senior students at the front. Kidd Cole clapped his hands, and we bowed. He clapped them again, and Ma Jenkins strolled onto the mat. In her right hand she carried and English quarterstaff. The staff was around eight feet long, made of English ash with a circumference of five inches.
"Tonight, we will practice with weapons that have fallen out of favor in recent years. Few people carry staffs around with them these days, eh? But the techniques we learn tonight can be equally effective with a shorter staff, a broom handle or even a walking stick."
Ma Jenkins began the demonstration by showing us the ready stance. She held the staff vertical between the forefinger and thumb of her right hand. Her elbow was slightly bent, with the upper part of the staff in the hollow of her shoulder, and the point of the staff placed on the ground, in line with the toe of her right foot.
"Partner up and practice," she said after showing the stance several times.
We each grabbed a quarterstaff from the weapons rack at the back of the dojo, and for several minutes familiarized ourselves with its properties. Then we practiced the ready posture. After fifteen minutes, Ma Jenkins clapped her hands, and we formed a semicircle for the next part of the demonstration.
"Pat Grunwald, please step forward so I can demonstrate the basic attack, followed by the basic defense. First, the head strike to the right side."
Pat Grunwald stood about four feet in front of Ma. With a rapid, flowing movement Ma stepped out about eighteen inches, raised her lower hand, which held the staff, up toward her chin. The tip of the quarterstaff spun forward at an alarming speed stopping an inch from the chin of Pat.
"Don't want to get that in the jaw do we, eh? Let me show you the defense."
This time Pat was the attacker. She scowled, half closed her eyes and swung the staff at Ma's head. It moved with such speed it was a blur. Contact with the tip of the staff at the end of such a swing would send even the strongest man to his knees. But Ma moved with lightning speed, shifting her staff to her right side. The incoming attack clattered against the side of Ma's staff rather than her jaw. As the two staffs clanged together, Ma made a small pivot raising her lower hand, and surging forward with the staff, now vertical, into the solar plexus of Pat.
Fortunately, Ma stopped half an inch from contact, but this didn't stop Pat from letting out a terrified gasp. I jumped. Ma smiled. "Remember, in using a staff you will get cuts, bruises, and hit. The secret, if you can withstand the first blow, is rapid attack after successful defense."
We broke up into groups to practice the technique, rotating partners every few minutes. Finally, the gong sounded, and the class was over.
After changing back into my regular clothes, I lingered in the reception area where members congregated to chat about the lesson and anything else that came to mind. For the most part I liked to listen, occasionally chipping in when the mood took me.
Ethel turned the conversation to the death of Liza. "What I can't understand is why the sheriff's department hasn't issued a statement yet."
Roger nodded. "Uh-huh, with the sheriff out of town don't expect things to speed up any."
"What about Mayor Felton?" I asked.
Ethel clacked her teeth. "She's keeping a low profile on this one. A death at the magic show is very bad publicity for the town's quaint image, a murder is disastrous."
Pat Grunwald narrowed her eyes, glanced around and whispered, "Dee Dejon works at the Hill Country Hotel. She said Liza and Bryant Reynolds were an item."
"I hear," chuckled Ethel, "that Bryant was so confident he even planned the wedding before he proposed to her."
"That takes real courage," said Roger who had wandered over to join the conversation.
Ethel shook her head. "The only way a girl with good eyesight would say yes to that toad is if he had cast a voodoo spell over her."
"I wouldn't put it past him," mumbled Pat.
"Well if he did use magic it didn't work," said Ethel. "I hear from Chris Meaty, who works at the rooftop restaurant, that Liza refused his proposal. She said Bryant looked as angry as the last pig let into a tater patch."
Chapter 26
It came to me in the night. John, my husband, was alive, and we walked along a country lane. The sun shone brightly as we began the journey, but it soon grew dark. From somewhere a female voice called, her voice as light as the early morning mist. I gripped John's hand tightly. "It's Liza, it's Liza," I said. John nodded, raising his finger to point out into the distance. There she stood, Liza, hands on her hips, a beautiful, broad smile across her lips. Suddenly, out of the shadows a figure appeared. In silhouette, it half turned, then leapt toward Liza. There was a terrified scream, a brief intense struggle, then the crack of bone. Liza fell to the ground, shattering into a thousand fragments. The figure turned to stare at us, their grinning face clearly visible under the bright moonlight.
I knew I had been dreaming and sat up in bed wide awake clutching at the embers of the imaginary world. They say a dream is just your subconscious mind trying to point you toward the truth. If that's so, in my dream, I saw the face of Liza's killer, but all I could remember were the eyes—colorless, impassive, cold.
The sun was about to come up and I was wide awake. I slid out of bed and took a hot shower while I tried to piece together the fragments of the dream. The splash of the water against my body felt wonderful, but the dream was gone.
I toweled down, pulled on gray jeans and a sky-blue blouse, and let Bodie outside. Off the dog bounded toward the outbuildings, his tail wagging.
In the kitchen I poured a bowl of healthy cereal with cold, low-fat milk. As I munched through the tasteless meal, I reviewed my list for the day. A 9:30 meeting with Donna Biggs, the loan officer at the Medlin Creek Community Bank, was at the top of the list. I was hopeful she would approve an increase to the line of credit the bank had earlier extended.
After reviewing my lecture notes, I spent half an hour answering email, reading social media posts, and scrolling through newsfeeds. I was about to return to my lecture notes when my cell phone buzzed with a text message.
Ollie, you free for lunch today at 1 p.m.? Want to touch base about Liza. I'll meet you at the food truck park, Sluggies Gourmet Brisket truck. Fancy a plate of smoked chicken with Sluggies Deadly Barbecue Sauce? Text to confirm. Lenny.
A plate of Sluggies at lunch time is not for the faint of heart. Piles of barbecue meats slopping with a tangy, spicy sauce along with slices of white bread does little for the figure. "I suppose it will balance-out breakfast," I muttered. But what additional information about Liza's death did I have to discuss with Lenny? My mind raced over the facts.
Fact one: Liza was murdered.
Fact two: Mysterious Malcolm had disappeared.
Fact three: Malcolm's previous wives died of heart attacks—both of them.
Fact four: Bryant Reynolds proposed to Liza. She rejected his offer. Only that wasn't a fact at all, but hearsay. Yet, it had a ring of truth, and I had seen Bryant arguing with Liza at the Hill Country Hotel. In my mind I played back the scene. "Bryant, we're finished. It's over!"
/> I sucked in my breath. It seemed like a tangled jumble with everything relating to everything else but no clear path. I admitted to myself there was little new to discuss. "Perhaps," I said aloud, "I better skip lunch with him today." My stomach lurched.
Then I realized Lenny must have discovered something he wanted to share. "Yes, that's it, he has something to share," I muttered as I smiled inwardly thinking about lunch. Turning on the cell phone, my fingers moved quickly to type out my response.
Yes, I'll see you then.
The clock high on the mantelpiece struck the top of the hour, 8 a.m. I got up and stretched. This morning a longer routine was needed to soothe the aches and pains from the dojo. After the final downward-facing dog, I lay on my back for several minutes in dead man's pose, emptied my mind and allowed my body to sink into the mat, and deeply relaxed on the floor.
Back in the kitchen I filled Bodie's food and water bowls. Then called the hound inside. Today would be too hot for him to roam around the outbuildings. It was just after 9:15 a.m. when I stepped into the Tahoe and headed toward Medlin Creek Community Bank.
The Medlin Creek Community Bank occupied a one-story brick building on Creek Street close to the flea market. It served as a sort of financial hub from Medlin Creek, being popular with commercial vendors, residents and tourists.
Through the revolving glass doors, I spotted Gratia Violeta. Her perfectly styled hair, manicured nails and gently powdered face seemed to glow with vitality as she strolled toward the exit, arm in arm with Lenny Crispin. As I went in, they came out, too deep in conversation to notice me. Although, I thought I saw Lenny glance at me out of the corner of his eye. My heart sank a little, and I told it to grow up, that my relationship with Lenny was professional. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what a hunk of a man like Lenny could possibly see in Gratia.
Several customers were waiting in line, a few locals, but the majority were visiting tourists. Donna Biggs came out of a room at the back as I entered and waved me over to a small, private cubicle. She was one of those types of people who always have a smile on her face. I guess they call them a-cup-half-full type of person.
