by L C Hayden
Dolly pointed to the pastel flower-design sofa. “Sit.” She closed the book that was on the reclining chair. “I was just reading a book on angels.” She pointed to the book. “Have you read it yet?”
Bronson looked at the book. “No, ma’am. Can’t say I have.”
“You ought to try it. You’ll like it.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Tell me, do you still like coffee like you used to?”
The possibility of drinking a good cup of coffee brought a smile to Bronson’s face. He moved some Tinker toys and a child’s book, The Giving Tree, aside and sat down. “To be truthful, ma’am, I’ve been havin’ coffee withdrawals. I’ve been travelin’ with my wife, and she’s a great little lady, but she knows nothin’ about makin’ a good cup of coffee. I could surely use one if it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all.” Dolly sprang to her feet and headed for the kitchen.
Bronson followed her to the big, country-style kitchen with wide-open spaces. An old-fashioned oval oak table and four upholstered chairs in front of a large bay window overlooked the backyard.
“Excuse the mess.” Dolly pointed to the scattered toys. “For the past month, I’ve been babysitting my grandson while my daughter’s at work.”
Bronson nodded.
“Sammy Ryan Kiewel.”
“Huh?”
“That’s my grandson. Sammy. He’s four.”
The discarded Matchbox cars reminded Bronson of his own fascination with toy cars as a kid. He looked up and found Dolly studying him.
Immediately, she broke eye contact. “He hardly takes a nap anymore, but today I got him to sleep.”
“Ah.” The aroma of coffee brewing tickled his nostrils.
“So what brings you to Safford? It’s a long drive from Dallas.”
“That it is.” He reached for the cup of coffee Dolly handed him. He poured some milk and took three spoons of sugar. Good thing Carol wasn’t around to see that. “I’m retired now, you know.”
Dolly touched her nose. “Yes, I knew that, but I would have never guessed that you would have wanted to retire.”
Bronson looked at her and noticed that she tapped her foot as she looked away. What aren’t you telling me? Aloud, he said, “I reckon part of me will always be workin’.” He sipped his coffee. “Ah, good coffee. Real good.” He set the cup down. “I’m here for that mystery convention.”
“Oh, really? I read in the newspaper about Safford hosting that conference. I never would have figured you to be one of the players.”
“I’m not a player. I’m goin’ to be their consultant.” He sipped his coffee. “But then I thought you already knew that.”
“What would make you think I’d know that?” She focused her attention on her fingernails.
“You get the Dallas Mornin’ News?”
Dolly nodded. “I never cancelled my subscription after I left Dallas.”
“Did you happen to see the small article about me retirin’? Thought maybe you read it and suggested my name to Wayne Weeks.”
Dolly’s lips formed what could be considered a weak smile. “Why, yes. I saw the article about you in the paper. But I didn’t—” She rubbed her eyelid and looked away. “Did you say Wayne Weeks? He’s the one who hired you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I know Wayne.”
“Thought you would.”
“That doesn’t mean I gave him your name.”
“But you could have.”
“But I didn’t.” Dolly crossed her arms and stared at Bronson. “Talk to me, Bronson. What’s going on? Why are you really here?”
“I told you. I’ve been hired. . .” Bronson spotted the teddy bear shaped cookie jar. He opened it. “Chocolate chip cookies!”
“Home made.”
“Yeah? They go real good with coffee, but my cup happens to be empty.”
Dolly reached for Bronson’s cup. “I’ll refill it, and you help yourself to some cookies. But leave some for Sammy. They’re his favorites, and he’ll expect some when he wakes up.”
“That means I’ll have to fight the little one for the cookies.”
“If you do, you better be careful. Sammy takes his cookies very seriously.”
“Ah, just my luck.”
Dolly refilled the cup and handed it to Bronson.
He accepted it, took the milk out of the refrigerator, poured some into his coffee, and returned the milk to the refrigerator. He scooped three spoonfuls of sugar.
“All that sugar isn’t good for you.”
“That’s what Carol tells me, but I know I have cut back to three. Maybe soon I’ll cut back some more. Maybe do two-and-a-half, or a bit more.” He looked up and smiled.
“You never answered me.” She folded her arms.
Bronson smiled again.
Dolly shook her head. “You can be the most frustrating person in the world.”
“Is that so?” He drank his coffee.
Dolly waited for Bronson to say something. When he didn’t, she frowned and sighed. “Is this about . . . Casey?”
“You tell me, ma’am. Is it?” He bit into his cookie.
Dolly looked away. She walked over to the breakfast nook and sat down. She closed the Charlene Tess novel she was reading.
Bronson joined her. “That’s another book you’re reading?”
Dolly nodded.
“Thought you were reading the one about angels.”
“I am, but I’m also reading this one. I usually read three or four books at a time.”
“Ah.” Bronson sipped his coffee. “You knew Weeks had hired me.”
Dolly’s nod was barely perceptible. “He told you?”
“Haven’t talked to him.”
“Then how did you know?”
“The look on your face when I knocked on your door. You weren’t surprised to see me. It was more like you were expectin’ me.” Bronson blew into his cup and swallowed some coffee. “So here I am.”
A long silence stretched between the two. Bronson watched as Dolly’s lips began to quiver. “Wayne and I talked about your . . . retirement. How could you? What about Casey? Will her killer go forever unpunished?”
“Well, ma’am, let me put it this way. When I walked out of the office, I made a copy of each paper in one particular file. I’ll let you guess which file that was.”
“Casey’s.”
Bronson nodded and finished his coffee.
“I want cookies, too.”
Bronson turned toward the source of the voice.
Sammy stood with his hands resting on his hips and a determined look stamped on his face.
Bronson opened the cookie jar and looked inside. “Look here. There’s some chocolate chip cookies in there, and they’ve got your name on ’em.”
Sammy’s eyes opened so wide they reminded Bronson of two saucers. “What’s my name?”
“Well, let me look again.” Bronson made a big production of staring inside the cookie jar. “I reckon they say Sammy Ryan Kiewel.”
Sammy gasped. “That’s me!”
“Then get over here and grab some—if it’s okay with Grandma.”
Dolly nodded and opened her arms. “But first, come here. Give Grandma a big kiss.”
Sammy ran toward her and threw his arms around her neck. “I forgive you, Grandma, for making me go to sleep.”
“Thank God!” Dolly smiled and the love she felt oozed out of her. She walked over to the refrigerator, retrieved the milk, and poured Sammy a glass. She set it on the table, next to the cookies.
Bronson stood up. “Best I be goin’.” He gently punched Sammy on the arm. “You take real good care of Grandma.”
“I do.” Sammy bit his cookie. “She’s my responsibility.”
Bronson laughed. “That’s a big word for a little fellow like you.”
“I’m four,” Sammy said and drank his milk.
* * * * *
Out in the car Bronson retrieved his spiral notebook, opened i
t, and wrote down Dolly Secrist. Knew I was coming. Claims did not give Weeks my name. Says she read in the paper I was retired. Baby sitting for a month. Couldn’t have followed me from Dallas. Knows something. Cannot figure out what.
He closed the notebook and returned it to his shirt pocket.
As he drove up Highway 191 toward the Sun Lodge, Bronson replayed his visit to Dolly’s house. Some bit of information jumped at him, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.
Chapter Eight
As soon as Bronson pulled into the lodge’s parking lot, he noticed the 1956 Chevy. He once again retrieved his notebook, jotted down the tag number, whipped out his cell, and called Mike Hoover, his ex-partner who still remained his best friend. The phone rang twice before Hoover picked it up. “Missing Persons. Hoover speaking.”
“Hey, Mike. How’s it goin’?”
A second of silence followed while Mike made the connection. “Bronson, is that you?”
“Sure enough.”
“I knew it! You wouldn’t be able to stay away more than a month. I just won me fifty bucks.” Bronson waited as he heard Mike speak to his co-workers. “Hey guys. Bronson’s on line two. Pay up. You owe me.” A few seconds later, he spoke to Bronson. “Now that I’m richer, what can I do for you?”
“Actually, I need to cash in on a favor.”
“Sure, buddy, anything for you, especially now that you’ve made me richer.”
“I need for you to give me a ten-twenty-eight and a ten-twenty-nine.” Bronson gave him the license number.
“You think the car with that tag number is stolen?”
“No reason to think so. I’m just checkin’ all angles.”
A brief silence followed before Mike asked, “Are you okay?”
Bronson removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Was he okay?
“Talk to me. I don’t like this silence.”
Bronson detected a note of concern in his friend’s voice. “Carol and me, we’ve started on our grand United States tour. We’re in Safford, Arizona. What could possibly be wrong?”
“Correct me if I’m mistaken, but it seems to me that you’re out there in Safford and you’ve got yourself involved with some crime. Am I in the right ball park?”
“Nah. There’s been no crime committed.”
“Then why the license check?”
“You always did ask a lot of questions.”
“And you always avoided answering them.” Bronson heard the shuffling of papers. “Shit. Hey, listen. Garza’s heading my way. Call you with the information as soon as I can.”
Bronson thanked him and hung up. He called the lab next, but Paul was unavailable. Bronson slammed the phone shut. If he were still a detective, he wouldn’t be having trouble gathering the information. Frustration gnawed at him, as he headed toward the motel. When he walked past the registration desk, he heard someone call his name.
Bronson turned to face the young man behind the counter. “Mr. Bronson, I have a message for you.” He handed him a note.
Bronson thanked him and sucked in his breath. The handwriting told him S had not written this one. He let his air out.
The note asked Bronson to stop by Room 205 at his earliest convenience. The signature read L’ee Chalmers, a name Bronson recognized. Her signature had been above the chairperson blank on the contract he signed. It would certainly benefit him to talk to her.
* * * * *
Bronson knocked on the door and to his surprise he heard a sultry voice say, “Come in.”
Bronson reached for the doorknob and opened the door with the full intention of reprimanding L’ee Chalmers for not using any safety precautions. Anybody could have walked in and with a voice like that, she—
Bronson stopped.
Before him sat a very large woman whom Bronson estimated weighed somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred-and-fifty pounds. She smiled at Bronson and her cheeks bulged ruddily. “Detective Bronson, I presume.”
“Ma’am.” He bowed his head slightly.
“You must excuse me for not standing up to greet you, or even for not opening the door, but as you can see, that would take a lot more energy than I have.”
“No need to fret, Ms. Chalmers.”
“That’s Mrs.” Her hand reached for the wedding ring on a chain around her neck. Her thumb and index finger stroked it and her eyes glassed, perhaps reliving another time, another place. She sighed and her entire body shook. “I can’t wear the ring anymore.” She looked at her chubby fingers that looked like short, stubby sausages.
Bronson walked over and sat on the bed. “Mrs. Chalmers, eh? Any relation to the Texas senator?”
“Oh, how I wish, Detective Bronson. How I wish.” Her eyes twinkled.
Bronson smiled. He couldn’t blame her of wishing she was related to the senator. Women considered him a hunk, his leadership abilities impressed everyone, and more than likely he was destined for the White House. But more important, Texas blood flowed through his veins.
“I’d like to clear one misconception, Ms.—huh, Mrs. Chalmers.”
“Call me “L’ee.” She pronounced it el-ee.
“Oh really? That is an unusual way of pronouncing your name.”
L’ee wiggled in her chair, and the double chins that came in pairs down her throat jiggled. “Of course it is. It’s unique. I like being different.”
Bronson could see that. Underneath all those rolls of fat lived a beautiful woman.
“So tell me, Detective Bronson, what misconception did you want to clear?”
“I’m no longer a detective. I’m now a private citizen.”
“Of course I knew that, but you must forgive me. There’s something about you that says detective. Maybe it’s the way you stare at things, as though absorbing every detail. Your voice. Your composure. It all says detective. I can’t look at you and not think detective.”
She smiled and Bronson felt himself being absorbed by those glittering, gray-stone eyes. Bronson would bet his reputation that sometime in her past, she had turned more than one man’s head. “Seems that you’re not the only one who thinks this way, ma’am. Reckon I’ll always be stuck with that title.”
“And does that bother you?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I reckon I kinda like it.”
“Good to hear that, and now that we’ve cleared the air about our names and titles, I invited you here so that I could answer any questions you may have about the conference.” She rested her palms on her lap and the excess rolls of fat in her arms hung down like a wrinkled parachute.
“Do the people who come to this—huh, conference, mystery show, whatever you want to call it—are they always the same people year after year?”
“The majority are. Naturally, we always have some new ones each year and then, of course, there are those who for some reason or other can’t make it each year. But the majority, yes, they’re repeats. Why would you ask that?”
“There’s a couple. He’s tall, lean. He and his wife drive a restored 1956 Chevy. Would you by any chance know whom I’m talkin’ about?”
“No, sorry. I spend most of my time in the room. I have no idea who drives what and as for ‘tall and lean’. . .” She pouted as though trying to place them. Slowly, she shook her head. “We have a lot of tall and lean attendees. Why would you want to know that?”
“Can you think of anybody who might be able to answer my question?”
“Balthasar, perhaps?”
“Who?”
“Balthasar.” She giggled. “That’s not his real name, of course, but that’s what I affectionately call him. Are you familiar with the name Balthasar?”
“Might you be alluding to Romeo’s faithful servant?”
L’ee made an elongated face of surprise. “I’m impressed. A detective who actually reads Shakespeare.”
“Yes, ma’am. Imagine that. It happens occasionally. So tell me about Balthasar.”
“He’s my faithful servant. He takes me wherever I need to g
o. He buys me whatever I need—with my money, of course. But he takes good care of me. He’s my companion, my buddy. And I pay him very well.”
“And where can I find this Balthasar?”
“He’s out on a break. He’ll be back shortly, and again I ask, why is this important?”
“Amazin’ the things we consider important.”
“Yes, indeed. Do you have any more questions?”
Bronson looked at his watch and stood up. “My wife must be lookin’ for me just about now. Best if I be goin’.”
“Detective?”
Bronson stopped and looked at L’ee.
“Do you ever answer any questions?”
Bronson smiled and walked out, but not before he saw L’ee throw her arms up in the air.
Chapter Nine
Before heading back to his room, Bronson went to the reception area where he knew the contestants had already begun to gather. As the elevator opened and Bronson stepped out, he noticed that people had congregated in separate clusters. They wore their badges announcing them as A Slayer Detective. Under that, the participant’s name appeared, and in smaller letters, the city and state from which she came.
Since Bronson’s badge rested safely on top of the dresser back in his room, he knew he could move among them undetected. Once he put on the badge, he would probably be bombarded with questions from the eager participants.
No, it’d be best to do this without the badge. Move from group to group. Surely, someone will know the Chevy Man’s identity, or even better, he’d encounter the Chevy Man himself.
Bronson headed for the coffeepot and fixed himself a cup. He tasted the coffee. Average. Oh well, at least it was free. Holding on to his cup, he walked around the room in a counter clockwise direction. He studied each person and just as quickly dismissed him. None was the one Bronson searched for. Bronson moved on and continued his search.
Five minutes later, Bronson spotted the Chevy Man, standing by the window, cradling a drink, and smiling at what one of the women in the group said. Bronson approached, not quite sure what he planned to say.
