“Even if nothing happens, at least we’re getting exercise,” April said, as she walked.
“That’s true, although it’s a bit early for me.”
“There’s enough light to shoot,” she said. “Manatee had a good plan. Whoever Webster hires will probably use it. I can’t think of a better one. I have my own apartment. They can’t be sure of any other time when we will be together.”
Clay scanned both sides of the road. “Don’t see Manatee. Which is good. If I could see him, other people could too.”
The county park was about two blocks wide with a huge lake beside it. The first block was open space, grass and trees, and dozens of squirrels. A nice elderly gentlemen arrived early almost every morning to feed them. He had bags of peanuts and other goodies, including a black and white item that looked like some type of seed. To squirrels, the black and white stuff was a delicacy. Clay thought feeding the squirrels was a nice thing to do, although there were more and more fat squirrels at the park.
A two-lane road ran from the house to the park. For almost two miles oak, pine, and elm trees lined both sides of the asphalt. Very dense. The forest thinned out about a quarter mile from the park.
“Why don’t we just stick targets on our backs,” Clay said.
“I think that would be a tad obvious. We’re not supposed to know anything about a possible attempt on our lives. We better pick up the pace, too. We should be jogging,” April said.
They ran slowly. The road was elevated. It was two feet higher than the surrounding land. The sun was slowly rising against the dark blue sky. April kept alert but occasionally glanced at both sides of the road. A rabbit ran across the asphalt and into the dark green and brown of the forests. They could hear birds chirping as they jogged. As she ran, April thought there were too many big cities and too much concrete and condominiums. One of her friends was a man named Ben Aldrich, who was a quarter century older than she was. A native, he constantly lamented the demise of brook and forest in the Tar Heel State. She recognized the truth of his statements. She thought it was symbolic that the first man in the Bible to build a city was a murderer and wasn’t in God’s will when he began or when he finished.
Symbolic indeed.
A silver Ford Sonata drove toward them. A man and woman sat in the front seat. The woman smiled and waved as the car drove by.
April panted. “This jogging isn’t as easy as it looks,” she said.
A squirrel chatted angrily at them as the two ran past. Leaves of the trees leaned west as a mild wind flowed through the forest. Another half mile and they would be on open ground. All seemed quiet.
“Looks like it’s another peaceful morning,” April said.
“Most of the time I enjoy peace. Mornings I’m not too keen on. Not a morning person,” Clay said.
A man in dark slacks and a light blue jacket stepped out of the forest. He held a gun and aimed. April and Clay dived for the trees, hit the ground, and rolled. The bullet clipped the ground so close to April’s face that grains of sand splattered onto her ear. Clay kept rolling as the second bullet plunked into the tree behind him, spitting bark into the air. The man raced down the road. He stumbled once on the soft, slanted ground. He cursed and fired again. Back on her knees April aimed carefully. She didn’t want to kill him. She wanted him alive. When she fired, her bullet bit red in his left shoulder. Blood smeared the blue jacket. He groaned, staggered, and slipped toward the ground. He tried to hold himself up with his left hand, but his shoulder was weakened. The arm couldn’t hold him, and he slid to the ground. He yelled in pain and rose to his feet. By that time Clay stood five feet from him, with his gun pointing at the man’s heart.
“Throw it down,” Clay said.
The gun dropped to the pavement
“Clay, look out!” April yelled.
Clay dived as bullets whizzed just overhead. A second man stood in the road. April turned to fire but slipped due to the angle of the embankment. She fell to the asphalt, yelling in frustration.
As the second man pressed the trigger, he groaned as three shots rang out. Three red bullets holes formed a rough triangle in his chest. He slipped to his knees then fell headfirst onto the asphalt.
On the other side of the road, Manatee, gun in hand, stood smiling. He walked over to the pair.
“I really like the fact you are always in the right place at the right time,” Clay said.
“One of my many gifts,” he said.
The first man held his shoulder as blood leaked between his fingers. April walked up to him.
“Who hired you?” she said.
He shook his head.
“Want me to make him talk?” Manatee said.
April shook her head. “I don’t particularly care what he says to me. We’ll take him to the police and let him talk to them. I don’t think he’s going to take the rap for his employer.”
Manatee whisked his cell phone from his pocket and made a 911 call.
The Winter Springs Sheriff’s Department made a quick response. Within five minutes the wounded man was in a sheriff’s car and being transported to the hospital, with two officers alongside as guards.
April and Clay breathed a sigh of relief.
“That should be the end of the case,” she said.
“And an end to our morning jogs, too. I’m sleeping late for the rest of the week,” Clay said.
A few days later, on the front page of the Sea Oak Daily News, investigators announced the arrest of Dan Webster on a charge of solicitation of murder. They also said they would be arresting Alden Mallory, currently a resident of the North Carolina Correctional System, for the same crime. The story hinted, although did not explicitly state, that Webster killed former Judge Anthony Trulock for reasons that may have been tied to yet another murder six years before. Webster had rolled over on Mallory, as April and Clay thought he would. He would serve at least twenty years. The prosecutor took the death penalty off the table in exchange for Webster’s testimony, which would ensure Mallory would stay in prison for the rest of his life.
April and Clay had a drink with Manatee the day after the story broke. Manatee raised his glass and toasted.
“Looks like the Black Knight is slain, and Camelot remains in good shape,” he said.
April lifted her glass in a toast too. “Queen Guinevere is pleased,” she said.
“And an honorable man and judge is resting in peace,” Clay said.
THE END
13
14
Copyright © 2017 by Adele M. Cooper
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
April Longmont stood at the lonely grave of her former classmate, Jerry Barton. She regretted that he had not been a friend, only an acquaintance. That was partly her fault, she thought.
The red and white carnations in the white vase April sent were the only flowers to mark the grave. Private Detective Clay Augustine, who was also a fellow classmate, stood with her as the casket was lowered into the ground. There were no other visitors to the grave. Not even the lady that Jerry said – more in hope than in truth – he was dating.
Barton had been a loner in life, only partly by choice. He was a geek. The number of his friends could be counted on one hand. He was uncomfortable in crowds and was the antithesis to the “party animals” some other classmates had been. He was also a man who had bad luck. It was as if fate wanted to destroy Barton or at least give him an exceedingly hard life. It never did him any favors. Not even in death. His grave was in a run-down part of the Forest Palm Cemetery. Other graves had manicured green grass covering them. A few brown weeds sprouted on Barton’s grave.
April squeezed Clay’s hand. She wondered what the odds were that their two lives would be intertwined with B
arton’s during the final week of his life.
If life had been kinder, Barton might have been an English professor. Two lines of poetry had been sandblasted into the tombstone. The late avid reader had changed a line in a poem by T. S. Eliot but, April thought, appropriately so. The correct line from the poem was I do not think they will sing for me.
However, on Barton’s tombstone the two lines read, I have heard the mermaids singing. They did not sing for me.
April pointed to the lines “Notice how he rewrote the poem?”
Clay nodded. “He was right. They didn’t.”
Two Weeks Earlier
“Private detectives. We need a story on private detectives!” City Editor Tim Harmon said.
He stood in front of April’s desk, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He held a black and white Paper Mate pen in his fingers and swung it when he talked. Although middle-aged, Harmon had a boyish enthusiasm for most stories. A bit chubby, he had a round face and round brown eyes. The forehead creep had become a landslide, and a path of skin separated hair on both sides of his head.
April gave an amused nod. “Why do we need a private detective story, Tim?”
He flared his arms like a traffic cop in a busy intersection at rush hour.
“Because the movie One Chance to Die is playing at local theaters next weekend. It’s a remake of the Raymond Chandler classic The Big Sleep. Of course, that novel has already been remade about five times, but this one is doing well at the box office and the critics have liked it, too. It would be a perfect tie-in for the newspaper to have a story on real private detectives and how their work differs from fictional ones.”
April showed a wry smile. “I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, which would be impossible anyway, but Sea Oak is a small city. I don’t think we have any private detectives here.”
“Wrong,” Harmon said, the word resounding in the office as he had banged on a bass drum. “I’ve got the perfect guy for the story. He’s a Sea Oak native. Clay Augustine.”
Her eyes widened. “I haven’t heard that name for a while. Clay was in my high school class. I thought he went into the army.”
“He did, and the paper had a short story on him when he came home with a few medals. Now he’s following in Sam Spade’s footsteps.”
“Philip Marlowe’s. The detective in The Big Sleep was Philip Marlowe.”
“Whatever.”
Harmon’s fingers dived into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to April.
“Here’s the location of Augustine’s office and his phone number. He’ll probably love to be interviewed. It will be good publicity for him. I’ve got the names of two more detectives in the region. Interview all of them, and we can run the story next weekend when the movie opens.”
She looked at the orange and blue card and thought it was professionally crafted. The colors attracted attention. The address of the firm and the phone number were in gray at the right corner. She felt a twinge of nostalgia. She wanted to renew the acquaintance.
She reached for her phone. The Sea Oak Daily News was one of the few businesses still to have land lines. She dialed the number and a raspy baritone voice answered.
“You’ve reached Clay Augustine at the Augustine Detective Agency. I’m away from my office. I’m out exposing evil, ferreting out corruption, and chasing down bad guys. Or possibly I’m on the golf course shooting a sub-par round. However, I will be back at about two this afternoon. You can call again or leave your number and I will return your call.”
April laughed as she hung up the phone. It had been years since she had spoken to Clay, but she recalled he had a sense of humor. The recording sounded like the man she vaguely remembered.
She checked the computer for the time. One-forty. She decided to drive over and greet Augustine when he returned.
The badly handwritten note on Clay Augustine’s office door informed potential clients that he would be back around two o’clock. She smiled and walked down the stairs. She wanted to surprise her old high school friend, although Clay wasn’t exactly a friend. They liked one another and were friendly back when walking the halls of Sea Oak High School, but nothing more. April regretted that. She was excited about seeing him again. It’s always nice to renew a friendship with a tall, handsome guy who, in high school, was incredibly nice too. But she had to be a bit demure. She couldn’t walk into the guy’s office, unbutton her blouse, throw out her arms and say, “Clay, I always wanted to get to know you better.”
Or perhaps she could. Perhaps Clay would like the direct approach. She laughed at the thought, but she laughed about most things. The trait went along with her Type-A, optimistic personality. She should be a bit reserved, she thought. While she was vivacious, Clay had been something of an introvert. He was not a bar-hopping kind of guy.
She was a tall woman, almost five feet nine, and wore dark slacks, an orange blouse, and dark vest. She eased down into a comfortable chair that faced the parking lot so she could spot Clay when he came back.
She liked the building’s interior. It showed creativity. When a man or woman walked in, they saw a good-sized waiting room filled with blue chairs and one yellow sofa, all spotless. The large TV showed a news channel and, thankfully, the volume was low. On both sides of the room were staircases. Most of the offices were on the second floor. A percolator with black coffee simmering stood next to the red soda machine. A huge brown wicker basket held free packages of crackers. April smiled with approval at the color coordination. Not too many days before, she had entered a building she thought was decorated in “puke green”.
As she glanced at the parking lot, she wondered if she should have worn a skirt, a short skirt. Then when Clay walked in, he could view her legs which were, a number of friends had told her, fantastic. Her black hair flowed down over her shoulders. Her green eyes flashed with laughter. Her small mouth was often chuckling. She had a slight tan due more to genetics than to the sun.
She poured a cup of coffee. She guessed it wouldn’t be of Starbucks quality. As she tasted it, the coffee wasn’t too bad. She gave it a five on a scale of ten, and she was a tough grader when rating coffee. She sat down in a chair and opened a magazine. She looked at the parking lot. No sign of Clay, yet.
Control yourself girl, she told herself. Yes, it’s been a frantic and hectic six months—a new job, a move, a breakup with a guy you never should have accepted the first date with, and other hassles galore. Still, there is nothing wrong with auditioning guys for the position of a boyfriend for April Longmont, a cute, friendly girl who wouldn’t mind having a guy hanging around her.
Three minutes later, she saw Augustine close the red door to his car and walk toward her. She whistled.
“Wow…Clay, you look even better than you did in high school.”
Clay wore black pants and a black coat over a blue turtleneck. He had a slight grin on his tan face. Taller than she remembered. At least six-three. Charming gray eyes. The guy had a slight English accent, although she had no idea how he obtained one in North Carolina. And he reminded her of…
Roger Moore.
He was the late actor who played both Simon Templar, “The Saint,” on television and James Bond in films. A friend of hers always went full NASCAR over Moore and bought all seasons of “The Saint,” on DVD. One night they had sipped wine, eaten Chinese, and watched almost every show in the series. Augustine had the same breezy confidence of Simon Templar, along with the humor and the same basic decency.
She trembled a bit as Clay opened the door. Maybe he wouldn’t remember her. She should be demure, at least for a while.
When he walked in, she stood up and approached.” Hello, Clay. Do you remember me?”
He paused for a moment as he looked at her. Then the grin widened.
“April? April!”
He opened his arms in delight, and she leapt toward him, tossing her arms around his neck. The heck with demure, she thought as her feet left the ground. He kissed her and
twirled her around before placing her back on the floor.
“April, where did you come from? Haven’t seen you in years. You look beautiful,” he said.
She gave a slight bow. “Thank you, sir. You don’t look bad yourself. In fact, you look fantastic.”
“A lovely lady who compliments me. I’m so glad we bumped into each other.”
“To be honest, we didn’t just bump into one another. I was looking for you.”
“Really? Why? I’m glad I wasn’t hard to find.”
His friendliness encouraged her to slide her arms around his neck. When she did, he didn’t seem startled or uncomfortable. “I’m with the Sea Oak Daily News. Feature reporter, investigative reporter.”
“Congratulations.”
“Anyway, my editor thought the paper needed a feature story about private detectives. Are there really any such classic sleuths as Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe or Jim Rockford? You know, there are not many television shows about private eyes nowadays. Maybe the old ones are the best.”
He smiled. “I’m more of the Jim Rockford type. Strong, handsome, easygoing, amiable, and really sweet. To be honest, I’m not anything like the classic sleuths, but I did read their books.”
She laughed. “I am a skeptical reporter, so I will have to question you about that.” She lowered her voice. “Some intensive questioning.”
His eyes flicked with glee. “That’s fine. How many detectives are you interviewing?”
“About three for now. Came to you first.”
He nodded.
“For the questioning and for old time’s sake, would you like to have dinner and drinks tonight?”
Her heart skipped a beat.
“I would love that,” she said.
“Good, because you can’t question me now. I’m headed out. I have an appointment to get my car its annual checkup. I have to leave in about ten minutes.”
“You’re not going to get away that easy,” April said. “I’ll come with you. We can chat while you’re waiting.”
A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set Page 11
