Kentucky Woman

by Mike J. Brogan

  Ellie wondered if she’d ever hear from Quinn again. He’d probably lose her phone number.

  Or maybe Jennifer would lose it for him.

  FOUR

  Before class, Quinn Parker sat in his Estates & Trusts lecture room reading the Louisville Courier-Journal. His knee hurt from tripping on the Student Center steps today. And he could still feel the crunch when the three hundred twenty pound defensive tackle accidentally stepped on it, dislodging the patella, severing the quadricep tendon and damaging some lateral ligaments.

  The team doctor prescribed Vicodin. Even now, seven months later, he still needed the Vicodin because the pain at times overwhelmed him. But getting his prescription refilled was proving more difficult each time.

  He checked the sports section, then flipped to Business and noticed a lengthy article about a wealthy Kentuckian named Leland T. Radford. The man, a widower, had passed away recently in Manchester, Kentucky. His only child, a son and U.S. Army Second Lieutenant, was killed in an Iraq roadside explosion.

  Radford’s huge estate included manufacturing companies, Internet enterprises, stocks and bonds, real estate in London, thoroughbred horse farms, and twelve thousand acres in southeastern Kentucky rumored to hold vast reserves of bituminous coal. His estate would be probated in about a week or so, and with no heirs, the state was already counting the revenue from the sale of the estate properties.

  “Interesting case,” said a familiar voice.

  Quinn looked up and saw his favorite professor, tall, silver-haired, silver-tongued Robert Bossung, scanning the article over Quinn’s shoulder.

  Quinn smiled. “Yes sir, all that moolah and no heirs.”

  Bossung nodded. “Maybe you’re his long lost secret son, Quinn.”

  “Quite likely, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “He was smart and handsome like me.”

  “You forget humble!” Professor Bossung smiled as he wiped his horn-rimmed bifocals with a tissue. “Actually, I find this case worthy of closer examination by our Estates class.”

  “It is intriguing.”

  “Glad you agree. Because I was thinking it would be terrific if you could go down to Manchester and talk to the executor of the estate, a probate lawyer. Guy named Fletcher Falcone. I met him once. Affable country lawyer. Learn all you can about the Radford estate. Then come back and enlighten your fellow students with your usual succinct and brilliant brief, say by next Wednesday. Of course, Brandeis Law will reimburse your expenses.”

  Quinn realized Bossung just suckered him into another assignment. But maybe a good one. It would be nice to gaze at green forests instead of yellow legal pads.

  “Hang on, Quinn. I’ll try to get you an appointment with Falcone.”

  Professor Bossung took out his cellphone, got Falcone’s office number, and dialed. He chatted briefly with Falcone, wrote on a scrap of paper, then hung up and handed Quinn Falcone’s Manchester address and phone number.

  “Falcone can meet you in his office around this time tomorrow, if you can make it?”

  “I can.”

  “Excellent!”

  As Professor Bossung walked toward the front of the lecture room, Quinn Googled Manchester, Kentucky on his iPhone. He saw rolling hills and thick forests surrounded the town. He noticed it was not far from Harlan … where the girl he’d spilled coffee on was from. Ellie Stuart.

  Quinn remembered how excited Ellie was when he offered to help her find out more about her adoption. He also remembered she was smart and had an easygoing sense of humor. But her life had been anything but easygoing. Losing both adoptive parents at sixteen, being left on her own, and supporting herself ever since must have been incredibly painful. But despite all that, she came across as well adjusted and appeared to have handled all her adversity well.

  Maybe he could help her find out more about her adoption on his trip to Manchester.

  As he folded his newspaper, another article caught his attention:

  U OF L FEMALE STUDENT ATTACKED IN HOME!

  The young woman had been assaulted in her apartment, robbed and left for dead. Now she was in a coma. Her attack was shocking.

  So was her name.

  Elle Steward - so close to - Ellie Stuart.

  Too close maybe.

  Like the van that got too close and almost hit Ellie as she rode her bike to school.

  What the hell was going on here?

  He hurried out into the hall and dialed Ellie’s number. It rang several times but did not go into voice mail. He hung up and wondered if she was all right.

  As he turned around, his phone vibrated. He saw caller ID and answered.

  “Hi, Ellie.”

  “Hey Quinn. Sorry I didn’t reach the phone when you just called. By the way, you’re off the hook.”

  “What?”

  “The coffee stains washed right out.”

  He smiled. “That’s great.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “My professor asked me to drive down to Manchester to research the estate of a guy for our class.”

  “Manchester’s a nice town.”

  “And not far from Harlan. Anyway, I thought if you’d like to tag along, we could swing by Harlan courthouse, maybe talk to the family court judge. See if we can learn more about your adoption.”

  No response. “When are you driving down?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “I’d love to go, Quinn. But let me see if my neighbor can stay with Celeste, the elderly woman I take care of. My neighbor’s here now. Hang on, I’ll ask her.”

  While she asked, Quinn read that the deceased man, a businessman and philanthropist named Leland. T. Radford, had rebuilt sixty-two New Orleans homes and three grade schools destroyed by Katrina, plus several homes destroyed by tornadoes and floods.

  “I can go, Quinn.”

  “Good. See you at eight.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  She gave him her address and they hung up.

  Quinn felt good about getting away. It would be interesting to learn more about Leland Radford, a man who’d actually been born in a one-room Kentucky log cabin like old Abe Lincoln who was born in Hardin County, Kentucky.

  And now that he thought about it – getting away from Jennifer for a day would be good, too. Over the last few weeks and months, she’d grown increasingly possessive of his time. Very possessive.

  In fact, she was probably planning something very possessive of his time right now. He better call and tell her about his trip. He dialed and she answered on the first ring.

  “Wow, I was just starting to call you,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “My dress for the Cotillion ball. DuMauriers just got in some new Vera Wangs! I hear they’re stunning! Tomorrow morning you have to help me pick one out.”

  “I’d like to, Jenn, but I’ve got to drive down to Manchester tomorrow morning.”

  “Manchester …?” She made it sound like North Korea.

  “Yeah. My professor asked me to go down and research an important probate case there. I’m leaving at eight to meet the estate executor. What time does DuMauriers open?”

  “Eleven, but you have to see my dress first.”

  “I can’t wait that late, Jenn, and make my appointment. I’m sorry.”

  “But I have to pick a dress tomorrow so they can start the fittings.”

  “I understand, but - ”

  “ - Go next week.”

  “Too late. The probate court date is next week.”

  He heard a couple of huffs and some harrumphs and feared she might be winding herself up into a hissy fit. But then she seemed to gain some control. “Well … okay, but I hate to think of you driving down there all by yourself.”

  Oh shit! Not telling her about driving Ellie would mean hell to pay if she found out later. Telling her now would mean hell to pay now! Choose your hell, Quinn!

  “Well, actually, I’m driving someone down there.”

&
nbsp; “Who?”

  “The girl I spilled coffee on.”

  Silence.

  “She’s from nearby Harlan and needs legal help in finding out more about her adoption.”

  Jennifer was silent for so long he thought the line had disconnected.

  “Why can’t she drive herself down?”

  “She doesn’t have a car.”

  Silence.

  “I can’t believe you’d waste time with her instead of helping me choose my dress!” He heard anger in her voice.

  “Jennifer, you’d look beautiful in burlap. And finding out where she comes from will mean a hell of a lot to her.”

  “Well my dress means a hell of a lot to me!”

  Quinn took a deep breath. “I understand. But my meeting time is fixed with the estate executor. I have to leave tomorrow morning early.”

  “Fine! Take Daisy Mae with you! But make sure you do one thing on the way down.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stop at all the bars and trailer parks.”

  “Why?”

  “So she can ask - Who’s my daddy?”

  Jennifer hung up.

  Quinn leaned back, let the air drain from his lungs, then shook his head. When they began dating a few months ago, he was blinded by Jennifer’s beauty - which blinded him to her flaws.

  But then, slowly, her elitist attitude crept into little things she said and did. And then into big things she said and did. And it bothered him a lot. And yesterday, as he drove Jennifer to her Cotillion ball rehearsal, she’d bad-mouthed Ellie Stuart non-stop … “Did you notice her cheap dirty clothes and hear her awful hillbilly twang?”

  Increasingly, Jennifer showed little interest in anyone from outside her zip code. Which included most of his friends. Her emerging haughtiness, and increasing possessiveness of his time, had been turning him off for weeks. When he tried to talk to her about it, she denied the problem.

  He’d have to talk to her again about it. Soon.

  A talk he was not looking forward to.

  Who enjoys talking to a wall?

  FIVE

  A light night rain sprinkled onto Huntoon Harris. He hid in the shadows of some evergreens near a small wood frame house. He saw his footprints on the wet ground. No problem. The cops would waste hours searching for shoes that will be at the bottom of the Cumberland River in two hours.

  He chewed his Mail Pouch and hoiked a gob out – almost. Tobacco juice dribbled down onto his brand new camouflage shirt.

  “SHIT” he whispered, trying to wipe the brown stain off.

  He lifted his powerful Special Ops binoculars and focused on the gray-haired woman in the nearby house. Mary Louise Breen, seventy something, sat in her den, reading a newspaper and petting her tabby cat. Television lights flickered across her wrinkly face as she sipped what looked like red wine. She reminded him of his grandmother.

  Suddenly Mary Breen sat up fast, staring at something in the paper. Excited, she grabbed her phone and dialed.

  Huntoon turned on his headset tapped to her landline.

  A woman answered Mary’s call. Mary and the woman began talking about something that happened many years ago. Then Breen mentioned the name. The same name the boss told Huntoon to listen for. A name that could cause the boss big trouble.

  The two women hung up.

  Huntoon phoned the boss and told him what he’d heard.

  The boss cursed for several seconds, then said, ““You know what needs to happen.”

  Huntoon knew a death sentence when he heard one. “Yeah. But I need my money tomorrow. I’ll come by your – ”

  “ – not my office! The cash’ll be in your P.O. Box by noon.”

  “Okay.”

  Four hours later, Huntoon looked down on Mary Breen sleeping in her bed.

  He didn’t like this job. Nothing wrong with killing. Greasing Towelheads in Iraq was patriotic, fun even. But greasing an old lady who looked like his grandmother just felt wrong, made him a little jumpy. He didn’t know exactly why the boss wanted the old lady dead, but knowing the boss, it probably had to do with his money.

  And if I didn’t need this money so bad, I mighta turned this job down.

  Huntoon wanted to do her fast. Easier for her. A bullet in brain. Maybe potassium chloride.

  But the boss said no. There could be no trace evidence in her blood. It had to look like she passed away from something common in an older woman. Heart attack, stroke. Above all, no bruises.

  That left him with one option. A snuff job. He picked up a large pillow and moved over to her side of the bed. She was breathing softly. Just inches away. He looked down at her and couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Mary Breen’s face began to morph into the face of his grandmother, the only person who’d been kind to him after his parents abandoned him in a Burger King bathroom when he was six months old. But Grannie died three years later, and the state managed to toss him into five foster homes, all abusive in some way, until he finally ran away, enrolled in the army and wound up in Iraq. Good times shooting bad guys, until he was court-martialed on lousy trumped up charges.

  He blinked the bad memories away, and looked back down at Mary Breen. He hated this job. But it had to be done. Slowly, he lowered the big pillow toward her face.

  Suddenly – her eyes shot open. She stared up at him – saw his face – saw what was coming! He had no choice now.

  He jammed the pillow down over her nose and mouth – snuffing out her scream.

  She struggled hard … but four minutes later, her body was still. He lifted the pillow. He detected no pulse, felt no breath coming from her mouth, saw no life coming from her eyes.

  He removed the pillowcase that might contain his DNA, put a fresh pillowcase on, tidied up the sheets and bedspread, and closed her eyelids. Then he combed her hair so it looked like nice, because he heard women want to look good when they die.

  He walked back to her and whispered, “I’m right sorry Mary Louise. It’s just business. Rest in peace.”

  SIX

  Ellie licked her fingers and ran them over a stalk of hair that kept popping up like a Whac-A-Mole. She gave up on it and put on her best jeans and least faded University of Louisville sweatshirt, $3.00 and $2.00 respectively from Sam’s Second Hand Shoppe.

  She was grateful that Quinn would try to help her learn something about her adoption in Harlan and maybe about her birth parents. Her earlier attempts had failed. And it would be nice to be back home in Harlan.

  She grabbed her backpack and walked into the den where Celeste stared at an I Love Lucy rerun. She kissed the elderly woman on her tissue-soft cheek.

  “I’m going Celeste, but Sarah is here.”

  No response. Celeste’s eyes were like gray stones. She didn’t seem to understand.

  Then she turned toward Ellie and smiled. Ellie lived for her smiles … comforting reminders that Celeste was still in there somewhere.

  Sarah walked over. “Good luck in Harlan, Ellie!”

  “Thanks Sarah, and thanks for staying with Celeste.”

  “Anytime hon.”

  Ellie walked to the front window and looked outside at another beautiful spring morning. Light blue sky hovered over the distant hills painted gold by the morning sun. Two red cardinals splashed around in the birdbath as a Chevy TrailBlazer turned into Celeste’s driveway, Quinn driving. She hurried outside and hopped in.

  “Harlan Express at your service, ma’am!”

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  He backed out and drove off. Quinn looked handsome in his powder blue sweater and khakis. The sun poured through the sunroof, highlighting his brown hair and some tiny white scars on the backs of his hands, maybe vestiges of football cleat cuts, she imagined.

  “You excited to go back home?”

  “Very excited, Quinn. And thanks a lot for the ride.”

  “Happy to.”

  They drove onto the Watterson Expressway, heading east.

  “On the phone you me
ntioned you take care of a lady named Celeste?”

  “A very sweet woman. Eighty-four and battling Alzheimer’s.”

  “My aunt had it,” Quinn said. “Devastating.”

  Ellie nodded. The thought of getting Alzheimer’s panicked her. She’d watched it devastate a neighbor lady back in Harlan in just two years. And now she watched it steal a little more of Celeste’s memory each day.

  And last week came Ellie’s personal shocker: she learned there was a chance she might contract the disease early.

  “If we live long enough,” Quinn said, “experts say we might eventually all get it.”

  “I might get it sooner, experts say.”

  Quinn seemed to realize she was serious. “Really?”

  She nodded. “Last year, the university’s BioMed Group paid a bunch of us dirt-poor students a hundred bucks to test us for genetic diseases. I needed the hundred bucks. But not the results.”

  “Why?”

  “Turns out I have the E4 form of the APOE gene.”

  “Which means?”

  “That if both my parents have that APOE gene, I might develop Alzheimer’s earlier. Fortunately, there are many other genetic variables that determine early onset and whether I even get it.”

  Quinn nodded. “Still it’s important to identify both your biological parents.”

  “Yes.”

  “That sounds to me like a compelling legal reason to petition the court to release their names.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think it’s worth fighting for.”

  “Me, too,” she said as she read the flashing billboard ahead.

  “WATCH THE KENTUCKY DERBY – ON NBC!

  THE MOST EXCITING TWO MINUTES IN SPORTS!”

  “Ever been to the Kentucky Derby, Quinn?”

  “Often. You?”

  “Never. I can’t afford Roller Derby.”

  He laughed. “Dad works at Churchill Downs. He gets extra Derby passes sometimes. If he gets enough, you’re welcome to come.”

  “I’d love to, Quinn.” But she wasn’t sure Jennifer DuBois would like that.

  Quinn slowed to a crawl at some road construction. He reached up and pushed the OnStar button on his rearview mirror.