Bury! The Lead

by Shelley Dawn Siddall

  “Yes but…”

  A loud click resounded in Crystal’s ear. Rosa had hung up.

  “Hero to zero in thirty seconds or less,” Crystal whispered sadly as she returned the phone book; shoving it angrily as she contemplated the mess she had made. A rectangle of thin paper flipped up and out of the drawer. She picked it up to return it and read, “All my love, Gloria.” Crystal turned the photograph over and saw a pretty dark haired woman staring back.

  “What the hell are you doing in my desk?” Ben roared.

  “I was using the phone; Marjorie said it was okay. I was putting the phone book back when I flipped this picture out. Here. You have a beautiful wife.”

  She dropped the photo in his hand and ran out to her desk.

  He followed.

  “Crystal Cinnamon Schmidt. New advice columnist and sneaky searcher of desks. You do know what this means don’t you?” Ben said harshly, staring down his nose at her.

  She looked longingly at the letters. For the first time in a long time Crystal wanted to stay where she was; she didn’t want to go home. Crystal felt certain she was going to be fired. She dropped her head in her hands and said, “I know. I’m fired.”

  Ben chuckled. He looked at Marjorie. “I did it!” he said gleefully. “I actually came across as a mean boss!”

  Crystal slowly looked up. “I’m not fired?”

  “Of course not. Sorry if I caused you any distress. Nobody ever takes me seriously around here; you were new so I thought I’d try to be mean.”

  “Your goal in life is to be a mean boss?”

  “When you say it that way it does sound ludicrous. Again, I’m sorry. Nobody gets my humour.”

  Ben started whistling as he walked back to his office. Abruptly he spun around and announced, “I’m a mean boss and an angry one to boot.” He then stomped the rest of his way back to his office and slammed the door.

  Crystal looked at Scott with his bouffant hairdo that was sinking a little in the middle; at Marjorie drinking a coffee with her feet up on her desk, snapping her fingers in time with the music playing on her small radio while she sang the words to a completely different song and at the owner of the Harrogate News, spinning around in his chair in his office.

  ‘Maybe I’m not the only oddball in the room,’ Crystal thought.

  Chapter Eleven

  If only she could convince Peter and Rosa that she wasn’t heartless. But how to do it? Rosa had hung up on her only ten minutes ago; so if Crystal phoned her back now, she’d likely get the same response. As well, there was Ben. He was just a little too weird for Crystal’s liking.

  She decided to answer all the letters, then leave. Matt had said the night before that they would pay her for two hours and by the time she was finished it would be well past that!

  Dear Betty,

  My husband and I are going through a messy divorce. He thinks he should get custody of Sugar and Spice; but of course, I’m their Mom, so I should!”

  Crystal stopped reading. What kind of parents would name their kids Sugar and Spice? She read on:

  I’m the one who feeds them and puts their little ballerina dresses on. I take them to see all their little friends and I’m the one who arranges all their playdates at the waterpark.

  Can you believe that my soon to be ex-husband doesn’t even know the name of their friends? I mean, how can he possibly say he loves them more than me? I’m the one who brushes their beautiful hair and adds the pretty bows that they like. I’m the one who takes them to the vet for their checkups and their annual shots. I clip their nails.

  Basically; I do everything. Please tell my husband that I deserve to keep Sugar and Spice.

  Yours truly,

  Yorkie Momma.

  Dogs. Crystal breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heavens they’re dogs!

  Dear Yorkie Momma,

  While I’m not a lawyer, but I believe dogs are, hold onto your hat, considered property. I know; it’s weird to think that a little dog with a ballerina dress on is ‘property’.

  If the property has to be split equally in the divorce… well, I know you’re not going to be happy with one dog going to your ex.

  Here’s what I suggest.

  Give both of them to him. I’m serious. Let hubbie take care of them for a change.

  Betcha anything, that inside of two weeks you get them both back with his blessing.

  Let me know.

  Sincerely,

  CeeCee.

  “Heah Marjorie; do you know where someone would buy clothing for a dog?”

  “Like a coat?”

  “No; like a fluffy little skirt.”

  Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “Is this for a real dog or are you dressing up one of your stuffed animals?”

  “I don’t have stuffed animals. It doesn’t matter; never mind. I better get back to work.”

  Scott guffawed. “As if you have a real job.”

  Crystal snorted with derision. “As if I care what you think.”

  “Play nice kids,” Marjorie admonished.

  Dear Betty,

  Has anybody ever done anything nice for you; like right out of the blue; completely unexpected? You’re usually pretty happy about a surprise gift, aren’t you?

  And yet, some people aren’t.

  Let me explain. You know how nice it is to make up a pie, or a cake or even just a little thank you note and bring it over to your new neighbor or a friend? The reception of the gift usually goes well. The recipient is pleasantly surprised and gushes over you a bit and then they invite you in for a cup of tea and you spend a wonderful afternoon visiting?

  I happen to make a specialty cake that I like to bring as a gift. I call it a poke cake. After I bake it, I poke holes in it and put jello in it. It looks a little weird, (you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to frost with my special jello icing!) and tastes fabulous.

  I’ve given about five of them to my best friend in the last couple of months, for you know, all sorts of occasions or just to surprise her. She always says thank you. Well except for last week. When I knocked on the door, she opened it up and saw me and said, “Oh God not again,” and shut the door.

  How rude was that?

  Do you think she has a brain tumour?

  Yours truly,

  Concerned Baker.

  Dear Concerned Baker,

  Wow! You’ve given your friend five cakes in less than five months?

  I think you should spread the wealth and give other people a cake.

  Or maybe stick with thank you cards.

  Or, why not take a break from all your hard work and sit back and wait for others to give you cakes or cards or a pat on the back? After all, you have been baking up a storm haven’t you?

  And what an interesting twist to a poke cake recipe by using jello. My recipe calls for pudding.

  On a side note; please be advised that employees of this newspaper are prohibited from accepting any baked goods at any time.

  Sincerely,

  CeeCee.

  Dear Betty,

  One of my family members is really sick, but I can’t stand their new spouse so I can’t go and check on him.

  You see, the new wife and I have had a few disagreements in the past. I told her that Dad has never worn western shirts in his life and he is not going to start now; yet she goes and buys him fancy shirts with decorative embellishments. Betty, he looks like he should be playing a guitar in a cowboy band. It’s embarrassing.

  Plus she went and bought them a couple of motorcycles. Motorcycles! I told her at their time of life they should be going on boat cruises, not road trips with biker friends. What do their neighbors think when they fire up their machines and head out to heaven’s knows where?

  Dad says he’s having fun; but I know Mom, if she were alive, would be absolutely appalled to see how Dad has changed. He doesn’t go golfing anymore, he wears a jean jacket and jeans most days with those cowboy shirts. He wears cowboy boots…with metal doodads on the toes.

/>   This is so embarrassing, but she even went out and bought them guitars and they’re taking lessons.

  Betty; can you imagine the noise coming from their home? Mom used to play the piano beautifully and when she wasn’t filling the house with beautiful music, she had classical music playing in the background.

  I phoned him the other day, and his voice was all scratchy. He said he was just practicing singing as he played his guitar. I know he’s really sick and just downplaying it because his wife was right there listening. I mean, they do everything together!

  And, even though they’ve invited me, several times, out to a fancy restaurant for a meal, I refuse to go. I cannot be seen with a couple of cowboys! What if someone from the office finds out I’m actually related to these people?

  Betty, how can I get Dad to return to his senses and go back to the life he used to have? How can I force him to listen to reason? It’s pointless. I’ve decided not to go over there as long as he remains married to her.

  Could you just write ‘I agree with you’ and then I could mail them a copy of your column.

  Yours truly,

  Disappointed Daughter.

  Dear Disappointed Daughter,

  Yee-haw! Don’t you have the blues? Your life is so sad it could be a cowboy song. Just think; you’re related to a married couple who enjoy spending time together; who have fun with several hobbies they share; who are young enough to try new things! How disappointing.

  On another topic, I looked up the word ‘reason’ in the dictionary. As a verb, it means to think, understand and form judgements on the basis of logic.

  Let’s say your Dad was really sick; does it stand to reason that you would avoid his home just because you don’t like his new wife? If you really loved your Dad, wouldn’t you do what you could do help him…IF he really needed help?

  Test out this logic as well; if a woman really loved a man, doesn’t it make sense that she would buy him gifts? Gifts like, oh I don’t know, new clothes and footwear, a new vehicle, a musical instrument?

  Isn’t it comforting to know that your Dad is really loved?

  Here’s something you really need to think about logically; does it stand to reason that your Dad is going to be the same person he was when your Mom was alive?

  I am sad that your Mom has died, but as someone who has also lost a parent, there comes a time when you have to accept that your life has forever changed. That includes how you relate to your remaining parent and the new people in their lives.

  Why not go to the local Community Center and sign up for line dancing lessons?

  You might find yourself scooting down to the western store to buy boots so you can boogie!

  Sincerely,

  CeeCee.

  Crystal couldn’t help herself; she kept tapping her foot on the ground. A few minutes ago she didn’t want to leave and now she had that uncomfortable feeling in her skin. It was a fear that she was late; that she had to get home no matter what.

  But she couldn’t go home. She had somewhere she wanted to be. She looked at the clock. Still morning. She could go; but she had made a deal with herself to answer all the letters. She overrode the anxiety that was creeping up her spine and quickly answered the remaining letters, then packed up her things and headed out the door without a word.

  ***

  “What is new girl up to?” Scott asked. “She flew out of here like a bat out of hell.”

  “How should I know? Do I look like her mother?”

  Scott picked up his camera and grabbed his car keys from his desk. “I’m going to follow her. She’s up to something; I know it.”

  “Better hurry. She’s riding a bike; I don’t know if that old jalopy of yours will be able to keep up!”

  Scott was miffed. “It’s vintage, not old.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.” Marjorie picked up the advertising binder and held it out to Scott. “Crystal was looking for auto mechanics the other day. I don’t think it was for her bike. She specifically asked for those that advertise with us.”

  Scott took the binder, opened it and photocopied the sheet he needed.

  “Can you put this stuff away Marjorie?”

  “Not on your life. You can clean up after yourself when you come back this afternoon.”

  ***

  Barry’s Motors was in what was called the Industrial Park area of Harrogate. It was a bit of a drive from downtown, but Crystal enjoyed the ride. She had chosen Barry’s Motors as it appeared to be the oldest advertiser with the paper; people with something to hide would want to go with tried and true. Or so Crystal hoped.

  She could barely believe what she saw as she drove up to an open bay. A big black Mercedes-Benz. She drove right into the garage bay and propped her bike up with the kickstand.

  “I just work on cars; no bikes. Sorry miss.”

  “Oh, okay, I just needed my tires checked.”

  “We don’t even have the proper equipment for that.”

  Crystal leaned forward and read the name tag stitched on his overalls. “So you're Barry himself. Wow. Do you own all this?” she said as she turned around and surveyed the garage.

  The owner smiled and said, “Yup, me and the bank. We have a working arrangement; I work and they arrange to take my money.”

  Both Crystal and Barry laughed.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t seem to be that busy.”

  “Well, it’s an ebb and flow business. Right now business is ebbing away from me and flowing towards some new shops that have opened in recent years. Even though I been in business for over fifteen years, other mechanics have started up with all this metrification.” Barry saw Crystal’s questioning glance. “The imports use metric wrenches; so a lot of the new shops specialize in those. Me? I stick with the good old imperial system; our neighbor to the south uses what are called SAE specifications in their cars as opposed to metric. We get a lot of cars in here from the US of A.”

  Crystal pointed to the big black Mercedes-Benz. “What about this car?”

  “Oddly enough, that one does have metric bolts. I didn’t say I don’t have the proper tools; I just prefer the imperial system.”

  Crystal walked around the car. Could this be the car that was involved in the hit and run. She felt like gagging when she saw the damage to the vehicle.

  “Wow! What happened here? The passenger side front fender is all smashed in.”

  “The owner said he hit a stray dog about three weeks ago.”

  Crystal looked at her toes, then scratched her head. “Why is this just sitting here? Did the owner run out of money?”

  “You are one nosy little lady aren’t you? Why are you so interested in this car?”

  “As you know, my current means of transportation is a bike. Whenever I get enough money together to buy I car, I have to know where to bring it to if I ever need repairs. I mean, I’d be silly to think my car wouldn’t need maintenance at least. But if your turn around time is three weeks…well… I’m just curious; that’s all.”

  Barry visibly relaxed. “It’s was a weird thing; the guy who brought it in actually paid for storage for three weeks. He just recently phoned me and asked me to start working on it.”

  A bell dinged as a car drove up upside.

  “Excuse me Miss, I have to go see what this guy wants. Don’t touch anything.”

  Crystal saw an old Ford Fairlane with a man behind the wheel. A man who had a familiar bouffant hair do.

  The anxiety that had crawled up her spine and disappeared with her bike ride was now back in full force.

  “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. “Justice for Lisa.” She tried the passenger side door but it wouldn’t open. She went around the front of the car and crawled in the driver side. The registration in the glove compartment was made out to one Gloria Fielding.

  Gloria? Like the photograph? Crystal thought about this coincidence. And the unopened bottle of vodka in Ben’s desk drawer. The phrase Scott had used was
going through her mind; a bad reaction to a medication. What if that medication was vodka?

  “Now if I were a bottle of booze, where would I be?” Crystal quietly asked herself. She glanced over to the front of the garage. She could see Scott and Barry still talking.

  “Okay, I’m drinking. I’m drunk. I hit something…” Crystal shuddered but kept whispering to herself, “I’m worried the cops are going to come; so I get rid of the evidence.”

  She flung an imaginary bottle to the backseat. She was just leaning over when she heard Scott’s voice.

  “What are you doing in my car?” he said, almost conversationally.

  Barry and Scott were standing right outside the driver side door staring at Crystal.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You probably want an answer,” Crystal said matching Scott’s conversational tone. “Well, back up boys, let me open this door and get out of here.”

  Surprisingly, both men backed up and allowed Crystal to climb out of the car.

  “I was looking for …” Crystal opened the passenger door on the driver’s side and started rooting around under the seat. “This!” she said triumphantly as she held up an empty bottle of vodka.

  “So it’s a bottle of vodka,” Scott said, crossing his arms.

  Crystal smirked. “An empty bottle of vodka. In other words, not a new medication that someone can have a bad reaction to.”

  Scott took the bottle and motioned for Crystal to move away from the vehicle. In the meantime, Barry was looking back and forth at Scott and Crystal. He crossed his arms as well.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I might as well enjoy the show,” he said.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on; nosy-parker here is way over her head.” He wanted to stare Crystal down, but the fact that he had to look up at her ruined his theatrics. Instead, he decided to humiliate her.

  “Look Crystal, you have no idea what the bigger story at play is. Do you really want to destroy the reputation of someone who does a lot of good in the community? I think you are the lowest of the low in trying to use a woman’s poor nerves and expand this accident into something nefarious. The woman is in a rest home and you want to add to her grief?”