Sedona Law 5

by Dave Daren

  “And that was five years ago, yes?” I clarified.

  “Yup,” she said.

  “Did he see Thad regularly?” I asked.

  “He was on and off,” she said. “It was like all things Jerry. You never knew.”

  “When did he start the studio?” I asked.

  “About three years ago,” she replied. “I got my music therapy license, and he decided he wanted to quit reporting and start the studio.”

  “How would you categorize your relationship with him in recent times?” I questioned.

  “Recently,” she repeated and tilted her head in thought. “Recently things have been tense. I think he wanted to get back together. But I was seeing someone else, and I was just kind of over it with him, and he didn’t like that. It was just … stormy. I guess that’s the word for it.”

  I thought about that night with Allison and Jerry after rehearsal. He sure looked like he wasn’t thinking about Clare at the time.

  “Tell me about the day he died,” I said. “What were you doing that day?”

  “Let’s see,” she remarked and furrowed her brow. “That was Saturday. I was pretty busy. I had a hair appointment, and then I went to yoga and it was while I was there that I got the call about … ” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Who called you?” I asked gently.

  “His mother,” she replied.

  “How is your relationship with her?” I followed up.

  Suddenly, Clare got very uncomfortable, and a look came over her face that was almost panicked.

  “Can you just give me a second?” she requested.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  She left the room, and that implied the questioning was too emotional for her. But, I could tell it was something else, too. While she was gone, I peered around a little bit. I noticed a desk area in the kitchen. Sitting on top of the laptop was a printout from a Southern Life Insurance, a policy under Jerry Steele. He had a life insurance policy?

  I snapped a photo of the letter and read it from my phone, while I waited for her to return.

  The printout stated that because of Thad, she was eligible to receive an insurance payout of whoa … one million dollars. Christ almighty. Then there were some next step instructions for her to complete.

  Just then, Clare returned to the room.

  “Look,” she said as she wiped a tear from under her eye,“I’m sorry. I can’t complete this interview.”

  “Absolutely,” I said agreeably. “I understand, but I would be a little concerned about how a pending investigation would affect your insurance settlement.”

  She blinked in shock. “How did you … ” Then she saw the printout sitting on the table.

  “His parents are trying to squash you getting the money, aren’t they?” I asked. “That’s why they’re the hot button.”

  “It’s true,” she sighed. “Look, Jerry had a kickass life insurance policy. He left Thad, yes, a lot of money. But his mother thinks I’ll take it from him and spend it myself, so they are doing everything they can to discredit me, and take the money themselves.”

  “I would think they would want Thad to have it,” I replied.

  “They say they do,” she said with a shrug. “They say they want to hold on to it for him, to manage it. But I know damn well what they want to do with it. I doubt Thad will see much, if any of that money if it goes to them.”

  “And how are they discrediting you?” I asked.

  “They … are … ” she trailed off for a moment and then started back up. “Fuck it. You’re going to talk to them anyway.”

  She sighed, sat back down, and played with her fingers before she continued. “Several years ago, I was going through a really difficult time, and … very long story short, I checked into a mental hospital for depression.”

  “That must have been very hard for you,” I said sympathetically.

  She nodded. “It was.

  “Where did Thad stay during this time?” I asked.

  “With them,” she admitted. “With Jerry’s parents. Jerry took care of him sometimes, but mainly Thad stayed with his grandparents. So, they want to use that time against me, and make it seem like I was unstable. They plan to tell the insurance company I was diagnosed for bipolar disorder. That’s just straight up lies.”

  “You were only treated for depression, then?” I asked.

  “Depression and anxiety,” she replied and shook her head. “It’s a long, personal journey I would rather not get into.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Are you currently taking medications?”

  “I am,” she said. “The doctor prescribed me with a couple of things.”

  “And does that help?” I asked.

  “It does,” she confirmed. “I’m a good mother, Henry. I love my son, and I take good care of him. There’s no reason why they should try to take that money away from us. That money was designed for Thad to have a good life. And I can give that to him.”

  “That’s completely understandable,” I murmured.

  However, my red flag radar was going off like a siren. This woman had a lot to hide. She was a loose cannon on personality altering medication, with a million dollar insurance settlement hanging in the balance, and her in-laws were allegedly spreading lies about her being bipolar?

  This didn’t make any sense, because if she were to lose the insurance money over her mental capacity, they would have to prove her incompetence. Lies wouldn’t cut it, and these grandparents would know that. Taking custody away from a mother in the State of Arizona is really, really hard. Hell, even the meth heads get to keep their kids most times, as sad as that is.

  There was something fishy going on here. And Clare Clearmont was definitely not clear.

  I went back to the office to write up my findings on the interview, and it wasn’t long before Vicki and AJ showed up.

  “How did it go out there?” I asked.

  “So, the Wright Way guys are a definite lead,” AJ snorted.

  “Is that right?” I asked as I closed my laptop.

  “So, I met with Peter at his house,” she reported. “He said the expose Jerry did four years ago bankrupted him. It caused some of his workers to sue him for six million dollars.”

  “Six million?” I repeated and whistled. “Jesus, what was this guy doing?”

  “Well,” she said, “I couldn’t get the whole story, but basically a guy fell off some kind of scaffolding and broke several bones. So, the guy filed an insurance claim, and it would have been all okay. But Jerry did an expose saying it was Wright Way’s negligence that caused the fall and that Wright Way was a horrible company and all of this other stuff. Jerry’s expose encouraged the worker to sue the pants off Peter and Paul personally, and they had to sell the entire company and take out second mortgages on their houses to pay the six million. They did, and the guy recovered in less than a year and got this super nice house in Phoenix.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You think that would cause them to take out a hit on Jerry?”

  “Not in itself,” she said, “but all the guys who worked with Wright Way got laid off. And then there’s this … Wright Way was actually a pretty cool company. I looked into them. They were connected to the Second Chance Men Center.”

  “Isn’t that some kind of recovery place for felons?” I asked with a frown.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “They take in felons after they get out of jail, and addicts who end up on the street, and they help them get their life together and everything. And Wright Way would give these guys jobs, because no one else would.”

  “So, when they got laid off … ” I figured out.

  “Right,” she nodded, “it just pissed off a bunch of ex-murderers and rapists. And they were super defensive of Peter and Paul, so when they guy took him to the cleaners … ”

  “I see,” I said, “they would have tried to get revenge for him.”

  “And then there’s this part,” AJ added. “That guy who screw
ed everyone over? He was found dead a year ago in his house in Phoenix with his throat slit.”

  I blinked in surprise. “Whoa.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, and the murder was never solved by Phoenix police, because they wouldn’t have traced it all the way back to bad blood in Sedona. But it’s pretty well suspected it was a bunch of Wright Way felons.”

  “Wow,” I sighed as I sat back in my chair. “Horace was right, this guy has a lot of enemies.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” she agreed with a snort. “I called that guy’s wife in Phoenix. I’m thinking of going out there to talk to her.”

  “Might be a good idea,” I agreed. “What else have we got?”

  Vicki laughed. “Well, I’ve got a pissed off loan shark.”

  “A loan shark?” I said with a grin. “This should be fun. What’s his deal?”

  “His name is Allen Wagenshutz,” she replied. “He’s a shady back of the bar, wheeling and dealing type of guy, mainly does loans to the type of people banks don’t want to be in business with, if you know what I mean. But Jerry’s dealt with him from time to time. He borrowed fifty grand for a film, sold him on the premise, blah, blah, gonna be a big Hollywood movie, yada yada. The movie, of course, was stalled out indefinitely, and Allen was busting down Jerry’s door looking for the money, and Jerry was avoiding him.”

  “That sounds pretty probable as well,” I mused as I rubbed my chin. “So where was he the day of the murder?”

  “He said he was at the Cezanne exhibit at the art museum that day,” she replied.

  “A shady underworld loan shark who likes impressionist art,” I chuckled with a shake of my head. “Alright. Was there a Cezanne exhibit at the art museum that day?”

  AJ checked her phone,“Yes. There was. It ran from eleven to two.”

  “That’s convenient timing,” I said. “Right during our crime period. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone, or that he wasn’t involved in some way, or that he even stayed during the entire exhibit.”

  “Right,” she said. “We can ask at the museum. See what they know--”

  “They’re not going to remember when one man came or went,” I interrupted, “but the production studio may have security footage, who came in and out of the keypad entrance. We’d never looked at that. Horace said something about working with Jerry’s assistant. I guess she’s in charge of the building right now.”

  “I’ll put in a call to Horace to find out how to contact her,” AJ offered.

  “Great,” I said. “Also, we need to put in a call to the Second Chance Men’s Center. See if we can go out there, feel it out for leads.”

  “Great,” Vicki said. “I’ll tackle that.”

  “Perfect,” I replied, “and I’ve got a list of neighbors I’ll talk to. Sounds like we’ve got a good plan for tomorrow, so we’ll start in on this bright and early.”

  Chapter 6

  Vicki and I went home that night to our little cottage with takeout from Fifth Street Bistro. We tried to make it a rule not to talk about work at home, but as always, we had no success.

  “Do you think The Count killed Jerry?” Vicki asked over a roll of California sushi.

  I laughed. “Are you kidding? He would have done it historically correct.” Then I frowned as she poured a purple sauce into a bowl. “What is that?”

  “This,” she said with a broad grin, “is Jimi’s Red Hot, Purple Haze Salsa.”

  “Wha … ?” I answered slowly.

  She laughed. “It’s your dad’s new experiment. You left before he could unveil it.”

  “Oh my god.” I rolled my eyes.

  She giggled and opened a bag of chips, “Just try it.”

  “Alright,” I sighed. Then I dipped a chip in and had a bite, and I was surprised. The salsa was the perfect amount of tangy and spicy, and my tongue tingled with the combination of flavors. I chewed slowly to savor my dad’s creation, and then I grinned as the smoky aftertaste kicked in. “You know, this is actually pretty good.”

  “Isn’t it?” she mumbled around a bite of her own.

  Suddenly, as we were sitting there, we heard a loud noise that could only be interpreted as avian.

  “Is that a rooster?” Vicki asked and cocked her head to the side.

  “Ah, hell no,” I groaned as I jumped up to look out the window.

  But, sure enough, there, wandering through our little patch of green, was a brown and white rooster, proud, feathered, and pecking at our flowerbeds.

  “What the … ” Vicki went outside, and I followed her.

  Several other chickens now walked around with the rooster, and I grabbed a broom and shooed them all away.

  “Where are they coming from?” I grumbled.

  “Over there,” Vicki said as she pointed.

  “Hello, new neighbors!” an old woman in a pink bathrobe greeted us before she called to the fowl. “These are just Alfie, Mickey, and Rory. Don’t mind them. They’ll be no trouble.”

  Vicki and I both smiled weakly, and the woman stuck out her hand.

  “Petunia,” she introduced herself. “Petunia Olivares-Bunn, Mr. and Mrs … ?”

  “Oh, uh … ” I scratched the back of my head at the awkward moment.

  “Not Mr. and Mrs.,” Vicki cut in smoothly. “I’m Vicki and this is Henry, and we live right here.”

  “Oh.” Petunia frowned and flipped her palm in a dismissive gesture. “Well, it’s alright, not to worry. It’s modern.”

  I wasn’t really looking for her opinion of our living situation, but I was too distracted by one of the chickens, who practically made eye contact with us and then squawked really loud.

  “I don’t think it likes us,” I muttered.

  It squawked again, and this time its sound had a conversational rise and fall to it, with, I could have sworn--

  “Christ Almighty,” Vicki said to finish my thought. “That chicken is griping us out.”

  “That’s Alfie,” Petunia said. “He does that.”

  “He does that?” I repeated.

  “Yeah,” she chuckled. “He’s just a little temperamental. It’s okay, Alfie.” Petunia bent down low and fed the chickens some sort of crumbs from her hand. “Mommy’s here.”

  “Well,” I cleared my throat, “it was nice to meet you, Petunia.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” she said. “We’ll be great neighbors. If you ever need a cup of sugar, don’t hesitate to come by.”

  “Will do,” I said as we walked back toward our house.

  We went inside, and I looked at Vicki. A moment later, we both burst out into laughter.

  “It’s time to move,” I snickered.

  “Definitely,” she gasped as she wiped at her eyes. “If those cluckers destroy my flowers, so help me God, we’ll be having chicken soup for dinner every night for a month.”

  With dinner largely over, Vicki and I settled in for a long night of the usual: binge watching Netflix. I guess it had something to do with our shared past of the entertainment world. I used to be one of those snobby jerks who kept up with what was going on in “film,” and talked endlessly about directors, made fun of mediocre special effects, and saw everything that was out, but only on opening night.

  I’d calmed down a lot. I credit Vicki for much of that. She’s so relaxed and it’s easy to relax with her. So, this time, we settled on Les Miserable over Jimi’s Red Hot Purple Haze Salsa and kale chips. By the time Anne Hathaway got groped up by a pervy assembly line foreman, we’d gone through the entire mason jar.

  “What the hell?” I grumbled to Vicki as I held up the empty jar.

  “Pig,” she said before she scrunched her nose and made oinking sounds.

  I laughed. “Uh-huh. Ms. Purple Haze breath.”

  Vicki just giggled.

  So, Anne Hathaway got fired from her job at the assembly line, something to do with some cranky old hens who got their panties in a wad over her sending child support to an estranged daughter. Hugh Jackman was the
boss, and presumably a good guy, but he didn’t notice poor Anne’s desperate plight because he was too busy being worried about Russell Crowe sending him back to prison. I just kept waiting for the frump-to-glam moment that’s in every Anne Hathaway film ever made. Instead, she ended up being a hooker who sold her teeth.

  “This is depressing,” I muttered.

  “It’s about the proletariat at the start of the French Revolution,” Vicki said.

  “Did you just use the world ‘proletariat’?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

  She laughed and held up her phone. “I was quoting a blog.”

  “Ah,” I sighed. “The French Revolution. I think we’ve had enough of the American one this week.”

  “They’re kind of the same thing,” she said.

  “No, they’re not,” I answered. “The French Revolution had guillotines and Marie Antoinette running for her life, with her cake. The American Revolution had farmers with pitchforks, and cannons and Mel Gibson traipsing through South Carolina with muskets.”

  She laughed. “Mel Gibson, huh? I’m telling Alfred.”

  “He’s heard worse,” I said with a shrug.

  “I believe that,” she giggled.

  “Russell Crowe’s a good singer, though,” I commented after a pause.

  “I know,” she mused. “I didn’t expect that.”

  By the time Hugh Jackman adopted Anne Hathaway’s daughter and raised her to adulthood, I fell asleep, and Vicki wasn’t long after me.

  We awoke the next morning to roosters. Yes, the roosters. I’d always been a peace and nature respecting type of guy, but at that moment, I’d never wanted a gun more.

  “Shit.” I rolled over and rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Time to move,” Vicki croaked and buried her head under a pillow.

  I checked my phone on the nightstand. It was five thirty, and from my vantage point, it was still dark outside. Screw what the rooster thought.

  “How is she getting roosters in the city limits?” I grumbled. “Is that even legal?”

  “This is Sedona,” Vicki muttered from beneath her pillow. “The city probably thinks it’s trendy.”

  I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but the rooster crowed again.