Authors: Judy Christie
I outlined my theory to her.
“That makes sense in a weird way,” she said. “I can see where he might not mind taking money from you since it's pretty clear he doesn’t like you. But he's tight with Chuck and Dub. Do you think this started when they were still here?”
“I’m not sure. I need your help to put it all together.” For the next six hours we pulled invoices for advertisers and compared them to ads that had run in the newspaper for the past six months or so. Consistently we found ads that did not jibe with their bills. As I had expected, the primary recipient of Lee Roy's special ad rates was Major and his real estate business and car dealership. On the other hand, Eva always paid top rate, and her bills coincided perfectly with what she ran.
The amount of money the newspaper had been shorted was considerable.
“If this doesn’t beat anything I’ve ever seen,” Iris Jo said, running her hands through her hair. “I should have picked up on this. I am so sorry. I could have saved you a lot of money. This was my job, and I didn’t catch it.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Iris. You had no concrete evidence Lee Roy was stealing, and he chose a pretty slick way to do it. How could you notice money was missing if it never came to the books in the first place?”
“What are we going to do?” I liked the way she said “we” instead of “you.” I knew she would back me up, no matter how much fur might fly.
“Well, we’re going to act like nothing is going on, that we’re cleaning out old files. If you’re up to it, tomorrow afternoon we’ll look at some more back editions and try to figure out when this started. Then I’ll probably need to talk to Duke and to Walt, see how to proceed legally.”
Before we headed home, we grabbed a quick bite to eat at the Cotton Boll and tried to chitchat, but neither of us could quit thinking about Lee Roy, the missing money and the challenges ahead. As we parted, Iris Jo gave me a hug. “You know you’re welcome at church tomorrow if you want to come. We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks,” I said and climbed into my car, exhausted and wired.
When I got home, there was a medium-sized dog lying on my front porch. Cautiously climbing out of the car, I headed for the back door. The dog growled and whined and its tail thumped the porch. I looked closer, trying to figure out what was going on. It looked like one of Chris Craig's dogs … Kramer, was it? No, Kramer was the big, lean dog. Mannix? Yes, that was it. Mannix.
“Hey, fellow, it's okay. You’re Mannix, aren’t you?” I tried to soothe the dog without getting too close. “It's okay. What's wrong with you, big guy? Are you hurt?”
The dog didn’t get up when I walked around and into the house, instead giving a halfhearted bark and a whimper. I, on the other hand, let out a loud sigh. This was just what I needed tonight. Digging around for the tiny Green phonebook, I found the coach's number and dialed it, only to get no answer. I walked to the front of the house and used the screen door as a barrier between the dog and me, just in case he decided to bite. He whimpered again, gave a short growl and put his head down. His tail was still wagging, and I thought that was a good sign.
I dug out my emergency flashlight and shone it on him. Sure enough, there was a big smear of blood on his back, and his fur was matted where it had soaked through and dried. I had no idea what to do. I was deathly afraid of dogs, worn out, did not know how to go about getting this one treated, and was certain that my top-ranked employee was stealing me blind.
Desperate, I looked up a veterinary clinic in town and called. They suggested I carry the animal to my car and bring him in for a check up.
I put a towel in the back seat and nervously approached the dog. “Easy, Mannix. I’m going to help you, buddy.” The dog whimpered, but did not growl. I gingerly picked him up and carried him to the car. When I laid him down on the seat, he growled, but it was feeble and not very threatening.
I drove by Chris's house, hoping he would have come home, but the place was dark. I even turned around and drove back by a couple of his ponds, but didn’t see him.
A nice young woman answered the night bell at the animal clinic and came out to help me carry Mannix. A quick check showed the dog had a deep laceration on his back. “I’m not sure if he's been hit by a car or gotten hung on something sharp,” she said. “It’ll require a closer look. He definitely needs stitches, but I don’t think we’ll have to do surgery.”
I signed the paperwork, hoping I was doing the right thing. I noticed people out in the country were crazy about their dogs—but treated them differently than city people treated theirs. They let them run around in the yard, and they didn’t seem to baby them so much. What if Chris thought that taking his dog to the vet was a stupid idea?
When they took the dog back to the treatment area, I called Chris again and again, using the phone on the sign-in counter. Finally, I tried Iris Jo and told her what had happened.
“He just left here frantic about Mannix,” she said. “He’ll be so relieved. I’ll let him know.”
Fifteen minutes later, Chris rushed into the clinic, and I quickly updated him. He came across the waiting room and gave me a big, tight hug. “Thank you so much, Lois. I don’t know how I can ever repay you. Thank you. He's probably sort of a dumb mutt to you, but I love that animal, really all three of them. I didn’t think he could get out of that fence. I feel terrible.”
“Well, I think I’ll head on back home. I’m glad everything worked out.”
He stood up and hugged me again. That man could hug. He was a big, tall guy, sort of a forty-year-old version of the young athletes he worked with. “I owe you big time. I’ll buy you dinner or something soon.”
“You don’t owe me, Chris. That's what neighbors do for each other. And besides you cleaned up my yard and didn’t even take credit for it.”
I opened the clinic door. “Well, I guess I do have one favor to ask. Stop by or give me a call in the next few days and let me know how Mannix is doing.”
Driving home, I didn’t feel quite so tired. I felt good about tackling my fears and getting the dog to the vet. Truthfully, I was somewhat touched by Chris's gratitude and the two warm hugs. Maybe this was a guy I could be friends with, since he lived just down the road. Of course, I wouldn’t be here much longer, but maybe we could stay in touch.
I thought of him again just before I fell asleep and wondered what his wife had been like.
The next morning I overslept and woke up with that weird feeling where you know something is wrong but can’t quite remember what it is.
Immediately it hit me.
I had uncovered Lee Roy's illegal actions at the newspaper and had to deal with them. No way could I leave that for the new owner. That brought to mind other topics always hovering near the surface of my brain—Eva's interest in the paper and the Asheville job. If I didn’t give Eva a shot at
The News-Item
, I’d be cheating her in a way—and possibly even the people of Green. She knew how to run things and make money. But wouldn’t she also make a great mayor? What if I kept dragging my heels on Asheville? They were impatient already.
“We’ve gone back to our other candidates,” the publisher had emailed me the previous week. “Let us know if your timetable changes.”
Getting out of bed, my first cup of coffee in hand, I called Aunt Helen. She had not seemed herself since her short stay in the hospital, and I made an effort to talk to her every day or so. When I tried her room, no one answered, so I called the nurse's station to leave a message.
“Oh, Lois, she asked us to call you, but we haven’t had a minute. Helen was taken to the hospital again this morning. She had some shortness of breath.”
When I got to the clinic, she had already been moved to a room, but she looked much worse than when last I had seen her. She was on oxygen, and her color was bad. My mother would have said she looked peaked.
For just a moment when I entered the room, I thought she didn’t know me, but she quickly roused and greeted me. “You’d do anything to get out of going to church, wouldn’t you?” she said.
“So would you apparently,” I replied, leaning over to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. “You got a crush on the ER doc or something?”
“You journalists, can’t get anything past you, can I?”
“So what's wrong with you?”
“Well, I’m eighty-three years old, a coot, and I seem to have some sort of problem with my heart. Apparently the home's fish sticks and French fries menu choice did not agree with me. What's wrong with you?”
“I’m thirty-six years old, never been married, own a newspaper I don’t know what to do with, and have no idea what to do with my life. And right now fish sticks and French fries sound pretty good to me. Since you’re doing so well, I think I’ll run down to the cafeteria and see what they’re serving for breakfast.” I was hungry and out of sorts.
Aunt Helen was asleep when I returned, and at first it scared me. I thought she had died while I was eating bacon and eggs. I leaned over to see if she was breathing.
“Boo,” she said right in my ear, in that deep, wavering voice I had first heard on the telephone in my office. I jumped and squeaked.
“You thought I had croaked, didn’t you?”
I hung my head, a little embarrassed.
“I was just taking a catnap. Come sit over here.” She patted the edge of the bed and moved over to make room for me to sit. I could tell Helen was tired, but it was clear she had something on her mind.
“Child, can I give you some advice about that newspaper?”
“Sure,” I said, knowing she would give it to me one way or the other.
“Hang onto it. Be a good steward of it, the way you have been. Don’t squander your gifts. Expect good things—great things—to happen. Have some fun. God has great plans for you.”
And then she drifted off again.
Over the next few days, Aunt Helen's condition deteriorated quickly. They considered moving her up to Shreveport to an intensive care unit, but decided it was too risky. She had apparently suffered a mild heart attack and developed pneumonia, which she couldn’t seem to shake.
She was seldom completely conscious, although I often thought she knew that I and a bevy of others were in the room. Young women from church came by to talk about lessons she had taught them, and older women told great stories about her friendship and crazy things she had done through the years. I sat with her for hours, hoping my presence would reassure her. She had gone downhill so quickly, joking with me and giving me advice one minute and lapsing into a comalike state the next.
One afternoon Walt and his father came to see her. If Walt senior's presence didn’t wake her up, nothing would.
Walt and I chatted quietly in the hall, leaving his dad with Helen. I figured some message might need to pass between them.
“I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” I told Walt. “I’ve been trying to spend as much time up here as I can, and by the time I get home, I’m just pooped and it's late.”
He put his arm around my shoulders. “It's okay, really. I understand. The way you treat Aunt Helen is one of the many reasons I’m crazy about you.”
I was startled. I knew he liked me, but we had kept our relationship pretty much on the surface.
I changed the subject. “I’ve got a problem at the newspaper. I need to talk with you about it.” I looked around to make sure no one could hear. “I haven’t gotten all my ducks in a row yet, but I know someone's stealing from me. I’m going to need your legal help again.”
“No problem. We can tackle that as soon as you are ready. But you be careful, okay? People get a little crazy when someone backs them into a corner.”
Suddenly there was a great commotion, and nurses rushed into Helen's room. She had died with the love of her life at her bedside, ironic since they had been apart for sixty years.
The doctor ultimately said her heart was weak, but I knew that wasn’t the case. She was one of the biggest-, strongest-hearted people I had ever known.
I wish I could have had her in my life longer.
The Bouef Parish Sheriff's Department is holding two
Jersey cows and a donkey found wandering on the old
Route 2 cutoff. To claim the livestock, identify them
and be prepared to pay the loose animal fine.