Small Town Trouble (12 page)

Police Chief Cokie was drinking a Mountain Dew and resting her guns there under a big maple.

“Nice service,” she said and took a swig.

“That Brother Bobby Lee is something else,” I said. That was no lie.

She nodded heartily. “Yeah, he’s my second cousin.”

“Wow.” What else could you say?

It was quiet for a few minutes. We watched the mayor and Officer Mike continue to work the crowd. A slight breeze kicked up and for a second it didn’t feel like 100 degrees. I was hoping that some bit of bonding was occurring between us, perhaps through osmosis.

Chief Cokie brought it up first. “That Delozier’s a real case, huh?”

“Sure looks that way.”

The chief eyed me like she didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, not everybody seems to be in agreement that Rick Rod Delozier’s the killer.”

“No?” She finished off her Mountain Dew, crunched the can and tossed it inside the police car. “Do tell.”

Knowing full well how stupid this was going to sound, I said it anyway. “For one, Rick Rod’s sister, Amy, doesn’t think he’s guilty.”

The police chief stared at me like I was a horsefly in her ointment. “Golly,” she said. “Guess I better run right down to the jail and let him loose.”

“Well, it is possible that someone set him up, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, right.” She belched softly.

Chapter 26

I parked my Toyota out behind Fogerty High School in a shady spot next to the ball field. This was the same field where I’d played a lot of softball a long time ago, third base. Modesty aside, I’d been fairly handy as an infielder, and, on a good day, I was the kind of batter who could worry the other team. My father had occasionally taken Clint and me to see the Reds play at Crosley Field. Clint was largely bored with the whole thing, but not me. I’d always taken my glove along just in case they needed me to sub for Pete Rose.

Except for an occasional light breeze kicking up dust on the deserted playing field, not a creature was stirring, which was just what I was hoping for. After the memorial service and girl talk with Chief Cokie, I desperately needed some down time. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to pass through the Rite Now Beer Drive-Thru on the way over to the school and was now the proud owner of an ice-cold six-pack of Weidemann. I cracked one open. I took a long drawl, swallowed and sighed blissfully. There is nothing, I repeat
nothing,
like a cool one on a hot one.

I offered up a little prayer.

Dear Lord, bless all of our early American ancestors who landed on these fair shores and got right down to the business of doing what they do best, brewing alcoholic beverages. And God Bless the Weidemanns, whoever they are. Amen.

I got out of the car and took a seat high in the bleachers. I sat there, sipping my beer and a cardinal landed next to me, the Ohio state bird. He was extra-large and very red. He hopped around like the free bird that Rick Rod Delozier wasn’t any more. Then he took off in a rush for the trees.

Chief Cokie’s skepticism was getting to me. What possible reason did anyone, including myself, have to believe that Rick Rod Delozier
wasn’t
a killer with a penchant for weenie whacking? How stupid could I be anyway? Of course his very own sister would think him incapable of heinous crimes. Sisters are supposed to stick up for you.

I kept waiting for the hammer of reality to wallop me good, drive home the obvious. After all, it was a done deal, really. Rick Rod Delozier got caught red-handed. He was the boogie man with a butcher knife under his bed, and now he’d have to pay.

I leaned back against the bleachers and waited for all of this to sink in. I waited and waited. I uncapped another beer and waited some more, but way off in a corner of my mind, there was an eensy, weensy voice calling out. It got louder and louder and louder. The voice sounded a lot like Jessica Fletcher.

Jessica said, “
But what about Larry White?”

And what about Evelyn’s big check?

I figured it was time to resolve this Larry White situation once and for all. Back in Gatlinburg I had a busy restaurant, a double-wide and some semblance of a personal life to get back to, and it hadn’t escaped my notice that Evelyn needed a cash infusion worse than her spindly roses needed rain.

As soon as I got back to Tara, I got on the horn to Bud Upton.
 

“One moment,” his secretary said. She sounded young enough to be Bud’s great-granddaughter.

Bud Upton picked up promptly. “Kim, what’s the good word?”

“I wanna meet with Larry White.”

“
This
could be interesting.”

“Tell him no deal unless he meets with us
personally
.”

“May I ask exactly what you hope to accomplish with this maneuver, other than risk losing lots of money?”

“I wanna know who we’re doing business with, Bud.”

“And if he won’t agree, you’re willing to kiss off the deal?”

“He will.”

I was betting that Larry White, whoever he was, wanted WFOG bad enough to stick his neck out. “And, Bud,” I said, hoping to successfully push my luck just another inch, “one other thing? Do you think your brother Irvin could find out exactly what’s the extent of Larry White’s Fogerty real estate wish list?”

“Probably.”

“Thanks, Bud. You’re a prince and please tell Irvin that I owe him dinner.” I wasn’t stupid enough to think that the charges for Irvin Upton’s services wouldn’t be extracted via Bud’s hefty bill, but it was a nice gesture.

“Dinner might be difficult to arrange,” Bud said. “My brother is currently in residence at the Lebanon Correctional Facility.”

“Gee, the guy sure gets around for a guy who can’t get around.”

“You gotta love the system.”

With the wheels in forward motion, I was feeling a whole lot better. Not only did I not want us to get swindled by some Nashville creepazoid, I was more convinced than ever that we owed it to my father to not sell his last remaining holding to some sleazeball. If Larry White, or whoever Larry White represented, turned out to fit this description, I wanted to help Evelyn figure out some other way out of her financial Nightmare on Elm Street. She could always sell Tara and move in with Agee and Alonzo. Not to be morose, but they did have an extra bed now. I loved my mother, but I was far more inclined to have her share their trailer than mine.

So there were options, should we decide to blow Larry White off. It was hard to believe it might come to this, that blowing him off was truly a consideration, but it was, and that was that.

It may have been just my imagination running away with me again, but it was somewhat entertaining to wonder just what all might come unraveled if Larry White’s string got yanked hard enough. No matter what Bud Upton thought, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination working overtime the other night at Jimmy’s Place when I’d noted that Charlene the Dancing Machine had flinched more than just a hair when I’d dropped Larry White’s name.

Hell, maybe Rick Rod
was
innocent. Maybe Charlene and the phantom Larry White had been on a nasty, recent killing spree. After all, was it really such a stretch to imagine that a topless dancer in a bad mood might be inclined to whack a few weenies?

My brain was smoking with the possibilities. I left it on low burn, hopped in the Toyota and headed to Kroger’s for groceries. I wanted to put a few staples on the shelves at Tara and make a decent dinner for Evelyn and me.

It was once noted by the late and awesome M. F. K. Fisher that there may be a correlation between beef and grief. It seems that there are numerous accounts of folks craving large quantities of meat, especially beef, upon the loss of a loved one. A man has been known to hit the highway after his wife’s funeral and drive feverishly from one steakhouse to next, putting down Porterhouse after Porterhouse until he falls into a sated stupor and sleeps for hours in some strange motel bed.

I was reminded of M. F. K. Fisher’s astute observation as I dropped a couple of mighty huge rib eyes into the Kroger’s shopping cart. Then came charcoal, steak sauce, mushrooms and onions, baking potatoes, salad fixings, butter, sour cream, fresh chives and Graeter’s Chocolate Chip ice cream for dessert. When I had dinner handled, I rustled up some pantry basics and hit the check stand.

Evelyn hadn’t been in the mood to eat much at the church luncheon after Abbott’s memorial service, so she was plenty ready for dinner.

She made us a couple of very cold, boozy Manhattans, and we sipped them under the striped umbrella on her patio while the charcoal got just right for steaks. I could see that recent events had taken their toll on Evelyn, but she seemed ready and willing to aim for a general regrouping and move on.

She agreed with me that no matter how bad things were financially, she really didn’t want to do business with a slimeball and she liked the idea of pushing Larry White to show himself.

“Hey, maybe we’re all wrong,” she said. “Maybe Larry White is some sweet, handsome billionaire who just made up that name because he doesn’t want everyone in the world to know his business.”

“Yeah, and maybe he looks just like Rhett Butler, and he’ll ride into Fogerty on a black stallion, mistake you for Scarlett and
Gone with the Wind
finally gets a happy ending.”

“You could ruin anything.”

I dropped the steaks on the fire and they made a loud sizzle. “You know, Evelyn, you’re really riding the pony now, and I’m very proud of you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, finishing off her Manhattan. “And don’t overcook my steak. I like mine on the rare side of medium rare.” She pushed herself up from the patio table and headed back inside to freshen our Manhattans.

The steaks were cooking nicely and they smelled fantastic. Bunky thought so, too. He was circling the grill making hungry, obnoxious little snorts. Evelyn popped back out the patio door and handed me my drink. Her Manhattans were certainly starting to grow on me.

“Looks like Larry White is going to get the Delozier farm now that Rick Rod needs to raise some cash,” I said, testing the steaks. “You know Rick Rod still claims he’s innocent.”

“Big deal.”

“Well, Amy believes him.”

Evelyn got a sour look on her face. “I hope you’re not even thinking of poking around in police business.”

“What if the cops are wrong? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in history,” not to mention Fogerty history.

“Kimberly,” Evelyn said, sternly. “The police chief is a very bright woman. She didn’t get to be chief for nothing. Maybe you’ve got a problem with authority figures. You ever think of that?” She sipped her Manhattan.

“Of course I have a problem with authority figures, but that’s beside the point.”

I checked the steaks again and they were perfect. I forked them from the grill to the meat platter where they continued to sizzle. Evelyn took the platter from me. “If you keep stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, one of these days somebody’s gonna cut it off,” she said.

A valid warning, no doubt. And it wasn’t like body parts weren’t already turning up missing all around town, but Evelyn’s cautionary prediction came about thirty years too late. Call me lucky, but so far I still had my nose.

After a gratifying dinner Evelyn headed off for her nightly bubble bath and I took my Nat Sherman Hobart for a walk around the Tara estate. The heat of day had ebbed, a breeze was up and it was perfect for an evening stroll. Bunky even tagged along, and I didn’t mind the company. Tara really was a nice piece of land. About twenty acres, part woods, part fields, a pretty little creek running through the property and one huge lake.

Bunky and I followed the short, woodsy trail to Lake Evelyn. I was enjoying my cigar almost as much as Bunky was enjoying sticking his nose in the molehills along the way. The lake looked beautiful. The water rippled slightly in the breeze, and the bugs buzzed low near the water’s surface. Here and there, a fish broke the water, feeding on gnats at sundown. Bunky and I ambled out to the end of dock. I sat down, took off my shoes and dipped my toes in Lake Evelyn.

I wondered what Nancy was doing at that moment. It was probably too late in the day for her to be filing for divorce. I wondered what Amy was doing. It was probably too late for her to be filing for divorce.

“Bunky,” I said, but it appeared that he was only half-listening as a big, green dragonfly had landed on the dock about three inches from his nose. “Bunky,” I repeated myself, “don’t ever get mixed up with a married woman and, whatever you do, don’t get mixed up with
two
married women.” Bunky snapped at the fly. The fly didn’t budge.

It was still a couple hours until Charlene Time at Jimmy’s Place so I kicked back and enjoyed the sights and smells of the oncoming summer evening. “And Bunky,” I said, “no matter what, never get mixed up with two married women
and
a topless dancer.”