The Price of Beauty in Strawberry Land (4 page)

“I never knew and, as I have always said, you amaze me.” I was honest.

“Please help Monica if you can,” Rita said squeezing my hand. “She is in more trouble than she probably revealed to you. It’s political, and unless she gets rid of Brian, it will probably spill over to her personally.”

“Other than what you have said and what she told me, is there anything that I should know before I go kicking over political cans?”

“No.
 
But I promise to stay in touch with her and feed any information back to you.
 
That okay?”

“Certainly, and you know it is.
 
I’m going to start looking into the death of Barry Lassiter and see where that takes me.
 
Is that a good idea?” I asked Rita.

“Excellent idea.
 
I’ve got to relieve Ruthie.
 
I’ll watch over you and talk with you later!” She turned to leave and then came back.

“You asked me about my ‘beauty training school’.
 
Did you know I once had an ex Humboldt Strawberry Princess enrolled?”

“No, but I don’t spend a lot time in Humboldt.
 
Who was it?”

“Charlotte Luckey.
 
She had promise, but spent too much time chasing the men – if you know what I mean?”

“I do, but I don’t remember the name, and that’s not unusual.”

“Gotta go.
 
See you later.”
 
She went back to work.

~

T
he crowd was dull and I didn’t see any potential clients.
 
I made my way back to the
‘Down Under’
and finished the evening with Andy.
 
He had his new jukebox in operation and playing ‘Little Eva’ singing ‘The Loco-Motion’ over and over and over again.

I only had one Jack and Coke – then I took the elevator home. The bed felt good.

Watson Clark

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I
stopped by the Commercial Appeal building on my way into the office. The receptionist informed me that Watson Clark no longer worked for the paper.
 
Evidently, he had resigned unexpectedly a few weeks after the Barry Lassiter incident.
 
I guess that is the reason I couldn’t locate any additional details to match with his initial reporting of the death.

She had no idea where I could locate Watson, but offered to ask around among his former close friends. I left her my card and asked her, or anyone, to call me if they knew how I might locate him.
 
She seemed nice and agreed to call if she found out anything.

~

M
ason Brown was the first person I met as I entered the Peabody lobby.

“Mason, I understand you had some excitement around here yesterday.”

“Yes sir Mr. Reno – we certainly did. That is the most excitement these ducks have had since that hen laid her eggs in one of the potted plants.”

“Huh?” I frowned.

“Yep, she laid her eggs in one of the lobby planters. I tried every way I knew to get that hen off her nest – she wouldn’t budge.
 
That duck was not leaving those eggs.”

“Well sir, I put that potted plant, along with the hen and her eggs on the elevator every evening and took it to the roof.
 
Next morning, I’d put them back on the elevator and bring them back to lobby.
 
I did that for two weeks until she finally hatched those eggs.
 
Mr. Reno, that was the most stubborn duck I had ever dealt with!”

“Mason, I know there is a lesson to be learned about women somewhere in that story – there must be,” I laughed.”

As I turned to head toward Marcie’s switchboard Mason yelled, “Mr. Reno – we were cleaning your office this morning and your rubber plant is missing.
 
What happened to it?”

“It died – lack of water.” It seems everybody was concerned about my rubber plant.
 
Mason just looked at me and scratched his thin gray hair.

When Marcie finished the call she was on I asked
 
“Any messages?”

“No. Here is your mail and I want you to know that I am very very mad at you.”

“Why?
 
What did I do?” I asked.

“If you needed your plant watered, why didn’t you ask?
 
You just let it die and I would have been happy to have taken care of it for you,” she was serious!

I just stood there. What could I say?

“And Carson, you will need a tux for this event in Humboldt.
 
I’m sure yours is ‘in the cleaners’, so walk on over to Lee’s and have him fit one for you. You’ve only got a couple of days.”

“A tuxedo? You’re kidding – right?”

“I am not kidding.
 
So scoot yourself over there – it won’t take him long.”

Lee was a tailor and owned a tuxedo and bridal shop located just off the lobby. Fortunately, I’m a common size and Lee said he could have it ready for me tomorrow.
 
He would leave it in my office.

I am not a tuxedo guy.
 
But one thing was certain, probably no one would recognize me at the party.
 
Guess that was good – I think.

~

T
oday’s mail was uninteresting.
 
A few window envelopes and some advertisement flyers about the upcoming Cotton Carnival.
 
Just as I was tossing them in the trash – the phone rang.
 
It was Marcie.

“I have a call for you, but they won’t give me a name,” she said.

“Okay, put it through,” I told her quickly.

I answered, “Hello, this is Carson Reno.
 
How may I help you?”

A male voice that sounded shaky and a couple of octaves above normal spoke, “Are you Carson Reno the private detective?”

“Yes, and to whom am I speaking?”

“Never mind who this is.
 
Are you the guy looking for Watson Clark?” he asked.

“I’m the Carson Reno that stopped by the Commercial Appeal office this morning and asked for Watson Clark – if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, I guess that is what I mean. Listen, Watson and I were/are good friends. We worked together for over 10 years and I’m really concerned about him,” he said nervously.

“Concerned in what way?” This was getting interesting.

“Let’s just say concerned.
 
Can you help him?”

“First, I would need to find him and second, I would need to know what kind of help he needed.
 
You are talking, but you’re not saying much.”

“I know, but I don’t want to get him in trouble.”

This conversation was going in circles. “Look, whoever you are.
 
First, you want to know if I can help him and then you say you don’t want to get him in trouble. You tell me where I can find Watson Clark or I’m hanging up. Okay?”

“I’ll have to draw you a map,” he said with his shaky voice.

“A map!
 
Can’t you just give me an address or phone number?”
 
This was getting stranger by the minute.

“I don’t know the address and he ain’t got a phone.
 
You want the map or not?”

“Okay, a map it will be.
 
Where can I meet you?”

“You can’t.
 
I’ll have someone drop the map off at your office.”

“When?” I asked.

“Within the hour,” he said quickly.

Before I could again ask him his name – he hung up.

I immediately called Marcie.

“Marcie, within the hour, someone will be delivering a map for me.
 
When they get here, ring me and stall them – somehow.
 
I need to talk with the person delivering the map.
 
Okay?”

“A map?
 
What kind of a map?
 
Maybe buried treasure?” she giggled.

“I don’t know,” I said quickly. “Just stall them if you can, please.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” she snapped back.

~

F
ifteen minutes later Marcie called. “A guy is here with an envelope and he says he needs to deliver it to you personally.”

“Super.
 
I’ll be right there.”

My disappointment was evident quickly.
 
The guy with the envelope was a messenger – one of many who move documents quickly around the downtown area – mostly by bicycle.

“Where did you pick up this envelope?” I asked the young, short man who was wearing shorts and a funny hat.

“At the Commercial Appeal
 
– reception desk.
 
They called dispatch and placed an order for a pick-up with delivery to Carson Reno at the Peabody Hotel.
 
Are you Carson Reno?”

I responded with a ‘yes’ and handed him my business card along with a dollar tip.
 
He left with a ‘thank-you’.
 
My plan for identifying the mysterious caller hadn’t worked.

~

B
ack in my office I opened the brown 8 ½ by 11 envelope.
 
Inside was a smaller envelope, also with my name printed on the front.

I opened the smaller envelope. Inside I didn’t find a map, but printed driving instructions.
 
It read:

West Memphis to Interstate 55 North.
 
Take the Turrell exit and drive West on Hwy. 63 through Marked Tree. Then take Hwy. 14 West toward Harrisburg.
 
Drive 4 miles and turn left – south on State Rd 373. Drive one mile then turn left – east on Buckhorn, a dirt road.
 
Drive ½ mile and then turn right – south on Collier Lane, a dirt road.
 
Follow Collier Lane until it dead ends. There you will find a dirt driveway and a mailbox that reads Amos Duncan.
 
Follow the driveway until you come to a yellow house trailer.

That was it?
 
No indication of what or who I would find at the Amos Duncan residence?
 
I’m thinking, “this is crazy.”

But I guess I’m just crazy enough to follow these idiot directions – or certainly curious enough anyway.
 
Besides, it was a nice day for a drive in the Arkansas countryside.

~

I
still drive a 56 Ford – left over from college.
 
It’s black, 4 doors, V8, manual transmission and nothing fancy.
 
It is however, very functional and very dependable – not to mention it is built like a tank. It is also very fast – fast enough to get you into trouble quickly and, hopefully, fast enough to get you out of trouble just as quickly.

 
I put my old Ford on the road, driving across the Mississippi River Bridge, through West Memphis and then north on Interstate 55. It really was a nice day for a drive, and once you leave the populated area of West Memphis, there wasn’t much to look at but flatland, rice fields and wild ducks.

As I’m driving, I’m wondering what would make a man leave a home and job to live in a trailer located down some dirt road in rural Arkansas?
 
Obviously, he was hiding from something or someone and it had to be serious enough to prompt such a radical transition.
 
Guess I would just have to wait and ask whomever I found at the Amos Duncan residence.

The directions were accurate. As I turned off the pavement at Buckhorn, I was amazed at just how rural this location was.
 
No houses, that I saw, and only a few scattered mailboxes and no driveways – just rice and soybean fields for as far as you could see.