The Price of Beauty in Strawberry Land (5 page)

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
At the end of Collier Lane, I found the mailbox – although I’m not sure it had seen mail in quite some time.
 
It was barely standing and leaning seriously to the left.

I followed the driveway for only a few hundred yards before coming upon a small group of trees and a yellow house trailer parked underneath.
 
There were no visible vehicles, so I was wondering if maybe I was on a wild goose chase – or in this case – a wild duck chase.

 
 
 
 
As I opened the car door - a voice from somewhere behind me said, “Put your hands where I can see them and don’t turn around.”

Of course I immediately turned around!
 
Bad idea.

He stuck the double barreled shotgun in my stomach and said quietly, “Mister, either you don’t hear well or are just looking to get your insides spread all over this thing you call a car.”

“Listen, my name is Carson Reno – I am a private investigator from Memphis.
 
I need to talk with Watson Clark regarding a case I am working on.
 
Someone who works at the Commercial Appeal gave me directions to this place.
 
For reasons I don’t understand, that person would not identify themselves.
 
Look, there is no way I could have found this place without directions – but apparently there has been a mistake.
 
So, if you will remove that shotgun from my belly, I’ll just get into my car and forget we ever had this conversation. OK?”

He backed off. “I guess that would have been my friend Bernie.
 
Bernie Taylor. Bernie and I worked together at the paper – he would have been the one who gave you directions. No one else could have.”

“Are you Watson Clark?” I already knew the answer.

“Yes. Now, you want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Is there some place we can talk – without the shotgun?” I was hoping.

“Yes, let’s go inside.”

Considering the outside appearance, the inside of his trailer was not what I expected.
 
It was well furnished and well kept.
 
I got the feeling of a woman’s presence – not sure how I could tell, but it was just too well kept for a man living alone.

I began by telling Watson my story and the reasons I wanted to talk with him.
 
He sat listening and chain smoking Camels - with no emotion or questions.

“So Watson, I am here to gather information – not here specifically to help you. You haven’t asked for help – your friend Bernie did.”

“I’m not asking now.
 
I’ll tell you my story and then you can decide if you can – or even want to help.” He lit another unfiltered Camel and began his story.

This property and trailer belonged to his wife’s family – Amos and Mary Duncan of Newport, Arkansas.
 
He and his wife, Amy, spent as much time as possible at her parents’ home in Newport.
 
But they had limited house space, so the majority of the time they stayed here at the trailer. His wife was currently in Newport and expected to return later that afternoon.

Prior to the death of Barry Lassiter, Watson had been working an assignment story on the city/county consolidation.
 
His digging into the story lines had not taken him straight to Brian Jeffer’s mayor’s office – as he had expected. Where it did take him was to Steve Carrollton’s office on Beale Street.
 
It seemed a lot of money was changing hands in order to have this consolidation go the way Steve Carrollton wanted – which was no consolidation at all.
 
The politicians he owned – those he had bought with Memphis Mafia money, supported his interests.
 
Brian Jeffers was evidently one of these.

Barry Lassiter had supplied much of this information to Watson.
 
Barry and Brian Jeffers were at odds about most everything and Barry saw him as a way to get Brian out of office and, hopefully, in jail. Watson and Barry had put together a significant file on corruption surrounding the mayor’s office and had plans to deliver the file to the DA. The day before that delivery, Barry took his fall from the 100 North Main building.
 
Watson had also been at that cocktail party, but didn’t witness the fall.
 
He did, however, know that Barry was not drunk and this fall was no accident.
 
The facts stated that no one had witnessed the fall, but just before going over the rail, he had been in heated discussions with both Brian and Steve Carrollton – on the balcony.
 
He had last seen Barry Lassiter with two of Steve Carrollton’s associates – who he did not know at that time.

Watson said he had made a preliminary report on the incident but omitted many of the details.
 
His concern was the investigation, or lack of investigation, by Chuck Hutchinson’s police department – and then his concerns and fears got worse.
 
He admitted he was just too afraid to take his file to the DA – and decided to wait until things cooled.
 
They didn’t.

Bubba Knight and Bobby James showed up at his house one night after midnight.
 
They beat him up, knocked around his wife and ransacked their house.
 
They were looking for the file and they found it.
 
Bubba and Bobby also left him with the message that if another copy of this file existed – it would be used in his obituary.
 
Watson and Amy had gotten the message.
 
They packed up and slipped out of town in the middle of the night.

I had questions.

“Does another copy of this file really exist?”

“Yes, but I wish it didn’t.”
 
I don’t think he wanted to tell me that.

“Okay, we’ll come back to that later.
 
Where does Darlene Lassiter fit into this story?”

“I’m not sure. But I do know she shed very few tears at the funeral. I figure she had plans to follow the money and stay as close to Brian as possible – I understand she has done just that – right?”

“Possibly. Watson, how do I get my hands on that file?”

“You don’t, and if I ever get my hands on it again, it won’t exist!
 
We have made ourselves comfortable here – or at least as comfortable as we can be. I don’t intend for my wife or myself to have an unfortunate accident – do you understand?”

“I do understand.
 
But if I can find you a way out of this and a way to get your lives back to normal – without fear from any of the Mafia hoods – would you turn the file over to me and the DA?”

“I’ll think about it.
 
Now, I need you to leave.
 
My wife will be home soon and I don’t want her to know you were here.
 
She believes no one can find us here, and I would just as soon keep her believing that.”

“Okay,” I said headed to the front door. “Here’s my card and phone number.
 
Please call me if anything else comes to mind or if anybody else tries to contact you.
 
Meanwhile, I have some ideas that just might lead to a solution and find a way to get you and Amy back where you belong.”

“Right now we belong here,” he said frankly. “Please leave and lose those driving directions – understand?”

“Understood,” I said over my shoulder and getting back in the Ford.

I rolled down my windows and put the nose of the Ford into the wind.
 
It was a nice fall day, and I would enjoy the drive back to Memphis.

I had already reached Interstate 55 by the time Amy arrived back at the Amos Duncan trailer.
 
She had brought a pot roast from her mothers and a fresh carton of Camels for Watson – he was a chain smoker.

The bomb had been placed behind the trailer and strategically close to the propane tanks that furnished cooking fuel and heat.
 
What the bomb didn’t destroy, the fire did.
 
When someone finally discovered the tragedy, nothing remained but scorched ground and smoldering metal where the Amos Duncan trailer had once been. The fire had gotten hot enough to burn Amy’s car and most of the trees in the area.
 
With no neighbors, it would be two days before anyone missed Amy and Watson – and only then because Amy had not called her parents as promised.
 

~

M
y drive back to Memphis went quickly. My first thought was to call Monica, but it was too early in the investigation for that.
 
I think I’ll concentrate on Mr. Brian Jeffers and see what he has been up to since leaving office.
 
I knew Steve Carrollton was in jail, but things like that usually had little effect on underworld activity.
 
Either they ran it from jail or someone else quickly took their place.
 
I also had the feeling that little had changed with the changing of the name on the mayor’s office door.

The Manhattan Club

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
M
arcie had already left when I finally got back to my office. She had a note posted where I COULD not miss it.
 

Call Elizabeth Teague at 901-478-2233.

It was a Memphis number, so I knew that Elizabeth Teague must be back in town. She had an apartment in Germantown, and despite placing many calls to her; we had not spoken in several weeks.

Elizabeth Teague is the kind of woman every man needed to know - at least once in his life. Taller than most, she had those kind of legs that just keep going and going. Unlike most women I meet, she had class – sometimes to her detriment, but she had class. Slim, blonde, well put together and a personality that gave your hormones an electric shock.
 
Liz worked for Southern Airways and was, literally, a jet setter – traveling across and around the world with her work.

I met Elizabeth Teague while working on a “Murder in Humboldt’
 
 
She and Mary Ellen Maxwell (the lady who had invited me to the party) were the closest of friends.
 
Both these ladies lived and operated at a level much above Carson Reno – but I felt honored to call both of them friends.

Liz and I had not really spoken since my last visit to Humboldt and I assumed her calling was related to the upcoming party.
 
I gave her a call.

She answered on the second ring. “Hello, this is Liz.”

“Hello, this is Carson.
 
Do I have a real person or is this a recording?”

“Sweetheart, you have the real thing. Great to hear from you – thanks for calling me back.”

“What can I do for you?
 
You have a boyfriend that needs some ‘go-away’ muscle work, or are you calling to get an update on how the lower class lives?”

“Neither, smart-ass.
 
I wanted to know if you were going to make Mary Ellen’s party,” she snapped.

“Yep.
 
I have plans to be in Humboldt tomorrow evening and available for the gala event the next day.
 
You are going – I assume?”

“Absolutely, I would not miss it.
 
I need to remind you that a tuxedo is required.
 
I’m sure yours is in the cleaners, so you might want to dust it off, okay?”

“Done that – I am one prepared detective.” I’m sure she did not really believe that.

“Great.
 
I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Are you available for a drink and catch-up conversation tonight?” She asked.