Wrong Question, page 14
Ben did not have any customers today who sat at the bar. All the drinking was going on in the dining room. The bar might not even have been opened during the lunch time, but that didn’t matter to me. I didn’t stop by for a drink; not even coffee.
I headed for the counter and sat down, a little downwind from where Ben was vigorously polishing his lacquered counter. The blond wood was going to lose its luster if he kept it up. There was only so much a man with a dishcloth could ask of any polishing agent.
“My subscriber numbers are rising,” I said. The comment was meant to draw him out of his contemplative mood. The counter didn’t need polishing. He was trying to ignore me.
“That’s good,” he said, nodding like a sage.
“Did you call your private eye friend in Sacramento yet?”
He glanced at me and shook his head. “I was waiting for you to give me a go ahead. The last time we talked about it, you were still pretty hesitant to move the situation.”
“Move it where?” I didn’t understand.
“Move it—off a stalemate. You’re caught in a situation that’s controlling you and you don’t know how to get out or how to turn it around such that at least you’re not being victimized.”
“I’m not being victimized,” I bristled at the very notion of being helpless.
“You’re not in control either. I read your last blog post.”
“What did you think?”
“You’re playing with fire. You think it’s burning way out there, so you stand and watch it, fascinated by its flames. In reality, it’s burning all around you. You’re surrounded by a ring of fire and it’s not the kind that’ll let you go.”
“What did you think of my last post?” I repeated, refusing to be sidetracked.
“It’s a real case. There’s nothing fictional about the players either. They’re all real people, victims and killers.”
“There was only one victim. As the case stands, it’s an accident; a tragic accident that was duly investigated and closed as such to everyone’s satisfaction. I haven’t posted a solution yet but when I do tomorrow, you’ll see there’s only one possible killer.”
He put down the dishcloth and turned his back to me. I saw him pour out of the coffee carafe and knew he’d serve me another decent cup of hot coffee.
“The case was closed. It was an accident. The town wanted to keep it that way too. The police had no evidence whatsoever that tied the wife to her husband’s death. Cody Blaine was a fool who ran around the woods, pretending to be a survivalist; he wasn’t even a very good hunter and knew it. His wife built him up and put him on a pedestal then convinced him he had an adoring crowd of followers.”
So far, everything he said I had written in my blog post number four.
“His wife also cleaned his guns,” I said, taking a sip and hissing softly because the coffee was scalding hot.
“No, Bree-Ann. Blaine had his three buddies clean his guns. He was the leader, they were the followers. It was like that in high school and the foursome followed the same pattern into adulthood.”
“All right, Ben. You’re acquainted with a real case that bears similarities….” He didn’t let me finish. He smacked the dish towel down in front of me.
“There’s only one case, Bree-Ann. Always has been. Alver Binnie, otherwise known as Binkie, was the one who loaded Cody’s guns that day before the four of them set out on their great survivalist adventure. Binkie worked at his uncle’s gas station. He barely managed to pump gas, so you figure how well he could have done loading a shotgun. There was an inquest. The judge was satisfied with the findings. Death due to misfortune by all counts an accident. I’d have added a post script that it was also due to stupidity, namely Blaine’s. Only an idiot tries to pry out a live shell stuck inside a shotgun and keeps looking into the business end of the barrel, keeping his finger stuck behind the trigger.”
“I’m sticking with my fictional version, Ben. Blaine’s widow collected two million dollars on his insurance policy. She was the one who loaded her husband’s guns that day,” I said.
“Binkie loaded the guns. He gave a statement implicating no one but himself. The judge didn’t have a problem believing him. That’s why he only gave him six months that he’d already served in jail, and then community service.”
“Binky was coached and bribed into taking the blame. The wife did it,” I said.
“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” he said, picking up the dish towel again.
“I have. That’s why I came to see you. Hold off on calling that friend from Sacramento. I’m not afraid of anything…anymore. I don’t think my subscriber means to harm me; actually, I think he’s trying to help me. I’m going to run one of his scenarios in my next blog post.”
He shrugged as if to say suit yourself and started to walk away then stopped.
“How many?” he asked, only partly turning his head.
“How many what?”
“How many scenarios did your aggressive subscriber give you to date?”
“Four.”
“Did any of them check out?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did any of them prove to be real murder cases, current or historical?”
“He fictionalizes his scenarios—just the way I do.”
“Are you sure?”
I drained the coffee cup, put it down noisily and stood up. “Fine, Ben. I appreciate your vigilance over my safety. They appeared to be real cases but that doesn’t mean I will present them as such. I will fictionalize them.”
“Just like you fictionalized Cody Blaine’s case?”
“I got the information from the local library; the one where you said I should go.”
“I sent you to see for yourself what small towns are like. I hoped you’d feel uncomfortable just walking into a local drug store or a coffee shop. You don’t poke an ant hill in any small town; it just may be hiding a body. I’m not the only one who’d recognize the case as Cody Blaine’s death by misadventure. Most people in Idaho would. You might have read up on it in the library, but it would have been suggested to you in the courthouse. I know how things work around here. Cody Blaine’s widow did not gamble away her husband’s life insurance money. She invested it—cleverly too. She is a very wealthy and influential citizen today; the kind you would certainly not want to cross. But there are also a great many people in Idaho who don’t believe that justice was served. Those are the ones who’ll be signing up as subscribers on your blog.”
I made a face. I didn’t see any harm in choosing or fictionalizing an old case that was closed as an accidental firearm discharge.
“Bree-Ann,” his voice vibrated after me. “Don’t let him manipulate you into something that is not rightfully yours to solve, much less resolve.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I waved my hand, walking away. “Thanks for the coffee. It was great, as usual.”
I spent Saturday morning weighing my conscience. One moment it was light as a feather and the next it was sinking under the weight of heavy deeds. My last blog post gained me more than a thousand subscribers. I actually watched the counter click actively as my membership kept rising. A person’s location wasn’t a requirement of subscribing to my blog; not even a name, just a username, a valid email and a sunny disposition…or at least not a hostile disposition. However, I felt that my new flock of followers all came from my vicinity; or at least from Idaho. If so, there were a lot of people out there who believed that justice was not done when the inquest into Cody Blaine’s death returned the verdict of accidental death by misadventure. Was that good or bad?
I couldn’t decide and when I found myself on the crossroads I turned and backtracked. I went over all the research I’ve done into the case and jotted down a couple of names. Alver Binnie was not a usual name. Maybe that’s why it jumped out of the page when I googled it. Binkie lived two hundred and forty six days after the law patted him on the back and said he’d served his community penance, then Fate intervened. Binkie was sent on a good-will tour—for an oil and gas company that wanted to explore the sentiments of locals in Treasure Valley on a popular topic—fracking, or as its scientific term ran, hydraulic fracturing. He was seen one day glad-handing folks at a community center, passing out leaflets that extolled all the benefits of this popular drilling method, and none of its dangers, and gone the next. A year later, some hunters came across scattered human bones deep inside the Sawtooth National Forest. They bagged them as conscientiously as if they were their own, and brought them to the Ada County Sheriff’s Office. When faced with a prospect of spending his entire annual budget on expensive forensic testing, the Sheriff opted for a less expensive solution to identify the owner of the bones. He sent his deputies along with the hunters who made the find, to search the area more diligently.
That’s how they found the rest of Binkie. He’d have been easy to identify from a tin box where he kept his wallet and several business cards of the oil and gas company’s executives; but they also found pieces of his clothing, a watch and a lower jaw with most of its teeth intact. Dental records were infinitely cheaper to use for identification than forensic magic. Case closed. Death by misadventure or accident. In some parts of Idaho, the two were synonymous.
I read through several witness accounts given to the newspapers by good-hearted folks who worried about Binkie…even though they could have just shot him when he came to the community centre, lobbying on behalf of the oil and gas companies. Binkie was a licensed owner of a handgun. Witnesses remarked seeing it bulge under his bomber jacket. Obviously Binkie was not as naïve as the papers made him out to be. Her knew what the people’s sentiments on fracking would be and wanted to be prepared if there was more than just shouting and poking him with a pitchfork. The Ada County Sheriff sent out four more search parties, looking for Binkie’s gun. None were successful.
I was fairly sure I had my murder number five blog post. I just had to go over the witness’ accounts of Binkie’s movement on his last day and then fictionalize my solution.
But first I needed brain-fuel. I was watching the pot of water on the hot plate, debating whether I should test the temperature with my finger, when my cell phone chimed.
Unknown caller. Whoever it was, he or she was not as important as a gray-frothed brown mess that would form when I poured a spoonful of freeze-dried grounds into boiling water.
The caller refused to believe I was not home. Finally, when a couple of minutes later the bubbles had still not risen to the surface, I picked up the call.
“Put on jeans, wear a warm jacket and come on out,” I heard Ben’s voice.
My curiosity won over my need for caffeine. I opened the door and didn’t see anyone. I started to shut it when it was snatched out of my hand.
“Go get a jacket,” he said, standing there, a helmet weighing down his hand.
“Why?” I never liked being ordered; not even by my parents. Then again, my parents were smart. They always made it sound as if the idea came from me and they were there just for support—in case I changed my mind.
Wordlessly he shook the helmet at me.
“Circus in town?” I put on my best earnest expression.
“We’re not going far but it’s already noon. It’s not supposed to rain today but you never know…go get that jacket,” he shook the helmet again, his voice ringing with urgency.
I obeyed because there was a chance I’d be able to argue with him some more—when I refused to put on the helmet.
“No way,” I said when I came out and he motioned ahead where he parked his motorcycle.
He thrust the helmet at me. “Put it on.”
“No way. I’m not getting on that.” I could just see my father’s shock-stilled eyes if I ever told him I sat on a motorcycle.
“I’ve never crashed a motorcycle,” he said, glaring at me.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Put on the helmet and let’s go. I told you I don’t want to get caught in the rain.”
“Why can’t we take your loaner SUV to go…wherever we’re going?”
“I was going to—in fact that’s just what I planned when I rode over here. Imagine my surprise,” he moved and pointed the helmet at the SUV. The parking lot was not that far away so I could see that the SUV sat a bit askew—on account of having two flat tires.
“When did that happen?” I was dismayed. I had planned to go and see just who ran the hair salon and whether I’d be brave enough to make an appointment.
“When was the last time you used it?”
“Last night, when I came home from CostMart. It drove fine. I’d have felt it if I was getting a flat tire.”
“They’re flat now and we need to go. I’ll fix them later. So put on the helmet and let’s get cracking.”
“Where are we going?” I was not enthusiastic about going anywhere with him.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
“Then I’m not going.”
I saw he was controlling something. I could almost hear him counting to ten.
“Sheriff Burkhart released your car…what was left of it. I had it taken to the scrap yard. I told you I had a friend who owned one. He’s ready to finish compacting it. I thought you might want to see it…one last time.”
“It’s a car, Ben, not a pet. I didn’t own it long anyway. Tell him to crush it all he wants.”
He stared at me as if measuring me for a coffin.
“He also needs to see the ownership,” he finally said when I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching—or speaking.
“Oh well, why didn’t you say so in the first place. Where’s this scrap yard?” I reached for the helmet even as I spoke, fitting it on my head and wondering what happened to the sound. The bulky head gear was super insulated. I barely heard the motorcycle start.
Climbing on to the motorcycle was no problem. Holding on to him was something else. I tried to put my hands on his shoulders. He gripped one and forced it down then wrapped it around his waist. I wondered whether he wanted me to hook my thumbs into his belt. He was babying me; then again, I was reluctant to take a motorcycle ride. He probably thought I was terrified. And I was…just not of the cycle ride.
There were plenty nice, straight roads in Idaho. He managed to avoid them all and found one that would have put any race track to shame. It had curves and hills, and dips and sharp turns; it had everything but straight lines. I held on to him, alternately perturbed and bemused by my predicament. My wind-whipped surroundings were not exactly a blur but sight-seeing from a motorcycle was not my idea of a pleasurable pastime. Instead of anticipating what obstacle would spring in our path when (and if) we rounded the next curve, I pressed my cheek into his back. It reduced my field of vision and a corresponding temptation to pray. I started to rehearse opening lines in my head; the ones I’d use when time came to write something else than a blog about fictional murders. I couldn’t settle on anything. My mind was just too relaxed to come up with a sharp opener. The roaring bike didn’t bother me. The fact I had to keep my helmeted head awkwardly tilted to be able to press my cheek into his back, didn’t bother me either. What bothered me was that my hands didn’t want to stay in the same place. They wanted to move up and down, measuring the motorcyclist whose back provided such solid comfort. I tried to remember what Cyril’s body felt like when I put my arms around him and found the memory too faded to stir any emotions. There were others before Cyril but their names weren’t any longer in my database. It’s what my father used to say when I called home and he didn’t want to ask directly. “So, who’s in your database these days?”
Would Ben too become a casualty of delete or reset? But he wasn’t even in the database yet. Why would I be already thinking this way?
“You’re driven by old habits. Time to let go,” a voice came alive in my head.
I moved my cheek against the leather-clad back and felt a light bobbing motion. I opened my eyes. My surroundings were no longer whipping by. Neither were they green. The bike was coasting to a stop. When it did, I wondered whether we’d lost our way and fallen through a rabbit hole. Any which way I looked, I saw looming piles of scrap metal. A solitary crane with a hook sat still as if it was a watchman, overseeing its rusted paradise. Ben was already taking off his helmet. I hurriedly followed suit.
“Hop off,” he said and took the helmet from my hands. “How was the ride?”
“I think I fell asleep,” I said, not caring how it sounded.
“Dangerous. We’ll have to find a pitcher of coffee for you on our way back. We can’t have you sliding off. Here’s my friend, Justin Wayman Draft, but he likes to be called just Wayman,” he motioned to where I saw a man striding toward us.
“Wayman’s Wrecks,” was the name of the scrap yard business and Ben’s friend seemed to be doing well, business-wise. He could afford four wives, though only one was his legally, on paper. The others were sister-wives. I must have looked blank when Ben told me because he actually took a few seconds to explain that his friend’s curious lifestyle was a choice—embraced by all the adults and their offspring that comprised Justin Wayman Draft’s family.
“He’s a polygamist,” I finally latched on to what he was explaining.
“He’s a devoted husband and father; his wife doesn’t mind sharing him with three other equally understanding women. The rest is nobody’s business.”
“You’re saying that to a journalist?” I mumbled, wondering what other motive Ben had to take me along on this curious excursion. Justin Wayman Draft didn’t need my hand to give him the dead car’s ownership. Ben could have brought it to him just as well.
“There is more to local color than just murders,” Ben said.
So, that was it. He was campaigning for me to give up my murder blog—as if I had a choice in the matter.
