Another Grave Matter, page 13
part #3 of Volstead Manor Series
The doorbell rang. I wished it were Max, but I knew he was already in Dallas. I scooped up the note and headed downstairs to the entry. Magnolia.
When I opened the door, Magnolia frowned. “Honey, you look like something’s mighty wrong. What is it?”
“Come on in.”
She stepped into the entry, and I handed her Dedra’s note.
After Magnolia read it, she folded it up and handed it back to me. “Lord, have mercy. Why would Dedra do such a thing right after she’d called off the wedding? Guess I’m too late to come over for a ‘let’s talk this over and pray about it’ visit with her.”
“No, this is all my fault.”
“I doubt that could be true.” Magnolia patted my cheek. “Want to come over?”
“No. Thanks, though. I need to check on the crew this morning. They started work on the house. Maybe later.”
“You got it, honey.” Magnolia lumbered through the door and down the porch steps, still mumbling about Dedra and her fickle ways.
After a quick shower, I slipped on some jeans and a T-shirt, ate a bite of breakfast, and then headed out to find Woody G. He and his crew had gotten an early start, and so the cleanup and repairs were well underway. I could at least rest easy in that department.
I stopped by my mailbox, since the bills were probably overflowing by now. Mostly, there was a ton of junk mail. But tucked alongside the flyers and circulars I noticed a long gray envelope. After setting the other mail on the grass, I ripped open the envelope and slid out what looked like an announcement of some kind. For a funeral. I thought of my great grandfather Radburn, but no one would be sending me an announcement. I stared at the front, not really comprehending what I was looking at. The announcement read: In Loving Memory of Bailey Marie Walker. What was that supposed to mean? I unfolded the paper and read the inside:
Bailey Marie Walker
Born June 3, 1978
Died January 21, 2009.
This is my death announcement. And the 21st is tomorrow.
31 – In the Middle of a Nightmare
What a sick joke. I crumpled up the announcement and looked around, my eyes scanning the area for anything that might look awry. Or anyone who might be watching me. In fact, I’d had that creepy crawly feeling for some time now.
I stood in the street, numb and scared. It was now official—I was apparently in the middle of a nightmare, and I couldn’t seem to wake up. I rubbed my neck. My old headaches seemed to be coming back. I’d need to invest in some aspirin.
After sitting down on the curb, I smoothed out the wrinkles in the announcement and stared down at the message again. Had someone really mailed it, or did it just appear to have gone through the postal system? Perhaps it had been slipped into my box while no was paying attention. I stared at the front of the envelope. It had a standard looking stamp, and the postmark looked real. There was no return address, which was to be expected, and unfortunately, my name and address were printed by a machine and not handwritten. To the untrained eye, the envelope didn’t send out any real clues as to who’d sent it. The police might be able to find something, but according to the note I had only one day to live. Only twenty-four hours to figure it out.
Even in the January chill, I broke out in a sweat. Decisions had to be made. I wouldn’t tell Max or Joby. Max would insist I call the police, which would be a good idea, generally speaking. But the more I studied the note the more I thought it seemed too outrageous to be real. Surely it was just a prank.
I opened the announcement again. A faded poem, which I hadn’t noticed before, was typed out on the left-hand side. It read:
The melancholy memory of what has passed away
Will burn warmly once more in the window of your heart
So let us silence the quests that only circles bring
So that we might not into eternity depart.
Besides it being some pretty terrible poetry, at first blush it seemed like bits of a puzzle. The first line was certainly correct. Much of what had happened in the house was a melancholy memory. And then in the second line it mentioned something burning once again. Well, that could be taken as a warning that someone was planning another fire.
I rubbed the paper over my knee, smoothing out more of the creases. The next line was about silencing the quest that only circles bring. That seemed clear enough. Somebody wanted me to stop my quest, which was to prove the fire didn’t come from faulty wiring. The person was right about the circles. I did indeed feel as though I were going around and around. With the last line, though, about departing into eternity, it appeared someone out there would be more than happy to put an end to my circles if I didn’t comply with their poetic command.
Somebody knew I was looking for evidence. They could have been in the house when I was snooping around. Perhaps Zola saw me cut the wires of the fuse box and then decided to leave it behind. She might want to put a stop to my quest. So, Zola Fowler was definitely looking guilty—along with so many others, though. I was beginning to lose track.
Through my muddy thoughts and budding anger, I could hear the sweet symphony of Woody’s men at work. Such an innocent sound juxtaposed with my fears. Ahh. The noise of people doing an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wages. If the century had been different, it could have been Jesus up on that roof. He, too, had been a part of the carpentry business, and He, too, had been surrounded by doers of evil. So He understood my indecision, my worries, my plight.
Ever since I’d moved into the neighborhood I’d felt that even though I’d made the best of friends, I was also encircled by people who were corrupt. I’d hoped to move on, to get closer to the end. Not my end, but an end to all the secrets. And the deception. And the danger. Okay, Lord, we’ll go one more round together. But after that, I’m out of here. I’ll sell Volstead Manor and let somebody else solve the crimes.
I glanced at the announcement again—at the timetable in particular. If the note was to be believed then doomsday was near. But what if I solved the mystery before that time? Found out who was after me and stopped them? Was that playing their bizarre game by the rules? I wasn’t particularly in the mood for fair-mindedness.
I took Dedra’s note out of my pocket and placed it side by side with the announcement. Both papers were made of the same gray color and texture. Of course, that had to be a coincidence, since that kind of paper was common at office supply stores. But oddly, the date for Dedra’s return from her brief honeymoon was the same day of my predicted death. Saturday. Tomorrow. Fascinating, but meaningless. The guilt factor would keep me from going down that road even an inch.
Suddenly, something familiar teased my nostrils—the odor of fireworks. I looked around and saw nothing suspicious. But I knew it was that kid again. Somewhere out there he was still shooting off leftover firecrackers from his New Year’s Eve stash. And firing them illegally. Life had just pushed me one step beyond the end of my wits. If I ever saw that kid again, I’d turn him in to the cops, and I’d do it with a smile on my face and with a celebratory spirit.
I retrieved my mail and rose from the curb, feeling heartier but still sensitive to my burden. I knew God was helping me carry the weight, but for some reason I still felt a need to shoulder some of it. He must tire of my lack of faith.
When I glanced over at Magnolia’s house, I noticed a familiar face. It was the lady who had a fear of all things gothic. Penelope Herring. Odd name. She stomped out of Magnolia’s house with a clipboard and a huff. I wondered what that was all about. Had she asked Magnolia to sign some kind of petition against me and my house? Maybe something to force me to change the façade? There was no end to the array of people trying to hunt me down and torment me. I felt like the writers of Psalms.
I wanted to hide so she wouldn’t see me, but there wasn’t any shrubbery nearby. Fortunately, the woman was so intent on getting into her car and backing out, that she never looked my way. That was my first blessing of the day.
Still on the street, I dragged myself toward Dedra’s house with my mail and my announcement tucked under my arm.
A black stretch limo came down the street and pulled up right in front of me. My shoulders sagged. My stomach went sour. I guess it might play out like this—the man in the limo would get out, ask me if I were Bailey Walker, and then after I nodded, he’d blow me away with a semiautomatic handgun.
32 – Fitted for an Orange Jumpsuit
I released a mirthless chuckle, but then a man did get out of the limo and approach me. Thank God he didn’t have a gun. At least none that I could see.
“Hi,” the stranger said. “Do you remember me?”
It’s the chauffeur who looks like Groucho Marx. “Yes, I do.” I felt a little safer, especially since he looked official in his uniform, but I still stepped back. I didn’t feel like cozying-up with strangers at the moment. “You were the driver who brought the count to my house.”
“Yeah. Well, the count paid by check, that check bounced, and then he skipped town. Wondered if you knew where I could find him, since he’s a relative of yours.”
“He disappeared? What do you mean?”
“I called him and his phone was disconnected. Went by his house, and the lady next door said he no longer lived there.” The driver took his hat off and scratched his head.
“Really?” Oh, no. The count. Our appointment. I looked at my watch. I’d forgotten to meet him.
“What’s wrong?” He took a step towards me.
“I saw the count yesterday afternoon. And I’d forgotten that I was supposed to meet him at seven this morning at a coffee shop. He was going to give me something.”
“Hope it wasn’t a check.” He laughed.
Funny guy. “No, it wasn’t a check.” I wasn’t sure how much to share with Groucho.
“Well, if he skipped town, he wouldn’t have shown up anyway. Right?”
“True.”
The man scrubbed his knuckles against each other. “Boy, I’ve seen a lot of crazy things in my line of work. And I’ve met a lot of strange people, but he was a real doozie just now. Here he’s got a fancy title and fancy clothes, and you shoulda seen his house. What a dump, let me tell you. Old couch on the porch, garbage everywhere. Maybe he got evicted. Don’t know.”
Now that was a fascinating morsel of info. So, the count was just pretending to be rich. What else had he pretended about, and what else was he up to? “But I don’t understand something. Why did the condition of his house surprise you? Wouldn’t you have seen it when you picked him up that day?”
The driver pointed to his head. “Clever rascal, this old guy. He had me pick him up and drop him off at a café. If I’d seen his house that day I woulda had him pay upfront, cash only.”
“So he wasn’t really rich after all,” I said, mumbling out loud to myself, still trying to take it all in.
“Unless he was one of those oddball guys who hides his money and lives like dirt. But if he’s a relative of yours, why don’t you know all this stuff about him?”
Guess I’d have to share a little of my story. “He’s not a relative. He would have been my grandfather had he married my grandmother, but the wedding never happened. That is if I can even believe anything he says.”
“Boy, and I thought my aunt Tildie was a liar.” He chuckled.
“And he wasn’t a count in the traditional sense. He bought the title on the Internet.”
“No kiddin’? You can do that? Goes to show ya, you can buy anything online these days.” He scratched his head again and then put his cap back on.
“By the way, I’m curious. Did the count say anything to you about me?”
“Not sure. Wait a minute.” The driver tapped his chin. “He was mumbling something about you.”
This time I took a step towards him. “What was it?”
“Only got bits of it. Something about getting his due, and then he said the word “vol”…something…maybe “stead.” Doesn’t make any sense. You seem like a decent lady. Hope he hasn’t ripped you off too.”
“No, not yet anyway.” I tightened my fingers around my wad of mail until they hurt. “But if you give me his address, I’ll ask around and try to find him.”
He frowned. “Why would you do that. . .if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I have a reason to see the count again too. He doesn’t owe me money, but he does owe me a letter. . .and an explanation.” And I might present him with a little funeral announcement just to see his reaction.
The driver pulled out a card, scribbled on it with a pen, and then handed it to me. “That’s his address. If you find him, tell him he’d better call me or mail me the money.” He looked me over and furrowed his brows. “Listen, that neighborhood is kinda rough. Maybe you shouldn’t go at—”
I put up my hand. “I’ll be fine.” Of course, I really didn’t know if I’d be fine, but I felt a strong need to follow the trail anyway.
After that note of warning, the driver waved good-bye and drove off in his limo. I didn’t even know his name. I turned his card over to the front. Ned Terrell.
I shivered from the sudden change in the wind. The weather people had talked about a blue norther coming. Seemed to reflect my mood. Just as I was nailing down the possibilities of either Zola or Jason as good candidates for prison, the count once again seemed to be fitting himself for an orange jumpsuit. According to his mumblings, he’d felt Volstead Manor was his. I thought as much. But burning down my house would accomplish nothing. Unless all he was after was a settling of scores. You’d think someone that hard up financially would have more important things to do with their time—like work.
Setting my sights back on Dedra’s house, I plodded up the street. Another limo, a white one this time, pulled up next to Magnolia’s house and parked. Now what was the likelihood of two limos on our street in one day? A man got out that I recognized—Max’s good friend, Jarrett—the man who’d driven us on one of our dates. Now there was a tender sight in the middle of a ghastly day.
I remembered Max mentioning that Jarrett had worked up the courage to ask Magnolia out. I guess he followed through on that pledge, and she’d said yes. I smiled. Magnolia answered her door. She was dressed as I’d never seen her before. Blue dress and purse, and even a blue hat. She’d been transformed into a magnificent bluebird. I would have waved, but they were so caught up in each other, I didn’t want to break the spell.
Someday I’d have to ask Magnolia about Mrs. Herring and her goofy clipboard, but now wasn’t the time. Magnolia was always thinking of everyone but herself. It was her time. Her year to fall in love. You go, Magnolia.
Once back at Dedra’s house, I smacked down my mail and my funeral announcement on the desk in the study, checked the Internet for the count’s address, and printed off a map. After grabbing a protein bar and a banana to eat on the way, I took off in my SUV to find the now illusive Count Maroni. All I had was his former address, but if he’d angered enough of his neighbors, I had a feeling somebody would be willing to talk.
After a fifteen-minute drive, I landed in a community that could easily be described as inhospitable. There were guys milling around—guys who didn’t look like they were on their way to visit their grannies. They had shaved heads, plenty of ink and piercings, and they all seemed to have a “tude.” Gangbangers came to mind. I knew Houston had them, but I wasn’t in the mood to meet any of them on a social basis. At least not without a police escort.
In fact, I was beginning to wonder what was so important about my little quest. Maybe I’d taken the sleuthing thing too far. Knowing that paranoia was settling in, I power-locked my doors and hyper-focused on the street names. With another glance down at my map I could see that I was about to hit the right street. And there it was. I turned the corner, and the count’s house was a mere two doors down.
I pulled to a slow stop as I looked around. The street appeared empty of angry youth. That was a positive. I cut the engine and got out. As I kept scanning my surroundings for any sign of trouble, I skulked up to the house. The limo driver hadn’t exaggerated—the count’s house wasn’t just a dump—the place needed to be condemned, bulldozed, and then the ground needed to be fumigated for good measure. I stepped up on the porch, waited to fall through, but didn’t, so I knocked on the door. If the count had fled, he obviously wouldn’t be at home, but I thought knocking would be a good start.
After a few impatient moments, I gave up, and then looked to my left. Suddenly a woman eased her screen door open and appeared on her porch—a woman wearing a flannel nightgown, a cowboy hat, and a demeanor like she could chew asphalt.
“Hi there,” I said.
The woman didn’t have a greeting for me, but she did continue to give me a rigorous glare. Made me think of concentrated drain-cleaner.
“The man who lived here,” I began, “do you know where he went?”
“Who wants to know?” She picked up a bucket and heaved some brown liquid off the side of the porch.
I didn’t even want to know what that fluid was. “I’m Bailey Walker.” Should I say I’m a friend? “I’m an acquaintance of his.”
“Good thing you didn’t say friend, ’cause then I woulda knowed you were a liar. Lou doesn’t have any friends. Old coot.”
“Why not? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Well, ’cause he’s a liar and a thief.” The woman yelled the last word. It echoed through the neighborhood.
I shriveled. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“What fer?”
“I need to find him.” An argument broke out down the street that was loud enough to make me cringe. The woman didn’t seem to notice the hollering.
“He owes me three months’ rent, and then he ran off. That’s my porch you’re standing on, missy.” The woman’s face softened a bit. “Sorry, I can’t hep ya. If I’d knowed where he was, I woulda sent somebody after him myself.”
“That makes sense.” I think I’d overstayed my welcome. “Thanks.” I stepped down off the porch, and moseyed toward my car.
