Bargain Hunting (5 page)

“I have serious dish,” I whispered.

Becky placed her pen in the crease of the deposition and gave me her full attention. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t. I’ve got a meeting, but can you do lunch?”

She nodded.

“Will you call Liv and Jane? Maybe we can all meet at Cheesecake Factory. Say one?”

“Works for me.”

“If you get hold of Liv, tell her to call me on the main line and to tell Margaret it’s urgent.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain later,” I promised.

I went to Ellen’s office and found the door ajar. I knocked twice, then grabbed the handle and pushed my way in. “Good morning.”

Ellen was seated behind her desk, the top covered with piles of varying heights. Her very curly red, gray-streaked hair was secured with two pencils and her face was devoid of any makeup. Even fresh faced, she was attractive, in spite of the fact that she did everything possible to hide it. She smiled and nodded her head in the direction of one of the two chairs opposite her desk. “Hi, Finley,” she said as she continued to sign her name to a small stack of papers. “You look tired.”

“Last night was a nightmare,” I mumbled.

“You’re having nightmares?” she asked, giving me her full attention as she slipped her reading glasses up like a headband. “I hope it wasn’t related to the kidnapping.”

I shook my head. “No. No. I’m fine. You?”

She shrugged. “I’m glad that mess is behind me. And thank
you for not broadcasting what you found out. Word travels fast in this place.”

“Don’t I know it,” I agreed as I took my seat, cleared a small space for my file folder, and met the gaze from her bright green eyes. “Lucky for you she got Baker-acted, so there’s no need for your secret to come out in open court.”

“And if she ever gets out of the institution, she’ll face a parole violation.” Ellen waved her hand. “Enough of this. Where do we stand with the Egghardt matter?”

I opened my file and took out the memo and the letter. “This is a recap of my last two meetings with Sleepy and Wanda Jean.” I passed her the paper. “In a nutshell, they’re refusing to relocate.”

“You passed on to them the information that Mrs. Egghardt is willing to allow them to stay at the new location at a rental rate of one dollar per year?”

“Didn’t faze them.”

Ellen stood and went to her coffeepot and poured two cups. Her footfalls were silent thanks to the cork-soled Birkenstocks she wore with her shapeless but colorful muumuu. She let out a long sigh as she passed me my cup and sat back down. “You know what has to be done then, right?”

I handed her the second piece of paper. “I’ve already drawn up this letter.”

Ellen pulled down her readers. I watched quietly as she scanned the letter, then asked, “How do you think they’ll take this?”

“Not well.”

“Have it sent FedEx with a delivery confirmation.”

I drummed my manicured nails on the arm of the chair one time. “I’d like to deliver it in person.”

Ellen’s eyebrows drew taut. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Didn’t you say the man was armed to the gills?”

I nodded. “But I have a rapport. I’d like to take one more shot at getting them to move the trailer to the edge of the property. That letter might be all the ammunition I need.”

“I think his ammunition trumps yours. At least take Liam with you.”

“Will do, so long as he’s available.” And not bleeding or passed out in my house. Why hadn’t Liv called?

“Go ahead, then,” she said as she signed the letter and handed it back to me.

I toted the file back to my office. I’d given one of the interns the letter to copy, one for the file, one for Leona Egghardt, and one for me. I always kept copies so I could fill out my time sheets each week. Vain Victor Dane was a stickler when it came to accounting for billable hours. While his hourly rate was nearly four hundred, mine was a more affordable one seventy-five. And Vain Dane was happiest when he could bill a client, even at my reduced rate.

After dumping the file on my desk, I quickly grabbed the phone and called Liv.

“Hello?”

“Well?” I asked impatiently.

“Sorry, Finley, something came up at work. I’ll go by after lunch.”

He could be dead after lunch. “That’s okay, forget it.” I was already packing up my new Coach briefcase.

“You sound mad,” she said, her tone slightly somber.

I took a breath. “I’m not mad. Really.”

“Are we still on for lunch?” she asked.

“Sure, I should be back by then.”

“Back from where?”

I was digging my keys out of my purse. “I have to go to Indiantown. I’ll stop by my house on the way out there.”

“Your house isn’t on the way. It’s the
opposite
way.”

“That can be our little secret.”

I made it home in record time, praying Liam was safe and that I hadn’t gotten caught by the red-light camera on Okeechobee. I wasn’t sure if I’d slipped through the light while it was still yellow, and the last thing I needed was a traffic fine. I added that to the list of things pissing me off that I ascribed to Liam.

His Mustang wasn’t parked behind the Dumpster. My heart raced. Maybe the police had found him and had the car towed as evidence. Or maybe he’d gone out for a late breakfast. My hand was shaking as I shoved the key in the lock. “Liam?” I called as I entered. “Liam? Are you here?”

I went from room to room, but there was no Liam. Save for the few droplets on the guest room bed, there was no blood. My worry rolled into irritation. If he’d only answered his phone, I wouldn’t have been so panicked.
Selfish bastard
.

After setting the alarm, I left and went to Indiantown. This was my seventh or eighth trip out to the trailer on Collier Road. Each time I got a less than warm welcome.

Collier Lane was nothing more than a dirt road marked by a slanted mailbox with plastic spinners and red reflector dots
on the leaning post. At the base of the post was a faded ceramic thing with a man in a sombrero pulling a cart filled with plastic flowers. Not exactly PC. I made the right and slowly crept up the road, driving in a slalom fashion to avoid the deep potholes. It took about three minutes before a structure came into view.

Calling it a home was a stretch. It was a trailer with a curled and dented aluminum skirt. Twelve dogs came rushing toward my car, some barking, some growling, all scary. There were two cars on the side of the house. Both had weeds jutting up through them. On the opposite side was an older-model truck with as much rust as paint under a crudely constructed carport. Well, it wasn’t a carport so much as it was four metal poles with a worn and torn tarp across the top. There was a kiddy pool in the front yard, flanked by two Barcaloungers with springs popping through the fabric. The sofa on the porch could have been part of a matched set. As I brought my car to a slow stop, Cujo and company continued to bark and growl. When the screen door opened, I saw that Sleepy wasn’t alone. His companion was a really large shotgun.

Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling wrapped in the warmth of his welcome. The armed bozo wore a stained wife-beater shirt and had a potbelly testifying to a serious beer-drinking hobby. What little hair he had was swept over to one side. It was gray and as dull as his washed-out brown eyes.

The dogs continued their attack on my car while the man on the porch cradled the gun like an infant. I could hear more dogs in the distance and wondered if they were the understudies for the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Great. Dogs with a side order of more dogs.

Just behind Sleepy I could make out a shape in the shadows behind the tattered screen door. I was ready to slam my car into reverse and head back the way I’d come when Sleepy placed his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loud enough to be heard over the hum of my car engine.

The pack of matted, mangy dogs instantly raced toward him. The unseen pack in the distance still barked and snarled but even after a scan of my surroundings, I couldn’t seem to locate them. With the visible dogs heeled, I felt comfortable enough to depress the button, opening my window little more than a crack. “Mr. Bollan?” I called politely.

He nodded as the ears on two of the hounds lifted alertly.

“Miz Tanner.”

He rested the gun against the aluminum home and started walking toward me. Wanda Jean stepped out from inside the trailer and followed closely on his heels. She always appeared far friendlier, quite a feat given that what I could see of her gray hair was up in pink foam curlers and her attire consisted of a faded paisley housedress and slippers that scuffed the dusty ground with each step.

I so didn’t want to leave the relative safety of my car. Reluctantly I opened the door, my eyes fixed on the six dogs watching my every move. I have a history with dogs and it isn’t good.

Mr. and Mrs. Bollan walked past the garden of fake flowers and weathered lawn ornaments until we met on neutral ground.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, offering me a sun-leathered hand with dirt and God only knew what else crusted beneath his nails.

I quelled the urge to reach for the Purell in my purse after we briefly shook hands.

“Remember, call me Sleepy and her here Wanda Jean.”

“Miss,” she said as she reached around her husband’s girth.

I reached back and pulled out my briefcase.

I think Sleepy scowled. Hard to tell since he had a serious overbite, so the two yellowed teeth on top made him look like a perplexed beaver. Then he explained, “We still ain’t changed our minds.”

“Sleepy,” Wanda interrupted with a smidge of irritation. “Let’s go inside where we’ll all be more comfortable.”

I didn’t have high hopes for that option, but I followed along and pretended I didn’t smell the stench of sweaty dog and grease.

The smell of the cooking grease was stronger in the trailer, and once I spied the pots on the stove, I figured I’d taken Wanda away from preparing the midday meal. Two flies zipped around the room, occasionally stopping long enough to visit the flour-dusted chicken thighs sitting out on the chipped Formica counter. Some sort of greens that looked more like they belonged on the shoulder of I-95 sat in a colander near the sink. A thick, yellowish cloud of smoke hung in the air.

“Have a seat,” Wanda said, pointing to an animal-hair-covered chair near the window air-conditioning unit that had dripped condensation down the wall. “Let me get you some iced tea.”

Just to be polite, I said thank you even though I would have preferred coffee. At least with a hot beverage I had the possibility of boiling off some cooties. I perched myself on the very
edge of the dirty chair and began taking out the letter Ellen had signed earlier in the day.

After handing me a plastic cup of tea, Wanda and Sleepy sat down, swiveling their seats away from the small television balanced on an old orange crate. A cable box teetered atop the machine. Grabbing a remote off the armrest, Sleepy muted
Judge Judy
.

“It seems we’ve come to an impasse,” I began.

“I don’t know about no impasse, I just know we ain’t leaving here,” Sleepy said, his tone defensive. “Walter and me was in ’Nam together. That’s when he offered to let me live on this land. We got pinned down in Dak To in ’67. Walter got hit, and after I carried him to the aid station, we, well, we was friends from then on.” Sleepy shrugged and scratched his sizable belly as he took a long pull on a can of generic beer.

“There may not have been no blood bond, but we belong here,” Wanda added. “Mr. Walter was always good to us.” She reached behind her on the windowsill and took a framed photograph down and handed it to me. “Raised all eight of our children right here.”

I tried to imagine the trailer holding ten people.

“This is L.D., short for Little Donald.”

I glanced at the picture and “little” would have been the last adjective I’d use to describe the rotund, balding man in the back row.

Wanda continued, “Then Walt, after Walter. Next is Homer, he works as a firefighter in Montana. Lorraine, she’s a nurse, Mary-Claire is raising her own family. This pretty one”—Wanda stopped and stroked the cheek of the girl in the shot—“that’s my Penny.” Wanda’s eyes seemed to inexplicably mist over. “Got us five grandbabies so far. Duane is in the navy, and
last is Mitzi. She’s the baby and we’re real proud of her. Mitzi just finished her third year at the community college.”

“As I’ve said, you have a lovely family,” I fudged as I returned the photo. “I’m not sure what more I can do to explain this, but Walter dying has changed things.”

“I don’t understand. Me and Walter had an arrangement,” Sleepy said, his eyes narrowed to beads.

I sighed heavily and again said, “Mr. Egghardt died without a will, so his niece inherited all of his estate, including this parcel of land.”

Wanda looked at me with bulging, alienesque eyes while sleepy just looked really pissed. Red blotches rose from his neck to his face and I was very,
very
glad the shotgun was out on the porch.

“Walter wouldn’t have wanted to put us out of our home,” Sleepy insisted. “I don’t see how him dying changes that.”

Now I could hear a stereo chorus of barking and growling dogs. Acoustically, I realized some were in the backyard and others were mere feet away with their snouts pressed against the screen door. Obviously they’d picked up on their master’s displeasure. I was growing uneasy, wondering if the animals were plotting to attack.

Again Sleepy whistled and the porch hounds fell silent. The backyard dogs just kept on yelping, growling, and barking. It was hard for me to concentrate, especially when a cat came from out of nowhere and snaked its way around my ankles. It had harsh, brittle hair and a jagged scar down its face, leaving it with only one eye and part of one ear.

Wanda made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Come here, Lucky,” she coaxed.

“Lucky?” I asked as I watched the cat cross the three or four feet separating us. The thing had more scars on its body and its tail was little more than a calico nub.

Wanda smiled. “She was a stray. A few years back she got into the kennels. Of course, we hurried out and got her when we heard the ruckus.”