Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist (7 page)

Chapter 9

Betty Jenkins was furious. Heidi’s rant earlier that day had been uncalled for and simply rude. If she hadn’t needed the wages Heidi paid her, she would have quit on the spot. Instead though, she had remained calm and composed, agreed with her employer that the sheets did smell and the den was dusty. Then, she had driven to the grocery store to purchase the ingredients required to make fried chicken.

As she lay in her bed, though exhausted from caring for the ungrateful Heidi, Betty could not fall asleep. Betty was working too hard, she knew that. Her doctor had advised her to cut down on her hours and spend more time doing things she enjoyed. He had told her she needed to relax and had offered her medication to ease her stress, most of which lately was caused by Heidi, and something to help her sleep. However, Betty had refused.

As she had pulled into the grocery store’s parking lot that afternoon, the same parking lot where she had accidentally killed Billy Malphrus over three years ago, she sighed heavily. She enjoyed driving, despite the accident, and the previous week she had asked Heidi if she could use her car to drive to Washington, to visit her son’s grave at Arlington Cemetery. Heidi had refused, telling Betty that it was ‘not convenient.’ What ‘not convenient’ actually meant was not clear to Betty. Heidi no longer drove and the car continued to sit idle in the driveway. Of course Betty would have paid for the gasoline, but Heidi had been adamant; it was simply ‘not convenient.’ Betty had therefore taken the bus. A twenty-eight hour round trip, just to spend two hours at her son’s graveside and to lay some flowers at his headstone. Betty closed her eyes, remembering that it had been worth the bus ride though. It always was--it was worth anything to spend time with Andy.

* * * * *

Betty was tired, hungry, and thirsty. The journey had been uncomfortable and long, but as always, she did not consider it a chore. After arriving at the bus station, she had purchased a sandwich and a much-needed bottle of water. She then took the metro to Arlington Cemetery. As she had stood by her son’s grave, she felt sadness but was proud, proud of Andy, his bravery, and all his achievements. She replaced the wilted flowers she had set at his headstone on her previous visit six months ago, with flowers she had brought with her from Savannah, hand-picked from her own garden. Then, she stood silently in thought.

Andy had been an excellent student, top of his classes in high school and Betty had been so proud of her son when he had graduated from college. He could have chosen to go to medical school or even law school, or he could have chosen a career on Wall Street. The world had been his oyster. Good looking, always impeccably dressed, and possessed with the good manners that had been installed into him by his mother at a young age, Andy Jenkins could have been and done anything he wanted.

Betty had been proudest though on the day her son had graduated from the Air Force Academy in Colorado. He was an officer as well as a gentleman. Andy had chosen to join the military because he wanted to serve his country, the country he loved and the country that had given him the opportunity to succeed educationally. That sunny day in 1986 had been best day of Betty’s life. Andy had proudly introduced his mother to his fellow graduates and his training officers. He had told them all that she had raised him alone, working three jobs just to pay the rent and to keep them fed and clothed. Second Lieutenant Andrew Jenkins was just as proud of his mother as she was of him.

Still, Betty had reservations about his career. Her son was now a fighter pilot in the Air Force. He had assured his mother that he would be fine, that any type of conflict that would endanger him was highly unlikely. So Betty had stood by proudly, as her son had climbed the ranks. This would be his career, and one day, he could even make General. Andy had also met a girl and there was talk of marriage. Betty had relished the thought of one day becoming a grandmother. Andy was destined to have a great life.

Her thoughts and memories, while stood by her son’s grave, had been interrupted, by a rather well-dressed man who had passed by her, he too holding flowers. Probably she thought, the father of another hero killed serving his country.

“Your son?” he had asked politely.

“Yes,” she had replied, “Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Carl Jenkins, killed in 1991, shot down over the Kuwaiti desert. It only seems like yesterday,” she said solemnly.

“Well,” said the stranger “My condolences, but I am grateful to your son for his sacrifice and his service. You have a good day, ma’am,” he said and gave Betty a kind smile, a smile that momentarily lifted her spirits, before heading to graveside he was visiting. It was people like him that made Betty realize her son had not died in vain. He was a hero and people knew it. He would never be forgotten.

Peter Ferguson visited Ignatius Jackson’s grave at least twice a month. He always brought flowers, and just lately, he had found himself talking to his dead friend as if he was alive and Ignatius could hear him. Today would be no different. After bidding good day to the woman mourning her son, he made his way to Ignatius.

“Well, my old friend, I have to say I still miss you,” he said, and just as Betty Jenkins had done, replaced wilted flowers with fresh ones.

“Don’t worry, I still tend Chalky’s grave. Like I told you the last time, he held out for a few months after you passed but he went peacefully and with dignity. I buried him in my garden and planted flowers around his grave. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was up there with you and May right now.

Ferguson looked around him, checking that no one could see him talking to the headstone. “You know we are back up and running, ‘the Organization,’ that is. We aren’t doing the private jobs anymore though, just government work, and not just this government’s dirty work. We seem to be sub-contracting for everyone, and I mean everyone. The French, the Brits, and of course, the Germans. It’s busy. We have a monopoly, and that leak, all gone, and everything back to normal. I’m thinking about retiring soon, but you know how that goes--once in, never out.”

Ferguson reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and sneezed. “Got a cold coming on, I guess. How’s May? Tell her hello from me. Well, old friend, I have work to do. Sorry it’s just a quick visit, but I’ve got a trip planned and a flight to catch. I will be back in a couple of weeks.”

Pete Ferguson, as he always did, saluted his friend’s headstone before returning in the direction he had come. As he passed Betty Jenkins, who herself was preparing to leave the cemetery, he smiled politely once again. She, in turn, returned his smile.

* * * * *

Betty yawned. At last, she felt she could finally fall asleep. Tomorrow was another day and maybe Heidi would be in a better mood. She wondered if, next time she visited Andy, the nice man who had been visiting his son’s grave would be there. He had seemed to Betty as that he too was probably a former officer, as well as a polite and kind gentleman.

Chapter 10

3 Days before St. Patrick’s Day

“What are you doing?” asked Sarah Launer, peering over her husband’s shoulder.

“It’s my new hobby,” he said proudly, “genealogy, basically I’m compiling
my family
history, and tracing my lineage. It’s a lot of fun, and I’ve joined a website. I’m trying to find out about my roots, old relatives, that sort of thing.”

“Have you found anything interesting yet? Any ‘dark secrets’ I should know about? Any skeletons in cupboards? And I am not referring to your mother,” laughed Sarah at her own joke. Sarah Launer was not very fond of her mother-in-law. She found Heidi to be overpowering and disliked the way she bullied and intimidated her husband. They had never been close, and Sarah tried her best to distance herself from the old lady. As well as her dislike of Heidi, Sarah was disappointed that she paid little attention to her grandchildren. While she did send cards at Christmas and on birthdays, she never sent gifts. The kids didn’t seem to care much for her either. When they were younger, they hated the visits to Savannah, much preferring to go to Disneyland rather than spending time with their fussy and stern Grandmother. Sarah often thought that Heidi scared them with her scowls and unpleasant words.

Steven also laughed at his wife’s joke.

Stephen Launer was taking a well-earned vacation from his job as a criminal defense attorney, and had spent the past ten days engrossed in his new hobby at his New York home. In three days, he and Sarah would visit his mother in Savannah, where they intended to enjoy the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade, even though his mother had said she would not been seen dead at the parade. The children would not be accompanying them on their trip. They both claimed that they couldn’t afford to miss school as they had exams to study for. This had both surprised and delighted Steven, as most kids would have jumped at the chance of a few days off from school, and he was impressed by their commitments to their studies.

“Don’t be like that,” he said turning to face his wife, “I know she is a little stern and a little harsh, and I guess she does look like a skeleton, but she is my mom. That’s funny, I agree, but she is still my mother.””

“I am joking,” replied his wife.

“In answer to your question though, I am finding a lot of information about the Launer family. You know my mother has never really mentioned her parents nor her childhood. So, I have decided to surprise her. I should be finished in a day or two, before we fly to Savannah I am sure. And then, I am going to present the findings to her. I haven’t had much to go on, but I am getting there. I have found out that she was born in Austria, which I knew of course, but now I have a copy of her birth certificate. The next thing to do on my list is to trace her parents’ birth records and of course death certificates. She will be thrilled once she sees the family tree I am compiling. It will be a fantastic surprise for her, she will be absolutely delighted.”

Sarah shook her head. She knew Heidi, and was positive that no matter what her son did for her, gratitude was unlikely. Heidi was secretive and Sarah was in no doubt that the last thing Steven’s mother would do would be to thank her son for his efforts. It was more likely that she would be annoyed, probably furious that he had delved into her past. There was a reason, thought Sarah, that her mother-in-law didn’t mention her family. What that reason was, Sarah did not know and had never cared to ask.

Stephen was well aware that his mother had issues. The fact she had once asked him to organize a hitman to kill someone was, at the most extreme, and at the least bizarre. He had, on her behalf though, made inquiries through some of his less than savory clients, and had organized payment for her ‘contract.’ Of course it had never occurred, to his relief naturally, and he had been told much later to forget about ever asking again. He didn’t want to know who had incurred his mother’s wrath so badly that she would want them dead. He had simply carried out her instructions; the last thing he wanted was to displease her; and then she leave her money to some charity or dog home.

“Okay dear, you carry on with your genealogy. I have dinner to make, clothes to wash, and a house to clean. Oh, don’t forget to pack your blue suit, you told me to remind you. Why on earth you are going to wear a suit to the parade is beyond me. Don’t you have anything green?”

“Yes, of course,” replied her husband, not listening to his wife. He had already returned to his computer screen and his new hobby.

Chapter 11

“You will not believe this,” announced Sam Taylor, as Sabrina entered his study carrying a cup of fresh coffee for her husband. Before she handed Sam his coffee, she glanced at his desk and saw the three books written by Elliott Miller piled on top of each other.

“Oh come on, you and this Elliott Miller thing…it’s becoming tiresome.”

Sam looked up at his wife then at the pile of the books. “Not them silly,” he said, “I haven’t had any time to investigate Elliott, let alone read his books yet; what with you giving me errands to run all the time, as well as your daily ‘honey do’ list. I mean this, read this, it’s an email from the city,” said Sam while tapping his computer screen. Sabrina shook her head--she had wondered what project her husband had been working on for the past month. She was relieved to hear that it had nothing to do with Elliott Miller.

“See, read that, it’s an extract from the city ordinance. See, that grass outside their house? The frontage, they don’t own it. It belongs to the city. According to the ordinance anyone can park there. They have no rights to it whatsoever. They can’t claim that the swale belongs to them. It doesn’t.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Sabrina, genuinely confused.

“Donny and Danny,”

“Who?”

“Next door. You know. Danny and Donny,” said Sam, becoming slightly exasperated. Had Sabrina already forgotten? It had only been a few months since their confrontation.

“You mean Robert and Danny,” corrected his wife.

“Whatever. Them two. Anyway, they are talking baloney. They have no right to tell anyone that the swale, that’s what it is called, belongs to them. It doesn’t. I knew it.”

“And?” asked Sabrina.

“And?” replied Sam, “And? I will tell you ‘and,’ and means that they can go to hell. I’m going to move my car from our driveway and park on the grass. Not their grass. Not my grass. But the city’s grass that anyone can park on. Then, when they come around here banging on the door demanding that I remove my car from
their
grass, I want you to film it on your
‘I’
thing.”

“iPhone.”

“Yes, that thing you can’t be separated from. Anyway, I am going to be polite, quote them the ordinance, and tell them to call whoever they like. Then, I’m going to tell them to get off my property, because technically they are trespassing. We will have it all recorded. Then we can put the video up on ‘Uhu.’”

“You mean YouTube.”

“Yes, you know what I mean. Then I will wait for Morgan to show up and I will make him look like the fool he is, and make sure that the whole world sees it.”

“And that will achieve what?” asked his wife.

“Oh, it will achieve a lot. For a start, it is evidence that the moron Morgan does not know the law, and that he is siding with his friends. I have evidence…evidence don’t you see?”

“No. No I don’t see at all,” said Sabrina, her arms now folded.

“Just get your phone ready. I know they are home and I know they will be around here faster than a dog chasing a rabbit.”

Sabrina shook her head. “I think there is one thing you are not considering here, dear. Now you just calm down, and let me pour you a drink. Forget the coffee.”

Sam Taylor took a deep breath and counted to ten. He closed his eyes and sighed loudly. When he opened them, his wife had brought him a gin and tonic, removed his coffee, and was now seated beside him.

“Now, if you do what you are proposing, park your car on their grass…”

“The city’s grass,” corrected Taylor as he took a swig of his drink.

Sabrina sighed and shook her head. “Okay, the city’s grass. If you want to go and park your car on the grass which belongs to the city, in front of their home…” Sam smiled and nodded, as if his wife had finally understood his point. “Then you can, of course you can,” she continued, “but, be prepared for others, probably Danny and Robert, their friends even, to park their cars on the grass in front or
our
home,” said Sabrina, deliberately emphasizing the word
our
.

Sam didn’t say anything, but took another swig of his drink.

“Dear, what is it? What really is the problem?” I can’t believe that something as trivial as this is causing you so much…stress.”

Sam sighed. A few years ago, it wouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was now, and he couldn’t explain why. He couldn’t explain it necessarily, but he knew why.

“It’s him.”

“Who?” asked Sabrina, peering at the books on her husband’s desk, “Elliott Miller?”

“Morgan. It’s him. Coming around here just because his friends called him. Threatening me, belittling me. I didn’t have to retire. I could have carried on, but I just couldn’t bear to watch as Morgan climbed the ranks unfairly. They undermined me; Elliott, his city council, and despite my recommendations, they chose him. He isn’t fit to be chief, I know it, you know it, everyone knows it,” Sam took a deep breath, “they forced me out, him and Miller. I couldn’t stand it any longer. To be replaced by the worse possible man in the department, for him to jump ranks and land the top job. It just stinks. I want to prove a point. I want everyone to see that he is a fool. Corrupt. And as for Miller,” Sam took another swig of his drink, “Well he is just as bad. So, yes, this is important to me.”

Sabrina Taylor took the now empty glass from her husband’s hand and placed it on his desk. She then put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, my teddy bear. Does this matter? Does any of
this
?” she said, pointing at the books, “does any of this really matter? You have a pension, we are happy, and we don’t want for anything. Look around you; we have a beautiful home in a gorgeous neighborhood. You reached the top. You were the chief. But sweetheart, you need to let it go. You spend all day obsessed by something or other, be it Elliott Miller, Jeff Morgan or our neighbors. Please, just relax, I want to travel, maybe buy an RV. There is so much time for us to live, and not to be preoccupied by others…for me not to worry when, or if I will see you again.” Sabrina was now crying. Sam looked at his wife, surprised to see the tears that were running down her face.

“What do you mean?”

Sabrina wiped away her tears. “Do you know what it’s like being married to a police officer? Not knowing if one day I am going to get
the
call? The call telling me you have been shot, killed, mowed down by some crazed lunatic, robber or hoodlum? Of course you don’t. For thirty years I have waited for you to retire, to spend time with me, time in which I didn’t have to worry. But no. Instead of us enjoying your retirement, your pension, and each other, you would rather focus on Elliott Miller and Jeff Morgan. Who cares, Sam? Who really cares?”

She was right and Sam knew it. What could he prove anyway? And even if he did prove something, who would listen? Who would care?

“You’re right, as always,” said Sam, smiling at his wife, “I guess it is just pride, bitterness, maybe even boredom.”

His wife nodded her agreement. “Look, its Saint Patrick’s Day in a couple of days. Just enjoy the parade, sit in the car, wave to the crowds and maybe, after then, think about things. Think about what you really want to do. Maybe even think about me?” She said now smiling.

Sam nodded. He would think about it. She was right, and he knew she was. Sam was obsessed. He didn’t care about Donny, Robert, and Danny, or whatever their names were. He didn’t give a hoot what they thought was their property or wasn’t, even though he was right. And as for Jeff Morgan? Sooner or later, he would mess up. Sooner or later, it was only a matter of time; he would find himself out of his depth.

“Okay, I will do it for you. Until after the parade I’m not going to even think about Danny, Donny, Robert, Morgan, or Miller,“ promised Sam to his wife, “but there is one thing I want to show you. Just one thing, I promise and I won’t mention it again.” He logged into his search engine and pulled up the page he had discovered earlier.

Sabrina read the page her husband showed her, clicking on links and reading more.

“Wow,” she said finally, “But if, Elliott didn’t write them, then who actually did?”

“Well,” said Sam, “That’s the mystery. You see, finding who actually wrote them is pretty much where I am stumped. There is no copyright on them, but obviously, as you can see, they originated in Austria before the war. Took me a while because they were first told in German, and of course Elliott’s books were not written exactly word-for-word, but these are definitely the same plots and characters that Miller used in his books. Somehow he either read these stories, which I doubt as I can find no print copies of the originals, only Miller’s fakes or…”

“Or what?”

“Or someone told them to him. Recited the stories, which he then passed off as his own. “

“The true author?” asked Sabrina.

Sam shrugged. “Who knows? But it would be great to find out, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” said Sabrina, “But what is the point? Anyway, you promised that you would stop this until after the parade.”

Her husband nodded, “Yes, a promise is a promise.” He closed his laptop. “No more, not until after the parade at least, and then maybe I will just drop it. Or, maybe I can satisfy my own curiosity?”

“Well, it’s up to you,” replied Sabrina, “you know how I feel. I want you all to myself,” she said as she kissed her husband on the lips. “Anyway, I have some gossip for you about Jeff Morgan, which you must swear not to tell anybody. You promise?”

Sam Taylor smiled, intrigued as to what his wife knew. “I promise.”

“Well, I was talking to Ashley Compton, you know Ashley, she does my nails. Well, she told me that Jeff Morgan…”