The East Avenue Murders (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 1) (20 page)

Maude took her job as Mayor’s assistant very seriously, always watchful for any kind of disturbance on the streets, prepared to use her sidearm for the Mayor’s protection. On that Thursday when Sam decided to show his ignorance and frighten the mayor, Maude was alerted to the man on the street hiding behind a trash receptacle and peeking over its rim like a jack
-in-the-box, the barrel of his rifle balanced precariously on the lid of the container. Using her long legs to gather some speed, Maude detached herself from the group and circled around the side street until she managed to get behind Sam Williams, would be assassin, and place the long barrel of her gun against his right ear.

“I wouldn’t move, if I were you,” Maude said slowly, not raising her voice. “Have you ever seen what a bullet from a gun this size does to the human brain at this close range? Nasty mess.”

The gun wielding terrorist froze in his tracks and the unmistakable odor of human feces drifted back to Maude.

“Did you just
mess yourself?” she asked, clucking her tongue. “I’m glad I don’t have to take you in. Bet you’re going to make the folks at booking real happy.”

The incident was resolved quickly, with police off
icers arresting Sam Williams, and Maude being applauded by the mayor for saving her life. After that, her job as the mayor’s assistant seemed more and more meaningless.

Maude’s heart was still in law enforcement, especially the murder business, and nothing else seemed that interesting to her.
That one time on the street, when the idiot was going to shoot Mayor Royale and Maude foiled his plans was the only time in years that she really felt she was doing her job.

One day in the fall, about three months later
she left work and returned home to find her mother waiting in the porch swing, holding an official looking letter.

“This came for you
, my dear girl. Did you apply with Chicago Police Department when no one was looking?” her mother asked.

“No,
I didn’t apply; didn’t know they were looking.” Maude answered, curious about the letter. She sat down with her mother, gave her a brief hug then opened the letter. “Well I am more than surprised.” she said.

“Maude
, what do they want?”

“Mayor Royale applied for me; she g
ave me a recommendation. Seems she knows someone there with influence. Mom, listen to what she wrote,
“Dear Captain Anderson, I would like for you to consider hiring my assistant Maude Rogers for your agency. She is the finest person I have ever had work for me and she saved my life recently. I believe she would serve very well as an addition to your staff. Contact her at the address I have included. PS. I would appreciate the favor, John, Sincerely, Denise Royale, Mayor, City of Madison, Texas”.

“
Well, Mom, I guess this means I might be moving again.”

Inside the envelope was a three
-page application form which Maude completed and returned to Chicago PD. Within two months she said goodbye to her mother and moved her few possessions to an apartment near Lake Michigan. Grace took care of renting the house for Maude and once again began sending the rent money by mail each month.

That was twenty
-three years ago, Maude recollected. Since then, her mother had died, and Maude inherited her grandmother’s house and moved into it, settling down at last, alone with the ghosts of her family.

Cushing was a small town in Oklahoma a short distance from Stillwater and the University, and
Inman wasn’t but a few miles away from Cushing. Back when Maude had commuted to the university, many of her fellow students lived in apartments or in houses big enough for two or three students. She had been fortunate the first two years to live in Cushing with her Aunt Margaret. After her aunt died, Maude moved to a cheap apartment in Inman, not far from Stillwater. That apartment had been hers and Paul’s home for the short time that they were married. She still had sweet memories that were made in that little apartment. She wondered if the building was still standing.

Bringing her thoughts back to the reason she was in Oklahoma, Maude picked up the map and noticed the small town of Mehan was near all the places she had lived or worked during her years in the state. A dull throb was beginning across her forehead, a portent of things to come. A dreadful thought had begun to take root, the seed having been planted by the trip through the nostalgia of her youth.

Bobby. Little Bobby. He would be almost forty-two years old today if he survived his parent’s abusive treatment. Bobby, who had loved her fiercely; could he have fixated on her after the short time she spent as his nanny? How would he remember her, care about her? Or could he be driven by hatred because she left him in the foul mess of his family?

The park was small, just a few trees and a concrete table with two rectangular benches, a water fountain and trash receptacle nearby. Maude parked the rental car under the sign that told her the park was supported by the city of Mehan, Oklahoma, and to keep it clean. Shaded by the big live oak tree,
she sat down at the table and lit up an unfiltered with her butane lighter.

She reminisced for a moment about the time Paul
had given her the lighter. He had it engraved with her name and his in a corny heart with an arrow through it. They had been married for two weeks, an anniversary that didn’t slip by her man.
God she missed him, even after all the years that had passed since his death. The lighter was like her
, she thought
, each year
more faded with use, but still with enough fire to get the job done.

Paul had known about her past, about her father who abused her, and he tried to make up
for it in small ways. The cigarette lighter was just one of the many surprises he brought home for her. Her young husband found great satisfaction in delighting his new bride. She always said that if she found another man who made her feel like Paul Rogers had, she would consider loving him. So far, she was still waiting.

Time spent with Bill Page kept coming back in her memory leaving a smile behind,
but he was still new to her. She had really felt alive in his presence, something no other man had done in such a long time. Maybe there was something more than a chance meeting for them.

The years she spent on the
California coast had been mean years, times she would like to forget. She went through men quickly, one after the other, searching for Paul. Since that time most people thought she hated men, but that was far from the truth. The real reason she had stayed single was that she wanted the fireworks again.

The tug was too strong to ignore. The memory before Paul, the child that was Bobby kept coming back with more and more urgency. She remembered the evening when she arrived at the mansion and found the little boy in his bed, crying and holding his stomach. He had blood on his gums, probably from a fall to his face was her first thought. His mother, Isabella, shamed the little boy for his tears, all the while pacing the floor, staring out his bedroom window toward the driveway below.

“This boy is so careless,” she said with
an exasperated sigh. “I think he looks for ways to hurt himself. Please Miss, take him outside and stop his crying.”

Maude had been convinced, or had she, that the child had severe emotional problems. The mother had tried to make it appear that all was under the boy’s control, from his so
-called carelessness, to his tears.

Bobby had brightened when Maude told him they were going to see the water in the creek. Surely a child who was truly hurt couldn’t turn off the pain so easily. Maude had waited till the mother left, then hugged him and told him it would be fine after a little while. That was the day before she left the position as
his nanny.

Now in retrospect the picture was so clear. Years of police work, of seeing the violence in families where the strong lay hands upon the weak had taught her to see the signs of abuse. Bobby had all the signs, and
Maude wondered if he was now living life the way he had been taught.

Leaving the park she turned left and began to drive
, remembering the road to the mansion and the long corridor lined with oak trees leading to the sumptuous estate driveway. Just for the heck of it, she followed the memory, travelling down the once familiar road.

The gate code, though surely it had been changed after so many years, had been a simple one,
Feldspar
, the name given to the big house. Maude had wondered back then if Bobby’s father had studied geology and thus gave the home its moniker. She punched in the code, expecting nothing; surprised when the massive gate began to open.

“Well
look at that, I guess some things don’t change,” she said aloud.

The circular drive was empty, no waiting or parked cars within the three lanes, but Maude wasn’t surprised.
The garage at the back of the mansion was built to hold a fleet of vehicles

She parked
the rental car close to the mansion and stared at the house, seeing it through experienced eyes, remembering the awe she felt the first time the big double-doors opened, allowing her to enter.
How deceptive were the trappings of wealth. Evil can live anywhere,
she thought
, subsisting in beautiful surroundings or in squalor
.

Maude now believed that one of Bobby’s wealthy parents
might have been the catalyst that created a monster within him. If she was right in her assumptions, the horror in the little boy’s life sent him over the edge.

She tapped three times on the brass door knocker then waited for a short time until the
knock was answered by a skimpily clad, overweight housemaid. Maude showed the woman her detective’s shield and asked to speak to the owner of the house.

The maid grimaced and lowered her head, “
That would be me,” she said. “I am Jean Vandiver and I own this house. I was expecting someone else at my door.”

“I can see I might have surprised you,” M
aude said with a slight grin. “Sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t know the Dawsons had moved out.”

“Oh
he sold this house, years ago, after the owners were killed. You probably heard about it. They died in the Rocky Mountains; went over a cliff.”

The bell rang in Maude’s head, the glimmer of a memory she had tried to recall in Philadelphia, the couple who died in the mountain accident had made national news.

Jean Vandiver appeared to know some of the history of the house and its previous owners.

“So who sold the house,
some of the family?”

“There was no family involved. It was an attorney who worked for a group in Stillwater. The house had been on the market for three months when I saw it
. After a few more months we reached an agreement and I bought it,” the woman told Maude.

“No family? What about their son?”

“He was somewhere else and I never met him. But I have the card from the attorney who dealt with the property sale,” Vandiver said, adjusting the flimsy suit that left her almost naked.

“Have you seen the couple’s son since then?” Maude questioned.

“No, the last I knew he was living out of state somewhere, I think in Arizona. You can probably find out from the attorney. Now if there is nothing else, do you think you could show yourself out while I go and adjust my thong?”

“Thanks for the information. Sorry to have disturbed you.” Maude said, turning to leave the house
, mentally rejecting an unbidden picture of the woman in a thong. “You have a good day, now.”

The trip to Inman was
a short distance, not more than five miles. The small towns had grown, bringing their outer boundaries close to each other, leaving very little unpopulated space along the way.

She found
Robert Dawson’s personnel address easily, just an empty lot where some kids about ten or twelve years old were playing kickball. One of the kids came over to her when Maude called out to him. She had thought he would run off, but he stood about twenty feet from the car, picking his nose, unconcerned.

“I’m not going to bother you, I’m a cop.” she said. “Just want to know how long this lot’s been vacant. How long you guys been using it to recreate?”

The kid listened to her for a minute and held out his hand. What’s it worth to you?” he asked, throwing his shoulders back as he had no doubt witnessed some gang banger pose.

“How
about I don’t get out of this car and kick your butt?” Maude countered, giving the boy the eye.

“You old
witch you could probably do it too.” the kid said, grinning. “They tore the house down about four years ago, was going to build something on it, but I guess they forgot about it. Why you want to know?”

“Looking for the man used to live in the house. Robert Dawson. Know him?” Maude answered.

“Nah. Nobody lived here even before they tore it down,” the boy said, “empty before I started school.”

“Thanks kid. What’s your name?” she queried.

“Puddin-tane, ask me again, I’ll tell you the same,” the kid said smart aleck-y, running off.