Moving violation, p.5
Moving Violation, page 5
Fortunately, the petty villains in my life are consistently nasty. If people are sometimes nice it makes it harder to resent them. Althea I could detest with a clear conscience. I’m a bit surprised that she hasn’t hooked up with Lardhead Gordon. They’d be perfect together.
“I’m sure you could if you tried real hard,” I muttered and looked up. The hairstyle was new. Clearly she had walked into Cuts, Colors & Curls, held up the head of the Medusa and said, “Gimme one of these or someone gets hurt!” Nothing else could explain why Clara Brennan had done something so mean to a client.
“Hello yourself,” I said more loudly for the benefit of our gathering audience. For the sake of peace in the family, I forced a smile that matched hers for insincerity and then pretended to be very busy arranging my diagrams for the overhead projector. There weren’t that many since there aren’t too many arcane rules related to parking and only a few that require slides. Really, there were only two fascinating parking regulations that I had discovered, and I planned on leading with them since our group had history buffs and people like Mr. Jackman who wrote westerns. There was still a law on the books from 1911 that said motorized vehicles had to give way to horse-drawn conveyances, and also that no horse was to remain tied up before businesses in the downtown area for more than two hours, and no more than four if there was a water trough. There were no provisions about cleaning up after these tethered horses, which I found odd since the law was adamant about cleaning up after dogs and sheep and had put this regulation into effect in 1923. The last bit of information was not strictly related to parking enforcement, so I was saving the sheep tidbit for later in case interest in color-coded parking zones lagged.
Althea wandered away. She soon had Mrs. Smith pinned in a corner and was reading her the latest epic poem—I think it’s called “Organic Garden of Emotion”—in a throbbing voice that matched Tara Lee’s enough to be parody. I tried not to listen but how can one pretend not to notice such immortal lines as:
Sometimes I feel that
I live in an organic garden of emotion
Growing lush and fruity
Amid the rich and peaty loam
Of my frontal lobes and medulla oblongata
Copies of handouts neatly stacked, I was getting ready to switch off my phone when it shrilled in the comparative quiet. My ringtone is the screech of a toucan. It wasn’t what I wanted but I hadn’t figured out how to change it, and it had the benefit of being unique.
The other Lit Wits were briefly startled, but most of them have heard my phone before and did no more than blink at my bad taste. I dug through my purse posthaste so it wouldn’t shrill again, though it had to sound better than Althea’s poem. Had she really just said: “Although I strive / To be cheery and don a winning smile / Reminiscent of a cross section from a stalk of celery / I often am too sour and bitter / As is the turnip, radish, or odd rutabaga”? One had to wonder if she wrote them badly on purpose just to see if anyone noticed. Could anyone be that accidentally horrible?
“Hello,” I whispered, stepping out into the foyer and pulling the glass door shut behind me. I could be seen but at least not heard. Unless someone snuck away from Althea and pressed their ear to the glass—which I wouldn’t blame them for in the least. Listening to her poems could make your ears bleed. Anything was better.
“Hi—it’s Marcie. I know it’s your writer-thingie tonight but I just had to call you right away.”
Marcie always just has to call me right away, but I made a polite noise and then warned, “It has to be fast. I’m giving the talk tonight.”
I had a little time though. I could still hear Althea holding forth: “Often, my insides feel all mushy / As if I am an overripe, organic tomato,” and I moved closer to the parking lot where our few vehicles huddled under the street light. Unfortunately, my signal began to fade and I stepped back closer to the vibrating doors. I stuck my finger in my other ear but still heard:
In which case my visage is strained
As is the ruby red beet
And my eyes fill with water
Like the melon with water in its name.
“Mr. Wonderful is in town and wants a date with you.” Marcie sounded rapturous and her words finally drowned out my cousin. I ran this announcement through the Marcie translator and figured that there was some reasonably nice but lonely guy with all his teeth that she had browbeaten into asking me for a date.
“What’s his name?” I asked, trying not to sigh since that would indicate a lack of gratitude for her efforts. A blind date and Althea’s endless poem made me want to do even worse than sigh.
In these times of crisis
I turn to the carrot, cabbage, and kin
For comfort and clarity
Only to find that I too
Am little more than an emotional vegetable
Yes, I live in an organic garden of emotion
Without a hoe.
“Alex—and trust me, he’s gorgeous. I mean, Brad Pitt beautiful. And he took one look at that picture of you and me at the campout and asked to meet you.”
I discarded the Brad Pitt bit as exaggeration. Marcie’s concept of beauty worked on a sliding scale. A steady job and a church affiliation could turn a gnome into a prince. The name though, was hopeful. Alex was better than Elbert, the last guy she had set me up with. Very little emotional baggage went with a normal name like Alex. Feeling encouraged and somewhat flattered, I decided to ask more.
Inside, Althea’s voice stopped throbbing. Poor Mrs. Smith was probably wracking her brains for the proper comment that was both truthful and kind because she hates to lie or be mean. I knew that everyone else was huddled around the cookies pretending they hadn’t heard anything. The lucky ones with hearing aids probably hadn’t.
“Is he nice? Give me the short version, okay? I really have to get going,” I said, glancing back to the library and seeing everyone shoving the last of the pastries in their mouths and slowly taking their places at the table. Mr. Jackman looked worried as he glanced my way. He knew Tara Lee had it in for me because she thought I was too young to be writing. Normally I would have asked to call back, but Marcie’s breathless description of Alex’s many charms was enough to give me pause and I lingered making arrangements until I saw Tara Lee heading for the podium. I didn’t dare miss her opening remarks. She was quite capable of starting the talk without me.
“Okay, I’m convinced. I’ll meet him at the ice rink on Wednesday.”
“That’s tomorrow,” Marcie reminded me.
She was right. Tomorrow was Wednesday.
“I know. Gotta go. I’ll call tomorrow,” I said, cutting things off as I folded my phone and hurried for the door.
The call from Marcie to set me up on a blind date wasn’t a surprise since she does it at least once a month, but for once I didn’t make her batter me into acceptance. First of all, there wasn’t time to be indecisive. And her description, mainly of Alex’s character—important because after all, an ounce of prevention is worth weeks and weeks of Mom’s I-told-you-so’s—made him sound like he was handsome enough, smart enough and polite enough to seriously consider, especially for a Wednesday night, which is always rather boring.
I’d been hard pressed to think up something to do on such short notice, but I made the effort because experience has taught me dating wisdom. Left to the guy, I often found myself doing the cheap version of dinner and a movie, which meant eating take-out pizza and watching a martial arts DVD. And fighting off octopus hands until Blue growled at my by then unwanted guest.
But in a pinch I am good with quick calculations of this type and there aren’t all that many choices on the menu. The bright lights of Hope Falls include a cinema, a bowling alley and an ice-skating rink, all popular spots for first dates. Since I was being asked out on a Wednesday night that meant a usually boring foreign film at the theater—not romantic or even fun, and there was too much opportunity for grabby hands in the dark. That was definitely out.
It was also Cosmic Bowling Night at the alley (black lights, glow-in-the-dark bowling balls, an all 60s soundtrack, two-for-one hotdogs and every kid in town). Also not romantic or especially fun (in case Alex turned out to be someone I wanted to have romance or fun with). So I opted for the ice-skating rink because though the calliope music was annoying, you could hold hands, and after getting sufficiently cold and hurt—and I always get hurt doing anything athletic—one can either reasonably go home at once or out for hot chocolate and pie. An added bonus: since I had my own ice skates, I wouldn’t have to wear someone else’s ugly, fungus-infested shoes.
My suggestion of skating had been met with a rare silence as Marcie also did the calculations and then she said happily that she would pass the message along. It was another good sign that she thought this Alex was willing to go ice-skating. Tomorrow night.
Tara Lee was glaring at me from her place at the podium and I began to hustle. The glare was bad. But the upside of the phone call was that I didn’t have time to worry about my talk. Or to get roped into discussing the gossip of the night, which I gathered was about the drug bust earlier in the day. Apparently Mrs. Adams was denying that she had phoned in any report about suspicious high school kids. One or two people were looking my way as they chatted about this (my impersonation of Mrs. Adams was well known) but it seems that no one had yet speculated aloud about who the 911 caller might really be, and they fell respectfully silent when Tara Lee cleared her throat and began introducing me.
Under the cover of polite applause from a dozen people I knew quite well, I whispered to Tara, “Sorry. Work schedule change. Had to take it.”
That was a lie, but she didn’t need to know that, and it got me a brisk nod of forgiveness. Since Tara Lee doesn’t think I have any talent as a writer, she feels it is important for me to keep my day job.
Clearing my own throat, I smiled blindly at Tara Lee and thanked her loudly for the introduction and then stepped up onto my stool. My voice is high and light and I made an effort to lower it a bit and tried for a Texas accent.
“You horse-ridin’ outlaws and bandits beware,” I said firmly as I scanned the crowd with a squinted eye. “We have laws in this town.”
There were a few polite titters, not lots but enough to encourage me to go on, so I put up the first of my slides and began to talk about the strange, antique laws we had on the books.
* * *
Driving home that night I felt pretty good, in spite of Tara Lee’s numerous plot “suggestions” for my chapter, written in her irritating red pen in all capital letters with multiple underlinings. I had stuffed the pages in my bag with less than my usual reverence when she wasn’t looking. My trivia game-playing was halfhearted that night, but Mrs. Smith actually preferred it when I didn’t know the answers to her Elvis questions, so she had a good time stumping me.
I looked at the dashboard. It was nearly nine o’clock. I thought about calling Marcie back and discussing what I might wear on this date, and perhaps asking for moral support while I went shopping for new bras and undies at our only lingerie shop, but Marcie was kind of uptight at any suggestion that someone might be thinking of having pre-marital relations, and I figured buying new underthings for a date qualified as thinking about sin. Also she was a bit teasing sometimes about the difference in our endowments. And I don’t do panty parties with girlfriends anyway. Or boyfriends. It was embarrassing enough having Mrs. Everett (owner of What Lies Beneath and in my writers’ group) know what I was buying (fully padded and with enough push-up to launch the space shuttle) and in what size (teeny-tiny).
“Chloe, did you really make that 911 call impersonating your teacher?” Mrs. Smith asked suddenly.
I was startled enough to flinch. Usually Mrs. Smith wasn’t all that observant so I guessed that she had had this idea implanted by Mrs. Graves.
“Now, that would be illegal, making prank calls to the police,” I said, staring straight ahead.
“Yes, but it wasn’t a prank, was it?” Mrs. Smith asked reasonably. “That boy had drugs on him. And everyone knows Dale Gordon is a sexist and custard from the neck up. No one blames you for doing it—if you did it, of course.” Mrs. Smith was a Christian woman and would give me the benefit of the doubt.
Custard was sweeter than lard, which I thought filled Gordon’s thick skull, but I didn’t say anything about my suspicions of the state of Gordon’s brain or admit anything else. Mrs. Smith was forgiving but inclined to gossip, and there most definitely were some people who would be unhappy with what I had done, Dale Gordon being the first.
“We’re here,” I announced unnecessarily, pulling into the driveway, which was sprouting dandelions in its cracks. Mrs. Smith lived in a small white duplex on Ransom Street. It has a modest patch of grass mowed by the youngest Easton boy—who was sloppy about edging and weeding the driveway—and some old rose bushes that she cared for herself. “Do you need some help with your things?” I asked politely.
“No, dear. It’s just my purse and these very interesting handouts. I’ll be sure and study these parking zone colors and tell my friends to mind them.” Her pink canvas purse weighed more than the average kindergartner, but I didn’t insist on helping even when she struggled a bit. Purses are sacred and I wouldn’t let anyone touch mine either.
“I’ll see you next week,” I said as she finally heaved herself out of the car and landed on her disproportionately tiny feet.
“I look forward to it,” she answered, dragging her bulging purse onto her bony shoulder. Because of practice, she barely staggered.
Though everything looked as safe as it always does, I waited for her to get inside and turn on a light before backing out of the driveway. On the way home, I passed Jeffrey’s mobile home and noticed the lights were out, even the one on the back porch that lit up his small carport. Either he was home and in bed or still at Harley’s and having a better time than a widower of his age and health should be having.
I grinned, thinking I’d tease him about it in the morning when I told him that I also had a date.
Chapter 5
I arrived at the station the next morning determined to have a better eight hours than I’d had the day before. It somewhat irked me to see the pimped-out Chevy had returned to the chief’s spot, but I quickly put that behind me. Parking my bike and Blue in the shade, I entered the back door of the building so that I could get at the locker room without having to go through the front lobby and all the bored cops who would be only too happy to harass me.
Preparing for my day on patrol, I found it odd when Jeffrey didn’t show up to have a visit before the orientation meeting. I had his matchbook in my fanny pack, ready to return, and figured after all the fuss that he’d be anxious to get it. I found it stranger yet when I didn’t see him in the gathering hall outside the meeting room. In fact, I found it all so disturbing that I detoured by the lobby and checked in with the officer of the watch. I forced myself not to sigh when I saw it was Royce Dublin.
“Nope, I haven’t received a call in from Officer Little this morning.” The voice couldn’t be more bored. Royce plays baseball with the lardhead.
“Well, don’t you find that to be odd?” I challenged.
“Maybe a little.”
“Well, then don’t you think we should look into it?”
“The situation is being looked into, Boston. Why don’t you move on?”
I managed not to stick my tongue out. Too many officers were following Dale Gordon’s example and not treating me seriously. The bully was winning and I didn’t know what to do about it.
Walking through the law enforcement offices, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and speed-dialed Jeffrey. Ring, ring, ring. Receiving no answer, I stopped walking long enough to leave a message for him on his voice mail to call me ASAP.
Meanwhile, it seemed the real cops were again all in a lather. After a little eavesdropping I gathered that there had been a suspected murder last night at the skateboard park and everybody wanted in on it. I tried to stick around long enough for the details but was ushered out of the way after hearing simply that the deceased was none other than Rupert Sellers, who had last been seen alive last night around eight o’clock at Harley’s Bar & Grill.
Simple facts, but the moment I heard them my mind was clicking and cataloging and drawing lines of parallel connection between each piece of related information tucked away in my brain; I call it ANALYTICO. It’s my own logic language. I have used it since I was a kid and it is now second nature. I knew that it wasn’t my business, but somehow I felt connected to this death. Perhaps it was the simple fact that Jeffrey, now missing from work, had announced that he was going to the same club as Sellers last night. That was the only hard connection I could draw right now, and it seemed explainable through simple circumstance. After all, we didn’t have that many bars in town.
Of course, the connection that I found hard to make was that between a wealthy man and a kid’s skateboard park. Especially at night. What could he have been doing there?
It was all too easy to imagine his body though. I had found a homeless man there once, dead from exposure. The morning had been cold and I knew I was looking at someone dead because the bare gray skin had no goose bumps. Also, a live person would blink when the wind blew a leaf in their eye. That was my first and last on-the-job body and it hadn’t been a murder, just very sad.
I shuddered, shaking off the memory, and discovered that I was standing by the front doors of the building, staring into the street. I was ready to go out and find Jeffrey myself when I felt a hand drop on my shoulder. My mental fugue ended.
“Ready for this morning’s orientation, Officer?” Looking over my shoulder I found Chief Wallace standing directly behind me. I really wished that he wouldn’t touch me.
