“You didn’t eat much,” Randolph commented as he eyed her nearly full plate.
“I’m not very hungry. I just can’t get Mylene’s phone call out of my mind. Maybe she killed Jeremy. She didn’t seem very surprised or sorry about his death. In fact, she sounded like she didn’t care much for him at all, calling him her bastard brother.” Rhetta reached down to stroke a black and orange tabby that she named Pirate, because he always stole every other cat’s toys and food. The fur encircling his right eye was black, and looked like a pirate’s eye patch, giving further merit to his name.
Randolph cleared away the remnants of the meal, and returned with fresh glasses of iced tea. The sun had nearly set, casting crimson-tinged shadows along the horizon. Rhetta sat back, and Pirate jumped on her lap, curled into a fat orange and black ball of fur, and began purring.
Randolph handed her a beverage, then pulled a chair up alongside hers. “This business in Alexander County isn’t going away, so let’s deal with that first. Also, I want you to completely stay away from the Jeremy Spears and Malcom Griffith investigations. Hear?” He smiled.
“I hear.” Although she knew Randolph was right about removing her sticky nose from the investigation, she felt she had to stand up for herself. “In my own defense, I didn’t mean to get involved. We couldn’t help it that we found Malcom Griffith’s body. It’s not like we set out to find him. As to Mylene Allard, I wouldn’t have gotten involved with her, if she hadn’t called me.”
“Uh-huh, but speaking about Mylene Allard, let’s get back to the Alexander County problem. I need to find a criminal lawyer for you.”
Rhetta’s heart sank. “And for Woody, too.”
“Yes, Woody, too. Of course. I’m checking with some friends who practice civil law over there, so they can refer me to a good criminal defense lawyer.”
She winced. Just hearing the words criminal defense lawyer in reference to herself made her stomach clench. She thought she wouldn’t be able to eat again until this was resolved. The reality that she might go to prison made her sick. “Randolph, I’m sure Mylene will give them a statement that we had nothing to do with whatever was going on.”
“What makes you think Mylene plans on doing anything to clear your names? She’ll be looking out for herself, I’m sure.” Greystone, a solid grey, formerly feral cat jumped into Randolph’s lap. Rhetta had rescued Greystone when he was a tiny spitting and clawing kitten stuck in a downspout on her office building. He had managed to draw blood on Rhetta’s hand as she worked to extricate him. Now, he was another fat McCarter feline. His contented purr could be heard over Pirate’s.
Rhetta and Randolph sat a few more minutes in silence, petting the lap cats. The other two cats sat nearby, tails swishing, waiting for supper. Rhetta’s mind spun with everything that had happened. Who had killed Malcom Griffith? Who killed Jeremy? Was it the same person? And why? As far as Rhetta was concerned, Mylene was the obvious suspect. Her thoughts churned up a scenario where Mylene could have also killed her father. She tried to let on to Rhetta that she loved her father, but that could’ve been all show. Mylene was, after all, in show business. Okay, not exactly show business, but body-showing business. Same difference.
What about the affair between Anjanette Spears and Malcom Griffith? Did Anjanette’s husband know about it? Could he have killed Malcom Griffith? It would have taken someone strong to push the Z28 over the spot where Malcom was buried, unless someone used a truck or another car to push it. Did Mr. Spears really die from a stroke, and how much money did Anjanette or Jeremy come into? Was Jeremy cooking the books for the subdivision and did someone find out about it? Like one of the California investors? Could they be mobsters who decided to take care of Jeremy for skimming their money? But if they were mobsters, they probably would have shot him, and not conked him on the head with a metal detector that happened to be lying around. That made Rhetta think it might be a crime of anger and opportunity. Someone who knew him. Ricky? No, she shook that thought away. She circled back to Mylene. How did she fit into all of this?
Her head spun itself into a major headache. She set a protesting Pirate down and went to the master bedroom bath in search of Advil. When she returned, she spotted her phone on the counter in the kitchen. She carried it along with her iced tea refill to the table outside.
Just as she sat, and Pirate returned to her lap, the phone vibrated and she heard the metallic strains of the William Tell Overture, the former Lone Ranger television show theme music. She set it for Woody because he liked to call himself The Loan Arranger.
“Hey, Rhetta, I forgot to tell you that you need to go to the post office to pick up a certified letter. It came today, but required your signature. I thought you might want to get it before you come to the office tomorrow.”
“Did you get one today, too?” Rhetta’s heart thrummed thinking it was some sort of letter to notify her that she needed to be in court.
“No, why?’
“No reason, just wondering.”
“Uh-huh. Something’s up, and you’re not telling me. See you in the morning,” Woody said, and disconnected.
“What was all that about?” Randolph had emptied his lap of his feline, and was feeding all the cats their supper. Pirate reluctantly left Rhetta’s lap to join the others.
“Woody forgot to tell me that I have a certified letter at the post office. Would the Alexander County court send me something certified?
Randolph shook his head. “No, that’s very doubtful.”
Now, what?
Chapter 44
The headache that began the night before ballooned into a full-blown migraine by morning. Rhetta pulled the covers over her head after Randolph got out of bed. When he peered in the doorway of the bedroom a few minutes later and asked if she was going to run with him, she groaned.
“I take that as a no.” He tiptoed to the bed and patted her shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”
Her head hurt too badly to shake it, so she muttered, “No,” and burrowed into the cocoon of sheets wrapped around her head.
Randolph went to the closet and rummaged through it, returning with a heating pad. He plugged it in and laid it across her neck. Relaxing tight neck muscles always seemed to help her whenever she came down with a skull-crusher. She hadn’t suffered a killer headache in a long time.
“Thanks,” was all she could manage and she was sure it wasn’t much more than a mumble. Talking hurt her head. She lay on her stomach, heating pad across her neck and fell into a pain-induced stupor.
* * *
It was three hours later when Rhetta next opened her eyes. While the headache wasn’t completely gone, she realized now that she might live. She listened to the quiet house. Rolling over, she peered at the clock. Nearly 9:00. She rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up. Her head didn’t spin out of control like it had when she awoke earlier and the headache had swamped her. She slipped on her slippers and padded to the bathroom. Propped on the sink was a note in her husband’s looping writing: “I called Woody and told him you weren’t well, and that you wouldn’t be in. Go back to bed. XOXOXO”
Rhetta hugged the note to her chest, and returned to the heating pad.
* * *
The next time Rhetta woke up, she did so with a start. Her head and neck were drenched in sweat. It took her a moment to realize it was from the heating pad. The clock read 11:30, and the house was still silent. If Randolph had gone running without her, he must’ve showered in the guest room.
The intense throbbing pain had dimmed to where her head felt reasonably normal, so she slid her feet into slippers again, donned a robe and swayed her way to the kitchen. She was still dizzy and felt like she was walking on a planet that was losing its gravitational pull.
After loading the coffee maker, she propped herself on a stool at the counter and reached for her cell phone, still plugged into the wall charger. Although she didn’t think she could eat anything yet, the tantalizing coffee aroma wafting from the
other end of the counter made her stomach growl. The phone’s screen revealed a flurry of missed calls, mostly business. Not that business calls weren’t important; right now she didn’t feel like returning any of them. Two were from Ricky. She tapped the voice mail that had accompanied the last one.
“Hi, Rhetta. Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a few days off and going out camping near Billy Dan’s place. He invited me to go fishing with him. I’ve got the dogs. See you Monday or Tuesday. I’ll have my phone, if it’ll work out in Bollinger County.”
In spite of feeling less than human, she had to smile. Ricky sounded like she was getting back to her old self. Rhetta was pleased to hear her friend was going to spend some time with Billy Dan. She believed they’d struck up a friendship last spring. Then, Jeremy entered the picture and Ricky had stopped mentioning Billy Dan.
Never remarrying after a divorce many years earlier, Billy Dan had retired to a secluded wooded property west of Marble Hill, about thirty miles from Cape Girardeau. He had a large lake well stocked with fish, and claimed his retirement was dedicated to fishing.
Rhetta carried her coffee with her to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and breathed in the steam. The hot water sluicing over her tired body and aching head worked wonders. She decided she felt about as normal as she was going to, given all the excitement of the past couple of days and the raging headache she’d just battled.
After she dressed and had worked her hair into its spiky do, she decided to strip the bedclothes and throw them into the washer. She had sweated profusely for a few hours, and wanted a nice fresh bed tonight.
* * *
Woody had just returned from lunch when she turned into the parking lot. He stepped out of his Jeep and waited for her to catch up. “Randolph said you weren’t feeling well. Are you better? Did you get your registered letter?”
Mental head slap. She had forgotten all about the letter. “Oh, crap, Woody. I’ll go get it now. Be back in a few.”
“The last time you said you were going to the post office you found a body. And look how that’s worked out for you. Don’t take any detours this time.” He shook his head and went on in to the office.
She turned Streak around and headed downtown where she lucked into a parking spot close to the front door of the Frederick Street Main Post Office. She locked the car and slipped inside. The tiny lobby was crowded to capacity and she managed to wedge herself between a man carrying a box the size of Connecticut and a very large Southeast Missouri University student with biceps resembling footballs. Probably a member of the football team. When he turned around to make room for her, his T-shirt said, “Math majors salute Einstein.” Go figure.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d finally inched her way to the counter and requested her letter. After duly signing the required forms, she glanced at the large manila envelope, but without her glasses, was unable to tell who it was from. She tucked it into her purse and edged toward the door. She hugged her purse securely to her chest, hoping she wouldn’t injure anyone with it. Earlier, while she’d worn it slung over her shoulder, she’d turned abruptly when she thought she spotted Adele Griffith scooting out the front door. She had nearly wiped out an elderly man who’d been standing beside her. Luckily, she caught him before he went down. He mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like “crazy woman.”
Outside and on the sidewalk, she peered around hoping to catch sight of the woman she thought was Adele Griffith. Unable to locate her, she gave up and climbed into Streak, rolled down the windows to let out the heat, and tossed her purse on the passenger seat. The envelope slid out and landed on the floorboard. She snatched up the pair of reading glasses she kept in the tray under the dash, then retrieved it. The return address leapt off the page at her: The National Personnel Records Center on Page Ave, St. Louis.
Her heart began to thump. Two months ago, she’d filled out a standard Form 180 Request Pertaining to Military Records on her father, Alexander Franklin Caldwell. It had taken her a while to find his social security number, but she finally managed to locate it in some of her mother’s things. She had nearly forgotten about the request. Until now. She’d wait and open it at her office.
When her father had shown up last spring and handed her a locket containing a picture of her and her mother, Rhetta had been angry and wanted nothing to do with him. He’d walked out on her life when she was too young to remember him. Later, she thought a lot about what he’d told her—that he had been in the military and that her mother, Renate, had been the one to send him away. At first, hearing him say that made her want to run over him. Now, she just wanted to find out how much of what he’d said during that encounter had been the truth.
She switched on her left turn signal, and sized up her opportunities to leave the curb. As she waited, a high riding, four-wheel drive truck pulled out from two spaces behind her and rumbled past her. There in the driver’s seat, her head barely clearing the top of the steering wheel, sat Adele Griffith.
Chapter 45
Surely, this can’t be the same frail woman that required a ride home from the sheriff’s office? Nevertheless, here she was, short, grey-haired woman peeping up and over the steering wheel, deftly maneuvering an enormous Dodge four-by-four through Frederick Street traffic, then Broadway, and then south on Kingshighway. Rhetta caught the personalized license plate—ADELE. This must’ve been the truck Woody spotted while he was peeling his head at the car wash.
Rhetta quickly discovered how well the older woman could drive when she had trouble keeping up with the pickup. Rhetta tried staying about four car-lengths behind, hoping that Adele wouldn’t recognize her in Streak. Then she nearly lost the truck at the Independence Street stoplight. Adele turned right while Rhetta was in the left lane. Rhetta managed to slide over and follow, but by the time she spotted the truck again, it had topped the hill and began dropping out of sight. Not spotting any police cars in the vicinity, Rhetta took a chance and floored it. When she topped the hill at the Mount Auburn Road intersection, she lost the truck, and this time for good. She sat at the stop sign, scanning up and down Mount Auburn. The driver behind her began honking. Rhetta turned right, drove down to Kingshighway, and back to the office.
She wasn’t sure why she tailed the woman, except that she was so surprised at discovering Adele behind the wheel of the pickup that she had to positively identify the woman driving. And to figure out what she was up to. That Adele had lied to the deputy about not driving bothered Rhetta. Was she merely angling for sympathy? Or was there another reason?
* * *
“Woody, you were right about Adele Griffith driving a ginormous pickup.” Rhetta plopped into her chair and adjusted it. She propped her purse and the registered letter on her desk and began searching for her phone. First, she needed her glasses, so she could identify the phone among the items in the bottom of her purse. She was getting tired of dumping the contents out every time she needed her phone. “Where are my glasses?” She scanned the desktop, and felt the tops of files and papers to determine if the glasses were underneath. She grid-searched the office, backtracking everywhere she’d been. “Have you seen my glasses?” she called out as she returned from the kitchen.
“Are you looking for different glasses other than the ones on your head?” Woody asked as she sailed past his desk.
She snatched them off her head.
“No. These are the only ones I was searching for.” She glanced at Woody, who had swiveled back to his computer monitor but not fast enough to hide the smile wrinkling the corner of his mouth. Smile? It was more of a Woody smirk.
“I went to pick up the registered letter and spotted Adele Griffith at the post office. She was driving a four-by-four and I followed her as far as Mount Auburn Road, but then I lost her.” Rhetta opened the top middle drawer of her desk and removed the dagger-style letter opener with the MCB logo on it. She didn’t really remember exactly when she’d gotten it, but it always reminded her of a stiletto. She recalled
that the bank had given them out as a promotional item at one time. Why would the bank have ever done that? She shrugged. She’d had it for several years. Back in the day, nobody worried that it could be a lethal weapon. She took a deep breath and slit the envelope open.
Emptying the contents on the desk, she reached first for the letter accompanying the few sheets of enclosed papers. Scanning quickly past the usual greeting from the records Center, her eyes locked on the second paragraph: First Lieutenant Alexander Franklin Caldwell, U S Army, died from injuries sustained in service to his country on August 6, 1973. She would’ve been six years old, nearly seven. Her heart thumped. Why hadn’t her mother told her any of this?
Rhetta’s arms and shoulders erupted in goose flesh. She stared at the enclosed Certificate of Death along with the plot number where her father was buried in Jefferson Barracks Cemetery.
According to the proof she held in her hands, her father had died during the Vietnam War. If that was true, then who was the imposter who tracked her down to give her a locket that had belonged to her mother? Something didn’t jive. She was positive the man claiming to be her father was indeed her father. He had seemed familiar when she first saw him. Was her memory playing tricks on her? If he was her father, then what did the records center send her? The social security number matched the one she had found in her mother’s things.
She returned the contents to the envelope, then slid the envelope into her desk drawer. She would have to think about this later. There was too much swirling around in her head to make any sense out of what she’d just seen.
She sat back, and began massaging her temples. The skull-crushing headache was working its way back. She had too much to think about. From the day she and Ricky found the remains of Malcom Griffith, too much had happened in too short a time.