Bouncer Page 5

  On the bright sunflower pattern of the breakfast tablecloth, the cluster of drawings would have put anyone off their lunch. The first depicted a red brick fence bordering an abandoned field shaded by an immense magnolia tree. The small red ball rested not two feet from the upturned claw of a hand. The second, as riveting as the first, could have served as an advertisement for never drinking and driving. The good-looking man horribly ravaged by a large oak tree trunk and a close encounter with the front windshield leaned against the still form of a teenaged girl appearing merely asleep by him. The final drawing showed an abandoned crib, its only occupant a chewed-up teddy bear floating in a huge twist-top jar. The artist flung down the garishly colored drawings and scooped up his keys, but not before swigging down three extra-strength aspirin. It was going to be a long evening.

  Nick paused before the modest yellow stucco house, standing for a moment on the pleasantly wide front porch and admiring the early evening neighborhood. His ring was answered by a lovely African-American woman, who, although clearly aging, boasted fine bones in a gentle face.

  “I’m Inspector Nick Thayne,” he said extending his hand.

  “And I’m Darcy Jenkins. Philemon is waiting for you inside. Do come in.”

  The beige furniture, though inexpensive, was comfortable, and Philemon rose from his favorite recliner, sticking out a calloused hand to Nick Thayne.

  “How are you doing?” asked Nick kindly.

  “Fine now. Please, won’t you sit down?” Philemon gestured to the plaid couch across from him. “Darcy, bring Mr. Thayne some of your award-winning lemonade. My wife captured the title in the Monroe County Fair’s lemonade contest three years in a row. She’s an expert at achieving just the right mixture of sugar, water, and lemons.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Nick sinking upon the worn but comfortable couch. He studied the African-American man. For a man nearing sixty, Philemon was in excellent condition. Only the faint lines engraved upon his dark face and the gray wiry hair cut very short around an increasing bald spot indicated his age. His glasses emphasized an intelligent if wary face. Darcy returned presently, bearing a tray with two glasses and a pitcher whose ice cubes clanked freely. She poured two tall glasses of lemonade and discreetly left the room. Nick opened his briefcase and took out Roger’s notepad.

  “Thank you for being so detailed about your rather gruesome discovery, Mr. Jenkins. How long have you worked for Mrs. Simms?”

  “Well, it’s been going on to three years now,” said Philemon. “I enjoy the work, and Mrs. Simms is a first-class employer. I have my retirement, and Darcy her Social Security, but the extra money helps us afford trips to visit our grown children.”

  “Had you ever seen the ex-mayor in the neighborhood before?”

  Philemon had hung around long enough to see the unearthed body of Thad Fisher and shuddered as he remembered the bloated, stinking corpse. “No, I can’t say I have, but I may not have recognized him—his features were . . . ah . . . distorted.”

  Nick nodded. “He’d been dead a few days.”

  Philemon continued. “Chester Street is very quiet, you know, and because I work only mornings on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, most folks aren’t around. And Mrs. Simms, she’s retired, and all. I remember, I did see him a couple years ago at the Country Fair, delivering some speech. I don’t pay much mind to politics.”

  “Do you ever work in the field next to Mrs. Simms’ house?” asked Nick.

  “Sometimes. She often has me take the weed whacker and trim the edge of the fence, but it isn’t her land, after all. I spend most of my time in her garden.”

  “And the neighbors across the street? You reported that someone mentioned the word ‘magnolia’ to you?”

  “Why, yes,” said Philemon clearing his throat. The whole topic of Bouncer made him strangely uncomfortable. After all, he might have been mistaken about the lisped words coming from the unknown child, but decided to confess everything to the broad-shouldered detective. The Lord demanded it. “I’ve been playing ball with someone behind the fence during my breaks. I think it’s a little boy. Mrs. Simms said someone named Collins owns the property, so it’s probably some relative of theirs.”

  Nick glanced at the plot numbers and nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Simms was interviewed by one of the officers and reported she is inclined to believe the house is vacant. She rarely, if ever sees or hears anyone in the house. I guess this murder was quite a shock to her.”

  “Mrs. Simms is frail, and the heat has been intense lately. May the Lord give her strength. She’s so often told me how the peace and quiet of the street keeps her from moving into one of those fancy retirement homes. This must have been a blow; a blow, indeed.”

  Nick nodded. “So, about this neighbor? You’ve been playing ball with someone inside the fence?”

  “I know it’s highly unusual. A child’s been tossing over a red rubber ball, and I’ve been bouncing it back.

  “You said a red rubber ball?” A peculiar look flitted across Nick’s face.

  “Yeah, a bit bigger than a softball. The child doesn’t say much, usually just chuckling and giggling sometimes, and well, when I asked their name the only response I got was Bouncer. So that’s what I call him.”

  “How long have you played ball with this faceless child?”

  “Not even two weeks. We played for about fifteen minutes today, and towards the end of our game, the boy said the word magnolia. I got to thinking that maybe the kid had a hideout or fort in the magnolia tree located in the vacant lot, so I decided after my work to just saunter over there and maybe meet my little friend in person. Instead, well, you know what I found.”

  “I do indeed,” said Nick. “I’ll check the records on the Collins’ house.”

  Philemon took a long swig of the tart lemonade, gulping as if it was the finest Kentucky bourbon. Nick joined him and smiled in appreciation. This really was good.

  “Just one other thing, Mr. Jenkins. Deputy Steele asked you to come into the Station to make a statement, and you refused. Why?”

  Philemon gazed at his work-worn hands a long time before answering. “I just don’t like police much. My cousin was killed a couple of years prior to my moving here, and the police weren’t very helpful. Just said it was gang related and dropped the case flat. He was only forty and left a wife and three children. His lady never did get over it”

  “That was where?”

  Philemon cleared his throat and glanced up. Darcy hung in the doorway, looking fretful.

  “Detroit. We used to live in Detroit.”

  Nick smiled soothingly. “I’ve not always had the best of luck with the police myself, Mr. Jenkins. I’m actually just contracted out on this case and am a freelance P.I.” He flipped open his black leather wallet and handed Philemon his card. “Only call me on my cell. I’m usually located in Girard, but I’m camping out at Louise’s Boarding House during my stay here. You can reach me anytime, day or night.”

  Philemon appeared vaguely reassured. “Thanks, Inspector Thayne. I’ll certainly call if I remember anything else.”

  “Oh, one other thing. Does Mrs. Simms own a wheelbarrow?”

  “Yes, a rusty old yellow one. I keep having to pump up the tire. It gets a lot of use.”

  “I’ll have someone take a peek at it. Thanks so much, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Please call me Philemon, or Phil, if you like. Mr. Jenkins sounds like an old man.”

  Nick grinned as the gardener escorted him to the door after the detective made a show of drinking down the rest of the sweet lemonade.

  “My compliments to your wife, sir. She certainly deserves all the rewards and accolades she’s received for this prize-winning lemonade. I’ve never tasted better.”

  As he strolled to his red Mustang, he wondered why Mrs. Jenkins seemed so nervous. Of course, finding a body in the shape of the ex-mayor’s was enough to rattle anyone, but it might be wise to delve deeper into the life of Philemon Jenkins.

  Ni
ck’s next stop was back at Chester Street. He squinted at the scrap of paper. Number 621; the home of Lindsey and Mark Lyons. The beautiful two-story brick house with its imposing foyer impressed him as the door opened to reveal a stout, red-faced woman who wiped her face with a dishtowel.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively.

  “My name is Inspector Nick Thayne. You indicated to one of the officers that your daughter saw something earlier this week. I’m sorry it’s so late but I’m here to follow it up immediately since it sounded so important.”

  “Oh, yes, Officer. Please come in.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not an officer,” Nick explained as he strolled into the immaculately clean living room. “I’m a private investigator working on contract for Monroe City Police Department, and I run my own private investigative company. The MCPD’s only detective had to have some emergency surgery, and since it is a small police force, I’m helping them out.”

  “I see,” said Lindsey Lyons nodding, obviously not caring a rat’s ass about whom he was affiliated with. “I’ll go get Katie right away, and she can tell you what she saw.”

  A little blonde girl was led out by the hand by her heavyset mother. Her hair parted down the middle, and her nose and cheeks were badly sunburned. When she parted her lips to smile at Nick, two spaces existed where front teeth should be. She couldn’t have been a day over six, and Nick felt his heart sink. A small child would not exactly be the most reliable of witnesses. He’d been hoping for at least a teenager.

  He sank down into the mauve and couch and patted the cushion beside him.

  “Why don’t you sit beside me, Katie?”

  “Okay,” said the little girl. “So you’re a policeman?”

  “I used to be, but now I’m a private investigator. So, you say you know something about the body?”

  “Well, kind of,” she answered and glanced up at her mother, who nodded reassuringly.

  “Tell him everything you saw, Katie.”

  “Well, it was Tuesday evening,” said Katie. “I saw this big old car, one I had never seen before. It was all long and black and shiny.”

  “A limousine,” interrupted her mother, who had flopped down on the oversized couch to listen to her daughter’s lisping speech.

  “Yes, a lemonusine,” repeated the little girl. “I was skipping rope with my friend Jeanie.”

  “Jeanie,” said Nick, “and where does she live?”

  Lindsey Lyons blushed, her round cheeks turning even redder. “I’m afraid that Jeanie is Katie’s invisible friend.”

  Nick closed his notebook and decided it might be best to just listen to the little girl’s rendition of whatever she thought had happened.

  “Anyway,” said Katie. “Jeanie and I saw this lemonusine drive down the road, and it parked right in front of the ghost house.”

  “The ghost house?” asked Nick peering questioningly at Mrs. Lyons.

  “She’s talking about the big house across from Mrs. Simms’ place—the one that looks kind of like a fortress with its high fence and spikes on top. It certainly doesn’t fit in our neighborhood.”

  “Well, anyways,” said Katie unperturbed by her mother’s interruption. “This big old man got out with this woman, whose hair was really red, and she was wearing this dress that was just as red as her hair was and big old high heels. I remember her shoes went clickity, clickity clack.”

  Nick smiled at her description of Thad’s redheaded mistress. “And what else, Katie?”

  “Well,” said the little girl, realizing she had a captive audience. “They went into the house, and it was almost dark, and my mom called Jeanie and me in for dinner, but after dinner, I went out and then I saw it. I was chasing Celeste down the street and had to bring her in.”

  “Celeste?” asked Nick.

  “Our cat,” sighed Mrs. Lyons.

  “Anyway, I was chasing Celeste down the street when I heard this really weird sound like a ‘woo woo woo’ and weird laughing, and then on the second floor of the ghost house, there was a light flickering in the window, and I saw a ghostly ghoul standing in the window.”

  “A ghostly ghoul?” repeated Nick, realizing this verged on incredible. Katie’s pale eyes gleamed. She was obviously into her story.

  “Yeah. He was standing in front of the window. His hair was all spiky and red, and he had big, fat cheeks just like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He had his hands on the windowsill and was howling at the moon, ‘woo, woo, woo.’”

  “Would you please tell me the night again, Katie?”

  “It was Tuesday because it was the day after my Daddy’s birthday.”

  If she was right, Thad could have been dead since the beginning of the week.

  “When you saw the ghostly ghoul, Katie, was the limousine still around?”

  “Nope, it had gone. There was nothing there but the ghost, and he looked something awful, like a monster with a big old head and short body. Kind of like Uncle Fester on The Addams Family.”

  “Katie watches old reruns with her granddad,” said Mrs. Lyons apologetically.

  “Katie,” said Thayne, “all of this is very interesting. I really want to thank you for your information. What you have told me has given us a time frame when we know that Mr. Fisher was on the block. Thank you so much for your help.”

  He rose politely and stuck out a hand to the little girl, who amazingly took it before dropping into a pretty little courtesy while holding his hand. Nick grinned. He wasn’t the only one blessed with charm.

  “I’m glad to help, officer,” said Katie in her best TV voice. “I’ll keep an eye on the ghost house and let you know if I see anything saspicious.” She had trouble pronouncing the final word.

  Nick bid the family goodbye after handing them his business card and easing his long legs into his Mustang. He hoped he’d have better luck with Lee Fox.

  Chapter 5

  9:30 pm, Fox Investigative Services

  Fox Investigative Services ended up being in an older and more pleasantly established part of town than his boarding house. Once a rundown section near the railroad depot, the neighborhood had been renovated and restored to its former, quiet dignity and in the heart of this discreet but tasteful business district, Nick found Lee Fox’s office. Five minutes too early, he arrived at Suite 7, 1257 W. Mesa Street. He wrapped his knuckles upon the glass door and tried to peer through the frosted panes. The door opened abruptly and he nearly fell inside.

  A short, nutmeg-haired woman stood before him. Her hair, cropped in pixie cut, would have looked fine on a child or teenager but seemed abruptly out of place on a grown woman. Bug-eyed glasses with rims too dark and oversized perched upon her short, upturned nose. Her dress was an awful blue-checked affair, cut way too long and loose over her slight frame with huge shoulder pads. It dwarfed the already small woman, who glanced at her tiny gold wristwatch as if hoping he were late. Nick felt a childish satisfaction that she seemed disappointed.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Fox. I’m Inspector Nick Thayne.” He sincerely hoped Lee Fox was a little more with it than his frumpy secretary.

  “I’m Lea Fox,” said the short woman and Nick blanched. “And the name is L-E-A Fox, short for Lea. Do come in.” She led the way into a rear office, a strange thumping noise accompanying her slow progress. Nick’s dark oval eyes shifted downwards to note the metal half-crutch she used to help her progress. She set down across from an expansive polished desk, leaning the crutch against a filing cabinet.

  “You had an accident?”

  “Years ago, but I re-injured it a couple days ago. So, what do you want?”

  Her violet eyes shrewdly analyzed his slender, handsome features as he lowered himself into her brother’s old chair much as a fox might do before it was about to attack a chicken. Lea noted he was incredibly attractive, the kind of man women view as a sinful indulgence for the eyes. Some women, however, probably labeled him simply as an exotic treat; the kind you sample at an ethnic restaurant but never take home. The
more racist among them would probably shift uneasily in their seats, uncomfortable with that tightening sensation in their lower regions, the kind of heat their own overweight WASP husbands could no longer inspire within them. Lea Fox felt none of these.

  Charm was his best friend. “First, I must apologize. I’m sorry about before. I just assumed Lea Fox was a man.”

  “It’s a common mistake. There’s no offence taken. You’re here because you want the files on the Peebles’ murder?”

  “You have them?” asked Nick leaning forward in the squeaky chair.

  “Just copies. Their originals are in the County Records Office behind the courthouse.”

  “They may have been at one time,” said Nick, “but they’re certainly not there now.”

  She chose not to comment about the missing records and just continued staring at him. He wanted to smooth back his hair or something under her unwavering gaze.

  She finally asked, “And why would you be so interested in a twenty-five-year-old murder?”

  “It has a lot to do with your ex-mayor. Mr. Thad Fisher was just found murdered this afternoon in an empty field on Chester Street. His finger—his ring finger to be exact—was hacked off exactly like Ashley Peebles’. I’ve been informed by Police Chief Rollins that she was reported to have been missing a silver ring. A similar silver ring was found on Thad Fisher’s pinkie finger, and I’m hoping you might have a photograph of the original ring so I can see if it’s a match.”

  “I might,” said Lea, not seeming inclined to stir from her red-cushioned swivel chair.

  “May I look at the report?” asked Nick, wondering what on earth was wrong with the woman. She was that kind of female who made a man acutely uncomfortable, and he was uncertain whether to ignore her, throttle her, or sign her up at a beauty resort for a weekend hoping it might have some modifying success. Yet, there was something acutely odd about her. The glasses were too large and obscured her eyes, which were truly lovely. In fact, she was almost pretty, but he got the strange feeling that she didn’t want anyone to recognize that.