It had been a rough morning. I'd delivered an Emmy-type
performance at the police station, lying for my client. The police knew I was
lying, and they knew I knew they knew. Just out of principle it made them mad.
It almost didn't matter that my lie put a neat bow on their case, taking it
right where the DA wanted it to go. No, some days they just didn't like me, the
way I straddled the truth until the scales of justice were in a proper balance.
It's not that cops are against justice, it was just that
their hands were tied every inch of the way, and watching me stride unimpeded
through their curious world of arcane laws made their blood boil. They wanted to
be them, and they wanted to be me. Protect and serve, that was their job, but
the citizens they'd been hired to serve had through the years constructed rules
that seemed at times only to protect the victim. It was almost as if they, the
good guys, couldn't do good, no matter which way they turned, legally hamstrung
by the system.
Still, that's the way it should be. Fifty years ago the cops
had a lot more leeway, but it was too much operating room for the bad apples
that find a place in any organization. No, the maze of the law wasn't
constructed to help good cops do their job, but instead to stop bad cops from
gaming the system, and sorry to say, at the expense of those they were hired to
protect.
I like to think of myself as a good cop, unencumbered by the
rules. No, that's not quite far enough. I think of myself as a self-contained
justice system. When possible, I work with the authorities, but never at the
expense of justice. Even then though, I don't make myself judge, jury and executioner.
Instead, I
create an environment, an agar-culture, where justice will play out to its
logical conclusion.
So I would wait to see where the morning's little drama led.
I had a pretty good idea. If I was wrong, it would just unravel and all the
parties would go their separate ways, oblivious to the threat to their freedom.
But I knew that wasn't how it was going to end, justice would be served. I
made some notes in the file and slipped it into the pending drawer.
I reached over and hit the play button on my answer phone.
"Hidey-ho, bro, this is Green. Got a big problem and need your
advice."
My brother, Dave. Twenty years with UPS. We had a running
joke. When I first saw him in his truck, I asked him what color it was, and he
said green. Green truck, green pants, shirt and belt, lots of green stuff. Well
of course it was all gray to me. Then two years later, can't remember who I was
talking to, I pointed out the green UPS truck, and, lo and behold, I learned it
was brown. I told Dave what I thought of his little joke, I mean, we're brothers
and he's not supposed to make fun of my handicap, and since then he calls
himself 'UPS' Green, to everyone, not just me, and when they ask him why, he tells his
little story.
Me, I call him Green anyway, since that is our last name. He tells me to fly in, that he has a use for my special
talent, no more.
I caught one of those mid-sized jets to Spokane, then a
puddle-jumper to Kalispell, Montana, just north of Flathead Lake. I took my
fishing gear, just in case. Dave picked me up at the airport, and was content to
talk about the fishing until we got to the house. He'd moved there three
months ago, and it was the first time I'd seen the place. He was on the
outskirts of the small town of Browning, overlooking the casino-supported Indian
slums of rural America. From a distance they looked almost picturesque, if it
wasn't for the damned rusting cars jacked up on blocks behind too many
dilapidated single-wides. The view in the opposite direction was expansive and
beautiful, especially through my Ansel Adams black-and-white eyes.
When I asked him what was up, he told me it would wait until
after dinner. So I passed the time with his wife Debbie and ten year-old son,
Harry. The meal properly stashed within, we packed up the rods and drove east to
Cut Bank, then parked on a bluff overlooking a large box canyon. He reached
under his seat and pulled out a pair of binoculars, then focused them through
the front windshield.
He handed them to me. "Take a look. There's a man and a
woman down there, and a little girl."
I refocused the lenses. A tall aging Hollywood looking type
guy with grayish hair that looked bleached, a pretty young wife with her
white-gray hair flowing in the wind, and an equally pretty little girl about two
with darker hair. They looked like the all-American happy family. "So, what
am I looking for?"
"That man is Edgerton Fuller, the third. I'd never seen
him before, but when I lived in Tucson, I delivered a lot of packages to his
house, from his employer. I got to know his wife and their then one year-old
daughter pretty well."
"And?"
"The daughter is the same little girl, but it's the
wrong woman."
"You sure it's the same Edgerton Fuller, the third. Lots
of kids look alike at that age."
"Gotta be the same guy. Like I said, same little girl,
and the packages I take him here are from the same company, the one he works
for, Biorad Research. He's a salesman. You know, I'm the only person who would
have noticed."
I kept my eyes on the pretty woman. "Noticed what?"
A matter-of-fact, "That he killed his wife."
I lowered the binoculars and eyeballed his face. He wasn't
kidding. "Come on, that seems a little melodramatic. Maybe he got a
divorce."
He shook his head. "No, that's not it. I'm sure he
killed her."
I gave him my best skeptical voice. "So, what makes you
so sure?"
He pointed down the cliff. "The woman, her name is
Tamarelda, at least that's how she answers the phone, and her daughter is
Elouise, neither one particularly common." He read the confusion on my
face. "It's the same name as the wife in Tucson. And the daughter's the
same girl. They even got the same dog. It's just not possible."
I shrugged my agreement. "Okay, I agree it sounds fishy,
but the world is full of strange coincidences. We'll get on the internet
tomorrow and see what we can find out."
We fished the Cut Bank river until nightfall, caught and
released a lot of large striated gray rainbows, then made our way back to
Browning in the dark. My mind returned to Edgerton Fuller the third, but until I
knew more, there were only dead ends.
* * * *
The next day, long after Dave left for his morning deliveries
for Big Green, I blocked his phone ID, then placed a call to Biorad Research,
using the number Dave got from the delivery envelopes.
A perky voice answered, "Biorad Research, how can I help
you?"
"Hi, my name's Carter Jackson, and I'm with the Internal
Revenue Service. I'm needing some information on one of your employees, an
Edgerton Fuller."
"The third?"
"Yeah, that's the guy."
She transferred me to personnel. "Hi, this is Jackie
Thomas. Kathy says your with the IRS and you need some information on Edgerton.
Is there a problem?"
I gave her my guarded confidential voice. "Well, there
might be, but we're not really sure yet. We learned his wife, Tamarella,
received a large insurance award, but it wasn't reported on their joint return.
We need to ask him a few questions." I heard her scratching on paper.
"I tried calling him in Tucson, but the line was disconnected. Does he
still work for you?"
I could feel her thinking over the line, how much to tell me.
"Yes, but Edgerton's been transferred." I waited. "To the Rocky
Mountain States region. He's in Montana."
"Can you give me an address?"
"I'd need that request in writing, Mr.?"
"Jackson," I said, then, "Look, just give Mr.
Fuller the third a call and ask him to ring me up. My number is
415-555-1516." She said she would.
Fuller would get the San Francisco offices of my company, started, built
and sold in a previous life. He'd maybe try information to see if the IRS number
was close, that maybe it was just a mistake by Jackie Thomas, but it wouldn't
be. He'd start to worry. I wanted him worried.
I got on the Dave's computer and adjusted the color palate so
the screen was readable to my sensitive though restricted vision. I used one of
the people finder search engines, but Fuller's new address was not listed. I did
a national search on the first name, Tamarelda. I got only three hits, two in
the same town in Kentucky, Kettle, one of course in Tucson.
The first Kentucky number was for a Tamarelda Kelly. A man
with booming voice answered. I asked for Tamarelda. He said he didn't know where
she was, and for all he cared, she could be dead. The second number for
Tamarelda Tubutz was disconnected.
The town was tiny, so I tried the city hall. A woman with the
old voice of a life-long public servant answered, "Kettle City Hall."
It sounded like a single word.
"Hello, my name's Carter Jackson and I'm trying to
locate one of your past citizens, a Miss Tamarelda Tubutz. Can you help
me?"
Her voice took a reflexive institutional guarded tone,
"Well, just what is it your looking for her for, young man?"
"Seems a Bob Tubutz in Tennessee died and left her a
bundle of cash."
She whistled, "Jesus H., some people get all the
luck."
"What do you mean?"
The reservation I'd noted in her voice was gone, we were
friends. "Well, young Miss Tamarelda was in town about four months ago. Her
daddy died a year ago and the estate, mostly stocks and bonds stolen from when
he ran the bank here, was finally settled. She was the last surviving issue of
that lying thieving old coot, so to speak. Had to sign some paperwork so she
could transfer her fortune to some foreign bank."
"Off-shore?" I asked.
"No, Arizona," she chuckled.
"Did it take a long time to process the estate?"
"Sure nuf did. Her ex-husband, Jack Kelly, made a claim,
said she'd never properly divorced him." A short silence. "Didn't stop
Jack from getting married again. Sorta think that weighed against him with the
court."
"And you're sure it was the same Tamarelda Tubutz?"
"Sure was, saw her with my own eyes. Tamarelda was never
so pretty, but she had the cutest little girl with her." I could almost see
her shaking her head. "And now she goes and lands another fortune. Out of
the Kettle and into the chips, as we say. Some people got all the luck." I didn't
inform her that the original unmixed metaphor was more correct.
"Does she still have any friends in Kettle?"
She laughed out loud. "Friends in Kettle. When people
move out of Kettle, they never look back." She was still laughing as I hung
up the phone.
* * * *
The next day was Sunday and Dave and I went back to the bluff
overlooking Casa Fuller. A more furtive Edgerton Fuller the third had left early
after putting an overnight bag in the car. I called the house and told the woman
Edgerton had been in a fender-bender and she needed to come into town to give
him a ride home. We waited while she packed the kid and started the car. We kept
our eyes on the trail of dust until she intersected the main road. Dave kept
look-out on the bluff and I worked my way down into the canyon.
The house was relatively new, and considering the amount of
grass, it had a pretty good well. One of the master bedroom windows was
unlocked. I took off my shoes and climbed through. I did a quick casing of the
large ranch-style house, then went to the home office at the end of the
westernmost wing. It had a beautiful panoramic view of the craggy ridge of the
canyon. Everything in there belonged to Edgerton, business and private papers.
His bank receipts showed a deposit of more nine hundred grand in March. I found
one of those retirement asset calculation sheets he'd filled out. He was worth a
million and a half with about four hundred thousand in debt. Not so bad for a
sales guy.
I searched the living room and kitchen, then went back to the
master bedroom. I found it under the bed. A metal box from some California
winery that once held three bottles, merlot, cabernet and chardonnay. No wine
now, just a collection of letters and cards. Misty Cantarra of Smallston, Idaho was a very popular
girl, and, if the letters were any indication, a little too free with her sexual
favors.
I wrapped the metal box in a towel and put it in a garbage
bag. I stashed it under the house.
* * * *
I made the six hour drive to Smallston and arrived in town
about four o'clock. I took a quick pass through. There were two bars. I turned
around at the city limits and stopped in the Back Water Saloon. The wall was
covered with license plates from the last sixty years, from what looked to be
all fifty states. There was no one there but the barmaid, a busty blonde with
pretty features washed plain by hard living, and not all of it from a vertical
position.
They only had Michelob and Budweiser on draft. I begrudgingly
ordered a bottled beer. "Nice little town," I lied.
She didn't look up from washing glasses. "Yeah, as long
as you don't live here."
Great conversationalist that I am, I took that as an opening.
"So why are you here?"
She turned to me with a who-the-hell-gives-a-shit kind of
look, saw my disarming smile, and grinned. "I been out, screwed up big
time, came home. Now I'm afraid to go anywhere else."
I was sympathetic. "That happens, life's tough."
"You ain't seen tough til you've seen Smallston
tough." She cast her arm in a wide circle. "Trees and lumberjacks.
Rednecks and idiots. You know what I mean?" I nodded, she continued,
"You gotta be mean to live here, mean to stay. The men are mean, and if the
women are to survive, they get mean too."
I carried my end of the conversation. "It's hard work. No room for
creampuffs and softies. Someone's got to do it."
She softened up a bit. "Yeah, well it's like natural
selection here. Darwin'd be proud. Only the fittest and the meanest survive, the
rest leave in search of humanity."
"Must of been big trouble to bring you back?"
"It's the only kind of trouble there is." She dried
the glasses, but kept her steady gaze on me. "You obviously got some reason
to be talking mister?" She made it a question.
I didn't shilly-shally around her perception. "Yes, I'm
looking for a person." She waited, not helping me out any. "Misty Cantarra. You know her?"
She frowned. "Now there was a girl mean enough for
Smallston. She downright scared the men round these parts. What do you want with
her?"
"Just trying to find her, that's all."
She returned to the glasses. "Well you're a day late and
a dollar short. You police?"
"Not really, private."
"Gosh, never met a PI before." I shrugged. "Misty's
dead, or at least we think she is. Went off hiking one day, never came back. You
should have seen the men of this town searching, you'd've thought the President
was lost. They looked for two weeks. Found her backpack in an old tree house
overlooking the gorge, site of some of her favorite conquests. Gotta tell you,
been a whole lot less sex these parts since she done disappeared."
"Any chance she just skipped town?"
She shook her head. "No way, she was having too damn
much fun. She just loved lumberjack nooky, no other way to put it."
I pulled out a picture of Edgerton Fuller the third I'd taken
with my telephoto. "Ever see this guy before?"
She held the picture at arm's length, then took reading
glasses from her jeans' pocket and looked more closely. "Yeah, I've seen
him. Maybe six months ago." She seemed to rummage through her memories.
"Yeah, he and Misty got it on. She banged him in the woodshed out
back." She motioned over her shoulder with her thumb. "I think he took
it more seriously than he should have. Why?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Can't tell you, but my guess
is you'll hear soon enough."
I finished my beer, left a tip. "Thanks for the
information." I patted the back of her wet hand.
"Name's Maria, if you're ever back in these parts."
* * * *
The next day I was Dave's assistant, a new substitute driver.
We pulled the big green truck into Fuller the third's driveway with a half-mile
widening band of dust behind us. He skidded to a stop in front of the house.
The little girl was playing with a beach ball in the thick
grassed front lawn. Dave knelt down beside her and pushed the ball away from
her. She laughed and chased after it.
As the woman came out the front door, Dave said to the
daughter, "Hey, Elouise, don't you remember me? From Tucson?"
Dave turned and looked at the woman. "I have a package
for Tamarelda Fuller."
Instant suspicion clouded her face, but she was quick.
"I'll give it to her."
Dave continued, "I haven't seen her around since I got
transferred from down south. Is she okay?"
Another quick ad-lib. "She was injured a while back.
She's been in the hospital for a while, but she's getting better."
She looked at the envelop, scanning the address label. It was
from the Back Water Saloon in Smallston, Idaho. She blanched an ashy white.
Dave gave her his best smile. "Gee, when's she due back.
We were pretty good friends in Tucson. I'd like to say hi."
"Yeah, sure." The woman turned without another word
and walked into the house. She slammed the door behind her, an emphatic
good-bye.
When he got back to the truck, Dave had a sudden attach of
doubt. "What if she really is in the hospital? What if I'm wrong?"
I used my cell phone to call the number, "Hi, I'm looking
for Tamarelda Fuller."
We both listened. "This is she." I hung up the
phone.
Dave dropped me off at the top of the canyon again and headed
for Kalispel to get the cops. We figured it'd be better for Dave face-to-face
than trying to explain it over the phone. Anyway, I didn't want to be involved.
Sometimes the cops, not without good reason, don't take so well to my meddling
ways.
As I was getting myself comfortable under a wide fir, I saw
Edgerton's big silver Caddy come roaring down the driveway. I didn't like the look of it, the hen had panicked,
the chickens were coming home to roost. I started making my way down the bluff,
working hard not to trip and break a leg. The little girl was still on the lawn.
I kept her in sight as I slid down the hill. The third didn't even look at her
as he went by. I wished I had a gun, but who'd have thought it.
I was at the corner of the house when I heard the shot. I
dashed for Elouise, grabbed her, put my hand over her mouth and stuffed her
under my arm. Pushed by a strong following wind, I ran for the line of trees on
the north end of the canyon, a hundred yards from the house.
The woman's voice, pitched high with fear, screeched into the
wind, "Elouise, where are you?"
Elouise squirmed, but I held her tight. Tamarelda, aka Misty,
walked around the house with the revolver at her side, the hammer was cocked. We
waited.
Fifteen minutes later the Caddy went screaming out to the
main road. I took the little girl back to the front yard, sat her down and told
her to play. I've got a way with kids. Yeah, right.
Misty had torn the place apart looking for her metal box,
probably before Edgerton arrived. Pots, pans, plates and silverware were all
over the kitchen floor, the closets were emptied, sheets, blankets, clothes
everywhere. Edgerton Fuller the third was dead in the bedroom, a bullet hole in
the back of his head. I went out to the garage and pulled the garbage bag from
beneath the crawl space. I put the precious box back under the bed, about four
inches from Fuller the third's outstretched hand.
I scurried back up the bluff. The siren's wail pushed me
faster. I breasted the top just as two cruisers braked to a stop. Dave jumped
out of the back door of the first one and rushed to Elouise. He lifted her to
his crooked arm. She was laughing.
* * * *
Sometimes in life things end like they begin, at least if the
newspaper accounts were to be believed. I recalled the barmaid's words, "I
been out, screwed up big time, came home. Now I'm afraid to go anywhere
else." So it was that Misty returned home, and at the first sign of the
cops, was back on that hiking trail trying to lose them. The cops got no help
from the lumberjacks - in their mean world they'd probably make her a
patron saint - but they found her huddled in a that tree house above the gorge.
She babbled all the way down the mountain, blaming that smooth-talking city
feller, poor Fuller the third. She claimed Fuller the third shot himself, in the
back of the head. When she realized the evidence was against her, she said he attacked her, was
going to kill her, that she defended herself. Of course that was another lie,
the coroner showed Fuller the third had been dead from a blow to the back of the
head before the bullet scrambled his brains. Eventually Misty led the cops to
where she and Fuller the third had buried poor Tamarelda.
Two months later my brother sent me a newspaper article from
one of the Idaho dailies, an investigative report on the Fullerton
murders. He highlighted the comment from the barmaid, Maria Cantarra, sister of
the little killer. "Just a couple days before Misty showed up, this big man
comes into the bar, wanting to know about Misty, and this guy, Fullerton the third.
He said he was a private investigator, a PI. Just couldn't be, you know what I
mean, brown socks, black shoes, blue-black pants and a reddish brown shirt. I
mean, a PI, he'd dress cool, right? I think it was the devil hisself coming
after my bad baby sister."
-the end-
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bill.capron@tds.net