Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Dead for ten years.” Her voice was softer than usual, slack without its stridency. She stared at the screen, watching the battle. “You see, Jordy, I know what family pain is, too. Your mama’s asleep now.

If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here and watch the end of this. It’s nearly over.” “Sure, Clo.” I hadn’t expected such a remark from her.

She folded her hands in her lap, as though keeping something in them for an angel, and kept her eyes on the television. I went upstairs, washed my face, and came back down to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

I sat there awhile, feeling that if I went into my own living room I’d be intruding on her grief. After a few moments I heard her click off the television. I stood and went back to join her. I walked Clo out to her little Ford Tempo and watched her drive away, only a good-night passing between us. I locked up, left the porch light on for Sister when she came in from her irregular shift, checked on Mama’s gentle rasp, took some more Tylenol for my sore left arm, and went to bed. At some point, deep in the night’s belly, a phone awakened me. I finally answered it. “Yes?” my voice creaked. “Jordy? This is Chet Blanton.”

The name finally registered with me-Chet was the manager of the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast, and a library patron with a pronounced penchant for Agatha Christie. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but it’s an emergency.” “What-what’s wrong?” I managed to mutter, my brain smogged with sleep. “I don’t want to go into this over the phone, but your friend-she’s in trouble. Please, could you just come over?” Chet’s normally hearty voice sounded pinched. I sat up in bed, wide-awake. I told Chet I’d be there in a minute and hung up. I stumbled into clothes, eased my left arm into its sling, peeked in to make sure Sister was back from her shift (her snoring was a dead giveaway), and as though on autopilot, drove to the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast. A police car stood in the driveway, its lights flashing. My wristwatch indicated two in the morning, but I pounded on the door anyway. Chet met me at the door, dressed in a rumpled robe, his heavy face white. “What’s happened? Is Lorna okay?” I asked, pushing past him. “She’s okay, I think. Follow me.” Chet turned and we ran up the stairs of the elegant, antebellum home he’d converted. The second story held the eight guest rooms. In one of the rooms, I saw Lorna crouched on a bed, one of Junebug’s deputies talking to her. Her face was in her hands and she didn’t see me. I noticed blood on her right hand, oozing from a badly torn fingernail. I moved forward for her; Chet’s arm stopped me. “You better see this,” he whispered, steering me down one more room. “Which one is Greg Callahan’s?” I asked. He pointed two doors down the hall, back toward the stairs.

“Number four.” The room he showed me was comfortable looking, decorated in classy antiques, and with a faint smell of fruit and potpourri, and the gassy odor of death. I stepped in and looked where Chet pointed. Greg Callahan lay sprawled on the Persian rug, his pale head bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring up at the slowly turning ceiling fan. He’s drunk, was my first irrational thought; but there was no air of liquor. I didn’t start to gag until I stepped closer and saw the length of barbed wire cruelly and deeply twisted into his neck.

Even after a morning of getting out of the hospital, an afternoon of Miss Twyla and Nina berating me, and an evening of concern about Lorna, I couldn’t rightly say I’d had the worse day in Mirabeau. That distinction rested with poor Greg Callahan. I sat sipping a Dr Pepper in the small waiting area of the Mirabeau police station. Lorna sat next to me, holding my hand. Her own hand felt clammy. One of the officers came in, the door pinging as he opened it, and I could smell the faint grittiness of rubber and gravel from the parking lot. The summer-night air was warm, but I still had goose pimples from what I’d seen. While the police began their investigation of the murder scene and the ambulance arrived to trundle off Greg’s body, I got Lorna down to Chefs kitchen. She had been silent as I seated her at the kitchen table and I wondered whether to get her whiskey or coffee. Suddenly she had screamed, burying her face in her hands. “My God, he’s dead, he’s really dead!” She sobbed uncontrollably then, and I just held her, whispering into her dark hair that she was okay. Finally she believed me and stopped crying. I held her and thought about what I’d seen in the few moments I’d had in Greg’s room. I had carefully knelt by Greg. I saw the ends of the wire had been fashioned into loops, probably for a better grip for the killer. I swallowed; death by barbed-wire garrote was a sickening thought. I forced myself to look at Greg’s savaged throat. The wire had cut into his neck deeply, and the barbs had left little tears in his flesh. God, like simultaneously being strangled and having your throat cut. I could only hope it had happened quickly. One of his hands lay open, and I could see small wounds on his palm, like stigmata. I shuddered. It must have been agony for him, having that torturous noose tightening on his gullet and, when he tried to pull the choking cord off, getting metal thorns in his hands. He was still in his suit and the dribble of blood from his neck stained his starched collar. His blue eyes bulged, the lids half-closed. I gingerly touched his wrist and felt the silence. I stood, wanting to get back to Lorna. I glanced around the room. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood between two used glasses. On the desk was a scattering of loose change, a receipt from the Sit-a-Spell Cafe, a closed laptop computer with some small disks stacked like playing cards next to it, a sheet with the Mirabeau B. Lamar stationery near the phone. Writing scrawled across it, with doodles surrounding the text: NINA HERNANDEZ=EARTH BITCH. Below that, a telephone number: 555-3489. That was a Mirabeau number, I thought. But whose? I didn’t recognize it, but then I’d hardly memorized the phone book in my copious spare time.

“Goddamn it! Get the hell out of there!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to face a very, very irritated Junebug. “Junebug-” He rumbled forward, grabbed my sore arm (mind you, my sore arm), and hustled me out into the hallway. Chet looked shamefaced and sick. I pulled my sling free from Junebug’s grip with what little dignity I could muster. “What do you think you’re doing, Jordy, tainting a crime scene?” “Tainting? I was just looking-” “What you were doing, clueless, was leaving hair and fibers and probably fingerprints that are now going to have to be weeded out in my scene-of-crime work.”

Junebug shook his head. I opened my mouth to retort, then shut it. He was right. I’d had no business in there. My own curiosity and shock at seeing Greg dead, who I’d only talked with a few hours before, got the better of me. I took a deep breath and fought down a spasm of nausea.

“You’re right. I apologize. I didn’t think.” I glanced down the hall.

“Can I go see Lorna?” “In a minute.” Junebug whirled his sirens on Chet. “You stand guard here till Franklin tapes off this room. No one gets in, Chet. Do you understand?” “Yes, Junebug,” Chet said miserably. Fortunately Franklin Bedloe, one of Junebug’s deputies, galloped up the steps that moment and took over. Chet looked vastly relieved. I stood in the hall waiting while listening to Junebug chew out the officer sitting with Lorna for not securing the crime scene.

The rookie tried to tell his chief that he’d just been concerned about Ms. Wirechinski (he nearly had the name down), but Junebug wasn’t having any of that. I heard him speak in low, kinder tones to Lorna and she sniffled an answer. We three civilians were relegated to the kitchen while the authorities took over. Lorna refused Chet’s offer of whiskey, but coughed out that she would like a glass of brandy. One of the policemen sat stonily in our midst-I guess making sure none of us headed for the border. He gave Lorna first aid for her injured finger while I watched. After thirty minutes Junebug came back in and said, “Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ” Chet, ever the professional host, offered Junebug a drink. He refused and watched Lorna carefully. “Ms.