Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Then he shoved me into Greg’s closet and said in that hoarse whisper, ‘You just stay right there.’ I could hear the closet door shut and the key turn in the lock.” She sniffed. “I guess that’s when you know you’re staying in a real old house-when you have keys for the closets.

I thought he was gone, but I couldn’t be sure. I heard movements at different times, so I just lay there for a while and I started to get panicky. I was pretty sure he’d left, so I worked my way out of the sheets, got the gag out of my mouth, and took off the blindfold and the pillowcase. I peered out of the keyhole, but I couldn’t see anything. I started screaming and kicking on the door; finally I kicked it loose. I saw Greg’s body and screamed. Chet rushed in and got me out, and he called the police. I-I asked him to call Jordan.”

Junebug said nothing, but tapped his pencil against his pad in an annoying staccato. “How long have you been in Mirabeau, ma’am?” “Only a day or so. Greg’s been here a few days longer.” She frowned. “And you can’t even say whether or not the person who grabbed you was a man or a woman, how tall they were, or nothing?” Junebug demanded. “Not with certainty.” Lorna’s jaw set. “If I could tell you, I would.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t,” Junebug said. “We don’t know you here.” I’d had enough. “Look, Junebug, I’ve known Lorna for years, and she is not a liar.” “I’m not about to take this from someone named after an insect!” Lorna stormed, but Junebug, placid as ever, raised a calming hand. “Let’s not dwell on this at the moment,” Junebug drawled.

“Perhaps you can tell me who might have had it in for Mr. Callahan.”

Lorna propped her elbows on the table and leaned into her open palms.

“Sorry, Mr. Moncrief, about the insect remark. I didn’t mean it. I’m extremely upset.” He nodded. “Jesus. I can’t believe anyone would kill Greg.” She looked over her polished fingernails at Junebug. “My first guess would be Nina Hernandez. I mean, there was certainly bad blood between them. And I did hear him arguing with someone, but I didn’t hear another voice. Maybe he was arguing with her on the phone.” I wondered if Nina was big enough to strangle Greg or manhandle Lorna, but I didn’t say anything. “How had he gotten along with folks here?”

Junebug asked. “Fine,” she said. “I mean, some people didn’t seem keen on his development plans for the river, but I can’t imagine someone would kill him over that. He told me when I got here that he’d met with some of the landowners already.” I supplied Junebug with the names of those who owned the land that Greg wanted. He jotted them down carefully and tapped his pencil again. “Look, Lorna’s been through hell. You’ve got the tape of her statement. Can’t you let her get some rest and have her sign it tomorrow?” “I-I can’t go back there.” Lorna’s eyes pleaded with mine. “Of course not. You’ll stay at my house. You’ll be safe there.” “One more question, Ms. Wiercinski, then we’ll be done. I appreciate your effort in telling me all this.”

Junebug looked squarely into her gray eyes. “What kind of man would you say Mr. Callahan was?” Lorna snapped, “Not the kind who deserved to die that way, Mr. Moncrief. He was smart, funny, confident of himself. He enjoyed life, and I can’t believe he got taken this way.”

She dissolved into tears, and her statement was over. It was nearly five in the morning when I got Lorna home. We let ourselves in quietly, trying not to disturb Mama or Sister. That was in vain;

Sister was already up. She practically ran across the living room to me. “Where the hell have you been? I wake up in the middle of the night to check on Mama and your bed’s empty. I call Candace and she doesn’t know where you are.” She looked at Lorna. “You’re not Candace.” Whoops. I made quick introductions, explaining in as few words as possible that Lorna had run into trouble and I’d had to dash out to render aid. At the news of murder, Sister’s eyes widened.

“Well, of course, you can stay here, Lorna. I’ve heard so much about you, but you know Jordy doesn’t talk much about Boston anymore. And I saw the lovely flowers you brought Mama. That was real kind of you.”

She herded her charge into the kitchen, giving me her patented we-will-discuss-this-later-little-brother look. “Jordy, you might want to call Candace. I’m afraid I’ve worried her sick by calling her.”

“It’s still awful early-” I started, but Lorna looked oddly at me.

“Call her, Jordan. She’ll be concerned. Put her mind at ease.” Lorna didn’t usually show solicitude for a rival. Wait a minute, I reminded myself, Candace and Lorna were not rivals. My heart was with Candace, wasn’t it? Of course it was. I went back into the kitchen and tried to ignore the melting, little-girl looks that Lorna was giving me. “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Arlene,” Lorna said, staring down into a mug of decaf coffee. “Don’t you worry about it, Lorna.” Sister glanced up at me. “I’ll just get the guest bedroom ready for you. Clo’s been using it when she stays the night-” “Oh, don’t put Clo out,” Lorna began, but Sister interrupted: “Don’t worry, I’m not. She’s not here tonight. She doesn’t usually work nights anyway. It’s not a problem.” I picked up the phone and dialed Candace’s number. One ring and she answered. She didn’t sound exactly asleep. “Candace, it’s Jordy.” Silence on the other end, broken finally by: “Where are you?” “At home. I had to go over to the Mirabeau B. Lorna-” “I’m not sure I want to hear this, Jordy.”

“Listen. Greg Callahan, Lorna’s boss, got murdered.” I explained what had happened to Lorna. “My God. Do you want me to come over? Are you all right?” “I’m fine. Lorna needs some rest. So do I. Sister’s fixing up the guest room for her.” More silence. “Oh. How long is she planning on staying?” Candace’s voice sounded just a tad arid. “I don’t know. Until the investigation is complete, I suppose. She can’t very well stay where the murder happened, can she?” Maybe Candace couldn’t help herself. “I suppose not, but she seemed tough enough to handle anything.” “She’s not so tough. I don’t think any of us are at a time like this.” I paused. “Greg was only a little older than me, Candace. To be cut down like that-” “Go get some rest, sweetheart.

I’ll open up the library tomorrow and I’ll talk to you later.” The gentle click of her hanging up the phone was her only goodbye. I slept like the dead, and the dead populated my dreams. I woke up around ten, my body slicked in sweat, my arms stretched out painfully in front of me, fending off some dream assassin who carried a twisted length of wire in gloved hands. I swallowed two Tylenol, took a shower, shaved, dressed, and maneuvered my sore arm into its sling. Wondering if I needed to have the doctor look at it again, I stumbled downstairs.

Sister was working an afternoon shift, so she was sitting in the kitchen sipping late-morning coffee with Clo. Mama sat in her chair, staring at dust motes in the air. Perhaps they sang to her, or danced for her, in the closed theater of her mind. Lorna, I was informed by Clo, was still asleep. Clo and Sister demanded more details. I told them everything I knew. They jumped on the case, using deductive abilities garnered from watching too many bad mystery movies on TV.

“Strangled with barbed wire. Sounds like something an Eye-talian would do,” Clo theorized. “Well, all those Yankee businessmen probably have mob connections,” Sister opined. “Wait, though, he was from Boston and had an Irish surname. Maybe it was a union hit, like Jimmy Hoffa. If they’d had enough time with the body, they would’ve dumped him in the river.” Clo made a noise of sad agreement. “I don’t think someone would follow him all the way down to Texas for a hit,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Clo, a death by garotting, that would be quick, wouldn’t it?” “I would think so. Cut the blood and air off real fast. But I don’t know.” Clo sipped at her coffee. “You better hope it’s not no mobsters, Arlene. They might want to hit that Yankee gal next.” Sister’s eyes widened in horror. “Good Lord. I never thought of that!” “This was not a mob hit!” I insisted. “You two are just trying to scare each other. And please, do not refer to her as that Yankee gal. Her name is Lorna. L-O-R-N-A.” “Did you make sure that Candace knows how to spell it, too?” Sister snapped back. She’s never been one to skirt an issue, although I might wish she’d show a little interest in shyness now and then. “What does that have to do with anything?” I sputtered. “Plenty! That Yankee gal comes to town, sets up her hoops, and you just start jumpin’ through them like Clyda Tepper’s poodle.