Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Goodbye.” I hung up. He called me son all the time, and I called him by his Christian name. I couldn’t call him Dad; I’d already had a father I’d loved and lost. I abhorred the prospect of hurting Bob Don, but I couldn’t help myself. Bricks walled in my tongue anytime I thought of referring to him in fatherly terms. I went back to my work, rolling my eyes at the administrivia involved in grant writing and wondering if robbing banks would be simpler. Junebug called me later, sounding bone weary on the other end of the line. “Teresa examined the house today. She’s pretty sure that Freddy was holding the explosive when it went off. It was about a 14?-inch pipe bomb, and we think it was in a briefcase.” He paused. “Chet might be able to rebuild, but it’s going to be a long process. He might just tear the Mirabeau B. down and start again.” I swallowed; that house had been a part of growing up for every native of Mirabeau, and I couldn’t imagine some new building in its place. I concentrated on what Junebug had said about Freddy. “So what the hell does it mean that Freddy was next to the bomb?” I asked. “He’s the mad bomber and he blew himself up? I can’t see Freddy doing anything to hurt real-estate prices, and terrorism does have that effect on the market. Unless he wanted to blow up the Mirabeau B. to build a fast-food restaurant.” Junebug didn’t laugh at my tasteless humor. “I don’t know. I also am trying to track down that Doreen Miller Lorna told you about. Haven’t found her yet. I got the Boston police going through Intraglobal’s offices, but they haven’t found anything. Doesn’t seem like Mr. Callahan kept too many records.” Odder and odder. “Well, what about Greg’s lawyer, that Martin Noone fellow? Or this Gary Zadich that Greg was going to sell the land to?” “I talked to Zadich today. He says he never even heard of Greg Callahan or Intraglobal, but I’m not sure I believe him. He sounds like a Houston wharf rat to me. I got the chief over in Bavary talking to Mr. Noone, but he says he only met once with Callahan to discuss being the attorney of record on the deal. He doesn’t know anything about Callahan or Intraglobal.” Junebug paused. “I did learn a singularly interestin’ fact, though. Did you know Tiny Parmalee worked with explosives when he was in the army?” “Now I know the Department of Defense needs more careful monitoring,” I muttered. “Are you serious?” “Yep. I think Sergeant Garza and I may have to have a few talks with ol’ Tiny.” Tiny Parmalee as the bomber? It’d never occurred to me; frankly I didn’t think he would know lickety about pipe bombs or blasting caps. Apparently I was wrong. I suddenly remembered his gibe at me at the library about nearly getting blown up. My mouth felt dry and I switched topics. “I’m wondering something, Junebug, if you can tell me. There was that phone number written on the pad in Greg’s room. Did you find out who that belonged to?” There was silence on the other end. “Yeah, but I think I better keep that close to my vest.” “Oh, come on! I helped you with that computer stuff. I’m just curious as to who Greg was calling.” If he’d been having little tete-a-tetes with Clo, God only knew who else in town he’d been visiting. Perhaps he and Sister had gone canoeing on the river, or he’d taken Mama to the movies in Bavary. “I’m counting on your discretion, Jordy,” Junebug warned. “You got it.” I practically leaned into the phone. “Which is why I know you won’t ask me again.

Goodbye.” The phone clicked in my ear, which was good. I didn’t want Junebug to hear what I called him. I finished my day’s work on writing the grant request and left the library in the hands of Florence Pettus. (On an incredible summer day like today, it was as empty as last year’s bird nest.) Then I headed toward Freddy Jacksill’s office.

He’d ended up dead as well, and I wondered if I could piece any of this jigsaw together if I started in his corner. Rivertown Real Estate stood in a corner spot in Mirabeau’s downtown block, right off Mayne Street. It occupied the bottom two floors in a faded red-brick building. Like several of the other buildings in downtown Mirabeau, it had 1844 carved into its stone, signifying the year the town began its one and only major growth spurt. Being a Saturday, there wasn’t much activity going on in the business district, except for a few old men sipping cold Dr Peppers in the shade of the hardware store. A CLOSED sign hung lopsided on the door, but I could see Freddy’s partner, Linda Hillard, on the phone at the front desk. I tapped and she waved at me, still speaking into the phone. Trying the doorknob, I found it unlocked and stepped into the welcoming coolness of air-conditioning.

Linda was practically barking into the phone, in her raspy smoker’s voice: “Yes, Miz Tyree. I understand that you were supposed to close on your house this Monday. But Freddy’s dead, ma’am, and we may just have to push it back. I haven’t been able to find your file.” A moment’s silence. “Yes, Miz Tyree, I know that life goes on.” Linda made an obscene gesture toward the receiver while still keeping her saleswoman’s smile firmly in place. “Yes, I’ll call the title company and see if we can proceed on schedule. Yes, Miz Tyree, I’ll call you back later. Goodbye now.” Linda slammed the phone down and muttered, “Mean old bitch!” She didn’t seem to notice that I’d come in for a moment as she ran her hand through her short red hair and adjusted her tortoise-rim eyeglasses. Then she glanced up at me and managed a smile. Linda keeps our romance section at the library circulating pretty well. “My favorite librarian. How are you?” “Fine, thanks. I wanted to stop by and say how sorry I was about Freddy.” “Oh, thanks, Jordy. I shouldn’t even be here, but Freddy had so much business going on all over the county that I’ve been on the phone all day calling his accounts. I just can’t leave ‘em dangling; my competitors over in Bavary might pick them up, and I can’t afford that. Don’t I sound awful?” She blinked back tears behind her thick glasses. “Freddy’s dead and I’m worrying about stupid old land. I have just become every negative real-estate stereotype.” I sat down next to her. “No, you haven’t. All you can do right now is cope and do your best.” She gestured to the back of the office. “I got some coffee brewing, and my mama brought me a fresh peach pie this morning. Want a piece?” I nodded and followed Linda back to the small kitchen area of the office. “I suppose you’re here for the same reasons that Miss Twyla and the Loudermilks have been bugging me all morning. Not to mention that crazy tree hugger from Austin.” “Uh… I don’t know. I did want to talk to you about Greg Callahan.” Linda made a face as she cut two good-sized wedges from the pie. The crust looked that perfect brown you only get with home-baked pies and my mouth began to water. “I’m tired of hearing about him. I’m starting to think he was nothing but a crook.” “Why do you say that, Linda?” I asked carefully. Obviously Junebug hadn’t yet spilled Greg’s land scam. She placed a plate of pie, a dessert fork, and a linen napkin in front of me (Linda is a details person), then turned back to the coffee machine. “Decaf okay with you? I’m too hyper to drink octane.” “Fine,” I said. “I think Greg might have been a crook, too.” “He tried to buy your land, right?” “Well, his colleague Lorna Wiercinski made a pitch to me about it. I knew her in Boston.” No need to tell Linda more; she was a gossip. That’s why I was talking to her. “Oh, that tall girl. She’s a looker. I thought Callahan might be chasing after her, but I didn’t know. Lord knows Freddy would’ve liked to get to know her better.”