Murder for a Rainy Day (Pecan Bayou Book 6), Page 2

  Rocky’s son, Nicholas, a modern version of his father, was busy tapping away at a computer when I entered the Gazette office. Nicholas had Rocky’s good looks and did a heck of a job staying on top of the news. When Nicholas came into the family business he brought modern technology to a ticker tape newspaper office. Nicholas looked up briefly and nodded, never missing a keystroke.

  I wasn’t surprised to see my father, Judd Kelsey, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. This was a familiar tableau, repeated over decades. The friendship between Rocky and my dad was a true love-hate relationship. They were old fishing buddies and from the same generation, but on opposite sides of the political spectrum. When it came to the local crime scene they were adversaries—my dad, a lifelong policeman, was out to arrest the bad guy, and Rocky was out to get in my dad’s way covering the story. After Rocky’s near brush with death last year, the two men, realizing time is precious, had grown even closer.

  "Have a seat, Betsy. You look hot. I was just finishing up with ol’ Clark Kent here."

  My dad pulled out a chair for me and then turned back to Rocky. "So, you haven’t heard anything at all about the guy?"

  I gently lowered myself down into the chair feeling like a hot air balloon coming in for a landing.

  "Not a thing," Rocky answered. "I didn’t even know he was missing. Sad about him losing his wife and all. Maybe it had something to do with that. Have you checked with his mother-in-law? Is she still around?"

  "In the nursing home. I don't think she'd be much help," Judd said.

  Rocky scratched his head. "I thought he was retiring. What about his kids?"

  Judd nodded. "They all live out of state now and none of them have heard from him."

  "Maybe he got in his car to drive off into the sunset and forgot to charge his cell phone."

  "You’re probably right. I’m just following up for one of his old poker buddies. He probably owes him money."

  "I think we all have someone out there like that," Rocky said. My father pushed himself off the wall and turned towards me.

  "How are you feeling today darlin’?"

  "I’m hot, but I guess I’ll survive." Though the thermometer outside read 96, it felt like more than 100. Dogs that normally ran around lay panting in the cool grass. The ice cream truck kept running out of Nutty Buddies and the local pool was overflowing with splashing children.

  I shifted my gaze to Rocky. "So, you have a big assignment for me?"

  "I had myself an epiphany of inspiration, and you are the woman for the job. I want to put you on it." I began to wonder if Rocky realized I would be taking some time off for the baby.

  "An epiphany of inspiration? Isn’t that redundant?" Nicholas looked up from his keyboard, one eyebrow raised.

  "Your daddy is the media," my father told Nicholas. "Redundancy is his business."

  Rocky scowled at him and then turned his attention back to me. "I suppose you’ve heard about the open seat on the city council?"

  "I saw it in the paper."

  "It’s a true blessing to our readership. Here we are in the middle of a dull and boring news season, and we fall upon a closely contested city council race. If we’re lucky, there’ll be some mudslinging going on."

  "And somehow this involves me?" I asked, my hand resting on my now moving belly.

  "Why yes, it does, my Happy Hinter. We’re going to have ourselves a political grill-off. Everybody knows that you can really judge a man by how he grills, and what he grills. It’s a perfect combination of summertime tradition and hard-hitting politics."

  "So, you want me to grill the candidates on grilling?" I asked. My father let out a laugh.

  "Yes!" Rocky replied. "Get everything you can—secret recipes, as well as any grilling techniques you can pry out of them. Emphasize that this is their opportunity to serve their future constituents. Why, this could be the decision-maker for the voters of Pecan Bayou. I can’t think of a more perfect way to rate our candidates. I mean seriously, would you vote for a man who chooses to grill some sort of namby-pamby health conscious chicken? Or would you vote for a man who will grill up a beefy ribeye and not give a hoot about that nasty ol' cholesterol?"

  I was pretty sure the heat had infiltrated Rocky’s thought processes.

  "I don’t know Rocky. I planned on wrapping up the column for a couple of months…"

  "I know. You’re having a baby. Just this one last writing assignment before you go. Once you have the recipes, you could knock it out in ten minutes. Just email that sucker over here to me at the Gazette and you can go off and put your feet in the stirrups and have that baby." Such a polite thing to say.

  "I think it’s a great idea," my father chimed in, even though nobody asked his opinion. Of course, that never stopped him before.

  "What do you think, Nicholas?" Rocky asked.

  Nicholas kept typing, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Huh?" Clearly, Nicholas was no longer part of the conversation.

  I sighed, picked up a file off the desk next to me and started fanning myself. Why did it feel like the heat was on wherever I went?

  "Come on Betsy. It’ll help get your mind off the baby," Rocky said. As if that could happen.

  I rolled my eyes and then gave in. "Okay, okay I’ll do it, but then that’s it. I am on maternity leave."

  I slapped down the file and pulled myself up out of the chair. I wobbled slightly and felt Rocky and my dad’s hands at my elbows. I shook them off. "I’m fine." They let go and stepped back out of hitting range. "So who are the two candidates?"

  "The first man to put his hat in the ring is the one and only Baxter Digby," Rocky offered. Baxter Digby was one of Pecan Bayou’s most successful real estate agents. Half the houses on our pecan tree lined streets had been sold by him. His smiling face was on so many front yard signs that small children could recognize him in the supermarket.

  Somehow, the man always struck me as being just a little too good-looking. I also suspected he’d had a dentist add a couple of extra teeth to his blindingly white smile. I’d seen him standing outside the groundbreaking ceremony for the new hospital, and though there was a heavy wind, his hair didn’t move an inch. Ruby Green, our local beautician and purveyor of beauty, he was wearing a wig.

  She was probably right. His hair was too perfect.

  Rocky continued. "Then our other contender is Drummond Struthers, the town tow truck driver and president of Pastor Green’s congregation. This right here is what I hate to see happen. An honest man going into politics. They’ll have him shape-changing within the hour."

  Drummond’s entry into the race was a surprise. He had never struck me as the political type, but you just never knew. Most of the low-income families in town appreciated his kindness. Drummond Struthers typically offered a special discounted rate for the broken down jalopies he was always towing for them. He genuinely cared for his fellow man, but the idea of asking a glorified mechanic for a grilling recipe might not be such a good one.

  "So that’s all there is to it Betsy. I just know you can make this sing for us. Once you get this little set of interviews done, just feel free to have yourself a baby. Have I mentioned what a good name Rocky is?"

  "Yes. I believe you have."

  "If it’s a boy, you can name him Rocky, and if it’s a girl, you can name her Rockette." He grinned, pleased with himself.

  "Now you’re sure you’re okay with me taking some time off for the baby?"

  "Not only am I okay with it, I’m looking forward to it," Rocky said. "You’ve been doing so much nesting around here, it’s driving us all crazy. Who said you could put curtains in my bathroom?"

  "You have to admit it looks a lot better now."

  "I like them," Nicholas said.

  "Besides, every time I used the restroom I worried somebody walking down the alley might be looking in the window at me. You need to think about the women in your life, Rocky."

  "Something I try not to do too often. It tends to lead to alimony chec
ks."

  CHAPTER THREE

  "May I help you?" The receptionist asked. She sat behind a glass-topped desk held up by a curved steel frame. I waddled up to the waiting area. The rush of the air conditioner hitting my body caused me to stop for a moment. I took a breath and regained my composure. The woman's eyes widened as if she were afraid I was going to go into labor right there on the polished marble floor.

  "I need to see Baxter Digby." Her look of astonishment continued as she noted my hand resting on my protruding belly. She gulped.

  "Oh no! I'm from the Pecan Bayou Gazette and I just need to get a recipe from him for a feature we're doing on the candidates."

  "Of course," she smiled, unable to hide her relief. She picked up the phone and punched in a number. "Someone from the paper is here to see you, Mr. Digby." She listened and then set down the phone. "Mr. Digby will be with you in just a moment."

  I glanced over at a picture of Digby with his wife and two children. "That's Mr. Digby's family?"

  "Oh yes. That's Dana Digby. She's wonderful. She studied nursing of some type, but when she had the children, decided she would be better at home raising them. I really admire her for deciding to do that. When is your baby due?"

  "In a couple of weeks."

  "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

  "Yes."

  A hand reached out from nowhere. "Baxter Digby at your service." Digby squeezed my hand while pumping my arm up and down.

  "Uh. Nice to meet you. I'm Betsy Fitzpatrick. I'm writing a piece on you and Drummond Struthers for the paper."

  "Well, this is excellent, just excellent. I really admire how your paper has jumped in to give the candidates a voice. If we can't get our platforms out there on community issues then the people have no idea who to vote for. Today I just have to say — God bless America and its media outlets."

  "Actually…."

  "No, you should be commended. What should I start with? City planning? Zoning? My vision for a bright economic future?"

  "Actually, I need a recipe."

  "Pardon?"

  "A recipe. I write the Happy Hinter column, and Rocky thought it might be good to have sort of an electoral grill-off."

  His lips thinned. "I see."

  "Are you an active griller?"

  Baxter Digby straightened the flag pen on his lapel and stepped back. "Leave your card with my secretary, and I'll have my wife call you."

  The freshly pressed back pleat of his navy sport coat swayed slightly in the breeze he created turning from me in a dash for the door.

  "Thanks for your time, and I'm sure your simple recipe will go over well with the comments Drummond Struthers included with his grilling secrets. Who knew the guy knew so much about barbecue, and for that fact, life?"

  Digby's head pivoted back toward me. He replaced his look of boredom with one of great interest.

  "He gave you commentary? He shared wisdom? Folksy stuff?"

  "Yes sir," I lied. I hadn't even spoken to Drummond Struthers yet. "This is America after all." Land of the free and home of an abundance of hot air, I thought.

  "Well, then," he pushed the knot in his tie up. "I would be pleased to share my take on grilling and American life. It's just the kind of guy I am."

  An hour later I sat with Drummond Struthers in the office of his automotive repair shop. He had the proud distinction of being the only tow truck driver in Pecan Bayou. When Struthers was not fixing or towing cars, he was the congregational president at Pastor Green’s church. Drummond helped the church not only as a member of the church council, but had a hand in programs for the poor. Baxter Digby had given me such a good response when he found out his opponent contributed, I decided to let Drummond Struthers look through my notes. He glanced at my yellow legal pad full of scribbles. "So, you say Digby gave you all that?"

  Digby had called home for a recipe and then expounded on the values of family life and the American way for at least five pages. Knowing that Rocky had a word limit, I wondered if he realized I would be using only about a tenth of what he was saying. Still though, it gave us good material to put in the paper.

  "Yes. He shared so much good advice about grilling and really, life in general."

  "I see." He said quietly. "You know, when I agreed to run for this seat, I never expected I would be competing against another person. A seat on the city council of a small town is somewhere between the dog catcher and the tax assessor. When Mr. Digby announced he would also be running for the position, I'll have to admit, I had second thoughts about the whole thing."

  Struthers leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and gave me a gentle smile. "I’d be hard pressed to provide so much for your article. I’m a pretty simple guy, you know. I work. I help people. I go to church. I spend time with my family."

  "Mr. Digby is a salesman," I said.

  "That he is. I suppose I could give you my recipe for Coca-Cola Burgers. It's nothing special, but my kids seem to enjoy it. Of course you have to measure the ingredients just as it says, or it won't come out right."

  He pulled out a pad of paper from a desk drawer and started listing ingredients.

  "Now, when your readers make this be sure to tell them it’s important to baste the burgers." He ripped off the note and handed it to me.

  "Thanks, I will." I put the recipe in my notebook along with the legal pad. "Was there anything else you wanted to share?"

  "Oh you mean some sort of grilling advice that will cause people to vote for me?"

  "Yes." I readied myself to write.

  "Uh, stay away from the side of the grill where the smoke is drifting."

  I stopped and looked up. Drummond grinned.

  He put his hands up in the air and shrugged. "All I've got."

  Even though his contribution was much shorter than Baxter Digby's, I already knew who I would vote for.

  My phone rang in my purse. "Betsy." The familiar voice of Aunt Maggie rang in my ears. "I need you to come over to my house."

  I placed my hand over the phone.

  "Sorry," I said to Struthers.

  "No problem. I look forward to the article."

  I nodded and stepped outside the auto repair shop.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Uh … I need you to talk to Danny."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. He just says he has to talk to you."

  "Okay. Put him on the phone." My cousin Danny was an adult with Down Syndrome, and when he got his heart set on something, he could be pretty stubborn about it.

  "I can't," Maggie said.

  "Why not?"

  "He wants to speak to you in person."

  I glanced at my watch, and placed my hand on the small of my aching back. I stretched as the baby shifted.

  "Seriously?"

  "Yes. I wouldn't be calling, but he insists on seeing you in person."

  I sighed. I had planned to sneak a nap in under the ceiling fan with the air conditioner on "arctic blast".

  "Betsy?"

  "Yes. I'm getting in my car right now. I should be there in five minutes."

  "Five minutes" she repeated after me. As she hung up, I heard laughter in the background. Probably from one of the annoying sitcoms Danny liked to watch. He was the only person I knew with the complete Steve Urkel collection on DVD.

  As I started the car, the radio blared to life.

  "…And the clouds in the Gulf continue to form. With a more defined structure, we expect to send a C-130 Hercules airplane in to look at the eye. Listeners need to be prepared and possibly evacuate. Please stay tuned for important weather information."

  I would have to check NUTV at Maggie's house to see if Hurricane Hal was giving a report. I was so happy to see Hal on the local weather broadcast. Last Thanksgiving Leo graciously filled in for him when he had the flu. It was not an experience that turned out well for any of us. Of course, it was also when I found out we were expecting a baby. I guess it wasn't all bad.

  Now Leo was working at
the weather bureau full-time and with a potential hurricane in the Gulf he was once again putting in long hours. As we sat, month by month, watching our baby grow, we discussed the reality that our bundle of joy would be due in hurricane season. Some years the months from June to the end of October were quiet in Texas, and other years we experienced storms like Katrina. I just hoped and prayed that this was an uneventful year. With the boys at camp, I wasn't comfortable having our family so far apart. If there was going to be a crisis, would they have a set of procedures they followed up at camp? Was there some sort of storm shelter Tyler and Zach could go to?

  I thought of the terrible things that could happen to them up there. I was starting to hyperventilate and the baby was becoming restless. Trying to shake it off, I jumped when the phone jangled next to me.

  "Betsy? Are you doing okay?" Leo said on the other end.

  "Do you know what kind of storm plan they have up at the boy's camp?"

  "Um, no, but I'm sure they have one. It's a state regulation that a summer camp has to have an emergency protocol."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. Betsy, I’m sure. You don't sound good. Are you in labor?"

  "No." The baby kicked. "I don't think so anyway. I just started feeling panicky about the boys being so far away and the weather in the Gulf."

  "I know."

  "Maybe I should drive up there and get them," I volunteered.

  "How are you going to do that? You’re almost to full term. What would do if you went into labor on the road? Besides, all that sitting in the car isn't good for you anyway."

  I sighed, feeling every inch of my body radiating with sweat and exhaustion.

  "But what about the boys?"

  "Bets. Listen to me. They will be all right."