At 5:00 AM, Ray finally threw the covers back. “Shit, I might as well get up.” He had barely slept. Judge Broadside’s ruling had crawled around Ray’s head all during the night, slithering into two dreams, one involving a drop-by-visit to the aging jurist with a gun-to-the-head threat.
After showering, shaving, and dressing, Ray cooked a large breakfast: pancakes, scrambled eggs, and four slices of crisp bacon. Cooking and eating always settled his nerves. But not this time.
Ray ate at the bar, standing. He removed a cell from his pants pocket. It wasn’t his iPhone. It was a new burner. A twin of the one he’d hidden Friday night inside the mouth of a big fish mounted to the wall of The Shack’s rear hallway.
Ray dialed The Shack. And waited. Six rings. “Kitchen. Buddy.” Ray smiled at his good fortune.
“Buddy. It’s Braxton. I don’t think that fish I had the other night was fully cooked.”
“I’m sorry for your unpleasant experience. I’ll look into it.” Buddy knew the routine. It was Ray and Buddy’s way of communicating. And it wasn’t the first time Ray left a burner inside the large-mouth bass.
While waiting for the callback, Ray pondered whether it was time to update his code name. He had used ‘Braxton’ three times already with Buddy, the greaser. It was the same number for the fish reference. Greaser meant fixer, one who slicks things up and makes them work, not a long-haired dumpy little man who liked his ponytail. Although Buddy was that too.
In less than two minutes, Ray’s new burner rang. “Morning Buddy. Thanks for being so prompt.”
“Just prepping breakfast, waiting for the rush. What’s happening Santa?” The name wasn’t code, but a belief Buddy knew Ray never called unless he’d already packed his sleigh. Ray heard the loud sound of traffic from Highway 431.
Ray drank the last swallow of his orange juice and walked outside onto the Lodge’s rear deck overlooking his outdoor kitchen and attached pavilion. “You got time for a little job before Christmas?”
“Sure boss, as long as it’s safe and worth my time and skills.” Buddy knew he could trust Ray. He was a man of his word, protected his sources, and paid top dollar. It was what Buddy needed since he was still on probation for something not connected to Ray Archer.
“It’s a fire and smoke sortie. Buddy also knew this was code for arson.”
“Local or foreign?”
“Local.”
“High profile?”
“High.”
“Figures?” Money motivated Buddy, especially now. He’d just bought a new camper and the rent was high at Guntersville State Park.
“Mid-fives.” Ray figured $50,000 was cheaper than legal fees. Or offering more to Rob Kern.
“Make it upper fives and I’ll do it, no matter the profile.” An extra twenty or thirty would pay off some old gambling debts, maybe save his hide.
“There’s homework.” Ray needed Buddy’s expertise. The last thing he wanted was a slow-burning fire, especially with Boaz Fire Department close by.
“No doubt. Give me the address and I’ll start my inspection.”
Ray walked down the stairs, across the stone pavers encircling the open-air kitchen, and to a picnic table underneath the pavilion. “309 Thomas Avenue. It’s the Hunt House.”
Without a single pause, Buddy semi-yelled. “Shit man, that is high profile. The risk is God-awful.”
“I’ll make it a hundred grand. You in or not?”
There was more pause this time. “Okay, I’ll do it, but I may need Billy.” Billy was Ray’s other greaser. And Buddy’s brother. The two of them managed the kitchen at The Shack.
“Pay’s the same. You and Billy can split it any way you want.”
“Plus, expenses.”
“Damn, Buddy, you’re pushing it.”
“High profile ain’t cheap.”
“Do your homework and report back.” Ray pressed end and tucked the burner in his shirt pocket.
***
It was almost 6:30 when Ray tapped on the door to room 343 at Bridgewood Gardens, an assisted living facility in Albertville. “Come in.” The voice surprised Ray because it was not his father.
Inside, a young red-haired man was situating a food tray in front of Ronald’s chair. “Morning Pop,” Ray said as he entered. His father’s face, puffy and fleshier than Ray recalled, revealed his anger. Ray knew that look well.
“Who says you can’t feed me? I’m paying a shit-pot full of money for this damn place. It’s a fucking ripoff.”
Stan, per his name tag, remained calm. “Mr. Archer, you agreed to take your meals in the dining room. There’s an extra charge for room service.”
“Hey Dad, let me feed you.” Ray said, circling Stan and kneeling beside his father.
It took five minutes for Ray to convince him he would talk to the administrator and make sure they delivered his meals, and that they fed him if needed.
Seeing his father become an invalid had been wearing on Ray for the past five years. The cause of Ronald’s near incapacitation was a rare form of Parkinson’s disease. Even in Stage Four, he was semi-mobile but had little strength or power. He had the usual tremors but, so far, Bridgewood’s level of service had been adequate. What worried Ray was the medication that caused his father to talk so much. Ray had zero control over what might come out of Ronald Archer’s mouth.
If it hadn’t been for his father, he would be in a dark and dank prison with a cellmate who was barely human.
After a few bites of oatmeal and toast, and a few sips of grape juice, Ray used a napkin to wipe jelly from his father’s chin. “Thanks son.” These words were also rare.
“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” Ray moved the tray out of the way and retreated to an over-sized couch across the narrow room.
“It’s about time I go home.” Ronald was an enigma. It was his idea to move to Bridgewood when Evelyn, his second wife, had died five years ago. Ray could have paid for round-the-clock nurses, but Ronald wouldn’t have it. He was fiercely independent and didn’t want any of Ray’s ‘damn’ money. But Ronald griped everyday he was at Bridgewood.
“Dad, it’s about your will. I think it’s time you made some changes. Lillian and I are in trouble.” Ray was shocked two years ago to learn his father was leaving everything to Lillian. Ray’s problem wasn’t the money, his father wasn’t wealthy by any means. It was the real estate, more particularly, the old Hibbs place. It was the sixty-acre farm off Dogwood Trail that had concealed secrets for half a century.
Ray and his father had rarely spoken about the crimes. But truth was, both men had near perfect memories of every step they took that long ago fateful night.
In a frenzy, with the victim lying beside the pond, Ray had driven to Ronald’s house. He knew that if anyone would know what to do; it was his father.
Ray was right. It had taken several hours, but after dismembering the corpse and digging three graves, his father had given him confidence. Ronald had repeated over and over during the entire ordeal that ‘without a body, they couldn’t convict.’ Ronald still believed that to this day. But now, what worried him was not the body, but the bones.
“Did you ever find the pistol?” From Ronald’s statement, Ray knew his father was confused. He had a right to be given the five decades that had expired since the two murders. Two, not one. But either could spell doom for Ray, since publicity over the one he didn’t commit could lead to the one he did. Ray answered his father’s question.
“No.” Ray knew his father was importing facts from one night to another, from one cover-up to another. For all Ray knew, now in the present, his father could believe his son had killed two people.
“How well did you look? You remember it was my gun?” After the second murder, and after the body disposal, Ronald stayed and searched for the 38 Smith & Wesson. Not so much because he was the owner, but because it was the murder weapon. Ray had shared that the shooter had dropped it to the ground after shooting Kyle. It was only later, after Rachel had returned to China, that she had told him she had returned to the crime scene, located Ronald’s pistol, and had hidden it in a secure place.
“I know that. And I’ve looked for it a dozen times. I still believe it’s somewhere in the Hunt House.” Over the years, Ray had rented all six of Barbara McReynolds’ guest rooms, at least twice each. Ray’s excuse was always that he loved Rachel and the Hunt House (now, the bed-and-breakfast) was the last place he’d seen her. Barbara had believed him.
Ray helped his father go to the bathroom. With Ronald sitting on the commode, Ray turned away. “I’ve wiped your butt a thousand times when you were a kid. You can wipe mine this once.” It was all Ray could do to keep from gagging. He rushed out into the hall and soon found Stan.
Five minutes later with Ronald back in his Lazy Boy and Ray claiming he was late for a meeting, Ronald said, “be careful who you trust and remember what I taught you. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.” Ray smiled, leaned down and kissed his father’s forehead, and left.
Returning to Boaz, he pondered how lucky he had been, so far, in breaking his father’s guiding business principle.
***
It was almost noon when Spectrum Cable completed their installation. Before moving, Lillian had convinced herself that starting over didn’t require TV cable or Internet service; instead, she could rely strictly on her cell phone. However, all that was before her last-minute decision to install two recording devices inside the Lodge. Lillian had rationalized that the cost of the listening equipment, and the monthly price to receive the transmissions, were simply investments in her future. Hopefully, a future as a divorced woman disentangled from Ray Archer, and comfortably situated with half the man’s estate. Starting over didn’t mean giving up her two favorite past-times: watching Netflix movies, and reading or listening to books either through OverDrive or her Kindle APP.
“Which plan did you choose?” Kyla said, standing inside the kitchen as Lillian palmed the Spectrum installer a tip. Generous to the core, Kyla thought.
Lillian fiddled with the storm door. It wouldn’t shut properly. She gave up and joined Kyla, retreating to the pantry. “Silver. Who needs two hundred channels? Really, I don’t watch that much TV.”
“Let me show you what I’ve done and then I’m heading out.” Kyla was the organizer. That’s why Lillian had delegated the storage closet to her best friend.
For such a small house, the kitchen had a large walk-in pantry lined with multiple shelves on two sides. Lillian looked inside and made a mental note to buy more can goods during her next trip to Walmart. The shelves were almost bare except for a few things contributed by an unaware Ray: three kinds of Campbell’s soup, four bags of beef flavored Ramen Noodles (Lillian preferred chicken), and a bottle of medium spiced salsa. No Tortilla chips. Lillian was pleased. Kyla had spent two-hours installing bright green adhesive shelf liner she’d bought at Dollar General during her ride over earlier this morning.
Kyla encouraged Lillian to consider a pest service given the two bugs and several mice turds she’d seen on the floor inside the pantry. After agreeing and soliciting Kyla’s promise to work together at tomorrow’s community-wide Thanksgiving meal, the friends hugged, and Kyla departed.
Lillian was mildly hungry but didn’t like her options, so she grabbed her laptop and retired to the couch. She checked her email and reread a few old ones, since nothing was new. Lillian then clicked on the ‘Educate Yourself’ icon that was automatically created when she’d downloaded the Spyware APP that came with the two recording devices.
“Click here for today’s lessons.” Lillian liked Spyware’s take on education. She imagined it would be like reading a good mystery. Learning something that helped solve the case.
Lillian clicked Device A, that’s the one she’d placed in a lower kitchen cabinet, hung over a bracket that kept the sink from moving. The first sounds were a voice and name she didn’t recognize: “Kitchen. Buddy.” The clarity impressed Lillian.
“Buddy. It’s Braxton. I don’t think that fish I had the other night was fully cooked.” Lillian never doubted it was Ray’s voice; it was clear as blue sky, not disguising his Southern drawl in the least. But why was he pretending to be Braxton? Buddy was another unfamiliar name. Lillian paused the replay to think. After an unsuccessful thirty seconds, she again clicked the Play icon.
“I’m sorry for your unpleasant experience. I’ll investigate it.” Back to the initial voice. Buddy. Kitchen. Fish. It was true Ray was always complaining about something. For years, something had often embarrassed her when the two had gone out to eat. Lillian waited for another minute, but no familiar sounds. She looked closer at her laptop. The tiny red line had scrolled across the screen. This conversation had ended. She X’d the file and clicked on the next one, the last one listed under Device A.
Lillian clicked on the darkened triangle. “Morning Buddy. Thanks for being so prompt.” Ray’s voice.
“Just prepping breakfast, waiting for the rush. What’s happening Santa?” That must be Buddy.
There was a slight slurping sound. Lillian wondered if it was Ray or Buddy drinking. There was a pause and then, in Ray’s voice, “You got time for a little job before Christmas?” This statement was half as clear as the others. Then, a door slammed. The red line stopped again, far right side of the frame, like it does on YouTube.
Lillian could have kicked herself. She’d opted for the cheaper models. For an extra $250, she could have bought the premiums; their reach was a hundred feet, including most obstructions. All she could visualize was that Ray initially had been in the kitchen, maybe right next to the sink and counter. Then, when the sound grew weaker, he’d walked to the Lodge’s back door, ultimately walking onto the deck and closing the door. That door was always a little hard to close.
Lillian attempted to analyze what she’d heard. If she could believe the words, Buddy must work at a restaurant, one that served breakfast, one that was busy on a weekday morning. Grumpy’s came to mind, but there was also The Shack. Lillian shook her head and breathed aloud, “you dummy, why do you think Buddy works in Boaz?”
She closed her laptop and walked to the bedroom. In ten minutes, she had changed clothes, made a list, and was on her way to Walmart. She’d forgotten her promise to Jane. A sweet potato casserole for tomorrow’s Community Wide Thanksgiving meal was the last thing she wanted to do.
Lillian’s mind returned to the recordings as she passed The Shack on her left. She realized she had no good reason to conclude Buddy worked there, but that didn’t keep her from wondering what type of job Ray needed finished by Christmas.
The Pencil Driven Life 