The Boaz Stranger–Chapter 52

The fallout triggered by Lillian and Ray’s quasi-mediation session wasted over a week.

To her surprise, he had offered to settle: Lillian would receive half a billion dollars in cash plus 49% ownership in Rylan’s Boaz location, with quarterly dividend distributions expected, but not guaranteed.

I had to admit, the offer was generous, except for two conditions Ray claimed were non-negotiable. The first required Lillian’s best ‘stand-by-her-man’ performance at today’s groundbreaking ceremony for the Rylan’s development on Thomas Avenue. This was distasteful to say the least. The second condition was wholly despicable and revealed Ray’s guilt and fear. It mandated that Lillian, and thus me, cease all efforts to implicate him in a crime.

 Oddly, the second condition was a deal breaker from the beginning, but it had consumed virtually every waking hour since Lillian and Micaden had returned from Huntsville eleven days ago.

There was one other issue with Ray’s offer. At the end of their session, Ray’s attorney had told Micaden in private that the offer had to be accepted by 5:00 PM January the 15th. That’s today. And, the closing of the transaction, including transfer of a $500,000,000 cashier’s check, would take place Friday, January 29th at 2:00 PM in Huntsville. No doubt Ray had learned of mine and Lillian’s plans to return to New Haven that very afternoon. Micaden had protested, but attorney Selvidge had said two weeks was the minimum Ray needed to raise that much cash, since he didn’t intend to start the asset juggling and swapping until Lillian accepted his offer. In writing.

It was 1:00 PM when Kyla and I exited her house and walked to her Silverado. I’d asked if I could borrow it late afternoon for an errand I had to run. Lillian had driven her Lincoln Aviator an hour ago and was now rehearsing the ceremony with Ray, Mayor Ted King, and the five city councilmen.

 It was four hours until Ray’s settlement offer would evaporate, unless Lillian hand-delivered her written acceptance. I knew the two of us had prepared two letters, one accepting Ray’s offer, and the other a counter, the details of which he likely would find repulsive. For many reasons, I was nervous, even anxious about today’s event. Much could happen in four hours. The only thing that gave me consolation was that the ceremony was out in the open with an expected standing-room-only crowd.

“Stop at the mailbox, I’m expecting a package.” Kyla said as soon as I buckled my seatbelt.

Although Lillian and I had invested considerable time in Ray’s offer and brainstormed a zillion potential responses, this didn’t mean the investigation had ceased. P.I. Connor Ford had pursued Darrell Clements from Jane’s photo of the note Ray had tucked inside his cash disbursements ledger. The bottom line was that he had paid Clements $7,500 to vouch for a cleverly concocted story about Buddy’s truck. In the fictional narrative, Buddy had sold Clements the blue Chevrolet pickup and Ray had delivered it to his HorsePens 40 campsite. Impressive as they were, Ford had determined the transaction documents—Bill of Sale and Title—were forgeries. Shocking as this discovery was, it paled, considering what had occurred in the Sharon Teague case.

Nick Pearson, current General Manager and CEO of MUB Electric in Albertville, and pastor at Skirum Creek Methodist Church in Crossville, was arrested last Wednesday night a week ago during midweek prayer time. Supposedly, Pearson was standing at the pulpit petitioning God to heal Christine Dalrymple’s varicose veins when four Marshall County deputies entered the church and handcuffed the sixty-seven-year-old bi-vocational preacher.

After seeing Pearson’s arrest in the Sand Mountain Reporter’s Crime Blotter, I almost called District Attorney Pam Garrison to tell her she’d made a grave mistake. But I’d resisted the temptation. I knew her to be competent and extremely detailed. Through Micaden and Connor, I’d learned what had led to this surprising event.

An anonymous tip had prompted DA investigator Avery Proctor to pay a friendly at-first visit to Pearson at his MUB office. Neither Micaden nor Connor knew the details of the tip but had learned Pearson was adamant he had nothing to do with the disappearance of Sharon Teague over half-a-century ago. In fact, he was so confident he volunteered to take a lie-detector test, and suggested, even encouraged, law enforcement to search his home in Albertville Country Club Estates.

Proctor had acted promptly. After accepting Pearson’s offer and having him sign a written consent form, the veteran investigator had requested three deputies meet him at MUB. Less than an hour later, Deputy Jared Lang found Sharon Teague’s 1970s dog tag and her Albertville High School class ring in a shoe box on the top shelf of Pearson’s closet. This find prompted Proctor to secure a search warrant for 683 East Mann Avenue, Pearson’s childhood home where his ninety-year-old parents still lived. There, in a bedroom virtually unchanged since their only son had left for college in the fall of 1972, deputies found three bones, a human’s left femur, right tibia, and left fibula, tucked inside an Albertville High School gym bag filled with hundreds of unbound baseball cards. That was nine days ago, and the bones have already made a round-trip to and from the Department of Forensic Sciences in Birmingham. With the help (including DNA contribution) of Susan Vick, the victim’s sister, the Department positively identified the bones as those of Sharon Elizabeth Teague.

As Kyla and I waited for the red light at Highway 431, I was more confident than ever that Ray Archer or a crony had planted the evidence and made the anonymous call. How he had stolen Sharon Teague’s dog tag from Dorothy Bennett’s jewelry box, and how he had hidden the bones inside the elderly Pearson’s home was shocking and scary. I was sick by the thought the Teflon man was, once again, going to escape prosecution. I made a mental note to ask Connor or Micaden what the DA’s theory was, and what Nick Pearson’s motive was to kill Sharon Teague.

***

I made the mistake of turning right on Darnell Street and left on East Mann Avenue thinking I would find a spot next to Old Mill Park like I did at Kyle’s memorial. That area was overflowing, so I continued to Highway 205 and turned right. I eased through the red light at Thomas and into a gravel and chert area once occupied by Cox Chevrolet directly west of Rylan’s. It was the city block the mayor and council had recently purchased to resolve Ray’s concern his development would be doomed if customers didn’t have a nearby parking lot. So far, all the city had accomplished was razing the one residence and four dilapidated commercial buildings, and doing a little land prep.

By the time Kyla and I exited her Silverado, another vehicle pulled beside us, and two younger couples nodded as they hurried east on Thomas. I semi-yelled, “what’s the rush?” earning a ‘you can be an obnoxious dumb ass’ look from Kyla.

“Free food.” I didn’t figure out Kyla’s response until we reached the Brown Street intersection. Beginning there, parked along Thomas Avenue and facing future development, were a dozen or more food trucks offering anything from BBQ sandwiches, pizza, and tacos to snow cones and cotton candy.

“Not your typical groundbreaking ceremony.” I said, glancing toward the row of garden homes behind all the food trucks.

 “Food is a good way to draw a crowd.” Kyla added as we headed to the makeshift platform the city had built where Julia Street Methodist Church once stood for a hundred years. There were several hundred metal chairs set up in a semicircle around the stage. Thankfully, half the folks in attendance were more interested in food than boring speeches, leaving at least a third of the seats empty. We grabbed two in the center section underneath the outstretched limbs of an aging oak. Oddly, it was the only tree that survived the month-long demolition.

From our vantage point sixty feet from the stage, I could see, all seated, the mayor, five councilmen, Dan Brasher, and of course, the photogenic couple who’d spawned the Rylan’s idea. Lillian was smiling, but it wasn’t genuine. I could hear her thinking, “oh shit, what have I gotten into?” It was like she was directing her thoughts at Jane, seated in the front row between Stella Newsome and Nick Lancaster.

We hadn’t been seated for five minutes when the mayor walked to the podium. He welcomed everyone and promised today would be a new beginning for Boaz. He then launched into a rather long and overly detailed explanation of the Hunt House fire and the death of Eric Snyder, ending with a short moment of silence for the dead man, followed by an excited declaration as he turned and stared at the slippery eel sitting beside the woman I loved. “Ray, my friend, I’ve always known you had nothing to do with any of that, but you know how rumors ignite. I’m proud to announce they have completely exonerated you.” Mayor Ted said the last sentence after he’d returned his gaze to the crowd.

This was my queue to leave, for at least two reasons. I hated lies and the smarminess of Ray’s protector, and I needed to find Jane Fordham’s Equinox.

***

I patted Kyla’s knee and exited the semi-circle of metal chairs. I’d wasted enough time grading papers and batting Ray’s settlement offer back and forth with Lillian. It was time to shake the tree.

I weaved my way to Thomas, keeping my head down. I continued west to Taylor’s Taco truck and waited in line. After ordering a burrito and leaving a $5.00 tip, I mingled with the crowd for a few minutes before easing my way between Taylor’s and a pizza rig to the sidewalk in front of the garden homes. I walked eastward and reached Whitman Street before finishing the overly spiced burrito.

Jane’s Equinox was parked next to Lillian’s Aviator, just like she’d promised. It was the exact spot I’d used while attending Kyle’s memorial service. I did a slow 360-degree turn and scan before unlocking the Aviator. I opened the passenger door and leaned forward like I was grabbing something from the console. As far as I could tell, no one was paying any attention. I semi-stood before squatting. I reached inside my jacket pocket and removed a metal, magnetic case. Inside was an inch thick GPS tracker. I opened the case and flipped the ‘ON’ switch. A green light appeared in the lower right corner. I lay on my back and slid a half-foot underneath Jane’s SUV and found a spot on the frame to attach the magnetic case. Online reviewers touted the GL300 as the best on the market. I bought it, along with the case, from Spytec. Lillian and I tested it, along with its accompanying real time iPhone App, yesterday afternoon.

For several reasons, I didn’t trust Jane. I rooted my primary reason in how quickly Ray had emptied his safe. If Jane had told Lillian, Kyla, and me the truth, she would have left things exactly like she’d found them. Jane had shown us the photos she’d taken, both before and after removing the contents. To me, Ray would have no reason to suspect Jane had been inside his safe. Sure, given the mess we had made in the snow, he might have suspected her, but he knew Jane didn’t have the safe’s combination. Again, if we believed Jane. At least, that’s what she had said. I doubted the empty safe was simply a coincidence.

***

I retraced my steps along Whitman and the sidewalk in front of the garden homes. After I edged my way between Taylor’s Taco and Perfect Pizza, I noticed the food junkie crowd had disappeared. They had migrated to the semicircle and filled every metal seat I could see. I had to slide sideways across a dozen knees before I reached my spot beside Kyla.

She gave me a questioning look. I nodded affirmatively. “What’d I miss?”

She leaned toward my left ear and whispered, “nothing.” I knew I hadn’t been gone long, but something had to have happened. “Five councilmen, all boring, repetitive. Thank goodness their ‘Boaz is on the upswing’ speeches were short.”

Next up was Dan Brasher, the graying, middle-aged man who likely fought a daily weight battle. He clearly was losing. Since I’d seen him last November, he’d gained at least ten to fifteen pounds. His soft-spoken and careful articulation had remained, subjectively conveying his goodness.

“Thank you, Mayor, for giving me the honor of speaking today. Let me first say that God is good.” I heard a chorus of scattered voices respond in virtual unison, “all the time.” I closed my eyes in befuddlement and concluded Dan was also going to be boring.

“I want to brag about my city. Somehow, our wise leaders realized it was time our community entered the promised land. Thank you, Mayor King and councilmen, for your foresight and bravery.” I was about to dose off when a loud and cracking voice to my left boomed disagreement.

“Debt feeds the devil. Don’t you know that?” Apparently, everyone in the crowd didn’t agree with Dan, or the ‘wisdom’ of the city fathers.

Not to be deterred, Dan outstretched his hands as though commanding the sea to calm. “My church, Julia Street Methodist, stood on this very spot for over a hundred years. It was dying in more ways than one. Our sanctuary was teetering on collapse. Now, our new facilities are about to sprout-to-life on three beautiful acres across from The Shack. To God be the glory, great things He has done, and is doing. This is good news for everyone.”

I tried to relax and grade Dan’s talk so far on the shallowest of curves. I started brainstorming reasons Mayor King and Ray would have asked Dan to be the event’s keynote speaker. The most logical was that Dan, as pastor and spokesperson for the development’s largest former-occupant, was the best choice to dedicate Rylan’s to future success. And God’s glory. I was a stranger in a strange place.

Dan spent the next few minutes similarly praising the other nine landowners who had ultimately seen the light. He then launched into a detailed description of how the city had, without obligation at all, gifted an extra $10,000 each for living expenses while they constructed a new home or otherwise dealt with the transition. Kyla whispered the city was priming the pump for the next project on the horizon. Rumor had it the city was interested in using its eminent domain power to convert the residential block to the south of the new Marshall-Dekalb Electric Coop building into a commercial zone.

Finally, Dan caught my attention, but not until he had praised Ray Archer, and Rob and Rosa Kern. His words continued their generic and bland flavor. “In closing, I want you to know the city cares about each of its citizens, not just those owning properties situated inside the progressive wave.” That was an odd way to put it. Dan continued as he walked down the platform’s make-shift steps and approached an elderly gentleman in the front row that I hadn’t noticed before. “Please stand,” Dan said, reaching out his hand to assist. “Folks, this is Jackie Frasier, Boaz’s oldest citizen. Yesterday was his birthday. He’s now one hundred- and four-years young. Doesn’t he look good?”

Jackie rose, and Dan gently manipulated the ancient relic toward the crowd. “Folks, Jackie has a new home, actually two.” Dan paused and leaned into whisper something to the man I recalled as the high school custodian, tall, slender, confident. Now, he seemed a half-foot shorter, almost gaunt. Dan pointed toward the sky. “Yesterday, over cake and ice-cream, I had the honor and pleasure of leading my newest friend to the Lord. He now has a home in Heaven.” Dan turned and looked across the platform behind him and pointed again. “And, while his journey in this life continues, Jackie has a new home on Elm Street. Our wonderful city has gifted him one of Randall Pankey’s new garden homes across from the library.” Jackie looked tired, but he managed a weak wave and a fake smile. Or that’s what it seemed to me. “Folks, Jackie has lived west of Boaz on King Street for over eighty years. My fellow citizens, take note, the city takes care of its own.”

The same craggy voice we’d heard earlier spewed forth a volley of questions: “Is that legal? How much did that cost? Is the city going to buy my parents a new home? Like Jackie, they live in a mobile home dump.” It took a police officer to shut down the bearded man in an Earnhardt racing cap.

“Give Jackie a round of applause to show your support to a man who’s weathered many a storm.” I clapped, as did most of the crowd. You must respect those who’ve beaten life’s odds.

As the applause settled, I captured a scene that highlighted the red flag that had appeared in my mind when Dan introduced the City’s oldest citizen. I saw Mayor King and Ray exchange a rather long look. I couldn’t help but believe the two had conspired to figuratively put duct tape over Jackie’s mouth. If gut feelings could talk, mine would declare the longtime occupant of 275 King Street knew some things the two criminals didn’t want revealed.