Bouncer

Bouncer

A Fox & Thayne Mystery

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

“Bouncer,” by Tyan Wyss. 1st Edition. ISBN-978-1491225349

©2013 Tyan Wyss. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Tyan Wyss.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Bouncer

(A Fox & Thayne Mystery)

by

Tyan Wyss

Prologue

Tuesday Night, September 10th, 2002

Escape!
There had to be a way out! The groggy mayor glanced over his shoulder and knew it was now or never. Flinging his portly body over the windowsill, he cringed at the distance yawning below him and bordered by mature roses with long, treacherous thorns. An odd coughing sound pursued him, and in terror, he flew from the window, flapping his arms like useless wings before crashing to the ground. He numbly crawled on battered hands and knees, seeking escape. A strange snarling off to his left struck terror into his rotund frame as he propelled his corpulent mass like a shrieking pig along the ground. A sudden command followed by an obedient hush forced him to raise his bleary eyes in terror. Amazement at that final image quickly blurred as acute pain made night envelop the day forever.

Gasping and choking for breath, he awoke in terror from his night vision, the heavy headphones pounding out
Metallica
in a feeble effort to block out the voices and visions. Stumbling to the bathroom cabinet, he grabbed two migraine pills and chomped them like candy. He staggered over to the police scanner and flipped the switch before lowering himself into the office chair. He poured out a generous dose of bourbon and listened and waited, the image of the magnolia pulsing inside his brain. When dawn peeked through the shuttered window, he gave up.
All comes to he who waits
.

Chapter 1

Earlier that month

“Ba? Ba? Ooohh . . . see ba.” Thunk. “Where ba? Ooohh . . . hee, hee, snag. Me Bonsir. Ba! Ba! Wher ba? Eedd! Eedd!”

Philemon, the African-American gardener, was excruciatingly bored. He’d been hired by the prim and arthritic Mrs. Simms to manicure her lawn and garden three times a week when one would have sufficed. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning from eight until noon, he cleaned, swept, and maintained her already immaculate garden. To fill in time, Philemon moved as slowly as the snail he methodically removed from a hydrangea bush, crushing its amber shell beneath his worn yellow work boots. His calloused fingers searched a
Mr. Lincoln
hybrid tea rose and pulled off two slightly yellowing petals. The flowers still bloomed in full glory this early Fall in north-central California, and even though the evenings were growing cooler, the garden still glowed in layers of finely tuned color. He placed his hands upon his jean-clad hips and surveyed the emerald green lawn before him with faded chocolate eyes that reflected the smile of a man who knows he has achieved a superior result.

Philemon turned his still-astute eyes to the main house and studied its distinct lines. It was built in classic Tudor style with tall white-washed walls and black wooden face-boards crossing in attractive Xs. The stately anthracite roof reached towards a tall ash tree centered just left of the expansive lawn. The cobbled walkway gently meandered up to the triple steps of the front porch, which overlooked an oval-shaped lawn. The quaint path was painstakingly lined with lovely tree roses bursting with color. Mrs. Simms only allowed only
Peace
and her pink cousin
Chicago Peace
to hedge the perfect pathway, and their alternating copper pink petals and bronze-tinged yellow flowers contrasted beautifully. Mrs. Simms demanded perfection in her garden, and Philemon willingly obliged.

Hydrangeas and camellias vied for space under the shady eaves, both species blooming in brilliant purplish-blue and mauve arrays. It was to be their final display before the winter set in, but for now, their amazing depth of color startled the eye and nourished the senses. The proscenium of the house hosted not only the beautiful ash tree but a silver maple as well as a lush cluster of liquid ambers, whose pointed leaves were now tinged pink and orange by the advent of cool fall evenings. Lastly and perfectly, a huge, mature cottonwood shaded the already cool interior of the two-story domicile Mrs. Simms called home; standing tall near the left back fence bordering the vacant lot.

An ivy-covered, split-rail fence surrounded the front yard, and pink, cream, and scarlet creeper roses crept around its vertical poles, promoting the desired impression of peace and tranquility. A garden worthy of a Monet painting, Philemon was thankful Mrs. Simms remained open to his suggestions. Whenever her dedicated gardener suggested replanting a flowerbed or trimming a tree, she almost always agreed. As long as the final result proved stunning, Philemon was allowed a free hand. Mrs. Simms was obsessed with beauty and perfection, and because of it, her yard remained a showpiece.

Philemon Jenkins had been a gardener for nearly four years and loved the outside work. Before that, he’d stood on the assembly line in Detroit for twenty-two years laboring for a major motor company before his foot had inadvertently caught in a gear chain, crushing thirteen bones in the process. The company had paid him off while discreetly suggesting he should retire, motivating him with what is so affectionately called the ‘golden handshake.’ Philemon had cheerfully pocketed his money and limped off to California, where the weather proved less stressful to his often-aching bones. Detroit held sour memories of mislaid loyalties and unrelenting demands, and he’d been relieved to finally break with the too-stressful city.

His gentle wife, Darcy, had accompanied him to the Golden State and loved it immediately. The African-American community was large, and their modest home, located near the Southern Baptist Church, beckoned to her energetic though gentle nature. Every Sunday, Philemon stood ramrod straight as he listened to his plump Darcy lifting her lovely voice to God, for she had truly been blessed with the gift of song. Each and every Sabbath, he counted his belated blessings and praised the Lord for his recent redemption and cleansing baptism only three years earlier. Positive God had cracked open a door for his salvation, Philemon remained eternally grateful for the luxury of feeling entitled to a pleasant afterlife. In repentance, he dutifully deposited a generous sum into the offering plate each and every Sunday under the rapturous eyes of his relieved wife.

Their three children had retreated years earlier to states south  and west from chilly Detroit and seemed more inclined to visit their ageing parents in the warmer sun of California, so Philemon contentedly gardened, worked on his expanding stamp collection, and every Saturday afternoon, headed to the nearby Indian casino to play bingo and Blackjack. His devout wife grimaced every time he sauntered off to his weekend obsession, but relented graciously since Philemon remained a faithful, loving husband; and Darcy couldn’t deny him his one sinful passion. Nickel gambling, the warm sunshine, and an occasional whiskey were minor sins compared to others.

So, Philemon worked ever so slowly in the perfect garden and squinted occasionally at the fiery sun. His blue lopsided hat covered the graying hair that remained on balding head and shaded his dark face from the fearsome California heat. Soon, it would be time to head home for lunch. Darcy had promised to serve up his favorite chili and beans with green peppers, which had been gaining fire all morning. A thump and a crackle of fallen leaves indicated something had landed close to Philemon’s feet, and he turned towards the sound. A red rubber ball, just larger than a softball, lay guiltily in the leaves near one of the liquid amber trees, and the gardener tried to ascertain where the child’s toy had originated. Only the distant barking of a dog and the slight lift of a breeze rustling the liquid amber leaves disturbed the silence of the late morning. No one called to Philemon for their ball.

It was always quiet on this cul-de-sac at 612 Chester Street in Central California in the lovely, small city of Monroe. Cars rarely visited the gently curving dead end unless they needed to turn around, and the nearest neighbor was 614 Chester Street—an imposing monstrosity of a two-story gothic house surrounded by ten-foot high walls. Razor sharp spikes protruded from the top and defended white washed walls fronted by a huge black cast iron gate, which reminded the aged gardener of a portcullis fronting a castle. Philemon instinctively knew this was where the ball had originated.

Philemon picked it up and bounced it absently upon Mrs. Simms’ cobbled walkway while squinting at 614 Chester Street. The child’s toy sprang delightfully into his coffee-colored hand, and he bounced it rhythmically for a few moments, pondering whether to throw it back over the wall. Philemon had only a half-hour until quitting time, and he still needed to rake up some of the leaves scattered underneath the large cottonwood tree. Finally, his mind made up, he drew back his arm like a baseball pitcher and threw the ball high into the air, then watched it arch perfectly and land well beyond the spike-clad wall. Immediately, he heard the rustle of leaves scattering as if someone chased the ball.

“Hello!” he called. “I threw back your ball. Did you find it?”

Silence was his only response. Philemon shrugged and adjusted his hat. Perhaps it was just as well, so he reached down to pick up his discarded rake. Suddenly the red ball sailed past his ear, landing near the arbor where Philemon had carefully trained a
Joseph’s Coat
to trail over thin slats of brown trellis. He scurried over as quickly as his stiff legs would allow and bent down to retrieve the ball once again. Someone was playing an impish game with him, and he smiled. The visits from his grandchildren were few and far between and he missed the laughter of little children.

Philemon moved closer to 614’s driveway, and this time tossed the ball underhanded over the towering fence. Instead of returning to work, he waited, one hand shading his eyes as the telltale rustle of leaves indicated his playmate was as intent on the game as he. Sure enough, within less than a minute the ball whistled over the fence again, and he grinned triumphantly to himself. He once again retrieved the ball and tossed it. This time, the ball sailed back in less than thirty seconds.

“So, you wanna play ball,” he called out. “Well, here you go!”

This time, Philemon threw the ball nearly straight up. It rose more than twenty feet into the air before sailing over the wall and plummeting straight downward. He swore he heard a slight chuckle before the ball was returned in exactly the same manner.

“Not bad,” cried Philemon. “Now, why don’t you try this?”

Drawing his arm back, he threw his best spinner. As he watched it whiz over the fence, he smirked with a certain amount of satisfaction. Not too shabby for an old man! The ball zoomed back so fast he barely had time to react, the round orb smacking him right in the forehead. As he rubbed the aching spot, Philemon laughed out loud.

“Good shot from wherever you are. How did you know exactly where I was?”

But once again, no answer came, only the slight, nervous crunching of the unseen dead leaves. Philemon glanced toward the house speculatively. Mrs. Simms likely still puttered around her backyard greenhouse, tending to her precious orchids, and he concluded it was worth taking five minutes to play with the lonely child behind the wall.

For the next few minutes he tried all sorts of different throws; underhanded, over-handed, spiked, and short tricky lobs that missed the spikes by a scant three inches After five minutes of frenzied, creative play, he called out once again.

“My name’s Philemon. What’s yours?”

The trees rustled slightly, but this time, the ball was not returned. Philemon waited for a full two minutes before turning sadly away and reluctantly retrieving his rake. He would have loved to play more, but still had twenty minutes of work left. After raking up the leaves scattered over the quartz colored gravel, he watered the hydrangeas again since the rains hadn’t begun, and finally headed towards the front door of the huge two-story house occupied by the elderly Edith Simms. He briskly knocked and the wide door opened almost immediately. Mrs. Simms peered out at him over expensive gold-rimmed glasses.

“Are you finished for today, Philemon?” she asked, flashing him a big smile.

“I sure am, madam,” he returned. “I put all the tools away, and since Wednesday is trash day, I’ll set out the trashcans as soon as I arrive. We’re starting to collect quite a few leaves.”

“We most certainly are,” said Mrs. Simms, sighing deeply. She wore faded old overalls upon which potting soil clung. “Even the most perfect of plants fade.” A frown passed over her weathered face, but Mrs. Simms mentally shook herself and added perkily, “I believe Friday is payday!”

Mrs. Simms always smiled as if payday was the most delightful day of the week and paid Philemon punctually every Friday after work, usually adding a plate of chocolate chip cookies, fudge brownies, or occasionally, her amazing butterscotch fudge to his already generous pay
.
Philemon knew that Mrs. Simms delighted in sharing her baking, so he graciously received whatever she doled out even though his own wife Darcy was a phenomenal cook.

Mrs. Simms had probably been a decent-looking woman in her younger days, but now, at sixty-five or so, was skinny and frail, the veins protruding bluely through her pale skin. Her long and brittle nails were always stained with gardening chemicals and dirt, and her clothes didn’t fit her properly any more. While a well-off woman, she lived simply and seemed to have no family, rarely entertaining guests. Philemon knew she must be excruciatingly lonely in the huge, echoing house.

For the past three Christmases, he and Darcy had joined his employer for some eggnog and seasonal cheer. He always took the opportunity, while his wife and Mrs. Simms chatted, to wander through the expansive house, marveling at the collection of furniture and unusual artifacts she’d collected through her many years of traveling. Edith Simms had been a librarian, but after the untimely death of her husband—a biology professor at UCSB—she’d finally obtained the money to travel and enjoy those places she’d only read about. Unfortunately, her once-adventurous mate could no longer accompany her, and in many ways, his absence had made her more daring; encouraging her to visit the Congo, examine the unique flora and fauna of the Galapagos, and venture to obscure Hindu temples in the remotest regions of India. Her hair was dyed that hideous silver-blue of the elderly, and Philemon sensed she would like to chat for a few moments before he took his leave, so he thought it appropriate to bring up a question that had bothered him more than once.

“Who lives across the street Mrs. Simms, at 614?”

Mrs. Simms seemed startled. “Well, I only know their name is Collins, but I’ve never met them. They seem practically barricaded inside that old house of theirs.”

“Do you know if there’s a child?” asked Philemon. “A ball came bouncing over the wall today, and I thought there might be.”

Mrs. Simms shrugged a bony shoulder. “I really don’t think so, but then again, maybe. I’m positive they don’t have a dog, since I’ve never heard one, but once, a furniture truck from that Oriental Trading Company was parked out front; delivering furniture, I guess. And I once saw the most beautiful ginger cat perched on the wall. She stepped so daintily over the spikes. High walls like that can’t keep everything out.” Mrs. Simms spoke in that fluttered train-of-thought style of hers that was so difficult to follow.