Hiding Gladys (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (6 page)

NINE

“Ma’am,” he said, tipping
the brim of his hat.

“Sheriff,” I said and swallowed hard, trying to delay the inevitable, “this is my foreman, Mr. Winkler. My drill crew”—I indicated the guys.

“Fellers,” the sheriff said.

“What brings you out today?” I said, feeling my guts twist.

The sheriff fiddled with his hat and looked down.

I sensed he would be more comfortable passing the news to as few people as possible, so I said to the crew, “I’ll catch up with you guys in town.”

Sheriff Evans looked me square in the eyes and said, “M.E. in Chapel Hill has identified the body you found.”

Oh no. It was her. My mouth went dry. “Okay.”

“It wasn’t Miz Walton.”

My knees stopped buckling. “God, what a relief. But who was it?”

“Well, remember you told me about the other lady, her cousin”—the sheriff paused to pull a small spiral notepad from his shirt pocket—“a Miz Irene Mizzell?”

“Yes, yes … ?”

“It was her. Detectives believe the cover that was wrapped around her was off a charcoal grill, but we’ll let them and crime scene people determine that for sure.”

“How’d they make the identification? I mean, she and Gladys were both about the same age, kinda looked similar, you know … Same build, same silvery-gray hair, cut in similar styles … ”

The sheriff stopped my babbling: “Dental records. They don’t lie. It really helped that both women went to the same dentist in town. Had for years.”

I started not to ask, then decided it would be best to know all the details available to me. “How did she die?”

Sheriff Evans looked down, flipped his hat again and said, “Bullet to the back of the head. The hole looks to be made by a bullet from a small-caliber gun, we don’t know the exact caliber yet. We’ll know that when forensics is done. Of course we weren’t expecting it to be accidental, not with her wrapped up and dumped down a well.”

“No. I guess not.” I had to look down at my field boots. I was not going to act all girly and cry. No way.

“Detectives and crime scene guys’ll probably have some more questions for you.”

“That’s fine. Anything I can do, of course. But what about Gladys?”

“We have a Silver Alert out on her. But remember, this isn’t our only case. If you’re thinking a small town like ours never has murders, think again. This time of year we just about triple our population with migrant workers. Some summers we get as many as three killings. This year, we’ve already gotten two, and it’s not even halfway through the season yet.”

“I had no idea.”

“Well, just letting you know, so you don’t expect us to wrap this case up like one of them episodes of
Law & Order
and end up disappointed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff, and thanks for coming all the way out here. I appreciate it.”

In spite of the sad news of Irene Mizzell’s murder, lunch was a celebratory affair. After all, we were in the process of making a historic strike. One that would not only make a pant load of money for me and generations of my heirs but would lift the economy of the surrounding small towns. Considering how hard the great recession had hit eastern North Carolina, that would be a very welcome thing.

“You two pecker heads need to brush up on your rock identification,” laughed Wink, as two waitresses sat down bowls of cole slaw and field peas, a platter of fried catfish, and a basket of hush puppies.

“I knew what it was,” Mule said. “I just try not to make Stick look dumber than the rocks we drill.”

Stick tipped his chair on its back legs and said, “Hey, I was pretty sure it was … ”

I interrupted him, looking up at the waitresses, “Know what? I think you’re all smarter than a room full of Harvard lawyers. Matter of fact, I know you are. Now, dig in. We’ve got work to do.”

As the waitresses hurried to the next table, Wink looked at the boys, scowled, and pulled an imaginary zipper across his lips. They nodded and switched to a weightier topic: Wrestlemania. I listened to their funny banter, elated on the one hand that my site was proving to be all I had hoped for and deeply troubled on the other that the body of a murdered woman had been found there.

Wink later dropped me off at my Jeep so I could snag a bottled water and some field notes. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to walk off some of the calories from the fried lunch, so I told the guys I’d walk the rest of the way. When I got to the site, all three men were wearing funny expressions.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Somebody tampered with one of the boxes,” Stick blurted, pointing at the granite core samples in the back of Wink’s truck.

“What?!”

“Whoever did it was in a hurry and cracked the top of one of the boxes. There’s a sample missing.”

“Damnit to hell!” I stomped away about ten paces, hands on my hips, my back to the crew. I was just too angry to speak.

“I’m sorry,” Wink said. “I should’ve done more than just nail those crates shut. I should’ve put metal bands around each one of them.”

“Ya think?” I snapped and was instantly sorry. I held my palms out like a crossing guard, closed my big mouth, and retreated into the woods. I found a perfect time-out stump and sat myself down.
What the hell is going on?
I thought I knew, but I took the time to ponder the events of the last few days and listen to the birds. How I missed Tulip with her wise brown eyes. When I was sure I was calm and the crew had had sufficient time to think about what they’d done, I went back.

As I stepped back into the clearing Wink said, “I swear, I just didn’t think anyone would go to the trouble to traipse all the way back in these woods and find the crates.”

“Yes,” I said. “You should have, but we were all pretty excited. Just be more careful next time. Anyway, I’ve got this property tied up tight enough, so whoever did this … well, they went to a lot of trouble for nothing. Besides, I’ve been thinking—it’s obvious who did it.”

“Who?” asked all three men practically in unison.

“That numb-nuts, Robert Earle. He’s got access. And he’s proven himself to be a grade-A horse’s ass. Just because he’s been acting like Little Mary Sunshine lately doesn’t fool me for a second. It sucks, but no harm done.

“Now let’s see if we can get the rest of our first core in the box before we break for the weekend. Come Monday, we’ll finish our overburden drilling on the east side of the property, cross that creek, and see what our mountain looks like on the other side.”

Late that afternoon, I waved at them as they drove off, then pulled the gate closed and padlocked it. I was pocketing my key when I saw Robert Earle’s Escalade heading my way.
Damn
. And I was so close to leaving. Well, at least he was being friendly these days. I decided to keep it that way by playing dumb about the sample and conveying my condolences on the death of his cousin. Still, the thought of him creeping about in the woods, spying on the crew and me made my blood boil.

He got out and walked toward me, a legal-size manila envelope in his hand.

“What’s this?” I asked as he handed it to me.

“Something that says you don’t need to come back here anymore. You’re done. I’ll be taking over the testing of my mom’s property from now on.”

I set my poker face to cool and collected. Then, on second thought, dialed it up to cocky and said, “Number one: I have a legal contract signed by your mother. We’ve discussed this before, Robert Earle. And number two: I asked you already, what is this?” I held up the manila envelope.

“Open it and see for yourself.”

I didn’t move my eyes from him until I’d slipped the document from the envelope, then glanced down at it. It was an option to test signed by Robert Earle and Shirley, and signed by their mother designating them as her agents. I noticed the date too: it had been signed a month ago, five months after my document.

But instead of it being a legal document between an individual doing business as a private consultant and the landowners, like my option, a company name was listed as being the party of the first part, or the one to exercise the option.

I’d never heard of the company—I.T.N.F. TestCo Group—but a quick scan of the pages revealed it was Charlotte-based. I checked inside the manila envelope as if I were looking for something else. I turned it upside down, shook it, and looked inside again.

“Where’s your Power of Attorney?” I asked. “Gladys would have told me if any such document existed.”

“I couldn’t lay my hands right on it when I left to come find you, but I’ll have it in your hands tomorrow.”

I stared into his eyes. He blinked then looked down and to the right.
Amateur
.

I dialed my poker face to smart-alecky smirk, tossed the envelope and document on top of his size-12 Pumas, and said, “I’ll be back with my crew bright and early Monday morning. Don’t impede them or my testing in any way or you’ll find yourself facing a lawsuit, Robert Earle. A big one.”

He bent and retrieved his option as I got in my Jeep and hit the down button on my window. Then I dropped the smirk and said, “Don’t fuck with me, Robert Earle.
’
Cause, trust me, you won’t like it.”

By the time I reached the highway back to town, I realized the reason my teeth were aching was because I was clenching them so hard. I wrapped my fingers around my jaw and massaged until the throbbing subsided. As I did, I noticed my gas gauge indicated I was near empty. I was so furious I had to actually think about it for a minute before deciding a fill-up might be in order. Since the Jeep’s tank was just about empty, I turned right onto Belgrade
Swansboro Road rather than heading into Stella.

Within a few miles, my outward appearance was probably pretty normal. Inside my head, however, I was still jumping up and down and screaming.
That dumb fucker! Who does he think he’s talking to? Power of Attorney? I’d bet my bottom dollar he didn’t have one. And what or who in the hell is I.T.N.F. TestCo Group?

I.T.? International Testing? Or maybe— The ring of my cell interrupted my furious thoughts: Henri. Well, I didn’t have the time nor was I in the frame of mind to speak with her. I saw the Exxon station I was looking for and pulled up to the pump.

The gas gurgled and foamed as it flowed into the tank. Grackles and cow birds strutted about on the concrete looking for something to eat and all the while information collided in my mind.

Gladys wasn’t dead. The test site was proving to be all that I’d hoped for. The Walton siblings were trying to take over my life’s work. Well, only a little over a year of it, but still, it was what I’d wanted all my life.

Power of Attorney? Is that what that “Mom disappears like this all the time” crap was about? Were they trying to have her declared incompetent? If so, how long had that smarmy scheme been going on? Had it caused the uneasiness I sensed in Gladys sometimes? Did she suspect her children wanted her out of the picture?

It made sense. In the way that two adult children being so lazy and conniving as to try to take their inheritance before their mother was dead ever makes sense.

And another thing: like the old cliche says, there are no coincidences. Robert Earle and Shirley’s cousin was dead. Bullet-to-the-back-of-the-head dead. And cousin Irene looked a lot like Gladys—
same height, weight—and from behind …

I shuddered so violently that the nozzle jerked out of the tank and gas splashed down the Jeep’s side. I blinked and shook my head. “No,” I said out loud, then looked around to see if anyone heard me.
No, it can’t be.
It was almost impossible to bring myself to contemplate such a thing, her own children trying to kill her? No. I simply wasn’t going there. Better to ask the following question: if Gladys wasn’t dead, where was she?

I sloshed some black, greasy water on the spill with the windshield squeegee and bent to wipe it dry with a paper towel. Then I slowly stood up.

I knew where Gladys was.

TEN

I sat on the
edge of my bed at the Morning Glory Inn, booted up my laptop, and looked up the white pages for Venice, Florida, the town where the postcard in Irene’s mailbox originated. Also the town where Gladys’s sister lived.

Gladys always called her “Sister,” but her real name was Penelope and, according to Gladys, she’d never married. That meant her last name would be Gladys’s maiden name, Bulla. How many Bullas could there be in Venice? Three, I discovered easily when I found the name. Two were men. One was listed P. Bulla. Bingo!

I grabbed my cell and in a flash her number was ringing in my ear.

There was the sound of the phone being picked up, after which, a frail voice hesitantly said, “Hello?”

“Sister!” I exclaimed as if I’d had known her all my life. “Hi. It’s Cleo Cooper. You remember, Gladys’s friend from Raleigh? I know you guys are having a grand time and I hate like the dickens to bother you, but could I speak to Gladys for a moment?”

“Oh. Sure. She’s right here … ” She cleared her throat and called out, “Gladys! It’s for you, dear.”

I heard a muffled “Who is it?” followed by some shuffling about with the receiver. Then I heard Sister say, “I can’t remember who she said she was, but it’s not the kids.”

Gladys’s voice came on the line. “Hello?” she said hesitantly.

“Gladys,” I said, almost tearful with joy, “it’s me, Cleo. I’ve been worried sick about you. You didn’t tell me you were going to see your sister. Are you all right?”

It seemed like relief I heard in her voice when she said, “Oh Cleo, I’m so glad it’s you. I didn’t mean to worry you, honey. I … I’ve been meaning to call, but Sister and I have been so busy. And, well, I just needed to get away for a while. Besides, I thought we’d covered everything about your testing. I can’t wait to hear how that’s going. It is going well, isn’t it?”

“It’s all going fine, Gladys. It’s Robert Earle and Shirley I’m having a small problem with.”

“Oh?”

“Gladys … ” I said, realizing I didn’t know where to start. “Um, Gladys, have you ever signed a Power of Attorney, a document giving your children authority over your affairs?”

“Oh no. They aren’t trying to pull that stuff on you, are they?”

“Actually, they are. More important, do they know you’re at Sister’s?”

“No. They called a couple of times, but she convinced them I wasn’t here. We haven’t talked about this Cleo, but sometimes, I just feel the need to get away from my children. I’m sure you can understand. You don’t need to worry about that Power of Attorney thing either. They might try to make me think I’m crazy and they might be trying to make others think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I’d never sign anything they wanted me to. If I had, I’d have been out on my keister a long time ago.”

“Good grief, Gladys! Why would your children try to do that to you?” I asked though I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.

“Oh they’re not bad kids. Just hard-headed is all. And a little spoiled.”

You think?

“Sometimes, if they don’t get their way, they try to take over. But I just let it pass. It always does. That’s why I’m down here.”

“They’ve done this before?”

“Well, there was the one time when they wanted to grow houses on the land instead of hay. You know, back during the development boom in the nineties? But I was having none of it. Made ’em real mad, but I’m not scared of them because—”

“Gladys,” I interrupted, “I hate to say this, but maybe you should be. A little scared of them, I mean. At least until I get the testing finished, get your option money to you and the rest of the legal papers filed to see that you’re paid for the land, according to our agreement, over the next ten years.

“You see, Gladys, there’s a complicated set of hoops we both need to jump through to complete this transaction in a bomb-proof manner so that no one can ever have you declared anything but what you are—a kind, loving, and very competent person.”

I paused, getting my breath. “Until then, I’d really feel better if you laid low somewhere. Not at Sister’s anymore either. Since it’s crossed their minds that you could be with Sister, it would only take driving down there to find you. Then you and Sister would have to deal with an unpleasant situation with no one to help you. You need to have me or an attorney with you when you see them.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not scared of—”

“I know you’re not scared of your own children. I’m not saying that … ” I paused again, not knowing a nice way to say what needed to be said. The elephant in the room, as it were. I just dove into it: “Gladys, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. It’s about Irene.”

“Irene. I’ve been calling her for days. I knew it—she ran off with that scumbag crab fisherman from Manteo, didn’t she? Married him too, I bet. I knew it. I just knew it.”

She yelled for Sister, then came back on the line and said, “When she wouldn’t say for sure if she was going to live with Sister and me, I knew something was up. That woman is bound to live a life of drudgery despite all I can do for her—”

“Gladys,” I said softly.

“What? She didn’t marry him? She just ran off with him? How do you know?”

“Gladys … Irene is dead.”

“Dead? He killed her?”

“No, he didn’t kill her. At least, I don’t think he did. I don’t know who—”

“Where is she now?” Gladys interrupted

“Still in Chapel Hill at the Medical Examiner’s. It takes a long time to do all the testing required in a homicide.”

“Homicide?” she said in a tiny voice.

“Please listen to me. You need to be up here where I can talk to you and you can see to Irene’s … funeral details. I’ll explain the whole thing when I see you.”

Even as I was talking, I pulled up American Airlines on my laptop and booked a flight for Gladys arriving at eleven fifty, Saturday afternoon. I gave her explicit instructions on how to get her E-ticket at the airport and where I’d pick her up.

Exhausted, emotions tossing about in my head like clothes in a dryer, I hung up and flopped back on the bed. My cell clanged. I looked at the screen and saw Nash Finley’s name. Hello, distraction.

“Yes,” I said.

“Hello, there. Where are you?”

“Where do you want me to be?”

“Always the mysterious one. Actually, I remember you saying how much you love Wrightsville Beach and was hoping you were coming down, it being Friday and all.”

“I might be. Why?” I said, wondering just exactly what I was doing.

“‘Cause I’m down here at the Blockade Runner. I had to be at the Castle Hayne quarry today so I decided to spend the night. What would you say to a little dinner at the Bridgetender? A couple of really dry martinis, some prime rib, and … ”

“And?”

Okay, now I knew what I was doing.

“And whatever you want, sweet pea, for as long as you want.”

“Well, the dinner sounds good, anyway. What time?”

“Say, seven-thirty?”

I checked my watch. Though it would take a little over an hour to get there, I could make it, easy. Mickey Mouse screamed from the watchface, “Don’t do it!”

“I’ll meet you at the Bridgetender.”

Hey, it was just dinner and right now I needed some cheering up. I figured I could always get my own room at the Blockade Runner, right? So, being always prepared—you never know when one of several clients I have in the area might call and want to discuss a job over dinner—I pulled my three-inch, peep-toe sling-backs and black body-hugging tank dress made from that material you can wad up for a week without wrinkles from my bag and got ready for dinner out.

The Bridgetender Restaurant, overlooking the Bridgetender Marina and the Wrightsville Beach drawbridge, is one of my favorite restaurants, not only because they serve delicious food, but because it is so relaxing to sit and watch the comings and goings of boats. I could do it for hours, but relaxing wasn’t what I had in mind when I got there at seven forty-five on the dot. Better to have Nash one martini ahead of me in situations like this.

He was sitting in the bar area in the front of the restaurant and stood and motioned to the bartender as I sauntered in. He looked me square in the eye. In heels, I almost reached his six-feet.

“I’ve thought about you several times since I saw you last week,” Nash said. “Thought it might be fun to see you again, but now … ”

“But now?”

“But now, I’m kinda scared.” He grinned.

You and me both.
“Poor baby. You have nothing to fear from me as long as you play by the rules.”

“Well, by all means. What are the rules?”

“No shop talk.”

The bartender handed me a very dry Grey Goose martini with three olives. Just the way I like it. Nash clinked my glass with his and said, “Fine by me.”