Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 01 - Headaches Can Be Murder (33 page)

Her smile was dazzling.

Chapter Forty-One

Turners Bend

June

Brain Freeze was in the possession of Chip’s new editor, Clive Edmington, a name Lucinda thought more fitting for an editor than the ill-fated Sha’desha. With time on his hands, he decided to paint his farmhouse. He enlisted Iver to help. The color he chose was a bright yellow, Jonquil.

Iver objected. “In my opinion a farmhouse should be white, just like a barn’s gotta be red. Mabel thinks yellow is a ‘lovely’ color for your house; but Christ, do you want a ‘lovely’ house, Chip? Folks are going to think you’re a fruitcake.”

“I have to keep up my image of being Turners Bend’s oddball, Iver. A writer should have a house of a different color. Plus, yellow is a happy color, and for the first time in a long time, I’m happy.”

The phone rang, and Chip put down his brush and went into the house. He reached the phone on the fourth ring.

“Hello.”

“Hello, is this Charles Collingsworth?”

“Sure is, and who is this?”

“This is your father’s office calling. Please hold. He wishes to speak to you.”

Acids immediately started to churn in his stomach. If his father was calling him, it had to be bad news. He tried to remember the last time his father had called him or if he ever had called him. It had to be something about his mother or maybe his brother. He steeled himself for the conversation.

“Chip, this is your father.”

“What’s happened Dad? Is it mother?”

“No, for heaven’s sake, your mother’s fine. She’s off having lunch with the Daisies and Daffies.” That’s how his father always referred to his mother’s garden club. “We read about the tornado in Ohio and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Iowa, Dad. I’m in Iowa. We had a couple of tornadoes rip through here, but I’m fine.” This was surreal, his father calling about his welfare.

“Stewart Cushmore over in Gastrointestinal showed me the article in Variety. He’s into community theater and fancies himself an actor. I don’t normally read Variety, of course.”

“What article? I’m not in the habit of reading Variety either, Dad.”

“The article about Howard Glasser making your book into a movie. Says he is signing on that fellow who won all those Oscars. Also says he wants the option on your next book.”

“Yes, Dad, that’s true.” Chip was baffled. Where was his father going with this phone call?

Dr. Collingsworth hesitated and cleared his throat. “Your mother and I wanted to let you know we’re happy that you’ve turned your life around and finally made something of yourself.”

“That hardly sounds like a compliment, Dad.”

A pause. “I know I’ve been hard on you in the past. I realize you never would have made a decent physician. Your brother’s much better suited for the profession.”

“Yes, well at least Parker hasn’t been a disappointment.”

“I can’t image why, but your mother wants to come this summer and visit you in that place.”

“Turners Bend, Iowa, Dad, and that would be fine. Mother would be welcome.” Chip paused; then he said something he never thought he would say. “You, too, Dad. You could come along with her if you wanted to.”

“Well, we might just do that. Iowa, you say. Isn’t there a famous writer’s workshop at some university in Iowa? Lots of Pulitzer Prize winners from there, I believe.”

“Medical crime writers don’t get Pulitzers, Dad.”

“Got to go, son. I’ve got to scrub for a neuroblastoma resection. Bye, Chip.”

Chip sat in the kitchen for a few minutes trying to process the conversation with his father. He grabbed two beers from the refrigerator and went outdoors.

“Here, Iver. Let’s take a break.”

“Seems to me you’ve been taking a break, and I’m the one who’s been painting.”

They sat under the maple. The tree now had a weird shape after having one of its main branches amputated after the storm. The cold beer bottles sweated in their hands. The malty brew slaked their thirst and lulled them into silent companionship. Chip envisioned his mother and father in Turners Bend, maybe having dinner with Mabel and Iver. He laughed out loud.

“What’s so dang funny?” asked Iver.

“Nothing much.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what’s funny. A yellow farmhouse, that’s what’s funny.”

After painting for most of the day, Chip showered, changed his clothes and headed for the town meeting at Sacred Heart Catholic Church. The parish hall was the largest meeting room in Turners Bend, and a large crowd was expected.

“Better bring in some more folding chairs from the Youth Room and unlock the Nursery. Looks like we might have some crying wee ones tonight,” said Father Kelly to the church custodian. Father Kelly was only Irish on his father’s side, but ever since he made a pilgrimage to Ireland a few years ago, he spoke with an Irish brogue. He was addicted to old movies with an Irish priest played by Bing Crosby or Barry Fitzgerald or best of all, Spencer Tracy. He’d watched Boy’s Town so many times that he wore out the tape.

“Ni neart go cur le cheile … there is no strength without unity,” he said in Gaelic as the townspeople entered the church.

Mayor Johnson let Flora take charge of the meeting. From experience he knew she would whether or not she had been asked. Flora was in her element.

“May I have your attention, please? The purpose of tonight’s meeting is to discuss the closing of AgriDynamics and to provide the city council with ideas for future planning for our citizens. Please take note of the agenda that Mayor Johnson is passing out. We will follow strict Robert’s Rules of Order. This meeting is now called to order.” She pounded a gavel on the podium and the PA system screeched.

The meeting proceeded according to the agenda. A representative from the EPA explained their findings and reasons for the plant’s closure. The bank president gave a brief rundown on the company’s financial situation. Chief Fredrickson was called upon to present an update on the federal and local criminal investigations. Aside from a few groans, the displaced workers were polite and attentive. Restless and crying children were escorted from the room.

Flora explained how the open mike session would be controlled. “A speaker must state his or her name and then limit their comments to three minutes. Father Kelly will manage the stopwatch.”

Hank was the first of many speakers. “How are we going to feed our kids and pay our mortgages? That rat Hal Swanson breaks the law, endangers us workers and takes off with all the money to bask on some yacht somewhere. Isn’t fair. Seems to me the government should be giving us some aid.”

The next seven speakers gave similar rants. Flora interjected, “Does anyone have a solution or constructive comment?”

Iver lumbered to the mike. He took off his cap to reveal his shaggy hat-hair. “I’ve got an idea, Flora. I heard that employees can buy a company and run it themselves without some fat cat taking all the profits. That’s my constructive idea.”

Iver’s idea triggered an hour of excited discussion. Could they do it? How would it work? Who would head it up? Where would they get the money? Iver took another stroll to the mike.

“Sounds to me like Herman, being a real engineer and all, would be a damn good president. And about the start-up money, most of you know my brother Knute. When Pa died, Knute and I sold the farm, and he hoodwinked me into buying a bunch of stock in that company that’s run by the young geeky guy with the glasses. Something to do with computers. If three million is enough, I reckon Knute and I can bankroll this operation.”

The crowd was stunned. Then one by one the workers stood and started clapping. The clapping led to whooping, high-fiving and backslapping. Flora whacked the gavel. “Meeting adjourned.”

For many, the meeting was reconvened at the Bend and continued until Joe closed it down.

Chapter Forty-Two

The Bun

June

“Holy cow, what a morning. We ran out of cinnamon rolls and bacon. Sorry, Chip.” Bernice’s hair was frizzed from the heat and humidity in the kitchen, and her white apron was splotched with grease spots and coffee stains. Today she had a pencil behind each ear. “We’ve been slammed with business ever since that town meeting last week. Sausage okay today?”

“Sure, Bernice. What’ll you have, Herman?”

“Just coffee, Bernice, with lots of sugar and cream. I’ll tell you, Chip, this has been a frigging carnival since last week. Things are happening so fast my head is spinning like a turbine. And, can you believe that Iver? Three million bucks.”

“I must admit that was a shocker. The guy has a heart of gold. I just didn’t know he had a stock portfolio to match.”

“We’ve formed a steering committee and named a board of directors. The first thing we did was change the company name. AgriDynamics had too narrow a focus. We named it after Iver … IWP, Ingebretson Wind Power. We asked him to be on the board, but he said if it meant going to any meetings then he wasn’t interested.”

“I remember Hank telling me that you thought the company was behind the times and not keeping up with the industry. Have you got big plans for revamping the company?”

“China was outpacing us in new technology and innovation. There’s no way we can compete with them in most areas. They’re into offshore floating turbines and undersea cable installations. Plus they have developed free-flying kite turbines, which don’t require a tower, and magnetic levitation systems. Awesome stuff. You’ve got to give them credit for advancing the industry by leaps and bounds in the past five years.”

“So, what direction is IWP going to go?”

“We’re going small, concentrating on portable turbines for charging batteries in remote homes, sailboats, telecom transmitters. The UK has a rooftop turbine about the size of a satellite dish for home use. We’re already talking with them about the American market for that product. I’m so damn excited that I can’t sleep or eat. This is going to put Turners Bend on the map.”

Chief Fredrickson pulled up a chair and joined them at the table. He was shaking his head. “That deputy is going to be the death of me yet. He wants a Taser gun. I can just see it now. He’d be stunning everything that moves.”

“What do you hear about Hal?” asked Herman.

“Got a call from Agent Masterson yesterday. Heather dumped him and took up with a porn photographer in Miami. She’s still calling herself Brandy Wine. They picked her up, questioned her and took away her passport.”

“What about Hal?” asked Chip.

“Heather spilled the beans about him. He’s on his way to Colombia. The Coast Guard is tracking him through international waters right now. The CIA has alerted Colombian officials. Seems President Uribe down there is more than willing to extradite criminals back to the U.S. Unless Hal’s able to disappear into the jungle first, they’ll nab him. He’s going to be one sorry bastard.”

As he drove up his driveway, Chip viewed his yellow house. It did look a bit strange, but he liked it. So did Jane. They had been spending part of every day with each other and an occasional night. Flora and Mabel were both giving him some pressure about his relationship with Jane. He sometimes found himself wanting more, but a fourth marriage seemed too risky. He did make one momentous decision. Turners Bend was no longer a pit stop along the road, a place to hide out from his failures. Like the corn, he had taken root and was growing into the ripeness of life, to full maturity. Turners Bend was home, and the people of the town were his new family.

Getting started on his third novel was difficult. He had given himself direction for the story at the end of
Brain Freeze
. There was an assassin on the loose, and Dr. Goodman and Jo would be drawn into an international escapade this time around. If it weren’t for Lucinda though, he would be visiting with farmers and driving around the countryside with Runt and Honey in the backseat. Lucinda, however, never tired of alternating her prodding with her threats.

Monday, June 25, 5:00 p.m.

Chip,

I’m getting damn fed up with having to remind you of your contractual agreement. Howard just signed the movie rights for Brain Freeze based on the pre-print. Trilogies are a must these days, so get your head out of the cabbage patch and bring Mama another little story. BTW, Clive wants you to write an Epilogue for Brain Freeze … one that has your readers clamoring for the next installment. While you’re working away (hint, hint) Clive and I are off to Paris for a week or two.

Au revoir,

Lucinda

Chip sat down at his computer to begin sketching out a plot for
Mind Game
. He decided to draw on the events of the past year in Turners Bend. Since Hal was rumored to be on his way to Colombia, he thought that might be the ideal location for an assassination of a crooked US businessman. Ideas began to form just as Honey began to whine.