The Underground Lady (12 page)

"Twenty-five years ago, a Piper Cub took off from a private runway near where my cottage is today, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. No wreckage was ever found, no record of the airplane has surfaced. The pilot was a woman named Hadley Welch, owner of Upton Pharmaceuticals. She left a six-year-old daughter. It is the daughter, whose name is Sunny Pfeiffer, who wants to find out what happened to her mother. A few weeks ago someone sent her an anonymous letter saying her mother was murdered. We made a few inquiries and were warned off by someone hanging a live coyote from my door facing with a not so polite note attached."

Hebrone thought for a minute. "Seems simple enough. We find out who sent the letter and they lead us to the animal hanger."

"My client is a very rich young woman who insists on being in on our investigation. Normally I would not tolerate that, but Rose was a friend to the missing woman, and demanded I let the daughter tag along. We have to be careful not to get her hurt."

"Inherited the drug company, I assume. Rich people. I once knew a girl in New York worth eleven million dollars and she did her laundry in the toilet bowl."

"Sunny Pfeiffer, she seems to have a good head on her shoulders."

"How does her husband figure into this?"

"She's never married."

"Then why the different name from the mother?"

"Seems the mother wanted to take back the family name after the husband died. Something about being easier to run the company. It had belonged to her family, not the husband."

"Makes sense. So what else you got?"

"Rose gave me some names of men the Welch woman was seeing around the time of her disappearance. After the death of her husband, who grew up in this part of the country, she dated some locals. I've talked to four of them, plus our old friend, Earl Sanders."

"Earl? How does he figure into this?"
"He sold her the PA-18. Taught her to fly. Seems there was a strong attraction between the two, though it was handled openly and up front, nothing ever became of it. Earl talked to Annie, and so did the Welch woman. They vowed it was platonic."

"Earl would have nothing to do with murder."

"Love makes people do strange things, Hebrone."

"Has to be somebody you talked to. Otherwise, they wouldn't have known where to torture the coyote. Tell me about the four men."

Turning off the highway onto the gravel road that led to the cottage, I said, “One's a local lawyer who came across as up front and cooperative. A banker from Decatur who exhibited some guilt, but that was about paternity, though it could be motive. Then there was a Navy flyboy, retired and living in Meridian. He's the least likely. The fourth is a retired airline pilot. He worked for Earl as a mechanic while on furlough from American. Did the maintenance on the woman's airplane, flew with her, and the two had a fling that lasted a short while. The breakup was ugly. Earl fired him and he moved to Waco, Texas. All this was around the time Welch went missing. We will look hard at this man."

"We are going to look hard at all of them. Anything else?"

"I've sent the note and letter via the local sheriff for a forensics exam. The rope used to hang the coyote is a piece of old hemp. I kept it thinking we could find more like it at a suspect's home."

"Tell me what you know about the day the woman went missing."

"She took off early one morning headed to Meridian, contacted approach control, stated her intentions, then shortly thereafter said she needed to return and land. There was no other communication and the plane dropped off the scope. The controller initiated a search. Nothing was ever found, not a trace of the woman or airplane. I've got a copy of the air traffic control transcript coming out of Atlanta, and a copy of the Accident/Missing Aircraft report from the FAA is being mailed."

"So this woman could have simply crashed into one of the heavily forested areas and never found?"
"It's a possibility, though the letter, the warning, and a dead coyote points to something a little more sinister."

"Or some whacko getting his kicks from an old airplane crash. I've seen it happen before."

"Either way, we are gonna punish this person."

Hebrone didn't say anything. He simply smiled, and it was not an expression one would take as being pleasant. He is not a man you would want as an enemy. Years ago I was with him in a place called Spider's, a watering hole for local fisherman on the Mississippi coast. Due to hurricane Katrina, it no longer exists, as is true for most of the coast. A shrimper with a reputation for meanness and womanizing tried to force himself on Hebrone's live-aboard girlfriend. The man walked into the bar that night and Hebrone invited him over to our table. I knew things were about to get bad. After the waitress brought the man a beer, Hebrone leaned over close to him and, in a voice that still makes me shudder today, told the man that he was going to kill him. Even though the shrimper was six inches taller and outweighed Hebrone by fifty pounds, he sat his beer down, got up, and left the bar. Hebrone's reputation was well known around the docks. Every night for six months Hebrone would go to where the man slept aboard his boat and leave a mark so that the man knew he had been there and could have killed him. Sometimes it was a note that read, “Not tonight." Try as he might, he could never catch Hebrone boarding his vessel. It finally drove the man insane and he committed suicide. So I guess Hebrone succeeded in what he promised the man.

"Again, Key West?"

"Nothing there but the artsy set. The Trust-Funders, writers who can't or don't write, painters who couldn't draw a picture, even with little numbers on the canvas, sculptors who don't sculpt – all just shy of suicide by some idiotic belief they are creative."

Turning off the gravel road onto the terrace row that led to the cottage, I saw Shack's truck. In front of it was Rose's blue pickup. Good, I thought, the gang's all here. Smoke wafted out of the chimney. Someone had built a fire.

As we got out of the truck, Shack walked out on the porch carrying a rifle with a scope.

"You're not planning on shooting me, I hope?" I reached for the weapon. He handed it to me reluctantly. I aimed the rifle at the pond on the south side of the cottage, looking through the scope at six Mallard ducks paddling on the water like a flotilla of navy warships. The lead duck had green eyes – the scope was that powerful.

Handing the rifle back, I said, “You remember Hebrone?"

They shook hands like two team captains standing in the middle of a football field just before the coin toss, both eyeing each other for some sign of weakness. It was a strange moment, for I knew each admired the other.

"I smell food. Is Rose cooking?"

"Rose is always cooking. She said you'd probably be hungry by the time you got back from the "Big Easy." Her term, not mine"

"Well, she was correct. I'm famished. What about you, Hebrone?"

"I could eat."

Inside, Sunny was bent down in front of the fireplace, stoking the fire. Rose was in the kitchen. Sunny turned and her eyes went straight to Hebrone. Her expression was one of shock.

Rose came into the room and hugged Hebrone's neck. "It's good to see you again. We were all so happy when we heard you and Andrew managed to survive the hurricane. You must tell us all about it."

Sunny moved off to the side of the room, and seemed to be searching for a means of escape. She reminded me of the frightened doe that I surprised early one morning while bush hogging. I almost ran over her newborn spotted faun.

"Sunny, meet Hebrone Opshinsky, my friend from Key West that I told you about."

She came forward. "I'm sorry, Mr. Opshinsky. You look like someone I knew a long time ago."

They shook hands.

"Please call me Hebrone. Your expression says it must have been a bitter relationship."

"Yes."

"Come and sit," Rose ordered. "Lunch is ready. We can all get to know each other."

"We already know each other, Rose."

"Well, these two don't." She pointed to Sunny and Hebrone, and gave me a hard look.

"I've already eaten, so I'm off to feed some cattle. How about we get together later on in the day, talk about things?"

"Good, Shack. How about five o'clock, here."

"Okay. Good to see you, Hebrone."

"Same here."

"Where's B.W.?"

"Out back, stalking a turkey."

"If I was the turkey, I'd be worried."

We sat at the small round kitchen table eating baked ham sandwiches and French-fried potatoes, Hebrone and Sunny covertly eyeing each other.

"So how is that wolf you live with?" Rose asked.

"Savage is doing good, but having Smash aboard has caused some consternation. Savage can't decide whether to befriend him or eat him. I think the same is true for Smash."

"Who is this Smash?" Sunny asked, looking at Hebrone.

"Andrew Bullard. He's a mutual friend of ours. I'll let Jay tell you about him."

"So how did you two manage to survive that hurricane?" Rose asked, piling more fries on Hebrone's plate.

"By the time we left here and arrived back on the coast, things were getting iffy. Katrina was winding up tight, and it looked like we would take a direct hit, so we did the only thing we could do, put to sea."

Rose looked surprised. "You went out in the ocean during a hurricane?"

"Better to be in the open sea than a lee shore."

"That's what the navy does in a blow, take their ships to sea," I said.

"Jay, you remember old man Will LeBlanc, had that Chris Craft he'd restored and lived aboard? The one with the carpenter's shop that covered the entire inside of the boat. He planned on riding out the storm tied to the dock. Smash made him sail with us. He ran LeBlanc's boat, and I ran mine. We went east around the hurricane. There was some rough weather, heavy seas, fifty mile per hour winds, but both boats survived, and we made Key West in good shape. Those that remained in port along the Mississippi coast were all lost."

"So how is the Admiral adapting to island life?"

"Good. There are few craftsmen like him left. He stays busy. But Key West…God. The tourists have ruined it. Now there are giant cruise ships offloading two thousand people at a time. It's sad. As soon as we can, we'll sail back to the coast."

"Not much different down there. The only rebuilding going on is by the gambling casinos."

Rose and Sunny started to clean the table, but I insisted that it was my kitchen and I'd take care of it myself. I told them to take Hebrone into the living room, sit in front of the fire, and tell him all about Hadley Welch.

An hour later, Rose and Sunny left for Rose's house. I promised to let them know what we planned to do after we met with Shack this afternoon.

B.W. came in as they left without having caught a turkey and smelled around Hebrone, growled, and ran and jumped into my lap.

"He smells Savage on me," Hebrone said.

"He's had some run-ins with coyotes. Don't seem to cater to 'em."

I opened a bottle of Petit Sirah and we sat in front of the fire sipping the wonderful dark wine.

"Your girl reminds me of a Conway Twitty song."

"Which one?"

"'Tight Fittin Jeans
.
' The one where the woman says, 'I married money, I'm used to wearing pearls, but I've always dreamed of being just a good old boy's girl…and partner there's a tiger in these tight fittin jeans.' That one."

I laughed, but somehow I didn't think it funny. I felt as a stranger to myself, so what could I know of others. Having Hebrone here did help keep me from feeling as if layer upon layer of courage and resolve was not wearing away anymore. I felt that now, maybe my soul would not cave in upon itself.

Chapter Ten

Shack returned at five o'clock and we sat in front of the fireplace. Opening another bottle of the Petit Sirah, I poured Shack a glass of Jack Daniel's – he is not a connoisseur of fine wine. The sun had set, but out of the kitchen window the sky was filled with light. Strips of pink and orange glowed on the horizon, and every tree seemed like a distinct creation.

Shack fingered his drink, stared at the flickering flame in the fireplace. "This country is a dangerous place to make friends, a worse place to make enemies. We have to be careful with Rose and that St. Louis woman."

Hebrone smelled the wine, looked over the top of the glass at Shack. "You are right. Until we find out exactly who we're dealing with, one of us ought to stay close to them. You've got your own family, Jay or I can cover the women."

"How many people do you know in the area who trap coyotes?"

Shack looked at me, thought for a minute. "Three or four. Most people just shoot them when they start bothering their animals. I guess anybody could catch one if they wanted. A piece of fresh meat and a trap is all that is required. They are sly, cunning creatures, but hunger is a powerful thing."

"That coyote was alive when it was hung from my door."

"Probably trapped, then sedated. Otherwise, it would have been a handful to handle."