Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (12 page)

I looked at the bandage on his hand. “What happened to your hand, Mr. Rhodes?”

“I scraped the ever lasting shit out of my knuckles pulling weeds from the driveway cracks. That’s what I was doing when she left.”

“What about her patients, Tom?”

“What about them?”

“She was in a difficult line of work,” I said. “She cares for people at a time when there’s nothing left for them to do but try and die with a little dignity.”

“Sounds like you’ve had some experience with that too, detective.”

He was right. I did have some experience with that. Very personal experience.

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Detective, whenever it may have been. But to tell you the truth, I never knew much about her patients.”

“Why’s that?”

“Aw, it was those damn hippo laws.”

“You mean HIPPA,” Miles added. “With an a at the end.”

Rhodes waved his hand. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Rhonda took her job very seriously. She never spoke about individual patients with anything more than very vague generalities. And even then, never by name. And if I’m being honest with you, and I am by the way, I didn’t want to hear it. The whole fucking thing depressed the ever lasting shit out of me. I guess that says something about me, huh?”

“Is there any chance, Tom, that this could be one of her patient’s family members? Someone mad at Rhonda because their loved one died?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t sound right to me. Doesn’t feel right. Everyone I’ve ever talked with think these people, these Hospice workers walk on water, you know? I guess it could be possible, hell, anything’s possible, right? But I don’t think so.”

I scratched the back of my head, and thought,
what the hell
. “Where do you bank, Tom?”

“Firefighter’s Credit Union. Why?”

“What about church? Did you or your wife attend anywhere?”

“I was raised Catholic, but I let it slip. Same with Rhonda. Does that mean anything?”

I didn’t answer him and instead looked at Ron with an ‘anything else?’ look on his face. Miles shook his head. I was about to excuse himself when Tom Rhodes spoke. “She’s really gone?” he said, his voice all at once small, like a child.

“Tom, look,” said Miles. Why don’t you go on home. You’ve got a tough few days ahead of you. Gather your family around you and let them help you. You don’t want to be here right now. When they move her body, it’s, well…it’s just something you don’t want to see.”

“Where are they going to take her?”

“They’ll take her to the hospital, Tom,” I said. “There will be an autopsy, and after that they’ll send her to the funeral home of your choice. But Detective Miles is right. Go home. Let us do our job. We’ll figure this thing out.”

“All she wanted to do was help people. Why would someone do this?”

How do you answer a question like that?

* * *

I followed Miles into the coffee shop and was introduced to the waiter who served Rhonda just before she was shot.

“How about we sit down for a few minutes? I’ve got a few questions.”

“I’ve already answered just about every cop in the city, so far,” he said.

“Well, not everyone,” I said. “It looks like you were the last one to speak with her before she died. I just want to ask you a few things. Sometimes witnesses know something they don’t even think they know, and it can be something little that might not mean anything to you but can make all the difference in the world to us. Here, have a seat,” I said and pointed him to a table in the corner. No other patrons were in the cafe. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.

After the three of us were seated Ron and I stayed quiet for a minute or two. Sometimes one of the best things you can do when you want answers from someone is to just be quiet. Sure enough, after another minute or so the waiter began to talk. “You know what’s weird?” he said. “I don’t really feel anything. I mean, I’ve known Rhonda for a long time. Well, that’s not quite right. I don’t really know her at all. What I mean is, I’ve been serving her for a long time. We’d talk, you know? Nothing substantial, not really. Just the casual ‘how you doing’ kind of chit chat bullshit that customers and waiters have. Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone get shot before. Aren’t I supposed to feel something? I feel like I should be upset. I mean more upset than I am. Is something wrong with me? Am I in shock or something? Is this what shock feels like?”

The waiter sat with his elbows on the table, the heels of his hands pressed into his forehead. His fingers worked their way into his hairline and pulled his hair back taught. It gave him a haunted, almost effeminate appearance. “You may very well be in shock,” I said. “Do you feel like you require medical attention?”

He let go of his hair and forehead. “No, no, I’m fucking good. Besides, I don’t have any insurance.”

“Just take us through it, from the time she walked in the door until you saw her get hit. Take your time. Don’t leave anything out.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the waiter said. “I mean, there just isn’t anything to say. She came in, same time as she always did, sat at the same table she always sits at, unless someone else is sitting there, except they weren’t, so she did.” He pointed to the table in the opposite corner of the establishment. “That table right there.”

“Alright, that’s good,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, like I said, there just isn’t anything to say, really. She sat down, spread out her paperwork and started doing whatever it is she did with it. The paperwork, I mean. I asked her if she wanted her usual. She said yes, so I brought her a cup of our house blend and a muffin. The muffin was on me. It wasn’t part of her usual. I just wanted to give her a fucking muffin, you know? We made nice for a few minutes and I got back to work. Before she left I asked her if she wanted anything else. She says ‘no I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow though.’ I said something like ‘you bet’ or whatever and then she walked out and I just happened to glance up from behind the counter and I saw her flying backward through the air. She hung there for a second, hell not even that long I guess, ‘cause you know how everything seems like it’s going in slow-mo? Well, anyway she hung there for a sec in the shape of a big C, you know with her arms and legs flying forward and her body going backwards. Anyways, that’s what it looked like to me. A big C. It’s kinda ironic if you think about it, because that’s what she always called cancer. The big C. Just like that series they’ve got on Showtime. It’s called The Big C. Anyways...”

“And you didn’t hear any gunfire?” I said.

The waiter shook his head. “Nope. Hell, it looked like she got hit by a huge gust of wind or something. It was unreal. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening.”

“What about a car backfiring? Did you hear anything like that? Some kind of noise that may have been a gunshot but in the moment it just didn’t register?”

The waiter shook his head. “Huh uh.”

“What did you do next?”

“What do you mean?”

I tried not to let my impatience show. “I mean, what was the very next thing you did. Did you call 911?”

“No.”

“Did you run outside to help the victim?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I guess, I…well, what I mean is, I just sort of froze. Besides, we’re not supposed to leave the cash drawer unattended.”

“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. “How much money was in the drawer?”

“I don’t keep an exact accounting.”

“If you had to guess,” I said, the impatience in my voice now obvious.

“Well if I had to guess, there might be, I don’t know, seventy or eighty bucks in there or something like that.”

I leaned across the table. “So a woman, a Hospice nurse, comes into your coffee shop damn near every day of the week, sits at the same table, orders the same thing, then one day leaves and gets shot to death right in front of your eyes and the only thing you could think to do was guard the seventy or eighty bucks in the cash drawer?”

“Hey, man, come on. That’s a little harsh. I didn’t shoot her.”

“No, I guess you didn’t, but you sure didn’t do much to help her after she was shot.”

“Look, guys, I’m sorry about Rhonda. I really am. She seemed nice. She did good work. She was a consistent tipper. But that’s all I know. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. Maybe I panicked, or froze or whatthefuckever. But I didn’t do anything wrong. There were about ten other people in here who were already dialing 911 and I know about as much emergency first aid as a Cocker Spaniel. Besides, even from behind the counter you could tell she was dead before she hit the pavement. You could just see it. So, what, I’m supposed to lose my job over something I couldn’t do anything about?” He stood up and started to walk away, then turned back. “Hey, you guys ever ask yourselves why no one ever wants to talk to the cops?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

My house is on one of the last remaining gravel roads in the county just off of highway 37 south of 465, the loop that circles Indy. I have ten acres of land, the back third wooded with a pond between the edge of the woods and the house. While I do not welcome the suburban sprawl as it grows ever closer, my privacy is reasonably assured by the long drive at the front and the woods at the back.

I tossed my mail on the table next to the door, checked the answering machine—no messages—and turned the shower on to steam the bathroom. Thirty minutes later I was back in the truck, headed downtown to the bar.

The bar my father and I own is very popular and draws a great crowd. I turned into the back lot, parked my truck at the far end and walked in through the back door where the kitchen area is located. The aroma of burgers and chicken halves that sizzled over an open broiler caused my stomach to gurgle and I suddenly realized I had not yet eaten today.

Robert, our Jamaican cook, looked over at me, flipped a burger on a bun then brushed the surface with his homemade jerk sauce, tossed on a slice of red onion, and held it out at arms length as I walked by. He gave me a skeptical look. “Dat shrimp, mon, it be comin’ by later tomorrow.”

“Was supposed to be today,” I said.

“Yeah, mon. But the truck already left. So tomorrow. Hope it good. Day say day raise it in a swimmin’ pool or some ting like dat. But it’s your money, no?” I took the plate, clapped him on the back and walked into the darkened atmosphere of the bar area.

The patron area of our establishment is long and narrow with high-back mahogany booths along one wall and the bar itself along the opposite wall with an aisle-way between the two sides. A large mirror runs the entire length behind the bar and gives the illusion of extra space when in fact there is none. Hand made stained-glass light fixtures hang low over the booths creating an intimate atmosphere that often conflicts with the mood of our customers. A blue neon sign displayed above the bar mirror advertises ‘Warm Beer & Lousy Food.’ Robert, our cook, still can not seem to grasp the meaning of the sign and has on more than one occasion pulled me aside and said “Dat sign has got to go, mon.” A small elevated stage at the back between the kitchen entrance and the restrooms provide just enough room for our Reggae house band that plays from midweek through the weekend. The lunch hour during the week is usually busy with downtown suits, and the weekend nights have been standing room only since opening day over three years ago.

The city of Indianapolis offers hundreds of small bars where you can eat and drink your fill, but to my knowledge our little bar is the only one that offers the true taste and atmosphere of a small island nation that has held a place in my heart most of my adult life. A few years ago on my last visit to Jamaica, while driving through the Hanover Parish, I experienced one of those rare moments which can change your life for the better if you are not too preoccupied to notice and let it happen. One of the tires of the rental car I was driving picked up a nail and I pulled to a stop in front of a ramshackle, multi-colored hut fashioned from scrap metal and drift wood at the edge of a town called Lucea which sits at the approximate half way point between the resort towns of Montego Bay and Negril. A handsome and well dressed bald man approached me and asked if he could help. His voice carried across the gravel lot with the musical lilt of his native land. “What you do, you?” he said. “Dat tire no good now, mon. Come inside. Have a drink and someting to eat. We fix you right up.” He held out his balled hand and we bumped fists and when we did, he said, “Respect, mon, respect.”

I shrugged, said ‘respect’ back to him and he smiled and led me inside the hut, his arm around my shoulder like we were old friends reunited after years of separation. Three and a half hours later I was full from too much Jerk chicken, slightly drunk from too many Red Stripes, but my tire was fixed and I had made two new friends.

But the story doesn’t end there. The owner of the establishment, the man who came out to greet me was named Delroy. He served the drinks and befriended his customers while his partner, Robert, handled the cooking, and apparently, tire changing. During the course of our conversation I learned they both longed to live in the United States. I listened politely to their stories, gave them my business card and got back in my car. Three weeks later after cutting through the red tape, Delroy helped me and my father set up the bar and Robert took over the kitchen. They both fly back to Jamaica twice a year for a week at a time to visit with their family and friends, and every time they do I panic just a little at the thought of losing them.