Dead Girl. Craig Nybo
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readin’.” A voice interrupted me. I closed the journal and looked up into the eyes of a man in a County Sheriff uniform. Biels, his badge read.
I opened the journal and double-checked; Stan had mentioned a guy named Biels in his writing. The coincidence rattled me. I looked up at the sheriff, regaining my wit. “To whom do I owe the honor?” I asked and gestured to a chair across the table from me.
Biels settled his oversized hulk in, taking his Smokey Bear styled hat off and setting it on the table in front of him. He had sincere eyes, a bit sulky but strong nonetheless.
“You new to Bridgewater?” Biels asked.
“Just a visitor, I said.” I thought about the .38 in the bottom of my attaché. I had a permit, but I didn’t think I had brought the paperwork along. No problem, Biels could check the public records. I reached down and closed the flap on my attaché just in case Biels had wandering eyes.
“Hello, sheriff,” Vickie sidled up to my table, taking out her order pad. “You up for some cherry pupkins?” I wondered what the hell cherry pupkins were? Why hadn’t Vickie told me about them? I aimed to find out later; that was for sure.
“Not now, dear. Just coffee please.”
“Be back in a jif.” Vicky walked away, putting her pad back into the front of her apron.
“Got a call from Bob Shuler.”
The name was lost on me. I shrugged.
“A bit obsessive compulsive, but a nice guy. He lives next door to DeeDee Corelis.”
I snapped my fingers in recognition, Bob Shuler, mr. congeniality, the fat guy who insisted on watering his lawn by hand with a hose. “Oh yea, I met him on my way to see my aunt, DeeDee.”
“Bob said you weren’t related to DeeDee. He said that’s what you told him.”
“You know how it is? I don’t know Bob from Colonel Sanders. Am I supposed to give him my full bio? Truth is: I felt Mr. Shuler was prying a bit. Maybe he should keep to himself.”
“Fair enough. I guess you don’t mind if I ask what business you have in Bridgewater.” Biels stroked the brim of his Smokey Bear hat.
“Why the third degree?” I said. “Does Bridgewater have a ban on visitors or something?”
“Nope, Bridgewater’s like a little pumpkin town. Anyone’s welcome, long as his intensions are pure.”
“My intensions are pure. Should you have to know, I’m a writer. I write novels. My current project is set in a small community, a little pumpkin town you might say. I hope you don’t mind if I steal the phrase, it has a nice ring to it.” I picked up my pencil and wrote the words PUMPKIN TOWN on a napkin. I folded it and put it in my breast pocket. “I just thought I’d pay my Aunt DeeDee a visit and stick around a while, get a read on the community.”
“That’s fine, but most people ‘round here know that DeeDee doesn’t have any sisters or brothers. Ain’t no way you could be her nephew.”
Damn, why do I lie so much, especially when I don’t need to? I smiled and pushed my ivy cap back on my head. “You got me there, sheriff. Technically she’s not my aunt. But her and my mother go way back. She’s always been Aunt DeeDee to me.”
Vickie placed a cup of coffee in front of Biels. “One cup of coffee, black as a crow’s ass.”
Biels stood up from his creaking chair, reached into his pocket, and took out a handful of spare change. He counted a dollar-fifty in quarters and dropped them on the tabletop. “Coffee’s for my new friend here. He’s just rolled into town to visit his Aunt DeeDee.”
“DeeDee Corelis? I thought she didn’t have no brothers or sisters.” Vickie picked up the change and dropped it into the front pocket of her apron.
Sheriff Biels fixed me with a sharp stare as he picked up his Smokey Bear hat and crammed it down onto his head. His stare told me that he would be keeping an eye on me. “Welcome to Bridgewater, Utah, Mr.”
“Vang, Block Vang.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you, Mr. Vang, let me know.” He turned on the heel of his cowboy boot and meandered toward the exit. A few of the locals tossed waves or said hello as he walked out.
I flagged Vicky back to my table. She put one hand on her hip and fixed me with about the most efficient you’re-bothering-me stare I have ever seen. “Have you heard of the Milvian Bridge?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?”
I shrugged and smiled.
“You really ain’t from these parts, are you? The Milvian Bridge is that old rickety thing about 20 miles west of town where the kids race them hotrods.”
“They still race there?” I asked.
“Have for better than 60 years. The Milvian’s closed down now. They had to build a new bridge next to her, but the kids still party there. Don’t you think you are a bit old to be hitting the teen hot spots?”
“Baby, you haven’t seen my car. Maybe sometime I’ll take you for a ride.”
Vickie rolled her eyes and walked away.
I didn’t know what DeeDee meant in her note when she said that people were going to die. I didn’t have anything conclusive enough to write any kind of a story. I only had Stan’s journal and a sense that there was something off just beneath the skin of the little pumpkin town.
Chapter 5
I’m a good judge of character. That’s why I bought a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the only market in Bridgewater--a groaning structure of cold brick and even colder customer service. I put the beer in the back seat of my Grand Fury and fired her up. My green bomber only backfired once during my drive back to DeeDee’s next-door neighbor, Bob Shuler’s house.
I checked my watch as I arrived; it was half past eight. I had nearly three hours before DeeDee’s appointment at 11:50 PM. I pulled up on the gravel drive and killed the rattling engine. I snatched the beer and walked toward the front door.
On my way, I glanced over a fence into the backyard. The corpse of an old car rusted there. An overfed mutt came out of the rotting metal turtle shell and growled at me. I guessed the animal to be part Rottweiler, part pincer, and part demon.
I mounted the porch, which canted heavily to the left. Much of the concrete had worn to gravel. A Pair of oversized terracotta pots stood on either side of the screen door, a tarnish encrusted slab that hung slack on its hinges, probably left to slam during storms. A quartet of spent propane tanks completed the porch’s décor.
A strip of ancient masking tape over the doorbell read, “please knock” in fading magic marker. I pounded on the bygone wood and waited.
I heard footsteps, accompanied by a diatribe of muttering. The door opened a couple of inches, just enough to reveal a stripe of Bob Shuler’s unshaven face. “What do you want?”
“I think I owe you the truth. I’m a writer and a friend of DeeDee’s family.” I thumbed over my shoulder toward DeeDee’s house. “I’m working on a new story and want to get a feel for small town life. I was wondering if I could come in for a little chat?”
“I’m not interested,” Shuler said.
“I brought libations.” I held up the case of Pabst. Shuler’s eye flashed wide in a micro-expression of anticipation. He shut the door. For the briefest moment, I felt abandoned and discouraged. Shuler released the security chain and swung the door inward. The smells of charred toxins, both sweet and bitter at the same time, accosted me. The scent of ammonia bit into my senses, almost causing my eyes to water. Shuler had been busy in the kitchen with a mixture of solvents and chemicals, undoubtedly using the propane to cook up an illegal concoction. I wondered if Shuler was a dealer or if he was just a crank-head supporting his own habit.
I