Better Late Than Dead; Episode 26

  This is episode twenty-six of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Episode 26

Rich drove at a moderate speed for the rest of the day. He was not in a hurry to get anywhere. He traveled country roads. When a road dead-ended, he turned left or right. At the next road west, he turned again. By the end of the day, he was lost. He had no idea where he was, though he knew he was in Iowa. During all his time at sea, Rich had never felt lost. The sextant always kept him on course. It’s time I turn north, he thought.

He drove for five miles. A red-brick, two-story school stood in a small settlement of houses. Across the road from the school, a gas station sat on a corner. It had two bays, two pumps, and a small diner. The place looked exactly like Enid’s station must have looked fifteen years ago.

He parked beside the pumps. A young man with red, curly hair quick-stepped out of the station.

“Fill ‘er up,” Rich said.

The young man inserted the nozzle into the gas tank. “Check your oil and tire pressure?”

“Sure,” Rich said. “And if you don’t mind, change my windshield wipers. I think those are the originals.”

The young man examined the blades. “They aren't in good shape. And they say we’re in for some rain.”

“How’s the food here?” Rich asked.

The young man smiled. “Best food in town.”

After the fill-up and new wipers, Rich moved the truck to the diner’s parking lot. He walked inside and sat at the counter. The space was small and clean, with six counter stools and three tables. Two men sat at a small table nearby.

Rich straddled a stool. A redheaded waitress brought him a glass of water.

“Everything is up there,” she said, tossing her head toward a menu on the wall behind the counter.

“I hear you have the best burgers in town,” Rich said with a grin.

“I know you’re joking,” she said, “but the meat is local and fresh.”

“I’ll take the hamburger basket,” Rich said.

“What do you want on it?” she asked.

“Mustard, pickle, double onion,” Rich said.

She jotted it down and passed the ticket through the kitchen window. “Something to drink?”

“Coke,” Rich said.

She poured the Coke. “Who’s the boss?” Rich asked.

“You’re looking at her,” she said.

“I was wondering if I could park my camper off to the side and sleep here tonight?” Rich asked.

“Was that your truck camper that just filled up?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rich said.

“Sure,” she said. “But you can’t plug into our electricity.”

“I have a generator,” Rich said.

She smiled. “No wild parties, music, dancing, or drinking—unless you invite me.”

“I can’t remember the last party I went to,” Rich said. “I don’t like loud music, I have two left feet, and the last beer I had was a week ago. I'm not a fun guy to be around.”

“My name’s Sally Jennings. Folks just call me Sal. And that good-looking young man who pumped your gas is my son, Victor.”

“I thought so,” Rich said. “The red hair is a giveaway.”

“See that school across the street?” Sal said. “A few years back, Victor’s dad and I were the only redheads in that school. It just had to be.”

The phone rang, and Sal left to answer it. She took down a pickup order and handed it through the window to the kitchen. When Rich’s order was ready, she placed the basket in front of him.

“Enjoy,” Sal said. She walked to the end of the counter and sat on a small stool.

Rich took two bites. “Sal, this burger is perfect.”

“I told you it was the best,” Sal said. “Comes from the Delmar farm. Grass-fed.”

“I’d like to know what they put on the grass,” Rich said, chewing.

“Just before winter, Delmar spreads ash over his pasture,” Sal said.

“How many cattle does he have?” Rich asked.

“I don’t know,” Sal said. “But he says it’s just enough for folks around here. We like to keep it to ourselves.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Rich said. “But I will go out of my way to come back here. And these onions are great.”

“Onions are local, too,” Sal said.

Rich finished eating. He paid and left a dollar tip. When he reached the door, he turned around. Sal was clearing his place at the counter. Rich pulled out his wallet, removed a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her.

“What’s this for?” Sal asked.

“For letting me park here for the night,” Rich said.

“There’s no charge, but I do expect you to eat breakfast here tomorrow,” Sal said.

“I’ll be here,” Rich said. “But time is money, and so is space.”

Sal smiled and tucked the money into her apron pocket. “Thanks.”

Rich walked past the diner door to the gas station and stepped inside. Sal’s son, Victor, was sitting on the counter. He quickly climbed down.

Rich grinned. “You must have been told about sitting on the counter before.”

“My mom,” Victor said. “That’s her next door, the redhead. She says counters are for glasses and not for asses.”

“She already introduced you, Victor,” Rich said. “I just wanted to let you know that I asked your mom if I could park my camper at the side and spend the night. She said it was okay.”

“There’s a plug-in at the side if you need it,” Victor said.

“Your mom already told me not to use it,” Rich said. “I think I’d better do what she said.”

“Yeah,” Victor grinned. “She knows best.”

Rich noticed a brightness in Victor. The young man appeared eager and sharp.

“My name is Mike Chase,” Rich said.

Victor reached out to shake his hand. “Victor, but I guess you already know that.”

Rich nodded toward the school building across the road. “Is that where you go to school?”

“Not anymore,” Victor said. “I graduated last spring. Where are you from? Indiana? I saw your plates.”

“I used to live in Indiana,” Rich said, “but I’m from Wyoming.”

“Never met anybody from Wyoming,” Victor said.

Rich mused to himself, And you still haven’t.

“Doing some camping?” Victor asked.

“And some fishing,” Rich said.

“There’s a spring-fed pond about five miles down this road,” Victor said. “It’s on private property, but the guy who owns it doesn’t care who goes back there. It’s a really good place. I’ve never been back there when the fish weren’t biting.”

“Sounds like a ringing endorsement,” Rich said.

“If you continue going north on this road, it’s about five miles,” Victor said. “It’s a dirt lane. You’ll recognize it. There’s an old, rusted combine sitting there.”

“I can’t say that I’ll check it out,” Rich said, “but I have the night to think on it.” Rich took a step toward the door. “It was nice talking with you, Victor.”

“Same here, Mike.”

“Oh, by the way,” Rich said. “Your mom said the counter is for glasses and not for asses. Do you think she meant anything else by that?”

“Mom always means something else,” Victor said, cocking his head.

“Yeah,” Rich said. “Moms have a way of saying one thing and meaning something more.”

“There are things you just don’t do,” Victor said. “Like, just because it’s not a four-way stop doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look both ways. Don’t wear tennis shoes to a wedding. And if that counter was a seat, they’d have made it lower.”

Rich added, “And put a back and a cushion on it.”

“I’m glad we had this little chat,” Victor joked, mimicking his mother. “Yes, Mom, I’ll never do it again.”

“Right,” Rich scoffed playfully. “That counter won’t be cool before your hind end is on it again.”

Rich walked out and returned to the camper for the evening.

Excessive Coffee; The Benefits of Smoking

The Door

The Door

by Roman Gandara

(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother told me not to open the door at the end of the hall. She really never gave me a reason; she always kept it locked no matter what. In fact, I don’t think I can remember a time when she entered the room. As a kid, I would try to flatten myself down to the ground onto the carpet that probably hasn’t been replaced since it was built in the 60s. I would try to peek into the little crack between the door and the floor. It was bright, almost fluorescent and white, a stark contrast to the rest of the warm yellow lights my grandmother liked to keep the rest of the house lit up in. I stopped trying to look into the room after my grandmother caught me when I couldn’t have been older than 10; she scolded me and lit up in anger, her wrinkles and skin stretched as she yelled at me to get back. It scared me so badly that I never could muster the strength to look again. My grandmother, for the most part, is a nice older lady, like the ones you see at the grocery store checkout who call strangers “hun.” Since that time, I have never seen her get angry like that again.

 Now she’s not really allowed to leave home, at least not on her own. Ever since Grandpa passed, she’s been declining, and so has her memory. She sits there in the living room in her La-Z-Boy chair and rocks back and forth, back and forth; sometimes she mutters something, but I never really know what she says. Sometimes I think she's talking about that room. When I look into her eyes, I see this sense of nothing, of confusion. Like she doesn’t recognize me. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be confused about your own existence. 

I have a lot of time to think about these things; it’s my week to watch her. We’re not exactly the richest people on earth, since our family couldn’t afford to put her in a home, and my grandparents never were the best savers either. So this is what I do. I sit on the couch, scroll through my phone as the TV in the background plays the game shows she loves to watch. At noon, I make her a sandwich: white bread, a slice of ham, and cheese. Vegetables on the side; the doctors tell her she needs to eat them, but she’ll never remember(or she does and just doesn’t want to). Then she sits there in her rocking chair going back and forth until dinner time, usually some type of soup. Then around eight at night she begins to get tired, and I help her get to bed. Rinse and repeat. When I’m on that couch, though, my eyes can’t help but linger on that door at the end of the hall. I can see it from here, that bright white light gleaming out of the cracks. It’s been gnawing at me all week like your stomach when it’s hungry. 

I’ve always theorized what could be in there. Could it just be the furnace? What if she turned out to be some crazy serial killer and that’s where she hid the bodies? Maybe my grandparents were into some hippie crap back in the 70s, and they have stockpiles of drugs. Or it could just be nothing. But why keep it under locks? It just had to be something. I couldn’t resist any longer; after she goes to bed tonight, I’m going to find out.

It’s almost like she knew I was up to something. It wasn’t until nine tonight that she began to feel tired and went to sleep. Finally, I heard her snore and headed into the kitchen. The kitchen floor was wood, and each step made an awful groan as I walked slowly and silently to the drawer. I slowly and carefully opened up the drawer, and there it was, the key to the door. She hid it away, and I’m not sure how, but I just had a gut feeling it had to be here. It was silver and looked like one of those medieval keys that belonged to a prison door, not a house door. 

I quickly hopped back into the carpeted hallway and stood in front of the door that’s haunted me for my whole life. My hand couldn’t help but shake as I lifted the key. I started to get second thoughts, thinking that maybe I shouldn’t do this, but I had to know... I had to find out. I put the key in the lock, turned it, and slowly opened the door to see… my grandmother in her rocking chair in the living room. 

“That’s impossible.” I thought to myself; I even rubbed my eyes, thinking they were playing a trick on me. The living room is directly in front of the front door; how could I be here? Then it hits me: how did I know where the key was? This wasn’t the first time I walked through this door, was it? How could I not remember? I look into my grandmother’s eyes, and instead of nothing, I see disappointment. Then I feel it and see it: a warm light that covers me and everything, and then... Nothing.

Ever since I can remember, my grandmother always told me not to open the door at the end of the hall. She really never gave me a reason; she always kept it locked no matter what. In fact, I don’t think I can remember a time when she entered the room.

Better Late That Dead; Episode 25

This is episode twenty-five of the novel Better Late Than Dead. It is the 7th book in the Rich Larsen Adventure Series. An episode will be posted every Monday and Friday. However, it can be purchased on Amazon in the Kindle or paperback versions.  

Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins. 

(Originally posted on the Jittery

Episode 25

Rich could never be too cautious or trusting. He stayed at the lake for five days. Then he drove toward Enid’s home in Vincent.

At first, he thought he might call instead of just showing up. He wanted to be certain the Social Security card had arrived. Then he hesitated. If he called, Enid might alert the police. They might be waiting for him. He felt comfortable trusting Enid, but he reasoned it was within the realm of possibility.

It was midday when Rich pulled up in front of the open bay door at Enid’s garage. Enid came out with a big smile and a solid handshake.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” Enid said.

Rich smiled broadly and matched Enid’s firm grip. A thought raced through his mind. I made a terrible mistake in our phone conversation. I told him my alias. He’s the only one who knows.

“How have you been, Enid?” Rich asked.

“Fit as a fiddle,” Enid said. “I thought you were going to call.”

“I was,” Rich said. “But I was so close, and I didn’t see any phone booths along the way.”

“Let’s have a glass of iced tea and a sandwich,” Enid suggested.

“Did you get my Social Security card?” Rich asked.

“I'm certain I have it,” Enid said. “A piece of mail came from the Social Security Administration a couple of days ago.” Enid walked into the garage. “It’s back here.”

Rich followed him. Enid opened a cabinet door under his workbench and removed an envelope. He handed it to Rich. Rich opened it, pulled out the card, and slid it into his wallet.

“There ya go,” Enid said. “I created a man out of thin air.”

“Iced tea and a sandwich,” Enid repeated. “And if you want to, spend the night.”

Rich smiled. “It all sounds good, but I shouldn’t stay here any longer than necessary. Every minute I’m here is another minute you could put yourself in jeopardy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Enid said.

“Enid,” Rich said, “the truth of the matter is that we may never see or talk to each other again. I hope not. You’ve been a good friend.”

“I understand,” Enid said. “Don’t let your hope fade. Don’t get too comfortable with the new you.”

“There is no certainty when a person is on the run,” Rich said. “When I reach the next intersection, I can’t even tell you for sure which way I’ll go.”

“Do your best to keep in touch,” Enid said. “I don’t expect to know where you are, and I never want you to tell me. If, for some reason, you are apprehended, I don’t want you to ever think it was me. And you’re right about not being here too long. Somebody may recognize you. It could happen. Just as easily as you stumbled on this place by good fortune, the next car down the road could be a deputy from your hometown on vacation, or somebody who just happens to recognize you. Sometimes, it’s a chance in a million.”

“I see you’re working on another car,” Rich said, nodding toward the open garage door.

“A Packard,” Enid said. “Belongs to a Lutheran pastor down the road a ways.”

“Black is the perfect color,” Rich said. “Ought to put a little white strip on the top to match his collar.”

“He’s a real strict one,” Enid said. “But I’ll run it by him. On second thought, maybe I do it in whitewash. If he doesn’t like it, it will wash away. Then again, I should tell him it stays until he pays for the brake job I did six months ago.”

“Enid,” Rich said, “if I don’t pick up and go, you’ll have me staying the night.”

“Yeah, lad,” Enid said. “You should get on your way. And no matter what, keep me in mind with a call. I think I’ll wonder every night if you’re good or not.”

“For sure,” Rich said.

They hugged quickly. Rich climbed into the truck. He started the engine, gave a nod, and drove away.

Getting someplace fast held no interest. He headed west. He drove along the neglected state highway, its cracks covered with strips of tar like snakes. The grass and weeds turning brown and yellow along the roadside signaled the end of the growing season.

I will grow my hair and beard, he thought. Properly done, it can change the appearance of the shape of my head. That’s the first thing people observe. He rubbed his face. I have a good start.

Soon, he crossed the state line into Illinois. He entered a town named St. Anne and stopped for gas. The attendant began filling the tank.

“Where ya from in Indiana?” the attendant asked.

“North of,” Rich said.

“I’m from Indiana,” the man said. “North of where?”

Rich remained quiet.

“Lafayette,” the man offered.

“Is that right?” Rich said.

“Where in Indiana are you from?” the man asked again.

“South Bend,” Rich said.

“Ha,” the man said. “Funny you’d say north of.”

“It’s north of, isn’t it?” Rich said.

“So is Chicago,” the man said. “But folks from Chicago never say they are from north of Indianapolis. You ever been to a little hot spot called The Rusty Nail?”

“I said I was from there, as in that was the last place I stayed,” Rich said. “I’m from Wyoming.”

“Cowboy country,” the man said. “You live on a ranch?”

“No,” Rich said.

“What did ya do?”

“If you don’t mind,” Rich said, “I’d just like to get a full tank and be on my way.”

“Just trying to make conversation, that’s all,” the attendant said.

“Is there something that bothers you about me, or do you do this with all your customers?” Rich asked.

“That looks like seven-fifty,” the man said.

Rich pressed a ten-dollar bill into his greasy hands. The man tucked the ten into his pants pocket and counted out the change.

“Thank you,” Rich said. He started the truck and pulled away.

Rich was near the edge of town when a police siren caught his attention. He looked in the side-view mirror. A police car was behind him. Rich pulled over. The policeman came up to the window.

“Driver’s license and registration.”

Rich said nothing and handed over the license and registration. The policeman examined them.

“These are all new.”

“That’s right,” Rich said.

“That’s kind of funny,” the policeman said.

“Officer,” Rich said, “did I break any laws?”

“The attendant back at the gas station said you drove away without paying.”

“Well, he’s lying,” Rich said.

“What reason would he have to lie?” the policeman asked.

“I’m from out of state,” Rich said. “It’s my word against his. He figures I’ll pay something just to get out of town and on my way.”

“Look,” the policeman said. “I may have to hold you. We have a mayor’s court. That means I can get the mayor to come down to the town hall. I don’t know how he’ll rule, but he will impose court costs, a fine, and you’ll have to pay what the attendant said you made off with. Or maybe the mayor likes you. It looks to me like it’s the guy at the gas station’s word against yours. Which means a trial later, and you post bond.”

“Can I have a moment to think this over?” Rich asked.

“Sure,” the policeman said. “I’ll go back to my car and contact the mayor, give him a heads-up.”

The officer stepped away. Rich sat in the cab. I have a clean title. I have a clean license. And a birth certificate to boot. That guy back at the gas station just wants to give me a hard time—funnin’ an out-of-towner. But then again, maybe the policeman is in on it along with the mayor. They have a fish on the hook. Maybe they are acting on information, and this is a plan to detain me to see how I check out. Maybe somebody identified the Jeep at Enid’s and is trying to delay me long enough to run my plates. If I give the cop the money the attendant says I owe, will that make it appear I’m guilty, or just eager to get out of town?

Rich stepped out of his truck and walked toward the patrol car. The policeman met him halfway.

“Did you get a hold of the mayor?” Rich asked.

“He’s already at the town hall,” the policeman said.

“I’ll meet you there,” Rich said. “In the meantime, can you stop at the gas station and close it down?”

“Why would I do that?” the policeman asked.

“I want to check the money received for the day against what the attendant has, along with the gas that has been pumped.”

“That seems a little extreme,” the policeman said.

“I didn’t like the nosy questions that guy was asking, and I told him as much,” Rich said. “He didn’t like how I responded to his rudeness, so he’s trying to make me pay twice.”

“He said you threatened him, too,” the policeman said.

“Do what you want to do at the gas station,” Rich said. “I’ll see you at the town hall. Just give me directions.”

“Go back to the gas station and turn left. The town hall is three blocks on the right. And I’ll keep your driver’s license.”

“Not unless you give me a receipt,” Rich said.

“What?” the policeman said.

“A receipt,” Rich said. “If you don’t have a form, I have some paper, and you can write out a simple one. I don’t want my license misplaced.”

“I think you are trying to make this as hard on me as it is on you,” the policeman said.

“No,” Rich said. “It all goes back to that lying pump jockey. When this day is over, I’ll be long gone, and you will forever look at that guy as a worm.”

“I've got a receipt book in my cruiser,” the policeman said, stepping back. “Nah, forget it. This is between that guy and me. Let’s just get this over with.” He handed the card back. “Here’s your license.”

Fifteen minutes later, the policeman sat between the gas station attendant and Rich. They sat in the town council room in front of a long folding table. Behind it sat the mayor, a large man with bulging red cheeks and a sour look. He called the court to order.

“Okay,” the mayor said. “What’s the complaint?” He looked at the attendant.

“This guy comes in acting all smart—”

The mayor interrupted. “Being smart is not against the law.”

“All right,” the attendant said. “I pumped seven-fifty in his truck, and he took off without paying.”

“Sir,” the mayor said, looking at Rich. “I assume you are the defendant. Officer Conner gets his gas free, so let’s hear what you have to say.”

“I gave him a ten, and he gave me two-fifty in change,” Rich said.

“So this is over seven-fifty, is that right?” the mayor asked.

“It’s the principle,” the attendant said.

“And you’re back here based on principle,” the mayor said, looking at Rich's license.

“That is a good assumption,” Rich said.

“Why don’t we just split the baby?” the mayor suggested. “Pay three-seventy-five, and I’ll waive the court costs.”

“Your Honor,” Rich said, “I’m still out three-seventy-five.”

“Better than seven-fifty plus court costs,” the mayor said.

“I can prove I paid him,” Rich said.

“You have a witness?” the mayor asked.

“No,” Rich said.

“Nan’s Diner is having the fried chicken special today,” the mayor said, checking his watch. “I want to get there before all the white meat is gone.”

“Some people like to doodle on their money,” Rich said. “Sometimes they do it to see if the bills ever come back to them. They use a special mark only they would recognize. The ten-dollar bill I handed the attendant a little while ago had glasses drawn on Alexander Hamilton. If the complainant has that ten-dollar bill, he must have gotten it from me.”

“Howard,” the mayor said, “I see you've got a wad of money in your shirt pocket. Let’s see it.”

“Your Honor,” Rich said, “he put it in his back pocket.”

“No way,” the attendant retorted. “I keep all the money I collect for gas in my shirt pocket.”

“If it is as Mr. Chase says,” the mayor said, “you are a thief and a liar, and you wouldn't keep it with the station’s money. Stand up, Howard. Officer Conner, go through his pockets.”

The policeman removed a ten-dollar bill from the attendant’s back pocket. Without examining it, he handed it to the mayor.

The mayor looked at the bill. “Funny, I don’t remember Hamilton having glasses. If it were a hundred-dollar bill, I guess an argument could be made that Franklin wore them, but not Hamilton. Howard, what do you say?”

Howard said nothing.

“Mr. Chase,” the mayor said, turning to Rich. “I’m sorry for this inconvenience. Sometimes there is inconvenience in the pursuit of justice.” He turned back to the attendant. “Howard, you will pay court costs. That’s ten dollars. I’ll be keeping the spectacled Mr. Hamilton. You filed a false police report. I’ll give you a court date for next Tuesday. There will be additional court costs, and I have the discretion to fine you up to two hundred and fifty dollars. Out of respect for Mr. Chase, I’ll deduct fifty dollars. That leaves you with two hundred, plus the ten-dollar court cost. Two hundred and ten dollars total. Please appear with the cash or your checkbook.”

“I don’t have that kind of money,” Howard protested.

“I hear the stamping plant is hiring on the second shift,” the mayor said. “I’ll put in a good word for you.” He slapped his hand on the desk. “Court is adjourned.”

The mayor handed the license back to Rich. “Is that your camper out front?”

“It is,” Rich said.

“Have a safe trip,” the mayor said.

Rich drove out of town. It felt good to clear my name, he thought. Maybe I should have stayed and cleared my name back home. Maybe I should have had confidence in the system. Then again, maybe I would be in jail right now. After all, how many times do you actually see Alexander Hamilton wearing glasses on a ten-dollar bill?