Better Late Than Dead: Episode 21

 This is episode twenty-one 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 21

He slowed at a crossroads bearing a sign: Vincent. Dilapidated wooden buildings stood at the four corners. One looked like a grocery store. A rusted Wonder Bread sign hung beside the front door. A rusted Fleetwing sign hung above an overhang attached to an abandoned gas station. Two white globes rested above two rusted and paint-peeled gas pumps. The two other buildings looked as if they had not been used in years. They were boarded up.

Rich pulled the Jeep beside the pumps. He shut off the engine and relaxed. He closed his eyes. He wanted to think and sleep. He dozed off.

“Hey, hey, you!”

Rich jerked. He did not know how long he had slept. He knew it hadn’t been long because it still looked like morning. He looked around to see where the voice came from.

An old man in overalls stood at the rear of the Jeep. “We’re closed. Been closed since 1959.”

Rich stepped out of the Jeep. “Ah, that’s too bad,’’ he grinned. “I was hoping for an oil change, lube job, and fill-up.”

“Well, you’re twelve years too late,” the man said.

“Actually,” Rich said, “I’ve been driving all night and needed a place to rest my eyes.”

“There’s not a motel on this stretch of highway for I don’t know how far,” the man said. “I don’t mind if you sleep here. I’d rather see ya do that than wrap this thing around a telephone pole.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, sir,” Rich said. “Is there someplace I can park where it’s out of the way?”

“You can pull around in the back,” the man said. “You catch the shade all day long.”

“I’d be happy to pay for the spot,” Rich offered.

“Not necessary,” the man said. “You go get your rest. Now, I might be making some noise. I’m doing some work in the garage. I still do mechanical work. I have an air compressor and some other tools.”

Rich pulled out his wallet. “Here’s five dollars. It just doesn’t feel right not to pay you.”

“Likewise,” the man said, “it doesn’t feel right to take your money.”

“I’d sure sleep easier if you’d take the money,” Rich said.

“Far be it from me to rob a man of much-needed sleep,” the man grinned and winked. “We’ll negotiate after you get rested. Negotiating with a tired man, well, that ain’t right. I’d take advantage of ya.”

Rich pulled the Jeep under the shade behind the building. He unrolled his sleeping bag onto the ground beside the Jeep. He quickly drifted off into sleep.

Three hours went by, and he woke up. He opened the back door to the building. The old man was inside lifting a motor from a car with a winch.

“Let me give you a hand,” Rich said.

They pulled on the winch together and guided it to an engine stand.

“What are you going to do with this?” Rich asked.

“Rebuild it,” the man said. “Belongs to a guy down the road a couple of miles. He’s had it since he got out of the Army. Forty-six Hudson.”

“Super Six?” Rich asked.

“You know your engines?” the man asked.

“No,” Rich said. “I’ve read about it. And my mom and dad were Hudson people.”

A sudden empty feeling came over him. Mom and Dad are... were, not are. That's hard to accept.

The man held out his hand after wiping it with a rag. “I’m Enid Nolton.”

“Enid, I’m Will Paxton,” Rich said.

“Will,” Enid said, “you look to me like a guy who could use breakfast. But if you don’t, I sure do. I live upstairs.”

Rich followed Enid up a staircase in the garage and to an apartment over the gas station. It was a cozy place. Clean, but dated. It looked like a cabin from a Depression-era photo. It had a small TV and an old gas stove. The refrigerator had the compressor on top. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner. Two cushioned chairs sat in front of it. There was a wooden kitchen table with two matching chairs.

“This is home,” Enid said.

“Indeed,” Rich said, “it is a good home.”

Rich drifted toward a corner bookcase that was from floor to ceiling. “What do you have, two hundred books?”

“Three hundred and forty-five to be exact,” Enid said. “Everything from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to Zorba the Greek, from Aesop to Zweig.”

“I’m not familiar with Zweig,” Rich said.

“Hitler was and didn’t like him,” Enid said. “Good writer.”

Enid began to assemble pans, plates, silverware, and items from the refrigerator.

“Let me help,” Rich said. “I’ve lived on my own for quite a while. I can handle stuff without dropping or breaking it.”

“Is that so?” Enid said.

“I’ve cooked on high seas on a forty-foot schooner,” Rich said.

“The devil, ya say,” Enid said. “You’ll have to tell some of your tales. So sit, talk, and I’ll do the rest.”

Rich sat. “If those are your terms, I’ll abide by them. What do you want to hear—South America, Pacific Islands, Africa, Caribbean? Whatever you like.”

“You ever been to Australia?” Enid asked, busy with his back to Rich.

“Three thousand miles of coastline,” Rich began, “with white sandy beaches that drift as far as your imagination. Jagged red cliffs that drop into the sea like the edge of a table. And waves that dance like a flickering campfire.”

And Rich continued to talk until Enid placed a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee on the table. They ate as they talked. Rich continued to tell him about riding across Australia on a train.

“How did you happen to go there?” Enid asked. “What I mean is, why?”

“I guess it was just something I wanted to do,” Rich said.

“Remarkable,” Enid said. “I think I’ve been every place you have been, in my mind. It’s right over there in that corner.” Enid nodded toward his books.

“That’s not so bad,” Rich said, “because that’s where it is with me. Once you do it, the only thing left is the memory of it.”

“You remind me of a man who sailed with me,” Rich said. “He was a master boat builder. They called him Salty. He sailed with me from Maine to an island named Barbuda. An island with warm, friendly people and pink sand. Later, we met up again in Australia. He was a good mate. In a short time, he taught me a lot. Not just about boats, sailing, and the sea, but about myself.”

“It sounds like you miss him,” Enid said.

“I do,” Rich said. “But I’ve been lucky in my life. I’ve run into a lot of good people. The world is full of them.”

“You say that like a man who has encountered some bad ones too,” Enid said.

“I have,” Rich said. “There have to be some bad ones, so you know who the good ones are.”

“You’re running from the bad ones, aren’t you?” Enid said.

“What makes you think so?” Rich asked.

“The way you introduced yourself,” Enid said. “That is not your name. Every little sound makes you look around. You wanted to sleep out of the way. It was important to you, not just a convenience. How am I doing?”

“A man with an impressive library living in an old ramshackle dwelling. Willingly harbors someone he is suspicious of, has a collection of books any scholar would be proud to have, and has the neatest and cleanest tools of any mechanic I’ve seen.”

“Perhaps I’m eccentric,” Enid said.

“And perhaps I’m everything you think I am,” Rich said.

“You have indeed been all the places you say you have been,” Enid said. “Enough of the games. I was a doctor who stopped practicing medicine. I lost a patient because I was drunk. I was absolved by the medical board but not by my own personal ethics. For the last twenty years, I neither drink nor tend to the sick. Oh, occasionally I’ll give somebody a tip, but no one around here knows my past. However, if they do, I’m not aware. They’re just happy to have a good auto mechanic.”

Rich paused and pursed his lips.

“This is some sort of barroom I-tell-you-a-sad-story-and-you-tell-me-a-sad-story,” Enid said. “It’s just that I see something in you. And it’s good. And if my story makes you comfortable, that’s all I want.”

“You see, Doc,” Rich grinned.

“Please,” Enid grinned, “it’s Enid.”

Rich continued. “If I tell you, it could put you in a compromising position. It’s best I don’t.”

“Understood,” Enid grinned. “Even though I’m covered under doctor-patient privilege.”

“Is it okay if I stay until dark?” Rich asked.

“You can catch some more sleep up here,” Enid said, “but I doubt you will be comfortable. I’ll tell you what, did you notice that old truck camper beside the building?”

“I did,” Rich said.

“It’s an IH B140 four-by-four,” Enid said. “A guy had me do some work on it. He couldn’t pay, so I kicked in another grand, and it became mine. I was going to take a trip in it, but I decided against it. Tell ya what I’ll do. We trade your Jeep for my truck camper. I’ll make sure everything is good on the truck. I’ll change the oil, new belts, good antifreeze, and make sure the brakes are good; you know, roadworthy. You see, truck campers and motorhomes are seldom stopped by the law. They don’t raise suspicion. That Jeep of yours stands out like a sore thumb.”

Rich rubbed his chin. “How long will it take to get the truck ready?”

“Let’s take a couple of days,” Enid said.

“Enid,” Rich said, “I’m a suspect in the murder of my parents. I didn’t do it. My lawyer died yesterday. And at the same time, I got word I was about to be arrested. If my lawyer had lived, I would not have run. I made an enemy of the sheriff by quoting him during an interview. The evidence they have is circumstantial at best. There’s compelling evidence of my innocence. It’s an election year for the sheriff. I didn’t do myself any favors by running, but I felt I was doomed if I stayed.”

“Do you have any idea who killed your parents?” Enid asked.

“No,” Rich said.

“How were they killed?” Enid asked.

“Stabbing and a gunshot each to the head,” Rich said.

“Neither you nor your parents own a gun?” Enid asked.

“I don’t, and I’m pretty certain Dad didn’t,” Rich said. “He had an old squirrel rifle, that’s it.”

“I take it there was blood all over the place?” Enid asked.

“That was something that baffled Hiram,” Rich said. “For all the stab wounds, there was not that much blood.”

“They were shot first, and then stabbed,” Enid said.

“How do you know?” Rich asked.

“I take it the place wasn’t a mess either?” Enid said.

“From what Hiram told me, no,” Rich said.

“You’ve never seen the crime scene photos?” Enid asked.

“No.”

“I understand,” Enid replied. “In addition to being an alcoholic doctor, I was a coroner. I know what crime scenes are supposed to look like. Were there knives present?”

“We had supper together that night,” Rich said. “My mom and dad had a steak knife, and so did I.”

“And one was missing, right?” Enid asked.

“Yes,” Rich said, surprised.

“And found with your prints on it,” Enid said.

“Yes,” Rich said.

“The gun found, right?” Enid asked.

“Yes.”

“Not far from your house?” Enid asked.

“Yes.”

“I know it wasn’t you,” Enid said. “I would never suspect you. I’d say offhand, you are repulsed by violence. Although you appear nervous, that’s your survival instincts. You waxed nearly poetic while talking about Australia. Guilty men don’t freely give up anything. They’d say, ’I was in Australia; what do you want to know? South shores, boring.’ You allowed yourself to go back there, not to escape but to share. You are a writer, perhaps?”

“I wrote for a newspaper,” Rich said. “And I’ve published two novels.”

“Look at all those books,” Enid said. “I know the difference between reporting and writing.”

Rich stood and began to clear the table. “What are you doing?” Enid said.

“I’ll clean this up,” Rich said. “You have a patient downstairs on the motor stand. When I’m done, I could use another couple of hours’ sleep. I’ll be wasted for the rest of the day, but perhaps tomorrow we can do some work on the camper.”

“Splendid idea,” Enid said.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 20

 This is episode twenty 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 20

After closing the door to his room, Rich slipped off his shoes. I'm tired, he thought, but if I go to sleep now, I’ll be awake at three.

He had bought a couple of cheap private detective novels. They lay on the nightstand. He picked one up and started to read. The phone rang. Geez, Rich thought, the blonde just walked into the office and asked for a light. He picked up the phone.

“Hello.”

“Rich, this is Miss Winslow. I have bad news.”

Rich sat up. “What is it?”

“Hiram is dead,” Miss Winslow said. “Heart attack, at home.”

“Oh, no,” Rich said. “How’s Mrs. Holiday?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Winslow said, “but I have more bad news. The sheriff is on his way to arrest you.”

“You mean the sheriff himself or deputies?” Rich asked.

“The sheriff himself,” Miss Winslow said. “He’s coming with a couple of news reporters, a photographer, and a camera crew. I suggest you take a back road to the county jail and turn yourself in. That will take the wind out of the sheriff’s sails and the media.”

“How do you know this?” Rich asked.

“Hiram and I have eyes and ears everywhere,” Miss Winslow said. “Get going before they get there. As soon as you’re at the sheriff’s office, call me.”

“Got it,” Rich said and hung up.

Rich immediately looked out the window. No one had arrived yet. He rushed to the bathroom and opened the window. He climbed out and ran to a farm field only about fifteen yards away. He ran back to the window and climbed back into the bathroom, leaving the window open.

He went to the closet and opened the access lid to the crawl space. He arranged some clothing sloppily on the lid. Then he lowered himself into the crawl space and pulled the lid in place. In the dark, he waited.

He heard several automobiles pull in front of his room. A loud knock on the door was followed by, “Sheriff, open up. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

“Get a key.”

A minute passed. Rich heard the door open.

“Larsen, put your hands up. You're under arrest.”

“He’s not here.”

“His Jeep is here.”

“He slipped out the bathroom window.”

“He couldn’t have gone far.”

A minute passed.

“Look there. The grass has been beaten down. He took off into the field.”

“You four spread out. I’ll call the bloodhounds.”

Half an hour passed. From the crawl space, he heard the dogs being brought in. From the conversation, Rich was able to discern that the dogs had been given Rich’s scent. Then he heard the dogs taken around back to pick up the scent. The dog was given commands.

“Go on, boy. Go get ‘em,” was repeated several times.

“Dumb dogs stop at the field.”

“Maybe the chemicals they’ve been sprayin’ are messing up his sniffer.”

“That dog couldn’t smell a fart if his nose was three inches from an ass.”

“Sheriff Morris is fit to be tied. This was big for him. He really wanted to arrest Larsen personally. The media was all set up and ready to cover the whole thing.”

“Hey, look serious and busy. Morris just pulled into the driveway.”

A couple of minutes passed. Rich heard talking from the front of the motel. He crawled to a vent in the front of the crawl space.

“We have all the roads sealed up a mile in every direction. We have men walking the field to the north, east, and west. There’s no way he crossed the highway to go south.”

“Shouldn’t we cover the south?”

“Spreads us too thin. We put our men where the chances are greatest.”

Rich half-grinned and thought, Thanks for the info.

“Clemmons, you and Parker stay here and watch the motel. One of you in the front and one in the back. Don’t you dare go into the room. I don’t want ya taking a nap or watching TV. I don’t think he’ll be dumb enough to circle back, but let’s at least have a presence. It’s a good look. And who knows, he may come back.”

It became quiet. He heard several automobiles drive away. One final car door shut, and it was quiet. Rich waited for an hour. He crawled back to the lid. He slowly pushed it open and pulled himself back into the closet. He crept to the front window. He parted the curtain. A deputy sat in his cruiser smoking a cigarette.

He has to take a leak sometime, Rich thought. I hope he doesn’t come in here. Can I make it to the crawl space in time? Maybe I’ll just roll under the bed.

At about 12:45, Rich heard a car door open. He rushed to the window and eased back the curtain. The deputy walked away from the cruiser toward the end of the building. He rushed to the window in the bathroom.

“Parker,” the deputy whispered. “You wanna go get a coffee?”

“Don’t you think one of us should stay here?”

“Would you rather have a coffee here or at Rosey’s?”

“I haven’t eaten since five.”

“Hey, we’re supposed to have a lunch break after four hours. If nobody’s here, that ain’t our problem.”

“There’s no sense in sitting around here.”

“Let’s go and say we stayed.”

They chuckled. A minute passed. The engine of the cruiser started. Rich peered through the window and watched its red taillights drive away. They’re not looking for my Jeep, Rich thought.

He stuffed his clothing into his baggage. He opened the door and looked around. He tossed the baggage into the Jeep. He climbed into the Jeep. He took a deep breath.

“Well, here we go.”

He slowly drove out of the parking lot. He turned east. Going west would take him into town. A roadblock was east, a mile away. He knew of a farm lane that went south before reaching the roadblock. He shifted through the gears and reached forty-five miles per hour. He felt free and at ease. Nothing is quite as invigorating as those first moments of escape.

“Crap!” Rich saw the sign: Rosey’s Diner: Open 24 hours. “That’s where the deputies are.”

Turning around may attract attention, Rich thought. Just drive on by.

Two cruisers were parked out front. As Rich drove by, he glanced inside. Two deputies sat at the counter, not paying attention to the road. He sighed. Someone will be in big trouble, Rich thought.

He slowed the Jeep and looked for the farm lane. He saw it and turned onto it. The lights were turned off. Only the park light remained on. He drove slowly and cautiously to make the holes and ruts easier to maneuver. He reached a cross lane and turned left. Finally, he came upon a paved township road. That led to another road that navigated him beyond the perimeter of the roadblocks.

Forty-five minutes after leaving the motel, he was on Route 81 west. It was a highway he was familiar with. It was a route taken to visit family in Indiana. It was taken because, as long as Rich’s mother and father could remember, they never saw a State Highway Patrolman on it.

He wondered how long it would take before the two deputies returned to the motel and noticed the Jeep was missing. He also wondered if they would concoct a story to protect themselves. Something like: he was somewhere in the back, and when we came out front, the Jeep was gone. Rich thought Sheriff Morris would be reluctant to notify the State Highway Patrol. He and Briggs were cut from the same cloth. They were arrogant and incompetent.

“I’m lucky to have them,” Rich said, amusing himself.

Small communities, nothing more than a store and a couple of houses, sprang up in the night like large prehistoric monsters. They sat silent and lifeless. Their day had passed. Once busy gathering places are now as lifeless as a graveyard.

A roadside picnic area with one table and a well slowly came into view out of the night. He pulled over and slept for half an hour. He woke and began driving again.

I hope I have outdistanced any word about me, Rich thought. I wish I had a plan. Someplace secure to go to. The police are more likely to spot a moving Jeep than one parked among other cars. They’ll be looking for someone on the move. I have to be almost two hundred miles away. They’re still looking for me in the area.

The day began to brighten from behind. Eyes became gritty and heavy. I need a place to rest, he thought.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 19

This is episode nineteen 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 19 

Rich drove to the Hillcrest Motel. He climbed out of the Jeep. A folded note was in the door. The note told him to come to the office. He set his bag inside the room and walked to the office.

A mousy old man, Mr. Rhinehart, the owner, sat behind the counter reading the newspaper.

“Mr. Rhinehart,” Rich said, “I found this note in the door. What is it you wanted to see me about?”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Larsen,” Mr. Rhinehart said nervously, “I left a note for you. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“You see, you see,” Mr. Rhinehart stammered, “I run a respectable business, and I care about the reputation.”

“Exactly what the cockroaches were telling me just the other night,” Rich said. “I’m joking.”

“Well, well,” Mr. Rhinehart said, “that’s not funny. A little joke like that gets around, and the next thing you know, people start talking.”

“I apologize,” Rich said. “The joke stays between you and me—and the cockroaches.”

“All the talk going around about you,” Mr. Rhinehart said. “You know, now, I’m not judging or anything. And I really don’t know anything anyway. But talk is talk, and it’s kind of like, you know, the roaches joke. People will start believing things.”

“That happens,” Rich said. “But I’m not sure why you want to see me. As far as I know, I’ve been a good guest at this fine establishment. Have there been any complaints?”

“Oh, no, no,” Mr. Rhinehart said, “it’s nothing like that. It’s just that you're a murderer—oh my, that came out wrong.”

“Just spit it out,” Rich said.

“Well, I’m concerned you’re hurting my business,” Mr. Rhinehart said.

“Everybody who stays here is just passing through,” Rich said.

“What I’m trying to say is I want you to move out,” Mr. Rhinehart said.

“This is a surprise,” Rich said. “I’ll tell you what, let me think on it tonight and I’ll let you know in the morning.”

“Actually,” Mr. Rhinehart said, “I want you out now!”

“Actually, Mr. Rhinehart, I’m paid until the end of the month.”

Mr. Rhinehart stood. He reached under the counter and handed Rich a check. “That’s a refund for the rest of the month.”

“Unless I’m breaking one of your rules, I’m staying till the end of the month,” Rich said.

“I will call the sheriff and have you removed,” Mr. Rhinehart said firmly—well, as firmly as Mr. Rhinehart could muster.

“I don’t think you will, and I don’t think you can,” Rich said.

“Please, Mr. Larsen,” Mr. Rhinehart said, “can you please leave in the morning?”

“As much as I disdain your petty tone and sanctimonious demeanor, I intend on staying until the end of the month,” Rich said. “I paid in full, and I paid in cash.”

“You want cash?” Mr. Rhinehart asked.

“No,” Rich said, “I want a room. I have a room. You have my money. I’m sorry this is tough on you, but we all have tough decisions to make. And you made your decisions when you accepted my money until the end of the month. When the end of the month comes, I’ll be gone. And you can charge another ten dollars a night to stay in the room I stayed in. I’m a celebrity, Mr. Rhinehart. If this was Vegas, they’d be paying me to stay.”

Rich waited for a reply. Mr. Rhinehart’s lips nervously quivered, but no sound came out. Rich turned and opened the door. He stopped and turned back to Mr. Rhinehart.

“By the way, don’t think you’re going to get away with not changing my towels or sheets. And don’t go through my stuff.”

Rich did not wait for a reply. He walked back to his room, where he enjoyed a ham salad sandwich, a small bag of chips, the cherry pie, and a bottle of soda. He turned on the TV news.

“It has been confirmed by sources that an arrest is imminent in the Larsen family double murder. A reliable source in the sheriff’s office has said their prime suspect will soon be taken into custody.”

Rich flipped the TV off.

Geez, Rich thought, that’s as bad as the newspaper. The news anchor sounded and looked as if he was dragged out of sixth-period study hall.

He left the room and jumped into the Jeep. I need a long ride, Rich thought, like Tijuana, Mexico.

He backed out of his parking space and pulled onto the road. He headed away from town. He leaned back with one hand on the steering wheel. For a moment, he fantasized. He was driving away from it all. He was driving to a place where he had no beginning and had no end. It was like Belle-Île-en-Mer. Where people help you blend.

I would go there, he thought, but every breeze, the bleat of lambs, every glint of sunshine, the smell of the pastures, and the taste of agneau du large, island wine, and those butter cookies... I’d be a fat expat in no time. Evenings with Elbert and Maggie. Just like old times—but without my Bridgette. I could not bear it. I’m wondering if I can bear anything ever again. Maybe I was never born to be happy, fulfilled, and content. Maybe I was born to be locked away.

There is such a strange chain of events. My parents were killed. I’m a prime suspect. And I can beat the whole thing if I give up Elbert—tell the CIA where he is. What if there isn’t a link? What if these circumstances fell into their laps?

Hiram, what does he know? Is he holding something back? Miss Winslow said he’s working harder on this case than he has on any other. He’s working as if we’re going to trial. How can he be so sure? I suppose those are questions I should be asking Hiram.

Rich made a U-turn and headed back to the Hillcrest Motel.

Maybe Mr. Rhinehart has had the opportunity to think things over, Rich thought. Maybe a basket of fruit and a bouquet will be waiting for me. Nah, never happening.

With an hour of daylight remaining, he pulled into the driveway of the Hillcrest. Cars were in front of every room. The no vacancy sign was lit.

“I’m sure not hurting business,” Rich mumbled.