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.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 18

 This is episode eighteen 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. 

Episode 18 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Rich began to feel the weight of the libelous newspaper article. He had put up with the stares and whispers. Rude treatment was becoming severe.

He drove into a filling station. The attendant sat in a chair inside. He waited for the man to pump his gas. The man glared and did not budge. Rich grabbed the nozzle. The man stepped to the doorway.

“We’re out of gas.”

“You don’t mind if I try, do ya?” Rich said.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Rich got in his Jeep and drove away. In his rearview mirror, he saw another car drive into the station, and the attendant pumped the gas.

He walked into a restaurant he had been to several times. The hostess told him there would be a long wait.

“I see two tables open,” Rich said.

“They’re reserved,” the hostess said.

“If I remember correctly,” Rich said, “you don’t take reservations. I’ve tried.”

“It’s a new policy,” the hostess said.

“Yeah,” Rich said sadly, “like right now.”

At the grocery checkouts, the cashiers smiled and talked with other customers. As soon as they recognized Rich, the friendly conversations turned into a cold slab of cement.

One night, coming home from Hiram’s office, he stopped at a small neighborhood grocery store. The only person there was a short, round man in his fifties. Rich assumed it was the owner. He grabbed a bag of chips, a prewrapped sandwich, and a soda.

“Dessert,” he mumbled. What shall it be?

“Ah,” Rich said under his breath, “cherry pie. I’ll take it.”

He cradled all the items in his arm and set them on the counter near the front door. The man did not make eye contact with Rich. He tallied up the items on the cash register.

“That comes to $1.49.”

Rich reached for his wallet. “Can I have a bag?” Rich said.

“We’re out,” the man said.

Rich looked to the end of the counter. Several sizes of brown paper bags were stacked there. Rich reached toward the bags. “I’ll have the small one.”

He placed the items in the bag. He laid two dollars on the table. “Keep the change.”

“How does it feel to kill your mother and father?” the man sneered.

“I don’t know,” Rich said. “But I know how it feels to be accused of killing your mom and dad, and everybody thinks you did it.”

Rich grabbed the soda bottle from the bag. He held it high over his head. His face filled with rage. He clenched his jaw.

The man let out a high-pitched gasp. He wrapped his arms around his face and over his head. Rich returned the bottle to the sack.

“That’s how it feels, mister.”

Rich walked out of the store.

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 17

This is episode seventeen 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. 

Episode 17 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Maxine stepped away from the office shortly past noon. She brought back a couple of salads. She placed them on the conference table.

“You guys have been eating terribly the last week or so,” Maxine said. Then she tossed a newspaper on the table. “I don’t know whether you should read and then eat or eat and then read.” Maxine walked out of the conference room.

Rich grabbed the newspaper. “Early edition,” he said. He unfolded it to the front page. “The newspaper seldom runs local headlines on the front page,” Rich said. “It’s usually national or international news. There are rare exceptions.”

He began to read. “Headline: Prime Suspect in Brutal Larsen Double Murder About to be Charged. The News has recently uncovered that a prime suspect in the double homicide of the Larsens is about to be arrested and charged. Seasoned and top detectives from the county sheriff’s department have been conducting an exhaustive and vigorous weeks-long investigation of the Larsen double murder. The News’ crack reporting team has been on this blockbuster case, which has received statewide attention from the very beginning.”

Rich stopped. “I can’t read anymore. This is not written by a crack reporter; it’s written by a cracked reporter. This writing is atrocious.”

“That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” Miss Winslow said.

“I have a note to send this to the university journalism school,” Rich said, “reading: don’t send your graduates to The News. They’ll end up writing like this, ruin everything you taught them, and end up with no future job prospects.”

“I bet for every bad newspaper writer there are fifty bad lawyers,” Miss Winslow said.

“And they should be called out,” Rich said. He stood and tucked the newspaper under his arm.

“Where are you going?” Miss Winslow asked.

“I’m going to do something stupid and sorely needed,” Rich said. “Or is it something needed and sorely stupid? It’s probably both. I’ll be back or in jail.”

Before any words came from Miss Winslow’s mouth, Rich was out of the room.

Rich jumped into his Jeep and sped to the newspaper. He pulled into the parking lot. No parking spaces were open. He parked front-first at the newspaper’s side entrance. He slung the door open and stomped up the steps.

He leaned into Briggs’ office. He was not there. He turned toward the newsroom. The room was busy with the clickety-clack of typewriters.

“Where’s Briggs?” Rich called out.

The typing stopped. A half dozen or so reporters stopped typing or dislodged their phones from their ears. Everyone stared at Rich. They were frozen in suspense, not knowing what to expect.

“I’m looking for Briggs!” Rich said.

Everyone turned to a desk at the back of the newsroom. Briggs’ arms supported him as he braced against a desk. He leaned over a young female reporter. He stretched his posture.

Rich took a step.

“Don’t come any closer,” Briggs warned.

“And what will you do if I do?” Rich said. “You’ll be on your own. There is nobody in this room who will help you. But that’s not what I’m here for.”

“I’m calling security,” Briggs said, reaching for the phone on the desk.

“I’ve worked here for two years,” Rich said. “There is no security.”

“I’m calling the police,” Briggs said.

“For what?” Rich said. “I just stopped by to say hi to my old boss. If there’s any crime that has been committed here, it’s bad writing.”

“You don’t work here, and you have no business here,” Briggs said.

“And that’s my good fortune,” Rich said.

“Why are you here?” Briggs asked.

Rich held up a copy of the newspaper. “I’m suing you personally and the newspaper. If there’s one thing I know about reporting, it is this: you have slandered me. I have two years of notes and will have the testimony of at least six former employees of your abusive behavior towards me. Today’s article slanders me.”

“Your name is never mentioned,” Briggs said.

“You have consistently named me as the prime suspect in previous reports,” Rich said. “In a civil case, it only takes a majority of seven to win a case. That leaves five. I guarantee there are not five people in this town who wouldn’t want somebody to stick it to this rag.”

Only the sound of typewriters from other offices and the hum of distant printing presses could be heard.

“Geez, Briggs,” Rich said, “I smell your cologne all the way up here.”

Rich turned around and slowly walked away. He reached the stairwell. Applause came from the sports newsroom. Rich smiled. He returned to his Jeep and drove back to Hiram’s office.

Rich returned to the conference room. Miss Winslow was poring over the files.

“Did you hit anybody?” Miss Winslow asked.

“No,” Rich said. “That’s not my style. Although I contemplated goading Briggs to take a swing at me. And that’s not my style either. But it was entertaining to think about.”

“Hiram tossed a law book at another lawyer a couple of years ago,” Miss Winslow said.

“You know,” Rich said as he sat at the conference table, “dueling is very much underrated.”

Better Late Than Dead: Episode 16

  This is episode sixteen 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. 

Episode 16 (Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

Over the next two days, Rich, Hiram, and Miss Winslow studied volumes of additional records of evidence. They continued to find holes in the evidence. Hiram stayed late at the office. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes or hadn’t shaved.

On the third day, Rich woke and showered. He dressed for another day at Hiram’s office. He spat into the sink after brushing his teeth. The phone rang.

“Hello,” Rich said.

“Rich, this is Miss Winslow. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No,” Rich said.

“I’m buying,” Miss Winslow said.

“Then I’m choosing,” Rich said. “Where?”

“There's this diner on Clark Street,” Rich said. “The waitress is an old friend from school. She won’t spit in our food. As for the cook, he spits in everybody's food.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” Miss Winslow said. “See you in half an hour?”

“Perfect.” Rich hung up.

Half an hour later, Rich and Miss Winslow were sitting across from each other in a booth. Jane approached the table.

“Jane,” Rich said, “this is Miss Winslow. She works for my lawyer, but my lawyer says he works for her. If you ever get in trouble, she’s the one. And Miss Winslow, this is Jane, a friend from school. She’s one of the few folks in town who—I don’t know—who doesn’t treat me like, is that who I think it is?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jane,” Miss Winslow said.

“Same here,” Jane said.

“Don’t let the high heels fool ya,” Miss Winslow said. “I waited tables for four years. And I worked the back grill when the cook was too drunk to stand.”

“Wow,” Rich said, “a lady with a past. What else?”

“The cook was my ex,” Miss Winslow said.

“We have a lot in common, then,” Jane said.

“You’re married to a drunk cook?” Miss Winslow asked.

“No,” Jane said, “we both have exes. Mine couldn’t hold down a job. He couldn’t even hold his liquor.”

“Sounds like you ladies have a lot in common besides me,” Rich said. “How ‘bout if I find another table and let you two talk it out?”

“I’m not into that crying in my beer routine,” Miss Winslow said.

“That goes for me, too,” Jane said and smiled. “So, Rich, I get you your usual, and Miss Winslow, what do you have?”

“Jane,” Miss Winslow said, “two eggs over easy, but I don’t want them runny. Put ‘em on top of some hash browns because that’s where they’ll end up anyway. And lay three strips of bacon on top of that.”

“I’ll get your coffee,” Jane said and rushed away.

“Did you notice that?” Miss Winslow said.

“What?” Rich said.

“She didn’t write it down,” Miss Winslow said. “I bet she can wait on four tables of truckers and memorize every order. That’s a smart gal.”

“Is that what you can do?” Rich said.

“I made so much in tips as a waitress that I had to think it over before going to work for Hiram.”

“So why don’t you become a lawyer?” Rich asked.

“I take the bar exam next week,” Miss Winslow said.

“So, technically, I have two lawyers?” Rich said.

“I suppose,” Miss Winslow said.

“Does that mean you might go out on your own?” Rich asked.

“Hiram’s going to make me a partner,” Miss Winslow said.

“So, why are we here?” Rich folded his hands on the table and leaned forward.

Jane brought back the coffee. She sensed they were in a deep conversation and said nothing. Rich and Miss Winslow thanked her. And she darted away.

“Tell Hiram he’s looking terrible,” Miss Winslow said. “He needs to slow down. If he continues like he is, I may be running the practice on my own.”

“It takes breakfast to tell me that?” Rich said.

“He worries me,” Miss Winslow said. “I’ve never seen him this focused or aggressive. He’s the kind of guy who can walk like it’s a sunny day in a rainstorm. He has ice water in his veins.”

“Is there something different about this case?” Rich asked.

“He has instincts,” Miss Winslow said. “He keeps telling me there is something about this situation that is different. And I agree, there is something different.”

“What is it?” Rich asked.

“I don’t know if he’s picked up on something or not,” Miss Winslow said. “He’s not talking to me about it, and that’s unusual; he is very forward. He told you that from the beginning, but I feel as if he’s holding something back.”

“I trust what you’re saying,” Rich said. “You know him better than I.”

“I left the office at 6:00 PM last night,” Miss Winslow said. “My mother called last night. She forgot to fill a prescription, so I went out and got it for her. I drove by the office at a quarter past ten. Hiram’s car was still in the parking lot, and the lights in his office were still on.”

“Is he getting out at all during the day?” Rich asked.

“I’ve seen him get intense,” Miss Winslow said, “but he turns it off at the drop of a hat. He has an associate down the hall, and he’s sending everything to him.”

“What do you think I can do?” Rich said.

Jane brought the meals and left without a word.

“She’s savvy,” Miss Winslow said. “She knows something’s going on. Most waitresses would try to say something cute.”

They began eating.

“Maybe you could subtly say something about how hard he’s working, and if he becomes overworked, he’s no good to you.”

“How do you think he’d take that coming from a client?” Rich asked.

“He’d say if you don’t like the way he works, find another lawyer,” Miss Winslow said. “Then you’d say you’re just concerned, and he’ll come back with something smart. You’ll buckle, and after you go, he’ll relax, go home early, take a shower, and get a good night’s sleep.”

“It sounds like you’ve been through this with him a few times,” Rich said.

“I have, but this is different, and I think he might take this better from you,” Miss Winslow said.

“What if he really gets upset and tells me to get out?” Rich asked.

“Get in your Jeep, drive back to your room. The phone will be ringing about the time you walk in,” Miss Winslow said.

“You have really got this down pretty good,” Rich said.

Miss Winslow smiled and sipped her coffee. “I plan to be just like him.”

They finished and drove to the office. Rich waited ten minutes before going in. Rich walked into the office.

“He’s in,” Maxine said, tossing her head to go ahead into Hiram’s office.

Rich walked into the office. He looked at a rumpled and ghastly-looking Hiram. “You look like crap,” Rich said. “And if you don’t take care of yourself, I’m getting a new lawyer. Miss Winslow told me to be more subtle, but that won’t work with you or me.”

Hiram stood. “I’m going home to rest. You and Miss Winslow can take care of things today. I have a whole stack of stuff in the conference room that will take you two at least a day to get through.”

Hiram walked to the door. Rich caught an unpleasant odor. “Hiram!”

Hiram stopped as he grabbed the doorknob. “What?”

“Take a shower.”

“Yeah,” Hiram said. “My wife called last night. She said if I ever decide to come home, I’ve got to get to the truck stop first and take one of those trucker showers before I come home.”

Indeed, Hiram left a couple of stacks of folders on the conference room table.