Dumpster Dicing (Bunco Biddies Book 1) Page 13

  “It’s possible, right?”

  Blake pushed from the table and crossed one leg over the other. “Hmmm. You know, I’ll be honest. I put off driving all the way to Navasota, but I will go there now.” The small wrinkles at the edge of his eyes crinkled. “Worth investigating, at any rate.”

  “I thought I’d send Betsy Ann or Ethel to the newspaper archives again to scan through the articles. The news story stated Edwin had been one of the complainers. Of course, his being falsely accused overshadowed a lot of the other inmates’ complaints.” She snapped her fingers. “Or, put the limelight on him even more.”

  “Janie.” His tone took on that of a school monitor in detention hall.

  “Well, why not use us, Blake? You’re overbooked as it is until your partner returns from leave. The murder happened here and we feel helpless. We can spend hours doing grunt work.”

  His mouth curled up on one side. “Like perusing old court transcripts?”

  Janie crossed her arms. “Waste of time.”

  He reached over and patted her wrist. “Thanks for the info. Now I won’t have to plow through them.”

  Her face brightened.

  Blake rose. “Okay. You and your Bunco gals can do some background checking. It’s your right to do so and I can’t stop you. But, Janie.” He bent over her with both hands pressing on her shoulder. “You received one threat already. Be careful.”

  “We will. Promise.”

  “Gotta get.” He kissed her on the forehead, grabbed his coffee cup, and left.

  As he closed the door, Janie slapped her forehead. She forgot to tell him about the mysterious van. Ooh, she hated becoming old and forgetful.

  * * *

  Janie punched speed dial number five to call Betsy Ann. “Can you come over in a few?”

  Betsy Ann hesitated. “Well, I threw laundry in the washer ten minutes ago so it should be through in fifteen. I’ll be over as soon as I shove it in the dryer.”

  “Super. Ethel is coming as well.”

  “What about Mildred?”

  Janie pondered how to respond. Mildred said she had too much to do, yet her excuse fell into the lame category. A jitteriness in her manner lately seemed out of character. Something ate at her friend’s psyche more than her puppy’s snout and Janie didn’t understand what. She told Betsy Ann her concern.

  “Well, maybe the idea of finding out more freaks her out. He did live, and die, next door to her. Burying your head in the sand can be a form of defense.”

  At times, Betsy Ann appeared ditzy, but at others, like now, she seemed to be the wisest friend Janie possessed. “I imagine you’re correct. See you in a few.”

  The three friends huddled around the kitchen table, the fourth chair reserved for Janie’s swollen foot.

  Betsy Ann nodded to her. “Your lip is looking much less like a raspberry stuck to the corner of your mouth.”

  Janie touched where the cut still hurt. “Thanks. I guess.”

  “How scary for you. Do you think he’s an ex-con?” Ethel’s eyes stretched into wide circles.

  “He fit the bill. Which is why I called you to come over.” Janie rubbed her hands together as her smile widened, despite the sting of pain. “Blake came to his senses and agreed to let us do some background investigating.”

  Ethel high-fived her. Betsy Ann squealed. Mrs. Fluffy, who rested on Janie’s good foot, dashed behind the living room curtains, one of her favorite hiding places.

  “Where do we begin?”

  Janie scrunched her neck into her shoulders. “The newspaper archives.”

  “Again?” Ethel blew an elongated sigh through her lips.

  Betsy Ann patted her on the shoulder. “I haven’t been yet. Let me do that. You’re better at sniffing out other clues.”

  “But Betsy Ann, you are a pro at getting people to talk. People open up to you like a new Ann Landers.”

  She blushed. “Look who’s talking? Besides, I didn’t glean much from the conversations. People are tired of talking about it.”

  Janie templed her hands. “Still seems strange no one saw anything.”

  Ethel raised a forefinger. “Except for Peggy Williams and Marge Roberts. Both sighted a delivery van.”

  Janie laid a hand on Ethel’s forearm. “Yes, and you are the one who discovered that fact from Peggy. What did I tell you? You are good at gathering info. Take your mystery filing system. I mean, does anyone have anything to rival it?”

  Ethel’s facial muscles relaxed. “Okay. You’re right. So what can I do?”

  Janie thought for a minute. “Somehow, we need to find out if such a vehicle has recently been in accident. Take some of the biddies and peruse the public police reports in the newspapers of the surrounding towns over the past month. Most have weekly editions. Talk with the townspeople in and around the cafes to see if they know anything at all. Make it a road trip.”

  Ethel smiled. “I’ll call Ann and Babs. They will make it a fun day.”

  “If you don’t find anything, then have Betsy Ann check the Austin daily papers. The answer could lead us to the van’s owner. Also, check to see if someone stole one since Edwin’s release from prison.”

  “Speaking of which?” Betsy Ann tilted her head. “A moving van never showed up, did it?”

  Ethel gave her a quick, well-duh smile. “Most likely a man imprisoned for close to ten years doesn’t own much.”

  “That’s right. He’d have to buy new stuff, wouldn’t he?” Janie crossed her arms. “Maybe Mrs. Jacobs misunderstood him. A smaller truck probably delivered the folding table and chairs and the blow-up mattress.”

  Betsy Ann’s mouth formed a silent “O”.

  Janie slammed her hand on the Formica, which rattled her visitors. “Well, it’s seems likely Edwin waited to lease a condo before he bought furnishings. My guess is he shopped on the web. Furniture and discount stores use delivery vans. Perhaps that is what people saw.”

  Ethel titled her head up to the ceiling. “Hmm. It’s a possibility. But they usually are bigger than the postal delivery ones. Besides, why would come so late in the evening? And then return in the wee hours?”

  “True.” Janie’s body slunk. “And nothing else showed up after his death.”

  “Well, our little neighborhood crime did make front headlines. Perhaps somebody called to verify and our manager halted the order. Or his niece did.”

  Janie narrowed her eyes. “If only we had a way to contact her. I wish to ask her some more questions.”

  Ethel’s mouth stretched into a long grin. “There is. I subscribe to a people search site. We can pull up her address and phone number in a snap.”

  The other two responded at the same time “You do?”

  She shrugged. “Passes the time.”

  Chapter Twenty-EIGHT

  Betsy Ann stared into her closet. What did one wear for a day at the newspaper archives? She decided on comfortable, navy polyester slacks, a white shell top, and over that, a three-quarter-length sleeved blouse-jacket in a soft flowered pattern of white, blues, and moss green. Navy flats and her navy loop earrings completed her ensemble. She slipped a tablet into her purse and made sure she took two pens, just in case. What if she got all the way downtown and one of the pens ran dry? With these new felt points, you never knew. Even when they appeared to contain ink, they quit halfway through as you jotted down something important.

  With the keys to her trusty compact car in hand, she crossed the alley and clicked the key-less entry button. The friendly beep-beep greeted her. She slid into the driver’s seat and patted the dashboard. “Good morning to you, too.”

  The traffic into Austin trudged slow but steady. Betsy Ann learned long ago if she stayed in the middle right lane all the way in, she’d be in the correct one to exit toward downtown. But the one way streets always muddled her. She found the building she needed but took another fifteen minutes to turn around, head the right way, and find a parking spot. After the third time circling, she settled for one o
f the hourly lots. Three dollars for sixty minutes? She handed the man a five and a one in case it took her over an hour to glean from the microfiche what Janie wanted her to find. The cost put a damper in her lunch allowance, but no matter. She hated parallel parking and feeding coins in meters.

  Now for the two-block traipse through the Texas heat to the main entrance. The bank marquee read ninety-one degrees. And only ten in the morning? They were in for another long, hot summer if this kept up. She fanned herself with her hand as she walked.

  The revolving doors swished cold air onto her face. Once inside, she stood for a minute on the marble floor, heart thumping as her core temperature declined.

  “Are you lost, pretty lady?”

  “Oh?” Betsy Ann swiveled in her shoes to meet a white, wavy-haired man with cornflower eyes. A suave grin touched his dimples, snuggled by a well-trimmed snowy beard. He wore a baby blue polo shirt and khaki trousers. He gave her a dip of his head.

  “Name’s George McGuffy. May I have the honor of helping you locate what you need?”

  “Well, I...” Why am I stammering? She placed her hand on her chest. “I’m looking for the newspaper archives.”

  His smile widened. “As am I. Shall I lead the way?” He offered her the crux of his elbow.

  Betsy Ann’s cheeks heated. “I, well, I guess so…if it’s no trouble.”

  “None at all. I consider it a pleasure.”

  “Very well, then.” She laced her arm through his.

  He gestured with the other hand. “This way to the elevators, unless you wish to take the stairs?”

  “What floor are we going to?”

  He gave her a wiggle of his eyebrows. “One down. The basement.” With a chuckle, he punched the button.

  The doors opened as if on command and the couple stepped in. George pressed the B on the panel and the elevator jerked to begin its descent. He patted her hand draped through his arm. “Don’t let the noise bother you. It’s old but quite reliable. Like me.”

  Being with him alone in a confined space made Betsy Ann a tad squeamish. She struggled to make conversation. “So, Mr. McGuffy...”

  “Oh, no, Please. Call me George.”

  “All right, George. Do you come here often?” She winced. Sounds like a pick-up line at a sleazy bar.

  George’s demeanor remained the same. “I do. Quite often, as a matter of fact. I am a retired professor of Texas history. With time on my hands, I decided to write a historical fiction about the life and times of the students killed by Charles Whitman in 1966.”

  “Oh, yes. The sniper who holed up in the clock tower at the university my freshman year.”

  He turned to face her. “Really? My junior year. English major with a minor in U.S. History.”

  “Elementary education and the arts.”

  The door dinged. As it opened, the odor of stale air-conditioning and old papers assaulted her nose.

  George chuckled. “Ah, the aroma of times gone by.” He motioned down the hallway. “Have you been to the university archives?”

  She shook her head.

  “No? There’s a real treat. Perhaps after we finish here…”

  She blushed, again. “My research only goes back a year or so to one incident.”

  “Wedding or funeral?” He pushed open the glass doors.

  She gave him a sly smirk as she slid through. “Prison deaths from heat prostration.” As she sashayed up to the information desk, Betsy Ann detected his eyes boring into her. She bet they twinkled with curiosity.

  * * *

  The words began to blur after skimming fifteen articles in the Austin paper alone, plus eighteen more from Dallas, Houston, and Navasota. After the seventh one, her enthusiasm had waned though she kept reading. She discovered the families of the prisoners rallied behind four inmates of Wallace Pack Unit complaining of inhumane conditions. Three, aged fifty-five or older, suffered with health conditions often aggravated by heat. So did a younger one in his twenties. She jotted down their names and then sorted through the other articles to glean any more information. Near the bottom, an article posted February 12, 2015, showed the class action lawsuit still pending in Federal Court. She couldn’t locate any more reports after that date. Betsy Ann rubbed her temples and sighed.

  “Not finding what you need?”

  She jolted and hit her knee on the wooden support of the table.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” George McGuffy slid into the chair next to her.

  She massaged her knee. “It’s okay. My eyes need a break anyway.”

  His scanned the screen. “I thought you joked with me earlier about your reason to be here. Now why would such a classy lady like you want to get her nails dirty with something such as this?”

  His compliment once again made her blush. “I am helping a friend. Well, I’m interested as well.” She edged a tad closer and lowered her voice. “You see, Janie and I found one of the released inmates diced up in our retirement village dumpster. We are helping the police figure out why, and Janie thought perhaps the lawsuit last summer might have a bearing on the case.”

  George sat back and cocked a bushy, white eyebrow.

  Oh, no. My mouth ran like a broken-handled toilet again. She bit the inside of her lip.

  “Well, you are more than just a pretty-faced gal.”

  That twinkling wink again. Betsy Ann squirmed in her chair. She eyed him for a moment, trying to determine if he should be classified as a charmer or a rogue.

  “Oh, dear. I came on too strong.” He bowed his head and clucked his tongue. His attention fell to the mild liver spots on his hands. “My son keeps chiding me about living alone these past six years since Emma passed on, rest her soul.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  He raised his eyes to her. They shimmered. “Says I need to get back in the game. But I guess I am a tad rusty.”

  She gave him a sympathetic grin.

  “Forgive me if I intruded upon your generosity. I’ll leave you alone.” He started to get up.

  “Are you hungry? Is there a restaurant close by where we could grab lunch?” The questions blurted off her tongue before her brain realized they did.

  The twinkle returned. “I am running on empty, now that you mention it. I frequent an affordable diner a block away. Décor isn’t fancy, but they serve everything from chicken fried steaks to chili to salads. Best pecan pie in the city.”

  Betsy Ann clicked off the microfiche screen. “Lead the way, my good man.”

  His backbone became arrow-straight as a delicious smile tickled his beard. Arm in arm, the two waltzed to the elevators, though Betsy Ann swore her feet hovered a few inches off the ground.

  Chapter twenty-NINE

  “I am afraid I need to return to the archives tomorrow, Janie. The lawsuit is still pending in Federal Court, so I didn’t locate much in the current papers. Thought I’d try papers in Washington, D.C. I hoped a computer search would be of more help. But mine is a dinosaur and way too slow.”

  Janie didn’t respond right away. Something in Betsy Ann’s voice indicated her friend didn’t reveal the whole truth. Besides, the community offered a state-of-the-art computer room. “Betsy Ann? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. My eyes became weary, that’s all. All the small print. And the legal jargon, ugh. I did get the names of the inmates in Watson Pack who complained, and found one interview which included our dear friend Edwin’s name…well, Norman back then. All the others are still incarcerated as far as I can tell. The families of men who died or succumbed to heatstroke in other prisons over the past few years also hired attorneys and filed civil suits.”

  Janie rapped her pen on the coffee table. Being laid-up scraped the edge of her nerves. “Perhaps I can ride with you tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no. You shouldn’t. The doctor said to rest. It’s only been a few days. Besides, I walked a good block and a half. Parking is atrocious.” Her words spilled out of the receiver like a rapid fire machine gun.


  “All right, calm down. I can browse with my laptop propped up on a pillow as I lay here trying not to be bored. Why don’t you see what you can discover about his release and how it all came about?”

  “Be happy to. And I can check the Austin paper for stolen vans or accidents while I am there. All this archives stuff is kinda fun.” A nervous giggle.

  Betsy Ann’s bubbly and a tad ditzy personality did lend itself to the sniggers, but to Janie these sounded different. She let it go, for now. “Talk later, hon.”

  “Byeeeee.”

  Janie hung up and stroked Mrs. Fluffy. “She acted as giddy as a school girl. If I didn’t know better...oh, but that’s absurd. She’s a year younger than me.”

  She got up and slid, hobbled, and grunted into the kitchen on her new contraption, hands steadying herself on furniture as she went. Easier than crutches on the arm pits, but she still needed practice. She peered into the freezer and decided on Roseanne’s tamale pie for dinner. As the savory casserole swirled in the microwave, she opened one of the salad-in-a-bag varieties, complete with dressing and topping, and prepared a third of it. As she ate at the dinette table, she cocked an ear at the local news on the radio. Nothing exciting happened that day other than the stock market nose-diving again.

  After dinner, Janie’s eyes scanned the laptop screen as she propped her foot on a throw pillow. She cyber-searched for any articles on Texan prisoners’ lawsuits and found a few, the majority dated in June, 2014. Next, she researched by names and places, but only sketchy information came up on the monitor.

  Betsy Ann’s right. Like finding a needle in the haystack. After an hour of frustration and perseverance, she unearthed an article from the Dallas paper. The report stated one prisoner, released several years back, had been the first whistle blower to come forward about the sweltering conditions in Texas prisons. The action began a cascade of legal filings by families of prisoners who perished during the past few summers. All claimed previous medical conditions, though, from what she gleaned. At last she found one lone article dated last March which relayed the civil suit as still pending in federal court, so no action had been taken by the state legislature despite the fact Texas faced another record-breaking summer of heat. But nothing since. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her hands over her head.