02-A Book to Die For (2014) Read online

  She woke me from my daydream. The lyrics from the old song still stuck in my head. “You don’t need to do those, Bon. I was going to get to them sooner or later, and what makes you think she likes me?”

  “I’m not so old, I can’t see, Silly,” Bonnie said after placing a dish in my rinse water. Then, without missing a beat, she changed the subject. “It would sure be a lot easier if you had some running water.”

  “It would never work even if she did like me. Women like her need to be in charge of everything. Before you know it, she’d have me eating broccoli and cauliflower. Besides, her job would always come first.”

  Bonnie gave me a knowing smile and put the last cup in the rinse bucket. She pulled a cigarette out of nowhere, and then must have remembered where she was. “I’m going out on the back deck. I know you don’t approve of these, so come with me and tell me about my father’s manuscript. You don’t think you can just leave me hanging like that after telling me he was part of a murder, do you? Or is it some kind of joke?”

  Although the day had been quite pleasant, it was getting late and the temperature drops precipitously in the higher altitudes. I took a light jacket from the closet and then grabbed the comforter off my bed for Bonnie before joining her. Fred didn’t need anything to keep warm and was already lying at her feet.

  “Thought you might want something to keep the chill away,” I said, handing her the comforter.

  “Thank you, Jake. You’re such a sweetie. Diane would have loved you.”

  I didn’t reply to that remark. Bonnie had been drinking the hard stuff most of the day, and I didn’t want to go there. “It’s no joke, Bon. Everything I said about your father’s book is true. I mean, it’s what I read, I don’t know if it really happened or if it is a work of fiction.”

  She lit another cigarette and took a deep drag before answering. “Who do you think he killed?”

  It was nearly dark now. My solar porch lights were beginning to shed some light, but not enough to hide the glow of her cigarette. “In the book it was the platoon leader. If it’s not fiction, there should be a record of him as killed in action. I can check the archives if you’d like.”

  She was about to take another drag of her cigarette, but stopped. “Archives?”

  “It’s a government database with everyone’s war records. They have a limited version online that I searched last year to learn more about my father after he passed away.”

  “Oh, please, Jake! I won’t be able to sleep until I know. Daddy would never be part of something like that fragging.”

  We spent another hour or so talking about the little she knew about her father’s war experiences. He had never been the kind to talk about the war, which was why she and Margot were so surprised when he wrote a book about it. I waited until she left for home before starting my search of the archives.

  I didn’t have much to go by. Bonnie didn’t know what unit her father was in let alone his serial number. She did tell me he made it to corporal by the end of the war. All I knew was an approximate date and that the incident happened on Peleliu. The rest I had to tweak out of the internet.

  Dawn was breaking when I finished a somewhat fruitless search, although I had a new respect for the Marines who fought the war. All the movies and novels I’d read never once mentioned how many thousands had given everything fighting for our country. The list of killed in action on Peleliu alone was overwhelming. Once I found that list, it took me the better part of the night searching for Second Lieutenants. Now all I had to do was get Bonnie to request her father’s war record from the National Archives and Records Administration then cross reference my list of killed in action for his unit and company. Unless I was willing to pay a third party for the information, those records were only available by request from a member of the Marine’s family. In the meantime, I needed to get Shelia off my back.

  She would surely win her civil suit, and probably get a judgment for everything I owned if I didn’t convince her that Lonnie’s death wasn’t my fault. Telling her it was murder might not be wise at this point. I still didn’t have proof and there was a slim chance she was involved. I decided to simply explain his ‘accident’ was caused by a faulty propane bottle. I’d call her once I got some sleep, and hope she’d listen to reason.

  I didn’t believe for a minute that she had really been so upset over Lonnie’s death. After all, she had left him over a month ago, so it had to have been a big act when she said she’d make me pay. I’d bet dollars to donuts Chuck had put her up to it.

  Fred had other ideas, of course. He had slept through the night while I toiled at my computer and now he wanted out. “Okay. Okay, you scroungy mutt. I’m coming,” I said and stumbled to the door fifteen minutes after dozing off. “If you don’t learn how to use a litter-box pretty soon, I’m gonna trade you in for a cat.” So much for sleep; I let Fred out, then went back inside to look up Shelia’s number.

  Her voice mail picked up on the fifth ring. “Hi, Shelia, this is Jacob Martin,” I said after the beep. “I was wondering if I can come down and talk. I discovered that the propane bottle was defective and I’d like to show it to you. Please call. I know you must hate me, but I really had nothing to do with Lonnie’s accident and I can prove it.”

  The machine cut me off before I could say more, which was probably a good thing since I tend to babble when I’m nervous. Fred was back at the door and I was finally going to get some sleep.

  I must have really been tired. The sun had set when Fred woke me hours later. He was at the door again, only this time it was his intruder bark. Looking out the window I could see movement over by my motor home and the telltale dance of a flashlight. It was so dim that it was probably a penlight. Whoever was out there didn’t want me to know. I quickly ran into the bedroom and threw on some jeans and a shirt, then stumbled around in the dark looking for my shoes. It only took a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. The intruder could have knocked down my door and shot me and Fred in the time it took me to get dressed. What was I thinking? My first reaction should have been to get my shotgun. Ten seconds later I had my twelve gauge and was out the door.

  Once again, I was too late. I could see taillights on the road fading quickly as the intruder sped away. Fred was no longer barking. He was in defense mode with his ears back and the hair on his back standing up like a porcupine. He went straight for the back of the motor home. I decided to head the intruder off by running down the hill and catch him on the lower road.

  With the flashlight in one hand and my shotgun in the other, I ran down the path between my cabin and Bonnie’s. I didn’t get ten yards before I stumbled over a rock and fell. “Damn it,” I yelled when I saw I had torn my last good jeans. Then I saw the truck race by Bonnie’s. I was too late and still couldn’t get a clear picture of it or the driver. Fred had followed me and was now licking my face. It must have been his way of pretending to be a Saint Bernard.

  With nothing broken or bruised other than my ego, I got back up and went back to the motor home. I swept the beam of my flashlight in a circle to make sure we were alone, and then let it rest on the rear storage compartment. I expected to see it pried open. I had replaced the flimsy flip lock with a padlock after they broke in and planted the bow. The intruder would have to break a much stronger lock this time, but it was still shut tight and locked. Then I checked the door of my motor home and saw its new lock was okay as well. Fred must have scared off the intruder with his barking before he had a chance to do whatever he was trying to do, but just to make sure, I went inside my motor home to check it out. I flipped the light switch by the door, and then remembered I had borrowed the battery to charge my cell phone. It probably saved our lives. The place smelled of rotten eggs and a spark from a switch or light would have sent the motor home flying.

  I quickly ran over to the stove and checked the burners. They were turned off. The same was true for the furnace. That left the hot water heater or refrigerator. Both of which were accessible from ou
tside. I was out the door in a flash and ran straight to the access door of the water heater. Sure enough, the propane line to the unit had been cut. I wasted no time running to the other side of the coach to shut off the propane at the tank. Now I just had to hope the gas would dissipate before finding a spark to ignite it.

  Fred wanted to follow me back inside; he had been glued to me the entire time. “Stay!” I said when I re-entered the motor home. It might have worked if I could have shut the door to keep him out, but I needed to air it out, not turn it into a bomb.

  “Why would anyone want to blow up our motor home, Freddie?” I asked while sniffing the air. I had opened every window and vent and was trying to decide if it was safe to switch to the engine’s battery and turn on the lights.

  “Or maybe it’s not the motor home they were after. Do you think someone is out to get us?” Lights could wait, I decided. Tomorrow would be soon enough to finish my inspection. Calling 911 was out of the question. I had no proof that someone tampered with the gas line and my only witness couldn’t back up my story.

  My first thought after returning to the cabin was to call Julie and ask her to check on her game cameras. Maybe I’d get lucky. There was a good chance the one facing the road had snapped a picture of the intruder’s vehicle. That would have to wait until morning. It was after nine already; far too late for her to be in the office. Then I thought about going into town to get something to eat, and quickly reconsidered. What if my visitor decided to come back and finish what Fred interrupted? Besides, the only restaurant open would be McDonald’s. It was still several months before the tourist season got going. Only the bars would be open at this hour and their food was terrible. We would have to settle for scrambled eggs and sausage.

  Having slept a good ten hours during the day, I found it impossible to sleep after dinner. Fred had no such problem; only a dog could sleep that much. Sometimes I really envied him. Bored and wide awake, I decided to get back to Ray’s manuscript. Maybe that would help put me to sleep. I went back to the passage on the fragging to see if I had missed anything.

  “I had gone off to take a crap when I saw him get it in the back. Sarge didnt see me squatting in the bushes with my ass all sticking out like that when he let the bastard have it in the back. I had to sit there and watch him put the rifle back in the hands of a dead jap and then walk off like nobodys busnines. Once he left and I new the coast was clear I got to shitin and gittin before he come back.”

  It was difficult reading to say the least. The editor in me wanted to scream, but I had to let it go and concentrate on the story.

  “None of us cared much for the bastard too much anyways so we was all happy when he got it in the back he had it comming to him from the getgo and we was happy as larks to see him gone.”

  I skimmed over several pages describing the ‘jungle thicker than thieves’, ‘humidity you could cut with a knife’, ‘mosquitoes bigger than crows’, and ‘latrines smelling like shit’ before getting to the last of it.

  “Mike and me made a pact that night to never breathe a word or let Sarge know we seen him do the bastard in with the japs rifle it was like making a pact with the devil it was.”

  There was more to the story, but this was all I got before my scanner jammed. Whatever happened beyond page two hundred was in the hands of Charlie Randolph. My chances of seeing the rest of the story were about the same as winning the lotto without a lotto ticket, but it was enough. I shut off my computer and went over to the couch with a yellow notepad to jot down some thoughts. I fell asleep dreaming about the scene in The Shining where Jack Torrance kept writing the same sentence over and over again.

  I woke before Fred and immediately looked at my notepad from the night before. A sense of relief came over me when I saw no mention of Jack being a dull boy, but I had doodled a message to myself to call Shelia and Julie. There was a crude sketch of a musical score with two sets of notes that I instantly recognized as the opening of Beethoven’s famous symphony next to Julie’s name.

  Shelia had not returned my call from the day before, so I could assume she wasn’t interested in my excuse about the propane bottle, or maybe she just didn’t get the message. I tried calling again and went through the same scenario. After talking to her voice mail again, I tried Julie’s number.

  “Department of Wildlife, this is Julie Bartowski.”

  “Hi, Julie, it’s Jake. Are you busy?” I asked before I realized I was speaking to a machine.

  “I can’t take your message at this time. Our office hours are nine ‘till four-thirty, Monday through Friday. Please leave a message at the beep or press zero for the operator if you wish to speak to someone else.”

  I nearly sent my cell phone flying; I’d forgotten it was Saturday. Didn’t anyone answer their phone anymore? This was supposed to be her private number.

  My question was answered seconds later when my phone started in with Beethoven’s Fifth. “Jake, what’s up? Are you in trouble?”

  “No. Just sitting here listing to Beethoven.”

  “Oh. I thought the poachers came back.” There was a slight pause and a change in her tone when she continued. “How are you and Fred doing? I’ve been thinking about you two all day. I’m glad you called.”

  Thinking about us? Could I be that lucky? “We had another… uh, incident last night. I think someone is trying to do me in. It’s nothing I can prove so I didn’t call the cops, but your camera might have caught a picture of their car. I was wondering if you could let me see the pictures from around eight-thirty to nine last night?”

  “How bout I drop by after, say around six? You still have internet access?”

  “Yeah,” I answered unwittingly doing my best Forest Gump imitation. Then it hit me. “Oh, of course, its wireless; you can access them from a browser.”

  “That’s right, Smarty. See you at six.” The line went dead before I could answer. I stared at my cell phone for several seconds with Beethoven playing in my head. I would never be able to hear his symphony again without thinking of Julie.

  “Six o’clock, Fred. That only gives us eight hours to get this dump in shape and put together a romantic dinner.” Fred cocked his head sideways. The mention of food always got his attention.

  It took me all of two minutes to realize my plastic glasses and yard-sale dishes were no way to impress a lady. I had no delusions of trying to cook either. I would have to make a trip to Safeway’s deli for our dinner, but first I needed to call Bonnie to see if she would lend me some nice china and crystal glasses.

  Fred and I were knocking at her door twenty minutes later.

  “You’re a life saver, Bon,” I said when I saw the package she had put together. There was a set of expensive looking dishes, gold-trimmed silverware, and very thin crystal wine glasses. She even topped it off with a matching set of candle holders and a linen table cloth.

  “Nothing’s too good for my boys,” she replied with her famous Cheshire grin. “I could tell you really want to impress this gal.”

  She made me smile too when I noticed the joy in her eyes.

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Like a teenager on prom night. You reminded me of my Diane when you called. She had wanted everything to be perfect for her prom date. I wish I’d known then I’d only have her for another week.” Her smile vanished faster than Lewis Carol’s cat and tears began to form in her eyes.

  I put down the box of dishes and went over to give her a hug.

  “I’m sure she’s smiling at you now, Bon.” I let go so she could wipe her face when I felt tears on my shirt.

  “I was just going to open a new bottle of Jack Daniels. You guys want to join me?” she asked, forcing a smile. I made a lame excuse about not wanting to drink and drive because I had to run into town for flowers and food.

  There was a very expensive BMW parked at the mailboxes when I pulled out on Upper Bear. I didn’t give it a second thought even though I didn’t recognize the car or driver. My neighbors along
the creek bought autos that matched their incomes.

  My thoughts were on Diane’s accident as we approached the new Troutdale development when I noticed the BMW getting closer. I decided to let the other driver pass, so I pulled over at a short turnout. This had to be the place where Diane went into the creek. I was only yards from the rock outcropping that looked like an Indian to some and a duck to others.

  The driver of the BMW slowed as he passed, then parked halfway on the road before walking back toward me. “Are you Jacob Martin?” he asked when he reached my Jeep.

  “Yes,” I answered, wondering how he knew my name. Then it hit me. He had been waiting at the mail boxes for me. His fancy car was too low to make it up our rutted dirt-road, so he had just waited for me to come to him.

  He produced a piece of paper from out of nowhere and handed it to me.

  “You have been duly served. Have a nice day.”

  I stood and watched while he left as quickly as he had come. My hand still outstretched and holding the paper he gave me. I waited until his car was out of sight before reading the summons ordering me to cease and desist harassing Shelia. I wasn’t allowed within 100 yards of her and told not to make contact by phone, internet or any other means.

  Chapter 9

  My day didn’t get any better after the restraining order. On the way back home, Julie called and said something had come up and she wouldn’t be able to make our date. At least she said a date and not an appointment. She said she would call later and hoped I didn’t mind. Fred didn’t need any more people food so I decided to stop off at Bonnie’s and share my dinner with her.

  “Looks like something from a lawyer, if you ask me,” Bonnie said when I showed her my summons. “This ain’t no court document.”

  We were enjoying roasted basil chicken breasts with grilled portabella mushroom caps covered with herbed goat-cheese cream. I had found a new gourmet caterer in the Safeway shopping center that just happened to have a special on a canceled order.