Bonnie had brought the Cord back on the afternoon before the show, collected her money, had a last sexual romp, and left. Unfortunately, recovering from the afterglow the major had followed her to ensure his car was safe. That did it.
His story was that he hadn’t meant to kill her, he’d just been overcome with fury at her “damned cheek,” as he put it. Faced with the consequences of his rage, he had registered the car for the show in a false name, left the car hidden in the grounds until the next morning, taken it out through the rear exit to the grounds, and driven it through the main gates as soon as he saw other cars arriving. He’d had to do that, because if he’d left it in place already inside the grounds, he would immediately have been in the frame.
I’d been wrong about the major earlier, and should have guessed the truth. Only a furious owner would register the car for the show under the name of Phil Stein. Only a philistine could treat a Cord that way.
Copyright © 2010 by Amy Myers
Golf Etiquette
by Jim Davis
Jim Davis is a veterinarian who lives near the Lake of the Ozarks in central Missouri. He enjoys hunting and fishing as well as riding his motorcycle. When he is not punching cows, the rest of his free time, he tells us, goes to reading and writing fiction, fixing up old cars, and the occasional round of golf. He has hinted that he has several new story ideas for Bradley Carter, the private eye who debuts here in his first published story. We hope so, because it’s a fine debut.
Parker Goodman was the chicken king of northwest Arkansas. I grew up hearing his name on almost a daily basis, but most anyone from the Bentonville-Rogers area could say the same thing. Parker had taken a hillbilly butcher shop with seven employees and parlayed that bet into a nationwide poultry company. Housewives had come to believe that nothing but a Goodman’s bird would do. My father had something to do with that as well. He took a job with Goodman Poultry when Parker — Goodman had to borrow a nickel to have two to rub together. My father put his money on Parker when they took that fledgling company public, and the stock that made up most of my daddy’s pay those first few years put five kids through college. All of this made me even more nervous when the Great Man said that he wanted to hire me to find his wife.
“By God! You are the spitting image of old Clayton,” said Parker. He handed me a glass of single malt with one ice cube. I would rather have had a beer. “How is your daddy? I haven’t seen him in a coon’s age.”
“He’s doing well,” I said. “Spends most of his time fishing. Losing Mom kind of took the wind out of his sails.”
“Yes, sir, I can imagine. We all hated to see her suffer so. Damned cancer.” He motioned to a leather couch near the bar, and we sat down. Parker had always been larger than life to me, but right then he just looked like an old man. He had played linebacker for the Razorbacks back in the sixties; it looked like all that beef had finally gone to seed. “She was a fine woman, your mother. Yes, sir.” Parker was saying the words, but he seemed to be gathering himself, perhaps to tell me why I was here.
I had done some work for Goodman Poultry Company since I became a private investigator, but I had always dealt with the company lawyers. The work had been pretty straightforward: exposing employees faking injuries and digging up background material to defend lawsuits, that sort of thing. The corporate offices were nice, but Goodman’s home was opulent. Parker had built his current home only a few years ago, and he’d certainly spared no expense. The elaborate woodwork was highlighted with hand-painted gold pinstripes; original paintings were individually lighted against dark burlwood panels. A slight smell of furniture polish hung in the air. I’ll admit to having been somewhat intimidated by it all until I saw a black-and-white photo on the marble mantel over the fireplace. There was Parker Goodman and my daddy, both in bib overalls, standing next to a scald pot. The ground was covered with feathers, looking like a snowstorm where they had been plucking chickens hanging from a rail fence. I looked around at the house and thought, Old Jed’s a millionaire.
“How’s Marcus?” I asked, trying to make small talk. Parker’s son and I played baseball together growing up. We were friends then, although Marcus was always rather aloof, maybe stuck-up.
“Oh, Marcus, yeah, Marcus is just fine. He pretty much runs the company now.”
I knew that wasn’t true. Parker was the company, and he would hang on to the reins of Goodman Poultry until they peeled them out of his cold dead fingers.
“Listen, uh, Bradley,” said Parker, “I’ve got a little trouble. I think you can help me.” The older man stood up and went to the bar to refill his glass. I had yet to touch mine. “You see,” he said, still facing the bar, “my Lorna, she’s wandered off.” He turned toward me and hefted the bottle. I shook my head.
I didn’t know how to respond. Parker’s wife Lorna was one of the pillars of society around Bentonville. She had been involved in or hosted every worthwhile charity event in the past twenty years. Was Parker telling me that she had run off?
“Lorna’s not herself lately,” he said. “She’s got some issues — health issues.” He plopped back down on the couch, spilling some of his scotch on his white shirt. I saw other stains now on the jacket, and his nose looked like a relief map of the Ozark Mountains. He had always been one of the best-dressed men in this neck of the woods and always wore a suit to the office. But right now, he looked like an alcoholic version of Colonel Sanders.
“I’m not sure I’m following here,” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Maybe she got the Alzheimer’s or somethin’.”
“Have you filed a missing persons re—”
“No, no, no!” He cut me off, stood up, and began to pace. “She left without telling me a damn thing. I don’t know what the hell she was thinking.” He sat down on the coffee table right in front of me. “I want you to find her.” He pointed a thick finger at my chest. “I want her back here.” The finger pointed down at the floor.
“I really don’t do missing persons,” I said. I had no intention of getting in the middle of a marital dispute.
“Goddammit! You don’t have to do anything but tell me where she is. I’ll do the rest.” His face was inches from mine, his neck bulged at the buttoned white collar, and his rancid breath made him that much more common. My respect for the man was plummeting. Parker Goodman was desperate.
“I suppose I could ask around,” I said, sinking back into the couch, trying to avoid his breath.
He leaned closer and grabbed my shoulder, made me look at him. “I know you can find her, boy. They say you’re good.” All right, he stroked my ego, plus, the intimidation factor was high. “You know this town, and you can get into the club. Talk to those women. Somebody knows where she is.”
“Mr. Goodman, I really don’t—”
“Here’s some money,” he said, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket and shoving them at me. “There’ll be five thousand more tomorrow. I’ll send Billy around with it. You find her. You hear?”