Deadly Declarations (The Indie Retirement Mystery Series Book 1) Page 3

  “I’m sure it was old age,” Travail said. “He was ninety-something. As for the Meck Dec, it is just an interesting bit of disputed local history, and as far as I’m concerned, rather insignificant history in the twenty-first century.”

  “Still, I have to wonder.” Angela opened the satchel on his shoulder and stuffed “something you might need” inside.

  Travail hugged her tight. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

  Five minutes later, he departed the elevator into the parking deck and walked away from the law firm where he’d devoted his entire legal career. He was now convinced there was no higher purpose to helping big companies win legal battles. And yet, he felt a touch of sadness. Law practice was all he knew how to do to make a living. It was all he knew how to do, period. It was his identity. Who was he now?

  The motor in his aging sedan came to life as he had a feeling he was about to be buried alive among people with nothing to do. He was convinced they would turn him into a do-nothing clone. And it was only 11:00 am.

  When he left the parking lot, the storm had passed, but the pavement was wet. He glanced at the sunlit Carolina blue sky, but it didn’t feel sunny or bright. He lowered both front windows and touched the radio to try to turn off the noise. Instead, he accidentally changed the channel. A disc jockey on a country music station thanked God it was Friday and introduced an old favorite by Johnny Paycheck, “Take This Job and Shove It.” As the song’s refrain filled the air, he couldn’t help himself. He let slip a half-hearted smile and hummed along. The country music gods had a sense of humor.

  A fresh breeze blew through the front windows as Travail turned left onto Third Street, crossed Tryon, and sped through one green city stoplight after another. He nodded at the courthouse, passed under the I-277 loop, and cut over to Independence Boulevard, his pathway to the Indie. On the way, he would pick up his four-legged best friend from the old house and let Blue ride shotgun to the new one.

  At the song’s finale, Travail spoke a question to the radio. “Was it worth it, Johnny?”

  The musician didn’t answer. It was no matter. Travail figured it wouldn’t be long before the Indie answered the question for him.

  CHAPTER 4

  SPURIOUS

  Monticello, July 9, 1819

  Thomas Jefferson’s Letter to John Adams

  Dear Sir,

  I am in debt to you for your letters.

  What has attracted my peculiar notice, is the paper from Mecklenburg County, of North Carolina, published in the Essex Register, which you were so kind to enclose in your last letter of June the 22nd. And you seem to think it genuine. I believe it spurious.

  I must not be understood as suggesting any doubtfulness in the State of North Carolina. No state was more fixed or forward. Nor do I affirm, positively, that this paper is a fabrication: because the proof of a negative can only be presumptive. But I shall believe it such until positive and solemn proof of its authenticity shall be produced. And if the name of McKnitt be real, and not a part of the fabrication, it needs a vindication by the production of such proof. For the present, I must remain an unbeliever in the apocryphal gospel.

  I am and always shall be affectionately and respectfully yours,

  TH. Jefferson

  CHAPTER 5

  SHOOTING FISH

  Craig Travail felt no connection to the Indie. He knew he should give it more than five hours, but the move unplugged him. From the city. From his friends. From life as he knew it. He and Blue took a walk that ended with some sit-and-think time on a stone bench by the far end of Freedom Lake, at least five hundred yards through the woods from his new home. The bench was a suitable spot to feel sorry for himself before God and her many creations.

  Travail was at the Indie because his two children encouraged him to give up the Carmel Road house. They pitched the values of a retirement community. Less house to maintain. Prepared meals. Laundry service. Things to do. He might even meet some new friends. And wonderful health care, if something unexpected happened. “Do it, Dad. It will be your gift to us.” He knew he was too young for a retirement community, but he conceded the house was too big for him.

  At the same time, he jockeyed good-naturedly with his children. “I don’t want my life to become one game of checkers after another.”

  They laughed but were not dissuaded. “You need a fresh start. One move. Not two.”

  When Travail gave his children the green light to look for his new home, he imposed three requirements. “It can’t smell like rubbing alcohol, number one, and number two, they have to let me bring Blue. And three, I’d like a small place of my own where I can breathe fresh air, not some condo on a hall with the old people.”

  His children went to work and came up with the perfect spot, or so they said. “Dad, it’s called the Indie. You can live in a cottage beside a lake. You’ll love it.”

  When signing the papers, Travail learned that the residents—he imagined them as the Walking Dead—called the community the Indie because they were an independent bunch who enjoyed living next to the home of one of the alleged signers of the Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence. As he sat and gazed across the lake at the oak, pine, and poplar trees the developers hadn’t found time to destroy, he felt about as independent as a man in solitary confinement and decided to keep it that way. Why bother to make friends? The residents in a retirement community were there to die, not live, with one-third up to their shinbones in their graves and the other two-thirds too preoccupied with their next meal to see the reaper creeping up. Exhibit A for his argument was the “Welcome Home” sign at the community’s entrance. He’d heard that message preached one too many times on a Baptist Sunday growing up.

  His children had been right about the cottage though. The craftsman style suited him. He liked the brown wood siding with almond-colored posts and trim. Two bedrooms. Two baths. A den with a stone fireplace. And a kitchen. Everything he needed, along with his choice of two resting places outside. The front porch swing offered a view of the community’s tree-lined gravel road and the forest beyond, a mix of pines, hardwoods, and bike trails. Easy for exploring. At least the deer and raccoons thought so. But because they were drawn to water, he and Blue liked the view from the back more, where they could rock on the deck or screened-in porch and peer across the shaded backyard, down the slope to the small lake with its resident waterfowl and walking trail.

  Travail reached down and patted Blue’s head. The twelve-year-old black and tan coonhound was happy to be with him no matter where they lived.

  “You’ll like retirement, Blue. All you ever do is eat and sleep.” Blue stood up and wagged his tail.

  Seconds later, Blue growled. Travail heard movement before he heard the voice.

  “Did you see that fish rise?”

  Travail looked up to see a .22 rifle pointed over his shoulder toward the lake’s center. He peered from the nose of the rifle to the center of the lake and saw the ripple. Before he could turn back and answer the voice, the gun went off.

  “What the—” Travail flinched.

  A fish floated to the surface.

  Bang. Another shot. Another fish floated.

  “Here, hold this rifle,” a man said.

  Somewhat confused, Travail held the .22 while the man dropped on his rump and began to undress. He pulled off his leather cowboy boots, unbuckled his Levi’s, and slid them and his boxers off. When he stood up, he was wearing nothing but his red-checked flannel shirt, which he quickly unbuttoned and cast aside.

  “Don’t you think the water will be cold?”

  “It’ll feel good.” The naked man dove off the bank and splatted hard on his belly. Waves welled up in all directions.

  A few minutes later, the naked man climbed from the lake with a trout in each hand. On the bank, Blue barked as a welcoming party of one, tail wagging. The shinier fish still had some life in it.

  “Other one’s dead.” The naked man dropped his catch on the bank. Blue poke
d his nose at the fish.

  Water dripped from the man’s body and beard. He shook himself, grabbed his tangle of hair with both hands, and wrung the water out. He pulled on his boxers and jeans and slid into his boots. His shirt was the last thing he put on, but he didn’t button it. By this time, Blue had nudged one fish a good five feet from the other. The man grinned at Travail.

  “Thanks for the assist.” He reached for his rifle. “Name’s Yeager Alexander. I go by Yeager.”

  Travail handed the rifle back to Yeager and introduced himself. “Craig Travail. And my dog, who is about to eat your fish, is Blue.”

  “I’m happy to share. You’re the lawyer, right?”

  Travail drew back.

  “Peaches told me.”

  Peaches was the activities director who’d bombarded Travail with invitations when he arrived at noon. Stretching class on Monday. Line dancing Tuesday. Bus ride to the Uptown Museum on Wednesday, lunch provided. Book club on Thursday in the library. “It doesn’t matter if you haven’t read the book,” she’d said. “Nobody ever reads them all the way through.” Saturday is the best, she’d said. “Croquet in the morning, and The Yacht Club meets at the lake for the regatta in the afternoon. Miniature remote-control boats, but you’ll get the hang of it.”

  Travail had politely declined every invitation. “Did Peaches give out my address too?”

  Yeager laughed. “Unnecessary. The women knew it was cottage 24 before your movers unloaded your first box. Did you know women in retirement communities outnumber men five to one? You better check your Viagra supply.”

  Travail didn’t laugh at the joke. He wasn’t here looking for sex, and he didn’t need a Viagra supply.

  “Here comes one of our women now. Be on your toes, Craig Travail.”

  Yeager moved fast to button his shirt, but only made it halfway up before the woman’s voice carried through the late afternoon air. He pushed Blue away, grabbed the two fish, and stuffed them halfway down the front of his pants, hidden by his untucked shirttail. Blue stood next to him, nudging Yeager’s belt line with his nose.

  “Chuck Yeager Alexander.” The woman yelled the name from the lake’s edge. “Are you shooting fish again?” She moved at a brisk pace from fifty yards off.

  Yeager slid the rifle behind his back. “Brace yourself, Craig Travail. You’re about to meet Harriet Josephine Keaton.”

  Travail stood and looked around for a place to hide. No luck. He had done nothing wrong, but with Yeager at his side, he felt guilty of something. Yeager looked like he was enjoying himself.

  Travail could tell by the way she walked, she was a confident woman. She had a purposeful stride. Travail guessed she was about four or five years older than his sixty-five years. The energy in her voice extended to her thick, red, curly locks, which fell from her head in waves and landed somewhere near her shoulders.

  Travail whispered to Yeager as they waited. “Your parents named you Chuck Yeager?”

  “Man broke the sound barrier in 1947, the day I was born. Mom said I was louder than he was.”

  Travail looked up to see Harriet Keaton standing three paces away with her arms crossed. “Are you two getting your stories straight?”

  “Good afternoon, Harriet.” Yeager didn’t seem fazed by his accuser’s brusque tone.

  Harriet wore a blue V-neck sweater over a white blouse tucked into brown denim jeans. She looked at Travail in a way that invited him to introduce himself.

  “I’m Craig Travail.”

  Yeager put his wet hand on Travail’s shoulder. “My new neighbor.” This was more intimacy than Travail wanted from a man who swims with the fishes.

  “My condolences for having to live next door to our version of Little Big Man.”

  Travail racked his brain for where he’d heard the name, Little Big Man.

  “She’s just joshing you, Craig Travail.”

  Now he remembered. Little Big Man was a movie in which Dustin Hoffman played 121-year-old Jack Crabb, a man with a remarkable but hard-to-believe life story set in the Great American West. Crabb comically stumbled from one occupation to the next.

  “Do you see the resemblance?” Harriet extended her right arm and turned her forefinger in a motion as if circling Yeager’s body.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “A man with crazy ideas who can’t stay focused on one long enough to finish a job.”

  Harriet Keaton didn’t wait on Travail to solve her riddle but turned back to Yeager and the matter at hand.

  “Unlike some timid souls who live here, I don’t care if you play with your guns, even if it is against the law.” Harriet looked down at the bulge around Yeager’s waist and at Blue pawing at his shirt. “I do care about the wildlife.”

  Yeager deflected. “We need to talk about the professor. Did you get my text about Sue Ellen?”

  “I did, but don’t change the subject.”

  Yeager stayed off topic. “There’s something strange about the professor’s death.”

  “What’s strange is you hunting without a fishing license.”

  Yeager grabbed at his waist as his shirt flapped and a trout slid below his belt. He took to dancing like a man hopping on hot coals. He kept it up until his gyrating ejected two lake trout from his right pants leg. Blue pounced on the fish.

  Travail looked to Harriet for her reaction and was surprised when a grin formed on her face. She and Yeager burst out laughing, and Travail forgot, at least for the moment, that he was sorely depressed.

  When Harriet caught her breath, she addressed Yeager. “You are nothing but trouble.”

  “Trouble is, as trouble does.”

  That sounded right to Travail. He could see a bit of Forrest Gump in Yeager.

  “And you’re wet and smell like the lake. You need to take a shower and come to the homeowners’ meeting tonight. I need your vote.”

  “For what?”

  “Sue Ellen Parker is up to no good again.”

  “I know. That’s why we need to talk about the professor.”

  “After the meeting.”

  Travail felt invisible until Harriet turned to him. “You might as well come too. We can use the help of a lawyer around Sue Ellen.” With that, Harriet Keaton walked away at the same pace she arrived, heading for somewhere fast.

  Yeager took the gun’s butt and slammed it into the squirming fish. Blue howled. “We’ll be there,” he hollered to Harriet. He grabbed Travail by the collar and pulled him along.

  “Come on, Craig Travail, let’s go cook us up some dinner.”

  CHAPTER 6

  BIRDS OF A FEATHER

  Harriet arrived and took a seat in the back of the Indie fellowship hall, which doubled as the site of the monthly homeowners’ association meeting. She readied herself for another spat with Sue Ellen Parker.

  A few minutes later, the rear door opened and Sue Ellen entered like a queen, her head held high. She acknowledged her subjects with a wave and a tight smile. She patted one resident on the arm. “Hello, dear.” She greeted another and then another, as she made her way down the center aisle between the metal folding chairs, much the way a president might enter congress for the State of the Union address.

  “Goodness,” Harriet muttered. Now everyone was standing.

  Sue Ellen liked to be both the center of attention and in charge, which were two of the many things that bothered Harriet about Sue Ellen when she’d first met her in high school. Sue Ellen was student body president. Harriet was environmental club president. Sue Ellen was student liaison to the booster club. Harriet played the lead role in the school plays. Both were top of their high school class. Sue Ellen got a full-ride scholarship to Columbia University and Harriet a full-ride scholarship to UNC-Chapel Hill. Both were hardworking and passionate about their different interests. It was always a competition between them.

  Sue Ellen eventually made her way to the front and took her appointed place, next to the board chair, so she could ride shotgun over the meetin
g. The chair, Becky Trainer, and the other board members, nodded at Sue Ellen from behind their card table facing the assembly. Sue Ellen said with a half-smile, “Hello, Becky,” which was Becky’s cue to start the meeting.

  Becky was a thin woman whose bouffant hairstyle was a 1950s throwback. She looked like a Number 2 Pencil, as Yeager called her, with an oversized brown eraser clipped to the top. Despite Becky’s reticence, Sue Ellen had nominated her for the position and sealed her election with a rousing speech.

  Becky looked at her notes and then at the crowd. “Good evening.”

  Everyone but Harriet responded with a warm greeting. The fix was in, and Harriet didn’t like it.

  “We have much to cover.” Becky looked at Sue Ellen. “First, let’s take a moment to pray silently for the soul of fellow resident Matthew Collins.”

  Everyone bowed their heads for thirty seconds. Harriet kept her eyes on Sue Ellen, who bowed her head but didn’t close her eyes. As if sensing she were being watched, Sue Ellen lifted her chin and looked to the back of the room, and there was a moment when the two women, so much alike and so different, stared at one another. Sue Ellen didn’t appear to be mourning the professor’s death.

  Becky next mentioned the agenda item that brought Harriet to the meeting. She nodded at Sue Ellen, who stood and faced the attendees. “Thank you, Becky. We have—”

  The side door swung open and slammed against the wall. Everyone turned to see Yeager in the doorway with a smile on his face. “Sorry, folks. Don’t know my own strength. Carry on, Sue Ellen. I see you have folks spellbound as usual.”

  Sue Ellen stiffened at Yeager’s sarcasm.

  “Come on, Craig Travail.” Yeager was loud enough for everyone to hear. “They won’t bite. Except maybe Sue Ellen.”