Chapter 27
Dinner for Three
Dusk had settled over Standard, and the evening summer air had softened. Green trees had turned into mere shadows while the lake, far down below us, reflected the golden sun’s rays igniting the water with sparks. Somewhere in the distance a lawnmower growled. The cheerful laughter of children, across the way, at city park, seemed to defy any imaginable troubles.
We had pulled a small side table out onto the porch and while Tom set the chairs, Father yelled into me, “Get three plates, three forks, knives, and spoons. And napkins.” I don’t know why he assumed I couldn’t count, but his orders caught in my throat. For that’s exactly what he used to bark at mother whenever we ate dinner on the porch. Even then his orders were for three. I gazed into the cabinet and realized I was pulling down the same three dinnerware and glasses we always used. Memories flooded my mind from summer nights long ago. Dinner. On the porch. At Sunset. A table for three.
When I was growing up here, every night Father would come home and wash his hands with Lava soap and used a small soft brush to work the ink stains out from under his fingernails. He always greeted people the same way he greeted every day, and that was with a smile. He was generous and good natured and was quick to remind me that all people were equal, and all had the right to speak their mind whether we agreed with them or not. But the right to speak freely was a holy right in his mind. I was anxious to get an answer from him as to why he’d played the town fool and what he had hoped to gain by it. Even now, the direct-brown light in his eyes remained as steadfast as ever. Anger and darkness never had their way with Father.
Tom filled our glasses with wine. Father raised his glass for a toast.
“Oh, boy, here we go,” I warned Tom.
Father launched into an old familiar toast he loved to say for company: “May those that love us, love us; and those that don’t love us, may God turn their hearts; if he can’t turn their hearts, then may he turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their limp.”
Tom roared. “Hear, hear.”
Father added, “Mighty fine, burgers, Tom.” He tilted his glass toward me and said, “You should have this gentlemen over more often to cook for you.”
Tom chuckled. “Nothing special about grilling burgers, Otto. But I’m glad you like them.”
Father took another bite. “Mighty fine. Mighty fine.” I caught Tom’s eye, and he winked.
We ate in silence for awhile and soon settled into small talk. I tried to get Tom to tell me more about his medical practice, but he was politely vague due to confidentiality, and except for gripes about the rising costs of insurance and sometimes long hours. Father chimed in. “Bet you both don’t realize this, but Tom here is an economic engine for Standard.”
“How do you mean?” Tom said.
“Hell, you’re the cornerstone of life in Standard, Tom.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m just a country doctor.”
“Well, think about it. Since you set up your practice, you employed Shirley Tuttle as your nurse practitioner. Cute as a button. Janice Burke as your receptionist. What a wonderful smile when one walks through your door. And I know that Maggie Fullenbacher keeps your books, and while Sam and Becky O’Brien, might be retired, you hire them to clean and keep your office in good shape, which I’m sure is nice extra income for them.”
“Well, yes, I suppose,” Tom said, “I just hadn’t—"
I was amazed. “Father, how do you know all this?”
Pointing his fork at me in his left hand, he said, “I pay attention.” He dipped three of my homemade fries into a puddle of catsup. “Mighty fine. Mighty fine.”
“Okay, Father, I get it. Yes, you do pay attention. Always have. Probably more than most folks. Now you said you would ‘elucidate’ as you put it earlier, about what’s really going on in Standard. I’m anxious to hear it.”
“Honey, I am elucidating. I just explained how Tom is adding to the fabric and flavor of Standard. We’re lucky to have him.”
“Yes, of course, but what I want to know is what you know about these unusual killings and cattle deaths, and whatever else you know about town. Please elucidate.”
“Oh, that’s easy. Let’s start with our missing sheriff, shall we?”
“We’re all ears,” I said.
“Under investigation by the FBI.”
“For what?”
“Don’t know yet, but I’m working on it. Second, Tom and I both believe your mother was murdered by a toxic injection.”
“I got that idea from Tom, but who? Who did this?”
“Go back to who the last person was who saw your mother before she showed up in Tom’s care.”
I pictured standing in mother’s office talking to Mabs about mother’s last days. “If I remember correctly, Mabs said that Alex Federov called on her with another attempt to buy the newspaper.”
“Bingo,” Father said.
“Wait a minute. Are you suggesting Federov somehow stabbed mother with some sort of poison?”
Tom, injected. “Sam, I’ve looked into this a bit further. Usually, at least in reported cases where this kind of poisoning has occurred, death is quick. Almost instant. Assuming Federov did this, he must have either used the wrong dose, or wanted it to take longer so he wouldn’t be seen near her when she died.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Father said.
“Oh, my god!”
“Hold on, dear. We don’t have proof yet. That’s what we need. But it’s a trail worth pursuing.”
My stomach turned to think mother had been killed on purpose.
Father said, “You expecting company?”
We looked across the porch railing down to the street where a sheriff’s car had parked in front of our house. Deputy Dawg Martin emerged from the car and to our shock, Aunt George stepped out of the passenger seat.
Father looked down upon the two of them with disgust. “Ah, the nose is here. Gotta run. Get rid of my dishes.”
Father bolted from the porch. Tom helped me clear his set of dishes and utensils. He stashed them in the dishwasher and we both went about pretending to clean up after dinner. The doorbell rang. My heart jumped.
Aunt George barged in ahead of Deputy Dawg. “Go head, Doug, say your peace.”
Doug removed his Stetson and almost seemed apologetic. “Evening Sam, Dr. Cavendish. Um, reason we’re here is—”
“Oh, for godsakes, spit it out. I’ll handle this. We’re here with a warrant for the arrest of Otto Eggers. Where is he?” The words arrived out of her mouth on a flow of spittle. Her face was red as the lipstick spread across the frown of her mouth.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, dearie. Where’s the old coot?”
“He’s not here and what do you mean by warrant? What’s the charge?” Her tyrannical demeanor was pissing me off.
“For disturbing the peace and for robbing the convenience store out at the interchange.”
“Let me see that. You must be out of your mind.”
“Read it and weep, dear one. Your father’s madness has gone too far.”
I read the warrant, but it didn’t offer much more information other than to say he’d robbed the store at gunpoint. “This can’t be true. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it, honey. We’ve got him on the security camera.” She barked at Doug. “Well, don’t just stand there. Search the premises. Arrest his ass.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Doug said, and he stalked off to search every room of the house.
Aunt George paraded around the kitchen seemingly looking for clues that Father was there. Tom and I followed her out to the porch. She pointed to the chairs. “You have three chairs out here. He was here, wasn’t he?”
I froze. I’d forgotten to remove Father’s chair. Before I could think to say anything, Tom said, “Mayor, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I used the extra chair to prop up my leg. I pulled a muscle when I was out running this morning.”
Aunt George eyed him suspiciously. “I didn’t realize you also made house calls.” Then she looked at me with disgust in her eyes.
Doug returned and joined us on the porch. “He’s not here.”
I walked them both to the door. She huffed at me. “I will get that sonofabitch. He will never disrespect me or my town, again. Bank on it.”
More than anything, I wanted to punch her over-sized nose and knock it free of her haughty face. I grabbed her elbow and whispered in Aunt George’s ear. But I whispered loud enough for Doug to hear. “You listen to me. Whether you have a warrant or not, you are never again welcome in my home.” I thought I detected the hint of a smirk on Doug’s face.
She stormed out and I slammed the door shut. “Bitch!” Then I remembered Father and wondered where he might have hidden. Tom ran up from downstairs. “I’ve looked everywhere. He’s gone.”
Lipstick spread across the frown on her face...brilliant!