Death by Lotto (6 page)

Matt and Franklin were rummaging through my freezer looking for dinner. They had talked quietly for over an hour and now were famished.

I didn’t know if they had made up or what the outcome was with them when the doorbell rang.

“Make sure you check the security monitor before you let someone in,” I yelled from my office.

I heard murmurs and then the front door closed. Matt poked his head in my office. “There is a
Walter Neff
to see you. Has he seen
Double Indemnity
with Barbara Stanwyck?”

“Don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll come out.”

Entering the great room, I found Neff admiring my art collection. “Do you like art, Mr. Neff?”

“The closest I’ve ever come is putting a poster of
Starry Night
over my toilet.”

“How charming.”

“It covered a hole in the wall.”

“Utilitarian, I see.”

“Grab your coat, Toots.”

“Why?”

“I’ve done a background check on the housekeeper and the nephew. It’s the relative that turns up stinky. I want to go where he bought that lotto ticket and smooze around.”

“Why do you need me?”

“The cashier is a woman. She’ll be more likely to gossip with a another skirt rather than someone like me.”

“You mean someone sleazy like you?”

“Toots, you cut me to the quick.”

“I wonder if you even give a damn.”

“I wonder if you wonder.”

I scrunched up my nose. Neff had just said another famous quote from the movie dialogue of
Double Indemnity
. This was getting ridiculous. “Okay, but I can’t do a long outing. I’ve got about two hours in me.”

“That’s enough time.”

Matt came up behind me and helped put on my coat and handed me my cane and cell phone. “Yes, I was eavesdropping. Call me before you head home. Don’t make me worry, please.”

“Make sure you lock the house up tight when you leave.”

“Stop by my house on the way home and I’ll come back in with you. I don’t like you coming back into an empty house by yourself.”

“Jeez, what are you? Her father?” He turned towards Matt. “I’ll get her back in one piece, Buster.”

“See that you do, Shamus.” (Shamus is a nickname for a private detective.) “Everybody’s thinks he’s a wise guy. Come on, Toots. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” Intent on having the last word, Neff strode down the hallway and, throwing open the front door, made for his car which was . . . a 1963 fire engine red Avanti with white detailing and lots and lots of mid-century polished chrome.

I caught my breath. I love beautiful things and this Avanti was made when America knew how to make great cars.

She had a white leather interior with red piping, red carpet and a red dashboard. To make a final statement, she had whitewall tires. She was so clean it looked like she had just come off the assembly line.

Fewer than five thousand Avantis were made in 1963. They were the first cars to offer disc brakes and a fiberglass body. This was the same type of fiberglass that had been used for panels on the Chevrolet Corvette in 1953.

The problem was that the factory couldn’t keep up with demand and the Avanti had to be discontinued.

He opened the car door for me before heading to the driver’s side of the car. It was an unexpected gesture. Maybe Neff wasn’t such a jerk after all.

“Franklin, come look at this,” yelled Matt. “This knucklehead’s got an Avanti.”

“You lie!” cried Franklin from inside the house. I heard a chair scoot back.

Before we would be caught up in male adulation of American cars, I hurried into the Avanti. “Make tracks, daddeo,” I commanded.

Neff grinned while leaving an opened-mouthed Franklin and Matt standing in the dust of my gravel driveway.

Laugher bubbled up from my throat until Neff swerved around one of my peacocks. “Man, if you hit one of my animals, I’m gonna knock you upside the head,” I warned.

“Dig it,” was all Neff replied as he sped out onto Route 169 heading towards Nicholasville. We then turned left onto Route 68, heading towards the Kentucky River.

“Where are we going?” I asked, enjoying the ride. Neff seemed to be a competent driver once out of my driveway.

“It turns out that Jubal Bradley is Ethel Bradley’s only living relative. He’s her husband’s brother’s boy. Both parents have been dead over ten years and Ethel has, from time to time, loaned him money.”

“I see.” I didn’t remind him that I already knew this.

“He works in Versailles at the Sylvania plant and his boss told me that he was a good worker. Rarely took a sick day off, but there are rumors that Jubal was in hot water. His boss’s secretary told me that Jubal loved to play the ponies, and ran into trouble, having to borrow from a loan shark.”

“When Ethel dies, everything goes to Jubal?”

“Bull’s-eye. That’s enough for motive. She may not have a lot, but there is a paid-for house, some savings and a car. Maybe enough to satisfy Jubal’s loan shark.”

“If that story has legs to it.”

“Exactly,” Neff agreed.

“So why do you need me again?”

“It was that story about her house being searched. Now why was Jubal searching her house?”

“Looking for cash?”

“Ethel’s strictly a bank gal. She writes checks and uses debit cards. At the most, she has a hundred at the house for emergencies.”

“Maybe a druggie got into her house.”

“Then he would have turned it upside down looking for cash or drugs. Whoever went into her house didn’t want her to know it was searched. He didn’t buy on the old lady being so astute.” Neff searched around his catchall and pulled out a pair of vintage aviator Ray-Bans. “Clean these off for me, will ya?”

I wiped them off with my skirt and handed them back.

“It was that her Bible had been moved. That’s what’s piqued my interest. Why look in her Bible?”

“Because that’s where she kept her lotto tickets,” I replied.

Neff snapped his fingers. “Bingo. I’m thinking the lotto ticket wasn’t in her Bible and he had to search the rest of the house.”

“But then . . . why cut the brake line to her car?”

“I bet the intention was not to kill Ethel since she doesn’t drive over forty miles an hour. Two possible explanations. Number one – to scare her into revealing the location of the lotto ticket or number two – the loan shark did it as a warning to Jubal.”

“But Ethel said she didn’t win. So what’s the point?”

“I found out at the tea interview that you set up with Ethel that she didn’t examine the ticket. She assumed the numbers were the ones she had dictated to Jubal. What if he bought two tickets and switched them accidentally, with his ticket winning the lotto?”

“Or that he put down the wrong numbers to begin with, but still won.”

“Yeah. That’s what you’re going to find out. We’re going to the store where Ethel gets her lotto tickets.” Neff handed me a piece of paper. “These are the numbers that she plays every week and directions to the store. You’re going into the store and say that you are getting a ticket for Miss Ethel. Just talk it up and see what you can find out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Come on. Women talk to women. The clerk might be guarded with me – a stranger and all.”

“How do you know it’s a woman?”

Neff rolled his eyes. “Because I asked Ethel. Now are you going to help me or not?”

“If you say please,” I cooed.

“Good. Just do what I say. I can’t stand all these questions. Yak. Yak. Yak.”

“Ummm, you didn’t say please.”

“Really?”

“I must insist.”

“Please will you help me? Pretty please with sugar on top.”

“I would be delighted, Mr. Neff. There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

“I don’t remember shamuses using please when telling their dolls what to do. They did it or got their noses mussed.”

“My nose is fine as it is, thank you, and you are not in a Raymond Chandler lead role.”

“You’d look swanky with your hair in a French twist wearing a black hat with a veil. You know, those hats from the ’40s. Nothing sexier that watching a dame fold up her veil to put on some lipstick. Gives her an air of mystery.”

“Oh really. I’ll bite. What kind of dress?”

“A black dress accentuated with Joan Crawford shoulder pads and a low v-neckline, cinched in at the waist with a sparkling belt. A great dress for accenting a woman’s breasts and hips. Then Dragon-red lipstick. Open-toed shoes with toes painted the same color.”

“Shall I smoke as well?”

“Can’t stand kissing dames with smoke on their breath. They should taste sweet like strawberries.”

“I see. Would you like me to tell you what I like in a man?” I asked.

Neff gave me a cheeky grin before turning his attention back to the road. We were now on a very curvy stretch along the palisades, which needed his concentration.

“Cut the hair off. I mean all of it. Especially that ridiculous ponytail.”

Neff started to protest.

“Shut up. You have had your turn. Again, cut the entire head. Your hair is not worth saving and bald men can be sexy. Shave. I mean every day and put on cologne. Wear clothes from this decade. Get rid of the jewelry except for a ring, and wax that obnoxious hair from your back and neck. It peeks out from your clothes. It’s a wonder that you don’t walk on all fours.”

“Hey!”

“Women do not like overly hairy men. It reminds us too much of the cave era when we were chattel.”

“You’re not now? When did that change?”

“Cut your nails. Use mouthwash and lots of it. Wear clean underwear – every day. Do this and you might have a fighting chance with a female homo sapiens.

“Not an overly bright female. But someone lower on the pay grade who is easily fooled.”

Neff shook his head. “Naw. I’m too much as it is.”

“I don’t know how I keep my hands from wandering.”

“I told you not to stifle yourself. Let go, baby. Explore the Neffman.”

“The Neffman?”

“All yours for the taking, Toots.”

“However shall I stand it?”

“You want me. You know you do.” He put his hand on my knee. “Let’s say we do the nasty after we visit that old biddy at the store. I’ll get a hotel room. Even pay for it.”

“What a gentleman!”

His hand started inching up my thigh. “What are you looking for?”

“My taser and pepper spray,” I replied, rummaging through my purse. “Ahh, there it is.” I pulled out my taser and kissed it.

Neff pulled his hand away. “Very funny.”

“You’re all talk, anyway.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Let me put it this way. If you were the last man on earth, this time I wouldn’t have to be pushed off a cliff. I would jump of my own accord. Now you’re wearing me out with your constant drivel. Shall we concentrate on the case?”

Walter Neff pursed his lips and popped some gum into his mouth.

After that, I refused to talk to him although he mumbled frequently. I would catch a few words here and there like “think she is” and “stuck-up female.” You know that bunch of cliché crap men spout when they don’t get their way.

As I cracked open my window to let in some fresh air, I wondered if Neff was really serious or just yanking my chain. I wondered if he knew.

I wondered if he wondered.

We coasted into Harrodsburg, a small southern town of eight thousand souls. It was the first city founded in Kentucky and its fort was built even earlier than Fort Boonesborough, its more famous counterpart, by one year – 1774. But nobody remembers its founder, James Harrod, while everyone knows of Daniel Boone, the founder of Boonesborough. Daniel Boone just had a better PR posse.

Harrodsburg’s main claim today is an exact replica of the same fort built on some thirty-two acres right in the heart of the town. The only thing missing is the stench from the rude hygiene customs of the day. Pioneers used to say that one smelled a fort long before it came into view.

Of course, the replica fort also lacks the courtyard comprised entirely of mud, flies and the filthy inhabitants that made up the fort. Today the fort’s imprint encompasses a beautiful lawn, gift shop, sparkling clean cabins and well-groomed re-enactors.

Another Harrodsburg highlight is the Beaumont Inn, a B&B that specializes in southern cooking. Walking into the main building is like walking into the past, as much of its nineteenth century furniture is still very much in use.

Beaumont Inn was built in 1845 as a college for well-bred young ladies – mainly those south of the Mason-Dixon line. Many upstanding families sent their daughters to this college during the Civil War to keep them out of harm’s way while their parents fought for the “noble cause.”

It was ironic that Kentucky’s bloodiest battle during the Civil War was fought not fifteen miles from the school at a little hamlet called Perryville, where Ethel resided. Cannon fire was so fierce that windows in the town rattled.

Harrodsburg was used as a hospital center for many of the wounded of both sides as was Shakertown, a religious community devoted to work, prayer and celibacy located north of Harrodsburg. The Shakers invented the clothespin, among other household items. That meant we girls were one step closer to the invention of the washing machine. Of course, anything would be better than beating clothes with rocks and clay at the river.

Neff pulled over while I mused over the directions written by Ethel and then pored over a map. “Turn left at the next corner,” I directed, “and then go about four miles.”

Pulling out into the traffic, Neff turned the car left and sped down a country lane. Finally seeing the little store that was our goal, he turned into the parking lot.

I got out of the Avanti and ventured into the store.

Wandering around the aisles, I finally decided upon a Moon Pie, which I hadn’t had in years, and a Diet Rite Cola. Seeing that a sixtyish woman was overseeing the cash register, I made my move.

“Anything else, dearie?” the clerk asked, revealing very perfect teeth. Must be expensive caps, which might explain the overly tight clothes for a woman of her age. And yes, there was cleavage showing. This lady was fighting age and doing a nice job of it. She was holding her own.

“Yes, there is. I’m a friend of Ethel Bradley’s and she asked me to get a lottery ticket for her. Let me see now. Ah yes, here are the numbers she wants me to play.” I handed the lady a handwritten note from Ethel.

She raised her glasses and peered closely at it. “You kin to her?”

I raised my hand in deference. “No. She is staying in town with a friend, but she made me promise to come get this lottery ticket. Seems like it is very important to her.”

The clerk leaned across the counter. “Oh, it is like lighting a candle for the dead, you see. She does it in memory of her husband and son. Both gone now for years.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.”

“So you see why it is important to her.”

“Yes. I’m so glad I came then. Your name is?”

“Suzy. I’ve been waiting on Miss Ethel going on twenty years now. She always plays the same numbers.” Suzy glanced down at the note. “And these are the correct numbers,” she confirmed. “I tried to tell Jubal that his numbers were wrong but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Jubal is . . . ?”

Suzy leaned on her elbows and glanced around the store. In a stage whisper, she confided, “That’s Ethel’s nephew. He came in last week or so to buy a ticket for Ethel, but gave the wrong numbers. I told him so. I have the numbers memorized by heart after all these years, but would he listen?” She shook her head. “He’s a hard-headed man. Told me to mind my own business and kept insisting he wrote them down right, but he probably didn’t listen to Ethel either.”

“What happened?”

“I did my job.”

“You sold him a ticket with the wrong numbers?”

“Wrong for Ethel, but maybe right for him.” She winked at me.

“I’m sorry but I don’t know what that means.”

“I checked the paper on Sunday and I couldn’t remember all his numbers, but the numbers in the paper were close . . . so maybe he won something.”

“Would that still be Ethel’s win if she had paid for the ticket even if he gave the wrong numbers?”

“Yes, but he could go to court over it. I’m sure a judge would be sympathetic to both parties.”

A customer came in and Suzy pulled up from the counter. The confidential gabfest was over.

“Do you still have Sunday’s paper?” I asked.

“No dearie, we don’t keep unsold papers.”

“Thank you very much.” I started out the door.

“Don’t you want Ethel’s ticket for this week?”

“How stupid of me. Yes. How much?”

We finished our transaction, and then I hurried to the Avanti where I gave Walter a brief rundown.

“We need a library or a computer,” he spat out.

“We’ll have to go to Danville now. It’s closer.”

“Didn’t we just come through Harrodsburg?”

“Yes, but now Danville is closer. We’ve driven into the country several miles since Harrodsburg.”

“Which way?”

“Turn onto Route 150. Danville is a college town.”

“Ohh, I like college towns. They have lots of pretty girls.”

“Pig!”

“Oink. Oink.”