Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (21 page)

The insensitive woman proceeded to argue about an expired coupon, and then another one that wasn't valid on a smaller-sized box than required. The check-out boy held his ground and refused to cave in to the old biddy's demands. I was to the point I wanted to tell him to give her the blasted discount and I'd pay the difference, even if it went against my grain. We all needed to get out of the store before they turned out the lights at closing time.

Reggie leaned toward me, and asked, "What's that I hear?"

"Probably the sound of Rip's ice cream melting." I replied much louder than necessary.

"Yeah, no lie! But what I meant was I believe it's starting to rain."

"Naturally," I replied, growing more and more impatient. If our luck held true, it would be pouring by the time we carried our bags to the parking lot. I watched as the family of five marched out of the store, each kid with a mouthful of chocolate. "Dang it! I knew we should have chosen that line."

After "blue hair" wrote out a check, painstakingly slow, the second lady began to place her items on the belt. She stopped after four or five products and turned to her friend, flipping her long, bleached-blond hair over her shoulder.

"I hope she doesn't think she's fooling anyone with that amateurish dye job," I whispered to Reggie. She shushed me, which is usually a wasted effort.

"Gladys, I need to drop a check by Mack's place on the way home. I hope you don't have anything that will melt in the next twenty minutes."

Gladys shook her head, as I said, "Well I do! If it hasn't liquefied already."

Gladys shot me a withering glance as Reggie elbowed me in the ribs. Blondie had still not resumed placing items on the belt as she commented to her friend, "Our well went dry again, so we just had a new one dug, you see."

As the checker stood behind the counter and frowned, eager to keep the process going, the second lady asked lady number one, "Do you see this mole beside my nose?"

"Of course," her friend responded. "Everyone sees it. That mole's the size of a pencil eraser, for goodness' sakes."

"Humph!" Clearly miffed, the blond woman replied, "Well, Gladys, I was aware of that without you pointing it out. In fact, I saw my dermatologist yesterday and he assured me it was not malignant. Still, one has to worry."

When the blond-haired lady with the mole sprouting Billy goat hairs opened her purse to dig out her stash of coupons, I lost it. "Come on, you self-absorbed chinwags! Get a move on! Can you not see this growing line of customers behind you? Have the doctor freeze that butt-ugly thing off your face with liquid nitrogen and be done with it."

There was an audible group gasp by the two ladies, the check-out boy, the other customers in line behind us, and, of course, my horrified daughter. Still, my sense of propriety would not let me back off. So I continued to berate the two stunned women. "I'm sure all of us who are being delayed by your gabbing have other things we need to do today. As it is, I'll be lucky to get my groceries loaded in the trunk before my milk expires."

Customer number two stuffed her coupons back into her purse, threw some money at the check-out dude, and exited the store as quickly as she possibly could. When it was my turn to check out, the young man said, "Thanks." I gave Reggie a smug look and had my purchases lined up on the conveyor belt like little soldiers in no time at all.

* * *

"Really, mother?" Reggie asked, as we sloshed through the parking lot with our bags. "I can't believe you just called the president of the Rockport Chamber of Commerce and a teller at my bank self-absorbed chinwags, whatever the hell a chinwag is! I have to do business with both of them. Couldn't you have just kept your opinion to yourself for once?"

"I don't care if they are Mother Teresa and Helen Keller. It's rude and inconsiderate to hold up an entire line of customers to discuss some unsightly growth on your face. They needed to be given a courteous nudge."

"A courteous nudge? That might qualify as the understatement of the year. Seriously, Mom? A courteous nudge?" Regina repeated in a disgusted tone. She sighed dramatically as she unlocked the trunk of her car. "And, by the way, Mother. Helen Keller was deaf and blind. She wouldn't be talking about moles and dropping off checks at Mack's well-digging shop while checking out at Wal-Mart."

"Good. Then at least she wouldn't be holding up the line like those two chatterboxes, would she?"

Reggie practically slammed the car door after she climbed into the driver's seat. As she began to drive home, a light bulb went off in my head. "Hey! You just made a remark about Mack's well digging shop. 'Mack's well' sounds a lot like 'Maxwell'. What are the chances Julio Sarcova was referring to the Mack's Well Company?"

Chapter 13

Regina tried to contact Milo but he failed to answer her call. So, instead, she used her smart phone to find the address of Mack's Wells, Inc. She didn't hesitate to turn around and head toward Sixteenth Street on the south side of town, which surprised me. Even though Reggie had more invested in this quest to discover the truth behind Cooper Claypool's death than I did, she was by nature less inclined to go to the extent I would to solve the riddle. As long as the identity of the killer was up in the air, my daughter's life would be topsy-turvy and I didn't see how she'd get a decent night's sleep. I knew I wouldn't.

The well company was across the street from a large, fenced-in boat storage facility. The sign on the door was faded and the building was old and in ill-repair. It appeared to me as if Mack was in dire need of an influx of business. And we were about to pretend to be a couple of those much-needed customers.

"Can I help you, ladies?" A gruff, raspy voice asked from behind a pile of metal pipe. A solidly built man who stood well over six-and-a-half feet looked up from a wooden chair when we walked around the pipe. He snuffed his cigarette out in a tin can half-filled with sand. Sand was a plentiful resource in this neck of the woods, but to degrade it with cigarette butts just seemed wrong to me. But he did show concern for our well-being when he cautioned us, "You might want to step away from those well casings, ladies. They've been known to become dislodged and avalanche down to the floor. And, excuse my French, ladies, but it's one hell of a hassle to restack them."

"Yes, sir," I replied as both Regina and I moved away from the pile. I could see his point as the pile didn't look particularly stable. In fact, it looked as if it was on the verge of cascading toward Reggie and me. But I pushed the notion aside, and asked, "Is Mack here, by any chance?"

"You're looking at him. Mack Schilling here." As he introduced himself, he shook both of our hands. Without a doubt, Mack Schilling had once been the picture of physical fitness. But aging had made his six-pack look more like a keg.

He was a bear of a man but his handshake said otherwise. His grip was surprisingly lame, but it might have been out of gentlemanly respect. Had we not been ladies, Mack's clench might have crushed walnuts.

I started to respond, but Reggie beat me to it. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Schilling. I'm Regina, and this is my mother, Rapella."

"It's a pleasure to meet you ladies, as well. What can I do for you today?"

Before either of us could reply, a strapping middle-aged fellow stepped from behind a wall dividing the small office area from the larger public area where we were located. He had that ripped appearance indicating he spent a lot of time in a gym. However, I could see where his body might mature into that of his father's if he gave up whatever intense work-outs he was engaging in. He glanced over to see his father speaking with the two of us gals, and asked, "Got it, Papa?"

"Yeah, son. I can take care of these nice ladies. You need to get the men lined up for the job in Portland, anyway. I told the Strykers you'd be there by now. Give them a ring, Trey. Let them know you're on the way."

"All right. I'll tell them we'll be on the road in ten minutes." Mack resembled the younger man enough that I knew calling him "son" was not just a habitual moniker. Mack's Wells, Inc. was a family business, it seemed. Like a lot of ma and pa operations in this area, it probably passed down from one generation to the next, until the next successor in line had no desire or ambition to take over the company. Mack turned back to Reggie and me, and asked, "Now what brings you two lovely ladies in here today?"

"Well—" I began. I paused when I realized I hadn't thought of a credible ruse before walking in the shop. Before I could come up with one, he cut in.

"That's a deep subject, ma'am. And it also happens to be what we do best around here." He laughed heartily at his own play on words. I could tell it wasn't the first time he'd used that one, and he no doubt cracked himself up every time he pulled it out of the hat.

After a few more gritty guffaws, Mack choked and began to cough. As soon as he was able to quell his cough, he reached in his front pocket for a cigarette and a tarnished Zippo. I tried to recall if I'd seen this dedicated smoker at the protest the previous morning. If he hadn't attended, he'd missed a golden opportunity to support his habit. And best of luck to the city of Rockport in forcing this massive man to go outside his own business to light up.

I laughed politely, and said, "Yes, a well is exactly what we need."

"Where do you want us to drill this well?"

"Um, you know, out in a rural area, west of town." I didn't think telling him I wanted him to dig a well next to my travel trailer in the RV park would fly very far. "Although I'm really not ready to commit yet. I just stopped by to get an estimate."

"I need you to be more specific, ma'am, because the location could greatly affect the cost. I wouldn't want to give a nice lady like you a bid that's way over-blown." Mack was built like a giant Sequoia, or a man who could handily chop one down. But despite his easy-going, teddy-bear demeanor, I felt uncomfortable around him. It was as if there was a barely concealed fuse lit just below the surface of his smile. I was glad my daughter had accompanied me.

"Okay. It's out on, er, I should say, it's by a road. No, I meant to say—"

Aware I was floundering for words, Reggie stepped in. "It's just west of Holiday Beach off 35 N. Highway, Mr. Schilling. It's fairly sandy ground, barely above sea level. I don't think you'd have to drill very deep to find water." I'd discover later she'd described an area where Milo's younger brother lived.

"We never have to drill very deep," he replied with a wink. "But I'd still have to see the—"

"Maybe it'd help you narrow it down if I told you I recently moved into one of those flipped houses out—"

"Did you say flipped houses?"

"Yes, but I just—"

"Who'd you buy it from?" Mack interrupted, suddenly very serious, as if his reaction rested on my response. "Not those Hammerhead buffoons, I hope."

"Why, yes. As a matter of fact, that's exactly who sold it to me. A couple of extremely delightful men own the business and were a real pleasure to deal with."

"Yeah, right. Sorry, lady. Can't help you." His reply was practically venomous. He immediately spun around to return to the chair he'd been sitting on when we had first entered the building. It was obvious that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over and we were not to let the door hit us in our rear ends on our way out.

"Why not?" I asked in stunned disbelief. I was sincerely alarmed by the man's abrupt mood change.

"Yes, why can't you help her?" Regina added with rugged tenacity. After all, her husband was one of the buffoons Mack clearly had no use for.

"All I can say is, you better watch your back with that no-account outfit. I haven't been paid for the last three jobs I've completed for those charlatans. And I don't see any sign of that changing any time soon." Mack was worked up now. Just the mention of Milo and Cooper's company had transformed the gentle giant into a nail-spitting monster of a man. My uneasiness increased. I could smell the acrid odor of the man's fuse smoldering.

"Why not?" I asked for the second time.

"You tell me, lady! It ain't from not trying. I've had more than one go-round with those guys. Claypool paid me to fill up a dry well, and then advertised the property as having a well with a constant supply of water. The well was dry again before the ink on the purchase agreement was. Now the couple have to have water delivered regularly or go to the expense of having a new well drilled. The MC Boneheads are involved in a law suit over that deal now, too, which serves them right."