Too Fresh the Grudge

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Gregory A. Morris

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ISBN: 978-1-469-72407-2 (ebook)

For the two women in my life, Karen and Sarah.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Ne’er of the living can the living judge—

Too blind the affection, or too fresh the grudge

Anonymous

CHAPTER ONE

Sue Webster called around mid morning. It was Friday, the first part of June. The rain started sometime during the night, and by dawn, it had settled into a slow soaking downpour. Houston’s summertime weather is generally just varying degrees of wetness, either rain or humidity. April’s showers had brought May’s flowers, but then the rain started all over again.

I worked late the night before following a man named George Martec and his girlfriend. It was a long night. First they went to dinner, then a movie, and then they went dancing at the top of a hotel in the Galleria until two in the morning. I followed them to her apartment before I finally went home and got into bed. All in all it would have seemed a fairly innocent evening—to everyone except Martec’s wife.

When the light of day finally made it impossible for me to sleep any longer, I showered, got dressed, and went to the kitchen to fix something to eat. My stomach was grumbling from all the junk food I ate while on stakeout. Lucky for me Marshall had gone to the store. The refrigerator was full of fruit: strawberries, cantaloupe, plums, and peaches. Ah, summertime. I sliced up an assortment, and was just sitting down in front of a morning news program when the girl called.

I saw your advertisement in the Yellow Pages, she said after I answered and admitted to being who I was. I’ve never done this before, so I just looked in the phone book and saw your ad. It looked to be, well, I don’t know. I, like, just picked your name.

Was there, by any chance, a dart involved in this selection process? I asked.

Oh, no, no, she chuckled. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I guess I’m just really nervous. I’m sorry.

She sounded about twenty-two or twenty-three years old. Her voice was sweet. I immediately envisioned her as a nice girl, probably a cheerleader in high school.

That’s okay, I said. I’m just messing with you. It’s early, and if I don’t trip up at least one young lady before noon, I usually have a bad day.

I didn’t mean to call so early, she said in a panic. I could, like, call back later if that would be better.

She was a very apologetic girl.

Take it easy, I said. It’s not too early. Now, how can I help you?

Oh, good. Well, first off, my name is Sue Webster. I’m twenty-five years old, and I live in the Willow Run apartments on Hillcroft. That’s near the Westheimer intersection.

I poked several pieces of fruit with my fork and started eating. The fruit was sweet and juicy, low in calories with lots of fiber.

I grew up in Houston, she continued, and started working part-time during high school.

Were you ever a cheerleader? I asked with a cheek full of half-chewed cantaloupe.

Eh, no. Why? she said.

I had broken her rhythm. She sounded puzzled.

No reason, I said. Sorry. Go ahead.

Well, let’s see. Oh, yeah. I work as a secretary for a real estate management company. My father is retired and my mother never did work. I mean, she worked, taking care of our house, you know, in the home. But, she never, like, got a job or anything like that.

I continued to eat. She continued to talk.

I moved out of my parents’ house right after high school. I thought about going to college, but didn’t, and I’ve lived by myself since then. I’ve always had boyfriends, but never anyone serious, you know?

She paused. I was fishing with my tongue for a strawberry seed that had gotten stuck between my teeth. When I realized she was waiting for an answer, I said, Yeah, I know.

That is until now, she said.

She paused again. It occurred to me that morning news programs hadn’t evolved much since the days of Bryant Gumbel making jokes at Willard Scott’s expense. Of course, nothing ever really upset Willard, whether he was reporting the nation’s weather or introducing the day’s one-hundred-year-old-plus birthday boys and girls. What a guy. Hard to believe he used to be Bozo the Clown.

Sue, I said. You’ll have to forgive me, but I think I might have missed something. What was it you needed my help with?

My boyfriend, she squealed. I want you to, you know, check him out. I told you I was nervous. I, like, didn’t know what you needed to know so I figured I would tell you as much about me as I could.

She paused, and then added, Then you would know.

I wondered what it would be like to be one hundred years old. Would there be a Willard Scott equivalent to show my picture to America and tell them what a handsome, good-looking guy I was?

What do you mean, check him out? I asked. Has he done anything to you?

Oh, no, she exclaimed. I mean, I really haven’t known him very long. I just met him two weeks ago. We’ve gone out twice, and I think, you know, that it could be getting, well, serious.

Love. What a frightening emotion.

And you want me to find out if your Prince Charming is worthy of your affections.

She giggled.

Well, yeah, I guess that’s it. I mean, you just hear so much these days about people, and I just thought I should know more about him before, well, you know.

Uh-huh, I said. I didn’t want to make this harder for her than it already was.

Is that the sort of thing you do? she asked sheepishly.

I might be able to look into a thing or two for you.

Oh, great, she said with a sigh. I wasn’t sure if, you know, people did this or not.

On second thought, there could never be a Willard Scott equivalent.

CHAPTER TWO

The rain ended around eleven-thirty, and the sun came out from behind a long line of thunderclouds moving off to the Southeast. A soft breeze swept the city. The neighborhood landscape glistened with clear bright sunshine reflecting off the residual rainwater. Spray flew from my tires as I drove through the flooded streets on my way to the freeway.

I turned off Antoine on to Highway 290, and then entered the 610 Loop heading south. The windows were rolled down, and the stereo was turned up loud to overcome the freeway noise. After just a few minutes, I exited at Westheimer and drove west, past the Galleria, until I came to Fountainview. I pulled into the parking lot in front of the restaurant, got out, and went inside.

Table for one? asked the hostess just inside the door.

No, I said. I’m meeting someone. I’ll wait.

I looked at my watch. Sue was to meet me at one-thirty. It was only one o’clock.

She’ll be here soon, I said.

That’s fine, she said. Just let me know when you’re ready.

I nodded and went to the bar. I sat at a stool, ordered a draft beer, and began eating peanuts from a dish. The restaurant was crowded at lunchtime, and since it was Friday, people were taking longer than usual. I finished the first beer and ordered another. The bartender brought it and filled my dish with more nuts.

I just finished the second beer when Sue Webster walked into the restaurant wearing the floral sundress and white linen jacket she had described over the phone. She was short, no more than five foot three or four. She had long yellow blond hair and a pretty round face done up with bright red lipstick and pink blush. She was a little on the chunky side, but she wasn’t fat. She smiled sweetly and spoke to the hostess who turned and looked my way. I stood and started toward them.

Hello, I said. I’m Jake Stewart.

Sue smiled and extended her right hand.

And I’m Sue Webster, she said. It’s so nice to meet you.

I smiled and nodded and shook her hand. She took mine like most women do, grabbing just my fingers because their hands are not large enough for my entire grip.

Are you ready for a table now? asked the hostess.

Sure, I said.

Smoking or non smoking? she asked.

I looked at Sue. She shook her head.

Non-smoking, I said.

The hostess picked up two menus and started off through the restaurant. I motioned for Sue to follow her, and then took up the rear. Once seated, we both went through the ritual of unfolding the silverware from our napkins before either of us spoke.

Well, she said with emphasis.

I smiled and said, Well.

So what now? she asked.

I looked puzzled. How ’bout we order lunch?

I know that, she said, holding back a laugh. She leaned over the table and whispered, What about Darrell?

The waiter came up and asked for our drink order. We both settled on iced tea. When he left I looked at Sue. She wore a big smile and small emerald earrings that matched the color of her eyes.

Darrell, I said. That’s your boyfriend’s name?

Darrell Slater, she responded, nodding her head as she spoke.

Okay, I said. So you want me to do a background check on Darrell Slater. Find out what sort of a guy he is.

She didn’t say anything, just looked at me. Her smile wasn’t as big as it had been.

Right? I asked.

Yeah, she said, hesitantly. Like, I guess so.

She paused for a moment, struggling with herself inside.

Oh, I feel like I’m spying on him. And we don’t even know each other that well, you know? What if he found out? What would he think of me?

He might not like it, I said.

I know, she agreed. I thought about that after I called you this morning.

But, then again, I said, You might not like what I find out about him.

She perked up.

You see, she said. That’s why I thought I should have someone like you look into this. I mean, it’s not like I can ask any of his friends or anything. I like him a lot, but, well, you know, it’s scary. Especially when you read the papers or watch the news on TV.

The waiter came and set our iced teas on the table, then pulled a pad from his apron. Are you ready to order? he asked.

I looked at Sue. She shrugged her shoulders and quickly looked down at the menu.

What kind of salads do you have? she asked without looking up from the menu.

He stepped around behind her and pointed out a large section of the menu that detailed out five or six different salads. He proceeded to explain the differences between them. I scanned the menu and decided to continue the trend I had started with breakfast and eat healthy for the rest of the day. Sue looked up and over her shoulder at the waiter and ordered a California salad. Then she looked at me for my approval. I smiled and told the waiter I would have the same.

Two California salads, he said, collecting the menus. My name is Randy, and I’ll be your waiter this afternoon, so just let me know if there is anything you need. The salads should be out shortly.

Could you bring some more lemons for the tea, I asked.

Sure, he said. Be right back.

Well, it’s up to you, I said to Sue after Randy left. If you’re worried about him finding out you asked me to check on him, don’t. He’s not going to.

She looked worried.

Am I being silly? she asked. You know, it’s just so hard to meet people.

How’d you meet Darrell? I asked.

At Studebaker’s, she said. You know, the fifties dance club just around the block.

I nodded.

One of the girls at the office won a party there, you know, through a drawing or something. Anyway, a bunch of us went over after work. He was real nice, you know. He asked me to dance, and bought me a drink. We talked for a long time, and then he asked for my phone number. He seemed different from most of the guys there, like…like he wasn’t just there to pick up someone.

Why else would he be there? I asked.

Well, I know. That’s why most guys go there.

That’s why all guys go there, I said.

Randy returned with our salads and a saucer of sliced lemons.

Will there be anything else? he asked.

No, I said. I don’t think so.

He nodded and walked off. The large glass salad bowls he left were filled with different varieties of lettuce topped with tomatoes, artichokes, black olives, croutons, and grated hard cheese. The salads were covered with a honey mustard dressing. I stabbed at mine and ate a bite. Sue did the same.

So, I said. You meet this guy at Studebaker’s, and he calls you after that.

She nodded with her mouth full, and then swallowed.

He called me a couple of days later. I really didn’t think he would, but he did. We went out, and saw a movie, and had dinner. He was real nice, you know, not pushy or anything like that. He walked me to my door and kissed me good night. I liked that. He made me feel, well, he made me feel special.

He kiss you on the cheek or your forehead? I asked.

She laughed and said with a heavy southern accent, Why, on my forehead, of course.

Of course, I said.

You do think I’m silly, she said. I bet you don’t have any trouble meeting girls. It’s so easy for guys, you know?

No, I don’t think you’re silly, I said while tossing the salad with my fork. I think you’re being cautious, and there’s not a thing wrong with that.

Well, thank you, kind sir, she said, again with a southern twang.

I smiled and stuffed an artichoke in my mouth.

So, Mr. Jake Stewart, Private Detective. Tell me about yourself.

I swallowed and pushed the bowl away. She kept eating.

You must want to be bored, I said.

It can’t be that bad, she said.

Pretty bad, I said.

Well, let me guess. I don’t see a ring, so you’re not married.

I nodded my head.

Since you’re a private detective, you must have a lot of glamorous girlfriends all over the world.

I shook my head.

"Okay, you live on the estate of a famous writer and you aggravate

his butler. I wish. I live with my brother, I said, and I aggravate him. She laughed and said, You were right, Mr. Stewart. Pretty bad."

CHAPTER THREE

When I left the restaurant, I called Marshall at his office. After about two seconds consideration, he agreed to leave early and meet me at the shooting range for some target practice.

I hung up the cellular phone and put the top down on the Mustang. The temperature had reached ninety degrees. The clouds hanging around after the storm were large and billowy, and floated lazily in the pale blue Texas sky. I put on my sunglasses and a neon orange baseball cap, and pulled out into the stream of traffic on Westheimer. The hot summer sun felt good blazing down on my bare arms.

As I accelerated up the entrance ramp to the Loop, the phone chirped.

Yeah, I said.

You got our stuff? asked Marshall.

I figured you’d come, I said. I have all the gear in my trunk.

See you there, he said, and then cut me off.

I headed out of town on I-45 North. The Northside Gun Club was in a semi-rural area a few miles east of the freeway. I turned down a crumpled asphalt road sparsely lined with old run down wood-frame houses. All of them were painted white sometime long ago. Some had chain link fences enclosing their front yards. Where there weren’t houses, there were small open