Missing Mamba (George Bailey Detective Series Book 4) Read online

  Soon everyone gathered at the edge of the sandtrap.

  “Be careful Sharon dear,” Dr. Krinkdel said softly , “back up -- if it’s Margie, you don’t know which end of her it might be –the head may well be right near your feet.”

  That did it!

  I scampered out almost as fast as Walt and joined the others at the edge of the sand trap.

  We debated our next move.

  “I think I need to get to work now.” Walt said.

  “Let’s just toss some rocks at it.” Henry said.

  “Small rocks please Mr. Lido.”

  Henry ran into the gully and came back with a pocketful of small stones.

  It took a while, and George never even came close.

  “You throws like a girl,” Walt said.

  “It’s throw -- you jerk,” I said, then tossed a rock, like a girl -- nearly hitting the thing. Nothing moved.

  Finally Henry took a rock, threw it hard -- and scored a bulls-eye. I heard a ping sound and watched as the object with long thin chain attached bounced in the air.

  “Some snake,” Walt said, obviously relieved.

  “It’s a necklace.” I said.

  “That’s crazy, girls don’t play golf.” Walt laughed

  I still held a 7 iron in my left hand and wondered for a split second how far Walter would fly compared to a golf ball.

  George dashed into the sand trap.

  “It’s not a necklace,” he said, holding it up, “it’s a St. Christopher medal, just like the one Billy Thomas has.”

  “My window washer? Dr. Krinkel asked.

  “He doesn’t play golf,” Henry said.

  13.

  “George Bailey is here.” Mom said.

  I ran out on the front porch.

  “It’s Sunday –why are you wearing that uniform?”

  “We’re on official business.”

  “Official business! We’re going down to the beach and see if we can talk to Billy Thomas at Sunshine Rentals.”

  “He’s a possible suspect.”

  “Sorta, but at the moment he’s just a cute guy who washes Frieda’s windows, owns a St. Christopher Medal, and sat behind us last year in Spanish II.”

  “Cute? Si, Sharonita es verdad, but he also doesn’t play golf.”

  “Neither do you, or I, or most of the kids in our class.”

  “Except Walt.”

  “Please –don’t remind me.”

  Unlike George, I’d dressed for the beach. I had on my bathing suit, shorts and some white stuff on my nose that my Mom made me wear.

  When we got to Sunshine Beach Rentals, Billy had just finished drilling a hole in the sand with a giant drill thing.

  “Here you go Ma’am,” he said as shoved an umbrella pole in the hole. The blue and orange umbrella had “Sunshine Rentals” printed in faded yellow. I saw several others on the beach mixed in with all different colors: red and white, blue, yellow, turquoise. I love our little beach in the summer time. All the bright colors of the umbrellas, beach chairs, and towels reminded me of the colorful quilt on my grandma’s bed.

  Billy Thomas is the most muscular boy in our class. He looks like the boy in those ads who gets sand kicked in his face by a bully, then goes to the gym -- comes back twice as big and punches the bully in the nose. If you go up and touch him on the arm – like most boys he always flexes up just before – it feels like a thick tree limb.

  You couldn’t see his muscles (or his St. Christopher medal) because he had on a blue and orange Sunshine Rentals T-Shirt. I looked for the chain as we came up behind him, but the T-Shirt had a high collar.

  “Hi Billy.”

  “Hi Sharon, is that the dog catcher you’ve got with you? I haven’t seen any strays down here without a leash.”

  George tried to laugh, but his face was on fire - the little mist drops on his glasses didn’t help either. I sure didn’t want George getting mad because Billy might drill his next hole with my boyfriend’s head.

  “No,” I lied, “he was on a very important case this morning.”

  “What case?” Billy asked.

  “Sorry, that’s classified info,” George said in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.

  “You got a cold or somethin?”

  “Nah.”

  Billy said he was going to take a break so we all sat down on the small ledge near the wet sand. I sat in the middle and nudged a little closer to Billy, I heard George breathing hard next to me.

  “Billy,” I said touching his arm. I caught him by surprise so his auto –flex was a second late. “Do you still clean Dr. Krinkdel’s windows.” I keep my hand on his arm to see (like a lie detector) if his arm tightened anymore.

  He looked at me and sorta frowned.

  “Why do you wear that kid’s stuff on your nose anyway? Yeah I clean ‘em -- why do you want to know?”

  “Ah – cause my Mom really likes how clean her windows are.” That came to my mind because I was so mad at Mom for making me wear the white stuff.

  “Your Mom notices how clean people’s windows are?”

  George started to sound like a Santa Fe locomotive.

  We sat there for a few minutes and watched some kids building a drip castle by the shore. My interview with a possible suspect wasn’t going to great.

  I looked at Billy Thomas – there were small, almost microscopic, beads of sweat, on his upper lip – another telltale sign of stress. I thought hard about asking him how he enjoyed Biology I, thinking I might be able to work my way into a casual discussion on snakes. George tried to skip some rocks on the water. He never got beyond one bounce.

  “STOP THROWING ROCKS,” the Lifeguard yelled.

  “Some policeman you are,” Billy said, “there’s only a few laws on the beach and you’re breaking one.”

  I looked over at George and thought he was going to bite right through his lip.

  “God it’s hot out here,” Billy said as he stood up.

  He quickly took off his shirt, tossed it in the sand then stood still for a moment.

  He stood there with every muscle defined, like a museum statue all perfectly proportioned, perfectly tan.

  “Hey Billy, you’re wearing your St. Christopher,” George said.

  I gasped – I hadn’t noticed it.

  “Yeah, but Stonely has the same one –damn copycat.”

  14.

  Sunday night Walt, Henry, George and I all met in George’s garage, the official home of George Bailey and Associates, to talk about the case. I sat up on the workbench with George and gave a quick summary of the meeting with Billy Thomas -- even described my clever attempt at lie detection.

  “Held on to his arm –huh ---good thinking.” Henry said.

  I smiled.

  “So he’s not a suspect anymore?” Walt asked.

  “No,” George said, “first of all, we have no idea if that St. Christopher Medal had anything at all to do with the case. We found the medal in the sand trap, it could have been left by an innocent golfer. Billy Thomas was one of five people who knew that Margie lived in the house, the others were Elmer, Cecil, and Jeff Stonely.”

  “That’s only four.” I said.

  “Well there’s also Ferndock’s brother Joe from Cleveland,” George said

  “Cleveland?” Henry shook his head, “we have a suspect lives in Cleveland – that’s great.”

  “Stonely has a grey St. Christopher medal too?” Walt asked. “ I thought he went to Hamilton Baptist? Is that the only color they come in?

  “So what? Lot’s of guys who ain’t Catholic wear ‘em – they’re popular right now on the mainland.” Henry said, “they have other colors too.”

  “Does Jeff play golf?” I asked

  “Is he cute?” George asked.

  I jumped off the workbench.

  “What? Why the hell do you care if he’s cute,” Walt looked at me and winked.

  I think I was madder at George than Walt at that moment, which is rare.

  �
��I’ve seen him a couple of times up at the course.” Henry stood up, grabbed a stick and started practicing his golf swing.

  “Jeez, be careful with that thing, you almost hit me,” George said.

  “Good.” I whispered.

  “Sorry.” Henry said.

  Henry put the stick down, sat on an old apple crate and leaned his head up against the wall.

  “Maybe I could play a round with him on my day off and kind of feel him out,” Walt said, “is he any good?”

  “Pretty good,” Henry said.

  “Think I can beat him.”

  “Nope.”

  Walt looked a little sad so I went over and patted him on the back. I really like Walter most of the time even though he makes me crazy. He means well and has sure helped solve some of our cases.

  “Don’t worry Walt,” I said, “it’s for the investigation you know – you guys are all alike –so competitive – always trying to win.”

  “Not me Sharon,” George said, I could tell by the look on his face that my consoling of Walter had gone on long enough. I walked over and hopped up on the workbench with my boyfriend.

  “That’s cause you can’t beat anybody at anything.” Walt said.

  I glared at him.

  “Oh is that so Walter Jenkins –well maybe we’ll just compare report cards next time they come out, assuming they haven’t kicked you out first,” I said.

  “OK OK –you got me –sorry GB – just kidding. What about my idea of playing a round with Stonely?

  “We don’t have to do that to find out if still has his grey St. Christopher -- we can just watch him down at the beach,” I said, then noticed the sad look on Walter’s face,

  “but that’s OK –I’m sure you can get more information out of him than I did Billy.”

  “That wouldn’t be too hard.” George whispered.

  But I heard him.

  “Yeah – I can give you a few tips too” – Henry said picking up the stick again. “Watch me Walt --- you shouldn’t take your club back so fast.”

  “Whataya mean?”

  “Just watch that’s all.”

  Walt watched, took the stick and tried to copy Henry’s moves.

  “Little slower,” Henry said, “that’s it –now you’ve got it.”

  “Think I can beat him if I do this?” Walt held the stick in the air and looked over his shoulder at Henry.

  “Nope.”

  We all laughed – later even George tried to give Walt some tips.

  “Eye on the ball.”

  Which is good advice –especially for detectives.

  15.

  I ran into Walt on my way to work.

  “Are you playing golf with Jeff today?” I asked

  “Yeah, I’ve worked on my backswing all week –watch.”

  Walt stared down at the sidewalk and imitated a golf swing.

  “Henry said keep your head down.”

  “Oh yeah ---that’s right --thanks.”

  “I just know you can beat him.”

  Walt smiled. I hurried on to work. My shift ended at two and Freida had invited me over for tea. Frieda said she and Ferndock had grown fond of tea during their honeymoon in Durban, South Africa, back in 1901.

  “Ours was a whirlwind romance,” she said. “I’d only met Ferndock six months before on the Kalahari. We were married in Port Elizabeth and took a steamer up the coast to Durban. South Africa’s a British colony, you know, and they’re quite fond of their Tea. I’ll prepare a proper English tea for us. I’d love to discuss our progress so far.”

  I looked forward to a nice quiet talk with Frieda. The day went pretty fast as I helped tourists select the best island tour, offered suggestions on restaurants and even turned down lunch with a boy from Tucson.

  “I’m sorry – I have a boyfriend – Oh –here he comes now.”

  “Your boyfriend’s a dogcatcher?”

  George, wearing his uniform and being dragged by the biggest dog I’d ever seen, peaked his head in the door.

  “Found this dumb dog running down Oceanside Walk – have you seen him before.” George looked at me and then at Mr. Tucson. It was all he could do to hang on to the thing. It looked like a grizzly bear.

  “There’s a fat lady in a pink dress two blocks down that way,” the boy pointed, “crying that she lost her little Puffball.”

  “Little Puffball!” George said.

  “Woof, Woof, Woof,” barked Puffball -- almost yanking George’s arm off.

  “Thanks –seeya.”

  “He is not a dogcatcher,” I smiled, handing the boy a brochure from the “Happy Halibut” hamburger stand. “They have nice hamburgers –I’m sure you’ll enjoy eating there.”

  I wanted to say “alone” but we’re always supposed to be nice to tourists.

  --------------------------------------

  I knocked on Frieda’s door at two o’clock sharp. I’d worn my other flower print dress. I think they’re Peonies.

  “Don’t you look lovely dear – I’ve always loved Petunia’s.”

  Oh well.

  “Me too, they’re one of my favorites.”

  I really didn’t mean to lay it on so thick. Frieda makes me a little nervous. She is a doctor after all, has traveled the world, and speaks perfect English.

  “Sharon, I must tell you that I was a quite anxious about our meeting. You and your friends, well at least some of them, have so impressed me. I was so concerned that you feel comfortable here with an old lady like me.”

  “I really thought they were Peonies,” I laughed, “I don’t honestly even know what Petunias look like.”

  Frieda laughed so hard and gave me a big hug.

  “I think I have a picture of both around here somewhere. Please, sit down over Sharon. Do you like cream or sugar with your tea?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Why don’t you try just cream first –that’s how I like it.”

  Her dining table was set with China featuring hand painted animals: Zebras, Water Buffalo, Wildebeests, that she’d picked up on her honeymoon in Durban.

  “We stopped at the post office to pick up and send our mail,” Frieda said as she passed me a lemon tart, “Ferndock found a lifetime love in Durban.”

  “I’m sure he did, and I can see why.”

  “That’s sweet Sharon, but I don’t mean me -- he developed a lifetime hobby of collecting Packet Post.”

  “Packet Post?”

  “That’s the name for postcards mailed once the steamship arrived a port.”

  “Why did they call it Packet, were the wrapped up together?”

  “No, Packet is just another name for a Steamship.”

  Freida expained: “There are collectors all over the World. Ferndock specializes only in those postmarked from Durban.”

  The lemon tart was delicious. After looking at pictures of Peonies and Petunias, I decided that Petunias really were my favorite, of course I think a lot of it had to do with the nice tea, the lemon tart, and Frieda.

  Later, sitting in the living room, Frieda showed my some of the postcards. Most had a picture of the Steamship with the Durban postmark and a brief message. Frieda explained that the card’s values were different depending on the message and the rarity of a particular ship calling at that port.

  “They were more valuable if the writer saw something or someone important in history on their trip --like London right after World War I was declared or President Theodore Roosevelt on Safari, for example.”

  “George would sure love to hear this,” I said.

  “Does he like History?”

  “Yes he does.”

  “He’s quite handsome I think, Sharon,” Freida smiled, “here’s a picture of my dear Ferndock at about his age.”

  There were two boys in the picture. They stood on a pier holding their fishing poles. The tall one had a big smile and held a large fish. The other, a little shorter and skinny, about George’s size, looked sad.

  “Fe
rndock’s the one with the fish – Joe was two years younger.”

  One of the postcards caught my eye. It was addressed to Joseph Krinkdel, 505 Sycamore Lane, Cleveland Ohio.

  The Message was hard too read –Ferndock’s penmanship was horrible

  Freida looks forward to meeting you. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to mother when I get back.

  Your brother and friend --

  Ferny

  “Oh that one has very little value Sharon. It’s just a typical family message and our ship called regularly in Durban. Ferndock bought it years later from a Cleveland

  Packet Post collector.”

  “Ferny?” I smiled.

  “Well I certainly never called him that.”

  I wasn’t going to ask about the message. I know, as a detective, that the Krinkdel’s relationship with Joseph (since he knew about Margie) might be important, but I wanted to be polite – it was such a nice visit. Besides Henry’s right --Joseph is in Cleveland.

  “Joseph was always difficult after Ferndock inherited their mother’s home.”

  Then I remembered our first conversation.

  “But you said when Ferndock was a boy he thought she liked Joe better?”

  “Well he was quite wrong my dear. Would you like sugar in this one?” Frieda held the sugar bowl.

  “No thanks, I like mine with cream.”

  16.

  We met later that night in the garage. George flicked on the light. The single bulb hanging from frayed black wires made Walter Jenkins’ crooked teeth look funny.

  “Packet Post from Durban, South Africa? Boy that Ferndock guy sounds like a real winner,” Walt said.

  “It’s interesting Sharon,” George said, “but I really wonder what it has to do with our case.”

  I explained that one of the possible suspects didn’t like Ferndock very much.

  “Yes, but Ferndock’s dead – and Joe the suspect is in Cleveland.”

  “I like the idea of collecting Packet Post,” Henry said, “maybe they’d be fun to collect from Panama City before they put in the Canal.

  “Huh?”

  “You know – like on the “Bolivia.”

  The “Boliva” was another case we had where a steamship sunk off the island in 1897. It was on the way to Panama. In those days people would travel to Panama and then take train across to catch another steamship on the other side. It sure beat going all the around South America.