Seventeen

As I neared my house, I wondered what kind of lunch surprise Linda had waiting for me. Her cooking skills equaled those of her excellent housekeeping abilities. I killed Patsy’s engine and entered the house with high anticipation of lunch.

“Oh, hi there,” Linda said as I stepped into the dining room, placing my purse on the sidebar.

I waggled my nose a few times. “Smells wonderful. I’m starving.”

She placed a food-filled plate in front of me. “One of your favorites. Beef tips over noodles, boiled red potatoes, and Mexican corn. A little heavy on carbs, but it’s not like you need to diet or anything.”

“Sounds fabulous.” I allowed the aroma to waft under my nose for several seconds before taking a bite.

We meandered through some miscellaneous chat as we ate. I pushed my plate aside after I’d eaten every bite. “That was wonderful! Thanks.”

“Glad you liked it. Ya know, I was thinking—maybe you could drop by my apartment some evening and I could fix a nice dinner for us. Or, I could treat you at a nice restaurant. I’d love to do that to show my appreciation for all you done for me.”

“Sounds wonderful and that’s real sweet of you. But it’s not necessary. You show your appreciation all the time. On top of that, my schedule’s a real mess right now. We’ll play it by ear until things gets a little more in order, okay?”

“You know that’s the second time you put me off with a dinner invitation." I'm not sure if her pout was legit or just for effect. "If you remember, I asked you over just a couple of days before Alice’s death and you said maybe later that time, too. It’s okay to tell me of it's my cooking. As I mentioned, we could go to a nice restaurant instead.”

“No, Linda, that’s not it. You’re a fabulous cook and the best housekeeper anyone could want. I just don’t want to commit to something again I’m not sure I can do. As soon as I’m done with this Butler Farms thing, you can cook dinner for me at your apartment or take me out to a place of your choice.  How does that sound?”

“Okay, I’ll let you slide for now. But no free pass next time.”

“Thanks for understanding. And I promise not to bale on you again. But right now, I have to get back on the road. I have a few important things to do this afternoon.”

“I’m gonna hold you to it,” Linda said as I scooted my chair and came to me feet.

“Dinner , you and me. We'll make a firm date as soon as possible.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay. See you later.”

I grabbed my purse and hurried to Patsy after a quick goodbye.

My primary goal for the afternoon was to do some research on Butler Farms at the library. I’d forgotten to grab a pen and something to take notes on, so I took a short detour to the Walmart on Panama Lane, not far out of my way. As I was perused the stationary section, I heard a familiar voice.

“Find your bad guy yet?”

I turned to face Andy Bishop straight on. “Well, fancy meeting you here.” He was well-groomed and looked half-way decent. “I figured Bakersfield is the last place I’d see you again, if ever.”

“Just a little unfinished business I need to wrap up. Then I’m headed to Florida. Nice weather year ‘round and it’s not a hundred and ten freaking degrees all summer.”

“Good luck. And, again, sorry about all the crap in Vegas. Sometimes my fuse is a little short.”

“Ya think?”

I grabbed a yellow notepad and package of cheap pens. “Good luck in Florida.”

“Thanks. Uh … one more thing I can tell you about Butler Farms I didn’t mention before, if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested.”

“That Bob Henderson guy; Betty Crocker’s got nothing on him as far as flakey goes. Just a feeling, but I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw that whole processing plant.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Like I said, just a feeling. But it’s a strong feeling.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“Nope. Just thought I’d run that by you. Take it for what it's worth. Maybe it will help.”

We exchanged polite goodbyes. I started to walk away but stopped after two steps. I turned to face Bishop again. “If you don’t mind, I was wondering about that …”

“Frat house,” he answered, apparently anticipating my curiosity about the scar on his cheek. “I was branded as a new member of. Upsilon Sigma. Hell, I doubt anyone in the frat even knew what the letters really stood. We weren’t exactly the brain trust on campus. As far as I know, it could have been a made-up name that sounded good at the time. We knew how to have too much fun and get into too much trouble—our mental skills went downhill real fast after that. We always said the letters stood for “us”—, you know, as in ‘all of us’. The poker cooled before they could burn in the ‘S’. At least that’s what they told me.”

“Lucky you.”

He rubbed his fingertips over his cheek and frowned. “Yeah, lucky me.”

“Pretty harsh hazing.”

“When you’re twenty years old and shit-faced, you don’t give a rat’s ass. You squeal like a pig for a few minutes, go into a drunken stupor and wake up fifteen hours later. Then you say ‘what the fuck?’ when you look in the mirror to find why your face hurts so damned much.”

I shook my head a couple of times as I rolled my eyes. So much for us being a civilized society. “Like I said, harsh hazing. Anyway, good luck in Florida.”

He nodded and we went our separate ways.

I pointed Patsy toward Truxton Avenue and guided her into the parking lot of the Beale Library. Before exiting my car, I took a couple of seconds to reflect on my brief conversation with Andy Bishop. I pondered his comments about Bob Henderson. Bishop sounded credible and I couldn’t dismiss his words from my thoughts. So far, my investigation had led me nowhere except back to the place I least wanted to go. And that was a bust. Bishop’s information was the only lead, if you could call it that, I had. It was better than the big pile of nothing I had otherwise.

My eyes were about to pop out of my head and fall onto the table after three hours of tedious searching. I looked up old newspaper clippings that mentioned Butler Farms in any way, skimmed a book detailing the history of the company and the Butler family. I’d hoped to find a reference to litigation in Butler Farms’ favor that might have invoked resentment against them. Or maybe a feud the family might have had with another company or in-family, or maybe stories about a significant computer hacking in recent years. All drew a blank. I tried not to be frustrated, but it was damned hard.

I hadn’t yet looked up Bob Henderson; I wanted to get all the other stuff out of the way first. I typed his full name, Robert Morris Henderson, into their database of local business executives and waited a second or two.

Well, how about that!

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