Murder Doesn't Figure. Fred Yorg
pulled up in front of my house and we both got out of the truck. I pulled my Ford Explorer out of the driveway as Dave unhooked the Triumph from the tow truck. We were now on the other side of the road, and we decided the most sensible way to get the car into the driveway was to push it in. Dave positioned himself on the driver’s side of the car, one hand on the wheel and the other on car. I was in the back of the car, ready for Dave’s order. He waited while a half dozen cars passed by us, and then gave me the green light. One good thing about the Triumph, it was light, and we shot across the road with minimal effort, to the back of the driveway.
“Thanks for all your help Dave, I really appreciate it. What do I owe you?”
“After the day you had nothing. Don’t even think of paying me. Oh, one more thing, you may want to turn on the car, to see if there is anything wrong with the engine.”
“Good idea,” I replied. As I turned the key the engine purred and the tape player blasted. Both Dave and I just broke up in laughter at the song. It was Warren Zevon’s classic, “Send Money, Guns, and Lawyers.”
“You still want me to remind you, about calling the lawyer?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I had to laugh at the timing and irony of the song. It actually picked up my spirits. Listening to the lyrics, couldn’t have been more prophetic. I’m sure God was looking down on me, having a good laugh at my expense. Before Dave pulled away he asked the grim question that I had been struggling to answer.
“Who do you think cut your brake lines?”
“I’m not really sure. Logic dictates it was the same person that killed Von Klamer. The only people that I saw at Von Klamers were his housekeeper, Hilda, and the gardener. If I were the police they’d be the ones I’d be looking at.”
“Which one would do you think killed Von Klamer? Who would you put your money on?”
“I can’t really say. I don’t even know how Von Klamer was killed. If he was poisoned my money would be on Hilda. If he was strangled or beaten to death, I’d have to say the gardener.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Sure I’m curious. But right now all I want to do is go in the house, lay down, and pretend this never happened.”
“Fred, one last time, are you sure you don’t want me to drive you down to the hospital? That cut on your head looks nasty.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a scratch. I’ll just pour a little bourbon on it and pull it closed with a tight bandage.”
“Sounds like something your father would say. Well if I can’t talk you into doing the sensible thing and going down to the hospital, I might just as well get out of here. Give me a call if I you change your mind.”
“Thanks Dave, I appreciate it.”
As Dave pulled away, I waved good bye. He returned the wave and continued to the stop light at the corner, where he made the right hand turn and disappeared. After the events of the day, it was a relief to be back home. I walked up the front steps and entered the house, where I found Tuxedo marking time on the couch. I was actually glad to see him, although I rather doubt the cat shared my sentiments. He jumped off the couch, gave me the cold shoulder and then walked into the dining room. He was still pissed off at being locked in the house all day. After the day I had, there was no way I was going to kiss his ass. I ignored him and went over to the phone to make my first call.
I figured it made sense to make the most important call first, so I called the mechanic, Pat Melli.
It was now 6:00 p.m. and I figured he’d be home from work. Pat picked up the phone on the fourth ring, and recited a rather unenthusiastic, “Hello.”
“Hello Pat, this is Fred Dansk, how are you doing?”
“Not bad, what can I do for you?”
“I need a favor, someone cut the brake lines on my Triumph.”
“Cut the brake lines?” he said incredulously. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Well believe it. When do you think you can get around to fixing it?”
“How about tomorrow night around 6:00 p.m.? I’ll come by right after work.”
“That’s great, I appreciate it.”
Before Pat signed off, he and I double-checked the make, model and year of the car, so he could insure that he ordered the right parts. The first call went well. I was hoping I could repeat the success on my next call.
Unfortunately, the second call would have to wait, Tuxedo was hounding me for food. There would be no peace in my world until he was attended to. I got up from the couch and made my way into the kitchen. I opened a can of Whiskas and presented the dish to the finicky cat. Although this was not his favorite brand, it was going to have to do.
Before I made the second call I needed a drink. The head wound from the crash was really starting to throb and my nerves weren’t in the best of shape either. I grabbed a glass and proceeded to pour a healthy dose of Old Grand Dad bourbon. I sat back on the couch with my drink in hand and reflected back on the day’s events. I kept asking myself, where did it all go wrong? By the time I was halfway through the drink, I still hadn’t answered the question, then the cat returned. He was hell bent on tormenting me, until I got up and let him out. In all fairness, he had been cooped up all day in the house, and I’m sure in his mind it didn’t seem fair. It’s unlikely, that he would accept my reasoning that it was for his own good. Hopefully by now, he’d forgotten the unpleasant incident with the raccoon earlier this morning. But deep down I knew that Tuxedo was one to hold a grudge and he did have a long memory.
Against my better judgement, I let him out. As he swaggered through the sliding glass door, he turned and gave me one last look of disdain.
With him out of the way, I returned to the quiet serenity of my bourbon and the couch. Time to make the second call. I went to my phone book, looked up Pam’s home number and made the call. Pam picked up on the second ring.
“Hello,” she said in a cheerful voice. Now this was the real Pam that I knew; cheerful, confident, bright, not at all like the imposter I had met with, earlier in the day.
“Hi Pam this is Fred.”
“Hi Fred, I want to apologize, for this morning. I don’t know what came over me. I was actually afraid to see Von Klamer again. Can you believe it? How did your meeting go with him? Did you find out, what he wanted?” she asked in rapid fire.
“The meeting went okay, I’m still not sure I fully know what he wanted.”
“When are you going to see him again?”
“I’m not. Von Klamer is dead.”
There was now silence on the other end of the phone. I gave Pam about thirty seconds to let the news sink in. “Pam are you still with me?”
“Fred, if this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t funny.”