Slightly Irregular (11 page)

Calling it a home was a stretch. It was a trailer with a curled and dented aluminum skirt. Twelve dogs came rushing toward my car, some barking, some growling, all scary. There were two cars on the side of the house. Both had weeds jutting up through them. On the opposite side was an older-model truck with as much rust as paint under a crudely constructed carport. Well, it wasn’t a carport so much as it was four metal poles with a worn and torn tarp across the top. There was a kiddy pool in the front yard, flanked by two Barcaloungers, both with springs popping through the fabric. The same was true of the sofa on the porch. As I slowed my car to a stop, Cujo and company continued to bark and growl. When the screen door opened, I was hoping it was the owner. It was, but he wasn’t alone. His companion was a really large shotgun.

Work is a four-letter word; working hard is just stupid.

Needless to say, I
wasn’t feeling wrapped in the warmth of his welcome. Like the man at the gas station, the armed bozo wore a stained wife-beater and had that pregnant-man physique going on. What little hair he had was swept over to one side. It was gray and as dull as his washed-out brown eyes.

The dogs continued their attack on my car while the man on the porch cradled the gun like an infant. I could hear more dogs in the distance and wondered if they were the understudies for the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Great. Dogs with a side order of more dogs.

Just behind armed guy I could make out a shape in the shadows of the tattered screen door. I wanted to slam my car into reverse and head back the way I’d come when he placed his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loud enough to be heard over the hum of my car engine.

The pack of matted, mangy dogs instantly raced toward him.
The unseen pack in the distance still barked and snarled, but even after a scan of my surroundings—such as they were—I couldn’t seem to locate them. With the visible dogs heeled, I felt comfortable enough to depress the button, opening my window little more than a crack. “Mr. Bollan?” I asked politely.

He nodded as the ears on two of the hounds lifted alertly.

“Who’s asking?”

I had to tilt my head to one side so my lips were closer to the narrow space I’d created. I gave him a quick explanation. He rested the gun against the aluminum home and started walking toward me. A woman stepped out from inside the trailer and followed closely on his heels. She appeared far friendlier, quite a feat given that what I could see of her gray hair was up in pink foam curlers and her attire consisted of a faded paisley housedress and slippers that scuffed the dusty ground with each step.

I so didn’t want to leave the relative safety of my car. Reluctantly, I opened the door, my eyes fixed on the six dogs watching my every move. I have a history with dogs, and it isn’t good.

Mr. and—I assumed—Mrs. Bollan walked past the garden of fake flowers and weathered lawn ornaments until we met on neutral ground.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, offering me a sun-leathered hand with dirt and God only knew what else crusted beneath his nails.

I quelled the urge to reach for the Purell in my purse after we briefly shook hands.

“Call me Sleepy and this here is the wife, Wanda Jean.”

“Miss,” she said as she reached around her husband’s girth. “Did I hear correctly? Mr. Walter passed?” she asked.

“Three years ago,” I answered as I felt the first trickle of perspiration slithering down my back.

“We didn’t know.” Wanda spoke for both of them.

Fine with me since I was in no hurry to get a second glance at Sleepy’s three yellowed teeth. I reached back and pulled out my briefcase, dug out the money order, and said, “My firm represents Lenora Egghardt, and until she received this”—I paused and passed Sleepy the money order—“she had no idea anyone was living on the property.”

I think Sleepy scowled. Hard to tell since a serious overbite made him look like a perplexed beaver. Then he explained, “We’ve been here for near on thirty-five years. Used to tend the groves until the canker came a few years back. Now we farm sugarcane and run a few head of cattle.”

“Sleepy,” Wanda interrupted with a smidge of irritation, “let’s go inside where we’ll all be more comfortable.”

I didn’t have high hopes for that option, but I followed along and pretended I didn’t smell the stench of sweaty dog and grease.

The smell of the cooking grease was stronger in the trailer, and once I spied the pots on the stove, I figured I’d taken Wanda away from preparing the evening meal. Two flies zipped around the room, occasionally stopping long enough to visit the flour-dusted chicken thighs sitting out on the chipped Formica counter. Some sort of greens that looked more like they belonged on the shoulder of I-95 sat in a colander near the sink. A thick, yellowish cloud of smoke hung in the air.

“Have a seat,” Wanda said, pointing to an animal-hair-covered chair near the window air-conditioning unit that had
dripped condensation down the wall. “Let me get you some iced tea.”

Just to be polite, I said thank you even though I would have preferred coffee. At least with a hot beverage I had the possibility of boiling off some cooties. I perched myself on the very edge of the dirty chair and began taking all the documentation for Walter Egghardt’s estate out of my briefcase.

After handing me a plastic cup of tea, Wanda and Sleepy sat down, swiveling their seats away from the small television balanced on an old orange crate. A cable box teetered atop the machine. Grabbing a remote off the armrest, Sleepy muted
Judge Judy
.

“I need to get some information,” I began. “And I’ll need to see your lease.”

“We don’t have no lease,” Sleepy said, his tone defensive. “Walter and me was in ’Nam together. That’s when he offered to let me live on this land. We got pinned down in Dak To in ’67. Walter got hit, and after I carried him to the aid station, we, well, we was friends from then on.”

“And you came to live on this property because …?”

Sleepy shrugged and scratched his sizable belly as he took a long pull on a can of generic beer. “We was as different as night and day. Me? My kin ain’t rich like Walter was, so once we were back stateside, he said I could live here. Came back once with some hot redhead in his car. That’s when he gave me a letter that lets me live on this land for life.”

Not good. Not at all good. “So you’re not related to Walter? But you do have a letter or know the name of the woman who was with him?”

“Got the letter someplace. He even had it notaried and all official. The redhead just sat in his car. Never knew her name.”

I checked the urge to correct “notaried” to notarized. Hopefully the letter wasn’t legally binding on Walter’s heir.

“There may not have been no blood bond,” Wanda added. “Mr. Walter’s always been good to us. She reached behind her on the windowsill and took a framed photograph down and handed it to me. “Raised all eight of our children right here.”

I tried to imagine the trailer holding ten people.

“This is L.D., short for Little Donald.”

I glanced at the picture, and “little” would have been the last adjective I’d use to describe the rotund, balding man in the back row.

Wanda continued, “Then Walt, after Walter. Next is Homer—he works as a firefighter in Montana. Lorraine, she’s a nurse. Mary-Claire is raising her own family. This pretty one,” Wanda stopped and stroked the cheek of the girl in the shot, “that’s my Penny.” Wanda’s eyes seemed to inexplicably mist over. “Got us five grandbabies so far. Duane is in the navy, and last is Mitzi. She’s the baby, and we’re real proud of her. Mitzi just finished her third year at the community college.”

“You have a lovely family,” I fudged as I returned the photo. “I’m not sure how to explain this, but Walter dying has changed things.”

“How?” Sleepy asked, his eyes narrowed to beads.

“Well, Mr. Egghardt died without a will, so his niece inherited all of his estate, including this parcel of land.”

Wanda looked at me with bulging, alienesque eyes while Walter just looked really pissed. Red blotches rose from his neck
to his face, and I was very,
very
glad the shotgun was out on the porch.

“Me and Walter had an agreement,” Sleepy insisted. “I don’t see how him dying changes that.”

Now I could hear a stereo chorus of barking and growling dogs. Acoustically, I realized some were in the backyard and others were mere feet away with their snouts pressed against the screen door. Obviously, they’d picked up on their master’s displeasure. I was growing uneasy, wondering if the animals were plotting to attack.

Again Sleepy whistled, and the porch hounds fell silent. The backyard dogs just kept on yelping, growling, and barking. It was hard for me to concentrate, especially when a cat came out of nowhere and snaked its way through my ankles. It had harsh, brittle hair and a jagged scar down its face, leaving it with only one eye and part of one ear.

Wanda made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Come here Lucky,” she coaxed.

“Lucky?” I asked as I watched the cat cross the three or four feet separating us. The thing had more scars on its body, and its tail was little more than a calico nub.

Wanda smiled. “She was a stray. A few years back she got into the kennels. Of course, we hurried out and got her when we heard the ruckus”

“Of course,” I murmured, as Lucky, now occupying Wanda’s lap, gave me a cycloptic glare.

“We fixed her up best we could but didn’t think she would make it. But she’s tough,” Wanda said, scratching the cat between the ear and a half. “That’s why we call her Lucky.”

I’d been there too long because the explanation made perfect sense. It fit that these people wouldn’t do vets. From the decor—early 1970s greens, browns, and avocados—and the antiquated appliances—who doesn’t have a microwave?—and all the other knickknacks, I guessed the Bollans had little if any income.

“What happens with the proceeds from our sugarcane?” Sleepy asked. “We’ve lived here since the late sixties. Raised all them kids here. You trying to tell me some woman we’ve never met can toss us out? Just like that?”

“It would help if you could find any documentation you have from Mr. Egghardt. And I can assure you,” I began as I rose and started for the door, “we’ll do everything possible to bring this to an amicable resolution.”

“Sound like a load of crap to me,” Sleepy grumbled, not moving an inch as I walked past him.

“Sleepy, mind yourself. This young lady is only doing her job.”

I reluctantly stepped onto the porch, fully prepared to pick up the shotgun and start picking off the herd of vicious dogs. I was spared that unpleasant task by Wanda Jean, who also had perfected the two-fingered, piercing whistle.

The dogs chased me halfway back to the main road. It wasn’t until I saw them in my rearview mirror that I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

Glancing at the dashboard clock, I decided to call Ellen and give her the update. It was four fifty, so there was no way I was going to go back to the office. I pressed the preprogrammed number for the firm.

“Dane, Lieberman, Zarnowski and Caprelli. How may I direct your call?” Margaret greeted in a much friendlier voice than when she normally spoke to me.

“This is Finley calling for Ellen.”

“Oh.” Now I got the tone. “I’m afraid she’s gone for the day. May I connect you to her voice mail?”

“Yes.” I intentionally waited for Margaret to transfer the call, knowing full well I wasn’t going to leave a message. Childishly, I just wanted to force her to take that extra step.

It took me just under a half hour to get back to my place. The sun was still hanging in the sky, and the humidity had picked up considerably. Even though I’d worked up a sweat, I was dying to go through Ellen’s donation bags.

My trunk smelled like cedar, but I smelled like stale tobacco and wet dog, so I had to give that one to the trunk. With some effort, I was able to move all the stuff from the trunk to my house without dropping anything.

After depositing the four bags in the center of the great room, I went back out to the car to retrieve my cell phone. I pressed the little icon for voice mail as I returned to the cottage.

The first was from Jane. She’d forgotten an appointment and hoped I wouldn’t mind pushing dinner back to seven thirty. I texted her back to say that since she was supplying the moo shu, she could name her terms.

A small trickle of hurt mixed with anger slithered along my spine. I know it was stupid, but I still wasn’t over the whole Liam-took-me-home-and-tucked-me-in scenario. That said, I also knew it was important for me to move past it. My friendship
with Jane would last long enough that in a few years, we probably wouldn’t even remember Liam’s name.

Only right now I did remember his name. And the hooded sensuality in his gaze. And the chiseled outline of a tanned, sculpted six-pack that made LL Cool J look like a slacker.

I gave myself a mental smack. No lust, no problem.

Not a chance in hell.

As I walked toward my bedroom, I used one hand to brace myself against the wall as I slipped off my shoes. They were cute as sin but the very definition of “killer heels.” I stopped long enough to massage my insteps, then changed into an ankle-length, fuchsia halter sundress with tiny white flowers embroidered on the straps and at the hemline.