Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel by Arlette Lees Page B
Authors: Arlette Lees
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Penelope hurry from the building. The girl has a dangerous condition known as, ‘insatiable curiosity.’ The accountant steps from the shadows as the housekeeping staff arrives in the lobby.
“Jesus,” she says. The head janitor turns her way.
“Si, Senorita?”
“I just saw a woman flee the building.”
“You’re the only one I see tonight, Senorita Greiss.”
“I distinctly saw Miss Hanover leave the records room.”
“At this time of night?”
“That’s what concerns me. I’d better make sure everything’s in order. From now on, lock the doors when your crew is at work.”
“What about you?”
“You needn’t worry, Jesus. I have my own key.”
Hedy snaps on the overhead in the record’s room. The file cabinet is closed, but not locked. Even if Penny looked at the files, she wouldn’t know what to look for. Then again, it’s a chance Hedy isn’t willing to take. On the desktop is a metal ring with Hanover’s car key and the key to Bungalow 5. How considerate of the little idiot to leave her calling card at the scene of the crime. Now she’s locked out of her cabin and her car.
Hedy goes through the drawers of the desk, not sure what she’s looking for. She finds a jar holding petty cash. There’s about twenty dollars in bills and a handful of change. She pockets the bills, hides the jar inside her coat and returns to the lobby.
“I’m afraid we have a thief in our midst,” she says, dangling Penny’s keys from her fingers. Now the petty cash is missing.”
“You want I should wake up Mr. Churchwell?”
“I’ll take care of it, Jesus. You may, however, be asked to sign a witness statement.”
CHAPTER 8
Five days out of Oklahoma and Ed Thompson pulls the flatbed next to a ditch outside Santa Paulina. If the truck holds up, they’ll turn west at Manteca, go through the Altamont Pass and on to Castroville to work the winter crops.
Ed’s wife, Anna, and his three daughters climb stiffly from the back of the truck while Ed and son Frankie raise the hood. The engine snaps and pings in the stillness. Frankie wraps his hand in a mechanic’s rag and carefully works the radiator cap, releasing a rush of angry steam.
The girls double over in breathless laughter as their terrier, Speedy, gives the one-legged salute to every roadside weed. Anna smiles behind the Bible that seldom leaves her hand. The dog bounds down the side of the ditch, lapping and splashing in the few inches of water at the bottom. Within minutes he’s worked his way thirty feet down the highway.
Father and son light their corncob pipes and give the truck a rest, the radiator hissing at their backs. They talk quietly and study the map, the breeze blowing cinders from the bowls of their pipes. They smoke in comfortable silence while the engine cools, then tap their pipes clean. Ed tops off the radiator from a jug of water and Frankie tightens the ropes that secure the sum of their worldly possessions to the shell of the truck… bed frames…wash tubs…a crate of laying hens…you name it.
“Okay, everyone back in the truck,” says Ed.
“Speedy won’t come, Daddy,” says Dona.
“Go fetch him, Frankie. We gotta get going.”
Frankie walks along the roadside, slides down the bank and finds Speedy pawing at a raggedy blue jacket in the few inches of water at the bottom. He kneels down for a closer look and nudges Speedy aside. Inside the jacket is a small, thin boy, cold and lifeless. A knit cap and school book lie nearby. The dog looks up at Frankie and whines.
“It’s okay, Speedy,” but it isn’t okay at all. Speedy noses the dead boy’s hand and licks his cheek, the same way he wakes the girls for school back home. Sensing something isn’t quite right, Ed walks down the gravel shoulder. Frankie looks up, shakes his head and gives his father a silent communication so as not to upset his little sisters.
“Come out of the ditch, son, and leave things as they are,” he says. Frankie gathers up the
“Jesus,” she says. The head janitor turns her way.
“Si, Senorita?”
“I just saw a woman flee the building.”
“You’re the only one I see tonight, Senorita Greiss.”
“I distinctly saw Miss Hanover leave the records room.”
“At this time of night?”
“That’s what concerns me. I’d better make sure everything’s in order. From now on, lock the doors when your crew is at work.”
“What about you?”
“You needn’t worry, Jesus. I have my own key.”
Hedy snaps on the overhead in the record’s room. The file cabinet is closed, but not locked. Even if Penny looked at the files, she wouldn’t know what to look for. Then again, it’s a chance Hedy isn’t willing to take. On the desktop is a metal ring with Hanover’s car key and the key to Bungalow 5. How considerate of the little idiot to leave her calling card at the scene of the crime. Now she’s locked out of her cabin and her car.
Hedy goes through the drawers of the desk, not sure what she’s looking for. She finds a jar holding petty cash. There’s about twenty dollars in bills and a handful of change. She pockets the bills, hides the jar inside her coat and returns to the lobby.
“I’m afraid we have a thief in our midst,” she says, dangling Penny’s keys from her fingers. Now the petty cash is missing.”
“You want I should wake up Mr. Churchwell?”
“I’ll take care of it, Jesus. You may, however, be asked to sign a witness statement.”
CHAPTER 8
Five days out of Oklahoma and Ed Thompson pulls the flatbed next to a ditch outside Santa Paulina. If the truck holds up, they’ll turn west at Manteca, go through the Altamont Pass and on to Castroville to work the winter crops.
Ed’s wife, Anna, and his three daughters climb stiffly from the back of the truck while Ed and son Frankie raise the hood. The engine snaps and pings in the stillness. Frankie wraps his hand in a mechanic’s rag and carefully works the radiator cap, releasing a rush of angry steam.
The girls double over in breathless laughter as their terrier, Speedy, gives the one-legged salute to every roadside weed. Anna smiles behind the Bible that seldom leaves her hand. The dog bounds down the side of the ditch, lapping and splashing in the few inches of water at the bottom. Within minutes he’s worked his way thirty feet down the highway.
Father and son light their corncob pipes and give the truck a rest, the radiator hissing at their backs. They talk quietly and study the map, the breeze blowing cinders from the bowls of their pipes. They smoke in comfortable silence while the engine cools, then tap their pipes clean. Ed tops off the radiator from a jug of water and Frankie tightens the ropes that secure the sum of their worldly possessions to the shell of the truck… bed frames…wash tubs…a crate of laying hens…you name it.
“Okay, everyone back in the truck,” says Ed.
“Speedy won’t come, Daddy,” says Dona.
“Go fetch him, Frankie. We gotta get going.”
Frankie walks along the roadside, slides down the bank and finds Speedy pawing at a raggedy blue jacket in the few inches of water at the bottom. He kneels down for a closer look and nudges Speedy aside. Inside the jacket is a small, thin boy, cold and lifeless. A knit cap and school book lie nearby. The dog looks up at Frankie and whines.
“It’s okay, Speedy,” but it isn’t okay at all. Speedy noses the dead boy’s hand and licks his cheek, the same way he wakes the girls for school back home. Sensing something isn’t quite right, Ed walks down the gravel shoulder. Frankie looks up, shakes his head and gives his father a silent communication so as not to upset his little sisters.
“Come out of the ditch, son, and leave things as they are,” he says. Frankie gathers up the
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