Southern Fried Chicanery

Chapter 1

Lang Travis was seated in his room wondering how the past influences the future. He had read about that somewhere. He was finishing up his third beer and thinking seriously of turning in for the night. The phrase, The Past is Prologue, darted through his head.

At that point his phone made its odd sound. He longed for the days when they simply rang. It was the mayor with the message, Lang, there’s been a bank robbery.

I don’t do bank robberies, Cotton. They generally solve themselves thanks to silent cameras stationed here and there.

This isn’t your garden variety bank robbery, Lang. By the way have you been drinking?

I just finished my third beer and was thinking about grabbing a few winks. That’s what your standard human does at this time of night.

I understand. So what I’d like you to do is come into work tomorrow. How about it?

I suppose. I was thinking about traveling to some remote tourist destination, but I can put that off.

Sure you can, Lang, Cotton laughed. You’re a home town boy. No place like Asheville. Right?

I suppose. I’ll be back on the clock early on. He signed off and hit the john before piling into bed. As his head hit the pillow, he muttered to himself with some displeasure, bank robbery.

Lang had been a top detective, one of Asheville’s finest, retired early and been granted the title of inspector in order to be called in on special cases on a part-time basis. He had an office at the cop shop and when present, shared a secretary with the chief. Intentional killings were not uncommon in the mountains of western North Carolina, but usually the perpetrator was readily identified. Travis was called in usually by the chief only on knotty cases and generally not at all on bank jobs.

With the call from Mayor Cotton Jones, Travis figured the cream of Asheville must be upset over this one, but why? Also he had not heard there had been a bank heist.

But there he was, in his office bright and early, asking Mae, the secretary, for coffee.

Your arm broken, Golden Boy, she replied in her usual fashion.

Ok, I’ll go to McDonald’s. Be back in an hour or so.

Hold your horses, Lang. The chief called for you minutes before you showed up. What the big deal is, I don’t know, but he’s briefed Schultz and Schultz is supposed to brief you.

Mae was a good hearted woman and had been with the department since the flood. The coffee arrived about the time Sergeant Schultz entered and plopped down in a chair across the desk from Travis.

Millions are missing from the Mountain National, Schultz stated, eyeing the coffee with longing. Mae sighed and said, I’ll bring you a cup. Oh, for a family and a loving household.

Millions, Travis repeated.

Over a period of time. Much of it in what they call bearer bonds. Like the name, anyone who possesses them can make the exchange for cash.

Schultz had a community college degree in some sort of law enforcement and was well spoken and seen to be something of an intellectual. In a strange juxtaposition, he was junior to the other cop generally assigned to Travis, Lt. Harley Swafford, a stout, muscular good old boy.

The department was generally struggling under its day to day constabulary duties, but used Travis full time and the other two part-time, in times of real or imagined emergency. Particularly when necessity required showing a good face to the public, always foremost in the mayor’s mind.

Exactly how much is missing, Travis inquired.

The fact is, Schultz replied, they don’t know.

You mean a bank, with all its bookkeeping, records, electronic scorekeepers, doesn’t know how much it’s lost?

Exactly, Schultz replied, then attempted to explain. Some of the financial instruments, so called, were there for safekeeping for individual depositors. Not deposits, but simply being held.

These bearer bonds plus other instruments were expected to grow in value, or did some pay dividends?

I don’t know. The bond market fluctuates depending on interest rates. Those with high rates are usually worth more than face value and so forth. But here’s the wild card. A percentage of the valuables were held in safe deposit boxes.

Travis, usually calm and collected, showed obvious surprise and disbelief. You mean safe deposit boxes were looted without the bank’s knowledge?

Exactly.

Who would have access to those boxes other than the renter?

Certain bank officials. One in particular, a long time trusted employee, Martha Baker.

Has she been questioned?

She bugged out, Lang. In the wind.

You’ve attempted to trace here?

No. The chief just briefed me. Of course Cotton wants a quick solution. He has country club friends and contributors. Just like always. So, how do we proceed?

Travis smiled. Find the woman as the French say. You want to give it a go? Meanwhile, I’ll simply ask around.

I’ll do the usual cop stuff, Schultz said, then settled back to finish his coffee. Both men chuckled. If this were a case of the haves against the have nots, the have nots just scored a big one. If I find this Martha Baker, Schultz added, Do you want me to arrest her or give her a medal?

If there’s any money left, the three of us might take a world cruise. Then next year we could go somewhere else.

Schultz went off to find Martha and Travis got a call from Garvy, a woman close to his own age with whom he kept company.

How about driving over and catching a play at Barter Theater? she suggested.

That’s in Virginia.

About an hour away.

I’ve got a large case.

I knew something was up. That’s why I’m calling you at the office as opposed to waking you up in your crummy room. What is it?

I don’t think I’m supposed to say. A delicate subject above my pay grade.

Well, you don’t sleuth 24-7. Barter has a musical comedy. Gerswin.

Actors are so phony.

That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that. What exactly do you mean. The stage suspends reality. We live a fantasy for a couple or three hours.

They’re like over-age children. They pose, they use odd voices, they walk funny.

You’re really on a roll, Trav. What about Shakespeare?

That’s authentic.

And that means what?

Real. Genuine. The McCoy.

I know you like Gilbert and Sullivan.

A couple of deceased geniuses. Find a play and I’ll go.

I’ll look around. I think you don’t want to ramble far from home in your declining years.

I think, rather than declining, I’m more inclined to do something more adventurous, something creative.

Such as, Garvy questioned.

Visiting one of the great chili cook-offs. Sampling the variations on the bowl of red as they’re called.

And what if you found one you liked?

Get the recipe. I’m certain they’re available.

And who would prepare such a dish?

Are you available?

Not for chili. Perhaps Blue would do your bidding.

Blue, full name Blue Berry, was the child of one of Travis’s best friends, a local attorney. He had befriended Blue as a child and the two had become coinfidantes. Her dad was ten years Lang’s senior, but still Blue was quite a few years younger than he. Despite that they had become on again, off again lovers. She a successful artist lived some miles away in Highlands.

Oddly enough Garvy and Blue had become friends and were aware that they shared Travis because he possessed certain qualities. He was solid, reliable, not flighty, usually found in his dingy room at a B&B near the downtown area. Something of a utility man.

The details of this case I will leave to others to reveal, Garvy, but if you care to join in the effort, please attempt to find the whereabouts of a woman named Martha Baker, a former trusted employee of the Mountain National Bank.

She robbed the bank and fled, Garvy said flatly.

Not as simple as that.

I know that woman slightly, met her somewhere.

All older residents of Asheville seem to know one another slightly, but do not bandy it about that she is a bank robber, or a felon of any variety. If you stumble on her whereabouts call me. In the meantime let us plan on getting together for dinner, or some theatrical adventure to both our liking.

Like a movie, Garvy said in certain tone of voice.

Like a movie, Travis responded. Where the actors talk like down to earth folks, or break into spontaneous song and dance.

"We could rent fliks and see The Music Man, or The Sound of Music," or still better, Mary Poppins."

I sense a tone of irony, but with enough popcorn, I believe we might find wholesome enjoyment in such endeavors. We might even hold butter salted hands during the performances.

I’ll check film schedules and my social calendar and get back to you. With that the conversation effectively was over.

It took three days of Schultz, Travis and Garvy asking subtle and and non-subtle questions, but it was Garvy who turned up a niece living in Old Fort, just down the mountain from Asheville.

Garvy agreed to ride along with Travis in case things needed to be smoothed over. They arrived about mid-morning at Irma Baker’s low income apartment complex, three buildings surrounding a parking lot and partially landscaped area.

After twice ringing the door bell and ready to give up, the door was opened by a sleepy eyed young woman.

She gave them the once over, then said, Jehovas Witnesses.

Sorry, Travis said, smiling, I’m an Asheville policeman and this is Garvy, a friend of a friend of yours. We’re trying to find your aunt, Martha Baker.

Irma hesitated, frowned slightly, then asked, Do you have identification?

Travis handed her his badge and photo ID. Garvy fumbled in her purse for her driver’s license, but Irma said, Don’t bother. She invited them inside and motioned to a couch, taking a seat in an overstuffed chair.

I work third shift at a nursing home. Low man on the totem pole. Also studying to be a nurse. Why are you looking for Martha?

Some bookkeeping problems at the bank, Travis replied.

Irma grinned. Possible fraud?

Possibly.

Aunt Martha was very frightened when she left Asheville. Hurriedly, I might add. I got a letter from her a few days ago. She asked if I would watch television news and if possible read the Asheville paper for any news about the bank, her bank.

Mountain National, Travis added.

Of course. I think she thought no one knew about me, living in Old Fort and all. But I sense that she is still frightened and a little desperate.

You know her whereabouts?

I do. But should I inform the law? She shrugged slightly.

Good question, Travis said. You’ve volunteered that you know where she is. I suppose I could drag you into court under some pretext. However, you’re a good citizen, there is no cause to arrest your aunt at this time. None that I know of, that is. Except, to be honest, banks funds are missing. I don’t want it to come up later that I lied to you. So, you’re at the plate.

It is a brain teaser, Irma said, obviously conflicted.

Garvy tried to think of something helpful to say, but nothing instantly came to mind. Finally, she attempted to review the situation. You say Martha was and is frightened. You might wonder if she is a fleeing felon, or simply a victim of circumstance. That there is much we don’t know.

Irma nodded in agreement. That about sums it up. So, do I want to rat my aunt out. That’s what it boils down to.

Or do you want to save your aunt’s life if she is in danger, Travis said.

She is alone and may need protection, Irma agreed. So I will take the coward’s way out. I’ll tell you where she is if you don’t disclose where it came from.

The niece rose and went to an old style plantation desk, opened the lid and rummaged around before coming up with a slip of paper. You have paper, she asked Travis. He nodded and produced a small notebook and pen. She gave him a street address, repeated it twice while he scribbled, then the town, Serena, a small town not far from San Jose, Costa Rica.

Replacing the paper in the desk, Irma said sadly, I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing. This whole business is a tragic mess. Martha was a respected member of the community.

Costa Rica, Travis repeated the words. I suppose that makes some sense. I’ve heard there’s a gathering of American retirees down there. English must be commonly spoken.

Aunt Martha speaks Spanish, Irma said. Four years in college then vacations to parts of Mexico and at least one trip to Spain. A bit rusty, but it should come back.

I’m sure it will, Garvy chimed in, then turning to Travis, We’d better be running along.

Chapter 2

Travis waited until the next morning to inform the chief who sent him trotting off to the mayor’s office.

Cotton Jones pondered the situation for a long moment, then said, So the mouse slips away from the cat.

That’s one way to put it, Travis said, smiling, there must be others.

Right you are, Lang. Ever read that poem about different ways to look at a blackbird?

Can’t say that I have. Does that bear on the case.

"Probably not, but it would seem to mean different ways to express things. I’m