Inscribe

MISS DAWSON LIVED off of Birchwood Lane, or what’s called the rich side of town. We drove down a road of freshly cut grass, perfectly trimmed hedges, front yard flower gardens, and wraparound porches. Homeowners sipped iced tea and lemonade on their patios while hired hands pulled weeds.

The car rode smoothly over the blacktop. Not a bump or crack in sight. Damon and I joked about how nice easy living must have been. Not having a care in the world. Not worrying about whether the bills would get paid.

I had a carefree childhood. My parents showed no signs of struggling to make ends meet. We always had food on the table, shoes on our feet. When hard times hit, the community banded together, carried each other. My father used to talk about the importance of community. I missed that part of my life. I missed my father’s words of wisdom.

We pulled up the driveway to Miss Dawson’s house and parked in front of the garage. The sun reflected off of the gray roof and white vinyl. I glanced up at the second floor of the two-story home as I passed the potted plants. One brick step lead to the covered porch.

Damon rang the doorbell as I studied the layout. Two rocking chairs rested in the middle, separated by a wooden table. An American flag hung over the baluster. An aluminum can sat at the base of the door, housing a bouquet. It added a splash of color to the monotonous whites and grays.

My attention shifted as the door swung open. She stood behind the glass, sweeping her curls away from her face. “Detectives, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“We apologize for just showing up, but we wanted to speak with you regarding Otto Müller.”

She rolled her eyes as a heavy sigh parted her lips. “Very well, come on in.” She unlocked the screen door and backed away from the entrance. “I was hoping to never hear that name again.”

The house looked smaller on the inside. A few feet separated the dining table from the couch. One side of the room included a wall of single-hung windows covered with a ceiling to floor curtain. The open floor plan continued, with the kitchen being toward the back.

Miss Dawson took a seat in the dining area. Damon and I joined her as she ran her fingers over one of the cloth napkins.

“What happened with Prosper and Stand?”

“First off, my initial meeting was with Rainer. I actually felt sorry for him after I met Otto. He was a nice guy. Used to come to the poetry readings. That’s how he found the poets for his collection. It wasn’t until we all got our contracts that the problems started.”

“So, you weren’t the only one who had a problem?”

“No, it was all of us. We thought they’d offer more, since they asked requested multiple poems. The price on the contract didn’t reflect that. I, myself, submitted six. Others contributed way more.”

“How did you end up taking the lead? Otto made it seem like you were the only one who had an issue.”

“Rainer and I had good rapport with each other. Everyone noticed, so they felt I should be their spokesperson. The initial conversation was with him. He didn’t have a problem with paying us more. Otto did. I agreed to meet with him alone, but he brought a team of lawyers. That started an argument, and I left. That was when I contacted Mr. Machol.”

“Did you meet him through Rayco Sanz?”

“Rayco!” She burst into laughter. “That arrogant prick? Hell no. Honestly, I don’t know who’s worse, Rayco or Otto. They’re cut from the same cloth.”

I studied her demeanor as we discussed Rayco. She shuffled in her chair, adjusting her shirt before running her fingers through her hair.

“How did you and Mr. Machol meet?”

“We met at a fundraiser at the Hopkins Arts Foundation. They have an annual benefit to raise money for galleries and bookstores. That year they added the Ransom Poetry Slam. It’s also a good way for local artist to get together and network.”

“And a good way for him to get clients. What year was this fundraiser?”

“Oh, that would have been a couple of years ago. It was right before the poetry collection was published.” Karlee shot out of her chair as her phone rang. She ran to the couch, grabbing her cell off of the cushion. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to take this call. It’s business related.”

Damon finished taking notes as I headed toward the front door. “Thanks for meeting with us.”

“No problem. Let me give you my number in case you have anymore questions.” She removed my notepad from my hand and the ink pen from my jacket pocket. “Or if you just want to get together.” A faint smile peeked through as she handed me the pad and pen.

“How do you know Rayco?”

“Oh,” she said, placing her hand on her chest. “We went to the same art school. We didn’t hang out or anything like that. I couldn’t stand him. Believe it or not, he’s mellowed down some since then.”

Damon scurried toward us as I cleared my throat and exited the house. “Oh, before I forget, did Otto, at any point, threaten you?”

“Yeah. He said he knew people who could take care of me.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes. I mean, after all, he’s friends with the mayor.”

Damon and I walked to the car, climbed inside, and sunk into the seats. “Is there something we don’t know about the mayor?”

“You’ve lived here longer than me.”

“I know, but I don’t remember hearing anything bad about him. He hangs out with a lot of shady characters, though.” Damon said as he backed out the driveway.

We drove back the way we came–Birchwood Lane. My eyes focused on the beautiful forest. A part of Kenric bridge was visible from the road.

“Speak of the devil.”

My focus shifted to the car pulling out in front of us. Mayor Briggs drew attention to himself by owning a Rolls Royce Cullinan. I often wondered how he afforded it, but figured if no one was asking questions, neither should I. “Follow him.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Just stay far enough behind so he doesn’t notice.”

Damon let a couple of cars merge into the lane as he made a sharp turn onto Green Street. College students flooded the campus, some venturing across the street slowing traffic. “Shit! We’re going to lose him.”

The vehicle sped into the college parking lot, unblocking our view. I pointed to Mayor Briggs’ car as he parked in front of The Art Plaza. Damon pulled into the salon’s lot. We had a perfect view of him from there.

Mayor Briggs exited his car, but he didn’t get far. Otto Müller pushed open the front door of the gallery and advanced toward him. His arms flailed around as his eyes darkened. He pointed at the building as Mayor Briggs placed his hand on his hips.

“What are these two up to?” Damon said as he leaned up on the steering wheel.

Mayor Briggs removed his suit jacket and threw it on his car’s hood. His fingers stretched in Otto’s direction as he inched closer to him. Otto stretched forth his arm, blocking him.

Damon’s phone rang. “We’re on our way back right now. Alright.” Captain wants at back at the station.

My eyes remained fixed on Otto and Briggs as Damon sped out of the parking lot and merged onto Birch Lane.