Penny's Pass The Story - Part 8.

Deputy Marandina was used to being underestimated; it didn’t faze him, in fact he saw it as an advantage. When people underestimated you, they got careless around you. And sometimes, when they got careless, they said things they shouldn’t. As a consequence, he knew more about the people of Mornington Heights than they realised. He knew his boss was a lazy, corrupt, closeted redneck. He knew that Oliver and Jenny Padget spent their nights under the same roof. And he knew that Jenny Padget’s so-called husband was not only not married to her, he wasn’t married to anyone — he’d been dead for five weeks; stabbed in the neck at the penitentiary by his cell mate. 

    And he was pretty sure that Amos Snodgrass had something very valuable in his safe. Or at least he ‘had’ — past tense. And that was most likely the reason for his disappearance.

    He shifted his big frame in his seat and looked over at Sheriff Milton’s office. The door was still closed and Gideon Milton was having another animated conversation with someone on the other end of the telephone, his grubby hat wobbling precariously every time his jaw moved.

    Marandina went back to his notes. Follow the money, he thought. It stood to reason it was about money. It was always sex or money, and he couldn’t see how sex figured in Amos Snodgrass’s case.

    If Amos Snodgrass had in fact been kidnapped by Mossad, why had they roughed him up? Maybe whatever he had in his safe belonged to them, and they wanted it back? But that didn’t figure, if they’d already taken whatever it was from the safe, that would be the end of it. Why beat the old guy up? 

    And then there was the counterfeit bag of cash. Could that be related to Amos too? 

    The deputy had seen his Sheriff's eyes glisten with greed when that suitcase of cash came in to the evidence room. He’d almost salivated over the thick wads of notes; fake or not. Marandina knew that if it had been Milton walking by the river that day, the money would never have arrived at the station at all.

    He picked up his desk phone and punched in Polanski’s extension number. Polanski’s desk was only a few feet away but Marindina felt a senior deputy shouldn’t have to walk over to a junior deputy’s desk to get information when that junior deputy should, by rights, have reported back by now. There was a way things should work. 

    Nothing from the traffic cameras yet. Maybe Mossad had those trick number plates like James Bond’s Aston Martin. He loved James Bond, that was how an enforcer of the law should really behave; cool, charming, sophisticated; and deadly. He narrowed his eyes in  an effort to look more like an English spy. Time to pay Oliver Padget a visit he decided. He stood up and stretched, squaring his impressive shoulders and smoothing his shirt front down. He took his hat and checked himself in the mirror before leaving the building and walking the short distance to Padget’s house. He was careful to measure his stride and keep his back straight. You never knew who was watching.

 

Padget let him and offered him a drink, which he refused. Likewise the chair. He preferred to stand, feeling it gave him authority. He was a big man and he liked people to see that.

    “Let me get straight to the point Mr Padget.” He said.

    “Oliver please.” Padget smiled unctuously.

    Marandina ignored him.

    “What exactly is your relationship with Jenny Padget?” He said.

    Padget looked a little startled, which pleased Marandina.

    “Ah, well, ahem,” Padget coughed prissily, “As you know we’re cousins, she’s my brother’s wife.” He said recovering his composure.

    “Except that’s not true is it? Marandina said, looking Padget right in the eye. “Your brother Sidney died over a month ago and he wasn’t married. Not then, not ever.

    Padget’s face paled. “I, uh…” For once he didn’t have a slick answer. 

    “So why the subterfuge Mr Padget? Why bother lying to your neighbours and friends?” Marandina was pleased with how this was going.

    Padget hesitated for a moment, then sighed resignedly, before saying  “The truth is, Jenny and I, we are truly cousins. First cousins in fact.” He looked embarrassed. “People don’t take kindly to married cousins around here, so we made up a little story, to make it easier on ourselves.”

    “So you pretended she was married to your known felon brother to save face? Seems like kind of an own goal there sir.” Marandina frowned.

    “Perhaps yes, but because my brother was adopted it made sense as they weren’t actually blood related, and Jenny was happier with that story.” Padget showed his palms and shrugged.

Marandina looked at the floor and stayed silent for just enough time to make Padget uncomfortable. At the police academy he had taken very seriously the instructions on interviewing techniques and how to unsettle your interviewee. Some of his classmates had called him a nerd and a weirdo but he didn’t care. He’d kept learning and going to the gym.

    He waited until the moment felt right, to play his ace in the hole.

    He snapped his head up and said. “Why were you coming out of Amos Snodgrass’s house in the early hours, on the night he got kidnapped?”

    This time Padget looked both shocked and indignant. “I wasn’t!”

    “You want to rethink that Mr Padget? I can show you the footage from my cruiser camera if you want.” Marandina didn’t have any footage but he gambled on not being challenged. 

    Padget stayed silent for at least half a minute. Finally he said, “Ok, ok. Look I can explain…”

 

Sheriff Milton had seen Deputy Marandina leave the station and it irritated him that his subordinate had set off on whatever it was he was doing, without checking in with him first. His conversation with the Mayor had got him rattled and his neck itched like hell. It felt as if spiders were crawling around back there. He wasn’t sure what his next move should be and he had the feeling there were things going on he didn’t understand; it wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed. 

    He picked up the phone again and called the hospital . It seemed that Snodgrass was in a stable condition. He grabbed his keys and holding his hat firmly on his fat head whilst hitching his trousers up around his equally considerable girth, made the best job he could of striding purposefully out of the office.

    The County Hospital would have made a good horror film set. As Milton parked his cruiser in a space marked ‘Doctor’ in front of its grandiose and crumbling facade, it reminded him of the public school he had gone to in New York. He’d hated that school. 

    “I need to interview a patient Miss,” he said to the overweight, bespectacled receptionist. He fiddled with his hat, feeling like a schoolboy expecting a cane across the hands. He was conscious of his sweat and tried to keep his arms clamped to his sides. This building gave him the creeps and it smelled bad, like sour milk.

    “It’s Mrs actually, and which patient would that be?” The receptionist said flatly. Her mud-brown eyes, under puffy lids, were dull and uninterested.

    Milton felt like pointing out it was a miracle that anybody had married her fat ass, whilst at the same time being vaguely disappointed she hadn’t flirted with him. 

    He scratched at the back of his neck. “Amos Snodgrass. Older gentleman, got himself beaten up pretty bad. He was brought in by the paramedics earlier. I called to check first, apparently he’s ok to talk.”

    The woman ran a chubby digit down her ledger and, without looking up, said, “He’s in recovery, follow the signs to the ER, then through the grey doors, then it’s the third door on the left; room 201.” 

    Her grey roots showed at her parting and there was a dusting of dandruff in amongst the split ends.

    Milton managed a “Thank you ma’am” from between gritted teeth and headed into the labyrinth of polished corridors and harsh lighting, making a mental note to talk to Mayor Spalding about that woman and her bad attitude. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum floors, comically announcing his progress.

When he eventually reached the correct door, it was ajar, and he could see that Snodgrass was on his own in the two-bedded room. Tubes ran to the old man’s left arm and various machines made hissing and beeping noises. His face was bruised and bloody, but recognisable. 

    Milton sat in the chair next to the bed and waited a respectable few moments before opening the conversation. He held his hat in his lap, occupying himself by sliding his nicotine stained fingers round the brim, like a trucker making a right turn.

    Snodgrass’ eyes were closed and his lips were pressed together in a thin purple line across his battered face. One cheekbone was swollen and black. There were cuts and grazes across his forehead. His stubble was sparse and flecked with dried blood and almost indistinguishable from his alabaster skin.

    “So how ya feeling fella?” Milton said.

    Silence. 

    “Guess you’re feeling pretty shook up. But It’s kind of important we find out who did this to you, ok?” He went on. He fiddled with his hat, picking at the band with a yellowing, bitten down thumbnail.

    Silence.

    “Do ya think you’d recognise the folks who did this to you Amos?” Milton tried again.

    Silence.

Sheriff Milton stood up and leaned over to get a closer look at Amos Snodgrass’ face. And that’s when he saw the small puncture wound and the thin, red trickle of blood oozing from his neck. 

    He shook Snodgrass by the shoulder. 

    Snodgrass’ head lolled to one side. His mouth drooped alarmingly, and one eye popped open, fixing Milton with a vacant, dead stare.

    Amos Snodgrass wasn’t going to be talking to anyone, ever again.

 

 

 

At Gerry’s Printing Services the press had been running for twenty-four hours straight. 

    Gerry O’Donnell himself, sleeves rolled up to his wrestler’s biceps, and chewing on a fat cigar, stood watching the sheets of unique watermarked paper slide under the cutters — ka-chunk! ka-chunk! ka-chunk!    

    Every time the guillotine dropped, the smile on his big, friendly Irish face got a little wider.

    So far 2.6 million in crisp fifty dollar bills had made their way in to hessian packing sacks marked ‘Feeding America’. That little touch had been his idea. Who was going to check charity donations? Genius!

    The noise of the press was pretty loud, so Gerry didn’t hear the chime that announced the main door to the building had opened and closed again. By the time he realised someone was behind him it was too late to do anything about it. He should have locked that door. No one else was here but him. 

    He turned around slowly. Standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and very short, very tight pants, was Jenny Padget; and she was pointing a gun at him.

 

https://www.abctales.com/story/soulfire77/penny%E2%80%99s-pass-parcel-part-7