Chapter 10
The only call I got the next day was from Lieutenant Suarez, who had gotten a lead on a dark blue truck that had been repainted a few weeks ago. I met him at the sheriff’s station (I didn’t leave Iris a note this time) and followed him to a residence in the northeast area of town. He drove into a nicely landscaped parking area that looped in front of a large, two-storey, whitewashed stucco house. Hedges on the sides, poplars in front, hibiscus and bougainvillea around the house, well-manicured lawn. I parked next to Suarez’s car and followed him to the broad front door. Whoever these proud people were, they weren’t migrant farm workers.
Suarez said, “I called ahead. They know we’re coming.”
“Who are they?”
“The McAndrews family. One of the private farmers who’ve been here for some time.”
“They own the blue truck?”
“Yes.” Suarez rang the doorbell.
“What’d you discover?”
“Tom McAndrews, the father, took the car in for some body work. Told the body shop manager that it had been banged up around the farm. We’re going for more details. But let me do the talking at first. Then jump in if you think of a question I didn’t ask.”
The door opened outward to reveal a tall, thin, blue-eyed, middle-aged woman, whose hastily tied-back, paprika-and-salt hair indicated that she had not expected visitors so early. “Officer Suarez?”
“Lieutenant Suarez, and this is a private investigator from Miami, Buck Jaspers.”
I nodded. Her clothes were casual, expensive. Her hands long and smooth, not what I’d expect of a farmer’s wife.
She said, “I’m Joyce McAndrews. Come on in.” She led us through a small foyer into a living room where we took seats on a leather couch.
The room had a fireplace with a mantle – a dream of a transplant from farther north, rarely usable in this climate, but a sign of status – on which rested many pictures: one of Mrs. McAndrews and an older, rugged man; several of adults with children – I assumed the children and grandchildren of the man because the woman wasn’t old enough (so, this was his second marriage); and one of a teenager with the lean, long face of his mother, freckles and auburn hair (none of the features of the man, so a stepchild of the father; then maybe the mother had been married before, also).
Lieutenant Suarez said, “Is Mr. McAndrews here?”
She hadn’t sat herself and seemed nervous. She said, “He’ll be here shortly.”
A door opened and closed somewhere in the back of the house. Footsteps approached. The man in the picture walked in, holding a Stetson in his left hand – a man used to physical activity. He was in his sixties, but still muscular and vital under wrinkled, sun-tanned skin. His hair was white, but still thick. His eyes were light brown, but unspectacled. Very healthy for his age. He was wearing a brown cotton shirt, jeans and hiking boots. He said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Tom McAndrews.”
We stood up and shook hands with him. Suarez did the introductions again.
Tom looked at me, said, “A Miami detective? What’s this about?”
Suarez said, “Your dark blue truck was repainted recently, and we’d like to ask you about that. You told the body shop people that it was banged up around the farm.”
Tom looked questioningly at Joyce, who averted her eyes. Tom had the look of someone who was realizing that something was different than he had thought. He said, “Well, I didn’t think it was the body shop’s business how it got damaged, so I gave ‘em a plausible explanation. The truth is somewhat different, but first tell me why a Miami detective has come all this way.”
Suarez said, “Mr. Jaspers has been hired to find two missing college students. He’s traced them this far. Their car was found in a canal. It had been sideswiped by a dark blue vehicle.”
Tom looked at his wife. She gave him a weary smile. He said, “Joyce, go find Jeff. Bring him here.”
She said, “I – I think he’s still in bed.” She put her hand on Tom’s arm. “Don’t be too angry, Tom.” Then she went slowly out of the room. We heard steps softly ascending a stairwell.
Tom turned to us. “Sit down. Sit down.” He sat down on an armchair facing us and put the Stetson on his knees. “That boy’s spoiled. We didn’t mean it to happen so, but he’s her only child, so she’s very – too – protective. As the stepfather, I guess I’ve been more lenient than I was with my own children. But, it’s time to put the foot down.”
“You seem certain he was involved.”
“When did the accident happen?”
“December 7.”
He sighed, “Yep. The next day I noticed the banged-up passenger door and the white paint smears. So I asked him what happened? He said he was a little loaded and swiped a fence. I took his driving privileges away then, but I didn’t know he was lying about what really happened. Will he be charged with manslaughter?”
“No, the boys’ bodies have not been found, so I’m not sure Jeff will be charged with anything so serious. Maybe hit and run and leaving the scene of an accident.”
“This isn’t the first time he’s been in trouble. Just mischief up to now. Underage drinking. Vandalism. Skipping school.”
Then the prodigal son appeared trailed by his mother. His hair had been hastily brushed and he was wearing jeans, a green T-shirt, and unlaced tennis shoes.
Suarez said, “Good morning, Jeff. Sit down. We want to talk to you about the accident you had on December 7.”
Jeff looked at his stepfather and began whining. “Dad, I’m sorry I lied, but I knew you’d be really mad if you thought I was in an accident.”
Tom said, “Sit down, Jeff. It’s time to tell the truth before you get into some serious legal trouble.”
Jeff sat in the other armchair facing the couch. His mother leaned against the entryway. Suarez said, “So, what really happened, Jeff?”
He squirmed and looked at his mother. She gave him no encouragement; she was looking down at her hands, contemplating her own shame. He said, “I – I didn’t mean to hit those Mexicans. But I was gunning the truck, it was raining and the road was a little slick. And it’s washboardy along that strip near Sunniland. I came up on ‘em fast, hit a ridge in the road and bounced into ‘em. That’s all. I was by ‘em in a flash. I seen ‘em swerve to the right, but I was trying to regain control of the truck. Next time I looked I was a mile down the road and didn’t see ‘em at all. I just kept going.”
“You didn’t see them go into the canal?”
“No, sir. I didn’t know they done that. Wasn’t nothin’ in the papers or on the TV about anybody going into no canal.”
“You didn’t stop and go back to see what had happened?”
“No, sir. I guess I should’ve, but I figured if nothin’ was in the news, then they must’ve been ok.”
“How fast were you going?’
“I guess 70 or 80.”
I said, “Why didn’t you tell your father that same day?”
“I – I guess I was hoping he wouldn’t notice right away. But I shoulda known better. He notices everything around here. But I already been in some trouble, so I was hopin’ to avoid more.”
Suarez had been taking notes. He stopped and stood and said, “Ok, that’ll do it for now. I’ll write up a report and it’ll get processed. Jeff, you’re starting out with a horrible driving record. You’re going to be charged with speeding, hit and run, and leaving the scene of an accident. Since you’re cooperating, I won’t take you in now, but in a day or two a deputy will be out with the appropriate papers for you to sign. Your insurance company will have to be notified. Your license will be suspended. There’ll be a large fine and maybe even some jail time. That’ll be up to the judge.”
Jeff was tearing. His stepfather reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. He said, “I’ll see these men out, but stay here. You and I have to talk.”
Standing between our cars, I said to Suarez, “Well, we now know how they got into the canal. But we still don’t know what happened after that.”
Suarez said, “Stupid little punk. I hope his father lets him have it good. If he doesn’t learn the lesson this time, I’ll be seeing him plenty in the next few years.”
“Do you think he’ll go to jail?”
“No, this is his first serious offense. He’ll get probation. Besides his family is too solid in the community.”
“What’s the story with them?”
“The original Mrs. McAndrews died about ten years ago. Cancer I think. Joyce was a secretary for a business associate of Tom’s. She had been divorced early in her marriage before she moved here. That’s how they knew one another. I don’t know much about the boy’s real father except he’s never been around.”
I drove back to the motel, re-convinced that parenting was no easy thing. The parallel between Concepción and McAndrews struck me. Both white-haired fathers, good parents, one anxious over his beloved missing son, the other concerned that his stepson was not turning out the man he could be. I wondered if there was anything a parent could do except try one’s best, then let go. But I could only conjecture, having no experience of my own.
In fact, the closest I had come to fatherhood was suggesting to Cyndi, after we had been dating a while, that our children would have two good parents. Shortly after that conversation, she had gotten skittish. However, I don’t think it was the conversation per se that drove her away. At the time, she seemed to like the idea of motherhood. But later she said something like “would I really be there for her when she needed me.” I said “of course,” but she still shied away. Parenthood was a prickly endeavor without any guarantee of success.
The end of Chapter 10
Visitors to Florida don't realize how deep the canals beside the highways can be. They look like they might be no more than 6 or 8 feet deep, but they can easily be 30 or 40 feet deep, some even deeper up to 100 feet. We get a lot of rain.
Below are some items related to this blog.
No comments:
Post a Comment