Matthias Jones Mysteries

The Lark Larsen Story A Matthias Jones Mystery 1   Sometimes it is better not to leave home. The night wind pummeled snow across the Devonshire Hills and Hamilton's coast like a fighter executing a never-ending barrage of power upon the land. The radio said the storm would persist until morning. Matthias Jones's heart raced as Owen Spooner's white BMW skid-ded at the icy Hamilton Street hill. Snow hit the windshield like tiny bullets and was swept away by the swishing wipers. The car had remnants of the factory smell. Jones wondered if the car companies sprayed car interiors to attain that off the assembly line crispness.   " I'm all for exercise," said Jones, chuckling. " But as I told Tom McGill this afternoon, this is above and beyond the call of duty."   " I thought Maggie liked you to stay in shape," replied Owen, one hand lightly gripping the wheel. He drove as if it were a clear summer's night in New Hampshire.   " Maggie is with her sister in Florida on a well deserved vacation. "   " How long is she there?"   " Couple of weeks. I promised not to get in trouble while she was out of town," said Jones in a sarcastic tone. " She told me it was eight-two when she landed in West Palm."   " When are you two getting married, anyway?"   Jones stared at the common's snow covered stone bell tower. Drifts had sloped a few feet up the base. " Married? You sound like my friend Father Gallagher."   1

Owen tilted his head back and smiled. He had perfectly aligned white teeth and a thick, blow-dried reddish crop. His stony blue eyes sometimes squinted as he annunciated his words. Yet, he never showed voice-shaking emotion in his tone. " Matthias I'm pushing my legs to-night. Then, of course, I'll hop in the whirlpool later and take out the squeaks. You want to do the ten miles tonight?" " Not everyone is training for the Boston Marathon."   Owen's smooth face tightened. The lines were probably deeper than he wanted people to believe. Jones figured he used some special lotion on his face and hands. He paused until his eyes were teary. " My cousin used to tell me that. But then again she had a lot of time on her hands. I will tell you, Matthias, what used to I tell her: I just want to beat my last year's time&ldots; I really miss her." He squinted again as the wipers kept a steady rhythm. " What the heck is that?"   A mammoth truck's yellow light flashed as snow piled rapidly along the plow edge. Sparks scattered in the darkness beyond the blade and the loud horn blasted as the truck moved erratically up Hamilton Street. " That truck is out of control!' yelled Jones. " What kind of clown would plow all over the road?" shouted Owen, swerving. Jones felt the tail of the BMW pitch to his right, his head whipped against the headrest, and the car soon rested diagonally on the road, just a few feet from an aluminum light pole. " That stupid moron!" Jones looked into the falling snow. " Arnie Dewars&ldots; I rest my case." Arnie Dewars, cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth, pushed the ear splitting horn again and slid to stop. Owen's power window whined. " Why don't you watch where you're going, you turkey!" " You gut a problem with my drivin', bud?" " You were all over the road, Arnie!" yelled Jones. The truck hood was frosted with a thin ice layer and water beads oc-casionally rolled down the exposed driver's side glass. Arnie adjusted up his yellow Dewars baseball cap and extended his horse neck out the open truck window. " Matthias, that you?" 2

" Arnie, you're a menace." " Ya. Ya. Ya. You guys should be happy I'm plowin' the college first." " Ya, we're real happy." Jones half rotated his head and held his sore neck. " Oh, man, my neck. And we have to work out."   Arnie wiped his black rimmed glasses on his blue striped Dewars Lumber shirt and then looked down from the cab. " Gettin' outta shape, eh?"   " Arnie, shut up."   He placed the glasses back on the bridge of his huge honker nose. " Ya gutta remember to turn with the skid, pal. I've been tellin' people all night ta stay off the roads. Even the parkin' lots!"   " With you out here I'm not surprised," said Owen, finally opening his eyes wide.   " Pushy, pushy," said Arnie. He shifted the truck and ground the gears. " Trouble, with you guys, is you don't know how ta drive in snow." He hurled the cigarette onto the BMW windshield.   " Hey, what are you doing, you goof!" The cigarette glowed at the base of the glass. " This is a sixty thousand dollar car!"   " Ya. Ya. Ya." The engine whined and he nudged truck along the snow packed road. " Nervous Nellies."   He again engaged the gears, shifting quickly this time and sprayed snow and slush inside Owen's car and against the door. The wipers sent the cigarette flying into the snow bank.   " That guy is an idiot."   " You're being gracious," said Jones, still twisting his head in a cir-cular motion.   " Your neck&ldots;"   " I'll be all right. Once we start working out." He looked over his shoulder to the flashing yellow light in the distance up the hill. " Someday that guy is going to do real damage."   3

2       Jones and Spooner trekked across the parking lot's pelting snow toward the gym. The campus was dark except for the tall aluminum pole lamps across the quadrangle, highlighting the falling snow like a decaying black and white film. Owen tapped Jones's arm as they slipped through the snow. " I thought that Doing guy said he had plowed out the college."   " Dewars&ldots; Arnie is prone to exaggeration. Maybe he meant the parking lot. Never mind him." Owen had a slight disruption in his gait. Maybe the leg injury was worse than he had alluded to back in the BMW. " So, Hamilton Fletcher, himself, wanted a documentary on Lark's career?" Owen nodded and his boots came to rest, imprinted on the walk. The heavy snow muffled his words. " About six months ago Tom McGill from the Enterprise mentioned that Hamilton Fletcher wanted to do the biodrama on Lark. McGill knows I teach students how to produce short video projects. So he called me. He told me Lark was loved by one and all in Hamilton. "   Jones winced. He thought about the impact of Lark's oblivious attitude." " Owen, I hate to be the one the break this to you but Lark, well, he didn't exactly have a stellar win-loss record."   " To hear him speak, you'd think he never lost a game."   Jones half-smiled. The snow stuck to his parka hood and his gloves were losing the battle with the frigid temperatures. He moved up and down to keep warm. His toes were beginning to bite. " The town has always loved Lark. That is all I'll say."   " The first thing he says to me is that he wishes to be buried on the town common right under the stone bell tower. Not the clock tower near your house, but the bell tower down the other end. That bell doesn't even work."   " Fitting for Lark," said Jones with a surly grin. The gym lights blazed ahead but the Annex's arched window was dark. Owen's face tightened as if whatever he enjoyed at supper now came back to sour his stomach. " That little maggot." " Lark can be a bit obnoxious, but that's a little harsh, Owen."   " No, Bucky Driscoll."   Bucky's dinky brown security car, snow piled on the hood and roof, had ramrodded a snow bank near a metal light pole abutting the Annex. " There's trouble."   " Trouble? If I have my way he will be gone from this campus permanently." " What do you mean?" They picked up the pace again. The cold was sharper on his feet and Jones purposefully trundled a few feet ahead of Owen. " I have personally lobbied Hamilton Fletcher to have this man fired."   " Really?" 4

" Listen." Owen halted his progress before he spoke. He placed his hand on Jones' shoulder this time. " He had my car towed to Prince William. Twice."   " Oh? Where were you parked?"   " I was parked at a meter and money was in the meter. The towing ruined the car's alignment and the paint was scratched."   " Bucky gets a little flamboyant."   Owen shook his head as if he were dislodging a fly in his hair. His gloves were balled in to tightened fists. " As I said, that was the second time he towed my car. Not to mention the fines."   " Fines?"   " One hundred and fifty dollars. I won't pay them. Driscoll is an ac-cident waiting to happen. As of tomorrow he's be working some detail in a toy store."   Jones giggled as he imagined Bucky yelling at children outside some mall toy store. He took the first step toward the gym, pushing his fin-gers into his neck muscles as they approached the doors. Through the locker room he saw George Barrows, one of the custodians, in his beige custodian's clothes. His dirty blonde hair was slicked back and he vigor-ously pushed a fluffy yellow dry mop along the locker room's cement floor.   Jones peeled off his gloves and jammed his brass key into the lock. Barrows did a double take, turned and threw his map aside. Jones kicked open the door. The nimble custodian barreled through the locker room like one of the evening freight trains under the Colonial House Bridge. Jones gingerly held the door for Owen and then both men stomped their boots on the ribbed mat.   Barrow's high-pitched voice echoed through the locker room. He stopped just inches from Owen's face. " Hey, what do you think you're do-ing?"   " Entering the gym," said Owen.   " Gym is closed, Spooner" whined Barrows like a child upset an-other child who has entered his yard. 5

" Mr. Barrows," said Owen, gritting his teeth. Jones thought he might shove Barrows. " Let me be the first to tell you: the gym is open."   " Mr. big shot media professor. Trying to get people fired. You ought to watch your step. Bucky never did nothin' to you." Owen stared at him for a few seconds, squinted and nodded. " Oh, I see, you and Driscoll are buddies. Well, Driscoll is a moron and so are you."   Barrows grabbed his coat and pulled him closer. " I oughtta knock you on your arse. But I need my job. I need the overtime. "   " Hey," shouted Jones. He wedged himself between the two men. " Back off Barrows." Barrows slowly retreated like the tidal slosh down by the bay. " I want this gym open for a workout. "   " And I need to use the whirlpool after my workout," said Owen. " My knee has been bothering me."   " You think this is your private gym?"   Jones spoke with his teeth clamped. He wanted to pop Barrows himself. " We'll take care of getting the whirlpool going."   Barrows's blue eyes were glazed as he stared. His forehead crevice deepened enough to make him look like a dog about to bit the paperboy. He mumbled as he turned. " You're the coach."   " He is," added Owen.   Barrows flipped around and put up both his fists. " Why don't you shut-up!"   " Enough!" ordered Jones. He held Owen's shoulders and escorted him past the grimacing Barrows.   They shuffled along the lockers to Jones' office at the end of the room.   " Guy is always looking for trouble."   " Well, don't egg him on," said Jones, stretching his neck. " Stupid moron."   " I thought you said don't egg him on."   " No, Arnie Dewars. The man shouldn't be on the road. My neck is killing me." 6 Unimited Annual Access to all Fitton e-books and PODCAST Episodes $ 6.99 © 2000 - 2006 Fitton Books. All rights reserved.