Tools Of The Trade

By Bruce Rolfe

Chip Hale, a former Navy Sea Bee and Vietnam Veteran, is a blue-collar worker who is as hard as a titanium pop-rivet, except where it comes to raising his two wise-cracking, techno-savvy, teenage granddaughters. He is also fond of using metaphors and similes that relate to the construction industry, and quoting his grandmother’s wisdom. There is also a further softness displayed when he composes the occasional poem.

In the first book of the Handyman Mystery Series, Chip is faced with a cold case that rapidly heats up when a handyman hunts for his daughter’s killer after her remains turn up beneath the city’s police memorial. He relies on help from his granddaughters, and the expertise of his Handyman Inc. colleagues—an eclectic collection of retired professionals including a former Reno policeman, forensic fire investigator, Navy pilot, defrocked priest, U.S. Treasury agent, and reformed professional burglar, who all work as part time contract handymen—and the ‘tools of the trade’ greatly assist with finding a solution to the crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Astor Blue Editions
• Release date: Jun 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781681209470

Bruce Rolfe

Bruce Rolfe was born in Miami, Florida and earned a bachelor’s degree from Florida International University and a master’s degree from Pepperdine University. Before embarking on his writing career, Bruce spent twenty years as a search and rescue pilot in the United States Navy and is proud to say there are nine souls here today because he was there then. He is the author of the newly published Chip Hale Handyman mystery series and lives in the Pacific Northwest on Fidalgo Island with his wife, Cora, and her 19-year-old Norwegian Forest cat, Max.

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Copyright & Information

Tools Of The Trade

A Chip Hale Handyman Mystery

© Bruce Rolfe 2017; House of Stratus (Typographical) 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of Bruce Rolfe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2017 by Astor and Blue LLC

(a subsidary of Stratus Books Ltd., Looe, UK)

Suite 23A, 1330 Avenue Of The Americas,

New York, NY 10019, U.S.A.

Typeset by House of Stratus

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Bruce Rolfe

Born in Miami, Florida, Bruce Rolfe then moved around for many years, at first because his father was engaged as a travelling salesman, and later on after having achieved his ambition of joining the Navy. During his service he earned a Bachelor’s degree from Florida International University by studying in off duty periods over an eight year period, which then lead to a commission and his ‘Wings’.

He flew search and rescue helicopters and was stationed in a variety of places, including the Pacific Missile Range Facility on Kauai where he proposed marriage to and was accepted by Cora, his former roommate’s mother. Upon leaving the Navy, having attained the rank of Commander, Bruce and his wife bought an RV and travelled around for a few years, before settling in the San Juan Islands.

He enjoys biking, golf, scuba diving, and hiking, and a lifelong interest in woodworking and designing, amongst other handyman skills, gives impetus to his writing the Handyman Mystery Series of novels. He leads a busy life, intermingling hobbies with volunteering and of course reading and writing.

Bruce has nine novels, one novella, two stage plays, several short stories and an uncounted number of poems under his belt, and there is little doubt more will be heard of this undoubtedly talented author for many years to come.

Dedication

Dedicated to Cora,

My Life Partner

Fifteen two, fifteen four,

Each year I love you more.

Fifteen six, fifteen eight,

Haven’t they all been great?

A double, double run of three,

Together forever, you and me!

Twenty-four and feeling glib,

I’m so glad you’re in my crib.

A perfect hand of twenty-nine,

Life with you has been divine.

1

Remnants from a Storm

In my heart I’ve always known Julie wasn’t coming back. The day I found out for sure, I was watching America’s Most Wanted on FOX TV, unprepared for my teenage granddaughters, Winston and Franklynn Pierce, to come bursting into my condo sobbing with swollen and bloodshot eyes. I jumped out of my La-Z-Boy ready for . . . I didn’t know what. Franklynn immediately wrapped her arms around my neck and began sobbing, Oh, Grandpa, Grandpa, Grandpa. Since Winston isn’t the huggy type, I made a conscious effort to pull her in between the two of us. Her body was trembling and hot tears spilled from her cheeks onto my cotton tee-shirt as Franklynn choked out, Mommy’s dead.

Her statement hit me like a sledgehammer in the chest and I squeezed the girls tighter.

You remember that storm we had two weeks ago? Winston asked, trying desperately to control her voice.

I nodded my head against hers and vaguely recalled missing a workday due to weather.

Blew over an old chokecherry tree at the peace officer’s memorial in Idlewild Park and scattered human bones across the lawn?

Yes, I said, clearing my throat against what I figured was coming next. It was front page news.

That was Mommy, Franklynn said, and began sobbing harder.

I let go of the girls and collapsed on the davenport. They plunked down on opposite sides of me and continued weeping. I closed my eyes and shook my head; Julie’s bones in Idlewild Park? How did she end up buried there, in the middle of Reno?

Just before we came over, Franklynn said, as she found her voice, Detective Zorn and some Asian-looking cop questioned Daddy. Said they’d identified Mommy’s remains, but couldn’t return them because they were evidence. Can you believe. . .

I wrapped my arms around my granddaughters. I’d like to question their father myself.

. . . We can’t give her a proper burial until they finish their stupid investigation, Winston said, finishing the sentence for her little sister. Maybe not even then because they only found about half her bones.

Half her bones? I asked, my voice squeaking like it had when I was a teenager.

Franklynn sobbed and hugged me tighter. They never found her arms and legs.

I swallowed hard, not wanting to believe what I was hearing.

Winston and Franklynn started sobbing again and all I could do to keep from sobbing myself was hug them close. Where’s your father? I asked. Although I was delighted they had come to me, it really was his place to console them.

When the cops left he said he had to go to Vegas.

I thought he just got back.

Winston sniffled and wiped her eyes. Oh, Grandpa, what are we going to do?

I squeezed her close and sighed. I don’t know sweetheart. But you knew this day was coming. Your mother never would have left you . . . either of you . . . for any reason. Your father, maybe, but not Julie. Shari, and I raised her better than that.

Voices from my fifty-five inch HDTV droned as the three of us huddled together on the davenport, each isolated in our own sad thoughts. I sniffled a few times as the girls cried themselves out, then pried myself free and clicked off the remote. "I think we all could use a cup

of hot chocolate," I said.

Like mommy used to make? Franklynn asked, still sounding teary.

Winston hopped up. Is there any other kind?

Not as far as I’m concerned, I said, stepping into my one-butt galley kitchen and pulling the double-boiler from a cupboard beneath the sink. Julie had always made it with half & half and real whipped cream. Way too rich for my stomach. But the girls loved it, and it always made them feel better when they were hurt or sad. I popped a couple Lactaid tablets and opened the icebox.

Winston scooted behind me and grabbed the carton of heavy whipping cream from the top shelf. She poured it into the Kitchen Aid mixing bowl sitting on the counter, pulled the speed lever forward, and dumped in a ton of sugar. I stirred Ghirardelli intense dark cocoa into the half & half warming on the stove. The humming mixer and bubbling chocolate soon filled my condo with a luscious aroma that made my mouth water and brought teary smiles to the girls’ faces.

I’m not sure where our daughter, Julie, came up with the names for the girls because my ex-wife Shari and I thought Winston was a terrible name for our granddaughter the first time we heard it, but by then it was too late. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long before the name fit her like the brass ferrule in a compression fitting, and getting used to Franklynn after that took no time at all. Most people think they were named after Winston Churchill and Franklyn Delano Roosevelt, but that simply is not the case. Julie just liked the names is all. Perhaps because her husband, George, had wanted boys, he agreed to the unusual handles much the same way my father had agreed to naming my sister Muffy, and me Chip.

The girls and I sat around the dining room table for a half hour or so sipping hot chocolate from their grandmother’s fine china teacups and reminiscing about her and their mother, two women now missing from their lives. They’d been in primary school when Julie went missing, Winston in third grade and Franklynn in first, yet both reading at a fifth grade level. Long gone are the days when I’ve been able to help them with their homework, except for the wood-shop class Franklynn is taking. I get a real kick helping her finish the projects she brings to my shop when the power and woodworking tools at school are broken or missing.

It’s amazing how much Franklynn reminds me of Shari with her cute little turned-up nose, teak-brown eyes, and baby-fine, honey-maple hair. Watching her grow is like experiencing a forty year déjà vu. In the family album, black and white photographs of my ex-wife look dated, but the images of the gangly teenager tilting her head to the side and grinning are identical to that of the girl sitting across the table from me. It’s not difficult to imagine how she’ll look as a young woman and it makes my gut churn like a concrete mixer.

A month after Julie disappeared, Shari began having a glass of wine or two a day, and it didn’t seem all that long before the garbage bags began clinking with the empty bottles as I carried them out every night. I thought her going to bed early and sleeping late was just a way to cope with Julie’s disappearance, but when she graduated to vodka and began talking of divorce, I spent everything we’d saved during our thirty-nine year marriage trying to dry her out. Losing a child is a scab on your heart and it just keeps getting pulled off . . . and you bleed again and again and again, and you don’t know how much you can keep going, but somehow you do.

Then, two years ago, she returned from completing the program at the Betty Ford Center inebriated. She was with Harold Nelson, another drunk, who laughingly referred to the rehab facility as Camp Betty and obviously came from money. He had the nerve to tell me, in words more slurred than not, that he and Shari were soul mates and I should grant her the divorce because he was giving her all the things I no longer could. I was furious at the betrayal. But eventually, and with much reluctance, I gave Shari what she thought she wanted and she moved to Palm Springs to share Harold’s whiskey-sodden life. I can only pray that Franklynn didn’t inherit her grandmother’s destructive, habit forming genes.

Winston, on the other hand, has lustrous Burmese rosewood colored hair, smoky gray eyes, and thousands of cinnamon freckles that she obviously inherited from her dad, but doesn’t seem to mind as she rarely wears makeup. Not that it would do any good even if she did, considering how much time she spends in the sun playing fast-pitch softball. Winston plays center field primarily because she’s the only girl on the team who can throw a ball to home plate from the outfield wall. When she was three, I taught her to chunk rocks overhand like a boy into the Truckee River and in no time at all she was chunking them clean over it. She’s also their fastest sprinter.

Since the girls’ father had once again shirked his duty, I sent them off to bed and cleaned up the kitchen trying to figure who would kill my little girl and bury half her body in Idlewild Park. My stomach ached from the hot chocolate and anxiety about my daughter’s dismemberment. I hope to God that her murderer didn’t cut her up before killing her. I don’t want to go there but can’t get the thought out of my mind.

Even though it’s been nine years since Julie went missing, the hot tears I was holding back spilled out of my eyes and burned down my cheeks. Half her bones; how could I ever tell Shari?

2

Uprooted Clues

The next morning, I had a difficult time playing rhythm guitar during the early service, which is far more contemporary than any Presbyterian church service I ever attended as a boy. Sometimes I think the protestant church is entering into a reformation period with their music as the beat and lyrics become punched up, which is probably a good thing because it seems to have increased attendance by younger folks, my granddaughters included. Except when their father is in town; he always has some excuse why they can’t make it. But with him in Vegas, or who knows where, they followed me over to Covenant Presbyterian in Winston’s Jeep. My truck only seats two and the girls have somewhere to go after the service.

Most Sundays I really get into it, but today I felt half a beat behind, which got me a questioning look or two from the preacher who plays lead on a twelve string. I’ve been playing for close to fifty years, so there’s really no excuse for messing up 4/4 time. I can strum it in my sleep. The only other services I’ve messed up have been when Julie disappeared and Shari left me, so I wasn’t too surprised when Pastor Ray Thompson pulled me aside as we put our instruments away.

What’s going on, Chip? he asked, taking me by the arm. You want to talk about it?

I didn’t, but went with him to his office anyway. Pastor Ray sort of has this way of locking his hand onto your arm like a pair of vise-grips every time he gives advice or expresses condolence. I know he means well, but his talents lie in his music and his biblical knowledge. I took a seat on one of the club chairs in his office as other churchgoers milled about the narthex drinking coffee or juice and munching on Krispy Kreme donuts waiting for Sunday school to begin. Winston and Franklynn were heading for the parking lot.

They found part of Julie’s remains, I said, struggling to get the words out as Pastor Ray closed the door.

I’m sorry, he said, stepping beside me and placing a hand on my shoulder. I knew it had to be something like that. Is there anything I can do?

I pulled my glasses off and shook my head thinking at the moment that all the prayers in the world wouldn’t help. Nothing would bring Julie back and news of her death would only send Shari deeper into the bottle with Harold. So I gave him the pat Presbyterian answer, Pray for me, and excused myself for Sunday school where the lesson was about Grace, of all things.

A pretty young woman in a video talked about how she’d been brutally raped and had difficulty getting on with her life even though the two men who assaulted her had been caught, tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. She had difficulty moving on because during the assault they’d also murdered her fiancé. It wasn’t until she’d visited them on death row and forgiven them for their sins that she felt free to live again. Well, that’s easy for her to say, I said becoming angered by the discussion that followed. She’s still alive. They took her dignity; she earned it back. My daughter is dead; forgiving whoever killed Julie won’t bring her back.

It’s not about Julie, the class leader said, sounding sympathetic, and it’s not about who did it. It’s about you, Chip. Living with the anger and the hate will eat you alive. Whoever killed your daughter doesn’t know how much you hate them, and even if they did they probably wouldn’t care. You can yell and scream all you want. Punch your fist through walls, they won’t feel a thing.

Somewhere in the middle of his response I got up, knocking the folding church chair over, and made a hasty exit. I didn’t want to hear some bleeding-heart liberal BS thrown at me by someone who hadn’t lived or experienced what I was going through. Sure I enjoyed the music and church fellowship; however, since Shari left me, I merely tolerated the sermons and lessons. I needed a release and punching my fist through a wall wasn’t far off – about a foot and a half, as a matter of fact. One of the first things I hung on the back patio wall after Shari left was a speed bag, which I’ve since learned to use and have become quite good at punching.

The bat-ta-ta, bat-ta-ta of the leather bag bouncing off my fists and its slight sting on my knuckles soon had me zoned out. I’m not sure just how long I worked the bag before my upstairs neighbor, Steve Aldrich, leaned his head over the balcony and hollered, Hey, Rocky, wanna hold the noise down? I’m trying to watch a game here.

Yeah, sure, I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. Who’s playing?

A’s and Mariners; come on up and watch. Zoe’s taken the grandkids miniature golfing and I’ve got the place all to myself.

Maybe later . . . after I finish my workout.

Suit yourself, but it’s a good game.

I like Steve. He’s an okay guy, but he just never shuts-up. Watching a game with him is next to impossible as he only ever complains about what’s wrong with our homeowner association. I figure it this way: you’re either part of the problem or you’re part of the solution. It doesn’t do any good to complain without volunteering to serve on a committee or two. Fix something, don’t just complain about it. I grabbed my jump-rope and headed for the garage. Watching baseball on TV is like watching paint dry.

About ten minutes into it, I had worked up a real sweat and it hit me. I’ve waited nine years for the cops to find whoever took Julie and part of her has been buried in front of their memorial the whole time. She hadn’t just walked away from her family. I spent those nine years driving the streets and alleyways, crawling through abandoned mines, and even hiring a private investigator to look for her. The day after she went missing, Shari and I posted a ten thousand dollar reward and plastered Reno with posters picturing Julie and listing our home phone number. That was a mistake. We took hundreds of calls and chased down leads that didn’t go anywhere. In retrospect, all our efforts seem misplaced.

I’ve always believed in letting the police do their job, but I was just fooling myself; hoping against hope. Sure they have more resources than I do and a ton more experience, but they’ve still come up empty. The worst part all this time has been the not knowing. I swung the jump-rope around in a double arc and it whistled through the air as I finished jumping with a new sense of direction and purpose.

A brisk walk down the recreational asphalt path beside the Truckee River, which flows just outside my bedroom window, has been a weekday ritual for the past five years. I no longer jog; my right knee sounds like a box of Rice Krispies every time I climb a ladder or take the stairs. Even so, most mornings after getting the girls off to school, I head downtown to Java Jitters on Front Street and have a cup of joe, which is what I’ve called coffee ever since my four year hitch in the Sea Bees. The pathway winds through Idlewild Park not far from where Julie’s remains were found and I took off in that direction.

The afternoon was heating up and a swarm of gnats buzzed above the Truckee as white puffy clouds floated overhead in a radiant blue sky. At the last moment, I hoofed it past the turnoff to the police memorial. I just couldn’t make the turn and bring myself to go there. How could the world be so peaceful and beautiful, yet I feel so tormented. Fifteen minutes later, at Java Jitters, I ordered a cup of joe with two extra shots of espresso.

That’s different, said Ruby Spearman, the owner, as she grabbed a twenty ounce traveler off a stack of paper cups beside the cash register.

What’s with the shades? I asked, as she placed two shot glasses beneath a double spout on the espresso machine.

Zigged when I should have zagged, she said, tamping down finely ground beans into a small metal basket and screwing it onto the machine above the spout.

I watched as she opened a valve sending a blast of steam through the grounds, which condensed and began dripping from the double spout into the shot glasses. As Ruby turned, I saw an angry purple bruise extending down her left cheek that she’d attempted to cover with makeup. I also noticed that both her wrists were red and raw. Right, I said, forgetting my own emotional distress. Who did that to you Ruby?

Nobody, Chip. I fell.

I thought you just said it was a zig-zag thing?

She stopped what she was doing and glared at me through her sunglasses. What are you, Dr. Phil or something?

I wish. I wouldn’t be living in this town anymore.

Right, she said, and poured the two shot glasses into the twenty ounce traveler.

Ruby and Shari had been best friends since grade school and I’ve known her a long time. I sighed. Well, maybe not, but that doesn’t answer my question.

She turned away and placed the traveler under a large thermal carafe filled with French Roast and began pumping the top. It’s none of your business, she said, over her shoulder.

Don’t be that way, Ruby.

She turned and handed me the cup. There’s nothing you can do, Chip.

I shrugged. Perhaps not, but I am a good listener.

Her shoulders sagged as she came around the counter. Cover for me would you Alice, she said, and collapsed into a chair far away from the other patrons by the window.

I took a seat across the table from her, set my joe down, and waited. After a lengthy silence she said, You remember last week how someone threw a brick through the front window?

I nodded and took a sip of joe.

"Well, what nobody knows is that there was a note attached to the brick that said if I didn’t want it to happen again, I would have to make regular payments to someone who would

be around to start collecting them in the morning."

You can’t be serious, I said. It sounded like something out of an old B movie.

"I was just about to call the cops when this little hoodlum struts in like he owns the place and tells me he’s one of the El Diablos and if I don’t want to get hurt I better pay up and not say anything to the cops. I told him to go to hell and threatened to bash his skull in with the brick. The little punk pulled the biggest gun I’ve ever seen out of nowhere and tells me that would be a very bad idea.

Well, I didn’t go to the cops, but I didn’t pay the thug either. So, Friday night three of them came back just before closing and roughed me up. They were just about ready to smash my espresso machine when I told them if they did that it would put me out of business and they wouldn’t get a cent. About that time this weaselly-looking creep the others called, Pick, walks in and tells them to back off. Said it would cost me a hundred dollars a week for him to protect me from the three other punks. I figured he was their leader and that it was cheaper than getting my place busted up and worrying about something happening to me or my family.

I shook my head. I don’t believe it. When’s your next payment due?

Don’t do anything stupid, Chip, she said, standing abruptly. I’m sorry I told you.

I stood also, placed a hand on her shoulder, and sighed. I won’t, Ruby.

I’m serious. Those hoodlums are dangerous. You can’t go to the cops. She lifted her sunglasses off her face and glared at me through one eye. The other was swollen shut. Promise me!

I promise, I said, holding up my right hand. Right now I’ve got enough problems of my own.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I stopped on the way home and stared at a fragment of frayed yellow crime-scene tape clinging to the bark of an old elm tree shading an ugly brown scar in the lush green lawn. I’ve passed the memorial more times than I can remember but can’t recall ever stopping except once with Winston and Franklynn about a year after their mother went missing. We’d spent that morning playing at Idlewild’s kiddie amusement park.

I recall Winston looking up at all the embossed bronze names and questioning, All those people are dead?

Yes, I said. They were police officers killed in the line of duty.

She stared at the names and dates a moment.

That’s a lot, Franklynn said.

Not too many for such a long time, Winston said, glancing over at me for a sign of approval that she’d been able to grasp some sort of a statistical concept without knowing exactly what she’d figured out.

That might be true, I said, touching her chin with my finger, "unless it’s you who happen to be one of those ‘not too many.’"

Like, what if one of them was Mommy, Franklynn said. That would be too many!

"Correcto mundo." I said, as I swallowed the lump in my throat, stooped, and hugged both the girls close, not knowing that we were practically standing on their mother’s crude grave.

I tried to remember what the area looked like, but couldn’t. Another name had been added to the memorial since then and a small chokecherry tree off to the side had a bronze plaque in the ground bearing the officer’s name. I tried to picture the scene a hundred years from now. The tree dedicated to him would undoubtedly have died, but how many others would have been planted?

My grandmother used to say, A tree that grows too fast isn’t any good. Not that I have anything against chokecherry trees, or that I know whether they grow too fast or not. But Reno is growing like fungus across the valley floor with a mushrooming crime problem that will undoubtedly add more names to the Peace Officer’s Memorial at a faster rate than in previous years.

I stared at the earthen scab where my daughter’s body had been uprooted and felt a sudden tightening in my throat. The park’s wound would heal long before mine or the girls’. I promise I’ll find who did this to you, Julie, I said, choking on the words as tears flowed, not really knowing where to begin. According to the newspaper article, a forensic team had scanned the surrounding area with ground penetrating radar and sent cadaver dogs looking for other remains without result. I wondered