This is Part II of a seven part series that will conclude on Sunday.

Angela Crane’s revelation in Franklin Danbury’s office that she’d murdered her husband immediately shifted his focus from admiring her physical beauty to building a defense for her actions.  “Before you say another word, I’ll need you to sign a retainer making me responsible for defending you against the charges that are sure to come.  That will protect anything you tell me from here on out due to attorney-client privilege.”

“Of course.  That’s why I’m even here.”  Danbury had never had a client so cool and collected, particularly after just confessing to a murder.  But then, a client had never sauntered into his office having just confessed to one, so the field of comparison was very narrow.

”This will not be cheap,” he added.

Angela looked up half way through signing the document he’d placed in front of her and made a disconcerting grin. “Tell me when the best available is ever cheap.” She glanced back down at the standard document Danbury had pulled out of his drawer and slid across the desk. She finished her signature like she was autographing an 8X10 glossy photo rather than an agreement to be defended for a murder charge.

Danbury signed on the line below hers that contained the loops and flourishes with his own that was a combination of short straight lines.  “Why didn’t you just call me?  You left a murder scene and drove into town to meet with me in person.”

“Would you have talked to me over the phone?” Angela asked.

“Probably not,” Danbury admitted.

“I’m pretty sure Theodore is dead.  He’ll still be there when we go back to the house.  We’ve handled the agreement and will be ready for the police when they get there.”  Angela was matter-of-fact about every detail, like she had a checklist and was marking every box.  “I assume that will be the next thing we’ll need to take care of.”

Danbury picked up the heavy handle set of the black phone on his desk.  He had to flip through the Rolodex to find the number to call Chief Martin, his secretary, usually the one to actually place all of his calls.  Once he had the chief on the phone, he tried to keep everything as short and to the point as possible.

“Chief Martin, Franklin Danbury here.  We have a situation that will need your attention.  Right.  I need to meet you out at the Crane place on County Road 1270.  That’s the one.  No, I’m not there at the moment, but Mrs. Crane and I will meet you there.  Twenty minutes.  No.  It can’t wait till tomorrow.  I understand.  Okay, a half hour.  And Chief . . . you might want to have an ambulance meet us there as well.  Red lights and siren won’t be needed.”  There was silence on the other end of the line.

In Angela’s Dual Ghia, Danbury punched the 351 cubic inch Dodge Red Ram V8 up to 110 MPH as soon as they hit the outskirts of town, wanting to get back to the house before Chief Martin, the ambulance, or anyone else that might happen along.  He was determined to ring out every one of the 230 horses under the hood.  “You’re not going to ask me why I did it?” Angela asked him over the bleating screams of the Red Ram.

“Not now,” Danbury shouted back.  “And let’s not be so quick to admit to anything till the dust settles.  There will be plenty of time to work out the narrative.  For now, let me talk and let’s see where this goes.”  Fifteen minutes later the Dual Ghia was pulling through the gates of the Crane estate.  Danbury pulled the car up to the porch, framed by huge two story tall tapered columns capped with Corinthian capitals.  The house looked like it could have been a plantation home built during the Civil War, though in fact Theodore Crane had built the mansion less than twenty years earlier.  As soon as Danbury turned the key in the ignition and brought the Red Ram to a grateful silence, Angela grabbed the chrome handle of the passenger door and began to exit the cabin.  Danbury grabbed her arm and prevented the exit.  “We wait here till Chief Martin gets here.  And the ambulance.  We’ll all go in together.  It’s a murder scene.”

“If you think that’s best,” she replied, and pulled the cobalt blue leather strap to close the door.

The long black and white Pontiac was brand new, having just been purchased and put into the service of its owner, Bridges Funeral Home. It was a Super Chief model converted to use as an ambulance by Superior Coach. Bridges purchased the ambulance and the more formal hearse model to replace the aging Packard models that had been in use since the end of World War II. A deal with Pecos county worked out by Mayor Goodman gave Bridges sole rights to ambulance services in Fort Stockton and the rest of the county. The black and white Super Chief, known as ‘The Meat Wagon’ amongst the personnel of the funeral home, had only made three or four runs when the call came in to hightail it out to the Crane place for a supposed pick-up. Bridges broke even on the ambulance calls, once Mayor Goodman’s commission was backed out, but that also gave them first dibs on any of the patients that didn’t make it once they got to the hospital. That’s where the real money was.

Danbury couldn’t help but notice how cool to the touch her skin was when he’d grabbed her arm.  Almost as cool and smooth as the leather upholstery of the Dual-Ghia, and nearly as sexy.  Angela had just lit a cigarette when the Pontiac ambulance raced up the driveway and took position behind the Dual-Ghia.  She seemed irritated to have to snub it out without being able to enjoy the thing in the way it was meant to be.

Braxton Tyler, driver of the big Super Chief, hopped out and quickly made his way to the back of the ambulance to get the stretcher.  His copilot, Bill Marshall, trailed behind, as usual.  Braxton, attempting to support a wife who was used to the finer things, and the child they’d accidentally conceived four years prior, was a hard worker attempting to move up.  That was a tough goal to realize in the ambulance and funeral industry, where things were designed to move in the opposite direction.

Braxton was four years out of high school. He’d have just graduated college if he’d been able to go. A trip to the Prairie View Twin to see From Here to Eternity changed the trajectory of his life completely. Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolling in the waves inspired Braxton and his girlfriend to do the same thing in the back seat of his Chevrolet Fleetline and the absence of a condom turned a moment of passion into a life of poverty. Despite his inability to attend an institution of higher learning, Braxton was able to pack on the freshman fifteen, and then another fifteen for good measure. The unkempt uniform shirt he wore had ‘Braxton’ embroidered over his heart and under a facsimile of the Golden Gate Bridge and block letters that spelled out BRIDGES FUNERAL HOME, and then cursive lettering that said below that, “We’ll take you to the other side”. It was purchased prior to him gaining the last fifteen pounds and the buttons were under considerable pressure to do their job, the strain on them being obvious. He supplemented his job driving the ambulance for Bridges Funeral home by doing a series of odd jobs around town. He was good at all of them, but none paid enough to provide for a wife used to the finer things, nor a baby that was as hungry all the time as Braxton was.

His helper, Bill Marshall, didn’t have as much going for him and looked to Braxton for guidance on most issues of any importance. That’s probably all that needs to be said about Bill. No rush, Braxton,” Danbury told him. “We’re not going in till the Chief gets here.”

Braxton looked at Angela Crane and offered the same reaction most men did.  Bill Marshall looked at the Dual-Ghia and followed suit.  Braxton wanted to introduce himself to Mrs. Crane, who he’d seen in town a few times, but felt completely unworthy, and uncomfortable with the circumstances, as well.  Bill wanted to ask her about the car, but wasn’t sure how to pronounce G-h-i-a.  Thankfully, Chief Martin pulled through the gates just a moment later, saving the assembled group from any more prolonged moments of uncomfortable silence.

Chief Martin got out of the black cruiser, adjusted the Stetson so that it fit as best it could on his skull, despite the fact it was a size too small, and walked right past the Pontiac and its two attendants.  He tipped the Stetson towards Mrs. Crane and then looked at Franklin Danbury, before glancing back towards Mrs. Crane one more time.  Few men ever got enough of Angela Crane with just one look.

The Chief had a head so round, so bare, and so thick, that folks used to joke it looked like his neck was blowing a bubble.  He got his job in large part because he’d served in “The Big One’.  His duty assignment had been behind a desk at a parts depot in Virginia, but on his return to Fort Stockton he was treated as a military hero, probably because so many didn’t return at all.  Even those who’d survived the war.  Chief Martin was to law enforcement what a jack is to an automobile:  completely useless until something turns into an emergency.  Even then, its only purpose is to tide one over till real help arrives.  His relationship with Mayor Goodman is what kept him employed by the good folks of Fort Stockton.

“Let’s go inside,” Danbury said.

Angela led the way, walking up to the door, opening it, and walking in as though she was returning from a trip to the Piggly Wiggly instead of a murder scene.  Danbury and Chief Martin followed closely while Braxton and Bill went about getting the stretcher from the back of the Pontiac.  “He’ll be in here,” Angela noted as she tossed her handbag down on a chair in the foyer and walked down a long hall towards the study.

Danbury looked around the house and noted that there didn’t seem to be anything inside that wasn’t the very best of whatever it was. The furniture was imported. The leather pieces from Italy, the oak pieces from England. The art from wherever the hell art comes from that is worth that kind of money. He thought he recognized a piece or two hanging in the living room from a textbook he had in college. He made a mental note to go back and check that out, just out of curiosity. It seemed to take longer for the five of them to make their way to the study than it did for him to walk to that art appreciation class from his dorm.

Upon finally reaching the murder scene, Angela stepped in and out of the way, allowing the official party entry for the first time.  “That’ll be him,” she said.  Probably not necessary information to relay since he was the only corpse in the room.

Theodore Crane was laid out, face up, eyes open on the blue and cream and red tapestry Persian rug in the middle of the floor.  Well, it had been blue and cream and red.  Now it was mostly just red.  He’d been shot at least five times, providing ample opportunity for all the fluids previously contained within Theodore Crane to now be contained within the Persian rug.  Chief Martin, never trained in any of the physical sciences, bent down to confirm Theodore was, indeed, deceased.

“He’s dead,” Angela confirmed.  “Hasn’t moved a stitch since I shot him.  Probably cold to the touch by now.”  Danbury thought of her touch when he’d kept her from exiting the Dual Ghia as he tried to remember making sure if he’d told her to let him do the talking.

“Boys,” Chief Martin said, looking at the ambulance attendants, “go ahead and load him up. Take him to Fort Stockton Memorial and tell them I’ll call them with instructions soon enough. Let Mrs. Bridges, back at the funeral parlor, know she’ll be getting him soon enough, we gotta wrap up some details first.”

Braxton and Bill put a sheet over Theodore and wrangled him atop the stretcher, the sheet turning from linen white to blood red before their very eyes.  Bill knocked over the oak chair in the corner trying to swing the stretcher and its contents around in the confined space.  He nearly tipped over the telescope aimed towards the heavens in front of the arched twin French doors.  Luckily, Danbury was there to catch it and keep it upright.

Once the attendants had manhandled the body out of the study, down the hall, and into the gaping opening at the back of the Star Chief, they strapped the stretcher down, got in the front seat, and headed back to town. Bill asked if they could go ahead and turn the siren on and haul ass. “We’re paid by the hour. We drive slow and take the long way. Rookie,” Braxton replied.

Back in the study, Chief Martin looked around like a crime scene was something new.  To a degree, it was.  He hadn’t worked on a lot of murder cases.  Most of the dead bodies he’d seen were hobos who’d fallen asleep on the train tracks outside town and never heard the lone Star Zephyr coming.  What was left of them could be scooped up into a bucket.  “The gun is there on the desk.  Still one bullet in the chamber.  Looked like the first five did what they needed to.”  Both men looked at Angela with a high degree of dismay.  “It was self defense,” she noted.

Franklin Danbury was irritated that his client had not followed any of the directions she’d been given. Chief Martin was irritated that he was going to miss at least the whole first half of the Jim Bowie High School football game. Angela Crane was irritated that the Persian rug was ruined. That was the only thing in the whole study she’d been allowed to pick out.

“Seems like this one is pretty black and white,” Chief Martin said.  “Just like the ambulance that just carried ol’ Mr. Crane to the walk-in freezer at Fort Stockton Memorial.  Of course, he won’t be walking in.”

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