Roger's Resort

ROGER'S RESORT

COPYRIGHT © 2023

JK MANESS

Writing as SWMOHermit

Sergeant Roger Talbot was supervising his squad training when the Specialist from Battalion approached. "Sergeant, the Sergeant Major wants to see you immediately."

Without speaking to the Specialist, Sergeant Talbot turned and yelled, "Corporal Bateman, I have to go to Battalion. Take charge of the Squad."

Roger turned to the waiting Specialist and said, "Let's go," then climbed into the waiting HUMMV. The Specialist got into the driver's seat and drove them to Battalion Headquarters, where he stopped at the front door. After Roger exited the vehicle and started into the building, his driver parked in the Duty Driver's spot near the side entrance and completed his paperwork before entering the building.

Roger walked rapidly into the building and entered the offices. He walked to the Sergeant Major's door, knocked, and waited for an invitation to enter the office.

Sergeant Major Holloway glanced up at the interruption and pushed his chair back slightly. He said, "Come in, Sergeant. Have a seat."

The Sergeant Major reached out and picked up a paper from the corner of his desk. After he glanced at it, he looked up at Sergeant Talbot and said, "Sergeant, we received a message from the Red Cross this morning. I'm sorry to inform you that retired Master Sergeant Roland Grimes passed away on the twenty-third."

"Shit," Roger exclaimed. "Sorry, Sergeant Major," he said immediately afterward.

"Son, did your friend have a long scar on the right side of his face and walk with a limp?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major. Did you know him?"

The Sergeant Major got that thousand-yard star before softly saying, "Oh, yeah. I was one of his squad leaders when he was injured and earned the Medal. I always wondered where he went when he retired. How did you know him?"

"He took me in when I left home, Sergeant Major. My father was, is, a total asshole. None of us kids could ever do anything right, according to him. He wasn't above slapping us around if yelling and screaming at us didn't get the desired results. When I turned 18 and could legally do it, I left home. I'd helped Roland off and on for a couple of years doing odd jobs on his place and stopped to tell him goodbye before I took off. I was going to hit the road and drop out of school, but he talked me out of it. I lived with him for most of my last year of high school so I could get my diploma. He and my father had a pretty good feud going, and it got worse when Dad found out I was staying with Roland. Dad wanted Roland to sell him his land so he could develop it. Roland owned a section of land (640 acres) with a large spring and a stream running through the center. His farm was only two miles from town, and new houses were being built around it. Dad could have made thousands, maybe a million if he could have developed it.

"I didn't have enough money to go to college, and Roland talked me into joining up, then going to college while I was in. If I didn't make the Army a career, I would have completed a large part of college by the time I got out and could use the GI Bill to finish. I was supposed to stay with Roland when I get out next month. I guess that's not going to happen now. Does it say when the services are? I don't think he had any family. What's going to happen to him?"

The Sergeant Major handed Roger the message, saying, "You'll notice he's listed you as his next of Kin, so I believe you're correct. He either doesn't have any family or at least no one close. It looks like you'll be the one to make the arrangements."

The Sergeant Major picked up his phone and said, "Specialist, bring me Sergeant Talbot's 201 file (Personnel Record)."

When the clerk brought the file into the office, the Sergeant Major quickly opened it and scanned some of the papers inside. He looked at Roger and said, "Son, I see you're carrying over the maximum leave allowable and are due to begin out-processing next week. I can get the commander to authorize an early out and terminal leave if you want. You could begin out-processing tomorrow and go home to arrange Roland's services a week early if you want."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major. Could we do that?"

Roger signed the paperwork requesting early release and terminal leave before leaving the Battalion office that day. Before he left the office, the Sergeant Major yelled, "Sergeant Talbot, please let me know when the services are. I want to attend, and I'm sure several others will want to be there too. I suggest you contact the nearest post as soon as possible to get their assistance with the funeral. We'll want to send him off right."

"I will. Thank you."

The day after he received the Red Cross notice, Roger was called by Roland's Attorney. The Attorney, Saul Goldstein, said, 'By now, you should have received notification from the Red Cross that your friend MSG Roland Grimes has passed away. Are you going to be able to return to Sweetwater (their hometown) any time soon?"

"Yes. I was supposed to leave the service next month. Because of his death, I've been granted an early out, and I'm out-processing now. I should be back within the week. Why is that an issue?'

"Master Sergeant Grimes has assigned all his worldly possessions to you and left some written instructions for his internment. It would help if you came to my office as soon as possible. In the interim, I will continue to arrange his services if that suits you."

"Absolutely. I'd appreciate it."

Roger never returned to his unit except to pick up his belongings, paperwork and to tell his friends goodbye. He was on the road home in four days, driving his 2002 Ford Ranger 4X4 and pulling a sixteen-foot box trailer he'd purchased to haul his belongings (he could make a nice chunk of change transporting his belongings because the Army would pay him for the move). He didn't have a full load on the trailer but knew he was still probably pulling more weight than the little truck could handle legally, so he drove carefully.

Driving long hours, he pulled into his hometown three days after leaving Ft. Liberty, NC (formerly Ft. Bragg). He had no intention of going to his parent's home, so he decided to camp at Roland's old place until he found a place to stay. He felt safe camping there since he'd been informed it would soon be his.

Roger drove into the property after dark and slept inside his trailer without seeing his surroundings. He was awakened just after eight in the morning by engine noises and men yelling. Before he was fully awake, he heard, "What the hell is that truck and trailer doing here? Hold on while I see who it is and run them off. Roger had just crawled from his sleeping bag when his father walked onto his open rear trailer ramp.

"You," he snarled when he saw his son. "What're you doing here? Well, never mind. Get your ass out of here. We have work to do."

"I might ask you the same thing, Pop. I'm here legally, and you're not."

"Bullshit, boy. I had to wait for that old asshole to die, but I've finally got this land, and I'm developing it. Now, take your truck and get out. You lost any chance for the good life when you ran away from home."

"Sorry, Pop. You're still not going to get your hands on this land."

His father laughed and replied, "You always were dumb as a box of rocks. It's a done deal. The old man died without family, so the land escheats to the state. I've already arranged with state officials to purchase and develop it."

Roger laughed and said, "I see you're still up to your shady tricks. I hate to tell you this," Roger stopped talking with a thoughtful grin, then continued, "Actually, I'm going to enjoy telling you this. I own the land now, and you're still not going to develop it. Now remove your survey markers and get off my land."

"Dream on, boy. I've bought and paid for this land." His father turned to the two men with him and said, "You two get started while I take care of Roger."

His foreman and surveyors replied, "Yes, Sir," and headed back toward the crews milling around, waiting for instructions. Now that Roger was outside in daylight, he could see survey markers and stakes spread across the property. It looked like his father had been very busy since Roland died. He almost had to have started within a day or two of his death from the amount of work done.

Before he turned to do whatever he'd been there for that day, his father said, "I won't tell you again. Leave and don't come back, boy."

Roger sighed and went inside his trailer. He picked up his phone and called Mr. Goldstein. After he explained the problem, Mr. Goldstein said, "Stay there if they'll let you without violence. I'll call and get the sheriff to run them off. He'll want proof that you'll be the new owner before he bucks your father."

It was almost noon before a state highway patrol car drove onto the land and parked near the old hotel/motel complex. Roger watched from outside the property where his father's men had forced him while the Patrolman spoke with his father and the foreman. As the conversation continued, he could hear his father yelling and even making a threat to the Patrolman. At one point, the trooper stepped back and placed his hand on his pistol while speaking into his microphone. Within fifteen minutes, a second patrol car arrived, lights flashing.

After the second state trooper arrived, his father stepped away from them and yelled, "Ok, men. Load up your equipment and leave until I get things straightened out."

After the crews departed, Roger returned to the property and stopped by the watching troopers. They watched him warily as he approached them and said, "I'm Roger Talbot. Thanks for this. I assume you will submit a written report of today's confrontation. Could I get a copy of it, please? I believe I'll need a Restraining Order to keep him and his crews off my land. I couldn't hear what he said to you, but I received threats before leaving the property earlier. I was afraid if I didn't, things would've become violent."

The second patrolman who arrived smiled and said, "Thank you for that, sir. I do believe you're right about needing a restraining order. Your attorney has already asked for our report with the intent of filing one.'

By the following day, when Roger dropped into the small town's busier cafe, word of the altercation, if you could call it that, was almost the sole topic of conversation. After he sat and sipped his coffee, one of his old friends asked, "I heard you were the owner of Roland's place now. Is that right?"

"Yes and no. According to his attorney, he set the place to transfer to me upon his death, but we haven't recorded the deed yet because we don't have the paperwork completed."

"Ok, so you own the place. Are you going to develop it like your old man planned, farm it, or what?"

"I haven't given it much thought yet. I won't build houses on it, but I can't say more. Roland and I always talked about turning it into a resort again, redoing the hotel, and making some spots to pitch tents and set campers. There's still some trout in the springs and pond, so we could have charged for fishing if we did. We wanted to rent canoes for floaters on the stream too. I don't know. I might still do that. I'll have to see after we get things transferred."

"Well, most of us are glad to hear that. We don't want a bunch of damn houses on postage stamp lots over there. If you wanted to rent the farmland, I'd like first dibs on it, Rog."

Roland's services were scheduled for the upcoming Saturday and quickly became a full-blown military affair. It isn't every day you bury someone that had been awarded the Medal of Honor, especially in such a small town. No one locally, including Roger, even knew Roland had the Medal until after he died. The chapel was filled with very senior officers and enlisted men. The military put on an impressive affair, then most of the guests adjourned to the local VFW for a loud wake and outrageous war stories and stories of Roland's career.

It took three weeks for everything Roland owned to be transferred to Roger. During that time, he only had to enforce the restraining order twice before his father got the message and, at least overtly, gave up his quest to wrest the land from Roger. Rumor had it he was out a substantial amount of money from his failed bribes and initial outlay for the survey and preliminary development work.

After all the immediate problems were solved, Roger looked over his new property and decided what he wanted to do with it. To his surprise, funding would not be a significant problem. In addition to inheriting the property, both personal, including vehicles and machinery, and real, he came into, for him, a substantial bank account and a hoard of gold. That was explained in a letter that the attorney handed Roger from Roland at their final meeting.

The letter said, in part, "I have no relatives to leave my belongings to when I pass. I certainly don't want the damn government to have everything I've worked for in my life, and I damn sure don't want your asshole father to get his hands on my land like he's been trying to do for years. You and I became close while you were living here with me, and I believe you'll ensure your father doesn't get his mitts on the land, so it's all yours, boy. I appreciated you staying in contact with me after you left. It almost felt like you were my son, and I liked that.

"I hope you decide to build the fishing camp as we discussed. If you do, you'll have funding to do that. I don't know how much will be left in my bank accounts—they contain shy of $100,000 today—but you'll find something to make life much easier if you remember our talks when you asked questions about the renovations you wanted to make to the hotel dining room."

Roger sat and thought about that last statement for a moment before he continued reading. He had several ideas about the old hotel, and Roland nixed many of them. He wondered what any of them had to do with making life easier. He finished reading the last paragraphs of the letter, and only one other comment was memorable. Roland said, "A new family moved to town after you left. I'm sure I told you about them. I told a couple of the kids they were welcome to fish and run around the place whenever they wanted. I'd appreciate it if you continued letting them do so. You might even find you enjoy having them around. Sam is a real spitfire and is so much like you that it isn't funny. You'll do well together when you meet. So long, my young friend."

Roger re-read Roland's letter several times during the week after he received it. He sat in the hotel's front yard and lobby, stared at the ivy-covered limestone building for hours, and thought about the strange reference to his remodel suggestion. Roland had lived in two ground-floor rooms just down the hallway from the lobby, dining room, and bar, and Roger moved into them when he took possession. The old sign over the bar entrance showed 'Liars Den', and the dining room was the 'Chez Pisces'. His gaze kept keying in on the names when he sat in the lobby, thinking about his problem.

There had been a fireplace between the bar and dining room when the hotel was built, but at a later date, the opening in the dining room was filled in. Roger wanted to reopen the fireplace in the dining room so a fire could be seen from both rooms again, but Roland wouldn't even discuss it. For some reason, that day, something clicked, and Roger began scrutinizing the fireplace closure.

The rocks on one side of the fireplace, just under the mantle on the dining room side, were discolored and slightly worn. Roger used a flashlight to see better and saw a very fine crack around a small stone. He began pushing and prying on it until he heard a muted click, and the face of the closed-off firebox jiggled. A very thin crack showed on the side of the fireplace where the facade had pulled away.

Roger stood in front of the fireplace, observing it closely before he noticed another smudge on the rocks on the side next to the wall where he'd found the latch. He grabbed the loose facade at the smudge, pulled, and the entire front opened, revealing a safe hidden behind it. That explained why Roland didn't want to open the fireplace to the dining room again, but it presented a problem. It was a key lock safe, but where was the key? The only hint was a short note taped to the safe door, "R. The solution to the problem is behind you, but I bet you go cuckoo before you discover it."

Roger went to the rooms he'd moved into and grabbed the key ring his attorney gave him. Naturally, none of those keys opened the safe. He returned the keys to his room and looked out the window while thinking about the problem. Occasionally he let his eyes wander around the room while he mulled the situation over. He was getting hungry and decided to go to the cafe for lunch when Roland's damn cuckoo clock began chirping, or whatever the hell it did. He had thought about unplugging the damn thing several times to stop the noise but hadn't done so. The racket was about to drive him cuckoo! The old clock was the only electric cuckoo clock he'd ever seen, and he still wondered if it had been converted or was made that way.

Roger was almost to the door when what he thought stopped him cold. Could it be that simple? He rushed to the clock and began laughing. Instead of just a freeking bird chirping, there was a good likeness of his body holding the cuckoo by the neck while it chirped. Roland knew Roger hated the cuckoo and modified his clock! Wait, the message said the problem's solution was behind him, and he'd go cuckoo before discovering it. He reached into the little opening and found a key stuck to the statue's back. When he took the key to the safe, it worked!

Roger pulled the safe door open and cursed. NOW he was faced with an electronic lock on a slightly smaller safe. Now, what could that combination be? A note taped to it said, "What day do you hear happy birthday from your friends?"

First, Roger thought, your birthday, of course, but what did that have to do with a combination...He grinned and input his birthday, but no dice. 061494 didn't work. Could he mean his birthday? No, the note said what date did Roger hear those words. Wait! The dude was an old military man. He tried 14061994 and heard the safe motor hum before the door opened.

Sweet Jesus! The damn safe was stuffed with banded 100-dollar bills and 100 Euro bills. Roger pulled another letter from the safe and read, "Hello, again, Roger. Or, at least, I hope it's Roger who found my little retirement account. Son, this isn't dirty money, or maybe it is. I don't know. I guess I'm a criminal, but what the hell? I found a bag with this cash inside it that had been blown out of a sedan that tried to run one of our roadblocks in Iraq. Like a good soldier, I turned it in after the battle. Well, maybe not all of it. This is what fit in my pack. I turned the rest in.

"I didn't have many needs not met by my retirement pension, but this stash helped meet them. I was afraid to go hog wild in my spending, but you could probably get by with it. You could say you inherited it from me and do ok, I think. Anyway, here it is. Enjoy and hoist one to me occasionally."

Roger pulled some bills out of a bundle, stuffed them into his pocket, and closed and locked the safe again. He was sure now he wouldn't work in town, at least for a while. The resort was getting a facelift! He had no idea how much money was in the safe and knew he needed to count it and figure out some way to insert it into his spending. He decided to check with the attorney about the possible consequences of depositing the funds. From the looks of the stash, there was about $500,000 just waiting on him to spend. In a rough guess, he could live on the interest alone from half that and use the remainder to upgrade the property. After the upgrades, he hoped his income would increase drastically from the revenue generated by the resort.