Sudden Life Part 6

 Sudden Life Part 6

I caught the guy’s eyes. They weren’t happy.

“What’s your name?”

“John Brown.”

“Very original. Ah, Mr Romero? I have a John Brown here. He tried to kill me a few minutes ago.... Yes, a silencer. I was able to put him out of action. He has a broken arm, a bruised kidney, and a damaged knee.... Very well.”

I handed the phone to Brown. “He wants to talk to you.”

Brown listened. “Yes, sir. Philadelphia.... Yes, sir.” He listened some more, said “Yes, sir” one more time and handed the phone back to me.

“Mr McCann, kindly call the police and tell them you caught a burglar attempting a robbery. Ask the police to call an ambulance for him. Tomorrow, an attorney will appear and arrange bail and the payment of medical expenses. He will also take custody of Mr Brown’s gun. Mr Brown will be brought to Las Vegas. I will arrange to have him transferred to his employers in exchange for a suitable payment which will be used to assist the families of the deceased. I wish to thank you for your able work in detaining Mr Brown.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But the case isn’t finished.”

“I agree, and I rely on you to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. Once again, thank you, and good night.” 

Alexander McGrath had the same colouring as his sister, and the same tall, lanky build. His office was one of four located on the mezzanine above the sales floor, two on either side of a conference room. It looked and felt like a Victorian living room, with dark furniture and dark red wallpaper. There were several glass cases of curios and stuffed birds, polished to a sparkle, and pictures of horses in heavy gilt frames. The stuffed chairs looked comfortable. McGrath’s desk stood in the corner to the right of the window.  He could see both the door and the view of the town across the rear parking lot. It looked very much like the one from Ruth Doherty’s house. He was perhaps a couple of years older than me.

We shook hands, and he invited me to sit in one of the chairs. It wasn’t comfortable.

“Ruth called to tell me what you wanted,” he said. He gazed at me with controlled eyes. “This firm was founded by my four times great-grandfather Alexander Sanderson. He was a master wagon maker. His brother Jonathan ran a livery stable here, and asked him to come out to Elysium City and set up shop. He thought the two businesses would go well together, and he was right.”

McGrath paused, and turned to look out the window.

“Jonathan never married, and Alexander’s son Edwin inherited both businesses, which were passed down to his only surviving son Julius. Julius had three daughters. Anne, the eldest, married a James McGrath who bought a part interest in the business before he married my grandmother. McGrath tried his hand at building horseless carriages, but soon realised that selling such vehicles built by others was a more reliable way of continuing in business. He changed the business and its name. His son Jonathan was my father.”

He turned back to me.

“McGrath and Company and its predecessors have been respected community-minded businesses in Elysium City for six generations. Then my brother Edwin decided that a Romero franchise would make money. I didn’t agree, but he persuaded Ruth and Bernard Smithers it was legitimate and respectable, so they voted with him.”

He reached for a silver cigarette box, opened it and held it out to me’

“Please,” he said. I took one. He offered me a light and lit his own.

“I’m telling you this so you’ll know where I stand. I knew that Vern was Romero’s man, but didn’t share that knowledge with anybody else. I liked him, and respected his honesty and integrity. When Ruth fell for him, I thought she could perhaps have made a better choice socially, but not otherwise.”

He turned back to examine the view again. It hadn’t changed.

“I understand that you want to talk to the mechanic who serviced the car in which Romero’s men were killed.”

“Yes.”

“I know what that implies.”

A long pause.

“I know what the outcome of your investigation will mean for the reputation of my family and our business. But I agree with Ruth that the truth must come out.”

He reached for the phone. “Maggie, give me Stan.... Stan? I have a Mr McCann here.... He’ll be down to talk to the man who worked on the car in which those four visitors were killed.... Szegedy?” He pronounced it Seegaydie.

 “Yes, I recall he was the man. McCann can ask any questions he wants, and I want you and everybody else to give him complete and accurate answers.... Yes, I know it won’t look good, but we’ll have to ride it out. OK, thanks.”

He turned to me. I didn’t like the shame in his eyes.

“The service manager is Stan Brown. He’ll get Mike Szegedy to speak to you.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most helpful. You realise that any new facts I discover will be communicated to Sheriff Booley?”

He nodded, and waved me out of the room.

The service department was around the back underneath the mezzanine. Three wide-open service bay doors showed three busy scenes. The customer’s entrance was to their left. Two mid-size office windows stared blankly at a patch of lawn, two picnic tables, the parking lot,  and the town beyond.

Stan Brown was fiftyish, wore dark-framed glasses and a worried look that fought with a normally friendly smile. The smile was winning, but nervous.

“Mr McCann? This is Mike Szegedy.”

A short wiry man with eyes that missed nothing and a face that gave nothing away stood next to Brown. He carried a large crescent wrench.

“Let’s go sit at one of those tables,” I said. Szegedy almost shrugged and followed me. He sat down opposite me and laid the wrench carefully between us.

“Szegedy?” I said. “That’s Hungarian, no? Did you come over in ‘54?”

“Yes,” he said. “You say my name correctly. How come?”

“Stefan Kaldy, neighbour in my apartment block, had a cousin by that name. He came over in ‘54. Kaldy, I mean, not his cousin.”

I paused and saw a flicker of immediately concealed emotion on Szegedy’s face.

“His cousin was killed. They were throwing rocks at tanks. The tanks opened fire. Szegedy was hit, but Kaldy got away.”

Szegedy let out a long sigh and his face opened up. “That was my cousin, too,” he said. “Janosz. He had a fiancee, Ilona Halasz. She came to the USA with Kaldy and me and others, and we married.”

His face was wide open now. For a long minute he was alone with grief and love and memories. Then his face closed again, and he focused his wary eyes on me. He took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and offered me one. I shook my head. He lit one for himself. His hands were shaking.

“I know why you are here. You want to know about that car that killed four people.”

“Yes.”

“I think about that car every night. I think how many more it would have killed if it had hit another car. I don’t sleep well. Ilona does not know what troubles me. But she knows it is mixed up with fear, so she is afraid, too.”

He dragged on his cigarette.

“I know I will go to prison. What will become of Ilona and our children?”

“I don’t know, but I think Mr McGrath will do something for them.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

I thought about Alexander’s McGrath’s shame, and Ruth Doherty’s pain.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” I said. “But Mr McGrath and Mrs Doherty are honourable people.”

“Not like Mr Edwin,” Szegedy said with a grimace. I couldn’t tell whether the contempt was for Edwin or himself or for both.

“OK, I will tell you. I put a nick in the brake line, and two nicks in the power steering lines. Mr Eddie paid me $3,000. We have two boys, one is two, the other is just born three months ago. We want to add an extension to our house to make another bedroom and a back porch. $3,000 will pay the cost.”

He dragged on his cigarette again.

“You see how easy it is to tempt a man to do evil who wants to do good for his family.”

His face was open again, bruised with the wisdom of painful self-knowledge.

“If you wish, you can take me to Mr Booley’s office right now. Or else he will find me at home. I go to tell Mr Brown I will be off for the rest of the day. Maybe longer.”

“Go home,” I said. “I think your wife needs to know what will happen. Then go to Sheriff Booley.”

Booley listened carefully while I reported my conversation with Szegedy, then he studied the invisible spot over my left shoulder again. Maybe he was waiting for it change shape. When he focused on me again, his eyes were still grey but now they showed hurt.

“OK, McCann, you go and tell Mrs Doherty and Mr Alexander what you’ve told me. Then meet me in Eddie’s office. I’ll be a while getting hold of Deputy Green and setting up some paperwork around bail for Szegedy, so you’ll have some time for the family to talk to Eddie.”

We stood up and looked at each other.

“It’s a mess, McCann. A first class mess.”

Eddie’s office was at one end of the mezzanine, and Ruth Doherty’s at the other. The plate on the door announced that she was in charge of staff and public relations. I knocked on her door, and watched while she finished making a few notes.  She looked up and tried to smile.

“Mr McCann. You look like you have some news.”

“I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

“I don’t expect good news. Alexander told me of your interviewing Mike Szegedy. So I think I know what you will tell me.”

I gave her my conversation with Szegedy verbatim.

“Poor Ilona,” she said. “Poor Mike. I suppose you want to report to Alexander as well.” 

I followed her to Alexander’s office next door, and gave him a summary version of what Szegedy had said. When I finished he swivelled to look out the window. He looked a long time.

“All right,” he said. “Ruth, I think we agree that we will take care of Ilona and the children, and that Mike will have a good lawyer. Now we’d better talk to Edwin.”

We followed him to the other end of the mezzanine. The door to Edwin’s office was open. We heard a woman’s voice.

“You promised,” she said. “You promised to take me with you.”

“Oh, shut up, Millie,” Eddie said. “I can’t take you now, I have to move fast. “I’ll send for you when I’ve got settled.”

“But Eddie you promised.”

“Well, things have changed. Change of plan. I’ll go first, then I’ll send for you. I promise.”

We walked in, and saw Edwin McGrath standing behind his desk. There was  an old-fashioned brown leather carry-all with its mouth wide open in front of him. He was feeding it bundles of cash from an open drawer. He closed the drawer, and opened the one below it. On the couch to the right of the door sat the complaining woman. She looked at us, her eyes suddenly wide and frightened.

“Eddie,” she said.

Eddie looked up.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Why did you have come in just now?”

“I don’t think that’s your money,” Alexander said, taking a step towards him.

Eddie reached down. His hand came up holding a nickel-plated automatic.

“Stay away from me,” he said, waving the gun in our general direction.

“Eddie, don’t!” Millie cried.

“That’s right, Eddie, it would be a bad idea to fire that gun.”

Booley and Deputy Green eased into the room.

“Give me the gun, Eddie,” Booley said. His voice was soft and soothing, but his face wasn’t.

“Stay away!” Eddie shouted. “Stay back. Let me out of here!”

He snapped the carry-all shut with one hand, the gun waving like a snake sniffing the air in the other. Then the gun went off.

“Damn!” said Chet, and grabbed his left arm.

Booley moved towards Eddie, who was staring at the weapon in his hand, his expression mixing horror, fear, and surprise. He dropped the gun on the desk, and it went off again. The window above Millie shattered.

Sudden Life Part 5

Sudden Life Part 5

Bill and I spent the next hour and a half reading through the contents of the brown envelope. The first item was a copy of a franchising agreement between the McGrath brothers and Romero’s organisation. It confirmed what Rachel had told me. The franchise included the Piccadilly Restaurant, the casino on its upper floor, a property insurance plan for local businesses, and an escort agency supervised by Mrs Ruby Smithers. It specified that the franchise fee as 50% of gross plus 50% of any profits above $10,000 per month net. In return, Romero would lend half the capital costs at a favourable interest rate, and train staff and security gratis as needed.

“Piccadilly Restaurant? Where did they get that name?”

Bill shrugged.

Vern Doherty would be the on-site liaison. His primary duties would be to collect the insurance premiums and the escort service’s net after expenses. There were also financial statements, receipts for monies received, cancelled cheques, and bundle of Doherty’s reports.

Doherty reported that the local businesses were happy with how promptly claims were paid, and even happier that several local amateur B & E artists had been persuaded to take up another line of work. But the financial reports showed an increasing gap between the franchise fees Doherty calculated and the fees paid to Romero.

The last item was a note to Doherty informing him that Romero was sending a team of four to discuss the McGrath’s handling of the finances.

Bill took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Looks like Romero’s team was in the car that burned,” he said.

“Yes, and Doherty for some reason was not. He was driving his Chevy instead. Which means he must have gone to Las Vegas and reported to Romero.”

“So what happened next?”

I held up an envelope addressed to me. “Maybe this has the answer”.

I read the brief note out loud. “For further details of Mr Doherty’s time in Las Vegas, please contact Mrs Bessie Collina at 214 Wellesley Boulevard in Fenton. There’s also a phone number.”

“You’ll have time to do that on your way back to Elysium City tomorrow,” said Bill. He yawned. “I’m ready for bed. Breakfast at 7:30. Elaine wants to go to Headingley’s Nursery for their sale of fall bulbs.”

Bessie Collina was a blonde with a kind face marred by anxiety. “Mr McCann? Mr Romero’s office called to say you might come by.”

She led me into her kitchen, and offered me a coffee.

“This is about Vern and Frank, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes. I don’t know what I should ask you.”

She poured a coffee for herself and lit a cigarette.

“I’ll tell you our story. We met fifteen years go, towards the end of the war. I was a nurse, they’d been sent to the clinic for battle fatigue. Frank and Vern were so much alike people thought they were twins. They told me they were doppelgangers, and said everybody has at least one. They just happened to end up in the same unit.” She paused, and looked out the window. A tear welled up and began a slow slide down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the tear. “We had such a good time, the three of us. Frank and Vern both wanted to marry me. But Frank asked me first, so I married him. It didn’t upset their friendship, though. Neither of them had any skills that would suit a civilian job, so when Vern got a job in casino security, he told Frank about it, and they both ended up working for Romero. That was before Romero junior took over, and it was sometimes rough. But they impressed the boss. They were honest. They didn’t ask for something extra when they enforced some rule a guest had broken.” 

 She lit another cigarette.

“They both took courses courtesy of the GI Bill, and qualified as accountants. When young Romero took over, he promoted them. He was expanding into franchising, and he wanted someone around each franchise to keep an eye on things. That’s how Vern got the assignment in Elysium City. Frank was assigned to a trouble-shooter team that would visit franchises if there seemed to be some problem.” She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked.

“Ah”, I said. “I see. Frank and his team were sent to check out the McGraths. And he was in the car that was sabotaged. They both had that mermaid tattoo, right?”

“Yes, they did. I didn’t especially like it, but when they got together they were more like teenagers than grown men. Always up for some silly stunt. They would always get drunk. Once in a while I heard them talking about the war. I think getting drunk and doing crazy stuff was their way of coping with the memories.”

She lit another cigarette.

“So about three weeks ago, Vern showed up here saying there’d been an accident. Frank was dead, and so was the rest of the team. While he was here, Romero called and asked me to take in Vern and act as if he was Frankie. They looked enough alike to fool the neighbours. Vern was to lie low until Romero had dealt with whoever had killed Frankie’s team. That’s what Romero said.”

She paused again, looking out the window at the back yard and the trees screening it from the neighbours.

“So I said yes, I would. I was pretty shook up when Vern told me what had happened. He had seen it. There was another car just behind him, so he told the driver to wait while he went to call the police. Then he came to Vegas and told Romero what had happened, and Romero told him to come to me.”

She turned back to me.

“It was just brother and sister at first, but we were both lonely. I missed Frankie, and Vern was stuck in the house, and we began sleeping together.” She gave me a wan smile. “I’d have married Vern if he’d asked me before Frankie did, so it kind of felt like we were just making up for lost time. When we talked it over, we felt that Frankie wouldn’t mind, that Frankie would want us to comfort each other.”

She sighed. “And then Vern said he had to talk to his wife. He went out to make a phone call from a call box so that the call couldn’t be traced back to here. But he never came back. Last night, Romero called to tell me that Vern had been shot, and told me to tell you whatever you wanted to know.”

And then she began to weep, silent sobs wracking her frame and tears pouring down her face. She put her hands up. “I’m sorry, don’t look at me”, she said. I got up and took a handful of tissues from the box on the counter. She took them and wiped her face, and turned to me. “I miss them”, she said. “I miss them more than I know how to say. You’ll find them, won’t you? The ones who killed them?”

I said I would.

Ruth Doherty sat perfectly still and silent until I’d finished my report.

“I’ve reported all the relevant facts to Sheriff Booley,” I said. “This is the written report and my statement. My fees and expenses come to $358.20, including the fee for my associate’s work in Las Vegas.”

“I want you to find them,” she said. “Find the killers.”

“Very well,” I said. “Mr Romero wanted to engage my services as well. He wonders if you will accept him as a partner in this assignment.”

She turned to me, puzzled. “What’s that? Oh, Romero.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she a said. “It’s worse now that it’s the second time I’m told Vern was murdered. Yes, tell Mr Romero I’m grateful for his concern and his help.”

She turned away from me and walked over to the window. “Vern loved the view from this room,” she said. “You can see the whole town beyond the garden, stretching down to the river and the reservoir. At night, it looks otherworldly, like a scene from a fantasy. Vern liked fantasy fiction. He would pretend we were hero and heroine battling ogres and dragons, or commanding our troops to protect our lands. He had planned new plantings in our garden, with flower beds and an apple orchard. He always wanted an orchard, he said. He thought it would be the grandest thing to pick apples from one’s own trees.”

She stumbled to the sofa and sat down.

“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ll get over it. I’ll plant that orchard. And when I eat apples from it, I’ll remember Vern.”

Suddenly fierce, she said, “Find them, Mr McCann. Find the murderers.”

“I will,” I said. I was pretty sure I knew one person who was part of the crime.

Richard had some information for me when I checked in. 

“Feller arrived yesterday after you left,” he said. “Wanted to know where he could find you. Said he was a friend and wanted to surprise you. He said he was from Sacramento, but he was driving a rental car with an Illinois licence. Blue Plymouth coupe.”

Richard leaned over the counter and lowered his voice.

“He insisted on taking the room next to yours. Number 11.”

I glanced over the parking lot. The slot in front of number 11 was empty.

“I think he’s gone for dinner,” Richard said.

“What does he look like?”

“Ordinary. About five-eight, five-nine,160 pounds. Light grey suit, kinda baggy. Brown shoes. Heavy eyebrows, but otherwise nothing special. Doesn’t wear a hat. Brownish hair going grey.”

“Thanks, Richard. You notice things. You’d make a good PI.”

I parked the car, and took the gun from the glove compartment. After I got into the room, I placed the chair on the hinge side of the door. The sun was turning the sky pink. I opened the window a few inches, and drew the curtains. I put the gun in my jacket pocket. I turned on the radio, and listened to the evening news. I took a quick shower, and turned out the lights. The sun was down, a faint orange glow in the west fading into evening purple and night blue. 

I bunched up the bedclothes to look like someone sleeping, and made a darkish spot on the pillow with the sweater I carry in case of cool weather. In dim light it might pass for a head. I sat on the chair and waited. The light from parking lot turned the window into a dimly orange square.

About an hour later I heard footsteps disturbing the gravel. I stood up. The door opened slowly, and in the dim light from outside I saw a hand holding a gun aiming at the bed. I waited for the gunman to fire, then took a small step and chopped down hard. I heard a bone break. There was a yell of pain, and the gun dropped to the floor. I pushed hard on the door and heard whoever was behind it careen into the table underneath the window. Another step, and I was in position to aim a hard kick at the kidneys of the man struggling to get up. Another yell, and another kick, this time at his right knee. I knew from the crunch that he would limp for the rest of his life.

I kicked the gun under the bed, and reached for the light switch. The man groaning in pain next to the desk matched Richard’s description. I grabbed him under the shoulders and hauled him onto the armchair and walked around to face him. We looked at each other. I picked up the phone.

“Richard? I want to call Las Vegas. Can you give me an outside line? Thanks.”

I dialled the number and waited for the other end to pick up. 

“Mr Romero will not be pleased,” I said.

The man’s eyes widened. “Romero?”

“Uh-uh, Romero. He’s hired me to find out who killed his man in Vegas three days ago. That would be you, right? Oh, hello? This is McCann. Would you let Mr Romero know I have some important information about Mr Doherty’s death. Yes, I’ll hold.”

 

Sudden Life Part 4

We had breakfast at Turner’s café, lingering over coffee.

“Shall I drop you at home?” 

“Yes, thanks. I need to freshen up before work.” She smiled, suddenly shy, and I felt the same shyness.

“Could I be the son-in-law your parents want?”

Her smile warmed. “Maybe,” she said. “Ask me again when you’ve solved the case.”

That morning I reviewed the files and my notes. Doherty had said he was calling from Vegas, so I dialled Bill Moreno. Bill had retired as Detective Sergeant, a rank he achieved late in a career that had given him a lot of useful experience, and contacts for his retirement hobby, which was solving cold cases his former colleagues had put aside. Occasionally, we collaborated. Most recently we had successfully solved a child abduction.

I filled him in, and asked what he thought.

“If he really is Doherty, he’s likely to have taken another name,” Bill said. “But he may use the same initials. I don’t know why, but when people want an alias, they often fake a name with their middle name plus a last name with the same initial as their own. What did you say Doherty’s middle name was?”

“Allen,”I said.

“Ok, leave it with me. It’s poor odds, but I’ll check if there’s any dope on a guy named Allen D-something.”

“Thanks, Bill. Before you go, don’t you do some gardening?”

“Oh, that’s Elaine’s thing. I just dig dirt and rake mulch. Why, you discover a green thumb?”

“Roses,” I said. “Sheriff Booley here in Elysium City grows roses. It looks like a calming pastime.”

“Hah! Don’t you believe it. Elaine is always complaining about black spot and white fly. You don’t want to know what those can do to roses. And our desert climate isn’t exactly friendly towards roses, either.”

I laughed. “Bye, and say hello to Elaine.”

*****

Rereading the investigation report, I noticed a fact that was of interest, to quote the Master. The accident was called in from a call box at Ted’s Gas, about a mile north of the accident site. The driver who had stopped at the accident site was a Walter Whitborne. He had been driving north with his wife and three kids to celebrate his mother-in-law’s birthday. I called Whitborne to request a brief interview. He agreed to meet me at Meg’s Home Style Restaurant for lunch.

Whitborne looked about fifty years old, but was probably closer to forty. He had strong features with worried grey eyes and greying hair. He wore a blue shirt and a grey suit that was losing its shape. He had loosened his dark red tie. He sat down opposite me and studied my face.

“Are you on the level?”

I showed him my licence.

“All right,” he said, and ordered a hamburger with onions, sliced tomatoes and a pickle, no ketchup. I ordered their steak-on-a-bun, which turned out to be a mistake, with warmed-over day-old roast sliced thin on a bun that became soggy mush before I’d finished it.

“You say Mrs Doherty wants you to investigate her husband’s death? I told the deputy all I know. That car veered off to the left, hit the barrier, and flipped up and over.”

He took another bite of his hamburger.

“Weirdest thing I ever saw. It sort of stood on its nose for a second or two before tipping over. Red and white Chevy Belair. By the time I got out of the car and got to look over the edge, it was already burning. The other guy said he’d phone it in at Ted’s Gas, so I said I’d wait for the cops. Which I did.” He paused again. “The kids wanted to get out and look, I had quite a bit of trouble making them stay in the car.”

I felt the hair on my neck rise up.

“Did you know that other driver?”

“No, I didn’t. I mean he looked kind of familiar, but I couldn’t say I’d ever seen him before.” He paused again and chewed thoughtfully.

“I mean, you’re always meeting people that look familiar. Uh, you know, someone that looks like your brother-in-law, but isn’t.”

“Sure”, I said. “In fact you look kind of familiar to me. Like the guy that rents the apartment above mine. Except he’s not married and he doesn’t have kids.”

“That’s just his luck. Well, like I said, he didn’t introduce himself and I never saw him again.”

“You mean he didn’t come back?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“What kind of car was he driving?

“It was a red and white two-door Chevy Bel Air. Like the other car, the one that went off the road. A ‘57.”

“Do you think you can recall the plate number?”

Whitborne studied his hamburger. “No, I’m sorry. But the first two letters were CT, if that helps.”

“It might,” I conceded. “Tell me, how well did you know Mr Doherty?”

“I didn’t know him at all. I was surprised when it came out that he was married to Miss McGrath. Glenda, that is Mrs Whitborne and I, well, we don’t travel in those circles. I mean I do bookkeeping for a lot of businesses, but that’s not the same as having a social connection.” He took another bite.

“So if you wanted to get, what do you call it, an impression of the character of the man, I’m afraid I couldn’t help you. Not that I would be indiscreet if I did know him, you understand. I mean, my reputation depends on my ability to keep things confidential.” He paused again, and with a vaguely dissatisfied frown finished off his hamburger.

“Would you like a dessert? I’m a sucker for apple pie myself.”

He thanked me and said no, he had to get in his lunchtime walk before he got back to the office. I watched him walk away, slightly hunched over, not quite shuffling his feet. A man who’d accepted that he’d navigated as far as he could through the maze to success. I hoped he knew that wife and family and friends were successes denied to many men his age.

I drove back to the motel and read over my notes again. The story they told didn’t quite match up with the official one. For one thing, the mysterious driver in the second ‘57 Bel Air was missing from the incident report. For another, Marina Webster had said that Doherty owned her husband’s ‘57 Bel Air, the car that went over the edged. But according to Marina Vern would have been driving that car, and she thought he wasn’t. So which car was which?

Chet had not done a follow-up interview with Whitborne. Maybe Chet could find the Bel Air given the two first letters. Or at least narrow it down to however many red and white ‘57 Bel Airs were registered in the State.

The identification of Vern Doherty relied on a single distinguishing mark, the tattoo. He had acquired it during a weekend of reunion with an old army buddy. I decided I should interview the buddy, if I could find him. 

I dialled Ruth Doherty’s number and left a message with her maid. Then I called the front desk, and told Richard I expected two phone calls, and asked if he would take messages if I wasn’t in. That done, I took off my tie, and lay down for a nap.

Bill called first.

“Probably bad news, Tom,” he said. “I found a John Doe at the morgue. Brought in last night, but likely killed a two, three days ago. Found in an alley three blocks off the Strip. No wallet, no ID, no jewellery, cheap blue suit. If you have a photo of your Vern Doherty, that could be helpful. My friends think he was an out-of-towner who was mugged.”

“What do you think?”

“Well, maybe they’re right. But he had two bullet holes in him, right through the heart. Very close together. Could be a professional hit.”

He paused. 

“The incident report noted that there was no blood on the ground. So it looks like he was killed somewhere else and dumped in the alley where they found him.”

I told Bill I’d get a photo to him that evening. I tried Ruth Doherty again, and this time got her on the line. She said that Vern’s Army buddy was a Frank Collina, and he lived in Fenton, near Las Vegas. She said she’d have a photo of Vern available as soon as I showed up. Ten minutes later, I had the photo, and checked in with Booley. I told him that my associate in Las Vegas might have a lead on Doherty, but it was likely to be bad news. Booley studied a spot on the wall that only he could see. It was above my left shoulder.

“OK,” he said, “sounds like you’re close to the finish line. Did you tell Mrs Doherty that you were closing in on Vern?”

“Yes, but I didn’t tell her the odds were that he was dead after all.”

I let Richard know I would be gone overnight and asked him to hold my room. Then I headed for the bright lights of the gambling capital of the world. Maybe the gambling capital of the universe. But unless little green men show up for some action, we’ll never know.

Bill and Elaine were welcoming as always. We had just enough time before supper to get to the morgue. On the way there, Bill studied the photo.

“I think it’s Doherty,” he said. He was right. His friends kept the photo, and wrote up the new evidence. I gave them Ruth Doherty’s address and phone number, but asked them to talk to Booley first.

“So, you’ve got the answer to Mrs Doherty’s question.”

“Yes, but I don’t like it. I don’t think Mrs Doherty will like it either. He was likely dead when she came to my office to hire me. Somebody thought he was worth rubbing out. And that’s the problem. This case ends with more questions than answers.”

We were enjoying Elaine’s paella with a Greek salad and English bitter when the doorbell rang. Bill came back followed by two men wearing dark anonymous suits and dark anonymous hats. One was very tall with a thin grey face that oozed melancholia. The other was short, but the smile on his round face clashed with hard brown marble eyes.

“They asked for you, Tom,” said Bill. His blank face meant he expected trouble.

“Mr McCann?” said the tall one. “I’m Jose Richardson, and my associate is Nigel Delmano. We are here on behalf of Mr Romero. He would like to consult you on a matter of mutual concern.”

“A matter of great importance,” murmured Delmano.

“I see that you are dining,” Richardson continued. “We will wait, if Mr ah, er?”

“Moreno,” said Bill. “Bill Moreno. And this is my wife Elaine.”

“Mr Richardson,” said Elaine, “Why don’t you join us for dessert. It’s English trifle.”

The two men looked at each other.

“It’s a cake soaked in sherry, then it’s covered with custard and raspberry or strawberry compote”, said Delmano. “My mother used to make it. It’s very good.”

Richardson turned to Elaine.

“We will be honoured to partake of your hospitality, Mrs Moreno,” he said.

We passed the next twenty minutes in polite chat, mostly about our mothers and their cooking. As I rose to follow Richardson and Delmano, Bill asked if he could come along, saying he might have additional information. Romero’s goons looked at each other, shrugged, and waved him to my side.

A large black Lincoln with tinted windows was parked at the curb. Delmano drove smoothly and seventeen minutes later we were ushered into an office panelled in dark wood. A tall man dressed in an impeccable grey suit stood next to a wall of floor to ceiling windows that gave a view of Las Vegas to anyone who cared to look. The lights glistened. Vegas looked like one of those cities in a movie about distant planets where Captain Zoom is chasing aliens. The man turned from counting the lights and walked toward me, holding out his hand.

“Ah, Mr McCann, I’m Charles Romero. I’m delighted you were able to accommodate my request.” He turned to Bill. “I believe we’ve met, Mr Moreno. That inconvenience, ah, five years ago concerning one of my, ah, associates exceeding his authority. If I recall correctly, you were the investigating officer. I must apologise again that the, ah, person in question did not fully understand my instructions.”

He walked towards a low round table supporting three glasses and surrounded by armchairs. “Please,” he gestured, and we sat down. Delmano appeared at our elbows and filled the glasses with ice water.

Romero sipped from his glass, steepled his fingers, and looked from me to Bill and back again. 

“Mr Moreno, I understand you were helpful in ascertaining the fate of Mr Doherty. I must thank you for that. Mr McCann, I take it that now that you have found Mr Doherty, your contract with Mrs Doherty is at an end.”

“Yes. But she may want me to find out who was responsible her husband’s death.”

“Ah, yes, that is certainly a possibility. I take it that until you have received her final instructions you still consider Mrs Doherty your client?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Suppose I also would wish you to discover the person who killed Mr Doherty. Would you consider taking on that assignment immediately?”

I sipped some water. “I’m not sure. Technically, I’m free to accept your request. But suppose Mrs Doherty wants me to continue? Do I tell her I’m already on the job?”

 “I understand your scruples, Mr McCann. Suppose I say that I’m willing to be a junior partner, so to speak, to Mrs Doherty. I do think I owe her that much. I would consider the partnership to include the work you have already done.”

“I see. Mr Doherty was in your employ.”

“Yes, and I’m afraid it cost him his life. I think it only fair that I assist his widow in finding the person or persons responsible.”

“OK, Mr Romero, you have yourself a deal. If Mrs Doherty wants me to continue, I’ll send half the total bill to you. If not, I’ll consider finding the killer a new assignment and you my sole client.”

“Admirable, Mr McCann.” He turned to Bill. “I assume you will continue to assist Mr McCann?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want you to know that if at any time you believe that my organisation can provide useful information in this or any other investigation, I will do my utmost to supply it. Mr Richardson will be your liaison.” He turned to me. “He will take you to see Mrs Saunders. She is our archivist, and will supply you with background information that I believe you may find useful.”

He stood up and smiled. He had expensive teeth.“Now, I must ask to be excused as I have other matters to attend to.”

Richardson opened the door and followed us out into the hall. He led the way to a door marked 412 and knocked. We accepted the invitation to enter.

Mrs Saunders was a fifty-something woman whose face gave nothing away. She reminded me of Miss Latham, the librarian in High Bridge, who enforced the rules with stern impartiality, but encouraged us to read whatever we wanted. Mrs Saunders offered me a large brown envelope inscribed Elysium City and asked for my signature on a receipt. The ride back to Bill’s house was enlivened by Richardson’s commentary on the Wranglers’ playoff chances. Apparently Mr Romero owned a piece of the team and expected other teams to acknowledge that fact.

Sudden Life Part 3

It was a dark green house with a red tile roof and white trim. White, peach, and yellow roses grew in beds on either side of the porch steps, the blooms glowing against the dark siding. I decided it might be entertaining to grow roses.

“I’d like to finish photocopying those files first,” I said. “Sure,” said Chet, and dropped me at the police station.

A long hour later, I parked in front of Number 42, Mariposa Boulevard. The porch created a deep shade. When Marina Webster answered my knock, I couldn’t see much more than a trim figure silhouetted against the light that streamed in from the screen door at the other end of the passage. She turned sideways to let that light shine on my licence; her face was pleasant enough.

“Come through,” she said, and led me to the kitchen, a cheerful room with an aura of domesticity much enhanced by the smell of fresh baked cookies. I noticed them laid out on the counter to cool. Miz Webster followed my gaze, and laughed. “We’ll have some coffee and cookies while you tell me what it is you want to know,” she said. “Please sit down.”

She made the coffee from fresh-ground beans. The smell was enough to make me feel a good deal more alert than I really was. Steak in the middle of the day makes me sleepy, even with a cup of coffee to follow.

“Now,” she said,” what’s this about?”

“Vern Doherty,” I said.

A frown passed over her face like a summer cloud. “OK, I suppose you’ve been told we had an affair. We didn’t, but we did have a business relationship. Why would you want to know about that?”

“Vern Doherty called his wife two days ago, asking for help. He was in Las Vegas.”

“What? Vern’s dead! I went to his funeral!”

“Well, that’s one possibility. Mrs Doherty hired me to find out what’s going on.”

Marina Webster poured the coffee, and shoved the sugar and cream towards me. I added cream and sipped. “Good coffee”, I said. I nibbled a cookie. “Very good,” I said. Marina smiled. “I’ll pack up a few for you to take with you,” she said. “Now ask your questions.”

“What was your business relationship with Vern Doherty?”

“He placed bets for me at the track in Vallejo Verde.”

I made a note. “Can you give me names of the bookies, by any chance?”

“You know off-track betting is illegal in this state,” she said. 

“I’d just like to confirm an idea that just raised its annoying little head. Vern may have placed bets for quite a few people besides you.”

“Oh, I know he did. This town has its share of respectable hypocrites.” She bit into a cookie. “You think some of those dealings weren’t as honest as the day is long, is that it?”

“Maybe. Respectable people aren’t in a position to complain if the runner ups his agent’s fee.”

“H’m, could be.” She finished the cookie and reached for another one. “I don’t know you,” she said, “so how do I know you’ll be discreet?”

“You don’t. But if the car was tampered with, murder is part of the picture, and you’d want to be a co-operative citizen.”

“OK. I had a half-interest in the casino in Vallejo Verde, courtesy of my late husband Graham. Also in the Blue Barn. But he wanted no more of a visible connection with those places than I did. Do.”

“Was Doherty involved in that business, too?”

“Doherty worked for Graham there, then he worked for me. Dropped in to check the books, consult with the manager, that sort of thing. He was honest, actually. Certain people may not want to believe that, but he was. I’ve been up there once in a while as a customer. None of the people there knew I half-owned the place except the senior manager.”

“If Doherty was honest, I don’t see how working at the casino for you fits in with his disappearance. If it was a disappearance. It could still be murder.”

“There were some business people, if you want to call them that, some business people who wanted the casino, and made several offers to buy into it. Graham refused, but his partner Bernard Smithers wanted out, and sold his share. The new partner introduced new products. Services, really. The casino bar became a place to pick up hookers. I mean, there were always part-time hookers in there, you can’t keep them out of a bar like that. But those freelance girls were replaced by professionals. Graham didn’t like that.”

“Were those business people Romero and friends?”

“I think they were fronting for him, for Romero, that is.”

“I see. So what happened?”

“About four months ago, I came home one day from having my hair done, and Graham was sitting in that chair where you are sitting, stone dead. The doctor said he died of a heart attack.” She paused, and I noticed that her eyes were suddenly shiny. “I loved him,” she said. “He was a respectable hypocrite, and he was twenty years older than me, but he was good to me. And we had a lot more going for us than most couples. We could talk to each other. We could talk about anything at all. He was an educated man, and I love to read, so we had lots to talk about. He was pretty good in bed, too. God, I miss him.”

She turned way from me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was getting over him.”

After a moment or two, she turned back towards me. “I don’t think it was a heart attack,” she said. “He had been checked out just a month earlier. The cardiologist said his heart was ten years younger than he was.”

“Any evidence that it wasn’t a heart attack?”

“Two glasses had been used. Someone had washed them up carefully, and put them back in the cupboard. But they weren’t in the right place. I have two patterns that look almost the same. These two glasses were on the wrong shelf. And the dish cloth was damp. It should have been dry, because the last time I used it was for breakfast, four hours earlier.”

“That’s enough to make me suspicious,” I said.

She flashed me a grateful smile. “You’re the first one I’ve told this,” she said. “Please keep it to yourself. I don’t want those people to know I suspect them. They made me a very generous offer for my half of the casino and the Blue Barn. It wasn’t even a week after Graham died. I let them stew for a while, and they raised their offer. So I accepted it. They’re paying down what they owe me like a mortgage. I’m not extravagant, it’s enough to keep me as comfortable as I want to be. ”

“Is there anything else you can think of that might relate to Doherty?”

“The paper said the car they were driving was a 1957 Chevy Bel Air two door hard top, red and white. That was Graham’s car. I sold it to Doherty. Graham had kept it in top notch condition. Doherty was just as fanatical about maintenance. That car should not have gone off the road. According to the people who saw it go over the side, it was doing the speed limit.”

She paused. “Also, he was supposedly in the back seat. But if he was in that car, he would be driving it.”

I made a note. “Where was the car serviced?” I asked.

“McGrath Motors. They sell about half the cars in this town.”

I skimmed over my notes. “Thanks,” I said. “Can I call on you again if I need to know more?”

“Of course.” She smiled.

She packed up some cookies in wax paper, and showed me to the door. I didn’t think her story was a confabulation, but there were gaps. I hoped I could fill them.

It was now close to dinnertime, and I decided I wanted a companion who might be well versed in the local gossip. I went back to the library. Miss Matheson was putting the cover on the typewriter.

I smiled at her. “I’m not here to check out another paper,” I said. “But I do want to check out the unofficial news. I was wondering if you could direct me to someone who would be happy to provide me with information in exchange for dinner?”

“Let me think,” said Miss Matheson as she studied my face. Suddenly she smiled. “Would I do?” she asked.

“Well, technically, I can’t answer that until I’ve found out what you can tell me, but as a dinner companion you would do very well.”

“If you drive me home, you can pick me up at 7 o’clock.” She studied my face again. “If you don’t have a place to stay, I can vouch for the Dew Drop Inn. Silly name, but clean and cheap. The owners are friends of my parents.”

The Dew Drop Inn was indeed clean and cheap, and the bed felt firm enough to suit me. The front desk introduced himself as Richard, and declared himself ready to provide all kinds of services. I gave him a sawbuck to enlist him on my side. I had a shower and a shave, and arrived at Miss Matheson’s home just before seven. She lived with her parents, to whom she introduced me as someone she had met through Sheriff Booley, and who regarded me with undisguised hope.

“Call me Rachel,” she said as she settled into the car.

“I’m Tom,” I said.

Rachel directed me to the Flamingo Bar & Restaurant, three blocks from the motel. Its name disguised high-backed booths and a down-home menu served with good beer or excellent wine. I was ravenous despite my hefty lunch, and ordered a New York steak in pepper sauce, with new potatoes, baby asparagus spears, and a chef’s salad spiced up with a smattering of arugula. Rachel preferred sole amandine with rice, and a green salad with an oil and vinegar dressing.

We chatted about nothing in particular, which is always a good way to find out what you want to know about another person. As you might expect, Rachel liked to read. I do, too. We established that we shared a taste for the classics. Pride and Prejudice happens to be one of my favourites. I like dames with brains, I guess. Lizzie Bennet has enough brains for two, which I always thought she’d need, as Darcy seemed a bit dim to me. Or maybe merely average.

Rachel preferred Dickens, and besides Austen, we both liked Thackeray and Melville. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, because it has nothing to do with the case. It does have a lot to do with what happened afterwards, though, so you may as well have one loose end tied up.

After dinner, Rachel suggested a stroll in the park between the main street and the river. She didn’t want to be overheard while she dished on the respectable folk. It turned out that the respectable hypocrites were well known. Besides the late Graham Webster, there was his partner Bernard Smithers. They operated a hardware store, and were silent partners in the GM dealership owned by Alexander and Edwin McGrath and Ruth Doherty.

The pastor of the First Baptist Church, the Rev. Bobby Jones, was also known to patronise the casino in Vallejo Verde, and must have had a big win about a year ago because he was suddenly able to buy a brand new Cadillac Seville. And so it went. Rachel implicated pretty well all the prominent business and professional men in Elysium City in the semi-licit vices available in the county. 

“How reliable is all this gossip you’ve passed on to me?” I asked her.

“I have most of it from my classmates,” she said. “For example, Doraine Jones was annoyed with her dad’s restrictions, and was happy to find out that he was a Painted Sepulchre, as she called him. I went to her church a couple of times, and Painted Sepulchre was one of his favourite phrases.”

“What’s your church background, then?”

“I’m Episcopalian. We have just as many Painted Sepulchres as the other churches. But Father Downs,  our priest, keeps reminding us that church is for sinners, so we aren’t as uptight about it.” Her smile was not only mischievous, it was inviting.

“What do you know about Vern Doherty?”

“He was a runner for the gamblers. He was straight, though. Didn’t gamble himself, and didn’t play around either, though there were some people who were happy to suspect him. I think that’s one reason Ruth McGrath married him, that he was honest, I mean. That, and the fact that he was an incomer. He arrived when the McGrath’s opened the casino. That was Eddie’s doing. It’s a Romero franchise.”

“Was Doherty part of the franchise deal, do you think?”

“Yes, I think so, but there was no official confirmation. But he collected the insurance fees and picking up the net from Ruby.”

“Ruby?”

“Ruby Smithers. Bernard’s wife. She manages the, um, escort agency.”

We sat on a bench, enjoying the cool late evening breeze. Rachel had little more to tell me, but it felt comfortable sitting beside her and watching the glints of remote streetlights reflected in the river.  Somehow, we were holding hands when we walked back to the car. The route back to her house led past the motel. As we approached it, Rachel turned to me and said, “Do you want me to stay the night with you?”

“Yes,” I said, surprising myself. “But what will your parents think of me?”

“They’ll think you may be a future son-in-law,” said Rachel.

“Will you think of me that way, too?”

“Too early to tell,” she said.

Sudden Life Part 2

 SUDDEN LIFE Part 2

Mr Doherty had died in Elysium county, county seat Elysium City, which had been settled by one of the more resolutely anti-government sects of the nineteenth century. Later settlers had diluted their numbers and zeal. Copies of The Elysium Despatch & Advertizer, the town’s weekly newspaper, were available in the library. I located the breathless account of the accident. It had been reported by a following driver who had seen the north-bound car veer left off the highway while rounding a curve to the right. The car had rolled about 50 yards down the rocky embankment, and burst into flames. By the time the police and the fire department arrived, there was not much left to see. Two of its four occupants had been thrown clear, and the fire had inflicted a few scorch marks, but they were too dead to notice. The other two were carbonised beyond easy recognition. One of these more severely damaged bodies was presumably Mr Doherty.

Having absorbed the facts, I made a few notes, and returned the bound volume of newsprint to the librarian. She was a round-faced woman of about my age, with large glasses, brown hair, and a guarded smile. She wore a loose heather-toned cardigan over a white blouse and a rust-coloured skirt. The name plate on the desk informed the curious that she was Miss Matheson.

“Thank you,” I said. “I wonder if you could direct me to the police station.”

“Yes, indeed, “ she smiled. “Turn left when you leave here, left at the next block, then left again. The station backs onto this building.” She glanced at the clock over the door. “This time of day the deputies are out on patrol. Sheriff Booley will be having coffee in about five minutes. If you miss him, you’ll find him at Turner’s café, half a block past the police station.”

She smiled again, this time expectantly.

“Thanks,” I said, “I may be back for more information after I’ve spoken with him.” I didn’t wait to see whether that satisfied her curiosity.

The day had started cool and cloudy. It had been a pleasant early morning drive from the city, but now the mid-morning sun glazed the scene with heat. By mid-afternoon even the trees would be asleep. The police station was a low brick and concrete box with small windows under a flat overhanging roof. I knocked on the open door and saw a large red face under an astonishingly white Stetson.

“Sheriff Booley?” I asked. “Miss Matheson at the library said I would find you here.” Sheriff Booley agreed that he was he, and asked my business.

“I’m a private investigator,” I said as I handed him my licence. “A Mrs Ruth Doherty has hired me to look into her husband’s death. She has reason to believe that he may not be dead after all.”

Booley compared the photograph on the licence with my face. “OK”, he said, “come have coffee with me and tell me about it.”

He was an inch or two over six feet tall, and around 250 pounds. His bulk looked to be considerably more muscle than fat. He grinned at me. “I hope there’s a good case in it,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “It’s kinda quiet around here. Small town like this, the most excitement most days is a bunch of kids driving under the influence. Then I have to go negotiate with their folks and hope they’ll lay off the booze for a while.”

Turner’s café had bright yellow walls with white trim and touches of blond wood. The air-conditioning worked. Booley ordered a coffee and a cherry Danish. I contented myself with a coffee. It was hot and strong. Booley cooled his cup with a generous dollop of milk, and took a bite out of his Danish. His brown eyes gazed at me with as close to a blank expression as his natural friendliness could muster.

“OK McCann, what have you got?”

I gave him a summary of my conversation with Mrs Doherty. “It’s not much,” I said, “but it could be Doherty is still alive. The body identified as his was pretty badly burned, and only the tattoo was used to identify him. The newspaper story confirms my client’s information.”

“True,” said Booley. “The newspaper story didn’t have all the facts, though. Three of the four deceased were known members of the mob. Mr Romero’s crew. We weren’t too unhappy about their untimely demise. Romero is as slippery as a greased eel in butter sauce.”

He took another bite of his Danish and chewed thoughtfully. I think he was enjoying the flavour.

“Romero has gone legit, setting up franchises. The McGraths signed up.” He pronounced it M’graw.

 “Seems Romero was checking up on their paperwork. Doherty was a straight one,” he said. “I don’t know why he was riding with them. But that’s just one of a lot of loose ends, some of which I surely would like to tie up in a nice bow and maybe present to the D.A. If there’s a case in it.”

He gazed at me speculatively.

“It would help my re-election, too,” he said, and took another bite out of the Danish. I decided I could trust him.

“Here’s how I figure it, “ I said. “If the voice on the phone is Doherty, then he has good reasons to be dead, and the crash gave him a chance. There must’ve been five people in that car, not four. Doherty is thrown clear in the crash, but not badly injured. He either wakes up before the people in the following car get to see the wreck, or he’s hidden by the brush. Anyhow, they don’t come down to check on the car, so they don’t see all there is to see. So he can crawl away. By the time the emergency crews and your people get there, he’s gone. He lays low, but now he’s in a fix, so he phones his wife.”

Booley took another swallow of coffee, and another bite of the Danish. He nodded.

“That’s one possibility,” he said. “And the other is that someone else escaped from the wreck. Maybe he’s been pretending to be Doherty wherever he got to. Now he needs some help, and he figures on Doherty’s wife. In which case he knows, or thinks he knows, something that we don’t know.” He took another bite. “Something that’ll give him some leverage.”

“That’ll work only if he doesn’t know her that well. Or if he has something on Doherty and thinks she knows about it too. Either way, it sounds like he’s someone you would like to know about. And maybe the D.A. too.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s Doherty or someone pretending to be him,” said Booley. “He’s someone with a secret he doesn’t want to share with us.”

He grinned again, and this time I saw the predator in him. His prey was crooks.

“OK, McCann, come back to the station with me, and I’ll give you the files on the deceased. Could help you find out who this joker is. But I expect you to give me whatever you find first. All of it. I’ll decide what to give to Mrs Doherty.”

His gaze was now pure hunter. I could tell he had smelled a fresh spoor on a cold trail that he was eager to get on himself. But using me wouldn’t cost him a dime, and he could take the credit when and if the case was cleared up. I wasn’t too happy, but I needed his help. He didn’t need me. If I ran into nothing but dead ends, he wouldn’t lose a thing. If I ran his quarry to ground, he’d have everything he wanted.

“OK,” I said, “that sounds fair enough.”

Booley finished his coffee. “Don’t take it hard, McCann,” he said. “I know you think this could be a win for me without any effort. But we’ll both win or both lose on this one. I’ll give you as much help as I can.”

We walked the half block back to the station chatting about the front gardens that we passed. Booley was a gardener with a weakness for roses. It’s amazing how much you can learn about roses on a half-block walk.

Booley motioned me into the small squad room, went into his office, and returned with four olive green folders. “Here. You can make as many photocopies as you want. If there’s anything that’s missing or that you don’t understand, details and such, just ask Chet Green when he comes back. He put these files together. In fact, I think you should have a good long talk with him after you’ve done reading.”

“Thanks, sheriff.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chet Green was eager to talk. We had driven north of town to The Blue Barn, a roadhouse in a converted barn, painted blue. I guess the owners experienced a jolt of creativity. It was almost empty at noon, and we had enjoyed a modest but excellent lunch of steak in mushroom sauce, with small roast potatoes, and fresh peas in butter. Apple pie with a slice of sharp cheddar rounded off the meal. As we sipped our coffees, we got down to business.

“Way I figure it”, said Chet, “Somebody fixed that car so it would miss that curve. Or if not that one, the next one. There’s a lot of ‘em. A small nick in the brake line, the fluid leaks out, the brakes fail, the car skids off the curve, and that’s that.”

“Was the car examined for evidence of tampering?”

“Yes, but what with rolling over fifty yards or so of rock and scrub bush, and burning down to the frame, there wasn’t much evidence of anything. Doherty was ID’d because he’d wedged in behind the front seat on his left side, so his arm was protected enough that you could still make out the tattoo.”

“Mrs Doherty said it was a picture of a mermaid and a dolphin.”

Chet Grinned. “Yup, and they were getting it on. I guess Vern had gotten it very recently up in Fenton. Met an old army buddy, got hammered, and did some foolish things. Mrs D. dropped a couple of hints long-sleeved shirts most of the time, so there wasn’t that many people knew he had that tattoo.”

“What company did Vern keep?” about her displeasure. But it was more about the company he kept than the tattoo as such. Vern wore

“Well, he liked the strippers, of which we have none here, but there’s several clubs in Fenton and Vallejo Verde. Romero franchises, or so we believe. He went up there regular, not often, but regular.”

“Gambling?”

“Yeah, he was a gambler, too. Mrs D. dropped a couple of hints about how she was unhappy about that, but she didn’t have to cover any debts. So I guess he knew when to fold ‘em. See, she had the money, she’s a McGrath. They own the GM dealership here and a few other businesses. And a Romero franchise. You want the names of the bookmakers he visited?”

“Thanks,” I said, and copied down the names Chet gave me.

“I think Vern wasn’t above a tumble or two on the side,” he added. “There was talk that him and Marina Webster had some affection for each other. She’s a recent widow, in no hurry to get married again, though. If Mrs D. knew or suspected, she never let on. Anyhow, Marina lives well, and we think she has other sources of income than her husband’s life insurance payout.”

“This is adding up to quite a number of questions,” I said. “If you had the time to follow up this case, where would you start?”

“Marina Webster. But I’d be careful of what she says. She has a habit of confabulation.”

“Confabulation?”

“Yeah, you know, making up tales out of a few hard facts and a lot of soft guesses.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

I picked up the check and followed Chet out to the black-and-white.

Chet turned right onto a tree-shaded street. He slowed, and pointed. “Number 42, Mariposa Boulevard,” he said. “Just knock on the door.”

Sudden Life part 1

SUDDEN LIFE

Part 1

© W. Kirchmeir 2025

The sticky hot summer morning was turning into a sticky hot summer noon. I’d opened my office window in a failed attempt to catch a cooling breeze. Work in this kind of weather makes me cranky, but bills had to be paid and statements sent out, so I repeated a Zen mantra under my breath to calm myself.

I’d just finished a nice little missing jewels job for one of the idle rich. A feckless wife had hocked a few G’s worth of loving gifts from a doting husband. The husband hadn’t been so doting when I tracked down the pawned gewgaws and he’d had to pay for them again.

The wife must have managed to kiss and make up, for he’d left a message with my answering service to send him the bill, $50 a day plus expenses. I decided that the day he came to me with his domestic problems counted as day one, so that made for three days total work, plus about $20 in cab fares. Enough income to pay the office rent for the month and buy some week-end sustenance at the supermarkette around the corner from my walk-up apartment. A couple of minor jobs were good for about $80 each.

Summer in the city, some people like it, some don’t. I’m willing to be persuaded either way. The park across from my office offers shade any time of day. It’s a good place to sit and think. Watching the kids tossing forbidden bread crumbs to the ducks in the pond has a calming effect. Maybe it’s the stray thought that the kids are getting away breaking some rules. Maybe it’s their glee when the ducks shlurp up the crumbs. The parking lot where I store my car during the day does a good job of producing a four-wheeled broiler in the afternoon. Maybe the shade balances the broiling, maybe it doesn’t. You can see that in small matters like these, calculation is difficult.

 I needed some more work, and soon. My expenses were rapidly closing in on the reserve fund despite the recent trickle of income. I’m a frugal guy, not given to more than one or two extravagances a week, and those the kind that provide sustenance for body or soul, preferably both, such as looking at pictures at the art gallery before enjoying pan-fried brook trout and new potatoes garnished with little peas, and accompanied by a tossed salad and a crisp white wine. If one of my friends accompanies me, we might share a peach or mango sherbet. I’m not fussy.

I was just tucking the last of the statements into a blue-lined envelope when a hand approached the glass in the half open office door and knocked. The hand had long slim fingers and bright red nails.

“Come in,” I invited, curious to see who would follow the hand.

She was dressed in a blue-on-white vaguely botanical print cotton dress under a white short-sleeved jacket framed in thin blue piping. She wore sleek nylons and medium-heel cream coloured pumps. Despite the sticky heat, she looked cool and crisp. But anxiety shadowed her gray-blue eyes.

“Mr McCann?” said the lady. Often a beautiful woman’s voice will disappoint you, but this one didn’t. I was instantly prepared to slay dragons and disembowel giants for her sake.

“This is he,” I said in my suavest accents and grammar. “Kindly be seated, and tell me your troubles.”

“It’s my husband,” said the vision. I belatedly noticed the ring on her left hand.

“Ah, yes. You wish me to demonstrate that he has perfidiously betrayed you with his secretary, or the waitress at his lunch-time dining establishment, perhaps?”

“Oh no. I mean, yes. No. I mean it’s not about his cheating on me.” I noted the impeccable use of the gerund with approval, and her confused explanation with puzzlement. These mixed emotions must have shown on my face, for she smiled apologetically and said, “I suppose I had better tell you straight out.” She paused.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“My husband Vern,” she began, “was killed in a motor vehicle accident three weeks ago. He was one of four people in a car which went off the road on Route 76 about 40 miles north of Elysium City.” She paused again.

“That can’t have been be easy for you,” I prompted.

“No, it wasn’t. He had his faults, but we were close, and he was kind. Very kind.”

She paused a moment, and I saw a glint of tears. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

“He called me this morning and said he wanted to see me. He said the situation has become awkward.”

I sat up. “Do you mean he’s alive?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. The phone connection was bad, so I couldn’t be certain it was his voice. I couldn’t be sure. But the way he said it sounded like him.”

“The way he said it?”

“Yes. He said, ‘Ruthie, I’m in a fix, and I got to see you to get me out of it.’ His grammar’s not very good, you see.”

“I see.” I pretended to think a moment. “Are you surprised that he contacted you after his untimely demise?”

“Yes, very much so. I saw his body in the morgue. I had to identify him. Even though he was burned, I could tell it was he. He had a tattoo on his left forearm, a mermaid cavorting with a dolphin.” She blushed. I surmised that ‘cavorting’ was a euphemism.

“He had worn a jacket, which protected his forearm from the fire, and he had rolled so his arm was underneath. The tattoo was very clear.”

“I presume that the tattoo was the means of identifying him? There was no use of dental records, for example?”

“No.” Another pause. “The police and pathologist felt I should not see the rest of him. The tattoo was definitive. I had no doubts.”

“So what we have is a phone call from a man who claims to be your deceased husband and requests an interview. He could be an impostor. In fact, very likely he is an impostor. His grammar may be characteristic of him, but it is not rare.”

“That’s what I think. But I have to know.” She smiled slightly. “It’s a bit of a shock changing one’s status from widow to married woman from one minute to the next.”

“I can see that. I’ll take your case, Mrs?”

“Doherty. Ruth Doherty.”

“Mrs Doherty. I take it you want to know whether the voice on the telephone was your husband or not.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“I never promise success, but I do promise to follow all leads wherever they go. The results may be neither what you want nor expect.”

“I want to know the truth.”

I took out a contract form and placed it on the desk in front of her.

“My fees are $50 a day plus reasonable expenses, such as travel, meals while travelling, telephone calls, and the like.” I paused, noting that her clothes, though they looked like a shop girl’s, were of a subtly more elegant cut. “I ask for a retainer of $300. If the case is solved quickly, and fees and expenses amount to less, I will refund the difference with the final statement. Is that satisfactory?”

Ruth Doherty was already filling in the contract form. “Quite satisfactory,” she said. She signed her name, opened her purse again, and took out a cheque book.

After giving me the cheque, she left. I slipped the notes and the contract in a folder, wrote DOHERTY on the tab, and filed it. I decided to take the afternoon off. First an hour or so working out at Len’s, who was teaching me karate and kick-boxing. Then a cool beer and a smoked salmon sandwich at Robbie’s.

Viewing the new show at the City Gallery would fill the rest of the afternoon. I had a dinner date with Walt and Adrienne at their home. They were trying to set me up with a new love interest. I figured Adrienne’s cooking was worth the almost certain romantic disappointment, and hoped the lady in question would feel the same. 

And that was how it started.

Nightmares

Nightmares

 

     He knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be such a day. All his days, he expected something amazing to happen, and when he went to bed after the usual chores, pleasures, and griefs, he told himself, Well, that wasn't so bad after all! And closed his eyes, and fell into nightmares.
     Horses galloped through his dreams, along sea shores, through forests, across meadows lush with spring grass. He couldn't tell whether he was riding them or watching from the rail along the track. Was he a body in the same space as the horses, or merely a point of consciousness, floating like a speck of dust in the sun? He didn’t know, but it was not a puzzle he cared to solve.
     “Come here” she called, letting her shift part. He knew he was present now, but when she turned away, he felt his body dissolve into a mist until only his fierce hot spark of desire propelled him forward. The hill fell away below him, he floated over the valley on wings wide as the river drifting through the forest below. A red-eyed hawk soared up toward him on updrafts that took him in circles. The hawk rose above him then stooped. Silver talons flashed in the sunlight, and blood streamed from him, staining the river red.
 

     As he fell, something underneath him held him, and laid him gently on the turf. Blue eyes gazed at him, cool and distant. “He’s back,” said a voice. Something pricked his neck, warmth flooded through him. He sat up and looked around. The walls were pale cream, the people standing at the foot and side of his bed wore pale blue smocks closed tightly at the neck and wrists. He felt for the sun-warmed turf, but his hand met cloth. He was dressed like the others, but his smock was red.
     “Can you stand?” asked the voice, cool and distant as the eyes. He swung his legs off the bed, and stood.
     “Good,” said another voice. He knew it was the man with the grey close-cropped beard that had spoken. Suddenly he knew that this was a man to be feared, but he did not remember why. The man’s mouth smiled but his cold grey eyes did not. A younger man with sharp cheekbones and dark eyes stood next to him. “My name is Wendover,” said the grey-bearded man. He gestured at the woman with the blue eyes, “This is Calla, and this is Miloš. Come this way, Mr Smith, if you please.”
     So his name was Smith. But what was his given name? Hunger demanded his attention, he said, “Do you have anything to eat? I’m hungry.” A moment later: “And thirsty.”
     They led him through a door that he had not noticed into a corridor painted the same pale cream colour as the room. Looking back, he saw the number 33 on the door to his room. He could see no source of the even light; there were no shadows. They led him to a double glass door that opened into a large pale blue hall with a wall of windows down one side. The sun shone on clumps of trees, lawns, a couple of ponds, white paths.
     They sat him at a table and brought him a cup of strong black coffee. Then food, steak and potatoes and green beans, a salad with blue cheese dressing, a glass of milk. As he bit into the meat he realised that this was his favorite meal. How did they know that?
     “How did you know I would like this meal?” he asked.
     “We know a good deal about you,” said Wendover. “If you have forgotten anything, simply ask. For example, you might wish to know that you are 33 biological years old, but like the rest of us your chronological age is much greater.” For a moment he sat quite still, gazing out of the windows, his face dispassionate. He turned to Smith. “How much older, we are not able to say.”
     “What is my given name?” asked Smith. “Winston,” said Wendover. “Sadly, we have not been able to discover why your name-givers chose that name.” But I know, thought Smith. Winston was a war-leader many centuries ago. They wanted me to be one, too. But he said nothing. Wendover would not be pleased with this information.
     Wendover had been watching him. “You are surprised?” he asked. “Yes,” said Smith, the evasion gliding off his tongue, “I thought you knew everything I might wish to know.” Wendover’s mouth smiled again. “We know much, but there are limits to our knowledge,” he said. His cold eyes watched Smith, noting every flicker of expression, weighing it against what Smith said, deciding when Smith’s words seemed to match his feelings, when they perhaps revealed his knowledge and when they hid it.
     Smith chewed on the succulent meat; it really was very good. We are enemies, he thought. But am I on the good side or the bad? Or does it matter, and conflict is the only reality, struggle is the only purpose? They will not let me go, they will keep me here until they find out what they wish to know. Then they will kill me. He swallowed the cool milk, forked salad into his mouth, cut a piece of potato, and relished the spicy buttery sauce that covered it. If this was his last meal, it was damn good.
     “Come with me, please,” said Wendover, and led the way to another room with glass along one wall. Winston stared at the bay, the cliffs on either side, the foaming waves crashing on the rocks.
     “The park,” he said stupidly, “Where’s the park?”
     “There is no park, there is no sea, either,” said Wendover. “These windows are holograms.” For a moment he stood quite still. “See, here’s a river.”
     The valley was wide, forested, a river glinting among the trees. A hawk stood in the sky, then stooped towards a clearing. Winston felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. The scene changed to a desert with a mesa in the distance, boulders and cactus next to the window.
     Wendover seated himself at a round table and gestured to chair across from him. “Please.” He placed a black notebook on the table, opened it to a blank page. He picked up a pen, its shiny green barrel gleaming in the light from the desert sun outside the window.
     “I have some questions. I will not ask them directly, but will give you some words, and ask you to tell me of any memories they may trigger. I may ask some questions about your answers. OK?”
     “OK.”
     “Coffee pot.”
     “I’m in a room with my parents, Mum is pouring coffee. Dad is reading the newspaper. I put some milk in the coffee. There are biscuits on a plate, oat meal and chocolate with raisins.”
     “Pen.”
     “I’m doing homework. The exercise book has an orange cover. I’m writing a story about a bear and his friends.”
     “Describe the friends.”
     “There’s a duck and a fox and a rabbit and a weasel. Nobody likes the weasel, but he’s clever, he knows things, and he rescues the others from a cave.”
     “Why are they in the cave?”
     “They’re hiding from the bombers.”
     “Bombers?”
     “The enemy sends them to kill us.”
     “What enemy?”
     “The Reds. We’re the Blues. Reds and Blues don’t get along.”
     “Do you know why?”
     “No. It’s just the way it is.”
     “Very well, we’ll continue. Ready?”
     “Ready.”
     “Shoes.”
     “I’ve made my shoes muddy and Mum is angry. I have only one pair of shoes. They pinch, they are too small.”
     “Bananas.”
     “Marilyn has made a banana loaf.”
     Wendover made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “Who is Marilyn?”
     “Marilyn is my wife.”
     “Where do you live?”
     “We live in Denton.”
     “Where is Denton?”
     “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
     “Denton is about 35 kilometres northwest of Reading.”
     “Oh. OK. I thought it was near the coast.”
     “Why do you think that?”
     “I don’t know. Maybe because of the bombers.”
     “Are these the same bombers as the ones in your story?”
     “Yes. No. Maybe. It’s confusing.”
     “Very well.”
     Wendover made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “I will now ask you some questions. Please answer as precisely as possible.”
     “All right.”
     “How many feet are there in a mile?”
     “5,280.”
     “How many feet does a centipede have?”
     “Well, it’s not a hundred, I know that.”
     “Pardon?”
     “You know, centipede. It means a hundred feet.”
     “Ah, yes, so it does.”
     But Winston knew that Wendover had not known that. Wendover continued, “Do you know how many feet a centipede has?”
     “Not for sure, I think it depends on which species, most of them have around twenty feet. Some have over a hundred.”
     Wendover made another note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “Now I will ask you some personal questions,” he said. “What was the address of the first house you lived in?”
     “26 Badminton Court.”
     “And the second house?”
     “35 Brick Yard Lane.”
     “And the third?”
     “10-05 Second Street. Look, will this go on much longer?”
     “I’m afraid so, Mr. Smith. We know much about you, but there are many details to fill in. May I continue?”
     “All right.”
     “I’m going to ask you about what happened on the 23rd of September, 2443. Do you recall that day?”
     Winston felt something tighten around his chest and squeeze his throat. He opened his mouth, the words wouldn’t come. He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said.
     Wendover gazed at him with his gleaming grey eyes that looked like metal, and for a moment Winston thought he saw compassion in his face. “I won’t ask you to tell me again. But I need to know some details.”
     Winston nodded.
     “Good,” said Wendover. He made a note. For several seconds he sat quite still.
     “What was the colour of the sofa in the living room?”
     “It was blue,” said Winston. “It was an old sofa, and the blue had faded to a kind of grey on the arms and the back.”
     “What was the picture above the sofa?”
     “It was painting of a hawk stooping to strike a dove,” said Winston. “My Dad liked it, the rest of us didn’t. When Dad died, Mum said I should have it.”
     “How did your father die?”
     “He had a heart attack. It was at the block plant, he was cleaning out the burner. He was inside, the security camera didn’t see in there. When the meds came, it was too late, he had too much brain damage.”
     “How did you feel about your father’s death?”
     “I missed him. We used to watch the ball games together.”
     “How did you feel about the painting.”
     “I didn’t like it, but it reminded me of my Dad, so I was glad to have it.”
     “May I continue with questions about your home?”
     Winston nodded.
     “What colour were the walls?”
     “They were covered in a burnt orange wallpaper with a pattern of dark green vines and red and blue flowers.”
     “What did your wife say to you when it happened?”
     “She said she loved me. Then she disappeared.” Winston paused. “She disappeared. I didn’t remember until just now.”
     He stared at Wendover. “Why did you make me remember that? I had forgotten it, I had forgotten it all, and now I have to remember it, I don’t want to remember, I want to forget.”
     “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible,” said Wendover. He spoke to the air, “Calla, Miloš, Mr Smith is tired.”
     Calla and Miloš entered the room and helped Winston stand up. He felt something prick his neck, and a great calm began to settle over the world. They guided Winston out and back through the corridor to room 33, and helped him lie down.
     Wendover leaned over him and flashed a light in his eyes. “Good,” he said, “he’s going under.” He turned to Miloš. “Watch him for twenty minutes, if his signs are good, leave him.”
     Twenty minutes later the three of them conferred. The glass wall showed a snowy plain with a blindingly bright white sun. Wendover spoke first.
     “We now know the date we had deduced is correct. We are still uncertain what Winston means by saying people disappeared. Thoughts?”
     “He may be disguising his memory of what actually happened by using the concept of sudden disappearance,” said Calla. “Agreed,” said Miloš. “Humans don’t like to think about unpleasant details, they prefer to use generalised labels for painful events.” Wendover made a note.
     “But they are able to recall details when asked, quite trivial details,” he said.
     “Agreed,” said Calla. “But when you asked him a detail about the event itself, Smith evidently recalled many details and became agitated. He stated that he did not want to remember the details. It seems that for humans, details carry much emotion.”
     Wendover studied his notes. “Some details,” he said. “Smith was not agitated when we asked him about furniture, for example, or even when we asked him about the painting that he disliked.”
     For several long moments they sat at the table, quite still.
     They returned to Room 33.
     Wendover gazed at Smith. He turned to Calla. “He’s asleep.”

     Smith knew as soon as he woke up that this would be a day like no other. Yesterday had been such a day. Tomorrow would be such a day. All his days, he expected something amazing to happen, and when he went to bed after the usual chores, pleasures, and griefs, he told himself, Well, that wasn't so bad after all! And closed his eyes, and fell into nightmares.
     He floated over the valley on wings wide as the river drifting through the forest below. A red-eyed hawk soared up toward him on updrafts that took him in circles. The hawk rose above him then stooped. Silver talons flashed in the sunlight, and blood streamed from him, staining the river red.

2012-12-08/2014-11-11/2015-04-05/2015-05-11 © W. Kir