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.