by Colin Conway
When he finally fell asleep, it was with the thought of himself as a traitor to the Dawgs. It had been something he’d fallen asleep to for more than a year now.
After a shower, he dressed and made a cup of coffee. He walked down from his apartment into the rear of the bookstore. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights and wandered straight to the sales counter. He powered on the computer, sipping his coffee while it came to life.
On the edge of the monitor hung several items—a username and password to AbeBooks, a yellow sticky note with Carrie Fenton’s name and phone number, and a tattered business card for Manchester Mechanical and Heating.
Something fell to the floor. Brody thought about yelling at the cat but figured it would accomplish nothing this morning. It hadn’t changed the mangy tom’s behavior so far. He sipped his coffee, and the cat sauntered into the middle of the store. They eyed each other for a moment.
“Who’s feeding you?” Brody asked.
Travis didn’t bother responding.
“You know I’m not going to do that, right?”
The cat lifted a paw and dragged his tongue across it.
“Cough up a furball, and that will be the last one you do.”
Travis paused and eyed him as if he was considering his words. A crooked smile played at the edges of Brody’s lips. Maybe they were reaching an understanding. Then the cat returned to cleaning himself.
Brody grunted and focused on the computer. He set his coffee cup down then started the Internet browser. Google appeared on the monitor. With two fingers, he slowly entered “Frankie Columbo mob.”
The screen filled with a list of entries. Brody selected the third story down with the headline Frankie the Dove Cleared in Money Laundering Scheme. According to The Boston Herald, Francis Columbo was an underboss with the Rosa crime family. He’d been arrested and charged with money laundering. Various names were connected to the story, none of which he had ever heard, except for the mention of his wife, Donna. The article was written about a year prior.
He clicked a couple of other articles, but they said the same thing.
Francis ‘Frankie the Dove’ Columbo was a mobster who specialized in money laundering. There was no explanation as to why he was called ‘the Dove.’
Brody considered Pleasant Valley then. For laundering illegally gotten gains, the Dove would need a variety of businesses that would appear legitimate. The more cash-based, the better. The mob funnels dirty money into a front, and real taxable profits come out. A little restaurant in a tourist town might fit the bill nicely.
Donna Columbo stated her husband owned restaurants from Boston up to this little town. Maybe Frankie the Dove’s presence in Pleasant Valley wasn’t so abnormal after all.
A throaty roar ripped him from his thoughts, and he looked up to the window. Another roar tore through the morning’s silence. A rider on a Harley Davidson slowly passed by the window of the bookstore.
Brody jumped from his stool, raced around the counter, and hid behind a bookshelf as he peered through the window.
The rider stopped on the other side of the store to let a young couple safely cross the street. He wore a shiny black half-helmet that showed his clean-cut hairstyle. His leather jacket bore a back patch that read Ride Free on the top rocker and Maine, USA across the bottom. The rider smiled and waved at the couple as they passed in front of his bike.
Brody relaxed and slowly let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
It was only a wannabe, probably some corporate type with 2.5 kids at home, pretending to be an outlaw on his $20,000 motorcycle.
Born to be mild, he mused.
He turned from the window and smiled. The grin faded when he felt his heart still pounding inside his chest. He lifted his hands to discover them shaking.
Brody stood in the silence of his bookstore.
Is this who I have become now? he wondered. The once-feared bookkeeper who is now frightened by the sight of a corporate hack on a Harley Fat Boy.
A frown creased his face.
Chapter 17
When his stomach rumbled, Brody cleaned himself up and headed to A Pleasant Meal. The little restaurant was full again, and the only seat available was at the counter next to Herb Paxton.
After he slipped onto the chair, the older man turned to him. When recognition clicked in, Herb’s smile slowly faded.
“Good morning,” Brody said.
“Morning,” Herb mumbled as he turned his attention back to his cup of black coffee.
The waitress in the brown apron appeared. “The usual?” she asked.
He’d only been in once, so he was surprised if she could recall it after a single visit. “If you can remember it,” Brody said, “then yes.”
“Black coffee. Three scrambled eggs. Hash browns. Sausage links, not patties.” Her eyes rolled up and to the left as she thought. When she latched onto something, she returned her gaze to Brody. “And a banana to go.”
He nodded his approval.
She completed an order receipt and hung it on the ticket wheel for the short-order cooks. She filled a mug of coffee and placed it in front of Brody. Then she veered off into the restaurant to help another customer.
Brody turned to Herb. “Can I ask you something?”
The older man lifted his head but didn’t bother to face Brody. “You find out where Alice is?”
“Not yet.”
“Then no,” Herb said, “you cannot ask me a question.” He lifted his cup of coffee and took a sip.
“It’s about Alice.”
The older man eyed Brody.
“What can you tell me about her? Have you known her the entire time she was here?”
Herb lowered his cup and stared into the coffee for so long that Brody thought the man was ignoring him. Finally, he said, “She changed a lot over the years.”
“How so?”
“When she first got here, she was young. In her twenties. She was man-crazy at the time.”
The way Herb said it revealed that he didn’t approve of that time in Alice Walker’s life.
“It was the early eighties, and times were different, I guess. She had some suitors from as far away as York Harbah and Eliot. When a woman’s got man-fevah, guys are attracted to her like moths to a porch light.”
Brody sipped his coffee and watched Herb struggle with his words.
“You know how these stories go. She eventually fell in love with a man. Gilbert Griffiths. Ol’ Gil was nice enough, I suppose. Nicah than most of the ones she ran around with at the time. He lived ovah in Rollinsford. They carried on a relationship for almost twenty years.”
Herb fell silent as he watched the short-order cooks.
“They never married?”
He shook his head. “Nevah. They didn’t even live together.”
“For twenty years?”
“Thereabouts, yeah. Rumor had it that Alice was the one who refused to get hitched.”
“Why?”
Herb shrugged. “She nevah explained herself on anything to anyone. She ain’t that kind of woman.”
“And Gil was okay with it?”
“If he wasn’t, he nevah said nothing about it. The two of them did things togethah every day. Most folks considered them married, even though they lived twenty minutes apart.”
“That’s probably why they stayed together for so long,” the big man said.
Herb fell silent again, and Brody left him to his thoughts. It was evident that the older man cared for Alice, but the affection had only been one way.
After a few minutes, Herb said, “When Gil got sick, Alice took care of him. She was special that way. His death tore her up. It was sad to see the change in her. She wasn’t the same.”
“You’re sweet on her.”
“Hard not to be. Alice Walkah is a real beauty.” He sipped his coffee.
“Notice anything lately about her? Maybe a change in how she acted or her habits?”
The older man thou
ght about it for a moment. “The only real change I noticed was when she started hanging out with that youngah woman. About a year ago. They met through the bookstore.”
“What were they doing?”
“Alice told me that the woman was a writah. She’d originally come into the store for some books to read. The two of them started talking about stories, and suddenly Alice was helping her develop some ideas for a new mystery.”
“Really? Did you meet her?”
“A couple times. She’s kind of an intense lady.”
“Intense, how?”
He gnawed on his lower lip while he thought. “She’s got those eyes that take everything in. Like a hawk.”
Or a cop.
“Remember her name?” Brody asked.
“Carrie something or other. Her books have their own display at the front of the store. It shouldn’t be hard to find.” Herb’s eyes drifted suspiciously to Brody. “Especially for the new ownah of The Red Herring.”
Carrie Fenton, Brody thought. Her books were on display at the front of the store. He’d also seen a little sticky note stuck to the computer that had her phone number written on it.
“What else can you tell me about her? Carrie Fenton, I mean.”
Herb seemed disappointed that Brody ignored his slight. He stared back into his coffee. “I guess she’s nice. About my granddaughter’s age. Too many tattoos for my taste.”
“How many is too many?”
“On a girl? One.”
Brody smiled. The older man wouldn’t have liked any of the girls that hung around the motorcycle club.
“Whenevah I came around, Alice and Carrie would stop talking. It always seemed like they were scheming up something.”
“Scheming?”
“Yeah,” Herb said. “You know how two women can be together, sharing secrets and laughs. It was like they were always making plans for something.”
“Does Carrie live in town?”
“No. She lives over in the big city.”
“Boston?”
“Dover.”
Chapter 18
The brass bell chimed loudly just before the door banged against the far wall. The cat, who had been sitting calmly in the middle of the shop, bolted down the aisle labeled Noir, sending several books to the floor.
The weightlifter stomped into the store and pointed his finger at Brody. “Why were you down at the lighthouse?”
Brody calmly put down The Deep Blue Good-by. “You were following me?”
The bell rang again as the bookstore’s door finally closed.
“I’m gonna ask ya again nicely—”
“The first time was nice?”
“Why were ya at the lighthouse last night?”
“I was taking a walk.”
The weightlifter repeatedly poked his finger in the air, accenting his words. “You’re stickin’ ya beak in where it don’t belong.”
Brody stepped from around the counter. “What are you going to do about it?”
The weightlifter eyed Brody. “I don’t want to fight no veteran.”
“Lucky for me, I’m not one,” he said.
The weightlifter’s eyes widened, “What?”
“I lied.”
“Ya lied about bein’ a veteran? That’s unpatriotic.”
Brody shrugged.
“I should punch your teeth in for that.”
“You could try.”
The weightlifter slowly shook his head as he made up his mind. Finally, his head stopped moving, but he continued to think. Suddenly, he reared back as he readied a punch.
The bigger man didn’t hesitate, though, and punched the store’s visitor.
“Hey!” the weightlifter cried and covered his injured eye with his left hand. He then swung wildly with his right.
Brody ducked the punch and hit his opponent in the stomach.
This doubled-over the weightlifter. Brody took his time setting his feet before he socked the interloper in his uncovered eye.
When the weightlifter hit the ground, it was with a heavy thump. He lay unconscious on the large area rug.
Brody stood there and played back the moment. He wasn’t a man built for regret, but he immediately understood that there might have been a better way for him to have handled that moment. However, Brody was in the thick of it now. He had hit the hornet’s nest, so there was only one thing to do now.
Hit it again.
Brody grabbed the edges of the rug and dragged the unconscious weightlifter out onto the sidewalk. The man was heavier than he imagined, and it took some extra effort to pull him over the store’s threshold.
When they were outside, the morning’s humidity quickly clung to him, and the ocean’s aroma tickled his nose. Brody stood and put his hands on his hips, trying to catch his breath. Several passersby stopped to watch.
“Everything okay?” an old man asked.
Brody nodded. “He insulted the Navy.”
The older man shook his head. “When will they learn?” He walked off without further concern.
It took several yanks to roll the weightlifter off the rug and into the street. Brody didn’t want him on the sidewalk, blocking access to The Red Herring.
He carried the carpet back into his store, repositioned it, and returned to his book.
He had only made it through a couple of pages when the cops arrived, their lights and sirens blaring. That might be a bit of an exaggeration. Constable Emery Farnsworth showed up with a siren wailing on the handlebars of his bicycle. He skidded to a stop, the back of his bike sliding proudly out.
Brody watched the noisy arrival of the officer through the window with mild fascination. It was like watching a kid showing off for his parents.
After silencing the siren, the constable swung his leg over the bike seat and dropped the kickstand. He patted the bicycle once before surveying the scene.
The weightlifter was seated on the curb, rubbing his head. Farnsworth unbuckled his helmet and pushed it back on his head, like an old west sheriff. The two men spoke for several minutes before Brody lost interest and returned to his book.
In the rear of the store, something thudded. Brody didn’t bother yelling at the cat though. He didn’t have the enthusiasm for it, and it still wouldn’t make a difference. The cat didn’t listen to him. Maybe he needed to call him something other than Travis. It was clear from his reading of The Deep Blue Good-by that Travis McGee rarely followed the rules. He’d chosen an unfortunate name for the cat.
He finished another page before the bell rang, interrupting a McGee monologue. Brody was starting to enjoy the inner thoughts of the Florida detective.
“What happened out there?” the constable asked.
“Out where?”
“There,” Farnsworth said, pointing to where the weightlifter still sat.
“I don’t know. What happened?” Brody asked.
Farnsworth exhaled loudly, and he disapprovingly shook his head. “You know what happened, Brody. There’s a young man out there who looks like he got hit by a freight train.”
“Oh, him.”
“Yes, him.”
“We disagreed about my return policy.”
“He said it was because you lied about being a Navy veteran.”
Brody shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“So, you are a veteran?”
“Definitely.” With all the lying about his veteran status, Brody figured he would have to talk to Onderdonk about somehow getting that added to his cover.
Outside the store, the weightlifter shakily stood and looked through the window at Brody and Emery.
“Were there any witnesses to the altercation?”
“Besides the cat?” Brody said
Farnsworth glanced around. “Where is Magnum, by the way? The little guy used to love me.”
“He’s rearranging the Thriller section.”
“He’s doing what?” Farnsworth asked, taking a step toward the book aisles.
B
rody cleared his throat. “What are you going to do about the fight, Emery? It was just him and me inside the store with no witnesses. The best you’ve got is mutual combat.”
The constable turned and eyed him suspiciously. “Been in some fights as a bookseller?”
“This was my first time as a bookstore owner, but as a sailor, I’ve been in a few.”
“Let’s not make it a habit, Brody. Pleasant Valley isn’t known for this kind of behavior.”
The weightlifter began walking away with his shoulders rolled forward. Emery caught the movement and watched the man. “He said he wouldn’t press charges if you won’t.”
“Sounds fair to me.”
Both the officer and the bookseller watched as the dejected man disappeared around the corner.
“Want me to tell him he’s trespassed?” Emery asked. “That way, he won’t be able to come around your store again.”
“With his type,” Brody said, “it wouldn’t make a difference.”
Chapter 19
“What’s with you and the bicycle cop?”
Brody spun around to find U.S. Marshal Ted Onderdonk standing in the middle of the bookstore. He wore a short-sleeve plaid shirt, khaki Dockers, and a pair of brown loafers. The bell had not sounded when he entered.
“How’d you do that?”
“What?”
“Get in here without setting off the bell.”
“It’s a marshal secret.”
“Ekleberry knew how to do it, too.”
“Max was here?”
Brody nodded.
“What did he want?”
“To check on me.”
Onderdonk’s eyes swept the bookstore. “Huh.”
“Yeah. Huh.”
“So, why was the rent-a-cop here? He looked serious.”
“I had a fight.”
The lawman returned his focus to Brody. “A fight? You’re supposed to keep a low profile.”
“It’s hard when the mob’s in town.”
Onderdonk’s eyes slanted. “The mob is here? Where?”
“Couple blocks down. Little Italian joint. It’s a front.”