“That’s Chuck, right?” He took a drag off the cigarette and stared toward the emergency vehicles. The jumpiness I’d seen in him earlier had disappeared.
“It is.” I stared down the street. The ambulance blocked most of our view, as did the team of first responders gathered around Chuck. There was no way Ronald could know that Chuck was the victim from this distance, not unless he had some sort of superpower that allowed him to see through cars.
Ronald took another puff from the cigarette, dropped it on the sidewalk, and smashed it with his tennis shoe. “Doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”
“Why do you say that?”
He pointed to the cart and body bag being wheeled off the ambulance.
I thought I might be sick. I’d never seen anyone die before. Poor Chuck.
Ronald didn’t appear to share my angst over witnessing something so horrific. “I’m not surprised to see this happen. He made a lot of enemies around town. I can’t say that there are going to be many people mourning Chuck’s death.”
His callous attitude made the already surreal turn of events that much more disturbing. “I can’t agree with you on that,” I said, defending Ashland. “Things like this don’t happen here. I think the opposite will be true—if Chuck is dead. Our community will mourn his death and rally around one another.”
“You didn’t know him well, did you?”
“I knew him well enough. And I know Ashland well enough to say with conviction that no one is going to take his death lightly.”
“We’ll see about that.” Ronald took another cigarette from the pack. “We could wager a bet since it looks like I’m right.”
I looked down the street to see the EMS workers zipping the body bag. Nerves sent my stomach twirling. I tried to calm it by placing my hand on my solar plexus. There was not a chance that I would wager a bet on a man’s death. “I need to go check on my ride.” I walked away from Ronald. His attitude and complete lack of compassion for Chuck gave me the creeps.
Could he have done it? I replayed what I had seen. There had been a man smoking across the street who had disappeared. If that had been Ronald, how much time would he have needed to slip away and get his car? Five minutes? Ten?
It was possible. The car had come out of nowhere and Doug and I had been chatting and watching Chuck prance around the street. It was definitely plausible that Ronald could have had his car parked around the corner, run over Chuck, sped off, and then casually strolled up to me in an attempt to provide an alibi. It was also possible that he hadn’t been the person I’d seen smoking, which made him even more of a suspect. He could have been waiting in his car for the right moment and seized the opportunity when he saw Chuck.
I didn’t like the vibe I had gotten from him and intended to fill Doug in about our strange and uncomfortable conversation.
Chapter Eight
“What happened next?” I asked the Professor when he paused in reading my dad’s account of the night of Chuck’s accident. “Was it a hit-and-run? Did you find whoever did it?”
The Professor took a drink of water and dabbed his chin with a napkin. “Chuck Faraday’s death turned out to be my first official solo case. The lead detective at the time sent me off on my own. He claimed it was because he thought I was ready, but the truth of the matter was that he was well aware of the fact that hit-and-runs are extremely hard to solve. That remains true today. We have the luxury of more cameras today, but without photographic evidence or witnesses who are able to clearly identify the make, model, and even license plate, hit-and-run fatalities often go unsolved.”
“Really?” I took a drink of my water. The bakeshop was alive with the scent of wood-fired pizza and baking bread.
“I’m afraid so. The first forty-eight hours are critical. Sometimes we’ll get a break if the driver attempts to repair any damage by taking the vehicle to an auto body shop. Unlike in other crimes, with a hit-and-run the primary evidence is gone. The only thing you’re left with is the actual body. It’s maddening for those of us in the field and absolutely heart wrenching for the families of the victims.”
Torte’s front doorbell jingled as a group of middle-schoolers on a field trip to OSF walked inside. They giggled and chatted happily as they went up to the counter to place their orders. Their upbeat energy was in direct contrast to the Professor’s story.
“Your father helped me with the investigation. He didn’t want Helen to know. I knew that your parents had poured everything they had into Torte. I offered Will some extra cash on the side if he would accompany me and help be another set of eyes. You have to understand this was a deal between the two of us. It was unique in that there wasn’t other physical evidence to examine, so having him come along while I interviewed auto body shops and canvassed the neighborhood and businesses around the Cabaret wouldn’t have jeopardized my investigation. I couldn’t pay him as an official consultant, but I could pay him out of my own pocket.” He folded his napkin into a neat square and placed it on top of his empty plate.
“Did you really want his help or were you just trying to find a way to give my parents some extra cash?” I too had polished every last crumb of Sterling’s delectable panned pizza.
“No, I was desperate for his wisdom and insight. Remember, we were in our late twenties. This was my first opportunity to investigate a fatality on my own and I wanted to impress my boss and the powers that be. In hindsight, I should have considered the risk I was putting your father in, but we were young and naive.”
“I can’t imagine that you were ever naive.” I wrinkled my forehead.
He wavered. “Perhaps not in the textbook definition, but I made more than my fair share of mistakes early in my career and involving your father in this case was certainly my worst.”
“But he must have wanted to be involved. He wouldn’t have agreed otherwise.” I hoped that was true. Learning that my father had witnessed a fatality and had been active in trying to track down who had done it gave me new insight and understanding into my past. Maybe my desire to see justice was in my genes.
“Oh yes. Will was eager to provide assistance, but he was nervous about what Helen would think. It was the one and only time he kept a secret from her, and I know that he took that regret to the grave.” The Professor sighed and rubbed his temples.
I reached across the table and placed my hand over his. “It’s okay. My dad was an adult. He made his own choices.”
“Thank you for that, Juliet.” The Professor tried to smile. “Shall we continue?”
“If you’re up for it?”
“Certainly.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the booth as he continued to read.
The next morning, I awoke to a throbbing headache. I had waited for Doug last night. It took a couple hours for the police to clear the scene. I had offered to walk or call a cab, but Doug had said he wanted to talk to me about something in private if I didn’t mind waiting. On the ride home, he had informed me that he was going to be the lead in Chuck Faraday’s hit-and-run investigation and he wanted my help. I was happy for him, and I agreed. It had seemed like the right thing to do last night. Maybe it had been due to the fact of witnessing the crime—that I felt responsible to bring Chuck’s killer to justice somehow. Or maybe it had been triggered by my conversation with Ronald. In the light of day I wondered if I had made a mistake. If Helen found out that Doug and I were working a case together, she would kill both of us.
I didn’t like the thought of keeping a secret from her, but I couldn’t stop seeing Chuck’s body flying through the air or silence the sound of the car’s screeches. What harm could there be in tagging along with Doug for a couple days? He told me that the next two days were the most critical. If we could get a solid lead on the driver in forty-eight hours our odds of catching who did this would go up exponentially.
Helen was brushing Juliet’s hair when I dragged myself downstairs. “Late night? You and Doug must have really hit the town.”
�
��Something like that.” I poured myself a cup of coffee.
In true Helen form, I could tell by the line creasing her brow she knew something was amiss. “Juliet, run upstairs and get your library books. Today is library day at school.”
“Library day!” Juliet jumped from her chair and ran upstairs.
“What is it, William? Are you hungover? Is something wrong with Doug?”
I nursed my coffee. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”
She picked up Juliet’s breakfast dishes and walked them to the sink. “No, and you better remember that,” she teased. “Plus you have no poker face and you’re as white as Juliet’s hair. What happened last night?”
“I’m not hungover, but I feel like I am. Doug and I never made it out for that beer.” I proceeded to fill her in on Chuck’s death, leaving out one important detail—that I had been invited to be on the case.
“Will, that’s horrible.” Helen came and embraced me. Her hair smelled like honey. “Are you okay? What can I do? I mean, first of all you are not coming into Torte today. Drink your coffee and then go back to bed.”
“Helen, no I’ll be fine. You can’t manage the bakery on your own. We have another round of desserts to make for tonight’s performance. Assuming tonight’s performance goes on.” I hadn’t considered whether or not the show would continue without Chuck.
“Nope. I’m putting my foot down on this, Will Capshaw. You didn’t get home until after two. I heard you come in, and you look miserable. You’re the one who is always saying that everything we bake is made with love. You can’t bake with love after what you witnessed last night.”
I tried to protest, but she stopped me.
“Not another word. I’m going to call Wendy right now. She already offered to help. Plus we were going to pop over to Small Change later this morning anyway. They’re having a big sale on girls’ dresses. You rest this morning. I don’t want to see you anywhere near the bakeshop.”
She had given me the perfect out to go with Doug, which made me feel even worse. However there was no arguing with my wife when she set her mind to an idea. She shooed me back to bed with a fresh cup of coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel. “Get some sleep. Come in if you’re feeling better later or take the entire day.”
I waited until I heard the door shut and the van pull out of the driveway, before I took a hot shower and got dressed. Then I called Doug, who agreed to swing by to pick me up within the hour. Helen’s coffee and the shower revived my senses. I started thinking through everything leading up to Chuck’s death. While I didn’t agree with Ronald’s tone, he was right about one thing—Chuck had appeared to have gotten into disagreements with a number of people. There was Shelly, the artistic director. I had seen them arguing off stage right before the show. I had overheard Pat, the owner of Rumors, telling Stewart that Chuck was banned from his nightclub. Chuck and Ronald had almost come to blows, and Stewart had alluded to the fact that he wasn’t thrilled with the star’s behavior.
The beep of Doug’s vintage 1965 red convertible mustang stopped my train of thought. Hopefully we would uncover something this morning.
“How are you feeling? That was a rough night.” Doug opened the passenger door for me.
“I know. Helen banned me from Torte.” I hopped into the passenger seat. Last night’s chill had given way to a warm morning. The sun beat down on the pavement. A Steller’s jay with a black mohawk hopped on our front picket fence, begging for peanuts. Everything about the day from the bright sky to the kiss of the wind in the glossy oak trees felt wrong. I had witnessed a man’s death last night. Would I ever feel the same again?
“That’s good news. She didn’t ban you from coming along with me, did she?” Doug reached into the glove box and pulled out a cassette tape.
“I didn’t tell her. We agreed to keep this between the two of us, right?”
“You have my word, Will. I swear upon the Bard.” He maneuvered the car out of our driveway. “We need a code name though. Something that won’t alert Helen.”
I thought for a moment as he steered the car down the hill. “What about the Pastry Case? That way if anyone hears us talking, they’ll assume I’m telling you about whatever is currently in the actual pastry case.”
“The Pastry Case, yes. That’s perfect.” He chuckled and then popped the tape into the cassette player. “How do you feel about a little CCR to start our drive?”
“Sure.” I turned up the volume as “Bad Moon Rising” started to play. “Where are we going first?”
“If you reach into the glove box, I highlighted every auto body shop from Yreka to Grants Pass. I figured we’d start south and work our way north. Does that work for you?” Doug flipped a pair of John Lennon sunglasses over his eyes.
“Sure.”
The California border was only sixteen miles south. We drove along Old Highway 99 past Kelly green hills to the east. While Doug drove, we talked through each possible suspect. “There is one other possibility,” he said as he took the first exit in Yreka.
“What’s that?”
“That Chuck’s death was a random accident. The driver could have been intoxicated or high. There’s an outside chance that the driver didn’t realize they’d hit someone.”
“Is that what you think?”
Doug steered us to Ray’s Auto Body, the first X on our map. “No. If I was a betting man, I would put my money on it being intentional. Everything about it felt off. The way the engine revved. The speed. The fact that the driver didn’t slow for one minute. Is that the way you remember it?”
I nodded. “To the letter.”
The wind on my face as we sped along the highway felt oddly refreshing. “Do you think it could have something to do with drugs?” I asked, then I told him about the fight I’d seen between Ronald and Chuck. “What if Ronald was Chuck’s supplier or vice versa?”
“It’s possible. The nightclub scene is notorious for drug problems. I should have toxicology reports soon, so that will at least tell us what Chuck had in his system.”
Accompanying Doug on his interviews was eye opening. He didn’t rush. Rather he took his time, asking deliberate questions and studying each response. We struck out in Yreka, Ashland, Medford, and Talent. Our luck changed when we pulled into a run-down shop in White City. The rural town was well off the beaten path and not much more than a few run-down buildings and one small diner.
The owner of the repair shop looked as if he was as old as the building. He wiped grease on his coveralls as we approached him.
“Morning, sir. I’m wondering if you’ve had any cars in for repair this morning.” Doug placed his sunglasses on the top of his head. He removed a leather notebook from the breast pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.
“This is a repair shop, yeah. I’ve had cars in.”
Doug filled him in on the details along with a description of the car.
“Nope. Nothing matching that has come in today, but I did get a call this morning from a guy asking for a price on front body damage. I told him he had to bring the car in so I could see it. Asked for his name and number. He got cagey and hung up right after that.”
“You’re sure it was a man?”
“Yep. Unless it was a woman with a voice as deep as James Earl Jones.”
Doug looked to me and then made a note. “Excellent. Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else or if this guy calls again or comes in, please call me right away.” He handed him a business card.
“How does that help us?” I asked once we were in the car again.
“I can pull phone records. If we can try to trace where the call came from, we might be able to make an arrest. That would be amazing, Will. Can you imagine if we solve this in the first day?”
“How long will it take to pull phone records?”
“I’ll call my secretary at our next stop and get that going. This has to be our guy. It would make sense that he would put some feelers out, and White City is far out of town. I say we hit th
e remaining spots on the map and then head back to Ashland.”
The rest of the auto shops were dead ends. We received good news when we returned to Ashland shortly after lunchtime. The call to the shop in White City had come in and been traced to a payphone on the plaza in Ashland.
Doug left to check the phone for prints, and I returned to the bakeshop. For the first time since last night, I felt hopeful. If we could catch Chuck’s killer, maybe things would start to feel normal again.
Chapter Nine
“Things must have been much harder back then,” I said to the Professor.
“Very true. Yes, without a doubt. Had I had access to today’s technology I’m quite confident we would have made a prompt arrest.” He smoothed the napkin that rested on his empty plate.
“You must have suspected someone though?” I asked, noting that the lunchtime rush around us had begun to thin. A small line remained at the pastry counter and espresso bar. The sound of foaming milk and customers chatting filled the space. Rosa expertly navigated past the line, balancing a tray of caramel and chocolate shortbread squares, custard tarts, and pecan hand pies.
“I did. I suspected many, but without proof—ah, that’s the rub.” His tone was somber. “Chuck’s death is the one case that has lingered in my mind. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that it’s haunted me. I’ve had long stretches where I’ve not thought of that fateful evening, but every so often that night will flash in my mind and fill me with trouble.”
It was strange to see the Professor so downtrodden. He had always been one of the wisest men I knew. It felt like I was reopening an old wound and dragging him into the past with me. “Do you want to stop?” I asked. “I can finish reading on my own.”
“No, no. Not at all.” He waved me off. “Please, let’s press on.”
When I returned to Torte, things were buzzing. Helen and our good friend Wendy had made a huge dent in the Cabaret desserts. The pastry case was stocked and every table in the dining area had a collection of happy customers sharing plates of pineapple upside-down cake and bread-and-butter pudding.
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