All Mortal Flesh

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  More unheard talking from Mr. Sacramone. “That’s more or less the reason I’m calling,” Barbara said. “Mr. Opperman told me to order flowers for the lady with whom he was staying. He wants them to be there when she gets home, you understand. But I don’t have her address. Do you have it for me, by any chance? So I can keep looking like a miracle worker?”

  Russ’s stomach clenched. Barbara’s eyebrows went up. “No? Huh. My mistake, then. I’ll have to ask him to clarify for me when he gets in touch next.” She looked at Russ, shook her head. “You, too, Emilio. Ciao, bello.” She hung up.

  “The concierge at Mr. Opperman’s hotel says he was alone his whole stay. Which doesn’t surprise me. Mr. Opperman is very focused on the business.”

  He had enough of a sense of humor left to be amused by the fact that he was crushed because his wife hadn’t gone off with the owner of the Algonquin. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “I appreciate you trying.”

  “Let’s go find Ray,” Barbara said, her tone professionally upbeat. “Maybe he’ll know something.”

  Russ followed her out of the office.

  “They’re working downstairs, in the spa facilities,” she said. “The fire didn’t spread that far, but we had extensive water damage. Lots of rewiring and retiling.”

  Broad stairs led down from the lobby to the spa. Once they were below the ground floor, Russ could hear the high-pitched grind of a Skil saw and someone cursing a stubborn coupling wire.

  “Ray?” Barbara called. She picked her way past sawhorses and coils of insulated cable. “Ray?”

  They entered the work area. Russ could see it had once probably been the fanciest place to soak your feet or get covered with mud between New York and Montreal. Now it was a god-awful mess, like a beautiful woman with a bad hangover and ratty hair. A man in a flannel shirt and suspenders unbent from where he was studying a blueprint. “Whitey! Matt! Knock it off a minute.” The Skil saw died away. The big guy crossed the work space toward them. He was as tall as Russ and a good fifty pounds heavier, with the open face of a man who viewed the world as his friend until proven otherwise.

  “Hey, Ms. LeBlanc. What can I do you for?”

  “This is Ray Yardhaas, our foreman. Ray, this is the Millers Kill chief of police, Russ Van Alstyne.”

  Ray shook his hand. “We met before. Two summers ago, when we were building this place the first time.” He grinned. “First time I ever met someone investigating a real live murder. Impressed the hell out of my wife.”

  “Ray, we’re looking for someone who might have been helping Mrs. Van Alstyne with the curtain installations.”

  “Mrs. Van Alstyne?” He glanced at Russ. “You mean the curtain lady? Yeah, that’d mostly be Charlie. Why? Has he been bothering her?”

  Leblanc frowned. “Is that a concern?”

  “Aw, his heart’s in the right place, I guess. It’s just his mouth’s usually in third gear while his brain’s still easing off the brake. He’s got little hands, though. Good for doing that fiddly sort of work.”

  “Can I talk to him?” Russ asked.

  “He’s taking a break.” Ray mimed puffing on a cigarette. “He’s my crew, though. If he’s been up to something he shouldn’t, I want to know about it.”

  Ross shook his head. “I’m just looking for some information.” He considered how much to share. “My wife—”

  Ray pointed over his shoulder. “Here he is.”

  Russ turned around.

  And saw Dennie Shambaugh walking toward him.

  FORTY-ONE

  Russ was on Shambaugh in two long strides, his knuckles twisting in the neck of the man’s shirt, choking off his air and forcing him to his knees. Barbara LeBlanc was yelling something, but he couldn’t make it out over the pounding in his ears.

  “Where is she, you bastard?” Russ’s grip tightened as his voice rose to a howl. “Where’s my wife?”

  He was jerked back by a pair of oven-mitt-sized hands wrapped around his arms. “Slow down there, Chief.” Ray didn’t have to raise his voice to boom. “I thought you just wanted to ask him some questions.”

  Russ twisted out of Yardhaas’s grasp. “That man is under arrest,” he said, pointing at the quivering, hacking heap of flannel and denim on the floor. His hand shook. “For information fraud, suspicion of murder, and the disappearance of Linda Van Alstyne.” He lunged toward Shambaugh. “Where’s my wife?” he shouted.

  The man threw up his hands. “I don’t know nothing! I don’t know nothing!” He peeked through his forearms at Russ, bracing for the blow to fall.

  Russ stared.

  He grabbed the man’s wrists and forced them down.

  “Don’t hurt me,” the man whimpered. “Ray, don’t let him hurt me.”

  It wasn’t Dennie Shambaugh.

  “Shit,” Russ said, releasing his hold. He turned away, struggling to get control of himself. “Christ almighty.” He turned back. “I’m sorry.” He looked at the man cowering on the floor, at Yardhaas, at Barbara, who was staring at him with dismay. “I’m sorry. We’re looking for a man named Dennis Shambaugh. I thought you were him. I’m sorry.”

  Ray held out a meaty hand and helped his crewman up. “This here’s Charlie Shambaugh.”

  The smaller man shuffled behind Ray. “Dennie’s my brother,” he said.

  Russ removed his glasses and scrubbed his face with one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You look a lot alike.”

  “Yeah, we all do.” Charlie Shambaugh’s voice was shaky.

  “Have you heard from your brother recently?”

  “Maybe a month ago. He’s in trouble again, huh?”

  “Wait a minute.” Ray twisted around to look at Charlie. “Was this the brother you brought around when we was rehiring in November?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “You didn’t tell me he was a con.”

  Charlie shrugged. “He needed a job.”

  Ray turned to Russ. “I had to get some new guys. Some of my crew had already left for southern work. I didn’t know he was a con, though. I don’t hire no cons.”

  “Why’d you pass on him, then?” Russ put his glasses back on.

  “I got a simple test if I haven’t worked with a guy before. I take him through the site and ask him how he’d tackle five different jobs. Charlie’s brother didn’t know much more’n how to swing a hammer.”

  “Charlie, did you try to get your brother a job with my wife?”

  Charlie was dumbfounded enough to forget to be afraid of Russ. “Are you kidding? He couldn’t sew. The carpentry, I figured he could pick up. That’s easy. But sewing?”

  Russ’s hand twitched. Charlie saw it and shrank back into Yardhaas’s shadow again. “I mean pet sitting. House sitting. Whatever he would have called it.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Pet-sitting’s a girl job. His girlfriend pet-sits. Doesn’t pay crap, but she loves ‘little fuzzy critters’ ”—Charlie’s voice crept up into a falsetto—“and just between you an’ me, it’s about the best she can do. Dumb as a box of hammers.”

  “She’s dead,” Russ said.

  Charlie’s mouth opened.

  “Somebody slit her throat and then sliced her up like so much roast beef.”

  Charlie’s mouth was still open. After a few seconds, he said, “Are you shit-tin’ me?”

  “We think your brother did it.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Charlie shook his head. “No way. He’s nuts about Audrey.”

  “That’s what a lot of guys who kill their wives or girlfriends say.”

  “No, not like I’m-a-stalker nuts about her. He, you know”—Charlie looked around as if embarrassed to say the word in front of witnesses—“he loved her.”

  Russ wasn’t in the mood to debate Dennie Shambaugh’s emotions. “He assaulted an officer, stole a car, and fled from questioning. Do you have any idea where he’d be?”

  “No.”

  “Charlie. If your brother didn’t kill Audrey Keane, he needs to turn himself in and
clear himself.”

  “I don’t know where he is. Last time I talked with him was Christmas, at Frannie’s house. Our sister. Mary Francis Delacourt. She lives in Fort Henry.”

  “Is he likely to have gone there? Or to one of your other brothers or sisters?”

  “I dunno.”

  Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “If he contacts you, get in touch with the Millers Kill police immediately.”

  “Sure.”

  Sure. Russ breathed in. Out. “One more question. Ray here says you helped my wife—the curtain lady—with some of her work.”

  “Yeah.” Charlie bobbed his head up and down in an earnest display of helpfulness. “Nice lady.”

  “Yeah. Did you ever hear her say anything about traveling, or going on a trip, or getting away?”

  “She was going away to Montreal at Christmastime. With her husband.” His eyes lit up. “That’s you.”

  Christ. If Charlie thought his brother’s girlfriend was dumb, she must have been barely functioning about sponge level. “Besides that.”

  “Nah,” Charlie said. “Sorry.”

  That was that. The moment Russ had been dreading, when he tapped out his last lead.

  “Although,” Charlie said.

  “What?”

  “She did have a bunch of stuff here.”

  “A bunch of stuff?”

  “You know. A suitcase, one of those makeup bags women use. Stuff like that.” He glanced from Russ to Ray to Barbara LeBlanc. “Mr. Opperman let her use a room to keep stuff in.”

  Barbara looked at Russ. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Although it’d be easy enough for him to give her a master key. We have a bunch of them already made up. If anyone’s working late or gets snowed in, they can stay the night.”

  “Could she be—”

  Barbara was already shaking her head. “I can’t imagine it. Between me and the crew and the caretaker, no one could be here for more than a night without tipping us off. Besides, as a guest of Mr. Opperman, she’d have no reason to try to hide from anyone.”

  “Unless she’s not hiding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she could be somewhere in here, unable to get out or contact anyone.”

  Barbara and the two workmen looked up at the ceiling, as if they could imagine what sort of condition Linda would have to be in to disappear within the walls of the hotel itself.

  “You say you have master keys already made up.”

  “Yes,” Barbara said. Then she looked at him. “Oh, but you can’t mean—” She twitched, uncomfortable. “Surely you can’t think she’s really here.”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not leaving until I make sure.”

  The manager pressed her lips together, frowning. Then she squared her narrow shoulders. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Let’s get to it, then. There are a lot of rooms to check out.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Ben Beagle considered himself a people person. Mostly. He liked that his job required him to interact with men and women he never would have run across in the normal circle of office, errands, restaurant, home. He liked listening to their confidences and unearthing their secrets, and he liked the idea that every once in a while, something he wrote might affect someone else’s life. He even liked their e-mails—profane, grateful, funny, scathing.

  But Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ he hated it when they followed him home.

  Not that he was home, exactly. The offices of the Post-Star were, technically, open to the public, which meant that anyone who had to talk to a reporter right away in person about how his neighbors were running an al-Qaeda cell or about how her local school board was filled with godless heathens could enter the lobby, pester the receptionist, and speak to a reporter. Not in the newsroom. In the lobby. Usually it was one of the interns or, if they had all been sent on coffee runs, whoever had the least amount of work or the most time until deadline. The people who came to the Post-Star offices rarely asked for a reporter by name. Probably, Ben thought, because they were the sort of folks who had every edition dating back to 1950 in stacks around the house and couldn’t remember who was currently working and who had died in 1976.

  Debbie Wolecski, unfortunately, had his name. And number.

  “Why aren’t you out right now tracking down my sister? I thought this was a big-deal investigation for you!”

  Ben glanced out the window, where a hard, dry snow was turning downtown Glens Falls into a ghost town, and quelled the urge to answer, Because I don’t like to drive in this kind of weather. “Debbie, I told you on the phone. A local small-town police chief killing his wife and covering it up with the help of his force is news. It’s about corruption, and the violation of the public trust. A local small-town police chief whose wife runs off is gossip.”

  She crossed her arms. At least today she was wearing a fuzzy turtleneck instead of that skimpy summer thing she had on yesterday. Florida people. Save him. “What about his affair with that clergywoman? That’s something! You barely touched on it in this morning’s story.”

  “It’s only something if you’re the Weekly World News.” He sighed. “I’m sorry your brother-in-law was treating your sister badly. But adultery’s not a crime anymore, and we don’t write about it unless it’s tied in to something else. So, if it turns out Chief Van Alstyne was waiving Reverend Fergusson’s parking tickets or using departmental resources to benefit her, then sure, we’ll take a hard look at it. But barring that . . .”

  “What about the fact that she’s under investigation for the murder of Audrey Keane?”

  He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve spoken with someone at the Millers Kill police twice so far today, and I’m going to call again before I go home. Believe me, the murder story is going to remain front page news.” Although the fact that the department refused to officially name anyone as a suspect was going to mean his part of the story would be two inches or less. Ciara French, who was covering the Audrey Keane murder–identity fraud investigation, would be getting the headline tomorrow.

  “So that’s it?” Her mouth twisted. “Now she’s not lying in the morgue, the hell with my sister?”

  “Debbie, I don’t track someone down unless I have to get a quote from him. Finding missing people isn’t my job. According to the woman I spoke with this morning, your brother-in-law is heading up the investigation into your sister’s disappearance. I suggest you call him and ask how it’s going.” Then he thought of her parked in the Post-Star lobby, emoting all over her cell phone. “Better yet, track him down and see what you can do to help.”

  “I thought you cared! You were just using me!”

  Now she was starting to sound like his crazy ex-girlfriend. “I do care. As soon as anyone knows anything, I want to hear about it. Go find Chief Van Alstyne,

  and I promise you, if he’s uncovered any evidence of foul play, it’ll be in tomorrow’s edition.” He looked around for her coat, but of course all she had was the Be-Dazzled jacket she’d been wearing yesterday. “And get yourself something to wear before you freeze.”

  She let herself be maneuvered toward the door. “What are you going to do?”

  “While I’m waiting for word of your sister, I’m looking into another possible story. Not related to the Keane murder.”

  She paused at the exit, and for a moment he thought she might brace herself against the edges of the door and refuse to leave. “About what?”

  “Animal cruelty.” On that note, he got her out of the building and his afternoon back on track.

  He had called about the animals on a hunch, really. Patterns tweaked at him, and although he couldn’t have articulated what he thought was going on when a minister involved in a murder investigation asked him about a pig-butchering because one of her people had a lamb killed, the weird three-sided symmetry of it all had him on the phone to the MKPD almost as soon as Reverend Fergusson had hung up on him.

  Names o
f victims in hand, he started by calling his previous contact, Dr. Underkirk. He didn’t get through to the doctor, of course—he wondered who did: spouses? stockbrokers?—but it only took a few remarks and laughing at a few ham-fisted jokes for Underkirk’s garrulous nurse to reveal the only thing the minister had asked about: the doctor’s snowplowing service.

  It didn’t take him long to go through the remaining people on the list. Of those he could reach, every one had the same service.

  Interesting.

  He went on the Internet. It took him fifteen minutes to find Quinn Tracey’s LiveJournal, half an hour to read the entries, and no time at all to realize the kid was seriously torqued.

  Ben discounted the poorly spelled, ungrammatical complaints about fascist parents, irrelevant teachers, and stuck-up, snooty girls. He had felt pretty much the same way when he was in high school, and it had never sent him out gutting livestock.

  He also ignored the tedious recounting of television episodes and the pretentious album reviews. Half the Web sites and blogs on the Internet consisted of people telling you what they liked and didn’t like in excruciating detail.

  But the other stuff the kid was putting up there—that was different. In a dark and unpleasant way. Spiels glorifying war and pain and the unkillable soldier dealing death at every turn. Rants against terrorists, Middle Easterners, immigrants. Fantasies of claiming vengeance against his enemies, with detailed descriptions of what that vengeance would be. Reading it was like picking through the mind of a skinhead who had seen one too many movies where a lone American hero gunned down a moving-van’s-worth of faceless baddies.

  Ben knew that young men like to fantasize about the glory of carnage. Some of them daydreamed about martial arts prowess, while others pictured themselves infiltrating behind enemy lines with the SEALs. Violent but essentially harmless. Some kids acted on it and joined up; most enrolled in college and discovered getting laid instead.