A Night's Tail

by Sofie Kelly

  * * *

  I did a load of laundry, cleaned the bathroom and dusted everywhere. Ethan got up, muttered a good morning and foraged in the kitchen for breakfast—wearing a T-shirt for a change. After he’d eaten—two scrambled eggs with mushrooms and tomatoes, two cups of coffee and a slice of Rebecca’s pie—he’d wandered into the living room to ask if he could do some laundry later.

  “I kinda need some clean clothes to take with me,” he said, scratching his stubbled chin.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “What time are you leaving?” The Flaming Gerbils were playing three shows in Milwaukee, about a four-and-a-half-hour drive away. They’d be back on Monday.

  Ethan yawned and scratched one armpit. “I told the guys I’d pick them up at one o’clock.” He looked around the room. “You want me to vacuum for you?” he asked.

  “Seriously?” I said.

  He shrugged. “Yeah. I figure it’s the least I can do since I’m staying here and eating your food.”

  I grinned at him. “You’re right. So yes and thank you.”

  I left for the library a bit more than an hour later. I gave Ethan a hug. “Have fun.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me to stay out of trouble?” he teased.

  “You’re a grown man now, not a little kid,” I said. “I’m going to try harder to treat you that way.”

  “Plus, you know you’re wasting time.” His dark eyes gleamed.

  I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “By the way, Rebecca will probably bring Hercules back in a little while.”

  He frowned. “How is she going to do that? The furball doesn’t let anyone but you pick him up.”

  I smiled, getting a mental image of Rebecca pulling Hercules in her wagon. “I’m just going to let you see that for yourself,” I said.

  I stopped in at Eric’s for coffee before I went to the library. Standing at the counter, I realized I had forgotten to bring my lunch or to even make it, for that matter. “Is it too late for a breakfast sandwich?” I asked Claire.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Hang on. Let me check with Eric.”

  Claire poked her head in the kitchen and was back in less than a minute. She smiled. “He says it will only be a few minutes.”

  I thanked her and dropped onto a stool to wait. The door to the café opened and Simon Janes walked in.

  “Hi, Kathleen,” he said. “This is a nice surprise, seeing you twice in less than a day.”

  “I talked to Mia last night,” I said, swinging around on the stool so I was facing him.

  He made a face. “Did she happen to tell you that she’s met a guy?”

  I laughed. “Yes, she did. She has a good head on her shoulders, thanks to you. Don’t worry.”

  Simon pointed a finger at me. “That may be so, but any questions about boys and anything related to them are going to be referred to you.”

  After Simon’s father’s death I’d moved into a surrogate-mother role with Mia, and I treasured our connection. I smiled. “That’s fine with me.”

  Simon gave Claire his take-out order and then turned to me again. “I didn’t tell you last night. I heard what happened at the hotel. You found Lewis Wallace’s body.”

  I nodded. “I did.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said. “Has Marcus figured out what happened yet?”

  “He’s still investigating.”

  “If you think it might help, I can ask around, see if I can find out anything else about the man.” He picked up a sugar packet and flipped it over his fingers.

  I didn’t see the point in denying that I was interested in Lewis Wallace. But I didn’t want to lead Simon on, either.

  As if he could read my mind, Simon held up his hands and said, “As friends, Kathleen. No catch.”

  I didn’t have a lot of other options at the moment. I nodded. “Thank you.”

  Claire came back with my food. I slid off the stool.

  “I’ll be in touch if I find out anything,” Simon said.

  I thanked him again and headed for the library, hoping I wasn’t going to regret this.

  chapter 10

  Simon came into the library midmorning on Saturday. By that time I had already put out the new magazines, updated the anti-virus software on our computers and helped a mom-to-be find several books on baby care.

  I knew from the expression on Simon’s face that he’d found something. “That was fast,” I said.

  He smiled. “More good luck than good timing,” he said. “I’m not even sure if what I learned is going to be of any use to you.”

  “What did you find out?” I asked. I’d learned so little about Lewis Wallace so far that anything Simon could tell me would help.

  “Wallace’s other business failed because basically he didn’t pay any attention to it. When you start a business you need to be boots on the ground all the time. You need to be there, putting in the time, putting in the effort. He wasn’t. They were really just using his name and image.”

  “That doesn’t make him sound like a very good businessman.”

  Simon shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. I think at the time he was just trying to exploit what little name recognition he had.”

  “So that might explain why the development committee was willing to consider making a deal with him even though he didn’t have the best track record.”

  “It might.”

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?” I said. There was something in his tone. Skepticism, maybe? It was almost as if he knew something but wasn’t sure whether or not he believed it.

  “Two things, actually,” he said. “I don’t know if you knew, but there were a couple of lawsuits filed against Wallace’s memorabilia business.”

  I nodded. “I knew.”

  “You know how long those things can take to move through the legal system.” Simon patted his jacket pocket with one hand and I wondered if that’s where his phone was.

  “Years,” I said. “But I thought those lawsuits had been settled out of court.”

  “They were. Just a few weeks ago, by Lewis Wallace.”

  It took me a moment to catch what he was getting at. “You mean by Wallace personally. Not by his insurance company.”

  Simon nodded.

  I frowned at him. “But why now? And why did he use his own money? Was he just trying to cut his losses?”

  “According to my source, it looked like the insurance company—and by extension Wallace—was probably going to win both cases. As for why now and why he used his own money, I have no idea.”

  “Maybe he had an attack of conscience.” That didn’t quite jibe with kicking a service dog in a bar, but it was all that I could come up with.

  “Maybe,” Simon said. His expression told me he didn’t think it was likely.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, holding up a finger. “Where did he get the money?”

  “That’s the second thing. I found out how Wallace really made his money. I don’t think he got rich playing football in Canada. He and some other investors made their real money investing in new businesses and ones that were looking to expand.”

  “So Wallace and his friends were angel investors?”

  “Not exactly.” Simon straightened the scarf at his neck. “First of all, an angel investor generally offers a lot more favorable loan terms than a bank or some other lender because most of the time the investment is in the person—the entrepreneur—not the actual business. Wallace and his group weren’t doing that.”

  I didn’t like what I was hearing.

  “Angel investors are interested more in helping start-ups take their first steps and in seeing established businesses expand than they are in just maximizing profit.”

  That decidedly didn’t fit with what I knew about Lewis Wallace.

  Simon
smiled. “You probably know where the term ‘angel’ comes from.”

  “Yes, I do know that,” I said. I had been twisting my watch around my arm. I made myself stop and put one hand behind my back. “From the theater. From Broadway, to be specific. Angels invest in productions to help them reach the stage. I can think of a play my mother was part of that wouldn’t have been staged without an angel.” I also knew who had used her persuasive skills to convince that angel to bless the production.

  “But you’re saying Wallace wasn’t lending money at a better rate than the banks.”

  “As far as I know he was charging more because the people who were borrowing from him had already been turned down by those kinds of conventional lenders or they knew they would be.”

  “It seems so . . . manipulative,” I said.

  “The way Wallace was doing business, it was. His loans all included a way to call in the loan on short notice.”

  “And if the business owner couldn’t pay?”

  “Then Wallace and his investor friends looted the company of everything that was worth anything. They’d make their money back and then some, plus for months before that they were getting above market rate interest.”

  “So there would be no company left,” I said slowly. “No products or services to sell. No jobs for anyone.”

  “Businesses that had been in operation for decades, that had just hit a small financial bump, were essentially looted.” Simon’s expression was grim. “And it happens more than you think.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of the pocket of his hoodie and handed it to me without comment.

  It was a list of businesses. I recognized some names, several others I’d never heard of and one name I knew well. I looked up at Simon. “Redmond Signs was in Red Wing. They went under a little more than a year ago.” I’d heard the name just recently, too, but I couldn’t place where or when.

  “More like they were held under,” he said. He tapped the company name on the page with one finger. “I remember that one. The company had been in business for more than sixty years. They got a bit overextended buying some new equipment to print removable decals. Wallace and his partners swept in and in less than six months the company was gone.”

  “Red Wing isn’t that far from here,” I said as I folded the paper in half again.

  “No, it isn’t,” Simon agreed. “A lot of people would have heard that Lewis Wallace might be doing business here.”

  I nodded, wondering how I was going to use what Simon had discovered.

  His eyes narrowed. “Will this help?”

  “It gives me somewhere to look, so yes.”

  He smiled. “My work here is done, then.”

  “It was good work,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, Kathleen,” he said. “Remember that.”

  * * *

  When I got home that afternoon after stopping for groceries I found Hercules on the bench in the porch, chin resting on the windowsill, looking morose. I set my two grocery bags on the floor and leaned down to stroke his fur. “It is kind of quiet without Ethan here drumming on pretty much everything and singing ninety percent of the time,” I said.

  Hercules murped his agreement.

  I tried not to think about how quiet it was going to be when my baby brother went home.

  It was a cold and windy day and neither the cat nor I felt inclined to go back outside, so we ended up at the table with my laptop. Me with a hot chocolate piled high with The Jam Lady’s marshmallow and Hercules with a couple of sardine crackers. “You’re a pretty good research partner,” I said as I gave him a scratch under his chin.

  “Mrr,” he replied. It seemed he already knew that.

  Since the company had gone under, there was no website for Redmond Signs anymore, but a little digging did produce a newspaper article on the demise of the company. When I saw the accompanying photographs, I knew why the name Redmond had twigged for me. In one of them, part of a timeline of the company’s history, there was a gawky teenager, skinny, all but hiding behind his grandfather, who had begun Redmond Signs when he wasn’t much older than the kid who was all arms and legs. The older man was tall like his grandson with dark skin, graying hair and the barrel-chested build that suggested maybe he had played football.

  I raised an inquiring eyebrow at Hercules. “Do you think Redmond Senior was a football player at some time? Could that have had anything to do with Lewis Wallace’s investment in the company?”

  He wrinkled his whiskers at me. He didn’t seem convinced.

  I might have passed right by the older man’s grandson. In the caption for the photo he was identified as Michael. I probably would have if the photo hadn’t been in color. It was the teen’s eyes that caught my attention. They were a vivid blue. That’s when I realized why the name Redmond was familiar. I’d met Michael Redmond, except he was going by the name Zach. He was Maggie’s friend, the bartender at The Brick.

  I leaned against the back of my chair and stretched one arm over my head. It could have been a coincidence that Lewis Wallace had ended up at a bar where Zach/Michael worked. On the other hand . . .

  “I need to talk to him,” I said to Hercules.

  The cat’s response was to stretch out a paw and bat my cell phone closer, then he jumped down and headed back to the porch. Clearly the next part of this fact-finding mission was up to me.

  I picked up the phone and called Maggie. “Hi,” she said. “I was just talking about you. Well, actually, about Owen and Hercules. Another customer came in and asked about the calendar. I really think Ruby is going to have to do a second one.”

  Owen and Hercules had posed for a series of photos taken by my friend, artist Ruby Blackthorne, at various landmarks around Mayville Heights—the library, of course, the Stratton Theatre, on the walking trail along the river—with the resulting photos made into a calendar to promote the town. Everett Henderson had funded the project. The response had been even better than we’d hoped. The first printing had sold out and so had the second. And people were still asking for copies or wondering if there was going to be a version for next year.

  “I guess that will depend on whether or not Ruby and Everett can reach a deal with the ‘talent.’” I laughed. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just part of the celebrity entourage.”

  “Only you carry sardine crackers instead of a water bottle,” Maggie teased. “What’s up?”

  “I need to go back to The Brick. Do you have plans tonight?” I picked up my hot chocolate and realized the mug was empty.

  “Nothing I can’t change,” she said. “Does this mean you’ve decided to buy yourself some peacock feathers?”

  “No, it does not,” I said firmly. I explained about Zach Redmond and his connection to Lewis Wallace. “I know he’s a friend, Mags, and I’m not saying he killed Wallace, it’s just an awfully big coincidence.”

  “You’re right.” I heard her exhale on the other end of the phone. “You should talk to Zach, and I do want to come with you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. It would be a lot easier having her with me. Not only did Maggie know Zach, but she was funny and kind and wherever she went she just drew people to her. Which probably explained Ethan’s attraction, now that I thought about it.

  “What about Roma?” Maggie said. “The three of us haven’t been on a road trip in ages.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll call her and get back to you.”

  I ended the call and made one to Roma.

  “How do you feel about a road trip?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said almost before I finished asking the question.

  “You don’t even know where we’re going.”

  “I don’t care.” She sounded a little frazzled. “Just tell me what time and I’ll pick up you and Maggie.”

  I pulled my legs up underneath me and shifted
sideways on the chair. “What’s going on?”

  “My living room has been invaded by ginormous hockey players who can somehow fly down the ice at lightning speed and swat a little piece of frozen rubber into a net but can’t walk across the floor without bumping into something.”

  I stifled the impulse to laugh, remembering that Marcus had mentioned three of Eddie’s former teammates were in town. Roma and I settled on a time and I took her up on her offer to pick Maggie and me up in her SUV. Unlike my truck, it had heated seats. I sent Maggie a text letting her know Roma would be stopping for her and when. Then I got up to make another cup of hot chocolate.

  I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Owen at the basement door. He cocked his head and seemed surprised to see me.

  “I live here, too, remember?” I said.

  He wandered over to his bowl, peered into it and then nudged it with a paw before looking at me again.

  “It’s not supper time,” I said.

  The microwave buzzed and I took my mug out. Owen crossed the floor and sat at my feet. He meowed loudly, then looked at the cupboard where I kept the stinky crackers.

  “Two,” I said, holding up the corresponding number of fingers. “And I’m only giving you those because your brother already had two.”

  I got out the two kitty treats and set them on the floor in front of me. He gave a small murp of thanks and then bent his head to sniff each cracker. He’d been that way since he was a kitten, always suspicious, it seemed, that his food might be off somehow.

  “‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,’” I said.

  A furry gray ear twitched, but that was the only reaction I got. It seemed Owen wasn’t a fan of Shakespeare.

  After I finished my drink and gave Owen a scratch behind the ears and carried him upstairs because he was suddenly too tired to walk, I called Marcus. “I have to cancel our plans for tonight.”