Bad to the Last Drop

by Debra Lewis; Pat Ondarko Lewis

  A flush of deep red began creeping up Mike's neck. "Me? You don't possibly think I had anything to do with poor old Joe's demise!" he said indignantly. "Why on earth would someone in my position want to kill him? You two are as crazy as Joe was."

  Mike stormed off and as soon as they knew he was out earshot, Deb said softly, "So much for his being a suspect. I don't believe now that he did it."

  With a nod, Pat opened the door to the strong aroma of fresh brew from within.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The following Saturday at four in the afternoon, Deb and Marc bundled up in their down jackets, mittens, and face masks and trundled down the block toward Main Street for Ashland's 'Garland City Santa Claus Parade'. Pat and Mitchell joined them as they passed their house for the walk down. Eric was playing trombone in the high school marching band that led the parade down Main Street.

  The temperature had been dropping steadily during the day and now, at parade time, it was minus twenty degrees, but with a strong wind blowing off the lake, the temperature felt much colder. They arrived at the corner of Main Street and were greeted cheerily by their neighbors and several people that they knew. Rich and Rita, the B&B owners were there and Jason and Natalie, the cute young newlyweds. Deb gazed enviously at the two couples, who stood snuggled happily together. Several people had brought their dogs. I wish I had brought Strider. He would love greeting all these people, she thought. Randy Johnson was there with his daughter, Sunshine. Randy looked like a wooden German Santa all bundled up with his gray beard and ruddy cheeks. Randy was talking with Bill, Randy's fellow artist and kindred spirit from the Black Cat. He greeted them warmly and made room for them to stand on the curb where they could see. Mitchell stomped his feet to keep warm, and Marc pulled out the video camera and capture Eric as he marched past. Deb looked up the street in both directions and noticed that the Christmas decorations were glowing brightly. In the shape of white snowflakes, the white lighted silhouettes glistened and sparkled in the early dusk, lending a cheery aura to the festivities.

  Cannons! Within minutes of their arrival at the parade site, the ground shook under their feet as the sound of cannon being shot off down the street echoed up the boulevard. Deb peered expectantly down the street toward the start of the parade, and soon, the procession began: the proud color guard of old soldiers; a police car with its red lights flashing; the mayor in his shiny open-topped red convertible, dressed in muffler and red Santa hat, happily tossing candy and waving. The baton twirlers preceded the band, carrying their white wooden rifles and clad only in their leotards, purple sequined bathing suits, white gloves, and tasseled boots. Deb's heart beat with pride as she spotted Eric and his peers, stepping lively to the strains of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." The band looked and sounded good—Deb couldn't imagine playing those cold instruments, even with gloves on.

  The display of handmade floats was impressive this year. There was the usual "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" banner that adorned the flatbed truck that carried the live Nativity characters, courtesy of the Baptist church. Then there was a bevy of dancing Rudolphs, representing the Neighborly Bar, replete with antlers and red noses that lit up with blinking red lights. A procession continued with tinsel-clad floats representing every civic organization that had enough ambition to put together an entry: the Girl Scouts, the Elks Club, several churches, the high school football team. The horse-and-buggies brought up the rear, beautifully festooned with turn-of-the-century costumed drivers and sparkly red and green bows on the manes of the horses.

  Bill Montgomery, standing in front of Pat and Deb, turned around and smiled at them. Deb introduced Bill to Marc and Mitchell as one of their front-table raging liberals from the Black Cat. Bill shook hands with each man, adding, "You better keep a closer eye on these girls. They seem to think that they know better than everyone else what the real scoop is with people."

  Deb was stung by his words, and responded defensively, "That's because we do know more than most. In fact, you'd be surprised to learn just how much we know."

  Pat gave her a nudge and rolled her eyes, but Bill didn't appear to notice.

  "Say, I have something to show you two," he said. "I have been working on some portraits and would love to hear what you think of them? Do you have a few minutes to come up to my place for a little art exhibition? It's just up the street a few blocks."

  Deb could tell that Marc was itching to leave—it was cold and nearly time for dinner. She turned to her husband. "Why don't you and Mitchell go to the Black Cat and get yourself something warm to drink and a bite to eat?" she suggested. "Pat and I can go have a look at Bill's exhibition." She lowered her voice as she said, "This guy has no family and is pretty lonely at this time of year."

  Marc smiled gratefully. "Sure, you go have a look. We'll meet you later at the Black Cat."

  Mitchell and Marc walked towards the Black Cat with relief, just as Santa and Mrs. Claus appeared, rotund and jolly in their fuzzy red and white overstuffed costumes, a white spotlight shining on them. There they were, perched high on the ladder truck, waving and delighting the throngs of the young in spirit. Deb looked closer. Could it be? No—how on earth??

  Under the white beard and white wig, she recognized the familiar faces of her dear neighbors, Joel and Ruth Epstein. Ruth, the coroner, was Mrs. Claus! Now there's a sight you don't see often! The Epsteins appeared to be happily enjoying the adoring joy surrounding the children's faces. A Jewish Santa!

  Picking up his cell phone, Peter Thomas let out a sigh of relief as he heard a familiar woman's voice on the other end. "Hello, Colonel?"

  "Where the hell have you been?" he barked, his usual calm control broken. "You were supposed to call in days ago. What have you got for me?"

  Andy Ross put down the sandwich he was eating. "Is that St. Kitts?"

  Shooting him a stern glance to silence him, Peter returned to the phone. "Yes, yes, and what about ...?" He paused, listening again. "Are you quite sure? We need to know for sure. A lot is at stake here." Without looking at his partner, he called over his shoulder,

  "Andy, light somewhere, will you? Your pacing is distracting, and this connection isn't good." Listening again to the phone, he visibly relaxed, and then a smile formed as he said, "Good job. If what you say is true, then Abramov's death couldn't have been from our end of things. Poor old Joey must have stepped on someone else's toes. When will you be back in Washington? ... All right, we'll pack up and meet you there." Hanging up the phone, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head and smiling at his eager young companion.

  "Well?" Andy asked eagerly.

  Peter smiled but didn't speak immediately.

  "Come on, give! Are you going to tell me or not?" Andy demanded sitting down across from him.

  The older man answered, "All's well. Our informant says Joe wasn't dealing information." He motioned to the chair. "He stayed true blue. Our operatives are safe. And so are our codes. I just knew he couldn't sell out. So any secrets Joe had—and believe me, there are things about the Bay of Pigs." He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "Anyway, he took any secrets with him to his grave."

  "But what about the property on St. Kitts? And the bank accounts?" persisted Andy.

  Peter stood up and placed his suitcase on the bed. "Joe may have been unlucky in love and unlucky in war, but I guess his luck had to come out somewhere. Believe it or not, not only have we been paying him dearly for information, but in a sense, he did win another lottery. It's called buying Microsoft before it split."

  "But who killed him?"

  "I haven't the foggiest. Maybe you should ask 'the girls.'" Seeing his young partner frown, he added, "Anyway, it's not our concern. Let's pack up and stop in at the Black Cat for one last cup. I swear that Blue Mountain coffee is bad to the very last drop."

  Down at the desk, the young man on duty looked at them speculatively. "Back to Washington, is it, folks?" he asked. "You have a nice trip, you hear? And come back whe
n the smelt are running."

  Loading their gear into the black rental car, Andy turned to his partner. "You go have your coffee, old man," he said with a grin. "I'm heading down to the Deepwater Bar for a man's drink to celebrate."

  Watching him hurry through the cold, Peter stamped the snow off his feet and headed toward a hot cup and a warm bagel at the Black Cat. I'm going to sure miss this quaint little place, he thought, pulling the collar of his black coat closer, and momentarily reveling in memories of the people he had met in Ashland.

  The coffeehouse was crowded with holiday shoppers and college students taking a break from final exams. Steam rose from scarves and mittens placed on radiators, and the scent inside was a combination of great coffee, homemade soup, and steamy wool. All the tables were filled, but Peter recognized two men sitting in the corner. Taking his cup and bagel, he went over to introduce himself.

  "Hello, my name is Peter Thomas. Do you mind if I join you? There aren't any empty tables left."

  "Everyone's got cabin fever," the stockier man replied smiling. "Sure, join us. I'm Mitchell Kerry. This is Marc Linberg. But I'm sure you know who we are." Waggling his eyebrows, he whispered dramatically, "Our wives have informed us that you are Big Brother, watching us all." Laughing, the men shook hands.

  "Your wives will be relieved to know I won't be spying much longer," Peter said, taking a sip of his coffee. "My partner and I are leaving town today."

  "Did the girls frighten you into leaving?" Marc joked.

  "No, our involvement is no longer needed. But they are two determined ladies."

  The two husbands glanced at each other in amusement.

  "Let's just say that when the two of them make up their minds about doing something, we've learned just to get out of the way," Marc said.

  "Better for our health," Mitchell inserted.

  Peter smiled, but his tone became serious. "There is a killer out there somewhere, and if I were you, I'd watch your wives a bit. Well, enough said. I am officially off the case."

  "Don't worry, they might not realize the danger, but we do."

  Peter nodded his acknowledgment. "So ... where are they today?" he asked conversationally.

  "As a matter of fact, they just decided to go look at some artist friend's work," Marc said. "I hope I'm not going to get some god-awful oil for my office this Christmas!"

  Chapter Nineteen

  The two women made their way up the street with Bill, toward the crumbling two-story brownstone that housed the Video to Go store and the Stylin' Up North beauty shop. The doorway to the stairway was located between the two businesses. As they started up the dark stairs, they could hear the muffled strains of "Grandma Got Run over by a Reindeer." The pungent scent of permanent hair rinses from the beauty shop lingered in Deb's nostrils, and she heard Pat's quiet sigh and deep breathing on the stairs behind her. "We'd better get in shape, sister," Deb said, with a look of encouragement on her face. "We're going to be biking in the summer."

  They passed along a dark, checkerboard-tiled hallway with a series of numbered doorways on each side until they reached number 204. Bill held the door for them as they entered a small, cluttered, dimly lit foyer. The apartment was sparsely furnished but neat, in shabby Goodwill style, and had the stale odor of maple syrup and cigarettes. There was a wooden coat tree by the door, on which they tossed their coats. Several new canvasses leaned against the foyer wall, along with open canvas bags with protruding paints tubes, and jars of turpentine with brushes still in them. A new easel stood in the middle of the small living room.

  On the walls were several small, neatly framed oil paintings of war scenes. Based on the clothing worn by the soldiers, she guessed the paintings depicted the Vietnam War. One, in particular, caught her eye—it showed a group of six handsome, smiling young men in green camouflage with their arms around each other.

  Bill seemed to follow Deb's gaze. "That's my platoon from 'Nam. After I got back, I had to paint them."

  Deb took a closer look, attracted by the sight of what appeared to be an orange feather tucked into the pocket of one of the men. What did that feather remind her of? Of course! The feather! It looked just like the one in Joe's safe deposit at the bank!

  Deb looked closely at the face of the soldier and recognized the eyes of a youthful Joe. Suppressing any visible reaction and willing her body not to tense up, she whispered to Pat, "The guy with the feather in his pocket is Joe! They were in 'Nam together!" Pat returned Deb's anxious look with a puzzled one of her own. Before she could respond, they both heard the sound of the lock turning in the door behind them and saw Bill put the key in his trouser pocket.

  He smiled thinly. "This is the only way to keep the door closed. I've been meaning to get a locksmith in, but I just haven't got to it. Otherwise, it sometimes blows open, and in this weather, it takes an hour to get it warm in here again."

  They women blithely accepted his explanation, unaware that Bill had just locked the only exit from his apartment.

  Deb noticed a group of several matted portraits stacked neatly against the wall on the right. The paintings were crudely done and appeared bizarre at first glance, almost Picasso-like in their grotesqueness. "Are these for sale?" she asked as she began sorting through them, hoping to buy one for Marc.

  "Of course," Bill answered. "Anything in particular you like? How about those caricatures?" He pointed to work that hung randomly on the far wall. There were several full-body portrayals, some funny and some almost cruel drawings of people in town. There was one that Deb recognized as the mayor, adorned with an elaborate jeweled crown and surrounded by people bowing down. He carried a scepter in his right hand and a small child in his left arm.

  "Now that's funny!" Deb said, laughing.

  Father Luke was also among the caricatures, portrayed with his head in the clouds but with his feet made of clay. Now, I wonder why he did that. When she came to the last one, she burst out laughing as recognized that the two people portrayed were her and Pat, made to look as if they were conjoined twins, touching each other's face. Without saying a word, Deb pointed to their faces so that Pat could see.

  "Doesn't do us justice," Pat sniped.

  Off to the side there was an elaborate painting of Joe, black patch over his left eye, dressed as a pirate, with a chest behind him filled with money.

  "What do you think of my drawings?" Bill asked, walking up behind them.

  "You're very talented," Pat allowed. "Some seem a bit mean, but some of these are right on."

  "Would you like some coffee while you look?" Bill asked. "I may not be able to offer a brew as good as the Black Cat, but I think you'll like it. I have a new blend that's to die for."

  Smiling, Pat said, "How thoughtful. We'd love some. Do you have any treats to go with it?"

  Whistling, Bill left the room.

  "Deb," Pat hissed as soon as Bill was in the kitchen. "Look at these drawings. Would you have ever thought they came out of laughing Bill?"

  "I know," Deb said, turning to Pat. "They're ... creepy. I thought I might be able to pick something up for Marc's clinic. But it's as if some person other than Bill drew these. I wonder what Freud would say about these." She turned to look again. "And you know what's even creepier? I think he took down that pile over there in the corner and hung these just for us. Why would he do that?"

  Pat shrugged. "He certainly knows the people in this town. Money and eye patch with Joe, and the priest with clay feet? But mostly, they're just plain mean. It's the kind of drawings where you laugh but then it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Who would have thought?"

  Nodding her head, Deb looked at the conjoined twins drawing. "Maybe you just think they're mean because of this one."

  Pat put her arm around Deb's shoulder briefly. "I can't think of anyone I would rather be joined to." But as she looked at the portrait, Pat, too, felt it was—as Deb had said—creepy. They were not just conjoined at the hips and waist; they also were touching each other's face. And the look in
their eyes.

  "We really aren't that tethered to each other, are we?" Deb asked.

  "Well, here we are, fresh from the pot," Bill announced before Pat could respond to Deb's question. "It has a bit of a strong flavor, sort of smoked chicory, but I guarantee if you drink a cup, you may not drink any other kind again." He handed them each a cup and saucer as he noticed the caricature that had held their attention. "Not angry at me for that one, are you?" he pouted.

  "No, no," Deb answered, studying it again. "Actually it's rather insightful. But you do know, we have our own lives. I mean, we're friends," she emphasized. "Best friends, but not ..." Her face reddened as her words hung in the air.

  "Of course," Bill said. And with a slight cough he continued. "And friends are so much closer than lovers, don't you think?"

  The hairs on Pat's neck stood up as he gave them his angelic smile once more.

  Pat put her cup to her lips but the heat of it and the odd smell made her set it back on the saucer. "Too hot just yet. Don't you just hate it when you burn your mouth on the first swallow?" Setting it on the table, she moved to the drawing of Joe. "It seems you were closer to Joe than I realized. I didn't know you were in the service together."

  "Oh, yes. We were in 'Nam together. Speaking of Joe, have you two sleuths found any more earth-shattering clues? I would just love to hear the latest."

  Pat narrowed her eyes as she studied Bill. This is one of Joe's oldest buddies. If we share all we know, maybe he can shed some light on this whole mess. He must want to find the killer as much as we do. "Well." Pat started.

  "We were interested, it's true," Deb interrupted breezily as she looked at Joe's caricature. "But the sheriff's office is following things up. And now, with the CIA and the army involved, we would just get in the way."