The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  “And you didn’t see anyone snooping around Hunter’s place that night?”

  She shakes her head. “It was just me and John.”

  “Just you and John.”

  Eleven

  As I approach Rusty’s Spirits, the Miller Lite neon sign is lit up inside the window. Rusty’s son is dusting off a few wine bottles and looking bored. When I open the door, he glances over and offers me an uneven smile. “Say, Hank, it’s a little early to be buying beer.”

  I smile back, glance around. “Morning, Junior. Your father around?”

  He points to the window. “Dad stopped off at Breyerharts for coffee. He should be back in a minute.”

  “That’s okay. Maybe you can help me. I was wondering how much bourbon you sell?”

  Junior fixes his eyes on the ceiling. “Bourbon?”

  “Jack Daniel’s, to be exact.”

  Junior fidgets, rubs his chin, then glances over at me. “Hold on a second, I’ll check.” He walks down the aisle where the hard stuff is shelved, shifts a few bottles around, then turns and gives me a shrug. “We’re stocked, Hank. Not much of a market for it these days. Vodka is our big seller.”

  I nod. “I’m thinking over the past week, month maybe. Any takers?”

  He takes a moment, then says, “I personally haven’t sold any, but you might wanna check with Dad. He locks up at night.”

  I nose toward the back. “Your dad keep any records on what he sells?”

  Junior shrugs nervously. “Gee, Hank, I’m not sure.”

  “That’s okay, Junior. Maybe I will wait for your dad to come back.”

  “Can I offer you something, Hank?” he asks with a slight stutter. Junior knows I don’t drink on duty.

  “Thanks anyway, son. I’ll just hang out if you don’t mind.”

  He points to a cardboard carton sitting on the floor. “I better get back to work.”

  “You go ahead.”

  Junior peers outside, then excuses himself and goes back to dusting.

  I watch him remove a few bottles of Grey Goose from the carton, blow off a few particles of dust, then place them neatly on the shelf.

  I drift over to him and ask, “Holds twelve, right?”

  He nods, continues stocking without glancing up.

  I let him stock the rest of the bottles before asking, “What’s the gossip like these days?”

  “Talk?”

  “You know, about Hunter?”

  He stands up, wipes his hands on his jeans, then shrugs. “Not much as I can tell. I mind my own business.”

  “How about me and the investigation?” I probe.

  Junior shoves his hands in his pockets, averts his eyes. “I hear a little. Some people are upset.”

  “With me?”

  He digs deeper. “Gee, Hank, I think you’re just doing your job. A man gets murdered and you’re looking for the guy who did it.”

  Right, guy. “They think I should be putting the investigation to bed.”

  He remains silent.

  “That’s okay, son. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  Junior fixes his eyes on the neon light. “It’s just that they’re scared on account of…the paintings.”

  I smile warmly. “Your father has nothing to worry about, Junior.”

  He blinks, then lets out enough air from his chest to fill up a room. “Really?”

  “Your mom’s a nice lady.”

  “Gee, Hank, thanks.”

  Junior’s mother can shoulder a half-dozen cases of beer and walk through a field of cow dung without blinking. Definitely not Hunter’s type. “I gotta do my job, son. Ask sensitive questions, stuff like that.”

  “I know that, Hank.”

  “The town’s gotta trust my judgment on this. I’m not out to hurt anyone.”

  “It’s not me, Hank. I know you wouldn’t do that to nobody.”

  I pat him on his crown. “You’re a good kid, Junior.”

  The front door opens, and a man in his mid-forties with thinning gray hair enters. He stiffens as his catches Junior and me huddling together. I’m beginning to think I’m the Grim Reaper.

  “Hank.”

  “Say, Rusty.”

  He turns to Junior. “Son, why don’t you take a break and go in the back for a while.”

  “That’s okay, Rusty. I was just telling Junior you have nothing to worry about. You know, ’bout Hunter.”

  Tension eases off Rusty’s body, and he mumbles something like thank God.

  “But I have to ask you a few questions anyway.”

  “What about?” he asks guardedly.

  “I need to know if you sold any Jack Daniel’s over the past few weeks.”

  His hesitates, then says, “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “It might help the investigation,” I say, trying to keep it simple.

  “How come?”

  It’s never simple. “We found rat poison inside the bourbon that killed Hunter.”

  “I didn’t do it, Hank! I swear.”

  I put up my palms to calm him. “Easy, Rusty. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m looking for your customer.”

  He thinks a moment, then says, “Gee, Hank, I thought you already had the case solved. You know, the note.” He doesn’t mention Peter Hopkins by name.

  “I know what the note says, Rusty. But I have to follow through on some loose ends just the same.”

  His eyes stay on me a moment before asking, “So you think whoever bought the bourbon killed Hunter?”

  “It’s possible.”

  He cocks his head. “Jesus, Hank, you’re really screwing around with people’s lives. If he claimed he did it, let it be. Why do you want to hurt more innocent people?”

  I grit my teeth, edge closer to Rusty. “As much as everyone would like to accept Peter’s statement, I don’t think he did it.” I pause, keeping his stare. “Wouldn’t you rather I find the real killer than falsely convict our friend?”

  He stops, but only for a moment. “The town isn’t happy about this, Hank. There’s talk.”

  There’s always talk.

  “Look, you’ve been a great sheriff, always taking care of things. Of us. Why can’t you just take care of this? Make it go away.”

  They call me “sheriff” out of affection, so I believe Rusty is still my friend, especially now that his wife hasn’t been included in Hunter’s repertoire. “I am taking care of it, Rusty. What if it was one of us who were killed? Wouldn’t you want me to investigate every angle?”

  “It’s not the same,” he snaps. “That…evidence doesn’t belong here. We’re good people. We don’t deserve this.”

  I nod. “And the women in the paintings, they live here. They’re good people, too, but one of them might have killed Hunter. Or one of their husbands. We already assumed Peter did it.”

  Rusty studies me, realizes he’s not winning.

  “I’m not going to show those paintings to anyone if I don’t have to. I told Peter that.”

  Rusty wipes his mouth. “What if I told you Peter bought the bourbon the day of the murder? Would you accept that, burn the stuff, and stop the investigation?”

  I turn to Junior, whose eyes are anxiously fixed on his father. I ask him to go in the back, away from the lies.

  “Go ahead, son,” Rusty tells him.

  I turn back to Rusty. “Peter was your friend, for God’s sake! Can you live with that? Blaming an innocent man for murder—a friend—knowing that someone else might have killed Hunter?” I stop, jab a finger at his chest. “Or is that what you and the others want me to do if I want to keep my job?”

  Rusty kneads his hands and waits a moment, then he says in a conciliatory tone, “Peter’s dead, Hank. We can’t bring him back. Why not let him save us?”

  The disapproving expression on my face doesn’t change. I tell Rusty I have to sleep nights.

  “Don’t you see what’s gonna happen?” he explodes, anointing me with his spit. “This town will be front-
page news. It’ll be like a circus. People driving all over Eastpoint staring at us like freaks. Is that what you want, Hank? More Hunters moving into town looking for free pussy!”

  “Are you going to tell me if you sold any Jack Daniel’s?” I demand. “Or are you trying to impede my investigation?”

  Rusty locks his eyes on mine. “Can’t remember.”

  “Fine.” I storm out the door.

  “People are going to remember this at election time!” he calls after me.

  I pick up my pace and find myself heading toward the center of town. People are throwing darts at me with their eyes. Fuck them all!

  “Hank.”

  I stop short. Junior is standing in an alley between the deli and bakery.

  He makes a few furtive glances around, then motions to me. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Dad keeps a log on everything we sell. We haven’t sold that brand of bourbon you asked about in about a month.” He stops, glances around nervously.

  “Go on, Junior.”

  “So I checked the log over the past year,” he says hurriedly.

  “And?

  “It was Hunter. He generally purchased a bottle once a month.”

  “Jack Daniel’s?”

  He nods.

  I wipe my brow. “So he was due to make another purchase this month but hadn’t yet,” I say, almost to myself.

  Junior shrugs. “Apparently.”

  “And you’re sure no one else bought any within the past month?”

  “Well, except for Salty’s. They usually buy a case at a time.”

  I raise a brow. “When was the last time they bought a case?”

  “I checked. It was the day Hunter was killed. Only…”

  “Tell me, Junior.”

  “They didn’t want a case this time, just a bottle. Said they’d pick it up later that day.”

  My eyes light up. “You took the call?”

  “I wanted to tell you before, but Dad told me I shouldn’t get involved. It just isn’t right, though.”

  I smile warmly at the kid. “You did the right thing, son. What time did Sheryl call?”

  “Not Sheryl. Paddy.”

  Adrenaline pumps through my body as the patrol car barrels down Christmas Lane.

  “You’re gonna die, you bastard,” Hunter wrote in his journal. “It was a foreign voice, only it wasn’t foreign to me.” Why hadn’t I picked up on Paddy’s brogue before?

  When I reach Salty’s, Sheryl is waiting on a customer. I hold off until she takes his order. She’s about to head toward the kitchen when she catches me waving at the entrance like I’m attempting to stop an oncoming car.

  Sheryl approaches. “Say, Hank,” she says, an apprehensive look on her face.

  “I know about you and Hunter,” I snap out quickly.

  Sheryl’s shoulders slacken. “Can we talk about this later?” she says, stealing a furtive glance inside the restaurant.

  “Sheryl…”

  “C’mon, Hank,” she begs, turning back to me. “We can’t talk out here. You know I’m not going anywhere.”

  Unlike Jackie, I can trust Sheryl. Only I can’t afford to wait until she creates a solid alibi. “Just a few,” I insist. “Then we’ll meet after you get off.”

  She screws up her mouth. “Okay.” Then she adds, “For the record, Paddy doesn’t know.”

  The spouse is always the last to know. When I discovered the paintings in Hunter’s attic, I came across one of Sheryl and Hunter. Yet I couldn’t account for it when I brought the collection back to the station. So I mention it without being accusatory.

  “Missing?”

  “You didn’t remove it, I gather?”

  “Of course not,” she stutters. “I was devastated when I heard you found them.” She stops, narrows her eyes on me. “Then how do you know it’s missing?”

  I inform Sheryl about my discovery and how I hadn’t wanted the other investigators to see my treasure trove, so I returned later that night. “Yours was missing,” I tell her. I leave out the part that hers wasn’t the only painting taken, though perhaps Sheryl was well aware of that, too. “I find it a little too coincidental,” I continue, “that your painting went missing the same night Hunter was killed.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” she defends.

  I nod unconvincingly. “Then maybe Paddy knows more about you and the paintings than you think. Maybe it’s Paddy I need to speak to.”

  Sheryl tugs at my sleeve, pulls me outside. “Hank, please don’t.” When she realizes I’m not giving in, she says, “Besides, people are saying Peter Hopkins did it, that he confessed.”

  I assure Sheryl that Peter is posthumously innocent. “Where was Paddy the night of the murder?”

  She shrugs. “At the bar, I guess. Look Hank—”

  “Till closing?” I interrupt.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”

  “Because you were with Hunter.” I pause, let it sink in. “It’s not a question, Sheryl.”

  She gazes into the distance. “Hank, I get off at five. Meet me at Rocky Beach on the far end around six.” She pauses. “I don’t want anyone knowing about our meeting. You understand?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Then she says in a rush, “There are a few things at John’s house you might want to find before anyone else does.”

  My eyes catch a shadow coming toward us. It’s Paddy. Sheryl registers my concern and stops.

  The door opens, and Paddy emerges. He stares heavily at us. “I was wondering what happened to you, Sheryl.”

  She glances over her shoulder and smiles thinly at Paddy.

  “A few customers ran out of coffee.”

  She nods rapidly. “Catch you around, Hank. Send Susan my regards.”

  Paddy keeps the door open for his wife, but he remains standing there and studies me for a moment. “Say, Hank, what brings you around this hour of the day?”

  I shrug. “I thought I’d stop by for a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.”

  He offers a wide, mischievous grin. “I thought you were a beer guy. How about a Samuel Adams?” he says, motioning his head inside.

  I take a step toward Paddy. “I need to ask you a few questions about John Hunter’s murder.”

  Paddy recoils, his expression turning cold.

  “When did you find out?” I ask pointedly.

  He rubs his chin, softens his look on me. “About the murder? Let me see, I read it in the newspaper.” He shakes his head. “Sad.”

  I shake my own head disapprovingly. “Are we gonna play the questions game, or should I spell it out for you?”

  Paddy hunches his shoulders, his hazel eyes narrowing in on me. “A couple of weeks ago, okay?”

  “And you threatened Hunter.”

  “Threatened him!” he says, his brogue punctuating the air. “That fucker was sleeping with my wife!” Paddy stops, composes himself. “What would you do, Hank?” he says, flashing a quick smile. “That Hunter was some stud, huh?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, goddammit.”

  Paddy motions me to the side, smiles at a few patrons entering the restaurant. “Okay, I had a few words with him,” he says calmly. “I was pissed off. But if you’re accusing me of murder, forget it.”

  “So if I asked whether you stopped by his house that night and offered him a swig of bourbon, you’d deny it?”

  He snorts. “Right, like he’d open the door and let me pour him a drink. Get real, Hank. Besides, as far as I know, he was a beer drinker.” He offers a quick, nervous smile. “Why? Were my fingerprints on the bottle?”

  I resist the urge to tell Paddy that only Hunter’s prints were found on the bottle. Instead, my silence throws him off guard.

  Paddy searches the floor, tugs on his tight ponytail, then says calmly, “I thought you had your man.”

  “We both know Peter didn’t do it.”

  Paddy nods a few times like he’s about to broach something important, then savors a smile and spreads h
is arms like a cormorant. “Hell, Hank, I couldn’t have killed him. Don’t you remember? You stopped by that night on account of the altercation.” He stops for emphasis. “As I recall, it was just before the ten-twenty-two train took off for the city.”

  It dawns on me that Paddy has the perfect alibi. Me. Staged? Perhaps. But the bar was jumping. Paddy could have easily slipped out the back for a quick murder. That is, if Hunter was cooperative and let him in for a drink.

  Paddy is gloating, watching me trying to piece together his moves. He waits patiently, knowing he has me by the balls. But before I attempt to chip away at his rock-solid alibi, he says, “And as for Sheryl, she was here until closing, too.”

  Twelve

  It’s not exactly a beach night. A light mist, which had been off and on for most of the afternoon, has turned into fog and heavy rain. Not that I’m concerned. I can find my way to Rocky Beach with my eyes closed. My mother taught me how to drive on that road after my father, who had little patience for such things, deferred to her; he had been arguing that a sixteen-year-old should pick up driving naturally. Easy for him to say. My father learned to drive on my grandfather’s potato farm and rarely contended with more than a few slow-moving farm animals.

  I glance at the patrol car’s digital clock as I pass the beach shack. I doubt if Sheryl has arrived yet. In her state of mind, she’d be concerned that someone would spot her and wonder what she was doing there alone on a dark, rainy night in October. “Waiting for the chief of police, of course. Hmm!”

  As planned, my car is sitting on the west side of the beach, where even during the summer folks don’t bother to go: too many rocks. Hopefully, no one will decide to take a walk on the beach tonight. Paranoia!

  I lower my window to draw in just enough air, without inviting the rain, and I lean back in my seat, my head snuggling against the headrest. I close my eyes.

  Since the beginning, I’ve been handling Hunter’s murder investigation on my own. Perhaps my pride and past experience as a Suffolk County homicide detective has interfered with my judgment about seeking help from outside my jurisdiction. I didn’t want outsiders charging into my town telling me how to run things. As far as I was concerned, Hunter’s murder was an internal matter.