by ACF Bookens
Effie took out her phone and made a call asking the person on the other end to look into Cassandra Leicht as the potential owner of the storage unit, and then she added, "And do a search for any names related to this case that are related to the name Elizabeth and wine." She explained Lizzie Bordo and Elizabeth Chabliss and then hung up.
Effie put her arms on the table and dropped her head into them for a few moments before she looked up at Tuck and said, "Our victim stole all these devices. This case makes less and less sense the more I know."
Tuck leaned his chair back into what I now recognized his thinking position and put his hands on top of his head. "I've been tossing an idea around in my head. I'm not sure how much I believe it, but what if these devices weren't stolen?"
Effie sat up straighter. "What do you mean? How would Lizzie get all these expensive medical aids without stealing them?"
With a flash, I realized where Tuck was going with this. "You think people gave them to her, don't you?" I sat back and let that idea sink in.
Tuck nodded. "Maybe. Here's what I'm wondering. Lizzie had an expensive, prosthetic arm, but she didn't wear it when she came for her interview with Max or on the day she started her job. But there's no evidence her arm was stolen – not from her or from her apartment in Boston."
Effie slowly started to nod.
"So what if she didn't really want the arm, what if she put it in storage because she didn't want to destroy it but didn't want to live with it either?"
"Then, she met other people who felt the same way, who found their devices didn't improve their lives in the ways they had hoped," Effie added.
"Or maybe they decided they liked the way their lives were before they got the devices, that the devices weren't improvements at all." I was remembering a movie I'd seen, with Val Kilmer maybe, where a man gets his vision restored but finds he no longer wants it, that he preferred the way he experienced the world when he couldn't see.
Tuck sat forward and let the front legs of his chair drop to the floor with a thud. "And what if someone really didn't like that? What if someone was really threatened by the idea that some people in the disability community didn't want or need devices?"
I stood up. "That's why Lizzie was killed? Is that what you're saying, Tuck?"
Tuck raised both hands. "I'm just hypothesizing, Harvey. Don't get too excited."
I took a deep breath and sat back down, and then I realized something. "Why did you want me to come in, Tuck?" I felt heat rise to my cheeks as I saw that I'd just plopped down with two law enforcement professionals and acted like I belonged.
"Actually, you've been a great help already," Effie said, "but Tuck tells me that people share things with you, that they trust you."
I wanted to be proud of that fact, but the compliment got lost in my anxiousness about what they were going to ask me to do. I sighed. "What do you need me to do?
12
When I had imagined what Effie and Tuck were going to ask of me, I had not foreseen the words, "We need you to host a wake" coming out of their mouths. But that is exactly what they'd asked. That shock was followed by a secondary surprise when they suggested it be the next day, as in the day before a major fundraiser, as in new release day at my book store.
So of course, I said yes. Of course I did, because I'm ridiculous about wanting to be helpful.
That's what Mart said when I texted her to let her know: "Of course you did." I could almost hear the sigh through the three little dots sitting on my screen as I waited to see if she could help. "Of course I will" was her second text.
The rest of my friends responded similarly, and by lunchtime, we had a plan for food, for music (albeit simply an appropriate playlist in the background), and for drinks, two cases of wine donated by Mart's bosses. Marcus had agreed that we'd need to close the store for a couple of hours, but three to five p.m. wasn't usually a high-traffic time during the winter unless you included the teenagers who came by for espresso and flirting. We figured they'd make it if they had to flirt, uncaffeinated, in the library for one day.
All that left was invitations. It was easy enough to cover the people in town by just doing what I'd already done – told my friends. But I knew we needed to be a bit more formal. So I took a deep breath and went into Max's restaurant. He and I had already corresponded about the food, and he was glad to cater the wake and provide finger foods for everyone who came. But this conversation felt better in person because, well, I didn't really want a paper trail of what I was asking.
He was sitting at his bar looking over his books. He apparently still kept them in an old-fashioned leather-bound ledger. I'm not exactly a ballerina when it comes to my movements, so I didn't think I had to worry about not being heard when I came in. Apparently, though, I was wrong because when I put my hand on Max's shoulder, he nearly knocked me out when he threw his hand back in shock.
A few months ago, an equally awkward interchange between him and I had resulted in me having a black eye and a broken ankle, so I was glad to come away from this moment with just a sore cheek. "You ever think of going into boxing? MMA?" I asked as I rubbed my cheekbone.
He immediately went behind the bar, filled a towel with ice, and handed it to me. "Seriously, I am not safe to be around. At least not for you." He smiled, but there was a hint of something sad about his eyes, a something that was mirrored in my chest.
"Next time, I'll just bring a bullhorn and announce my entrance from the door." I smiled.
"Good. You'll be out of range from there." He pointed to the barstool next to him. "Something else you want for the wake?" He tugged a notepad from under his ledger book, and I could see the list of food we'd discussed written there in a handwriting that was half-scrawl and half almost calligraphy. It was really beautiful, actually.
"Not for the food. I think we're all set there, although if you think of something more, please add it on or substitute." He was doing me a big favor, and I didn't want to put him out at all. "No, this is more on the 'backstory' side of things."
He shifted to face me more directly and said, "There's a backstory about this wake? I suppose you mean more than the one about my bartender being murdered and keeping a storage unit full of prosthetic body parts?" Tuck had clearly brought Max up to speed.
"Well, yes, actually." I had cleared it with Tuck and Effie to bring Max into the loop because I didn't know how else I was going to get Davis back here from Boston. He’d left not more than forty-eight hours ago, and already, we were hoping he’d make the drive back to town. I thought maybe Max could help. So I filled him in on the purpose of the wake and then said, "Any thoughts on how to get Davis to come back?"
"Let me be sure I understand before I brainstorm with you." He tapped his pen on his notebook as he covered his points. "We're throwing a wake because Tuck and Agent Li think we might be able to set a trap for Lizzie's killer by dangling a lie about how they're about to make an arrest in front of the crowd. Then, your job is to talk with the two prime suspects, Lizzie's mother and Davis, to see if you can get a read on how freaked out they are by that announcement. And you're doing this because it will seem less unassuming coming from you, the humble bookstore clerk."
"That about sums it up," I said with a grin.
"No, I'm not helping you with that." Max put down his pen and looked at me.
My mouth dropped open in shock. "What? Why not?"
"It's too dangerous, Harvey. It puts you right in the middle of things, and whoever did this clearly has some issues. If they think you're onto them—"
I interrupted. "You don't think I can question a suspect without them knowing what is happening."
Max raised one eyebrow. "Question a suspect? Who are you, Dr. Reid?"
My jaw dropped open. Max Davies had just made a Criminal Minds reference, and an astute one at that. If I was like any member of the BAU team from the show, I was definitely Reid. Bookish, awkward at protecting myself, and far, far, far too inquisitive. I grinned. "Well, then, what do you suggest?"
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"We set up a way for our suspects to feel safe talking. Make it casual but personal, too. Maybe a little corner of your shop where they can sit to have private conversations. But that way, we’re all here, too. There’s no need for you to be alone with a potential murderer."
The whole time he had been talking, my eyes had been growing more wide. This plan was good. Very good. I was just so surprised Max had come up with it on the spot. But then, I grew suspicious. "I like this plan, but we need to be clear about something." I took a deep breath. "This is all about finding a murderer, not about . . ." I waved my hand between us. "This is a professional arrangement. We're doing this to help Tuck and Effie, nothing else."
He raised a hand with his palm facing me and said, "I swear. You and Daniel, I know it's fresh. I wouldn't step into that grief and pressure you, Harvey." His voice was tender, honest.
I felt my heart kick up its pace and took a deep breath. "Okay, then, but we still have a problem. How do we get Davis to come back for the event?"
Max propped his elbow on the bar and rested his head on his hand in a pose very much Rodin's Thinker. For a split second, I thought about taking a trip around the world with Max to see all the presentations of that sculpture, but I quickly forced that idea from my mind and focused on our immediate problem. "I mean, it has to be good for him to make that trip back."
"It has to be good, yes," Max nodded, "but does it have to be elaborate? Maybe I can just send a text, tell him I'm worried, and ask that he come back for the wake tomorrow. Suggest I need his read on something about Lizzie's death."
I smirked. "It's so subtle and devious, and I think it just might work."
Max raised his hand into the air, and with surprise, I gave him a high five. "The tricky one, I think, is going to be Mrs. Leicht," he says.
My small jubilation of a few seconds before fades. "Oh? I was thinking she'd be easy."
"In some sense, I think you're right. It's easier for her to come, certainly, since she's in town. But does she care enough? It felt to me like a lot of the emotion at the services on Saturday was a performance."
I sighed. "You're right. I thought that, too. But in the conversations I've had with her one on one . . . I don't know. There's something under the surface. Something sad." I thought about what Effie had said about how Lizzie lost her arm, and then shared the story with Max.
"Wow. So she's exponentially grieving," Max said.
"Exponentially grieving?" I asked.
Max looked at his hands. "It's something a counselor told me once . . . that every grief after the first one is multiplied exponentially because we don't grieve each loss fresh. They build, multiply each other." His voice was very quiet, and he didn't look up.
I let that idea sit a minute, felt the accuracy of it in myself, saw it written in Max's face, and knew there was far more to this man than I'd imagined. More than I'd tried to see. The lump in my throat finally loosened, and I said, "Maybe that's what we offer her – a chance to grieve with people who can handle it?"
Max met my eyes. "You mean suggest that we're holding this event for her?"
I nodded. "And mean it. I wouldn't do that if I wasn't intent on making that so. We can set up the store in such a way that there are conversation spaces, just like you said, and then we can ask our friends to talk with Mrs. Leicht about Lizzie, give her a chance to be real about how she feels." I winced a little. "Is that too corny?"
"No, Harvey. No. That's beautiful." He patted my hand once and then twice before lifting his hand back to his hair and sliding the long sweep of blonde growing gray away from his forehead. "And I think it might work."
"But how does Davis fit in?" I felt a rush of frustration.
"I don’t think Davis is a man who needs much coaxing in terms of sharing his feelings, do you?" Max raised a wry eyebrow.
I smiled. He was right. It would be easy to get Davis to talk once he was here. I put my hand on Max’s shoulder as I stood. As I turned to go, I gave it a quick squeeze.
I left Max's restaurant feeling warmer somehow, heavier, too. Clearly, I had much to consider with that man, but for now, I needed to make a phone call. "Hello, Mrs. Leicht?"
* * *
That night, Stephen and Walter came over for dinner. Walter was famous for his five-alarm chili, and on a cold night, it was just the thing to serve with a platter of corn bread dripping with butter. Fortunately, I was masterful with a Jiffy mix, and so we had an easy meal on a night when I really needed it to be easy.
Mart poured us all glasses of Shiraz as I ladled out Walter's chili, and the four of us settled in at the dining room table while Mayhem and Taco snoozed at our feet. It would have been a perfect evening if I hadn't been so nervous about the next day . . . and the next day after that. Between the wake and the fundraiser, I expected I'd be practically sleepwalking coming Thursday.
Fortunately, my friends responded to my concern with their usual enthusiasm, and by the time dinner was over, Walter had offered to lead a brief program and invite guests to share at the wake, and Stephen had said he'd like to be the first to speak with Mrs. Leicht, if that was alright with me. "I think it might help her to talk with someone who she hasn't talked with before, let her say whatever she wants to say without feeling like she's boring people by repeating herself."
"Oh, I think that's lovely," Mart added. "When my mom died, I just needed to talk about her again and again, repeat the same stories, review the last days of her life. Each time, I felt my grief ease a little. I expect Mrs. Leicht will appreciate that, too."
I hadn't experienced death in the way my friends had, Walter had lost a brother and Stephen a partner years previous, but I knew what it was to live with loss – a marriage, a sense of calling – and I was very grateful that my friends didn't feel the need to compare suffering but simply honored pain and grief when they saw it.
Soon, the dinner table conversation turned to lighter subjects – the upcoming winter carnival that the town council had modeled after what Stephen assumed was some Hallmark movie because they'd decided the center of the small traffic circle in town should be turned into an ice rink by keeping a hose on all night so that the kids could skate the next day.
"They aren't even going to build a frame to keep the water in," Walter added with scorn. He'd owned a construction company so he knew that of which he scoffed. "I even offered to build the frame myself, but they didn't want to wait three days so I could do so."
My friends continued to talk and laugh about the skating that was going to occur by cars and pedestrians alike all around the square, but I soon lost track of the conversation as I sank into my own thoughts.
I kept circling around the idea that someone wanted Lizzie dead because, at least it seemed now, she hadn't wanted to accept their ideas of what it meant to live a good life. From all accounts, Lizzie seemed to live a great life, seemed to enjoy her days. But apparently, that wasn't enough for someone.
I pondered what it would be like if I lost a limb or woke up to find I couldn't see. The loss would be devastating, and I would probably do everything I could to recover what I had lost. But if it wasn't recoverable, would I want to replace what I had with something good but not the same? I wasn't sure. If my vision disappeared, I probably would take any chance I could to be able to read again. But then, that was the thing, right? It would be my choice to make. Not someone else's.
"Harvey?!" Mart's voice was a little sharp with worry. "Are you okay?"
I tugged myself back into the conversation and realized that I must have been zoned out in my own mind for a while. "Sorry. I was just thinking. If I lost my vision and decided I didn't want prosthetics or surgery to try to correct it, what would you guys say?" I realized that this question was probably a total non sequitur, but I didn't care.
Mart sat back and stared at me. "No vision at all. You wouldn't be able to read or see at all?"
"Right. No vision. What would you say if I decided to reconcile myself to that situation?"
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nbsp; "I'd say alright," Mart said, "but only after I was sure you had really thought it through and considered the options."
I nodded then looked at Stephen and Walter. "Same here," they said after exchanging a glance. "It's your life, Harvey. You get to live it the way you want."
"And if I thought I wanted to try, say, prosthetic corneas but then found I hated them, what then?"
Walter smiled. "Same, Harvey. Still your life." Then he leaned forward and grabbed my hands. "You’re okay, right? This is just a thought exercise?"
"Yep, totally fine. I’m only thinking something through. I looked at Stephen and saw he had gone serious. "And what are you thinking, sir?" I asked as I tapped his foot under the table.
"It's not the same, I know," he said, "but that kind of question reminds me of the people I used to know who thought I should want to "fix" myself so that I wasn't gay anymore. I'm not broken. Far from it. I love being gay – are there hard things about it? Of course, but this is who I am, and I love my life."
"I love your life, too," I said, "and you probably don't need to hear this but just in case, there's nothing broken about you." I looked at Walter. "Either of you. You are perfect."
The men smiled at me, and Stephen squeezed my hand. "I know that, but well, it's always nice to hear it. Thank you, Harvey." He sat back and studied me. "You see what I mean, right?"
"I do, and I think that's how Lizzie felt. She had this disability. She thought she might want to try a prosthetic, found she didn't like it, and decided she was great the way she was." I felt the rightness of what I was saying as I said it.
"But someone didn't think so." Mart's voice was tight, angry. "That's what you're thinking?"
I nodded. "I do. I think someone was threatened by Lizzie's decision to discard her prosthetic. And maybe they were amped up by how she helped other people who made the same choice."
"Someone angry enough to kill might just show that anger and send a woman into hiding," Stephen added.