Take the Bait

by S. W. Hubbard

  Frank rolled his eyes. “Sounds like someone who could clear out a bar in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah, a couple of times I’ve had to ask him to tone it down. People don’t come in here for that bullshit. They want to relax. But he never gets the hint. Comes in the next time and starts up all over again.”

  “So on this night last March, he was talking with Janelle. Did you overhear their conversation?” Frank asked.

  Nick shook his head. “I was really busy—the place was packed and the band was playing. But they weren’t arguing. She seemed to be eatin’ up whatever crap he was handing out.”

  “So how old is this guy? Is he attractive?”

  Nick grinned and shrugged. “Not my type. He’s in his early thirties, I’d say. Got long brown hair in a ponytail—I guess chicks go for that nowadays. Sort of high cheekbones and thick lips, and real blue eyes. Girls definitely go for that.”

  “Blue eyes? I thought he was Hispanic,” Frank said.

  “No, why? Oh, you mean because of the name? No, he’s as American as you or me. Somehow I don’t think that’s his real name. His parents probably christened him Bill Smith, but he always introduces himself as just Pablo. You know, like ‘Madonna’ or ‘Cher.’”

  “I’m liking this guy less and less,” Frank said. “But he sounds like the type Janelle might have been drawn to. She’d think he was exotic, not like the high school boys from Trout Run.”

  “Oh yeah, there’s no doubt he’s not from around here,” Nick agreed.

  “So where does he live?”

  Nick shrugged. “I never asked him. Can’t be too close by or he’d probably be in here more often.”

  Frank nodded and looked around the Trail’s End, as if seeing it for the first time. The bar area had rough-hewn oak tables scarred by two decades of patrons’ carved initials and declarations of love. The marginally more refined dining room had honey-pine paneled walls decorated with oils and watercolors by local artists. Tucked in the corner of each frame, a discreet little price tag attempted to lure diners into taking home some artwork along with their doggie bags. The faded ink and yellowing tags suggested that no one was ever tempted.

  “I wonder why he comes in here?” Frank mused.

  “There’s not too many places in the North Country where a guy like Pablo can order a cognac and spout off the way he does, without getting beat up. Laurel has a soft spot for weirdoes. Somehow they’re drawn to this place.”

  Frank’s eyebrows shot up. “Laurel knows this guy?”

  Nick raised a cautioning hand. “No, no. Honestly,” he reiterated. “I just meant Laurel’s got this liberal ‘live-and-let-live’ attitude that sets the tone around here, and it attracts a certain kind of customer.”

  Frank conceded the point, then cocked his head expectantly. “If she’s so tolerant, how come you’re certain she’s going to can you over those girls in the bar?”

  Nick’s face remained grim. “The Trail’s End is her baby: her work, her home, her family all rolled into one. Back in ‘82 when she nearly lost her liquor license, she was crazed. She called her old man—this hotshot Manhattan lawyer who she hates—and had him pull some strings. It tore her up to have to crawl to him, but that’s how desperate she was to save the place. Her tolerance stops at anybody she sees as jeopardizing the Trail’s End.”

  Frank rubbed his temples and rested his chin on his hand. Why were the Powers That Be conspiring to keep him from ever enjoying a moment of pure satisfaction in this case? He honestly believed this Pablo lead was solid, but what if it turned out to be nothing, and it cost Nick Reilly the job he loved?

  “Look, Nick, I really appreciate what you’ve told me. If it turns out that we find Janelle with this Pablo character, then you’ll be a hero. Laurel won’t be able to hold up her head in Trout Run if she fires the man who brought Janelle Harvey home.”

  Nick tossed his bar rag in the sink. “I hope you’re right.”

  Frank could hardly wait to get back to the office. The information from Nick Reilly was like a huge present that couldn’t be unwrapped until then. On the short drive from the Trail’s End to the center of town, he prioritized his to-do list: first, call the state police to see if they had anything on Pablo; next, talk to Kim and Melanie about that night at the Trail’s End; and finally, start nosing around to find Pablo.

  Frank had barely placed his foot over the threshold of the Town Office when his plans began to disintegrate.

  Doris came running out to greet him. “You gotta get straight out to Harlan Mabely’s place,” she said breathlessly. “There’s been a murder!”

  The news hit Frank like a blast of wind at the lookout tower on Whiteface. “Harlan’s dead?”

  “No, no. Harlan called it in. He was so hysterical, all I could make out is that it’s a woman named Martha.”

  “Martha’s not a woman, she’s an emu.” Frank pivoted in the doorway and headed back out to the patrol car. “But I’m sure Harlan’s very upset. I’ll go over there; you tell Earl to hold down the fort here.” Frank sighed. Thank God the old man was alive, but that overgrown chicken of his couldn’t have picked a more inconvenient time to get its neck caught in a fence, or whatever it did to take itself out of this world.

  As soon as he passed the first sign announcing the Adirondack Petting Zoo Frank switched on the lights and siren, to reassure Harlan that he was taking his call seriously. He’d calm the old fart down, dispel the murder theories, and be back in his office inside the hour.

  The scene that greeted Frank soon scuttled that plan.

  Harlan shot out of his office so quickly that Frank had to slam on his brakes to avoid running him down. The old man’s hands were covered with blood, which had smudged onto his face and clothes, making him look like an extra in a low-budget horror film. But the pain and terror in Harlan’s eyes were all too real.

  “Come,” he wailed, tugging on Frank’s clean shirt sleeve, oblivious to the dried blood that was rubbing off. “Come see what they done to my poor girl!”

  The first sign of carnage appeared on the path leading back to the animal pens. One of the emu’s long, spindly legs had been hacked off and lay on the path like a grotesque road sign.

  Harlan stopped and pointed piteously at the disembodied limb. “We’re closed on Mondays. I came over to do the evening feeding, and I saw that. At first I thought it was just a big stick; I had to get right up close before I realized what it was. Even then, I couldn’t believe that my Martha was dead. I ran back to check on her …” Harlan’s sobs choked off his speech. He grabbed Frank’s arm and led him wordlessly back to Martha’s pen.

  Despite Harlan’s condition and the mutilated leg, Frank was not prepared for what awaited him. Feathers were everywhere; the wind pushed them around the pen like the remnants of some obscene pillow fight. The other leg was woven through the chainlinks of the fence, and Martha’s plucked torso, unrecognizable as a bird, lay in front of her shed. The bare dirt inside the pen had been disturbed, and something protruded from it. Reluctantly, Frank stepped forward for a closer look, then recoiled. Martha’s head had been buried in the ground and her severed neck emerged from the earth, a hideous stalk craning toward the light.

  The carnage at the petting zoo disturbed Frank as deeply as any murder he’d ever investigated. This was no prank—Martha’s murder had significance. Was it linked to Janelle’s disappearance? If Janelle was with whoever had killed Martha so sadistically, she certainly wasn’t safe. Frank’s thoughts tumbled through his mind as he drove back to the office.

  Now he saw Miss Noakes and the Maguires in a new light. What if someone really had taken Petey from the safety of the old lady’s garden and killed him in the meadow? What if Jeffrey Maguire really had remembered to latch his rabbit’s cage? Another thought flitted around the periphery of his mind, like a mosquito he could hear but not see. Something else about animals …what was it?

  He made his mind go blank, then slowly let information reenter. Benjamin Bunny,
Petey the cat, Martha the emu—odd that they all had people names. It hadn’t dawned on him before. It seemed he knew of another animal with a human name like that. Whose pet was he thinking of?

  Frank cruised around the green and passed the old flower shop, which had once again fallen into disuse. Gradually, the volunteers had given up on their work, divided by their doubts over whether Janelle had been abducted or not. Suddenly Frank braked. Leo! That was it. Elinor Stevenson’s little dog Leo—he remembered hearing about his death when he had been in the flower shop with the volunteers. He pulled the car over and let his head fall back against the seat. What was it they had told him? Leo had been found crushed under some lumber in the yard, even though he had never before left the safety of the store. Not an accident; another victim.

  Frank shook himself. There was no point in speculating on worst-case scenarios. He would catch Martha’s executioner, although the crime scene had yielded precious little information to go on. In the meantime, he had other work to do.

  Frank wanted to catch Janelle’s friends away from the inhibiting presence of their parents. He headed to the Pizza Haven and in his first lucky break of the day, he found both girls there. Melanie was taking orders behind the counter in a blouse no bigger than a pocket handkerchief, while Kim sat alone in a booth with a magazine and a slice.

  Frank dropped into the seat across from Kim. She looked up with a smile, which disappeared when she saw who had joined her.

  “Now what?” she asked, her eyes returning to the page opened before her.

  Frank had given up on trying either to win Kim over or to intimidate her. “Tell me about the night at the Trail’s End when Janelle met Pablo,” he said levelly.

  Kim had just taken a bite from her pizza, and began coughing so hard that customers at the other tables looked over in concern. “Who told you that?” she asked, her voice still raspy from her choking fit.

  “Never mind who did tell me. I want to know why you didn’t tell me. Now you just start at the beginning and explain how that whole evening went down.”

  Kim deflated, her usual self-righteous confidence hissing away. Suddenly she looked much younger than eighteen, a frightened child caught in the act by an unforgiving parent.

  “I never wanted to go,” Kim began defensively. “It was Melanie’s stupid idea, and Janelle was in on it. By the time I realized where we were headed, there was nothing I could do. Mel was driving and I had no other way to get home, so I went along. My parents would kill me if they knew I went to the Trail’s End to hear a band!”

  Frank studied Kim’s scared-rabbit face. It was hard to fathom a kid whose idea of vice was so pathetically benign.

  “When we went in, the band was already playing,” Kim continued. “Nick gave us all Cokes and told us not to sit at a table. At first, we were all standing together. Then Mel started talking to some guys. I was worried that she’d let them buy her a beer—I didn’t want her drinking when she had to drive us home. So I kept following her through the crowd, to keep an eye on her. And that’s when I lost Janelle.”

  Kim sighed as if she were recalling how her friend had fallen overboard into high seas. “Finally I spotted Janelle sitting at a table talking to this older guy with a ponytail and an earring.”

  “Did you go over to her?” Frank asked.

  “No, she seemed to be okay. I thought it was best to stick with Melanie.” Kim prodded the congealed cheese on her pizza.

  “Then what happened?” Frank prompted.

  Kim shrugged. “The band stopped playing; Janelle came over and found us. It was almost midnight—even Melanie knew we had to go. So we drove home, and our parents never found out about it.”

  Frank could have cheerfully picked Kim up by the heels and shaken her senseless. “But what did Janelle say about this guy? What did you talk about on the way home?”

  “I didn’t talk about anything,” Kim asserted, her air of superiority returning. “I was mad at both of them for tricking me. Mel was going on about those boys from Paul Smiths College. I don’t remember Janelle saying much.”

  Frank dropped his head in his hands and massaged his temples. He could just imagine the scene in the car that night. Kim in a snit, giving her friends the silent treatment to punish them. Melanie giddy with success from her flirtations. And Janelle, always the elusive one, keeping her own counsel.

  Just then, the table lurched against his knees as Melanie slid into the booth next to her friend. “What’s going on?” she asked brightly.

  “He wants to know about the night we went to the Trail’s End,” Kim informed her.

  Melanie’s cheerful face clouded. “Oh no! You’re not going to arrest my cousin, are you?”

  Frank was getting more than a little disgusted with the way everyone worried about their own self-interest in this case. “I don’t give a damn about that. I want to know what Janelle was talking about to that guy, Pablo, in the bar.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Melanie said in relief. “They talked about that paper she was writing. Can you imagine meeting a guy in a bar and talking about your school term paper? That’s Janelle for you!”

  “So, what did she say?” Frank asked impatiently.

  “I’m trying to think.” Melanie gazed up at the grease-stained ceiling tile above her head. “Oh, I remember. She said, ‘I met the most extraordinary man.’”

  “That was one of Janelle’s words—extraordinary—she was always saying that,” Kim interjected.

  “Yeah,” Melanie agreed. “Then she said, like, ‘He’s actually living the life that I’m writing about.’ I don’t know exactly what she meant by that, ’cause most times I couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was saying about that paper.

  “Oh, and there was one more thing,” Melanie added. “I said wasn’t the band great, and she said too bad it was so loud because she had a hard time hearing everything this guy said. But she said he agreed to meet her again so they could talk some more.”

  She cocked her head and leaned forward so that her breasts rested on the red Formica table. “Do you think that’s important?”

  18

  NICK REILLY SPENT Tuesday afternoon at state police headquarters, reviewing volumes of mug shots, looking for Pablo’s face. When this proved fruitless, he worked with the police sketch artist, who produced a dead-eyed portrait that managed to be at once menacing and bland. After Nick grudgingly conceded that the picture bore a resemblance to Pablo, Frank sent it off to be printed in the Plattsburgh and Albany newspapers, and broadcast on the local news. The statement said the man pictured was wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of Janelle Harvey, but was not a suspect.

  With that accomplished, Frank moved on to the other items on his to-do list. He intended to get to the bottom of the business between Ned Stevenson and Dell Lambert. Cornering Ned at work where it wouldn’t be so easy for him to weasel away seemed like the best approach, so he drove over to the lumberyard.

  Slipping past the customer service desk with a casual wave to the clerks, Frank cut through the aisles crowded with woodworking tools, stains, varnishes, hinges, and screws until he came to a small office at the back of the store. Ned had his back to the door, staring at a computer screen full of numbers. He swiveled at the sound of Frank’s light tap on the door, but not before pressing a key that brought the screen saver pattern back up on his terminal.

  “Frank! Come on in. Have a seat.” Ned gestured to a chair, then came around from behind his desk, closed the door, and sat beside him. Their knees almost touched.

  Frank pressed back in his chair. He hadn’t expected to be quite so close to Ned in the cramped office. In fact, he’d have pegged Ned for the type who would prefer to keep the more authoritative position behind the desk.

  “Sorry to disturb your work,” Frank said. “I just wanted to clarify something with you. Remember yesterday morning in Malone’s, when I asked you about Dell Lambert—”

  Ned glanced down at his loosely clasp
ed fingers. “I figured that’s why you were here.” He lifted his head and looked Frank straight in the eye. “I guess I must have come off as pretty suspicious, jumping up and leaving like that.”

  Frank only raised his eyebrows.

  “Let me begin at the beginning. The business with Lambert’s accident and the lawsuit has been gnawing at my father all these years. He just has trouble letting go.”

  You can say that again. Frank kept his face blank.

  “Dad really felt terrible that Dell lost his sight—that’s why he gave him the original settlement. He thought he’d been fair, but if Dell needed more money, he could have come and talked it over with Dad, and I know they could have worked it out. Instead Dell got the lawyers involved and started suing and dragged OSHA into it …” Ned shook his head.

  “So your dad got his back up a bit,” Frank said, his eyes tracking around the room, taking in the spartan decor. Only one personal touch caught his eye: a lovely photo of Penny, her face lit with joy as she clowned for the photographer, presumably Ned. Go figure.

  Ned smiled. “That’s putting it mildly. His blood pressure went through the roof, and Mom made him settle because she thought a court battle would kill him. What still rankles him is that the case made Stevenson’s look like some shoddy operation that doesn’t care about its employees, when nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Frank made a “hmming” sound that struck a balance between honesty and agreement as he noticed the titles on Ned’s bookshelf: Small Company/Big Dreams, Re-Engineering the Family Business, and Pruning Dead Wood. He’d had enough of Ned’s defensive posturing; time to cut to the chase. “So, what made you suspect that Lambert actually could see?” he asked.

  Ned grew absorbed in adjusting the lead in a mechanical pencil he’d pulled from a U Penn coffee mug on his desk. “I, uh, I’m not sure. Just little things … the way he acted at the Store. People would bring him his coffee but he seemed to know just where they were. I wasn’t at all certain about it. I just had a niggling little doubt. So I started to, you know, watch him.”