Fortunes of the Dead

by Lynn Hightower

  The murmur of male voices drifted in from the kitchen, which was no more than three feet away. I listened shamelessly, but couldn’t really catch the conversation. I heard the faint noise of a bell, which seemed odd, until I noticed a miniature white poodle in the doorway. The dog wore a pink rhinestone collar with a small silver bell.

  “Hello,” I said.

  The dog quivered nervously, then bounced across the floor and stopped at my feet.

  I admit a preference for cats or large dogs, but the poodle let me pet her head, then jumped onto my lap. She was light and trembly, but when she curled up in the crook of my arm I could see her attraction.

  The slide of Dearfoam slippers across carpet signaled the return of Robbie’s grandmother, who gave me a smile and a puzzled look. “Who are you talking to, my dear?”

  “The dog.”

  Mrs. Holden caught sight of the dog in my lap and laughed, settling into the rocking chair. “Oh, Beatrix Potter, you’ve made a friend.” She leaned forward and whispered to me. “I thought she was still taking a nap on her pillow.”

  Beatrix Potter abandoned me, and ran across the room to her mistress.

  “Robbie will be right in. He’s just finishing up some business with somebody from where he used to work. Robbie was an ATF agent, you know, like Cheryl. I mean student agent, or what do they call it?”

  “Intern.”

  “Yes, intern. Robbie would get so fussed when I’d tell people he was an agent, but the gentleman who’s in there with him now, he is an agent.”

  “Really?” I said. This was curious.

  “It’s been quite a morning for visitors.”

  “Sounds like it. Mrs. Holden, I was interested when you said Cheryl used to live here.”

  “Oh, yes.” June Holden scratched Beatrix Potter behind the right ear. “She and Robbie were dating, you know, had been dating for a couple of years. They were all set to get an apartment together, here in Lexington, so Robbie could be close if I needed him. He spent half his summers here with me while he was growing up, so he and I are comfortable. And I thought, well, I don’t care who lives with who, so I told them both that the offer to move in here with me was open if they wanted to try it out, but that there would be no hurt feelings if they wanted to sign that lease, because couples need their privacy, and I understand that.

  “They were both working, and going to school, and trying to get grants, like the kids do these days. And they seemed to like the idea. Now I won’t say we didn’t have our little adjustments. Robbie uses just an awful lot of hot water, and isn’t much for hanging up towels; and Cheryl, she is the sweetest girl, but it takes a little getting used to the way she likes to leave her things around.

  “But that’s just family, you know, and having them here was lively, and we sure had us some fun. The kids didn’t have to work so many hours, because they didn’t have to worry about rent, and they insisted on paying for the phone and the utilities. They wanted to pay for groceries, but I put my foot down there. I’m the resident grandmother, for heaven’s sake; I don’t charge my babies for food. They helped around the house, and did all the outdoor chores, except my roses, I do those myself. And they were always full of fun, those two. We’d spend many a night watching those rental movies and eating microwave popcorn. Beatrix Potter loves popcorn, don’t you, girl? She can jump up and catch it in her mouth.

  “Like to break my heart, when the two of them broke up. I was sure they were going to get married. Cheryl cried and cried when she moved out and told me she was going to miss me as much as Robbie. Well, poor thing, her mother dying like she did when Cheryl was a senior at high school. That’s a hard age, for a girl. And when she and Robbie would come home and see I had cooked them a dinner that was on the stove, her eyes would just light up. Those two years were good for Cheryl, no matter what. She was too shy to come over to visit me because of Robbie and all, but she used to call me up on the phone. And lately, the two of them seemed to make up into friends, and she was just starting to come over again when she … when she went away.”

  June Holden pulled a folded tissue from the sleeve of her sweater.

  “Mrs. Holden, I was hired by Cheryl’s stepfather, Paul Brady, and Cheryl’s stepsister, Miranda.”

  I stopped talking, because the noise of chairs scraping linoleum was loud even in the living room. The voices got louder, and two men came in from the kitchen.

  Robbie leaned across the coffee table and shook my hand. He looked just like his picture, clean-cut and buttoned-down. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Padget.”

  “Not a problem.” I gave him points for remembering my name.

  I glanced at the other man who stood behind Robbie. He was handsome, in a surfer boy sort of way, mid-thirties, and wore a well-cut suit and the kind of tie you could not buy in Lexington.

  “I’m Wilson McCoy.”

  “He’s from California,” Mrs. Holden said.

  McCoy shook my hand. He hair was bleached nearly white, with a lot of dark root showing. He was tan, and built, and stood at an angle that took the weight off his left leg.

  “Wilson is an old friend of the family,” Robbie said.

  June Holden looked at her grandson over her shoulder. “Now, Robbie, I’ve already told her that Wilson works for the ATF, and if that was a secret you ought to have warned me.”

  Robbie turned red to the tips of his ears.

  Wilson McCoy grinned and shook my hand again. “Wilson McCoy, ATF, and old friend of the family.”

  “California cousin?” I asked.

  McCoy smiled down at Mrs. Holden, then turned back to me. “You’re working for Cheryl Dunkirk’s family, that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Cheryl was one of ours, you know. And Robbie was very close to Cheryl. Anything we can do to help you out, let me know. We’re all on the same team here.” His smile was devastating.

  McCoy sat down in one of the armchairs and Robbie settled on the edge of the piano bench. It seemed Robbie had a babysitter for the interview.

  “Just a couple of questions, Robbie.”

  His eyebrows went up, like a facial question mark.

  “I’ve talked to some of Cheryl’s friends, and they seem to think she had something major on her mind before she disappeared. They seemed to think she might have confided in you.”

  “Oh, that.” Robbie set his lips together, and grimaced. “She was just freaked because the Lexington S.A., her boss, I mean, took her aside and warned her about that deputy sheriff who was firing on her all the time.”

  “Firing on her?” June Holden said.

  “I mean making a pass, Gram. Cheryl was afraid it made her look bad, and she asked me what I thought she should do. I told her that the S.A. was just looking out for her, not giving her a hard time, and that it was pretty clear she was young and green and the deputy guy was a sleazebag.” Robbie glanced over at McCoy—for approval, I thought.

  “That it?” I asked him.

  “That’s it.”

  “I had the impression there was something more than that.”

  “Not that I know of,” Robbie said, but his ears were turning red again. He’d never work undercover.

  “What happened to her journal?”

  “Her what? “Wilson said.

  “Her professional journal,” I said slowly. “The grade for the internship is based, in part, on a professional journal.” I looked at Robbie. “You had to keep one, too, didn’t you, when you did your internship?”

  “Oh. Oh, that. Yeah. No, I haven’t seen it. The police probably have it, don’t you think?”

  “I guess I’ll ask.” I stood up; my foot was asleep, but only mildly. I nodded at each one of them in turn, to give the circulation time to get moving. “One more question, Robbie. What do you think happened to Cheryl? Do you think it was just her getting mixed up in an affair with the wrong kind of guy?”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

&n
bsp; And though Robbie was looking at his feet when he gave his opinion, he did say it in front of myself and Wilson McCoy, and I admired him at least for his integrity and loyalty to Cheryl.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was clear that whatever Robbie Little knew, he was an ATF loyalist and wouldn’t be sharing information. It was also clear he agreed with Miranda—that Cheryl’s disappearance was more than a sex scandal. The most obvious possibility was that Cheryl had stumbled onto something touchy in her work with ATF. I knew the Feds sheltered their interns—I knew they weren’t allowed out in any field situation that might prove the tiniest bit dicey.

  And yet. Wilson McCoy, ATF agent from California, was suddenly in Lexington, talking to the one person most likely to know what was on Cheryl’s mind.

  Joel had not said a word about McCoy, or any details on the ATF angle. Which didn’t mean he didn’t know about it. But I knew Joel well enough to know he thought Cory Edgers was guilty of something. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to meet the man, and make up my own mind. I scrolled through the directory on my cell phone, pausing over Joel’s work number. I didn’t want to ask him for Edgers’s location, and I wasn’t sure he’d tell me.

  I scrolled through again, and stopped at Rick’s name. Rick could find Edgers, if anyone could. And I wouldn’t have to go to Joel. I imagined finding out what happened to Cheryl before Joel or Wilson McCoy. It would be nice to score points for the good ol’ girls.

  Surviving as an actor is difficult anywhere, and as far as acting is concerned, Lexington, Kentucky isn’t even anywhere. Rick counts himself lucky to do the occasional role for Actors Theatre of Louisville, or Showboat Theatre in Cincinnati. So far his most successful role has been as the man-eating plant in Little Shop of Horrors. He does Shakespeare in the Park, and works summer stock. These jobs bring him great satisfaction and no income.

  Up until four years ago, Rick worked as a skip tracer for debt collectors; his “moonlighting” job, as he called it. He was good at it—actors are. If Rick couldn’t find what he wanted on the computer—easier and easier every day—he could charm someone in a home office into parting with information no matter how confidential. His genius was in knowing exactly what persona to take on to get what he wanted.

  The problems started when his sympathies began to sway toward the prey. Rick was a bundle of continual money problems—he simply wasn’t born with the budgeting gene. Like any really good actor, Rick paid close attention to the people he met, and no matter how much he tried to gloss things over and pretend otherwise, he learned day by eye-opening day that the majority of people he collected information on, unlike himself, worked hard, tried to make ends meet, and got ground down smaller every day.

  His defection started simply—a matter of withholding a bit of information here and there when he felt sorry for the prey. It escalated into direct phone calls made to the hunted giving them tips—often nothing more than pointing out their rights under consumer protection laws. Naturally these calls were made on company time at company expense, and this sort of double game amused Rick so much that he might never have quit if it hadn’t been for a brutal home invasion in Cincinnati.

  Cincinnati is a mere ninety-minute drive from Lexington; a quick trip across the bridge over the Ohio River. The blood-soaked slaying of an entire family who happened to cross the path of a psychotic check-cashing operator (or as Rick calls them, the Gambino chain-store loan sharks) changed Rick’s life. He decided to play on the other side of the fence.

  Rick now runs a debt rescue business called You’re in the Right Place. Unlike debt counselors, he has no chummy relations with the credit card companies. He negotiates debt settlements for a percentage of the settlement, arranges payment schedules, and has two bankruptcy attorneys on part-time retainer.

  Because Rick has spent most of his life in debt over his head, and has dealt with every possible variety of debt collector as he used to be one himself, and because, frankly, he is Rick, his clients have a high level of customer satisfaction. Rick is nonjudgmental, inventive, and occasionally kind. Most of his clients consider him family.

  Although it was entirely unintentional, Rick makes a lot more money now than he used to. His office is next door to the Atomic Café—a Caribbean restaurant where he treats me to jerk chicken at least twice a month—and except for the constant parking problem is a dream workplace in a small house built in 1793. Rick and his beloved Judith live upstairs.

  As always on Mill Street, parked cars lined both sides of the road. During the day, the cars belong to students who attend Transylvania University, which is in walking distance of Rick’s office. At night, the cars come from restaurant patrons, late-night students, and fraternity overflow.

  I drove the Miata up over the curb onto the small lawn. It was colder today than yesterday, but at least it wasn’t raining.

  The front door of Rick’s building was unlocked. A sign beside the brass bell button said You’re in the Right Place. The hallway was bare, the wood floors dusty; the walls and woodwork were freshly painted. A sign read Elephant Rides 5¢—I was with Rick when he bought it at a garage sale for a dollar. Rick’s private office was the first room off the hallway on the left. Even with the door only partially open, Rick’s voice flooded the hallway.

  “No, my sweet thing, no, do not pay them a cent. The time is not yet right. I know, they call and call and call, that’s what they do. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, collectors gotta call.” Rick paused, head nodding. He made a clucking noise. “It’s just the phone, my dear Vidalia, it can’t hurt you. Do you have the little speech I gave you? No, it’s in the folder you got on your initial interview. Right, the first time you were here. Yes, that’s it.”

  I gave the door a little shove, and it opened far enough for me to see Rick pacing majestically, in the way of royalty, if royalty were to pace. He wore a headset and held a tape recorder.

  Other voices floated in from across the hall, the gentle gurgle of a brook compared to Rick’s crashing ocean. There were three U-shaped desks in what used to be the living room. One man and two women tended the phones. They were dressed in business casual—no jeans and Tshirts. Now that Rick runs his own business these details matter. He keeps a fine balance—employees dressed professionally enough so that a client feels respected, but not so formally a client feels intimidated.

  The intimidation is saved for the creditors. Rick, who worked the other end of the game, knows exactly what he can get and how. He usually reduces credit card debt to a settlement of thirteen cents on the dollar, as he is well aware that such debts sell for eleven cents on the dollar on the open market. He goes after any and all violations of federal consumer law. He advises bankruptcies when necessary, negotiates like a pit bull, and rallies his clients, some who arrive at You’re in the Right Place so beaten down they can hardly meet his eyes across the desk. His business involves talk talk talk. He basks in the glow created by the sound of his own voice all day long. The smell of overbaked coffee hangs heavily and the heat is turned up too high for comfort. One of the women shoots a rubber band at me and waves.

  Rick’s voice carries, which I suppose is good unless you are a neighbor sharing apartment walls.

  “Keep it by the phone, my love, and read it whenever they call. Who? Well, any of them. Make a note of it, and if they don’t stop we can sue them. But yes. No, no, it’s your right under the law, the federal law. Uncle Sam does not like people harassing nice ladies who are doing their best.

  “No, don’t cry, now, how could anyone possibly hate you, gentle and genuine as you are. I don’t, my sweet, and I’m very important. I think you are very brave and you’ve done your best. No one can ask more of a fellow human being. Of course you did, all your life, these things get out of hand quickly when one is on the fixed income. I know you will, but until then—” Rick waved me in. “Until then you just read them the little speech. Think of it as a game. If they keep after you we can take them to court and they’ll pay a fine of twenty-five hu
ndred dollars plus legal fees, won’t that be fun? If you have time, you can come and watch. Yes, it is a lot of money. No, my dear Vidalia, this is my job. Call me anytime. Be kind to yourself. Kiss, kiss.

  “Lena Bina! My favorite ex-wife!” Rick took the headset off and raced across the red Oriental rug to give me a hug.

  “Rick, did you say Vidalia?”

  “Like the onion.”

  “This rug is very thin. It was expensive, wasn’t it? Is Vidalia really her name?”

  “Lena, lovely as it is to follow your refreshingly scattered thought patterns, pity my poor skills of concentration and limit yourself to three subjects at one time.”

  “Is this real?”

  “You’re standing on it. Or do you think you imagine it? Could your fantasy life be that dull? Could anyone’s?”

  “Yours.”

  “It always excites me when you’re bitchy.” Rick put his arms around me and kissed me on the mouth. He leaned back a few inches. “Tongue?”

  I caught the scent of the bay rum cologne he gets from the J. Peterman catalog. He wore Levis and a white cotton shirt, with the sleeves rolled carefully back. His thick pelt of light brown hair had been carefully cut, blown dry, and sprayed.

  “Not today, thank you.”

  “I live in hope.”

  I stood on tiptoe and looked at his hair. “Highlights, Rick? You put in highlights?”

  “My dear, yes, and might one suggest that you could use just a hint of red?”

  “No, one might not.”

  “Sit, sit.” Rick perched on the edge of his desk, glanced out the window and stood back up. “Lena, you didn’t. Right on the front lawn?”

  “There weren’t any parking places.”

  Rick closed his eyes. “Is it enough to just imagine strangling her? Or should I—”