3 Women Walk Into A Bar

by Linda Sands

  “If only it was that easy,” I said, turning the car onto the dirt road. “There were multiple hits. I mean, Smith, right? So we had to narrow each of those down, follow the lead on the gas receipt from the area, make calls and, well, I won’t bore you with the details . . . but needless to say, it wasn’t like some thirteen-year-old on his basement computer could have done what we did.”

  Tommy raised his hand. “Actually—”

  I shushed him with a glare in the rearview mirror, then threw the car into park.

  “Come on,” I said. “The road doesn’t look like it’s been cut back in a while. I’d rather not scratch the Lincoln. Besides, we could all use some exercise, right?”

  I walked around to Barbara’s door and reached for her hand.

  Tommy followed us, his corduroys rhythmically rubbing with the melody of private band pants. The swooshing sounds broke the silence—a silence that might have been soothing if we weren’t up to what we were up to, if we didn’t already have death on our minds.

  Tall hemlocks bordering the road created a fake dark that hung heavy and thick, like the cloud over Eeyore’s head. I could almost hear the whining of malnourished saplings in the ground below. The air smelled like decay, like a sharp tang of rust on old tin cans with a hint of mold—the green kind that some people think is good for you.

  Above, gray fibrous clouds were doing their best to obscure what the hemlocks couldn’t—a sliver of brilliant blue sky. The chill in the air turned into more of a stab as we pushed into the shadows.

  “C’mon,” I said, stepping up the pace, hoping to stave off both the cold and potential arguments. “I can see the house. It’s not far.”

  If houses have genders, this one was most definitely female. Wide on the bottom with a broad, inviting porch and ample stairs, the structure narrowed and developed as it went up. Just like my favorite ladies. She was at least three stories tall, but from the lay of land I suspected a deep cellar beneath her.

  “Wow. Nice place,” Tommy said. “Are you sure this guy wasn’t gay?”

  Barbara snorted. It was the first happy sound that had come out of her since the dog, so I restrained myself from slapping Tommy on the back of the head.

  Looking up at the house, you could only see sky and tips of trees beyond. It was framed perfectly in the landscape. I wondered how long someone had stood right where we were and imagined their dream house.

  It was certainly pretty here, but remote. Hermit remote. Who lived like this? Someone angry at the world? Someone hiding from it, or someone who felt he no longer needed it? There was a certain utopian pleasure in the choosing of nothing over something, of wilderness over civilization, even if that wilderness came with electricity, telephone, and satellite TV.

  The house appeared well-maintained. Her steps were sanded smooth and painted, rocking chairs on the wide porch suggested that at least one person would be welcome. The clean windows and white drapes beyond said “home.” Someone loved this house.

  Barbara put her arm around me. I felt like a newlywed showing his bride their forever home, a man offering hope as a gift.

  She said, “Do you have the key?”

  One word changed everything. “Nope.”

  Tommy started creeping up the stairs.

  Barbara said, “Then how are we going to—”

  “Shhh! I hear something.” Tommy motioned for us to get down. Barbara dropped to a crouch behind me.

  I shoved my hands deep in my pockets, wishing I had a hot cup of coffee, maybe even a donut. As Tommy motioned again for me to crouch down, take cover, do whatever it was he thought he was doing, my fingers closed on a strange key ring.

  Tommy duckwalked across the porch, inched toward the front window, and held his ear to the glass. He cocked his head, his eyes wide.

  I bent down and whispered to Barbara, “What does he think he’s doing?”

  She shrugged.

  I shook my head and stomped up the stairs, jabbed the key from Smith’s underwear drawer into the keyhole, and surprised everyone by swinging open the door as I called out in a pathetic Cuban accent, “Lucy! I’m home!” I walked straight to the bathroom.

  Chapter 37

  THE WOODS ARE LOVELY, DARK AND DEEP

  When I came out drying my hands on my pants, Tommy and Barbara were in the front room. The TV we’d heard outside was playing an endless loop of old movie clips.

  “The best of film noir,” I said, reading the screen. “I loved the original version of The Big Sleep. Never thought Jimmy Stewart was the right guy for the role of General Sternwood in the remake. Hard to see him as a tough guy after It’s a Wonderful Life, you know?”

  Tommy fell into the leather chair. “Go on. Say it.”

  “What?” I feigned.

  “You knew. The whole I was out there creeping around, the whole time I thought I heard voices, that I thought we were in trouble, you knew it was only a movie and you let me look like a fool.”

  I grinned.

  Barbara stepped in. “Tommy, if it’s any consolation, I thought someone was in here too. I mean, you really had me going out there, the way you snuck up those stairs. You were brave.”

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Yeah. I’m proud of you,” she said, hugging him.

  “All right, cut it out you two,” I said stepping between them.

  “Now that we’re here, we’ve got work to do. Put these on.”

  I handed them both surgical gloves and tugged on a pair of my own, then hit the TV remote. The house went still.

  “Barbara, get started in the kitchen. Tommy, why don’t you see if there’s an office or den.”

  I took a quick look around before heading upstairs. The house was a blend of Victorian and something more practical. There were turret rooms and odd hallways that ended in more odd hallways, but the stairwells had been modernized to be wider and not as steep as they might have been back in the day.

  I found the master suite. Apparently Mr. Smith liked white and pale blue. He had a penchant for toile and a love for the open sky, if his choice of artwork had anything to say about him. I sat on his bed and closed my eyes, waiting to see if he was going to talk to me and knowing how weird it was for me to admit that.

  When I didn’t hear anything, I got up and started opening drawers. Extra-large T-shirts, brown socks, size forty-two boxers. The guy was big and boring. There were few clues in the dresser, and when I came away empty-handed from the underwear drawer I began to suspect our pal James John Smith had a different secret hiding spot. I made a pass over the room, checking under the bed and behind framed art, then opened the door to a large, mostly empty walk-in closet.

  I was knocking on the walls, listening for hollow spots when Tommy popped his head into the room.

  “I got something you should see.”

  I followed him downstairs to Smith’s office. It was a good-size room, done in yet another shade of blue. An L-shaped dark-wood desk unit held two computers, a fax machine, and two telephones. Across the room was a large flat-screen TV, some audio equipment, and a wall of books. A quick glance showed a diverse interest in reading material—from songbirds and waterfowl to science fiction titles with covers that suggested the reader might enjoy futuristic romps with armor-plated dudes who drove motorcycles adorned with demon heads and three-pronged tails.

  “Okay,” Tommy said, “I found the transaction for the game that won him Flannigan’s. He played other games before that too, where winnings included a vintage Corvette, a house in Norway, and on one occasion even a pair of Malaysian twins. In each prior circumstance, Smith simply re-bid the win in another game.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “And then there’s this,” Tommy said, pulling up a page on the computer screen. He waited until I had moved beside him, then started scrolling. It took me a minute to figure out what I was reading. It was a saved messaged conversation written in a shortened version of regular English, the same I was used to seeing when I received a t
ext.

  “There are at least twenty-five files like this,” Tommy said. “All conversations with young men—or people pretending to be young men.”

  I pointed to the thumb-size profile photos next to the words on the screen. “What do you mean, pretending? There’s pictures.”

  Tommy shook his head. “You can fake that.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Lots of reasons. Some people are just plain lonely. They go online, make a friend, and then they’re afraid to tell the truth, afraid to say what they really feel. Maybe even who they really are.”

  I looked at Tommy. The kid was serious. It made me sad to think he might be one of those lonely guys pretending to be someone else.

  I stared out the window at the trees and the space, at a sky so blue it looked like a kindergartener’s art project. “All right, so we know our guy Smith went online and made friends. What we don’t know is if they ever came here or if they ever met with unfortunate circumstances. We know he bets online and apparently wins. But he never took possession of any of the winnings before. What was different this time? What drew Smith down from these mountains all the way into Syracuse? I mean, who would want to leave this behind?”

  Tommy grunted and kept scrolling.

  I went over what we knew. The guy was into guys. He liked his privacy. He used to fly. He had money. Apparently he played a decent game of poker, and comparing the size of the boxers in the master to the size of the corpse in the Flannigan’s crime-scene photos, the man had recently lost a significant amount of weight.

  “You want to take this with us?” Tommy asked, motioning to the screen.

  “Can we?”

  “I can download everything to something more portable,” he offered.

  “That would be good,” I said. “I’m going to have to make that call soon.”

  “Captain Seton?”

  “Yep.”

  “Shit. There’s no telling how badly those cops will screw up this hard drive. I’d better get what I can now.” He pulled a zip-line cord from his pocket, inserted two devices into the front of the computer tower, pushed his hair back, and rolled his chair closer. “Give me fifteen.”

  I left him to it and went to find Barbara.

  She was still in the kitchen, running her finger down a spice rack. “I’ve never heard of some of these,” she said. “Mahaleb cherry, grains of paradise, mugwort?”

  “Maybe our guy was a gourmet,” I said.

  “So what’s he doing running an Irish pub?” she asked, opening the freezer drawer of the stainless refrigerator. “Look at this.”

  Neat rows of white butcher-paper-wrapped packages were stacked four high and eight across, lining the interior. Barbara pulled one out. It was labeled in neat, tiny cursive: Venison, Gray’s Meadow, January 12, 2007, marinade: pinot noir, pepper, and garlic.

  “Sounds good.”

  “They’re all different,” she said, handing me more packages.

  I read them and handed them back, suddenly hungry for a venison stew or a cheesy rabbit rarebit. Barbara slid the drawer closed then leaned on the fridge, lost in thought.

  I tapped her arm. “So, where do women hide their secret things?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You do have secret things, don’t you?” I stepped closer.

  “I suppose,” she said.

  “So where do you hide them?” I ran my fingers up her arm to her shoulder. “Men generally use the underwear drawer or under the mattress. We’ve never been known for our creativity.”

  Barbara smiled. She cocked her head up at me the same way she used to in fifth-period science when we were lab partners. It was still cute.

  “I could tell you,” she said. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  It should have been funny, the corny line from some corny cop show, but here in the kitchen of a potential murderer, it wasn’t funny. Barbara felt that too.

  I stood on the porch, wondering what had caught my eye in the tree line. Scanning the area again, I saw nothing. There didn’t even seem to be a breeze to rustle the branches of the pines.

  Tommy came out of the house, wrapped his arms around himself, and shivered. “It’s freezing out here. Looks like it’s going to snow.”

  “Deal with it, small man.”

  I scanned the yard again, moving my eyes across the spread of lawn to the bushes where I’d thought I’d seen something. A shadow, a bird, a mountain lion? Whatever it was, it was gone, or hidden in the woods, even more of afraid of me than I was of it.

  “We should get going,” I said.

  “Yep,” Tommy said.

  And still we stood there.

  Barbara stepped up behind me. “Why don’t you guys finish up inside while I go down and get the car?”

  “Pretty much done inside,” Tommy said. “But I think I will use the bathroom.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” I called after him. “And don’t forget to wash your hands!”

  Barbara poked me. “Be nice.”

  “I am.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She poked me again, this time leaning into it. It almost hurt. I said, “Hey, easy now.”

  She giggled and tried for me again, but I backed out of reach, knowing how 95 percent of all tickle fights end. My cell phone rang, giving off one of those annoying blares like a broken birdcall. I put up a hand to ward off Barbara and worked the phone out of my pocket. She reached in my other pants pocket and jangled my car keys, then pointed to the road. I nodded as I put the phone to my ear.

  “Tedesco,” I said, watching her jog down the drive and disappear around the corner. I tried to keep an eye on her, caught glimpses of color through the woods, but the sun was setting and blending all the colors into hues of gray.

  “Tedesco? Captain Seton here. I got your message. You know we’d like to close this case. You’re putting me in an awkward position by running off to New Hampshire, leaving these little teasers, like a game of Clue. Don’t try to tell me it was Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick.”

  “Now why would I do that? You know I was always more partial to Miss Scarlet,” I said, stepping back into the house to finish the conversation.

  “Tedesco. Tick. Tock.”

  “All right, all right. I don’t have any answers yet, but it looks like we were on the right track with the New Hampshire connection. A cursory check of the premises suggests there’s more to our Mr. Smith than we thought. Something still doesn’t feel right. I haven’t followed up on the gas receipt yet either.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve got a team on the way. We can take it from here.”

  “Of course. I just wanted to—”

  “I said we’ve got it, Tedesco. Pack it up and head home. I’m sure some broad needs you to catch her husband in bed with his secretary.”

  Seton could be such an asshole. I started to tell him just what I thought of his remark when I saw Tommy exiting the bathroom with a portable hard drive in hand.

  I held the phone like a walkie-talkie and spit out the words, “Yes, sir. Over and out!” then slapped it shut and tucked it in my pocket.

  “Always nice to hear from the captain, eh?” Tommy said.

  “As nice as a visit from the gastroenteritis fairy.”

  “Okay? So, I shouldn’t ask, right?”

  I shook my head and led the way to the porch. “Let’s get out of here. They’re on the way.”

  “Where’s Barbara?” Tommy asked, pulling the door closed behind us.

  “She’s pulling the car up,” I said, checking my watch and staring down the driveway.

  A few minutes later Tommy said, “You don’t think she went to get gas, do you?” He stomped his feet and hugged himself. Dressed in one of Smith’s coats, he looked like a kid in his dad’s clothes.

  “She wouldn’t go without saying anything,” I said as I stepped off the porch to try and see around the bend in the drive. “Right?” I called back, trying to ignore the tw
inge of fear slowly rising inside me.

  I broke into a run.

  The slap of boots on hard-packed snow confirmed Tommy wasn’t far behind.

  We rounded the bend at the same time, skidding to a stop. “Shit!”

  The spot where the Lincoln had been parked was empty.

  Tommy spun in circles, then cupped his hands and yelled to the sky, “Barbara? Barbara?”

  “She’s gone. What the hell?” I sat on the cold ground, partly to catch my breath and partly to still my body so my brain could sort this out.

  Tommy ran toward the woods, then down the road and back up to the house like a fickle dog that had to pee.

  I clenched my fists. It wasn’t Barbara. She didn’t have anything to do with this. She hadn’t even known where we were going. It had to be someone else, someone who didn’t want us here, didn’t want us close to Smith. And the girls’ killer was dead.

  But what if I was wrong? What if we were all wrong? What if the real killer was here in New Hampshire? And now he had Barbara?

  Tommy came back, panting, the big coat hanging off him, snot dripping from his nose. “Tedesco, I don’t want to alarm you. But I’ve been thinking. What if someone took her?” He went white. “What if they’re still here?”

  I shushed him with a warning look, then said loud enough for the whole woods to hear, “Let’s go back to the house. The cops are on the way. We’ll wait for them there.”

  Pacing the porch felt like giving up. Barbara was out there. She was in trouble. She needed me. “Wait. Doesn’t this place have a garage?”

  Tommy grinned, “Follow me.”

  There were three vehicles: a 1970s Camaro that looked like it had never left the showroom, a beastly white pickup truck with tires guaranteed to conquer mountains, and an engine-less rusty sedan that had seen better days.

  Whoever this guy Smith was, he wasn’t into luxury vehicles. But he knew how to get around when he wanted to get something without letting anything stand in his way.

  Chapter 38

  IT’S A CATFIGHT, BITCHES

  Angel wasn’t a stranger to fighting for her man—or her honor, as fleetingly pure as it might have once been. She might be a rich chick who came from earned money, the kind of girl that wore designer labels, but get a few shots of tequila into her and she’d reduce herself to redneck trailer trash in a hot minute. Seeing those people coming up the driveway, coupled with the fact that her man had been hiding something from her, was all it took to flip the switch.