However Many More

by Bo Thunboe

  “Is that a mistake?” Jake put his finger on the dollar entry. Four thousand dollars to store old books?

  “Some people pay a long-term in advance. Like if they’re going to be out of town or whatever. That was the only payment we ever got from the original renter. When the rent ran out, we sent out our standard notices, but all the mail came back. Then the public guardian picked up the payments.”

  The public guardian handled the affairs of wards of the state, mostly special-needs adults who either didn’t have family or whose family couldn’t, or wouldn’t, take care of them anymore.

  “When was that?” Jake asked.

  “Ten or twelve years ago.” She slid the other sheet forward. “This page shows a copy of the most recent check from the PG. For the last year of storage, which expired at the end of April.”

  The check was drawn on the public guardian’s checking account, made out to Weston Self Storage, and had “Bristol Storage Fee” printed on the memo line.

  The sound of someone whistling came from behind the back wall. The Sunday Night Football theme song.

  “That’s my dad,” Wendy said just before the door into the back opened. “Dad? This is Detective Houser. He’s investigating a murder. Mr. Fox. I’m showing him about a unit Henry bought.”

  Wendy’s dad was short like his daughter, but wiry. He stepped to the counter with a frown and rubbed at his bushy gray mustache. “Anything we can do.” He reached over and shook Jake’s hand. His hand was rough, but his grip wasn’t. “I’m Bill. Henry was a good man.”

  “Wendy showed me—”

  “I know I shouldn’t have, Dad, but—”

  “It’s okay, honey.” Bill smiled. “It’s the right thing.”

  “Wendy walked me through these already.” Jake gestured to the pages on the counter. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  Bill picked up the pages and looked them over. His face flushed red and his eyes shot to his daughter, then back to Jake. He rubbed his mustache again, like something in it bothered him. “I remember this unit.” He tapped the page. “Guardian paid rent through April, then came and moved the personal stuff—family records and photographs and the like—to his big unit, then signed the waiver and we auctioned the rest off.”

  Jake considered going to have a look at the personal stuff. But the guardian would demand a warrant, which would take time, and Henry hadn’t needed to see the personal stuff to find the silver. Jake decided to leave it for now. If he got stuck, he’d rethink it. “Guardian look through all of it?” he asked.

  “Yep. In fact, Cubs were rained out so I helped him.” More mustache scratching. A glance at his daughter. His eyes staying away from Jake’s. “He’s a good customer. It was just books and clothes.”

  “Henry ever have another guy along to help him with other units? Big guy?”

  “Back in the beginning, yeah. Prissy kind of guy. The stuff in the units always has a layer of dust on it, you know. The big priss didn’t like getting dirty.”

  “Anything else?” There was something else. Something bothering Bill.

  “That was it.”

  Jake waited.

  Bill finally met Jake’s eyes. “Wendy,” Bill said. “Can you go make us a fresh pot of coffee?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  Wendy gave Jake a quick wave as the door closed behind her. When it clicked shut, her dad leaned over the counter and spoke in a lower voice.

  “Another guy came by. Tall guy with a long coat. He asked about this same unit. I told him I couldn’t tell him anything. He offered me fifty bucks, but I’d seen what was in those boxes and knew there wasn’t anything in there worth fifty dollars. I did tell him that.”

  “He wear a hat with a red and white logo on it?”

  “Sure did.”

  Trane.

  “I did end up taking the fifty.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “For the name and address of the original renter.”

  “The Bristols on Jackson?”

  “I figured that couldn’t hurt anybody. That family is long gone.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Bill.”

  Jake folded the new pages around the receipt and slid them all into an inside pocket of his blazer.

  Back in the car he took a few minutes to enter the new information in his notebook. The name “Bristol” set off a familiar tingle in the base of his brain, and he finally placed it. When he was a kid, the big house on the bluff at the end of Jackson had been owned by a woman the kids had sometimes called a witch, especially around Halloween. The rest of the year she was just Old Lady Bristol. He pulled out his smartphone and zoomed in on the area using Google Maps. Jackson ended at the driveway to the public works facility. The map said it was called “The Bristol Yard.”

  Jake re-checked his text threads with Grady. Trane had been poking around in the “public works yard” last night. The Bristol Yard.

  Nothing random about Henry using this bill of sale at all.

  And Jake saw he’d missed another text from Grady while he was in the storage facility: Trane poked around the yard again but a city employee ran him off.

  The Yard; the Bristol Yard.

  Henry had bought the contents of this storage unit full of things owned by Larry Bristol. He used the storage unit bill of sale to prove he owned the silver. Trane was now snooping around the Bristol Yard. The Bunker silver—Jake had no doubt it was their silver, or had been— must be connected to the Bristol family.

  It was only a mile away, so Jake fired up the cruiser and headed for west Jackson. Maybe something there would answer all his questions.

  You never knew.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Lynn felt better this morning. No tears, and she’d eaten a whole piece of toast and kept it down. She’d been unable to eat any of the spaghetti the night before, so this was her first real food since Henry died.

  There it was again. Thinking of something as coming either before, or after, Henry’s death.

  She sipped her coffee, thinking about Henry. Thinking about how they would never be together. Thinking about the hole his death had created in April’s world.

  Thinking about the silver.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about the silver, but it was useless. And natural, she told herself. When you need money, you think about money.

  Even without the silver, April was going to inherit Henry’s house—that was good. The house itself wasn’t any better than Lynn’s, but the land it was on was worth real money. Rich people were building mansions all up and down that street. Huge things with layers of decks and turreted corners and three-car garages. And Henry’s lot was big. It stretched all the way down to the park. It might be big enough to split it in half and put up two of those giant houses. Those people didn’t care about having yards. One of the guys at the club said a developer was paying four hundred thousand for dumps all through downtown just to tear them down. She’d called the developer about her own house—four hundred would clear all her debts and set her up in a nice townhouse on the south end of town—but he told her every lot on her block was too narrow by five feet. Some dumbass law.

  Figures.

  But Henry’s land was wide and deep. Splitting it in half would make it worth eight hundred thousand. Maybe more because it was so close to the river. The money would be April’s, not hers, but they were a team, right? So April would—

  A knock on the back door.

  Lynn pushed her fingers through her hair and puffed her cheeks to try to smooth the lines out of her face, then went to the door and stretched up on her toes to look through the window. A black woman with short knotty hair and no eye makeup.

  Lynn opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Lynn Fox?” The woman pulled the storm door open.

  “Yes?” Lynn took a s
tep back, crossing her arms.

  “I’m Detective Callie Diggs.” She stepped into the house as if Lynn’s retreat was an invitation, pulling back her little man-jacket to show a badge on her belt. “I’m working with Detective Houser on your ex-husband’s murder. You and I have a few things to discuss.”

  “We do?” Lynn backed into the kitchen, fighting an urge to run for the front door. Why was this woman here instead of Jake? She searched her brain for an answer, but found nothing but her own fear. Her bowels twisted and sweat broke out in her armpits and across her forehead.

  She needed time. She lied best when she could plan it out. “Please have a seat and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  The woman sighed. “Okay, then.”

  Lynn took her time, hands shaking, the coffee pot clattering against the mug and again when she stuck it back in the drip machine. She used two hands to bring the mug to the table, setting it on a newspaper so it wouldn’t rattle. Then she sat down and tried for a smile. Her mind was still nearly empty, except for two simple thoughts: Run! and Help me, April!

  The detective looked at Lynn with a blank face. Her skin was very dark and she was so still and her cheekbones so sharp, her face looked like an African mask. Is that racist? The woman didn’t touch the coffee, just sat with her hands together in front of her.

  “Detective Houser is handling a few other issues today, so I was assigned to confirm your alibi.”

  A bead of sweat ran down from Lynn’s temple. Then another. She wiped them away and tried to smile.

  April burst through the hallway door. “Mom?”

  “Come here, baby.” Lynn sprang from the table and hugged her, long and tight. “What is it?”

  April whispered in her ear. “Read this.” She held her phone down low, blocked from the detective’s view by their bodies. A text message from Conner: Black woman cop has been talking to our neighbors. One of them told me she’s asking if a certain woman ever visits my dad at our house. Had a picture. Probably of your mom because of the alibi!

  Lynn pushed the phone down, and April slipped it into the pocket of her hoodie.

  “April,” Lynn said, “this detective works with Jake.” She tried again for a smile, but it froze half-formed on her face then crumbled away.

  “Good morning, April.” The detective smiled gently. “My name is Detective Diggs. First, I’m so sorry about your dad. Detective Houser said he was a good man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please sit, ladies,” Diggs said.

  They sat, Lynn pulling April’s chair closer.

  “As I explained to your mom, Detective Houser is looking into some other leads so I’m doing his follow-up.”

  “Following up what?” April put her hand over Lynn’s twiddling thumbs. A nervous tic April called a “tell” when they played Scrabble. Said she always knew when her mom held the Q and the Z and had no place to put them as the game wound down.

  Lynn put her hands on her lap under the table.

  Diggs smiled. “Following up on ground Detective Houser already covered. It’s how we do it.” She turned to Lynn. “Would you prefer we speak alone, Mrs. Fox?”

  Absolutely not. “I want April with me. She knows about… what I said.”

  Diggs nodded. “Okay.” She waited a beat then dropped her smile. “I looked into the affair you claimed to be having with Jim Bowen, and it’s complete bullshit.”

  Lynn’s stomach clenched. “Uh… what do you mean?”

  “I mean I talked to your co-workers, who all told me you’re seeing some other married man and they’ve never seen you near Bowen. I mean I talked to Bowen’s neighbors and they’ve never seen you at his house. I mean I talked to your neighbors and Bowen has never been here. I mean you lied to Detective Houser. That’s what I mean.”

  Lynn fought to hold back a sob—and failed. April put an arm around her shoulder. Lynn leaned into her.

  “Your story about Bowen being here that night was total bullshit, right?” Diggs said.

  Lynn nodded, unable to speak.

  “Giving Bowen a fake alibi makes me think you were involved with him in killing your ex-husband. Convince me you weren’t.”

  Lynn grabbed a napkin from the holder in the center of the table. She wiped her eyes and then clutched the napkin in her hands. Finally she looked at Diggs. The detective’s eyes traveled smoothly from April to Lynn, back and forth, reading them.

  “Did Detective Houser tell you to talk to all those people?” April asked.

  Diggs ignored the question. “I need the truth right now.”

  Lynn twisted the napkin, the fragile paper tearing. “I… I didn’t have anything to do with killing Henry.” April snatched another napkin from the dispenser and pressed it into Lynn’s hand. Lynn grabbed her daughter’s hand; she needed the hand more than the napkin. “I still loved him.”

  “Why did you give Bowen an alibi?”

  “Why don’t you go talk to Mr. Bowen?” April said. “He’s the one who hated my dad.”

  Diggs didn’t even glance her way.

  Lynn fought down a sob. “I’m broke!”

  “And?”

  “I… I thought maybe he’d give me some of it if I helped him.” Lynn choked back a sob and looked to April for help. April smiled and squeezed her shoulders.

  “Some of what?” Diggs asked.

  “The silver,” April said and squeezed again.

  Diggs shot daggers at her.

  April didn’t flinch. “Didn’t Detective Houser tell you about the silver, Detective Diggs?”

  Diggs didn’t answer, her black eyes drilling right into Lynn’s brain.

  “She’s right,” Lynn said. “I wanted some of the silver.” She didn’t want to talk about the silver, but April wouldn’t have brought it up without a plan.

  “You were trading the alibi for a cut?”

  April squeezed, and Lynn nodded.

  “Did Bowen agree to the deal beforehand, or were you going to blackmail him into it?”

  “I—he didn’t—”

  “Tell me the story.”

  Lynn paused, hoping April would jump in, but she stayed silent. “Henry found some silver bars and because of this stupid business they were in together buying the storage unit junk, Bowen thought he owned half of them. Henry didn’t agree and I… I think Bowen killed Henry over it. I thought if I gave him an alibi he’d share them. They aren’t his anyway. They were Henry’s, which means they’re really April’s now.”

  “To be clear, what you wanted from Bowen was a cut of the mysterious big bars. The smaller ones were all accounted for.”

  Squeeze. Lynn nodded, afraid she’d give something away if she opened her mouth.

  “How do you know Bowen knew about the big bars?”

  Lynn didn’t have an answer, but April jumped in.

  “Conner told me.”

  “Conner Bowen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The detective’s mouth puckered like she’d tasted something sour.

  “He overheard his parents talking about it,” April said, her face red. She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “Dad was scared of him. Mr. Bowen is so big and Dad was… He was strong from all his work but he was small, really.”

  Lynn was proud of April for getting that in.

  Diggs frowned. “Frankly, we doubt the big bars exist. We think it more likely the little bars got your dad playing the wouldn’t-it-have-been-cool-if game.”

  “My dad didn’t lie to me.”

  “He told you he found them?”

  “He showed me one.”

  The big bars are real. Lynn’s pulse kicked up. Maybe… just maybe.

  Diggs froze. Then: “I thought you were leaving something out.” She turned to Lynn. “Did you see it?”

  “April isn’
t a liar.”

  Diggs turned back to April. “Where was the bar?”

  “On the table in his writing room.”

  “When was this?”

  April looked at Lynn, then licked her lips and shifted in her chair. “A week ago.”

  “It isn’t there now.”

  “Is it important for you to see it?” April asked.

  Lynn’s head snapped around.

  Diggs leaned forward. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Dad gave it to me.” April’s hands shook and she clamped them between her thighs. “For my college expenses.”

  Diggs scooted to the edge of her chair. “Do you still have it?”

  Lynn had been about to ask the same question. She realized she was holding her breath, and let it go.

  “In my room.”

  April got up and led them into her room. She knelt on the floor and reached under the bed.

  “Stop!” Diggs’s sharp voice bit the air. “Is it under there?”

  April nodded. “Yes.”

  Diggs dropped to her knees. “I see it. I’ll call our forensics team to recover it, and it will be evidence. When did your dad give it to you?”

  “The day he showed it to me.”

  “He showed you one, but there were more, right?” Diggs asked.

  “He… he said there were five hundred of them.”

  “Did you see the rest of them?”

  April shook her head.

  “Where are they?”

  “He never told me.”

  Lynn knelt and looked under the bed. She could see a dark square shape like a narrow shoebox. That was a lot of silver. “April will get it back, right?”

  “If she owns it, she’ll get it back.”

  “Do you think Mr. Bowen killed my dad?” April asked the detective.

  “I don’t know.”

  But Lynn was sure the detective thought exactly that.