Annie smiled. “It’s been a pleasure to talk to you as well.” She pulled a ten-dollar bill from her handbag and dropped it on the bar. “I’ll see you later, Meg,” she said, as she stood.
“Look forward to it, honey,” Meg replied.
Chapter 32
Thursday, August 18th, 9:45 PM
TOMMY SALAMANDER was nothing but a two-bit thug. And he looked the part.
His mother had had high hopes for him, but Tommy never wanted to conform to her plans. He didn’t want to work for a living, and so, never did.
This little task from Uncle Boris wasn’t work. It was just what Tommy was good at. That, and of course, his little drug business. Oxy was big these days, but he could also supply coke, smack, and for the more discriminating, some herbal refreshment.
He stood from the couch where he was slumped and glanced at his girlfriend, her eyes glued mindlessly to the television. “I have to go out,” he said.
She didn’t look at him, just shrugged one shoulder.
He threw on a worn leather jacket, slammed the door behind him, and tromped down the back steps, his jackboots thumping on the wooden stairs. Then around to an alley at the side of the shabby apartment building, where he unchained his bike, kicked it to life, and roared away, his stringy hair blowing back.
He knew where the wading pool was at Richmond Valley Park. He liked to hang around there sometimes and watch the young mothers with their kids. Not because he liked kids. Not at all. Hated the little brats, in fact. He just liked to leer at the women. He had often sat in the very bench where he was heading; wasting away the afternoon, wishing his dim-witted girlfriend looked more like these.
As he approached the park, but still some distance away, he could see the girl in a floppy red hat was already there, and waiting. An overhead street lamp splashed onto the bench. He parked his bike about a hundred feet away, chained it to a tree, looked around, and strode over.
This should be easy. Just like a walk in the park. He grinned at his wit.
She was huddled at one end, clutching a handbag firmly on her lap. She watched as he approached and sat at the other end.
He glanced over at her. She was watching him carefully, and looked a little frightened.
“Nice evening,” he said.
“Ye... yes, it is.” She looked away quickly.
“Did you bring the envelope?” he asked.
She stared at him, and frowned. “I... I was expecting someone else.”
“Doesn’t matter. He sent me. Give me the envelope, and I’ll give you the money.”
“Did you bring it?” she asked timidly.
He pulled a grocery bag from his jacket pocket. He had stuffed in some paper and rolled it up to make it look pretty real. He showed her the packet briefly. “It’s here.” He shoved it back into his pocket.
“I need to see it,” she said.
“I showed you.”
“I mean, I need to see the money in... inside the package.”
He frowned at her and spoke bluntly, “After I get the note.”
She was quiet for a moment. He glared at her as she looked across the park, then at him, and finally down to her lap. Her hands trembled as she unsnapped the handbag and slowly withdrew an envelope.
She held it up. “Here it is,” she said.
He reached for it, but she pulled it back. “Give me the money first,” she said.
Tommy looked around the park. Nobody seemed to be around at this time of the evening. He slid down the bench, squeezing her between himself and the armrest she huddled against. He put his arm around her shoulder and grinned at her. She was held fast, unable to move.
“Ok, now give me the envelope,” he said.
She stared into his cruel face for a moment, and then handed it to him, an uneasy look in her eyes.
He snatched it from her and stuffed it in his pocket. “There now, that didn’t hurt, did it?” He laughed.
“The... money?”
He threw his head back and laughed again, and then leered at her. “What money?”
Her eyes narrowed. “The... the money... for the note.”
He grinned and shook his head. “Sorry, I have no money for you. But I do have this.” He reached under his jacket and slipped out a knife. It had a six-inch blade, and had seen its share of action.
She began to tremble, her breath quick and short, as he tested the edge against his thumb, and then touched the tip to her throat.
He moved closer and grit his teeth. “Who do you think you’re playing with?”
She stared into his savage eyes, narrow now, his mouth sneering at her, and she trembled. The knife was hurting her. His arm still gripped her, and she couldn’t move.
Then he laughed and pulled the knife away. His hold around her shoulder loosened a bit. Her left arm was free. She clutched her handbag tightly, and swung it with all her force, catching him full in the face.
He was startled, and reacted by pulling away, just enough for Samantha to slip out of his grip. She ran.
He had recovered, and was right behind her, spitting out curses.
He was no fool. Sure, he had the note, and he didn’t have to give her any money, and she was scared, just like good old Uncle Boris wanted, but that fear would wear off, and she could identify him. He had to catch her and finish the job.
He reached for her arm just as she spun around and swung her handbag again. He ducked, slipped on the grass, and rolled a couple of times. Cursing again, he stumbled to his feet and continued the chase.
She was moving toward the street. Can’t let her get away. With one final burst of adrenaline, he shot forward and caught her by the arm that held her handbag. She stopped with a jerk, and he spun her around. He moved the blade to her throat, and dragged her behind a row of well-trimmed cedars, a more private place, to do what he had to do.
She struggled, but he held her firmly, his left arm around her back, his nose almost touching hers, his eyes on fire.
The body contains a remarkable amount of blood, and when a throat is slit, assuming the jugular veins and carotid artery are severed, blood will spray. If one stands too close, this spray can ruin a perfectly good set of clothes.
Tommy was well aware of that. He was no stranger to this type of thing. He was careful to stand back as soon as the razor sharp blade had made its stroke.
Too bad. She was kinda cute.
He watched the process. She didn’t die right away, of course. First, she tried to breathe. That didn’t work. She was still on her feet, barely, now beginning to collapse. She might last a few more minutes. Eventually her brain would become completely deprived of oxygen, and if that didn’t finish the job, then she would drown in her own blood.
Tommy didn’t like to see that part, so he turned away, leaned down, wiped his blade on the grass, tucked it back into its sheath, and looked around.
All clear. Time to get paid.
In a final burst of inspiration, he turned around quickly, knelt down, freed the handbag from her dying hand, and stuffed it under his jacket. He sauntered toward his bike, humming to himself.
Tommy Salamander didn’t see the bushes rustling just a few feet away. He didn’t see the pair of bulging eyes that peered at the unbelievable scene, and he didn’t see the eyes then disappear, or the dark figure that hustled across the park, into the darkness, and out of sight.
He climbed on his bike, another job well done.
Chapter 33
Thursday, August 18th, 10:03 PM
ANNIE HAD SPENT the last half hour driving around town, trying to make some sense of this case. She didn’t know what she expected to get from Wilda, but she had nothing else to go on, and at least this was something.
She pulled her car into a slot directly in front of Eddie’s, stepped out, and dug in her handbag for some coins, shoving them into the hungry meter.
She turned. A sign still beckoned patrons to come in, promising affordable beer and good times.
As Annie step
ped back into the dinginess of Eddie’s Bar, she was greeted by the familiar smells and sounds. The music still droned, the smoke still hung, and the same patrons still hunched over.
Annie went to the counter where Meg was leaning on her elbows, chin in her hands, her fingers drumming on her cheek, keeping rhythm with the tune.
“Figured you’d show up again,” Meg said with a wide smile. She stood and tucked her hands into her apron pockets.
“Couldn’t stay away.”
Meg pointed across the bar room floor to a small square table near the wall. Annie saw a woman sitting alone, facing her way, sipping on a glass of beer. She appeared to be in her late sixties, or so.
“That’s Wilda,” Meg said.
“Thanks. I’ll go and talk to her for a while,” Annie said.
Wilda set her glass down and watched Annie as she approached.
“Wilda?”
“That’s what they call me.” She had a cheerful face, and when she smiled, her bright red lipstick cut a wide slit across her slightly pudgy face.
“Can I talk to you a moment?” Annie asked.
Wilda waved to the chair opposite her. “You sure can, sweetie. Sit down.”
Annie sat and pulled the chair in a little closer. Wilda looked at her, still smiling, and brushed back a strand of hair that had escaped from the graying, almost white bundle perched on the back of her head. “I’m Wilda,” she said.
“My name’s Annie.” She offered her hand.
Wilda shook her hand. Annie noticed she had soft skin. Just like her grandmother.
“Meg told me you come in here a few times a week, and you knew Abby Macy a little bit?” Annie asked.
Wilda sat back, adjusted her sweater at the shoulders, and crossed her legs. “Sure sweetie, I know Abby,” she said as she reached out, worked a cigarette out of the pack in front of her, and tucked it into her mouth.
Annie didn’t know exactly how to tell Wilda about the death of Abby. “Were you aware Abby is... dead?” she asked.
The cigarette hung, unlit, as Wilda’s eyes popped. Finally, she removed the smoke. “What? Dead? How?”
“The police say she killed herself, but I am pretty convinced she was murdered.”
“Murdered. My goodness, such a sweet girl. Who on earth would do a thing like that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I was hoping you could help me.”
“I don’t know how I can help, but if I can, then I am certainly more than ready.” She shook her head. “Gosh. This is so...” She searched for a word. “Unbelievable.”
Annie nodded. “It sure is.”
Wilda popped the cigarette back in her mouth and flicked her Zippo. A faint smell of lighter fluid hung in the air as the tobacco caught, and glowed. She took a long drag and inhaled deeply. She puckered her lips and the smoke furled out and wafted up. “So how can I help, sweetie?”
Annie suppressed a cough. “Do you remember if you were here last Sunday evening?”
Wilda thought a moment, then, “Sure, I remember now. I was chatting with Abby. She was here when I came in. All dressed real fine. I was thinking she looked like one of those nice church ladies. Then I got to feeling guilty, cause here it is, Sunday again, and I should have went to church.”
Annie smiled.
Wilda continued, “I ain’t been to church since my Frankie passed. That’s a good six years ago now, I guess. Stead, I just come here, way too much.” She paused. “Anyway, what were you askin’ about, honey?”
“I just wondered if Abby was here on Sunday. You answered my question.”
“Yeah, she was feelin’ pretty down that night. Usually is, but gets better as the night goes on. But that night, she seemed worse than usual,” Wilda said, as she drained her glass. She set it down carefully and waved a hand toward Meg.
“Did she tell you why she was so down?”
“Oh, yes sweetie, she told me all ‘bout her son that passed. It’s a sad thing, that. Didn’t have no kids myself, but I had a sister that died a long time ago. Just a young thing, she was. That’s not a good feelin.”
Annie heard a snore. She turned and saw an old man, his head dropped on the table, one hand still wrapped around a glass, the other hanging by his side as if reaching for the floor.
Meg brought Wilda a fresh glass of beer and removed the empty one. “You two having a good chat?” she asked.
Wilda flashed her smile. “Sure are Meg. Don’t get to talk to anyone so decent too often.”
A guy across the room was calling Meg. She nodded his way, shook the sleeper back to reality, and went back to the bar to pour another drink.
“Wilda, what did Abby drink when she was here?” Annie asked.
“Wine. Just wine.”
“Did she ever drink vodka?”
“Oh, no. Always drank just the house wine. Sipped at it all night. Never touched any of the strong stuff.” She chugged at her drink, took the last drag of her smoke and tossed it in the ashtray. The smoke continued to curl up, slowly dying.
Annie listened to the six-foot-deep voice of Randy Travis for a moment. “Did she ever talk about Philip, her husband?”
“Oh, yes. She went on and on about that man. Never had a bad thing to say ‘bout him. She always felt bad she was coming in here and leaving him alone. But still, she kept coming.”
“Every night?”
“No, no. Just maybe two or three times a week. Can’t be sure. I’m not here every night myself. Just when I get to feeling lonely.” She looked around. “Not that this place gives me any company. But somehow, makes me feel better.”
“Misery loves company,” Annie quoted.
“Yeah, it does. Just seeing others worse than me makes me feel better.” She laughed. A little titter of a laugh, and asked, “So, were you a friend of Abby’s?”
“No, my husband and I are private investigators. Abby's husband hired us to see what happened to her.”
“Ohhh. Private investigators, huh. Gee, is that as glamorous as on TV?”
Annie laughed. “Not quite. Mostly pretty dull stuff, but sometimes we get some excitement.”
“Well, I wish you all the luck in the world, sweetie. I sure hope you find out what happened to Abby. I’m gonna miss her, that’s for sure.”
“We’ll find out,” Annie said, as she reached into her handbag and came up with a business card. She handed it to Wilda. “If you think of anything that might help, be sure to call me.”
“I sure will.”
Annie stood and offered her hand again. “Thanks very much, Wilda.”
“Come back any time.” Wilda shook her hand and flashed her smile.
Annie dropped a twenty on the table, waving thanks and goodbye to Meg on her way out.
Chapter 34
Thursday, August 18th, 10:53 PM
DR. BORIS HOFFMAN was pacing nervously in his favorite room of the mansion.
He looked at his watch. Not yet eleven. No need to worry yet, but that idiot had better not screw up.
He poured himself a double of scotch and fingered the glass, sipping slowly as he looked around the den. He admired the way the dark walnut floors offset the hue of the stone in the massive fireplace, the crimson curtains, made of the best fabric available, and the huge desk that dominated the center of the room.
It would be a shame to lose all of this.
He went to the window, pulled back the drapery and looked out. From here, he would be able to see anyone approaching up the long drive. No one was.
He dropped into the huge leather chair behind his desk and reached for the ornate cigar box, perched proudly on his desk. He flipped it open and slipped out a Cuban, holding it to his nose, breathing in the sweet earthy smell. He clipped the end and grabbing his gold lighter, lit the cigar, and drew in a mouthful of expensive smoke. It relaxed him, and he exhaled slowly. The smoke circled above his head, dancing in the light breeze wafting from the air conditioner, before dissipating.
He was startled to hi
s feet by a roar outside. Stepping to the window, he saw a motorcycle spinning up the long driveway. That must be Tommy. He hadn’t seen Tommy for so long, he wasn’t sure if he would recognize him, but of course, it’s him.
Taking another quick breath of smoke from his cigar, he dropped it into the ashtray on his desk, strode from the room, and into the lobby. He swung open one of the pair of huge solid oak doors, and peered out.
Tommy had spun up onto the front lawn, damaging the well-manicured grass, and was now climbing off his bike. He turned around, shoved the key in his pocket, swaggered up the steps, and grinned. “Hi Unc.”
Hoffman frowned, and beckoned him to come inside.
Tommy strutted in and looked around the lobby, and then up at the ornamented ceiling. “Jeez Unc. This is sure some fancy place you have here.”
“Did you get the note?”
“Why are you in such a rush? Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Tommy sauntered across the foyer, his head whipping back and forth as he took in the sights. He stepped into the den and whistled.
Hoffman followed him in and watched as Tommy strode across the room and slouched at the desk, dropping his feet onto the polished walnut top. The cigar still burned. Hoffman went over, picked it up, and butted it out.
“This your desk?” Tommy asked.
“Yes, yes. It’s mine. Now where’s the note?”
Tommy looked at his uncle. “I have it. Don’t worry.”
Hoffman reached out. “Give it to me.”
“You’re gonna pay me, right?”
Hoffman sighed, reached into an inner pocket of his smoking jacket and pulled out a packet. He slapped it on the desk in front of Tommy. “Here’s your money. Now give me the note.”
“Relax, Unc,” Tommy said, as he picked up the packet of money and sniffed it. He grinned, reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. He waved it in the air. “Here’s your precious note.”
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